Breakdown Canceled

Melissa Etheridge wailed an appropriate sentiment through the car speakers as Rachel backed out the drive and proceeded to the corner.

I cannot run,
I cannot hide,
it came with me,
locked inside,
the bough will break,
the cradle will fall,
it only takes one call.

Rachel lowered the windows, inviting the nippy autumn air inside, and stopped at the corner to look at the contents of the large envelope again. Her hands shook in a state of combined fear and anger that edged so close to loss of control that it frightened her. She sorted through the baggies that had come stuffed in the envelope: several small bags containing long, single auburn hairs, and a bigger one full of trimmings, obviously collected from a salon floor. What kind of lunatic had followed her around collecting hair, and then mailed it to her?

A sociopathic lunatic according to the police; yet, they still refused to arrest him. Since she had survived his first attack with no permanent (physical) damage, and neither collecting nor mailing hair violated his probation, some legal brainiac decided she would have to deal with it, or hope he did something worse.

Neither seemed fair.

She watched for a safe opening and made the turn, squealing the tires when she floored the gas pedal and dared anyone to get in her way or try to stop her. To hell with the speed limit. If laws didn't apply to sociopaths, their victims should also be exempt. She turned the volume up and shrieked the chorus with Melissa. The ends of her hair escaped through the window, floated on the wind, and tugged at the roots still connected to her head, challenging the rest of her to want the same freedom.

So you're having a breakdown,
so you're losing a fight,
so you're having a breakdown
I'm driving and crying,
unraveled, I'm flying,
I'm coming to your breakdown tonight.

What started as a mad drive suddenly developed purpose when she remembered a walk-ins welcome sign on a shop she had passed in the mall. She drove up the interstate ramp and activated cruise control, since tears and the irrational decisions proved that self-control had abandoned her.

She rushed through the mall, hoping this was the correct mall, and she wasn't too late. Luck was with her. Not only was the shop there, between the pet and toy stores where she clearly remembered it now, the receptionist escorted her immediately to a station and promised someone would be right with her.

"Beautiful hair," an over-zealous stylist repeated several times as he circled the chair, fluffing Rachel's hair around her face. "We need to take a few inches off, and put some layers around your face."

"Cut it all off," Rachel said. "Short. I want something sassy and sporty."

The stylist folded his arms and stepped back to examine her. "As sweet as that might look on you, it's too drastic. And I would hate to cut off this gorgeous hair." He ran his fingers through her hair, from scalp to hips.

"Can I donate it to cancer patients or something?" she asked. "I have to do this tonight, before I lose my nerve."

He bobbed his head several times with his brows drawn together. "So this is an impulsive decision?"

"Not entirely," she said. Strangely, he seemed more upset over the situation than she felt. "I've thought about it for years, but let a man stand in the way of my decision. I'm ready to let go, of both of them. The hair and the man."

Rick, whose name she saw on the stack of business cards sitting on the vanity, let out a hoot and clapped his hands. "So this is a revenge cut. Honey, I'd never stand in the way of vengeance. As long as you're positive you want to do this."

"Positive," she said, feeling the first twinge of doubt.

Rick wrapped a cape around her shoulders and led her to the sink. "It'll be so much easier to care for, and you'll save a small fortune in shampoo," he said as he wet her hair with the sprayer. He lathered, reached for the shampoo bottle a second time, and whistled. "Girl, you've got more hair than I've ever seen on one person. I wish I had cut about a foot of it off before I brought you back here."

"Can I donate it?" she asked. "I'll feel better if I don't just leave it on your floor."

He wrapped her hair in a towel and guided her back to the seat. "We aren't set up for that. But you can take it home with you and check it out later."

After he had combed her hair and tied several ribbons around it, Rick cut off a two-foot ponytail and handed it to her. She stared at the hair in her hands, afraid to look up, even though her back was to the mirror. "I expected to feel immediate regret." The words gave her the courage to meet his eyes. "I don't know how to describe what I feel." She shook her head. "I feel free. Yes. I don't think this is a negative feeling."

The hostess brought a binder to Rachel. "Thought you might need these. Pictures of different styles."

"No." Rick said. "I know exactly what I want to do with her."

Rachel shrugged and returned the book to the hostess. "I'll trust him."

"Low maintenance, air dry, no products," Rick said. "That's you, right?"

She nodded. "You got it. But, I'll probably need make-up if you give me a little boy cut."

He clucked his tongue. "I won't let you down. I'm going for a soft, tousled look that I promise will not make anyone mistake you for a little boy."

Rachel threw her hands up. "Okay. Do it."

He snipped and chatted, keeping the chair turned so she couldn't see anything until he had finished and spun her around to face the mirror. By then, she was the only customer left in the shop. The hostess and two remaining stylists had come to watch her reaction.

A nervous giggle escaped before she spoke. "I love it!" She ran her fingers through the fringe around her face and watched it fall back into place, giggling again. "I look ten years younger."

"And still like a girl," Rick said.

Her audience offered compliments; both to her, for making the decision, and to Rick, for creating the perfect look for her. She continued to play with her hair and smile. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Pay me so I can go home," he said. "We're holding up mall security."

She jumped up, embarrassed, and pulled a credit card from her pocket. "I'm sorry I kept you late," she said, handing the card over and picking up her ponytail from the vanity. She thought about telling him this was the most fun she had had in months, but realized that made her sound like a total loser, unless she explained that she had been holed up, hiding from her stalker, in which case he might still think she was a total loser.

The other employees left. Rachel followed Rick to the desk, eying herself in another mirror while he processed the card. "Thanks again," she said. "I can't tell you how pleased I am with the cut."

"I am too," he said. "Now, I hope this will open new doors, and you'll stay away from whoever's mistreating you. No one deserves to be punched around like that."

Rachel looked in the mirror again, this time seeing everything. "Want to hear something funny?" she asked.

"Sure." He came around the counter and walked her out.

"I forgot all about my face while I was here. Until you brought it up."

"Sorry."

"No. It's nothing to be sorry about," she said. "You gave me an hour of safe, stress-free fun. I can't tell you what that means. Know why?"

"Nope," he said, waving at the security guard as they passed him and stepped off the curb into the parking lot.

"You looked at me like a real person. No sympathy, no disgust, no judgment. You aren't a cop or a co-worker. Or a parent. Because you didn't react, I forgot for a little while. Thank you."

"The black eye doesn't keep you from being a real person," he said. "You'll need a trim in about a month. I'll bet your bruises are gone by then."

Rachel pressed the buttons on the remote and opened her door. "I'll hold you to that bet. See you next month," she said before getting in the car.

She put her ponytail in the glove compartment and ejected the CD before leaving the parking lot. At the first red light, she tossed the envelope of baggies out the window and pulled the visor down for another look at her new self.

Sociopath beware; the breakdown is over.

(Song lyrics from Breakdown written and performed by Melissa Etheridge.)

Chest Pain

Recognizing urgency in the knock, Paul forfeited his Nyquil induced reprieve. "Coming," he called, donning a sheet as he stumbled to the door.

Lila greeted him with a puff of smoke, a sneer, and her telephone. "You look like hell. It's your mother."

He listened to his mother and ignored Lila's rolling eyes. "Call the doctor. I'm on the way."

Lila ditched her cigarette in a glass of water on the varnished stump Paul used as a coffee table and took back her phone. "Drop me at the mall on your way?"

He nodded, flinched, clutched his jaw as pain exploded from his neck to his brain.

"Tooth still hurt?" Lila asked. "When you gonna get that fixed?"

"Soon." He returned to the bedroom, traded the sheet for a pair of jeans, stepped into shoes while he grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

Lila followed with a scowl. "You ain't gonna brush your teeth or hair?"

"Her chest hurts." He started the engine. "Don't have time."

Lila crawled in and slammed the passenger door. "You stink." She lit another cigarette.

Paul stopped the engine, jumped out, ran a gas can and lawn-trimmer from the trunk to the porch, and returned, pain nearly blinding him now. "Got an extra smoke?" he asked, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Thought you quit." She handed him her cigarette and lit another.

"Need something to take the edge off this pain." He sucked relief into his lungs. "Had an appointment with the dental clinic this morning. Took six weeks to get in."

He pulled into the mall lot. She slid out. "Hope you finish with your mom in time for the dentist."

While waiting in line to exit the lot, his mother's voice rolled in. What you lack in brains, make up in kindness. You'll be fine. He shifted the car into park, grabbed a bag from the back seat, and jumped out to collect litter from the side of the road. Horns sounded but he ran a few feet farther to get a whiskey bottle and soda can, waving an apology as he returned to his car and sped off.

Chest pain. He shouldn't have wasted time.

He turned the corner, slid into the last car in a gridlock. Jaw throbbing, he jumped out to check on the passengers in the other car and slid, landing on the ground beside his front tire.

"Stay away," the other driver yelled.

He's drunk," the driver accused when the police arrived. "Came around the corner like a maniac, slammed into me, then staggered out and fell down."

Paul watched the officer and the woman walk to his car and look inside. "That your bottle?" The officer asked.

"Looks like a pig sty," the woman said. "He's filthy. Look at his hair."

"Sir, would you please stand?"

Paul struggled to his feet. The woman fanned her face. "Smells like an ashtray.

Chest pain. What you lack in brains, make up in kindness. Without a fight, he held his hands out to be cuffed.

Houses Are Dressing For Success Now?

I spent Saturday morning watching Sell This House and Flip This House on the Arts & Entertainment channel. Worse than the disappointment of discovering this is someone's idea of art or entertainment was the realization that marble and granite countertops are only a small part of the deceptive practice of dressing houses for success, or for the owners they hope to have. At least in cases where actual marble or granite is used instead of Formica colored to look like stone, the updates are real and not illusion.

 

Since these programs were presented in the tone of public service announcements, and rude attitudes were valued higher than personal tastes, feelings, and safety, now I understand better how out of touch I am with corporate reach into real estate. After viewing what are apparently acceptable levels of unreasonable expectation, demands for instant gratification, personal insults, ignorance, lack of imagination, poor character, theft by deception, and profit above all else, I was heartsick.

On Sell This House, a group of workers goes into houses that are on the market but have not sold, to "stage" makeovers. There must be a charge for their service--even though sellers and their friends are expected to help with labor--either passed on to buyers or covered by advertisers who promote ignorance, instant gratification, and poor character. Either way, it costs buyers and society.

First, the team "stages" an open house before making changes. Potential buyers wander through the house, wearing expressions of disgust and confusion while they criticize everything from structure to taste. None of them is smart enough to remember that they will bring their own furniture, decorations, dishes, and photographs if they buy this house. Someone must have told them these sellers have received permission to buy the last paint and hardware on earth, and the sellers plan to leave everything they own in the house. All they see when walking through these houses are themselves, stuck, forever living the horrendously pathetic lives of the sellers.

Of course, the staging team plays recordings of these insults for the sellers. Regardless of their attachments to the things they own or their ability to afford changes, the team must share the insults to justify cleansing their home of everything personal, intellectual, useful, and entertaining. (They threw one item out a second story window and shattered it.) Books, electronics, kitchen appliances, photographs, and keepsakes must be moved to storage where they belong. According to Oprah and current designers, houses must look like no one lives there and everything that existed before 2009 must be destroyed and replaced with a staged gadget. The staged replacements are worth little (prices are shown) but will give the illusion that, should the viewer decide to buy, they will have modern stuff in this house.

No one on either side seems to realize this is wasted crap since, instead of staying in the house that is now painted to match the crap, the cheap bed clothes, the curtains that are stapled to the wall, and the couch cushions carelessly made from more bargain basement sheets will go with the sellers, who will have to hope the crap survives the move and matches their new place, which will not suit their taste according to the looks of sorrow on some of their faces.

Finally, the team stages a second walk through in which the rude people are invited back to love the makeovers without showing signs of embarrassment for not having considered what the place could have looked like if they had painted walls, thumb-tacked old clothes over windows, and covered their own couches with a thousand gaudy pillows. As expected, one of the potential buyers wants this house at the new price because it's beautiful and uncluttered now. The staging team boasts that they have turned two days of labor and insults, and a couple hundred dollars, into thousands of dollars in profit. Never mind that the total square footage remains the same as before and they are paying thousands for the couple hundred dollars worth of crap that will mostly go with the sellers or in the trash. All dressed for success, this house looks bigger and like it belongs on Oprah so they feel bigger, or smarter, or more in the mood to buy.

Flip This House was a more appealing idea on the surface. If flipped by conscientious investors who care as much about society and others as they do about profit, it might salvage and restore failing neighborhoods. Sadly, this program featured some for whom it was all about profit. One guy had to see a counselor when it turned out he could not just paint over rat and roach feces but had to replace walls, cutting into what was still a more than $100,000 profit. Fortunately, I kept watching until they featured the guy who flipped a house for less than $100,000 profit, cared about safety, donated or recycled what he removed from the house, and installed energy saving appliances.

How is this going to work for the people whose salaries remain stagnant (that would be most Americans) while the cost of housing (this ultimately affects rental rates, as well) rises ten times faster? Illusions and ignorance are killing what's left of the American Dream.

I Don't Want Granite or Marble Countertops

A friend reported that the suffering economy had apparently not hindered the ability of everyone he has visited recently to update their kitchens.

"Let me guess," I interrupted. "Marble or granite countertops and stainless steel appliances?"

"Correct," he said. "How'd you know?"

"Those are the latest, keep-up, status symbols. You're nobody if you still have butcher block or black. Nobody, I tell you! Imagine what that makes me with white appliances and Formica." 

He confessed. His Formica countertops prove that he is a nobody with me.

In all my life, I can only remember seeing a couple of countertops destroyed beyond repair. Cutting boards or trivets sufficiently covered most of the mishaps I've seen. Maybe I'm out of touch, though. Are Formica and ceramic tiles on the growing list of things that will kill us if we don't replace them immediately? If so, I will swallow some of these words with a spoonful of sugar.

My mother owned three refrigerators in her life. She lived to be seventy-four. At fifty-seven, I've bought as many. Obviously, they aren't lasting like they used to but it's still hard to imagine that all of the non-stainless ones that have been replaced in the last few years actually bit the dust making those replacements necessary. I'm betting people are replacing perfectly useful counters and appliances because that's what people do these days. I'm also feeling very old saying these days.

My friend said he had priced marble and granite and decided the switch could wait until he is ready to sell his house. Then, of course, he will have to update the kitchen and bathroom to attract buyers.

"Huh?" For the sake of making this as accurate as possible, I will embarrass myself by typing that grunted response. "Why would you make those changes to a house you are going to leave?"

"Because that's what they tell you to do if you want to get the best price," he explained.

I might have told him that I think they always say stupid things. I'm certain I said, "But they are game players, the people who run up the cost of buying a home. And you are playing their game." I'm certain about that part because my accusing him of playing their game is what made him furious with me.

He explained how he could put a little money into updates and get more than a little back, which made my head want to explode. I was shocked to hear this from a friend who usually lashes out against Corporate America and materialism with more venom than even I use. I must be missing a lot these days (and getting older by the paragraph since I keep using these days).

"Why not give the buyers the opportunity to decide when they would prefer to make this investment?" I asked. "Let them choose the countertops and appliances they want when the time comes since they are going to have to pay for them. Updates aren't free, you know, just because the seller makes them."

He said something about wanting to get as much as he could for his house. I'll admit that I closed my ears because I didn't want to hear this from my friend.

"The buyer pays more because the seller wants to make more, and the bank or mortgage company takes their cut, then the real estate agent boosts his percentage, and the closing attorney gets a few cents . . . all because the Joneses went into debt to keep up, creating a domino affect in the neighborhood which in turn helped out the bank by loaning money to replace perfectly useful trappings (old lady word, totally appropriate, and a liberty claimed for my willingness to own up to my nonstop rant)," I argued.

If I hadn't been in such a fossilized tizzy at that point, I'm sure my friend, who is usually reasonable and patient with my rantings would have explained how the bank would use that extra money to create jobs, and the people in those jobs would be able to buy more expensive homes, and perhaps the next status symbol will be floor coverings and above ground gardening boxes since they already have kitchens built into their mortgages, thereby helping other industries, and eventually the economy will improve and everyone will be sitting on easy street all because of marble and granite countertops. I'm sure my hateful growling of the words foreclosure and rackets are what made him change the direction of our conversation.

"My house is an investment,"he explained. "I bought it to make as much money as I can. Why did you buy your houses?"

And there we had the difference. Whew. At least this made some sense of the disagreement. I bought homes to live in, not houses to invest in. The first one had a different ugly carpet in each room. Hideous would better describe the absolute, most disgusting outdated floor covering in that kitchen. The front sidewalk had been painted red, leading to a black and white porch, attached to a house with green trim, making me almost grateful for the overgrown hedges framing the front and side yards. Almost. I would never have chosen the paint color in a single room or the sidewalk of that house, or the foil wallpaper that clashed with the hideous kitchen carpet. And I will never understand why the previous owner nailed plastic fruit to the doorframes. 

But I will appreciate the real estate agent who did not advise the previous owner to spend money on updates that would have made this place move-in ready. I'm positive - absolutely, positively, without a single doubt positive - she would not have chosen what I wanted. Also, at age twenty-four, I barely qualified for the mortgage as it was, so I probably wouldn't have been able to buy this house with those costs added to the price.

I cleaned the ugly carpets and walls, collected old furniture from garages and basements of friends and family, and moved in with big dreams. I would save a little from each paycheck and eventually paint and replace carpets. Maybe, a few raises and bonuses down the road, I'd buy furniture, a piece or a room at a time. Meanwhile, I had my own home. When I looked at that house, I saw what I knew it would be, not the fixer-upper it was.

I replaced everything in that house while I was there. Seriously, every wall, the wiring, floor coverings, the furnace and air-conditioning, light fixtures, electrical outlets and covers . . . At times, I lived with plywood floors and studs without drywall while I saved for what I wanted to cover them. That way, the interest that might have gone to the bank became my profit. When I left, I sold my home to the first potential buyer, making a little profit which I then used as a down payment on another house that I saw as the home it could be instead of the mess it was.

And this concludes my story about one of the ways I think the housing market went to Walmart in a hand basket. Next time, I plan to talk about investment buyers and how I hope their homes are as overpriced, drafty, leaky, and miserable as the ones they rent.

Some granite counter tops may emit radon.

Mrs. Donahoe's Pruning Tool

Mrs. Donohoe was the original Edward Scissorhands, wielding a pruning tool like an extension of her hands. She took great pride in her lawn and flowerbeds, clipping ,digging, fertilizing, and transplanting, from dawn until dusk, spring through autumn. The only time she broke from her work was to threaten trespassers with her pruning tool and a harsh, "Step on my lawn and I'll cut off your ears."

Most children feared Mrs. Donohoe, often crossing to the other side of the street to avoid her property. Some eased past her house, carefully monitoring each step to avoid accidents. A few brave ones watched for her to settle into weeding position on her knees, touched a toe or finger to her grass, and ran when she finally rose with the pruning tool to come after them.

Adults either laughed at Mrs. Donohoe, You'd think those begonias were gold, or resented her, Who does she think she is? Mr. and Mrs. Johnson took it even further; they hated Mrs. Donohue. We don't care about her pansies. Kids will be kids and she'd better leave ours alone. They taunted her. Move if you don't want our kids picking your tulips.

One summer, Mr. Johnson's brother and his family came to stay with our Johnsons, bringing the total number of Johnson kids on the block up to eight. Mrs. Donohoe wore herself out chasing the new kids with her pruning tool. She left her own yard and chased the Johnson kids off every lawn. The neighbors congregated in lawn chairs to laugh and talk about her. The crazy lady should mind her own business.

The new Johnson kids tired of picking tulips and pansies and taught the original Johnson kids new games. They flattened metal garbage cans, toilet papered trees, and egged houses and cars. Mrs. Donohoe couldn't keep up with them. When she called on the neighbors for help, they refused her because the original Mrs. Johnson always waved when she passed and the new one was expecting another baby any day. Besides, both Mr. Johnsons were loud and owned guns, so nobody wanted to cross them. They said she should really just mind her own business; the neighborhood belonged to everyone.

Daddy Johnsons came home from an auction with baseball bats, gloves, and balls, and the Johnson kids turned the street into a baseball field. A few people sided with Mrs. Donohoe when they tired of parking at the corner because they couldn't get through the game to their homes. They slipped over to her house late at night, when the Johnsons weren't looking, and asked her to expand her pruning tool chase into the street.

When the sun came up, they stayed inside and left her on her own. Some continued to shout insults at her while they waved to Mrs. Johnson.

For Sale signs went up in three yards after the owners replaced baseball-shattered windows in their cars and homes. Others tired of replacing glass and covered their windows with boards. The only prospective buyers willing to brave crossing the Johnson kids and their baseball bats were those carrying weapons bigger than the baseball bats.

Soon, the Johnsons were the only people on the block who ventured outdoors. There were two ways off the block: through the alley and selling property at half its value.

Mrs. Donohoe let her yard turn into right field. She sold her pruning tool to replace the side panel in her front door.

Everything Matters

After weeks of exchanging sighs and acknowledgment of empathy with other club members, Beth accepted the sad realization that Nice Mommy and her Obnoxious Offspring were not guests. The possibility of getting through the stack of books that she had reserved for pool reading this year looked bleak.

The Obnoxious Offspring climbed over chairs, even when people they didn’t know were sitting in those seats. They jumped in and out of the pool with no regard for the person who might already be in their landing spot or on the stairs, and they assumed permission to use towels, toys, rafts, and sunscreen no matter who owned it. Food and drinks were not safe in their presence, nor were cell phones, books, laptops, glasses, purses, clothes, or members on walkers or in strollers. The Obnoxious Offspring ran, screamed, shoved, and cried.

They cried often and loud. They cried until snot covered their faces and their snot ended up in the pool, on someone else’s towel, or sometimes on another person’s body. They cried until Beth’s nerves rattled but she refused to wear earplugs like some of the others had started doing.

This one family created chaos in the pool area, the locker room, and the fitness center. Twice a day, they disrupted the parking area while Nice Mommy chased her Obnoxious Offspring around the lot before getting them into the club or the SUV.

Nice Mommy responded to each of the Obnoxious Offspring’s hellion antics with the same message. In a syrupy tone, with an understanding smile, she said, “We don’t do that.” In the rare event only one of her offspring was guilty, she used a name. Occasionally, she established the violation, “We don’t knock old ladies out of their chairs and spit on them.” For the most part, at least a hundred times a day, the generic version sufficed.

If the Obnoxious Offspring heard a word she said, they never let on.

But Beth heard her, as did her sighing, teeth gritting, lip biting, eye rolling partners in misery. She knew, as long as Nice Mommy and the monsters were around, they would never be able to swim laps in the morning, read a book in peace, carry on conversations as they had every year before. They would be lucky to think about anything other than controlling their anger.

When the oldest Obnoxious Offspring shoved an unsuspecting, unprepared, never-obnoxious child into the water, causing her to skin her back on the side of the pool and come up choking and frightened, Beth grabbed the sides of her chair to keep from jumping out of it and smacking the smirk off an obnoxious face.

“We don’t push,” Nice Mommy reminded her apparently deaf brat. She smiled at the traumatized child’s mother, and then turned to look at Beth. Still wearing her plastic smile, Nice Mommy shrugged, as though she couldn’t understand why the other child’s mother was upset.

Beth counted to ten in her head, tried to visualize herself in a hammock, alone on a deserted beach. Youngest Obnoxious Offspring charged into the space between Beth’s chair and the one next to it, caught her foot in the strap of a pool bag, tripped, and landed with her elbow in Beth’s stomach.

“We don’t run,” Nice mommy said.

Beth ignored the pain in her gut and the stars that flashed before her eyes. “Maybe you don’t run, but your children do,” she said to the delusional Nice Mommy. “Why do you ignore what they do?”

Nice Mommy’s smile did not falter. “I do not ignore my children.” The sugar in her tone thickened. “Maybe you should stay home when you’re grouchy. This pool doesn’t belong only to you.”

“Correction,” Beth said. “You don’t ignore your children. You excuse their behavior by repeatedly telling them they don’t do what they know you see them doing.”

Nice Mommy said she would pray for Grouchy Beth to mind her own business and called her obnoxious offspring to her side. “Mommy is going to the ladies’ room. Stay out of the water until I get back.”

Once Nice Mommy was out of hearing range, other members cheered Beth. “I’ve wanted to say that for days,” one of them said.

“She needs to open her eyes,” another added. “One of them is going to get hurt, or seriously hurt someone else.”

Beth appreciated the input but left her chair to mind Nice Mommy’s business once again. Oldest Obnoxious Offspring had knocked Youngest in the deep end and the child was struggling. Beth jumped in and pulled the child out.

Nice Mommy returned. With a smile, she snatched her crying Obnoxious Offspring from Beth and marched inside to complain about the grouchy woman.

“From all we’ve seen, Nice Mommy is always nice and she watches her children,” the manager explained to Beth. “You cannot be rude to another guest.”

“I just fished her youngest out of the deep end of the pool,” Beth said. “She watches them annoy everyone else. She watches them help themselves to our drinks and take toys from other children. She watched one of them throw my book in the water a few days ago.”

“No one else has complained,” the manager said. “Maybe you should be more tolerant.”

Beth returned to the pool area and shared the conversation with her friends, all of whom agreed. “I can’t complain because she is always nice to me,” one said. A few nodded, a few registered their complaints with management, and most did nothing.

Management posted new pool rules the following week – no personal items allowed in the pool area and children under the age of ten would be required to wear life jackets.

“My kids can swim,” one of the people who did nothing complained to Beth. “This is not fair and I am not joining next year.”

“She’s always nice,” Beth said. “Next year, the pool will belong to nice people.

To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men.
Abraham Lincoln

I Love You and Hope You Die

A friend used this title on her domestic abuse article. It worked well. I have remembered it and thought of other uses for it over the years. After watching the Republican Party try to dismantle every safety net we have, I think this title’s time has come again.

You say you love me and don’t want to fight with me yet you do everything in your power to protect your greed over my ability to live. You ignore a thousand kind, informative words to find one of mine that you can twist into a slur, and you criticize and obstruct everything I do to deliver my love to the world – which includes you. You can say you love me but it means little without actions to support the claim.

You say you have what you want and that should be enough for me, but you don’t offer what you have – even cry that you will not stand for anyone trying to “redistribute” life or love from you to me. You wish me well, but never ask if I am well and you turn your back on people who don’t look well.

You say you would never insult me while you lie about my life’s work and tell me I am a fool to seek the truth or repeat the facts. And you say you will pray for me when, in fact, you prey on me and steal the truth that is rightfully mine.

You ask me to trust you and then admit that you don’t seek or speak the truth. You say I should hear your words of love but you base your love on nothing and think you don’t have to live that love.

You say you treasure your right to lie, cheat, ignore history, spit in the face of education, defy facts, practice your faith, and ignore the needs of your world. And when I dedicate my life to fighting to protect your freedom to do everything that I find disgusting, you criticize me for wanting to offer the same rights to people you don’t like. Not only do you criticize me for doing what you are too lazy or selfish to do, you ask me to honor people who volunteered to kill innocent people in my name -   instead of standing by my side to bring to justice the administration that threatened your freedom and their lives. You dishonor my service to your community.

You say your faith comforts you and I must respect that. But you show no respect for my faith in things I can prove. In fact, you are angry with me for having proof. Nor do you consider my faith that no respectable god would appreciate your duplicity. You see, you say you love everyone but are tired of people who hold a hand out for help. Yet, your response to everything is to hold your hand out to your god rather than helping the people or the world that you insist he created. Your duplicity makes my head spin.

You say you value your freedom yet make a mockery of it by living as a victim of subliminal messages. You soak them up from the people you have given control of your mind, and you spit them back in language you don’t recognize. When you tell me you are dealing well with radishes on your plate, I know that means you don’t like radishes. And when you tell me you are afraid of radishes but refuse to give a reason, I know the reason is that someone else told you radishes are bad things and you are either too fearful to try them or too lazy to study them. Until you decide to take control of what goes into your mind, you can’t control what comes out. That’s one freedom you have to fight for on your own since I have no control over your mind.

You ask my opinion and then insult me for being able to express and defend it. What you really wanted was for me to agree that it is okay for you to be too lazy and self-absorbed to seek an informed opinion.You say you are pro life while you cast millions to their deaths by your refusal to look for truth or share what you have. You say you love unconditionally while you list ‘agreement with or silence about’ your ill formed opinions and lies as a condition for communication with you.

You say you love me while you tighten your fingers around the neck of my ability to live. You are not going to provide my health care, my food, my shelter, my education, or my happiness. You are going to watch me die rather than give up stuff that you believe your god created.

The next time you want to tell me how much you love me, please complete the sentence.

(One day, I hope to use this title for a positive article about assisted suicide.)

Originally published to the internet around 2010

Debriefing Compliments

It’s hard to imagine anything looking more painfully wrong. The gown, while still dangling from a hanger in a doorway, reflected the impeccable skill and attention to detail that brought people in need of a special occasion seamstress to my mother’s door. The near paralyzing shock was not related to the garment.

My job that day was to assist with the hemming fitting. Jo changed into the gown and a pair of pumps, clunked across the room, and nearly broke her neck climbing up to stand on a chair. Mom measured and turned fabric – yards of fabric around the bottom of the full-length, gathered skirt of the gown. I held the red felt tomato cushion and supplied Mom with pins. I had done this many times before with no problem other than wondering why she placed the pins I handed her between her lips before using them on the dress. Was I too slow? Did it enable her to position the pin the way she wanted before using it? Did it replace the cigarette that was usually between her lips? What should I do if she swallowed a pin?

This time, seeking an explanation for the shocking wrongness replaced the usual boredom-evading questions. The soft, frilly, bubble-gum-pink bride’s maid gown looked ridiculous on Jo, who could easily have passed for a male in the cloths she had worn in. A quick, self-conscious meeting of the eyes told me she knew this as well as I did and couldn’t wait to change back into her trousers, plaid shirt, and Chuck Taylors.

Guilt almost destroyed me a few pins into the job. I was disappointed in me for not wanting to tell Jo she looked pretty in her new dress. And I hated myself for hoping Mom would swallow a pin since that was obviously the only thing that might stop her continuous stream of mumbled-around-pins, ridiculously unbelievable compliments. Couldn’t she see that Jo looked more miserable with each word?

By the time it was over, I felt as sorry for me as I did for Jo. Not only was I forced to witness the wrongness of Jo in her pink gown and pumps, and her misery in being complimented for looking a way I’m sure she never wanted to look, I was also forced to realize how little my mother’s compliments actually meant. Mom wasn’t blind or stupid so she couldn’t possibly have thought miserable and wrong was attractive on Jo. How many times had she complimented me because she thought it was the right thing to say and not because the compliment was sincere?

If I could relive that day, I would give Jo the honest compliment she deserved: You are a wonderful friend for agreeing to buy and wear this dress in your friend’s wedding since it isn’t your style and you will probably never wear it again.

I would like to believe that I learned a great lesson that day and, since I am older than dirt, that it was a different time and saying the wrong right thing got lost along the way. The truth is I’ve been slammed with that lesson repeatedly, as recently as last week.

I was present the day my daughters experienced this realization together, as adults. A friend, who had praised them from birth and whose compliments they had taken to heart, commented on the beautiful character of a group of people that neither of my daughters would ever have wanted to be compared to. I felt their eyes on me and hated to look because I knew immediately what each was feeling. How could they treasure the compliments she had paid them if her judgment was so different from theirs, or her honesty so questionable? We discussed it later and I shared my Jo story.

I might have learned to tailor compliments so they will honestly fit, and to withhold insincere praise. But, the fact that I can still feel the sting of false compliments, whether sent in my direction or aimed at someone else, or allow a lifetime of compliments to be negated when I hear someone whose opinion I appreciated lavish false compliments on someone else tells me I haven’t mastered this lesson yet.

The big question for me today falls in the chicken/egg category. I do believe that everything that happens, and every person who passes through my life, contributes to who I am today. If I had not had high self-esteem to begin with, how would insincere or undeserved compliments have affected me? Would I have blown them off and not believed them, or might they have boosted my esteem?

Whiskey, Cheese, Fine Wine, Kris Kristofferson, and Muhammad Ali

Some things keep getting better with age.

I’ve lost count of the times I have seen Kris Kristofferson perform. I wasn’t a groupie but I never missed an opportunity when he came to town. The first time I had the pleasure, forty-something years ago, there were about ten of us present, sitting around a campfire with a couple of guitars for an unplanned evening of stories and music. Through the years, I saw him in large venues and small, stadiums and intimate club settings, indoors and out, with a band and alone. Last night, it was in an outdoor amphitheater, just Kris with his guitar, harmonica, love, and wisdom - and it was a huge slice of perfection.

I remarked the day before how odd it was to think a cold front had set in when the temperature dropped to the high eighties, and that I hoped the cool weather would stick around for the concert. The friend I was to go with informed me that this might not be such a good thing since the weatherman predicted severe thunderstorms with hail would accompany the cooler temperatures and hit about when the show started. That wasn’t going to stop us, though. We packed rain ponchos, towels, and changes of clothes, put our cameras in plastic bags, and headed out. Turned out the temperature was perfect and not a drop of rain fell.

• 

Every time I see Kris Kristofferson, I say the same things - I think he sounds better than before, I can’t believe he can sing for hours and still not have time to sing all of the songs he has written, he is brilliant, no one can reach inside my body and squeeze my heart the way he does, and he has to be the most loveable, honest person alive. I said all of those things again this time, and more.

There was an extra special bonus this time. Kris was choked up and teary through the first couple of songs. Finally, he apologized and explained that it might take him a little while to overcome the excitement of just meeting one of his heroes. Muhammad Ali had come backstage to meet him before he came out, and he was overwhelmed with emotion. He choked up again explaining this.

At the time, I was excited for Kris and hoped Ali might peek out and wave. That hope didn’t last long because when I remembered what I know about The Champ, I knew seeking attention wasn’t his style. The years of boasting was part of the boxing show. The real man and hero is humble and gentle, with some wisdom of his own. “The man who views the world at 50 the same as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.” -Muhammad Ali

Later, the impact of sharing this little sliver of their lives hit me and melted my heart. It was such a thrill to know that these two men-- both of whom have enjoyed international fame and long lines of people waiting for an opportunity to meet, touch, and photograph them--still, in the later stages of their lives, have heroes who excite them. I feel totally honored to have witnessed anything so strikingly touching.

• 

Kris is wearing his hair shorter and his face shows lines of wisdom, smiles, and some of the stories he sings but he is still gorgeous and his voice as strong and sexy as ever. He reined in his emotions after a few songs and delivered – as always – straight from his heart to ours. I was happy to see that that most of the people jumping out of their seats with uncontrollable adoration this time were young men. It was an enjoyable, emotional evening for everyone.

(I’ll forgive him for not singing my favorite of his songs (imbedded below) since it’s over eight minutes long, and this audience seemed too commercial to have anticipated it.)

 

Everyone Has a Twin

We pulled the pop-out camper across the state line, past the hog farms, around the country church, through the crumbling cemetery, and down the winding road to arrive at Starve Hollow Lake, as we had done many times before. This campground attracted each of us for a different reason: Daddy liked the solitude, Mom appreciated the trees and paved path to the showers, my brother enjoyed the fishing, and I looked forward to the jukebox and beach. We had been there in good weather and storms, on holiday weekends as well as off-season, on every day of the week, but had never seen a crowd anything like this one.

Tanning bodies covered the beach on a crazy quilt of multi-colored towels and blankets, their Coppertone adding a twist to the lake and concession stand aromas. While the friends who had come with me fished with my brother, I watched the new crowd from my standing-to-tan-both-sides position near the jukebox, wishing more of the new people were closer to my age. It looked like the hippies who lived in a converted school bus at the far end of the campground might be the only people around who shared my interests, and none of them were out.

He came along and shattered the monotony. I noticed the reactions of the crowd before I spotted him. Divers stood still on the wooden island located outside the safety markers. Castle building and body-burying ceased. Frisbees and beach balls came to abrupt halts, and burning bodies popped into sitting positions on the quilt pieces. Every head turned to follow as he strutted from one end of the beach to the other, confident but seemingly indifferent to the attention.

When we gathered back at the camper for our Coleman-stove dinner, he monopolized the conversation. Mom said she had never seen anything like it off screen. Daddy teased about her drooling. The fishing crew reported they had noticed from the middle of the lake, and stopped to see what had brought beach activity to a stand still. I was glad to know I hadn't imagined him.

Loathing the open-air shower room as much as the enclosed sink area where strangers spat in sinks and crowded around a single mirror, I rushed through my shower that evening and told my friends I would wait for them outside. While they did hair and make-up, I sat on a picnic table near the now deserted beach and watched the sun set. He returned for an encore, and I was the only one left to see.

I pinched myself when he broke stride and walked toward me. My heart stopped again when he asked if I was going to be there a few minutes and I discovered his voice was even more attractive than his appearance. I managed a nod. He gifted me with an explanation about how he had decided not to swim earlier because of the crowd, and now that he had the lake to himself, he was afraid to leave his watch and wallet unattended and go in.

Lulled by the music in his voice, I held out my hand to collect his valuables. He promised he wouldn't be long and followed his words with a grin that could have melted Antarctica.

My friends joined me in time to watch the last rays of sun highlight his body as he bobbed in and out of the water. Despite their urging, I refused to peek inside the wallet and put a name to this perfect specimen of masculinity. Later, when my friends had wandered off and he introduced himself, I wished I had. The name he had given sounded as fake as John Doe, undeserving of its holder.

Envious of each drop that trickled into tanned, muscular dreamland, I returned his personal items and made room for him to sit at the table while he air-dried. His name remained the only thing ordinary about him. On a short break from years of seeing the world which he described mostly in people he had met, he had stopped to visit an aunt who owned a nearby farm. A friend awaited him there. He would love to join the campfire and music my family had planned, if we (my friends had joined us by then) would ride back with him to pick up the friend and his guitar.

The four of us crowded into his aunt's truck and rode to the farm. A small plane parked beside a dinner bell in the side lawn seemed out of place with the wrap-around porch on the house and the barn in the background. My curiosity about it kept me from reacting to the smell of hogs in the distance.

While he changed into dry clothes, the aunt served cookies and lemonade and explained that the plane belonged to him. After refreshments and pleasant conversation with the family, we headed back to camp. The aunt walked us out, hugged each of us as though we were family, and handed me a folded copy of the local paper. A souvenir, she called it, and I was happy to have something to remember her with.

His friend and one of mine rode in the back of the truck with the guitar. I kept the souvenir with me until we were back and I tossed it in the camper.

The music and stories outlasted me that night. Neighboring campers had brought lawn chairs and blankets to our site. Many of them were still present, as was my mother's smile, when the fire died, the sun came up, and I dozed off in my chaise lounge.

I didn't think of the newspaper again until we were packing to leave two days later and my dad asked if I wanted to keep it. For the first time, I opened the paper and saw his picture on the front page, with a different, more deserving name attached. He had been in town to headline the concert line-up at the Jackson County fair, billed as one of the largest fairs in the world, and held the day before.

I'll never know for sure that he is the same man I've seen in concerts and movies since, or if he just looked exactly like that man and the aunt found that amusing. When I've had the opportunity to ask, several times through the years, he just flashed that same melting grin in response.