The Whiplash Files by Kathleen Strelow

Happy Valentine's Day or... Will You Be My Phil-entine?

2008-02-14T14:43:00.000-08:00

The following is an article written in 2005 by a writer friend of mine named Vaughan Reid. The article was originally published by the Belleville Intelligencer. Vaughan gave me permission to publish this on my website, and I have finally been able to do it! I don't know what happened to Vaughan, but I sure do miss his humor. Enjoy!!

And to my husband Phil: Happy Valentine's Day - I love you!

Will You Be My Phil-entine?

A few weeks back I put my credibility on the line and stated that most men had a hard time grasping the idea of Valentine's Day. It is a concept that becomes even more confusing with the addition of even the smallest amount of thought. This is why most men don't think.

You may feel I'm being aloof - a word I had to look up in the dictionary - but general confusion is just one of the reasons why men have learned to question the Valentine antics of Cupid. Other obvious reasons are 1) he's wing-ed, and 2) he flutters around in what appears to be a diaper.

Such apparel makes us very nervous because nowhere in the entireValentine legend does it state that the diaper in question was ever changed. Ancient French texts dating back tens of years refer to this creature as "la boom amour."

So the French have issues, as do real men. That is why, in an effort to ease the pain that so often accompanies this special day, I invited all the wonderful ladies out there to let us know exactly what they wanted us to do.

Never before in the history of Writer's Kramps has the response been so overwhelming. We were caught a little off guard. I spent an entire day wading through piles of emails in my bare feet despite the danger of paper cuts that local tavern legends say could "mow a man down quicker than a stripper through Canadian immigration.

"In order to maintain our scientific integrity and to make sure we didn't step on any spam, or fast-track any strippers, the entire operation was overseen by Vinnie the Official Yet Impartial Writer's Kramps Auditor General played by Peanut, who is well known in the Reid household for his thirteen year career playing orange house cat number one.

WK - "Vinnie, in your professional opinion, how many letters did we receive?"

Vinnie - "Three."

Ha, ha! Can you believe that? Three! Just so you know, I wasn't kidding! Vinnie is a cat! Vinnie can't count! Three may be the wrong answer.

After careful examination, I discovered a number of interesting points concerning the responses:

1) People like to address me as Vaughan, which is fine and very fortunate for all of us because had I been named Rebecca, I would be ending my email correspondence with "Love Becky."

2) All men are stupid and dumb and any number of variations in between.

3) All men, that is, unless they are named Phil. For the record, Writer's Kramps considers Phil a real threat to the sanctity of male `plausible deniability.' Phil may be asked to relinquish his masculinity for the simple fact of our being jealous. More on Phil later.

Out of it all, the only sure fire thing we know about this Valentine campaign is my name. Some of you might spell it a little weird - like getting rid of all the silent letters - but you at least capitalize the right one.

The next for sure thing was the fact that there are a great many women out there who are less than thrilled with the romantic inactions of their mate.

Most of the letters gave specific instances where men failed beyond failing. Like the story told by Sheila who stated her man once gave her an opened box of chocolates the day after Valentine's Day. He then asked to borrow ten dollars for gas. "He always was a smooth talker," writes Sheila, "but he should have asked for fifteen. He ran out'a gas.

"See? Sheila's man was probably a very loving individual or she wouldn't have been so concerned about his running out of gas. And concerning the chocolates, how do we know the box wasn't opened and missing a chocolate when he bought them?

What I am saying is that this fellow at least tried. He wasn't nearly as bad as the type of husband who puts everything off to the last minute. Apparently, according to a woman we will refer to only as Marla, her man "stops at whatever store is open on the way home from work and buys me a box of chocolates. I hate those chocolates, most of them are gross.

"I think Marla is missing the big picture here. At least her man knows where home is.

This brings us to a troubling piece of information sent in by author Kathy Strelow who happens to be married to the aforementioned Phil. She writes, "My husband remembers my birthday, Valentine's Day, our anniversary, the anniversary of our first date.

"Unbelievable! How in the world does Phil remember the infamous "."anniversary? How does anyone remember "."? "." is not a specific date. "." represents all those dates that are too many to name. By referring to "." (pronounced dot-dot-dot), Kathy is stating that Phil remembers every anniversary known to woman-kind!

This is unheard of. That is why we at Writer's Kramps strongly suspect Phil is an Irish setter. How does he do it? By listening, being attentive and staying on the paper.

Anyway, this didn't turn into the Valentine's Day how-to column I thought it was going to be. In other words, if you were hoping this column was going to bail you out of another dismal Valentine attempt, you are now officially sunk.

Maybe you should call Phil. Two barks means yes.

Copyright © 2005 by Vaughan Reid, Published by Belleville Intelligencer

Books Read in 2007

2008-01-25T11:09:00.002-08:00

Dinner with a Perfect Stranger by David Gregory
Christmas Jars by Jason F. Wright
A Day with a Perfect Stranger by David Gregory
God.com by James Alexander Langteaux
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Deuteronomy
23 Minutes in Hell by Bill Wiese
God.net by James Alexander Langteaux
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Joshua
Call in the Night by Susan Howatch
The Ugly Duckling by Iris Johansen
Culture Warrior by Bill O'Reilly
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Judges
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Ruth
The Face of Deception by Iris Johansen
The Holy Bible - The New King James - 1 Samuel
The Holy Bible - The New King James - 2 Samuel
The Holy Bible - The New King James - 1 Kings
Time Flies by Bill Cosby
Knowing Aslan by Thomas Williams
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling
The Holy Bible - The New King James - 2 Kings
The Holy Bible - The New King James - 1 Chronicles
April by Peter Fox
The Holy Bible - The New King James - 2 Chronicles
Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Ezra
Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Nehemiah
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Esther
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Job
The Holy Bible - The New King James - Psalms Book One
A Christmas Story by Jean Shepherd

Heart of the Country

2007-07-17T11:30:00.000-07:00

Our very best friends live about two hours away from us, and we love to visit them out in the country. I am a country girl trapped in the body of a suburban girl, and I have always loved farms and the countryside. Phil and I have dreamt of moving out to the country for some time now, and God willing, it will happen when the time is right. It’s true that the night sky is clearer in the country, and you can see thousands, if not millions, more stars.

Lucky as I am to have two months off in the summer, I try to make a trip to the country at least once a week. I love hanging out with my friend Barb and her two little girls (our goddaughters), Sammi (4) and Sophia (2). I see a lot of things on my two hour drive to their house, and there are so many places I long to stop in and visit. Places that are on the beaten path, but unless you take the scenic route, you would never know they existed – roadside stands, antique shops, mom and pop restaurants, you name it.

In the spring, Barb and I headed over to her neighbor’s house where she was selling home grown plants, with all proceeds going to the Sunday school at their local church. Kathy has her own greenhouse, which sent me into a frenzy because I’ve always wanted to have my own greenhouse. This greenhouse, however, is unique in that it used to be the old pig house when her in-laws ran the farm many years ago.

There were so many plants to choose from, I didn’t know where to start. Kathy had herbs, vegetables, flowers, you name it; it was almost overwhelming. The part I loved the most was just standing on the property near the greenhouse where all the plants were organized and labeled for easy identification, admiring the farmland. I have always wanted to live on a farm, and felt so at peace there.

I ended up purchasing a flat of marigolds and six basil plants. Within that first week I had given away two basil plants, sharing the farming love. I planted the rest of my basil in containers and left them outside where I can see them through the family room window. Since we haven’t had much rain I’ve had to water them every night, but it’s been a labor of love just knowing I have fresh basil at my fingertips whenever I want it. I have tried several new recipes, and there is nothing like the taste of an herb you have helped grow yourself.

This morning I made scrambled eggs for breakfast, which is a big deal because I never eat anything more than toast or cereal for my morning meal. I added a little bit of salt and pepper, and threw in some fresh basil and it was the most delicious scrambled egg meal I’ve ever eaten.

I can’t wait for breakfast tomorrow!

© Kathleen Strelow 2007

Cicada Follies

2007-06-07T12:34:00.000-07:00

I had planned to call this entry “Cicada Watch” since I have yet to find a cicada in our neighborhood (and believe me, I am not complaining), but since going on my walking break this morning, things have changed a bit.

I met up with Anne and Maggie as I do every morning at 9:30 and we headed out into the fresh, warm air. We stumbled upon some cicadas on the sidewalk and I decided to take their picture.

They appear to be stuck together, like you see dogs sometimes in the heat of summer and you can’t separate them, even with a hose. Maybe I should be blurring part of this photograph… or putting a black censor bar across it…

We walked to the corner to wait for our other walking partners, Amy and Barb, and while we waited we watched the cicadas that were surrounding us everywhere. I was laughing because the wind is so severe today that the cicadas could barely fly. I mean, they aren’t the best at flying anyway, almost as if they’re drunk, but today it was even worse. They were almost suspended in midair because the wind was holding them back.

Keep laughing, Kath.

As Amy and Barb joined us, I noticed that Barb flicked something off of my leg. It was a cicada. I was frozen in place, but didn’t make a sound. I’ve decided to vote Barb as our group leader. I don’t think anyone will revolt against this decision.

We start our walk and there are cicadas everywhere. Carcasses all over the sidewalks, all over the street – you can’t avoid them. I know I’ve said that I wanted to try and live in peace with the cicadas this year, and I really want to, as long as they stay off of me. They seem to sit on the sidewalk all quiet and still, and as soon as you walk by they fly up at you and the freak out dance begins – limbs flailing and sounds coming from your mouth that you’ve never heard before. Is that me?

On with the walk. Barb, our fearless leader, walked ahead of the group. We all made a pact to watch each other’s back in case a cicada landed on us. Next thing we knew, there was a cicada on the back of Anne’s neck, and it was on its way down her shirt. With her bare hand, Barb brushed the cicada away and all was good. We continued to walk through what we now call Cicada Row.

It was a rough walk. Dodging drunkenly flying cicadas takes a lot out of you. Amy decided she’d had enough and searched for a weapon. She found a broken tree branch on the parkway and we each broke off a piece. Well, four out of the five of us carried a weapon. Barb, our fearless leader, was fine without one. We must have looked like a circus sideshow – Barb, walking so calmly in front of us leading the way, and the rest of us jumping and darting and flailing and yelping… and we were the ones with the sticks! At one point, Amy thought there was a cicada on her leg and she began beating herself with her own stick. It was quite a site to see.

We made it to the beach just fine, but we didn’t stay long because the fierce wind blew sand in our faces and we turned around immediately to walk back to work. Now we weren’t only going to battle the cicadas on the way back, but we had to do it with sand in our eyes (and our hair, and caked on our skin because of the sweat). But we are warriors, so we were ready for battle. We had our weapons, now referred to as our cicada sticks, and, after all, the first half of the walk wasn’t as bad as we thought it would be. We decided to stroll down a dead end side street to look at the beautiful houses we can’t afford to pay attention in.

Then… it happened. I felt something hit my upper right arm and I turned to look. All I could see was a gigantic black blur and enormous red beady eyes. I heard a blood curdling scream come from somewhere (was it me?) and I froze. I stood there frozen on the street with my arms stuck out behind me, my head leaning back and my mouth… yes, it was me screaming. It seemed to be forever before Amy saved me with her cicada stick and knocked the beast from my body. It all seemed to go in slow motion, but I was so thankful she was there. We were laughing and crying all the way to the end of the road.

We came upon a random yellow polka-dotted cow in someone’s yard.

We headed out from the beautiful dead end area to go back to work, still laughing and crying from my comic relief performance. Almost to the end of the street, I stopped dead in my tracks when I spotted a cicada on my pants. Somehow I managed to save myself, using my own cicada stick to flick it off, and only making mild, panicked sounds that went something like, “ee ee aah aah.” What am I, a monkey?

We managed to make it most of the way back without any further incidents, until a cicada flew into Maggie’s chest. She began to do the freak out dance I know so well, but she added her own little twist. “Is it in my hair?” she yelped, panic-stricken. At this point, no one could stop laughing at our event-filled walk, even as we tried to convince her that we witnessed the cicada fall to the ground after it hit her. It is at this point that Maggie begins batting practice with her cicada stick, pretending to knock them out of the park in several violent motions.

Barb thought it would be funny if she ran her finger down my back as we got closer to school. I must be getting better because I didn’t scream, but I did freeze in my spot with my arms straight out. I realized then that I had been clenching my cicada stick so hard that I could no longer open my fingers to release it. Amy didn’t know what Barb had done so Anne decided to demonstrate, running her finger down Amy’s back. Amy then screamed bloody murder and we burst into fits of laughter again.

Back at school I decided to take one last picture. Who would have thought that insects so harmless could cause such emotional stress?

"Aren't we cute?"

Here is my cicada stick, which I have saved for tomorrow’s walk. (Don’t worry – we only used them to flick the cicadas off of us – we did not play cicada baseball or anything like that.)

While cooling off in my office (between the heat, the regular sweating, and the panic sweating, I felt pretty gross), I sent the cicada pictures to my walking group. Amy emailed us all back, saying I forgot the most important picture. And here it is:

At first glance, I thought it was a random cartoon she found on the Internet. Then details started to pop out at me… the stick in my hand, red shirt, blue pants, sandals… the hair! The bug with the big beady red eyes on my arm… When I realized what it really was, I burst out laughing and accidentally spit my cereal all over the computer screen. (Amy created this in Paint, if anyone is interested.) You’ll notice it’s an exact reenactment of my cicada meltdown.

Don’t I look like a South Park character?

Disclaimer: No cicadas were hurt, injured or killed on this fun-filled nature walk.

© Kathleen Strelow 2007

Like, Oh My... (you know the rest)

2007-06-01T12:18:00.000-07:00

I was waiting for the elevator at school today and I heard two teenage girls talking behind me. They were both getting louder and louder and I thought, “How rude.” I then began to realize that their conversations were happening over each other; they weren’t talking to each other. I turned to look at them, and each of them was on their cell phone.

Of course.

It’s no wonder people have no communication skills in this day and age. Everywhere you go, someone has a cell phone attached to their head. Whether it’s walking down the street, driving in the car, or in the grocery store, people don’t seem to be able to survive without talking on their phones every waking moment.

I’ve been in line at the grocery store, and the person in front of me is on their phone. The checkout clerk will be trying to speak with them about something, and the customer continues blabbing into their phone, completely oblivious that the checkout clerk is saying anything. My husband Phil hates it so much, that when we walk by someone in the grocery store aisle who is on their phone, he starts talking exceptionally loud. I could be standing two feet away from him and he’ll shout, “What kind of oatmeal did you want?!” Lately, I’ve just walked away, pretending I don’t know him.

Phil isn’t wrong. People have become so dependent on having their cell phones going at all times, that they have forgotten what it’s like to be a human being. It’s like they’re some kind of cell phone robot that has no idea what it means to be courteous or attentive.
I’ve noticed that if someone is in a customer service situation, where the phone user is the customer, they will not stop their conversation when it is their turn, whether in a checkout line, customer service line, or any other line. They actually expect the person waiting on them to wait until their conversation is over.

That is… if it ever is over. I’ve witnessed transactions where the person on the phone never stops talking. Never gets off the phone. Never speaks to the person helping them. They don’t even take two seconds out of their precious phone time to say “thank you.” How pathetic is that?

I was standing in line at the pharmacy one day and I heard the woman behind me speaking in a language unfamiliar to me. I thought she was talking to someone that was with her, but I never heard another voice responding. I turned around, and she was pacing back and forth, looking agitated that she had to wait in line, and talking to herself. She wasn’t even on a cell phone! Or so I thought… She had one of those newfangled phones that attach to your ear. I wish people would realize how ridiculous they look.

Phil and I both have cell phones. Phil keeps his in the glove compartment of his truck and never turns it on. Well, he turns it on if he needs to call me about something, but that’s rare. Mine is usually in my purse, and only turned on when I’m on my way home from work. Lately, though, it’s been in my pocket on vibrate every waking hour of every day because our house is on the market, and I need to be available for the realtor and the agency. I can’t stand it, but everyone who knows me loves it, because they can reach me any time of the day now. Lucky for them (grin).

Memorial Day

2007-05-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

This piece is dedicated to SFC Mario Osorio and the men and women of his unit currently serving in Afghanistan.

Friday night my husband Phil and I were grocery shopping, and I noticed that the music playing overhead was patriotic. How sad is it that my first thought was, “Wow, can they do that?”

And why shouldn’t they be able to play patriotic songs on the weekend of Memorial Day? We live in America, the greatest, freest country in the world! Yet there are some who would argue that we are a country of terrorists, breeding more and more of them through our very own military.

Let’s get something straight. The men and women of our military are the reason we, as Americans, have the lives that we do. They are the reason we are free to do and speak as we please, even if we don’t always agree with each other.

When most Americans think of Memorial Day, it’s all about the three day weekend, the picnics, the food, and the Indy 500. These are all wonderful things, but aren’t we missing the point here? The first thing Memorial Day should be about is remembering and honoring the men and women of our military who gave their lives for our country, and who are currently giving their lives and giving up their own freedoms to fight for what is right, protecting the country that they love, and trying to protect others from fanatical leaders who would rather have their citizens slaughtered.

Today should be about honoring a veteran or a soldier that did what the rest of us didn’t or couldn’t do – live their lives so that we as civilians can continue to take for granted everything that we have. The freedom to have the jobs that we want; eat the food that we choose to eat; listen to the music we love to listen to; and live with the comfort of knowing that we have a military that will come to our defense when needed.

Take the time to check your newspaper for events going on in your neighborhood, or check the town’s online website. There are many things we can do to show our veterans and soldiers that we care – that Memorial Day is a day about honoring them, not ourselves.

In a society where our children look up to people like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Marilyn Manson and Snoop Dogg, isn’t it time we taught them who the real heroes are?

© Kathleen Strelow 2007

Seventeen Year Itch... or something like that

2007-05-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

It’s been seventeen years since we last saw them, with their red, beady eyes, delicate wings and cockroach-like bodies. Yes, I’m talking about the cicadas. And they’re back.

I have two vivid images of my first cicada experience back in 1973. The entire outside of the house was covered in them, and we had difficulty riding our bikes because the streets, sidewalks and driveways were covered in them. It was like trying to dodge raindrops with your bike – impossible. The crunching sound when you accidentally ran one over still rings in my ears, and I can remember the horrible way they smelled afterward. It’s enough to give me goosebumps even now.

Fast forward to 1990, which was my second cicada experience. I don’t really remember much about them other than they weren’t quite as bad. I had learned that it was probably because of all the new construction that had taken place in seventeen years, and the poor creatures had no ground left to crawl up from. I remember that this made me extremely happy.

A few months ago I sent an article to my childhood friends reminding them that this was the year of the cicada. Recently, my friend Patti started sending me delicious cicada photos – cicada sandwiches, cicada sundaes, cicada salads… you name it. It got to the point that I was going to vomit if I saw another cicada used as food. She did send me a photo of cicada jewelry… now there’s an idea!

May 22nd was supposed to be D-Day for the cicada arrival. Everyone I know was prepared for the cicada invasion on this day, two days ago. Nothing. What? No cicadas? Did they get lost? Has our bitterly cold May caused them to stay underground longer than expected? Where could they be?

Not so fast. I had my first cicada sighting yesterday while on my morning break/walk. There it was, on the sidewalk in front of us. It wasn’t frightening at all. It wasn’t hurting anyone and was just sitting there. It was probably looking up at us hoping we wouldn’t trample it to death. Strangely enough, I was almost excited to finally see one.

I’ve decided to make peace with the cicadas this year. As soon as I see one on my own property (not one so far), I will take a picture of it and post it here. I’m hoping that when the cicada infestation finally does happen, I won’t turn back to my 1973 self and freak out…

© Kathleen Strelow 2007

Happy Valentine's Day!

2007-02-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

Remembering Dr. Patricia Ferguson

2007-01-18T06:28:00.000-08:00

Dr. Patricia Ferguson was a very dear friend. I say was, because I learned yesterday that she died one week ago. I am deeply saddened by this news, and feel as though a big chunk of my heart has disappeared.

Patty was loving and kind to everyone she came in contact with. She was so good to me, not only reviewing my books, but helping me in so many personal ways I cannot even begin to count. She always had words of encouragement, whether it was in regards to my writing, or my health. She was a tremendous help to me while I struggled through a difficult health issue a couple of years ago, and most recently this past June, when my father had open heart surgery.

Patty was one of the editor-in-chiefs at Apollo’s Lyre, an online magazine where my first published poem appeared. Lea, Bret and Patty had such a great working combination – the three of them together bubbled over with writing talent, personality and a way with people. It’s hard to imagine the team without Patty, but I know that they will push forward and continue to give readers an amazing magazine. Her memory will live on.

Patty always talked so lovingly about her husband and her children. It was obvious in her words and stories how much she adored her family.

Patty sent me a Christmas card several years ago that immediately became one of my favorites. It’s a picture of a tiny silver camper on a beach, with Christmas lights strung around it. I always thought it was quirky, yet peaceful at the same time. I’ve had that card hanging in my office by the computer, because it’s funny and brings me peace.

I now look at that card in a completely different way.

God Bless You, Patty. You will be missed by so many who were blessed to have known you.

© Kathleen Strelow 2007

Books Read in 2006

2007-01-18T05:39:00.000-08:00

I see a few themes in the books I read in 2006…

Tribulation Force by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Nicolae by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Soul Harvest by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Apollyon by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Assassins by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
The Indwelling by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
The Mark by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Desecration by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
The Remnant by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Armageddon by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
Glorious Appearing by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins
The Sinking of the Titanic by Logan Marshall
A Night to Remember by Walter Lord
The Titanic by Victoria Sherrow
No Greater Love by Danielle Steel
Traveling Mercies – Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
The Forgotten Children by Vernon Brewer
The Holy Bible – The New King James – Genesis
The Holy Bible – The New King James – Exodus
The Holy Bible – The New King James – Leviticus
The Holy Bible – The New King James – Numbers
Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
110 People Who Are Screwing Up America by Bernard Goldberg

Total pages read (not including the countless magazines, catalogs and the never ending product labels I read on a daily basis): 6687

© Kathleen Strelow 2007

Awesome

2006-10-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

I was stopped at a traffic light yesterday on my way home from work, staring blankly at the Mercedes logo on the car in front of me.

My eyes drifted downward toward the license plate, then to the license plate frame. It was plain black all the way around except at the very bottom. On the bottom, in angelic, flowing white letters it read God is Awesome.

He is awesome. He really, really is.

© Kathleen Strelow 2006

Money, Honey

2006-09-05T13:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve never been one of those people who picks money up off of the ground. I would never pick up a bill fearing there was some string attached, some prankster ready to yank it away as soon as I reached for it. And change, well… I just don’t know where it’s been.

Money is an issue surrounding me and my husband Phil these days. It seems like every thought in my head is about money. Paying the bills, buying groceries (do you really need that this week?) and most recently, car repairs. We put our house up for sale at the end of June, and I swear, the very next day, the real estate market crashed. Again, it’s about money. What do we list it for? Will we have to lower the price? It all leaves me seeing green, and not in a good way.

Simply put, Phil and I are very tight with our money these days because we don’t have any to spare. And that’s okay. I don’t mind living a simpler life; it’s what we’ve wanted to do for some time anyway, which is why we put our house on the market; country life is calling and we’re ready to answer the call.

I know people who pick money up off the floor, off the streets, off of whatever walking space spare change happens to be. I know people who have saved for vacations with this practice. I’ve never been one of those people. I am not a germophobe by any stretch of the imagination, but something about where that change may have been has always unnerved me. When I spot a coin lying on the street, or in the hallway at work, I leave it for someone else to pick up as the same thought runs screaming through my head, “You don’t know where it’s been.”

Yesterday, I made one of my usual trips to the washroom at work, and when I closed the door to the stall, there on the floor was one dull looking penny, and a shiny quarter. I laughed out loud. I stared at the change for the longest time, contemplating whether or not I should pick them up. We are strapped for cash in my house, after all. Twenty-six cents would be twenty-six cents more than I had when I left the house.

I walked out, leaving the change right where I found it.

Later that morning, I went back into the washroom and noticed that the penny was still there, but the quarter was gone. Who needs pennies, right? I’ve seen people literally throw them away. Silly, as they spend the same as any other money. (And if you’re wondering, yes, I’m a creature of habit and go into the same bathroom stall every time.) I left the penny alone and went on with my life, never even thinking about the quarter again.

At the end of the day I made one more stop to the bathroom, and what did I see? The penny was no longer around, but there sat the shiny quarter. Did someone kick it out earlier? Did someone then kick it back? Did they know they were kicking around a perfectly good quarter?

After much hemming and hawing, I made a decision.

I picked up the quarter. With a paper towel.

© Kathleen Strelow 2006

A Tribute to Dimebag Darrell Abbott

2005-12-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a rough day for me. Resigning my lacrosse coaching position; a former player of mine diagnosed with leukemia; the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s murder, which rocked me to the core as a teenager; and last but certainly not least, the one year anniversary of the senseless onstage murder of guitarist Dimebag Darrell Abbott.

I would like to share a piece that was written by a good friend of mine after Dimebag’s death last year. He is writer Ray Van Horn, Jr., and he has blessed me with his permission to post this here. God bless you, Ray.
© Kathleen Strelow 2005

A Commentary on the Death of Dimebag Darrell
© Ray Van Horn, Jr. 2004

Bad enough our brothers and sisters are dying needlessly overseas in a bloody conflict that has lost its identity. Bad enough ordinary crime claims countless lives on our home turf. Bad enough cancer, AIDS and another disease, drunk driving, rob vital lives before their time. At least the romanticized Joplin and Dean version of a “righteous death” seems to have fallen out of favor. Yet how to make sense of a sensational, cruel massacre that ropes in a highly respected metal performer?

Not since the death of Cliff Burton has the passing of a heavy metal notable been so widely publicized. Unfortunately for the contingency of Pantera and Damageplan fans, their cliques have inadvertently gone to the head of the pack in front of Slayer disciples for the title of Most Psychotic Fans, sorry to say. I’m sure this distinction was something nobody ever expected or wanted.

As we wait to unravel the mystery behind the unexplainable rampage in an Ohio nightclub on December 8th that claimed the lives of five including Dimebag, the puzzling questions arise: Was it revenge? Was it temporary insanity? Was it a drunken rampage? Or was it simply a disenfranchised Pantera fan who couldn’t hack the fact that his life was hopelessly intertwined to well-loved but currently defunct band? Whatever the excuse, it is nothing more than a goddamn cop-out. Murder is murder…period.

Ironic that the irrational shooting spree by 25-year-old Nathan Gale came on the anniversary of the assassination of John Lennon, another musical figurehead whose slaying shocked the world. Shudder to think, was this a copycat killing on the anniversary of John Lennon’s death?

Not to say that Dimebag Darrell should be cast in the same light as Lennon, not by any means. Nonetheless, this brutal act of selfishness parallels Lennon in the fact that an unbalanced individual felt obligated to greedily steal a celebrity from the rest of the world. Whether you were a Pantera fan or a Damageplan fan or neither, Dimebag’s death should be met with the outrage it deserves.

With the same twisted self-esteemism that compelled John Hinckley to take a shot at Ronald Reagan or Turkish activist Mehmet Ali Agca to attempt an assassination upon Pope John Paul II, or the vainglorious snidery of Mark Chapman when he hypocritically asked for the autograph of John Lennon before pilfering his life, Nathan Gale’s killing of Dimebag Darrell, for whatever possible reasoning, is nothing more than a base, arrogant gesture of hatred.

In a year of mostly positive news in the metal world, Dimebag Darrell’s killing not only reveals the darker side of the genre in ways its practitioners could never fathom, but a lack of closure that further stigmatizes the tragedy of the event. How are we to feel? Did Dimebag instigate Gale’s actions, or was this a random act of senseless violence by a desperate voice seeking attention in a world full of lost voices?

I won’t begin to posture any further. I never had the chance to interview Dimebag, so I can’t begin to empathize as closely as his friends and comrades can. However, I will continue my thoughts, not through the eyes of a journalist, but a fan.

The memory I will take of Dimebag Darrell is the fleeting glances of an enthusiastic guitarist in a high-octane band just reinventing itself from its secretive glam metal beginnings. This was on the Cowboys from Hell tour with Suicidal Tendencies and Exodus. I lost my glasses during the show, but the blurry images from a highly active mosh pit were overcome by the metallic bellow gorging from the stage. That outrageous blare told me Pantera was very likely going to take over the metal world at whatever cost, and they made good on it. Like them or hate them, Pantera kept the metal spirit alive while the genre was dying from the grunge dagger that pierced the original scene. In many ways, the few bands that survived the nineties, Metallica, Slayer and Megadeth, owe part of their continued success to the popularity of Pantera.

While grunge paved the way towards a leaner, grittier sound in hard rock, Dimebag angrily wailed on his frets in protest, invisibly waving the metal flag from the neck of his guitar, saluting the diehards that followed him and Pantera through the mostly stale music scene in the 90s. Their legacy carried over into the new millennium, testament by their widespread influence in today’s bands.

Sad that Pantera couldn’t continue on for its loyal legions, but even sadder is the possibility that a fan with a grudge felt obliged to share his pain with the rest of the metal community. So, in true metal spirit, I say fuck you, Mr. Gale. We all have pain, we’ve all been wronged, and we’ve all felt the temptation to lash out at other in anger. What separates us from the mongrels is that we rise above it.

Peace be to Dimebag’s family, peace be to Gale’s family as I’m sure this will bring undeserving repercussions upon their household (and I urge all metal fans to show some class and leave the Gale family be in their suffering; spewing your anger upon them is the same as blaming Ozzy, Priest and Manson for suicide). Most of all, peace be to the brothers and sisters of the metal community. This was a butt-ugly statistic we didn’t need.

My First Time

2005-06-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember how old I was my first time, but I do recall that it wasn’t the sublime experience I thought it was going to be. And now there are so many products on the market that are supposed to aid in the process, I can’t keep my head from spinning!

I hate to admit it, but I’ve tried them all. From those foul smelling depilatories, to the strips that rip the hair from the roots (not to mention half of your skin), to the most recent product that claims to be a painless, hair removing brulee; I’ve been a sucker every time.

If I saved the money I’ve spent on hair removal products over the years, I would be living in my dream house with the swimming pool. Every time I fall for one of these new improved products, I end up kicking myself because I should know better. It must be the promise of never having to shave again that makes me want to believe these products will work, only to end up looking like a pretzel in the bathtub with strips stuck to my legs because I’m too afraid to pull the next one off. Or because the brulee is so sticky I can’t pull my fingers away from my armpits.

There was a time about fifteen years ago when I spent an ungodly amount of money on a device that actually pulls the hair out by the root, and presto – you’re hair free for months! At the time I bought this hair removal apparatus, I wasn’t dating anyone and I wasn’t working, so I had a lot of time on my hands. It took me exactly one week to remove the hair from just one leg.

My sister and I went into the store together to check out this item before one of us actually spent money to buy it. The lady who worked in the store explained that she couldn’t let us buy it without trying it first, because too many people had complained about the pain and wanted to return the item. In other words, if I bought it, I was stuck with it, because the store was no longer giving anyone money back. Before I could agree or disagree to this tryout, the woman was ripping hair out of a spot on my forearm, and my first reaction was to lash out at her. I refrained, but it didn’t stop me from buying the hair removal system.

What was I thinking? I never used the system again after that first time, taking two complete weeks to finish both legs from the knee down. I ended up giving it to a friend of mine years later, who said she loved the one she had but it was broken, and believe it or not, the stores weren’t selling them anymore. I only had one question for my friend – Mary, why?

I’m not saying these products don’t work. I’m saying they don’t work as well, or in the capacity as they are promised to.

There have been days where I’ve actually believed my life would be perfect if I didn’t have to worry about the hair on my legs. I find myself flipping through the pages of magazines and wonder how all these models and actresses take care of their hair removal. Do they suffer indescribable pain to have someone rip their hair out by the roots? Maybe they do.

Now there are the new products that claim to be made out of such natural ingredients that you can eat them. Why would I want to eat something that’s supposed to be used as a hair removal product? There’s even a new sugaring type product I’ve seen on a late night infomercial that the creator named after one of her daughters. I know I couldn’t sleep, but the name sounded more to me like a male body part.

No matter which hair removal system you decide to use, you always have to let your hair grow to a certain length before the product can be successful. And that means not wearing anything that would require your legs or underarms to show, and constantly living with the fear that your deodorant isn’t working. I have a friend who once told me that she hadn’t shaved in a while, and when she got into bed with her husband, he asked if she was wearing pants.

After all the straying I’ve done, I always come back to my razor. I don’t love it, but I like it. It’s dependable. It’s a pretty color. It’s inexpensive. And it does exactly what it promises to do. No gimmicks, no fancy name, no expensive price tag, and the manufacturer doesn’t entice me to try and eat it. It even has a moisture strip for my protection.

I’ll never forget the first razor my mom bought me – it was a horrifying lime green color. I’m sure I still have it somewhere; hidden behind the hair removal creams, wax strips, and the edible brulee. I suppose if I’m truly desperate during the next diet craze, I can always crack open that bottle of brulee. There can’t be too many calories in there, can there?

© Kathleen Strelow 2005

Anthrax with a Twist

2005-06-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

On April 30, 2005, my husband Phil and I ventured downtown to the House of Blues in Chicago. We were more than excited to be heading to this show, considering the last time Anthrax was in town I was in bed with a deadly case of bronchitis and couldn’t go. Even more exciting was the fact that it was the original lineup, which hadn’t been together in about twelve years. Not to mention, it was only one of a few shows they were playing in the United States, and we were at the first sold out night of two in Chicago.

We were lucky enough to snag a parking garage that only charged us six dollars, and we only had to walk a few blocks to the venue. We are always apprehensive about going into the city for a show, since we always end up getting lost. This has happened more times than I’d like to admit.

As we stood in line waiting to get into the House of Blues, we listened to people around us talking. The guy standing behind me was talking about an old Anthrax t-shirt he used to have but couldn’t find, and it turned out I was wearing the exact shirt he had been missing. Outside, I had my leather jacket on, so he couldn’t see that I was wearing it. But inside the building, with my jacket off, he was giving me strange looks as if I had stolen it from him or something. It was quite humorous.

We were standing in a spot where people obviously thought the stairs were to get down to the main level by the stage. We were not. Keep in mind that this was a sold out show, and it was body next to body next to body in the place. I am not a tall person, and wouldn’t you know it, the tallest guy in the place stands in front of me. It seems to happen at every show I go to, oddly enough. For the record, I’m five feet tall, so it doesn’t take a whole lot to be taller than I am.

As the night goes on and we’re still waiting for Anthrax to take the stage, I am getting more frustrated by the minute as people are shoving me out of the way to get to what they think are the stairs. As I said before, they were not the stairs to get to the main level by the stage. This does not stop people from shoving me out of the way to get to the magic stairs, nor does it stop them from shoving me out of the way to get back when they realize their mistake. There was, however, one very polite, long-haired gentleman who kept going back and forth for drinks, but he always tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me.”

I was so frustrated during Anthrax’s first set that I finally turned to Phil and told him that the next person who shoved me out of the way was going to get an elbow to the groin. No sooner had the words left my lips, I was being shoved. My elbow lurched backward and I made contact, only to look up and find a giant drunk guy, who probably didn’t even know I had touched him. And yes, he shoved me again when he had to make his way back.

Not long after Giant Guy made his way back, I was shoved again. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I am a pretty laid back person, and don’t get riled very easily. It takes a lot to get me angry, and this was the last straw. With both hands and as much strength as I could muster, I pushed the guy square in the back. He flew forward, and the only thing that stopped him were the bodies in front of him. A split-second later I turned to see Brian Posehn, the actor, standing next to me. A security guard was leading him through the crowd, and I pointed him out to Phil.

The guy who had been standing next to me the entire night turns to his friend and says, “Dude! Wait until so-and-so finds out Keanu Reeves is here!”

Keanu Reeves? My brain was scrambling to make a connection. Why would Keanu Reeves be at the Anthrax show? Then again, why was Brian Posehn at the Anthrax show? Keanu Reeves was in one of Anthrax’s last music videos, and it turns out, was in Chicago filming a new movie. It didn’t take long to realize that Keanu Reeves was the guy I shoved in the back and sent flying across the House of Blues.

I have only this to say. He shoved me first.

© Kathleen Strelow 2005