Politics is usually colorful and full of what-were-you-thinking moments. This year’s been one to remember.
It’s been the most interesting race for me since I was aware of what “politics” meant. Between the sheer number of initial candidates and the things they say about each other, I sometimes wonder if either party will be able to look unified in the post-nomination run. I watch the talking heads on Sunday morning (“Washington Week in Review” and “Meet the Press”) religiously, and I think every major candidate has been on one or both of them in the last few months.
They even had Bill Richardson on, for God’s sake.
So far, it reminds me of watching a car wreck in slow motion. Like the time I was a teenager and my older sister and me were sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change. She was driving and couldn’t turn around to see where the screeching brake and crash sound came from. I turned around to see a car that had just been broadsided spinning around, recovering and heading straight for our trunk.
Well, it was Mama’s trunk, actually. Her car, her trunk.
But it’s an image I’ll never forget. That car seemed to take minutes to hit, and then time speeded up. I don’t even remember much about the aftermath, other than no one was hurt and Mama’s car (an old Ford Galaxy 500—big as a boat) sustained some damage. The trunk got smashed in.
There were three cars involved in that accident: the one that hit the other car, the one that got hit, and the one that hit us. It’s an almost perfect metaphor for the current races and on both sides.
I fear that the degeneration of political campaign tactics that we’re seeing these days will, ultimately, harm everyone, candidates and the electorate alike. When you eat your own alive ever more viciously, it’s hard to maintain a façade of unity.
Shannon and I are trying to decide which Democrat we’re going to vote for in the primary. He thought I had my mind made up, but I keep going back and forth between the two. I may not decide until I actually get to the polling station.
And I was so sad to see John Edwards leaving the campaign today. He’s a fine man with an important perspective: what it means to come from a dirt-poor working family and go forward. He’s from the Southern part of the South (i.e. east of the Mississippi), so I identify with him on a basic level.
And his background is very much like mine. Mama graduated high school, and Daddy got his GED in the Air Force. She worked at Wal-Mart for years, and Daddy retired from Goodyear, where he spent over 25 years as a manual laborer.
I’m not sure that any of the viable candidates from either party really understands what that means. Simple, hard-working people who change our oil or check us out at the grocery or deliver packages to our doors. Those service-workers make up a huge segment of our workforce and deserve a champion.
I’m just not sure any of the candidates left are up to the task.
I’m afraid my decision may be made by balancing which one has eaten less of their own against real policy issues. Things like health care, tax reform, Iraq, a living wage.
As much as I want policy to rule, I don’t have much stomach for cannibals.
30 January 2008
27 January 2008
Debate This
The health insurance debate has come to a head, yet again. It costs more for the consumer than ever before and the benefits continue to shrink. The cost to benefit ratio is growing more rapidly than I’ve ever seen.
My company kept it’s insurance this year because our insurer doesn’t even offer our level of coverage anymore. The choice was to renew with a price increase or take a cheaper policy that offered much less in benefits. We took it and ate the cost, both the company and the employees, so we could keep our “rich” benefit package.
But even “rich” packages don’t always work out.
Daddy had perfectly good insurance (better than my “rich” package), and when he was diagnosed with a degenerative liver disease, things got out of control. Between the co-pays and travel expenses (often 200 miles to see a specialist), medications, etc., it pretty much bankrupted him and Mama. When he died in July, Mama arranged for the funeral on credit. All their resources had been tapped out, but she knew she had some insurance checks coming.
They didn’t have anything left except for a house that needed $18,000 worth of work to get it back to realistic, a 10 year-old Buick and a butt-load of debt.
How about a health insurance reform debate that centers around stories like that? How a man and a woman work all their entire lives and contribute to greater good of our society and, when they retire, lose everything but the house that needs so much work because all the money to fix it’s going to medical bills?
How about a debate that centers around the reality of health care in this country?
It’s not such an uncommon one to tell.
My company kept it’s insurance this year because our insurer doesn’t even offer our level of coverage anymore. The choice was to renew with a price increase or take a cheaper policy that offered much less in benefits. We took it and ate the cost, both the company and the employees, so we could keep our “rich” benefit package.
But even “rich” packages don’t always work out.
Daddy had perfectly good insurance (better than my “rich” package), and when he was diagnosed with a degenerative liver disease, things got out of control. Between the co-pays and travel expenses (often 200 miles to see a specialist), medications, etc., it pretty much bankrupted him and Mama. When he died in July, Mama arranged for the funeral on credit. All their resources had been tapped out, but she knew she had some insurance checks coming.
They didn’t have anything left except for a house that needed $18,000 worth of work to get it back to realistic, a 10 year-old Buick and a butt-load of debt.
How about a health insurance reform debate that centers around stories like that? How a man and a woman work all their entire lives and contribute to greater good of our society and, when they retire, lose everything but the house that needs so much work because all the money to fix it’s going to medical bills?
How about a debate that centers around the reality of health care in this country?
It’s not such an uncommon one to tell.
26 January 2008
Blood, Sweat and Tears
When Daddy’s health started to go downhill, he was always cold. So he wore a hooded sweat jacket all the time, even outdoors in the summer. His blood wasn’t circulating like it should have been, so 90 degrees was chilly for him.
It was gray, the jacket. Just a common item that probably came from Wal-Mart. But it kept him warm on hot days.
Clothes smell like people, long after the people are gone.
When Rich died, I didn’t even open the door to the closet for months. Everything smelled like him: saw-dust and cologne. Aramis, I think.
And that special smell that I knew only Rich smelled like.
It was everywhere, but mostly in his clothes.
So in Daddy’s final bout with his failing body, my nephew started wearing Daddy’s old sweat jacket.
It was July, and way too hot to have one on. But Josh just kept wearing it. Smelling it every now and then, keeping it on for months off and on.
Like me, Daddy was the only father that Josh ever knew. He had a different one, biologically, but Daddy was his daddy as much as he was mine. Mama and Daddy raised him since he was about two.
It’s strange the things we do to remember people. Josh has his sweat jacket with the hood, and I have a keyboard. And memories that go back 40 or so years.
I’m glad Josh has his jacket. And I hope he realizes that he also has much more.
He is the heir-apparent to the legacy of a man who got things done and took care of his family, regardless. I won’t be around forever, and I certainly won’t reproduce.
One of these days, maybe he’ll wash that jacket. Maybe he already has. I don’t know.
The important things can never be washed out.
A familiar smell is comforting.
The example of a life well-lived is another thing entirely.
It was gray, the jacket. Just a common item that probably came from Wal-Mart. But it kept him warm on hot days.
Clothes smell like people, long after the people are gone.
When Rich died, I didn’t even open the door to the closet for months. Everything smelled like him: saw-dust and cologne. Aramis, I think.
And that special smell that I knew only Rich smelled like.
It was everywhere, but mostly in his clothes.
So in Daddy’s final bout with his failing body, my nephew started wearing Daddy’s old sweat jacket.
It was July, and way too hot to have one on. But Josh just kept wearing it. Smelling it every now and then, keeping it on for months off and on.
Like me, Daddy was the only father that Josh ever knew. He had a different one, biologically, but Daddy was his daddy as much as he was mine. Mama and Daddy raised him since he was about two.
It’s strange the things we do to remember people. Josh has his sweat jacket with the hood, and I have a keyboard. And memories that go back 40 or so years.
I’m glad Josh has his jacket. And I hope he realizes that he also has much more.
He is the heir-apparent to the legacy of a man who got things done and took care of his family, regardless. I won’t be around forever, and I certainly won’t reproduce.
One of these days, maybe he’ll wash that jacket. Maybe he already has. I don’t know.
The important things can never be washed out.
A familiar smell is comforting.
The example of a life well-lived is another thing entirely.
Of Kitties and Old Men
Lucy decided unilaterally today that she is old enough to go outside. We’ve been keeping her in because she’s such a little, naïve thing. She tries to be friends with every person or creature she comes in contact with. Or at least play with them.
We have dogs on the property that might or might not share her playful spirit. While they’re supposed to be on leashes, they aren’t all the time. Dog owners seem to always think that their little baby would never harm a kitten, or an elderly man. They forget the innate urge that dogs have to chase and eat cats.
And then there’s the people holding the leashes of the ones on them: either just got up, hung-over and having a first cigarette of the day or an anorexic girl whose dog weighs more than she does. Kind of makes leash laws irrelevant. A leash is only as good as the person on the other end of it.
So Lucy is exploring the great outdoors for the first time. Shannon and I tried to corral her and bring her in, but two old men are no match for a kitten.
And I’m hoping that no one saw us trying to catch her. She’s smarter than either of us gave her credit for. She managed to evade our every attempt to corner or connive her into being caught.
She’s still out there, exploring the great unknown. And I have no idea when she’ll come back. It’s kind of like sending our daughter on her first date.
Now I know how Daddy felt.
We have dogs on the property that might or might not share her playful spirit. While they’re supposed to be on leashes, they aren’t all the time. Dog owners seem to always think that their little baby would never harm a kitten, or an elderly man. They forget the innate urge that dogs have to chase and eat cats.
And then there’s the people holding the leashes of the ones on them: either just got up, hung-over and having a first cigarette of the day or an anorexic girl whose dog weighs more than she does. Kind of makes leash laws irrelevant. A leash is only as good as the person on the other end of it.
So Lucy is exploring the great outdoors for the first time. Shannon and I tried to corral her and bring her in, but two old men are no match for a kitten.
And I’m hoping that no one saw us trying to catch her. She’s smarter than either of us gave her credit for. She managed to evade our every attempt to corner or connive her into being caught.
She’s still out there, exploring the great unknown. And I have no idea when she’ll come back. It’s kind of like sending our daughter on her first date.
Now I know how Daddy felt.
24 January 2008
Old Man River
It’s one of those nights. Shannon is watching one of his movies that I just don’t have the will to follow. Lucy is going back and forth from the sofa to the desk in order to milk as much attention as she can from the two of us. And I’m paying bills and fielding car-insurance quotes.
Not a bad night, all in all. God knows I’ve had many that were worse.
I’ve learned that routine is good. It’s about as powerful as an anti-depressant to keep psychological demons at bay. Something about a quiet evening at home with neither of us doing much of anything is some how comforting.
I guess because it means that nothing’s changed. For better or for worse.
We have become a boring old couple, me and Shannon. The high point of our last 7 days was going to our favorite Vietnamese/Thai restaurant downtown. We had Tom Kah, a luscious soup with white curry and coconut milk served in a fire pot that you don’t want to reach across unless you want your shirt set on fire, too.
Otherwise, life keeps churning along like a riverboat going upstream on the Mississippi. It always takes effort to keep it going, but when the current’s right, the trip is delightful.
And so it goes for old man Shannon, old man me and old man river. We just keep rolling along.
Not the worst way to spend an evening, is it now?
Not a bad night, all in all. God knows I’ve had many that were worse.
I’ve learned that routine is good. It’s about as powerful as an anti-depressant to keep psychological demons at bay. Something about a quiet evening at home with neither of us doing much of anything is some how comforting.
I guess because it means that nothing’s changed. For better or for worse.
We have become a boring old couple, me and Shannon. The high point of our last 7 days was going to our favorite Vietnamese/Thai restaurant downtown. We had Tom Kah, a luscious soup with white curry and coconut milk served in a fire pot that you don’t want to reach across unless you want your shirt set on fire, too.
Otherwise, life keeps churning along like a riverboat going upstream on the Mississippi. It always takes effort to keep it going, but when the current’s right, the trip is delightful.
And so it goes for old man Shannon, old man me and old man river. We just keep rolling along.
Not the worst way to spend an evening, is it now?
22 January 2008
Sound and Fury
Bucky died about 8 ½ years ago. He was my best friend and, in many ways, a soul mate. Like any two people who share an apartment that’s decidedly too small, we had our moments. The appropriation of scarce resources—including living space—inevitably leads to conflict.
Like two strong-willed and opinionated brothers, we fought and made up more times than I can remember.
I miss him very deeply and have been thinking about him more often than usual since the issues of health care and lack of access to it appear more and more frequently in the media. Had he received care earlier, there’s a good chance he’d be here today.
Bucky was like me in that he didn’t have health insurance for a number of years. I had worked as an independent contractor for a number of years, and he had worked for small companies that didn’t offer it as well as had been unemployed or working for temp agencies for several years.
Several months before he died, be began complaining of sores in his throat. Nothing serious at first, but then it started to affect his voice. Still, he was actively pursuing a new job, one that would be stable and not on a temp basis.
He got his break and was hired to do something he did very well—schmoozing with people on the telephone and convincing them to buy the services he was selling. He would be dealing with business executives and selling them corporate services. And the job came with full benefits, including fully paid-for health insurance with coverage that began on his hire date.
He started training really jazzed. But after about a week, his throat was hurting much more and he was barely able to talk, so he went to the doctor for the first time in many years. He finally had the coverage he needed.
The preliminary diagnosis was not good: cancer of the throat.
The GP ordered an MRI and X-rays, and when they came back, the picture got grimmer: it was indeed cancer, and it was wrapping up and over his brain.
The doctor immediately started trying to get him into MD Anderson in Houston. The insurance company balked, and it took several weeks of hearings and appeals to get the admission authorized. His doctor convincingly argued that, given the advanced and sever nature of the cancer, MD Anderson was his only hope.
The day he left for there was the last day I saw him. Bucky was the singularly vainest person I have ever known in my life and didn’t want people see him in his rapidly declining state. Besides, at the time, I didn’t have the resources to go to Houston to see him.
So I waited for the inevitable, always holding to what tiny shred of hope I could, trying to believe that he would come back home when I knew that the odds were pretty long on that one.
When he was moved to hospice care, I knew the time was near.
Before he left, we traded notes back and forth. He was usually in bed by the time I got home from work, and I left before he got up, so we left notes for each other. I still have one of them, the one where he says “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of the pain.”
That simple statement always begs the question that, to my knowledge, he never raised: “If I had been able to get care earlier, would things have turned out differently?”
He didn’t question people playing politics with health care, batting it around like a cat toy, but doing no more. Refusing to act on the knowledge that access to health care is a luxury and no longer a given. Ignoring the millions of Americans who desperately need access to it and who will die if they don’t get it.
At its heart, the health care crisis in America is not a political issue so much as a human issue . It is a matter of life and death, and it deserves more than sound bites and talking points, empty rhetoric that signifies nothing.
Sound and fury would not save Bucky any more today than it would have almost a decade ago.
It’s time for less sound and more fury.
Like two strong-willed and opinionated brothers, we fought and made up more times than I can remember.
I miss him very deeply and have been thinking about him more often than usual since the issues of health care and lack of access to it appear more and more frequently in the media. Had he received care earlier, there’s a good chance he’d be here today.
Bucky was like me in that he didn’t have health insurance for a number of years. I had worked as an independent contractor for a number of years, and he had worked for small companies that didn’t offer it as well as had been unemployed or working for temp agencies for several years.
Several months before he died, be began complaining of sores in his throat. Nothing serious at first, but then it started to affect his voice. Still, he was actively pursuing a new job, one that would be stable and not on a temp basis.
He got his break and was hired to do something he did very well—schmoozing with people on the telephone and convincing them to buy the services he was selling. He would be dealing with business executives and selling them corporate services. And the job came with full benefits, including fully paid-for health insurance with coverage that began on his hire date.
He started training really jazzed. But after about a week, his throat was hurting much more and he was barely able to talk, so he went to the doctor for the first time in many years. He finally had the coverage he needed.
The preliminary diagnosis was not good: cancer of the throat.
The GP ordered an MRI and X-rays, and when they came back, the picture got grimmer: it was indeed cancer, and it was wrapping up and over his brain.
The doctor immediately started trying to get him into MD Anderson in Houston. The insurance company balked, and it took several weeks of hearings and appeals to get the admission authorized. His doctor convincingly argued that, given the advanced and sever nature of the cancer, MD Anderson was his only hope.
The day he left for there was the last day I saw him. Bucky was the singularly vainest person I have ever known in my life and didn’t want people see him in his rapidly declining state. Besides, at the time, I didn’t have the resources to go to Houston to see him.
So I waited for the inevitable, always holding to what tiny shred of hope I could, trying to believe that he would come back home when I knew that the odds were pretty long on that one.
When he was moved to hospice care, I knew the time was near.
Before he left, we traded notes back and forth. He was usually in bed by the time I got home from work, and I left before he got up, so we left notes for each other. I still have one of them, the one where he says “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of the pain.”
That simple statement always begs the question that, to my knowledge, he never raised: “If I had been able to get care earlier, would things have turned out differently?”
He didn’t question people playing politics with health care, batting it around like a cat toy, but doing no more. Refusing to act on the knowledge that access to health care is a luxury and no longer a given. Ignoring the millions of Americans who desperately need access to it and who will die if they don’t get it.
At its heart, the health care crisis in America is not a political issue so much as a human issue . It is a matter of life and death, and it deserves more than sound bites and talking points, empty rhetoric that signifies nothing.
Sound and fury would not save Bucky any more today than it would have almost a decade ago.
It’s time for less sound and more fury.
13 January 2008
Starry-Eyed
On the way to the laundry room tonight, I walked out under a crisp January sky and looked up to see Orion. An old friend. Low in the sky, but high enough to see without the indignity of looking up his dress.
I found Orion when I was in college, on a similar cold and crisp night. A couple of friends and I walked to a meadow on campus and stretched out on a small rise with our heads pointing to the east. The lights from Earth didn't penetrate quite so far into the middle of the field, so the ones above were spectacular.
One of my friends was a more-seasoned star-gazer and starting pointing out the constellations. I had a crush on him, so I listened very intently. And very soon, I was enchanted. Both with him and the stars.
I lost touch with Jim many, many years ago. Once I told him I was gay, we kind of drifted apart. He had at least one homosexual encounter that I know of, and he was conflicted about it. Me telling him I had a crush on him after knowing him for 4 years didn't help.
Some things change, and others will remain long after we're all gone. Orion will continue to grace the sky on crisp winter evenings when my ashes sit in a small cemetary in Tennessee. He'll still be magnificent, majestic and awe-inspiring.
And I'll still be wondering what he's carrying on his belt. (Dirty old men don't die--they just get cremated.)
I didn't know that stretching out on a rise in a meadow in the middle of winter and looking at the sky would change my fundamental perspective of life and death and "being" forever.
But it did.
Like looking at the ocean, looking at the night sky when the stars are bright, you can see forever. Infinity becomes real. The impossible becomes possible. Eternity seems real.
It seems more real than the alternative, in fact.
And from where my ashes will be in Tennessee in that small country cemetary in my family's plot, they'll have a great view of the eastern sky. Shannon will have the rest, but I'm sure he'll put me where I can see the stars.
I found Orion when I was in college, on a similar cold and crisp night. A couple of friends and I walked to a meadow on campus and stretched out on a small rise with our heads pointing to the east. The lights from Earth didn't penetrate quite so far into the middle of the field, so the ones above were spectacular.
One of my friends was a more-seasoned star-gazer and starting pointing out the constellations. I had a crush on him, so I listened very intently. And very soon, I was enchanted. Both with him and the stars.
I lost touch with Jim many, many years ago. Once I told him I was gay, we kind of drifted apart. He had at least one homosexual encounter that I know of, and he was conflicted about it. Me telling him I had a crush on him after knowing him for 4 years didn't help.
Some things change, and others will remain long after we're all gone. Orion will continue to grace the sky on crisp winter evenings when my ashes sit in a small cemetary in Tennessee. He'll still be magnificent, majestic and awe-inspiring.
And I'll still be wondering what he's carrying on his belt. (Dirty old men don't die--they just get cremated.)
I didn't know that stretching out on a rise in a meadow in the middle of winter and looking at the sky would change my fundamental perspective of life and death and "being" forever.
But it did.
Like looking at the ocean, looking at the night sky when the stars are bright, you can see forever. Infinity becomes real. The impossible becomes possible. Eternity seems real.
It seems more real than the alternative, in fact.
And from where my ashes will be in Tennessee in that small country cemetary in my family's plot, they'll have a great view of the eastern sky. Shannon will have the rest, but I'm sure he'll put me where I can see the stars.
08 January 2008
Cult of Personality
NBC just gave the New Hampshire primary to Hillary Clinton, even though she’s only 3% ahead and only 65% of the vote is in. But she’s been out in front by a small margin all night. I guess they’re betting the trend continues. And it very well might.
Exit polls have shown that among the people voting today, those participating in the Democratic primary are concerned about issues and Republicans are more swayed by personality. As un-nerving as it is that treat an election like a prom queen election, it points to why Hillary might just pull this one off: Senator Obama is a charming man who has big ideas, but those big ideas have yet to be properly fleshed out.
If one is voting based issues, one would most likely vote for the person they felt was best prepared to address those issues. And people aren’t as naïve always as I think the press seems to think. They understand the difference between charisma and getting things done.
Well, as least the Dems seem to. In New Hampshire.
Most of the race is yet to come, and it’s far too early to speculate on an eventual candidate for either party. Doing so is just so much peeing into the wind, ‘cause you’re liable to get soaked.
The good news is that, in New Hampshire at least, turnout for Democrats is far higher than for Republicans.
I won’t really care who gets elected, just so long as it’s either Clinton or Obama. They both have their strengths, and trying to predict the eventual outcome is nothing more than a crap shoot.
But I do hope this race turns out to be more than a personality contest. That would put it on the level of the Republican primary, which has nothing to offer me.
Exit polls have shown that among the people voting today, those participating in the Democratic primary are concerned about issues and Republicans are more swayed by personality. As un-nerving as it is that treat an election like a prom queen election, it points to why Hillary might just pull this one off: Senator Obama is a charming man who has big ideas, but those big ideas have yet to be properly fleshed out.
If one is voting based issues, one would most likely vote for the person they felt was best prepared to address those issues. And people aren’t as naïve always as I think the press seems to think. They understand the difference between charisma and getting things done.
Well, as least the Dems seem to. In New Hampshire.
Most of the race is yet to come, and it’s far too early to speculate on an eventual candidate for either party. Doing so is just so much peeing into the wind, ‘cause you’re liable to get soaked.
The good news is that, in New Hampshire at least, turnout for Democrats is far higher than for Republicans.
I won’t really care who gets elected, just so long as it’s either Clinton or Obama. They both have their strengths, and trying to predict the eventual outcome is nothing more than a crap shoot.
But I do hope this race turns out to be more than a personality contest. That would put it on the level of the Republican primary, which has nothing to offer me.
06 January 2008
Pravda
Since the Reagan years, I’ve been hearing the phrase “liberal intelligentsia” tossed around like so much dressing on a salad. And in all those years, I still can’t figure out what clandestine, power-hungry group of people they’re talking about. They never have names to put with the label, just the accusation that gets repeated until everyone else takes it as gospel.
Well, I’m here to preach the truth.
I am both intelligent and liberal. The two have no more to do with each other than stupid and conservative. I know stupid liberals and intelligent conservatives. Of epic proportions on both sides.
It’s not like intelligent people are some kind of mafia who only vote Democratic or support things like social justice. We don’t have secret meetings in dark rooms in the still of night.
From my experience, we don’t even talk to each other that much.
We’re too busy taking care of our own lives with all their unexpected traumas, twists and turns. Even back-flips.
And if we did get together late at night to try and overthrow the American system of government, we wouldn’t even agree on anything. Intelligent people tend to be very certain in their beliefs. Except when they’re not because someone with a different intelligent viewpoint makes a good point that challenges their perspective.
Well, I’m here to preach the truth.
I am both intelligent and liberal. The two have no more to do with each other than stupid and conservative. I know stupid liberals and intelligent conservatives. Of epic proportions on both sides.
It’s not like intelligent people are some kind of mafia who only vote Democratic or support things like social justice. We don’t have secret meetings in dark rooms in the still of night.
From my experience, we don’t even talk to each other that much.
We’re too busy taking care of our own lives with all their unexpected traumas, twists and turns. Even back-flips.
And if we did get together late at night to try and overthrow the American system of government, we wouldn’t even agree on anything. Intelligent people tend to be very certain in their beliefs. Except when they’re not because someone with a different intelligent viewpoint makes a good point that challenges their perspective.
Intelligent people actually listen. The ones that don't and believe something because someone else said it and, well, they don't have time to figure it out for themselves: they ain't that smart. If you don't know why you believe what you believe, your belief is false, a hollow gourd blowing in the wind.
To have the strength of your conviction takes thought, not reaction. It takes excluding what everyone else says and making an indepedent judgement. It takes acting as an individual, not part of a mutant collective that wants you to simply repeat what it tells you.
My point is this: liberal does not equal intelligent, intelligent does not equal liberal.
Branding either as the other is a disservice to all involved and ultimately leads to nothing but obfuscation and mendacity.
Put that in your liberally-intelligent pipe and smoke it.
And, no, I don’t mean a bong.
Trash Can Kitty
Lucy, our little red tabby, has taken to crawling into a trash can for fun and entertainment. Somehow, the three cough drop wrappers in the bottom and the shiny, black liner have her fixated. She has abandoned her favorite box with the bubble wrap in the bottom for a brass trash recepticle.
She's always been a bit odd in the way all kittens are. They love boxes and bags and anything they can crawl up inside of. If it makes noise, all the better. She chases anything, including her tail, until she realizes it's attached. That's when she starts grooming, meticulously cleaning the tail that she just figured out was part of her.
She does this in the trash can, too. Cough drop wrapper: ooh! fun. Crinkly plastic bag: ooh! fun. What's this? Can I catch it if I run in a circle long enough? No, wait. That's mine. Needs cleaning. Just give me a second.
Gotta be what's going through her little red head with the big ears. Either that or those big ears are picking up voices we can't hear.
She's always been a bit odd in the way all kittens are. They love boxes and bags and anything they can crawl up inside of. If it makes noise, all the better. She chases anything, including her tail, until she realizes it's attached. That's when she starts grooming, meticulously cleaning the tail that she just figured out was part of her.
She does this in the trash can, too. Cough drop wrapper: ooh! fun. Crinkly plastic bag: ooh! fun. What's this? Can I catch it if I run in a circle long enough? No, wait. That's mine. Needs cleaning. Just give me a second.
Gotta be what's going through her little red head with the big ears. Either that or those big ears are picking up voices we can't hear.
05 January 2008
All About Me
With all the things people think they know about me, there’s so much they don’t. I don’t make a secret about being gay or a liberal (neither predicated the other—I was just born that way). Many people think they know me, but what they know is the product of my experiences, the sum total of what my life has made me.
Independent: yes.
Mouthy: yes.
Sometimes stupid: yes.
Those are the obvious things. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon the figure that much out. All you need to do is talk to me for 15 minutes.
Very few people know how I became the person I am.
They would be surprised to learn that I directed the children’s choir at church when I was in high school. Or that I played alto and baritone sax, as well as piano. That I sang with a number of ensembles, ranging from the high school choir to the Civic Chorus to college choirs.
Or that I was president of my college music fraternity.
They don’t know that my educational background is in English, with a special fondness for Southern literature. Or that in grad school I ended up focusing on medieval literature and tried to develop a coherent of tragedy that started with Aristotle and ended with the deconstructionists.
That I have probably already read any news story they’ve seen. That I’m probably better informed than they are and keep up with everything from politics to non-profit finance to local issues, like property taxes to changing the election system for city politicians.
They certainly don’t know about my struggle to live my life honestly and without apology.
That one took 23 years.
I prevaricate on that one, because it took me that long to be honest with myself. I didn’t get around to everyone else for a while. So let’s just call that one 28.
Most people know me as the accountant with the crazy husband. The one who never takes time off, who works in the background making other people look good. The quiet-but-mouthy one who gets so involved with work that he doesn’t know whether his boss is in her office or not. Even though it’s only a few feet away.
The computer geek that knows how to do stuff they can’t and knows when to just say no when he doesn’t. To them, I’m tech support.
They know one part of me.
Part of that is intentional: they know the part that I want them to know. The other part I keep to myself and reserve for a few special people.
Those few know the real me, the whole me, the one who gets up early every Sunday morning for CBS Sunday Morning, because, in all the years I’ve been watching it, it has never failed to stimulate my mind. The one who loves watching cooking shows and creating recipes out of thin air—most have never been prepared, but they seemed damned-good at the time.
They know that taking care of my crazy husband is my first priority. If he needs me, I’ll be there. Whether he recognizes me or not.
They know that my next priority is my family, whether we’re getting along or not.
They know that my heart is in Tennessee, even though my body may be in Texas.
Even with all the beauty we live smack-dab in the middle of here in Texas, I’ll always have a soft spot for the cherry tree in Mama’s back yard. We planted it from a seedling that had sprung up next to Granny’s cherry tree when I was a kid. It did well and has grown into a mature tree.
Maybe like me
Independent: yes.
Mouthy: yes.
Sometimes stupid: yes.
Those are the obvious things. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon the figure that much out. All you need to do is talk to me for 15 minutes.
Very few people know how I became the person I am.
They would be surprised to learn that I directed the children’s choir at church when I was in high school. Or that I played alto and baritone sax, as well as piano. That I sang with a number of ensembles, ranging from the high school choir to the Civic Chorus to college choirs.
Or that I was president of my college music fraternity.
They don’t know that my educational background is in English, with a special fondness for Southern literature. Or that in grad school I ended up focusing on medieval literature and tried to develop a coherent of tragedy that started with Aristotle and ended with the deconstructionists.
That I have probably already read any news story they’ve seen. That I’m probably better informed than they are and keep up with everything from politics to non-profit finance to local issues, like property taxes to changing the election system for city politicians.
They certainly don’t know about my struggle to live my life honestly and without apology.
That one took 23 years.
I prevaricate on that one, because it took me that long to be honest with myself. I didn’t get around to everyone else for a while. So let’s just call that one 28.
Most people know me as the accountant with the crazy husband. The one who never takes time off, who works in the background making other people look good. The quiet-but-mouthy one who gets so involved with work that he doesn’t know whether his boss is in her office or not. Even though it’s only a few feet away.
The computer geek that knows how to do stuff they can’t and knows when to just say no when he doesn’t. To them, I’m tech support.
They know one part of me.
Part of that is intentional: they know the part that I want them to know. The other part I keep to myself and reserve for a few special people.
Those few know the real me, the whole me, the one who gets up early every Sunday morning for CBS Sunday Morning, because, in all the years I’ve been watching it, it has never failed to stimulate my mind. The one who loves watching cooking shows and creating recipes out of thin air—most have never been prepared, but they seemed damned-good at the time.
They know that taking care of my crazy husband is my first priority. If he needs me, I’ll be there. Whether he recognizes me or not.
They know that my next priority is my family, whether we’re getting along or not.
They know that my heart is in Tennessee, even though my body may be in Texas.
Even with all the beauty we live smack-dab in the middle of here in Texas, I’ll always have a soft spot for the cherry tree in Mama’s back yard. We planted it from a seedling that had sprung up next to Granny’s cherry tree when I was a kid. It did well and has grown into a mature tree.
Maybe like me
03 January 2008
Me and Baby and Peggy Lee
From the moment I walk outside and press the remote control to open the car doors and I hear the confident ca-chunk-chunk of them unlocking, it’s all theater from there on out. The inside light comes on and then gently fades once I turn the key.
When I reach a few miles per hour, the doors lock themselves back, again.
Ca-chunk-chunk.
Pure theater.
And with the windows down and Peggy Lee singing “Fever”, every turn I make is fit for a TV commercial. If I need extra power, I just punch in the button that turns the overdrive off. If I can’t hear Peggy quite well enough, I punch the button that rolls up the windows.
I’m not used to such luxury, so ca-chunk-chunk sounds almost like a symphony some days.
Or at least an overture.
An invitation to enjoy driving again for the first time in decades.
All from a fuel-efficient Ford Focus.
Fuel-efficient, yes, but still with balls big enough to out-perform BMW’s on the highway. Or at traffic lights, for that matter.
With Peggy Lee in the background and my Baby running for the roses, I can’t lose, now can I?
Me and Baby and Peggy Lee: theater on wheels. Life in motion. Heaven on Earth.
Who knew I’d find it in the parking lot?
When I reach a few miles per hour, the doors lock themselves back, again.
Ca-chunk-chunk.
Pure theater.
And with the windows down and Peggy Lee singing “Fever”, every turn I make is fit for a TV commercial. If I need extra power, I just punch in the button that turns the overdrive off. If I can’t hear Peggy quite well enough, I punch the button that rolls up the windows.
I’m not used to such luxury, so ca-chunk-chunk sounds almost like a symphony some days.
Or at least an overture.
An invitation to enjoy driving again for the first time in decades.
All from a fuel-efficient Ford Focus.
Fuel-efficient, yes, but still with balls big enough to out-perform BMW’s on the highway. Or at traffic lights, for that matter.
With Peggy Lee in the background and my Baby running for the roses, I can’t lose, now can I?
Me and Baby and Peggy Lee: theater on wheels. Life in motion. Heaven on Earth.
Who knew I’d find it in the parking lot?
02 January 2008
Of Mice and Old Men
It’s no wonder health care costs so much in this country. A few years ago, I went to the doctor because I had such constant pain in my right shoulder that I couldn’t sleep some nights. I had electric shocks going down my arm that made everything between my neck and wrist throb and spasm. Some days, I could barely get my fingers to move.
So I finally broke down and went to see the doctor that I pay for health insurance every month to have at my disposal.
That was a big step for me.
I don’t like doctors. I’m sure they’re nice people, but there’s something about a white lab coat and an office that smells cleaner than it should that makes my blood pressure start spiking. So they focus on the blood pressure instead of what drove me so reluctantly to even find out where there offices are.
I explained the blood pressure issue to the GP and reassured him that, not facing a white lab coat and an overly-sterile smell, my blood pressure is fine. I can’t normally hear my pulse in my ears.
So he checked me out, decided there was nothing blood-pressure-related to the pain shooting down my arm, and sent me off to get an MRI.
Having an MRI is about the closest any of us will ever get to putting our head first and then our whole bodies into a giant condom made of plastic so hard it would defeat at least on of the purposes of condoms. Thank God the Xanax took over before I realized I had been stuffed into a giant tube like so much manicotti stuffing before it goes in the oven.
The only thing the MRI showed told them was that, yes, I do have a brain.
Not that I always use it, but it’s definitely there. At least I have proof.
From there, they referred me to a neurologist. She was a nice lady until she pulled out the tiny needles that she was going to poke into my skin and then give me a small jolt of electricity. Small is relative, by the way: it depends on which side of the button you’re sitting on. Got the button in your hand, no big deal. Can’t reach the button, small gets really big.
So she poked me, prodded me, tried to electrocute me and said she’s get back to me. It was almost certainly a herniated disc in my back.
She also prescribed a home traction unit. That involves filling a plastic bladder with water, hanging it from a hook that fits over the door, and then connecting all that to your neck. Fill it up too much, and presumably your neck with either snap or you will slowly choke to death.
I used it, but very carefully.
Thousands of dollars later (the insurance company’s, not mine), I was with my sister at a CompUSA. I saw a track-ball mouse and bought it on a fluke. I figured that it would be easier to use than what I had at the time and also take up less space on what is a decidedly crowded desk.
I wasn’t sure I would be able to use it, but I knew it would give me my shopping fix. Cheaper than me in Steinmart when things are on sale. (Sales don’t work, by the way, if you buy everything you see that you like. They only work if you exercise restraint, and I ain’t talking about cotton-ropes-around-a-bedpost restraint.)
I took my new mouse home, plugged it in and within minutes my shoulder was feeling better.
Then I looked at what had been right in front of my face: I spend a lot of time using computers, both at home and work. Using a regular mouse means a lot of repetitive motion for my right shoulder. I had told all the doctors I had seen as much.
None of them picked up on the $20 solution to a problem my insurance company paid thousands to treat.
A $20 mouse fixed my shoulder. Well, it didn’t totally fix it, but it sure-as-hell helped out a lot more than all the money Aetna spent.
Sometimes the answer’s so obvious it’d you on the nose if it were a snake. Sometimes the $20 answer makes a whole lot more sense than endless referrals and endless co-pays.
Think about that the next time you talk about health insurance.
Sometimes, less really is more.
01 January 2008
Happy New Year's?
It's New Year's Day. The parade is over. And somewhere people are getting ready to play hockey in a snow storm. I know this because I can see them on TV doing so.
There's nothing else on, so I'm watching it with the sound down.
But the stands are full. Of idiots sitting in a snow storm watching a hockey game that hasn't even begun yet.
Meanwhile, back in River City, we've made it to 47 degrees. It's going to drop as the day goes on, and we'll awaken to 22 tomorrow. With wind.
And my voice sounds like a bad imitation of a Texas football coach. All high-pitched and raspy.
I can barely talk and people are playing hockey in a snow storm. (Well, they aren't playing yet. They just got the Canadian flag rolled out. Hope they get to it before the white-out.)
Love and kisses from deep in the cold, cold heart of Texas.
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