Matchmaking Gone Wrong

Just as I refused to admit that I had invited the obnoxious neurosurgeon who stood over the dessert table as though the Derby pie was a patient whose opened skull required his unwavering attention, the person who invited the poofy-haired matchmaker also maintained total anonymity. Despite the buzz of everyone whispering guesses about who invited these two, it mattered little to me other than the amusement of watching the familiar eccentrics try to bust their competition.

Aunt Jackie’s Derby party tradition started as any other holiday; the family gathered at her house, at her insistence, because she was the best cook, she owned the most china, and she threw the biggest tantrum if anyone rejected her offer. Of her many idiosyncrasies, the three that no one dared forget were: she would not eat or drink from paper or plastic; she would not serve from paper, plastic, or tin; and she would not allow the word ‘shit’ to pass her ears without telling the speaker just how tacky she thought it was. Walking on eggshells and biting tongues aside, everyone considered her Derby parties an annual must.

Someone mentioned the Derby party at a family reunion one year and it grew from immediate to extended family. Not all of the over-one-hundred first cousins showed up, but the ones who did brought friends when they returned the net year. As we—the nieces and nephews—aged, we brought friends, dates, spouses, their families, and eventually, our children and their friends.

Aunt Jackie spent the year buying new china, looking in yard sales for official Derby glasses, growing mint for the juleps, perfecting recipes, and inviting everyone she met to the next year’s party. As you might have guessed by now, the woman who would not serve a country ham sandwich on a paper napkin or plate would also never settle for jackpot betting on the biggest horse race in the world. She booked the party at track odds, providing an even bigger attraction than free food on china.

A couple of people remember every Derby winner, how much they paid, the jockeys names, and whether or not the horse went on to win a triple crown. My mother could probably name each dish served and the year it first appeared on the menu. I would be surprised if there isn’t at least one person able to name my date each year, how many drinks certain people downed, and every incident of someone flirting with a person other than the one with whom they came.

I remember at least thirty of Aunt Jackie’s Derby parties. I can list the traditional menu items, would fare well if presented with a list of names and asked to determine whether they belonged to horses, jockeys, or guests, and might be able to name my dates. With total certainty, I can document the exact amount the bookie made off me, all years combined. Zero. And, I can say that, without a doubt, the poofy-haired matchmaker is the one guest I will never forget (thank you, whoever invited her).

Before the romantics get too excited, poofy-hair did not introduce me to a man that I married the next week and lived happily ever after with, but not because she didn’t try. She gave her job as much attention and effort as the bartender who served hundreds of mint juleps that day. Within seconds of my arrival, she had scrutinized my style, posture, reception, and the bare ring finger on my left hand and decided I deserved the “the most handsome, intelligent, polite” young man at the party. I didn’t ask what made her think he wouldn’t notice me without her assistance, nor did I pull away when she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the last spot where she had seen him.

He wasn’t where she wanted him to be but that did not discourage her. Still holding my arm, she led me through several rooms, enhancing her description of him and growing more excited as we walked. I almost felt guilty when she finally found him, and I had to tell her that I had already married him once.

Obviously an optimist, this woman overcame that little disappointment quickly and moved on to her second choice, who was my uncle. We parted ways after she introduced me to my brother, but she caught up to me again later in the day with a death-grip on the wrist of my best friend who had just arrived. I suggested that, since I knew or was related to most everyone at the party, she might consider this a hopeless cause.

I am especially grateful that she had the good sense not to take me anywhere near the dessert table and the obnoxious neurosurgeon. The list of words I would have shouted would surely have included the one that our hostess least wanted to hear.

Children and Politics

Each of my grandchildren has developed a special 'gramma thing' - something they think they alone share with me. Politics is the link with my grandson, who will turn nine in July. We delivered him to his first protest in a stroller (but did let him out to stand on the base of a statue with his little "Let Every Vote Count" poster for the TV cameras) and he has been my partner-in-protest and campaign buddy since.

By the time the 2004 campaign rolled around, he thought he knew just about everything, and talked some big issues when we were out. It got a bit complicated when he had memorized Kucinich's entire platform, and then had to switch to Kerry even though his heart was with Edwards (not a first, second, or third choice for any of us, and we hadn't taken him to see Edwards - so he did some independent thinking based only on what he had seen on C-span.)

While standing on a busy street corner during rush hour one day, he dropped his Kerry sign to his side and asked, "Gramma, why do you hate George Bush so much?" I think at that point he was tired and wanted to make sure this work really necessary.

I sighed, hating Bush even more because he had given me reason to hate him enough that it was obvious to my grandchild that I hated someone. Too much hate for me. I did something that made me sick at my stomach.

"I don't hate him, I just hate what he has done to my country and my world," I lied.

"What do you hate most?" He asked.

"I hate the way he spends our money. I hate that he spends it on war instead of education and health care." That sounded age appropriate.

Noah thought for a minute before he asked the next question. "If John Kerry wins, will he spend more on school?"

I nodded. Noah found renewed strength, jumped to the curb, waved his sign, and shouted, "Vote for Kerry.” A lady came up and asked why he supported Kerry. Noah's response was, "Because if he wins we might get a new playground at school."

We had a small disagreement last year when he wanted to play with the toy soldiers I had on my window ledges (holding 'Bring Me Home' signs) and I told him they were not toys and no, he could not play with them.

Yesterday, he told me his friends finally stopped liking Bush when they found out he lied about the war. I was excited to hear that eight-year-olds are talking about politics, but the next line let me know that some were still spreading false information. "But, we had to start that war because they had those weapons. Right, Gramma?"

And the hatred grew. I knew this child wanted me to assure him that we are the good guys, and I couldn't do that. I asked him if it would be 'right' for me to knock him off the couch because I thought maybe he wanted to hurt me some day. He laughed - not the response I wanted.

Fortunately, in an earlier conversation, Noah told me Shaq is the biggest man on earth. I had something to use. "Okay," I said. "What if Shaq thinks Tatum (Noah's four-year-old sister) might want to pick up a stick the next time she goes outside, and that she might hit him with that stick someday. Is it okay for him to knock her down now to make sure she can never get that stick?”

He shook his head.

"Shaq is about the size of the U.S., and Tatum is the size of Iraq," I reminded him. "We thought Iraq wanted to have big weapons like the ones we have.”

“They do have weapons,” he said. “They are shooting back at us.”

“The weapons they had when we invaded them were like sticks."

"Well, I would protect my baby sister," he decided.

"No," I said. "You can't, because you are Syria."

"Who is Syria?"

"A country that is just a little bit stronger than Iraq," I told him. "Iraq's big brother."

"Then Dad would protect Tate."

"Your dad is Iran, and Shaq won't allow him to have anything bigger than a stick. Shaq has a baseball bat."

He grinned. "You got me, Gramma."

I haven't heard from his parents yet. I hoped he would retell this conversation to them before talking to his friends.

Louisville Slugger

Sometimes I Cry Because I Am So So Happy

In what appears to be a growing journalism trend where the writer bypasses research and poses a question instead of delivering information, I read a particle a few days ago in which the aught-er asked his readers to explain why people cry when they laugh. I returned the aught-er’s effort by asking more questions. Do you also wonder why people cry when peeling onions, facing the sun, yawning, or battling foreign objects in the eye area?

I consider myself somewhat an expert on tears. My credentials, for those who might question this determination, are as follows:

^ My maternal grandfather and uncle cried every time they laughed.

^ A paternal uncle cried at weddings and after his second highball every Christmas Eve.

^ I cried for three straight days once and think, even if that is not a record, it deserves special recognition.

^ Several highly-specialized ophthalmologists have examined, prodded, x-rayed and MRI’d my eyes and concluded that they are sufficiently dry to warrant permanent plugs in all four tear ducts and a lifetime of bankrupting prescriptions.

^ I can almost recite Iyanla Vanzant’s poem, Yesterday, I Cried and I have read the entire book more than once.

^ I enjoy the benefits of crying so much that I schedule cries if too much time passes between spontaneous one.

^ My granddaughter respects my crying wisdom enough to turn to me for advice. *

Before stressing myself with the gruesome task of typing tears in my search engine box and consulting the fact monster, I flung myself on the proverbial limb, resolved that the body produces tears without emotional involvement (as in the onion, sun, yawn, and foreign object examples), and brazenly put laughter-associated tears in that same category. Even though laughter is a response to an emotion, I believe my laughing tears are more reflexive than physic.

After doing basic research, I am not sure all experts agree with me. However, even without the benefit of chemical protein testing, I am sticking with my belief for now since I am not the only one to question the wikipedia report. I am a hearty laugher, and think the pressure-in-the-head-causing-an-overflow-of-basal-tears explanation works much better than the I’m-moved-to-tears rationalization for my laughter-induced tears. Besides, a real cry requires a coordinated effort of emotions, cells, and glands, and I am quite sure I am not focused enough to carrying that out while I am enjoying myself.

* Bonus grandchild story

My four-year-old granddaughter surprised me when she left her toys to come sit beside me on the couch and watch the television special about Oprah’s Leadership Academy For Girls. She listened intently to the applicant interviews and watched the docudrama profiles of their histories. When the selected students were shown their new school and home, and a few expressed excitement over having showers, Tatum stopped breathing and looked up at me.

“Gramma, do you ever cry because you are just so so happy?” she finally asked.

I blinked away my tears and assured her that I often cry when I am so so happy.

She smiled, said she does too, and released her own little river of tears.

Double bonus definitions:

basal tear – protective (lubricate)
reflex tear – response (onions, foreign objects)
physic tears (weeping or crying) – different chemicals in these tears

REMBA Alert Successful: Hope Not Found For Silver Street Elementary School

On February 28, 2007, I published a REMBA Alert asking the public to assist with the non-search of the hopelessly missing. The outpouring of non-assistance was overwhelming and I am happy to report evidence that item 3 (Hope for the poor children of the Indiana Elementary School after their principal bragged that GWB is coming to visit because they have improved "every year since the implementation of NCLB", and then said the students are asking every man in a suit if he is the (p)resident) will never be found.

Last night, Tony Duffy, Principal of Silver Street Elementary School explained to the public how he thought the White House phone call was a prank. He asked if the caller was with Candid Camera, or Punked; suggested it might be a radio station.

After repeating a number of his silly statements for us on the local news, he closed with the big question he had asked the White House caller: “Is there people laughing at me somewhere?”

I hope Silver Street Elementary has a copy of Is Our Children Learning on hand for each student.

REBMA ALERT: Please Do Not Try To Find the Following

Unlike its popular and successful counterpart, the REBMA alert will not seek assistance or publish pictures. REBMA represents lost causes and admits any effort to recover the missing would be futile.

If you think you see any of the following, please turn away and have your eyes examined as soon as possible. It is doubtful any of them truly existed in the first place.

1) The reason anyone gives credence to Anna Nicole/Vickie’s drugged out suggestion that her mother, Virgie Arthur, is unfit to see Dannielynne when Anna Nicole left Daniel with Virgie the first seven years of his life and claimed he turned into a perfect kid.

2) The shred of honesty a couple of people still believed possible for the Bushes before this week when George said things are going well in Iraq and Laura expressed disappointment that some people are discouraged by the one bombing a day.
(Thanks to Jon Stewart for his “a bombing a day keeps the doctor away” comment.)


3) Hope for the poor children of the Indiana Elementary School after their principal bragged that GWB is coming to visit because they have improved “every year since the implementation of NCLB”, and then said the students are asking every man in a suit if he is the (p)resident.

4) Sanity for Judge Larry Seidlin who:

*started out pretending he knew what a weasel Howard Stern (the unemployed, gold-digger, not the successful talk show host) was
*and then later broke down and forgot that
-Stern might have contributed to the death of the woman whose body he was fighting for,
-definitely helped make the decision to bury her son in the Bahamas while Anna Nicole’s mental state was questionable at best,
-and is holding a child that doesn’t belong to him hostage in order to get the money he thinks he deserves.
*completely let the fact that Anna Nicole had been in a similar situation and chose to have her husband’s body cremated and divided – which should have been some clue about what she would consider fair in this situation.

5) Better logic for the goofball who said the economy is cooking the evening before the biggest one-day drop in the market in years.

MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT (and call for help) – Courier Journal Does Not Have Time to Speak With Me

As I lay soaking in the tub this weekend, totally unaware of my latent yearning to subscribe to the Courier-Journal, the phone rang. I decided to hop out and answer that ringing phone, since my answering machine did not pick up and a close friend was in intensive care.

Fortunately, it was good news. Someone in the Courier-Journal sales department had received the psychic message I had inadvertently sent and called me. The call went as follows:

Me: Hello

Caller: Nothing

Me: Hello

Computer voice: Hello. This is a sales call. Our representatives are busy at the moment and will call you later.

Me: (a bunch of stuff I can’t say here unless I flag this for adult content)

After thinking about my rude behavior, I realized I should do something to make up for cussing at that recording. If the Courier-Journal cares enough about me to let me know when they do not have time to speak with me, I should return that favor.

I have called them (502) 585-1763 three times so far today to let them know I am too busy to talk but will call back later.

If anyone else is looking for a Random Act of Kindness activity, I hope you will let them know when you don’t have time to speak with them.