Give me a barn roof and a cell phone stalker.

A recent event made me recall my single days again, one of my favorite Rural Confession topics. And since I have a soft spot for singles (if you’re a Ruralee, chances are you’ve been dumped, cheated on or lied to about a date’s gender, number of children and/or Pitbulls, or something in between) I decided I’d share what I learned on one of the biggest problems of dating for women, and sometimes even men too – the ones who just won’t stop calling.

It always goes this way…the ones you want don’t want you, and vice versa. Your only hope is pretending to dislike the ones you like, and maybe with a bit of luck it will work out.

Anyway, that still doesn’t take care of the ones who keep hunting you down in the meantime. Sometimes I miss the days of a rotary phone. With cell phones, stalkers can hunt prey more effectively. Us victims are stuck digging in a purse or pocket to find the phone only to be sent into a rage. The phone rings, it buzzes, it vibrates and tracks every single missed call ever known to man. I digress…

My cousin Jill told me in some states anyone who calls over three times in one day can be arrested for staulking, but I don’t believe in bringing the government into my life, so I had to try other measures.

See what happened to me was I let a certain friend (we’ll call her Daisy) try to set me up with her friend (this situation can definitely go bad if you decide you aren’t interested in the precious one). In my desperation, I told Daisy that her friend (let’s call him Duke) could call me and I’d see how it went.

Well, the phone call was a holy living disaster. Duke’s first mistake was he talked too darn much. When you’re a reporter and listen to people on the phone all day, the last thing you want to do on your free time is be stuck on the line with someone who doesn’t stop for even a gasp of air. Plus, as you can probably tell, I prefer to be the conversation hog. And call me nuts, but suitors who brag about themselves are kind of a turnoff. Again, look over here! I’d just been single and self-absorbed for too long to be the one nursing a burning red ear on the phone.

There were definitely some other flaming red flags I won’t go into here because of confidentiality reasons, but needless to say I could tell it was definitely not a match, and I kind of thought he might think so too.

Boy was I wrong. Something about my silence as I made shoot-myself-in-the-head gestures at the phone must have enticed Duke. He just kept calling, and calling and calling some more. I caved in and answered one day and then had to lay my red swollen ear on an ice bag to recover from the listening session. I’d be having a coffee with a girlfriend, and he’d call. I’d be doing a story on a bat, he’d call. I’d be in the bar bathroom – phone goes off. I got as daring as to answer the phone and just hang up, but he’d call back asking “how’d we get disconnected.”

I tried saying I was busy, or just being rude, but nothing seemed to deter him. I could tell he was definitely the dominating and chasing sort and this only fueled his fire. Being mean would mean I was a spitfire and ignoring would mean I was a shy maiden. There was no way out of this one, other than completely setting him off balance.
Then I was reminded of my father, who sometimes does nonsensical absolutely lock-me-up behavior in public…like flailing, saying he’s an infant, making animal noises or some other oddity. Sometimes the only way out of a tense situation is to just feign insanity, which I think he’s done a lot over the years (more blogs later.)

So one day I was having coffee at Starbucks in Delavan, Wis. It was a beautiful summer day and I was catching up with my friend Laura. Duke called once, and me and Laura got a good laugh over it. But then, 10 minutes later he called again. My face was turning beat red as I reached the breaking point. I couldn’t exactly cuss him out because of my relationship to Daisy, but felt trapped, and with all boundaries trampled beyond repair. (Please fellow blog readers, send me a note and let me know I’m not the only one whose had a phone hound. You don’t have to give your real name!)

I stood up out of my chair, and told Laura I had business to take care of. I went outside madder than a wet hen (no pun intended), I flipped open the phone did it. I opened the back of my throat and crowed out louder than a rooster whose seen the sun after a lifetime of darkness. I was one strong bird standing, her claws grounded and her beak outstretched. No more, phone stalker! Never shall you get these tail feathers cell phone addict! Be gone!

And well, he never called again. I have bumped into him a few times but he usually puts his head down and walks really fast…the other direction.

Thank-you rooster.

Baby Alya makes smooth arrival into world on June 11.

I’m happy to report I had my baby girl on June 11 — Alya Mae Gavan, 6 pounds, 9 ounces. These days, we are both fat, happy and occasionally fussing. But, I’m even more pleased with my Old Wives Tales’ tricks I used to coax her out early. Don’t try this at home folks, but feel free to read this blog and laugh about it.
The medical community may advises against this, but I tend to follow my own way. Yes, doctors are hard working folks and all, but there’s only one God. As for ruralee me, I rely on two trusty friends of mine to get me through all of life’s challenging situations — the Internet and laxatives. The Internet seems to get me into situations and the laxatives seem to get me out of them. This applies to dating, depression and even work situations.
My baby wasn’t due until July 4, although by my predictions it seemed like she would arrive sooner. I vaguely remember some certain Honeymooners episodes around the time and had used some Internet calculators to help plot her beginning.
Like most pregnant women with their first spawn, I couldn’t wait to be done with pregnancy to see what me and my husband’s genes could come up with. But, being the struggling reporter I am, I didn’t have the luxury of bed rest. Instead I had to lope around town, notebook in hand and belly in tow begging for quotes about the Stimulus Plan.
Plus I really didn’t enjoy being pregnant. It was always a little bit embarrassing. Being pregnant is a in-your-face confirmation you did something to get in that condition. My favorite comment from male jokesters was “How did that happen?” Although some women were notorious belly rubbers, men either joked about it or averted their eyes quickly.
Then there were the dogs I’d encounter who’d give a friendly jump on me. And of course there were the unending doctor’s visits, with them just waiting to find an excuse to find another test to take which my insurance might not cover.
Because I knew a 37-week old baby is technically considered fully developed (although pregnancy usually lasts around 40 weeks), I figured it was a good eviction week date as any.
I really didn’t think taking herbs would work. I read hundreds of tales told by women on blogs saying how they tried everything to go into labor and were still stuck sweating and stuffed with a baby at 42 weeks along.
After reading about wives tales to induce labor on the Internet, I started taking primrose oil and began massaging certain pressure points in the hand and on my leg. I would spend hours pressing the points as I lay on the couch shoveling food in my face and dreaming of liquor.
Then there was the point of no return. I had just covered the Sharon Model A Days (a great rural event, check out my blog on it), and had returned to work with a huge backache which lasted for days. I tried to rest my legs on a bucket under my desk, but the agony wouldn’t let up. On June 10, I wandered to the store to pick up the big guns — Castor oil.
I found an old shot glass, poured and chased it with some stale soda my husband had left opened in the fridge. I figured, what would it hurt? The blog writers said it wouldn’t work anyway. After all, if it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have none at all.
Boy was I wrong.
Labor began about an hour after my castor cocktail. The baby was born the next day without a hitch at 36 weeks and four days. She had a 9.9 Apgar score out of 10.
The lesson for me? Well, my most trusted and inexpensive friends are still the Internet and laxatives. The Internet offers a wealth of unpopular yet useful knowledge. And laxatives can bail you out of just about anything.

I'm so cute it hurts.

On a side note I’m working on two stories and am looking for reader participation. Please email me at hgavan@beloitdailynews.com if you are interested.
The first story is on electric cars. Do you have one? What kind? How did you choose one? What should people look for if they are considering buying one?
The other story is on past lives. I’ve been speaking with Roni Golan of the Rockford Laughing Club who is offering hypnotherapy in order to find past memories including those of past lives. Do you believe in this? Do you believe you have been through something in a past life?

Brent and Hillary Gavan talk to RJ Lindsey, a Franklin Delano Roosevelt actor.

Any festival where people are willing to shine your shoes, rub a pregnant woman’s back and give out free food deserves severe recognition. Sharon was definitely not a village going through the festival motions on Sunday as it held its 13th Annual Model A Day.

The Friends of the Wisconsin Historical Society descended upon Sharon with in a fury of Roosevelt speeches, shantytown props and roving ragtime musicians. There was a fashion show, pig roast tent, magic show, and even a ribbon cutting thrown in. The only thing missing was Eleanor Roosevelt, but if she has a ghost she would have definitely been there.

I admit, I may have a bias. I grew up in Sharon. But that being said, I’m an adult now and it’s not like I’m hanging out there everyday. It takes quite a bit to pull me away from my usual routine of napping or John and Kate Plus Eight tabloid following.

And I only give out a compliment about once every 100 years. But here goes…
As a reporter, I’ve covered probably 153,459 festivals. OK, that’s an exaggeration, but the point is I can spot a good event even before it starts. When the entertainment line-up reads “kiddie rides” and “korn dogs” I know I’m in for the usual snore of a few food tents, folks in lawn chairs and 13-year-old beauty pageant winners lazing atop a convertible.

Maybe I’m asking for too much, but we all know life is short. I don’t want to go to events solely designed to lure in business, drain my ATM balance and put transfat foods on my rear. I want to go to a festival where I’ll learn something new, meet someone friendly and witness things I’ve never seen before. And that was Sharon on Sunday.

In addition to the annual Model A car viewing and swap meet, musicians, shoe shiners, beggars, bandits and other historical re-enactors spread the word about helping each other through crises.

The event’s massive entertainment line-up was so impressive it actually got my husband up off the couch. Oh, he pretended he was being dragged, but nothing could stop him from sheer curiosity of it all. Even my co-worker Cheryl was up for the journey as well as my grade school friend Laura.

When the four of us all arrived, it was like stepping onto a huge movie theater set. Many of the Sharon residents had donned costumes – which I think are stored in an old opera theater in town – and were acting out roles.

It definitely appeared The Friends of the Wisconsin Historical Society, the real professionals behind historical re-enactment, had no trouble finding residents to join in. What was even more astounding was that this was the first Great Depression event held in Sharon. Despite its newness, shoe shiners bellowed out their services, wandering beggars wailed and young women danced or performed in a fashion show.

I was pleasantly surprised to bump into a girl I went to high school with who I hadn’t seen in 13 years, Jolene. She, who now sits on the village board, was dressed in a flapper type dress and hauling around free food. Whenever I heard about a “village board” I usually associate it with someone mad about a story I wrote and when I interview strangers, I’m usually ready for someone to make a crack at newspapers. But Jolene and her friend just wanted to talk about Sharon. Jolene said she just wanted to make it a great place for her kids, and how she always felt safe there. And I knew she really meant it.

That’s was one of the many reasons the event was so special. The children I talked to weren’t scared of strangers, and they took their roles seriously. People said what they meant, and each nugget of wisdom was something new.

And the people not dressed in Depression garb were eager to learn. While FDR gave his speech to the town’s people, they crowded around, full of questions. And when the speech was over, they all swarmed in a mob to the Methodist Church to hear Professor David Kyvig’s address. Kyvig, a history professor at Northern Illinois University, gave a special presentation titled “Understanding the Great Depression.” After giving a brief history of General Motors (pretty timely given the bankruptcies and all) Kyvig told about how the growing availability of credit of the 1920s, American isolationism, and psychology of the country contributed to the Great Depression.

The FDR impersonator complemented the speech with his own views on the role of government, and read actual letters written by real people during the Great Depression.

After the day was complete, I had lunch at the Coffee Cup Cafe and topped off the event with a free back massage. Upon leaving Sharon on Sunday, my knowledge of history – definitely not as high as a fifth grader – was a little more robust. I had learned something, been fed, rubbed and not verbally abused for being a reporter.

It was a good day for me, and for all the people who proved festivals can still be fun. Instead of doing the usual holiday-theme event, Sharon thought outside the box and tried something new. And it worked.

Much credit deserves to go to the Friends of the Wisconsin Historical Society and Karen Kenney with the Main Street Program in Sharon. Pulling off an action-packed event like that in a tiny village was nothing short of a miracle.

Here I am waiting to visit Carl.

(RURAL ALERT: Check out guest blogger Charlene’s new Internet dating comments in Rural Confessions #2!)

Part 1:

Do you have a buddy/jilted lover/sick or gas-filled animal you can’t seem to unload?
This blog is about the people and pets in our lives we just can’t get rid of. And if you are a ruralee, chances are you’ve accumulated a lot of them. My collection tendencies probably started in childhood with a friend of my parents we’ll just call Carl – the founder of my writing “career.”
Carl joked a lot, grew tobacco in his backyard and worked at a rat poison factory for a while. He had a dog named “Sex” so he could joke with people about needing a place for “Sex” when he went traveling. Woof!
The only problem with Carl was his temper. His wives and step children kept leaving him, and well… rumor was that he burned down a bank. Carl’s probably what started my writing “career” because I often wrote letters to him during his stays in jail when I was a child. My parents felt bad for poor Carl, so I was put to work drawing pictures and writing stories for him. I was rewarded by a slip down the jail slide when we went to visit Carl.
I started to get nervous, however, when I got older if it was really safe to be around Carl. He was out of jail, Internet dating and raising geese. He had lopped his finger off in an excavating accident (kept conveniently in the refrigerator to show guests) and was living as a royal ruralee on disability. Gracious host that he was, he wanted us to come for Thanksgiving dinner in northern Wisconsin.
Every night I would stare in terror at the ceiling worried about my impending fate. I figured it was easy to store a body in the pines of the North. Plus I knew there were German Shepherds in Carl’s house and they’d probably lick me relentlessly after sniffing the missing finger stump. This led to an argument with my family. A teenager couldn’t bail on Thanksgiving dinner. And my parents weren’t budging on my attendance. After all, if I didn’t go my mother said “Carl might burn the house down.”
To be continued…..

That’s when we took a quick turn to Stash O’Neils for a drink or two. He seemed harmless enough so I agreed to ride with him. (That’s how I spotted the dried milk). When we arrived at the bar, M. informed me that a friend of his would be joining us. He said his friend, a jolly ol’ rural guy, was a bounty hunter, kind of like Dog the Bounty Hunter.
At this point I couldn’t figure out if they were trying to take my credit cards or were a Batman/Robin duo collecting research on obese and/or non-obese women. They seemed to be good buddies and I felt I was somehow intruding on their adventures together. They had stories of the bounties collected, the car chases and the chubbettes cheering them on along the way.
The duo then took me back to my car and we all drove to a dance bar. Once we arrived Dog was cheering as M. practiced his break dance and techno moves. At some point in the night I spotted another Internet date from days gone by and decided to make a quick exit. I escaped unscathed with all my credit cards, and am still left wondering…What the heck happened that night?

And you’re probably wondering…the point of this story? Well like Internet dating, there usually is no point. Keep your paws off the keyboard, and don’t force destiny.
Enjoy the experience, but don’t get too excited.

Ladies — deodorant and chap stick is about the most investment in your looks an Internet date deserves. Men — don’t break the bank, they’re all looking for a free steak anyway.
Stay tuned for future Rural Confessions!

Coming soon…”Banks, Arson and Thanksgiving dinners”

Remember it’s always better to be a living dog than a dead lion. I found that in the Good Book. (I also found that you aren’t supposed to trust winkers. Watch out for Sarah Palin.)

If you have an Internet dating confession, send along!

Then this blog is for you! This blog is dedicated to anyone who breathes oxygen in the Stateline Area, basically most of the human race. Has finding a mate, operational vehicle, working plumbing, church, career success or even a shirt to wear eluded you? You’re not alone.

This blog is for “the rest of us.”You aren’t going to find any stories here about chamber awards, beauty pageants or family of the year honors here. This is about colorful characters we come across and junk. As the rest of the world is settled into their rat race, the rest of us rats are tending to our arching hips, or bailing a relative out of jail, or helping one fill out a disability application.

This blog is dedicated to real people and what they experience in life. Just as the best deals can be found in a junkyard, often the best lessons in life are found in the most bizarre of circumstances.

If you have a self-deprecating story, send it on in! Shameless confessions? We’ll take them. We’ll even be glad to share our own tales of self-discovery and deprecation along the way.

Some upcoming topics to come include: “Homeless Tow Truck Drivers and Blackberry Brandi,” and “Internet Dating and Bounty Hunters.”

Stay tuned for the next episode of rural confessions!