What would I find if I "googled" you?

My brother Tim tried to make it weird to my parents that my best friend is a boy, but it's not.  Jamie has been my best friend since sixth grade when we were both lost on our first day in Middle School.  I walked into the unlit room 103 to find a boy sitting in the dim.  I slipped into the back row, too, and we waited, silently.  The seconds ticked by without any other students coming in.  No teacher.  Finally, we both pulled out our schedules at the same time.  "Lunch!" he said, slapping his forehead, just as I said it, too.  Without the slap.  We laughed, which I'm glad because I was so scared to be a dork.  Luckily, we were able to be dorks together.  Jamie wasn't afraid of being dorky, which made me feel okay, too.

We're starting high school after this summer, and it hasn't gotten weird in the way Tim thinks it will, even though, you know, hormones and everything.  That's not to say it's not weird.  It is totally weird.

Is it possible to separate church and state? Why or why not?

When it became good business, my Da opened up a church.  We were a traveling preacher show at first, when he saw how prayer loosened pocketbooks, but when we came upon the city of St. Marie and he found out that an empty prayer house could be had for a song, we settled in and became religious.

Tell me something about yourself that we probably don’t know.

The first famous man I fell in love with was Danny Kaye.  I was probably in fifth grade when I saw The Court Jester, and that was it.  Love.  Then came Dan Akyroyd and Chevy Chase when I was staying up too late to watch Saturday Night Live reruns.  Love.  Then Harry Anderson once he was on Night Court in the 80s.  Love.  It wasn't until I was much older that I sensed the pattern, and it wasn't until I was older than that when I realized the real connection between all the odd choices for a young teenager's obsessive love.  I didn't want to love them; I wanted to be them.  Tall and cool and smooth and talented and funny and confident and famous.  Does everyone fall in love with the kind of person they want to be, or was it just me?

If you had nothing in life but a three-inch piece of string, what would you do with that piece of string and why?

It was Hera's last walk-through of the house she and Frank had shared for the past four years.  Her last chance to pick up what remained of hers, if anything.  She had been moving out for months before she even told Frank she was leaving.  He took it stoically, but he took everything that way.  Four years wasn't that long, but it was her first marriage and her first house.  It was up to Hera to sell the house--Frank owed her too much money to have a stake in it anymore, and he signed it over easily.  It was all so easy to leave.

Hera creaked up the wooden staircase to the second floor, looking at the lumpy, pale blue walls.  While she had been occupied doing laundry in the basement, Frank started pulling off the cheap wall paneling against her wishes.  By the time she heard the racket, he was too far along to put it back.  Frank left the panels in the hallway and stopped his unwanted project forcing Hera to pound out the tiny nails, haul the panels to the garbage, and pull the remaining panels off the living room, the parlor, and the rest of the stairwell.  Hera had to repair the damaged plaster the panels were hiding--the whole reason she didn't want them off--before sanding, painting, painting and repainting.

The bedrooms on the second floor were empty and smelling of pine floor cleaner.  Hera had to clean up after the ill-advised housemate Frank invited to live with them, only one year after their wedding.  When Peter had finally moved out, he left a pile of garbage, a cat, and a smell that turned out to be impossible to remove completely.

Hera creaked up the final, narrower set of stairs to the attic where she and Frank had their bedroom.  Her steps slowed as she turned the corner and ducked automatically around the angled roof lines.  The room only ever had two temperatures: hot or freezing.  This early evening was hot.  Hera looked around the now empty room.  Frank had taken the bed.  She knew he would, but didn't realize he had.  Remembering the long day they had choosing the king-sized monstrosity hit her harder than expected.  Hera hadn't cried much over the end of their marriage--after all, she had been the one to ask for it--but this final walk-though was so... final.  Their bed, their marriage bed, was gone.

Hera gasped in the close heat and fell to her knees in the middle of the attic room.  She sobbed until her head felt too heavy and she pressed it to the Berber carpet they had chosen, another pale blue that he had liked so much.  The knobby carpet pressed into her knees and elbows and forehead, leaving an impression.  Hera cried until she could barely breathe and lay gasping on her side.  She stared at the blank walls, at the closed windows, and at the expanse of carpet her now ex-husband had chosen.  Underneath, she knew there was a note to any future person who would eventually tear up the carpet.  It was a note commemorating their relationship, their love, their wishes for the future.  Hera ran her hand over the carpet, rubbing it like a mother consoling a crying child.  At her sideways angle, Hera saw a loose loop of carpeting.  Feeling drained and bemused, she pulled on it, and a three-inch piece of carpet came away.

Is it better to be good or lucky?

Back in the days of dark brown wood stain and harvest gold wall ovens, when I was young enough to be too short to reach the upper cupboards in the kitchen, I would climb up on the Formica counter in order to peer into the shelves that held the best goodies: Ho-Hos, Oreos, Cheerios, and other various "o" foods they made to entice children.

Normally, when I was done perusing the factory-made food choices, I would sit back on the counter and slide the smaller journey to reunite Zips with peel-and-stick linoleum; however, one day I forgot the routine.  I stood on the edge of the counter, having already set down a can of Spaghetti-Os, and wondered, "Do I sit and slide off, or do I jump?"  I couldn't remember.  Both seemed plausible.  Not wanting to delay and risk being caught on the counter again, the scales in my head tipped to "Jump!"  So I did.

I squatted slightly was in mid, irrevocable thrust when I realized this was the wrong choice.  While my brain knew I chose poorly, my muscles wouldn't get the new message in time and I found myself hovering in the air.

Who is your least favorite celebrity?

How to Become a Celebrity

Easiest Method:
Step 1: Be born into a family of celebrities.
Step 2: Be a celebrity.
This easiest method works especially well for children of already famous parents.  If those parents are good looking, your chances of becoming a celebrity increase even more.  If you have inherited those good looks, super-stardom-bonus!  You will skip ahead in every line.  You will have automatic connects to the biggest names in Hollywood even while in-utero.  The hardest part of this method of celebredom is NOT becoming a celebrity.

Second Easiest Method:
Step 1: Be born into a wealthy family.
Step 2: Be a celebrity.
This method is nearly as easy as the first, but you yourself will be required to have good looks.  Your family may not be good-looking, but if you're too ugly, this method will not make you a celebrity unless you crash and burn.  Crashing and burning chances are increased for this method as many people in the world will be secretly wishing for it.  Your money, however, will protect you no matter what.  Your wealth can even improve your looks dramatically to increase your celebrity chances.  You will be followed by paparazzi.  You won't mind.

Third Easiest Method:
Step 1: Commit a horrific crime.
Step 2: Be a celebrity.
This method is becoming more difficult to achieve and sustain in modern times.  Your crime will have to be quite horrifying to boost you to celebrity status.  Again, good looks are required for "celebrity"; otherwise, you will only achieve "infamy".

Hardest Method:
Step 1: Cultivate a talent.
Step 2: Try to get noticed.
Step 3: Keep trying.
Step 4: Cultivate additional talents, and/or deepen your talents, to try to stand out.
Step 5: Try new ways to get noticed.
Step 6: Plug along.
Step 7: Buy a brain-damaged cat.
Step 8: Make videos of your cat.
Step 9: Try to get people watching your cat videos to notice your talent in other areas.
Step 10: If you're lucky, die of old age.

How do you define integrity?

These grave sites tell a story, each of them as unique as the person buried beneath.  Not all that's on top reflects the person below at first glance, though, so don't be afraid of the dark stones or the gnarled trees or the withered grass.  The top reflects the living as much if not more than the dead.

How would your best friend describe you?

In Kindergarten, they took the same bus to school, though they didn't know each other very well because they lived too far away to walk to each others' houses.  Louise knew Renee lived in one of her two favorite houses that she saw every ride home.  It sat by a creek and seemed mysterious.  Louise also knew Renee as one of the only kids she knew who wore glasses.  Renee remembered Louise as the girl with an earache.  One ride home from school, Renee saw Louise crying into her school bag and asked what was wrong.  Louise suffered earaches and bronchitis fairly often as both her parents smoked.

Later in elementary school, Louise would remember Renee as The Girl Who Came a Day Late.  It was the day after Louise's birthday on a bright late October day and she saw Renee, now moved to a less mysterious house, but within walking distance, coming down the sidewalk, the largest present she ever saw in hand.  Decades later, Louise would suspect that Renee came a day late on purpose, to avoid the other kids and the party atmosphere.  She would not remember the party, but she remembered Renee, sharing leftover chocolate cupcakes, and coloring together in the Giant Size Wonder Woman coloring book that was Renee's present.  Renee would remember that Louise was careful to make sure she didn't feel bad about being a day late, and she enjoyed the birthday party of two.

Someone who burns the American Flag will say that their right to do so is protected under the 1st Amendment to the Constitution, which governs free speech. Are they right or wrong?

The Denny's Restaurant early morning was always busy with high turnover at the counter and the slower, family diners, usually travelers, taking the booths and tables.  Shay had the counter and didn't hear the exchange begin, but when Terri rushed over, she knew trouble was brewing.

"Shay, I think there's going to be a fight."  Terri pointed to the booths by the windows.  "Jim and Lenny."

Jim and Lenny were regulars who were ornery even when they got the counter seats they wanted, and they were worse when they didn't.  Shay heard their laughter, loud over the other customers, and louder when people surrounding them started to notice, too.

"Fags, Lenny," intoned Jim.  "It's them fags that are ruining society.  They're ruining the sanctity of marriage."  Lenny nodded as if Jim was imparting great wisdom rather than repeating what he heard on the redneck radio station he listened to.

Shay saw the gay couple seated behind Jim and Lenny fuming quietly.  They had only just gotten their meals, and she could practically hear their thoughts, wondering if they should finish and ignore the men, or get up and leave without eating breakfast, hoping the next place was more tolerant.  Before she could even begin to think, Shay stalked over to the window booths.

"Excuse me, Jim.  Lenny."  Shay stood until they both stopped laughing at each other's wisdom.  "I'm going to have to ask you to pay your bills.  There are a lot of people waiting for a table."

Jim looked up at Shay, color flushing his cheeks above his wiry beard.  "We're still drinking our coffee.  As a matter of fact, we'd like a refill."

"You're not getting a refill, Jim.  You're going to leave."  Shay felt her heart racing and knew she was flooded with adrenaline.

"Why?  We ain't done nothing."

The restaurant was quiet except for the distant sizzling of the grill.  "You're offending the other customers, and you're offending me.  You fellas are done with your meal, so you need to leave."

Lenny sat up straighter, indignant.  "This is America.  We can say what we want, and if somebody's offended, it's their problem."

Jim smirked, "That's right.  It's our First Amendment right!  Freedom of Speech!"

Shay leaned down, fists on their table, and spoke low, "That protects you from the government.  This is a privately owned restaurant.  If I want to throw you out, I can throw you out.  Right now, I'm just asking you to leave because you're done.  Do you two understand those differences?"  Shay bent her elbows to lean even lower, "The government can't stop you from saying what you want.  I can, and I am, and I will do more than that if you don't get out now."  The waitress stood back and motioned for the men to leave.

If you were running for president, what would be your campaign slogan?

"Madam President, please.  You must evacuate now."  Waiting only a beat further, the last Secret Service agent remaining gave in and scooped President DeWitt under her armpits and lifted her from her husband's body.  She seemed to want to fight, but gave in to Agent Brody's inexorable pull, the fight gone for now.

If you could be any item in Wal-Mart, what would you be and why?

Shani was tired.  She felt her way through the shoe department's opening procedures using muscle memory more than her brain, but she had never needed to use her brain much at her job.  The mornings came early, especially after a hard night's sleep in her car.  Every day she slept in her car made her bones ache more, and last night, she could barely sleep at all.  At two in the morning, some drunk teenaged boys noticed her and banged on her hood and trunk until she managed to lay on the horn and threaten them loud enough with the cops.  They ran, not knowing Shani would never call because the police would have hassled her, too, for living in her car and parking overnight were she shouldn't.

Do you lie?

When I was fifteen, I finally landed my first boyfriend.  I had been desperate for some years, but I finally had enough and pushed this kid into a locker and leaned on him, one-handed on his chest, and told him I liked him.  Naturally, he gave in to my subtle charms.

His name was Mike, and he was cute.  That was about it.  Nice enough, but though I didn't know my type yet, he was not it.  We were okay together.  Mild.  We made out.  He never invited me over to his house, and I never met his family.  What stands out in my memories of him was that he was cute, he named his younger sister Marsha after Marsha Brady, and he introduced me to the guy who would become my second boyfriend in one of the most dramatic ways possible.

Mike and Peter walked to my house in the middle of winter, which was quite an accomplishment.  It wasn't as cold as it had been, but it was snowy.  When I came to the door, I was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to see his friend.

Where Mike was tall, thin and dark, Peter was sturdy and pale.  He had grey eyes that rarely blinked and a full head of fair, well-combed hair--the kind that he'd be sure to lose at middle age, but that feathered nicely as a teenager.  Mike looked frightened.  Peter looked determined.  I let them both in, though my parents were gone for the day.