Tabatha Deans

I SURRENDER

I SURRENDER
After months of holding out against the many changes on the internet, specifically those involving my blogging space, I surrender. I give up. I will pay/do whatever is asked of me to maintain years of my writing in the same place. I already gave up the phone number I’d had for years, and simply cannot bring myself to abandon all that I’ve written here, so, I continue. The postings following are random, a collection of bits from previous months. Written, then discarded in a fit of anger, then resurrected, and, finally, posted.
I spent last week attending the National Conference for Media Reform, where I was reminded that impending changes to the internet are inevitable, and are coming faster than any of us would like. The purpose of the conference was to gather “freedom fighters of media” together, to discuss and protest the irresponsible changes being made to our media, all in the name of big money. It’s no secret that the media has disregarded any semblance of any real news, opting instead for “infotainment.”
Personally I have lost hope for the media industry, throwing in the towel and searching out “feel good” stories within my community. With billions of dollars being spent to control the minds of the masses through the media, I have long believed that the media is the devil. They may not be the perpetrators of all things evil, but without the power of t.v., newspaper, magazines, the internet and cable, the world would not be aware and swayed by the things they read and see.
But seeing nearly 1,000 people at the conference, each believing the media could be saved, made me feel a tiny bit of hope. The workshops were okay, but I spent more time meeting others and discussing what small role I could play. I left with some good contacts, and a sense that perhaps I could do a little something to fight for future generations.

Karma Loves Me

I’m getting a late start on my new year’s resolution—to write more. I was just thinking today, a mere three months into the new year, that my life is just too darn good. I have neglected my writing mainly because I have enjoyed the hell out of being indulgent in my new-found love of my life, Robert. Walking around with my head in the clouds, I reflected that I haven’t had anything dramatic to write about. My life might be becoming boring, and surprisingly, I think I might be okay with that. Or not. But moving to the suburbs is suddenly staring me in the face. Financially I’m being bombarded with consequences for my past actions, or lack of, and am once again driven to the page because I need money for food and basic necessities. But, I am in love, so I have kept the fretting to a minimum.
So I set out this morning without a reason to fret, except that I might not make the breakfast cut off time at McDonald’s. I darted out of bed, pulled my hair back, put on my skinny jeans, (I mean the ones that make me feel skinny, not actually look skinny.) and headed to McD’s for a cup of dollar coffee and a sausage biscuit, enroute to a protest by homeless advocates against a local breakfast eatery. I planned to march into the picket line and ask some serious questions.
I needn’t have worried about missing the 10:30 cutoff time, it was Sunday, they served breakfast until 11. I got my meal and scolded myself for my weakness. It had been more than a week since I had Mcdonald’s, and I hated myself every time I caved and ate their breakfast. It’s like a drug, and I thought I could understand how a junkie felt, as I sat on the steps of the Cathedral on Colfax, devouring my biscuit, and hashbrown, knowing I would hate myself in 20 minutes, but intent on finishing it anyway.
I called Trudy to get caught up on work gossip, and laid out my breakfast picnic beside me. Colfax was crawling with people, the spring-like weather making everyone a bit more pleasant. Several men shouted compliments about my appearance from across the street, or sommented on my smile as I passed them on Colfax. Halfway through my biscuit, an elderly couple approached me, and the gentleman, who had a rather large nose, spoke to me with an accent I believe to be German.
“Excuse me, Miss. We are in need, we need to make a 911 call. Can you help us please?”
I noticed his wife was wearing an oxygen tube around her ears, one end delivering air into her body, and the other tethered to a portable tank on wheels, which she drug behind her when they got off the bus on Colfax, where she began to feel her heart racing. I answered the operator’s questions, relaying the questions and answers back and forth between the elderly couple and the operator. She had heart disease, no she wasn’t clammy, I felt her hands, but when I touched her neck and face I noticed she had deep scars on both, perhaps healed burns.
I must say I remained calm, and believe I was the ideal assistant in their time of need. The paramedics arrived in a fire truck, and bless their hot, buff, adorable young hearts, the were very good with the ailing woman, as well as her husband. The ambulance arrived next, and another young man, pretty hot, approached the crowd. I stepped back to watch, and realized they had surrounded my meal. My glorious, 1,000 calorie, greasy, processed, meal, and my coffee. I snuck behind the old man and through the flowerbed and snatched my breakfast back.
I patted the old man on the shoulder and gave him a “God Bless You” then finished my biscuit as I walked down the mall to Larimer, then over four blocks to an area I’d never been before, and had, in fact, been warned not to ever go to. I was headed for the Golden Triangle, a parcel of land with grass and a few trees, that is bordered by two homeless shelters, and a morning eatery, which moved into the neighborhood with hopes of helping those in the community. They wanted to help their homeless brothers, and donated to several organizations, began employing homesless people at the eatery, allowed charities to hold functions to raise awareness and funds at the eatery.
The eatery grew and gained a reputation, customers flocked to the neighborhood, the eatery runneth over, with lines forming around the block each weekend, customers spilling out onto the gathered groups blocking the sidewalks, waiting to get inside and spend money on a legendary breakfast. Ironic, given the location. The owners of the eatery spoke out in favor of the recent urban camping ban, and have been targeted by Occupy denver people on behalf of the homeless people.
They’re angry at the world and have chosen the eatery as the target for the fury, and my job is to write a story that will make them all realize that they should be helping each other and targeting the true evil—big pharma, together.

OH, THAT’S WHY MY PAYCHECK’S SMALLER
I rolled out of bed at the respectable hour of 8 a.m., to see large, beautiful snowflakes slowly falling outside my window. Yay! We really haven’t had a nice snowstorm for a while, so I pulled my super cool winter boots on over my black pajama bottoms, my coat over my t-shirt, threw a hat on, I did actually brush my teeth as well, and headed to mcD’s for a dollar cup of coffee, kicking myself for not just buying coffee. But then I’d have to buy cream and sweetener, (that’s not completely true, I usually don’t pay for sweetener.). And that didn’t make sense to buy milk when I’m spending most of my time at Robert’s, where the food is much better and coffe comes with conversation.
I returned the video to Redbox, got my coffee and what I believe was a wonderful good morning from a little old Hispanic woman.
“Buenos Dias mamacita!” Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and every line etched in her face shifted as she smiled up at me as we passed in the lobby. I felt a little special that I was the object of her endearment, she seemed like I should respect her opinion, so I did. I enjoyed the falling snow as I walked home, formulating my day in my mind. I intended to work on the Friendly Fire story, send some emails begging for paying assignments, and researching new publications to sell my work to. I had attempted the latter on many occasions, and quickly became overwhelmed with the amount of information and trying to determine who/which to approach first, how to approach them, and most importantly, who to approach. Tedious work, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
After that I planned to decorate my apartment like a sheik’s harem, or bedroom, I’m not sure what the word is, but it will involve scarves, candles, incense, and the coolest belly dancing outfit I’ve ever seen. Karma gave it to me last week, it’s forest green with dozens of coins that jingle like a waterfall every time I move a muscle. I took a belly dance class years ago, when I was a much larger woman, and genuinely liked it. I have no rhythm, but the costumes were so awesome and make me feel incredible.
After a little afternoon delight, it would be off to the grocery store then home to cook dinner together and a relaxing evening. Karma must agree with my plan, because I was rewarded when I checked my email. There was an assignment from the Queen Bee, one of my editors, requesting interviews of local magazines/papers who have been around for a while, how they survive, their future plans, etc. I responded with an enthusiastic yes, and received a list of six major players in Denver’s writing scene, along with contact information and a letter of introduction. SCORE!
I reveled in my good fortune all day, giggling, dancing around and enjoying visions of grandeur for my future. I felt fulfilled as a writer, joyous. Mid day I fell into a spell of spontaneous euphoria, and I sat in front of my window, freshly showered, the cold breeze blowing the curtains before it hits my legs. The snow is floating down, and my window is wide open, yet only a handful of flake have fallen inside. It’s beautiful, natural and refreshing.
I did spend a bit of time on the phone with my accounting lady. She called to verify my hours, which I don’t keep precise track of, but consistently work 37-38 hours each week. I slacked off a bit throughout the winter, leaving thirty minutes early, arriving 15 minutes late. My paychecks were about 100 dollars less than what they used to bed, and I assumed it was because I was working less hours. But Marilyn assured me that my paycheck was indeed smaller due to taxes taken out. OUCH! I wasn’t actually working less, I was working the same amount but now almost 200 dollars a month had just disappeared. I thought I was just exceptionally bad with my money, but it turns out there’s an actual reason for me to have fallen behind. That sucks.
But the good new is, I haven’t been a slacker.

April 10, 2013 - Posted by Tabatha Stewart | Uncategorized | blogging, denver, hope, internet, love, media reform, sex, writer