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Rachel’s Parents

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She left the plain life because it was too restrictive, but Mr. Rock and Roll All Night And Party Every Day might be too freeing for her.

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“What the – what is Rumspringer?”

Rachel squeezed her eyes closed. She shouldn’t have mentioned it. If she wanted to be English, she needed to stop thinking plain. “It’s just a tradition. To get off the farm for a year so they can appreciate it better.”

“That makes sense. So you grew up on a farm?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe if the tour goes by there we can visit your folks.”

That would go over famously. Gian, these are my parents, John and Mary Fisher. Mom and Papa, this is Gian, he’s a rock star. I think I might love him. “The tour isn’t going anywhere near my family’s home.”

 

When my mother started teaching in the mid-70’s she had a lot of students who were Amish. Ruth Ann Fisher was one of her favorites and she still keeps in touch with her. We visited their house on several occasions when I was young and Ruth Ann’s parents’ names were John and Mary.

 

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The Elevator

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She left the plain life because it was too restrictive, but Mr. Rock and Roll All Night And Party Every Day might be too freeing for her.

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“Great. Let’s go.” He guided her out. “How’s the work going?”

“Fine, and yours?”

“Great. We’ve broken rehearsals and now it’s all R and R until the tour except for fittings. When are you going to be ready for me?”

Never. “I have one pair of pants and one shirt ready for you. I need you to try them on.”

“After dinner then.” He jabbed the call button for the elevator.

“Can’t we take the stairs?”

“Why would we do that?” The elevator doors opened and he grinned. “You scared to be in an enclosed space with me?”

“No.” Rachel stepped into the elevator. She would have preferred to take the stairs, but so far the only outlet on the first floor that she’d been able to find was wired to a fire alarm.

 

The inspiration behind this scene was living in the Middle East. To be clear, I lived in a very modernized, safe area, but it was also very conservative. The whole gender inequality thing can go either way. A woman on a pedestal is a woman who can’t move around on her own, but she’s got a great view. Some of my Muslim friends (all women because I had very little contact with men) were jealous of my ability to move freely and make my own decisions, especially when it came time to go on vacations and I was off to Venice while they couldn’t get permission from their fathers or husbands to go even as far as Dubai (for reference, it was a 90 minute drive.) However, some of the things that worked in my favor as a woman in the UAE:

Ladies banks. Entire branches of banks staffed by women and serving only women. They were usually empty.

Ladies grocery check out. You had your regular check out, your express check out and your ladies check out. Also not as crowded as the other lanes.

Ladies government offices. Need to get or renew a driver’s license? Bypass that mob of men waiting outside and step into a mostly empty office staffed by women where a little Indian woman asks if you would like tea while you wait. Need to get a health screening for your visa renewal? Walk past that line of men that wraps around the building and onto the street in the 100 plus degree heat and head into the waiting room where you are number 38 to have your chest x-rayed, some blood drawn and a doctor to ask you if you’ve had a cough recently. (To which you answer yes because it’s the Middle East and it’s constantly dusty.)

Pump attendants. Everybody got their gas pumped for them, but women (especially American women who were likely to tip) got their windows cleaned very thoroughly. At my regular station, the attendants would start to smile when they recognized my car and I was only tipping about a buck.

Ladies cabs. All Abu Dhabi cabs were silver, but ladies cabs had pink decorations and were only driven by women. For those days when you just don’t feel like helping an Indian guy practice his English all the way home from the mall.

And private elevators. Okay, they weren’t private, but when I first got there, several times I would step onto an elevator and the man in it would step off. After the third or fourth time I grew bold enough to ask. (It was starting to make me paranoid.) The gentleman told me that Arabic men did not like to be alone with a woman they didn’t know because they didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Little did he know that sharing an elevator with a man made me a lot less uncomfortable than being hit on in the grocery store by men who wanted to “practice their English” or being followed down the highway. That happened a lot.

The elevator thing was what led me to this scene.
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Alan Quits Smoking

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Fumbling for his pack of cigarettes, he hit the ignition. Reaching for his lighter on the dash, he caught her sour expression. “What?”

“I’m not big on smokers.”

He turned to look at her. Her expression was back to neutral again when she met his gaze. “You don’t smoke?”

“No, but it’s your car. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He shoved the cigarette back in the pack. “Where do you live?”

 

 

Once upon a time, when I was a stupid college girl, I knew a guy. Actually I knew two guys. Well, to be honest, there were six of them, but I only went out with two. My group of four girlfriends met this group of six guys one night at a club and we all hit it off. I developed a major thing for a tall blond drink of water who promptly developed a thing for one of my friends. It was okay because one of the other guys had a thing for me and being young and stupid, I encouraged it. Guy two had just gotten out of the military, was really nice, and really, well, nice, but he smoked which I didn’t like. I never told him and I didn’t make an issue of it. He wasn’t my boyfriend after all.

There came a day when boy one had a falling out with my friend. She wasn’t really my friend, just a friend of a friend. Sort of like an extra who shows up for two or three episodes of a show or a red shirt on Star Trek. The falling out happened on a night that boy two wasn’t with the group and I was right there to soothe boy one’s broken heart. Boy one and boy two were friends. Since elementary school friends, along with the other four guys in the group. Word got around.

The week following the break up and soothing, both groups encountered boy two sitting alone near where we always sat at the club, smoking. I went to chat with him and commented on the cigarette. He said he’d only quit because I didn’t like it and said (sincerely) that he hoped I’d be happy with boy one. He stopped hanging out with the group after that. I still feel like a heel.

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Alan’s OCD Dental Routine

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She stroked her fingers across his smooth chest. His tone was odd. She couldn’t tell if he wanted her to stay or not. “You don’t mind me staying the night do you?”

“Well, I have to brush my teeth.”

She propped herself up on her arm so she could see his face. The nightlight cast enough light for her to see his unease. Was this some kind of OCD thing he’d picked up in rehab to replace his habit? Was he going to be brushing his teeth until his gums bled? “Okay.”

 

I have a great dentist. He is an amateur archeologist who digs for dinosaur bones every summer in Utah. He and his wife wanted a big family so in addition to their two biological children they adopted four from overseas before it was trendy. They wanted to be involved with this family so they set up his office in a former house. The downstairs was remodeled into offices and the kids and their nanny spent the day upstairs. He’s the go-to dentist for many of the developmentally delayed adults in the area because he’s so good with them. So when my dentist said to use special toothpicks to push my gums down, I said, yes sir.

A couple of years later I was teaching kindergarten in Korea and I swear one of my mothers had a budget for monthly teacher gifts. She have myself, my co-teacher and our assistant approximately $50 in gifts every month like clockwork. One month the gift was an electric toothbrush (this was years ago when they were very expensive.) I still have it.

During my time in the UAE, I went to the dentist and asked about a cleaning as I had not had one in years. They said, why would you do that? They also didn’t use anesthetic unless absolutely necessary so the work I did have to have done was painful and I avoided repeating it.

Last year I managed to schedule a dentist appointment with my fantastic dentist here in the US after not getting to one for 6 or more years and guess how many cavities I had. None.

So the OCD brushing, flossing and picking that Alan does in the book is actually excellent dental care recommended by my amazing dentist.

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What I’m Watching: Celebrity Rehab

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Send Me an Angel was heavily influenced by this show, particularly season 2. I always had a fondness for Steven Adler, but at the outset I thought my hatred of Tawny Kittaen ould ruin it for me. I can’t really put my finger on when I started hating her, but it was well before she was in the news for beating her husband. In fact, not long before that she was on the cover of Cleveland Magazine with the husband she was beating, photographed as a happy couple and she had lipstick on her teeth. I took great joy in that. Especially after I found out from the photographer what a nightmare she was to work with. I happened to be working for a rival magazine, so I knew the photographer and got the inside scoop.

What amazed me while watching the show was that while I continued to hate Tawny, I didn’t dislike Julie (Tawny Kittaen’s real first name.) By the end of the series, I felt bad for Julie.

I still don’t like Tawny.

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Video Friday: Stagefright

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Alan’s addiction originated as a deep seated stagefright. Steve Clark and my ex-husband also suffered from crippling stagefright so I got to see it up close and personal. My ex-husband eventually started taking a prescription drug that helped him deal with the anxiety, but he had been self medicating with whiskey previous to that. He was headed down the path of alcoholism, but I encouraged him to see a therapist and, shockingly, he listened.

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Origin of Send Me an Angel

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I’ve had a long running interest in addiction and recovery starting with alcoholic grandfathers. My paternal grandfather, according to all reports, was a gentle drunk. He came home from work every night and drank until bed. He died when I was three so the only memory I have of him is his funeral. My maternal grandfather was a mean drunk. My mother has only recently begun telling stories about how she grew up and they are completely at odds with the man I remember. Of course by the time I came along, he had mellowed and my uncle had stood up to him. I do remember him drinking a lot. When I was little, every time he opened a beer he would give me the tab (yes, it was that long ago) if I took the first sip. I hated the taste, but I wanted those tabs and I had enough to make necklaces with.

When I went to college, I was the designated driver because I didn’t drink. The fact that both my grandfathers were alcoholics and my early aversion therapy thanks to my maternal grandfather left me with zero desire to drink. However, my penchant for hanging out with musicians in bars, meant that I had a lot of contact with drinkers and drug users. Then I moved to Akron, right into the neighborhood where Alcoholics Anonymous was born. Every June, on Dr. Bob’s birthday, the city is overrun with recovering alcoholics and drug users. It’s quite the event.

Those interests, along with my running interest in musicians, led to this story. No one moment of epiphany. Lots of little moments and pieces that added up to be greater than their sum.

Alan’s story breaks my heart. I so wanted him to be happy that when it came time for him to find out the truth about Angie, I hated myself for putting him in the way of it.

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Alan’s Parents

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Henry and Sophia Kneis come from old money. They are cultured and educated, but that doesn’t mean they know everything. They have no clue how to deal with their drug addict, rock star son. Some of the clues of how Alan ended up the way he is are pretty evident in the way they are raising Alan’s kids. They mean well, but they’re inflexible. Sophia’s insistence that children need routine isn’t bad, but completely inflexible routine isn’t helping anyone, especially the special needs children she’s caring for. Their odd callousness to Alan’s struggles with addiction isn’t because they’re bad people, but because they just don’t know what to do about it.

Alan’s parents were fun to write because I have known a lot of people who, while doing their best, just didn’t get it. I loved writing Angie’s reactions to what’s going on, as a nice person and somebody who does get it.

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