Batter Up

The Cat is back. She is under house arrest. She was found blocks from here, up by the synagogue. Now, I am a very ecumenical sort of person by nature. I do not have any issues with her wanting to be Jewish. I would not have any problem feeding her gefilte fish. But the whole hanging out up by the synagogue for 3 days and making me worry thing I am NOT down with at all. Thus, she will stay inside for a bit. She does not like it and that makes me sad but she clearly isn't confining her jaunts to approved areas.

The new fridge arrives today. I. Can't. Wait.

When I'm not celebrating my cat and new fridge I'm going to be making a ruckus at City Hall. There have been 2 break-ins and 1 attempted one just down the street this week. The one yesterday involved a teenage kid being tied up and stuffed in a trunk while the punks ransacked his family home. A neighbor on the scene asked one of the cops if this meant we could get an increased police presence until they catch the perps. The response was, "No, we only have 4 patrol cars for the area".

Really? Hey, it's call "reallocating resources". If you know an area is being targeted for crime, wouldn't it make sense to rethink the current patrol routes and frakking do something about it? We live in a relatively safe and certainly very stable neighborhood. People have lived here for generations. People know each other and look out for each other. We do all the things you're supposed to do to help keep your neighborhood safe. But right now there are two skanky punks who are busting into homes and helping their sorry asses to other peoples' hard earned stuff. That's not right. To be told that the taxpaying citizens of this neighborhood can't be afforded additional police protection is even less right. What the hell are we supposed to do? Quit our jobs, patrol our own 'hood with baseball bats and make our own justice? I don't really like that thought but it's pretty much the way all of us are feeling right about now.

So I'm going to be ruckusing. First City Hall, then my state representatives and then I think I'm placing a call to a reporter I know from a local TV station. And also, you know, practising my baseball swing.

Law and Disorder

Last night I was enjoying cocktails with The Neighbor, as we're wont to do, when I heard The Child hollering across the fence.

"MOM! MOM! Dad got robbed!"

Abandoning my drink, I flew home to find The Spouse, shaken and awaiting the cops.

Mercy, says you. What was he doing? Had he been down in Pioneer Square carousing and got himself rolled in a dark alley? Was he walking through the center of an unlit park where drug traffic is known to flourish? Was he loitering outside an abandoned building in the industrial district?

No. He was walking home from work and half a block from our house.

Two young men (one taller than The Spouse, the other shorter...both assholes) asked if he knew the time. (How stupid do you have to be to invite a mark to know the exact time of the commission of your crime, btw?) He obliged and kept walking, because that's the sort of thing you do in your own relatively safe neighborhood at 5:37pm on a weeknight. Next thing he knew they came up behind him and sorta surrounded him. They said they had a gun. They took his wallet, his cell and briefcase, then casually strolled off up the street as if nothing had happened.

Say it with me: "Bastards!"

The early part of our evening was spent giving the police a report (him) and cancelling bank cards and cell service (me). There was also some shaking and shuddering (mutual).

The middle part of the evening was spent being really frakking upset (him) and listening (me).

He did say that he was interested in some vengeance. I suggested that, while a reasonable response, perhaps he would be better served allowing the authorities to handle it. "What if I became a superhero first?"

"That would be ok then".

"I could wear a cape".

"No, no capes".

But mostly he was really, really pissed. This morning he is still really, really pissed. Of course he is. There are layers to it, you see. First is just the simple fact of the violation of YOUR neighborhood, YOUR freedom to just frakking walk home from work without being assaulted, coupled with the whole fearing-for-your-life thing that happens when someone takes your stuff after threatening you with a gun. Then there's the whole annoying business of being the one who has to do all the work of making calls and wasting time at the DMV to get a new license and spending time at work getting a new badge and all that. Because really, how is that possibly fair? Take my money, sure, but come on. You know I'm just going to cancel all my cards the second I'm able. You'll get nothing out of it and it'll be a headache for me so work with me here.

And then this morning there was another layer of annoyance as he realized that they got his lunch bag, his coffee mug and - and this really got him going again - his gloves and scarf.

Of course, there is good news in all this. First and foremost is that my husband wasn't injured or killed. Stuff is stuff. He'd be a little less easy to replace. Second, he is notoriously difficult to shop for; Christmas shopping will be a little easier this year. Third, he had left his iPod at work yesterday. If he wants, he can add today's Jukebox to his playlist. It suits his mood.



Bon Jovi "Wanted Dead or Alive"

Quick Update

1) I've just extended my lease on The Child; she found my ID badge this morning on the way to the car. Yeah, it was sitting right there on the sidewalk, where I'm guessing it had been all frakking weekend. Sheesh.

And b) how frakking stupid do you have to be to actually blow out the stupidometer? I may not be the shiniest whisk in the kitchen but ding dong, Gov. Rod Blagojevich makes me look like a freaking brain trust.

Crap

'K, I don't even know how to begin this so I'll just dive in. My sister-in-law died. The girls and I were on the last leg of our journey, at my aunt's (technically The Spouse's aunt but she claims me as her own so there) when the call came yesterday morning. It was very weird to be coming off a superfantastic week of revelry and hear the news.

My SIL had not been well and we'd all been mentally preparing ourselves for the fact that she'd probably leave us sooner rather than later. Turns out, though, she died in a house fire. Everything is still crazy and up in the air and we don't know much, except that the authorities on the case (in Orange County) have been nothing but marvelous to The Spouse and his brother.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all. SIL and I were never super close, mostly because she lived in SoCal most of the time I've been in the family, but we had a good relationship. The first words out of her mouth when she met me were "My sister!" and it's always felt like that. She was a troubled woman but a very kind and loving one and pretty much right now we're all just in shock. You can mentally prepare yourself for a loss but it turns out that doesn't do anything toward preparing your heart.

I know how loving and dear you are all and appreciate in advance the kind words I know you're going to offer. Please keep The Spouse and his brother in your thoughts and prayers.

And right now, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all there is to say about that.

Sage Was Just a Toddler When It Happened

Remember the scene from "When Harry Met Sally"? Harry's dating a younger woman and mentions to his friend that it might be an issue after all:

"I asked her where she was when Kennedy was shot and she said, 'Ted Kennedy's been assassinated?'"

I get that joke. It's happened to me. I'm older than a lot of my friends. (Except for the ones who are my age. Or older. I have a lot of friends. I'm super popular).

I don't usually think of myself as being all that old. It's not like I've got brittle bones and spend my days crocheting tea cozies and waiting for "Jeopardy" to come on. But I was just reminded that it's been 40 years since we lost Martin. 40 years.

Here's what I remember. It was a beautiful spring day. I was 10. The news went through me like an electric shock. I remember walking around in the back yard crying and praying, a scene that would be repeated 2 months and 1 day later when Bobby was taken out.

It's a crushing thing when heroes fall. My generation has seen a lot of that. I suppose every generation has. And if it's not the death of a hero, it's some other defining event, some "where were you when"...Pearl Harbor, 9/11...take your pick. Every generation has its dark days, collective grief. It might be the death of a politician, a princess, the start or the end of a war. It's always something. And then we have to find our way back to the light, until the next time.

I don't know where I'm going with this, to be honest with you.

This probably should have been my video today.

U2 "Pride (In The Name of Love)"

No Comment

It is a beautiful day. These last days of July have a richness about them...fruit hangs on the vine and while it will be weeks more before it ripens, all seems fresh and full of promise. The morning air is mild, clouds mere vestigial wisps across the brilliant blue of the sky.

A single hummingbird, iridescent green flashing from her wings, visits the feeder near my window.

These are the sorts of things which would normally fill me with delight, evoking psalms of thanksgiving and praise..."for the beauty of the earth"...

But today, there are no psalms of joy and the beauties of the world mock my pain. Despair is my only friend. The skies should be dark and glowering, winds rushing, knifelike with their sharp chill. That would fit my mood, not this lavender scented, birdsong filled, shining glory. But I am not so lucky. I must bear my sadness even as the forces of all that is good and beautiful and life-giving surrounds me with a big cosmic "neener neener".

It was supposed to be me, dammit!

Steve Martin Weds in Surprise Ceremony

Don't Read This at Work

There. I warned you.

I have many happy things to report and I will get to that in another post. But first there's this "geez, sometimes it is so hard to be a mom" story.

The mom of one of The Child's classmates died on Friday. She was a young woman, just turned 40, and she was taken out by frakking cancer. She'd been very ill and we knew the time was coming but it was still a shock, what with the whole praying for a miracle thing. I found out at an afternoon meeting and told The Spouse when I got home. (They worked at the same place, although he didn't realize that until it was revealed in a "small world" conversation at a volleyball game). Then I told The Child.

Frankly, I was surprised by her response. She immediately began crying and saying, "No! No!" over and over and over. She had no other words and neither did I.

I held her for a while and she cried and then I left her alone to watch a new episode of "Hannah Montana" while The Spouse and I ate Thai take-away and watched "Baby Boom". (I love Diane Keaton).

The Child seemed to settle down and after a while she did what any intelligent woman does in a time of crisis. She ran a hot bubble bath, chewed an entire pack of gum and soaked.

Later she came out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, skin prickled with heat and said, "I need to talk". She perched on the counter and started to cry it all out.

This wasn't a great aunt who she'd never really known or even a beloved pet (the sad demise of Clara the Frog is always her reference point for these things). This was someone she knew, had given hugs to, joked with. And she was also gobsmacked by the breadth of the loss. She kept talking about "all the people who are affected by this".

Gemma had 6 kids. 2 of them are so little they probably don't even understand what's happening. The Child felt sad for them. She felt sad for the older kids in the family and especially for her classmate, N., who has always been a little mother but now kinda really is. The Child was worried about all the classmates of all the children. She's concerned for the dad and how he's going to work and care for 6 children. She was trying to imagine the feelings of someone her age who's lost her mom.

She cried because the funeral is going to be on Saturday and we'll be in Chicago. "I was supposed to be having the time of my life that day and now I won't because I'll know what everyone else is dealing with". Ah...survivor guilt.

She lamented the lateness of the hour because she had a strong desire to connect with classmates. She cried because she'd never told N. in so may words that she would be there for her.

"You can still do that," I said. "She's going to need to know that for months to come".

And I told her that I felt weird, too, because the last time I talked to Gemma she had said she was going back to the doctor because of pain in her back. I'd been perky and encouraging, saying "I'm sure it's nothing. You've come so far, you're going to be fine". Because I believed it and wanted it to be true and because what else do you say? That was the day she collapsed and was rushed to the hospital and they discovered the cancer had spread to her lungs.

I reminded The Child of all the people we know, her uncle, grandpa, ChouChou, Edy...who had cancer and didn't die, of the miracles we'd seen and how part of what makes this so hard is that we were counting on another miracle.

"I know," she wailed. "That's it exactly".

Then she said, "You know how they can do all sorts of things, like fix people's hearts with pig hearts? Why can't they fix cancer?"

Why indeed. And of course I told her that lots of times they can fix cancer but this wasn't one of them. I told her there are t-shirts that say, "Cancer Sucks".

"I want one," she sobbed. "In black!"

Cancer does suck. Gemma's death sucks. It is as simple and unfathomable as that.

The Child cried and talked and raled against it all and I let her. No pat answers, no Hallmark card phrases to try and make her feel better. Last night was a night for just being pissed off about it all. And then she did what you do when you are 13 and trying to fathom the unfathomable. She asked if I could sleep with her.

So I did.

Bummer

One of the things I wondered last week, after the Virginia Tech shootings, was if we would know anyone who was affected. We didn't know anyone at the school but as I learned on 9/11, the degrees of separation don't spool out too far. And sure enough. The 4th grade teacher @ The Child's school lost her cousin, Kevin.

He was a world class robotics professor. I remember hearing about him on NPR, the Tuesday after the shootings. But it didn't connect. His last name is the teacher's maiden name...I never knew her by that name...I listened to the story with that sort of sorrowful detatchment you have in such situations. When I heard of the connection to Amy, everything shifted, became somehow a little more personal if only because the grieving is no longer at a remove. I see it on someone's face every day.

He leaves a wife & 3 children. He saved the lives of 20 students, by locking them in his office. May he, and all the victims, rest in peace.

Some Stories. And a Soap Box Alert.

The Child and I discuss a lot of things. One of the things I hate discussing the most is violence. War, murder, these are very unpleasant topics. But she's out in the world. She hears things. And it is important to me that she knows she can talk about anything with me, even unpleasant or difficult subjects. Plus, I want her to hear stuff from me first; not because I can always spin things to sound like no big deal but because it's my job to make her feel safe. And when you hear about a shooting, even one clear across the country, it rocks your feeling of safety.

I had just heard about the Virginia Tech shootings as I was going to pick her up from school yesterday and the radio was on when she got in the car. So I told her what I knew. This morning, after reading the NY Times, we talked about it some more.

Her first connection was to the murder-suicide that happened on the University of Washington campus just a few weeks ago. We talked about how they weren't related. (I wouldn't want her to think that going to college is a bad idea). Then we talked about how twisted and desperate some people get and how that's really sad.

"Maybe that guy got really bad grades so he wanted revenge," she posited.

"Maybe. They really don't know yet. Whatever it was that made him do it though, it wasn't right. And," I added, "most people don't pull a trigger every time something doesn't go their way. But when it's on the news like this it can make you feel like they do".

Then she asked why they hadn't locked down the campus after the first shootings.

"Good question. A lot of people are asking that right now".

She knows about lockdowns. When she was in the first grade there was a murder in town. The gunman fled and as the search for him spread, schools in the nearby area were locked down. Including hers. She remembered the teacher getting a code from the office and how they all had to sit on the floor by the wall, away from the windows. The kids didn't know what was going on. They were having fun, not doing school work and just having stories and singing time.

I remember that day, too, arriving at school to find Sr. M standing outside the building, directing parents to the one unlocked (and guarded) door to pick up our kids. And I remember thinking how comforting it was to know that the administration had acted prudently to protect our kids. 'Cause that's their job.

Unfortunately, The Child is not unaccustomed to gun violence. The next year I had to tell her that a school-mate had been murdered by her father. That wasn't any fun. The child in question came from a troubled home (duh) and had her own set of issues. But she'd always been kind to The Child, always gave me hugs when I saw her. She was a needy, sad little girl who tried to wring some joy out of her miserable life. And then she was dead, through no fault of her own. Murdered by her own father. It still gets me. And every year, on Dios de la Muertos we light a votive for Tiffany.

When I told her about that incident, after we cried together, The Child asked if I'd ever known anyone who'd ever been killed like that. And sadly, I did. My senior year of high school one of my best buds, Joe, was murdered. One beautiful spring morning his brother got up, loaded a gun and walked through the house, killing his parents and his brother as they slept.

I remember coming to school and finding cops in the hall, talking to my best friend Barb. (Her locker was next to that of the gunman). Little knots of students were standing around, whispering. I couldn't believe Barb would be in trouble with the law.

Then my friend Becky came up to me, ashen faced. "Have you heard? Joe is dead." Joe, crazy Joe, who was always, always coming up with some good natured joke. Brilliant Joe, the go-to guy when you didn't get something in your homework. One day, in AP English, he had drawn a cartoon bubble on the chalkboard and stood so it looked like it was coming out of his mouth. Brian, who always had a camera ready, started snapping pictures. It happened to be Joe's birthday so I started playing. He wrote a cartoon bubble that said, "Hi, Lori!" I drew a piece of cake and a bubble that said, "Happy birthday, Joe. Have some cake!" and posed accordingly. Brian took the picture. That was the shot that was used on the "In Memorium" page of the yearbook.

It occurs to me that I'm rambling, that I should edit this and compose my thoughts into something coherent and meaningful. But when people kill people in random, senseless acts, me not so much with the coherence. I get angry. I get sad. I get frustrated and then I get angry again.

This would be a good time to warn you that I'm going to rant right now and that you should also be advised that you'd best spare me any "guns don't kill people, people kill people" crap. I'm not buying it.

I get angry that it is easier to get a gun than it is to get a driver's license. I get angry that there are enough guns in this country to arm every man, woman AND child. I get angry that the NRA consistently thwarts even the most common sense measures to assure gun safety. There are always going to be guns and people who will use them to do harm. I also know that someone bent on destruction will figure out a way to do it, with or without a gun. I'm not stupid. I also know that most gun owners are sensible, law-abiding citizens who know how to handle their weapons, how to store them safely and don't own them so they can take out other people. I also know the difference between a hunting rifle and a semi-automatic weapon. And until the day I die, no one will convince me that an average, law-abiding citizen needs to own such a thing nor should they be able to purchase one. You don't hunt duck with an Uzi. You just don't.

Growing up on a farm, everyone had guns. Sean Connery had one. It was kept in his bedroom closet. It was used for putting down animals. It was a part of life. It always gave me the heebee jeebees but that was probably a good thing. It meant that I had a healthy respect for the thing. And my brother, George Clooney, had a BB gun. We were taught how to use it, how to shoot it and at what. If he had ever so much as pointed at someone with it, the folks would have taken it from him forever and probably smacked him on the ass with it. Guns were serious business. We knew that.

The Spouse once suggested getting a gun, I don't even remember why, and I told him that when he lived alone he was welcome to it but no gun was every coming into my house. That's just me. Which is all to say that I don't have a problem with gun owners. I have friends who own guns and I support their right to own them. I just choose to exercise my right not to have one. And to insist that this country still needs to do a hell of a lot more to control guns. Me, for gun control. Deal with it. And all that said, I know that the deeper problem isn't with guns but with our hearts and with the root causes of violence. Which is a whole other topic.


Ok. I think I'm cycling back into my sadness mode now. My heart goes out to the victims and families of the Virginia Tech shooting. My heart goes out to all of us.

Easter in Retrospect

The weather Easter day was variable but 'round about 11:00, when children were going to be hunting eggs, it was clear enough.And then we had a really yummy brunch of hot cross buns, which The Spouse made while I was at church on Saturday night, a savory baked egg-potato-cheese concoction and Canadian bacon sauteed in butter and then simmered in beer. There was a bowl of beautiful strawberries and some bananas (because I really hate making fruit salad and one of the families that comes doesn't really eat fruit). There was mimosas for the adults, and nice, black coffee. I had bought a bottle of sparkling cider for the kids, stuffing it in the freezer to chill quickly.

I forgot about it. Yeah. It exploded.

I was completely exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before. I told The Spouse before anyone arrived that around noon I was going to very politely excuse myself for a nap, in case there were stragglers still at the party. This ruse was not in fact necessary. Once everyone cleared out I thought through all the tasks to prepare for the evening feast and decided I could easily nap until 3 and still have ample time to do what needed doing.

And I napped. And it was delicious.

B & K stopped by just when I needed to get up. They were invited to dinner but unable to make it so they came by with a bottle of wine for the feast and a very cool ice cream sundae basket for The Child. We chatted for a while and they were off.

I had some boo boos in the kitchen this year. First, I sliced my hand while washing a champagne flute. Which, if you have to slice a hand, is an elegant way to do it. I also totally burned the crust for the lemon curd tart, but that was ok because The Neighbor was going to be bringing a triple coconut cream pie from the Dahlia Lounge. (And as it turned out, everyone was so full of feast that the pie was a to-go item for most of the guests anyway...they didn't need lemon curd tart, too).

And the molasses biscuits were a disappointment this year. I over cooked them a bit, too. The flavor was fine but they were sorta like hard tack. Which was not the intention.

And I tell you all this because, well, I don't always get it right and you should know that.

However, these items were of minor importance as the star of the Easter feast is the BAH and everything else only exists to serve it's smoky, spicy, glaze-y goodness.

It starts like this:It ends like this. (That's the roasted beet, orange and spinach salad in the background).I also served green bean casserole and streusel sweet potatoes, which were delicious, though I say it myself. But more important even than all that, even than the BAH in all its smokey, spicy, glaze-y goodness were the people gathered 'round the table and exchanges between and among us.

ReeRee and I sang our traditional rendition of "I Don't Know How to Love Him", complete with the harmony that gives The Spouse goosebumps. There were hugs and tears between prayer buddies, there were faith journey stories and jokes and spilling of wine and what, to my mind anyway, amounted to the grand and joyous relief of another Lent accomplished. There is something really wonderful about knowing that there are now 50 days ahead to celebrate what we learned, to embrace the graces that have been bestowed and all without having to fast.

The evening ended with The Spouse giving a screening of "Fortune Hunters" and we sent the guests off with wrapped slices of pie and reminders for the Pentecost feast in 50 days.

Alleluia!

Oh Great.

School just called. The Child is coming down with the flu.