On Grannies and Thieves...

I’ve worked in Adult Protective Services for over 3.5 years and now work in Victims’ Services. My dad is a retired police commander. I’ve seen “the dark side of humanity” more times than I care to admit and know how to spot abusers and exploiters.

Unfortunately, having that experience and insight doesn’t mean I’m immune to the effects of such people. Sometimes such people are so good at what they do that, even if you know in your gut they are up to no good, you can’t prove it and have little power to do anything about it.

Which brings me to Karen Oviatt. Karen is a middle-aged deaf woman who somehow found her way to my (also deaf) great-grandmother, "Grammie". A couple years ago, Grammie lived in an assisted living facility, and for many years seemed to enjoy living there. However, once she became friends with Karen, Grammie’s satisfaction with her living situation and her relationships with her family began to change.

It first became apparent to our family when Grammie began to have conflicts with her son. I gathered that the son had been suspicious of Grammie’s new bosom friend, Karen, and made attempts to intervene. Since Karen had paid some pretty nice attention to Grammie and Grammie considered Karen a very close and exciting new friend, the son’s interference was regarded as unwelcome and intrusive. Grammie eventually accused the son of abuse and filed a restraining order against him which I understand he challenged and I was told it was dismissed.

I worked in the county Grammie lived in, and helped many an elder person obtain restraining orders, and know how the courts generally favor the elder… so for that order to be dropped, there had to be some fair evidence that the son was not abusive. I regard this scenario as the first attempt to isolate Grammie from her family. Karen, as the "savior friend," helped "protect" Grammie from her "evil son;" alienating the son and his family from Grammie.

It also caused my grandmother, Nan, to ally with Grammie and Karen against the son. Grammie and Karen played on Nan’s sympathies and had Nan fairly convinced that she needed to save them from the "evil son." Both Grammie and Nan have always been highly responsive to anyone who paid extra attention to them and told them what they wanted to hear, and Karen was very good at that. It was a perfect fit and positioned Karen to eventually benefit from the situation.

The assisted living facility was reportedly not fond of Karen for reasons I do not know (I've heard rumors, but I can't confirm them...so I'll stick to what my own family has experienced). But family members reported that Karen was not welcome there and since Karen was Grammie’s new best friend, Grammie found this pretty frustrating. Grammie then moved out of the facility and in with Karen to a small, low-income, apartment.

Nan, my grandmother, began to give them money. She felt sorry for Grammie and couldn’t say no when asked. The next thing we heard, Karen and Grammie were trying to recoup some property Grammie had, ages ago, given to another daughter and so they hired an attorney and claimed Grammie had been tricked at the time. (Incidentally, they have no case for this and there is even a letter written by Grammie way back that suggests Grammie willingly gave up the property...For that matter, Grammie had been living on Medicaid--on thousands of dollars of tax payer money--for years so any property she recovered should by rights pay back the Medicaid dollars) Yet, somehow, with the whiff of financial gain in the air, it became Grammie and Karen’s mission to prove that the daughter stole the property. So, this accomplished two things… One, it alienated yet another child of Grammie’s and, two, it caused Nan to give them even more money.

Incidentally, there has been this vacillation between suggesting Grammie was duped by the daughter--due to her age/vulnerability--and yet supposedly of sound enough mind to accurately judge Karen's character. To my way of thinking, it can't be both ways. Either Grammie is not of sound mind and easily taken advantage of (equally vulnerable to her family and Karen) or she's sharp and able to make her own (bad) decisions. Anyway...

Nan was pretty much willing to believe that both of her siblings were terrible… it made Nan feel self-righteous and altruistic at a time when she needed to feel relevant. She expressed concern to me that she was probably giving them too much money and that she "should watch it" so she would have enough to live on; but she also told me that she just couldn’t say no. Then, she had some health issues, and Karen and Grammie stayed with her to help her recover. She felt pretty indebted to them.

Eventually, after Karen had ample opportunity to scope out Nan's home filled with semi-valuables, to learn that Nan can’t say “no,” and that Nan had some $$; Grammie suddenly hating living in the apartment and asked Nan if she and Karen could move in with her.

Nan couldn’t say “no,” and so the duo moved in about 6 months ago. Nan wasn’t entirely happy with the arrangement and still expressed concerns to me about the costs… Nan paid for cable and internet service (two things she didn't use herself), a separate phone line (that Nan didn't use for herself), and other things in addition to food and utilities. Nan knew Grammie and Karen subsisted on Social Security so she felt she had to help out. In fairness, it was her choice to do so.

I always wondered why Karen had latched on to great-grandma… a woman who had very little income and no assets. (Now, until Karen arrived, Grannie was a great lady... a role-model for many family members so it made sense that she'd attract friends... yet something just didn't smell right) Until they moved in with Nan, a woman who had some $$ and significant assets. (Lightbulb) I was not happy with the arrangement and expressed concerns that Karen might be exploiting them, but this fell on…forgive me…deaf ears.

Nan became suddenly ill in March and died a week later; three months after Karen and Grammie moved in. Within days of her death, Karen began going through Nan’s things and setting things aside that “Nan said” she could have. Considering that Nan always assumed Grammie would die before Nan, it seemed highly unlikely that Nan would do the “when I die, you can have such-and-such,” routine with Karen...someone who was not a family member. Plus, how invasive and strange for this Karen to feel entitled to our Nan's life like that...?

Karen also, like Gríma Wormtongue, convinced Grammie that she could not trust her other family members. Karen hovered around and made nasty faces at us all through the time we were trying to cope with Nan’s death; interfering with our family’s grief process and further alienating Grammie from us. In hindsight, we should have emptied out the house of Nan’s possessions (we suspected Karen would steal and had been stealing from the house) but we hesitated because we didn’t want to upset Grammie.

Incidentally, Nan had a very clear and recently updated will that left her assets and possessions to specific family members (not Karen). In regards to Grammie and Karen living in Nan's home, we explored the feasibility of them continuing to live there but so distrusted and disliked Karen by this time that none of us believed it was a good idea to subsidize her. Alternatives were presented to Grammie for her to live with or near other family members--without Karen in tow. But this just made the two mad at us.

In the end, Grammie opted to move away with Karen and, as I’d suspected would happen, they stole the bulk of Nan’s possessions (things willed by her to other family members) from the house when they moved. I never figured Grammie to be that kind of person...who could justify stealing from her descendants. I wonder what it is about Karen that caused Grammie to compromise her morals like that... They even managed to engage the moving help of local LDS kids and some other friends who would probably be shocked to find out they were accomplices.

Grammie still thinks Karen is wonderful and, at 99 years of age, with Karen’s influence, she has managed to become alienated from just about every member of her pretty large family. I suspect, once Grammie dies (or, hopefully, figures out that Karen has tricked her), Karen will move on to another elder, another family, and make her sad way through the world.

The worst part isn’t the stealing; stuff is just stuff and we can remember Nan other ways. The worst part is that we couldn’t just come together as a family and do what we needed to do. There was always Karen; lurking, scheming, lying, and interfering. The worst part is that, at the end of 99 year old Grammie’s life, she has only stolen property and a thief to show for it. The worst part is how Grammie was so influenced by Karen Oviatt that she somehow justifies stealing from her family (a family that has never stolen from her) and is willing to do anything Karen wants.

I write this for two reasons. One, to vent my frustrations (I'm human and this has been so frustrating); and two because I suspect that Karen Oviatt (and others like her) will be on the prowl for her next victims someday soon. Maybe someone will do as I did, and Google her name, and maybe they’ll find this story and maybe they can keep Karen from latching onto one of their vulnerable family members.

Just remember...she's very good at this and very patient. It took her years to get close enough to these women to be in a position to steal from my family and in the meantime, she's been able to live off of them. She presents as very simple, naive, and cooperative...It was difficult to know what she was up to until it was too late. If a stranger shows undue interest in an elder or disabled person, there is almost always a deception.

Thanks for listening. :-)

On Job Bliss and Global Cooling...

I have not blogged for some time. This is primarily due to the fact that I have changed jobs and actually have work to do that is enjoyable, engaging and not pointless and so, unlike my last job, I do not spend my work time (ah, lunches and breaks, Big Brother) blogging to escape the harsh realities of a truly terrible job.

Yes, I have a new job and no longer wish to fling myself off of a bridge. My soul is no longer eroding and I feel--maybe for the first time in my life--like I'm on "the trail of a true human being." (to paraphrase Dances with Wolves... I think and feel through movie quotes). But, oh, my last job... my last job was pure, unadulterated misery.

In my last job, I learned all about government waste. I learned that the most incompetent employees will be retained if they are union. I learned that salaried bosses (at least those who work for large, county agencies in cities associated with rain and roses) get paid for their whole day even if they only show up for 2 hours and spend the rest of the day at their kids' soccer games or in their private practice. I learned that in some work cultures, a normally great employee will shrivel up and die.

I don't regret it, though. If I hadn't endured 2.5 years of job hell, I wouldn't have the utmost appreciation for the job I have now or the wisdom to make my current work place great for others. Now I'm in a position to affect how other people feel about their work and I'm absolutely committed to doing what I can to help others do what they're good at and enjoy working. How cool is that?

For the first time in my life I can honestly utter the statement, "I can't complain," or "I have no complaints." No, wait, I take that back... If I have any complaint it's about the weather. It's @#%^*# cold here! Cold and rainy. And it's JUNE. All the hype about global warming and we here in, um, Wetland, are freezing our butts off. We've had one of the coldest and non-sunshiney springs I can remember, last summer was one of the coolest ever, and all I want is warm...no, HOT...weather. So I don't believe in global warming. I'm even inclined to hope for it. There... I said it.

But otherwise, things are good. I'll be looking for blogging opportunities on my spare time. I just know there are ironic, stupid, absurd, humorous things out there... if only I pay attention.

On Lapel Pins and Patriots...

Headline:

“Conservatives say Obama lacks patriotism…”

Apparently this is due to Obama not wearing a cheesy American flag lapel pin and/or not putting his hand over his heart during our national anthem. Obviously he hates America.

But here’s the thing. But what Hillary, McCain, Bush, et. al. don’t get is this: Obama actually generates patriotism. I mean, look at the voter turn out. I’m sure Hilary will take some credit for this; though will continue to be completely unaware of just how disturbed many of us are by her and how this uneasiness propels some to vote.

Obama generates hope, motivates action, and has built up a momentum like no other candidate has accomplished since the 1960s. Those of us gen-xrs (and younger) who have been largely apathetic since… well, our whole lives, are actually voting and paying attention. We feel we finally have a horse in the race who understands our lethargy, is empathetic with our disgust of the partisan fighting, and who knows exactly what we want. We’re excited about the possibility of having a leader who says something different about America, about who we are as a nation… as a people.

I can’t speak for others, but Obama makes me feel patriotic. I get what his wife said, though she was bitterly criticized for it, about for the first time feeling proud to be American. For our generation (her generation) that’s true. Yes, yes, our grandparents endured World Wars and had some great presidents, our parents had JFK (until he was killed), but our generation has never experienced anything but bonehead leaders who hate each other and global disdain for us. We’ve been a little ashamed of how things have been going our whole lives.

Now we have Obama, who gets it. Hilary hasn’t a clue, McCain is so understandably far out of touch with us that it’s absurd, but the O has managed to unify our nation. That’s patriotism. He’s a true patriot. The man doesn’t have to wear a pin, or go through the motions. He embodies what is good about America. He embodies what is good about all of us. He simply is patriotism.

On Belief Ownership and the Nature of Magic...

The holidays are upon us, yet again, and so is the Santa discussion. Last year, you may remember, I shared how our daughter (then 8) stated “Mom, Santa must be real because you are my parents, you say he’s real, and you would never lie to me.”

http://sheruminates.blogspot.com/2006/12/on-lies-and-christmas-spirit.html

Her father and I ultimately let it drop after a particularly illuminating discussion I had with Cassie in the Target parking lot a few days before Christmas. A Santa belief related song played on our CD player and Cassie brought up the reality-of-Santa topic yet again. I felt ready. I had a plan. I put on my strategic therapist hat, and said something like, “Well, Cassie, you’re getting older now and beginning to understand that things are more complex than they seemed when you were a little girl…” She nodded; her superior big-girl identity clinging to this sign of her maturity and wisdom.

“You made that comment about how Dad and I wouldn’t lie to you, and I’ve been thinking about that. I do want to be honest with you. So, you must know by now that one man couldn’t possibly do all the work it would take to literally go into every child’s home with toys all in one night…”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s magic, Mom…” She rolls her eyes as she gives me the remedial Santa education I obviously missed or lost somewhere along the way.

“Right, magic… and, as you know, magic isn’t always straightforward and obvious. With magic, things might look one way but be an entirely different way…”

Her eyes widened with some distress.

“So,” I continued, “with Santa it may appear to littler kids that an actual man does all that work but older kids and grownups come to realize that the magic of Santa works everywhere and through everybody…” I’m so goooood, I thought; leading up to my ultimate explanation that we grownups essentially embody Santa and do his bidding…Which, I’ve come to realize is pretty danged true.

But then… “Mom,” she interrupts, “I just want to believe that Santa comes down the chimney, or through the door if we’re at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and delivers my presents. Let’s not complicate it, OK? You have your beliefs and I have mine.”

Alrighty then. “That’s fine Cassie,” I said. “You’re right. You need to come to your own conclusions about Santa.” Thank goodness I was finally released from the “you would never lie to me” burden. So, last Christmas carried on as a full-fledged Santa Christmas.

Now this new year is upon us and Cassie just turned 9. Recently, we discussed God and religion and she made some comment about how it’s silly that people believe in God. I said, “Well, you believe in Santa.”

“Yeah, mom, but I’ve seen proof that Santa exists. I mean, it’s not like you buy all the presents and put them under the tree…”

Imagine, if you will, the kind of facial expression one, who does not lie well, might have on one’s face when one is confronted directly with the truth. I had it. She, sweet, trusting Cassie, missed it… or chose to ignore it. Santa, so far, is safe this Christmas; in a girl who will believe what she wants to believe. At least she’s honest about it.

On Upsides and the Warmth of the Sun....

So, just for fun, I wrote the following satire news story and submitted it to www.demockeracy.com for their weekly contest. I'm guessing my humor is maybe too "local" but I enjoyed myself...that's what counts, right?


The Good News About Global Warming

Dire predictions of apocalyptic heat, wide-spread drought, and other assorted bad stuff have propelled governments and commoners to clamor for global warming initiatives; aimed at reducing the human contribution to this terrifying climate change.

However, some scrappy Oregonians are eager to embrace the benefits.

Blane Blank, rookie meteorologist for News Channel 8 in Western Oregon, crosses his fingers for the predicted strong storms and potential devastation. "I mean, around here, you know…it's kinda dull. Oh sure, we get the occasional little windstorm or a local stream floods some guy's condo. Last winter we had a dusting of sleet. Wah hoo."

Blank is excited about the possible increase in extreme weather. "I can't help it. I ache to report on massive storms and destruction. I'm so freakin' bored right now and if I have to forecast another 'sunbreak' I'm going to…" At this point, Blank's producer beckoned him away for studio business.

Jen Mercer runs the local "Surf & Dive" shop in the small dilapidated town of Sesquoinicakotohmehoho, on the Oregon Coast. Mercer's hair whacked around and her eyes squinted against a rush of chilly drizzle as she discussed her perspectives. "Yeah, this sucks. I mean, it's just like this pretty much all the time. Oh, did you feel the water? It's numbingly cold. Some fools come here to surf and dive but they have to rent dry suits…not wet suits…dry suits. Otherwise, they'll die. Do I hope for global warming? Lord, yes."

Mercer said the Oregon Coast tourism industry would thrive in a warmer climate by a temperate ocean; as she cinched down the hood grommet on her high-tech rain gear. "Yeah, warmth seems to work for San Diego, Hawaii, and Jamaica. Imagine actually enjoying the coast without the plague of hypothermia. Global Warming? Bring it on!"

Oregon Governor Ted Kulongoski admits, "Nobody talks about it, but warmer weather has its perks. Besides, the media is blowing the whole thing out of proportion anyway. What, we're looking at a one degree change per year?" He grins, "That's just more golf days."

On Birthin' and Workin'...

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070201/ap_on_bi_ge/workplace_families_3



So, Harvard and McGill University researchers came out with a study that suggested the US is behind on the mandatory provision of family benefits to workers.

Apparently, many more enlightened and progressive countries force employers to offer a plethora of benefits, including paid maternity and paternity leave, thus relegating the US to the Uncaring Bastards Category yet again.

The thing is, I’m a family woman myself. I produced a grade schooler (scholar…schooler….hmmm….whatever), acquired a husband, and adopted a cat. (not necessarily in that order). I, and they, experience sickness and medical appointments and I’m sure at some point we’ll undergo a death in the family. So I’m not entirely unsympathetic to family issues and, of course, would benefit from pro-family workplace policies.

The thing is, though, it is my choice to have those responsibilities. My employers—past, present and future—had nothing to do with my reproduction. Why would I have the expectation that they’d pay me for 6 weeks whilst I’m off birthin’ babies? How can anyone justify legislating such a benefit?

I’ve heard the argument that these sorts of policies encourage healthier children and stronger families, thus improving society in general and benefiting everyone—in the end. Maybe, but where does that leave those who opt out of breeding?

Let’s say I go off for 6 weeks of paid maternity leave. During that time (while I’m romping with my newborn, reading books, watching Oprah and doing nothing to contribute to my workplace) my co-workers are covering for me and also doing their normal work activities. One could say, well it all evens out because you’ll cover for them when it’s “their time,” but many people will not go off and have a baby, or will have 1 when others have 2, 3, 4 babies… Or had their babies decades ago when nobody got maternity leave. Or are male and would never burden their company by staying home and getting paid for 6 weeks…

I’m just sayin’.

Maybe the only real answer is to give each employee 6 weeks of paid discretionary time-off per year. That way, they can use it for breeding, gardening, funerals, trips to Belize, naps, the flu, trying out for American Idol…whatever. Otherwise, rewarding childbirth and overburdening other workers just rubs me the wrong way…

Am I wrong?

On Ching Chong and Gaycial Slurs...

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061215/ap_en_tv/people_rosie_o_donnell_12

Oh my good freakin’ grief. And yet, also, like cosmic justice. OK, I’m getting ahead of myself and am incoherent.

So, for those of you who’d rather skip the “news” article, Rosie O’Donnell recently joked on “The View” about how Danny DiVito’s drunk visit to the show probably made global news. Rather than say this (as I just did) in a boring way, she chose figurative humor—go figure, as she’s a comedienne.

Well, guess what? This offended people and now Rosie is under fire to render the exact apology formula to soothe the souls tortured by her shocking display of cultural insensitivity. But, here’s the thing, she was not making fun of Chinese people…she was making fun of those of us who don’t speak Chinese.

We all—by now—know Asian languages (or any languages we do not, ourselves, speak) are valid languages spoken by intelligent and valid people with rich histories, personalities and perspectives. I mean, duh. However, when one’s ear and brain do not comprehend the language, one is left with the general sounds of the language. To our English-only ears, newscasts from China pretty much sound like O’Donnell’s silly interpretation.

Because they sound like that to our ears does not imply that we truly believe they are saying “ching chong ching chong” or that we believe they are not saying anything. It just means we are lazy dunderheads who do not have the time or inclination to learn foreign languages. It also means that other languages sound funny when we do not, ourselves, speak them; especially when those languages insert names and/or words we are familiar with.

I’m sure that English sounds funny to people who do not speak it and I’m sure that non-English speakers can generate some sort of phonetic gibberish to mimic what English must sound like to them. The thing is, I’d find that funny. Bring it on. I’m totally curious how a non-English speaker would phonetically point fun at English.

Yeah, yeah, I imagine the “ching chong” thing has been used to mock others. Most words have been used to mock others. However, I doubt O’Donnell had mean intentions and I seriously wish people would settle down and consider intentions before getting all lathered up.

Ironically, O’Donnell herself presented as an offended party regarding the Clay Aiken/Kelly Rippa spat. For those of you who have way better things to do than follow the drama of daytime television, Rippa, pissed about Aiken covering her mouth with his hands while attempting to shut her up so he could participate in an interview, said something about “…I don’t know where your hands have been…” To O’Donnell, this clearly represented a homophobic remark and she spouted off about it on “The View.”

Of course, Rippa denied this and pointed out that it’s cold and flu season.

If O’Donnell can interpret Rippa’s statement as homophobic—even though Aiken hasn’t come out as gay—I guess it’s fair that assorted Chinese-Americans may be offended by “ching chong ching chong.”

I mean, really, let’s all be offended and demand apologies. Being offended is definitely “in.” I’m offended, he’s offended, she’s offended, they’re offended…wouldn’t you like to be offended too?

On Lies and Christmas Spirit...

Papa Elf: Well, silly as it sounds, a lot of people down south don't believe in Santa Claus.

Buddy the Elf: What?! Well, who do they think puts all their toys under the tree?

Papa Elf: Well, there's a rumor floating around that, uh, that the parents do it.

Buddy the Elf: That's... that's ridiculous. I mean, parents couldn't do that all in one night. What about Santa's cookies? I suppose parents eat them, too?

Papa Elf: Yeah, I, uh, I... I know,

~ Bob Newhart and Will Ferrell in Elf


My child is eight and still fervently believes in Santa Claus. She believes in him so strongly that she engages in heated debates with her school mates about his existence verses the existence of God—who she does not believe in. They argue for God, she argues for Santa and all use the same sketchy data and circular reasoning used by anyone to prove the existence of an all powerful and knowing entity who doesn’t just, like, show up and say, “Hi.”

I’d expected her to come to some more, ah, mature conclusions about Santa by now or at least make some connections I could utilize to segue her perceptions to “it’s the spirit of Santa that’s important…” But, no, she is still determined that a friendly, large, whiskered, older gentleman has nothing better to do than spend his immortal life whipping elves into toy production and delivering them (the toys, not the elves) to every single household in the freakin’ world within the span of, loosely, 24 hours (assuming Santa arrives around midnight in whatever part of the world he’s in at the time…).

We’ve been content to indulge her beliefs until recently, when she said to her dad and me, out of the blue, “I know Santa exists because you would never lie to me.” Jim and I looked at each other, stunned. I mean, we had no words, no response, no segue. In the end, we opted for a subject change and non-verbally indicated to each other that we’d have a strategic planning session later on.

We are officially perplexed and at odds about this Santa situation. I’m honored that she trusts us and feel strongly that some sort of honest discussion about Santa must occur because I’d rather she hear it from us than find out on her own and distrust everything we tell her for the rest of her life; resulting in involvement with drugs, prostitution and crime…roaming the streets of Portland until she’s picked up by some insensitive cops or worse, ends up on social services.

Jim feels strongly that we should continue to perpetuate the Santa belief because Christmas will be more fun that way and he’d rather not also have to ruin the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, assorted other fairies, and the Great Pumpkin. Clearly, he does not see the implications, the potential for major psychological damage, the trust issues, the teachable moments… sigh…

We did not realize when we set out to parent a child within the Santa paradigm, that the eventual decision to reveal his reality could result in major marital disagreement. It all seemed so innocent and harmless. Since the “lie” comment, we’ve had many discussions, theories, scenarios, bottles of wine, but have yet to come to any conclusion…any plan.

I found out about Santa accidentally, on a Christmas morning, shortly after I’d turned seven. Late on Christmas Eve, I got up for the bathroom and heard weird electronic beeping sounds. Investigating, I peeked around the corner and saw my dad, amongst mounds of wrapping paper and boxes, on the floor of the living room, happily playing with the beeping object. I’ve never been a snoop and honorably retreated back to my bedroom when I’d realized that my parents were finishing their wrapping.

In the morning, as we opened our booty, my step-brother tackled a small gift labeled “From Santa.” He excitedly tore open a little electronic baseball game, turned it on and began to play it. To my shock, it emitted the very same electronic beeping sounds I’d heard the night before. I confessed my discovery and my parents launched into the “spirit of Santa” explanation; fessing up to the ruse. I recall handling it well and having no residual trust issues (at least none related to that subject).

Still, I’d never jumped to the initial conclusion that “Santa must be real because my parents would never lie to me.” Of course this could be because I’d caught my parents in numerous lies prior to the from-Santa-ball-game and really never had the expectation that I could trust them implicitly anyway.

Our child’s trust is both a testament to our basically good parenting and to our ability to lie effectively. What we currently lack is spin. So I imagine, prior to Christmas morning, my spouse and I will generate some satisfying and morally acceptable Santa explanation that teaches her the spirit of giving, perpetuates magical thinking, and covers our asses. Or we’ll just eat the cookies, spill some milk and play dumb as per usual. Either way.

On Ambition and Failure...

OK, so that first bit of the novel I posted...? Yeah, like, that's all I've written... I mean, seriously, I haven't written another word. I don't even know what kind of bad news the counselor received because I only threw that in there because I read that characters need that sort of thing to keep the story going...like just writing about her experiences as a counselor would not be enough (I know...tell that to Erv Yalom...but still), she needs a dilemma...something that prods her off the course and takes her in a new direction...

The point is, I have not written another word and clearly I have failed at write a novel in a month. The general goal is to write 1667 words a day... I think the prologue I wrote is like 800 words... and it's crap. No, no... I can tell it's crap because I'm bored by it. So I've had little insensitive to continue to write boring crap; especially 1667 words a day of boring crap.

So there we are. However, I have gleaned some learning from this experience. 1) I do enjoy writing, but I'm far to literal to make shit up. I mean, I can blather on all day about my own experiences and perspectives; but to make up a whole world...a whole array of people I don't know...and make them interesting and full of activity and adventures? Ugh. And, even when I try to do this, I end up really writing about myself and people I've actually known and changing their names which is both risky and trite. 2) I have issues with commitment...at least commitment to things that bore me. Or maybe it's adult attention deficit. I can write short columns/blogs but not long crappy novels. 3) It's OK to give up. No, really, I follow through on lots of things so it's OK to admit that this challenge is one I'm going to let go. And, the truth is, I have no interest in running a marathon either... I'm more of a 5k kind of gal.

So there you have it. I admire those who do complete their novels and do see the value of doing it. Perhaps I will write a novel one day, when a story catches my fancy and I feel compelled to write it. Or not...

On Fiction and Impossible Goals...

OK, I started the novel but I'm so far behind the target schedule (1667 words a day...) that I'm having serious doubts about my ability to complete the damn thing. Also, my brain is so literal that I'm having a terrible time firing up my imagination...

Still, I manged to crank out the following:

Agency (tentative title)

Prologue

The Donald Duck struck her first, followed by the purple bowler hat. She barely heard their introductions and embarassed confession that they'd left their checkbook at home. The duck and the hat demanded way more attention.

Denise and Jared presented themselves on a rainy Tuesday morning with high hopes that counseling could solve their problems. Jared reported that he suffered from chronic depression, sometimes psychotic depression, and Denise nodded vigorously in the chair beside him. Jared asserted that he’d done well with his medications and that his mental illness actually helped his artistic pursuits.

Denise’s nods slowed to a stop at that, she cocked her head and her face bricked into disapproval. “Well,” she injected, “but that time you thought you were Gandhi and glued all that dog hair to your truck…and I couldn’t get you to eat or come in and get warm…and you kept yelling at strangers that they had to join the revolution…”

“Yeah, “ he said softly, “it did get a little outta control that time…and Ralph had to drag me to the hospital…but I’m doing better now.”

The therapist glanced again at the large Donald Duck, dancing in tie-dye, across Denise’s breasts. “I like your shirt,” she said. To the therapist’s ears, it sounded trite and false; the sort of thing a beginning counselor would say to avoid getting too deep. She tried to justify it to herself, “These people have serious problems, I only just met them and I’m trying to build the relationship…” But she could recognize her own bullshit. The truth--that she had way too much wine last night, that her boyfriend had just been laid off, and that she really had to pee—reduced her to therapeutic uselessnss.

Denise’s face brightened, she leaned forward and said, “Oh thanks! I got it at Disneyland a couple weeks ago. We love Disney…love it ,love it. Right?” She looked at Jared for confirmation and caressed Donald’s left foot.

“Yeah, man, Disneyland’s awesome. We try to go a couple times a year…it’s like, at Disneyland, it’s all OK…man, all OK… I got this pin in the Space Mountain gift shop.” He pointed to his velvet hat and the therapist ducked forward to see the small pin on it. She lamely said, “Cool.”

Jared reached for Denise’s hand and they sat together proudly in the afterglow of amusement park memories. The therapist observed, “You both look happy.” She watched the emotions move over their faces; joy, fading to hesitation, consternation, confusion, tension and eventually resignation.

“Well,” Denise offered, “we have really good times together but we have some problems we’d like to work on.”’

“Yeah,” Jared sighed. “She doesn’t like sex.”

“That’s not true! I do, it’s just…”

“She says it hurts.”

“Yeah… He’s too big for me or I’m too small or something…”

The therapist glanced at the clock; dismayed to find out that only 15 minutes of the 50 minute session had passed and she already had mental images of these two creatures in the throws of passion.

“So, sex is a big issue right now in your relationship,” the therapist recapped.

“Yeah…and money.” Denise looked even more miserable.

Jared squirmed. “Now, that will get better when me and Ralp get our business off the ground… I told you it won’t be long, like maybe a month.”

Denise looked doubtful. “You said that three months ago but I’m the only one with the job and I have to pay for everything… I wish you could get a real job to tide us over. ”

“I can’t be a slave to the corporate world.” Jared looked at the therapist very seriously. “I’m like a caged animal…one that’s wounded and bites if people mess with it. I can’t work like that. That’s why I’m starting my own business.”

“Well, I don’t like my job either.” Denise turned to the therapist. “I work at the Walmart and it’s not like it’s my dream job.” Her face turned wistful, “I’d really like to go back to school…I wanna be a nurse.”

“Well, when our business takes off, you can go back to school.”

Denise slumped in her chair. The therapist suspected Denise had heard that before, many times.

“So,” the therapist spoke, “Sex, money… are there any other issues you hope to work on?” As if that’s not enough, the therapist thought to herself.

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Yep. Otherwise, we’re doing OK. Denise is great and I love her. I’ve never been with anyone this long before and we have a great time…but, you know, a man has needs…” Denise just took a breath and looked out the window.

The therapist discussed with them the semantics of the therapy process, fees, appointment times, and expectations. She could have gone deeper with them, tried harder, but she didn't have the energy today. At least she didn't give them a stupid homework assignment, like "pay attention to each time you feel your needs are not being met, write it down and bring it back for next session," that they probably wouldn't do and she'd probably forget to ask them about next time. She gave herself some credit.

She shook hands with them and sent them off for another week. Sex and money: A classic, timeless, solutionless struggle for couples the world over. The therapist yawned and locked the door behind her. As she walked down the hall, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.

She flipped it open and gave her typical greeting, “Hi, this is Emma…”

The color escaped her face as she absorbed the worst news she’d ever received in her life.

On Marathons and Literary Genius....

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Ooooo… it’s almost time to begin my first novel. I’ve never attempted to write one; primarily because I’ve never been able to commit to a plot, characters or even a genre long enough to make a novel out of my scattered fragments of imagination. If I couldn’t come up with the perfect novel, why bother?

Then I heard about National Novel Writing Month… and I read the website. The philosophy seems to be the writing equivalent of running a marathon…one you don’t expect to win but hope to finish…just to say you ran a marathon. It doesn’t matter if your writing is crap, if you ever publish the damn thing, or if it’s literary genius…The goal is writing 50,000 words in a month that—hopefully—resemble a short novel by the end.

Why do it? Here are my reasons. 1) I’d never do it otherwise due to my own fears, picky nature, and procrastination. 2) Freedom to write whatever I want…w/o worrying about perfection. 3) It’ll be good for me…character building and will prove to myself that I can write a novel.

So, my plan is to publish my writing on this blog as I go. I make no guarantees about quality or entertainment value and stress that it may just be total crap…but, hey, hand me a Dixie cup of water and clap as I run by…at least I'm doing it. Or, come along with me and write your own novel in a month. We can puke together at the end… or along the way…

Now, I’d better start thinking about the plot…characters…genre… Hmmm….

On What Little Boys are Made Of...

From my husband’s recent email from Guangzhou, China:

Dinner was something called "Hot Pot" in a Szechwan style... (also got pictures) ... I could sum it up as fish head soup... but there was a lot more to it than that... you might have liked it.. but I really didn’t recognize any of the ingredients (well .. except the fish head) ... some were animal ... some were vegetable and some unknown... in fact, I asked the hostess if a certain ingredient was animal or vegetable... she said neither... :-o something looked suspiciously like tongue from its texture... and something else was identified as "part of beef".. but in the shape of fettuccini and looked like nothing I'd seen.... I'm pretty sure it had something to do with a cows digestive system. I took pictures.. which was acceptable because I said they were for my daughter... but really I just wanted to show you and get all freaked out about it later.... I found myself wishing I was blind.... and trying really hard not to imagine what each item might have been.... two eyeballs ended up on my plate and I was told it would be good for my eyesight if I had them..... of course I declined that... but I did dig into the fish brains because it seemed to be the choice cut and I didn’t want to offend. Also .. I ate all the weird veggies and stumbled into some cabbage... I was actually delighted to find cabbage...

On Heros and Uninterested Felines...

Save the cheerleader, save the world…

I’m hooked on the NBC show “Heroes” and have not enjoyed television this much since the “Bionic Woman” and “Emergency!.” I’d heard decent reviews before the show began and decided to set the ol’ DVR to record the show… you know, in case of boredom.

We watched the first couple of episodes and mostly enjoyed the Japanese Hiro…I mean, total bubble of internal joy every time he exclaimed, “I DID IT!!” in subtitles… but I had some ambivalence toward the rest of the show. I’d had a new episode waiting on my DVR and kept putting off watching it until, finally, I needed something to watch while working out. That one did it…I couldn’t wait to watch the next one and ultimately found myself oozing, “Awesome!!” to the cat (my only companion at the time) after the most recent episode. When I talk to the cat, it must be good.

Essentially, “Heroes” is a modern day superhero tale. Perhaps it is especially engaging for us children of the 70s who grew up with the superhero genre and crave the nostalgia of our youth. Not unlike the Bionic shows, “Heroes” manages to supply rich character development in addition to the fun of the superpower. All the characters are discovering their abilities, and ultimate purposes, while wrestling with life in general. Believe it or not…

My biggest fear is that the show will follow “Surface” into obscurity. If I spend this season seeking to understand how the indestructible cheerleader fits in to total world obliteration, watching alter ego porn girl (who bares a striking resemblance to Diana Krall) integrate, sympathizing with the mind reading cop…. Only to have NY go boom in the season cliffhanger and NBC cancel the show without any resolution… Oh man, let’s not even think about it. I’ll have a lot more to say to the cat if that happens.

NBC hasn’t exactly been its tip top self since it lost the super-sitcoms of yesteryear—well, and Anthony Edwards. Still, I’m impressed with its efforts to generate shows that provide imaginative storylines (not just “gritty” crime shows), engaging but not Hollywood perfect characters, and non-reality storytelling. Kudos, even if you are loosing money, NBC.

Unfortunately—and I’m only saying this because I’m a parent and I remember how much I adored my childhood heroes—“Heroes” is not appropriate for the youngin’s. Most of it is, but it has adult themes—mainly promiscuity/internet porn… I’d rather not explain that to my 8 year old… but also gore, violence and politicians. I mean, you know…

However, for us 70s kids, this show is—so far—heaven. A balance of good/evil, humor, suspense, personality, mystery, intelligence… it can go anywhere it has a mind to. After all, it’s dealing with space-time continuums, leaping tall buildings, ass-kicking mirror images…. Entertainment candy for those of us who are pretty darned sick of reality at the moment and relish some heroes to root for.

I think one can catch up—if you haven’t been watching it already—by watching episodes on the internet. Save the cheerleader, save the world…

On Bitches and Marketing...

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ucac/20061019/cm_ucac/ojtrialsforterrorists

Ann Colter…is it just me, or does her bitchiness rise to the level of superpowers? I mean, forget flying, invisibility, and spider web slinging… mutant Ann X exhibits superhuman bitchiness… she slays with words… weakens liberals with acerbic verbal kryptonite. It’s almost…sniff…beautiful.

But, that aside, does she have a point about anything? Probably.

She’s essentially pissed because she feels terrorists and those who cavort with them are perhaps getting off easier than they should. Maybe they are… I don’t know and I don’t care because really none of that matters.

The hell you say? Yes. It’s all crap. It isn’t like other terrorists look at the poor bastards at Gitmo and say, reasonably, “Gee, it looks like Saiib and Jsmahhlsammal are having a pretty rough time in that detention center. I would not like to have such a rough time myself, therefore I will cease my terrorist activities to prevent myself from a similar fate.” It doesn’t matter if they are tortured, punished, taunted, overfed, underfed… it will not change the detainees and it will not change the would-be terrorists. It also does not matter if we treat them well and give them all the creature comforts we can imagine. Nothing we do to them matters.

However, talking about what we do or don’t do…arguing about how we should or shouldn’t treat them… making a big deal out of them at all… That matters. Why? Because it makes us look very very stupid to the other countries. It looks like we can’t get our act together. We’ve become the trailer trash of the world…who yell and scream and blabbidy blab blab about all of our private business.

I don’t get why our politicians, Ann X, and other assorted public figures won’t just shut the f—up and get ‘er done. It occurred to me that in a way we were a stronger country with a Democrat president… I mean, he still went in, shot people up, bombed stuff and whatnot—he just didn’t publicize it. Bush, on the other hand, does not know how to shut up. If he only knew how to schmooze publicly and kill privately—oh man, we’d be unstoppable.

http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/treasures/trm139.html

Case in point, the “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” theory. We can be pissed off, we can be scared, we can be determined, we can be buttheads… but we can keep all that to ourselves and strategically do what we need to do. Be cool like Fonzie.

But no, everyone goes on and on…blah blah blah axis of evil… blah blah blah war is bad… blah blah blah stay the course…blah blah blah it’s Bush’s fault… blah blah blah it’s gays… The rest of the world is looking at us shaking their collective heads… not because we have prisoners at Gitmo and not because we’re fighting in Iraq or wherever… but because we just seem so crude and obnoxious. We have no spin…no charm…no charisma…no finesse.

Our government needs a Secretary of Marketing/PR and better get one soon. WWIII will be a war of public opinion…mark my words.

On Vegas and Recovery...

So we’re back from Vegas and I feel as if somebody hit me with a giant bat. I saw a t-shirt in the airport gift shop that said, “Las Vegas: What was I thinking?” I thought, “Amen.”

I mean, it’s a fun place to an extent and like some sort of forgiving foster parent, Vegas accepts all sorts of children….Everyone fits in Vegas.

When I look back on our experience, or when somebody asks me what we did there, I realize that our primary activity—for 3 days—involved walking around looking at hotels. I mean, the hotels are impressive, yes and all have their own personalities. This is interesting and free entertainment, but man, I’m sure time could have been used more wisely…even if only to sit by the pool with a giant fruit beverage.

Occasionally we’d walk to a hotel for a purpose. We deliberately watched the fountains at the Bellagio several times and stood amazed as they popped off water with the force of fireworks. We went to New York, New York to visit a sing-along piano bar—probably the highlight of the trip. We went to Ballys to see Jubilee, an old-school Vegas show involving matter-of-fact topless women, rhinestones and guys on ribbons. We went to the Venetian to eat some Italian food and ride the Gondolas (which go like 2 miles an hour but you have to wear seatbelts)…I tried grappa.

Otherwise, we generally divided our time between looking at hotels and deciding what to eat. We did a little gambling and I lost a whopping $7. We never did play at any of the tables, where the minimum bets exceeded our risk comfort zone, but did goof off with the penny and nickel slots.

The weird thing about the place is the lack of seating. I sort had the image of parking ourselves in some hotel lobbies for people watching, but realized quickly that you pretty much have to be a paying customer in a bar or restaurant to find a seat. Vegas does not want you to stay in one place for long.

I do not recommend Quark’s Bar at the Hilton… though the Romulan Ale is worth having for obvious reasons…the food is overpriced cafeteria fare. However, I do recommend Ellis Island for both Karaoke and cheap but decent 24-hr food—and breakfast anytime.

We made it to the Dam and took the Dam tour—which has been, unfortunately, shortened after 9/11 for security reasons. And, I told my mom we went and she informed me that a couple years after the Hoover-Fuck incident, she and Dad went back and toured the thing. She regaled me with the parts of the tour no longer available. Great. She got to go on the full tour and I get “Look, generators… Look tunnel… OK, end of tour.” Figures.

The best part of the trip happened in the desert at the Valley of Fire State Park. Essentially a poor-man’s Zion/Bryce Canyon but beautiful. We arrived before sunset and wandered among the red rock formations until we could hardly see them.

I’m glad to know what Vegas is all about… but I’m also glad to be home. Vegas…what was I thinking??

On Birthdays and Dams...

Today is my birthday (at the risk of revealing personal information that could result in identity theft or other heinous scary things that I can’t even imagine but will hear about via the media eventually because they are out to scare the shit out of every American until we are so tired of being scared that apathy really sets in and we throw our collective media devices and Katie Couric into the Boston Harbor…)

I’m halfway to 68 and I don’t care who knows it. It’s all relative anyway. I’m the Goldilocks of aging. At work, I’m about the only female who still menstruates so people naturally don’t take me seriously. In Mazatlan, like 4 years ago, I felt like a fat dinosaur. Among my friends, I feel just right…Sophisticated and wise and yet young enough to appreciate sarcasm.

These be the good old days ~ Ziggy Marley

Today I’m at work and my perfunctory birthday card (signed by everyone whether they know me or not, with a variety of the same statements everyone makes on every office birthday card, “Have a Good One. Best Wishes. You’re Sweet. Enjoy Yourself,” and of course, “Happy Birthday” ad nauseam) is displayed prominently over my flat screen. I’m touched. I wasn’t sure there were enough emails about whose birthdays are in October that they’d remember. Them’s good people.

My co-workers also pitched in to get me a little travel kit involving soaps. This is a thoughtful gift (even if somebody did bring it home from a hotel in Wisconsin, didn’t use it and decided to pass it to me). It’s the thought that counts; and think they did, because I’m on my way to Vegas, baby, tomorrow afternoon and could use a variety of soaps; especially exfoliating soaps. There’s no such thing as too much soap, I always say.

You have to say Vegas baby, when you talk about going there. It just feels good. Not “Las Vegas,” or “Vegas,” but “Vegas comma baby.” I have only visited Vegas as a child and frankly I confuse those memories with those of Reno. Somewhere in there are hamburgers and a cheap stuffed monkey named Fred, won at Circus Circus; along with trying to figure out where kids were allowed and not allowed. I vaguely see myself positioned just outside a velvet rope watching my mother on the opposite side of the rope at a nickel slot machine.

The most vivid childhood memory of Vegas specifically, baby, is not Vegas itself but Hoover Dam; and not the Dam itself but the argument my parents had about whether to go on the damn tour of the Dam. This monumental parental event took place in a Winnebago in front of my step-brother, myself and our wiener dog, Gretchen.

Essentially my mom is scared of heights, enclosed spaces, turbines and anything involving fun and adventure (or so it seemed to my young self, sitting in the RV hoping with all my might that I might get to go into that incredible edifice and understand the dynamics of hydroelectric power…or at least ride a really cool elevator…whatever). Essentially my dad is scared of doing anything without my mom, so when Mom decided she would not participate and would “be fine here in the motor home, reading with the dog…” my dad’s thoughtful response was, “well then, none of us will go.” What followed is relatively blurry but involved lots of huffing, circular reasoning, passive aggressive statements, martyrdom, and most significantly my mom saying “Fuck” in front of us for the first time.

I, of course, burst into tears. Who was this woman?? I didn’t even know her anymore. I didn’t know whose side to be on. Hers, because she said she wanted to stay behind and would be ok if we went ahead… or his, because even though she said this, it could have just been code for “I’m only saying I’ll be fine and that you can go ahead but really I don’t want you to go but I’m going to pretend like it’s ok and make you all feel really guilty anyway.” Or hers, because she really didn’t care if we went our not and would have been fine but my dad is a stubborn fart who’d rather ruin everybody’s fun than just go see the stupid thing without my mother. In the end, none of us went any farther into the dam than the bathroom at the visitor center.

Truly, it made no sense to me at the time. And though I’m still perplexed by the actual nature of the disagreement or the logic on either side of it, I can’t hold it against them because I’ve had more than my fair share of ridiculous arguments with my spouse. Plus, it’s a really fun memory to rehash and never let them live down and it brought the word “fuck” into the family. It’s fodder for years of ribbing and cussing.

So, Vegas, baby. The strip, the food, the drink, the shows, the Dam… I’m on my way tomorrow and not looking back. Hedonism take me away. Happy fucking birrrthdayyyy tooo meeeeee…..

On Fashion and Spanish Pluck...

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060928/od_nm/witness_fashion1_dc_1

I don’t understand fashion. I mean, I have a grasp on how to assemble items of clothing to pass as presentable, but I’m sooo not sophisticated enough to appreciate the intricacies and drama of the runway. I’m only just beginning to comprehend that the “fashion industry” does not refer to a Wal-Mart sweatshop in Malaysia.

Quite honestly, I haven’t paid any attention until recently when Spain—in a crazy fit of concern for health and welfare, those bastards—decided to bar the underweight from the Madrid Fashion Week. From what little I understand of the situation, Spain had the thought that, perhaps, the push for freakishly thin models somehow damaged the models themselves and perhaps encouraged other young women to emulate famine. Go figure. So they decided to—not unlike sporting events baring athletes who use performance enhancers—ban ultra thin participants.

This has caused much uproar and bitterness—of course, because any change must always cause uproar and bitterness no matter what “industry” or demographic. The government of Canada could ban mustard gas and somebody, somewhere would be roaring and bitter. It’s just the way things are.

But the fashion leaders are especially upset because they believe strongly that their amazingly intricate and artful designs only look good on certain body frames; namely skeletons. Malnourished creatures are their canvas and they are not eager to expend extra fine fabrics on women who resemble, well, women.

I fail to grasp several things. 1) A woman with a Body Mass Index of 18 is pretty darned skinny. How can this standard possibly be a problem? 2) Who—besides the designers, the participant models, and pedophiles—possibly finds these walking-hangers attractive? How on earth did this trend become a standard of beauty? 3) How stupid do these fashion people think we are? Or are they merely delusional? It doesn’t take an analyst in a think-tank to figure out that eating disorders are a gargantuan part of the fashion industry. I, mean, like duh. 4) How come all the anorexia accused women say, “I eat a hamburger any time I want to,” as if that just wraps it up. OK, freakishly thin individual, you must not have any issues with eating because you clearly have a well-established relationship with hamburgers. Sorry to trouble you.

So, OK, should governments involve themselves with “industries” that thrive on abnormal thinness and influence young women to emulate this? Aren’t these folks consenting adults? Oh, wait, many of them are teen-agers as young as 14…13… Hmmm…

Ah well, as long as they eat hamburgers whenever they want to…

On Opera and Outrage…

“In non-news today, Muslims are outraged. Also, the sun rose at its usual time, and the Earth continued to turn on its axis in the customary fashion.” – Kathleen Parker/Washington Post Writers Group

http://www.nwherald.com/MainSection/local/291120244694037.php


In an effort to curb Muslim outrage, Berlin's Deutsche Opera recently cancelled its production of “Idomeneo.”

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060927/ts_nm/arts_religion_dc_3

According to the article, “The controversy centered on a scene in which King Idomeneo is shown on stage with the severed heads of Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad and the sea god Poseidon.” They figure if they go on with this production, they will offend Muslims who will, in turn, blow stuff up.

For some reason, they are not concerned about offending Buddhists, Pagans and Christians …

Oh, maybe that’s because Buddhists don’t blow stuff up and Christians rarely blow stuff up, but instead, they unleash televangelist talking-heads on the world. This may be worse then blowing stuff up, but I’m not sure. And Pagans? Well, they were pretty much wiped out by the Christians…

I’m no fan of opera, but even I see the value of artistic license and hate to see this sort of censorship. Score one point for the bullies. Yeah, bullies… that’s really it, isn’t it? “Terrorist” is an unfortunate moniker. These folks are just bullies in the world playground and we’d rather hand over our lunch money than stand up to them.

The problem extends beyond religion and art, however. The Yahoo article also points out, “Some analysts fear a climate is developing in which people are afraid to speak out publicly. In a speech to the annual conference of think-tank Oxford Analytica last week, its head, David Young, said political correctness posed a threat to free expression for journalists, politicians and academics alike.”

I say a climate has already developed in which people are afraid to speak out publicly. It doesn’t take “analysts” in "think tanks" to figure this out. Voices are silenced by violence, money, name-calling, social isolation, litigation, etc. Everyone can play the victim card and effectively end all other discourse. We have become very good at shutting each other up.

I love a good debate (much to the dismay of my friends), but this is a lost art. Everyone is too defensive, too quick to anger, too quick to dismiss the person posing the questions… It’s so much easier to call somebody a liberal, a conservative, a racist, a sexist…or to categorically blame figureheads…or to blow up stuff… than to engage in the details. People have strong beliefs but little accurate information; media bites and propaganda are weak fodder for arguments and generally crumble upon inspection. Also, it’s difficult to debate when issues are taken so personally; when emotions outweigh logic.

Mr. Spock, where are you?

So…solutions. I’m all out of them, sorry to say. But I bet we could find them somewhere… in Canada maybe, eh?

On World Peace and Paradox...

From Yahoo AP News today:

“On NBC's "Meet the Press," also taped Friday and aired Sunday, Clinton told interviewer Tim Russert that the biggest problem confronting the world today is ‘the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity.’”

Wait a minute. “…the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity…” First off, did Clinton actually say that we should focus on our similarities rather than our differences? Second, this illusion he speaks of…

Whoa…I’m way ahead of myself. See, I’m a White child of the 70s and my parents (and TV culture) raised me to believe that, well, we should focus on our similarities rather than our differences. It didn’t matter that Willis and Arnold were Black and Mr. Drummond was White—what mattered was that they were a family (for its time, this show seemed pretty progressive). My well-meaning, liberal, parents told me “Skin color doesn’t matter, we’re all human.” I wonder if the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. influenced them in any way:

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

They told me racism is bad, I should treat everybody equally and I should not judge anyone based on color, religion, disability, age, sexual orientation, etc. My dad bought a “Love See No Color” t-shirt from an African American street vendor. I thought I had it figured out.

Until I took women’s studies classes at the local University at the ripe old age of 27 and found out I’m racist because I believe that color doesn’t matter. They accused me (and other’s like me) of thinking of non-White people as invisible. Seriously, somebody brought up the “Love See No Color” thing and outrage insued. Somebody actually said, “That’s just means Whites don’t even see Blacks!”

I can’t begin to relate how tedious and absurd the discussions around race became in these classes. People felt unsafe… a lot. I know this because they kept saing, “I feel really unsafe right now.” People cried and self disclosed. Turned out that everybody was a racist. Well, OK, all the White students. Non-White students didn’t contribute to the discussions because they didn’t want to have to “be a representative for their race.” I too gave up contributing because I didn’t want to be a representative for sanity.

The remedy, we’re told, is to “honor/celebrate diversity.” In fact, whole non-profit organizations have been developed, whole FTE training positions have been hired, and whole divisions in government agencies have been formed to propegate this ideology. We’ve gone from “differences don’t matter” to “differences matter a lot” and we must train people to understand just how different we really are. Though the differences are spun positively (as opposed to the negative stereotypes of days past), I can’t help but experience this strategy as devisive. (Especially since there is one cultural group banned from celebrating its own identiy…or even admitting it has one…).

So now, Clinton identifies the “the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity” as our largest global problem. But then our tax dollars are paying for programs that promote the opposite point of view. The source of the illusion is no mystery; it’s merely an example of ideology run amok.

The truth is, we are all different and the same. We are all human. We are no better or worse any anybody else. And, quite frankly, we need to get over ourselves. The biggest problem facing the global community today? We take ourselves way too seriously.

On Bus Stalking and Letting Go...

My daughter entered kindergarten in Bozeman Montana and though adamant that she wasn’t a “little” girl and should have all the rights and responsibilities that come with being an American citizen, she was, however, five and I seriously questioned her ability to make sound decisions based upon her inability to eat anything without depositing it all over her cheeks. However, knowing she’ll eventually be on her own (shudder), I tried to provide her with opportunities for independence; even at great cost to my own mental health.

This is how I became a bus stalker. The little darling had requested she be allowed to ride the bus. Frankly, given the open-enrollment policy of the school district, just getting her settled in a school confused me so much that I had the information lady at the school district screening my calls.

Me: “You mean, she can go to any school in town?”

School District Lady: “Yes. (she said brightly) Well, except that children who live close to the schools have priority (we don't live near any schools) and children who already have siblings in the schools have priority (ours is an only child) and it’s first come first serve…Ooops, you already missed the enrollment event at the schools…(great).”

Me: “Uh… so, uh…”

School District Lady: “Well, there is another enrollment opportunity tomorrow morning at 8 am, but you should probably get there early…some parents camp out all night… (Yikes!)”

Me: “Well, how do I choose a school?”

School District Lady: “Oh, let’s see…one of the best schools is top notch, small, and would be perfect for your little darling.”

Translation: most people pick other schools, so it should be easy to get her in that one since you waited until the last minute to bother with caring about your child’s education, you lazy excuse for a parent.

Once she was settled in the school, I found I needed to have her in an after school program twice a week and that she’d need school transportation to get her there. Now, the idea of coordinating my child with busses terrified me. I mean, when I was a kid, you went to the corner of your street, a bus came along and picked you up, dropped you off at your nearby school and, at the end of the day, the same bus picked you up and dropped you off at your street corner (where your stay-at-home mom stood loyal and true, ready to scoop you up, feed you cookies and hear about your mishaps and triumphs in between vacuuming and preparing the pot roast) Simple.

Bozeman, because of open enrollment, had kids all mixed up throughout the community so the bus system had incorporated a transfer station. A clever thing, really, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around my little, tiny, cupcake, who’s hard pressed to put her shoes on the right feet, managing to (in this order) remember to ride a bus on the designated days, get on the right numbered bus, get off it at the transfer station, get on a different numbered bus, and (probably the most difficult concept for me) remember to actually get off at the after school program bus stop. I had to see it to believe it, so I devised a plan.

Her first bus day began with the following conversation.

Me: “Today, you ride the bus.”

Girl Child: “I’m a big dancing chicken .”

Me: “Cassie, really, this is important, today remember to ride the bus after school. Mommy won’t pick you up, you’ll ride the bus. Do you remember the bus number?”

Girl Child: “Bus, bus, bus….chicken.”

Aside from the poultry fixation, she seemed to absorb the general bus concept. Great. I dropped her off at school and reminded her again, in front of her teacher, to ride the bus and checked that her purple bus instruction tag remained attached to her backpack. Handing her over to the teacher felt like checking airport luggage.

That afternoon, I arrived a half hour before school was out, so that I could park and stake out the bus loading zone. I climbed up a grassy knoll and sat low, staring intently at the group of gathering bus riders until I spotted her, my little purple-coated offspring. At first, she stood in the wrong line and I nearly panicked, my muscles tensing, ready to leap from my hiding spot. Luckily, someone waved a sign, her number, and she obediently righted the situation. Whew!

The bus brigade stacked in, and my girl obediently followed her line onto her bus, #141. Time for my next phase of supervision so I hopped back into my truck. However, at the same time, all the drive-up parents arrived; effectively jamming up the whole block so when the busses began their departure I sat stuck behind somebody’s smoking Volvo. Noooooooooo!

I strained to keep my eye on #141 as I made several attempts to ease around the Volvo. Finally, I squeaked by, and put the pedal to the metal…top speed 25 mph. #141 turned a corner 3 blocks from my location but I knew the area well enough that I thought I could catch it. I turned the same corner and did not see any busses. Oh No!! Then, a glimpse of yellow down a side street and I resumed my chase.

A few blocks later, all the busses stopped at a local middle school; the transfer station. Unfortunately, I could not park anywhere near #141 and had to keep my eyes on its location (nestled among a line of replicas) while I jockeyed for parking and debated with myself whether it was better to park looking straight at the busses or park with the direction of the busses so I could make an easy break to follow her second bus. I tried a variety of parking configurations. An old man on the corner, and his shitzu, stared at me.

Oops, the kids began the transfer process. I could see Cassie’s purple coat plop onto the sidewalk and dissapear behind other busses, tracked her purple shoes make a few confused circles, approach a teacher's loafers and get pointed to the next bus. However, I couldn’t see the number! I left my parking location and made a loop around the block but by the time I got around I could no longer visualize her current location in the queue. I lost her!!

I made another loop and crept by all the busses, desperately staring through the windows for the haircut I knew so well. About then, I became aware of the suspicious expressions on the other parents and teachers who watched me creeping by and knew my behavior mimicked some deranged kidnapper.

Fortunately, I spotted Cassie; bus #96 and 4^th in the bus queue. I pulled into a no parking zone, idled for a quick departure, but all the busses departed in unison; baring any other cars from invading the convoy. I had to wait for 17 busses to depart before I could join them and by then I’d completely lost sight of #96. My efforts to track my child had ended in failure and I swear somebody wrote down my license number. Not good.

The busses began to leave the herd but I couldn’t see #96. Implementing my last desperate plan, I headed toward the after-school location hoping I’d see #96 along the way. A wink of yellow down 3^rd street gave me hope but when I caught up to it, it was only #82. Crap. A kid in back stuck his tongue out at me and another waved both hands.

In the end, I parked by the child care and waited; trying to calm my respiration and heart rate. Eventually #96 arrived and children spilled out; the last, wearing a purple coat trotted into the gates completely unaware of her mother watching from the shadows. She did it.

After that, I felt confident she could handle this process and didn’t bother to stalk busses again. A few days later, my work phone rang twice. One call, her child care to say she had not arrived with the rest of the children and the other call, her school who’d heard from the child care that she had not arrived with the rest of the children. I advised she should have arrived. We panicked. The school secretary offered to call the bus company to try to locate her. I waited in agony for her return call. It turned out Cassie had been visiting with another child and had forgotten to get off at the child care location. The driver had to circle back at the end of the route to drop her off.

My child had a blast. I had half a bottle of red wine that night. From then on, though, I trusted the system and she seemed to get the hang of it. Apparently, she is more competent then I’d given her credit for and I had my first opportunity to let go and trust the little goofball. How does anyone survive parenting? Where's my wine...