Hope Dies Last

Dear Future Man Friend,

I’m sorry that I’m writing to you twice in such a short time span, but its been a surreal week and I feel like I need to talk to you. When I say need please don’t freak out and jump out of a moving vehicle to get away from me. I don’t mean to criticize before I’ve even met you, but that would be an extreme reaction. And we both know that between the two of us I’m going to have to be the dramatic one.

The thing is on Saturday night I watched in horror as one of my favourite people in the world went up in flames. A freak accident caused by a dangerous combination of a rather adorable sheep costume for Carnival and a tiny flame from a tea light.

Man Friend, it was terrifying.

After spending six hours in the burn victim’s ward of the hospital, I feel emotionally bankrupt. I’ve been challenged in my life and this one goes directly into the Top 10 of the chart. Watching a person I love in pain is hard. (Even if they are surprisingly and charmingly chirpy!) The knowledge that there isn’t anything I can do to make it better is even harder. But I’ve learned that in the darkest moments of a person’s life my mere presence is the best comfort I can provide.

Presence, Man Friend. It is such a simple concept yet at the same time so complicated for me. As a closeted phobic, the act of being present is incredibly challenging. I’ve missed out on all sorts of occasions and I’ve disappointed people I love because of my inability to surpass certain limits I place. I’ve learned, though, that there are three kinds of presence available to all of us. There is physical presence–the act of actually being there. Then there’s emotional presence–the act of showing care. Finally, there’s thoughtful presence–the act of expressing presence in the absence of physical presence. (Have I just blown your mind with my analysis? You’ll have to get used to that. I’m a woman of detail.) I rely heavily on emotional and thoughtful presence to be present. Some people accept that and other people simply can’t. I hope that you’ll be one of the people that does.

What I’m trying to say, Future Man Friend, is that sometimes when you need me I might not be able to be there, but know that I’ll always be there for you.

Present and waiting,

Your future lady friend

Hope

p.s. And you thought that this letter would be about how much I need you. That just goes to show that you’ll never quite get me. And I suppose I’ll have to get used to that.

Today I’m guest blogging for the very awesome Ashalah. Here’s an excerpt to wet your appetite.

‘As a school girl of nine years old I would get more excited about Valentine’s Day than any other day of the year.  Would this year be the year that I get a card from a secret admirer? This thought would keep me up at night and on those mornings I waited impatiently for my brother to wake up so that we could go to school already!  I wanted to hear the sound of the soft knocking on the door. The Valentine’s Squad would come in holding baskets filled with envelopes and–on the rare occassions–flowers.  They would apologize to the teacher for the interruption and then begin to call out names…’

Go on over there to read the rest and be sure to leave a comment!

Dear Future Man Friend,

I’ve been feeling restless lately. I’ve been lying in bed for far longer than is healthy. I am frustrated. I want to hang on the hands of a gigantic clock and I want to pump my legs–with all the strength I have–and swing. I want to swing and swing–round and round–until I have moved time to the exact, second before we are supposed to meet.

I have a lot of questions about that second.  How will we meet? Will it be through friends? And if it is through friends which ones? Will we meet randomly? And if so where? Will we meet at a party? At the supermarket? At the Bar? How will I know its you, Man friend?  Will you talk to me all night? Or will I watch you from afar simply knowing? Will there be an instant understanding between us?

I don’t know have any of those answers. But I do know how the after will unfold because even though I haven’t met, I feel like I know you. You’ll be absolutely ready for the type of relationship that I am ready for. I imagine that when we meet you will be tired of the dating ‘game’.  I have a feeling that you’ll be playful, please be playful, but you will make it clear–in no uncertain terms–that I’m it for you. I’m definitely going to do the same because a) I love teasing and b) I’m not one to pussyfoot around feelings.You will call me and you will send me unexpected text messages in the middle of the day. You will reply to my emails and before we know it, before we have even had a first date, it will have been established that these crazy kids? They get each other.

I have a feeling that this is the way it will unfold. And I feel restless because I want to email you right now. I want to email you and tell you about how much trouble I am having with the poetry section of my writing course. I want you to reply that you’ve never had that problem  because you’re awesome. (You really are!) Then you would send me the world’s most terrible rhyming poem to make me smile.

Roses Are Red

Violets Are Blue

Hope is being silly

Should I be her muse?

Future Man Friend, I’m  hanging on to that clock and I’m pumping my legs and I’m swinging. I’m swinging around in circles hoping to fast forward time until the exact second before we meet. Because I’m restless and I miss you and I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m not going to the right places to meet you. I’m scared that I don’t yet know the person who is supposed to introduce me to you. I’m scared that I won’t recognize its you even when we do meet. I’m scared that you won’t recognize its me when I’m standing right there in front of you.

I don’t know who you are and I don’t know where you’re coming from but I want you to know that I’m the girl with the wide brown eyes, the hopeful mind and the open heart;  tapping her foot impatiently.

That’s how you’ll recognize me.

How will I recognize you?

Butterfly kisses from across time and space,

Hope

(More letters to Future Mr Hope here.)

In collaboration with a number of other bloggers, we have declared today as Blog Scam Awareness Day.

Last year I wrote a detailed post about my personal experience with a particularly popular blog designer. You can read the full post here.

Since then, that post is consistently the most viewed post on Hope Dies Last. It is also on the first page of Google when you search the name of that Design Studio followed by the word complaint. This clearly suggests to me that there are many other people out there that have gone through a similar experience. In fact, there are people that were scammed after me that shouldn’t have because my post didn’t reach a broad enough audience.There are people that were scammed after me because I gave up.

This is my attempt to correct that.

Blog Scam Awareness Day is a day to reach out to all bloggers in a united and concerted effort to protect each other; to share our stories so that others will not fall into the same trap.

The facts as I know them are these…

Name: Jessica Bailey Sanderson [Also goes by the names of tattooed mama and mamabearjess.]

Previous Owner of: Cuppycake Designs, Delicious Design Studio, Web Design Gal. [Please note: The current owner of Delicious Design Studio is not affiliated with Jessica in any way and is as much, if not more, of a victim as the rest of us]

Number of bloggers she has taken money from but never fulfilled her obligations: Anywhere between 20 and 80.Possibly more.

Average amount she has taken from each blogger: Based on other accounts I have read, this is probably between $100-$150.  [I payed $222.] In addition, according to Flippa [formerly Marketplace] in May 2009, she sold her business in an online auction for $50, 000.

In October of 2009, I was informed that Jessica had set up a new company–Web Design Gal. But after being confronted by another scammed blogger, that site was removed. As it stands now, she very well could be operating under a different name.

Our goals:

1. To increase awareness so that this particular designer does not continue to work in this way [under any name]. But to also discourage others who may want to take advantage of the anonymity that the internet provides.

2. To attempt to collect a detailed and comprehensive list of all bloggers who have been affected by Jessica.

3. To protect each other.

What can you do?

If you have also been scammed or know of someone who has been scammed by Jessica, fill out this form.

Spread the word.  Twitter, link or repost.

And finally, I know that some will disagree with this course of action. I–myself–have been hesitant to name and shame. It feels dirty. It goes against my nature. Please be aware that most of us have exhausted all the ‘right ways’ of complaining. I have filed complaints with Paypal, the Better Business Bureau and the FTC Bureau of Consumer Protection. This has achieved nothing. And every time I hear of yet another person who lost money and got no design, I am filled with disbelief and rage. How is it possible that in a tightly knit community of bloggers that inspired the Love Harder movement [Go! Donate! Shop!] we have allowed this to happen? How is it possible that this person has not been held to account?

If blogging camaraderie can inspire us to Love Harder, I also think that blogging should inspire us to protect each other.

Even if, sometimes, it feels uncomfortable.

Thanks to the following bloggers for taking a stand with me.

Tattoos & Cupcakes

The Tambourine Queen

Mom In Real Life

It was early morning and for a woman who doesn’t take sales as seriously as her gender shoulds her to take them, I was on my way to Zara.It was pouring down with rain. A fitting tribute to the state of my mind. Feeling pessimistic, I was surprised to find a parking space only ten short steps away from my destination. Most spaces in Athens require parallel parking; a manoeuvre that I have just about mastered and could do with my eyes half closed.

On this particular day however my over confidence got the better of me. It could have been the rain, it could have been the greyness of my mood and the earliness of the morning but as I reversed and turned, I nipped the stationary car next to me.

It was early, cold and raining and there was no one else on the road. Not a single soul. My instinct was to jump out and inspect the damage I had caused. Thankfully, it was minimal; nothing a paint job couldn’t fix. No indentations just a tiny scratch. I then took a photo of my handiwork. Still not a single soul. I felt that I needed a presence; some other person to tell me what to do. Perhaps, a crowd. To condone me for my appalling parking skills or to applaud me for my humanity.

But as with most events in my life, it was just me, the rain and this drama I had created.

‘I could leave and no one would ever know it was me‘ I thought.

Instead, I parked (making sure not to hit him again) and wrote a note on the back of a receipt.

Dear Black Astra Driver,

I am so sorry. I accidentally bumped into the left side of your car as I was parking. My number is [redacted]. Please call me. I’d like to make it up to you. Again, I am so sorry!

I left the note on his windshield and went home. My shopping plans canceled. Thankful that the darkness of my mood was now–at the very least–confirmed by a concrete reason.

My number was never used for reasons I do not understand. But every now and again, I think of that day. My action and then my reaction. I think about the way that I took responsibility. I think about that thought that ran through my mind while I was there in the moment. How easy it could have been to avoid, to ignore, to deny and to carry on shopping because there was no other human around to notice the damage I had caused. How easy it would be to carry on living and never acknowledge the inconvenience I may have caused another person.

And then I think about the men (and friends) that have denied me a conversation. I think about the people that have refused to take responsibility for the scars they have left me. I have defended these people because that is the way I am wired. I can find a justification to almost all the bad things that have been done to me.   Tragic [and extreme] case in point: I can find no hatred within me for the person who stabbed my father to death. This was the early 90s in South Africa; apartheid was the parent of all black people and my father was white.  His dying will never be justified to me.  But–in my mind–the actions of the man who held that knife can be justified by that much larger social issue.

But then I realize that I had a choice on that day. A split second choice between running away or admitting I made a mistake and accepting the consequences. Whatever those may have been. If I had that choice, then most of us [barring the sociopaths among us] have that choice. And I think to myself that I’d like to meet a man who takes responsibility for his actions. A man who mans up and has the awkward conversation with me. I am not interested in a person who has witnessed the pain they have caused me and chosen to look the other way. I am not interested in a person who takes the easy way out. [Even though I can understand the reasons that they do.]

Some may argue that this is a high expectation. But I think it is probably the very least we should expect from one another.

Some compassion.

A little acknowledgment of our own mistakes.

Some sort of sincere regret.

I’ll take it.

Even if it is in the form of a hastily written apology on the back of a forgotten receipt stuffed underneath a windshield wiper.