My daughter pried the computer from my hands and promised, as she accessed Brandi Carlile’s live version of “The Story”, I would thank her. Not only did I thank her, if it hadn’t been after midnight, I would have gone immediately to buy the CD.
My other daughter was in the car the first time she heard Brandi Carlile on the radio and had the same impulse; if not pressed for time, she would have gone then to buy the CD. My best friend and my grandson watched the video and wanted the CD. My granddaughters evicted me from the computer so they could watch the video.
This twenty-six-year-old singer, musician, sage, and poet crosses generations and connects to her audience in a mutually heartfelt trance. She delivers the gut-level emotion of Janis Joplin, with the crystal-clear voice of K.D. Lang, inducing authentic, physical wrenches in the heart of the listener. Her unique genre encompasses folk, rock, blues, and pop, with a natural yodel adding a hint of an ethnic or country sound.
After spending one full day with my Brandi Carlile CD, I felt guilty. I transferred $9.98 to SonyMusicStore.com. If Sony had sent nothing more than the insert of poetic lyrics, I would be pleased with the bargain and only slightly disappointed that she is treading on the place in my heart that until now belonged to Kris Kristofferson and Gary Morris.
But the lyrics were only the beginning. In addition, I received Brandi Carlile’s heart, soul, energy, genius, magnificence, and some of the purest talent I have heard in my fifty-three years of devouring music. She enriched my life with indelible pleasure.
This tribute is the best I can offer to settle the difference. It hardly seems fair.
Brandi wrote eight of the songs on this CD and co-wrote three others. Phil and Tim Hanseroth, who provide background vocals and musical accompaniment, wrote the others. All are inspirational. The pleasing intensity of the passion in her delivery, which is smooth even though at times sounds as if it erupts from an overflowing well of emotion, authenticates the contradiction between her youth and the wisdom of the lyrics.
Brandi Carlile’s natural talent and beauty are refreshing in this culture where superficial is often packaged and sold ahead of talent. She is a true musician, using her voice as an instrument instead of a means with which to trade minutes for dollars or fame, and therefore someone to whom I vow my deepest respect and gratitude.
Listen, concert info
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Coincidence? Accidental Muting? Devine Intervention? You Be the Judge
There is no reason to suspect that AT&T plans to ignore anyone’s first amendment rights just because they lobby to eliminate net neutrality. You can just take their word for that and go on with life as usual.
And while you are going on with life as usual, you might want to believe AT&T’s claim that they accidentally muted the negative references to Bush in their Blue Room web cast of Pearl Jam’s performance at the Lollapalooza festival in
AT&T does not deny that the words, “George Bush, leave this world alone” and “George Bush, find yourself another home,” were censored. They claim it was a mistake, made by Davey Brown Entertainment, the company hired to edit excessive profanity or wardrobe malfunctions.
Adam Smith, Davey Brown Entertainment executive, accepted responsibility for the company’s mistake. (My apology to those who were h
I consider myself exceptionally well versed in profanity and can’t think of any profane words that rhyme with or sound like any of these: “George Bush, leave this world alone,” and “George Bush, find yourself another home.” Please let me know if I have overlooked profane words, or if our society adopted a few of these as profane when I wasn’t paying attention.
Pearl Jam issues this statement: “This, of course, troubles us as artists but also as citizens concerned with the issue of censorship and the increasingly consolidated control of the media. AT&T's actions strike at the heart of the public's concerns over the power that corporations have when it comes to determining what the public sees and hears through communications media." And, “What happened to us this weekend was a wake-up call, and it's about something much bigger than the censorship of a rock band."
Tim Karr, of the Save the Internet coalition reports several previous incidents in which AT&T appears to have acted in bad faith toward public interest. That concerns me enough that I want to learn more about this situation and follow it closely.
I hope anyone who has more information will share it here.
Take This Sign and Shove It – Where?
I have signed every ‘Impeach Bush’ petition put before me. If I owned them, I would gladly wear an ‘Impeach Bush’ tee shirt everywhere I go. My car sports a number of anti-Bush stickers. If I could get up there, I would paint ‘Impeach Bush’ on my roof.
So, it surprised me when I was not immediately moved to defend the ticketed man in this article:
However, the author’s attempt to sway me (even to my own side) by the use of “soft-spoken” offended me. Laws should apply the same to soft-spoken teachers and raging bartenders, so I don’t need to read his profession or emotional status before I see the rest of the story. I have nothing against soft-spoken people or teachers in general, but this started me out on edge and on the wrong side of my natural position.
I also learned in that first line that this soft-spoken teacher had placed is sign in a public garden, twisting what should have been my knee-jerk reaction to this story yet again. That made his display unlike my tee shirt, my car, and my roof, and more like the ten commandments in the courthouse or classroom. Ouch. At this point, I was close to disliking ticketed guy for testing me.
Fortunately, I continued to read. Ticketed guy won back my heart when I read that he and his friends think Bush’s
A cop added the final twist. When ticketed guy asked how his placing the ‘Impeach Bush’ sign differed from the real estate signs others had placed on private property, the cop’s response was, “You don’t know the difference?”
Ticketed guy’s attorney said the difference is that one is commercial and the other political and political messages don’t have the same protections. Ticketed guy can remain soft-spoken if he wants; this makes me want to scream. Public property and private messages are – well, public property and private messages – so this is not logical.
The article goes on to explain how, sometimes, this same community allows politicians to place signs on public property during campaigns. To me, this means individual cops get to decide which political messages they allow and which they don’t. And that seems wrong to me.
I am interested in reading your comments. Should any private signs be allowed on public property? Can anyone present justification for allowing some and not all?
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Matchmaking Gone Wrong
Just as I refused to admit that I had invited the obnoxious neurosurgeon who stood over the dessert table as though the Derby pie was a patient whose opened skull required his unwavering attention, the person who invited the poofy-haired matchmaker also maintained total anonymity. Despite the buzz of everyone whispering guesses about who invited these two, it mattered little to me other than the amusement of watching the familiar eccentrics try to bust their competition.
Aunt Jackie’s Derby party tradition started as any other holiday; the family gathered at her house, at her insistence, because she was the best cook, she owned the most china, and she threw the biggest tantrum if anyone rejected her offer. Of her many idiosyncrasies, the three that no one dared forget were: she would not eat or drink from paper or plastic; she would not serve from paper, plastic, or tin; and she would not allow the word ‘shit’ to pass her ears without telling the speaker just how tacky she thought it was. Walking on eggshells and biting tongues aside, everyone considered her Derby parties an annual must.
Someone mentioned the Derby party at a family reunion one year and it grew from immediate to extended family. Not all of the over-one-hundred first cousins showed up, but the ones who did brought friends when they returned the net year. As we—the nieces and nephews—aged, we brought friends, dates, spouses, their families, and eventually, our children and their friends.
Aunt Jackie spent the year buying new china, looking in yard sales for official Derby glasses, growing mint for the juleps, perfecting recipes, and inviting everyone she met to the next year’s party. As you might have guessed by now, the woman who would not serve a country ham sandwich on a paper napkin or plate would also never settle for jackpot betting on the biggest horse race in the world. She booked the party at track odds, providing an even bigger attraction than free food on china.
A couple of people remember every Derby winner, how much they paid, the jockeys names, and whether or not the horse went on to win a triple crown. My mother could probably name each dish served and the year it first appeared on the menu. I would be surprised if there isn’t at least one person able to name my date each year, how many drinks certain people downed, and every incident of someone flirting with a person other than the one with whom they came.
I remember at least thirty of Aunt Jackie’s Derby parties. I can list the traditional menu items, would fare well if presented with a list of names and asked to determine whether they belonged to horses, jockeys, or guests, and might be able to name my dates. With total certainty, I can document the exact amount the bookie made off me, all years combined. Zero. And, I can say that, without a doubt, the poofy-haired matchmaker is the one guest I will never forget (thank you, whoever invited her).
Before the romantics get too excited, poofy-hair did not introduce me to a man that I married the next week and lived happily ever after with, but not because she didn’t try. She gave her job as much attention and effort as the bartender who served hundreds of mint juleps that day. Within seconds of my arrival, she had scrutinized my style, posture, reception, and the bare ring finger on my left hand and decided I deserved the “the most handsome, intelligent, polite” young man at the party. I didn’t ask what made her think he wouldn’t notice me without her assistance, nor did I pull away when she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the last spot where she had seen him.
He wasn’t where she wanted him to be but that did not discourage her. Still holding my arm, she led me through several rooms, enhancing her description of him and growing more excited as we walked. I almost felt guilty when she finally found him, and I had to tell her that I had already married him once.
Obviously an optimist, this woman overcame that little disappointment quickly and moved on to her second choice, who was my uncle. We parted ways after she introduced me to my brother, but she caught up to me again later in the day with a death-grip on the wrist of my best friend who had just arrived. I suggested that, since I knew or was related to most everyone at the party, she might consider this a hopeless cause.
I am especially grateful that she had the good sense not to take me anywhere near the dessert table and the obnoxious neurosurgeon. The list of words I would have shouted would surely have included the one that our hostess least wanted to hear.
Aunt Jackie’s Derby party tradition started as any other holiday; the family gathered at her house, at her insistence, because she was the best cook, she owned the most china, and she threw the biggest tantrum if anyone rejected her offer. Of her many idiosyncrasies, the three that no one dared forget were: she would not eat or drink from paper or plastic; she would not serve from paper, plastic, or tin; and she would not allow the word ‘shit’ to pass her ears without telling the speaker just how tacky she thought it was. Walking on eggshells and biting tongues aside, everyone considered her Derby parties an annual must.
Someone mentioned the Derby party at a family reunion one year and it grew from immediate to extended family. Not all of the over-one-hundred first cousins showed up, but the ones who did brought friends when they returned the net year. As we—the nieces and nephews—aged, we brought friends, dates, spouses, their families, and eventually, our children and their friends.
Aunt Jackie spent the year buying new china, looking in yard sales for official Derby glasses, growing mint for the juleps, perfecting recipes, and inviting everyone she met to the next year’s party. As you might have guessed by now, the woman who would not serve a country ham sandwich on a paper napkin or plate would also never settle for jackpot betting on the biggest horse race in the world. She booked the party at track odds, providing an even bigger attraction than free food on china.
A couple of people remember every Derby winner, how much they paid, the jockeys names, and whether or not the horse went on to win a triple crown. My mother could probably name each dish served and the year it first appeared on the menu. I would be surprised if there isn’t at least one person able to name my date each year, how many drinks certain people downed, and every incident of someone flirting with a person other than the one with whom they came.
I remember at least thirty of Aunt Jackie’s Derby parties. I can list the traditional menu items, would fare well if presented with a list of names and asked to determine whether they belonged to horses, jockeys, or guests, and might be able to name my dates. With total certainty, I can document the exact amount the bookie made off me, all years combined. Zero. And, I can say that, without a doubt, the poofy-haired matchmaker is the one guest I will never forget (thank you, whoever invited her).
Before the romantics get too excited, poofy-hair did not introduce me to a man that I married the next week and lived happily ever after with, but not because she didn’t try. She gave her job as much attention and effort as the bartender who served hundreds of mint juleps that day. Within seconds of my arrival, she had scrutinized my style, posture, reception, and the bare ring finger on my left hand and decided I deserved the “the most handsome, intelligent, polite” young man at the party. I didn’t ask what made her think he wouldn’t notice me without her assistance, nor did I pull away when she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the last spot where she had seen him.
He wasn’t where she wanted him to be but that did not discourage her. Still holding my arm, she led me through several rooms, enhancing her description of him and growing more excited as we walked. I almost felt guilty when she finally found him, and I had to tell her that I had already married him once.
Obviously an optimist, this woman overcame that little disappointment quickly and moved on to her second choice, who was my uncle. We parted ways after she introduced me to my brother, but she caught up to me again later in the day with a death-grip on the wrist of my best friend who had just arrived. I suggested that, since I knew or was related to most everyone at the party, she might consider this a hopeless cause.
I am especially grateful that she had the good sense not to take me anywhere near the dessert table and the obnoxious neurosurgeon. The list of words I would have shouted would surely have included the one that our hostess least wanted to hear.
Children and Politics
Each of my grandchildren has developed a special 'gramma thing' - something they think they alone share with me. Politics is the link with my grandson, who will turn nine in July. We delivered him to his first protest in a stroller (but did let him out to stand on the base of a statue with his little "Let Every Vote Count" poster for the TV cameras) and he has been my partner-in-protest and campaign buddy since.
By the time the 2004 campaign rolled around, he thought he knew just about everything, and talked some big issues when we were out. It got a bit complicated when he had memorized Kucinich's entire platform, and then had to switch to Kerry even though his heart was with Edwards (not a first, second, or third choice for any of us, and we hadn't taken him to see Edwards - so he did some independent thinking based only on what he had seen on C-span.)
While standing on a busy street corner during rush hour one day, he dropped his Kerry sign to his side and asked, "Gramma, why do you hate George Bush so much?" I think at that point he was tired and wanted to make sure this work really necessary.
I sighed, hating Bush even more because he had given me reason to hate him enough that it was obvious to my grandchild that I hated someone. Too much hate for me. I did something that made me sick at my stomach.
"I don't hate him, I just hate what he has done to my country and my world," I lied.
"What do you hate most?" He asked.
"I hate the way he spends our money. I hate that he spends it on war instead of education and health care." That sounded age appropriate.
Noah thought for a minute before he asked the next question. "If John Kerry wins, will he spend more on school?"
I nodded. Noah found renewed strength, jumped to the curb, waved his sign, and shouted, "Vote for Kerry.” A lady came up and asked why he supported Kerry. Noah's response was, "Because if he wins we might get a new playground at school."
We had a small disagreement last year when he wanted to play with the toy soldiers I had on my window ledges (holding 'Bring Me Home' signs) and I told him they were not toys and no, he could not play with them.
Yesterday, he told me his friends finally stopped liking Bush when they found out he lied about the war. I was excited to hear that eight-year-olds are talking about politics, but the next line let me know that some were still spreading false information. "But, we had to start that war because they had those weapons. Right, Gramma?"
And the hatred grew. I knew this child wanted me to assure him that we are the good guys, and I couldn't do that. I asked him if it would be 'right' for me to knock him off the couch because I thought maybe he wanted to hurt me some day. He laughed - not the response I wanted.
Fortunately, in an earlier conversation, Noah told me Shaq is the biggest man on earth. I had something to use. "Okay," I said. "What if Shaq thinks Tatum (Noah's four-year-old sister) might want to pick up a stick the next time she goes outside, and that she might hit him with that stick someday. Is it okay for him to knock her down now to make sure she can never get that stick?”
He shook his head.
"Shaq is about the size of the U.S., and Tatum is the size of Iraq," I reminded him. "We thought Iraq wanted to have big weapons like the ones we have.”
“They do have weapons,” he said. “They are shooting back at us.”
“The weapons they had when we invaded them were like sticks."
"Well, I would protect my baby sister," he decided.
"No," I said. "You can't, because you are Syria."
"Who is Syria?"
"A country that is just a little bit stronger than Iraq," I told him. "Iraq's big brother."
"Then Dad would protect Tate."
"Your dad is Iran, and Shaq won't allow him to have anything bigger than a stick. Shaq has a baseball bat."
He grinned. "You got me, Gramma."
I haven't heard from his parents yet. I hoped he would retell this conversation to them before talking to his friends.
By the time the 2004 campaign rolled around, he thought he knew just about everything, and talked some big issues when we were out. It got a bit complicated when he had memorized Kucinich's entire platform, and then had to switch to Kerry even though his heart was with Edwards (not a first, second, or third choice for any of us, and we hadn't taken him to see Edwards - so he did some independent thinking based only on what he had seen on C-span.)
While standing on a busy street corner during rush hour one day, he dropped his Kerry sign to his side and asked, "Gramma, why do you hate George Bush so much?" I think at that point he was tired and wanted to make sure this work really necessary.
I sighed, hating Bush even more because he had given me reason to hate him enough that it was obvious to my grandchild that I hated someone. Too much hate for me. I did something that made me sick at my stomach.
"I don't hate him, I just hate what he has done to my country and my world," I lied.
"What do you hate most?" He asked.
"I hate the way he spends our money. I hate that he spends it on war instead of education and health care." That sounded age appropriate.
Noah thought for a minute before he asked the next question. "If John Kerry wins, will he spend more on school?"
I nodded. Noah found renewed strength, jumped to the curb, waved his sign, and shouted, "Vote for Kerry.” A lady came up and asked why he supported Kerry. Noah's response was, "Because if he wins we might get a new playground at school."
We had a small disagreement last year when he wanted to play with the toy soldiers I had on my window ledges (holding 'Bring Me Home' signs) and I told him they were not toys and no, he could not play with them.
Yesterday, he told me his friends finally stopped liking Bush when they found out he lied about the war. I was excited to hear that eight-year-olds are talking about politics, but the next line let me know that some were still spreading false information. "But, we had to start that war because they had those weapons. Right, Gramma?"
And the hatred grew. I knew this child wanted me to assure him that we are the good guys, and I couldn't do that. I asked him if it would be 'right' for me to knock him off the couch because I thought maybe he wanted to hurt me some day. He laughed - not the response I wanted.
Fortunately, in an earlier conversation, Noah told me Shaq is the biggest man on earth. I had something to use. "Okay," I said. "What if Shaq thinks Tatum (Noah's four-year-old sister) might want to pick up a stick the next time she goes outside, and that she might hit him with that stick someday. Is it okay for him to knock her down now to make sure she can never get that stick?”
He shook his head.
"Shaq is about the size of the U.S., and Tatum is the size of Iraq," I reminded him. "We thought Iraq wanted to have big weapons like the ones we have.”
“They do have weapons,” he said. “They are shooting back at us.”
“The weapons they had when we invaded them were like sticks."
"Well, I would protect my baby sister," he decided.
"No," I said. "You can't, because you are Syria."
"Who is Syria?"
"A country that is just a little bit stronger than Iraq," I told him. "Iraq's big brother."
"Then Dad would protect Tate."
"Your dad is Iran, and Shaq won't allow him to have anything bigger than a stick. Shaq has a baseball bat."
He grinned. "You got me, Gramma."
I haven't heard from his parents yet. I hoped he would retell this conversation to them before talking to his friends.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Sometimes I Cry Because I Am So So Happy
In what appears to be a growing journalism trend where the writer bypasses research and poses a question instead of delivering information, I read a particle a few days ago in which the aught-er asked his readers to explain why people cry when they laugh. I returned the aught-er’s effort by asking more questions. Do you also wonder why people cry when peeling onions, facing the sun, yawning, or battling foreign objects in the eye area?
I consider myself somewhat an expert on tears. My credentials, for those who might question this determination, are as follows:
^ My maternal grandfather and uncle cried every time they laughed.
^ A paternal uncle cried at weddings and after his second highball every Christmas Eve.
^ I cried for three straight days once and think, even if that is not a record, it deserves special recognition.
^ Several highly-specialized ophthalmologists have examined, prodded, x-rayed and MRI’d my eyes and concluded that they are sufficiently dry to warrant permanent plugs in all four tear ducts and a lifetime of bankrupting prescriptions.
^ I can almost recite Iyanla Vanzant’s poem, Yesterday, I Cried and I have read the entire book more than once.
^ I enjoy the benefits of crying so much that I schedule cries if too much time passes between spontaneous one.
^ My granddaughter respects my crying wisdom enough to turn to me for advice. *
Before stressing myself with the gruesome task of typing tears in my search engine box and consulting the fact monster, I flung myself on the proverbial limb, resolved that the body produces tears without emotional involvement (as in the onion, sun, yawn, and foreign object examples), and brazenly put laughter-associated tears in that same category. Even though laughter is a response to an emotion, I believe my laughing tears are more reflexive than physic.
After doing basic research, I am not sure all experts agree with me. However, even without the benefit of chemical protein testing, I am sticking with my belief for now since I am not the only one to question the wikipedia report. I am a hearty laugher, and think the pressure-in-the-head-causing-an-overflow-of-basal-tears explanation works much better than the I’m-moved-to-tears rationalization for my laughter-induced tears. Besides, a real cry requires a coordinated effort of emotions, cells, and glands, and I am quite sure I am not focused enough to carrying that out while I am enjoying myself.
* Bonus grandchild story
My four-year-old granddaughter surprised me when she left her toys to come sit beside me on the couch and watch the television special about Oprah’s Leadership Academy For Girls. She listened intently to the applicant interviews and watched the docudrama profiles of their histories. When the selected students were shown their new school and home, and a few expressed excitement over having showers, Tatum stopped breathing and looked up at me.
“Gramma, do you ever cry because you are just so so happy?” she finally asked.
I blinked away my tears and assured her that I often cry when I am so so happy.
She smiled, said she does too, and released her own little river of tears.
Double bonus definitions:
basal tear – protective (lubricate)
reflex tear – response (onions, foreign objects)
physic tears (weeping or crying) – different chemicals in these tears
Friday, March 02, 2007
REMBA Alert Successful: Hope Not Found For Silver Street Elementary School
On February 28, 2007, I published a REMBA Alert asking the public to assist with the non-search of the hopelessly missing. The outpouring of non-assistance was overwhelming and I am happy to report evidence that item 3 (Hope for the poor children of the Indiana Elementary School after their principal bragged that GWB is coming to visit because they have improved "every year since the implementation of NCLB", and then said the students are asking every man in a suit if he is the (p)resident) will never be found.
Last night, Tony Duffy, Principal of Silver Street Elementary School explained to the public how he thought the White House phone call was a prank. He asked if the caller was with Candid Camera, or Punked; suggested it might be a radio station.
After repeating a number of his silly statements for us on the local news, he closed with the big question he had asked the White House caller: “Is there people laughing at me somewhere?”
I hope Silver Street Elementary has a copy of Is Our Children Learning on hand for each student.
Last night, Tony Duffy, Principal of Silver Street Elementary School explained to the public how he thought the White House phone call was a prank. He asked if the caller was with Candid Camera, or Punked; suggested it might be a radio station.
After repeating a number of his silly statements for us on the local news, he closed with the big question he had asked the White House caller: “Is there people laughing at me somewhere?”
I hope Silver Street Elementary has a copy of Is Our Children Learning on hand for each student.
REBMA ALERT: Please Do Not Try To Find the Following
Unlike its popular and successful counterpart, the REBMA alert will not seek assistance or publish pictures. REBMA represents lost causes and admits any effort to recover the missing would be futile.
If you think you see any of the following, please turn away and have your eyes examined as soon as possible. It is doubtful any of them truly existed in the first place.
1) The reason anyone gives credence to Anna Nicole/Vickie’s drugged out suggestion that her mother, Virgie Arthur, is unfit to see Dannielynne when Anna Nicole left Daniel with Virgie the first seven years of his life and claimed he turned into a perfect kid.
2) The shred of honesty a couple of people still believed possible for the Bushes before this week when George said things are going well in Iraq and Laura expressed disappointment that some people are discouraged by the one bombing a day.
(Thanks to Jon Stewart for his “a bombing a day keeps the doctor away” comment.)
3) Hope for the poor children of the Indiana Elementary School after their principal bragged that GWB is coming to visit because they have improved “every year since the implementation of NCLB”, and then said the students are asking every man in a suit if he is the (p)resident.
4) Sanity for Judge Larry Seidlin who:
*started out pretending he knew what a weasel Howard Stern (the unemployed, gold-digger, not the successful talk show host) was
*and then later broke down and forgot that
-Stern might have contributed to the death of the woman whose body he was fighting for,
-definitely helped make the decision to bury her son in the Bahamas while Anna Nicole’s mental state was questionable at best,
-and is holding a child that doesn’t belong to him hostage in order to get the money he thinks he deserves.
*completely let the fact that Anna Nicole had been in a similar situation and chose to have her husband’s body cremated and divided – which should have been some clue about what she would consider fair in this situation.
5) Better logic for the goofball who said the economy is cooking the evening before the biggest one-day drop in the market in years.
If you think you see any of the following, please turn away and have your eyes examined as soon as possible. It is doubtful any of them truly existed in the first place.
1) The reason anyone gives credence to Anna Nicole/Vickie’s drugged out suggestion that her mother, Virgie Arthur, is unfit to see Dannielynne when Anna Nicole left Daniel with Virgie the first seven years of his life and claimed he turned into a perfect kid.
2) The shred of honesty a couple of people still believed possible for the Bushes before this week when George said things are going well in Iraq and Laura expressed disappointment that some people are discouraged by the one bombing a day.
(Thanks to Jon Stewart for his “a bombing a day keeps the doctor away” comment.)
3) Hope for the poor children of the Indiana Elementary School after their principal bragged that GWB is coming to visit because they have improved “every year since the implementation of NCLB”, and then said the students are asking every man in a suit if he is the (p)resident.
4) Sanity for Judge Larry Seidlin who:
*started out pretending he knew what a weasel Howard Stern (the unemployed, gold-digger, not the successful talk show host) was
*and then later broke down and forgot that
-Stern might have contributed to the death of the woman whose body he was fighting for,
-definitely helped make the decision to bury her son in the Bahamas while Anna Nicole’s mental state was questionable at best,
-and is holding a child that doesn’t belong to him hostage in order to get the money he thinks he deserves.
*completely let the fact that Anna Nicole had been in a similar situation and chose to have her husband’s body cremated and divided – which should have been some clue about what she would consider fair in this situation.
5) Better logic for the goofball who said the economy is cooking the evening before the biggest one-day drop in the market in years.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT (and call for help) – Courier Journal Does Not Have Time to Speak With Me
As I lay soaking in the tub this weekend, totally unaware of my latent yearning to subscribe to the Courier-Journal, the phone rang. I decided to hop out and answer that ringing phone, since my answering machine did not pick up and a close friend was in intensive care.
Fortunately, it was good news. Someone in the Courier-Journal sales department had received the psychic message I had inadvertently sent and called me. The call went as follows:
Me: Hello
Caller: Nothing
Me: Hello
Computer voice: Hello. This is a sales call. Our representatives are busy at the moment and will call you later.
Me: (a bunch of stuff I can’t say here unless I flag this for adult content)
After thinking about my rude behavior, I realized I should do something to make up for cussing at that recording. If the Courier-Journal cares enough about me to let me know when they do not have time to speak with me, I should return that favor.
I have called them (502) 585-1763 three times so far today to let them know I am too busy to talk but will call back later.
If anyone else is looking for a Random Act of Kindness activity, I hope you will let them know when you don’t have time to speak with them.
Fortunately, it was good news. Someone in the Courier-Journal sales department had received the psychic message I had inadvertently sent and called me. The call went as follows:
Me: Hello
Caller: Nothing
Me: Hello
Computer voice: Hello. This is a sales call. Our representatives are busy at the moment and will call you later.
Me: (a bunch of stuff I can’t say here unless I flag this for adult content)
After thinking about my rude behavior, I realized I should do something to make up for cussing at that recording. If the Courier-Journal cares enough about me to let me know when they do not have time to speak with me, I should return that favor.
I have called them (502) 585-1763 three times so far today to let them know I am too busy to talk but will call back later.
If anyone else is looking for a Random Act of Kindness activity, I hope you will let them know when you don’t have time to speak with them.
Beware: Dog Eating Shark Attacks In Kentucky
This child is not distraught because it is 39 degrees outside and she has no clothes. Nor is she concerned about the red marker stains on her face, the bruise on her scrawny leg, or the fact that her grandmother pulled her bangs back with an ugly clip and then got out the camera.Being stuck overnight with an evil gramma who refuses to get the Chutes and Ladders game from the car until morning did not elicit half as much sorrow. She even managed to smile (actually beam a few times) when the demanding gramma forced her to help carry in groceries and cook dinner.
A dire situation much worse than anything the average four-year-old child will ever experience is responsible for this sadness. First, the gramma lost her memory. Despite multiple reminders, she was unable to remember anything about a previously unknown cousin who showed up at Chucky Cheese with a new puppy for this grandchild on her birthday. The cousin’s name meant nothing to this senile grandmother and the perfectly replicated yipping of the puppy did nothing to jog her memory.
The hand-to-the-head distress came when the gramma swore that no one bothered to tell her when a shark snuck into the little girl’s room and ate the puppy. This gramma is waiting for morning to make an appointment with a good therapist to find out what happened to her memory.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Six children and four adults—ten members of one family--died from smoke inhalation in a house fire in Bardstown, Kentucky on Tuesday night. Before the overwhelmed, desolate, surviving family had finalized funeral arrangements; Westboro Baptist Church had already organized the protest for this funeral.
Shirley Phelps-Roper, a member of the church led by Fred Phelps, cited one of their typical reasons for protesting funerals, “To show that their deaths are God's punishment for a "filthy" nation that has disobeyed "His will." The Southern Poverty Law Center declared them a hate group, the Anti-Defamation League monitors them, and they are enough to make any sane person admit that God does create garbage.
Those not familiar with this Topeka, Kansas traveling compost heap should check out their websites: GodHatesFags.com, and GodHatesAmerica.com, and other sites expressing condemnation of homosexuals, Roman Catholics, Swedish Muslims, Jews, and other groups. While not known to be directly connected to the Christian Identity movement, many of Phelps' sermons reflect the same warped principles.
In an unfortunately completely unrelated story, officials used explosives to free a barge that has been stranded at the McAlpine Dam nearby since January 16. If I ruled the world, the explosives would catch the Westboro group as they travel across the Ohio River in the back of their poster and hate filled pick-up truck to get to the Bardstown funeral.
Also, if I ruled the world, the WHAS announcer who reported this story would look at the word Bardstown, realize there is not a letter ‘g’ anywhere in the word, and would stop saying Bargetown. She would also know that the city she lives in and speaks for is named after King Louis, not King Lua, and ville rhymes with Bill, not bull, and that there is not now and never has been a letter ‘h’ in the word Hurstbourne, so that word should not be pronounced Hurshburn. And, that letter on the end of Broadbend is a D, not a T. They don’t even look alike. Get it straight. Please.
Sorry. I will return to my original religious rant.
Tax dollars support sickness masquerading as art at Sundance Film Festival Scared? That has to be the purpose of this latest sensationalized headline from the AFA (possibly in the running for most dangerous group in my opinion, since they are almost as misguided as the Westboro cult and much larger) targets PBS. They are asking their million cult members to email their Senators and Representatives to ask that they stop supporting the National Endowment for the Arts and PBS with tax money (after all, an educated country is not easy to control).
I urge everyone to counter the narrow-minded views of this group by contacting your elected officials in support of the arts. You may do so here.
Shirley Phelps-Roper, a member of the church led by Fred Phelps, cited one of their typical reasons for protesting funerals, “To show that their deaths are God's punishment for a "filthy" nation that has disobeyed "His will." The Southern Poverty Law Center declared them a hate group, the Anti-Defamation League monitors them, and they are enough to make any sane person admit that God does create garbage.
Those not familiar with this Topeka, Kansas traveling compost heap should check out their websites: GodHatesFags.com, and GodHatesAmerica.com, and other sites expressing condemnation of homosexuals, Roman Catholics, Swedish Muslims, Jews, and other groups. While not known to be directly connected to the Christian Identity movement, many of Phelps' sermons reflect the same warped principles.
In an unfortunately completely unrelated story, officials used explosives to free a barge that has been stranded at the McAlpine Dam nearby since January 16. If I ruled the world, the explosives would catch the Westboro group as they travel across the Ohio River in the back of their poster and hate filled pick-up truck to get to the Bardstown funeral.
Also, if I ruled the world, the WHAS announcer who reported this story would look at the word Bardstown, realize there is not a letter ‘g’ anywhere in the word, and would stop saying Bargetown. She would also know that the city she lives in and speaks for is named after King Louis, not King Lua, and ville rhymes with Bill, not bull, and that there is not now and never has been a letter ‘h’ in the word Hurstbourne, so that word should not be pronounced Hurshburn. And, that letter on the end of Broadbend is a D, not a T. They don’t even look alike. Get it straight. Please.
Sorry. I will return to my original religious rant.
Tax dollars support sickness masquerading as art at Sundance Film Festival Scared? That has to be the purpose of this latest sensationalized headline from the AFA (possibly in the running for most dangerous group in my opinion, since they are almost as misguided as the Westboro cult and much larger) targets PBS. They are asking their million cult members to email their Senators and Representatives to ask that they stop supporting the National Endowment for the Arts and PBS with tax money (after all, an educated country is not easy to control).
I urge everyone to counter the narrow-minded views of this group by contacting your elected officials in support of the arts. You may do so here.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Where Do I Fit In?
Where Do I Fit In?
In addition to the traditional offerings most generous, doting parents lavish on a child, mine infused a lifeline to their unrestricted generosity. They gave me the world, by allowing me to see the people in it without filters. They augmented their love for me by inviting the world in to love me with them, and they backed me to the wall where I had a wide-scope, eye-level view of people, without ever having to look up or down at anyone.
Through that wide scope, I learned invaluable lessons about perception. No matter how much one person belittles other, misquotes or misrepresents them, ignores facts or logic, or deprives others of what he has, none of that increases the wealth or intelligence of the first person. Even when that person puffs his chest and sneers down his nose at a dropped head, the person wearing that dropped head maintains his original wealth and intelligence. Perception is the only thing a bully affects, and it only favors him in his own mind.
No one becomes honest or patriotic by calling another a liar or a traitor. People are what they are, and no amount of name-calling or swearing otherwise will change that. One man can’t drink another thirsty. Contrast does not produce, assumption will not build, fear will not protect, and denial cannot erase. Perception does not replace experience or knowledge.
That scope also showed me we have no absolute control over what we receive, but always have control over what we give. When we tap out on receiving, we will always have more to give. I also noticed that what we give comes back, although seldom from the people we have given to, often in a different form, and usually more valuable than we’d imagined. Those who count favors and pennies often cheat themselves.
I treasure all of these lessons, but appreciate seeing myself as part of the bigger picture more than any other. I was unlike any other person in that wide scope. There might have been a dozen other white-skinned, blue-eyed, tall females present, but they wouldn’t all be able to type eighty-five words a minute or ace their exams without studying. I knew my father would be home for dinner every night, help me with my homework, and drive me to my music lessons. My mother would have breakfast on the table and my school uniform ironed when I came down the stairs in the morning. But that didn’t mean any other parent would, or every other parent could do the same.
Where did I fit in, since I had done nothing to deserve my special status? For me, the answer was simple. I fit in the bigger picture by wanting to be there, and by sharing my parents with the world.
Here they are world – I will continue to do my best to share what they have given me.
In addition to the traditional offerings most generous, doting parents lavish on a child, mine infused a lifeline to their unrestricted generosity. They gave me the world, by allowing me to see the people in it without filters. They augmented their love for me by inviting the world in to love me with them, and they backed me to the wall where I had a wide-scope, eye-level view of people, without ever having to look up or down at anyone.
Through that wide scope, I learned invaluable lessons about perception. No matter how much one person belittles other, misquotes or misrepresents them, ignores facts or logic, or deprives others of what he has, none of that increases the wealth or intelligence of the first person. Even when that person puffs his chest and sneers down his nose at a dropped head, the person wearing that dropped head maintains his original wealth and intelligence. Perception is the only thing a bully affects, and it only favors him in his own mind.
No one becomes honest or patriotic by calling another a liar or a traitor. People are what they are, and no amount of name-calling or swearing otherwise will change that. One man can’t drink another thirsty. Contrast does not produce, assumption will not build, fear will not protect, and denial cannot erase. Perception does not replace experience or knowledge.
That scope also showed me we have no absolute control over what we receive, but always have control over what we give. When we tap out on receiving, we will always have more to give. I also noticed that what we give comes back, although seldom from the people we have given to, often in a different form, and usually more valuable than we’d imagined. Those who count favors and pennies often cheat themselves.
I treasure all of these lessons, but appreciate seeing myself as part of the bigger picture more than any other. I was unlike any other person in that wide scope. There might have been a dozen other white-skinned, blue-eyed, tall females present, but they wouldn’t all be able to type eighty-five words a minute or ace their exams without studying. I knew my father would be home for dinner every night, help me with my homework, and drive me to my music lessons. My mother would have breakfast on the table and my school uniform ironed when I came down the stairs in the morning. But that didn’t mean any other parent would, or every other parent could do the same.
Where did I fit in, since I had done nothing to deserve my special status? For me, the answer was simple. I fit in the bigger picture by wanting to be there, and by sharing my parents with the world.
Here they are world – I will continue to do my best to share what they have given me.
Nosy Business
I think I was shorted. Sweat that one out, baby. What if I suddenly grew long? I do important things for you and get nothing but abuse in return. What's up with that? Up? Sweat that one out too; what if I decided to turn up and make you look like a pig?
Every reference to me is negative, and that gets old. Nosy butt, honker, beak, snorter, don't get your nose out of joint, keep your nose where it belongs (like I've ever left my post), keep your nose clean, and worst of all, put your nose to the grindstone. Do I deserve that? I may not be the brain, but I think not.
For years, I had the responsibility of carrying those coke-bottle glasses, not an easy job at all. (And, I might remind you, if your eyes had done their part, things would have been much easier on me.) Oh, but if I got tired, and slipped just a little, you weren't kind enough to remove the glasses, or even use your hands to gently put them were they belonged. No, you wrinkled me up and forced the plastic frames right back into the spot that hurt in the first place. Just once, I used to think, just once have a little respect for me.
Do you have any idea how miserable I was during puberty? The breasts, the emotions, and the female organs got all the sympathy. I got no credit for the torture I endured. You squeezed, scrubbed (remember the brush your crazy friend suggested for black heads), dried me out with astringents, and steamed me with that unbearable little machine guaranteed to deliver a perfect complexion. If you had taken the time to remove your make-up so I could breath, these torture devices might not have been necessary. But, I wasn't the mouth, so I couldn't say a thing.
And then, to add insult to injury, you blamed me for your fear of kissing! Did it ever occur to you that it was my job to know where to go, and I was prepared to do my job? I was anxious for a kiss. I looked forward to snuggling up close to someone else's face, someone who may run a finger gently down my side, or bless me with a little kiss instead of torture.
I led the way, filtered your air, alerted you to danger, and what did I get in return? Black heads, zits, allergies, and paper towels instead of tissues. Personally, I think I deserved silk handkerchiefs.
I am kind, not too long, not too wide, and a nice little bridge for glasses. I keep the hairs inside so you don't have to be embarrassed. But, you drag me to stinky situations, and pinch me when I react as I'm supposed to, and draw attention to my compromised position by shouting some ridiculous word like phewweeee! It's not a bit nice.
You're the one who smokes and drags me around molds, cats, rabbits, dust, and Oak trees. You know full well what will happen, and you still curse me for running. But oh, the feet get praised when they run.
And please, learn to swim or stay away from the pool. For years, you squeezed me so tightly before going under water that I thought you'd pull me right off your face. What a baby you were. You still don't have a clue. Exhale! You jump in and let me drown and sting from the chlorine when you could easily exhale and force the water in the other direction. Is that so hard to comprehend?
Admit you know the truth. I treat you better than anyone else does. I don't have any muscles or joints. I give you no pain. I don't bleed. I don't keep you awake. And I don't sag or wrinkle.
I think we are going to become closer friends as you age.
Every reference to me is negative, and that gets old. Nosy butt, honker, beak, snorter, don't get your nose out of joint, keep your nose where it belongs (like I've ever left my post), keep your nose clean, and worst of all, put your nose to the grindstone. Do I deserve that? I may not be the brain, but I think not.
For years, I had the responsibility of carrying those coke-bottle glasses, not an easy job at all. (And, I might remind you, if your eyes had done their part, things would have been much easier on me.) Oh, but if I got tired, and slipped just a little, you weren't kind enough to remove the glasses, or even use your hands to gently put them were they belonged. No, you wrinkled me up and forced the plastic frames right back into the spot that hurt in the first place. Just once, I used to think, just once have a little respect for me.
Do you have any idea how miserable I was during puberty? The breasts, the emotions, and the female organs got all the sympathy. I got no credit for the torture I endured. You squeezed, scrubbed (remember the brush your crazy friend suggested for black heads), dried me out with astringents, and steamed me with that unbearable little machine guaranteed to deliver a perfect complexion. If you had taken the time to remove your make-up so I could breath, these torture devices might not have been necessary. But, I wasn't the mouth, so I couldn't say a thing.
And then, to add insult to injury, you blamed me for your fear of kissing! Did it ever occur to you that it was my job to know where to go, and I was prepared to do my job? I was anxious for a kiss. I looked forward to snuggling up close to someone else's face, someone who may run a finger gently down my side, or bless me with a little kiss instead of torture.
I led the way, filtered your air, alerted you to danger, and what did I get in return? Black heads, zits, allergies, and paper towels instead of tissues. Personally, I think I deserved silk handkerchiefs.
I am kind, not too long, not too wide, and a nice little bridge for glasses. I keep the hairs inside so you don't have to be embarrassed. But, you drag me to stinky situations, and pinch me when I react as I'm supposed to, and draw attention to my compromised position by shouting some ridiculous word like phewweeee! It's not a bit nice.
You're the one who smokes and drags me around molds, cats, rabbits, dust, and Oak trees. You know full well what will happen, and you still curse me for running. But oh, the feet get praised when they run.
And please, learn to swim or stay away from the pool. For years, you squeezed me so tightly before going under water that I thought you'd pull me right off your face. What a baby you were. You still don't have a clue. Exhale! You jump in and let me drown and sting from the chlorine when you could easily exhale and force the water in the other direction. Is that so hard to comprehend?
Admit you know the truth. I treat you better than anyone else does. I don't have any muscles or joints. I give you no pain. I don't bleed. I don't keep you awake. And I don't sag or wrinkle.
I think we are going to become closer friends as you age.
He Doesn't Even Know Where I Live
Dazed preoccupation, glowing skin, picture in hand to remind her he wasn't a dream, giggles and visible jitters - she showed all the classic signs of a girl who had lost her heart and mind to a first love. Her eyes shot sparks when anyone else mentioned him, and her voice took on that wispy, can't-jinx-a-good-thing throaty tone when she spoke his name, every other breath.
I didn't have the heart to correct her pronunciation of his name.
The fifty-something-year difference in their ages fazed her even less than his wife and the three states that separated them. Love knew no obstacles.
Her siblings had their special interests, the same as she did. The oldest charged through the door and up the stairs with the same request each time. "Gramma, do you have candy?" The baby still flung her arms open for a hug.
Lover girl Fiona scooted right past me, eyes aglow, and lifted her sweetie's book off the end table. All five pounds and nine hundred fifty-seven pages of it. Usually, by the time she finagled and balanced her load, and lugged it across the room, the baby was through with me and I sat, prepared on the couch.
With a grunt, she hoisted the tome on my lap, ecstatic over the cover. "Gramma, can we read Bill Clintock?"
Fortunately, at barely-three-years-old, looking at the pictures was enough reading to satisfy this child. She still hasn't figured out that choosing My Life as a bedtime story might delay bedtime a couple of weeks.
She clasped her tiny hands, closed her eyes, and waited for me to open to the pictures, every time, with the anxiety most children save for Santa.
"That's Bill Clintock's mother, holding him when he was a baby. There's his first dad." She dutifully pointed at faces, rushing through preliminaries before grabbing her chest and returning her idol's huge smile on the bottom of the third page of pictures. Young, not-so-young, formal, informal, playing the trumpet in sunglasses, in a crowd, from behind – she found him in every picture and got more excited with each one. Aren't first loves special?
Gramma called dibs the night before Bill 'Clintock' Clinton's television interview and had Lover Girl sleep over, not that anyone slept much with all the excitement in the air. Fiona was up and pacing long before the early morning interview, chanting, "I'm so excitick. I'm so excitick to see Bill Clintock."
The excitick was contagious. I wrung my hands with her, thinking it was the longest ten minutes I'd known in a while.
The anticipated face finally came on the screen. Fiona grabbed her chest and screamed, like he was Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, or Spongebob. She ran to the televison and watched in silence, until he said the magic words.
"Gramma." She gasped, and turned with tears of adoration in her big eyes. "He said 'children'. He likes children!" I believe her life was complete. That was all she needed to be happy forever, or at least until her brother had something she wanted.
The obsession lasted over a good year. Not bad for a first love. My friends said his name, just to watch her grab her chest and light up the room with her smile. She lugged that book around until she looked like a body-builder. The pictures in my book showed signs of attrition.
Then, almost instantly, she stopped asking about him. Maybe she realized she had the name wrong, and was embarrassed. She might have heard rumors, or learned married men were off limits. I missed her crush.
"Don't you love Bill any more?" I asked, immediately wishing I hadn't when her shattered heart poured through her eyes.
In a broken voice, she explained. "He can't be my boyfriend when he doesn't even know where I live."
I didn't have the heart to correct her pronunciation of his name.
The fifty-something-year difference in their ages fazed her even less than his wife and the three states that separated them. Love knew no obstacles.
Her siblings had their special interests, the same as she did. The oldest charged through the door and up the stairs with the same request each time. "Gramma, do you have candy?" The baby still flung her arms open for a hug.
Lover girl Fiona scooted right past me, eyes aglow, and lifted her sweetie's book off the end table. All five pounds and nine hundred fifty-seven pages of it. Usually, by the time she finagled and balanced her load, and lugged it across the room, the baby was through with me and I sat, prepared on the couch.
With a grunt, she hoisted the tome on my lap, ecstatic over the cover. "Gramma, can we read Bill Clintock?"
Fortunately, at barely-three-years-old, looking at the pictures was enough reading to satisfy this child. She still hasn't figured out that choosing My Life as a bedtime story might delay bedtime a couple of weeks.
She clasped her tiny hands, closed her eyes, and waited for me to open to the pictures, every time, with the anxiety most children save for Santa.
"That's Bill Clintock's mother, holding him when he was a baby. There's his first dad." She dutifully pointed at faces, rushing through preliminaries before grabbing her chest and returning her idol's huge smile on the bottom of the third page of pictures. Young, not-so-young, formal, informal, playing the trumpet in sunglasses, in a crowd, from behind – she found him in every picture and got more excited with each one. Aren't first loves special?
Gramma called dibs the night before Bill 'Clintock' Clinton's television interview and had Lover Girl sleep over, not that anyone slept much with all the excitement in the air. Fiona was up and pacing long before the early morning interview, chanting, "I'm so excitick. I'm so excitick to see Bill Clintock."
The excitick was contagious. I wrung my hands with her, thinking it was the longest ten minutes I'd known in a while.
The anticipated face finally came on the screen. Fiona grabbed her chest and screamed, like he was Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, or Spongebob. She ran to the televison and watched in silence, until he said the magic words.
"Gramma." She gasped, and turned with tears of adoration in her big eyes. "He said 'children'. He likes children!" I believe her life was complete. That was all she needed to be happy forever, or at least until her brother had something she wanted.
The obsession lasted over a good year. Not bad for a first love. My friends said his name, just to watch her grab her chest and light up the room with her smile. She lugged that book around until she looked like a body-builder. The pictures in my book showed signs of attrition.
Then, almost instantly, she stopped asking about him. Maybe she realized she had the name wrong, and was embarrassed. She might have heard rumors, or learned married men were off limits. I missed her crush.
"Don't you love Bill any more?" I asked, immediately wishing I hadn't when her shattered heart poured through her eyes.
In a broken voice, she explained. "He can't be my boyfriend when he doesn't even know where I live."
Musical Chairs
On the last day of the retreat, I dropped into what had become my favorite position in the discussion circle, back to the windows, facing the door. "Carl Hiassen? John Grisham?" I mulled over possibilities with the young girl in the seat next to me.
"Maybe Barbara Kingsolver!" she said. "It's bound to be someone we talked about this week."
I folded my new handouts into the collection already in my purse, and shoved the bag under my chair while a hotel staffer thanked us and reviewed departure plans. When I rose again, Hillary Clinton had replaced the young girl beside me. Hillary Clinton! And no one else seemed to notice.
Unashamed, I regressed to teenybopper mentality, choked, grabbed her hand, and blathered like a fool. "I can't believe it! I'm a huge fan. I have your books and your tee shirt." In case she had amnesia, I threw in, "You're Hillary Clinton!"
She pulled the tight, closed-lip smile and greeted me with a wink as our moderator took the floor. A revelation and carotid thumping slammed me at the same time. Bill Clinton was the mystery guest. His book was out. Hillary would be waiting in the wings if she were the speaker.
"I have to call my daughter," I announced and stuck my head between my legs to find the purse. "My granddaughter is in love with your husband," I went on once I had the bag on my lap. "She has to bring her here. My daughter, I mean. She has to bring my granddaughter."
Hillary nodded. I think she leaned away from me but I didn't have the composure to be embarrassed. I was to busy fighting the zipper on my purse. Finally, phone in hand but speed-dial number on vacation, I punched in my daughter's home number, managing to hit all the numbers on the second try.
A kid answered. Even in my star-struck state, I knew it wasn't one of my daughter's kids. I asked for Jessica, using my hand to hide the phone and my voice from the frowning moderator.
"She's not here. This is Brian."
I kept my eyes on the floor and whispered. "Get Brent."
"He's not here. Just me."
There was no way my daughter and son-in-law had left an eight-year-old nephew alone in their house. No way on earth, and I didn't have time to play games with this kid. I disconnected and hit redial, hoping an adult would answer this time.
Hillary clamped my shoulder in a vice grip. "Don't move." She twanged, in a nasal monotone. Without turning my head, I rolled my eyes to confirm the nightmare. Hillary had turned into Laura Freaking Bush.
The cell phone slid to the floor as the doors across from me opened and secret service agents, one for each of us, flooded the room. They circled the group and stood behind our chairs. That could only mean one thing, and it was the last thing I could bear.
"He's never written a book," I cried. "Probably never read one."
"Don't move," Laura repeated. "And don't speak."
The air stopped. My life ended. That was the only logical explanation; I died and there was a hell.
Smirky swaggered through the door, blinking and clearing his throat. He started on the left, shook a hand, and made an ignorant statement that had nothing to do with writing. I wanted my money back, but I probably couldn't use it in hell. He moved to the second guest, hand outstretched and on topic this time. "Gosh durn, I like books. The American people like books. I tell the American people all the time how much I like books."
My stomach rolled into my throat. My sweaty hands shook. I leaned over to pick up the phone but it slid from my hand. He moved to the third chair, getting closer, Laura reprimanded me again, dizziness set it.
I pulled my sleeves over my hands and realized that wasn't enough. He would still be in my face, breathing the same air. He would have me arrested when he saw the look in my eyes, but they'd probably shoot me if I tried to run.
I woke in a sweat, just after I slid my face below the neckline of my blouse. I'm still afraid of writing retreats, and I don't try to interpret this dream.
"Maybe Barbara Kingsolver!" she said. "It's bound to be someone we talked about this week."
I folded my new handouts into the collection already in my purse, and shoved the bag under my chair while a hotel staffer thanked us and reviewed departure plans. When I rose again, Hillary Clinton had replaced the young girl beside me. Hillary Clinton! And no one else seemed to notice.
Unashamed, I regressed to teenybopper mentality, choked, grabbed her hand, and blathered like a fool. "I can't believe it! I'm a huge fan. I have your books and your tee shirt." In case she had amnesia, I threw in, "You're Hillary Clinton!"
She pulled the tight, closed-lip smile and greeted me with a wink as our moderator took the floor. A revelation and carotid thumping slammed me at the same time. Bill Clinton was the mystery guest. His book was out. Hillary would be waiting in the wings if she were the speaker.
"I have to call my daughter," I announced and stuck my head between my legs to find the purse. "My granddaughter is in love with your husband," I went on once I had the bag on my lap. "She has to bring her here. My daughter, I mean. She has to bring my granddaughter."
Hillary nodded. I think she leaned away from me but I didn't have the composure to be embarrassed. I was to busy fighting the zipper on my purse. Finally, phone in hand but speed-dial number on vacation, I punched in my daughter's home number, managing to hit all the numbers on the second try.
A kid answered. Even in my star-struck state, I knew it wasn't one of my daughter's kids. I asked for Jessica, using my hand to hide the phone and my voice from the frowning moderator.
"She's not here. This is Brian."
I kept my eyes on the floor and whispered. "Get Brent."
"He's not here. Just me."
There was no way my daughter and son-in-law had left an eight-year-old nephew alone in their house. No way on earth, and I didn't have time to play games with this kid. I disconnected and hit redial, hoping an adult would answer this time.
Hillary clamped my shoulder in a vice grip. "Don't move." She twanged, in a nasal monotone. Without turning my head, I rolled my eyes to confirm the nightmare. Hillary had turned into Laura Freaking Bush.
The cell phone slid to the floor as the doors across from me opened and secret service agents, one for each of us, flooded the room. They circled the group and stood behind our chairs. That could only mean one thing, and it was the last thing I could bear.
"He's never written a book," I cried. "Probably never read one."
"Don't move," Laura repeated. "And don't speak."
The air stopped. My life ended. That was the only logical explanation; I died and there was a hell.
Smirky swaggered through the door, blinking and clearing his throat. He started on the left, shook a hand, and made an ignorant statement that had nothing to do with writing. I wanted my money back, but I probably couldn't use it in hell. He moved to the second guest, hand outstretched and on topic this time. "Gosh durn, I like books. The American people like books. I tell the American people all the time how much I like books."
My stomach rolled into my throat. My sweaty hands shook. I leaned over to pick up the phone but it slid from my hand. He moved to the third chair, getting closer, Laura reprimanded me again, dizziness set it.
I pulled my sleeves over my hands and realized that wasn't enough. He would still be in my face, breathing the same air. He would have me arrested when he saw the look in my eyes, but they'd probably shoot me if I tried to run.
I woke in a sweat, just after I slid my face below the neckline of my blouse. I'm still afraid of writing retreats, and I don't try to interpret this dream.
These Feet Were Made For Walking
I would drop to my knees and deliver the most heart-felt apology ever if I thought it would change anything. But the damage is done, and I doubt it would make much difference now.
I walked all over you, forced you into uncomfortable positions, allowed others to step on you, too, and a whole string of other injustices I can't bring myself to mention. I am truly sorry, especially considering how you carried me through the toughest times in my life and stood with me during the happiest. And you danced with me, the greatest gift of all. I'd give anything to do it again, and appreciate you the way I should have back then.
I guess the first memories I have of you are childish, but I want to go back to the beginning and remind you of the fun we once had. Remember when Granddad pulled my socks off and pretended you smelled bad so I would giggle. Once I started laughing, he'd grab you and tickle, and I'd kick and scream? I hope that was as much fun for you as it was for me.
You must have seen the abuse coming, because you toughened up early. Did you hate shoes as much as I did, and that's why you didn't complain when I jumped rope in the gravel, or walked miles on hot blacktop, or ran out in the snow without covering you? Remember that time I jumped on the broken bottle and it didn't even penetrate your skin? I was proud of you. I didn't mean to be abusive.
This is kind of embarrassing, but when I got older, I thought you were on the wrong body. The rest of me was long and thin, but you were short and fat. Why is that? Did you want to belong to someone else? For what it's worth, I learned to appreciate you for not being boats, and was glad you belonged to me.
You got me back with the warts. Warts are not cool, especially between the toes. However, I apologize for letting it turn into cellulitis, and for refusing the anesthesia when they cut on you. At least you got a break from gym and track.
Someone should just smack me for the years I forced you to travel eight floors of that hospital in high-heeled shoes. I'm sure you heard me vote out the nursing uniforms and comfortable shoes, so I won't try to make excuses. You can probably bribe the hands to deliver that punch if you want. I wouldn't blame you.
I do understand why you had to sit me down. Arthritis was more than you deserved, and you sure took the brunt of some years. I forgive you for making me wear the high-top sneakers all through 1987, even though I did feel self-conscious in my dresses and sports shoes. It helped you, so I'm glad I did it.
Can we call a truce? The rest of my body is just as miserable as you are now. If you will just promise not to hurt on the same day as my hip, I promise I'll never stick you in another pair of miserable shoes. Just keep me out of the wheelchair and I'll be happy walking as little as possible.
With a little compromise, I think we still have some good years left.
I walked all over you, forced you into uncomfortable positions, allowed others to step on you, too, and a whole string of other injustices I can't bring myself to mention. I am truly sorry, especially considering how you carried me through the toughest times in my life and stood with me during the happiest. And you danced with me, the greatest gift of all. I'd give anything to do it again, and appreciate you the way I should have back then.
I guess the first memories I have of you are childish, but I want to go back to the beginning and remind you of the fun we once had. Remember when Granddad pulled my socks off and pretended you smelled bad so I would giggle. Once I started laughing, he'd grab you and tickle, and I'd kick and scream? I hope that was as much fun for you as it was for me.
You must have seen the abuse coming, because you toughened up early. Did you hate shoes as much as I did, and that's why you didn't complain when I jumped rope in the gravel, or walked miles on hot blacktop, or ran out in the snow without covering you? Remember that time I jumped on the broken bottle and it didn't even penetrate your skin? I was proud of you. I didn't mean to be abusive.
This is kind of embarrassing, but when I got older, I thought you were on the wrong body. The rest of me was long and thin, but you were short and fat. Why is that? Did you want to belong to someone else? For what it's worth, I learned to appreciate you for not being boats, and was glad you belonged to me.
You got me back with the warts. Warts are not cool, especially between the toes. However, I apologize for letting it turn into cellulitis, and for refusing the anesthesia when they cut on you. At least you got a break from gym and track.
Someone should just smack me for the years I forced you to travel eight floors of that hospital in high-heeled shoes. I'm sure you heard me vote out the nursing uniforms and comfortable shoes, so I won't try to make excuses. You can probably bribe the hands to deliver that punch if you want. I wouldn't blame you.
I do understand why you had to sit me down. Arthritis was more than you deserved, and you sure took the brunt of some years. I forgive you for making me wear the high-top sneakers all through 1987, even though I did feel self-conscious in my dresses and sports shoes. It helped you, so I'm glad I did it.
Can we call a truce? The rest of my body is just as miserable as you are now. If you will just promise not to hurt on the same day as my hip, I promise I'll never stick you in another pair of miserable shoes. Just keep me out of the wheelchair and I'll be happy walking as little as possible.
With a little compromise, I think we still have some good years left.
Writing Can Be Fun
To the t-ball champ/skateboard enthusiast, my sedentary existence held less appeal than bathing or clipping his nails. "Don't you get tired of writing?" he asked. "That's all you ever want to do?"
"Don't you get tired of playing?" I shot back. "That's all you ever want to do."
"But Gramma, playing's fun. Writing's like school." He looked at the clipboard on my lap, scowled at the binder on the table beside me, and then sighed as though he had seen an IV pole and respirator attached to me.
I held but school's fun under my breath. He did well in Kindergarten, made good grades, and was already reading chapter books. Still, I wouldn't force Noah to do something as uncool as consider the possibility that school might be fun.
Miraculously, a few suffer-able quiet activities came to mind. "I enjoy writing the same way you like to play video games or watch movies."
His eyes, reflecting only band-aid level pity now, rested on my sheet of college-ruled filler paper.
"How can you write books on that paper?"
Good question and one I had never considered he might ask. He wouldn't know how my words ended up in those books on the shelf, so I explained. "I write a chapter on paper first, then type it into the computer, print the pages, and put them in this binder. I keep doing that until I have enough chapters to make a book."
"How many?"
"As many as I want." I knew this wasn't going to be easy when he pulled his top lip between his teeth and rolled his eyes upward. "I write until I get to the end of the story."
He opened the binder, karate chopped the margins on the top page, and nodded. "Then you just cut these and stick them inside books?"
"I don't. Someone else does that part."
"Who? How do they get your pages?"
I saw where this was headed. Rather than answer fifty questions about the editor, the publisher, who would draw the pictures, and how would they get in stores, only to circle back to don't you get tired of writing again, I thought I'd let him answer his own question.
"How would you like it if one day you could make everyone do what you wanted them to do? What if you could make me ride the skateboard, or make your dad wear a dress?"
He laughed. "Hey, that would be funny."
"That's why I think writing is fun. When I write a story, I get to create all the people, name them anything I want, and make them do whatever I want them to do. I'm just a grown-up with a bunch of imaginary friends that I keep in books."
The teeth tugged on the lip a few more times while he thought it over. "I wanna do it."
I found him a notebook, gave him a pen, and turned him loose to create his own little world where he could control everyone. He didn't make me ride the skateboard or put his dad in a dress, but he did find out writing is fun.
"Don't you get tired of playing?" I shot back. "That's all you ever want to do."
"But Gramma, playing's fun. Writing's like school." He looked at the clipboard on my lap, scowled at the binder on the table beside me, and then sighed as though he had seen an IV pole and respirator attached to me.
I held but school's fun under my breath. He did well in Kindergarten, made good grades, and was already reading chapter books. Still, I wouldn't force Noah to do something as uncool as consider the possibility that school might be fun.
Miraculously, a few suffer-able quiet activities came to mind. "I enjoy writing the same way you like to play video games or watch movies."
His eyes, reflecting only band-aid level pity now, rested on my sheet of college-ruled filler paper.
"How can you write books on that paper?"
Good question and one I had never considered he might ask. He wouldn't know how my words ended up in those books on the shelf, so I explained. "I write a chapter on paper first, then type it into the computer, print the pages, and put them in this binder. I keep doing that until I have enough chapters to make a book."
"How many?"
"As many as I want." I knew this wasn't going to be easy when he pulled his top lip between his teeth and rolled his eyes upward. "I write until I get to the end of the story."
He opened the binder, karate chopped the margins on the top page, and nodded. "Then you just cut these and stick them inside books?"
"I don't. Someone else does that part."
"Who? How do they get your pages?"
I saw where this was headed. Rather than answer fifty questions about the editor, the publisher, who would draw the pictures, and how would they get in stores, only to circle back to don't you get tired of writing again, I thought I'd let him answer his own question.
"How would you like it if one day you could make everyone do what you wanted them to do? What if you could make me ride the skateboard, or make your dad wear a dress?"
He laughed. "Hey, that would be funny."
"That's why I think writing is fun. When I write a story, I get to create all the people, name them anything I want, and make them do whatever I want them to do. I'm just a grown-up with a bunch of imaginary friends that I keep in books."
The teeth tugged on the lip a few more times while he thought it over. "I wanna do it."
I found him a notebook, gave him a pen, and turned him loose to create his own little world where he could control everyone. He didn't make me ride the skateboard or put his dad in a dress, but he did find out writing is fun.
Breasts - Who Wants Them?
For those of us sentenced to Catholic school, back-to-school shopping promised few thrills beyond walking to Kresges with all the neighborhood mothers and our supply lists. The most we could look forward to once we got there was something as mundane as two-holed versus three-holed paper, or a choice between anklets and knee socks. Vickie Johnson changed that for all of us the summer before sixth grade.
Long before anyone else thought of shopping that year, Vickie's mom left the other nine children behind, shunned Kresges and the other mothers, and took Vickie downtown to shop, just the two of them. When they hadn't returned at dinnertime, I wasn't sure I could eat around my growing anticipation. I pictured her with all sorts of extravagant things: the cartridge pen with the pointed cap, the roll top pencil holder, a madras purse. If she came back with them all, I'd die of excitement with her.
As I shoved bites of pork chop around the plate, picturing Vickie in a red stretch-headband, she charged through the door without stopping to knock. "Wait 'til you see what I got," she squealed.
I didn't have to wait; my whole family sat staring at the bra she swung over her head like she'd win a prize if she lassoed the light fixture. I hid my disappointment, hoping she would still get at least one of the good things I had dreamed for her.
She handed the bra over for my mother to examine, neither of them showing any sign they shared my regret. After I had my turn at holding the bra, Vickie rushed out to show the others.
Mom bit her cheeks. Daddy said now Vickie would have something to carry her apples to school in. I asked to be excused and ran to catch up with my friend.
Within an hour, every girl in the neighborhood had rubbed, stretched, fastened and unfastened, adjusted the straps, and pined for Vickie's bra. She pulled a few of us aside and promised we could all try it on the next day.
Caught up in the excitement of being included in the select fitting club, I approached my mother that night to see if my world was changing also. "Am I getting a bra before school starts?"
"I don't think you need one," she said. "Do you?"
Suddenly I wanted breasts. "When do you think I might grow?"
She reminded me we were in the same grade, but Vickie was a year older. "Besides, people grow at different rates. It'll happen when the time is right for you."
That was my first lesson in careful what you wish for. Had I known the bra would become a pain in my ass forever, I would never have wasted those wishes.
My time came, and I got my bra. Even after Mom helped me adjust the straps, it refused to stay where it belonged. I tried not to move, but it didn't matter how still I sat, the darned thing climbed up and I had to tug it back down. At times, I was afraid it would crawl out the top of my blouse. It itched. I couldn't pay attention in class. Mom said I would be more comfortable after she had washed the bra a few times. She lied.
Once the newness wore off on that first bra, I wondered who could possibly have invented the contraption. What woman hated herself so much she decided to design something that would make her miserable every waking second of her life? Who thought gee it might be a good idea to bind her breasts tightly, connect the binding to her shoulders for added discomfort, and then put a piece of elastic across the back so boys could snap the crap out of her back? That woman must have been crazy, along with all the ones who followed her. And if a man thought it up, women were stupid to listen to him.
I changed my mind. I did not want breasts.
Not much changed over the years. My friends saved for months to get implants, I turned down freebies. My plastic surgeon friend retired feeling like a failure because my chest was still flat. I didn't want a hunk of flab hanging off my stomach, so why would I want two hanging off my chest?
I haven't seen Vickie in years. I picture her as a Victoria Secret regular, with a wardrobe of sexy lingerie. I'm still thinking about that fountain pen with the pointed lid.
Long before anyone else thought of shopping that year, Vickie's mom left the other nine children behind, shunned Kresges and the other mothers, and took Vickie downtown to shop, just the two of them. When they hadn't returned at dinnertime, I wasn't sure I could eat around my growing anticipation. I pictured her with all sorts of extravagant things: the cartridge pen with the pointed cap, the roll top pencil holder, a madras purse. If she came back with them all, I'd die of excitement with her.
As I shoved bites of pork chop around the plate, picturing Vickie in a red stretch-headband, she charged through the door without stopping to knock. "Wait 'til you see what I got," she squealed.
I didn't have to wait; my whole family sat staring at the bra she swung over her head like she'd win a prize if she lassoed the light fixture. I hid my disappointment, hoping she would still get at least one of the good things I had dreamed for her.
She handed the bra over for my mother to examine, neither of them showing any sign they shared my regret. After I had my turn at holding the bra, Vickie rushed out to show the others.
Mom bit her cheeks. Daddy said now Vickie would have something to carry her apples to school in. I asked to be excused and ran to catch up with my friend.
Within an hour, every girl in the neighborhood had rubbed, stretched, fastened and unfastened, adjusted the straps, and pined for Vickie's bra. She pulled a few of us aside and promised we could all try it on the next day.
Caught up in the excitement of being included in the select fitting club, I approached my mother that night to see if my world was changing also. "Am I getting a bra before school starts?"
"I don't think you need one," she said. "Do you?"
Suddenly I wanted breasts. "When do you think I might grow?"
She reminded me we were in the same grade, but Vickie was a year older. "Besides, people grow at different rates. It'll happen when the time is right for you."
That was my first lesson in careful what you wish for. Had I known the bra would become a pain in my ass forever, I would never have wasted those wishes.
My time came, and I got my bra. Even after Mom helped me adjust the straps, it refused to stay where it belonged. I tried not to move, but it didn't matter how still I sat, the darned thing climbed up and I had to tug it back down. At times, I was afraid it would crawl out the top of my blouse. It itched. I couldn't pay attention in class. Mom said I would be more comfortable after she had washed the bra a few times. She lied.
Once the newness wore off on that first bra, I wondered who could possibly have invented the contraption. What woman hated herself so much she decided to design something that would make her miserable every waking second of her life? Who thought gee it might be a good idea to bind her breasts tightly, connect the binding to her shoulders for added discomfort, and then put a piece of elastic across the back so boys could snap the crap out of her back? That woman must have been crazy, along with all the ones who followed her. And if a man thought it up, women were stupid to listen to him.
I changed my mind. I did not want breasts.
Not much changed over the years. My friends saved for months to get implants, I turned down freebies. My plastic surgeon friend retired feeling like a failure because my chest was still flat. I didn't want a hunk of flab hanging off my stomach, so why would I want two hanging off my chest?
I haven't seen Vickie in years. I picture her as a Victoria Secret regular, with a wardrobe of sexy lingerie. I'm still thinking about that fountain pen with the pointed lid.
He Said, She Said
Her side:
They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. She should probably offer an apology or explanation. Sorry, I have no control over this arm. My hand accidentally landed on yours. Or, how about, it was instinctive; I thought you were someone else? Anything but the humiliating truth, which made her sound like a fool. Oops, for a second I thought I was still your wife.
He had allowed her hand to rest on his a long while before gently pulling away to drain his glass; long enough for her to realize what she had done and swallow a flood of tears before they escaped. Had he waited to see what she would do? Been too shocked to react? Or, was it possible he had relished the moment and traveled back ten years the way she had? What was in that hesitation? She would choke on the question rather than ask.
Denise closed her eyes and pulled a breath between her lips, hoping to clear the mess in her throat and stop the spinning in her head. More likely, he could still read her thoughts and had only resisted the impulse to wrench his hand away to protect her feelings. Why did he have to be so fucking perfect? There's the icebreaker she needed. Just testing to see if you're still perfect enough to make me feel like a loser. Congratulations, you passed.
Their animated waitress broke the heavy silence for them with an innocently inappropriate,
"Everyone doing okay here?"
Denise considered crossing her hands at her throat to signify choking. Craig ordered another
round, the relief in his tone a sure guarantee of an extra ten in his already predictable overtip.
"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away.
That's it? Back to business as though nothing happened? His use of the word we twisted her emotions further, but she managed a response for her daughter's sake. "Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."
"We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."
Denise looked the waitress in the eye as the girl deposited a fresh margarita in front of her. "We don't."
"You changed your mind?" the waitress asked, picking the drink back up.
"Sorry, I wasn't talking to you. I want the drink; I don't want to be part of his we."
Craig smiled at the girl. She returned the drink and backed away from the table, tossing a less animated, "Enjoy your drinks," at him before leaving.
Denise choked through the growing obstruction in her throat. "L.A. is so far, and so expensive."
"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass in a lone toast and took a drink.
"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."
"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise."
How sweet. Mr. Perfect immediately solved every problem. He severed that we without a second thought. He could be both mother and father, bankroll, and guidance counselor all rolled into one. Maybe he could decorate the new place and teach Kristin to act while he was at it. She would just scratch mothering and worrying right off her to do list and replace them with amputate uncontrollable right arm and get a grip.
The heavy silence returned. She rotated her glass on the table, staring at the condemned limb. Anything she said would be wrong, argumentative, whiney, negative, or pleading. This meeting was a mistake. They should have dealt with their daughter's decision separately.
"Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.
She took a sip, bowing her head to meet the glass halfway before her trembling sloshed a spill on the table to remind her how imperfect she was. "No, it might be the best thing in my life."
They sipped through the next uncomfortable silence; she wishing her poorly disciplined arm could reach out this time and squelch the unspoken words before they suffocated her, and he chewing his lip between drinks. Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Perfect showing signs that he might also be struggling for composure?
"I'm sorry." The words hit her ears and she tried to believe she had said them, but his eyes erased that hope.
With a slight nod, she grabbed her purse. "Ladies room. Be right back." She rushed across the bar, relieved to find the one-seater empty, and leaned against the wall to review the reasons she didn't want him to be sorry. That made him the bigger person since she hadn't found the strength to say the words when she should have. He hadn't done anything wrong, so his apology could only be the lead-in to a disappointing statement yet to come. Or maybe this was another instance of his being sorry for pain she had caused.
Denise went directly from the ladies room to the parking lot without bothering to say good-bye. Silence was better than anything he had left to say.
His side:
They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. He certainly didn't want to ruin the moment. She had forgotten her anger for a second and touched his hand in a gesture so uncharacteristic that he wondered if she was even aware of her action. One word might set her off again, and he wanted to savor as much as he could of this return of the woman he had fallen in love with a quarter century before.
Denise was really beautiful when she wasn't angry but he wouldn't say those words. He had tried to tell her before and she took it the wrong way. For some reason, she took everything he said the wrong way so he had stopped talking. Was that how it ended? It was hard to remember if there was any one thing now. And because he never knew what happened, he hadn't been able to go into another relationship. Why destroy another woman?
He looked across the table and realized he had lost her again. Denise had her eyes closed and was doing that huffy breathing that often came before the outburst. Fortunately, he had work and Kristen to pour his love and life into. Kristen! He remembered the reason for this get-together as the waitress came to check on them, ordered another round, and then approached the subject.
"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away. Immediately, he wished he hadn't said I think. Denise would perceive that as him trying to control everything.
"Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."
He half heard what she said, focusing on how to correct his last faux pas. "We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."
The waitress brought the drinks and Denise went off the deep end, making an issue over his use of the word we, probably because she was already ticked about the previous use of I. There was nothing he could do to please this woman. No matter how hard he tried, she couldn't accept anything he did. He would say as little as possible the rest of this meeting, and when he did have to speak; it would be short, positive, and neutral.
"L.A. is so far, and so expensive."
"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass and smiled. Short and positive.
"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."
"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise." Couldn't get more positive. That should ease all her fears.
She didn't respond and he didn't know if her silence was a positive reaction or not. Maybe she hadn't heard him; she was staring at her glass and turning it. "Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.
She leaned over to take a sip, as though looking at him was more than she could stand. Guess that wasn't a positive response. What had he done wrong this time? She never gave him a clue, just disapproved without explanation.
"No, it might be the best thing in my life," she finally answered. Great. That had to be a dig. The sour, salty drink was better than the company she was with. He chewed his lip, wishing he could take back the million things he had done to turn her into this bitter woman. He would, if he knew what those million things were.
"I'm sorry." He offered a general apology that she could apply to whatever she imagined he had done. Without a response, she excused herself to the ladies room. Why did he keep trying? Obviously, she wanted nothing to do with him and couldn't even tolerate an hour or two to discuss their daughter's future.
Once they got Kristen settled, he would let Denise off the hook. She'd only have to see him from a distance, at Kristen's wedding and major events in her life.
He watched her walk into the ladies room and said a silent good-bye, to Denise and to all hope of ever changing her mind about him.
They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. She should probably offer an apology or explanation. Sorry, I have no control over this arm. My hand accidentally landed on yours. Or, how about, it was instinctive; I thought you were someone else? Anything but the humiliating truth, which made her sound like a fool. Oops, for a second I thought I was still your wife.
He had allowed her hand to rest on his a long while before gently pulling away to drain his glass; long enough for her to realize what she had done and swallow a flood of tears before they escaped. Had he waited to see what she would do? Been too shocked to react? Or, was it possible he had relished the moment and traveled back ten years the way she had? What was in that hesitation? She would choke on the question rather than ask.
Denise closed her eyes and pulled a breath between her lips, hoping to clear the mess in her throat and stop the spinning in her head. More likely, he could still read her thoughts and had only resisted the impulse to wrench his hand away to protect her feelings. Why did he have to be so fucking perfect? There's the icebreaker she needed. Just testing to see if you're still perfect enough to make me feel like a loser. Congratulations, you passed.
Their animated waitress broke the heavy silence for them with an innocently inappropriate,
"Everyone doing okay here?"
Denise considered crossing her hands at her throat to signify choking. Craig ordered another
round, the relief in his tone a sure guarantee of an extra ten in his already predictable overtip.
"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away.
That's it? Back to business as though nothing happened? His use of the word we twisted her emotions further, but she managed a response for her daughter's sake. "Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."
"We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."
Denise looked the waitress in the eye as the girl deposited a fresh margarita in front of her. "We don't."
"You changed your mind?" the waitress asked, picking the drink back up.
"Sorry, I wasn't talking to you. I want the drink; I don't want to be part of his we."
Craig smiled at the girl. She returned the drink and backed away from the table, tossing a less animated, "Enjoy your drinks," at him before leaving.
Denise choked through the growing obstruction in her throat. "L.A. is so far, and so expensive."
"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass in a lone toast and took a drink.
"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."
"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise."
How sweet. Mr. Perfect immediately solved every problem. He severed that we without a second thought. He could be both mother and father, bankroll, and guidance counselor all rolled into one. Maybe he could decorate the new place and teach Kristin to act while he was at it. She would just scratch mothering and worrying right off her to do list and replace them with amputate uncontrollable right arm and get a grip.
The heavy silence returned. She rotated her glass on the table, staring at the condemned limb. Anything she said would be wrong, argumentative, whiney, negative, or pleading. This meeting was a mistake. They should have dealt with their daughter's decision separately.
"Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.
She took a sip, bowing her head to meet the glass halfway before her trembling sloshed a spill on the table to remind her how imperfect she was. "No, it might be the best thing in my life."
They sipped through the next uncomfortable silence; she wishing her poorly disciplined arm could reach out this time and squelch the unspoken words before they suffocated her, and he chewing his lip between drinks. Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Perfect showing signs that he might also be struggling for composure?
"I'm sorry." The words hit her ears and she tried to believe she had said them, but his eyes erased that hope.
With a slight nod, she grabbed her purse. "Ladies room. Be right back." She rushed across the bar, relieved to find the one-seater empty, and leaned against the wall to review the reasons she didn't want him to be sorry. That made him the bigger person since she hadn't found the strength to say the words when she should have. He hadn't done anything wrong, so his apology could only be the lead-in to a disappointing statement yet to come. Or maybe this was another instance of his being sorry for pain she had caused.
Denise went directly from the ladies room to the parking lot without bothering to say good-bye. Silence was better than anything he had left to say.
His side:
They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. He certainly didn't want to ruin the moment. She had forgotten her anger for a second and touched his hand in a gesture so uncharacteristic that he wondered if she was even aware of her action. One word might set her off again, and he wanted to savor as much as he could of this return of the woman he had fallen in love with a quarter century before.
Denise was really beautiful when she wasn't angry but he wouldn't say those words. He had tried to tell her before and she took it the wrong way. For some reason, she took everything he said the wrong way so he had stopped talking. Was that how it ended? It was hard to remember if there was any one thing now. And because he never knew what happened, he hadn't been able to go into another relationship. Why destroy another woman?
He looked across the table and realized he had lost her again. Denise had her eyes closed and was doing that huffy breathing that often came before the outburst. Fortunately, he had work and Kristen to pour his love and life into. Kristen! He remembered the reason for this get-together as the waitress came to check on them, ordered another round, and then approached the subject.
"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away. Immediately, he wished he hadn't said I think. Denise would perceive that as him trying to control everything.
"Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."
He half heard what she said, focusing on how to correct his last faux pas. "We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."
The waitress brought the drinks and Denise went off the deep end, making an issue over his use of the word we, probably because she was already ticked about the previous use of I. There was nothing he could do to please this woman. No matter how hard he tried, she couldn't accept anything he did. He would say as little as possible the rest of this meeting, and when he did have to speak; it would be short, positive, and neutral.
"L.A. is so far, and so expensive."
"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass and smiled. Short and positive.
"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."
"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise." Couldn't get more positive. That should ease all her fears.
She didn't respond and he didn't know if her silence was a positive reaction or not. Maybe she hadn't heard him; she was staring at her glass and turning it. "Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.
She leaned over to take a sip, as though looking at him was more than she could stand. Guess that wasn't a positive response. What had he done wrong this time? She never gave him a clue, just disapproved without explanation.
"No, it might be the best thing in my life," she finally answered. Great. That had to be a dig. The sour, salty drink was better than the company she was with. He chewed his lip, wishing he could take back the million things he had done to turn her into this bitter woman. He would, if he knew what those million things were.
"I'm sorry." He offered a general apology that she could apply to whatever she imagined he had done. Without a response, she excused herself to the ladies room. Why did he keep trying? Obviously, she wanted nothing to do with him and couldn't even tolerate an hour or two to discuss their daughter's future.
Once they got Kristen settled, he would let Denise off the hook. She'd only have to see him from a distance, at Kristen's wedding and major events in her life.
He watched her walk into the ladies room and said a silent good-bye, to Denise and to all hope of ever changing her mind about him.
Let It Be
My big mistake was in expecting a twenty-mile drive to erase the thirty years I had been away. I set myself up for the unwarranted sense of betrayal that came when I saw a flat lot with a beer garden standing where I remembered rows of curbside-service speakers, covered by orange awnings. Otherwise, the outside of the stone and glass building appeared untouched except for the new name.
While I was growing up, my family ate out most Friday nights. We hit the church fish fries, Sizzler and Pizza Hut after they came around, and Frisch's on occasion. Once in a great while, we donned good clothes and manners and visited an upscale restaurant. The one place we all enjoyed, and therefore frequented most often, was Hunt's, a family-owned, neighborhood bar-restaurant combination with one small and one large dining room, a banquet room, and servers who delivered food outdoors, on trays that attached to the car windows. Hunt's original salad dressing made them famous. Individual jukebox connections on each table made the dining room our favorite spot to eat. For a quarter, each of us could choose a song. A dollar entertained us through the whole meal.
Last week, my daughters and I went back to Hunt's, now Rubbie's, where an eerie combination of old and new greeted me. Everything and nothing had changed. Hunt's family had taken the salad dressing but left the bar, standing across from the same row of booths, seating what looked like some of the same people, in the same clothes and hairstyles. A stage replaced the jukeboxes, and open mic meant we could still eat to music and choose a few of our own songs.
Before I registered the significance of the glass-encased antique coke bottles I might have emptied in the past, or absorbed the nostalgia of the coconut face on the wall, I spotted my uncle standing at the bar. A few pounds heavier, much shinier on top, same brandy in hand, he looked past my pounds and gray and recognized my daughters. Hours and hugs later, I wondered if his mist over partying with great nieces came from the bottle, the years passed, or realizing how few we might have left. Maybe he thought, as I did, that I should be my daughter's age and he should not be the only male left in the only generation ahead of me.
Harmonious discord wasn't exclusive to our table, nor did familial concern end there. When the red head in the out-of-season, cardboard New Year's Eve tiara draped her arms around my daughter's shoulders and smiled at me, my heart sank. How could I have forgotten her name when she was so obviously overjoyed to see us? I mentally removed the tiara and a few lines from her face, and tried on the name of every second and third cousin I could remember. Nothing fit, except the warmth she radiated and the smile my daughter wore.
As the tiara bobbed and the stories poured, I narrowed the prospects. Laughter accompanied her complaints about the pawing she had received from the old fart by the pool table; she had to be from Mom's side. I would either remember her name by the time she finished the rundown of safe, arms-length, and stay-the-hell-away men present, or I would ask my uncle when he found his way back from the bar.
Her name was Bonnie. I didn't remember because I had never known. She was a regular, not related on either side, but already vested in my family by the time we found out. Bonnie stayed with us the first hour and then took off to pull a good-natured, stay-the-hell-away guy to a back corner for a dance.
Later, Bonnie hugged her way to a back table of arm's-length listeners and my uncle grew roots beside a blonde barfly. One daughter went off to reserve her ten minutes on the sign-up sheet, while the other huddled close to hear a friend yell over the heavy metal group on stage.
A lone dancer hypnotized me with her routine – five steps to the right, raise the beer bottle overhead, bow, five steps to the left, flip the hair off the face, turn a complete circle, and repeat.
Although disturbed by the obvious role of long-term chemical use in this dazed ritual, I respected the dancer's disregard of public opinion. As if willing to enhance my appreciation, an ageless, gender-undisclosed clogger unfolded from a lotus position beside the stage and tapped passionately to the last thirty seconds of a poor rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock You".
Possible explanations flooded my mind: flashbacks, nightmare, Twilight Zone, time warp. Flashbacks seemed unlikely since I had refused even the drugs prescribed to me, and I'd never heard of contact flashbacks. The Twilight Zone was fictional and I knew I was awake. A mullet head conversing with a tube top supported the time warp, until I looked past my daughter's nose ring and focused on the table behind her. Three men stared back at me, one fiftyish with waist-length hair poking out a bandana scarf, a thirty-something, clean-cut yuppie, and a sixty-something, toothless biker in a leather vest. I would surely have warped to one era and there was no way these people all belonged in the same one.
Sometime after the clogger (who turned out to be male) sang "Let It Be", and before seventies rock, they called my daughter to the stage to introduce ancient country. While she tested the mic and whispered to the bass player, a ghost from my past climbed on stage beside her. Not quite the guitar player her father had been, and not knowing he was standing next to an old friend's daughter, a worn man plugged in and accompanied her on a song her father had sung twenty years before.
I watched his tired eyes travel with the music, maybe wishing he could recapture the same thirty years I had wanted the trip to erase for me. He stared into space, the middle-aged bass player watched the back of my daughter's head, the young drummer kept his eyes closed, and my daughter's eyes never left mine. My uncle and Bonnie left their fans and came to stand beside the mix-matched crew behind us. The lone dancer repeated her routine and the clogger remained in lotus position.
The magic of this unique little world hit me as I watched young-and-hopeful stand two feet and a world away from holding-on-to-what's-left on the stage. Everyone had come to share common space and individual passions and paths. Some were young. Some were old. Some were sober and others hadn't been in decades. No one laughed and pointed at the clogger or the lone dancer. No one booed when the band changed, or when the music was horrible. The stay-the-hell-away guys didn't shun Bonnie when she pawed them and turned the story around.
I hadn't been anywhere so accepting in years, and couldn't remember when being unaccepting had come into vogue.
Twenty miles got closer. We're anxious to go back, where people remember how to let it be.
While I was growing up, my family ate out most Friday nights. We hit the church fish fries, Sizzler and Pizza Hut after they came around, and Frisch's on occasion. Once in a great while, we donned good clothes and manners and visited an upscale restaurant. The one place we all enjoyed, and therefore frequented most often, was Hunt's, a family-owned, neighborhood bar-restaurant combination with one small and one large dining room, a banquet room, and servers who delivered food outdoors, on trays that attached to the car windows. Hunt's original salad dressing made them famous. Individual jukebox connections on each table made the dining room our favorite spot to eat. For a quarter, each of us could choose a song. A dollar entertained us through the whole meal.
Last week, my daughters and I went back to Hunt's, now Rubbie's, where an eerie combination of old and new greeted me. Everything and nothing had changed. Hunt's family had taken the salad dressing but left the bar, standing across from the same row of booths, seating what looked like some of the same people, in the same clothes and hairstyles. A stage replaced the jukeboxes, and open mic meant we could still eat to music and choose a few of our own songs.
Before I registered the significance of the glass-encased antique coke bottles I might have emptied in the past, or absorbed the nostalgia of the coconut face on the wall, I spotted my uncle standing at the bar. A few pounds heavier, much shinier on top, same brandy in hand, he looked past my pounds and gray and recognized my daughters. Hours and hugs later, I wondered if his mist over partying with great nieces came from the bottle, the years passed, or realizing how few we might have left. Maybe he thought, as I did, that I should be my daughter's age and he should not be the only male left in the only generation ahead of me.
Harmonious discord wasn't exclusive to our table, nor did familial concern end there. When the red head in the out-of-season, cardboard New Year's Eve tiara draped her arms around my daughter's shoulders and smiled at me, my heart sank. How could I have forgotten her name when she was so obviously overjoyed to see us? I mentally removed the tiara and a few lines from her face, and tried on the name of every second and third cousin I could remember. Nothing fit, except the warmth she radiated and the smile my daughter wore.
As the tiara bobbed and the stories poured, I narrowed the prospects. Laughter accompanied her complaints about the pawing she had received from the old fart by the pool table; she had to be from Mom's side. I would either remember her name by the time she finished the rundown of safe, arms-length, and stay-the-hell-away men present, or I would ask my uncle when he found his way back from the bar.
Her name was Bonnie. I didn't remember because I had never known. She was a regular, not related on either side, but already vested in my family by the time we found out. Bonnie stayed with us the first hour and then took off to pull a good-natured, stay-the-hell-away guy to a back corner for a dance.
Later, Bonnie hugged her way to a back table of arm's-length listeners and my uncle grew roots beside a blonde barfly. One daughter went off to reserve her ten minutes on the sign-up sheet, while the other huddled close to hear a friend yell over the heavy metal group on stage.
A lone dancer hypnotized me with her routine – five steps to the right, raise the beer bottle overhead, bow, five steps to the left, flip the hair off the face, turn a complete circle, and repeat.
Although disturbed by the obvious role of long-term chemical use in this dazed ritual, I respected the dancer's disregard of public opinion. As if willing to enhance my appreciation, an ageless, gender-undisclosed clogger unfolded from a lotus position beside the stage and tapped passionately to the last thirty seconds of a poor rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock You".
Possible explanations flooded my mind: flashbacks, nightmare, Twilight Zone, time warp. Flashbacks seemed unlikely since I had refused even the drugs prescribed to me, and I'd never heard of contact flashbacks. The Twilight Zone was fictional and I knew I was awake. A mullet head conversing with a tube top supported the time warp, until I looked past my daughter's nose ring and focused on the table behind her. Three men stared back at me, one fiftyish with waist-length hair poking out a bandana scarf, a thirty-something, clean-cut yuppie, and a sixty-something, toothless biker in a leather vest. I would surely have warped to one era and there was no way these people all belonged in the same one.
Sometime after the clogger (who turned out to be male) sang "Let It Be", and before seventies rock, they called my daughter to the stage to introduce ancient country. While she tested the mic and whispered to the bass player, a ghost from my past climbed on stage beside her. Not quite the guitar player her father had been, and not knowing he was standing next to an old friend's daughter, a worn man plugged in and accompanied her on a song her father had sung twenty years before.
I watched his tired eyes travel with the music, maybe wishing he could recapture the same thirty years I had wanted the trip to erase for me. He stared into space, the middle-aged bass player watched the back of my daughter's head, the young drummer kept his eyes closed, and my daughter's eyes never left mine. My uncle and Bonnie left their fans and came to stand beside the mix-matched crew behind us. The lone dancer repeated her routine and the clogger remained in lotus position.
The magic of this unique little world hit me as I watched young-and-hopeful stand two feet and a world away from holding-on-to-what's-left on the stage. Everyone had come to share common space and individual passions and paths. Some were young. Some were old. Some were sober and others hadn't been in decades. No one laughed and pointed at the clogger or the lone dancer. No one booed when the band changed, or when the music was horrible. The stay-the-hell-away guys didn't shun Bonnie when she pawed them and turned the story around.
I hadn't been anywhere so accepting in years, and couldn't remember when being unaccepting had come into vogue.
Twenty miles got closer. We're anxious to go back, where people remember how to let it be.
Let It Be - Revisited
Our eyes locked. Her grin confirmed the shared memory, enhancing the pleasure for me.
"I wasn't crazy about the song before," I said as the last notes played, sure she knew before what. "But I'll always smile when I hear it now."
She laughed. "I guess so. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen."
Funny? My cheeks ached from smiling through the song but I didn't consider hilarity the key motivation behind my smile.
I replayed the original experience. Several times that night, I had noticed the wiry little guy in the corner, legs hugged tightly under the chin that propped his forlorn expression atop his knees. More impressive than his agility was his apparent ability to shut out the screaming music and hubbub of the crowd around him. He might have been grieving, contemplating the most serious decision in his life, stoned out of his mind, or so utterly comfortable with his own company that nothing else mattered.
As if sneezed into a fresh cosmos, he suddenly landed--arms flailing and feet stomping—in the aisle, where he danced something similar to a jig/clog blend, to a less-than-jiggy rendition of "We Will Rock You". Blown away by this opportunity to experience a transformation before my eyes, I laughed with him, and enjoyed his dance as much as if I had been his partner.
"Seriously," I returned to the present and my daughter. "I will never forget this guy, and I'll smile every time I think of him. Don't you appreciate what he has given you? "
"I guess." Her expression lost a little of the here-goes-my-crazy-mom look. "Remember the first time we met Jeff and Christine? That's the song I'll never be able to hear without losing it." When able to control her laughter, she wiped her eyes and sang Jeff's line. "If you don't blow me right now –"
I did Christine's part with a straight face--"I will never never never-"--and become conscious of the impact the many single moments of pleasure people, often strangers, have given me.
"Don't you hope you've given others moments they will never forget?" I asked. "That people you don't even know smile every time they think of you?"
Her smile faded. "I'm not sure I want to be remembered because I made a fool of myself."
I thought about the time my boot hit a slick spot in the middle of a busy intersection and tossed my legs over my head. Six lanes of stopped traffic and the four co-workers crossing with me watched as I untangled my skirt from around my face and scrambled to my feet before the light changed. I don't begrudge any of the people who still smile when passing that corner.
"What about the Mambo Kings picture?" I asked.
She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Shut up, Mother."
"You know some of those people still tell friends about the crazy girl who flipped through her pictures and drew a crowd when she fell on the floor laughing." I gave her an encouraging nudge.
"Come on. Admit it isn't such a bad thing to make so many people laugh."
She wasn't admitting any such thing.
"How about the time you wouldn't let go of Duncan's leash, and he pulled you between my legs and knocked Bill and me off the porch?" I asked. "It doesn't make you the least bit happy to know your grandmother will always have that memory?"
"Let's go back to other people making us laugh," she suggested. "Remember when Tim asked for a tampon, thinking it was a popsicle? And when the bird perched on Mike's glasses?"
Later, as we held our sides and wiped our eyes, my thoughts returned to the shared memory that had started this laugh fest. "The dancer makes me smile for a different reason. He made me happy."
We decided it didn't matter how we leave good impressions, as long as we give others a reason to smile when they remember us. I might learn to clog, but I think she's looking for something different.
"I wasn't crazy about the song before," I said as the last notes played, sure she knew before what. "But I'll always smile when I hear it now."
She laughed. "I guess so. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen."
Funny? My cheeks ached from smiling through the song but I didn't consider hilarity the key motivation behind my smile.
I replayed the original experience. Several times that night, I had noticed the wiry little guy in the corner, legs hugged tightly under the chin that propped his forlorn expression atop his knees. More impressive than his agility was his apparent ability to shut out the screaming music and hubbub of the crowd around him. He might have been grieving, contemplating the most serious decision in his life, stoned out of his mind, or so utterly comfortable with his own company that nothing else mattered.
As if sneezed into a fresh cosmos, he suddenly landed--arms flailing and feet stomping—in the aisle, where he danced something similar to a jig/clog blend, to a less-than-jiggy rendition of "We Will Rock You". Blown away by this opportunity to experience a transformation before my eyes, I laughed with him, and enjoyed his dance as much as if I had been his partner.
"Seriously," I returned to the present and my daughter. "I will never forget this guy, and I'll smile every time I think of him. Don't you appreciate what he has given you? "
"I guess." Her expression lost a little of the here-goes-my-crazy-mom look. "Remember the first time we met Jeff and Christine? That's the song I'll never be able to hear without losing it." When able to control her laughter, she wiped her eyes and sang Jeff's line. "If you don't blow me right now –"
I did Christine's part with a straight face--"I will never never never-"--and become conscious of the impact the many single moments of pleasure people, often strangers, have given me.
"Don't you hope you've given others moments they will never forget?" I asked. "That people you don't even know smile every time they think of you?"
Her smile faded. "I'm not sure I want to be remembered because I made a fool of myself."
I thought about the time my boot hit a slick spot in the middle of a busy intersection and tossed my legs over my head. Six lanes of stopped traffic and the four co-workers crossing with me watched as I untangled my skirt from around my face and scrambled to my feet before the light changed. I don't begrudge any of the people who still smile when passing that corner.
"What about the Mambo Kings picture?" I asked.
She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Shut up, Mother."
"You know some of those people still tell friends about the crazy girl who flipped through her pictures and drew a crowd when she fell on the floor laughing." I gave her an encouraging nudge.
"Come on. Admit it isn't such a bad thing to make so many people laugh."
She wasn't admitting any such thing.
"How about the time you wouldn't let go of Duncan's leash, and he pulled you between my legs and knocked Bill and me off the porch?" I asked. "It doesn't make you the least bit happy to know your grandmother will always have that memory?"
"Let's go back to other people making us laugh," she suggested. "Remember when Tim asked for a tampon, thinking it was a popsicle? And when the bird perched on Mike's glasses?"
Later, as we held our sides and wiped our eyes, my thoughts returned to the shared memory that had started this laugh fest. "The dancer makes me smile for a different reason. He made me happy."
We decided it didn't matter how we leave good impressions, as long as we give others a reason to smile when they remember us. I might learn to clog, but I think she's looking for something different.
Dear Girl In the Red Convertible
Dear Girl In the Red Convertible,
I know you haven't seen me in thirty-three years but something tells me you remember me as well as I do you. If I knew how to contact you in person, I would apologize face-to-face, since that's how I delivered my low blow.
My only attempt at an excuse is that I was with Paula, whose laugh is one of the most wonderful sounds on earth. She has a unique combination of a melodious belly laugh and giggle. Once she gets started, you think she might never stop and just have to join her. Still, what I did is inexcusable, because Paula would laugh at most anything. I could have encouraged her without hurting you.
I did not know your boyfriend. I had never seen either of you before. There you were, making out at the red light, and I just lost control. The convertible made you so approachable. Before I knew it, I jumped out of the car and delivered my Academy Award winning performance, surprising myself with the tears.
He told you the truth when he said he didn't know me. I didn't really catch him at anything; I broke up with a perfect stranger. I hope he convinced you later.
My greatest wish is that the two of you eventually got married and are living happily ever after. Maybe you are even laughing about this.
Sincerely,
Sandy
I know you haven't seen me in thirty-three years but something tells me you remember me as well as I do you. If I knew how to contact you in person, I would apologize face-to-face, since that's how I delivered my low blow.
My only attempt at an excuse is that I was with Paula, whose laugh is one of the most wonderful sounds on earth. She has a unique combination of a melodious belly laugh and giggle. Once she gets started, you think she might never stop and just have to join her. Still, what I did is inexcusable, because Paula would laugh at most anything. I could have encouraged her without hurting you.
I did not know your boyfriend. I had never seen either of you before. There you were, making out at the red light, and I just lost control. The convertible made you so approachable. Before I knew it, I jumped out of the car and delivered my Academy Award winning performance, surprising myself with the tears.
He told you the truth when he said he didn't know me. I didn't really catch him at anything; I broke up with a perfect stranger. I hope he convinced you later.
My greatest wish is that the two of you eventually got married and are living happily ever after. Maybe you are even laughing about this.
Sincerely,
Sandy
A-non-y-mouse Smiles
For the first time in my life, I couldn't force a smile. I had been through most of it before, just never so many things at once. And the one thing I hadn't experienced before was worse than all the others combined.
The kids were two and thirteen; that alone was enough to warp a smile. I was recovering from surgery, working full time, going to school three nights a week, doing my best to ignore the ugliness of the divorce proceedings, selling the house I had worked so hard on and loved, and watching my father die.
Friends noticed before I did. The engineers on the other side of my office window drew cartoons and placed them on my side of their blinds. Doctors checked me for physical symptoms when they came in to work with me, and the girls in the cath lab invited me up for watermelon. I turned up the corners of my mouth, but didn't convince anyone.
Cheryl placed my mail in the basket one morning and dropped an unopened envelope on the desk. It looked like a greeting card, but my birthday was months away. I couldn't imagine anyone sending a card to the office anyway. I slit the flap, expecting a creative seminar invitation.
It was a greeting card. The outside read Noticed you lost your smile, and the inside, So I'm sending you one of mine. It was signed A-nony-mouse. It worked. I stood the card on a shelf and smiled each time I looked at it.
Similar cards arrived every day that week. No one admitted having any idea who had sent them. I watched for guilty eyes and smiles but found none.
On Friday, a sizeable audience had gathered to watch me open my card. I laughed, and said the greetings were nice but flowers would be better.
A single flower arrived on Monday. I was embarrassed, and positive A-nony-mouse worked somewhere near me. I thanked everyone I passed that day. No one took responsibility. Finally, I told Cheryl the flower made me uncomfortable and asked her to spread the word.
Everything returned to normal, until Friday. Six flowers arrived late that afternoon. I laughed, thanked everyone again, and still they denied sending anything.
Flowers came every day the next week. Word got around and I attracted visitors from other departments. Everyone agreed that A-nony-mouse was quite the nice person, but no one had any idea who he might be. On Friday, I upped the ante. I said flowers and cards were nice, but diamonds would be better.
You guessed it. My co-workers liked me, but not that much. When I let them know this gift scared me, they understood. Not only did they promise they weren't responsible, they tried to help me find A-nony-mouse. The florist wouldn't budge, and I had no way to track anything else.
I almost went straight home that evening, but decided at the last minute I needed to unload on the shoulder of the classmate who also came from work and had thirty minutes to kill before class. He had the matching earring. Apparently, I had told him more than I realized.
The kids were two and thirteen; that alone was enough to warp a smile. I was recovering from surgery, working full time, going to school three nights a week, doing my best to ignore the ugliness of the divorce proceedings, selling the house I had worked so hard on and loved, and watching my father die.
Friends noticed before I did. The engineers on the other side of my office window drew cartoons and placed them on my side of their blinds. Doctors checked me for physical symptoms when they came in to work with me, and the girls in the cath lab invited me up for watermelon. I turned up the corners of my mouth, but didn't convince anyone.
Cheryl placed my mail in the basket one morning and dropped an unopened envelope on the desk. It looked like a greeting card, but my birthday was months away. I couldn't imagine anyone sending a card to the office anyway. I slit the flap, expecting a creative seminar invitation.
It was a greeting card. The outside read Noticed you lost your smile, and the inside, So I'm sending you one of mine. It was signed A-nony-mouse. It worked. I stood the card on a shelf and smiled each time I looked at it.
Similar cards arrived every day that week. No one admitted having any idea who had sent them. I watched for guilty eyes and smiles but found none.
On Friday, a sizeable audience had gathered to watch me open my card. I laughed, and said the greetings were nice but flowers would be better.
A single flower arrived on Monday. I was embarrassed, and positive A-nony-mouse worked somewhere near me. I thanked everyone I passed that day. No one took responsibility. Finally, I told Cheryl the flower made me uncomfortable and asked her to spread the word.
Everything returned to normal, until Friday. Six flowers arrived late that afternoon. I laughed, thanked everyone again, and still they denied sending anything.
Flowers came every day the next week. Word got around and I attracted visitors from other departments. Everyone agreed that A-nony-mouse was quite the nice person, but no one had any idea who he might be. On Friday, I upped the ante. I said flowers and cards were nice, but diamonds would be better.
You guessed it. My co-workers liked me, but not that much. When I let them know this gift scared me, they understood. Not only did they promise they weren't responsible, they tried to help me find A-nony-mouse. The florist wouldn't budge, and I had no way to track anything else.
I almost went straight home that evening, but decided at the last minute I needed to unload on the shoulder of the classmate who also came from work and had thirty minutes to kill before class. He had the matching earring. Apparently, I had told him more than I realized.
She Was Someone's Little Girl
Karen has a room on York,
a far cry from the mansion she lost on Winter.
Maybe it isn't far.
Three miles, give or take,
seen differently by car, bus, or foot.
It's far enough she can't walk over to look at it any more.
Truth be told,
it wasn't ever a mansion
except in Karen's heart.
It was an investment
to the man who scarfed it for a song at auction
and remains a source of irritation
to the renters who pay a small fortune for it now,
getting little in return for their money.
It was a cry, for sure.
That part was true and never changes.
Karen was someone's little girl. Had to be.
Mothers can't run out before the baby is born,
so she belonged to someone for a few minutes
no matter what happened later.
Like all little girls,
she came into the world with innocent eyes
and a spontaneous smile.
Maybe the investor got what was left of those at auction too.
With or without joy,
Karen was someone's pride at some point.
Someone clapped when she took her first run across the room,
and noticed when she strung her vocabulary into a full sentence.
Surely, Miss Gray patted herself on the back
for implanting the multiplication tables in Karen's hard head,
and Johnny Rogers puffed his chest
over distracting her from them.
Ah, yes, Karen was someone's crush.
She attracted plenty of attention
from the football player who shared her table in biology class,
and the big eared boy on the bus.
And there was that driver at the moving company
where she answered phones after graduation,
who couldn't keep his eyes off her.
She might even be someone's unforgettable first love.
She thinks she was someone's wife in the seventies.
He might have died,
or wanted her dead
and he might still dream about her smile.
Speaking of smiles,
she smiled a lot on Winter,
when she was someone's neighbor.
She waved from her chair on the porch,
took soup over when anyone was sick,
shoveled Mr. Turner's steps,
and made a quilt for every baby born on the street.
She didn't get to smile the day she left.
Her friends weren't out there
when she sorted through her things at the curb
to gather what she could carry,
but she would smile the next time she saw them.
She walked back to Winter as long as she could,
because babies aren't born on York
and there aren't any porches.
She would walk back to Winter to look for smiles,
if she could still walk.
She smiled a lot when she still had teeth,
and others smiled back.
She had teeth when she still had insurance.
Teeth and glasses, and allergy medicine
so her eyes and nose weren't so runny, and red.
Maybe she's glad she doesn't have glasses on York,
so she doesn't know when people don't smile back.
She had insurance when she still had a job.
She was somebody's valued employee for thirty years
and has a pin to prove it.
Well, she had the pin
until she lost it on the curb on Winter,
but sometimes she still has memories of the job she loved.
She had a job when she still had her health,
or at least when she still had the strength
to pretend she had her health.
She was someone's inspiration
when she ignored her pain
and continued to work
for her insurance and smile.
The doctor got that
long before the investor came along.
She was someone's friend
when she still had health and a job
and teeth and a smile.
She was everyone's friend.
She loved.
She cared.
She was someone's savior,
everyone's champion,
a crusader of causes.
She is someone's cause now.
She is someone else's sin.
a far cry from the mansion she lost on Winter.
Maybe it isn't far.
Three miles, give or take,
seen differently by car, bus, or foot.
It's far enough she can't walk over to look at it any more.
Truth be told,
it wasn't ever a mansion
except in Karen's heart.
It was an investment
to the man who scarfed it for a song at auction
and remains a source of irritation
to the renters who pay a small fortune for it now,
getting little in return for their money.
It was a cry, for sure.
That part was true and never changes.
Karen was someone's little girl. Had to be.
Mothers can't run out before the baby is born,
so she belonged to someone for a few minutes
no matter what happened later.
Like all little girls,
she came into the world with innocent eyes
and a spontaneous smile.
Maybe the investor got what was left of those at auction too.
With or without joy,
Karen was someone's pride at some point.
Someone clapped when she took her first run across the room,
and noticed when she strung her vocabulary into a full sentence.
Surely, Miss Gray patted herself on the back
for implanting the multiplication tables in Karen's hard head,
and Johnny Rogers puffed his chest
over distracting her from them.
Ah, yes, Karen was someone's crush.
She attracted plenty of attention
from the football player who shared her table in biology class,
and the big eared boy on the bus.
And there was that driver at the moving company
where she answered phones after graduation,
who couldn't keep his eyes off her.
She might even be someone's unforgettable first love.
She thinks she was someone's wife in the seventies.
He might have died,
or wanted her dead
and he might still dream about her smile.
Speaking of smiles,
she smiled a lot on Winter,
when she was someone's neighbor.
She waved from her chair on the porch,
took soup over when anyone was sick,
shoveled Mr. Turner's steps,
and made a quilt for every baby born on the street.
She didn't get to smile the day she left.
Her friends weren't out there
when she sorted through her things at the curb
to gather what she could carry,
but she would smile the next time she saw them.
She walked back to Winter as long as she could,
because babies aren't born on York
and there aren't any porches.
She would walk back to Winter to look for smiles,
if she could still walk.
She smiled a lot when she still had teeth,
and others smiled back.
She had teeth when she still had insurance.
Teeth and glasses, and allergy medicine
so her eyes and nose weren't so runny, and red.
Maybe she's glad she doesn't have glasses on York,
so she doesn't know when people don't smile back.
She had insurance when she still had a job.
She was somebody's valued employee for thirty years
and has a pin to prove it.
Well, she had the pin
until she lost it on the curb on Winter,
but sometimes she still has memories of the job she loved.
She had a job when she still had her health,
or at least when she still had the strength
to pretend she had her health.
She was someone's inspiration
when she ignored her pain
and continued to work
for her insurance and smile.
The doctor got that
long before the investor came along.
She was someone's friend
when she still had health and a job
and teeth and a smile.
She was everyone's friend.
She loved.
She cared.
She was someone's savior,
everyone's champion,
a crusader of causes.
She is someone's cause now.
She is someone else's sin.
Ethics, Morals, Honesty - Seven syllables, three words, carrying the weight of the world
Most of us would probably agree that truth is delivering honest statements. Beyond that basic definition, I believe concurrence falls apart rather quickly.
Some believe truth is not necessary if it will hurt another's feelings, threaten their own popularity, or cause financial loss. Others don't consider withholding fact or failure to challenge false information abuses of truth. In addition, many exempt behavior and actions from requisite truth. Even more confusing to me are those who have others deliver their false information, thinking that somehow protects them from accepting responsibility for their dishonesty. In other words, truth is only important to many people when it is convenient or profitable.
To me, truth is not limited to delivering honest statements. It is living honestly, by the same set of morals and principles every day, in every situation, with everyone. Morals are the set of principles by which I live my personal life. Ethics are how I apply those morals in my interactions with others and the world.
If my daughter comes in and sings a song off-key, or my grandson fails to wipe the milk off his upper lip, I am dishonest if I tell the daughter she sounds great or the grandson he looks fine. If I believe Wal-Mart practices are abusive to employees and communities, and I choose to shop there anyway, I have neglected my principles and I am amoral. If I profess to care about a person yet go into the world and make decisions that harm that person, I am unethical.
In my opinion, standards don't come on a sliding scale. It is not okay to misrepresent myself on a message board any more than it would be acceptable to use false information when applying for a job. Unless I apply the same standards to everyone I meet, I am dishonest and unfair to both sides because I have blurred the truth for everyone.
I see blurred lines everywhere around me, and believe this collective weight is harming all of us.
Some believe truth is not necessary if it will hurt another's feelings, threaten their own popularity, or cause financial loss. Others don't consider withholding fact or failure to challenge false information abuses of truth. In addition, many exempt behavior and actions from requisite truth. Even more confusing to me are those who have others deliver their false information, thinking that somehow protects them from accepting responsibility for their dishonesty. In other words, truth is only important to many people when it is convenient or profitable.
To me, truth is not limited to delivering honest statements. It is living honestly, by the same set of morals and principles every day, in every situation, with everyone. Morals are the set of principles by which I live my personal life. Ethics are how I apply those morals in my interactions with others and the world.
If my daughter comes in and sings a song off-key, or my grandson fails to wipe the milk off his upper lip, I am dishonest if I tell the daughter she sounds great or the grandson he looks fine. If I believe Wal-Mart practices are abusive to employees and communities, and I choose to shop there anyway, I have neglected my principles and I am amoral. If I profess to care about a person yet go into the world and make decisions that harm that person, I am unethical.
In my opinion, standards don't come on a sliding scale. It is not okay to misrepresent myself on a message board any more than it would be acceptable to use false information when applying for a job. Unless I apply the same standards to everyone I meet, I am dishonest and unfair to both sides because I have blurred the truth for everyone.
I see blurred lines everywhere around me, and believe this collective weight is harming all of us.
Living Around Disability
I carry a rather long list of diagnoses, several of which alone would qualify my permanent, total disability status. Most of the time, I try to ignore my disabilities. I am not embarrassed by my condition, nor am I apologetic. Thinking about them makes me feel sorry for me, which isn't productive or healthy.
However, I do write articles that I think will promote understanding or protection of people with disabilities without addressing my particular diagnoses or complaints*. Writing from this once-removed point of view serves two purposes. It protects me from pity which, despite, or maybe because of, the good intentions of the person delivering it usually leaves me feeling undeserving, because I am okay. Politically and financially, circumstances are not okay for most people living on disability incomes, so writing general essays, stories, and poems allows me an opportunity to use my experience and understanding of difficult political and financial circumstances to help others. Once in awhile, I write articles that include a universal glimpse from the inside.**
In this article, I want to share my guide to living around disability - a positive note, because singing the blues, especially with my vocal talent, doesn't get me far. Being born with optimism, a helpful measure of self-importance, and rose-colored glasses probably gave me a giant head start, but I believe with determination those who want can catch up.
Knowing and appreciating my self and my body are the most important steps I can take to ensure I live a happy, productive life. When I am aware of and loyal to my strengths, weaknesses, limits, and dreams, I function with confidence and I leave no questions for the other people in my life.
I live on a schedule and activity level that works for my body, with my conditions. I don't expect to be like anyone else or for anyone else to be like me, and I demand the same in return. I would not be ashamed if I were diabetic and required a strict dietary regime, insulin injections, and protective footwear. If I were a cardiac patient, I would insist my family and friends understand my need for frequent walks and my refusal to shovel snow. Likewise, I expect the people around me to understand that I will eat, sleep, exercise, and entertain around my conditions. I would not apologize to anyone if I had been born with no legs or a big nose, and I will not apologize for having no energy or walking funny.
My energy is precious to me. I will leave the dishes on the drain rather than spare the energy it takes to open and close the cabinets and drawers, and the toilet paper on the counter instead of putting in on the roll. I clean house and do laundry when I am able, which is not usually as often as others do. The only people I give permission to comment on those activities are those who say, "Move over so I can do that for you," and people under the age of three.
I make sure what I will do is nothing more than what I can do, comfortably. I don't over commit, and I don't apologize for not being able. To some, this may sound selfish. I believe just the opposite. When I take care of me, everyone around me knows exactly what to expect. The ones who truly care about me are happier because I haven't sacrificed my pride, my energy, or my mental health in apologies and regret.
However, I do write articles that I think will promote understanding or protection of people with disabilities without addressing my particular diagnoses or complaints*. Writing from this once-removed point of view serves two purposes. It protects me from pity which, despite, or maybe because of, the good intentions of the person delivering it usually leaves me feeling undeserving, because I am okay. Politically and financially, circumstances are not okay for most people living on disability incomes, so writing general essays, stories, and poems allows me an opportunity to use my experience and understanding of difficult political and financial circumstances to help others. Once in awhile, I write articles that include a universal glimpse from the inside.**
In this article, I want to share my guide to living around disability - a positive note, because singing the blues, especially with my vocal talent, doesn't get me far. Being born with optimism, a helpful measure of self-importance, and rose-colored glasses probably gave me a giant head start, but I believe with determination those who want can catch up.
Knowing and appreciating my self and my body are the most important steps I can take to ensure I live a happy, productive life. When I am aware of and loyal to my strengths, weaknesses, limits, and dreams, I function with confidence and I leave no questions for the other people in my life.
I live on a schedule and activity level that works for my body, with my conditions. I don't expect to be like anyone else or for anyone else to be like me, and I demand the same in return. I would not be ashamed if I were diabetic and required a strict dietary regime, insulin injections, and protective footwear. If I were a cardiac patient, I would insist my family and friends understand my need for frequent walks and my refusal to shovel snow. Likewise, I expect the people around me to understand that I will eat, sleep, exercise, and entertain around my conditions. I would not apologize to anyone if I had been born with no legs or a big nose, and I will not apologize for having no energy or walking funny.
My energy is precious to me. I will leave the dishes on the drain rather than spare the energy it takes to open and close the cabinets and drawers, and the toilet paper on the counter instead of putting in on the roll. I clean house and do laundry when I am able, which is not usually as often as others do. The only people I give permission to comment on those activities are those who say, "Move over so I can do that for you," and people under the age of three.
I make sure what I will do is nothing more than what I can do, comfortably. I don't over commit, and I don't apologize for not being able. To some, this may sound selfish. I believe just the opposite. When I take care of me, everyone around me knows exactly what to expect. The ones who truly care about me are happier because I haven't sacrificed my pride, my energy, or my mental health in apologies and regret.
Ignorance is Bliss
Her friends all went to Dr. Weiss, so Cindy made an appointment to see him after missing her second period. She thought he was a total jerk, but how could she say that about the most popular obstetrician?
Everyone else she knew breast-fed, used disposable diapers, delivered at Methodist Hospital with an epidural, after having had an ultrasound to determine the gender so they could choose names, clothes, and nursery decors accordingly. She would do the same, even though she preferred formula, cloth diapers, natural childbirth, and surprises. She didn't want her child to start life as an outcast.
Cindy wanted an unusual name, something fun to say and hear, Eli, with a long 'e' for a boy and short 'e' for a girl. Robert, never original, wanted a boy named Robert. His mother put in a request for Sarah, which meant she would criticize anything else and make life miserable for everyone concerned unless she got her way.
Sarah Elizabeth was born at Methodist Hospital, assisted by Dr. Weiss, an epidural, and a lactation specialist. She went home to a pink nursery and Dora the Explorer accessories, almost identical to a dozen other nurseries in the neighborhood.
At three months, Sarah had her picture made at Wal-Mart, dressed head-to-toe in Baby Phat, immortalized in the same poses, using the same props every other child in town used. The photographer worked with her until she flashed the traditional grin.
Over the years, Cindy took Sarah to the same movies her friends saw, bought her the same toys her friends played with, and cloned her in the latest child-fashions. She repeated the worn out clichés the other mothers spewed, because those were the same lessons their mothers had taught them.
"Don't ask him why his eyes are slanted or tell her she has spinach between her teeth. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. Pretend you don't notice the wheelchair or color of her skin." The subliminal messages bled from one generation to the next. Slanted eyes, wheelchairs, skin color, and accidents must be bad if they aren't good enough to talk about.
"Stay away from controversial topics like politics, religion, racism, ignorance, and poverty. You want people to think you're nice, don't you? Don't rock the boat. Never mind why they're different; what you don't know can't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. You will never be given more than you can handle, so this too shall pass, without your voice or investigation. Ask not want not.
Use your manners, respect your elders, get along with everyone, and you will be fine."
Sarah made it through high school without rocking any boats. She wore the right clothes, joined the popular clubs, used her manners, avoided tough topics, and respected her elders. She never questioned the passes her history teacher made at her, or told anyone what she had witnessed in the stairwell at ten thirty-seven on the last day of her sophomore year. She did not question the 'D' Miss Sands gave Lori Meeks, even though she had seen Lori turn in the term paper Miss Sands said she never received, and heard Miss Sands call Lori a lesbian. She didn't tell anyone about the gun Jason White kept in his locker. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them and she was not one to rock boats or take risks. She said no sir and yes maam, please and thank you, and not much else.
The big wedding wasn't Sarah's idea, and she hated the Evangelical Church. However, who was she to argue with him, or his parents. Everyone in their family had a big wedding at the Evangelical Church and expected him to do the same.
Everyone in his family used drugs, cheated on their taxes, and voted Republican. Yes maam, she would do the same. Who was she to question tradition, rock the boat, or bring up difficult topics?
Sarah had no trouble hiding her husband's affair from herself, or her drug addiction from him and the kids. Their kids were too polite to ask questions or bring up the wrong topics. Ignorance was bliss.
Everyone else she knew breast-fed, used disposable diapers, delivered at Methodist Hospital with an epidural, after having had an ultrasound to determine the gender so they could choose names, clothes, and nursery decors accordingly. She would do the same, even though she preferred formula, cloth diapers, natural childbirth, and surprises. She didn't want her child to start life as an outcast.
Cindy wanted an unusual name, something fun to say and hear, Eli, with a long 'e' for a boy and short 'e' for a girl. Robert, never original, wanted a boy named Robert. His mother put in a request for Sarah, which meant she would criticize anything else and make life miserable for everyone concerned unless she got her way.
Sarah Elizabeth was born at Methodist Hospital, assisted by Dr. Weiss, an epidural, and a lactation specialist. She went home to a pink nursery and Dora the Explorer accessories, almost identical to a dozen other nurseries in the neighborhood.
At three months, Sarah had her picture made at Wal-Mart, dressed head-to-toe in Baby Phat, immortalized in the same poses, using the same props every other child in town used. The photographer worked with her until she flashed the traditional grin.
Over the years, Cindy took Sarah to the same movies her friends saw, bought her the same toys her friends played with, and cloned her in the latest child-fashions. She repeated the worn out clichés the other mothers spewed, because those were the same lessons their mothers had taught them.
"Don't ask him why his eyes are slanted or tell her she has spinach between her teeth. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. Pretend you don't notice the wheelchair or color of her skin." The subliminal messages bled from one generation to the next. Slanted eyes, wheelchairs, skin color, and accidents must be bad if they aren't good enough to talk about.
"Stay away from controversial topics like politics, religion, racism, ignorance, and poverty. You want people to think you're nice, don't you? Don't rock the boat. Never mind why they're different; what you don't know can't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. You will never be given more than you can handle, so this too shall pass, without your voice or investigation. Ask not want not.
Use your manners, respect your elders, get along with everyone, and you will be fine."
Sarah made it through high school without rocking any boats. She wore the right clothes, joined the popular clubs, used her manners, avoided tough topics, and respected her elders. She never questioned the passes her history teacher made at her, or told anyone what she had witnessed in the stairwell at ten thirty-seven on the last day of her sophomore year. She did not question the 'D' Miss Sands gave Lori Meeks, even though she had seen Lori turn in the term paper Miss Sands said she never received, and heard Miss Sands call Lori a lesbian. She didn't tell anyone about the gun Jason White kept in his locker. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them and she was not one to rock boats or take risks. She said no sir and yes maam, please and thank you, and not much else.
The big wedding wasn't Sarah's idea, and she hated the Evangelical Church. However, who was she to argue with him, or his parents. Everyone in their family had a big wedding at the Evangelical Church and expected him to do the same.
Everyone in his family used drugs, cheated on their taxes, and voted Republican. Yes maam, she would do the same. Who was she to question tradition, rock the boat, or bring up difficult topics?
Sarah had no trouble hiding her husband's affair from herself, or her drug addiction from him and the kids. Their kids were too polite to ask questions or bring up the wrong topics. Ignorance was bliss.
How Your Job Affects My Life
I purposely broke the law. That's how far down my life had gone. Things that had once been important to me no longer mattered. With little shame and much defiance, I armed myself and hobbled out the door, making a conscious, premeditated decision to do wrong.
It was a big move for a person whose friends had mocked her for refusing to walk through a door with Employees Only posted on it.
"Anything goes, when everything's gone." Even before I lived it, the words of this song had tugged at my heart every time I heard them. Now that my understanding had gone from sympathetic to personal point of view, the chorus embraced me as validation for my deed.
"When you lose all hope, there ain't no right or wrong." Melodramatic? Maybe. Indefensible? Probably, but the sentiment expressed the defeat I felt at the time.
I reached my destination without incident, waited for my daughter to join me in the car and thank me for picking her up, and retraced my three-mile, back-street route. As I drove, she delivered every detail of the workshop. The instructor was from Spain and had brought a guitarist with him. The dancer's technique was worth every dollar the workshop cost and she couldn't wait to get home and practice what she had learned.
She raved on as I drove past the park, but stopped when flashing blue lights caught up with us on the other side of the overpass. My heart pounded as the police car pulled in behind mine instead of speeding around me.
I reached for my purse, and the protection I had remembered to bring. There were no red lights or stop signs. I had not exceeded the speed limit, or hit anyone or anything, so this had to be about my willful crime.
"Your license plate has expired," the officer announced.
"I know. Thirty-six days ago." My shaking hand closed around the defense in my purse, knowing he wouldn't stop with the expired tag. I pulled it out and left it in my lap while I showed him my driver's license and registration, and waited for the dreaded words.
"I need to see proof of insurance," he said, keeping my documents.
"That's the reason for my expired tag." I presented the envelope from my lap. "I recently renewed my policy and the insurance company failed to send my updated proof of insurance cards. I have a letter from my agent."
He refused the envelope I extended, so I removed the letter and opened it. Without looking, he informed me he could not accept my letter.
Remembering the time a police officer had removed my intoxicated husband from his car and delivered him home instead of taking him to jail, I felt sure, since I had endangered no one, this man would apply the same discretion with me. Unsound optimism drove my plea.
"I had to pick up my daughter, and the insurance company assures me the updated cards are in the mail. Please don't do this." I stopped short of telling him how many phone calls it had taken to resolve this situation, what a toll every simple problem took on my energy level, or how weary I was from being out of bed the last two hours.
He scribbled on a form. "It's only a citation. No problem. Get your paperwork in order, take it to the courthouse and show it to the clerks at the windows, and it'll be over."
No problem? Even for a healthy person, a trip to the courthouse was a problem. Time out of any day, driving downtown, finding a parking place, standing in line, dealing with overworked clerks, were all problems. For me, that entailed at least a week's worth of energy and endangered my life. I didn't have the oomph to explain, even if I had thought it would matter to this man. I put the citation and letter in my purse and hoped I had the resilience to make it home.
I switched insurance companies the next day and called the old one to tell them what had happened because of their mistake and cancel. This time, they immediately sent the card with a request to reconsider my decision. I didn't.
Insurance card in hand, I returned to the County Clerk's office to secure my updated license plate. After telling me about the late fee, this clerk said the one who had previously refused my letter should have called the insurance company for verification and saved me the fee and the citation.
I drove downtown, gave up hope of finding a meter space after three trips around the block, wound my way to the roof of a parking garage, waited for a smelly elevator, walked two blocks to the building, waited in line to be scanned for weapons, found 'the windows', and waited in a second line. My head swam as my blood pressure dropped and my temperature rose. When my turn came, I ditched my instinctive skirting of public surfaces and grabbed the counter for support before presenting my paperwork.
Relieved to have this experience behind me, I left the building and leaned against an outside wall to gather strength for my return to the car. I couldn't have identified the clerk inside if my life depended on it, but I did remember her words. "That's all we need. Everything's taken care of."
A short time later, I received a court notice for failing to resolve the citation. I called the clerk at 'the window'. After several transfers and a long wait, someone assured me the notice was a mistake; their records documented my 'taken care of' status.
I lost faith in 'the windows' crew when the second court notice arrived. This time, I called the court clerk, explained that I was on an anti-rejection drugs, had no immune system or energy, and that sitting in a crowded courtroom during flu season could have serious consequences for me. I requested permission to wait outside the courtroom in a safe place, or to go first. She told me the court does not make special allowances for disabilities.
On my second court date, my temperature was 104, every bone, muscle, and nerve in my body reminded me it wasn't happy with our connection, and I would have welcomed the flu if it promised to kill me and end the pain. Unfortunately, I did not have the strength to dress and leave the house to contract a new germ. I called the court clerk, who informed me I could not call in sick to court.
I tried 'the window' clerk again. She still insisted everything 'was taken care of' and the court notice was an error. She said not to worry, stay in bed, and she hoped I would feel better soon.
Four years later, I went to renew my driver's license and discovered that my failure to appear in court had resulted in a suspension of my license and a bench warrant. In no condition to deal with it then, I parked my car for months. My daughters drove me the only places I went - to the grocery, and the fourteen doctors offices and hospitals my most recent diagnoses and a surgery made necessary.
When ready to drive again, I returned to 'the windows' to see what I needed to do to get my driver's license back. The clerk looked me up in her computer, put me back on the docket, and handed me directions to a location across town. I was to go there, pay forty dollars, and have my license reinstated, before my court date.
Finally, something had gone my way. Actually, the before my court date information led me to believe more than one thing had gone my way. Why would I be eligible for reinstatement if they didn't know I brought in proof of insurance and updated tags? Before I left, the clerk told me I needed to take a money order because the office she was sending me to did not accept credit cards or cash.
My daughter drove me to the bank for the money order. I didn't have forty dollars cash, so I wrote a check to the bank – my bank, my branch. The teller asked for identification and I handed her my driver's license.
"I can't accept an expired ID," she told me. Fine. I pulled out my birth certificate, my Medicare card, and my social security card. None of them had a picture, so she would not accept them. I argued that the picture on my driver's license proved my identity, and the others were all valid. She wasn't going for any of it.
My daughter drove me to an ATM for cash, we went down the street to purchase a money order, and then to the off-site building listed on the paper 'the window' clerk had given me. A sign on the door said, Now Accepting Debit and Credit Cards. If only 'the window' clerk had known, I would not have wasted the last two stops.
I signed in, waited my turn, and found out they only renew licenses within one year of suspension, but I was eligible to get my license, I just had to start over with a learner's permit. I would have to test for the permit at another location. If only 'the window' clerk had known this, we wouldn't have wasted the last three stops and I wouldn't be holding an unnecessary money order.
"We're already out," my daughter said. "Let's go ahead and drive over there." I let her convince me I could pass the written test in my frazzled state.
She drove me to the next location. I waited in line. The clerk took my information, confiscated my expired driver's license that had been useful as identification everywhere except the bank, handed me a form, and instructed me to go around the corner to the testing room.
I smiled when I saw the giant stop sign outside the open door. I figured it was the first part of the test, and stopped. The clerk inside the room looked up and huffed. "You can come inside," she said. Her tone indicated I might be the stupidest person ever to come through the door.
I smiled again and handed her my paperwork. Without returning my smile, she pointed to a machine with goggles on the front. "Step up there for your vision test," she ordered.
My forehead pressed the lever on top and illuminated a screen. Through the goggles, I read the top line as instructed.
"Read the third column," she said.
There were no letters in my third column. All I saw was a blank rectangle. I told her this.
"You're blind," she said. "You fail and you should see a doctor."
I laughed. No one would tell another she was blind, in a flippant tone, unless kidding. Almost no one, this one did not laugh with me.
"There must be something wrong with this machine," I said. "There are no letters in the third column."
"Yes there are. You need to see a doctor."
I stepped away from the machine. "I see my ophthalmologist more often than most people see their spouse. I promise you I am not blind."
The next clerk correctly detected my loss of patience and invited me to try her machine. I stepped over, activated the lever on her machine with my forehead, and read off the letters in the first two columns. Her third column was also empty. I knew I wasn't blind, but panicked all the same. Obviously, something was wrong with my vision.
This woman smiled and turned to retrieve forms from a folder on the desk behind her. "You must have mono-vision," she guessed. I confirmed. "Our machines can't test mono-vision, so you will have to have your doctor fill out these forms." If the first girl had known this, she might not have been so rude.
I returned to the waiting room, told my daughter the outcome, and decided I might not want my driver's license after all. "You aren't blind, Mother. We probably have time to go to the doctor's office and get back here before they close. Let's go."
In the car, I looked at the forms and decided it would be inconsiderate to the doctor and the patients who had scheduled this time if I walked in and asked him to complete two pages of questions on my forms. I had my daughter take me home, where I faxed the forms to the office and asked the doctor to return them at his convenience.
Obviously, I did not get my driver's license before my court date. My other daughter drove me to court. As usual, the docket was long and the attorney cases went first. An hour is about how long I can sit on a hard surface, or speak without a drink. Two hours into the session, I considered taking the pain pills in my purse, but knew I'd choke if I tried to swallow them, and didn't want to risk compromising mental clarity. I changed positions often, unable to find one that relieved the pain in my hip although the movement secured my ability to walk when I did finally get to stand again.
"I'm going to ask the sheriff if they can call you soon," my daughter whispered. I reminded her that the court does not make special allowances for disabilities. The sheriff noticed my distress, or our whispering, and came to see if I was okay. I explained my situation and asked if he could permit me to leave the courtroom to walk and get a drink of water, and explain my absence if they called my name while I was out. He granted permission.
When I returned, the sheriff said he had pulled my case, explained the situation, and asked the judge to call me soon. I thanked him. An hour later, he shook his head when I pulled out a tissue to dry my eyes.
My hip was out of socket when I walked to the front of the room, but I made it there without limping or falling. I leaned on the podium for support. No one read my charges so I didn't know they had dropped my real crime - driving with an expired license plate. I might have suggested that was proof I had satisfied someone at the windows' at some point.
The judge asked if I had documentation to prove I had insurance on that date five years earlier. I said I had given my documentation to the clerk at 'the windows', and could not reproduce it because I didn't remember the name of the insurance company. She gave me another court date and said to return with the documentation. Assuming she either hadn't heard or didn't understand, I explained that I could not produce the document on any court date, since I had left my proof at 'the windows' and could not remember the name of the insurance company to ask for a duplicate.
She sneered, chuckled, rolled her eyes at the snickering bitch beside her, and finally asked, "Do you expect me to believe you don't remember who you had insurance with?"
I said yes, I did ask her to believe that because it was the truth. I had cancelled the policy five years before and had no reason to maintain that information since I had delivered it to the court and been assured my citation was 'taken care of'. She told me to either bring the documentation on the next court date or go to jail. Again, she said she could not believe anyone would forget who they had insurance with five years before.
My daughter came forward and explained that she had been with me the night the officer pulled me over. "I'm a witness. My mother had the insurance information in her purse that night, but the police officer wouldn't look at it." The judge told her to sit down.
I wanted to explain that I live on disability income, drive junker cars, and go with whichever insurance company offers me the lowest rate, but the judge refused to listen to another word from me.
"Who do you have insurance with now," she asked.
"I don't have insurance now," I answered. "I don't have a driver's license and my car has been parked for months."
"For months?" She feigned horror. "But you haven't had a license for years."
"No one told me I didn't have a license," I explained. "I only found out when I tried to renew my driver's license."
"I simply don't believe you," she said. "And I've done everything I can to help you."
"No, you haven't," I countered, because she had not allowed me to present my entire defense, or called the clerk from 'the window' to testify that the court notice was a mistake.
She slammed her hand on the desk and ordered me to sit in a chair in the front of the courtroom, until I was ready to apologize or she decided to send me to jail, whichever came first.
I went to my time-out chair, more humiliated and angrier than I had ever been in my life. Someone at the insurance company had made a mistake. Someone in the County Clerk's office had been too lazy to call my insurance company and renew my registration. While twenty thousand unserved warrants sat in a pile somewhere in this city, a police officer pulled me over for driving with a license plate that was thirty-six days expired and couldn't give me the time it took to read the two-paragraph letter I presented in my defense. My crime was paying my taxes late, and the system's built-in late fee would compensate.
Somewhere between the clerks at 'the window' and the person who sends out court notices, someone missed the fact that I had 'taken care of' my citations. Later, someone(s) behind 'the windows' lost my paperwork, and someone in the system forgot to inform the clerks at 'the windows' about the policies in that the office across town. Now, I was stuck with a judge who rolled her eyes, called me a liar, and denied me the opportunity to present my case.
On a scale of one to ten, my physical pain was at least a ten. Emotionally, I probably registered somewhere around fifteen. Something about being treated like a two-year-old made me behave the same. I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my sleeve because my purse was unattended in the back of the courtroom and the judge wouldn't allow anyone to come near me. The judge asked the giggling fat bitch beside her what my problem was, and together they laughed at me. The sheriff looked at me like his heart might break.
One brave man defied the judge's warning glare and brought my purse to me so I could blow my nose. Others ventured forward. An attorney pled with me to apologize, because she would put me in jail for contempt. My daughter, who had left the courtroom to call her sister and plan for my bail, came back and asked if there was something she should do. I asked her to contact the media if I went to jail.
I ended up apologizing, and I'm sorry I did because it was not sincere. The courthouse doesn't have my records from five years ago. Our system purges DUIs at five years, even if fatality cases, but not my citation. The County Clerk's office keeps records four years.
That judge's last words to me were, "I advise you to get a good attorney."
I told her I was on disability and could not afford an attorney. She refused to order a public defender for me.
It is now five years and four months since I made that decision to break the law. My next court date is at the end of June.
The lovely judge in this case has been the lowest rated judge in this county for several years.
She is on the ballot for re-election in November.
Considering the circus of errors in this situation, and the fact that none of the people involved knew how sick I was or how much their actions affected me, I wrestled with my willingness to dump my resentment on this judge. In the end, I believe this is where it belongs. The buck stops with her, and she decided to call me a liar when there were people in the building who could have proven I brought my documentation to 'the windows' in 2001. She also refused to allow me to defend myself, or use a public defender, although I qualify for the service.
My campaign has just begun.
Update: This judge was not re-elected in November.
It was a big move for a person whose friends had mocked her for refusing to walk through a door with Employees Only posted on it.
"Anything goes, when everything's gone." Even before I lived it, the words of this song had tugged at my heart every time I heard them. Now that my understanding had gone from sympathetic to personal point of view, the chorus embraced me as validation for my deed.
"When you lose all hope, there ain't no right or wrong." Melodramatic? Maybe. Indefensible? Probably, but the sentiment expressed the defeat I felt at the time.
I reached my destination without incident, waited for my daughter to join me in the car and thank me for picking her up, and retraced my three-mile, back-street route. As I drove, she delivered every detail of the workshop. The instructor was from Spain and had brought a guitarist with him. The dancer's technique was worth every dollar the workshop cost and she couldn't wait to get home and practice what she had learned.
She raved on as I drove past the park, but stopped when flashing blue lights caught up with us on the other side of the overpass. My heart pounded as the police car pulled in behind mine instead of speeding around me.
I reached for my purse, and the protection I had remembered to bring. There were no red lights or stop signs. I had not exceeded the speed limit, or hit anyone or anything, so this had to be about my willful crime.
"Your license plate has expired," the officer announced.
"I know. Thirty-six days ago." My shaking hand closed around the defense in my purse, knowing he wouldn't stop with the expired tag. I pulled it out and left it in my lap while I showed him my driver's license and registration, and waited for the dreaded words.
"I need to see proof of insurance," he said, keeping my documents.
"That's the reason for my expired tag." I presented the envelope from my lap. "I recently renewed my policy and the insurance company failed to send my updated proof of insurance cards. I have a letter from my agent."
He refused the envelope I extended, so I removed the letter and opened it. Without looking, he informed me he could not accept my letter.
Remembering the time a police officer had removed my intoxicated husband from his car and delivered him home instead of taking him to jail, I felt sure, since I had endangered no one, this man would apply the same discretion with me. Unsound optimism drove my plea.
"I had to pick up my daughter, and the insurance company assures me the updated cards are in the mail. Please don't do this." I stopped short of telling him how many phone calls it had taken to resolve this situation, what a toll every simple problem took on my energy level, or how weary I was from being out of bed the last two hours.
He scribbled on a form. "It's only a citation. No problem. Get your paperwork in order, take it to the courthouse and show it to the clerks at the windows, and it'll be over."
No problem? Even for a healthy person, a trip to the courthouse was a problem. Time out of any day, driving downtown, finding a parking place, standing in line, dealing with overworked clerks, were all problems. For me, that entailed at least a week's worth of energy and endangered my life. I didn't have the oomph to explain, even if I had thought it would matter to this man. I put the citation and letter in my purse and hoped I had the resilience to make it home.
I switched insurance companies the next day and called the old one to tell them what had happened because of their mistake and cancel. This time, they immediately sent the card with a request to reconsider my decision. I didn't.
Insurance card in hand, I returned to the County Clerk's office to secure my updated license plate. After telling me about the late fee, this clerk said the one who had previously refused my letter should have called the insurance company for verification and saved me the fee and the citation.
I drove downtown, gave up hope of finding a meter space after three trips around the block, wound my way to the roof of a parking garage, waited for a smelly elevator, walked two blocks to the building, waited in line to be scanned for weapons, found 'the windows', and waited in a second line. My head swam as my blood pressure dropped and my temperature rose. When my turn came, I ditched my instinctive skirting of public surfaces and grabbed the counter for support before presenting my paperwork.
Relieved to have this experience behind me, I left the building and leaned against an outside wall to gather strength for my return to the car. I couldn't have identified the clerk inside if my life depended on it, but I did remember her words. "That's all we need. Everything's taken care of."
A short time later, I received a court notice for failing to resolve the citation. I called the clerk at 'the window'. After several transfers and a long wait, someone assured me the notice was a mistake; their records documented my 'taken care of' status.
I lost faith in 'the windows' crew when the second court notice arrived. This time, I called the court clerk, explained that I was on an anti-rejection drugs, had no immune system or energy, and that sitting in a crowded courtroom during flu season could have serious consequences for me. I requested permission to wait outside the courtroom in a safe place, or to go first. She told me the court does not make special allowances for disabilities.
On my second court date, my temperature was 104, every bone, muscle, and nerve in my body reminded me it wasn't happy with our connection, and I would have welcomed the flu if it promised to kill me and end the pain. Unfortunately, I did not have the strength to dress and leave the house to contract a new germ. I called the court clerk, who informed me I could not call in sick to court.
I tried 'the window' clerk again. She still insisted everything 'was taken care of' and the court notice was an error. She said not to worry, stay in bed, and she hoped I would feel better soon.
Four years later, I went to renew my driver's license and discovered that my failure to appear in court had resulted in a suspension of my license and a bench warrant. In no condition to deal with it then, I parked my car for months. My daughters drove me the only places I went - to the grocery, and the fourteen doctors offices and hospitals my most recent diagnoses and a surgery made necessary.
When ready to drive again, I returned to 'the windows' to see what I needed to do to get my driver's license back. The clerk looked me up in her computer, put me back on the docket, and handed me directions to a location across town. I was to go there, pay forty dollars, and have my license reinstated, before my court date.
Finally, something had gone my way. Actually, the before my court date information led me to believe more than one thing had gone my way. Why would I be eligible for reinstatement if they didn't know I brought in proof of insurance and updated tags? Before I left, the clerk told me I needed to take a money order because the office she was sending me to did not accept credit cards or cash.
My daughter drove me to the bank for the money order. I didn't have forty dollars cash, so I wrote a check to the bank – my bank, my branch. The teller asked for identification and I handed her my driver's license.
"I can't accept an expired ID," she told me. Fine. I pulled out my birth certificate, my Medicare card, and my social security card. None of them had a picture, so she would not accept them. I argued that the picture on my driver's license proved my identity, and the others were all valid. She wasn't going for any of it.
My daughter drove me to an ATM for cash, we went down the street to purchase a money order, and then to the off-site building listed on the paper 'the window' clerk had given me. A sign on the door said, Now Accepting Debit and Credit Cards. If only 'the window' clerk had known, I would not have wasted the last two stops.
I signed in, waited my turn, and found out they only renew licenses within one year of suspension, but I was eligible to get my license, I just had to start over with a learner's permit. I would have to test for the permit at another location. If only 'the window' clerk had known this, we wouldn't have wasted the last three stops and I wouldn't be holding an unnecessary money order.
"We're already out," my daughter said. "Let's go ahead and drive over there." I let her convince me I could pass the written test in my frazzled state.
She drove me to the next location. I waited in line. The clerk took my information, confiscated my expired driver's license that had been useful as identification everywhere except the bank, handed me a form, and instructed me to go around the corner to the testing room.
I smiled when I saw the giant stop sign outside the open door. I figured it was the first part of the test, and stopped. The clerk inside the room looked up and huffed. "You can come inside," she said. Her tone indicated I might be the stupidest person ever to come through the door.
I smiled again and handed her my paperwork. Without returning my smile, she pointed to a machine with goggles on the front. "Step up there for your vision test," she ordered.
My forehead pressed the lever on top and illuminated a screen. Through the goggles, I read the top line as instructed.
"Read the third column," she said.
There were no letters in my third column. All I saw was a blank rectangle. I told her this.
"You're blind," she said. "You fail and you should see a doctor."
I laughed. No one would tell another she was blind, in a flippant tone, unless kidding. Almost no one, this one did not laugh with me.
"There must be something wrong with this machine," I said. "There are no letters in the third column."
"Yes there are. You need to see a doctor."
I stepped away from the machine. "I see my ophthalmologist more often than most people see their spouse. I promise you I am not blind."
The next clerk correctly detected my loss of patience and invited me to try her machine. I stepped over, activated the lever on her machine with my forehead, and read off the letters in the first two columns. Her third column was also empty. I knew I wasn't blind, but panicked all the same. Obviously, something was wrong with my vision.
This woman smiled and turned to retrieve forms from a folder on the desk behind her. "You must have mono-vision," she guessed. I confirmed. "Our machines can't test mono-vision, so you will have to have your doctor fill out these forms." If the first girl had known this, she might not have been so rude.
I returned to the waiting room, told my daughter the outcome, and decided I might not want my driver's license after all. "You aren't blind, Mother. We probably have time to go to the doctor's office and get back here before they close. Let's go."
In the car, I looked at the forms and decided it would be inconsiderate to the doctor and the patients who had scheduled this time if I walked in and asked him to complete two pages of questions on my forms. I had my daughter take me home, where I faxed the forms to the office and asked the doctor to return them at his convenience.
Obviously, I did not get my driver's license before my court date. My other daughter drove me to court. As usual, the docket was long and the attorney cases went first. An hour is about how long I can sit on a hard surface, or speak without a drink. Two hours into the session, I considered taking the pain pills in my purse, but knew I'd choke if I tried to swallow them, and didn't want to risk compromising mental clarity. I changed positions often, unable to find one that relieved the pain in my hip although the movement secured my ability to walk when I did finally get to stand again.
"I'm going to ask the sheriff if they can call you soon," my daughter whispered. I reminded her that the court does not make special allowances for disabilities. The sheriff noticed my distress, or our whispering, and came to see if I was okay. I explained my situation and asked if he could permit me to leave the courtroom to walk and get a drink of water, and explain my absence if they called my name while I was out. He granted permission.
When I returned, the sheriff said he had pulled my case, explained the situation, and asked the judge to call me soon. I thanked him. An hour later, he shook his head when I pulled out a tissue to dry my eyes.
My hip was out of socket when I walked to the front of the room, but I made it there without limping or falling. I leaned on the podium for support. No one read my charges so I didn't know they had dropped my real crime - driving with an expired license plate. I might have suggested that was proof I had satisfied someone at the windows' at some point.
The judge asked if I had documentation to prove I had insurance on that date five years earlier. I said I had given my documentation to the clerk at 'the windows', and could not reproduce it because I didn't remember the name of the insurance company. She gave me another court date and said to return with the documentation. Assuming she either hadn't heard or didn't understand, I explained that I could not produce the document on any court date, since I had left my proof at 'the windows' and could not remember the name of the insurance company to ask for a duplicate.
She sneered, chuckled, rolled her eyes at the snickering bitch beside her, and finally asked, "Do you expect me to believe you don't remember who you had insurance with?"
I said yes, I did ask her to believe that because it was the truth. I had cancelled the policy five years before and had no reason to maintain that information since I had delivered it to the court and been assured my citation was 'taken care of'. She told me to either bring the documentation on the next court date or go to jail. Again, she said she could not believe anyone would forget who they had insurance with five years before.
My daughter came forward and explained that she had been with me the night the officer pulled me over. "I'm a witness. My mother had the insurance information in her purse that night, but the police officer wouldn't look at it." The judge told her to sit down.
I wanted to explain that I live on disability income, drive junker cars, and go with whichever insurance company offers me the lowest rate, but the judge refused to listen to another word from me.
"Who do you have insurance with now," she asked.
"I don't have insurance now," I answered. "I don't have a driver's license and my car has been parked for months."
"For months?" She feigned horror. "But you haven't had a license for years."
"No one told me I didn't have a license," I explained. "I only found out when I tried to renew my driver's license."
"I simply don't believe you," she said. "And I've done everything I can to help you."
"No, you haven't," I countered, because she had not allowed me to present my entire defense, or called the clerk from 'the window' to testify that the court notice was a mistake.
She slammed her hand on the desk and ordered me to sit in a chair in the front of the courtroom, until I was ready to apologize or she decided to send me to jail, whichever came first.
I went to my time-out chair, more humiliated and angrier than I had ever been in my life. Someone at the insurance company had made a mistake. Someone in the County Clerk's office had been too lazy to call my insurance company and renew my registration. While twenty thousand unserved warrants sat in a pile somewhere in this city, a police officer pulled me over for driving with a license plate that was thirty-six days expired and couldn't give me the time it took to read the two-paragraph letter I presented in my defense. My crime was paying my taxes late, and the system's built-in late fee would compensate.
Somewhere between the clerks at 'the window' and the person who sends out court notices, someone missed the fact that I had 'taken care of' my citations. Later, someone(s) behind 'the windows' lost my paperwork, and someone in the system forgot to inform the clerks at 'the windows' about the policies in that the office across town. Now, I was stuck with a judge who rolled her eyes, called me a liar, and denied me the opportunity to present my case.
On a scale of one to ten, my physical pain was at least a ten. Emotionally, I probably registered somewhere around fifteen. Something about being treated like a two-year-old made me behave the same. I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my sleeve because my purse was unattended in the back of the courtroom and the judge wouldn't allow anyone to come near me. The judge asked the giggling fat bitch beside her what my problem was, and together they laughed at me. The sheriff looked at me like his heart might break.
One brave man defied the judge's warning glare and brought my purse to me so I could blow my nose. Others ventured forward. An attorney pled with me to apologize, because she would put me in jail for contempt. My daughter, who had left the courtroom to call her sister and plan for my bail, came back and asked if there was something she should do. I asked her to contact the media if I went to jail.
I ended up apologizing, and I'm sorry I did because it was not sincere. The courthouse doesn't have my records from five years ago. Our system purges DUIs at five years, even if fatality cases, but not my citation. The County Clerk's office keeps records four years.
That judge's last words to me were, "I advise you to get a good attorney."
I told her I was on disability and could not afford an attorney. She refused to order a public defender for me.
It is now five years and four months since I made that decision to break the law. My next court date is at the end of June.
The lovely judge in this case has been the lowest rated judge in this county for several years.
She is on the ballot for re-election in November.
Considering the circus of errors in this situation, and the fact that none of the people involved knew how sick I was or how much their actions affected me, I wrestled with my willingness to dump my resentment on this judge. In the end, I believe this is where it belongs. The buck stops with her, and she decided to call me a liar when there were people in the building who could have proven I brought my documentation to 'the windows' in 2001. She also refused to allow me to defend myself, or use a public defender, although I qualify for the service.
My campaign has just begun.
Update: This judge was not re-elected in November.
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