Tess Munster gets a shit-ton of hate-mail. Now let’s all just stop acting surprised and indignant about that before we even start. That kind of thing happens all the time, even with most of us walking around pretending to be all enlightened. Tess Munster makes people uncomfortable. She is a threat to how we’ve always done things. She must be stopped. Because …

Hells yeah.

How dare she love herself in a swimsuit.

How dare she love herself, period.

How dare she be immodest (vain, even!) when she’s clearly … fat.

Shouldn’t she hide under a muumuu and just read self-help books until she loses a hundred pounds?

Shouldn’t she be apologizing for something? Anything?

How dare she give other heavy women permission to love themselves in a swimsuit, or in anything else?

How dare she suggest that she is healthy and happy in her body. Right now. Not a hundred pounds from now. Not ten or twenty. Right now.

I’m not fat. But sometimes, all I see in my mirror is someone who is not ready to be seen. Someone who falls ten or twenty pounds short of worthy.

Tess Munster thinks you shouldn’t have to wait to be beautiful. Wear what you feel like, with confidence, on your body. Now, not later. Including and especially a swimsuit. Or a pair of tight yoga pants. Or a hat. Or anything that says “I’m not going to hide under a rock so you don’t have to notice that I’m here, and not perfect.”

Swimsuits are especially interesting, because women are always waiting to be worthy to wear them. “It’s almost swimsuit season!” said every fitness instructor, everywhere, every spring of my whole life. “Are you worthy of enjoying a day at the beach, (perhaps ten more Zumba classes from now)?”

We have all kinds of interesting attitudes about women who dare to bare lots of skin at the beach (which we never say out loud).

These attitudes vary depending on body size, and they go a little like this:

1) If a woman is reed thin with tiny breasts, we think she is a poet-hippie-dreamer and we long to spend long hours staring at her perfect clavicles and talking about creative nonfiction. The less she wears, the better. She is just expressing her creativity!

2) If she is large-breasted and thin, we think she is flaky and fascinating, but also a bit slutty. And while we wrestle with our conflicting emotions about her, we can’t stop staring at her sternum. The less she wears, the better! (Though she shouldn’t be surprised that everyone is staring at her sternum. Serves her right for dressing all slutty.)

3) If she is kinda heavy, we think she has a right to be at the beach (with her kids, anyway), but wish she had the appropriate Land’s End cover-up so we don’t have to see any cellulite. Except cleavage. Cleavage is totally acceptable.

4) If a woman is really heavy in a swim suit, we think she should run home, hide under something earth-toned, and eat only broccoli until the rest of the world can abide her impossibly smug and irritating lack of self-loathing.

Me-freaking-yow, darlin’.

Tess Munster knows people feel that way, and she doesn’t care. She is just all leopard-printed, lip-glossed and fabulous on a beach towel somewhere — waiting for the world to catch the hell up to her. Knowing we probably never will.

So, I’d tell you to go find Tess Munster’s site and give her some love, but she doesn’t actually need it. Not as bad as the rest of us.

Do it anyway, of course, and look at her. Look at that gorgeous face. Can you hear her? Those big dreamy eyes beseech: “Wear the swim suit. The hat. Wear nothing. Stop fussing. Be beautiful.”

I’m working on it, Tess. Truly, I am.

Hello, Krazy.

It’s a “Hello Kitty” sweatshirt. For kitties. It’s a kitty-themed shirt for your kitty to wear. Sweet mother of Garfield. And of course, I really wanted to buy it for my dead cat. As you do.

My precious curmudgeonly orange tabby, Sesame, crossed over (and likely burned and then pissed on) the Rainbow Bridge last August, but I still think about him every day. What is this hold he has on me? Even now? Why do I still have two cats and consistently yearn for a new one?

Crazy Cat Lady Disease. It’s a thing.

Science-y people call it Toxo Plasma Gondii (not Gandhi). I call it the most likely reason I have a feline face tattooed on my right shoulder. And possibly why Sesame’s charred toaster leavings are still sitting in a box in my office and not buried next to Harry the Hampster by the shed, where they belong.

After extensive Internet research that involved several five-dollar words and a few worth at least ten dollars, I’m pretty sure I have it. Jim has it too. (Fact: Any disease researched on the wubs will slowly become a disease you are convinced that you have. And your spouse.)

Here’s why I believe I have Toxo Plasma Blah Blah, aka T. Gondii (Let’s call it that from here on out because it sounds like a rapper instead of a disgusting bug that lives in cat colons.):

1) Because cats are its favorite hosts. It can only make baby T. Gondiis inside cat bowels, and therefore … poo. In more than thirty years of cat-tending, I’ve handled what is I’m sure an insane amount of cat product. Get it?? Insane. See, because …

2) Because T. Gondii messes with your head. Research suggests that the parasite causes rats to feel attracted to cats, despite the fact that cats wish to eat them. This may also apply to larger, less intelligent mammals. Such as … Jim. And totally … me.

3) Sesame always seemed like he wanted to eat me. (And kill Jim.)

4) I would have let him. (The eat me part. I would have missed Jim. I really think I’m getting the hang of this science stuff, by the way.)

5) I have lived with cats for more than thirty years; my brain has felt messed-with the entire time.

But hey, don’t believe me. Take it from this really stable-looking scientist who claims that T. Gondii IS ALIVE IN HIM and causing him to make reckless decisions (other than the hair).

Biologist Jaroslav Flegr. If Sesame had been a dude, he might look a lot like this guy. Including (especially) the sweater.

Jaroslav Flegr believes that a) he has T. Gondii, b) lots of people have it and don’t know it and, c) the same parasite that can make a rat forget not to get eaten can cause humans to act in self-destructive ways.

OMG, If you’ve read either of my books, you will know why I SO VERY HAVE THIS.

“Indeed, recent findings … suggest that the parasite is capable of extraordinary shenanigans.”

Flegr’s research also suggests that T. Gondii causes men to be more reclusive, while women become more social. Now, when I drag Jim kicking and screaming to gatherings, I will happily announce, “He’s not anti-social, friends. He just has crazy cat lady disease.” He will super LOVE that.

So, parasitic mind control. It’s a thing.

And right meow,  it’s making me want to drive really recklessly back to Target and buy that Hello Kitty sweatshirt for one of my living cats. Heck. Both of them. Maybe one for the dog, too. I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER THIS.

In closing, here are several pics of my cat Squeak trying very hard not to model my swell new cat pendant, which I ordered just a couple of weeks before learning of my crippling mental disability. Have a T. Gondii day!

(Only a person in my condition would take so much time to terrorize her cat in this way, then spend like twenty minutes uploading and selecting photos for such an array. Maybe Squeak should have thought of this before she made me a crazy cat lady.)

Happy Friday!

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2013/05/yoga-doesnt-have-to-be-everything-to-be-awesome-caroline-burau/

But as she told me what was going on, I found myself resisting the idea of her being an alcoholic. I wanted to argue.

I realized … I really don’t want this for her.

You’d think I’d be glad to have another pal out in the world who’s all about the sober living, the 12 steps, daily affirmations, blah, etc., but I honestly wasn’t. Because I don’t want her to life to be hard – and sometimes sober living just … sucks ass.

If I let it.

Which sometimes I totally do.

Acceptance is difficult, even after this long. Some days it seems like the whole world revolves around a never-ending countdown to happy hour. And while it’s perfectly acceptable to tell your co-workers how drunk you got last weekend, sometimes the worst thing you can do is tell them that you NEVER get drunk.

A couple weeks ago, a newly-hired dispatcher in my center found out I had written a book about dispatch, so she eagerly jumped on Amazon to read about Answering 911, started checking out the reviews, and realized with a startle that I am a recovering cocaine addict.

I watched her struggle to be politically correct about it. She’s also a paramedic, so she’s seen plenty of active addicts in their worst moments: overdosed, drug-seeking, drains on society who don’t give a crap about anything but their next score.

So, now she gets to wrestle with the idea that she works next to one of them — an addict who claims to be clean and sober. After those initial moments of adjustment, she was totally gracious and kind. She told me she was excited to read my book. She was awesome. Really.

But I was still uncomfortable. It hasn’t always gone that well.

(“The author was a crack addict,” I read in a review on Goodreads once. “There isn’t much worse you can say about a book after that.” Dude.)

It’s nobody’s fault. If I’m being honest, I still have shame about being an addict. It was a terrible time. I did, said and, well, smoked a few things I am not very proud of, and … ugh. It’s all very Lifetime Movie of the Week starring Jennifer Love Hewitt.

“So, why did you include that in the book?” I have been asked.

Because secrecy and silence just help shame grow.*

And because there is plenty about being in recovery that I am really proud of. My family knows I am there for them now. As do my friends. In the last 21 years, I’ve raised a daughter, earned a degree, maintained a loving marriage, written two books, saved a couple of lives and delivered a couple of babies (over the phone), and it’s all there in my history because I got sober and stayed sober. And some days, that is no walk in the park, people.

But that brings me back to my friend. Because she knows I’m sober, she asked me to help her. If I had never told her, or anyone, I would never have that honor. And I need that to stay sober … even if I sometimes resist it.

About seven years ago, my boss at the city police department I used to dispatch for shot himself in the head. He and I had spoken a hundred times over morning coffee about our kids, our cars, the weather … everything but the fact that I was in recovery or that he was actively drinking too much and terribly depressed. The point is not that I alone could have prevented him from killing himself. But how does anyone ever heal if he or she can never be vulnerable? I wish he had been vulnerable with me or I with him. The next time I’m faced with that situation, I will risk it.

That’s why it’s in the book.

Because it sucks less to just put it out there. Even if it makes people squirm. And I know it does. Don’t worry. We can talk about something funny next time. Like maybe my husband. Or our cats. Or some of the bizarre things my husband says to our cats.

I promise.

Peace and love.

*(Paraphrased from this awesome TED talk you should watch by Brene Brown.)

The short answer is yes. The long answer is … this whole blog.

Jordan, an insanely lithe and pert-nosed LAPD dispatcher (played by Berry) is a 911 veteran who can dispatch a husband/wife shooting call with the same calm indifference as she would announce a noise complaint. At least that is the case until she picks up the prowler in progress call that catapults her into the rising action and thrilling plot! This is the call that changes Jordan’s whole … well gets her super upset. Fast.

Halle can haz stress ball. Abigail (inset) in a rare moment when she’s not screaming.

(Berry’s shift from large and in charge to frenzied and clinging to her stress ball for dear life is almost comically dramatic. She’s smooth. She’s chill. She’s freaking the fuck out!)

She is so upset, she makes a mistake that leads the prowler to his prey. After learning that the teenage victim was not just kidnapped but also killed, Jordan retreats from the pressure of calltaking and hides out for six months in the training department. We meet her again on the night of ANOTHER FATEFUL SHIFT when a similar prowler call sucks her back in like Al Pacino into the third Godfather movie.

And she is back at it. This time, the victim is “Casey” played by a bleach-blonded Abigail Breslin. (Breslin would most certainly win the Oscar for “longest continuous frantic shrieking” if such an award existed.) Casey is trapped in her kidnapper’s trunk and headed for his Silence-of-the-Lambs-esque lair. Scary, kids. (Member? “It puts the lotion on its skin…”)

I bet you think at this point that I didn’t like the movie. Negative. I actually do. Because, for all its cheesiness, The Call gets the most important thing right (to me). It gets the job.

Which leads us to my favorite-est part of The Call, the holy-shit, nail-chewing several-minute sequence in which Jordan masterfully keeps Casey calm and helps her find new and awesome ways to help attract attention to the kidnapper’s car so police can locate it. The kidnapper scenario is mercifully rare, but in varying degrees, this is the kind of thing that can land in a real-life dispatcher’s lap at any moment. I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen dispatchers ROCK those calls. And they rarely get the fanfare they deserve.

So, I don’t generally like thrillers, but it turns out that I do like dispatcher thrillers. Especially when they make us look like the bad-ass em-effers that we sometimes have to be.

I should also note that the setting, known as “the hive” (LAPD’s own NORAD-like 911 communications center, named for its constant, insistent buzzing) is spot-on. The varying dispatcher personalities and the types of calls (from the suicidal with the gun to the bored old man who only calls when drunk — which is every night) also ring true.

In fact there were many “hell yes” moments in this movie, from Jordan’s bathroom breakdown to her 90s hair and those night-shift bags under her eyes, to the nervous rookie, who explains to a group of naïve students that one of the hardest parts of the job is simply not knowing what happens to callers after they disconnect. Amen.

Of course because Hollywood has no impulse control, The Call gets all wonky and impossible and “she did NOT just do that” toward the very end. We watch, mouths-agape as Jordan and Casey do some seriously crazy shit while wearing only a tank top and a training bra, respectively.

Dispatcher goes vigilante, Breslin goes topless, and “The Call” goes completely off the rails.

Still …

Thank you, Hollywood, for setting foot in a dispatch center to see what one really looks like. Thank you for at least trying to ugly Halle Berry down a little bit. Thank you for putting a cape on us and giving us super-powers!

“You’re just an operator,” our villain tells Jordan during their insanely implausible final encounter, “You can’t do this!”

Well in Hollywood, we can. And it’s uber fun to watch.

Another proposed bill that targets the female swimsuit area. This one is about boobs.

We just spent an entire election season listening to republicans talk about all the different ways they wish to legislate our vaginas. So …

Obsess much?

I’m not judging. I get it. Boobs versus budgets? “Bring me the nipple briefing, young attractive intern, and don’t forget to close the door on your way out.”

It’s just … I can’t …

Oh dear. I just wasted half an hour on this blog about nipples. Hello, pot? This is the kettle.

Okay, back to my journey.

Vagina!

***

“Lois, our relationship can not be measured in nipples and dimes …  nickels and boobs … money.” -Peter Griffin, Family Guy

“Sometimes I got so bored of trying to touch her breast that I would try to touch her between her legs. It was like trying to borrow a dollar, getting turned down, and asking for 50 grand instead.” -Rob Gordon, High Fidelity

Because … Amazon.

A couple of months ago, I agreed to write a chapter for a 911 dispatcher anthology with a deadline at the end of February. That was December. A prudent writer would have started at that time. And then there’s me.

Now, I have two weeks to hand in 5,000-7,000 words on my dispatch “journey.” That’s like, one-tenth of a novel.

Why are we EVEN TALKING right now?!

I have a motherfucking journey to write about.

But because I care, and because it’s National Feed-me-chocolate-in-bed Day, I give you my valentine, Jim, with Ramen.

Some wives would be feel bad that their husband had such a close, personal relationship with instant soup that he would pose like this, without irony, in front of a case of 24 bowls of shrimp-flavored Ramen. Some wives would be embarrassed that their husband burns through so many servings of sea-monkey noodles that he has to order a freaking crate on Amazon just to keep up with demand.

And then there’s me.

There’s no time to apologize.

Meal planning? Negative.

I’m over here with MY JOURNEY.

Anyway, below find another pink thing Jim likes to eat. (Snicker.)

This item is even more horrific than 24 cups of constipation. This item isn’t just for zombie apocalypses, but it probably should be.

Spam. You cook it, but it’s still pink.

So with Jim properly fed with strange, processed, salty pink foods, I guess I can at least write this thing without having to worry he’s going to starve to death.

He may very well suffer a sodium-induced seizure, but a photo of that would pretty much give me my blog for next week, when I will most certainly still be slaving over my STUPID GODDAMN JOURNEY.

Journey!

Don’t stop believing.

Get started writing, Caroline.

And Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody.

Some dispatchers “liked” it. And some dispatchers got SUPER PISSED.

As it turns out, if you question a dispatcher’s right to bitch about stupid people, you are kind of playing with fire. One dude suggested I might have a bug up my ass. Much worse, I was told I sounded like a manager. (I had to take a knee.)

In the end, it’s all cool because while I was busy taking all that heat, I also got like 200 new followers on my page. Booya.

But let me explain why I feel so deeply for the stupid people: I am one of them.

Don’t worry, husband, friends, therapist, I’m all good on self-esteem and stuff. It’s just that sometimes, here and there, I’ve been known to do things that could at the very least be interpreted as stupid. Especially, if you’re someone who’s … smart.

And especially if I’m panicked. Like, for example, someone who is calling 911 might be.

Let me sing you the song of my people:

Dispatcher: “911?”

Me: “Hi. I think my house is on fire.”

Dispatcher: “Is this Caroline?”

Me: “How did you know??” Because she works with me. Because …  caller ID. 

Dispatcher: “Are you alone in the house?”

Me: “Yes. What should I do?” Because this isn’t something I should already know.

Dispatcher: “You should get out of the house.”

Which I did, eventually. Once I had found my purse, my laptop, my three cats, and my favorite dress sandals. (Just try to find that style in bronze anymore.) My dog followed me out, carrying his favorite stuffed mermaid.

And when the fire department came and pulled the mangled spatula out of my dishwasher motor and opened a window, I became a proud member of the Stupid Caller Club. Actually, I became co-chair, along with that guy who called 911 because Burger King got his order wrong.

Still not convinced? Okey dokey.

This morning, I got to work, put my head set on, sat down, turned to my keyboard, snagged the cord on my chair, knocked my coffee over, startled myself, jumped up, lost my headset, then knocked the chair over sideways.

Rest easy, citizens of Minnesota. Someday, you may need me to help SAVE YOUR LIFE.

“It’s a good thing you’re cute, because you ain’t too bright.” -Co-dispatcher Bill, to me, pretty much every shift.

Subtitle: The crazy shit I will write to attract attention to this blog.

Me: “I’m running to the lav, people.”

Bill: “How will we know when you’re back?”

It’s January: my anniversary month, of sorts. I’ve been dispatching 911 for ten years now. Ten years! Ten years of radio chatter in my head. Ten years of shuffling emergency vehicles around like I’m playing some never-ending digital chess game. Ten years of call after call after cardiac arrest after choking after barking dog complaint.

Ten years of “copy.” Ten years of “disregard.” Seemingly twenty years of “repeat your traffic??” Thirty years’ worth of “Am I the closest unit to this call?”

Ten years of asking permission to pee. From Bill. Or people very similar to Bill, but prettier.

Ten years of other dispatchers. Ten years of dispatchers JUST LIKE ME. Ten years of dispatchers NOT LIKE ME. That’s a lot of griping, laughing, crying, farting, misunderstanding, and open mikes.

When I wrote Answering 911 I had only two years on the job, and was asked if I’d ever write another, I said HECK NO, because I really didn’t think I’d be doing this long enough for that. That was seven years ago; I may have misspoke.

I recently dreamed that I was writing a second book about dispatching, and that it was funny. I’m not sure what my dream thought was so funny about what we do (because let’s face it, sometimes it’s just depressing), but all I can think is that it was US. We, the dispatchers. We are the funny.

Bill’s kind of funny, if you’re into harelip jokes, griping, and farting. (Most shifts, Bill enters the comm center, takes in his surroundings, and announces that he’s never seen a “bigger bunch of harelips” in all his life. It’s an insult to harelips.)

Tammy’s kind of funny, if you’re into listening to her desecrate Christmas carols at top volume in the middle of June, and open mikes.

My favorite open mike happened on an all-female shift, during which we were discussing a Pure Romance catalog we had been passing around.

Fragments broadcast on the main channel without our immediate knowledge include but are not limited to:

“I like the Rainbow Rabbit!”

“Like a virgin? How does that even …”

And the piece de resistance: “It’s supposed to make you tighter!”

And before anyone could clarify where all those beads are supposed to go, one of us finally yelled “OPEN MIKE!!” and it was all over but the apologizing to the street supervisor.

Oh, shit. Some of this actually is funny.

But if I write another book about dispatching, my co-workers are going to kill me. I can’t lose this job. After ten years, I’m institutionalized — like Red in Shawshank Redemption. If they let me out, I’m just going to try to commit a crime so I can be a dispatcher again, or something.

So … we’ll see. I’m good under deadline, so here’s a deadline: If I’m still dispatching five years from now, I’ll definitely write a book. Maybe I’ll call it Answering 911: Does anyone mind if I go to the bathroom?

As if I needed another reason to want an air horn.

             ”Forty years I’ve been asking permission to piss. I can’t squeeze a drop without say-so.” –Red, Shawshank Redemption

And I’m tra-la-la-ing down Christmas memory lane.

It started when I ran to Target to find a couple of stocking stuffers and instead found a sweater that would have been perfect for the Late Great Sesame.

(It was red and green and made to fit wiener dogs and thereby also old, arthritic cats, which caused me to let out an audible “awe!” And when the lady next to me looked puzzled, I tried to explain how I came to have a near-bald, 20-year-old cat that liked cable knits, and once upon a time, he was the best kitty ever, and when he wasn’t the best, he was the funniest, and now he lives in a box on my mantle.

Then we had an awkward silence made only more awkward when I realized I was actually petting the sweater.

Lesson: If you’re going to launch into a long story about how much you miss your ornery old feline with a complete stranger, you should first ask if that stranger gives two shits about cats. I digress.)

Anyway, I sure miss that old bald bastard. Way back when he was young, spry, and had hair, Sesame once bit into the Christmas tree lights so thoroughly that his gums smoked. Then he turned around and hissed at the tree like, “I spit upon you, green monster!” Good times.

***

Then there was the year that I made the worst red velvet cake ever. It was a recipe in Parade magazine, and I swear I followed it word for word, right down to the ENTIRE CUP OF OIL it called for.

Our own private cake wreck.

I made it a three-layer cake with one green layer in the middle, and when it came time to serve it I was so proud, you’d think I’d invented cream cheese frosting. I made sure everyone had a nice big slice, sat down, took a nice healthy bite, and … yuckity.

It was like I’d deep-fried the cake at McDonalds, fed it to Rudolph and friends, who then threw it back up so I could frost it and serve it to some people I claimed to love.

It was really fun, though, for just a few minutes, to watch my husband, daughter, brother, sister-in-law, and mother grapple with the problem of how to tell me that my cake tasted like “ballsack” as Jim told me later. (My dad, whose taste-buds committed suicide some time during his childhood in The Great Depression, gave my ballsack cake two enthusiastic thumbs up and ate the whole piece.)

I never attempted to red velvet ever again. I leave that to the professionals.

In closing, here’s a picture of an ornament on my mom’s tree. I think I was in third grade. That very special haircut represents a time in my life when I was opinionated enough to dictate my own style choices, but not old enough for those choices to make any kind of sense.

Merry Christmas, y’all. I love yer faces.

Oh lookah that! Vo tec hair.