As babies, we start life without a story, but pretty soon, our families begin to tell stories about us. Heather always sees the glass half empty, Suzie is smart, and Maureen is the troublemaker. Whether these attributes are the truth or not doesn’t seem to matter. One day a child exhibits certain behaviors, a story is told and quite quickly, the story becomes reality.

While we have to make judgments and conjure stories to navigate reality, humans don’t seem to be very good at changing the stories once they’re written. And because of this, we end up interacting with each other’s stories, not our true selves. If you were raised in a good household, your story is probably more or less truthful and therefore working for you. But in dysfunctional households, stories can be toxic and have lifelong negative consequences.

If you were raised in a dysfunctional household, your story was not made with you in mind, it was made to benefit your crazy parents. Kids in dysfunctional households have been trained to disregard their desires and needs because their pleas either went unheard or their needs upset their parents. Their parents’ denial of their abusive/neglectful behavior trains the children that what they perceive is not the truth; the Happy Family story conflicts with the war zone reality. To survive, the children modify who they are — their stories — to fit their crazy parents’ needs, leaving any sense of themselves behind. While these new stories help them survive childhood, the same stories can cripple them as adults.

When you don’t know who you are, you don’t know what you want. When you don’t know what you want, you can’t ask for it. When you can’t get what you want, your needs aren’t met. And when your needs aren’t met, you aren’t happy. Which is why half of this nation is on antidepressants. Our stories make us miserable.

Thankfully, for me, my therapist is helping me rewrite my story. My problem now is trying to figure out who the hell I really am.

To determine this, I started with what I’ve been told about myself. The stories vary wildly. I’m either a great friend or a flake. (Flakiness is the side effect of a writing career; my true friends know enough not to pin me down.) I’m either the best daughter in the world or the worst. I’m a good wife, a good critique partner, and my neighbors like me. I did great in school and got blackballed at every bookkeeping job I had. I’m either a great writer or the worst in the world, who should be fired and never allowed to write another word. To one reader of CoastViews, I was “a short-fused head job” and “a tightly wound harridan.” When I moved away from living next door to my parents, I was “selfishly abandoning” them. When I took care of my stroke-victim sister, I was a saint. And there are a million more stories just like that. I’m either a great person or I’m Satan, thankfully leaning more towards the former.

The main story that people tell me is that I’m weird. Not only weird — people have described me as wacky, a freak, out there, Janet From Another Planet, the list goes on. I gotta say, this is one story I think I hate the most. None of these terms is nice. Weird is not positive. Weird is derogatory. Most people who call me weird seem to be worried that they might lose their social standing by associating with me. Calling me weird is their subtle attempt to distance themselves from me and therefore, not look bad. For whatever reason people call me weird, I don’t like it. Eccentric would be a better term, if we insist upon labels. But one thing I will agree: I stick out.

After reviewing others’ stories about me, it became clear they were not very accurate. Because I am the only one who knows me. And I have to accept this simple truth: all that I am was given to me. I didn’t choose to hate Indian food anymore than I chose to love toy robots. My only job is to accept who I am completely and love myself as I am. So that’s what I’m trying to do: stop telling old stories and write myself new ones rooted in truth.

My entire goal this year is to be authentic. I want the people in my circle to be there because of who I am, not despite it. However, in order to find the people who genuinely like me, I not only have to figure out my stories, I have to deconstruct the stories of others. In the past, I’ve clung to false stories about friends because I didn’t want to face the truth: normally that someone didn’t like me or was mistreating me. But now, no matter who they are, I have to allow myself to see the truth.

I think it would benefit us all — the healthy and the healing — to determine our stories and our truths. Even if we’ve been brainwashed our whole lives, that little voice in the back of our heads knows who we truly are. Continually reviewing and editing our stories to fit our current truths ensures that the stories help to move us forward and not hold us back.

But the transformation of self is a daunting task. My stories are so rooted in my emotional foundation, I feel like I need dynamite to dislodge them. But they are merely stories and as such, can be edited and changed. And I can’t wait to put my writing talents to work on my personal story. So far, all I’ve got is that I’m not weird. In my opinion, it’s a hell of a start.

© 2012 Janet Periat

The extreme Christian right has recently pushed through laws mandating state-sanctioned medical rape (a transvaginal sonogram) in order to get an abortion in Texas; Topeka, Kansas has decriminalized domestic violence; Republican congressmen want to redefine rape, and Colorado Republicans want to make taking the morning-after pill a first-degree homicide. I’m waiting for the ultra-conservatives to start promoting Christian burhkas.

I was baptized in the Protestant church and was fed their toxic, anti-woman dogma since I was a baby. I received the same brainwashing in school and in society. Gradually, over my lifetime, women’s rights progressed. But now, the extreme Christian right has dredged up all this old toxic waste again, lobbed it straight at us and—in parts of the country—have dragged women back to the cave. And I want to beat them all bloody for it.

What the toxic programming has done to my mind is criminal. No one should have these thoughts about themselves. No one deserves these messages. Pets are treated better. I’ve been in therapy for five years trying to rid myself of the poison. And it’s still an on-going battle.

I was taught that I was dirty because I was a woman. I was taught to be ashamed of myself. That everything was great until The Original Sin when women (Eve) ruined the entire world. I was taught that I was a weak moron who wasn’t capable of doing anything but pressing buttons on a typewriter, a dishwasher, or making babies. I was not expected to do well in math, science or sports. I was not encouraged to get an education. I was not encouraged to take care of myself, only others. If I wore a short skirt, I deserved to be raped. If my husband hit me, it was my fault. I had no value unless I was married, and single women were the most pathetic creatures in the universe. Women were harping, gossiping, shallow, vain idiots who needed permanent guidance—children who couldn’t handle responsibility or make decisions.

I was taught that sex was dirty. If I touched myself, I was a slut. If I had sex, I was a whore. If I used birth control, I was a super big whore because I’d planned on having sex. I was taught that good girls hated sex—even with their husbands. Yet I couldn’t say no because I had no rights over my body, I was my husband’s possession. I was supposed to endure the act, find no pleasure in it, and never respond. If I enjoyed sex or had an orgasm, then I was the biggest slut of all. The only reason I should ever have sex was to have babies. If I got pregnant, I was redeemed, but lost all my power and was sentenced to a lifetime of toil, servitude and hardship. If I had an abortion, I was a murderer and deserved to go to Hell.

Basically, I was taught to hate myself. The only way I could redeem my worthlessness and make up for my shameful womanhood was to sacrifice my entire life by serving a man and having children. Only a man could validate my existence.

As a result of these teachings, I’ve always felt defective and ashamed for being a woman. I’ve always been ashamed of my sexuality. I’ve always felt like I was worth less than zero and had to sacrifice every ounce of my energy and every bit of my soul to reach zero. And there’s no path to positive worth. Simply because I’m a woman.

The sole intent of the brainwashing I received was to warp my self-image and make me more susceptible to subjugation and control. The current agenda of the extreme conservative right serves the same purpose: to make women hate themselves.

So when men like Rush Limbaugh call women whores and sluts for using birth control, and Rick Santorum states that he wants to ban birth control because its “unnecessary”, and that mothers shouldn’t have jobs outside the home, these “Christian” men might as well be taking a baseball bat to Grandma’s skull. Might as well knife their twelve-year-old daughter in the gut. Because that’s the kind of psychological damage they inflict. That’s the reality. Putting their own vile words into God’s mouth is the worst kind of violation. Abusing women in the name of God is blasphemy. Promoting the loathsome view that women are subhuman sex-starved breeding stock who must be tightly controlled by a strict father is the same anti-woman agenda sold by the Taliban, Islamic extremists, and the Vatican.

This renewed War on Women is clearly a last gasp effort of a dying breed of terrified old men who have been in control forever and will do anything and everything to ensure they don’t lose their power. The original He-Man Woman-Haters Club.

Certainly, they are making progress in their current war. Some states might actually ban birth control. Abortion might become illegal. But neither change will last. The future is already in motion. More women than men are graduating from college. More women than men are becoming doctors and lawyers. More women are working today than men. Many young women watched their fathers divorce their mothers, leaving their mother destitute because she’d sacrificed her future to raise her children. And many young women have Deadbeat Dads. Girls today do not want to be like the victims of my generation. And they’re ensuring their lives will be different.

With more money comes more clout. With more women lawyers, there will be more women judges. And if the old white male fear-mongers think those ladies won’t have the self-esteem and resources to fight an anti-woman agenda, they’ve got another think coming.

The extreme right is wrong. The Original Sin wasn’t when Eve disobeyed God and bit the apple of Knowledge, it was when men turned their backs on women.

©2012, Janet Periat

Janet Bubbling With Excitement Over The Print Book

Hey kids! In case you missed the memo, Cinderolda is now available in print! Whoo-hooo!

At Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/3561884

On Amazon: http://amzn.com/1937813010

Or CLICK HERE to buy on Amazon.

CLICK HERE to buy on Createspace.

People are loving it!

Stay tuned for updates about my next release, Payback, second in the Patriots Series, coming soon!

Aloha!

Frank and I recently returned from two weeks in paradise, celebrating our 20^th wedding anniversary. I’d been planning and saving for the trip for two years. The vacation was supposed to be a romantic rekindling of our relationship. What it ended up being was “Frank and Janet’s In Sickness and In Health Tour of Hawaii.” While the trip served its purpose—Frank and I are very rested—it was not what we had expected. At all. While I didn’t get what I wanted, I ended up with some important realizations. Which might turn out eventually to be what I wanted. Right now, I’m not so sure. At any rate, I thought I’d impart my wisdom-through-adversity onto you and maybe spare you future disappointment.

Number One: Leave your expectations at home. Here’s how I pictured our much- anticipated trip to Hawaii: We would fly into Maui. Frank and I would buy each other leis, we’d do a bit of food shopping, drive to the condo and unpack. We’d throw on our swimsuits, jump into the blissfully warm ocean, then watch the sunset from our lanai over mai-tais. For the following 13 days, we’d have magical romantic walks on the beach; I’d learn to surf and kayak; we’d snorkel; I’d swim in the ocean daily and we’d go out for magical romantic dinners. I envisioned Hawaiian music softly playing in the background while Frank and I gazed at each other lovingly, and celebrated our 24-year relationship. As you’ve probably guessed by now, that’s not what happened.

The night before we left, Frank’s throat began to tickle. By morning, it was sore and he was sick. Earlier that morning, I’d had a Travel Anxiety Attack. In my half-awake state, I tortured myself with all the worst-case scenarios that would prevent us from going on our overly expensive, prepaid, non-refundable vacation. I was so freaked out, I got sick. Sick to the point where I will not provide details. Somehow I recovered, breezed to the airport and onto the plane. While I still felt sick, I felt more stupid than anything for worrying about something so dumb as a routine plane flight.

Right as we were about to land, Frank developed new symptoms of his illness and my motion sickness really kicked in. We had to stay an extra hour in the airport, just to stabilize enough so we could drive. Took us all day to shop and unload, and I missed the sunset. Frank had soda crackers and white rice for dinner. I ate two bites of food and pushed my plate away. We finally gave up and went to bed. Next day, Frank woke up sicker. So I took myself on long, unromantic walks on the beach, went shopping and swimming alone, and cooked and cleaned while Frank slept. For 9 days. Finally, over the last four days, he got better and we snorkeled a couple times. But as for my romantic walks on the beach, even when Frank got better, I couldn’t get him to walk with me due to his aversion of walking in sand. Finally, he agreed on our second to last day there. We got down the beach and it started raining. Hard. Then the wind kicked up and I froze. Swearing, I stomped off the beach and threw out all ideas of magical romantic walks. This was the point where I gave up on the vacation. It wasn’t what I had anticipated, it wasn’t what I had wanted, and I felt cheated and stupid for spending all this money to fly three thousand miles to be disappointed.

Thankfully, I’m in therapy and have tools to deal with adverse situations. Once back in the condo, I finally realized I’d loaded out this vacation with so many expectations, there was no way they could have been met. Even if Frank hadn’t been sick, I would have come away disappointed. I’ve been with the guy for 24 years, I know he hates walking in sand. Yet I threw out all previous knowledge and was disappointed he didn’t turn into a romance novel hero once we hit the shores of Hawaii. I finally realized I’d had a good time. While we spent most of the vacation in the condo, the view from our room was astounding. 270 degree views of the ocean, Molokai and Lanai. Whales cavorted off our balcony, giant sea turtles swam below us, and the sunsets were spectacular. We listened to Hawaiian music, I read five books, and we had nice long talks about our lives and planned for our future. The vacation was fine. My expectations and I had been the problem. Like I told Frank, the trip would have been perfect if I hadn’t been on it.

Number Two: Vacations always cost more than you think. The $500 economy car I’d reserved from Thrifty was “unavailable” when I arrived. I was so sick—and worried about Frank—that I fell prey to the evil rental clerk, an innocuous-looking woman named Connie, who talked me into upgrading to a mid-sized car, the cheapest one with a trunk. $935 later, I felt so screwed, I expected a second date and flowers.

Number Three: If the locals give advice, take it. The warnings in Hawaii are everywhere: White people are advised to wear buckets of sunscreen AND stay out of the sun from 11AM to 2 PM because of the high UV index due to the proximity to the Equator. Everyday, a new white family would appear below us on the beach at 9 or 10AM. After an hour, they turned pink. After two hours, they were red. Oblivious, they stayed on the beach ALL DAY, even during the “Burning Rays of Death” midday. We never saw the same family twice.

I had six more nuggets of advice that don’t fit in this column. But since no one listens to sound advice—especially me—I don’t think you’re missing much.

©2012, Janet Periat

I figured by the time I’d reached my fifties I’d have all this time management stuff figured out. While I’m a bit better at it, I still suck. I pile on the plans until I collapse under their weight. But I don’t notice I’m falling apart until I am in pieces.

I am acutely aware of this issue because as I write this, it is three days after Christmas. I woke up this morning still exhausted from the holiday onslaught with few brain cells left. First thing I did was spill hummingbird food all down my front and flip out—in the front yard no less. I finally dragged myself inside so I could yell without censoring myself. While I knew that the level of anger I was experiencing was totally disproportionate to the severity of the mishap, I was so tired, all I could do was watch myself freak out. When I finally got hold of my emotions, I realized how bloody tired I was. And that I’d been way too tired for far too long. Not only because of the holidays, but because I’d tried to cram a year’s worth of activities into the previous four months.

Why do I think I can do more than I can? Why do I set myself up like this? Why do I believe that if I just try a little harder, I can get it all done? Haven’t I noticed what I’ve been able to accomplish so far? Why can’t I properly anticipate and gauge my energy levels? Did I used to be a disembodied brain? Am I unconsciously referring to a past life? Was I an alien that had no need to sleep? As far as I know, I’ve always been human, although some would debate that fact.

As I look back at my plans for the last four months, they don’t look that crazy. All I had to do was MC the Pescadero Arts and Fun Festival in late August; go on two back-to-back vacations in September (dumbest idea EVER, so tired we couldn’t enjoy the second); host a Halloween party for 20; then host a two-week in-law attack—I mean, visit—over Thanksgiving; get oral surgery; shop, clean and decorate for Christmas; host a party for 17 at my house on Christmas Eve; clean up the party on Christmas Day and fix a special Christmas dinner for my sister and husband. Oh, and also complete the final edits on two books—and publish them—and write my columns while working on two new novels. Plus I started a new diet and exercise regimen in July, which takes two to three hours a day. The only thing I didn’t accomplish was a full first draft of the new Patriots’ novel. Which was bumming me out until I just read this paragraph.

I think my problem is two-fold: a hefty dose of denial regarding my abilities, coupled with the unplanned. I didn’t plan on rats chewing through the wires on my car and stranding me at home for a week in October. I didn’t plan on being sick for the remaining three weeks of October. Ditto on the toe surgery I needed two days after my oral surgery. And I completely forgot about the high drama that accompanies most interactions with my family or Frank’s and the subsequent drain on my energy levels. And there was a LOT of “interaction” during the holidays this year. Nor could I have anticipated what happened on Christmas night. I was exhausted and barely keeping awake during a movie before bedtime when the hot water valve to the dishwasher broke and flooded part of the kitchen. We were forced to shut off the water to the house and stayed up all night waiting for the plumber, who finally showed up at 8 AM. And we had overnight guests and couldn’t flush the—you get the idea.

At this point, I suppose I should stop wondering why spilling sugar water on myself made me cry. But it does make me want to do something to prevent the same kind of meltdown from happening again. I need to realize that life doesn’t fit neatly into task lists and datebooks. Lists are a man-made artifice/tool used to navigate life, but life isn’t good about obeying rules or lists. The old Woody Allen quote comes to mind: “If you want to hear God laugh, tell him about your plans.”

So as I head into the new year, I am going to take this column and glue it to the inside of my calendar. I am going to write “Plan for the Unplanned” on every page. When I receive an invitation or make a date, I’ll look at my calendar closely. I won’t merely look at the day of the event; I’ll look at the entire month before and afterwards. If any of the plans coincide with a recent visit with certain family members, I will decline. And I also won’t make as many plans. As much as it bothers me, I have to finally admit the truth: I’m only human and can’t expect so much out of myself.

So now, if you will excuse me, I have to go clean the house, write and publish three books, host a party for 20, and fill the hummingbird feeders.

©2012, Janet Periat

People: 1) Human beings or Homo sapiens. 2) An old-fashioned term for User. 3) Living beings that interacted with each other without the aid of a computer or smart phone. In the olden days, people would sit and chat with each other face-to-face. Instead of typing “lol” into their datapads, they would actually laugh out loud. Personal exchanges were conducted by listening to users voices and reading their facial expressions. Bonding would occur based upon mutual interests and activities that took place in the Real World (see below) rather than in an on-line world, social network or game. People spoke in complete sentences, rather than using cryptic acronyms. People would sometimes sit around their living rooms discussing the day’s events. Mostly these exchanges were civil and didn’t end in a flame session where both parties screamed expletives and wished death upon each other.

Real World: What we used to call the physical world around us, the world outside our computers. Now called our Fantasy World.

Outside: The area between and surrounding buildings.

Weather: Ever-changing temperatures and natural phenomenon that occur Outside. Weather takes on various forms: wind (air that blows without fans), rain (water that falls from the Sky), sunshine (very warm energy from the Sun), humidity (similar to the air in small meeting rooms filled to capacity with no air-conditioning) and snow (shaved ice that falls from the Sky).

Sky: The area above Earth as seen from the ground. Instead of walking and staring at a tiny screen (or viewing our brain implants), users would gaze at the sky. Clouds, Birds (see below) and gorgeous vistas would delight the users. At Night (also see below), stars and planets would appear as tiny dots of light against a blue/black sky.

Clouds: Before the age of smart phones, clouds were not data storage devices. They were (and are) visible bodies of water droplets or ice crystals in the atmosphere above the surface of Earth. They appear in the Sky and are normally associated with Weather. Users would stare at the clouds in the Sky and use their Imaginations (see below) to find familiar shapes, like a dog or a horse or a user’s face.

Day and Night: Before our world ran 24/7, we divided our time between Day and Night. Generally, Night began after sunset and before sunrise. Day occurred when the Sun (see below) rose and provided illumination and heat.

Sun: 1) A star in our galaxy that provides the light and heat experienced during the Day and sustains life on Earth. The Sun’s power is self-generated without the use of lighting fixtures or furnaces. The Sun provides nourishment for plants and is the source of power for solar-powered arrays. The Sun is visible in the Sky during the day, but staring at it for long periods of time can cause blindness. 2) A source of suntans for superficial users before tanning booths.

Nature: An unpaved area without buildings or man-made structures. These wild places may contain Plants (see below) without containers, including trees. Sometimes these strange lands contain small furry creatures. Weather is unforgiving in Nature as there are no buildings to provide shelter. Starvation and dehydration can occur quickly because there are no strip malls or fast food restaurants to provide food and water.

Plants: 1) A living green decoration some users have on their desks. 2) Source of flowers, beer, coffee, chocolate and aspirin. Note: Comes in a form called “lettuce” which sometimes appears on hamburgers and sandwiches.

Birds: Actual live creatures that fly through the sky without the aid of a mechanical device or manufactured propulsion system. Contrary to popular belief, they are not angry, nor are they normally projectiles thrown at Pigs (see below).

Pigs: 1) Source of bacon. 2) An actual live animal that lives on non-virtual farms and provides food for users. 3) Pets for rich and famous users. Note: Can only be killed online by Birds—unless the Bird is large, like an ostrich or emu, and the Pig is small.

Barbecue: An event in olden times where users would gather around a gas or charcoal grill Outside, and prepare food. Men would normally tend the fire and “barbecue” the meat while drinking vast quantities of beer, and women would prepare the side dishes and gossip about the men being drunk jerks. All communication was done without mobile devices, through speaking and listening.

Imagination: What users in the past would use to entertain themselves before the Internet. Users would allow their minds to wander and conjure up stories, plans and dreams. Before computers, the human mind was capable of such activities.

Thinking: An additional use for one’s brain other than receiving information. Thinking occurs when a user says something that is original and not a quote from a Star Trek movie, a YouTube video, or a song. Thinking aided users in accomplishing tasks before computers.

Note To Earthers: in case you don’t believe any of the above to be true, try this experiment. First, TURN OFF your mobile device. Then stand up and walk to a door that leads Outside. Step through the threshold and simply look around. If you see an avatar of a user, this is a real person (see People above). Wave and say hi. You’ll be amazed at what happens next.

©2011, Janet Periat

Another scary product is Libby’s Potted Meat Food Product. Such a snappy title for a food product. Libby’s obviously wasn’t worried about bowling over their target audience with tempting adjectives. The people who actually eat the stuff probably don’t pay attention to the title. Nor must they read the list of ingredients on the side of the can. I wish I hadn’t. And just what is “potted” meat, anyway? What kind of a process is “potting”? I looked through all my recipe books and couldn’t find any form of cooking called “potting”. Potting I’ve done to plants. Not to meat. Nor meat products. And what are meat products? Not meat. But a meat product. May or may not contain actual meat? Is it a product of the meat? What does meat produce? Troubling questions, all.

Another mystery no one should think about is polysorbate 60. I found it in both hydrocortisone cream and Ho-Ho’s snack cakes. And Twinkies. Which begs the question, how can a product that is supposed to be used topically be taken internally as well? Does some manufacturer make a generic “cream” that can be used in topical ointments as well as in filling for snack cakes? And exactly what the hell is polysorbate 60 anyway? And what does it do for the Ho-Ho’s? Or the hydrocortisone cream?

And while we’re on the subject, what happened to the other polysorbates? Were they all failures? After some investigating at my local supermarket, I managed to find only two other polysorbates being used: 20 and 80. Polysorbate 20 was in Murine Ear Drops. And I remember polysorbate 80 from several years back. I remember noticing it because they used it in Rely tampons. Remember the ones they recalled because they caused Toxic Shock Syndrome? The reason I remember the polysorbate 80 in there is because, at the time, I also found it in Twinkies, Ho-Ho’s, Suzie Q’s and Ding Dongs. But now they’re using polysorbate 60 instead of 80 in the snack cakes. So, did 80 leave some weird taste in your mouth? Did it contribute to the Rely tampon’s Toxic Shock Syndrome? Did it cause Toxic Shock Syndrome in people who ate Twinkies? Was it more costly? Why did they go back to the polysorbate 60? I looked around and could only currently find polysorbate 80 in Children’s Motrin Cold Medication and Afrin nasal decongestant. Maybe it did leave a horrible aftertaste and since medicines usually do, they decided to use it in those products and leave it out of Twinkies. I guess the polysorbate 60 tastes better. But I still want to know what happened to polysorbates 1 through 19, 21 through 59 and 61 through 79.

Another disturbing ingredient is propylene glycol. I found it in Oxy Acne Treatment and Zingers snack cakes. Another topical, yet internal ingredient. Sorbitan monostearate was another one I found in both the hydrocortisone cream and the Zingers. I just can’t figure out how the food manufacturers determine that they need to put those chemicals into their products. Did some product taster try some new Ho-Ho recipe and say “Hmmm, this is missing something. I think it needs more polysorbate 60. What do you think, Fred?” “Uh…no, Joe, I think it needs more sorbitan monostearate. A little more fumaric acid perhaps.” “I disagree, Fred. It’s either more polysorbate 60 or more propylene glycol.” “Well, Joe, we’re outta propylene glycol.” “Hey, Fred, look. There’s some in this St. Ives Wrinkle Corrector. Let’s just put some of this inside the Ho-Ho’s.” “Good plan, Joe.” These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.

Another thing I want to know is who makes up these recipes? Well, I suppose they aren’t recipes anymore, they’re formulas. So the food manufacturers probably hire scientists nowadays, not cooks. I can picture the food manufacturers giving orders to their newly hired scientists. “We want you guys to find a way to replicate food using chemicals. The people will never know they’re not getting real food if we dump enough sugar in the product. The sugar’s real. They’ll be happy with that.” And we are, aren’t we?

I suppose in the future grandparents will still be passing on their favorite recipes to their grandchildren. “Here’s my homemade truffle cake recipe, Leon. Remember, don’t scrimp on the propylene glycol. And always put in the polysorbate 60 to taste. Too much isn’t good. Could give the cake a hydrocortisone cream feel to it.” Okay, Grandpa.

©20??, Janet Periat

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I can’t remember when I wrote this column, but a recent post on the Weather Channel website  by Organic Authority about the ingredients in McDonald’s nuggets got me thinking about it. So here it is. You can find it in my book, Confessions of a Pink-Haired Lunatic.

A great cheer arose from the board.

Suddenly, the room fell into darkness and the ghostly apparition of an older man in a suit, covered in chains, appeared above the long conference table.

“My God, that’s our dead founding partner, Jacob Marley!” Scrooge cried.

“ScrooMoCo Board members,” the spirit moaned. “You’re all greedy bastards who’ve caused great economic imbalance in the world and caused terrible needless pain to the masses. When you die, you will suffer the same fate as me if you don’t repent and stop your heinous actions now. These are the chains I forged in life and believe me, they freakin’ clash with my Gucci and make getting spa treatments a bitch.”

Several board members gasped.

“You will be visited by three spirits tonight. Heed their warning or you will suffer fashion humiliation for all eternity!”

Marley vanished and the lights returned.

Chairman Scrooge snorted. “Cratchit, call maintenance and get the electrical fixed PRONTO.”

Bob Cratchit, his secretary, winced. “ But we fired the maintenance staff and outsourced the work to India.”

“Then you do it!”

The overhead lights flickered. A great crash of thunder made all the board members jump. Standing on the conference table before them was Bing Crosby.

“Hello Board Members, I’m the spirit of Christmas Past and this number goes out to all you greedy robber barons,” he announced and then broke out singing I’m Dreaming of a Rich, White and Male Christmas.

The board members clapped. “Do Swinging on a Star!”

“No, I’m here to show you how it used to be, before all you mega-corporations took over the Earth. Behold, the past!” Bing pointed to the wall behind the table.

A large movie screen appeared showing black and white footage of American factory workers on assembly lines. A happy family of six eating at a backyard barbecue. A doctor making a house call. Kids walking into shining new schools. A young couple buying their first house. A stay-at-home mother working in her kitchen of gleaming appliances.

“My doctor still makes house calls,” a board member huffed.

“Yes, and my children attend schools just like that one. Nothing has changed.”

Bing shook his head. “That used to be the life for 99% of our population. Not the 1% it is today.”

“It’s their fault for being poor,” sneered a board member.

“I give up. And now, I’d like to introduce that man-about-town, that haunting spirit you’ll all come to know and love, the Ghost of Christmas Present. Take it away, President Barack Obama.”

Bing disappeared and in his place stood Obama.

The board members screamed in fear. “A Democrat!”

“But he’s not dead,” one argued.

“Hey folks, easy does it. I’m just trying to get re-elected and this seemed like a great way to get my message across to you since none of you pay attention to what I say anymore.” He gestured to the back wall. “Behold, the present!”

A succession of film clips depicted gigantic crowds of protesters in Madrid, London, New York and Oakland. A close-up on the signs revealed the messages: We are the 99%. Corporations Must Atone. Tax the 1%. Make Jobs Not War on Middle Class and Working Poor. The images shifted to a school kid reading a torn book and sitting at a broken desk next to a bucket catching a leak in a dingy classroom. Hungry children and mothers standing in long lines at soup kitchens. Thousands of unemployed crowding job fairs. A row of boarded-up houses with brown lawns and foreclosure signs. A homeless encampment under a freeway.

“Glad I’m not poor,” commented a board member.

“Hear, hear.”

“Me, too,” said Obama. “But if we don’t change things and right now, there isn’t going to be any rich people because the poor will rise up and kill us all. Didn’t you guys study history? Remember Marie Antoinette? While you guys sip Cristal with me, people are starving out there. People can’t afford health care, homes or educations. Over the past fifteen years, you bastards have taken ALL the money. You weren’t satisfied with an extra 50% or even 75% more money than your workers, you had to give yourselves 298% raises while they only got 4%. You blew it. And your iPods and Prozac and beer and NFL championships aren’t distracting them anymore. They’re onto our game.”

A board member yawned. “I’m sorry, did you just say something? I wasn’t listening.”

“Forget it. Here’s your final spirit visitor for the day, the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

Obama vanished and a sweet little Mexican girl in pigtails and a pink dress stood on the table.

All the members shrieked in terror. “An illegal immigrant!”

The little girl nodded. “You should be afraid. Shortly, I’m going to be the majority. And you’re totally screwing me over right now. Behold, the future!”

A post-Apocalyptic landscape appeared onscreen. Mansions burned in the background. In the foreground, well-dressed people ran from pitchfork-wielding crowds. The camera panned over a burnt and cracked sign: Town of Atherton.

The board members gasped, horror-struck.

“Act now or soon it will be too late,” the little girl said and vanished.

The screen disappeared and the lights came on.

Scrooge frowned. “Wow. That was frightening.” He rubbed his chin. “So should we pay our fair share of taxes, hire more people, stop outsourcing, help rebuild America’s infrastructure, improve our education system, overhaul our healthcare system and hold big banks accountable for their crimes?”

Silence fell over the room.

One board member held up his hand. “How about we give ourselves big raises and take the rest of the money now while we still can?”

Scrooge’s eyes lit up. “All those in favor?”

“Aye!” the board members replied in unison.

Bob Cratchit muttered under his breath, “Goosed again.”

©2011, Janet Periat

Caught is available now in a gorgeous print version! Click HERE TO BUY THE BOOK.

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If you aren’t on Facebook, then you must be a Yak herder in Outer Mongolia who happens to be in the one spot left on the planet that doesn’t have cell reception. Or you’re smart. Or technologically challenged. Or a combination of all three. While there are Facebook resisters out there, most people I know have succumbed and now understand the sinking-in-quicksand feeling when you’re getting sucked whole into the world of Facebook.

There are many valid reasons to be on the social networking site. All of these valid reasons are lies. Or at the very least, self-delusions. Most people go on Facebook with great intentions. They are going to promote their business. Then they see a Farmville post from a good friend who sent them a virtual cow as a gift. Five hours later, they look up at the clock and realize they forgot to pick up the kids from school. And they didn’t post anything about their hair salon. And then they feel stupid. Really stupid. This is when the Facebook Lies begin. “Mom, where were you?” “Sorry, honey, I was working on the computer and got lost in my new promotion.” You can’t tell anyone the truth. Or they’ll think you’re a moron. Even though they’re probably guilty of the exact same thing.

While Facebook has connected me with old friends and younger family members—many people I missed dearly—there are many downsides to the interactive message board other than the massive time sink. Like when you find out that your friends had a party and didn’t invite you. Not only didn’t they invite you, they took pictures and posted them. Or a friend posts photos of you from college wearing a risqué dominatrix costume from a Halloween party you’d rather forget. Or that guy who beat you up in high school friends you and since he is connected to all your other classmates you feel obligated to friend him even though you hate him and can’t believe it when the guy has the balls to post a Happy Birthday message on your wall. Or you invite an old theater friend to be your Facebook Friend and he declines your request. Then you watch in real time as the jerk friends every other one of your theater buddies but you. Not that any of the above instances happened to me. By the way, I don’t like you either, Jeff.

Other perils of Facebook include: Faced-Book, when you post something humiliating after drinking too much. Two-Faced-Book, when your friend cancels a date with you and then posts about what a great time they had with someone else that same night. Red-Faced-Book, when you meant to send a private message regarding something sensitive to one friend and accidentally sent it to everyone. Face-Off-Book, when your right-wing nutjob friends and your left-wing nutjob friends hijack one of your innocuous posts about the government and turn it into a verbal WWF match.

Another Dark Side to Facebook—aside from its creepy practice of vacuuming all your personal information and selling it to faceless corporations who want to exploit you—is the continual changes to its interface. Nearly every time I visit the site, there is some new feature that confuses me. This week Facebook announced that they will be making giant, fundamental changes to their site, changes that “should only take users two months to adapt”. Yes, two months. The interface will supposedly become an ever-changing “scrapbook”. Where everywhere the users go and everything we do and post and read and eat and listen to will be broadcast to all our friends in real time. I don’t know about you but that idea FRIGHTENS me.

At the press conference, a perky, pre-pubescent Facebook developer reported that nowadays everyone is used to living transparent lives with no privacy. That we’ve all become very comfortable with everyone knowing what we’re doing at all times. I don’t know who their research team is, but they are INSANE. Janet Periat just checked in at Costco so this is a great time to burglarize her house. Janet Periat just bought four pounds of candy at Safeway, which proves she lied about being on a diet. Janet Periat just threw her computer across the room because she can’t figure out Facebook’s new changes.

How many people want their bosses to know that they are attending a ball game instead of lying in bed with the flu? How many people want everyone to know they just got a colonoscopy? Or that they attended a Barry Manilow concert? Okay, maybe the colonoscopy is fine, but no one could live down the Barry Manilow thing.

What my friends and I need is OldBook. Where the interface is simple, private, and stays static, like Google (not Google+ which is another bastion of confusion). A site we can learn to use in seconds. Where we can enjoy our friends’ cute cat pictures, see what they ate for lunch, and be jealous of their recent trip to Hawaii. And not be made to feel stupid because yet one more modern tool has become too complicated to use.

But here’s my biggest beef with Facebook: they’ve got us all complaining over a free service. So technically, we can’t whine. They’ve hooked us on their Internet crack and made us look like total ingrates at the same time. I hate them. And I’m never visiting their stupid site again—oh, look, my friend’s cat had kittens!

©2011, Janet Periat