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.
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
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.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Healthcare Costs – How We Turn Molehills into Mountains
I live in this body and know it well. I know how far I can push it, when it needs a tune-up, and when I need to park it for a few days.
I am fully qualified to take my own temperature, monitor my energy and pain levels, and know when dragging my sick self to work will have a negative affect on my health, my work, and/or my co-workers. I know how to treat most conditions, that many have no treatment and must run their own course, and when I’m in over my head and need a doctor’s assistance.
I also know my doctor trusts my judgment and does not want me in his office exposing him, his staff, and his other patients to the flu or a virus. Nor does he want the patients who need him that day to wait in line behind me because I’ve called with an emergency that only exits in my employer’s imagination or suspicion.
Yet employers demand validation from doctors before excusing medical absences, and few employees question the legality of this request, or the unethical abuse to the healthcare system and cost. These unnecessary doctor or emergency room visits not only drive up the cost of healthcare and spread disease, they also delay recovery of conditions that require rest (most), and cause undo stress for patients with conditions that require immediate access to the toilet (many of the common ones).
After seeing how willing Americans were to abuse the healthcare system at the employers’ request, our school system joined the cause. If we can’t trust adults to know when they are sick, how could we possibly allow them to determine when their children would be better off at home?
This one turned into a crime. Parents are arrested for keeping a sick child at home without a doctor's note. Tough luck to those who don’t have insurance or money to pay for an unnecessary visit to the doctor, and who can’t get into the overcrowded clinics; the children will be better off with their poor parent in jail.
The underlying psychological surrender of freethinking and personal accountability in our society makes the individuals who fail to question these practices as guilty of destroying their own system as the corporations and systems are. We must question inappropriate use of authority in order to protect the things we need, like affordable health care. Refusing to see doctors unnecessarily is one small way we can do that.
Physician Visits
Total Number of Doctor Visits Last Year - 829 million (about 3 visits per person)
• Number of Unnecessary Doctor Visits - 207 million (25%)
• Average Doctor Visit cost - $55.00
• Yearly Cost of Unnecessary Doctor Visits - $11.4 billion
E.R. Visits
• Total Number of E.R. Visits Last Year - 75 million
• Number of Unnecessary E.R. Visits - 41 million
• Average E.R. Visit Cost - $360.00
• Total Cost of Unnecessary E.R. Visits - $14.7 billion
I am fully qualified to take my own temperature, monitor my energy and pain levels, and know when dragging my sick self to work will have a negative affect on my health, my work, and/or my co-workers. I know how to treat most conditions, that many have no treatment and must run their own course, and when I’m in over my head and need a doctor’s assistance.
I also know my doctor trusts my judgment and does not want me in his office exposing him, his staff, and his other patients to the flu or a virus. Nor does he want the patients who need him that day to wait in line behind me because I’ve called with an emergency that only exits in my employer’s imagination or suspicion.
Yet employers demand validation from doctors before excusing medical absences, and few employees question the legality of this request, or the unethical abuse to the healthcare system and cost. These unnecessary doctor or emergency room visits not only drive up the cost of healthcare and spread disease, they also delay recovery of conditions that require rest (most), and cause undo stress for patients with conditions that require immediate access to the toilet (many of the common ones).
After seeing how willing Americans were to abuse the healthcare system at the employers’ request, our school system joined the cause. If we can’t trust adults to know when they are sick, how could we possibly allow them to determine when their children would be better off at home?
This one turned into a crime. Parents are arrested for keeping a sick child at home without a doctor's note. Tough luck to those who don’t have insurance or money to pay for an unnecessary visit to the doctor, and who can’t get into the overcrowded clinics; the children will be better off with their poor parent in jail.
The underlying psychological surrender of freethinking and personal accountability in our society makes the individuals who fail to question these practices as guilty of destroying their own system as the corporations and systems are. We must question inappropriate use of authority in order to protect the things we need, like affordable health care. Refusing to see doctors unnecessarily is one small way we can do that.
Physician Visits
Total Number of Doctor Visits Last Year - 829 million (about 3 visits per person)
• Number of Unnecessary Doctor Visits - 207 million (25%)
• Average Doctor Visit cost - $55.00
• Yearly Cost of Unnecessary Doctor Visits - $11.4 billion
E.R. Visits
• Total Number of E.R. Visits Last Year - 75 million
• Number of Unnecessary E.R. Visits - 41 million
• Average E.R. Visit Cost - $360.00
• Total Cost of Unnecessary E.R. Visits - $14.7 billion
Friday, March 17, 2006
I Want Candidates Willing To Discuss Issues
I am not looking for a spouse, parent, teacher, or preacher. I don’t think being any or all of these things qualifies a person to represent my political interests, nor do I believe any of those titles tells me one thing I need to know about a candidate. Yet, I’ve answered the phone four times in the last few days to a recorded, “Hello, I’m Candidate Snowjob, a proud husband and father who regularly attends church,” or “Hi, I’m Candidate Snowjob from the other side, wife, mother, previous school teacher, with church experience.”
George Bush is a spouse and parent, who regularly attends church. He is also a liar, a cheat, a lazy employee who is away from the job more than on the job (for that, I guess I should be thankful), and he has never succeeded at anything in his life by my standards. Anne Northup is a wife, mother, previous school teacher, who regularly attends church and she apparently has no mind of her own. The intelligence level demonstrated in her form letters and speeches almost make me glad she’s a politician instead of sharing her knowledge with students.
If this is the best we have to choose from, I don’t want to vote. Isn’t anyone out there willing to tell me what he or she believes or will do if elected? If so, I’ll gladly listen to all you have to say, and respect you for your honesty. I’ll probably vote for you, even if I don’t agree completely with everything you believe, because I will at least trust and respect you. And that’s a lot more than the current candidates have earned from me.
George Bush is a spouse and parent, who regularly attends church. He is also a liar, a cheat, a lazy employee who is away from the job more than on the job (for that, I guess I should be thankful), and he has never succeeded at anything in his life by my standards. Anne Northup is a wife, mother, previous school teacher, who regularly attends church and she apparently has no mind of her own. The intelligence level demonstrated in her form letters and speeches almost make me glad she’s a politician instead of sharing her knowledge with students.
If this is the best we have to choose from, I don’t want to vote. Isn’t anyone out there willing to tell me what he or she believes or will do if elected? If so, I’ll gladly listen to all you have to say, and respect you for your honesty. I’ll probably vote for you, even if I don’t agree completely with everything you believe, because I will at least trust and respect you. And that’s a lot more than the current candidates have earned from me.
Application Denied
Occasionally, a doctor leaves a blank on the application, or forgets to include the CV, or proof of insurance or license. If everything else looks promising, I request the missing information – once.
If this applicant refuses to provide the missing information, I don’t spend months begging for it so I can make an informed decision. The applicant’s original failure to provide the routine information hinted carelessness. Refusal to honor my request confirms one or more of the following: the applicant is not interested in the position, the applicant has something to hide, the applicant is not qualified.
No one expects me to grant this applicant an interview; much less trot out on my own to search for the information he refused to provide. No matter how many of this friends and relatives vouch for him, his actions outweigh their biased confirmations of his character.
We, the people, are the employer. John Roberts is this incompetent applicant. His application should be denied the same as that of any other incompetent, disrespectful applicant.
~ ~ ~
I am the director of infection control in a highly respected hospital. While I’m away on vacation, an employee calls to tell me a significant number of patients have developed post-operative wound infections. Things are out of control and patients are dying. The public is outraged.
I swim a couple more days and take my time getting back. When I finally get there, I tell the patients on next week’s surgery schedule not to waste my time playing the blame game; I will appoint a task force to investigate the problem after the current patients die.
Reporters arrive. I dress my mother and three best friends in hospital gowns and smiles, and I pretend to console them in front of the cameras. I smirk at the public, and tell them I think I’m great and they should too.
I am a disgrace to my position and a danger to society. My employer should replace me immediately. We, the people, are the employer. George Bush is this incompetent director.
~ ~ ~
I work in the medical record department at this hospital. I’m part of the disaster team and needed when a disaster hits the city. We have an explosion and casualties are brought in on a Saturday. I am not scheduled to work on Saturday; besides, I don’t treat patients. I ignore that request and go to the mall instead.
Considering my lack of concern for society and my position, my employer should request my resignation, or let me go. We, the people, are the employer. Condaleeza Rice is the employee with inappropriate priorities.
~ ~ ~
My vacation time accrues in direct relation to the hours I work. Most days, I come in long enough to let someone see me, and then sneak out to ride my bike, play a game of golf, go home and visit friends, or just disappear without an excuse. I have actually worked less than a quarter of the time expected of my position, but insist I deserve comp time and take off a month each quarter. I am a dishonest, disgrace to the company and the stockholders.
We, the people, are the company and the stockholders. It’s time to clean house and protect or assets.
If this applicant refuses to provide the missing information, I don’t spend months begging for it so I can make an informed decision. The applicant’s original failure to provide the routine information hinted carelessness. Refusal to honor my request confirms one or more of the following: the applicant is not interested in the position, the applicant has something to hide, the applicant is not qualified.
No one expects me to grant this applicant an interview; much less trot out on my own to search for the information he refused to provide. No matter how many of this friends and relatives vouch for him, his actions outweigh their biased confirmations of his character.
We, the people, are the employer. John Roberts is this incompetent applicant. His application should be denied the same as that of any other incompetent, disrespectful applicant.
~ ~ ~
I am the director of infection control in a highly respected hospital. While I’m away on vacation, an employee calls to tell me a significant number of patients have developed post-operative wound infections. Things are out of control and patients are dying. The public is outraged.
I swim a couple more days and take my time getting back. When I finally get there, I tell the patients on next week’s surgery schedule not to waste my time playing the blame game; I will appoint a task force to investigate the problem after the current patients die.
Reporters arrive. I dress my mother and three best friends in hospital gowns and smiles, and I pretend to console them in front of the cameras. I smirk at the public, and tell them I think I’m great and they should too.
I am a disgrace to my position and a danger to society. My employer should replace me immediately. We, the people, are the employer. George Bush is this incompetent director.
~ ~ ~
I work in the medical record department at this hospital. I’m part of the disaster team and needed when a disaster hits the city. We have an explosion and casualties are brought in on a Saturday. I am not scheduled to work on Saturday; besides, I don’t treat patients. I ignore that request and go to the mall instead.
Considering my lack of concern for society and my position, my employer should request my resignation, or let me go. We, the people, are the employer. Condaleeza Rice is the employee with inappropriate priorities.
~ ~ ~
My vacation time accrues in direct relation to the hours I work. Most days, I come in long enough to let someone see me, and then sneak out to ride my bike, play a game of golf, go home and visit friends, or just disappear without an excuse. I have actually worked less than a quarter of the time expected of my position, but insist I deserve comp time and take off a month each quarter. I am a dishonest, disgrace to the company and the stockholders.
We, the people, are the company and the stockholders. It’s time to clean house and protect or assets.
Strawberry Lane
I spent one of my fifty-one years in a meager apartment on Strawberry Lane, in a rundown business district of a fading neighborhood. The bathtub didn’t hold water and my bedroom window was at ground level, separated from the parking lot by a narrow sidewalk.
Headlights, slamming door, screeching engines, and squealing tires guaranteed interrupted sleep, night or day. Metal closet doors popped off track daily and the olive, apartment-sized stove clashed with the copper refrigerator that required weekly defrosting. The single, unadvertised amenity was a slow draining kitchen sink that provided an excuse to dine out frequently.
I moved on to nicer apartments with matching appliances, walk-in closets, and adequate plumbing and eventually bought my own homes in residential neighborhoods. Still, at the lowest points in my life, I was homesick for Strawberry Lane. Decades later, I finally understand why.
Home is where the heart is. I had sown the seeds of my hybrid heart on Strawberry Lane, when I settled as comfortably into my role as wife and mother as I had been in my role as daughter, and realized I didn’t have to give one up to have the other. I reveled in the one opportunity I had in life to have my cake and eat it too - freedom and independence yet with the security of a husband and extended family to pick me up if I fell. My world was safe, my opportunities endless, and life couldn’t have been better.
It wasn’t the building or neighborhood I longed for when I was homesick for the apartment on Strawberry Lane. I missed the promise life offered while I lived there. Today, I feel the same homesickness for my country.
I long to return to an America that protects me and offers endless opportunity instead of glitzy amenities. I miss the Strawberry Lane America that feeds the hungry, houses the poor, medicates the sick, and hugs the lonely. I want an America where there’s a party in the courtyard at night to make up for the headlights in the bedroom window. I want to have my cake and eat it too, not sacrifice freedom for a façade of security. When I moved to Strawberry Lane, my father didn’t sell my security blanket to buy himself a new golf club. I wish America still loved me the same.
Daddy died of cancer in 1989. The apartment complex on Strawberry Lane burned down in 1992. A bush stole America in 2000. Maybe it isn’t too late to recover the last one.
Headlights, slamming door, screeching engines, and squealing tires guaranteed interrupted sleep, night or day. Metal closet doors popped off track daily and the olive, apartment-sized stove clashed with the copper refrigerator that required weekly defrosting. The single, unadvertised amenity was a slow draining kitchen sink that provided an excuse to dine out frequently.
I moved on to nicer apartments with matching appliances, walk-in closets, and adequate plumbing and eventually bought my own homes in residential neighborhoods. Still, at the lowest points in my life, I was homesick for Strawberry Lane. Decades later, I finally understand why.
Home is where the heart is. I had sown the seeds of my hybrid heart on Strawberry Lane, when I settled as comfortably into my role as wife and mother as I had been in my role as daughter, and realized I didn’t have to give one up to have the other. I reveled in the one opportunity I had in life to have my cake and eat it too - freedom and independence yet with the security of a husband and extended family to pick me up if I fell. My world was safe, my opportunities endless, and life couldn’t have been better.
It wasn’t the building or neighborhood I longed for when I was homesick for the apartment on Strawberry Lane. I missed the promise life offered while I lived there. Today, I feel the same homesickness for my country.
I long to return to an America that protects me and offers endless opportunity instead of glitzy amenities. I miss the Strawberry Lane America that feeds the hungry, houses the poor, medicates the sick, and hugs the lonely. I want an America where there’s a party in the courtyard at night to make up for the headlights in the bedroom window. I want to have my cake and eat it too, not sacrifice freedom for a façade of security. When I moved to Strawberry Lane, my father didn’t sell my security blanket to buy himself a new golf club. I wish America still loved me the same.
Daddy died of cancer in 1989. The apartment complex on Strawberry Lane burned down in 1992. A bush stole America in 2000. Maybe it isn’t too late to recover the last one.
Epitomes of Weakness: RW Christians
Joined in ignorant bliss
bound by family and home
you breed hatred and blindness
toward everyone but your own
spewing empty words of love
veiled in god’s name
while diffusing devastation
born in the bowels of shame
I curse your gutless clans
of hypocrites and beasts,
flag-waving bible-thumping liars
epitomes of weakness.
Fuck your big hearts
swollen beneath curdled brains.
Your actions speak your truth
your victims wear your name
Choke on the lies you spew
drown in the tears you produce.
May the blood of those you hurt
wash back over you
bound by family and home
you breed hatred and blindness
toward everyone but your own
spewing empty words of love
veiled in god’s name
while diffusing devastation
born in the bowels of shame
I curse your gutless clans
of hypocrites and beasts,
flag-waving bible-thumping liars
epitomes of weakness.
Fuck your big hearts
swollen beneath curdled brains.
Your actions speak your truth
your victims wear your name
Choke on the lies you spew
drown in the tears you produce.
May the blood of those you hurt
wash back over you
While You Were Sleeping
Imagine the pubic outcry if groceries were to come pre-grouped. Anyone wanting to purchase bread, milk, meat, or vegetables would also have to buy a bunch of over-ripened bananas, five pounds of dark brown beef, a package of tripe or hog brains, a dozen dented cans without labels, and a jar of toddler turkey and dumplings. I can’t see American shoppers accepting this without a huge fight.
Nor can I picture the special-order fast food crowd agreeing to pay for a prune turnover with each burger and fries or liver and onions on each pizza order. I can hear the screams if the cashier at the movie rental counter automatically adds a porn flick and a copy of the McConnell family’s home video of static cling removal tips with each check out.
No, American consumers only accept pre-packaged crap from the cable company and the Republican Party. Minutes ago, in a straight party-line vote (Republicans for and Democrats against) a Defense Spending, Hurricane Relief, and Flu Preparedness Bill that included tripe, porn, and static cling comparable garbage having nothing to do with defense and everything to do with forcing unpopular crap on the American people passed while most American’s were sleeping.
Once again, the bully party has taken advantage of their political muscle, and their loyal, muscles-for-brains-we’re-too-busy-sleeping-to-care supporters. Through carefully crafted sound bites and erroneous language, they misrepresented the bill as a boost for the poor people they’ve suckered into fighting their war while losing benefits, played down the parts where they cut funds for first defenders here at home, clean water, education, food stamps, Medicaid, and all social programs across the board, and outright lied about the tripe they included (all language concerning Anwar drilling has been removed – ooops except those forty-one pages added back in during the middle of the night).
I don’t hear any screaming yet, and doubt I will in an hour or so when the permanently sleeping open their eyes and shuffle through another day, pretending they actually know what they’re doing. They won’t scream until I try to tell them that while they were sleeping, their good friends stuck grandpa’s blood pressure medicine and their morning coffee in the bottom of the grocery cart under the tripe and hog brains. Then, on script, they’ll cry for me to stop whining.
Nor can I picture the special-order fast food crowd agreeing to pay for a prune turnover with each burger and fries or liver and onions on each pizza order. I can hear the screams if the cashier at the movie rental counter automatically adds a porn flick and a copy of the McConnell family’s home video of static cling removal tips with each check out.
No, American consumers only accept pre-packaged crap from the cable company and the Republican Party. Minutes ago, in a straight party-line vote (Republicans for and Democrats against) a Defense Spending, Hurricane Relief, and Flu Preparedness Bill that included tripe, porn, and static cling comparable garbage having nothing to do with defense and everything to do with forcing unpopular crap on the American people passed while most American’s were sleeping.
Once again, the bully party has taken advantage of their political muscle, and their loyal, muscles-for-brains-we’re-too-busy-sleeping-to-care supporters. Through carefully crafted sound bites and erroneous language, they misrepresented the bill as a boost for the poor people they’ve suckered into fighting their war while losing benefits, played down the parts where they cut funds for first defenders here at home, clean water, education, food stamps, Medicaid, and all social programs across the board, and outright lied about the tripe they included (all language concerning Anwar drilling has been removed – ooops except those forty-one pages added back in during the middle of the night).
I don’t hear any screaming yet, and doubt I will in an hour or so when the permanently sleeping open their eyes and shuffle through another day, pretending they actually know what they’re doing. They won’t scream until I try to tell them that while they were sleeping, their good friends stuck grandpa’s blood pressure medicine and their morning coffee in the bottom of the grocery cart under the tripe and hog brains. Then, on script, they’ll cry for me to stop whining.
Was It Really About Morals?
The War President is flitting around the country trying to sell a pack of lies about social security this time. Does he not have any work to do? If any of you happen to catch him, maybe you can ask a few very important questions, since this plan is so vague that no one else seems to know the answers.
I know this is a trick question, and probably unfair since it is sure to confuse his face into a painful grimace, but I think we deserve to at least ask for the answer. How does adding personal accounts to Social Security solve the perceived problems in the system? I realize it might keep congress’ paws out of it (does the word lockbox cause flashbacks for anyone other than me?) but think it might be easier to teach the government and to “just say no” instead of setting up new departments and hiring thousands of people to oversee this personal account project. Anyway, if you could ask him that question, and to explain the actual numbers so we can see how this is going to work, it would be nice.
You might also ask him if he realizes the average disability check is around eight hundred dollars a month, which isn’t enough to cover the average rent and pharmacy bill for the average disabled person. I’m sure he doesn’t know that, or he would surely work to increase benefits, not decrease them. And while you’re on the topic of disability, will you ask how this personal account will play into the picture in his future plan? If someone becomes disabled before their personal account reaches that magical level of eternal self-sufficiency, what happens then? And will the disabled person be expected to drain their personal account before receiving any benefits? Will their benefits be based on previous work record, and adjusted according to personal savings? Will those who saved the most be penalized in this case?
Oh, here’s an easy one. Ask this one first since it only requires a two-word response. Since this new plan can’t possibly change the fact that he has used the surplus for other things, and soon the program will be paying more than it collects, which will he do – raise taxes or cut benefits?
How is the plan personal or private when the government is going to tell people what they have to do with it? For example, low-income seniors would be required to purchase an annuity that guaranteed poverty-level monthly benefits until death. Will we hire psychics to predict dates of death? And workers will “automatically be invested” in a fund that becomes more conservative as they approach retirement. Hmm… seems like freedom, choice, personal, private are all changing definitions these days.
What if an emergency came along, like an expensive life-saving surgery for someone who was out of work and had no insurance (can’t help but think of this when we have so many in this situation right now)? Wouldn’t it just plain suck if that person had to die while they had money in a personal retirement account that couldn’t be touched? Or wouldn’t it suck even more if they were allowed to use the money and then had to die in the streets later because they had nothing to fall back on?
What if the stock market crashes? What if our creditors call in their markers?
If he answers all of these questions, you might ask the big one. Wouldn’t it be easier and fairer to just take back that tax cut, since that amount alone would solve the problem?
I know this is a trick question, and probably unfair since it is sure to confuse his face into a painful grimace, but I think we deserve to at least ask for the answer. How does adding personal accounts to Social Security solve the perceived problems in the system? I realize it might keep congress’ paws out of it (does the word lockbox cause flashbacks for anyone other than me?) but think it might be easier to teach the government and to “just say no” instead of setting up new departments and hiring thousands of people to oversee this personal account project. Anyway, if you could ask him that question, and to explain the actual numbers so we can see how this is going to work, it would be nice.
You might also ask him if he realizes the average disability check is around eight hundred dollars a month, which isn’t enough to cover the average rent and pharmacy bill for the average disabled person. I’m sure he doesn’t know that, or he would surely work to increase benefits, not decrease them. And while you’re on the topic of disability, will you ask how this personal account will play into the picture in his future plan? If someone becomes disabled before their personal account reaches that magical level of eternal self-sufficiency, what happens then? And will the disabled person be expected to drain their personal account before receiving any benefits? Will their benefits be based on previous work record, and adjusted according to personal savings? Will those who saved the most be penalized in this case?
Oh, here’s an easy one. Ask this one first since it only requires a two-word response. Since this new plan can’t possibly change the fact that he has used the surplus for other things, and soon the program will be paying more than it collects, which will he do – raise taxes or cut benefits?
How is the plan personal or private when the government is going to tell people what they have to do with it? For example, low-income seniors would be required to purchase an annuity that guaranteed poverty-level monthly benefits until death. Will we hire psychics to predict dates of death? And workers will “automatically be invested” in a fund that becomes more conservative as they approach retirement. Hmm… seems like freedom, choice, personal, private are all changing definitions these days.
What if an emergency came along, like an expensive life-saving surgery for someone who was out of work and had no insurance (can’t help but think of this when we have so many in this situation right now)? Wouldn’t it just plain suck if that person had to die while they had money in a personal retirement account that couldn’t be touched? Or wouldn’t it suck even more if they were allowed to use the money and then had to die in the streets later because they had nothing to fall back on?
What if the stock market crashes? What if our creditors call in their markers?
If he answers all of these questions, you might ask the big one. Wouldn’t it be easier and fairer to just take back that tax cut, since that amount alone would solve the problem?
War On Truth
Lord, I am not worthy to receive you. Say the word and my soul shall be healed.
The brilliance of this Bush administration’s war on truth was in commandeering an unsuspecting army that had already surrendered critical thinking skills in return for the promise of paradise. A lifetime of reciting self-deprecating mantras like the one above, and blind faith in a deity who would expect it in return for the favors his father sent him to bestow, prepared the Christian soldiers for an unapproachable administration, sent by a higher power that considers itself above question.
The war on truth is creative, carried out behind the scenes, between the lines, under the covers, and up their sleeves. A few subliminal messages, offered in the form of innocuous religious phrases, served as weapons to kill intellects and souls, leaving empty shells to skew the body count. The shells, accustomed to chanting thoughtlessly, now repeat the administration’s mantras like automatons.
Embracing God fearing as an admirable trait, Christian soldiers welcomed the opportunity to stockpile admiration, and readily assumed foreigner fearing, non-believer fearing, liberal fearing, and tax fearing. Proud of their Christian soldiers status, they sacrificed logic and accepted anything the administration presented as Christian values, without demanding harmony with their traditional values.
In meshing religion and politics, this administration [Bush] uses the bible to remind their followers that they already embrace one documented set of contradictions that can be interpreted to support whichever side of the issue benefits them at the time, and it would somehow be sacrilegious not to accept the same level of contradiction from their earthly leaders. They call on their followers to pray, when action would be more appropriate, knowing that puts them in the vulnerable position of waiting for what they trust as an infallible decision from a higher power. Questioning higher power, worldly or heavenly, is a weakness.
By combining religion and politics, this administration has successfully silenced millions of unsuspecting victims. Now, these people march in fear of losing paradise if they question their spiritual or mortal leaders. Stripped of free will and the ability to process new information, they aren’t capable of seeing what is happening to them, so we must protect them. We must become true soldiers in the war on truth, arm ourselves with facts, and combat the insidious messages they unknowingly spread. We must ask questions of and for them, and fight to refill their shells with what this administration took from them.
This administration [Bush] has capitalized on innocence and ignorance.
The brilliance of this Bush administration’s war on truth was in commandeering an unsuspecting army that had already surrendered critical thinking skills in return for the promise of paradise. A lifetime of reciting self-deprecating mantras like the one above, and blind faith in a deity who would expect it in return for the favors his father sent him to bestow, prepared the Christian soldiers for an unapproachable administration, sent by a higher power that considers itself above question.
The war on truth is creative, carried out behind the scenes, between the lines, under the covers, and up their sleeves. A few subliminal messages, offered in the form of innocuous religious phrases, served as weapons to kill intellects and souls, leaving empty shells to skew the body count. The shells, accustomed to chanting thoughtlessly, now repeat the administration’s mantras like automatons.
Embracing God fearing as an admirable trait, Christian soldiers welcomed the opportunity to stockpile admiration, and readily assumed foreigner fearing, non-believer fearing, liberal fearing, and tax fearing. Proud of their Christian soldiers status, they sacrificed logic and accepted anything the administration presented as Christian values, without demanding harmony with their traditional values.
In meshing religion and politics, this administration [Bush] uses the bible to remind their followers that they already embrace one documented set of contradictions that can be interpreted to support whichever side of the issue benefits them at the time, and it would somehow be sacrilegious not to accept the same level of contradiction from their earthly leaders. They call on their followers to pray, when action would be more appropriate, knowing that puts them in the vulnerable position of waiting for what they trust as an infallible decision from a higher power. Questioning higher power, worldly or heavenly, is a weakness.
By combining religion and politics, this administration has successfully silenced millions of unsuspecting victims. Now, these people march in fear of losing paradise if they question their spiritual or mortal leaders. Stripped of free will and the ability to process new information, they aren’t capable of seeing what is happening to them, so we must protect them. We must become true soldiers in the war on truth, arm ourselves with facts, and combat the insidious messages they unknowingly spread. We must ask questions of and for them, and fight to refill their shells with what this administration took from them.
This administration [Bush] has capitalized on innocence and ignorance.
War On Sex
Face it - the right wing has waged an all out war on sex. Nothing else matters. They’re obsessed, and so insanely jealous of anyone who is sexy, has sex, enjoys or talks about sex without shame or fear, that they make fools of themselves trying to eradicate sex. I wish they would come out and admit their war on sex because it might relieve them of the misery they’re spilling into the universe (which may account for some of the toxins in our air, but I’ll save that for another time).
Cleverly, they choose candidates, advisors, and spokespeople who appear to be asexual; people who are so sexually repulsive no one would entertain the possibility of their being involved in a sex scandal because it would require imagining them in that role and the thought is too much for a normal human to bear.
Imagine what your stomach would do if you had to picture Dick Cheney, Rush Limbaugh, Scott McClellan, Karl Rove, or any Bush in an intimate situation. There went my breakfast. Anyone wanting to lose a few pounds might take it even further, and picture combinations of the group, say Dick with Karl, Scott with George, Rush with Jenna. The extremely brave can visualize an orgy with a swing-your-partner- do-si-do where they all switch partners. Quick, pass the barf bag.
The Bushites have reached the point they openly admit they enjoy flip-flopping and duplicity. The want to reduce Rove’s crime from treason to perjury, and accuse the Democrats of playing politics. Sweet of them, now that they’ve soaked every political advantage they could out of the situation and think there’s nothing left to gain. And they will overlook the many lies Rove and Bush have crammed down their throats about the Plume outing, because it’s the sex, stupid, and face it; there was no sex involved.
Perjury only matters to them when a sexy man is involved. Lies don’t count unless you can actually dream about sex with the liar and not wake up screaming, and outing is only a sin or a crime if it involves sexual orientation. They’re more afraid of someone else having semen in the throat than they are of the lies they’re choking on, and prefer the hourly figurative screwing they receive from their asexual leaders over a literal toss in the sack with their asexual partners.
That’s fine for them, but do they really have to begrudge the rest of us a healthy relationship or a wet dream with sexy partners and leaders? Spoil sports. Many of us would need anti-depressants or, heaven forbid, illegal drugs if not for our imaginative relationships with Bill, Al, Obama, and Hillary. Leave our healthier options alone.
There’s good news for our asexual warmongering friends. We sex freaks are fully capable of doing more than one thing at a time. Don’t be fooled by the fact that Georgie boy can’t ride a bike while he plans a bombing, or eat a pretzel and watch TV without an accident. Think back to the Clinton days. Some people can engage in sex, give a speech, and keep peace all at the same time. Remember the Gore airline security proposal? Proof that sexy and intelligent can exist in the same body.
This war on sex is unnecessary, but I have faith sexy Americans can fight back if the asexuals continue to wage it. We can multi-task - fight the war on sex while we impeach, save social security, balance the budget, and fight for decent Supreme Court nominees.
Cleverly, they choose candidates, advisors, and spokespeople who appear to be asexual; people who are so sexually repulsive no one would entertain the possibility of their being involved in a sex scandal because it would require imagining them in that role and the thought is too much for a normal human to bear.
Imagine what your stomach would do if you had to picture Dick Cheney, Rush Limbaugh, Scott McClellan, Karl Rove, or any Bush in an intimate situation. There went my breakfast. Anyone wanting to lose a few pounds might take it even further, and picture combinations of the group, say Dick with Karl, Scott with George, Rush with Jenna. The extremely brave can visualize an orgy with a swing-your-partner- do-si-do where they all switch partners. Quick, pass the barf bag.
The Bushites have reached the point they openly admit they enjoy flip-flopping and duplicity. The want to reduce Rove’s crime from treason to perjury, and accuse the Democrats of playing politics. Sweet of them, now that they’ve soaked every political advantage they could out of the situation and think there’s nothing left to gain. And they will overlook the many lies Rove and Bush have crammed down their throats about the Plume outing, because it’s the sex, stupid, and face it; there was no sex involved.
Perjury only matters to them when a sexy man is involved. Lies don’t count unless you can actually dream about sex with the liar and not wake up screaming, and outing is only a sin or a crime if it involves sexual orientation. They’re more afraid of someone else having semen in the throat than they are of the lies they’re choking on, and prefer the hourly figurative screwing they receive from their asexual leaders over a literal toss in the sack with their asexual partners.
That’s fine for them, but do they really have to begrudge the rest of us a healthy relationship or a wet dream with sexy partners and leaders? Spoil sports. Many of us would need anti-depressants or, heaven forbid, illegal drugs if not for our imaginative relationships with Bill, Al, Obama, and Hillary. Leave our healthier options alone.
There’s good news for our asexual warmongering friends. We sex freaks are fully capable of doing more than one thing at a time. Don’t be fooled by the fact that Georgie boy can’t ride a bike while he plans a bombing, or eat a pretzel and watch TV without an accident. Think back to the Clinton days. Some people can engage in sex, give a speech, and keep peace all at the same time. Remember the Gore airline security proposal? Proof that sexy and intelligent can exist in the same body.
This war on sex is unnecessary, but I have faith sexy Americans can fight back if the asexuals continue to wage it. We can multi-task - fight the war on sex while we impeach, save social security, balance the budget, and fight for decent Supreme Court nominees.
Patriotism Without Compassion
A comment I heard on The View this week continues to haunt me. Writing might resolve my unrest, or open the topic for discussion that will help me explore it deeper.
Regarding Cindy Sheehan, The View regular, Elizabeth Hasselback (maiden name: Filarski, a former sneaker designer and contestant on CBS' "Survivor: The Australian Outback.") said, (paraphrased) I’m sure if I had a child or someone over there, I would do anything, but I don’t have anyone there. To provide a backdrop, and without going into detail, Elizabeth is not a fan of Cindy’s, and she frequently voices patriotism and support for the troops.
I don’t believe Elizabeth’s statement is unique, and that’s why I went from numb to haunted. I use her as an example because she offers her public opinions daily so it seems fair to let her statement work as the catalyst for a much bigger point, involving a number of people.
I can’t fathom a level of patriotism that allows detachment from the men and women who are fighting our wars. I choose those words in an attempt to be fair to Elizabeth; they aren’t men and women to me. They are kids. The dozen or so I’ve spoken with recently are younger than my daughter. And it breaks my heart to say our war, even though I have to take responsibility for what my country does in my name. While Elizabeth supported our invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, I opposed going in and haven’t changed my mind for a second since.
Admittedly not fair, in my heart, that makes it her war and my kids. Her insensitivity to anyone who doesn’t ‘belong to her’ precludes, or negates her professions of patriotism and support. We The People are the country. Anyone who can’t love the people, especially those giving their lives and children, has no claim to patriotism in my opinion.
Is it possible to be patriotic without compassion?
Regarding Cindy Sheehan, The View regular, Elizabeth Hasselback (maiden name: Filarski, a former sneaker designer and contestant on CBS' "Survivor: The Australian Outback.") said, (paraphrased) I’m sure if I had a child or someone over there, I would do anything, but I don’t have anyone there. To provide a backdrop, and without going into detail, Elizabeth is not a fan of Cindy’s, and she frequently voices patriotism and support for the troops.
I don’t believe Elizabeth’s statement is unique, and that’s why I went from numb to haunted. I use her as an example because she offers her public opinions daily so it seems fair to let her statement work as the catalyst for a much bigger point, involving a number of people.
I can’t fathom a level of patriotism that allows detachment from the men and women who are fighting our wars. I choose those words in an attempt to be fair to Elizabeth; they aren’t men and women to me. They are kids. The dozen or so I’ve spoken with recently are younger than my daughter. And it breaks my heart to say our war, even though I have to take responsibility for what my country does in my name. While Elizabeth supported our invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, I opposed going in and haven’t changed my mind for a second since.
Admittedly not fair, in my heart, that makes it her war and my kids. Her insensitivity to anyone who doesn’t ‘belong to her’ precludes, or negates her professions of patriotism and support. We The People are the country. Anyone who can’t love the people, especially those giving their lives and children, has no claim to patriotism in my opinion.
Is it possible to be patriotic without compassion?
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