Repeal and Replace

"Obamacare is in a death spiral."

"This is what we ran on; this is what we promised the American people."

The bill has not been "scored" by the OMB; the House of Representatives will vote on the bill before the cost is known.

I've never been so glad to be on Medicare; I have the AARP on my side and nobody on The Hill wants to make the Granny Lobby angry.

I wonder how the Trump voter looking for lower insurance premiums will react when it comes time to enroll in a new plan.  The bill focuses on what we used to call Major Medical - the inexplicable bills which accompany a hospital stay.  Apparently, all that prevention in the ACA - like prenatal vitamins and free wellness check ups - is expendable.  They would rather pay for open heart surgery than subsidize a gym membership.

NPR broadcast an Ohio health care official worrying that 25% of the state's hospitals will enter bankruptcy if those formerly-uninsured-now-insured-soon-to-be-uninsured-again Medicaid expansion recipients reenter emergency rooms and in-patient wards without funds to cover the care the hospitals are mandated to provide.

If only our Representatives were looking at the same problems that the rest of us face.  But they have their own sweet health insurance policy, and no one seems to be suggesting that they save some money by repealing that.

Sigh.  It's only March.

Butterflies Can Help

As an antidote to DJT's newest attempt to keep us safe with this executive order: PROTECTING THE NATION FROM FOREIGN TERRORIST ENTRY INTO THE UNITED STATES, I offer this broken but unbowed specimen from the Tucson Botanical Garden's Butterfly Exhibit:

Even in the most well-protected spaces, and the Butterfly Exhibit's vetting processes are second to none, shit happens.

That's why the poison dart frogs are in their own separate terraria; they were being squashed underfoot and attacked by their compatriots.  

Sometimes, a quarantine is necessary.  Wondering why no one has thought of that in relation to DJT?  Soothe yourself alongside this beastie, resting on the window, wondering what's outside:

The rest of the world is all aquiver

the tangled, intertwined relationships 

between the Reds 

(remember when The Russians were The Reds?)

and the USofA can leave you flat out exhausted

but try not to become discouraged.

Greener pastures

filled with wonders into which we can sink our probosci.

We might be a bit tentative at first

putting out feelers,

determining if the news is real before we decide to dive in

Or, we might just decide to find a quiet place to rest

trying to camouflage ourselves

while keeping our eyes peeled 

for the next tweet storm.

And So....

I thought I would have a single thread to follow for this post, but DJT continues to tweet and so the shit storm continues.

Horribleness is touching the edges of my life.  A synagogue in my Long Island hometown received a threat; so did The Bride's JCC in Alabama.  The Washington State hate crime assault happened in a friend's community, a community she loves for its diversity and compassion.  And that's just in the last week.

Janny Lou and I met with our Congresswoman's District Director on Friday; we agreed on one thing - we are exhausted.  The level of civic involvement is unprecedented, he told us, and that got me thinking.  Six years ago Cong. Gabby Giffords stood on a street corner with 35 constituents; last week Cong. Martha McSally's Town Hall turned away hundreds.  That's a tangible change, and a good one.

It has its consequences, though.  GRIN volunteerism is down; everyone is politicking.  Listening to the news has become a participatory event; I find myself writing postcards as Lester Holt outlines yet another outrage.  School vouchers, affordable vs access to health care, North Korea shooting missiles into Japan's waters... things are happening in the real world and we are involved in he said/he said/no he didn't.

On what should we focus our attention?  It came to us this afternoon, watching the FBI Director walk across the Oval Office to shake DJT's hand:  how tall is James Comey?

He towers over POTUS and resists the pull-to-me second part of the handshake and the other men in the room seem like mini-me's.  Look:

This is the kind of issue I can wrestle into some sort of sense.  A President who thinks the world revolves around him, who gets his news from Breitbart, who flies to Florida every weekend..... this is becoming more than I can handle.

(The answer is 6'8")

Once Again

It's tempting to write about Russia and Campaign and Sessions and wonder how DJT feels about being used as an adjective (Trump Aide Met....).

It's tempting to rant about the emphasis on the process rather than the facts, to laugh that, once again, the cover-up is worse than the crime itself.

It's tempting to smile about the commentators of a certain age trying not to wonder what The President knew and when he knew it?

But the dripping faucet is turning into a steady stream and I'm exhausted trying to keep up.

Change

Grow or Die.

That's TBG's mantra, and it's stood us in good stead over the decades we've been together.  It works for relationships and for the workplace and for the world around us.  Change is good... except when it's not.

DJT is proposing to redistribute America's wealth from USAID and the Peace Corps and Voice of America to more nukes and ships and planes.  Generals are speaking out against the plan.  Does anyone think that the White House is listening?

School choice in the form of vouchers (too small to cover the cost of the kinds of private schools The Cuters attended) is the change Betsy DeVos thinks will cure the ills plaguing public education today. The Huffington Post presented an interesting look at evaluating the studies, like those from Louisiana and Wisconsin, which announce dismal results in test scores when comparing voucher-educated students to those who remained in the public schools.  But grit and self-esteem can be developed in Scouting; math and reading cannot.  According to reporting in The Arizona Republic, the

program could divert from the state’s general fund as much as $35 million a year in 2020-2021, according to a fiscal note released this week by the Joint Legislative Budget Committee.
By 2030, the state could then be paying for many of the children attending Arizona's private and religious schools, pushing the potential costs to as much as $75 million a year, according to a Republic analysis of JLBC data.

That is certainly change, but I can't see how it is good.

DJT has altered the makeup of the National Security Council, adding Steve Bannon and removing the CIA.  Perhaps Mr. Bannon has access to information that the intelligence agencies do not.  Perhaps it is more than his nihilism that secured his place at the table.  It is certainly change, but I don't see how it is good.

Congress, doing nothing as it has for the past 8 years, allows DJT to govern by Executive Order.  Yes, I liked it when Mr. Obama took those same steps, avoiding confrontations with an obstructionist Legislative Branch.  But DJT's off the cuff Orders are the kind of change that creates chaos (immigrants going underground) and chaos is not good.

Some things changing for the better.  JannyLou and I are taking steps every Friday to change the course of events; we're meeting with our Representatives (or their representatives) and writing postcards and lobbying with others.  Other women of a certain age, friends from Newcomers Club of Tucson, are organizing to find and support candidates to replace those who displease them.  State Legislators are looking at the governorship and the US Senate, moving from local to national issues.  These are good things.

Sons with pre-existing conditions and daughters with birth control issues are wondering what the future will hold.  Nobody knew health care could be so complicated, our President opined, and that, I suppose is a change for the better.... he's acknowledging that something is more complicated than all his best words can fix.

The anxiety on the streets and on the playgrounds in my used-to-be-comfortably-integrated-community is palpable.  We live with Dreamers; their lives have changed and it's not good.  We shop and work beside people with questionable documentation living impeccable lives; the changes they are facing will impact us all.

Yes, grow or die.  I just wish I could influence the direction of the growth.

A Poem

Next time someone complains about immigrants, read them this.

HOME

by Somali poet Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless

home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbours running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won't let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it's not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn't be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i've become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here."

- Warsan Shire

I refuse to let Donald Trump ruin my birthday.

I'll be back tomorrow with thoughts.  For today, enjoy FlapJilly's slo-mo jumping.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Then.

Now.

Wow.

Doing Good

This, apparently, is My Plate.

It's the newest incarnation of The Food Pyramid. 

Every school child listening to our Nutrition Expert knew that.

I felt very old, especially when I realized that I was the only one who noticed the voices on the television during her entire presentation.  

She engaged the kids, though, and that was as important as engaging the adults.  They acted out bran and germ and carbohydrate to demonstrate the beauty of whole grains.  We had fun with those My Plate stickers, affixing them to their appropriate sections.  

Yes, I said, I did want a mask

although the Brussels sprouts were my first choice.

 And then, there was the forklift.

The youngest member of our group looked through the door into the warehouse and raised his hand.

"I want to ride on the forklift!"

"Oh, we all want to ride on the forklift,"  our docent sighed.

It is that kind of place. Respect is the first item on the ubiquitous values posters; it's on display in every interaction.  Clients are greeted as they enter, offered assistance in navigating the carts and the lines and the paperwork, and everyone is smiling.  It's hard to ask for help, we're told.  

It's easier when people are kind.

Amster and I shared a special smile as we were told how Gabby used the money that people sent to help her after a tragedy your parents can tell you about to help those who need more than food.

The kindness continued out to the benches with hearts

near the tented area where home gardeners sell their produce and the even bigger shaded playground.

We walked through the demonstration gardens

past the chickens

and along a path

paved with

 the most wonderful memories

and wishes.

Through the warehouse for an overview, before it was time to get to work, we trooped.  

The building is vast, organized, and filled with busy, purposeful, badged humans and random donations

from food drives at schools and churches

and foodstuffs donated by grocery stores

and wholesale distributors.

Volunteers go out into the community to harvest grapefruits and oranges and lemons and limes from homeowners who cannot possibly consume (nor pick) all the fruits hanging on their trees. They, along with farmers' extra inventory, also make their way to the warehouse.  . 

Some of the cans are dented or past their expiration date.  Some of the produce is too mushy.  But nothing goes to waste.

The farmer comes and picks up the detritus (except that which is so awful that it goes to nourish the compost piles) and returns, as he can, with pork products the Food Bank can distribute. 

Waste nothing.  What goes around comes around.  There is so much to learn.

The random cans and bottles are separated from the softer bags of rice and boxes of cereals.

and are then separated by category.

Different sorts of food boxes are created for different sorts of clients, thousands every year.

Pallets of foodstuffs are delivered to distribution centers and pantries all over Southern Arizona.  

Staff and volunteers work inside the warehouse and out in the community.

Want to establish a vegetable garden in your backyard?  They'll send a team out to install one.  They've done hundreds of them.

The goal is to shorten the line between you and your food.  Backyard-to-kitchen is perfect.

Today, Amster and her boys and Mr. Baseball and I were tasked with the rest of our group to package harvested grapefruits in plastic bags, being sure to toss the too soft fruits and those with holes all the way through pieces into the compost bin.  

In true assembly line fashion, we each had a specific job.  Some selected the fruits, some bagged them, some tied the bags.  Someone had to separate those stuck together grocery bags for easy grabbing by the packers. That was a task which could be done while sitting on two stacked plastic crates; I raised my hand and hobbled over.

Our bags of opened bags went over to the assembly line to receive 2 large or 5 small grapefruits.

The teenagers giggled 

and the younger kids were quite serious and then our supervisors gave us the one minute warning. Our shift was ending.  

We did 15 hours of work today; that's two days of a staff member's time our leader said.

He thanked us for freeing up staff for other tasks.

He escorted us to the door and, a little after 3 o'clock, we five were back in Amster's car, on the way home.

I could have gone to Rep. McSally's Town Hall and tried to pin her down on something. That was my plan until the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach made me reconsider my options.  Lady Jane suggested that I trust my gut. I made sure there would be security (thank you, Rep. McSally's staff, for reassuring TBG and me so quickly last night) and I wanted to see democracy in action and I didn't want the shooter to take this from me, and I'd made a small amount of noise about attending, but, in the end, I just didn't want to go.

Doing good made me feel much better than tilting at windmills or facing my demons.

I spent time connecting with others while making the world a little bit better.  

That's what I do best.

I think I'll leave the public displays of intention to others for a while.

Just a Little Teary - A Snippet

FlapJilly is being promoted.

She's leaving the world of The Two's and crossing the parking lot to The Three's.  Her first friend at school moved over a month or so ago, so she'll have a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings.  The play equipment is bigger and more challenging and the curriculum is less pre and more school.  She's ready for the challenge, and her parents couldn't be more proud.

And then Little Cuter and I exchanged the glance that said it all:

OH, Where has my baby gone?  

It's a mixture of joy and yearning and overwhelming heart exploding love.... and it left us both just a little bit teary.  She's such a big girl now.

A Misrepresentation of Fact

This is the only one I could find.

Yesterday, I waxed eloquently about the items I retained from the kids' childhood.

I said that I had kept Little Cuter's trolls.

I did not.

Although I could swear that I saw them in a box, with the striped jacket Kathy-The-Babysitter made for one of them, when I went to pack them into a box for FlapJilly today they were not there.

Now, did I lie?

No, because in my heart I truly believed what I was saying.  

Was I truthful?

I thought that I was, but apparently I was not..

Is this an alternative fact?

No, because I know, now, that it is not a fact.

It is a figment of my imagination.

Is it a misrepresentation of fact?

Probably, although that was not my intention.

The difference is that I am acknowledging the error and accepting the opprobrium which is rightly due me for writing that which is not true.  I'm not trying to create a phrase to cover my mistake. 

Please, accept my apology.

"Do You Still Have My Trolls?"

After a tough morning at the pediatrician, replete with a flu shot that really hurt a lot, FlapJilly and Little Cuter plan to retire to the couch this evening. Apparently, trolls have made a comeback, on the big screen and in toy stores. They are streaming on home tv's nationwide, including that of my little girls.

I missed this development entirely.  It's only because I've been organizing our storage that I knew the answer to her question.

I saved everything.

I have cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes, labeled with memories of The Cuters' childhood - Construx, Leggo, Brio, Dinosaurs, Playmobil.  I have boxes and bookshelves filled with the literature of their youth - Ramona and Black Beauty and Christopher Robin are anxiously awaiting the arrival of the next generation to listen to them as read-alouds.  I have Little Cuter's small glass animals and her pog book and yes, I have her trolls.

There is much to be shed when one moves, whether up-sizing or down-sizing.  Too small and too big everything, broken anything, that which has not been touched since last I moved.... gone.  The Cuters' elementary school artwork was a lot harder to leave behind, but, over time, I've whittled it down to the most interesting or useful pieces.  I've never found a doorstop I love more than the one Big Cuter created after what must have been a most interesting nightmare.  I use Little Cuter's ceramics class sushi plate as the soap dish next to my bathroom sink.  The Bride and Big Cuter created a finger painting when they were 3 years old; it has adorned every garage wall since then.

Going through collections and books and mementos was more difficult.  Candles were used rather than stored.  Tests were tossed, reports were read and removed.... well, you get the idea.  They are big kids now; I'm keeping only that which means something to me, or which my grandchildren will enjoy.

Hence, the trolls.

I hoped that she would bring the kid here to play with them, and she did say that I could bring them and give them to her myself, but I can't wait to see her face when she opens the box so I'm bringing them to the post office in the morning.

Yes, I still have your trolls, and the clothes your babysitter made for them, and though I'll send the objects your way, those memories will always be nestled close to my heart.

"Want a Doughnut?"

There were a dozen of them on the counter.  TBG bought them, in part, because the original plan for the day included Mr 11 and 13 and the lifting of heavy boxes in our garage. He thought they'd like the treat after their work was done.

But it was cold and rainy and none of us wanted to be in the garage so I took the boys home and returned to a white cardboard box filled with that-which-I-cannot-resist.

Glazed.... powdered sugar.... cinnamon dusted... cake or air puffed up nearly three inches high... doughnuts are my nemesis.  Like Ado Annie, I'm just a girl who cain't say no.

He's done this before, brought irresistible treasures like these into my house.  Yes, my house.... my kitchen.... because the smell of them permeates every room and I have no where to hide.  This time, I decided to take matters into my own hands - I ate one as soon as I saw them.

It was perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  

Unfortunately, there were 5 more just like it, sitting there in all their sugary splendor.  I forced myself to flee the scene.  I was safe, for the moment, at least.  But all afternoon, as I wrote postcards and unpacked groceries and made dinner and got fresh bottles of Perrier they stared at me.  Through the cardboard carrier, I could feel them calling me.

And so, this afternoon, when he got up with Want a doughnut? from beside me, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  

 Yes, yes, oh yes I want not one but a dozen doughnuts.......