My Name continually every day is blasphemed (Isaiah 52.5)

This blog was set up for me to tell my silly stories for my own amusement. From the outset, the business plan in my head was to never write about bad things, politics, religion or anything controversial. This is not my soapbox, it's where I unabashedly show my slip.

This entry will be my one exception, only because I feel very strongly about it. I am going to use the names of these people, which will make this entry searchable and open to negative comment attacks. Bring it on, Phelps family. You can't hurt me. I will always use my positive energy, much like the angels in "The Laramie Project," which you inspired and continue to picket, to use my voice for good and to do my best to protect the innocent and grieving from the acid you gleefully try to fling toward their wounds. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhr96Imua8U)

You claim God hates fags and loves to see a dead soldier. Read your KJV again. "Thou shalt not take the lord God's name in vain." (Exodus 20.7) "Love thy neighbor." (Matthew 5.43) Matthew Shepard, Matthew Snyder and countless others more holy than you whisper back to those they left behind and you tormented the words, "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me." (Galatians 2:20)

My friends have received the following two posts from me in the last three days.

From: Leigh Ann Frink
Date: Oct 26, 2007 7:28 PM
Subject: Help stop the hatred
To:

Friends of Leigh Ann:

I e-mailed some of you an article earlier today regarding a fallen Marine whose funeral was picketed by the followers of Fred Phelps (If you're unfamiliar and have a strong stomach, see http://www.godhatesfags.com/main/index.html). This young man died serving his country, yet his family and friends, while laying him to rest, were confronted by adults and children holding signs that read, "Thank God for Dead Soldiers," "God Hates Fags," "Semper Fag" ad nauseum.

I waited until I got home to visit Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder's memorial page to make my donation to the legal fund they've established to bring a lawsuit against Phelps. Like I said earlier, I am not a fan of lawsuits and am saddened by how litigious American society has become, but I firmly believe that the best way to stop these hate-mongers is by attacking their pocketbooks. At least that will cut into their travel budget and spare future grieving families this pain. Matthew's father isn't looking to profit from any of this. All proceeds will be used to cover legal expenses and any extra funds will be used for veterans' scholarships.

Please take a moment to visit http://www.matthewsnyder.org/help.html

Even if you aren't able to make a donation, please use the "Locate your representatives" link and let yours know you support laws to ban protesting within certain distances from funerals. Feel free to use the following as a guideline or cut/paste it outright.

Dear Senator Dole-

I'm writing in support of our fallen soldiers and their families whose grieving has been sullied by the hate rhetoric of members of the Westboro Baptist Church. I strongly support laws to protect against grandstanding by the lunatic fringe at any funeral -- military or civilian -- under the guise of free speech.

Please help us protect heroes from all walks of life from this unnecessary anguish.

-------

----Original Message-----
From: Leigh Ann Frink
Sent: Mon 10/29/2007 7:56 PM
To: Frink, Leigh Ann
Subject: The overwhelming power of one small voice

Friends of Leigh Ann-

I was screening my calls half an hour ago. I listened in real time to a man
with a hesitant, soft, Midwestern accent leaving me this message:

"I hope this is the Frink residence. My name is Al Snyder, the father of the
Marine who was killed. You made a donation to the legal fund and I was
calling to thank you. God bless you. Have a good night."

Through tears, I called my parents and played the message for them. Steve
came in from his workout minutes thereafter. "Honey, you have to hear this,"
I said. Then I hit delete instead of play. Stupid digital technology. Now
it's gone forever.

Steve said, "At least you heard it and he wanted you to know how grateful he
was."

So now I sit here relating it to you and tears are running down my face. I
will never forget the sound of Mr. Snyder's quiet voice. It represents a
voice silenced forever and drives home the point that we can work together
to legally silence the voice of hate.

If you haven't had a chance yet, please visit www.matthewsnyder.org or
www.matthewshepard.org.

____

A lengthy text video, which I find extremely poignant, can be viewed at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZGKx2pTBQc&NR=1

Here's the scariest part for me. There are only 75 members in the Westboro Baptist Church. Most of them are members of the extended Phelps family. But they seem to have endless financial resources. That means closeted hate-mongerers who would never have the balls to spout this insanity in public themselves are supporting them. Shame them out of the closet by suing to see Westboro's financial records.

--------

UPDATE:

A Baltimore jury ruled the Westboro Baptist Church must pay Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder's family:

$2.9 million compensatory damages

$6 million punitive damages for invasion of privacy

$2 million for causing emotional distress

Read the full story at http://apnews1.iwon.com//article/20071031/D8SKG1HG0.html

This is only the first step. Appeals will come next. Free speech rights will be challenged. The original compensatory amount exceeded the defendants' assets, so Mr. Snyder won't see even a fraction of it for a very long time.

"Snyder sobbed when he heard the verdict, while members of the church greeted the news with tightlipped smiles."

Whether he gets any money or not, Al Snyder (who called me just two nights ago) can never replace his son, Matthew, but he's used his anguish to prevent future families from going through the same thing. My hat is off to him for fighting this battle. And if he does get money and chooses to create a special room in his house to roll around in dollar bills, I begrudge him not a whit and wish him the very best for making this country a better place.

Thank you to everyone out there who supported the Snyder family and continues to support the Matthew Shepard foundation.

I just tried to see what the defendants were posting on their Web site, but the site was "unavailable or busy."

Now, I can go back to just writing silly observations about the ridiculous situations I get myself into. But I will wear my "Erase Hate" bracelet and continue to do anything I can to stop this nonsense and prevent pain.

Ranidaphobia: The more you know

Defined as "a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of frogs," each year this surprisingly common phobia causes countless people needless distress. Changethatmatters.com

I am terrified of frogs. No, really. Seeing even a picture of one makes me scream and flee. It's been this way my entire 38 years on this planet. I realize this fear is completely irrational and that the horrible creatures are harmless and possibly won't really attach themselves to my face and suck my eyeballs out, but just because it's never been documented as happening doesn't mean it won't.

My hometown, dear Shallotte, where my parents still live, is a coastal town down in temperate southeastern North Carolina. Frog central. And that's very unfortunate for me and the frogs that I encounter and shreik at when I'm there.

My earliest ranidaphobic memory is from when I was three. My bed was against the wall by a window. I woke up to see TWO hideous green tree frogs stuck to the window pane. On the inside. Four inches from my face. I was so afraid that I couldn't move or even call for my mama. Brrrrr...

Here's the thing: I'm not at all afraid of snakes -- even the ones that could kill me. And my VERY favorite living creatures are alligators. One would occasionally wash up on the beach at home and make the local paper. On our very boring school trips to Brook Green Gardens south of Myrtle Beach, I'd spend the entire time at the pond, looking at them instead of the statues. I remember trying my very third-grade hardest to lure one of the babies to take home with me.

My daddy took us out on the skiff in the Shallotte River once and an alligator that was as long as the boat emerged beside us and hung out for a minute, checking us out. My sisters hid on the floor under the mast, but my daddy and I stood up and watched it.

I just heart them. Even the taxidermied one named Phil that my friends brought me back from New Orleans as a joke. I don't think he's macabre at all. He's awesome and is a member of the family. The coolest member of the family because he's an alligator. And alligators ROCK.

I had this e-mail exchange with my mother today.

----

On 10/24/07, (my mom) wrote:

Hey everyone,

I was walking out to the swing in the back yard this morning and there was an alligator on the brick walk near the fountain. I scared it (thank God) and it turned swishing its tail from side to side and went under the bushes. It was about three feet long. Can you believe there is an alligator in our back yard.

No, I'm not drinking!!!

Ma
-----

From: (me)
To: (my mom)

I am sooooo jealous!!!!!! I want an alligator. Or some of whatever that is you've been drinking.

----

Typos 'R Me

I've been in the words on paper business for 16 years now. No matter how hard you try, how many layers of quality control you have, shit happens from time to time.

Let me just say I HATE proofreading, though I'm glad I could fall back on it for a really good gig. It's hard and tedious and no matter how many mistakes you fix, if one slips through, it's on you. I used to have a photocopied page from "The Handbook of Proofreading" posted in my cube that read: "Never read anything after it's been printed. If there's a mistake, it will be pointed out to you by people whose mistakes you correct every day."

My first job out of college was working for a sketchy vanity publishing company. People paid to have their biographies published in books for a huge fee. While I was there, I wrote about a Dr. So-and-so who was honored for his many accomplishments in public service. And I left out the "l" in public. Fortunately, Dr. So-and-so was from China and the book was only sold to the other 500 people included. And they probably only read their own profiles.

When I was working at the advertising agency, we had a German car account. We were rolling out a new sports car. In the teaser collateral, we used type effects down the sides of the pages. One was supposed to read "Possibilities," but we printed "Possiblities." I wasn't on that press check, thank g-d. The piece is now a collector's item on E-bay.

So today, an AE came around with a bill insert that went to a million customers in Florida. It included an article on how keeping their ducts up to date could save customers money on their bills. Clear as day, in the first paragraph, it read, "Have your ducks checked."

The poor AE was beat-down and terrified. I laughed and said, "I should be fired!" He was scared that his boss would fire him. My boss came around and asked how many people had seen it, when the error occurred, etc. I just said, "It doesn't matter who else was involved. I missed it and it all comes down to me. If you need somebody to go bow down and grovel, well, it's part of my job." She was cool and said, "A lot of people missed it." I replied, "I guess we didn't have our ducks in a row!"

This is the kind of situation that would have made me throw up and not be able to sleep five years ago. Shit happens. You go on to the next task.

Thank you, Lexapro!

Dirty writing

So you know how people finger-write "Wash Me!" on the back windshields of dirty cars? Today, I saw a dirty minivan. A child had scrawled "ABC (something)." Another person had rubbed through "(something)" and wrote "store." Following that, in a third distinct handwriting, was "today."

Look homeward, Angel...

... Even if you can never go home again.

I'm so glad I went to my 20-year high-school reunion. I can't blog about it because it was one of those "you had to be there, had to know the people involved" deals. That, and one of my few ethics is to not write catty things about living people under my real name.

So all I can do to sum it up is blog what I sent to the person who arranged it. Here goes:

Hey Michael-

Please forward this to everybody else who worked on planning the reunion.

I had a blast! It was so great seeing everybody again. Even my poor English husband -- who knew only one person there besides me and comes from a land that has no proms, yearbooks or reunions -- enjoyed himself. It's important that he learns more about my culture. :)

On the drive back today, he asked how I could have moved away because it's such a beautiful place and everyone's so nice. So now, for the first time in years, I'm sitting here in Raleigh feeling a little bit homesick -- but in a good way.

My love/hate relationship with babydoll shirts

I was so happy when babydoll shirts came back into style to replace the belly shirts that have ruled for the past few years. Babydolls show off the boobies then hang loose and freely. I love that they don't cling to my midsection or to my underbra fat.

They do come with an unintentional, unfortunate side effect. They're cut like maternity tops. I've talked to other girls and we can all tell stories about the very bad outcome: People ask you if you're pregnant when you're wearing one.

The very sweet elderly lady who works in my company's cafeteria not only asked if I was pregnant when I was wearing one, she actually touched my belly. "No ma'am," I responded, "It's just my shirt and my fat."

Today, I was outside smoking. People always talk to me outside, and I have a lot of "Hello, how are you?" conversations every day with people whose names I don't know but whose faces I recognize.

So this man, whose name I don't know but whose face I recognize came up to me today. He looked at my cigarette, then said, "So you're pregnant?"

I lost it. It's one thing for sweet old ladies to ask you, but this was too much. I totally went off: "NO! Gah! What's wrong with you? NEVER ASK A WOMAN IF SHE'S PREGNANT!!"

I made a very dramatic point of disposing properly of my cigarette and then stomped back into the building, with him still stammering. Went up to my floor and related the story to a couple of my friends. One said, "You should have said, yes, I'm pregnant, and I want my baby to be born with emphysema."

I replied, "Yes, and we're hoping for a very low birth weight so I don't have to push too hard."

Move over William Shatner. There's a new negotiator in town.

My parents decided to drive to Raleigh to fly to Chicago for a funeral. My Sainted Southern Mother, who is convinced the government has files on every single citizen and monitors us all (although under the Patriot Act, which she accepts without question, she might not be too far off), refuses to buy anything on the Internet because she's heard too many stolen ID stories from Bill O'Reilly. She'll actually find things online and ask ME to purchase them for her, then she sends me a check. I guess it's okay if my ID gets stolen...

So last night, she called me up to get help with booking airline tickets. I explained that she would have to use her own credit card to book it, check in and get her tickets at the airport. She said, "Okay, but I want you to do it." Sigh.

My Good Ol' Boy Daddy picked up the other line to talk as I logged on to Priceline and started searching flights. I had to cradle the phone with my right shoulder, which was deep in the throes of tetanus-shot pain.

I got the list of flights and started reading them aloud. For about 20 minutes, I read them the prices, schedules and details of flights I found. As they debated aloud about times and prices, I waited patiently.

We finally agreed on one, and I set up an account for my mother using her credit card. She balked on giving me the security code, as she believes that's the number one way information gets stolen. After I assured her that the site was secure and we couldn't complete the purchase without it, she finally relented.

In order to complete the account, she had to set up a password. Priceline doesn't just let you pick your own, it offers a series of reminder questions from which to choose, with the answer being your password.

Leigh Ann: Okay. Your password has to be at least six characters. (I then read the list of questions.)

My Sainted Southern Mother : Let's do favorite pet. AJ.

LA: That's not enough characters.

SSM: How about "Leigh Ann?"

LA: If it asks you your favorite pet's name, I don't think you'll remember to enter "Leigh Ann."

SSM: Ohhhh... Then put "(my daddy's name)."

LA: Same problem with that one. You need to use an actual pet.

SSM: Okay! JB.

LA: Again, not enough characters. How about your best friend's last name?

SSM: I don't really have a best friend. Use "(my daddy's name)."

LA: You need a last name to remember the answer. And that's not enough characters.

SSM: Then put "Frink."

LA: That's not enough characters.

SSM: It's not? F-R-I-N-K. Oh, it's not.

LA: Let's try using the location of your first date.

(My daddy) chimes in: (chuckling) It wasn't with your mama.

SSM: I don't remember our first date.

LA: THIS ISN'T HARD, Y'ALL! Okay, what's your favorite movie?

SSM: (Thinks a while) I really don't have one.

LA: YOU LOVE GONE WITH THE WIND!!

SSM: I like (movie title) better.

LA: Okay, fine! Write this down!!!

We booked the flight, then discussed airport parking for another 15 minutes. My shoulder was ACHING and I really wanted an adult beverage. So I got off the phone and had several. Then my Sainted Southern Mother called me back about booking a hotel in Chicago...

WWJD

A piece of my next-door neighbor's mail was in my box. It was a magazine in a plain wrapper labeled "periodicals."

My neighbor's a nice guy. He always helped me with the yard before Steve moved in and took over that duty. But he's a man of few words, and I don't know much about him.

So I was dying to open the wrapper and find out what he's into. But I remembered the Golden Rule. And I would be really pissed if someone stole my porn.

Another hurdle ahead in the futile race against mortality

I don't spend a whole lot of time worrying about getting older. I suppose it's because I'm so juvenile and I don't have children to be a role model for.

When I turned 35, I was kinda bummed. I realized that I could no longer check the 18-34 box on opinion polls and was no longer a part of that taste-making demographic. Since then, I've quit worrying about it -- though I now say things like "Kids these days and their horrible music and violent video games..."

Today I had to go to urgent care and get my first tetanus shot since 1974 because I sliced my heel wide open on the corner of a metal storm door. I'd never been to this practice before, so the nurse had to ask me all the background questions like what meds I take, what allergies I had and so forth. After she asked my date of birth, she asked, "Do you still get your period?" Shocked, I blurted out a little too loudly and urgently, "YES!"

By the time I got home, the encounter had become funny in my mind. I knew my Sainted Southern Mother would get a kick out of it, so I called her and relayed it almost exactly like I did above. After I said, "She asked me if I STILL get my period and I'm only 38!" my mama started laughing. Then my Good Ol' Boy daddy, who had quietly picked up another phone without my noticing, barked, "Let's hope you keep getting it."

As in, "I know you are married and are familiar with Steve in a biblical sense, but I know you don't want children."

To my girls reading this: Do you remember how embarrassing it was talking about your period with ANYONE when you first got it? Did your mom ever ask your dad, in front of you, to pick you up some tampons on his way home from work?

Yeah, it was about that mortifying.