A Pipe in the Ground

Leroy was his name, and he was the only black guy in town, as far as I know. A novelty. He also lived at the end of our block, in a pink tinted trailer edged in sea-foam green and rust. On Sunday afternoons in the summer, Hey Good Looking, Whatcha Got Cookin’ and other 1920s country classics blared from a record player in his trailer, wafted out of the duct-taped screens and filled the neighborhood. He was deaf, so the music was always loud enough to vibrate the chain link fences that caged in all the simple yards of crabgrass, violas, and dandelions. He didn’t have family, apart from a little yapping dog that was always chained to the doorknob.

Leroy didn’t drive. He rode a simple ten-speed bicycle around town, doing whatever it was that Leroy did. Sometimes we saw him riding his bike uptown, miles from home. Other times we saw him leaving the grocery store with a sack tied to the handlebar. He would always smile and wave at me. He and my dad were friends, occasionally splitting a six pack in the evenings. My dad would be shirtless in the backyard at the end of the day. Leroy would sit next to him, always wearing a button up western style shirt and a cowboy hat. Always a cowboy hat. I don’t recall what they talked about, as those were adult conversations, and what child in their right mind paid attention to the boring, unimportant words exchanged between grownups?

The crabgrass around Leroy’s trailer often grew to Amazonian heights. If this drew complaints from other neighbors, I wasn’t privy.  I liked the tall grass.  It served the purpose of disguising the fence posts that were long overdue for a coat of paint. The grass concealed broken beer bottles left behind by teenagers and the neighborhood drunks.  The tall grass was a breath of fresh air…it was nothing like the short, emerald green lawn of Mr. Bob’s house…the lawn that we would get chased away from if we dared roll and play in the lush, inviting expanse.  We never got yelled at for taking shortcuts through Leroy’s yard.

One Halloween, I decided to knock on Leroy’s door. I was dressed as a hobo. Trick or treat, I whispered, almost hoping that no one answered the door. Trick or treating was almost over, and I wanted another bag of M&Ms.  I was a bit scared of Leroy. Why? I have no idea. I liked him, and my family liked him. But he just stayed in that garish pink trailer, day after day, and didn’t have a car. He didn’t have many teeth. But still, he fascinated me.  Maybe it was a general feeling that I had sensed from some of the other townsfolk…maybe I wasn’t supposed to like him. But I did anyway. So I knocked on his door.

Leroy was pleased to see me. “Hello, Maleetha!  Happy Halloween,” he said. “Tho glad to see you!” His s’s came out like th’s, probably because of all those missing teeth. He looked to the left and right.  “I don’t got no candy,” he said.  “But you wait right here. I have thomething jutht for you.”

Leroy disappeared into his trailer. I briefly contemplated whether or not I was going to be in trouble for trick or treating at Leroy’s house. He returned to the door holding a stuffed animal. A lion. “Happy Halloween,” Leroy told me, handing me the lion.

The lion was a felt toy, an old one, with a missing eye. A small circular hole on the lion’s shoulder showed the cotton stuffing inside. Later I would understand these particular holes were cigarette burns.

I accepted the lion without a smile. “Thanks, Leroy,” I said.

“Lionth king of the jungle,” he said. “Lionth are powerful. They can do anything. Jutht like you,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said again. I walked home. The lion went on my shelf, a ragged, dirty vagrant amongst a sea of bright stuffed tigers and a cabbage patch kid.

Life took over and I went from a bike riding tomboy to a junior high teen, and eventually to a hardened high school student who couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Butte, Montana.  One day I heard that Leroy had died. Suddenly the memory of the stuffed lion returned. I wished that I would have gone back to visit Leroy as I had gotten older, and talked to him more. I bet he had a lot of stories that I would have loved to hear about.  And like so many moments in life, I knew that it was too late.  It would always be too late.  And then it dawned on me that the lion Leroy had given me that long ago day had been his own as a child. The missing eye and the burnt hole in the shoulder. The lion had been with Leroy through all of his own hard times. He had held onto it for a lifetime, until one October evening when a child had knocked on his door, probably the first child who ever had. Not having any candy or trinkets to give, he had handed over the only child-appropriate item in his house. To me.

Last week I was in Butte visiting. I had an hour free just to myself. I did the same thing I always do when I have a free hour in Butte. I went to Pork Chop Johns and ordered a sandwich with mustard and pickles. Since it’s close to the old neighborhood, I drove by the house I grew up in. The balcony my dad built is still there. The old house looks nice. The bush-trees in the front yard looked way too small for me to have every climbed on, but yet I know that I did many times.

I drove past the funeral home. I drove past the house that always had a yard full of German Shepherds. I drove down the alley and saw old B.H.’s house, where he liked to pee in the alley in front of the other kids.  That kid peed on everything. 

Then I came to my old house, and was pleased to see that the cement slab in the backyard was still there. Cracking and old, but still there. I didn’t have to go in the yard to know that in the right hand corner of that slab, is a cartoon kitten that my dad let me draw in the wet cement with my finger. I smiled at the secret knowledge that three child-sized paces south of the tip of the kitten’s tail, a time-capsule is buried deep in the cement. I know that inside the time capsule is my fourth-grade school picture, an Indian head penny, and a special note to whoever finds it. 

Then, at the end of the block, I came to the lot where Leroy’s trailer once stood. Now it’s just a lot. Maybe even just half a lot. Things always look so small when you go back in time.  The grass is still tall. I wrinkled my forehead, and for a brief moment I wondered if Leroy had been real. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing.

But then, in the tall grass, I saw a pipe in the ground. The rusty brown pipe snaked out of the ground, reaching for nothing.  Once, it connected to a meter, and that meter connected to an old pink trailer.  From that old pink trailer, loud wailing music from a long-gone era blared throughout the neighborhood, annoying anyone with open windows.  I smile as I think of it.  In my mind I see the whole trailer now, the dented southern corner, the dirt path leading to the rickety front steps. The TV antenna that sat on the top of the trailer.  The tire in the yard.  The time his little yapping dog bit Jennipher in the ankle, and how her mother wouldn’t let her come over to my house for two years after the fact.  The bare bulb over the front door that Leroy had turned on when I knocked that long ago evening, and handed me the lion. The lion who could do anything.

 

What I Did This Summer – part 1

I didn’t die or anything. I am still here. You wouldn’t know it from my lack of blogging over the summer. But now it’s autumn, or “pre-winter” as we like to call it here in Montana (actually that’s not true, I have never heard anyone call it “pre-winter” but that is kind of what it is) and I am now going to relax a bit.

So I feel as if I should explain my absence for a couple of reasons. One, some of you have been coming here for a while and we’re buddies, so you should know. Two, because maybe you think it’s a good idea, and you will want to sign up for something like this someday.

A long, long time ago, when I was four or so, my dad took me fishing. I caught a brown trout. It was a good day. That evening, we walked back up to the road and for whatever reason, my dad decided to go find out who owned that land where we fished. He found the owner and asked if he could buy a piece of that land. The owner sold him a chunk. It wasn’t worth much, so he got a good deal on the was acres of yellowed, sun burnt straw and cactus…big red army ants and broken glass. Not a tree to be found. It had been used as a local dumping area for years. There were piles of tires, and old bottles, and ancient, rusted cars. It was something of a mess. I didn’t notice though, because to me it was like a giant yard to run around and hide in the tall grass.

Some time in the future I will tell some stories about how the land became what it is today. It’s now a thriving green speck on the satellite image, surrounded by miles of yellow wheat fields. It has a majestic view of the Tobacco Root mountains…really, you can’t ask for a better view, and a wide, rolling river winds by. The dump was cleaned up long ago. In the summer, veritable fireworks of flowers light up the ground with every color imaginable. Well over a hundred different species of birds can be spotted over a years’ time. Mountain bluebirds, bald eagles, cedar waxwings, the endangered curlew, killdeer, whooping cranes, and various herons are just a handful of the winged friends that visit and live there. Moose and deer are regulars. Last year we had a wolf run by, and this year, we had our first bear.
A few trees (planted that same year of my childhood fishing trip) are over thirty feet tall, and many more are on their way to becoming sources of shade. It’s not anything you’d see in a magazine. The lawns are not perfectly groomed. There are random piles of wood here and there. It’s a working, living, used piece of land…perfection not needed. There is an orchard. And gardens…oh, the gardens. That is where this story actually starts.

My family has been growing vegetables on the land for years. Ridiculous amounts of vegetables. Enough to eat whole meals of vegetables for every meal all winter long, for more than one family. In the fall, my dad would invite people out to raid the gardens, and they would leave with crates and crates of great tasting food that never saw a pesticide or a spray.

Last winter, my dad’s good friend passed away in a freak ski accident. Not only was he a great friend, but he was also a guy that gave my dad a lot of handyman jobs. With the economy worse than ever, finding work was becoming harder and harder for my dad and my brother. I can’t remember how the idea came up (I’m so freaking tired that I can’t remember much of anything) but all of a sudden, we all needed money. And we needed a way to get money. I thought about the people who came out every year and left with crates of vegetables.

I had been reading about the Community Supported Agriculture model for a while. It’s a cool system that helps support local growers, while providing consumers with fresh, healthy and in-season produce. Here is how it works: the CSA farm seeks shareholders, which pay a set price at the beginning of the season. In return, the shareholders receive a weekly portion of the vegetables all season long. What makes a CSA different from say, farmers markets or co-op stores, is that there is a certain risk factor built in. A CSA is like having a personal farmer that you entrust to grow vegetables for you. You invest in the farm, and your return comes in the form of tasty produce. The risk part comes in the form of hailstorms, freezes, or other disasters that can strike the farm. If these things happen, the shareholders receive fewer vegetables than would have been provided in a great season. If all goes well, and the season is wonderful and the farmer is doing a good job, then shareholders get enough food to power their family through the week, and sometimes enough to give away themselves. Think of it as a stock market for tomatoes.

I thought Why can’t we do this? It would just take some organization…

(Part 2 tomorrow…I was going to finish this tonight, but i need sleep)

 

The Summer of 2001

Originally posted on Sep 11, 2008 @ 11:11

The summer of 2001 will always live in my memory like a perfect movie.

I shared an apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. with a good friend I had known from the military.  We had good jobs with weekends off.  We spent evenings riding bikes on the W&OD trail system.  We hiked in Shenandoah National Park, and explored the cemetaries around Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia.  We rented horses and took long rides through the Virginia countryside.  Occasionally one of us would get a scary horse and almost die, but all’s well that ends well.  We rode the Metro and went to clubs and visited restaurants and met lots of strange men.  We laughed for hours talking about the strange men…it was like a slumber party that lasted all summer long.  We lived for late night Friday breakfasts at Bob and Edith’s Diner, and for early morning Sunday breakfasts at the Leesburg Cafe.  Every day was a new adventure.  She had a Jeep, the top was down, the weather was balmy and the sunsets were pink-purple.

A major key to the magic summer was MP’s “Magic Phone.”  Her phone at work had an automatic redialer…and with it, she had a knack for being caller number nine into DC101’s morning radio show, Elliot in the Morning.  She won us tickets to practically every major DC entertainment event that summer.  If I recall correctly, there was supposed to be a policy that if you won tickets once, you were no longer eligible for a while.  Somehow, we circumvented that rule and kept winning free tickets to concerts and events.  We saw Jane’s Addiction, Live, Nickelback, and plenty of others I can’t find the ticket stubs for.  We got to go to a private concert (at a bowling alley) with Weezer.  We went to every music festival in the city that summer.  We saw U2 twice, once in Washington and once in New York City.  We spent a lot of time in New York City that summer. 

Here’s us with Elliot of DC101 getting ready to “bowl with Weezer.”  Caveat: The band members were all really high. I don’t recall that Weezer actually bowled. We did get an awesome private concert, but if memory serves me right the bowling was done sans Weez. 

This is also before I had a digital camera, hence the crummy quality of the photos.

 

Here’s the private concert:

In July we went to New York for a long weekend to see U2 and enjoy the city.  We tried real sidewalk New York hot dogs, tried on clothes on fifth avenue, visited Little Italy, went to a market in Chinatown…we hit everything in New York.  I don’t remember sleeping.  Here’s us taking the ferry from NJ to NYC in July 2001. 

Here we are in early September, hiking Old Rag in Shenandoah National Park.  We were having so much fun.  We’d set up the camera on a rock, press the timer, and run like hell to a region in front of the lens and try to look casual.  I’m pretty sure in this photo, my ankle got twisted when I plopped down on that rock to smile for the camera:

My God, it was a fun summer.  I remember the constant feeling of bliss and happiness.  Life was perfect.  Thank goodness for memories to cloud over things like bills, and work-spats, and car maintenance.  I’m sure those things where there in the periphery…but they were in the far corner of my mind, as the Summer of 2001 was all about being young and having fun. 

When you have good friends, a good job, total freedom and it’s summer, it’s like a rockin’ soundtrack is following you and your every move.  You’re young.  Free.  You can do anything.  Every day is a good day.  There is no obstacle that you can’t overcome.  There is nothing you cannot do. 

Nothing. 

One morning I walked into my office and sat down to check the news online before starting the day’s real work.  I sipped my coffee as I had done for so many mornings before.  The internet seemed to be down.  I reloaded the page several times, but nothing would come up.  Finally the page did come up, and CNN.com showed a picture of one of the World Trade Centers with a big black hole in it.  The headline said that a plane had crashed into it.  Immediately I thought of some newbie pilot, and how dumb he must have been to not notice the daggone tower that was in front of him.

I walked into the office next door, where RL sat reading the same headlines I had.  “Did you see this?” she asked.  I nodded.  She was trying to call her boyfriend in New York City who worked in one of the trade center towers.  She couldn’t get through because the phones weren’t working. 

As the headlines updated to show that it hadn’t been a little bitty plane, but a huge airliner full of people, a buzz started flowing in the air.  The internet was now completely down.  Rumors took on a life of their own and started circulating as if they were being carried on the wind.  Televisions turned on all over the massive office complex.  We watched as the second airliner slammed into the second tower in a giant fireball, live on national television.  And that’s when everyone knew we were under attack.

You know how this story ends. 

I cannot imagine what it must have been like in New York City, because in DC it was complete chaos.  Suddenly the news announced that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon.  All communications were overloaded and went down.  The internet was hosed.  We stood around radios and listened to the news.  They announced that the Capitol building was hit.  They announced that the State Department was blown up with a truck bomb.  They announced that unknown airliners were circling the DC area.  Panic.  Fear.

Three people from our company had been killed in the Pentagon.  They had been meeting with the Army that morning.  Everyone knew of someone who could be in trouble and no one could get a hold of anyone.  The wind had been knocked out of us.  There was nothing to do but go home.  On the drive back to the apartment, I stared in wonder at the caravan of fifty plus ambulances and fire trucks that sped by in the opposite direction, into the city. 

I called MP, who was also on her way home.  Then I called the Red Cross.  I had been volunteering at the National Chapter there on K street and I wanted to know if they needed anything.  “Come on down here,” the receptionist on duty said.  “We need everyone we can get.”  I went home to change out of my office clothes into something more…more what? Utility?  I put on jeans.  MP got to the apartment and she decided to come with me to the Red Cross.  It was better than sitting around watching the news.  We jumped into her Jeep and headed for I-66 into the city.  The highways were empty.  I’ll never forget the surreal feeling of crossing the bridge into the empty city, looking south and seeing the black plume that was rising from the Pentagon. 

We were then sent to the Arlington National Chapter to volunteer, as the Pentagon actually lies in Arlington country and not DC.  Soon we were in a van heading to the disaster site. 

And disaster it was.  Huge, green-yellow lights shone down from cranes onto the destroyed side of the Pentagon.  The color of the light reminded me of Mountain Dew.  The brick sides on either end of the building were a deep, charred black.  Men walked around with guns and hammers and bags of unknown contents.  Hard hats and camouflage.  Work boots and hand radios.  The sound of construction crews.  Dust rising up against that eerie yellow light against a starless night sky.  A volunteer who had been there all day told us that the plane had hit so hard that they found the tail where the nose should have been–that it turned itself inside out on impact.

I was assigned the job of picking up donated food from all over the city and bringing it back for the rescue teams and firefighters.  I remember going to Denny’s in Arlington to pick up donated breakfasts.  I remember driving all over Alexandria looking for an obscure pastry shop that was making a generous donation of donuts and coffee.  I remember bits and pieces, but mostly I remember the feeling of running and working for hours and days on adrenaline and PowerBars.

Finally I was tired.  I wanted to go home.  I had to go home and rest.  Mentally I felt better that I was helping, but physically I was out of steam.  MP wanted to stay and keep working, and that is what she did.  She was there to see the giant American Flag get unrolled down the side of the Pentagon.  I was sorry that I missed that, but the emotional and physical toll of the week was wearing on me and I wanted to go crawl into bed, where it was still another time and when New York City was still intact. 

The weeks that followed 9/11 felt like a re-education of sorts.  The apartment that MP and I shared was in the flight path of Dulles Airport, and very close to the airport itself.  Many nights we could hear the jet engines cooling down.  On most days, if you sat out by the pool at 3:15, you could read the numbers from the bottom of the Korean Air 747.  Though we had never thought twice about the number of airplanes in the air around DC at any given time, the sound of their absence post 9/11 was deafening.  At night I dreamed of crashing planes–planes crashing into highways, planes crashing into houses, planes crashing into each other.  Weeks later when the planes started flying again, we watched them and held our breath. 

The shockwave that went through the nation after 9/11 seemed like an earthquake of epic proportions; the kind that levels villages, the kind that halves mountains.  Now I wonder if it was more like a deep ocean plate slowly but surely slipping under a continent–subtle and unseen, but everchanging and inescapable.  The impact that 9/11 has had on our country since cannot be measured.  A crack in the social pavement has widened into a Grand Canyon.  It seems that no one can agree on anything.  Everyone is wrong.  There is so much to fight about.  The billions of dollars that go to Iraq every month.  The Patriot Act, and innocent people who show up on no-fly lists.  Millions of dollars in grants to small towns to purchase armored vehicles.  The morale of the country is low.  People are broke.  And no matter who wins the election in November, it is clear that about 50% of the country will be very, very angry.  Change.  What is change? 

In the months following 9/11, the gap affecting the country seemed to permeate the friendship between MP and me.  There were suddenly many things to fight about, and be angry about, and hold grudges about.  It may have simply been the affliction that hits all roommates after a while…things that don’t bother you at first become grating and unbearable.  And soon there were full out fights.  I am embarrassed to tell you that one week we were fighting so bad that I had the locks changed on her.  She had the police kindly escort her back to the property.  It wasn’t quite Jerry Springer worthy, but it wasn’t far off.  I laugh about it now (and MP I hope you do too) but then I was fired up.  Our friendship fell apart for many reasons.   Eventually she found a new apartment closer to her job, and I bought a house south of DC. 

It was months (years?) before we spoke again.  And the tectonic shift of our friendship will remain a little bit off, never again to return to the perfect level of Summer 2001.  Like all fights between people, it was stupid. 

It was all stupid.  Whether it’s a disagreement about laundry or dishes between friends, a spat about bills between a couple, or a war about religion and resources between nations, it is all stupid.  One of the many lessons and reminders that came out of 9/11 is that time is short, and this is something I try to remind myself of daily.  Every few tries, I am successful.

The summer of 2001, for me, ended on September 11. 

I shouldn’t have been taken by surprise. 

It was September, after all.  The leaves yellow and fall.  As much as we want it to, the summer can’t last forever.

 

Fast Cars

I got pulled over for speeding a couple of days ago.  This was not the first time this summer.  It was the third.  Twice on the highway, and this last time not too far from my house.  The amount I have been driving this summer is ridiculous.  Sometime later this fall I will explain all of that.  However, most of that driving has been on the highway and apparently it’s hard to get out of 80 MPH mode back on the road.  No, I was NOT going 80 MPH through the neighborhood…but we live near this golf course where the speed goes from 60 to 35, directly.  Cops love sitting out near this spot because it provides them with easy tickets, because EVERYONE SPEEDS HERE. 

That’s not why I am writing this though.  I am not complaining about being pulled over.  I was speeding, so I should have been pulled over. 

I am writing because I had to tell you that when I opened the glove compartment  to get my registration out for the cop, my other two tickets fell out onto my front seat, all sitcom-like.  CITATION was very bold and visible on the paperwork.  Not the impression I needed to make here. 

But in an early Christmas miracle, I got a warning this time.  I am now using the money I saved for a moped with a speed restriction because have a lead foot.

***

Speaking of vehicles, AJ is obsessed with them.  Somewhere, somehow he picked up several types of cars.  He can pick out all of the manufacturers logos and he is certain to point out dealerships whenever we drive by them.  Whenever he sees a Nissan, he places his hand on his forehead and says, “Nissan…those are always in the shop!”  (This is because ours is always in the shop)

He was on a Dodge kick the other day.  For fifteen minutes straight, he raved about Dodges.  I was trying to concentrate on something else, but all I heard was “When I grow up, I want a Dodge Ram.  Or maybe a Dodge Charger.  Dodge Chargers are super fast.  No, really mom, they are super fast, those Dodge Chargers.  Or wait…Dodge Challengers…that’s right.  Dodge Challengers.  But the Dodge Rams have a Hemi.  Hemi’s mean they are Dodge tough.  Dodges are tough AND fast.”

Dodge, Dodge, Dodge. 

Finally I interrupted.  “AJ!  Shut UP about Dodges.  I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT DODGES ANY MORE!!!’

He said, “Oh, okay.  Do you wanna talk about Fords?”

 

Baby Got Bac(on)

Macy, dear little Macy…received her very first piece of mail yesterday.  As much as I would have liked it to be a notification of an inheritance so she can be assured of college…it was not.  It wasn’t even an advertisement for Gerber Life Insurance.  It was a bacon catalog.

I know!  Can you imagine?  A whole catalog based on bacon.  This wasn’t your run of the mill Oscar Meyer type bacon.  This baby was chock-full of upscale bacon.  The last few pages of the catalog expanded into other smoked meats.  In fact, for only $149.95 (plus shipping), Macy could order a fully-cooked turkey and accompanying spiral-sliced ham (with honey-glaze packet).  Just pop it in your oven and heat it for Christmas delight. 

But Macy doesn’t have an oven.

Well if that wasn’t silly enough, today another catalog came in the mail.  A catalog called “Cigar.com”.  You know, so she can have a nice, smoky Cuban after a large holiday meal of ham. 

I can’t figure out where she would have gotten onto a list.  Is her pediatrician selling the database of all the Bozeman kids?  Should I expect credit card offers soon?  How young is too young for a credit card? 

I wonder if Macy will receive a golf catalog this week.  It only makes sense.

 

Light My Fire (And Run)

People come with fuses, just the way bombs and firecrackers do.  Some people are born with a short fuse…these are the road ragers and the bar fighters.  Others get a nice, long fuse…life comes at them like it does everyone else and their fuse sits burning, burning, nice and slow.  But LORD HELP THE PERSON standing next to them when the spark finally hits the TNT, becaues you don’t want to be near that kind of carnage.  These are the people who climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower with a rifle and shoot at tourists.

I have a really long fuse.  I get snippy here and there, on a daily basis lately, but I wouldn’t call it a full-on explosion.  But this evening, my fuse was blown.  I went out into the backyard and hurled dishes.  Have you ever hurled dishes in anger?  Maybe you should.  Tonight, I threw a lot of dishes.  Bad-ass, I know.  It’s a good thing I am a mommy living in the outskirts of a town in Montana, because had I still lived in DC  I would have been standing on the edge of the Wilson Bridge during rush hour, and you know what that does to the Beltway.

I discovered that throwing things is soothing some years ago, during a particularly rough patch of otherwise marital bliss.  It was a big nasty fight, probably about something stupid like “where’s the remote” (although we all know it’s never about just the remote), and I didn’t know what to do so I grabbed all the candles off the mantle and ran to the front door in my pajamas and hurled the candles out into the snow, one by one.  It was just me and the candles, and they were getting their asses kicked.  I flung them into the night.  There was a foot of snow on the ground, so I couldn’t hear the candles land.  I threw them, and I imagined that they never landed…they just kept flying through the air, propelled into orbit with the sheer power of my rage.  Soon, I ran out of candles.  Then I stood there on the porch, watching the snow fly against the dark sky.  I felt better.  Soon I realized it was ten degrees and  I had bare feet. 

Ha!  Just as I was writing this, I remembered another time I went completely “Donna Destructo.”  This meltdown took place when I was in the Marines.  I had a bunch of male roommates, most of them very responsible.  One of them had a habit of setting his alarm clock for 5:00 AM.  He would do this on a Friday night, then he would go out on the town and not return.  So each Saturday morning, his alarm clock would start screaming when all I wanted to do was sleep.  I had three jobs at the time, and this alarm-clock-insanity happened several Saturdays in a row.  One Saturday at 5 AM I heard the alarm, and snapped (I just wanted to sleep in One Goddamn Time!).  I stormed into his room, yanked the clock from the wall (probably with the outlet still attached), marched outside (again, in my pajamas), threw the clock into the cul-de-sac, ran after it, and started jumping up and down on it.  I don’t remember because of the rage-amnesia, but I am almost certain I would have shouted expletives at the clock.  Ah, memories.

Anyway, I decided that writing stuff here is truly the only way to get things off my mind, so that is what I am doing.  Here are the four “triggers” that just sent me reeling today.  I feel better already.

Trigger A

I was browsing our fine town’s online news forum.  This weekend’s big event is a longstanding festival of the arts,  probably the biggest event of the summer here.  With the festival, lots of art is displayed all over town.  So there I was, browing the forum, when I came across a post from someone that read something like this:

“I am shocked and dismayed.  There is a painting of a nude woman at the entrance to the Library.  It is disgusting.  It is demeaning to women.  If I had children or grandchildren, I would keep them away.  Children exposed to sexual images at a young age grow up to be pedophiles and child molesters.  I am appalled that our Library would allow such dangerous images to be displayed.”

Are you fucking kidding me?  A nude image?  In art?  For reals?  Holy criminal mischief, Batman!  Shall we plaster an “R” rating on the Smithsonian?  Is the Louvre the reason France is the way it is?  Is a Thomas Kinkade painting going to cause me to plant fifty lilac bushes in my yard and turn all the lights on at the same time?   Should we hide old copies of National Geographic? 

One of my favorite sarcasms is, “You are entitled to your opinions, no matter how f****d  up they are.”  

I did not see the painting in question, but if it is hanging at the Library entrance, I can guess with a high degree of certaintly that it’s not porn.  But “dangerous?”  Is this person serious?  Lordy, I hope that this person does not have a son, because that kid is getting sent straight to military school the first time he sneaks a peek at a Playboy.

I guess what fires me up most about this is that I am incredibly jealous – jealous of people that have it so good that a painting of a nude woman is the absolute worst calamity imaginable.

Trigger B

I am really, really sick of the following comment, which I am seeing a LOT lately, regarding health care reform. 

“We have the best health care system in the world and we shouldn’t change it.  I’m sick of lazy peole who want free healthcare just so they don’t have to work.  If you want healthcare, get a job and pay for it.  If your job doesn’t have healthcare well maybe you should have gotten a better job.”

MY THOUGHTS – Well, shit.  I can’t help but notice that every single person making a version of this comment has a good job with healthcare benefits.  I’m super happy for them, and for me too, because I have a great job with good healthcare too. 

But I have a hefty chunk of my paycheck removed each month to pay for it, and I notice that chunk gets larger each year.  I fear the day I won’t be able to afford it anymore and still let my kids wear shoes that fit. Let’s not forget that even if you DO have insurance, a major healthcare crisis may not be covered…because your insurance company can make that decision for you…and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it but write letters that will get shuffled from department to department until you are dead from whatever malady you were unfortunate enough to get. 

There are a metric ass-ton of hard working people that don’t get healthcare because it’s so expensive that a lot of companies cannot offer healthcare AND make a profit at the same time.  Suggesting that someone “get a better job” to fix the problem is the inanest of the inane. 

Maybe you don’t like the ideas being tossed around regarding healthcare because you fear socialism, or you think that your taxes will go way up.  There are a million reasons to dislike the possible changes that may be coming.  However, I pose that there are a million reasons to dislike what we have now. 

We are already suffering financially because of the “best healthcare in the world” (HA).  Instead of paying for all those emergency room visits via taxation, the charges are disguised as higher insurance premiums, fifty-dollar aspirins, denied claims, co-pays, and insurance companies forcing doctors to resubmit the paperwork multiple times, which causes the doctors to rebill the patient multiple times, until someone besides the insurance company gets tired of dealing with it so they give up and send in some money.  I guess I would rather have my preventative care wrapped up in my taxes instead of continuing to contribute to the teak flooring of Aetna’s CEO.  If that makes me a socialist, then I guess that is what you can call me. 

But can’t we all agree that it shouldn’t matter what your occupation is?  If you are a contributing member of society, not a criminal, and you like a good sitcom now and then…you shouldn’t have to hear “sorry about your tumor, but we can’t help you here.” 

Or worse:  “Sorry about your child’s tumor, but we can’t help you here…”

“…but go sell your house, your car, and work a second job and we’ll talk.” 

Trigger C

I have severe, severe PMS this week.  The hormones are out of control tonight (see, “Throwing Plates,” above).  I was watching “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader” and the question to the MBA graduate was this:  “How many inner planets are in our solar system?”  The MBA graduate answered “Two.”  He pushed the big red Final Answer button. 

The camera flashed to the MBA grad’s mother, a retired schoolteacher.  She was cringing in horror.  Horror! 

Jeff Foxworthy looked concerned.  His mustache twitched a bit, and said,  “The answer is four.  Oliver can save you, only if he has four written on his chalkboard.”  The camera focused on fifth-grade Oliver, who looked calm and collected.  The audience held their breath.  Finally the chalkboard was revealed:  Oliver had scrawled a large, off-center digit:

4

The MBA grad threw his hands up with joy.  The audience cheered at Oliver’s brilliance. 

And I got teary.  Someone pass the Midol. 

Trigger D

I can’t order a pay per view.  Macy is sleeping.  Jesse and AJ are out of town.  I have in front of me a lovely cup of coffee and a blueberry scone, warm from the oven.  I have looked forward to this moment all day long.  I scanned through the movie listings.  Rachel Getting Married – Three and a half stars.  Anne Hathaway, Rosemarie DeWitt, Bill Irwin (2008) Long-simmering tensions bubble to the surface when a young woman who has been in and out of rehab returns home for her sister’s wedding.

I would never watch this during a regular week, but it’s perfect for PMS.  I clicked Order.  A blue box popped onto the screen.

ERROR – Your movie cannot be ordered.  DX-0000021.

I clicked again.

ERROR – Your movie cannot be ordered.  DX-0000021.

Pardon me.  I have more dishes to break.