Seattle Blogs

The first time it occurred, I was riding in the backseat of a car. My mother was fiddling with the radio while my father drove. He likes to smoke while driving and fails to understand why we protest this behavior. "What?" he asks incredulously, "I opened the window."

Fortunately for us, it was a warm summer day and the drive to the pool wouldn't take long. Something about being crammed between my two children in the back seat made me feel like a child myself. A flood of memories of rolling around my parent's station wagon with my sister came to me and I mourned that my children would never experience this freedom. They are always strapped in and harnessed to molded plastic. Rolling around in a moving car is now deemed precarious if not downright lethal. We didn't worry about these things in the seventies. In fact, in many of these memories I can clearly picture my dad's highball glass in one hand, the steering wheel in the other.

My reverie was interrupted with a touch of a small hand. I looked at my son and he grinned at me while saying, "Mom, I like you." The silence that followed was palpable. The fiddling of the radio ceased, the window was rolled up, and I held the gift my son just gave me as if it was a precious treasure. Because it is.

At eight years old, I could still be confident that my son loved me. But that he liked me, was not a given. It can be an age where kids need to pull away from their parents, defy them, and rebel against them. Although I accept this, I do not look forward to it. I have been blessed that neither of my kids have ever told me they hate me, nor that they don't like me. They rarely show anger towards me, both being more prone to tears than yelling. And when feeling frustrated or sad, their mama's embrace is the salve they ask for.

They frequently tell me they love me, but to say "I like you" holds even more magnitude. Love can feel obligatory, whereas like only occurs with free will. I love my children because they are part of me. But I like them, because they are funny, compassionate, fascinating individuals who readily share their feelings and love with others.

Several weeks after our visit to the swimming pool, I was riding once again in a car. No cigarette smoke, fiddling of the radio or backseat was present this time, just my friend and I driving to the Herbalist. We were chatting about writing, our upcoming readings, and life in general when she said, "My mother never liked me. I believe she loved me, but she didn't like me." Again, the weight of those words was worthy of a pause. We needed to let them have a life in the car before we killed them with apologies or excuses.

I touched my friend's arm as she continued. "I've always known this, but it was very apparent when she was dying. People can't hide things on their deathbed. It's part of letting go." Her story crescendoed here, as the immensity of truth often does.

Liking someone is a truthful act. There is no room for dishonesty. It only makes the unliked person feel worse. As goes my friend's story. Years of knowing the truth, yet having her family rebuttal it was an even greater affliction than being the"non-liked" daughter. The only way we can release ourselves from these secretive wounds is to speak them outloud over and over again. My mother didn't like me. My mother didn't like me.

My son, and daughter, have gifted me with "I like you" a few more times since our summer swim. It is not something they say daily, or even monthly, for that would cheapen the gift. It is only said while I am connecting deeply with them in a way they enjoy. It is not something they ponder before saying or strategize about or even say for my benefit. It is a feeling in their heart that erupts out of their mouth. It is pure. It is raw. It is honest.

Even if the words change to "I don't like you," as they surely will at some point, my only hope is that they too come from this pure and honest place. Not said out of vexation or merely because I won't purchase something for them, but because they are truly feeling it. Although I am sure this will hurt my feelings, having them not say it, but feeling it, would hurt all of us so much more.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes. Contact her for details.

While reading an article about the importance of mom's night out, I eagerly anticipated the "right on!" sisterly feeling that comes when I read material close to my heart. My hope vanished mid-article when the author stated organizing four of her friends for a night out was more difficult than UN meetings on nuclear disarmament. "You need new friends," I muttered to myself. I thanked my good fortune and plethora of less picky friends and continued reading. It only got worse as the woman described the very expensive, trendy place they chose with horrible service. By the time I read, "At nine thirty I was down ninety five dollars and craving my bed," I was resolved to write my own version of what a mom's night out should be.

Frequent mom's nights out will save your life. Seriously. As a mother, there is not a more beneficial thing you can do for yourself. Facials, massages, buying a new pair of shoes are quick fixes. Regular time spent with your friends gives you the endurance you need to make it through the tenth load of laundry, the eighteenth making of a peanut butter sandwich, and all of the other mind numbing, yet taxing tasks we face in a week. Mom's night out stimulates your brain, boosts your confidence, blows off steam and puts a smile on your face. And we all know when moms are happy, the family benefits.

If you're sold on the idea, but money is a prohibiting factor, don't let it be. Many of my favorite mom's nights out occur for free. Several of us gather at someone's house to drink wine, chat and eat while the kids are asleep upstairs. I am fortunate that my kids can sleep through earthquakes, loud music, and car alarms all occurring simultaneously. Even better, they aren't here part of the week. But you don't need a divorced friend with an empty house for a mom's night out; you just need to get together with your friends without your kids present. Or at least not conscious.

If cabin fever is getting the best of you this winter, here are some cheap ways to go out.

Happy Hour. Happy hour has two advantages. Food and drink are served at a reduced price AND it occurs during witching hour. Rather than racing home to cook dinner, while helping your kids do their homework, breaking up a few fights, and then barking at them to go get their pajamas on, you could be drinking a gin martini (for half price), devouring food you did not cook (therefore, it tastes good), and hearing about your friend's lack of sex drive (an issue I will address soon). I, for one, rarely pay a babysitter to watch my kids sleep, so throw in the bargain of actually having my babysitter work for her $15 an hour and happy hour is too good of a bargain to pass up.

Almost all restaurants have some sort of happy hour between four and six p.m. so you can still frequent your favorite place, you just need to get there early. If you don't get off work until six, Mona's near Greenlake, Kate's Pub in Wallingford, Elliott's and the Brooklyn downtown, the Saint and Capitol Club on Capitol Hill, and Conor Byrne in Ballard all serve happy hour deals until seven. Moshi Moshi in Ballard serves happy hour in the bar all night on Sunday nights.

Dive bars. Dive bars are another cheap way to enjoy some time with your gal pals. Rather than charging you fourteen dollars for a drink, they'll charge you six, but they may not give you a fancy glass. Don't embarrass yourself by asking for something complicated or trendy, because you won't get it anyway. Stick to the basics. Gin and tonic, hot toddy, whiskey on the rocks, or beer are all safe bets.

Another benefit to dive bars is the clientele and staff. Let's face it, when mom's go out a little flirting and attention is part of the agenda. Sure we could go drop a lot of money on the new, cool, hip place, but chances are we will leave feeling worse about ourselves and very, very old. Conversely, many of the patrons of dive bars are near ancient, so we will be deemed hot and young at such places. And since no one is trying to be cool, the other patrons and staff are often very chatty. They'll not only pay attention to us, they'll probably even compliment us and give us a free drink. Or in the case of Baranof in Greenwood, the (almost all female, almost all over the age of sixty) bartenders call us doll and give us free advice.

Dive bars aren't just about the cheap drinks either. Many of them have entertainment such as pool tables, darts, music, and in the case of the Water Wheel on 15th Ave NW, amateur poker night two times a week. The bartender there recently told me that after participating in amateur poker night a few times, she is now able to go to casinos and win money. She entertained me further by pulling a large, phallic item out of the freezer and said, "When a bunch of women come in I give them this chilldo to help keep their drink cold. Or for other reasons…" And to think, for years I just thought the Water Wheel was an abandoned doublewide.

NLS. If bars aren't your thing, and remember, just because you're in a bar, doesn't mean you have to drink, a healthier option is the naked lady spa. The NLS, otherwise known as the Olympus Spa in Lynnwood, is a great place to detox, rather than toxify. For $35 you can spend as long as you want soaking in hot tubs of varying temperature, sitting in the steam room and dry sauna, and relaxing in their four heated rooms. The floor of the rooms are covered with salt, sand, charcoal, or jade and mud. Each substance provides a healing quality such as easing cramps, promoting circulation, and easing tension and stress. The only catch is it's called the naked lady spa for a reason. You will be naked, as well as all of the other women in the hot tub with you. I love checking out all of the various bodies, but if public nudity isn't your thing, don't fret, robes are expected to be worn in the heated rooms. And once you're submerged in the hot tub, no one can see you anyway.

Dancing. Although it requires a significant amount of energy, dancing with your girl friends can be a blast. Again, forgo the new trendy club where everyone will be at least a decade younger than you and instead choose a less respectable venue such as the Noc Noc on 2nd avenue. Noc Noc plays eighties music on Saturday nights and on more than one occasion my friends and I have shut the place down. We may be tired at ten o'clock when we drag ourselves downtown, but after a little Duran Duran and Thompson Twins, we're revitalized.

If the starting at ten o' clock part of that statement just killed your enthusiasm, there's another venue for you. Every first and third Saturday, Neighbors Disco on Broadway in Capitol Hill holds Hot Flash Dances for women from 6-10 pm. You heard me, you can boogie to all of your old favorites (70s and 80s music is primarily played), in an all female environment and still be in bed by ten thirty. And it only costs ten bucks. Just in case "all female, Capitol Hill, Neighbors" wasn't clue enough that this is a very gay friendly, if not primarily gay attended evening; a warning to all homophobes, this is not your cup of tea.

With the money, time, and what to do problems solved, the last hurdle we have is hubby. Hubby may whine that he wants to spend time with you, or has to work late, or couldn't possibly put the kids to bed because he too wants a night out with his friends, so you must appeal to his practical side. Tell him a night out with the girls is a great return on his investment. He invests time at home with the kids and in return, he gets a happy, mentally charged wife who just saved the family hundreds of dollars in therapy bills.

Better yet, it is a known fact that when women in their late thirties and forties get together, they talk about sex. A lot. If wifey was one of the afore mentioned "my libido is dead" women, she probably won't feel that way after a night out. A little harmless flirting in combination with open, honest and perhaps lewd discussions with her friends results in wifey coming home stimulated in more ways than one. If you put it that way, I'm guessing hubby will be more than willing to put the kids to bed for you.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes. Contact her for details.

On the first snow day I was foolish enough to think I could still work. With one kid at a friend's and one occupied with a friend, I confidently turned my computer on. I fantasized about the gourmet appetizer I would make for Thanksgiving after I finished a few hours of writing. Fifteen minutes, and twenty interruptions later, I turned the computer off and revised my list to one thing: shower if I feel inspired.

But something about being trapped in a house, or similarly camping, brings out the procurer in me. I stare at a mostly full refrigerator and panic that we're going to starve to death. I'm obviously not the only one with a hoarder instinct, because there were at least thirty other people ogling raw meat with me at the grocery store. I haven't eaten red meat in thirty years, but I threw a few t-bones in on top of my overflowing cart and headed to the check out stand.

I triple checked that the kids were strapped in, slowly drove my golf cart over the ice and snow, and breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled into the driveway. The warmth of being home safely with a fire and newly hung Christmas lights was so intoxicating (or perhaps it was the eighth meal I had eaten that day), I called several friends to offer to watch their kids the following day.

Second snow day.
8:00 a.m. I'm woken by my daughter announcing that she is awake and wants to play Club Penguin. "Sure," I say and roll over, pausing momentarily to wonder if perhaps she hadn't asked something else, such as "Can we smoke the cigarettes we found behind the black beans?" Although I am not a smoker, my house seems to be the house where all of my supposedly non-smoking friends stash their cigs. Before I can recall how many and whose smokes I have, I fall back asleep.

10:00 I wake again, probably because the house is quiet.

11:00 I'm still in pajamas, still drinking coffee, but hoping the store bought cinnamon rolls baking in the oven will fool my friends into thinking I've been up for hours. The first friend drops his son off and immediately says, "Sorry you had to get up so early." No mention of the wafting cinnamon smell, but also an earnest look on his face that tells me he's not flipping me shit. I am reminded once again why I love this family.

12:00 All five kids are crashing from their sugar rush so I scour my well-stocked fridge for the solution: bacon. Hot bacon grease and kids high on sugar, yet keen on helping cook, proves to be a bad combination, so I convince them to play outside in the snow.

12:15 First round of bacon burns due to derailment of mitten finding and coat zipping, but no worries I have two pounds of it.

12:30 Second round in jeopardy of burning because my roommate wants my opinion on how to make sure the guy she has spent every day with and invited home for Thanksgiving knows that he is NOT her boyfriend. Before I can give this predicament the ample thought it deserves, she says, "Who's that streaking in the backyard?"

12:31 I hand my son's friend, the one with zero percent body fat, his winter coat. "I'm not cold,' he protests. "It's twenty degrees out honey, you should wear a coat." He protests again, but with a grin, so I know he's teasing me. Sure enough, by the time I return to my burnt bacon, his coat is on.

12:35 The kids return stating they are cold. I lure them back outside by suggesting they go visit our hunky neighbor and ask him if he has any chicken eggs for us. "They're going to hunky neighbor's?" my roommate says while grabbing her coat. I consider joining the caravan, but remember I'm still in my pajamas. And I still have a pound of bacon to cook.

1:15 Two pounds of bacon, one bag of popcorn, one bag of tortilla chips, a pound of satsumas and sandwiches for five are inhaled in record speed. The boys run off to do boy things and I start a stained glass project with the girls.

1:20 Girls abandon stained glass and I am left with thousands of tiny glass beads mixed in with popcorn all of which are stuck in residual bacon grease. I try to scoop them up, realize I've had too much coffee, and switch to popping vitamins: A to E with some Echinacea and Kava Root for good measure.

2:30 I'm not sure what the kids have been doing, but I sneak off to check my emails.

3:00 My shower curtain is pulled back and all five children have a question or complaint. "The cat scratched me." "Can we make the volcano now?" "I'm hungry." "Want to build a snowman with us?" and finally, the one that breaks me out of my stupor, "What's that?" as a child's hand, one that was not born from me, moves towards my naked body. I shudder at the inappropriateness, if not unlawfulness, of the situation and tell them I'll be out in a minute.

3:10 I trip over varied plastic items on the floor of the kids' room on my way to mine only to find much of the same. It looks like a war zone where, as usual, my bras seem to be the main attraction of play. I tell children there will be no volcano until I can see the carpet once again.

3:30 I ignore all warnings and hazard signs on the volcano kit and start mixing away. When the kids ask to help, I say, "Sure, just wash your hands when you're done."

4:00 Unsuspecting father walks in to retrieve son and looks dismayed when I hand him the (unread up to this point) directions for the volcano and put my coat and mittens on. Although I know the answer and now know why she so readily agreed to the deal, I ask unsuspecting father if he is aware that his wife agreed to release me from child watching duties in order to go for a walk when she showed up. "Don't worry, I'll be back eventually," I say as I walk out the door.

5:00 I return to a strangely quiet house. When I find unsuspecting father supine on my couch, I momentarily think the children killed him. He wakes up, says every thing was fine and leaves with his child.

5:15 If I plan it right, the other two kids will get picked up just as their second sugar high kicks in. With that in mind, I make brownies.

5:45 I forgot about the two remaining sugar high kids and look blankly at my offspring when they ask me what we're going to do now.

6:00 They find a CD to dance to and I cook dinner for eight, although there are only three of us.

8:30 The kids are asleep with their twinkly Christmas lights above them. I give up on working and instead take a moment to rehash the day and be grateful. Not just that it's over, but that it was spent in such a lovely way. Sure, an obscene amount of pork products and sugar were ingested and sure I flashed children that are not mine, but mixed in with the obscenities were frequent hugs and "I love yous" from my kids and squeals of delight and smiles from all of the kids.

And tomorrow will be spent in much the same way–gorging, playing and laughing with friends. Although it will be even better, because I don't have to cook and I don't have to host. And that, is something I am very thankful for.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes. Contact her for details.

I recently read a quote in Safekeeping by Abigail Thomas along the lines of "eventually, every woman fools around with a married man." I am the exception to this rule. It's not necessarily a moralistic thing (if people are going to cheat, they're going to cheat, who am I to stop them?), but rather a headache thing. As in, who needs it? I've lived my life thus far avoiding any Glenn Close types cooking my bunny rabbit and I prefer to keep it that way.

With married men clearly in the "no" category, I assumed determining the difference between available and unavailable would be pretty easy. When my married friends started pimping their male friends to me, I resisted at first. I was eventually swayed by all of his glowing attributes and trusted that seeing as it wasn't their husbands they were pimping, I was probably safe. As soon as I agreed to meet the guy, the pimping stopped and the topic was avoided. When pressed, the friend admitted she didn't want to share her backup boyfriend. This happened not once, but three times. And I thought my single friends were the promiscuous ones.

When my single friends offered to introduce me to their discards or male friends, I assumed I was finally in safe territory. They never seemed to have a shortage of dates/sexual partners, had several back-ups when in need, and the men they were introducing me to weren't in either category.

After many, many reassurances I was given the green light to get together with a friend of a friend. About a week after our second rendezvous, the friend decided the five guys she was dating weren't right for her and that she had missed her calling when discarding the man she referred me to. I told her that was fine and there were no hurt feelings. She changed her mind a day later, but I wouldn't initiate another date with the guy. It wasn't worth jeopardizing a friendship over.

Other single friends offer to introduce me to men, but I rarely respond. I am finally learning that my friends' husbands/boy friends are actually more available than the other men they know. I just had it backwards.

An acquaintance from out of town emailed me recently to ask if I was dating anyone. Oh no, here we go, I thought to myself. But curiosity always gets the best of me so I asked a few pertinent questions such as "Does he live in the city, because I don't commute?" Once I was reassured that he lived within five miles of me, I continued on with other potential deal breakers such as crazy exes, fear of kids, inability to express himself or being under five foot five. He passed all of these hurdles, but before I agreed to meet him, I explained my previous predicaments with being set up. She laughed and said, "Listen, I don't even live in Washington so I'm not about to get all weird and jealous about you dating him. And even if I did, I don't know you well enough to admit that to you." And with that, we had a deal. And I entered a fourth possible dating arena: acquaintances' (who live far away) backup boyfriends.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes. Contact her for details.

I will be offering the following one day publishing workshop in December and then the six-week Writing Your Nonfiction Book Proposal class starting in January. If you attend both, your registration for the one day workshop will be deducted from the 6 week class.
I look forward to working with you
Corbin

The Road to Getting Published
Couth Buzzard Books, Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle, Sunday December 12, 1-3:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 (pre-register here for $35)
Facilitator: Corbin Lewars

In this two-hour workshop, author Corbin Lewars will explain the process of getting published. Whether you are hoping to have an essay or short story published or an entire manuscript, she will walk you through your options and the various steps needed to achieve your goal. Areas covered will be query letters, how to find an agent, how to write a book proposal and summary, the differences and process for self-publishing, small presses, mid-size, and large presses and how to stay motivated in a very competitive market.

Writing Your Nonfiction Book Proposal
Ballard neighborhood of Seattle, Monday evenings, 7-9 pm starting January 10th, $190. Register here

Writing a nonfiction book proposal does not have to be as daunting as it sounds. Each class will focus on a particular section(s) at a time to explain what is required to create a winning book concept, how much information needs to go into the overview, how to research your potential markets and competition and how to sell yourself as an author with a platform (even if you don't think you have one). Outside work will be expected to be done in between classes so we can workshop each section during class. The goal is to have a draft, if not complete book proposal written by the end of the six weeks.

Contact Corbin for more details at corbinlew@clearwire.net

Last weekend my friend Vivien said she would be in town and invited me to meet her for a drink. Little did I know, "in town" actually meant Bellevue, a foreign (and I liked it that way) world to me.
"How is it possible that you've lived in Seattle for twenty years and have never been to Bellevue?" she asked.
"Why would I ever need to go there?" I replied.
"Good point. If I buy you a drink will you come?"

Easily bribed, I accepted my fate and quickly became confused and overwhelmed by terms such as "520, 405" and any street ending with "South East." The pouring down rain didn't help matters, but I told myself it would be a good cultural experience. Besides, I really needed to get out of Ballard every once in a while.

After traversing 405 and all of the much too wide streets of what I suppose was downtown Bellevue, I found her hotel. I squeezed my golfcart, otherwise known as a Prius, amongst all of the huge SUV's, gazed around at all of the tall buildings and thought, "Wow, there's a whole other city east of the Lake. Who knew?"

My confusion and altered state only increased upon entering her hotel lobby where swarms of people were dressed in costumes, had shields in their hands, or their faces painted. I thought Halloween was last week, I muttered to myself as I tried to recall the date. Vivien cackled when she saw me wandering around aimlessly and pulled me into the elevator with several scantily clad youth with long purple and black wigs on. "What the hell is this?" I asked.
"It's anime. Come on, I want to show you the kid's costumes."

Upon entering her hotel room, three thirteen-year-old girls and one unfortunate boy started chirping at me in a foreign language. Before I could digest any of my anime tutorial, I had to get over my shock that Vivien could trust these kids alone in a hotel room. "Won't they raid the mini-bar and then go pick up some older guys to buy them beer and have sex with them in your bed?"
"No!" Vivien laughed. "That's what you and I would have done. But these are good kids. They're just here for the conference. They don't even drink."

A possible non-drinking, non-promiscuous adolescents for my kids was so enticing, I was ready to adhere to any advice Vivien offered. Even if it meant I had to stay in a hotel room with four kids amped on anime. The girls filled me in on all of their favorite characters, blushing and giggling as if they were telling me about the boy they had a crush on. In fact, these were the boys they had crushes on, but they weren't real. Lucky, lucky Vivien. I inhaled a few pieces of their pizza, nodded as if I understood anything they were saying and then made the room burst out in laughter when I said, "Is this anything like Pokemon?" Anime, I am told, is much more sophisticated than Pokemon and since I don't even understand what Pokemon is, I gave up on understanding anime.

I grabbed another piece of pizza for the road and Vivien and I hopped into my golf cart. "I can't believe you can leave them alone. I can't believe how many damn malls are out here. Where the hell did all of these tall buildings come from? What are they? Does anyone walk here?" I babbled while Vivien filled me in on the basics of Bellevue. "No, no one walks here, they drive. And most of these buildings are banks. There's a ton of money out here Corbin, you should market yourself to these women. They may not know who Tom Waits is (see Vivien's article in the latest Reality Mom to understand that reference), but they're certainly depressed and in need of a fresh voice like yours."
"Wow," is all I could say for the next half hour.

Although she reassured me otherwise, I still couldn't help but feel nervous when we arrived, unannounced, back to the hotel room. I was sure we would find empty liquor bottles strewn around the floor, half naked girls singing at the top of their lungs while dancing on the bed, or something much, much worse. Instead, they were all putting their finishing touches on their costumes and actually looked happy to see us.

After reminding the kids of their ten thirty curfew, which I finally believed they would adhere, Vivien and I went down to the hotel bar. Sitting amongst people with horns, green faces, and purple hair cleared some of the shock of all I had seen that evening. Women dressed in nothing but feathers, I understand. Non trouble making youth, sprawling streets, and how to navigate 405, I don't. But I'm willing to try.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes, contact her for details.

The Beauty of a Beet: Poems from the Bedside
Ann Teplik, Esther Altshul Helfgott, Courtney Putnam and Richard Gold in an evening of new work on the theme of Loss and Grace ~ with a bit of wit, too.

Co-sponsored by Seattle Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs, 4Culture, and Richard Hugo House

Wednesday November 3, 7-9 p.m.
Richard Hugo House (Cabaret)
1634 Eleventh Avenue
Seattle, WA. 98122
Free

And

The Road to Getting Published
Couth Buzzard Books, Sunday December 12, 1-3:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 (pre-register here for $35)
Facilitator: Corbin Lewars

In this two-hour workshop, author Corbin Lewars will explain the process of getting published. Whether you are hoping to have an essay or short story published or an entire manuscript, she will walk you through your options and the various steps needed to achieve your goal. Areas covered will be query letters, how to find an agent, how to write a book proposal and summary, the differences and process for self-publishing, small presses, mid-size, and large presses and how to stay motivated in a very competitive market.

Love Your Boobies

I used to think waking up to KUOW was a good way to start the day. In one week, I heard about the study trying to negate the benefits of mammograms in early detection of breast cancer and about how a girl was gang raped in California while her classmates did nothing to stop it. "Women are so fu@!ed," I grumbled that morning and switched over to KEXP. John in the Morning has yet to depress me.

Although the study seemed inaccurate and enraged me, it also kicked me into gear to get an early mammogram (while my insurance would still pay for it). I was able to make an appointment for the same week and I know it sounds strange, but immensely enjoyed the experience.

Having my breasts smashed didn't hurt as people told me it would. In fact, I even liked it. (Remember, I'm also the one who liked the feeling of getting tattooed and fell asleep on the table.) Having a beautiful, intelligent woman pressed up behind me only added to the delight. When not smashing and pressing against me, she filled me in all that was wrong and misleading about the Preventative Services Task Force study.

You can learn more about the erroneous and subsequent studies by visiting her at Ballard Swedish or read this

And if that's not enticing enough, Seattle Cancer Care Alliance is continuing their second annual Make a Mammogram Promise until the end of October. For each promise made, $1 is donated by Safeway towards research that assists women in need to access mammography. Plus, they offer prizes.

Prizes and someone touching your breasts! What else could a girl ask for? So please, love your boobies and go get a mammogram.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes, contact her for details.

October is national Family Sex Education month and who better to glean information about this topic from than Moms in Babeland?

Fortunately for us in Seattle, we can visit the babeland store whenever our heart (or another part of our body) desires. But everyone can check out their blog and read their month-long forum "Talking With Kids About Sex."

Here's some of what will be covered:

How do you talk to your kids about sex? What to say at what age? How much to divulge and when? What words to use?

Read answers to common questions from sex educator Amy Lang, MA, author of Birds + Bees + Your Kids.
Glean helpful "talking to your kids about sex" tips from SIECUS
Read our Mom Bloggers' sex education anecdotes--from poignant to hilarious
Post a comment or question during October and enter a chance to win Babeland's popular sex manual Moregasm: Babeland's Guide to Mind-Blowing Sex

Amy Lang, MA is a Seattle-based sex educator and mom who hosts workshops and events for parents to teach them how to talk to kids about sex. You can read more about Amy, her books and her workshops at Birds + Bees + Your Kids .

Sexuality Information and Education Council of the United States (SIECUS) is a non-profit dedicated to providing education and information about sexuality and sexual and reproductive health. http://www.siecus.org/

Moms in Babeland is edited by Anne Semans, a Babeland mom and author of Sexy Mamas: Keeping Your Sex Life Alive While Raising Kids.

For those of you who don't know, Babeland is a women-friendly sex toy boutique owned by Rachel Venning and Claire Cavanah (both moms) with a web site and 4 retail stores (in New York and Seattle). At Babeland, we believe that you are entitled to a healthy sex life your whole life long. In other words, just because you had a babe, doesn't mean you can't be a babe!

Another fantastic, titillating event for those in Seattle is a reading by Elizabeth Austen (I raved about her The Girl Who Goes Alone poem here a while back)

Elizabeth has published a new chapbook, Where Currents Meet, and will be reading from that as well as from The Girl Who Goes Alone, on Sat., Oct. 23 at 7pm at Elliott Bay Books.

Poet Molly Peacock describes Where Currents Meet as an "intense sequence of poems … written just at the nexus of social obligation and the desire to simply be." Copies of Sightline can be purchased online from the press, or at one of the readings.

Elizabeth's reading at the Hugo House in May spellbound (and I never use that word) the audience and I assume the same will occur this time around. Join us at Elliott Bay and see for yourself.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She also teaches memoir and personal essay writing classes, contact her for details.

A miracle occurred and three of the Fabulosities (my single mom gal pals) were childfree on the same weekend. "Let's go away together," I suggested. Another miracle occurred where a location was chosen and ferry times were coordinated with minimal fuss (a total of three emails!). The miracles continued as three of us congregated at Willow's house, on time, piled into her car and despite the Seahawks tailgates and otherwise annoying congestion, still pulled into the ferry line with ten minutes to spare. We looked out the window to see the smiling Isabella, who had just left her date in Belltown to meet us. All four Fabulosities were in the same car, going away for the weekend. I should have known it was too good to be true.
I felt some tension rising on our ferry ride, but chose to ignore it. I assumed it was due to all of the attention we were paying to Isabella's recent love interest, whom we did not know, therefore still liked, compared to Willow's boyfriend, whom we did not trust, therefore did not like.

I freely admit I am the most judgmental when it comes to my friend's lovers. My friends know it is based on my protectiveness and adoration of them, but that doesn't mean it's not a cause for tension sometimes. By the time we drove off the ferry, dark storm clouds had gathered, both inside and out. By the time we got to the house, it was pouring down rain and our fantasy of sitting outside, laughing while sipping wine and smelling the aromas of a perfectly grilled salmon was diminishing.
"I didn't bring a sweatshirt," Isabella said, while rubbing her bare arms for warmth.
"I only brought these," I said pointing to my flip-flops.
"I'm going for a walk," said Willow, who was not doing a good job of hiding how pissed off she was.

Misty grabbed some extra long sleeved shirts out of her bag and passed them around. She reassured us further by showing us the bottle of absinthe she brought and started to make a fire. Willow passed on her walk, we gathered by the fire and my warm, fuzzy feeling returned as we talked about our work and where we hoped we could take it in the fall. We brainstormed marketing connections for one another, caught up on our lives and sipped delicious glasses of Syrah.

But when we sat down to dinner and Willow left the room once again to be alone, I said, "Are we going to act like this isn't happening or are we going to talk about it?"
"Willow," Isabella cooed. "Come in here, we miss you."
"In a minute," was the terse reply.

I'll spare you all of the details of how the next hour unfolded, but I will say it bared no resemblance to a Jerry Springer episode. Willow admitted she felt as if she couldn't talk about her man, especially to me. I admitted that I couldn't keep up with her flip-flopping on whether she was in love with him or was going to dump him, that I didn't trust him and would continue not to until his actions resembled his words and that especially in my just had my heart broken state, she was right, I didn't want to hear about how lovely he is and how hot the sex is.
I cried, she laughed, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Except for me. I knew it wasn't over, we had merely applied a band aid to an amputee and I wasn't sure if anyone knew how to perform the surgery needed.

Around one a.m. Willow came into the room where Misty and I were talking to announce she had just received a text from the friend who was watching her son. With more excitement than I had seen all day, she described how her son had wet the bed and didn't want to go to sleep until she got home. While Isabella yelled down the hallway, "He'll be fine, just go to bed," I checked the ferry schedule. I knew Willow wanted to leave, hell I wanted to leave. There was only one ferry left for the evening and if she was going to catch it, she needed to leave right now and didn't have time for all of us to pack up. She left for the ferry, Isabella went back to sleep and Misty continued reading. As for me, I tossed and turned for the next three hours.
The first thing out of my mouth in the morning was, "I no longer deem you Fabulosities, you are now bi@!hes." In my defense, I had just been woken up a mere two hours after falling asleep by Isabella who was demanding to know where the coffee was and "how the hell are we going to get home?" The morning progressed with the only taxi service on the island being run by a man who happened to go on a bender the night before so not only slept through our numerous phone calls, but once he did answer the phone, admitted he didn't even have a car.

A long walk in the rain, a sort of taxi ride, ferry ride, and bus ride later, we finally made it back to Seattle. I looked at Isabella's hair falling out of her clip, her eyes so wide she looked as if she just did a line of coke, and her jerky mannerisms vacillating between checking her phone, swatting at her hair, and resituating the forty pounds of crap we were each carrying because Willow's fleeing in the middle of the night (with the only car) left us responsible for all of the stuff we brought. I knew I was equally a mess, only I was the just took too many downers version with my greasy hair and puffy eyes. How had we become so unfabulous? I wondered.

The answer came to me when I looked at Misty, sitting back in her cozy wool sweater, jeans, and appropriate foot ware with a serene smile on her face. She frequently looks as if she has just been on a delightful cruise because she is the only one of us who is choosing not to date. She is "self-contained" as she says and quite content travelling, making art, writing a book, growing her business and spending time with friends and her son. The rest of us claim to be doing the same, but really eighty percent of our energy is spent on navigating our romantic relationships. This makes us sleep deprived and scattered on good days and emotionally volatile the rest of the time.

If nothing else, the trip with the bit@!es was worth that insight. In the following days, I channeled my scattered energy into a new writing project, my children and painting my living room. I called it off with several of the men I was sort of seeing, but not that into, and treated myself to a splurge at Wild at Heart.

Once my head was out of my (insert appropriate body part here) I felt clear enough to tackle my jealousy and protective issues with Willow. Just because I'm not in love doesn't mean I can't be happy for her. And even if I don't like him, I love her, so I need to support her. As Isabella pointed out, "girl, it's all training for when your daughter starts bringing boys home."
And of course I want to protect her because I love her, but also true is I need to trust that she can do that for herself. I can't control her or her destiny (as much as I try), but I can have faith that she is a wise woman who may fall at times, but will not crumble. Her mistakes and path have to be her own and I can state my opinion, but need to let go of whether she follows my advice or not.

I can't say I'll stay here in my self-contained, clear headed mode forever. A girl has needs after all. But for the time being, I am loving being the one without bags under my eyes and with a serene smile on my face.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom and author of Creating a Life (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming After Glow. She teaches memoir and personal essay classes, contact her for details.