Electronics Meltdown

Necessary Roughness is one of my summertime guilty pleasures.  I went to high school with girls like Dani; the sets are as much fun for me as the stories.  It's often puerile but just as often it's profound.  Sometimes, like last night, it hits me right where I live.

A bit of backstory is required.  I won a Kindle Fire several months ago.  I have some books on it, but screen time is not the same as holding a book on my lap so I rarely use it as a literary aide.  Instead, I have downloaded games... many games... far too many games.... and it has turned into a monumental time suck.... worse than Facebook.

I tried to play Words With Friends, but I don't always use the device in a wifi zone so that was a
short-lived experience.  Solitaire and Free Cell are stalwart standbys, always ready in a pinch.  But the real problem, the headache, the just one more game and then I'll start to make dinner, is contained in Word Drop.

It's simple, really.  Letters in bubbles drop from the top of the screen.  I create words and receive a score.  If the bubbles cover too much of the screen the game is lost, the score is recorded, and I start again.  I'm good at games like these, games that require an extensive vocabulary and an ability to spend hours rearranging consonants and vowels.  It feels marginally more acceptable than Tetris, the last video game that captured me.....  not my attention.... it captured me entirely.

Word Drop is doing the same thing now.  TBG can watch talking heads and sports and I can keep him company on the couch, exchanging a word now and then if conversation is required, splitting my time between red and yellow and purple and blue and green letters and the pithy words of my sweetie.  It makes me feel less of a sluggard as I sit with him on Douglas. 

The problem is that I can't stop.  I am certain that a chemical reaction is occurring in my brain that keeps me connected to the device.  I can feel the muscles controlling my eyeballs straining and tiring and yet I go on.  The phone rings and I ignore it.  The pool beckons and still, I sit.  It's a physical connection that I find nearly impossible to break.

It's a good thing that the Kindle Fire has a short battery life; I'd never get anything done if it didn't shut itself off every now and then, drained of energy and freeing me to live my life.

Big Cuter played Everquest.... or EverCrack as it was known in our house... the game that was stupid and evil and should not be played....the game that kept him from the dinner table until I insisted that he join us... the game in which he was a guild leader at 16 but which sucked that year entirely from his existence.  He had on-line friends, it's true.  We just wanted him to have some who took him out of the house, too. 

I came to realize that he needed some lead time to leave his post.  He agreed to come willingly if I alerted him in time.  Last night he reminded me of the time I dragged him away and he lost hours of work and his fury knew no bounds... and that brings us back to the start of this post.

I took Amster's kids around town on Wednesday.  Mr. 7 was otherwise occupied as Mr. 9 and I waited for him in the lobby, each of us on our own device until he came over to see what I was playing.  Snuggling up nice and close (ahhhhhhhhh), Mr. 9 began to pick out words.... three letter words at first, but soon four and five and six letters were strung together and we were high fiving and feeling pretty smug. 

I was ranked 99th in the world in that game that afternoon.  Mr. 9 was impressed.... until I told him that in another version of the same game I was ranked 5th in the world.

Impressed doesn't begin to come close to the look on his face.  Awe. Admiration. Stupefaction. Pride.

All I felt was ridiculous. 

Another grown up in the room asked what it all meant.  Mr. 9 said that I was better than all but four people in the whole world.  My response was more accurate.  "It means that 4 people wasted more time on this game than I did."

"Why aren't you higher?  Can we try to make it so?"

No, honey, we can't, because I exited instead of saved that game and there's no way to get back into it.  The score remains on the leaderboard, but it cannot be improved. When it happened, I screamed.... I cried... I felt awful for days. 

We all sighed and that was that until I watched Necessary Roughness and saw the gamer character, a first-person-shooter champion,  become frantic when, distracted, he was defeated.  All that effort, lost.  He had a seizure.

While I was never that obsessed, I came close.  And when I shared my story, lost game and all, with Big Cuter that night on the phone, his glee knew no bounds.

How did it feel to have the shoe on the other foot?  Did I have sympathy for the younger him, now that I'd felt that same pain?  Did I enjoy my just desserts?

The answer was simple - no.  I was embarrassed that I allowed pixels to make me sad.  I was furious that I had invested so much time in such a meaningless pursuit.  I rued the days I'd squandered and the emotions in which I'd wallowed over something so unimportant.

Perhaps this public confession will shame me into quitting..... once I move up from 99th to1st in this new game I've started, that is.

Afternoon Delight

Little Cuter described herself as transportation. We volunteered at an after-school program for elementary school kids who found her to be a delightful way to cross the classroom. Their feet would have taken them, but riding on her back or her shoulders or grasping her leg as she dragged them was much more fun.

Today, I'm sitting in Amster's dining room, waiting for her boys to get off the bus and into my car for the errands they must run. Amster's at work and I, retired and in love with her kids, get to be their transportation. Just as with Little Cuter and Bahia Vista's care program, it's a win-win situation.

There's something very comforting to me about this time of day. I can't start a big project; the kids are on their way. I can't run a quick errand; there has to be a grown up to meet them here. The house seems to know that they are coming home; there's an expectant comfort in the air.

G'ma was usually home when I arrived at the end of the school day, at least when I was very young and my siblings even younger. I clearly remember the afternoon I was alone, all alone, for hours. Homework was finished and the dishwasher was emptied and I wandered around my room and the public spaces of our home, lonely and desperate to talk to someone. G'ma and my sister eventually returned, dinner was put on the table, and, from the depths of his bedroom emerged my brother. My brother, who had been home the whole time I'd been talking – aloud – to myself and begging for a response.

I asked him why he hadn't replied to my “Hello, nobodies!”, why he hadn't come out and spent time with me? “I had nothing to say.” That's my brother, in a nutshell.

Once I became a parent, this hour before the kids came home was my sacred time. I treasured the last moments of quiet, of solitude, of my own issues and no one else's. With TBG at work, my home was my own for those brief periods. I could crank up the music and dance foolishly across the wooden floors, slipping and sliding in my socks, with no one to laugh at me. I could call my girlfriends and moan and groan without worrying that little, prying, ears would overhear. This was my space to gird myself for the full onslaught of parenting which was soon to be dismissed from school.

When I drove carpool, I'd get to the line much earlier than anyone else. I'd roll down the windows and close my eyes, mistress of the 20 minute power nap, The kids loved to be the first to the car, frightening me awake with tickles or tossed acorns or a screeched “HI MOM!!!” It makes me smile to think about it.

Now, I've opened the garage door and checked out the kitchen cabinets and counters for snacks. I know where we are going once we've had our bathroom break. Until they get off the bus a little before 2pm, I'm going to revisit that power nap. Writing about it has made me sleepy.......

Congressman Ryan, the Media, and Me

I'm watching Game Change this morning as TBG recovers from his visit to the dentist. He's napping and I'm rubbing his forehead and Julianne Moore is morphing into an Alaskan governor. It's no wonder that my thoughts have turned to Paul Ryan.

John Stewart was looking for substance last night. The Republicans touted their vice presidential nominee as the intellectual leader of their party. Given that, there ought to have been thoughtful, issues-based, questioning. All he could find were quotes about the Congressman's exercise routine, his father's early death, and how clever he was to sneak out of Janesville and into Boston without the media's knowledge.

Where was the substance? Certainly, when dealing with the man who created a plan for the future of our country, a budget to reorganize our government's priorities, certainly there is more to discuss than his abs. Now, when people might just be paying attention because it's something new, while people are listening to stories they might otherwise avoid, now would be the time to bring policy and insight on the issues of the day to the fore.

An informed populace is, somehow, less frightening to imagine than the mindless mob I picture every night before I go to sleep... the idiot in the lane ahead of me, the cashier who was flummoxed by the math required to include those two pennies I put on top of the bills, the family at the table next to us, each one playing a separate game on a smart phone, exchanging not a word nor a glance. They are permitted... and might even show up... to vote. Now, when even their thoughts might be captured , now would be the time to show how the Ryan budget plan would affect a young family of 5 living on the Congressman's salary of $174,000, forced to maintain two residences because of the job.

Make it real. Make it pertinent. Make it factual. Make it interesting.

Sarah Palin was the mother of a special needs baby and a pregnant teenage daughter and a son in Iraq while she was running for office. They were props in the campaign. Congressman Ryan has an adorable family with no skeletons revealed... thus far. Frankly, I don't care about their families, except as to what it says about the candidates as men. There was a time when Bill Clinton's only redeeming feature, as far as I was concerned, was Chelsea.

PX-90 is not a campaign platform. Why, when the candidate is presented as a man with a mind, why are we subjected to drivel?

A Mormon chose a Catholic to run with him against an African-American and an all-American. There's a lesson to be learned here. It's a moment for pride, a real melting pot taking place in our polity, and I have yet to hear anyone wax eloquent on the topic.

It's a piece of the election story that resonates with me. As a child, I knew I couldn't run for president.... I was poor, I was Jewish, I was female. Today, even the richest candidates spend two hours each and every day making fund raising phone calls. Religious beliefs are less important than Tea Party allegiances, and being female is now a blessing instead of a political curse. Times have changed and I'd like to hear someone say something about it.

Actually, I'd like to hear someone say something about anything other than the potential veep's abs.

Three Broken Ribs

Remember those x-rays G'ma took last week?  The ones that they were "sure will be no problem but we'll call you if there is something of note," the ones I stopped worrying about because I was leaving for BlogHer'12 and I'd heard nary a word?  The ones that we thought were unnecessary, perhaps overly cautious, but that she had, anyway, because the Nurse Practitioner thought it would be a good idea.

"Can I afford it?  Will Medicare pay?"  Assured that it wasn't going to be a financial burden, G'ma accepted the procedure with her usual, snarky attitude. "A little more radiation won't kill me, will it?"

Since I've promised to keep her alive at least through the kids' wedding in late September, I paid a little bit more attention to the answer instead of rolling my eyes.  She's decided she wants a new dress for the affair; I want to be sure she's there to wear it.  "You'll be fine," was the answer and we exchanged a look because we both know that she's not fine and won't be fine but the NP didn't need to share our moment so we grabbed the prescription and bolted.

Those x-rays were taken and I traveled and returned and the arnica kept G'ma's swelling and purpling to a minimum and I attributed the extra kvetching as she got into and out of my car to the bruising and swelling..... until the phone rang early Saturday morning.  It was the pod castle and they were wondering why I wasn't over there fussing over G'ma and her three broken ribs.

Three broken ribs?

Between dead cell phones and new offices and inexperienced secretaries any attempts to communicate with me went astray, they say.  I'm refusing to believe that they didn't want to tell me and made a conscious decision not to call.  Everyone from every side apologized.  I'm not wasting energy there, worrying that those entrusted with my mother's well-being are plotting against us.

They did tell me she fell.  They did acknowledge it was during a supervised activity.  I'm really not angry at all. 

Should someone have been spotting her as she finished her turn and went back to her chair?  Probably... until you've spent any time around her and have been treated to the venom spewing from her eyes when you've offered assistance.  "I'm fine!" and a snarl is what will come your way, just ask TBG or Big Cuter, each of whom tried to be gentlemanly and received the full treatment.  I understand my mother's need to be independent and do for herself those things which are still within her reach, and I know the staff does, too.

Accidents happen.  That's why they call them accidents. 

But still, three broken ribs?  I drove over to the pod castle and asked G'ma if she felt weird, having thre broken ribs.

"Broken ribs?  I broke my ribs?  On which side?  I don't feel anything broken.... should I?"

There's my mother, worrying that she's disappointed me by not being able to identify broken bones.  I hugged her and she laughed.  "I thought I had broken ribs.  Be careful with that hugging."  No, I hadn't hurt her.  Couldn't I take a joke?

It's hard to be furious about three broken ribs when the patient has already moved on. 

Everyone at the pod castle is very concerned - about reporting, about phone calls, about safety, about prevention.  Underlying it all is their very real fear that I'll sue.  I tried to reassure them.  I smiled and I hugged and I expressed delight that the injury had happened when she was participating in an activity, rather than rolling off her couch like the last one.

Because the truth is that there was a last one and there will be another one and there's nothing we can do but smile and try to be sure that the same mistake is not made twice. A law suit would solve nothing.  I have enough aggravation without adding to the pile.  She receives loving care day in and day out.  I couldn't ask for more.

Still, it's nice that they had the grace to worry.

Stylin' in The Big Apple

Driving into The City (it's always going to be The City to me) on a $12.50 comfy shuttle bus to Grand Central and then a free van to the Hilton on 6th Avenue (which will never be Avenue of the Americas to me) fed my inner Scrooge as it afforded views like this

which I never see in Tucson. 

I didn't mind the signs and the narrow lanes and the grit.

It felt like home.

I closed my eyes and Daddooooo was driving and G'ma was grumbling and we kids were trying to see just how much mayhem we could accomplish before someone noticed.

It was bumpy and noisy and grimy and I loved it.

*****

http://tinyurl.com/8g4q3e2



I took myself to MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) after the conference ended on Saturday. It was only half way down 53rd Street, after all, and I have a membership.  My walking stick and I cruised right past the lovely ticket taker who smiled at my pretty membership card and clicked me through the turnstyle.

There are certain places I like to be, like between Van Gogh's Starry Night and Cezanne's The Bather, standing on the cool rocks below that nearly naked man's feet. It's an odd picture and I have spent more time than I did that Saturday contemplating the perspective.  That day, his right side's disconnect did not seem much different from my own. 

I saw some random wonderfulness, like this lovely bit of blue and yellow .

which are Little Cuter and SIR's wedding colors and if I'd been smart enough to notice the artist's name I might be able to do something wonderful but, alas......

It does make me smile, though. 

With that smile on my face, I entered and exited an elevator, turned a corner or two and saw these

mine detector shoes and a hand held device for personal use.
My smile was a little bit harder to find for a while.

I looked down from the third floor

and was entranced.

As soon as I caught my breath I went downstairs where I saw Giorgio Boetti's embroidery on fabric, six years in the making, world maps

and those remarkable rugs.

Handwoven in Afghanistan, the artists were given a simple instruction. 

Using two colors and a 10x10 grid, count to 100.

Take your time... start at the bottom right corner and track to the left.

 Some had colorful borders.

Some made fanciful shapes and designs.

The whole squares and boxes thing was everywhere

and I do mean everywhere.

I am certain that there was a point to all those televisions in one room but it was making me a little nutty so I left before I figured it out. 

*****

There was an exhibit on The Century of the Child in design but they wouldn't let me take any pictures so you'll have to dig deep into your memory banks, or Google Images, and imagine the legos and slinky and color forms and the erector sets all carefully displayed near the Spirograph and the Etch-A-Sketch.  There were educational blocks with arches and ramps just like the ones my siblings and I painted red one wet afternoon.  Blow up dolls and Tetris and Dr. Seuss and Soupy Sales and the same Marimekko bedding Big Cuter had on his bunk beds for years were almost as enchanting to the actual children who were there as was the interactive shadow play exhibit.  It was all about them.

*****

Kathleen was not only the perfect person to register me and quietly upgrade me and gush with me over the divers and swimmers and her love for all things equestrian, she recognized me as I crossed the lobby three days later.  She reminded me that she'd sent an amenity to my room, reminded me to call and ask for it, and so, denizens, I spent my last night in New York City indulging in berries and bubbly

compliments of the New York Hilton at 6th Avenue between 53rd and 54th... which, while not cozy, manages to be friendly and efficient and almost like home anyway..

*****

I was too sleepy to take pictures of the city at dawn as my cabbie pointed out Ward Island and the various bridges and parkways, just because I wondered aloud which one was Randall's Island.

If only the airlines were as forthcoming with information and style and a sense of warmth and welcome.

I'd travel back and forth more often if I could beam myself there.

Getting Over Myself

It's been a tough week.  Just as I was finding a place in my soul for Aurora, Sikhs in Wisconsin were killed in an act of stupidity surpassing understanding. I spent a day in court and a piece of my heart was shredded, just a little bit more. The temperatures have been in triple digits and there's no end in sight. It's too hot to swim in the pool. 

Deep thought is at the very edge of possibility when perspiration is running down every surface of my body.  Profundity gives way to whimpering.  Yes, everything is air conditioned, but you have to get there first.  Our schools are one story, stretching over lots and lots of land.  There were great distances between the places I wanted to go this morning.

Today is the first day of school for the Amphitheater District.  Moms and Dads and aunties and day care providers held the hands of terrified tiny ones who stood in the lobby, staring, bemused, at the controlled chaos surrounding them.   Big Kids - fourth graders - herded younger siblings and cousins to the desk, where classroom assignments were clarified and directions given.... in several languages.

Ms. Levine was expecting at least 24 students .... and seven languages....in her kindergarten room.  The usual capable, competent, all-knowing smile was on her face; those little ones are luckier than they know, having her as their introduction to education in America.

The faces and the outfits were all the colors of the rainbow.  Hair was slicked back and held in place with barrettes and clips and ribbons and more gel than Diana Taurasi has ever used to affix an errant strand. Pink was the predominant color, and worry was the predominant emotion.

That's where the magic stickers came in. 

Haven't you heard of these magic stickers?  The smiley face in the top point is very very special.  If you rub it when you're feeling sad, it has the power to send the love of the grown-up who's holding your hand now... here in the lobby... that hand that feels so good and that you'll miss so much... all that love is sent right to your heart... at any time... whenever you need it.... all day long... just by rubbing the smiley face on the star.

Do you think you are the only one who is worried and afraid and a little bit scared?  Not so, my young friend.  Everyone who is wearing a similar sticker has had this same conversation.... was just as nervous... needs just as much help as you do.  If you see a sticker, smile at the person behind it; she'll know just why you're doing it. She'll probably smile back at you.

I left cookies and chocolate kisses for the staff, and I found Lowis's classroom after several false starts.  Precious was deposited in kindergarten. We were hot and sweaty and all a bit overwhelmed when Ms. Call and the student body president appeared on the flat screen for the welcome and the pledge of allegiance.

New technology and all, school still starts with the pledge.

It was time to drop off snacks at another middle school, and then to start my day.  Once again, doing good, sharing the love, receiving the hugs and the grateful handshakes has taken me away from the sadness and the horror and the grief that surrounds so much of the noise in my brain.  For a couple of hours this morning, my biggest worry was how to spell Lowis's last name, how to find room 605.

Plea deals and semi-automatic weapons didn't figure into the picture at all.  It was lovely.

How Did I Get Here?

I'm feeling sympathy for the shooter.

There.  I said it.  I wrote it out and it will exist as a fact, a public statement that I have lost my mind.

This person killed six people.  This person plotted and executed a detailed plan which destroyed the lives of the families and friends of people who had the audacity to spend a sunny Saturday morning with their Congresswoman.  Sons and daughters and mothers and fathers were slaughtered; how can the perpetrator be sympathetic to me?

It was much easier when I hated him. In person, he's not a scary guy at all. He's small and pale and had I been paying attention to him instead of to Gabby I bet that Christina-Taylor and I could've decked him ourselves.  Puny.... weak.... pipsqueak.... it was easy to talk about him that way.  It reminded me that I didn't need to be frightened, that I could defend myself, that I was not vulnerable.

Ridiculous, now, looking back.  Of course I was vulnerable... am vulnerable.... as we all are vulnerable.  I met a young cancer survivor last Sunday at the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport. We wished each other well and acknowledged that we were part of an elite group - those who really and truly know that tomorrow is not promised.  The world is an altogether scary place when you look at life that way.  It makes it easier to imagine the enemy as less than he is.  It makes going outside something to do.... not something to fear.

The fear was rational, I suppose.  When Miss Marjorie took me out to lunch and I quailed at the sight of a young, white man in a hoodie crossing in front of us, we agreed that it was not that much of an over-reaction.  After all, my last encounter with a similar human being resulted in death and destruction.  Letting down my guard seemed like ignoring the biggest lesson life had taught me thus far.

The shooter did nothing to diminish my disgust for him.  He wore a smirk that needed to be shaken off his face by a woman of a certain age who had a thing or two to tell him.... to ask him... to scream at him loudly with spittle flying.  He was disrespectful and penitent within a ten minute span.  He was crazy as a loon, he was shackled, there were US Marshals lining the walls of the courtroom - he was the other and I was fine with that.

He killed my little friend.  That was all I needed to know.  My hip aches and I still can't really hike and it's all his fault.  That was enough for me.  As long as he was locked up and unable to hurt me again, I could refuse to have him in my brain. Somehow, that felt as if I were taking the high road.

His first competency hearing provided insights into painful uses for plastic utensils, the flinging of bodily fluids, and a refusal to acknowledge that he had failed in his mission. "No one could have survived that close a shot," was one of the few coherent utterances the psychologist referenced that day.  Crazy, self-injurious, oblivious to the facts..... he was dismissable.  Certainly, there was no reason to find room for him in my heart.

The next hearing was delayed, and delayed, and then delayed once again.  By the time 11am rolled around on Tuesday morning, we were sitting in Judge Burns's courtroom, anxious for it all to be over.  The prosecutors had briefed us on the plea agreement and the reasoning behind their decision not to seek the death penalty and there were no demurrals from the crowd.  We, the survivors and victims and and our families were okay with the deal.  There was no bloodlust in that room.  There was only sadness and a sense of loss. 

I looked around at this part of my extended family, created in chaos but evolved into warmth and love and gratitude and support.  We each are needy at different times; some one of us is always ready to lend an ear.  We can be dark and foolish and ornery with one another, and the nuance, the back story, the why is understood.  We had been hounded by the press, clamoring for our reaction to the news which had been leaked but was not then a fact, all weekend long.  We'd had plenty of time to think about where we were and what was going to happen.

A 23 year old was going to admit that he did it.... he was going to accept his punishment.... there would be no need to relive it all through a trial and appeals and parole hearings which would last through all of our natural lives.... we did not have to be connected to the judicially sanctioned execution of a human being... it was certain.

It is also very very sad.  Dr. Pietz is a talented woman; she has created the outlines of a human being where once there was only the physical manifestation of mental illness.  This was a different person sitting at the defense table, surrounded by his attorneys and one guard, a few feet back from his chair. The first time we saw him, there were five guards with guns at the ready surrounding him at all times. 

Someone made the decision that he was safe enough to be handled with less scrutiny; it was the audience they worried about, it seemed.  Everyone who entered the courtroom had to pass through a metal detecting wand.  The pins in TBG's knee set off a quiet beep which startled us; the guards just smiled and passed us through.  That was the last smile of the afternoon.

The more I heard, the more I wept.  Beyond the tears when the counts were read... my name... Christina's name.... Gabe and Dory and I didn't even bother to wipe away the tears.  By sitting forward, I could watch the shooter's face.  He was hearing the charges and, without sneering or smirking or taking a nap, he was absorbing the enormity of what he'd done.

The drugs are still a work in progress; there was a flatness to his affect which may be part of his persona forever more.  But there was a person behind the I plead guilty's and the Yes, I understand's and it was unsettling, to say the least.

Suddenly, I couldn't hate him.  He was a sick kid whose issues were ignored and who did a terrible thing while under the influence of a chemical imbalance and voices in his head.  He planned it, he wrote about it, he justified it in his own mind and we will never know if his beliefs truly changed or if it was schizophrenia talking.  Whether he is the pleasant boy who played saxophone in his garage for his neighbors' enjoyment or the teenager who scared friends and teachers and classmates, the facts are the facts - he admitted to wielding a weapon and shooting us.  He has to pay.

When he's taking his medication, he's a model inmate.  He is not forcibly medicated; that would involve injecting the drugs while he was restrained.  He is also not voluntarily medicated; he does not look forward to his next dose.  He is involuntarily  medicated; he opens his mouth and swallows the pills.  He cannot be trusted to administer his own medications and keep himself behaving like a member of a civil society.  Without the drugs, he's a crazy person, a killing machine, someone who scares me more than my fingers can type.

And yet, he's younger than my kids and he's living in a box. 

How did I get here, denizens?  Am I, as Chicago Gal opined at lunch today, on my way to finding peace with this?  Is it mercy?  I know it's not forgiveness; I'm not there...... yet.......

7 Consecutive Life Sentences + 140 Years

..... and all I feel is empty.

Everything I've thought and felt returned today, with a vengeance.  I was frightened and tearful and weary and anxious and angry and sad.  It was overwhelmingly sad.

A 23 year old kid young man young adult human being will spend the rest of his life in a box.  There will be no trial on the 49 Federal counts brought against the gunman who killed 6 and wounded 13 of us exactly 19 months ago.  The perpetrator admitted his guilt and, in doing so, took responsibility for his actions. 

I thought I'd feel better.

Unlike previous hearings, we were wanded before we entered the courtroom, yet there were far fewer armed Federal marshals lining the walls. There was a lot of furniture moving and equipment readying and then the reporters took their seats and a quiet solemnity fell.  There were no instructions to be silent; it just felt right.  We stood as Judge Burns entered, and then I started to cry.

Dr. Christina Pietz, the treating psychologist at United States Medical Center for Federal Prisoners, was the one and only witness.  Judge Burns attested to having read - more than once - the 2000 pages of documentation which she had submitted to bolster her testimony.  Nothing was being taken for granted; everything was taken seriously. 

Mary Sue Feldmeier, our Assistant United States Attorney, asked the questions.  The answers just made me cry harder.

He'd been depressed since his junior year in high school.  His friends were so worried they instituted a suicide watch. He heard voices, and wondered if his parents heard them, too.  There was no evidence that he was treated for his behavior.

I didn't know that my heart could feel heavier, but her testimony proved me wrong.  He failed to kill Gabby... and he thinks he's a failure, because that was the plan and he fell short.  He feels remorse for those whose lives he took.... especially the child's.

I think about that child every single day.  I miss that child every single day.  How dare he have any thoughts about her at all.... even those thoughts... but why not, because, as Dr. Pietz testified, "he is becoming human." 

What was he, then, when he filled his Glock, model 19, 9mm, semi-automatic weapon with 32 bullets? 

He has "a serious mental illness and situational depression."  An officer sits across from him 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.  His situation isn't going to change.  "I'm  22," he told Dr. Pietz last year, "and this is it."

In some ways, the death penalty might have been more merciful. 

But I wasn't looking for mercy this morning in the Federal Courthouse in downtown Tucson.  Mercy is too nuanced for the judicial system.  Mercy is, I think, what I'm feeling around the edges of my heart lately.  Mercy was in the tone of Judge Burns's inquiries of the defendant; there was something fatherly about the interactions that made me even sadder.

Where was all this concern, all this attention, before the voices and the shooter combined to kill my little friend?  Did the parents not have any friends or relatives who could have... should have... intervened?  Why didn't the seller-of-bullets-at-the-second-Walmart act as responsibly as the fellow  at the first Walmart, when the shooter sought to purchase ammunition that morning?  Stan saw something in his eyes and refused to make the sale.  He's not looking for notoriety; he told me that he was just doing his job. Would that others had done theirs.

The shooter's story is one of disposal, of being unattended, of being dismissed.  He has no viable defense, once he waived an insanity plea.  He is convicted of killing, intimidating, intending to kill and he'll spend the rest of his life folding towels and t-shirts for the prison shower room, or stamping return addresses on out-going mail.... all alone.... in a box... without contact with other prisoners.... for his own safety.

The absurdities are overwhelming, but mostly there's the emptiness.  What I want, I cannot have.  This will have to suffice.

Back in the USofA

For a long and wonderful weekend, I was in BlogHer land.  Women of all sizes, shapes and descriptions were everywhere I looked.  We were eager to exchange cards and twitter handles and compliments.  "It's YOU!!" rang out as bloggy friends were found IRL.... in real life.

It was safe and secure and brilliant and funny and everything that I wanted at every minute of every day.  Disappointments were few and far between and even they led to unexpected encounters filled with sheer delight.  The food was good, the wine was plentiful, and no one was a stranger for long.

Then I came home.

Travelling's hard enough without dragging swag through airports, changing planes and squishing myself into seats which keep getting smaller.  I'm little.  I don't know how the rest of the world survives the ordeal. 

I tried to swim out the kinks and the aches, and I was grateful for my pool even though my body was just as sore after I dried off.  I stubbed my toe and was reminded, once again, that jumping up and down on one shattered-but-healed-hip is an impossible task.  I didn't know which piece to hug first. 

I was tired but the Rover was landing and I wanted to stay up til 11:30 because that was when it was going to be on tv and while we were wondering whether the tweets from @MarsCuriosity were sent from earth to Mars and then back again to earth Big Cuter called and told us that he'd been misinformed and we'd missed the broadcast.  Did you feel tired after reading that sentence?  That's what my self felt like when he called at 11pm.

G'ma was (plastic pins & ball) bowling at the pod-castle on Thursday.  Apparently, walking, watching, and applauding are not skills which can be practised at the same time.  She fell into a chair and is now the proud bearer of purple bruises the likes of which I haven't seen since I looked at my own body after I was shot.  We spent the day at the doctor and the x-ray center.  By the third time she had to lower herself into the car her groans were audible.  There's nothing broken (we think) and the bruising is partially a result of the blood thinners she takes to reduce her risk of stroke but she's my mommy and she's achy and I'm sad.

Reporters have flown from Colorado to Wisconsin but the story is the same.  As TBG noted at lunch, the demographic which frightens him the most right now is young, white, men. 

And that has been the backdrop to my life since deplaning.  The phone rings hourly.  CBS, NBC, CNN - the news desks and the talk show hosts checking in separately. The Wall Street Journal, the Arizona Republic, the local television stations - everybody wants a comment on something that hasn't happened. 

Little Cuter talks about impotence in the face of all this tragedy and I think she's on to something. Perhaps the media is looking for an answer from an expert, or, as one crass caller put it, "we're looking to book one of Loughner's shooting victims to...." and that's all I heard because I had to move the phone away from my ear because her words were burning through my brain.

That's the first and the last time I'll use the shooter's name in The Burrow. 

Shooting?  Shooting is what they do at the Olympics.  This was carnage, bloodshed, a massacre.
I really try hard, every single day, to avoid feeling like a victim.

That caller got the brunt of it all.  "I make it a habit not to comment on gossip."

Is this really what we've come to?  Are we really a nation of vultures?  Is being first to the edge of the abyss really that important? 

Nothing has happened, people.  The process must unfold.  Believe me, the pain will be there tomorrow, just as it is here, today.  Once there is something to talk about, I'm happy to share my thoughts.  But please, don't ask me to speculate about something that is much too nuanced, must too personal, much too real to be guessed at.

If I can wait, so can you.

And Now, Oak Creek

The list just keeps getting longer.  The faces all look the same.

There's a haunted look peering out beneath turbans. It's all too familiar to me.  I see it in the mirror.

Someone took issue with something and decided to solve his problems with weaponry.

Regular people went about doing regular things and met bullets.  It's just not right.

I was doing better and better, figuring out where to put the Aurora feelings and then I got off the plane and read the headlines.

That little box in the corner of my self, the one that holds most of the hurt, the one I could keep mostly closed most of the time, that box isn't as little any more.  And the lid is harder and harder to keep down.

TBG reminded me later in the afternoon that, in fact, he'd tried to tell me that someone had leaked something to the LA Times about the shooter and a plea deal and the death penalty but that I'd begged him to change the subject before I went to sleep and so we talked about the Olympics.

What's big news in Tucson doesn't make the national or New York or Dallas/Fort Worth newscasts as far as I could tell from my perch in a variety of airports.  But my home phone has been ringing off the hook, the producers are looking for interviews and it's the news reporting on the news.  There are no facts available until the hearing at 11am on Tuesday morning.  We've been invited to meet with the prosecution before the public session, just as we have been every step of the way.  In that meeting, facts will be revealed.  Until then, I'm not fanning the flames.  Nothing is truly known.  The process has not proceeded.  What is there to say?

And what does it matter, anyway?  Innocents were murdered today, and last month, and by my side in Tucson nineteen months ago.  The facts cannot bring back their smiles, their attitude, their company.  Those of us who were there, who survived, share the knowledge that tomorrow is not promised.

There is more. There is always more. For now, join me in sending love and healing vibes Wisconsin's way, just as we did toward Colorado. I hope those religious celebrants know that all of us are sharing their loss, their pain, their sorrow.  This is, as I heard on CNN today, an American tragedy.

And I am left to wonder, once again....when.... when.... when will we say enough?

Ashleigh in New York City

It's August in the Big Apple.  The only people on the streets have to be here - tourists and workers.  Everyone with a brain and some free cash has headed for the beach.  The humidity is just about visible, hovering over the sidewalks, a fine mist through which I walk.... and sweat.... and drip.  This is the exact opposite of Tucson's dry heat.  The temperatures are in the 80's, roll down the windows and hike in the middle of the day weather at home. Here, in Manhattan, I changed my clothes three times. There's only so much perspiration I can handle before I need a shower and fresh underwear.
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The Hilton is hosting us, and doing a fine job of managing 5000 bloggers as well as an indeterminate number of Italian shoe representatives.  The bloggers are all wearing comfortable shoes; the Italian shoe representatives are not.
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Travelling east means that waking up at 8 feels like waking up at 5.  Combined with my usual inability to sleep on my first night away from home, I've been dragging a bit today.  There's less walking than there was last year in San Diego, since the hotel houses the conference venue and we don't have to walk next door to a convention center.  I've got my hiking pole and my Converse and, except for the extraordinary amount of perspiration I am emitting from my head to my toes and covering every body part in between, it's a totally manageable experience.

I just wish I had brought a dozen more outfits.  Do you think I might be able to shop here?  Perhaps.....
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The Hilton is across the street from Radio City Music Hall.  I see it and I am back to my childhood, waiting in line around the corner on 53rd Street with my parents and siblings.  We saw Lawrence of Arabia there, and Mary Poppins there, and The Sunshine Boys there, back in the day when you saw a cartoon, the movie, and a floor show with the Rockettes for the price of admission.

Cirque de Soleil has a show going on until mid-September.  If there were a movie playing, I don't think you could keep me away.
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Today's session was on turning my bloggy writings into a published book. Crafty Chica`and Stefanie Wilder-Taylor led us through questions and answers and exercises while they kindly, calmly, thoughtfully and depressingly talked about the difficulties, the requirements, the antics involved in attracting an agent.... a publisher... an audience.

Self-publishing is an option, and one that has been gaining acceptance.  Still, as Stefanie said, there's more cachet to having a publishing house behind your work. Either way, the author is responsible for most of the publicity, most of the promotion, most of the work.

Up until this morning, I thought that the hard part was the actual writing.  How wrong I was.  How very, very wrong.
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I took myself out for dinner at Pazza Notte, an Italian restaurant recommended by the concierge.  The young women at the next table were louder than they needed to be, but the food was fabulous and the wine was delicious and after I complimented the Executive Chef on the tomato and basil soup he invited me to come back over the weekend when he'd make me some very special french fries.

French fries, you say?  Fries with Italian food?  I was as surprised as you are, denizens.  There were truffle fries and cajun fries and sweet potato fries and good old American fries and two or three other varieties I can't remember now.  The ones that accompanied my blackened chicken breast were beyond delicious.  I may try to find some company and go back on Saturday night.
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There are sponsors... and there are booths... and there are goodies and giveaways galore.  This year's BlogHer swag bag is over sized and flat on the bottom and filled to the brim with Arnica and toothpaste and ChapStick and Martha Stewart notebooks and more bags... lots and lots of bags.

Last year, Little Cuter and I had to mail our swag home; it didn't fit in our suitcases or in the overhead bins.  That's not going to be a problem this year.  Except for the 22oz bottle of Lysol, everything fits nicely into my new tote bag.  I've even got stuffed toys and silver charm bracelets for Amster's kids - it's important for grown ups to bring treats to those left behind.
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Yes, Megan, President Obama spoke to the audience at 4:30 this afternoon.  He was in Washington.  He looked tired.  He gave us snippets of his campaign stump speech, which you've heard yourselves if you've been following the election coverage at all.

But, he started out by telling us that Michelle and the girls sent their love to all of the women in the audience.  He talked about health care for women and took ownership of Obamacare, a name he professed to enjoy.  He talked about opportunities and education and equal pay and, for the most part, the audience was resoundingly appreciative.

I spent my time listening to his words but looking at Lisa Stone and Elisa Camahort Page, two of BlogHer's founders, as their faces beamed with pride.  They created an organization, a network, an outlet, a community where there had been none and today, thanks to Elisa's perseverance, 5000 of their colleagues and readers and wannabes and doers and movers and shakers were addressed by the leader of the free world.

Where, oh where, do they go from here?

On My Way

I set the alarm. I never set the alarm. I'm retired. I don't schedule early morning appointments on a regular basis. I sleep until I'm not tired and then I rise and shine.

This morning, the alarm roused me from a wonderful dream, a green dream, a forested walking dream. I was bitter about the interruption but excited for my trip. I'm on my way to BlogHer'12; at least, that's the plan.

Shower, dress, grab a Kashi Bar and toss the rest of the box into the carry-on because there's room and mini-bar snacks are expensive, and I'm out the door with TBG allowing me to heft my own bag into the trunk. I'm travelling alone; I have to be able to handle its weight.

He's taken to driving me to the airport. We've made those trips optional since he was working and travelling and I refused to drag the kids to and fro for those extra 45 minutes of bonding time. Off-site parking at the Tucson Airport cost $2.88 per day in the summer time; there's no reason not to drive and leave The Schnozz. But TBG likes those extra minutes of bonding time and I am not one to look askance at assistance. I've learned to accept help with grace, as you all know.

American Airlines let me scan the barcode on my confirmation email and the stand alone machine printed out my two boarding passes and my two receipts in no time. Four pieces of paper – two stashed in the carry-on for tax purposes, two in the outer pocket of my purse for easy access in the airport. 

Not much of a line at security, as usual, and a lovely gentleman behind me to catch my hiking pole and my luggage cart as they nearly toppled while I grabbed a gray plastic bin for my shoes. That pesky purse was scanned twice; why do they ask if that would be okay? What would happen if I were to say “NO!” I wonder?

(Grammar Freaks – does a comma follow that exclamation mark? The end of that sentence looks ugly.)

Sneakers retied, hiking pole re-sized, carry-on secured to the wheels, I strolled to the end of the terminal, all the way to the end. Gate 8. No moving walkway. No directional signs. Just a small collection of airport food vendors, two free wi-fi counters with stools and plugs, and a really nice gift shop. I love Tucson International Airport, even if I can't fly anywhere but Chicago without changing planes.

I debated buying a granola topped yogurt container, or a chicken salad sandwich, but nothing looked yummy. The barrista at the coffee cart didn't have a blueberry muffin for me. I ate one of my Kashi bars as I enjoyed the warm glow of the 40-something businessman buying breakfast for the 20-something soldier in line before me. Explaining that he could only retire from the Army if new recruits showed up, he fed them so that he could really enjoy his separation from the service.

You don't have to look very far to find joy and wonder in this world.

We landed early at Dallas-Fort Worth, with plenty of time to make my connection to my flight.... which was cancelled.... “there is weather in New York and LaGuardia is experiencing delays”. American called my house, American called my cell, TBG called my cell..... I was well informed, if stuck.

Standby on the 1:15-delayed-til-2:00 flight was a nightmare. Aggravated travellers couldn't get upgrades, couldn't get on, couldn't find information. At times like these, I try to channel Little Cuter and overwhelm the worker bees with smiles and kindness.

“It's hard to be you in times like these,” was my opening salvo. A rueful grin, a shake of the head, and suddenly I was 16^th on the list instead of 38^th. My girl is right; you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. The snarky New Yorker in me battles, but the proof is in the pudding.

It made no difference; there were only 2 available seats.

So, it was off through the terminal again, back to the gate from which I'd exited an hour before. I passed more restaurant feeding stations, but neither Aunt Annie's hot-dog-in-a-pretzel nor another yogurt cup with granola was tempting. TGIFridays had immediate seating, but I had to get on another stand-by list and stay close to the gate in case there was room for me on the 3pm flight.

My plan was to eat after I didn't get on the 2^nd flight.... but some connecting passengers still had to pass through customs before joining this voyage and they weren't going to do that in time. All 20 of us waiting on stand-by seats could be accomodated.

So, I am sitting in a window seat, halfway back, over the wing, watching the flatlands of the UsofA pass beneath me. The pilot hopes that we won't be stuck in air traffic control hell in New York and that we will land just a few minutes after our scheduled arrival time.

With the time changes, the flight changes, the altitude and the weather changes, I am truly confused. It's a good thing that NY stays open all night long; I will find myself a piece of greasy pizza or a real New York hot dog or a pastrami sandwich on the kind of rye bread that exists only in The City no matter how late it is.

I'm on vacation!

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A $12.50 shuttle bus took me to Grand Central Station and a free shuttle took me right to the Hilton.  Kathleen at the front desk found me a lovely room with a king sized bed and a sofa bed in case I want to recline on something other than the 5 pillows atop the somewhat gooshy mattress.  Chatting up the reservation clerk is another way I'm channeling my girl, who, between her wedding and buying a house has no time to gallivant in NYC with her mother and 4000 other bloggers this weekend.  

The hotel lobby is filled with laughing women, some of whom must be going to the conference too, I guess,  Radio City is right across the street, and so is a small and wonderful grocery store which provided sushi and cut fruit and sparkling water for my late night dinner in my room.  

Olympics on the tube.... a full belly.... Facebook messages from bloggy friends who want to meet up.... life is good.

Watch the Olympics With Me, vol 2

There won't be another Olympics post until next week, because I'm off to BlogHer'12 in NYC and I can't imagine I'll have a moment to spare for television.  If TBG's not around, I rarely turn it on.  So, for those of you relying on me for water-cooler-sports-patter, stock up here for the rest of the week.
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TBG and I agree that those single, double, quad and eight person sleek craft on the water should compete in a sport called Scullduggery.  It's very pretty to watch, especially the overhead shot of the oars piercing the surface at the same moment and angle. 

I'm enjoying the videography as much as the competition.
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Beach volleyball didn't hold TBG's attention, so he left me on Douglas while he showered and put away some laundry.  I muted the volume, played WordDrop on my Kindle, and screamed aloud as the Americans came back from a 3 point deficit to trounce the Czech Republic.

I will admit to a more than usual amount of fist pumping, as well. 
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I thought I had a strong upper body... and then I watched the men's gymnastics competition.  The women's events seem to emphasize lower body strength; the men's concentrate on arms and shoulders and upper back and chest.

Decry the falls and stumbles than the un-stuck landings if you must.  I am enjoying the display of muscles and the strength they create....... at least that's what I'll tell you if I think you'll judge me for an equal, maybe bigger, reason.

These guys are hot.
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bleacherreport.com

While we're on the subject, the water polo players are beefier than the swimmers and the divers, a cross between a baseball player and a synchronized swimmer. 

Watching them free style across the pool in their swim caps with the ear protectors and the bows beneath their chins is both beautiful and ridiculous at the same time. 


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The first time the Chinese replacement athlete touched the high bar was in the first round of the competition.  The man he replaced had the most awful purple arm I've seen since I looked at my own arm in February, 2011. 

The new guy never got to practise, or feel the size of the arena, before a billion people watched him be lifted up to begin his routine.  Scary?  I think so.

This leads us to one of our favorite Olympic pastimes - which sport would be the worst scariest most awful panic-inducing nightmare scenario for you if you were forced to take the field? 

The 30' diving?  Heavy weight boxing?  Any one of the ski jumps?
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Ryan Seacrest has turned out to be a better than I expected interviewer. Rowdy Gaines and Tim Dagget annoy me every time they open their mouths. 

I need more than "That was a deduction."  Perhaps you could spare a syllable or two of the energy you invest in tearing the athletes down and try to explain what we're seeing.  The movements must have names; would it hurt you to share them with us?  Should the toes be pointed or flexed on the uneven parallel bars?  Inquiring viewers would like to know.
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NBC has spent a lot of time with moms and sisters.  There are hairdos with flags, and t-shirts with flags, and signs with flags, but mostly there are gigantic smiles.

nbcolympics.com

Aly Raisman's parents are in the top spot as fans, thus far.  The camera stayed on them as they leaned and bent and raised up and over and twisted and turned in their seats, mimicking their daughter's floor exercise performance.