Politics, Then and Now

Today is the final class of the semester.  We've gone from The Dawn of Time through the Persian Wars, the Peloponnesian War, the Sicilian Disaster and the fall of democracy.  Today, we'll examine Socrates, and then it will be done.

The texts sit on my bookshelves all year 'round.  Aristophanes, Euripides, Plutarch and Plato smile at me as I open the file drawers beneath their perches. Shakespeare must have had similar tomes on his shelves; would that the ancients had inspired me to his heights.  The biographies in Plutarch were the source of so many of Will's works; my thousand word screeds don't come close to his efforts, no matter how I try.

That's the glory of it all, I think.

I've learned the basis of might makes right.  I've studied how a comic play can bring down a philosopher (cf. Aristophanes's The Clouds and Socrates).  I've seen how bombast and bellicosity can sway a population, and I've marveled at how little has changed over the years.

Democracy doesn't work.  It's not a bad idea, it's just an unworkable idea.  A small, agrarian society might be able to govern by consensus, might be able to give everyone a voice, but a thriving metropolis is the antithesis of a working democracy.  The common good, the shared values, the definition of necessity all fall by the wayside as the population swells.

Losing a war doesn't help, either.  There's always enough blame to go around.  The Athenians, stuffed into the city, attacked by the Spartans year after year, fell victim to plague and overcrowding and dissension.  As the Sicilian Expedition reached its inglorious conclusion, democracy crumbled.  I've not read much that shows anyone mourned.

Our representative form of government dangles the carrot of participation in front of us.  Make your voices heard and change will come.  Unlike the Athenians, who had only to wait until their tribe's month of power arrived in order to take the reins of leadership, we cajole and correspond and hope that those we've elected will hear our pleas and respond as we wish.

I used to believe that was how things work.  I'm learning that it's really not so simple.

I laughed when I realized that I'd never voted for a winning presidential candidate until Bill Clinton ran the first time.  I squandered my vote on John Anderson and Ralph Nader (twice) rather than endorse a candidate in whom I could not believe.  I was delightfully naive, thinking that my protest votes would make a difference.  They didn't.  I knew it then, I think, but I didn't care.  Ralph Nader didn't steal my vote from Al Gore; Al Gore lost it all on his own.  I couldn't enter the polling place and pull a lever for a man who didn't deserve my vote.

My vote..... it's really all I have.  It's my way of saying that I belong, that I participate, that I care.  When my candidate loses, I still hold out some hope that the elected official will want to represent me, too.  Two Senators and one Representative ... they are all I have.  Right now, I'm feeling left out.  It doesn't seem that anyone is listening to me.

My congressman, Ron Barber, was shot when I was.  He's a social worker, a friend, and one of 435.  It's that last figure that's the most important.  He can introduce bills, he can sponsor legislation, but his voice is one small cry in the wilderness of Washington.  Arizona's Governor makes her own noises, and the press and the comedians jump right on it; I wonder if Jan Brewer gets a retainer from The Daily Show for all the prompts she's sent their way.

I, the citizen, remain unmoved, unanswered, unhappy.

When phone calls and letters and emails and tweets go unanswered, what am I to think?  Like the Melians, I have right on my side... and it doesn't matter.  The conversations have become so skewed, so anchored to one side or the other, that change is virtually impossible.  Michael Bloomberg's millions have put fascinating ads on my tv screen, but I can't imagine that they'll change a single mind.

It's thoughts like these that make reading the classics relevant for me. They don't make me happier or more content with my lot, but they do serve to lay a foundation from which I can learn. I just have to remember not to wallow in the sad fact that very little has changed in the last 2500 years or so.

Bad Behavior

It's been one of those days, denizens.  Everywhere we turn, we're confronted with bad behavior.  It's enough to make a girl cry.

TBG took me out to our (formerly) favorite bistro for lunch.  He took a big bite of his burger and found a long hair amidst the ground beef.  We left.

It would have been nicer had the manager made an effort to apologize, rather than just whisking the plates off the table,  The brand new waitress was as sorry as she could be, but she wasn't involved in the preparation so her kind words were of less consequence than those of the owner would have been.

Now I have to find a new place to eat.

ESPN is filled with grown men acting badly, too.  The Rutgers men's basketball coach was fined but not fired for cursing, demeaning, and attacking his players with basketballs to the head.  The Athletic Director says those "are not firing offenses."  It leaves me to wonder what it would take for someone to lose his job under that regime.  These are boys under his tutelage; racial and ethnic slurs surrounded by foul language is not the kind of education I'd want for my son.  Worse than that, the assistant who recorded and reported the actions did not have his contract renewed.... until he did.... after the brouhaha made headline news.

(UPDATE: The coach was fired this morning, 4/3/13)

What are the student-athletes to take away from a situation like that?

The next story on ESPN concerned Ed Rush, the head referee for the Pac-12 Conference.  He offered $5,000 or a trip to Cancun for any ref who called a technical foul on Arizona's head coach, Sean Miller.  Apparently, Mr. Rush feels that Coach Miller is too big for his britches and needed to be taken down a peg. This might have worked in the NBA, Rush's former employer, but, again, it's not what I'd like to see around student-athletes.

There was a reprimand and there was an explanation - it was said in jest. I'm not sure that is the best excuse.  If the boss jokes about something, employees are sure to take notice.  Plum assignments might not come your way if you are seen to lean away from the angle the boss is promoting.  Being a ref is a difficult job under the best of circumstances; this is not the best of circumstances.

Following the pattern, my Samsung Galaxy S3 no longer uploads pictures to my computer.  I have a few picture posts for you, but they are stuck in my camera's memory card.  A call to the tech support center left me fuming.  How many times must "Your camera is not recognized by your computer" be repeated before my answer ("How would I know that?") garnered a reply.  "Yes, ma'am, I am going to work with you on that," starts to get old really fast.  "I will have to get you technical support on your phone" apparently means that they will charge me for helping me.  That was not clear to me (was it clear to you?) the first few times the young man said it. Only when he told me that I would see a charge on my bill did I cancel the call.  I hope that I've also cancelled the charge; his English was only marginally better than my Hindi.

I'm not listing the drivers going ten miles under the speed limit in the left lane, or making a right on red through a "No Right On Red" sign, or texting and narrowly missing the elderly lady and her walker in the parking lot. I chalk those up to snowbird mistakes, and calm myself by remembering that they bring needed dollars to our economy.

Of course, that economy is being hammered by the Modern Streetcar Line which was to have been ready this summer but which may take yet another year... or more.... in addition to costing nearly twice its original price tag.  And that still leaves open the question of whether the cars will really work, once they are finally delivered.

We have legislators who are so afraid of NRA funding that regulations regarding assault weapons and large magazines will never be brought to the floor of the House or Senate.  None of my tweets or phone calls or emails or snail mails have received a response, and there have been enough of them for someone to have noticed that I care about the issue.  My Senators are supposed to represent me.  I'd like to hear the why's of their positions on the issues I've raised.  Apparently, ignoring the voters counts as representation for Arizona's senatorial cohort.

Am I too grumpy for words?  Am I over-reacting?  I've tried, since 2011, to be calmer about the things that aren't really that important.  I've just re-read this post and I've come to the conclusion that enough is enough. I have to speak out when I'm offended.  I can't keep it inside any longer.  I just hope that I haven't offended any of you.

It's time for me to work on some Ben's Bells and remember that kindness helps.  Perhaps that will have an effect on my attitude, if not on those people who've been behaving badly.

On Same Sex Marriage

My niece, Intrepid Cat, works in Washington, D.C.  Her Facebook was filled with sorrow last week.  Her emails were filled with rage.  I asked her to share her thoughts, and this is what she sent.  Let no one tell me that young people today are not interested in the issues.  

*****

Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I heard several hundred people shouting hatred in the name of religion. It made me sad, and it made me angry.

Later that morning the Supreme Court heard oral arguments about Proposition 8- California's law that defines “marriage” as a union of one man and one woman.

Wednesday the court heard arguments about DOMA, the Federal Government's statute that says much the same.

Neither the state of California nor the executive branch of the United States government have chosen to defend these laws. The laws have been challenged by individuals, and they are being defended by “other interested parties;” Prop 8 by a group of “concerned citizens” and DOMA by “BLAG,” a group created by resolutions in the House and Senate specificity to defend DOMA when the President refused to defend a law he believes to be unconstitutional.

On both Tuesday and Wednesday the Supreme Court spent the first half of oral arguments discussing the rights of the parties involved to argue the cases before the court. The arguments were interesting, and they raise important questions about the nature of laws, and the rights of non-executive branch entities to defend laws in court.

But those are not issues most of the country are interested in.

Most of the people stand somewhere between me and the people shouting on the Mall Tuesday morning. I do not know where on this issue any one of you stand. But I want to tell you what I believe, and some hints as to why.  I hope that it will allow you to step back and think about what exactly you believe, and how you address the topic at hand.

I am firm in my belief that all people, regardless of their gender, their age, they color, their religion, or their sexuality, are equal. I drank the American history Kool-Aid – I hold this truth to be self evident – all men are created equal, endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, and among these are the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I am even willing to accept that “men” was the accepted collective noun for humanity at the time that sentence was first crafted.

I am firm in my belief that, for some, “happiness” means a piece of paper from the state that says you are married to this person.

I am firm in my belief that separate is not equal. Singling out a group of people and saying “Here, you can have this as long as it isn't the same thing I have” is not acceptable.

I am firm in my belief that the Constitution of the United States of America is a document that protects and grants rights, not one that takes them away.

I am firm in my belief that one of those rights is the promise that church and state will remain separate. I don't care if your church wants or refuses to perform marriages for gay couples. I don't care if your church, or synagogue, or mosque, does not recognize those unions. I do want my government to recognize that there are people who are so joined, and to treat them exactly the same as any other couple, ignoring their gender. Religious groups can chose as they will, but I pray that they understand that their way is not the only way, and that the ways of others have exactly the same protections under the law. All religions are free, not just mine.

I am firm in my belief that homosexuality is not a choice. I never woke up one day and decided to find boys attractive. I don't know anyone who ever got to chose one way or another.

I am firm in my belief that religion should never be used as a defense for hatred or fear. My religion has always supported me, and my religious teachers have always taught me to use my religion to improve the world. Seeing others screaming hate and fear goes against every understanding of religion I have. Seeing the names people scream in the name of God makes me cringe, and cry. I have seen many people scared by their encounters with religion, and it saddens me.

I am firm in my belief that gay marriage is not the start of a slippery slope. Arguments that it will lead to incest and bestiality are unfounded, yet they came up before the Supreme Court.

I am firm in my belief that gay marriage will not destroy the sanctity or the institution of marriage. The institution of marriage is ever changing. Women are no longer property. Marriages are no longer arranged to further business or political goals. Divorce is no longer a cause for scandal (although it is often caused by scandal.) People are marrying later in life, and often not marrying at all. If your marriage is diminished by the joy of others, that is a failing of your marriage – not their joy.

I wish I had some uplifting and happy way to end this rant. I don't know if I will have any good way to end this at any time in the next few months. If you have the time and any interest, I highly recommend reading the Supreme Court transcripts for these cases. There are few places where people of such great intelligence and education put both on display so sharply.

And in closing, I offer you my favorite quote from the proceedings so far:

“CHIEF JUSTICE ROBERTS: Thank you, counsel.

That was more than a sentence. “

Safe Enough

A friend, a denizen, a GRIN donor, is alone most nights.  Her significant other is a long distance trucker. Can you tell where this post is going?  She heard a noise, investigated, found an open door, a missing purse, and her sense of security fleeing.

Home invasions get faster responses than burglaries.  Since she'd told the dispatcher that the intruders had left, she waited for the police, waited for the police, waited for the police.  There wasn't much that could be done after the fact, but having armed officers around helped ... just a little.... when they finally arrived.

Then, they left.  She was alone, with a home she could not secure because her keys were in her purse and her purse was with the intruders.  It was a very long night.

Both her home and her car had to be re-keyed.  Installing an alarm system required reorganizing her computer system.  Window coverings and deadbolts and security doors were examined and installed.  Things were the easy parts to consider.  Her sense of safety is an entirely different matter.

She wrote, in an email, that she thought, so often, what a puny event this was compared to yours but in my opinion, it’s plenty bad enough.  I'm really glad she knows that.  Acknowledging the enormity of the situation is, I think, the first step on the road to healing.

After the narcotics wore off and the Suzi-Sitters left, after the first rush of attention and concern was over, I was left with my own thoughts.  I realized that I'd been spending an awful lot of time reassuring those around me that I was fine.  I was alive, I would heal, the shooter was in custody.  What had happened was awful, but it was over.  I wanted to move on.

That proved to be impossible.  Skinny white boys in hoodies made me shake, even when they were on the street and I was safely ensconced in a car driven by a friend.  Loud noises set my heart pounding.  I couldn't watch television; there were too many guns.  The news was a safe haven, as long as it concentrated on the blizzard of 2011 or the Arab Spring unfolding in the Middle East.  Human interest stories were avoided at all costs; the least hint of sadness put me over the edge.

My friend is still shaken.  A neighbor came to her door and, not recognizing him at first, she went straight to panic mode. He held her, he reassured her, he stayed with her until she felt safe enough for him to leave.  Safe enough..... that's where she is right now, and where I've been for the last two years.  

I remember the days immediately following 9/11.  Everyone was frightened.  TBG and I ended up in a Lutheran Church for an interfaith service that night; we'd not been in a religious institution since the last nephew's bar mitzvah.  There were prayers and songs and hugs and hand-shakes and we left feeling safe enough to go to sleep.  Safe enough... it's really not safe at all.

As a social worker at Memorial Sloan- Kettering Cancer Center, I would tell clients that the panic they were experiencing would dissipate over time.  "Only crazy people stay in crisis for ever," was my mantra.  Time would place a poultice over the fear, the uncertainty, the anxiety.  The ability to function would return.  Of this, I was certain.  

I was so young, so very, very young.  

Now, I'd phrase it differently.  Now, I'd say that "You'll figure out a way to deal with it, you'll find a place to put it, it won't be front and center forever."  Yes, the crisis will pass, but the feelings will remain.  The lessons learned will keep her safer, but every time she locks those new deadbolts she'll remember why they are there.  The memory's edges will soften, but that feeling in the pit of her stomach will, I fear, become a permanent feature.  

I wish I had something more reassuring to share.  

Transportation, 21st Century Style

Big Cuter lives a car-less life style.  He cabs, he walks, he takes the subway, he rides the streetcar. He'll ride the bus to visit one friend, but tries to avoid it otherwise.  I'm jealous of all of his options.

Zipcars live in the garaged under his building. He carries a card in his wallet, has the site bookmarked on his computer, and with two clicks and a few entries he can be behind the wheel of a Mazda 3 or an Audi A4 or a Honda Civic.  He could rent a van or a pick-up, too.  The vehicles live in named parking spaces: Mary Jane, Ocean Beach.... it's a San Francisco smile every time we discover a vehicle.

Today we drove a Ford Focus hybrid out to Marin and back.  There were too many buttons on the dashboard, and nobody could figure out how to unlock the passenger doors.  The turn signal had issues with turning off, and the hybrid recharging system made an interesting rumble under my seat as it gathered power.  But the gas and insurance were included in the price, and the FastTrak for the bridge made crossing a no-brainer. Hertz has never offered to pay for my gasoline or my tolls.

There's no one examining the car for dents and dings.  There's no paperwork to sign.  It's first-come-first-served, which is how we ended up in the Focus instead of the Mazda this morning, but that's the sum of my complaints about the system.

For $30 odd dollars we came and went at our own pace.  We were finished with our visits and our eating and our sightseeing an hour or so earlier than we'd planned, and the bill will reflect that, too.  All it took was a pass of the Zipcard over the sensor mounted on the front windshield.

When I'm asked how I'd get around Phoenix if I took the yet-to-be-constructed light rail, Zipcar is my answer.  I imagine driving to the station a mile or so from my house in Tucson, leaving The Schnozz in a covered parking space, and boarding a train to the big city up north.  It's 110 miles that could be traversed  while I slept, or blogged, or read.  I wouldn't have to worry about encountering dust storms or high winds or a hazmat collision which closes the only road for hours.  Once in Phoenix, I'd get into my Zipcar, see what had to be seen, do what had to be done, drop off the car, and ride home in comfort.

There's no national will for big projects in America today. This would be a massive undertaking, creating jobs in all sorts of arenas.  Engineers to design it, landscape architects to beautify it, surveyors and track layers and conductors and station agents and and and it will never happen.

How do I know this? Another study is being undertaken.  Don't get me wrong; I like studies as much as the next social scientist.  It's just that this one is so obvious I wonder what they are looking to find.  Would I ride it?  Would it make my life easier?  Would I travel to Phoenix more often?  Yes, yes and yes.

It seems that they are not asking the right questions.  How about wondering if the lack of rail service between the two cities has impaired my ability to live a full and complete life?  How do you quantify the fact that I skipped a hearing at the State Legislature last week because I didn't want to spend three hours driving a straight line between home and the capital?  As the interwebs bring us closer together, physical distance is still a stumbling block to effective communication with our legislators. Perhaps the discussion over creating a State Gun would have had a different resonance if Tucsonans had traveled there en masse, on the train, two weeks after we were shot in front of the Safeway?

We'll never know.  I can't imagine it being created in my lifetime.  I just know that I'd be very happy to use it to visit The Golden Gopher, Karina, Miss Popularity, the Heard Museum, the Cubbies in Spring Training.... all that a bigger city has to offer.

I'll continue to dream about it.  That, I know, I can do.  

Blooming Flowers

The snapdragons have begun to bloom. Planted in November, they did nothing for months. They were green, leafy stalks, which never drooped and never flowered. They were just there. The same can be said for the amaryllis. The bulb went in before Thanksgiving; the stalk arose last Monday. The wildflowers are erupting, covering the yard with blue and white mini-blossoms. Individually, they aren't that impressive. Collectively, it's a marvel.

Publishers Clearing House sent us an entry form, and TBG insisted that I open it and send it in. My luck was sure to win us the big prize, he insisted. Unfortunately for our bank balance, there were offers in the packet. An unkinkable hose is now proudly attached to the bib under the front window, just behind the bougainvilla. They, too, have begun to sprout. There are little red leaves nestled amidst the woody stumps Ernie pruned back.

I spent the morning watering, soaking, drowning the containers. The carnations are happy with soil that's a little bit too dry; they smiled up at me as I prepared them for my absence. It's Spring, Tucson is a-bloom, and TBG and I are on a plane to visit Big Cuter in San Francisco.

My suitcase is filled with sweaters and long sleeve shirts and jeans. Their time has passed in Tucson, but San Francisco calls for warmth. I always think of our first visit with HDK and Zanner; she and I refused to do anything else unless the boys took us to a store and bought us sweaters. Lots of sweaters. We were young, we had no dependents, money grew on trees, and we were cold. There was nothing they could say; we found a boutique and clothed ourselves appropriately. Even Chicago didn't chill us to the bone the way the wind whipping off the ocean did in Baghdad by the Bay.

The flowers on Lombard Street were amazing that weekend.

Auntie Em's test results were happy news, and so were the Big Cheese's. Getting good news from the doctors is cause for rejoicing these days. Everyone I know has something.... even those who never get anything. New babies with tumors-the-doctors-are-watching, husbands with heart attacks and blocked arteries, the human race is falling apart at the seams..... at least those who are close to me.

And yet, the snapdragons are blooming and the amaryllis is about to burst forth. Life goes on.

After pilates and a massage, I was moving gracefully across the living room last night, as TBG tried to breathe through allergies... or a cold.... or just the gods conspiring to get in the way of his visit to his boy. He's looked forward to this all year long... watching sports, watching his son, eating delivery pizza, feeling the love. The fact that his ears are ringing and his eyes are watering is bothering him, but not enough to cancel the trip. He's a trouper, my husband, I'll give him that.

I wonder if the amaryllis had issues, too. It's blooming much later than it should.

Raylan is back to shooting people. I can't figure out why his brand of violence doesn't upset me; can it be that he's just so damn good looking? Last night, I decided it was his attitude. “Don't you get up every morning looking forward to messing up some bad guy's day? I do.” I kept that phrase in mind as I made my morning calls to my Senators, reminding them that I was still as opposed to gun violence - and their lack of interest in the issue - as I was yesterday. I smiled to myself at the irony, though I didn't share it aloud. Some things are best kept to oneself.

Congress can't manage to keep weaponry away from those who have no business wielding it, and the snapdragons are still blooming. They don't seem to care. I'm hanging on to the notion that I can learn something from those blooms. They waited for the right time to make their appearance. Not my right time, but theirs. I did what I could with fertilizer, but they move at their own pace. I'm around, but I'm not significant.

I think that's my underlying dilemma. I know that responsible gun legislation's time is now... but I don't seem to be able to move the issue along. I know that my family and friends are suffering, but there is nothing I can do except send love. I'm awash in good intentions, but my actions are small and feel meaningless.

On the other hand, perhaps the lesson the flowers are teaching me is that “all things come to those who wait.” I don't know. I don't have a choice. I can only sit and watch, doing what I can do, hoping for the best.

It's not much, it's just everything.

Channeling Daddooooo

We made the hand off at Pilates.  My 10am class was ending, and JannyLou's 11am private lesson was beginning.  Mr. T was the prize to be shared.  I found him on the bench in the waiting area, receiving $1.50 in coins and bills from my classmate; for some reason, she decided that it was her obligation to provide him with the funds for a soda from the Subway next door.  No one is exactly sure why she felt the need to pay for his thirst quenching, but she did, and he is now $1.50 richer than he was when he woke up this morning.

It doesn't take a lot to put a smile on the face of a nine year old.

Leaving JannyLou to open her pectoral musculature, we considered our options.  Nope, he didn't want to walk with the kids at Prince.  Nope, he was too old for a playground.  Nope, I'm not up for hiking.  Nope, he wasn't interested in being my second set of hands and legs as I extended my irrigation system to include the containers in the courtyard.  

He was hungry.  He was thirsty. We settled on In-and-Out Burgers, although spaghetti was his answer to "What would you choose if you could eat anything in the world?"  It made no sense to me, but that was of no consequence.  Burgers and fries and Sprite it would be.  

Then, he told me that he'd never been to a hardware store.  Actually, the sentence was even more shocking - "What is a hardware store?"  For a girl who grew up with Daddooooo, that was as close to a sin as I could imagine.  Since there's an Ace Hardware two doors down from Pilates, we took some time to remedy that gap in his education.

We strolled past Anytime Fitness, considering how cool it would be to have a key to a gym that let you work out at 3am.  There were men on stationary bikes reading books, and women doing squats and smiling as we walked by, and then I nearly tripped over the gentleman poised outside the Ace, selling gas grills.  

I really ought to pay more attention to my surroundings.  

The front of a hardware store is filled with Buy Me Right Now treasures.  We scoped out the mini-flashlights, the key chains, the tiny screwdrivers.  "Why is it a hardware store?" he wondered, so I asked a red shirted friendly helper who drew the connection between computer hardware and software.  These were things we could touch and feel.  Though he didn't say, I imagine the creation/repair is the software piece to his analogy. I'm not looking at it too closely, though, and neither was Mr. T.

There were rows of rope and light bulbs and tools.  We spent some time in the nails and screws and bolts and washers aisle, opening the drawers and peering inside.  Some of those screws were bigger and thicker and heavier than he'd imagined they could be.  The gentleman standing two feet further down the aisle smiled as he overheard our chatter.... and I flashed to my dad, who would never have let that conversation go uninterrupted.

I could hear him explaining all the uses for the giant screw Mr. T was fondling.  I could hear him demanding to know all about Mr. T.... name, rank and serial number.  I could feel my stomach churning as I worried about what inappropriate, funny-in-his-mind-only, comment would come out of his mouth.  His presence was palpable.  He was there, with me, even if Mr. T didn't know it.

Daddooooo could and did spend hours at a time in hardware stores.  Kids were always welcome, but, since you never knew how long the adventure would last, I rarely went with him.  Of course, the fact that he didn't think that woodworking and electrical repairs and plumbing fixing weren't things that girls needed to know had something to do with my reluctance to join in his fun.  It's only in retrospect that I miss him and the dusty wooden floors of Faine and Seville, the hardware store in town.

Now, there are no more Messers Faine and Seville, there are only Friendly Ace Hardware Men.  Mr. T will find the screws in the same aisle in any Ace in any city.  I could bemoan the homogenization of life, but you've heard it all before.  Today, without anything to serve as a comparison, Mr. T was delighted and there was no reason to interfere with his pleasure.  I kept my thoughts to myself.

We bought him a $2 water rocket (which neither he, nor I, nor Grandpa Eddie can figure out... and YES, we should have asked for help before we left the store, as Mr. T noted as we struggled with the tube) after spending a considerable amount of time examining the moving monkeys (think the Singing Bass from several Christmases ago) and the wooden slingshots and rubber-band guns.  Daddooooo made those same toys for my kids when they were small; the man was everywhere, in spirit, at least.

At the checkout lane, the Friendly Ace Hardware Woman wondered if Mr. T had his Cookie Credit Card with him today.  Puzzled but intrigued, he shook his head as she reached below the counter for the square of paper on which she inscribed his name.  Now, each time he brings an adult into that particular Ace, he'll receive a bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies.

This may be his first credit card.  I left the "use it wisely" lecture for his parents.

We paid, we said thanks, he held the door for me.  As we walked down the sidewalk to my car, I noticed a black butterfly resting on the ground.  Mr. T stepped carefully over its gently beating wings and I watched it fly away... tears in my eyes.

Ten years ago, sitting shiva after Daddooo's funeral, I opened the screen door to the house to let some visitors in.  Accompanying them was a small black butterfly.  Someone tried to capture it, and, without thinking, I said "Don't touch it! It's Daddooooo!"  The tiny beast flew around the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, checking out the guests.  Then, as the doorbell rang once more, it followed me to the hallway and flew away.

No one could tell me that wasn't my Dad checking out the party. Don't even try to dissuade me from knowing that he was with me today, too.  After all, I was taking a kid to a hardware store.  Where else would he be?

The Eagles Dancing

Thank you, Little Cheese, for finding this for us! If you're wondering what it is, read today's post.

When Plans Go Awry

I'm sure that this has happened to me before.  I just can't remember when so many plans were foiled before they even began... or when they were just getting underway. Stroll with me through the past few weeks:

TBG had water sloshing around in his ear for a whole weekend before he decided that a doctor should look at it.  After an examination, he was given Cipro ear drops. They were supposed to dry up the water and clear up the infection that was beginning to set in.  After eight of the prescribed ten days of use, the ringing in his head was still there.... all day... every day.  He went back to the doctor, who told him that the prescription drops were thickening his ear drum and causing the ringing.

He's got a prescription nasal inhalant and the doctor's assurance that flying won't hurt him and that the ringing will go away.  For some reason, we're believing it this time.  It just wasn't the original plan.
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Big Cuter's Hoyas were stomped by a team from nowhere, Florida Gulf Coast University.  This puts a serious crimp in our upcoming March-Madness-Watching-Extravaganza this weekend.  I've had to rethink my packing list, removing the Georgetown tees.  He's hurting enough, poor boy.  No need to have my clothing remind him of the fact that his alma mater will not be winning the whole thing, as his pool predicted it would.  His sister's Hoosiers and his parents Wildcats are still in the running, but he's switching allegiances to the FGCU Eagles.

Going along with the theme of this post, I tried to find you a video of the Eagles' victory dance, but Youtube disappointed me, as did the FGCU Fan Website, as did Google and Bing. You'll just have to imagine 7' tall 20-somethings crouching over, flapping their elbows/wings.  It's worth it to watch the game, even if you don't like basketball, to have them warm your hearts.
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I went to a Balance Class at pilates, today.  The teacher is well-trained, the studio was only slightly too warm for my comfort, and I left half-way through.  I can't take all my weight on my right leg while pointing and flexing and tossing my left leg in every direction known to man.  I can't do lunges.  I can't ... I can't... I can't.... when the can'ts got to be too much for me I fled the scene.

I'm not a quitter.  I never leave early.  Yet, there I was, a puddle in the front seat of my car.  I try to avoid situations that remind me of what I've lost.  I wish I'd stayed home today.
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I was all set to make Seret's special salad dressing for dinner, until a perusal of my pantry revealed the absence of apple cider vinegar.  I've come up with many on-the-fly-substitutions in my time, but nothing the interwebs showed me was possible without a trip to the store.

I was already in my pajamas and slippers.  I wasn't leaving the house.  Frozen pizzas worked as a fall back plan, though my mouth was hungry for garden clippings all night long.
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JannyLou needs 30 minutes of grand-kid-sitting tomorrow and I'm happy to help.  Of course, given how my week has been going, saying yes means I can't walk with the kids at Prince.  The time frames overlap.  There aren't going to that many 60 degree days left this school year; my heart is torn.

I could take the kid with me to walk, but that's not much of an adventure for him.  No second grader wants to go to another school on his own Spring Break, after all.
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These are the stumbling blocks I can remember.  I'm sure there have been more.  It feels as if the world is conspiring against me.

I'm happiest when my plans come together.  I'm miserable when they end up in a Jenga-like-heap.  I'd hoped to out-grow this need to know what's coming next, this insistence on making a plan and sticking to it, this desire to have the outcome match my intention.

I can't get over the disappointments.  I'm struggling with the uncertainties.  I'm adrift.

This is my life when my plans go awry.

If the Yiddish proverb* is right, God is laughing pretty hard right now.
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*Yiddish Proverb: Man plans.  God laughs.

At the Gym

The good news is, I have more sensation in my leg.  This enables me to find and engage those pesky adductors and abductors and hamstrings and quads as I progress from throwing my leg forward to the beginning imitations of an actual step.  That step ought to include a deeper fold in my hip than I'm capable of right now, and several more degrees of flexion and extension, and space between my ribcage and my iliac crest.... but I fear I am venturing farther into too much information, especially for those of you who are reading this over your morning coffee.

The bad news is, I have more sensation in my leg.  This enables me to notice the grating of my arthritic hip bones and reconstructions as the tendons and ligaments and muscles announce their presence with authority. It's a cacophony of clicks and creaks and squeaks.... not all of them from the hip.  I admit to hollering aloud, to groaning, even to the occasional Oh, dear God.  I'm not sure why I thought that this discomfort would have disappeared by now, but I did.

What a surprise to find that there's just as much ouchiness roaming around; how odd to realize that only the location varies.  I comfort myself with the thought that if new parts are hurting the old parts must be working pretty well.  As one part grows stronger, another part can step up, front and center, to demand my attention.

That is the body I took to the gym this morning.

It was hard to force myself to go inside.  The sun was shining, the temperatures were in the 70's, the air smelled clear and crisp. It's a good thing that the drive over takes only two minutes and passes nary a distraction.... except Christina's park... which would involve more movement than I was planning.  I got there, parked, and stretched myself over a partially deflated but still gigantic plastic ball.  There was a time when thinking about lying on my belly made me cringe.  This morning, I was able to tilt my achy pelvis up and down, to raise my legs straight out behind me, to get onto and off the ball without crashing to the ground.

It's the little things that make me happy, that keep me going, that reinforce the entire endeavor.  Those rear leg lifts were small bonus points on the scorecard of my recovery.  I have to remember to take note when they show up.

The more I use them, the more my muscles respond when I need them. I remind myself of this as I lumber from one piece of equipment to the other, from the mats to the calf raise.  I place the pin in the lightest setting and settle myself on the balls of my feet.  Closing my eyes, listening to Bobby Blue Bland croon the blues, I concentrate on keeping my hips level as my heels go up and down and down and up and up up down down, as my hips try to follow them, to take the pressure off my awakened coral reef of balls and sockets.  That's what it feels like - hard, bony protuberances rubbing up against one another.  It's only natural that my body would want to protect itself  What's unnatural, what must be learned, over and over again, is that maintaining space between those places will, ultimately, lead to healing.

I just wish it weren't so all encompassing, so never ending, so always there.

And that's what I was thinking when I opened my eyes after my first set and looked to my left.  There, next to the dip bar, was the 30-something with the prosthetic lower leg. No, I'm not going for the cheap and easy way out here.... look at him/look at me/get a grip, girl.... because I see him in the gym whenever I'm there and he's always working hard and reminding me, by his very presence, that perseverance is crucial and possible.  No, this morning he took it one step more.

This morning I saw him looping a chain through three, forty-five-pound-plates.  He attached that chain to a weight belt around his waist and did three sets of dips, lowering and raising himself from right-angles to upright by moving his arms.  The rest of his body stayed still.  It looked like this guy, only with two more plates and one less leg.

I've never approached him before, but this could not go unremarked.  I strode over as confidently as I could manage on my screaming lower extremity, introduced myself and my back-story, mentioned how he'd been an on-going inspiration, and then wondered just exactly what I was to think when he strapped himself into all that weight -- did he really want me to believe that I could do something just as outrageous?  

We laughed, we shared rehab-encouraging-words, we went back to work. I may not be up to 135 pounds dangling from my waist, but I did do an extra set, added some extra weight, thought of those three plates hanging down, clanging against the metal prosthesis while his arms went up and down, perfect form in each repetition.  I thought of him as I swam for half an hour, back and forth, using those glutes and the tiny little muscles that connect my torso to my legs, listening to them protesting but drowning the outcry with that conversation... that young man.... that inspiration.

If he can do it, and smile, what is my problem?

While Watching the Basketball

Hour after hour of young men in shorts tossing an orange ball through a hoop may not be everyone's idea of heaven, but, for our family, there's no better time of the year.  The boys were on the phone all afternoon, my inbox is full of Reply All messages cheering and jeering, and I left the CTGMF Spring Training Dodgers v Cubs game at Kino Stadium today at the seventh inning stretch to be home in time for Arizona's first game.

I did stay to sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame.
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There are lots of empty green seats in the arena; apparently, the Gonzaga fans didn't stick around for the second game.  It's basketball's version of all-dressed-up-and-nobody-watching. I have to think that those tickets could have been put to good use, somehow.  There has to be a Boys and Girls Club that would have been delighted to use them for this game.
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There are four regions in the tournament..  It's odd to think of Harvard playing in the West, but it's just wrong that the Palace of Auburn Hills, in Michigan, is hosting the South this year. California is playing UNLV in San Jose, California.  That's where the East is holding its first round.

Doesn't anybody at the NCAA look at a map?
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We've got a lot of skin in these games, with one kid a Hoosier and the other a Hoya. The Bride and The Pharmacist are Jayhawks, and TBG and I have to express some allegiance to our hometown Wildcats.

Still, nothing comes close to the connection I felt in the late 1970's to the DePaul Blue Demons.  They practiced and played in a small gym two blocks from our apartment; we'd walk down the street and see the game.  Kids could shoot baskets during half-times.  The boys were local heroes, and we followed their every move, even as they disappointed us, year after year.

Sometimes, it hurts to be a true fan.
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ESPN.com makes comparing our brackets a much simpler task than it used to be.  Still, I print them all out every year.  TBG is using the magnifying glass to read them right now.

We used to take them out of the newspaper.  The brackets were printed on the centerfold of the tabloids, or on a full page of the many-folded NYTimes.  Those words were much easier to read, and we were much younger, then.  It just doesn't seem fair that the type is smaller as my eyes get weaker.
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I missed the Oregon game.  That did not disappoint me. My eyes are still recovering from the last time I saw them.  They were wearing neon green - shoes, socks (some thigh high), tops and shorts.  And the shorts did not stop there - there was a camouflage pattern embedded within the screaming greenness.

It was really hard to watch.

I'm not averse to bright colors.  Missouri's bright yellow shirts, shorts, and shoes just make me smile.
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"Excessive, severe or extreme contact" is being discussed after a California player took an elbow to the face.

An Arizona player mouthed off and received a technical in the first minutes of their first game.

Being a referee is a lot like being a mom.  "Not so hard!" "Watch your mouth!"
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The announcer just described the Wildcats as being "a team with ADHD," a statement which, while unfair to those who are truly diagnosed, is a fairly accurate representation of their performance all season.  They really do have a hard time paying attention all the way through a game.

On the other hand, he went on to say that if they played the way they played tonight, when they played well, they can beat any team in the country. And that's what my boys have been saying all season long; there is such parity in college basketball that any team on any night can take it all away.

That's the real fun of March Madness, after all.
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There is so much twirling and touching and rolling and bouncing before a free throw is taken that I'm getting vaguely seasick watching the end of the Cal/UNLV game.  The boys who look at the basket and bend their knees rarely miss.

They may not look as cool, but they rarely miss.
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I picked New Mexico but I'm not too sad to see Harvard leading in the first half.  Their center has four fouls in this same first half, and he just lost his shoe running for the ball.  I'm not too worried.
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The Arizona players were in the stands for the Harvard/New Mexico game.  That made sense; they will meet the winner on Saturday.  I was complaining to TBG that the boys were playing on their cell phones instead of scouting their opponents when the announcer made the same point.

I felt special.
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With four and a half minutes left, Harvard is up by 6 and then the game ends and Harvard beats New Mexico for their first post season victory ... ever.

My soul is happy, though my bracket is weeping.
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Random Thoughts - The Pre-March Madness Edition

I have years and years of our family pools, printed out, winners circled, Cinderella teams and final four choices written in handwriting that grew as the kids did.  It's all electronic these days, but TBG and I still print them out and shuffle through them; some things just need to be fondled.

I didn't create a pool for The Burrow this year; life got ahead of me, it seems. Personally, between Little Cuter's Hoosiers and Big Cuter's Hoyas and The Bride's Jayhawks and our local Wildcats I've got animals and unknowables aplenty to cheer on to victory.  It's going to be a wonderful few weeks.
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My friends have been doing interesting things lately.  Liz went to Indian Wells just for the heck of it.  Karina did faux-sky diving in an indoor air-will-hold-you-up place.  Ellen climbed to the top of Wasson Peak on her newly repaired hip.  Somehow, repairing the irrigation system on my raised bed feels awfully tame right now.
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Book Bub has made me a free Kindle book addict.  I rarely put down a real book; I'll muddle through to the end once I've started.  These freebies are of varying quality and genre; literary fiction seems to be a pseudonym for poorly written romance masquerading as mystery.

Luckily, I figured out how to remove the ones I don't want to see from the carousel and how to put the ones I've finished into the cloud.  It was random poking that delivered the solution. Big Cuter is right; if you're not afraid to play with it, electronic devices can be a lot of fun.
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NPR told me to come back after the break to hear "Conservatives talk about their autopsy of the Republican Party."  I have to agree.  My Facebook page is covered with quotes from General/President Eisenhower... you know, the one who warned us half a century ago to beware the military/industrial complex.  Bombarded by analysis of the war in Iraq as the tenth anniversary is commemorated, his words ring true.

WMD's?  Baathists?  Saddam found in a hole in the ground?  How quickly we forget, how easily those battles slip into the past as we focus on Afghanistan and bringing the rest of our troops home.  A friend is being deployed to South Korea before returning to Tucson forever.  It seemed like a safe posting.... until last week.

I find myself shaking my head and worrying a lot more these days.
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Randy came over to say goodbye last night.  His timing was impeccable; dinner was ready as he walked in the door and there was plenty to share.  Our conversation was mundane and sublime and I didn't have to change out of my post-massage comfy shorts and tee to entertain him.  That's a good friend... and a good visit... and another reason I don't want him to leave.
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The lizards are doing push-ups on the sun-warmed stones in the courtyard.  The snakes are slithering across hiking paths.  I just saw my first ground squirrel scamper across the stones and hide beneath the prickly pear cactus. Spring has definitely sprung.

It's probably time to turn on the irrigation for the whole yard, again.  Sigh... I was enjoying those tiny water bills.
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TBG and I have been re-watching The Newsroom on On Demand.  The third episode ends with the Tucson shootings and the premature announcement of Gabby's death.  I've said it before and I'll say it again: Aaron Sorkin is exactly the person I would have chosen to tell my story, if anyone had asked.  He captures the sudden, shocking, horribleness of it all without sensationalizing or demonizing.

I cried.  We cried.  It was beautiful.
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Graduations.... thirtieth birthdays..... weddings.... house tours.... this spring is shaping up to be a busy one.  I'm on the periphery of everything and it feels great.  It's fun to be included but not have to shoulder any of the responsibility.  All I have to do is show up and say "Awwwwwww....."

Truly, life is good.

Can Someone Explain This to Me?

Actually, no one could.

I made seven phone calls just now.  It took about ten minutes.  It garnered three answering machines and four real, live humans.  It was civic engagement at its most basic level.  It felt great. If only HB 2544 weren't so frightening, I'd be pretty happy with myself right now.

Arizona's legislature is, once again, boggling the imagination.  The House has passed this already; I was calling before the hearing in the Senate which takes place as you are reading this essay. Weep along with me as you see what is moving along the path to being enacted:

This bill will require ALL police departments in the state to sell to gun dealers, and put back on the street, ANY and ALL GUNS acquired by the departments including those surrendered or voluntarily turned in. 

That's right, denizens.  Instead of destroying the guns turned in at Gun Buy Back Days, local jurisdictions will be forced to put those puppies right back out on  the streets.  It's almost as if the framers of the bill think the weapons have feelings, and will cry out in terror as they approach the smelter.  I wish they were thinking about those of us who've encountered the business end of a Glock 9mm with as much sympathy.

This Republican backed bill seems to fly in the face of local control; where is the hue and cry about Big Government now, I wonder?  If a citizen decides to turn in a weapon, how can the legislature justify overriding her desires to have the thing destroyed?  These were the questions I posed to the Senate staffers to whom I spoke (or on whose machines I left messages).  No one had an answer.

My first three calls reached answering machines; I'm trying not to draw any conclusions about the fact that they were all Republicans and that all the Democrats had live humans answering the phones.  I was nearly batting 1000 until the young woman in the office of Sen. Shooter (yes, that's his name and no, I couldn't make this stuff up) said "Hello."

I left thoughtful, impassioned-but-stopping-short-of-hysterical messages. How will this make me safer?  How does this square with respecting the rights of local municipalities to draw their own distinctions between what is right and what is wrong for their communities?  How does this further the conversation about sensible gun control legislation?

I asked.  No one could answer.  "He hasn't discussed this with me."  "I have seen nothing on this subject today." "We've had no discussions about this, that I am aware of, anyway."  Everyone promised to call me back; even the machines told me that I could expect a call back with an answer.  Hours have passed.  No one has responded.

So, I am left to wonder.  It helps to remember that this is the same body which declared the Colt Revolver to be the State Gun just two weeks after a Glock took down 19 of its citizens who were participating in democracy in action.  The chilling effect that had on my participation is easy to document; I turned down a chance to testify before the Senate of the United States because my family was concerned about putting my face on such a divisive issue.  "The other side has guns, Mom," was all it took to convince me.

It feels like muscle flexing, with a bit of "Oh, yeah?" thrown in for good measure.  I'm disturbed and uncomfortable and unable to come up with a good reason for this bill.  I keep coming around to  a variation of "we've got the power and we'll show you how we use it."

There's some small measure of hope; the Republican super-majority which insured passage of Republican sponsored bills no longer exists.  There is a small but vocal cadre of Democrats who are occasionally joined by forward thinking members of the opposite party who have been able to stop some of the more egregious efforts to diminish our state's reputation.  They cannot do it alone.  They won't do it if they think they are alone.

So, I will ask those of you who live in Arizona to get on the bandwagon and make a call or two or six.  I'm copying the information below this post.  If you are so inclined, read it and dial away.  The hearing is at 2pm on Wednesday (today, if you're reading this as it's posted).  Somebody ought to be paying attention by now.

Together, we can make a difference.  If my story has touched your heart, why not let your fingers touch the phone?
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Wednesday March 20th, the Senate Public Safety Committee is considering HB 2455 -- a measure that passed the Arizona House last week. This bill will require ALL police departments in the state to sell to gun dealers, and put back on the street, ANY and ALL GUNS acquired by the departments including those surrendered or voluntarily turned in. 

This bill not only takes away a citizen's decision to have their unwanted weapons destroyed, but it trumps local government policies that allow police to destroy weapons. Passage of this legislation will virtually stop any future gun buybacks -- an ironic legislative move since AzGS is receiving a $100,000 anonymous donation to run a large gun buyback program during the month of May in partnership with the Phoenix Police Department and Mayor Greg Stanton of Phoenix. 

Please help stop HB 2455 from passing by:

• attending the Senate Public Safety Committee Hearing March 20th, 2:00pm in SHR 109 to show widespread opposition to this bill. Signup at the kiosk outside the hearing room and enter the bill number and your opposition. You will also have the choice to testify against HB 2455.
• calling Senators on the Public Safety Committee to tell them you are an Arizona resident opposed to HB 2455. Call before tomorrow at 2:00pm. Ask others to call and do the same. Here are the reasons you can give --

The legislature should NOT be involved in a citizen's decision to safely get rid of unwanted weapons and have them destroyed. 

This is a local control issue - local governments like the City of Phoenix and City of Tucson have policies in place requiring police to destroy weapons acquired voluntarily from citizens. If some local governments want to sell weapons, they can. The legislature should not be dictating to the locals what is a local matter.
Arizona ranks in the top 10 states with the highest gun death rates -- a rate that's 40% higher than the national average. It's time we change direction and implement sensible gun policies that the citizens want. 

Sen. Rich Crandall (R-16), Chair 602-926-3020

Sen. Al Melvin (R-11), Vice-Chair 602-926-4326

Sen. Ed Ableser (D-26) 602-926-4118

Sen. Gail Griffin (R-14) 602-926-5895

Sen. Barbara McGuire (D-8) 602-926-5836

Sen. Lynne Pancrazi (D-4) 602-926-3004

Sen. Don Shooter (R-13) 602-926-4139

We must speak up loud and clear and tell our legislators to act NOW for sensible gun legislation. 
Let your voices be heard. Together we can make a difference and save lives.