This spring I dreamt that my sister Bobbie wasn't dead. She hadn't committed suicide after all. She was coming home.

It was 1966 again and I was 10 years old. She was 21, just like before, and I sobbed for joy when she came to the door, in her familiar beatnik style, looking somewhat detached and cold, but there. After all, I never saw her body — they said it was too far gone for me to see — so her death really may have been a lie, camouflaged amidst my parents' many other deceits.

I grew up thinking Bobbie’s death was a lie. I remember being hustled over to my Auntie Sophie's for a few days; my father taking me into the bedroom, hugging me and weeping, saying there had been an accident, Bobbie had taken too many pills and was dead. The most horrifying thing about that afternoon was 1) my dad was hugging me and 2) my dad was crying, two totally alien events that filled me with shame and embarrassment. I wept when I stepped on an orange salamander and killed it, but for some reason, my sister being dead, in and of itself, didn't seem like such a big deal.

A day later, we were at my grandfather's in New Jersey and my trashy cousin Patty, whose immediate family included not one, but two convicted child molesters, told me that there had been no accident: Bobbie had committed suicide. The suicide part made a kind of sense to me, but unfortunately it was not my primary conclusion, which went something like this: Someone was lying. If someone was lying, it was bound to be my parents, because they lied all the time. Why would they lie about this? The obvious answer was that my father had finally killed Bobbie.

I saw him hit her often enough (he was a heavy drinker with a wicked temper), saw him beat her with a belt — not discipline her by 1960s standards, but beat like an overseer — while she screamed for help. I saw him kick her when she was curled up in a ball on the ground, where she'd fallen after a hard slap. Almost every morning, I was awakened by their shouts and screams, sounds that flipped my stomach over and made me cry. That he had killed her just seemed like a foregone conclusion. The full horror was complete when I realized I was relieved that she was dead because maybe now it would all stop.

Forty-eight years later, some lies have been laid to rest while others continue to reveal themselves with exhausting regularity. By the time I was 13, I realized my father hadn't killed my sister. A few years after that, I knew my parents lied because they didn't think a 10-year-old would understand the concept of suicide.

I learned that my brother, who was 16 at the time, had to identify Bobbie’s two-week-old corpse because neither my father nor my mother could bring themselves to do it. After my parents died, I found Bobbie’s death certificate and learned that Bobbie hadn't killed herself on Mother's Day. That turned out to be a sad and wicked myth my otherwise kind mother perpetrated on us for decades.

There was more. Bobbie wasn't pre-med as everyone had claimed. I discovered her college transcripts and it turned out, she was liberal arts down the line. Why lie about that? Why make up the Mother's Day story? I guess it sounded more dramatic. After all, a dead pre-med student was so much sadder than a dead English major. And a suicide on Mother's Day? It's right out of a Stephen King horror novel.

Just this past month, I found out Bobbie hadn't taken an overdose of narcotics, but had mixed alcohol with MAOI antidepressants. Oh, and her suicide note, which my father carried in his wallet until the day he died, said she was checking out – leaving behind $1,500, her books and Martin guitar – because "her wife" had left her and she loved her very much.

In the note, she'd left everything to me.

Originally published on Purple Clover

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The average newborn is 7.5 pounds. I came into the world at 10 pounds, so you might say I’ve been a Plus Size Princess since the beginning. I was eight when I began feeling bigger than the other girls. I was 12 when my pediatrician wrinkled her nose and bluntly told my mother that I was fat.

I’ve been dieting, losing weight … and gaining more back ever since.

I never saw my weight as part of my identity, because being a big girl was always supposed to be a temporary thing. The plan was to do all of the things that skinny girls do: Moderation! Self Control! Eat Less, Move More! And then, a skinny body would be mine, too.

But here’s the thing: Exercise and eating well has given me a clean bill of health, but it has yet to make me skinny. Maybe my 10-pound birth weight was an indication that I was destined to be plus size. Maybe it's my Polycystic Ovary Syndrome that keeps me from being small. Who knows?

What I do know is that I have a choice. I can live my life miserable because of what the scale says, or I can live an awesome life no matter what the scale says.

When I saw Linda Kelsey of the Daily Mail asking why young women are so unashamed about being fat, I felt like she was writing directly to me. She told a story of seeing Plus Size Princesses in the airport heading out for vacation:

They sounded—and looked—happy and carefree. But what mesmerised me most about this jolly trio was not their conversation, but their appearance: they were size 18 apiece, at least.

Wait a minute. I’m at least a size 18, and when I’m headed out for vacation, I, too, am carefree and happy! Ms. Kelsey, were you at JFK when I flew to Mexico?

Far from body hatred, what I witnessed was a let-it-all-hang-out faith in themselves and a don’t-give-a-damn attitude to their evident obesity.

Okay, you’re in the UK and I’m in New York, so maybe it wasn’t me you saw. But let me explain to you what you witnessed with those three plus size girls in the airport.

We live in a world where men feel comfortable walking up to women and screaming, “Lose some weight, fat ass!” We live in a society where girls on a weight-loss journey stop jogging in public because people heckle them from their cars. We are brought up with messaging that our value as people depends on our body type, and the bigger you are, the less value you have.

Then to top it all off, we have, in your own words, “unapologetically fattist” people like you who think being overweight “should be as unacceptable as smoking.” Smoking is not allowed in the workplace, restaurants, and a good chunk of public spaces. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s what you’re suggesting should be done about us “fatties."

Linda, what you interpreted as a “don’t-give-a-damn” attitude in those girls dressing as they wanted, with no concern for your opinion, was actually them being vulnerable. It was them being themselves and being comfortable with their bodies—a tough thing for any woman to do at any size, but seeing big girls do it? In my opinion, you witnessed a miracle.

Those girls have heard you and your fat-phobic friends loud and clear their whole lives. They know you can’t stand anyone who isn’t thin. They know that the presence of their large bodies made you uncomfortable, and yet they were still able to get out of bed, dress as they wanted, and live. An amazing feat, I’d say!

Big girls know that we’re big, and most of us are working on our health. I started the #PSPfit online fitness community because big girls DO work out and eat healthy. If being skinny is in the future for any of us fatties, it won't happen overnight (heck, I’ve lost 55 pounds and I’m still fat). But in the meantime, as WE figure out what's best for OUR bodies, I think we should be allowed to just have a good day. I think we should be allowed to love our bodies as they currently are, while we work towards being our best selves. We should be allowed to smile, laugh, dance, go on dates, and break free from the body policing many of us have been dealing with since childhood.

Linda, listen to me (listen to me, Linda!). You’re unapologetically fattist, and I am unapologetically human. All humans have things they’re working through. I’m working through my weight, which means my struggles are on display for the world to see and critique in articles online. You have the luxury of keeping your struggles hidden, but I imagine that you don’t spend every moment of every day crying and hiding because of them, so please don’t expect me to do that. I don’t know what your struggles are, but if I did, I would be compassionate.

Some say we judge others harshly in the areas where we are insecure. Sometimes I wonder if it's not my fat body that people hate, but the happiness, joy, and full life I have in spite of it.

No apology needed, Linda… No apology needed.

Related: Should I tell My Plus Size Daughter to Lose Weight?

Cutthroat Kitchen is burning up the summer, off to a strong start with its fourth season on Food Network. I don't know whether to love it, hate it, or to make a bread pudding after tearing up my love-hate and covering it with an "I see your class struggles, First World" custard topped by a caramelized "WTF" glaze.

Cutthroat Kitchen, which airs on Sunday nights, is a performance game show where host Alton Brown and one taste-testing judge select one winner from four chef-testants. The contestants are put through three elimination cooking rounds, with one voted off each round. Throughout the game, the chefs bid on various sabotages to bestow upon their competitors, hoping to be the last chef standing and the only cash prize winner. Can you dice while wearing handcuffs soldered to a spacer bar? Can you cook Thanksgiving dinner using only a pocketknife? Can you make applesauce if your apples are stolen and replaced with sour apple gummy candy? Or do you love the schadenfreude of watching bravado fade while chefs creatively cope with evil pranks? Then Cutthroat Kitchen is for you!

Watching the show is a bit painful because the challenges can be cruel (and often result in unappetizing food), but the set-up is compelling. If I tune in I end up watching through to the end, because I get hooked rooting for one contestant or because I need to see how a chef resolves a crisis she's been given.

The weird thing, though, is that I'm often repelled as well, because the auctioned items all too often remind me of working with at-risk families through social services agencies. The high-low class struggles that are the subtext of the show are a bizarre juxtaposition against the professional kitchen. I wouldn't expect that watching a skilled chef use a high-end Anti-Griddle or preparing a fine cut of beef would remind me of when I've worked in domestic violence shelters and food closets, or conducted home visits to hungry families, but it happens every time.

I can't help but think of food pantries when each round starts by letting contestants select ingredients from a glass-walled closet. They make frenzied grabs for food and spices that they may not be able to keep when preparing their dish. When you help people access donations in real food pantries you see the opposite of grabbing behavior. You see careful choices from grateful people while they tell you all sorts of hardship stories that range from the ages of the their children living with chronic hunger to losing a month's worth of food when the power was shut off because of an inability to pay the electric bill. What I wouldn't give to be able to turn needy families loose in that Cutthroat Kitchen pantry.

More directly, it seems like most of the sabotages are attempts to replicate the types of situations that are daily life for people who live near or below the poverty line and who experience obstacles, like shut-off power, on the regular. Looking back throughout recent episodes, I found that the sabotages fell into categories including:

• making a chef cook all of their food using one heat replacement item,like a heat gun or a "As Seen on TV" appliance
• requiring a chef to use a substandard workspace or tools, like only using their hands or working on a counter made of pizza boxes
• making a chef adopt some sort of limiting physical disability, like strapping spatulas to their hands
• creating hardships for a chef to get ingredients, like making them dig them out of a fake garden
• swapping the ingredients a chef selected for sub-standard or peculiar food items

These sabotages are very often close to real-life hardships, and some verge on mocking the poor from the privileged vantage-point of a professional, stocked kitchen. Tons of families rely on one heat source in broken kitchens that landlords won't repair or that they themselves can't afford to fix. One recent episode had a contestant forced to cook Pasta Bolognese using only an espresso pot, and in another episode a chef had to use only a heat lamp. I've visited families living in houses, apartments, vans and hotel rooms where the only cooking sources were tea kettles, coffee makers, open fires, toaster ovens or electric griddles, not to mention families who only had hot water from the tap, if that. The parallels might only be in subtext, but they are clearly there.

This video shows how the producers test their obstacle ideas.

The food swaps are where the worst class commentary plays out. Typically the swaps are meant to inspire groans of disgust because the chef will be given low-brow food in place of their fresh, high-quality ingredients. In this season's opening episode, "I Can't Believe It's Not Udder," a chef needed to make a breakfast sandwich from the remains of a complimentary hotel breakfast bar. The serving trays were presented to him with droll glee by Alton, who disparaged the pre-packaged pastries, string cheese, butter pats and remains of oatmeal and hashbrowns. The chef was so repulsed he immediately covered the rejected oatmeal and did his best to pick peppers out of the hashbrowns to use, only to lose the round with his creations. He stormed off the set.

So while we are watching this fit and wondering how the chef will cope, we are aware that not only do thousands of people eat food from similar breakfast buffets on the regular, but they are marketed as perks. Worse, those foods were prepared and served by minimum-wage earners who can't afford high-quality ingredients themselves, and that there are certainly workers who would happily take those leftovers home to feed their families if they were allowed to do so.

Some of the Cutthroat food switch outs are meant to feel super gross. Watching chipped beef or chicken slog from a can when other chefs are using prime meat, for example, or seeing fish sticks run up against fresh ahi tuna as the judge takes a bite, is meant to be cringetastic. The class politics inherit in showing disgust at the food of others is complicated.

Alton runs an after-show where the judges learn the back story to the challenges. The video of celebrity judge Giada De Laurentiis completely repulsed at the canned chicken used in a sabotage might be one of the best ways to understand the classism at play, with a reference to cat food in the mix.

I'm not saying that I would be thrilled to cook with the same if I didn't have to, but I can't help but remember watching mothers feeling grateful to find any protein source in food cabinets where canned vegetables dominate.

Class drama plays out between the contestants, too, which is a pervasive dynamic in the restaurant industry. Pro kitchens run on competitive hierarchies within individual kitchens and between restaurants of differing rankings. The majority of food service professionals make very low wages and work long, late hours. Some are able to rise to executive salaries or ownership by working their way up and by seeking expensive training. Becoming proficient with expensive cuts of meat and ingredients takes money—either your own, or by working for restaurants with moneyed patrons. When chefs on Cutthroat Kitchen trash talk each other, tossing shade to a sous chef from a standard fare restaurant in Kansas or a suburban caterer, those slams come with lots of class drama attached. One recent contestant called himself "an Asian Hillbilly." When he had to work in handcuffs, another contestant quipped that it probably wasn't the first time. The cook saddled with the hotel breakfast buffet was dismissed as a "bougie chef."

This high-low tension is one of Food Network's favorite ways to represent and reflects contemporary American Dream class drama. Making chefs cope with real people problems like sub-par ingredients is a balance to Ina Garten's field trips in the Hamptons and her constant reminders to buy GOOD cheese and to only use THE BEST tomatoes. (Even Ina has a bit of high-low in her highness, though. Look at her brand name: Barefoot Contessa. She knows what she's doing.)

Food Network's other popular game show plays out the same high-low themes as we see in Cutthroat Kitchen. In Chopped, contestants get one food basket of random ingredients and have to make it work. The ingredients typically mix high and low, with the hook being how awesome chefs with refined palates will deal with county fair cotton candy or fast-food tacos, and whether they'll be skilled enough to know how to use ingredients that you can only be familiar with if you have high-on-the-hog money of your own (a recent contestant cited his extensive European travels as his inspiration)—or work for those who do. Will the the cheftestants know how to best use the Mangalitsa bacon or the black truffle? Can they make frozen okra fit in their dish? Hungry parents receiving assistance grapple with more down-to-earth versions of these questions every day, matching the odd ingredients gathered from the local food pantry to what's left in their kitchen, and stretching it all to meet their family's needs.

The extra cruel thing about Cutthroat Kitchen is that the winners usually don't take home much money. Each starts with $25,000, but they each spend most of it to buy sabotages. Additionally, they are sometimes fined by Alton, if they do something like drop an egg from the sabotage egg hat they had to wear while cooking. They only keep what remains. Trying to save money typically means that you'll go home early because you ended up cooking with the convenience store hot dog cooker or wasted time extracting limes from Corona bottles in order to make your key lime pie. Alton collects the money with maniacal glee, standing in for every pawn shop owner, car title loan store and utility company levying late fees and reconnection charges on people struggling to get by.

Still, one chef does triumph and takes home some prize money, plus survival bragging rights. That's the ultimate appeal of Cutthroat Kitchen, and maybe it's a comfort dish in its own way. It's one of the things that hooks me in, and makes me cheer for the contestants who have the scrappy attitudes that feel familiar, suggesting that they may have found their way to food service when they truly needed a job. In Cutthroat Kitchen, even if obstacles are thrown down and you have to make a whisk out of foil and use a paint dryer to cook your egg substitute, you ultimately can do it and stand alongside omelets prepared the French way. High-low class drama, presented on small plates with a side of cash. It's the American Dream on a plate, class struggles and all.

Pineapples are still the hot summer design trend. Don’t believe me? Check Pinterest. In the spirit of the pineapple, I thought I would show you how to grow your own, PLUS make a DIY pineapple-riffic planter.

Buy a whole pineapple at the store. You can either chop off the top with a knife or twist the foliage off gently. Nosh on the fruit later.

Next, clean the foliage so that you can see all the tiny roots. This is what you will plant. Set the greenery aside while you craft your plant a new home.

You can use any pineapple-shaped pot you have on hand. I picked up a plastic-lined planter basket at the thrift store. I thought the texture had a nice pineapple-y feel.

Paint your planter a pineapple yellow. This might take a couple of coats. Allow to dry completely.

Come back in with black and green paint to give your pineapple a realistic crosshatch look. I must admit my sister helped me with this part. Feel free to leave yellow and skip this step.

Next, fill your planter with dirt and add your pineapple top. Water well and watch that baby grow.

This makes the third pineapple plant I have growing in my container garden. I haven't yet had another pineapple grow from my plantings, but the plants are thriving, the leaves look great in the basket … and I'm still trying!

I hope this will be the last thing I ever write about the history of White people portraying Black people as monkeys, but unfortunately, at some point I'll probably have to write something on this topic again. This racist insult repeats, repeats, repeats.

Did you hear about the someone took and shared on Twitter. The picture of the black child placed above a monkey's body with a banana is not on the T-shirt itself, but on the hanger cover used to display the monkey T-shirt. The covers make it possible for any retail worker to match the any one of the company's T-shirts with any child on a cover.

The T-shirt manufacturer is claiming "it's all a misunderstanding," but some concerned consumers are saying that the T-Shirt manufacturer should have foreseen that eventually a black child would be matched with one of the monkey shirts in a sales display, and the fall-out would not be good for the company. So, either they should not have made the monkey T-shirt, or they should have found another way to promote the shirts.

I must say this as clearly as I can: White people who consider themselves “educated” in America and yet claim to not recognize the false, tired, and cruel doctrine that portrays people of African descent to be “more ape than human” either have not been paying attention or are being disingenuous in the fruitless effort to distance themselves from their privilege. The racist equation that monkey or ape = African or of African descent is a centuries-old and well-known Euro-American (and white supremacist) teaching that has been exported to other parts of the world.

This propaganda began to be promoted more aggressively during the so-called "Age of Enlightenment" when African identity began to be used as a foil to European identity. Europe was positioned as the continent of light; Africa was positioned as one of darkness. (This image of Africa was later reinforced in popular culture via the highly-touted novel Heart of Darkness.)

Linnaeus'System Naturae, published in the 1700s and long upheld as “scientific” information, encoded the message that black = closer-to-ape, and did so with images. Even the "great" thinkers of Europe, such as Voltaire, Rousseau, Hume, and Kant, accepted and perpetuated the doctrine that Black people were subhuman, near ape status (see Elliot P. Skinner’s essay on Black identity as well as other sources).

Later in the 1800s, Charles White of the Royal Infirmary under so-called “scientific race theory” perpetuated this racist message with his classification of races. He designated black people as inferior and more related to apes.

It’s been documented that during World War II, White American soldiers circulated rumors that Black men had tails in their pants in an effort to stem miscegenation. When Black soldiers arrived in Hawaii, the local people ran from them, thinking they were animals.

During attempts to integrate schools, more than one White parent exclaimed, “I don’t want to send my children to school with monkeys and apes.” A little research of the era bears this out.

Since President Obama’s been in office, even the national news has covered racist pictures of him portrayed as a monkey. And a quick search in Google images using the keywords “Obama and monkey” will support that statement.

So, given that this trope has been perpetuated by science, has bled into popular culture, has been exported to countries around the globe—China included—and has remained active for more than 300 years (it was even used to justify slavery), I doubt that a store clerk matching hanger heads to T-shirts was unaware of it and its implications. Consequently, I agree with any commenters who have said that the manufacturer should have foreseen this.

If someone says that they saw this T-shirt display or picture and did not immediately see the racial implications, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt for the sake of civil discussion, but I will not accept an argument that extends that doubt to a corporation. Marketing professionals should know these cultural angles, and if they don’t, they’re in the wrong business.

I love making my own seasonings at home. You never need to worry about not having them on hand, thus avoiding running to the store like a maniac last minute. Plus, they always test better in my opinion. Making your own seasonings can also save you some money. I highly recommend giving it a try. Here’s my version of the store-bought taco seasoning mixes.

Gather all your spices and measure them out.

Mix them together.

Transferto a sealable container. I got these little gems from my cousin Mike for Christmas and I love them!

Seal it up and store it with your other spices.

Ingredients

1 tablespoon chili powder
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon onion powder
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon black pepper

Directions

Stir together and store in an airtight container. I usually use half of this amount per pound of meat. Start off with that and you can always add more.

Printable Recipe

Let me know, do you guys like to make your own seasonings? What other kinds of seasonings do you make at home? It it more convenient for you to just buy at the store?

I learned a hard truth about mothering black boys long before I had one of my own.

It was November 11, 1987. I was a teenager living with my family in a quiet suburb in Montreal. We woke up that morning to news that a young man, just 19 years old, had been shot and killed by a constable in a police station parking lot. The teen, Anthony Griffin, was black and unarmed. The officer, white and middle aged, had a standard issue .38 revolver.

(Image: © Andre Chung/MCT/ZUMAPRESS.com. Not Nicole Blades' son.)

My father, a man always ready with an easy, squint-eyed smile, was grim as he told my older sister, brother and me about the killing. The familiar-sounding name of the dead man sent my father to the phones next: to make some calls, check in with friends, see if Anthony Griffin was one of ours, while holding his breath like my mother, praying that “no” would be the only reply. But my “cousin” (i.e., family without blood relation) Leo called and cut into their hopes: He knows Anthony Griffin. Knew him. They ran in the same, loose circle. Of course they did. Leo and Anthony were young black boys, hardly men, growing up in Montreal, still living at home with their long-ago naturalized Caribbean immigrant parents. They played basketball and hockey and went to clubs with their boys and called up girls on the basement telephone late, late at night. Leo was Anthony. They were the same guy.

Anthony Griffin’s last night on earth started as an argument with a cab driver in the city just before dawn. The cabbie claimed the kid was trying to jump the fare and called the police. Anthony was nervous, reported the newspapers, because of an outstanding warrant, and once the police cruiser he was in had reached the station, he bolted. The arresting officer, Constable Allan Gosset, said he yelled at Anthony’s back, twice ordering him to halt. And he did. Anthony stopped and turned around, with his hands up in surrender.

That’s when he was shot. One bullet to the forehead.

Officer Gosset, who had been on the force for 16 years, said he had only intended to scare the fleeing youth into surrendering and that the gun went off accidentally. Charged with criminal negligence, he was acquitted twice—for the initial charge and later homicide—by all-white juries. However, seven months after the shooting, a police commission found Gosset negligent and recommended his dismissal.

By then it didn’t matter. The outrage was already loose; years of patent discrimination and racial profiling by the police had mangled any trust and left Montreal’s black community breathing fire. This murder of an unarmed teen was the last sliver of disregard, the last dribble of spit to the face of a people consistently benched despite playing by the rules. They took their fury to the streets in organized, nonviolent protests holding placards that screamed out for justice. I should say we, because I was there, along with my family, chanting and marching and drawing hard, permanent lines in the cracked mosaic that spelled out: NO MORE.

I yelled and roared with the crowd as we coursed the downtown streets. I was partly caught up in the drink of adult anger and exasperation, but after the heat in my own pumping fists had simmered, I felt scared again, edging up to panic. The reality of it rushed around me and gripped my throat: I was wrong about my parents. They weren’t exaggerating about the Way Things Are in This World.

It took my Barbados-born father 20 years of living in Canada to see that even though the prejudice wasn’t in-your-face, it was still there, rubbing on your thick skin, wearing it down, slow and sure. He started to see the racism was institutionalized; it said yes, you may have a job and a house with a basement and yard, and a comfortable life, but there were limits for you as a black person. He started to see blatant bigotry as a beast running toward you in daylight, attacking you from the front—a far less lethal option than encountering the snake in the grass at night. Then Anthony Griffin was killed, and the alarm sounded even louder for my father. In his mind, this young boy’s execution was the clearest example of how assumptions and racism—even disguised—broil into something truly horrible: his own son could one day be killed simply for being black.

Anthony Griffin stayed with me.

He stayed with me until he didn’t. Until I grew older and a little colder and simply tired of seeing this erasure story—the one about the unarmed black boy dusted away like pesky lint—play out over and again through decades like some hopeless movie trope, only with slightly different details, different faces, families, cities, and courtrooms. It’s the same verdict, though, the same tragedy with no real change in sight. Black boys were less than; that was their worth. Instead of growing angrier, I accepted this, begrudgingly, as fact.

But then Oscar Grant.

Then Trayvon Martin.

In between Oscar Grant’s killing by a BART police officer in Oakland, California, and Trayvon Martin’s fatal shooting by a neighborhood watch captain in Sandford, Florida, something changed. I became a mother—a mother to a baby boy.

Heartsick and angry, I watched the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman story roll out. This was Anthony Griffin all over again, 26 years later. I felt raw, breathless, sad, and ultimately helpless. And seeing Trayvon’s mother—numb and broken, a grayness seeping out through her eyes—it buckled my knees. This story cannot be our thing, on loop. Our brown-faced children cannot continue to be shoved into early graves. This hunt must be called off. Mothers, fathers, and like-figures must infuse a newer message and reaffirm it so these endangered children believe it deep in their bones: You are worthy. You belong here. You matter.

I’ve told myself that I have time. My son is only five years old now. Soon—not tomorrow, but soon—I will have to have The Talk about what others assume about him, about his life, about his intentions as he browses through a store or strides down the night’s sidewalk. It won’t matter if he’s wearing a three-piece suit or hoodie and jeans as he walks fresh into the lives of certain strangers, he’ll still get the double-take: that long side look soaked in suspicion and dread, because he’s laughing too loud (and black), walking too slow (and black), driving too fast (and black). His being here (and black) will be a problem for some, and they will see it as their right to bring forth a solution, set a course correction to protect the lives that really matter. And, no, that does not include yours, black boy.

Still, I don’t want to fill him with dread and fatalism. Even though he’ll be inundated with countervailing messages about his lack of worth, I want this child to find his way to becoming a fully realized man—the husks of resentment and bitterness tumbling in the trail behind him, sloughed off like useless, old skin. Like my folks did for me, I want to show my son that while there are people who will likely see him as a threat, there are also others who will be ready to embrace him, revere him, and come prepared to wholly love him.

But I’m not ready for all of that. I’m not ready to blow stinging dust into this kid’s bright, kind eyes. Not yet.

I want our brown boys to have the space and time to be hopeful and undaunted, counting forward not down to the days to come when they can play basketball and hockey and go to the club with their boys and call up girls late, late in their parents’ basements.

I want them to have the passport to be black, and just be.

You're a woman who enjoys performing oral sex on your male lovers. Either you've been doing it for years or you only recently came to love it, but it's your thing. Unfortunately, you've been struggling with going deeper; the idea of deep-throating makes you gag (literally!) and you want to take your skills to the next level. I have a few tips that just might help you out. (Note: I am considerate of people who have battled with eating disorders and for whom gagging/purging has been an issue. This blog will discuss some things that might be triggering, so please exercise self-care before continuing)

Look In Your Bathroom Cabinet

You already have one of the most valuable tools to help you improve your skills-- a toothbrush! The biggest issue with gagging is that when something tickles the back of your throat, your reaction is usually to try and force it back out. It's an instinctive survival reaction to protect you from choking. It doesn't kick in when you're eating because you're consciously chewing and swallowing food that bypasses triggering that reflex. However, when you're filling your mouth, all the way back to your throat, with something other than manageable food, your body reacts. 

One way to reduce this reaction is to become used to feeling it. You can take a toothbrush with soft bristles and use it to sweep the back of your tongue where you're the most sensitive. Take 30 seconds in the morning and 30 seconds in the evening to simply brush the back of your tongue in a side-to-side sweeping motion. At first, you'll gag. Remove the toothbrush, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, and try again. You're not trying to induce vomiting-- you just want to get yourself used to having an object at the back of your throat for more than a few seconds at a time.

Image: Morgan via Flickr

Look In the Kitchen

Similar to toothbrushes, spoons can be used to stimulate the back of your tongue and your throat in slight ways to which you can become accustomed. Simply take a spoon and graze it along your tongue towards the back. As it tickles and you feel the gag, pause, breathe deep, exhale, and try again until you don't feel sick.

You can use fruit or vegetables to practice on, too! Bananas, carrots, zucchini, squash, any oblong fruit or vegetable can help. You can practice fellating your lover before actually being there with your lover if you get creative. Using food is a two-for: you can practice the fellating itself and work on your gag reflex at the same time. 

Look In Your Bedroom

If you’re like me, you have at least one sex toy. Many sex toys are shaped to resemble penises in shape, but we rarely put them in our mouths, especially when we have access to the real thing. However, they can help you work on your gag reflex if you use them to practice your form. Slowly put the toy in your mouth, inch-by-inch, until it gets far into the back. Again, remember to breathe in and out and keep calm. You can do this!

These simple tips can help many people improve their gag reflexes so they can improving their deep-throating skills. I caution against using any throat numbing sprays because you don’t want to dull the sensation completely to the point when you don’t know when enough is enough. You simply want to practice becoming used to the feeling and learning how to manage it in the most intimate moments.

“God pulls us through life by the heart.”  - Martha Beck

As I’ve been building my life coaching practice, I’ve become very clear on who it is I want to serve. The truth is that the people I can help the most are people who are going through something in their lives that I’ve also experienced and come through myself.

That’s why I have a special place in my heart for people with a broken heart.

I have had my heart broken and I have broken hearts – both experiences sucked. I got emotionally lost for a bit, made some exceedingly poor decisions and cried more that year than I think I had my entire adult life.

Image: Steven Damron via Flickr

But now sitting on the other side of the experience a few years later, I can say I’ve learned a few important and powerful lessons about healing a broken heart:

1. You need to forgive the person that broke your heart. That simple – but not easy – act will help you accept an apology that you’ve probably never received.
2. Forgive yourself. In every relationship, there are two people at the party and you played a role in this heartbreak on some level. Maybe you didn’t value your heart enough and gave it too freely. Maybe you accepted, tolerated and accommodated more than you should have. Maybe you didn’t open your heart to them fully because you were afraid, so the relationship always felt a little distant and disconnected.
3. Stop looking for closure. You cannot logic and reason your way through matters of the heart. You may never know why he did what he did; he may never be able to understand it himself, much less articulate it to you.
4. Pain isn’t necessarily suffering. Pain is just alerting us to something we need to pay attention to and heal. If you don’t heal it, you’ll carry it into the next relationship and find yourself right back here again.
5. In every breaking, there really is a blessing. I had my heart broken wide open one time in my life and I wondered if I would ever come through it. Here’s the secret: You will come through it, but you won’t be the same person. Because when you dive in to heal your heart, every part of that experience gets used for your good to make you better, stronger and more loving than ever before.

Just because relationships break, that doesn’t mean you’re broken. The experience I had having my heart broken was painful, but I would not change any of it because it helped me to become the woman I am today. And in the end, it was a gift.

If you’re ready to find your courage, heal your heart and live in love so that you can be stronger than ever before, please preview my new coaching package specifically for you called Your Love Life: Transformed on my web site at http://www.sharonpopetruth.com/your-love-life-transformed/.

Have you ever been smitten by something that made no sense?

The kind of smitten where you see something and every logical thought you have says that it’s not a good fit for you, not a good use of money, and yet .... and yet.

That was my relationship with a woven wrap I first saw about a year ago. It was a one off, never to be produced, money can’t buy, thanks anyway, move along please.

My heart would flutter every time I saw a photo: A teaser here, a glimpse there, and suddenly there was a rumor that a handful would be made.

A handful!

To go around all the people who had fallen in love with it just like me. The chances of scoring one (because of course it’s entirely normal to talk about wraps in the same vocabulary as drugs) were slim to none.

I kept a little seed of hope in my heart though; enough to make me set my alarm and crawl out of bed in the early hours of the morning. Enough to sit shivering in the dark, in front of my laptop, waiting to see if I might be fast enough to buy one of these unicorns.

I had even recruited a stranger to help me, a stalking buddy, but as fast as we were, others were faster and we both came away empty handed.

My heart was heavy.

I told myself it wasn't important, I was blessed to have some beautiful wraps and you can carry your baby in anything, the fabric doesn't matter.

I added my name to the list of people “In Search of Klee,” not quite able to let go.

I consoled myself with logic, it was too thick, too beastly, too much wrap for me. It was a good thing I hadn't bought one. It was a waste of money.

Months later I received a message: I have a Klee if you would like it?

Would I like it?

What about logic? What if it’s too much wrap for me? What if I hate it? What if it’s a scam? Think of the other things I could do with the money.

I took the chance anyway.

There were weeks of waiting, of checking on-line tracking and muttering angrily that it shouldn't take 5 DAYS FOR A PARCEL TO TRAVEL 300 MILES.

And one day there was a box outside my door.

I ripped open the packaging and there it was, luminous in my hands, heavy, solid and utterly defying logic.

It had precisely none of the characteristics I thought I wanted in a wrap and yet as soon as I used it to tie Miss Olive to my chest, it felt utterly and completely ... right.

Babywearing is something you DO, not something you BUY.

So why the obsession with these beautiful pieces of cloth?

My poetic soul tells me that just like the tying together of hands during a wedding ceremony. We yearn for beauty to bind us to our babies; our precious, beloved babies.

If you think of it like that, is it surprising that we look for cloth that articulates who we are and how we feel?

There is a film being made exploring the appeal of those rare wraps woven from unicorn eyelashes and pixie farts and costing as much as my first car. It will, no doubt, try to apply logic to something that most normal people will not see as logical.

Let’s be honest: It will try to apply logic when most people think you have lost your damn mind.

I used to be one of those people. But I'm all about the learning, and if years of overpriced Valentines roses have taught me anything, it’s that there is rarely any logic to how we demonstrate our love.

Mum, activist and parenting junkie. Passionate about empowering women and living a good life with my family. http://www.maybediaries.com/

Vegetarian Pizza is a perfect option for a Meatless Monday dish, but when it's hot outside you don't want the oven on for very long and traditional hot pizza toppings might not be that appealing either. That's why I think this Quick and Easy Goat Cheese, Raisin, Arugula and Walnut Flatbread Pizza from The Perfect Pantry would sound good for a meatless summer dinner. This creative pizza that's made on toasted flatbread only needs a few minutes in the oven, and the crisp arugula on top will cool it down when you're eating it. I'm a huge arugula fan, but if you haven't developed a taste for this peppery green, use something like baby spinach instead.

Image: Courtesy of the Perfect Pantry

Get the recipe for Quick and Easy Goat Cheese, Raisin, Arugula and Walnut Flatbread Pizza from The Perfect Pantry

Have you made something interesting for Meatless Monday this week? If so please share the recipe link or your recipe in the comments. You can find more Meatless Monday recipes by clicking the tag Meatless Mondays.

BlogHer Contributing Editor Kalyn Denny is proud to be an official Meatless Monday blogger. She blogs at Kalyn's Kitchen, where she's committed to low-glycemic cooking, and also at Slow Cooker From Scratch, where she features "from scratch" slow cooker recipes. Kalyn probably won't ever be a vegetarian, but she does love to make meatless dishes such as Arugula-Chickpea Salad with Feta and Balsamic-Tahini Vinaigrette.

I've spent most of my life either saying or thinking, "As long as I don't become my mother..." like it was some kind of motivational quote for my life. As long as I could keep chugging along and not become her, I was doing okay. As long as I didn't make the same choices she did, that would mean that I had somehow done better with my life. I knew with every fiber of my being that I could become my mother, but I didn't want to. I wanted my own life; I wanted to be different.

When people would even mention a slight resemblance to my mother, I used to get a look of disgust on my face. I didn't want anyone saying that I did something that she did, or even that I looked like her (even though she was quite pretty before drugs stole her beauty). I abhorred each and every little thing that was her. If I thought I might be doing something that she would do, I would run in the other direction.

Then reality started to hit once I had my own children. The thing is, people don't say you become your mother for no reason. Your upbringing has so much to do with the way you will handle challenges as you parent, and there will be challenges. I took every marriage class, and read every parenting book I could get my hands on in those first few years of being a parent and a wife. I had to know everything so I could do it "right" (not like her). I just knew I could hit some formula, try harder, do things differently, and not turn into something I didn't want to be.

Except life doesn't work that way. Every time I heard myself say something she would say, I would cringe. I would cook something that we ate when I was a kid, and think, "Well, that's one step closer, isn't it?" I desired to start sewing and crafting things for my kids and realized that my own mother spent so much of her time doing the same exact things for us when we were growing up. Sometimes I would sing a song and hear just the faintest hint of her voice in my voice; I would tear up with a longing for something that never was and shudder in disgust at the same time. I wanted to rip the part of her that lived in my own soul out of me so I didn't have to see little glimpses of her. So I didn't have to remember how sad I was that she did the things she did to me. I wouldn't have to think about a childhood lost, and the drugs that have ruled my mother's life. If I could just get rid of her, I could live the way I was supposed to.

Today, I know this: I will never become my mother. I will never wake up and all of a sudden, I am this person who will cheat, lie, and manipulate anyone to get what I want. I will not wake up an addict unless I choose that for myself. I will not look at myself in the mirror one day full of regret unless I, one decision at a time, ruin my own life. I cannot be ruled by a fear that says I cannot be more than where I came from. I also cannot split my mother's DNA from my own. She is a part of me, forever. I cannot continue beating myself up over who I am.

Credit: eriatarka31.

I used to think that becoming my mother meant resembling her in any way, shape, or form. I have come to realize now, that every single thing my mother did was not bad. Just because she had five kids, if I have five kids I will not become her. Just because she sewed, painted, and did crochet does not make me "like her" in a bad way if I choose to do those same things. I will not turn into her if I make her cinnamon rolls or sing a song with the same notes.

It may not be easy to see threads of her life woven into mine, but it shouldn't make me want to scream when I recognize something of hers. If nothing else, I'd like to learn to cherish those things that made her good, loving, and thoughtful. I'd like to remember that there was something good about her once upon a time. I'd like my kids to know that creativity runs deep in my family's blood. I want them to hear some of the same songs and stories that I did when I was growing up, and I want them to eat some of the same foods. I want all of this without the negativity and the abuse, and they can have that. My life is not her life, and I have not become her.

I will keep looking at my decisions, one at a time. I will keep praying and thanking God for second and third chances, and I will not give up on that for my mother as well. I know He sees her struggles. But, I'm not going to say that I don't want to become my mother anymore. It's so much more than just waking up and being someone. You are who you decide to be, day to day and moment to moment. Not everything about you is good, and not everything is bad. I wish that things were different sometimes, but we all have a journey to walk and I'm thankful for the direction mine is headed in. I want to become better each day, with each choice that I make; I hope some of those choices can be laced with the beauty and the good things that made up my mother as well.

I believe you. 

Even though your face isn’t bruised, even though your bones aren’t broken. Even though it’s been days or weeks since it happened. Even if, at some point in your life, you thought you loved him, or you really did love him. 

This time, you said no. Maybe you were still together; maybe you were broken up, or breaking up. It doesn’t matter what you wore or what you drank. You said no. More than once. 

Yes, he said. Yes, you want it. Yes, you need to do this. Yes, you’re at fault if you don’t — because he wants to, because you made him think you wanted to, because he has tolerated things or people for you, because you’re selfish if you don’t, because you thought maybe he would just go to sleep, because you just wanted it to stop, because his yes is more important than your no. 

Maybe he threatened you in an obvious, physical way. Or maybe it was more insidious — a mind game meant to belittle, coerce, confuse and break you.

Who could believe THAT? I do. 

Among female victims of sexual assault, 51 percent report that at least one perpetrator was a current or former intimate partner. That’s more than half — by a boyfriend, spouse or lover (a statistic that doesn’t include the two-thirds of sexual assaults that go unreported at all). And chances are, these people have friends and family who care about them both, who have witnessed their relationship ups and downs. No one knows what goes on behind closed doors, they say. 

But YOU know what went on, even if he says it didn’t. If you sleep with someone for years, he says, it’s not possible to be “coerced.” If you manage to mention the details to your friends, they may try to show compassion, but can’t really grasp the “crime,” because, after all, there used to be some pretty happy Facebook posts of you two.

There’s no bleeding gash, no purpled eye socket. No drinks were spiked; no windows were smashed. But your soul is in shreds. A person you used to feel safe with, at some point, has violated your trust and shuttered your voice. It doesn’t matter what you have to say about it.

Or if you do try to talk about it, you sound dramatic, or unbalanced. Maybe you seem anxious at best or vindictive and catty at worst. You may even be threatened for suggesting you might tell someone about it. So you begin to wonder, are you overreacting? Were your arguments not persuasive enough? And at that moment when you finally disconnected and let it be over with, at that point did it become your fault?

Well, I want you to know — I believe you. I believe that you are hurting, and how that’s compounded when your friends and loved ones don’t understand the depths of that hurt. I believe that like the proverbial tree in the forest, you can fall, and you can splinter, even if no one hears the sound. 

While it’s a hopeful sign that college campuses are seeing an uptick in reported sexual assault incidents— the rise in reported statistics being the hopeful part — it will likely take time for the culture of blame to shift substantially from who put what where -- and whether she sent a signal that it was ok (for instance, an unconvincing“no”) -- to why it's harder to find people who will listen, and actually believe, than applying for a mortgage. It’s especially difficult to envision this evolution when people we trust reserve judgement, given the, well, uncomfortable circumstances. You know, he seems like a good guy and all. So. 

If you can find people who will listen, who believe, lean on them. Let it out to those who get it. Don’t let the abuse simmer by safeguarding the secret — even if you don’t name names, you can tell your story. You HAVE TO tell your story. Talk to an empathetic counselor who has never seen your Facebook pictures. And don’t make excuses for the people who can’t accept your truth. Your foundation has been rocked, so you may need to put up a few walls of your own, at least until you find your balance again. 

And know this: I believe you. Even if you didn’t get his skin under your fingernails, even if you had a second glass of wine, even if he didn’t happen to notice that you dissociated from your body, or the tears streaming down past your earlobes. I believe that it happened, and that you didn’t cause it or deserve it. No one does. Believe it.

The fear of Monday is universal. Everyone hates the idea of Monday and no one wants to let go of Sunday evening. It is true, for almost everyone. But there are some simple ways of getting through Monday without feeling down and hampered. 

Some of the best ways to get through deadly Monday are:

• Try to create the list of things which you need to prioritize on Monday. It will help you with your mindset for the next morning, and it will also give you the head start for the next day. Do not push for yourself for all the big tasks because you have whole week to complete those. Begin with the small tasks which gives you the feeling of accomplishment.
• Plan a very nice breakfast for Monday morning. It will not only give you a reason to smile in the morning but it will also give you the boost which is required on Monday morning. Try to create your favorite-yet-easy breakfast. Grab-a-coffee-on-the-go is not good for Monday. Hit your sack early on Sunday so that you are well rested.
• Get up a little early on Monday morning and go for a walk. It will help you feel refreshed. If you do not like to go for walks, try to mediate. This will help in composing your mind. Mediation is also good for health.
• Plan something exiting with your friends/family for the coming weekend. This will help you get through the week, because you will have something to look forward to as the days pass. Focus on the activities you will do in the coming weekend and how many people you will meet.
• For Monday night, create some easy dinner recipes. Just get home, watch some TV and relax. Cooking on Monday evening is actually not a very good idea if you hate Monday. This will make you hate it more. Try to cook something which is one pot or perhaps has limited ingredients. Cook the dishes which do not require any side dishes. Just go easy throughout the day.
• Call someone who is very close to you. Talking to our loved ones, either family or friends, helps us feel good. Share your day and ask about theirs. Tell them how much you love them and make them feel good.

We hope the readers of this article will accommodate some of the above given suggestions in their Monday morning schedules and see the difference.

We're thrilled to be bringing back our conference mobile app for BlogHer '14! Powered by Core-Apps, our mobile app will allow you to plan out your schedule during the conference, find more information on speakers and sponsors, connect with other attendees, update your social media channels, and take notes on your favorite sessions. Here's a brief run-down of the various features:

Maps
We have both a conference map to help you navigate your way through the conference, as well as a local area map. The conference map will show the locations of all the sessions, keynotes, and sponsors.

Sponsors
Learn more about our sponsors. This application lists all of our sponsors who generously support our attendees and make this event possible.

Attendees & Friends
One of the best parts of any BlogHer event is meeting and networking with your fellow attendees. And our conference app helps you do just that with a handy contact swapping tool. Once you've downloaded the app, simply enter in your contact info under "My Profile." You'll see a toggle at the bottom where you can choose to list your profile on the Attendee List. To add yourself to the list, switch this to "ON." Not publishing your profile to the Attendee List will not prevent you from contact swapping, but others will not be able to find you—you'll have to seek them out and add them to your friends list. When you open the Attendee List and click on someone's profile, you'll see two buttons to request them as a friend, and to add them to your contacts.Note: After you add your profile or if you can't seem to find a friend, return to the main screen and click the update button in the upper right hand corner.

Conference Events & Your Schedule
Search the events by day or track. You can find the sessions that most interest you and add them to your own custom schedule. You'll also be able to takes notes right from the session description page and rate the session too—how handy is that?

Photo Gallery
We'll all be snapping away photos of the food, the sessions, and the parties on our smartphones and cameras. Why not upload those photos to the Photo Gallery in the app? You can show people the images you've captured around San Jose and at BlogHer’ 14, and see shots from your fellow attendees!

Conference Info & Feeds
We have lots of places within the app for you to access all the important event information and news. Our RSS feed is linked right from the dashboard, as well as the #BlogHer14 Twitter feed, where you can join the conversation without ever having to leave the app (just make sure you add your handle to your profile)! We also have an icon for Conference Materials for important information.

These are just a few of the many features available to you to make your experience a little easier, and more high-tech. And what's more, you can sync the app to multiple devices, so your schedule and contacts will be there with you no matter which one you decide to use. To download the app go to http://app.core-apps.com/blogher14. If you are on an iPhone or Android, this link will take you to the app's download page in the app store. If you are on a BlackBerry, Windows Phone, or other smart phone, you will be able to use the web version of the app at this URL.

Lori Luna
vp, event operations

Take a deep breath and relax! Nudity is more at this stage of life than just taking your clothes off…thankfully! Here are some suggestions for turning National Nude Day into something that will help you become more mindful, shed negative feelings about your body and enjoy the fact that now that you’re in the empty nester category, it’s time to leave the bedroom door open for when you really want to go au naturel!

Nudity and Menopause

Menopause usually translates into covering up rather than taking it off, but if you’re good with an itsy bitsy teeny-weeny bikini, then that’s good, too! Many women breathe a deep sigh of relief at this stage of the game and learn to ignore that airbrushed perfection on magazine covers touting the most perfect person in the world. We’ve got bigger and better things to think about!

So, next time you’re standing in line at the store gazing at those perfect 10’s on the cover, think about what a trusted friend your body has been to carry you this far. Appreciate it! Live in the present and get ready to spend your time…exactly as you please! Feel better, already?!

Image: rafa_luque via Flickr

Let it RAIN!

Rather than focusing on what’s not perfect in your life, while missing the things that are worth a second look, why not try mindfulness, which is just paying attention to what’s going on right in front of you. Simply put, live in the moment and enjoy your life as it unfolds, rather than continually ticking off your ‘to do’ list in your head!

Studies show that this one psychological shift impacts almost every part of the body, affecting your hormones, immune system and even the psychological behaviors behind over-eating and substance abuse! What’s not to like? Mindfulness is also associated with stress reduction or MBSR, which stands for mindfulness based stress reduction.

Even long-time depression manifesting in anxiety and mood disorder moved in a positive direction through mindfulness practice. Mindfulness is so powerful that it impacts your DNA and can change the gray matter in your brain, say researchers. Long story short: mindfulness even affects your DNA and the aging process.

Here are some ways to become mindful:

• Practice meditation (mind-body)
• Take up yoga (physical component)
• RAIN: Recognize strong emotions, Acknowledge it, Investigate it,Non-identify with what is there

The New Transparency

As we all move into the ‘empty nester’ category, discover the new transparency it offers by celebrating a renewed relationship with your significant other through open communication. Scientists suggest this time of life is ideal to become a couple again after years of identifying as just a parent. Men can suffer from empty nest syndrome, too, so it’s a good time to partner up for grownup things—with the door open!

Privacy rocks! Plop down on the sofa, nude if you like, and learn how to have a conversation with your husband again about something other than, ‘the kids.’

Love Your Body

Finally, menopause is a time to relax your self-imposed rules about having to look perfect all the time, especially in the nude. Consider your body a trusted friend who served you well through the years and treat it accordingly. Pert, taut and flat might not be the first words that come to mind, but there’s nothing wrong with curviness, soft skin and ‘my husband/boyfriend likes what he’s looking at,’ to replace them?

Loving yourself is the first step to accepting others. Acceptance is the first step to awareness and guess what with awareness, we’re right back to mindfulness. So, give your DNA a rest from constant stress and anxiety, which leads to early aging. It’s time to enjoy this new chapter of your life and release those self-doubts about…well everything! Live free and love it.

Suffering in Silence is Out! Reaching Out is In!

When is viral news not news, but an annoying prank? When Empire News publishes a fake story claiming that Netflix has cancelled its most adored show, Orange Is the New Black.

As a joke Empire News ran a satirical (in some minds) article, "Netflix Pulls Plug On Orange Is The New Black; The Reason Why May Shock You" with fake quotes from Netflix CEO Reed Hastings stating the reason why the show was cancelled. The most incendiary quotes: "A woman’s place is in the home, in the kitchen, taking care of children.” And: “A woman in jail? How does anyone even watch this show in the first place? It’s like we took everything bad about OZ, and make this show with the leftovers.”

Hard to believe in this day and age that a show that has done so well for its network (is Netflix now a network?) would get cancelled because of an outmoded ideal. Of course, no one took the time to step back and parse out the quote or the site it had run on. The result of this mess was that fans went insane on Twitter.

Omgeee Orange is the new black might be canceled!!!!!! Nooooooo tell me this isnt soo !!!

— MissCooper (@Miss_cooperr) July 11, 2014

Everyone can stop writing me and breath easy. #OITNB HAS NOT been cancelled. It's renewed for a 3rd season which... http://t.co/bJaeb9HTa0

— Totally Kate Website (@totallykate) July 12, 2014

Would anyone really cancel a show that just garnered 12 (!!) Emmy nominations? Would they cancel, then delete both seasons on September 1 as stated in the article? Do corporations not want to make money? No. No. No. A thousand times no.

Sites like Mediaite and The Wrap unraveled the joke, and Netflix has confirmed that there will be a Season 3:

Orange Is The New Black has NOT been canceled. Whoever started this rumor will be spending some time in the SHU. pic.twitter.com/tslCdjBkht

— Orange Is the New... (@OITNB) July 12, 2014

The problem is that Empire News, a self-described "satirical and entertainment site," wrote the story in a tone of absolutely straight news coverage. Their about page states that they "only use invented names in all our stories, except in cases when public figures are being satirized," but it's really, really hard to see the satire here, especially out of context. If you're not familiar with the site (and let's face it, most of us aren't), you're going to get suckered into this prank.

Empire News may have gotten pushed their numbers up for the day, but how many people, who are now so angry about the hoax, will ever go back to the site?

To recap: OITNB is safe for its third season. Empire News pulled off a pretty amazing stunt. We can all relax and wait for the new adventures of Piper, Taystee, Alex, Red, and the rest of the amazing cast next season.

The next time you hear an outrageous news story—don't panic, don't react. Step back and see if a reputable (read established and well known) news site is reporting the same thing. If it's not, it's more than likely a stunt pulled by someone desperate for readers.

Editrix-Queen of Style 

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Michelle Pimm is back with her fashion expertise on what to wear to work. Her advice for networking over coffee was so great, I know you’re going to like this one. So if you just started a new job or need to upgrade your work wardrobe, keep reading! Thanks Michelle! XO Katherine

Image: Elle

You’ve got the 9 to 5. All you need now is some killer work wear.

It’s always smart to have a good idea of what the dress code will be before you hit the department stores swinging. And don’t think your office attire has to be boring. You should always shop for clothing that reflects your style and personality. They hired you for you!

Shirt: Madewell

Here are few key pieces to help you get started at your job:

1. The Button-Down Shirt: pair it with a black pant or (if your office allows) a dark skinny jean with a heel. It’s a classic.

2. The Blazer: Whether paired over a dress or a blouse and skirt combination, you’ll look ready to take on meeting. And with so many colors, you can find a few that speak to you.

3. A-line Skirts: I’m sure you were expecting the pencil skirt, and yes, I think it’s a great piece to have in your closet. But wearing one for eight hours is not always ideal. Try an A-line skirt in vibrant colors or playful patterns. Comfort always wins.

4. Blouses: pick them in your favorite colors and prints. Find a style that you’re happy wearing all day.

5. Closed-toe-shoes: It’s a good rule of thumb to keep the toes hidden until you know the code. If it is a bit more relaxed, you can opt for a dressy sandal or open heel.

6. Accessories: The best part of jewelry is that it truly shows your character and can often complete a look. Have a little fun with it.

Do you have any advice for work attire? Leave your key items in the comments below!

Find Michelle on…

• Facebook
• Twitter
• LinkedIn

More From Katherine Schwarzenegger

Are you planning to visit France? Eat in a French restaurant? Meet your future French in-laws? There is a certain cheese etiquette that must be followed.

Let's say you're going to host a dinner with French cuisine; you'll want to make sure you start with the proper bread. In the absence of baguettes available, go for the crustiest bread you can find. There should be copious amounts as it is eaten throughout the meal, with the salad and along with the cheese.

It is fine to put it directly on the table. And if you're among close friends and family, you can rip off chunks from the main loaf like this:

If your entire being revolts at the thought, cut it in small slices, diagonally like this:

Next, the wine. No matter what wine you've had with your meal, you need red with the cheese. In our house the only choice is Bonne Nouvelle (as it's the only wine readily available without alcohol). But it does help to cut the palate in between bites of cheese (and it contains as much lycopene and a fraction of the calories that normal wine has). I'm afraid I cannot advocate for its superior taste.

Okay, on to the cheese. If you are hosting, a proper cheese platter should contain three cheeses minimum: a soft like camembert or brie, a hard like cantal, comté or gruyère, and a chèvre (goat). If you're going to throw a couple extra in, you can include a pungent blue or roquefort (not quite the same thing; blue is less sharp) or a surprise, like Saint Nectaire or Reblochon or Tomme de Savoie or Morbier or … well, if you're in France, you have literally hundreds to choose from.

I should add here that the cheese platter is to follow the main meal, not precede it. It is not an appetizer. It also follows the salad course if you have one, and is to be eaten right before dessert. Although restaurants offer the choice between cheese and dessert, a guest at your home will expect both cheese and dessert. Cheeky, huh?

If there was one cheese that had to represent France, it would be the camembert. It smells like your baby's diaper needs to be changed; nevertheless it is here to stay.

Americans tend to eat the milder brie, but camembert is the proper size to serve at the table, whereas rounds of brie are much larger so you have to buy pie-type slices (or serve huge rounds of brie at wedding feasts). It's interesting to note that most cheeses are named after a region. And although there is a Camembert in Normandy, they didn't get their act together to protect their cheese so now a camembert can be made anywhere. However, people tend to buy the ones labeled, “made in Normandy.”

See that it's marked “lait cru?” It means that it's non-pasteurized and therefore tastes much better (unless you're pregnant, in which case it tastes just as good, but puts you at risk for listeria poisoning). Anyway, if you eat non-pasteurized cheese, you won't get that ammonia taste from the white crust when the cheese starts to get old. It just tastes … better.

Okay, I bought a brebis cheese instead of a chèvre (sheep instead of goat). It's milder, but will fill my chèvre quota for the cheese platter.

Off to the side, I have brie and Reblochon to show you. They actually don't fit on my cheese platter so will have to wait for another dinner. However, I did want to show you how to properly cut brie.

And here is my cheese platter:

First, A Tomme Grise des Monts.

Gris(e) means grey, and you can see the grey crust here. “Des Monts” means from the mountains. You can eat the grey crust on chèvre, which is just ashes, but you can't eat this hard crust. Tomme is pronounced like tome, and not tome-ayor tommy. There are lots of different types of Tommes, by the way.

You can see the blue, which is St Agur. The hard cheese is Comté, which is pronounced “con-tay” with a tight little “o” as if it were pronounced by a disapproving old lady.

I put the brebis, the camembert and the Tomme next to the blue and the Comté.

Now when the cheese is shaped in a round, it's fairly logical. You cut pie pieces (not too large) and put them on your plate.

Okay this slice is a little large.

When it's shaped like a book—rectangular—you cut the bottom edge off, all the way across. Unless, I should mention, it's a huge slice of cheese and is too much to cut across. In that case you would cut a triangle off each edge.

When you get toward the back of the cheese with a crust, you want to start cutting it this way…

…to avoid being the last person left with ...

…all rind and no cheese. In fact, the whole cheese etiquette comes down to leaving the platter as pretty as you got it.

And not being a glutton).

So when it comes time to take the cheese, pick only two or three types. Don't take something of everything. But if you're really being a gourmand, make sure the pieces are as small as you can make them, like this:

Because each piece of cheese has to be eaten on a bite-size piece of bread, and once you cut all your pieces of cheese small enough, that makes a lot of bites. You basically rip a small piece of bread off…

…and put your piece of cheese on before popping the whole thing into your mouth (the same way you're supposed to eat sushi). Here are some examples:

You can see how you might start to fill up quickly.

My brother was at an expensive restaurant for New Year's Eve in France one year (with his own friends, not with us) and he shocked a woman by spreading his foie gras on a piece of bread. She spluttered, “It's not peanut butter!”

So no spreading the cheese either, okay?

Now this bit is relevant everywhere. The brie. You should cut the slice from either side equally, like this:

You should never cut it straight across, taking the good stuff all the way up until the last person, who ends up with the crust:

And you should certainly never dig out the soft inside, leaving only the mutilated white crust for the next person…

…unless you want that person to look around in disgust and exclaim, “Who cut the cheese?”

Lady Jennie also blogs at A Lady in France, where she writes about life in France, parenting, gardening and French cuisine.

My daughter can list all of the Kardashians, but somehow never noticed Angelina Jolie until Maleficent. She’d heard of Brad Pitt. She didn’t really know who he was, but knew he was very famous. She was very impressed when I told her he was Angelina’s partner. "Wow! She’s with him? I’ve heard of him!” She was even more interested in the story when she heard about Brad and Angelina Jolie’s adopted kids.

She wanted to know the ages of all of the kids, where they were adopted from and how old they were when they came to them. We looked at pictures of the kids and of the family together. She liked seeing all the kids together—bio and adopted. “They look like a good family of lots of brothers and sisters.”

She's 13-years-old, but has only been my baby for four years. We adopted her from the foster care system when she was nine.She had a dozen homes before us. She suffers significantly from the trauma she endured before us. She has just about every form of anxiety, including PTSD, as well as insane insomnia and sensory issues.

Then she asked if the kids from orphanages have hurt parts. “Are they like me, Momma? Do they have tantrums and get mad? I’d be embarrassed if a paparazzi taped my tantrum.”

I told her adoption is always filled with loss. First, they lost their birth parents. Then they had to leave the orphanages, which were their homes, everything they knew. They had to leave behind their surroundings and country to fly to a new country with strangers who would be their parents. Just like she did when we took her from Texas to Florida.

So, yeah, I’m pretty sure they have hurt parts, I told her. I don’t see how they couldn’t.

Adoption is complicated. It is full of grief, pain, and confusion. Love and care can't wipe that out. Therapy can’t erase it. It’s there.

I told her a story I read about Pax Jolie-Pitt who Brad and Angelina adopted from Vietnam when he was three-years-old. He’s now ten. Jolie told a group of bloggers (of which I was NOT invited) that he freaked out when the kids came to see her on the set of Maleficent. He took one look at her and ran for it. He cried and hid in fear because the woman in the makeup, high cheek bones and horns was not the mother he knows.

(Credit Image: © face to face/ZUMA Wire)

She coaxed him into the makeup trailer to watch as they took it all off her.  She brought him to work with her the next morning so he could see them put it all on her. She realized he needed to watch the transformation to know she was still his same mom.

“Yup, sounds like hurt parts,” my sweet girl concluded. "She sounds like a good mom to try to think of what he needed to feel better. That’s what you do, too.”

Angelina Jolie’s adopted kids potentially have hurt parts and that brought my daughter so much comfort. Sometimes she feels like she’s damaged and unworthy, but hearing about other adopted and foster kids dealing with the impact of trauma makes her feel stronger. There’s so much power in knowing you aren’t alone.