One Suspicious Mole Away

Let me preface all of this by saying: With few exceptions, and regardless of party affiliation, I hate politicians.

I really don't like to discuss or argue about politics, because inevitably, my opponent knows more than I do about statistics, history, geography, and how the Electoral College works. I didn't even want to post anything about this, but it just keeps nagging at me and I'm hoping to find some others out there who feel the way I do.

I couldn't wait to register to vote when I turned 18. I have voted in every major election since then. I am a responsible tax-paying citizen. I say the Pledge of Allegiance at every Boy Scout meeting, Girl Scout meeting, military event, and ball game. I tear up when I sing the National Anthem. I went to law school and learned about our Constitution. I took an oath to support it when I was admitted to the bar. I work hard to help our nation's veterans. I would like to feel good about casting a ballot this year, but I don't see that happening. I truly want to abstain from voting in this election, and that is not a small matter to me.

I have a few strong political opinions, but the rest range from ambivalent to weak. Most of them cover a spectrum somewhere between Bohemian, Birkenstock-wearing, granola-eating, tree-hugging vegans and upper-middle-class, churchgoing, gun-toting, politically-incorrect meat-eaters. I've always been a little left of center, and that goes for my political views as well.

I have always considered myself a Democrat. I was born that way, and no, I don't think it was a birth defect. But I must confess: I do not have Obama fever. All other issues aside, I don't think he has the experience to be the President of the United States, not to mention the Commander-in-Chief of our Armed Forces. If my liberal friends want to disown me for making that statement, I ask only that they first show me something on his resume that could sway my opinion. The only thing I can say about Joe Biden is that at least he has some experience and would probably make a decent puppeteer.

I don't think the current president had much qualifying experience and look where that got us. Then again, he's a Republican.

As for McCain, I always thought he was fairly rational and moderate as Republicans go. I feel the same way about Lieberman. I think a lot of right-wingers see moderates as namby-pamby panderers, while the left-wingers see them as sellouts. I guess I see them as namby-pamby sellouts. I think a moderate Republican is akin to a guy who is kind enough to cuddle after taking advantage of you. I don't think anyone doubts that McCain has the experience (whether you like him or not) to hold the office of President. But let's face it, he is 72 years old, and if he lives out a four-year term, my calculator tells me that he would be 76. Sure, 76 is not nearly as old as it used to be. But when you look at who he chose for a running mate, 72 matters. Some 72-year-olds could be knocked off by a good scare. And with McCain's sketchy skin cancer history, I am incredibly uneasy. I have seen with my own eyes how fast melanoma can take a person down.

Then again, mean old men keep living out of spite. I don't think Dick Cheney is much younger than McCain, and look at how many times his so-called heart has tried to fail him. I've heard McCain has a temper problem. I say all former POWs are entitled to be as quick to anger as they want to. They just better let a clear head prevail before they decide (for example) to bomb Libya for something the Saudis do. Or the Indonesians for that matter. So maybe if he gets sick, or if PTSD flashbacks start to creep in--as they tend to do as vets get older--he'll keep living out of pure meanness. Call me a pessimistic alarmist.

Before and during Dan Quayle's Vice-Presidency, his youth, qualifications, and questionable intellect gave rise to the horrifying phrase, "One Heartbeat Away." And at that time, the first President Bush was only about 65-ish I think.

I don't know how (what's her name again? Excuse me while I Google it… Oh yeah) Sarah Palin's statistics would stack up to those of Dan Quayle, but I do know that this woman would be just one good scare away, or as my sister said, one suspicious mole away from the presidency.

And that right there scares the holy living crap out of me.

Remember the outcry when Bush tried to appoint his buddy Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court? Experience? Dallas Bar President? Texas State Bar President? She was crucified.

Experience matters. Age matters. Logic tells me I should vote for McCain and hope he doesn't die. But if he won and lived, I would also spend those four years kicking myself for contributing to a lot of policies I strongly disagree with. If I vote for Obama and he wins, I will spend those four years hoping he doesn't do more harm than good.

I'm disappointed that this country did not come up with some better choices. Then again, maybe we deserve what we get.

Is Valium Approved to Treat Déjà Vu?

When I wrote the date on a letter yesterday, part of me wondered why I felt so uneasy. But my gut knew why immediately. We almost lost our son that day three years ago. He was eight years old and had completed his first week of third grade at a new school. Katy's eight now, and was fortunate enough to get the same teacher Luke had. At Meet the Teacher Night, the teacher reminded us about how Luke became the mystery boy who disappeared after the first week of school. His classmates (who didn't even know him) wanted to visit him in the hospital, but when they found out he was in Houston, they had to settle for making him the biggest package of get well cards I hope I will ever see. Of course, when he finally got back to school, he was known as the cool motorcycle wreck boy with the big long scar.

Before the accident, when I would see an ambulance or an Air Life helicopter, I would do what I have done since I was a child and offer up a little prayer. Now when I see one of those copters, the pit of my stomach burns and I pretend that I'm not dizzy. My lungs take a deep breath for me before I know it. Then I remind myself that he survived. When we experience extreme panic, shock, or helpless fear, a defense mechanism puts us into a surreal out-of-body mode. I think that opens us up to feel an improbable sense of peace during such times. It's the same sort of thing that gets us through deaths and funerals. We hold ourselves up to take care of business and save the breakdown for later. Because Luke eventually healed and came home, I never had any sort of "breakdown" or even thought I had one in me. For one thing, I didn't deserve to indulge in any emotional release that I may or may not have needed. I was simply truly grateful.

The problem with memories and flashbacks of those out-of-body times is that now you're back in your body and no longer cocooned. You are free to look back with a clear head and realize just how terrifying it all was. You are shocked at the truth of it--that your family came within minutes of a heartbreaking and devastating tragedy. I am often haunted by the words of a thoughtless E/R doctor. As soon as I reached Luke's bedside after a long drive to the Houston hospital, the first thing that doctor said to me was, "Your son has sustained some very serious internal injuries, and there is nothing we can do." I can still feel myself spinning backward upon hearing those words, then screaming, "What do you mean there's nothing you can do?" Then he kindly replied, "Oh, I meant surgically, there's nothing we can do surgically right now." Sometimes the whole thing seems like a movie or an episode of E/R (but without the cute doctors). Now I seem to do quite well keeping a lid on my random mild panic attacks (as long as those helicopters stay away). That close-call, near-miss, dodged-a-bullet feeling stays on the inside where it belongs, otherwise I could come up with a thousand reasons (both good and bad) to cry.

While we were stuck at that hospital, we heard the news about hurricane Katrina. Every once in awhile we would catch something on one of the TVs, but we weren't able to absorb anything about the extent of the devastation. I remember a feeling I can't really name. There we were so focused on and concerned and worried about our one child while such a violent and dreadful act of God continued to threaten and drown and destroy thousands. We were too exhausted and distracted to worry about the outside world. Every ounce of energy we spent in a place that became our world for a boy who meant more than the world to us. Sometimes I wish I could have brought that cocoon home.

Maybe my flashbacks are stronger this year because it seems we have another hurricane headed toward New Orleans. I've never cared for déjà vu.

Some Notes from the Road

We left on Thursday the 14th for our last little summer road trip. Not far out of town, after stopping at our favorite fruit stand for some Fredericksburg peaches, we see a cop's flashing lights in the rearview mirror. My first thought was, Great. Mike's getting another ticket for me to help him with. My second thought was, Glad I'm not driving. My third thought was, He's such a good B.S. artist that he usually talks his way out of these things much better than I ever can. So we pull over and realize that we have been stopped by the Blanco County Sheriff. Mike starts in with his ever-so-apologetic and cordial refrain as he makes sure his military I.D. garners maximum exposure while he fumbles for his license in his George Costanza wallet. I think Mike mumbled something like, "I haven't driven much since I got back from my tour in Iraq..."

Right after the sheriff asked, "Do you know how fast you were going?" he proceeded to query us about my "4 VETS" license plates. I straightened my halo and leaned forward from the passenger seat to tell him that I'm an attorney who helps veterans get their benefits from the VA. He then told us that he has nothing against lawyers and that in fact, people complain about them until they need one. He explained that he needed an attorney to help him keep his job as sheriff. Apparently, because he was the only Jew in town (and probably the entire county) he was subjected to some discrimination.

{By the way, why do I feel uneasy referring to a Jewish person as a Jew? It would be fine to refer to him as Jewish, but somehow, the phrase "a Jew" carries some sort of pejorative connotation. Similarly, for some reason, it is inappropriate to refer to a Mexican as a Mexican. Yet it is perfectly fine to use that word in reference to food. Now I understand why we should not refer to Americans of Mexican descent as Mexicans, but when you see a construction truck barreling down a South Texas highway with a bed full of 20 or so Hispanic-looking gentlemen, I believe I am within my rights to say, "Look at how many Mexicans they could fit in that truck!" Call me a racial profiler, but I'm just saying.}

Now back to my story. This sheriff then proceeds to tell us about his 20-year military history in Korea and Vietnam. He tells us about his buddies at the VFW hall and some of the problems they have had with the VA. At this point, I'm realizing that there is no way Mike's going to get a ticket. Always on the lookout for an opportunity to drum up some business, I reach toward the officer and say, "I guess it would be inappropriate for me to offer you some of these business cards?" "Oh no, not at all. I appreciate it," he said as he handed us his card in return.

We then sat and chatted with this man about his life history and how he came to live in Blanco, Texas after growing up in New Jersey. The kids started getting restless and couldn't figure out how or why we were making friends with a policeman who had stopped us for speeding. This is because the kids don't usually witness Mike's finesse in such situations. They are much more familiar with the sexual harassment and police brutality that I endure every time I get pulled over.

As we got closer to Dallas, we stopped at a convenience store for a restroom break. As Mike pumped gas, I took the kids into the single restroom. Now that he's 11, Luke doesn't think he needs to go into a restroom with his mom and sister. While I can understand and appreciate that, I also know that he is prone to wander off. Not that I'm afraid he would get lost in the woods somewhere or be abducted, I just know that he would lose his place in line for the restroom and/or forget he needs to pee and thereby slow us down or set us up for another stop down the road.

So, there I am in this one-toilet restroom with my kids. Fortunately, the walls don't sport too many obscene vocabulary words they want me to define. Unfortunately, one wall proudly displayed a row of condom machines that I daresay would rival anything found in the powder rooms of the best gay bars across our fine country. The kids didn't ask many questions, probably because they were as mesmerized as I was. They had grown accustomed to seeing tampon machines, so I just hoped they considered these items to be yet another mysterious adult hygiene product. (Which I guess they kind of are.)

There were neon glow-in-the-dark condoms (useful for the more hard-to-find-in-the-dark sizes). There were tropical scented condoms (just throw some sand on the bed, close your eyes, and suddenly you are being boned on an island paradise). There were flavored condoms (I guess for those times when a popsicle, or a banana, or a corn dog just don't do it for you). There were condoms with tips, ticklers, tinglers, tentacles, and teeth. Condoms with ribs and ridges, knobs and nubs, fringe and fur.

But the best by far was a black one covered from head to scro with something that looked like beefy rounded tire treads. These had their own special dispenser and I'm sure they cost extra. NO, I didn't buy any. (I was out of quarters.) They were offered only in sizes marked XL, XXL, and XXXL. These bad boys were called "Rugged 'n' Ready." For some reason, I found that funny. But it got WAY funnier when Katy looked at it and mispronounced rugged as a one-syllable word, rugg'd. "Mom, what does rugg'd mean? 'Rugg'd 'n' Ready?'" I would have peed my pants laughing if I hadn't already been on the toilet.

Flying Solo

Don't get too excited about this post. It's pretty long and boring. Bear with me, or just skip it. I'm cleaning out my folder full of scribbled notes before I move on to a much more important Sunday afternoon project: ripping CDs and organizing my music files. A lot of my thoughts end up in the wastebasket, and for better or worse, never see a reader's glazed eyes. For some reason, I deemed this junk postworthy, so take it or leave it.

While I always carry a pen and notepad with me, I use them much more often when I travel. Most people read, work, or talk on the phone as they wait for their flights. I do those things too, but I also take a lot of notes.

I love my solitude. Maybe it's the writer in me. Maybe it's the mom in me. Maybe it's just me. So I love everything about traveling alone. I love early-morning flights. I watch the sunrise as I drive to the airport. Because I'm not a morning person, I seldom get to enjoy a sunrise. I rarely get to see the highway without much traffic. Aside from girls wearing last night's clothes making that drive of shame, the other drivers may be on their way to the airport as well, or already going to work. The women wear fresh makeup, even mascara still wet after being applied at the last stop light. They smell of perfume or spit-up from the baby they just dropped off at daycare. The men all smell like soap and aftershave and mouthwash. When I worked in an office, I always loved that morning elevator scent. Before everyone started smelling like coffee and lunch and perspiration and anticipation or worry or dread.

I like the quiet echo and the semi-creepy feeling I get in a parking garage. As I approach the airport's entrance, I take a deep breath of bus exhaust. I love the smell of diesel fuel in the morning. I really do. It reminds me of Europe. Especially Paris. I like the life that I see in airports. Everyone trying to get where they need or want to be so they can do what they need or want to do. People go somewhere when they can't be replaced by someone else who is already there.

I don't mind all the procedures involved in getting to the gate. I watch all of us go through the motions. One gray bin after another rolling through. The taking off of belts and shoes. The keys clanking in the scratched white plastic bowls. The latex-gloved TSA agent impressed with how many three-ounce bottles of vodka I was able to squeeze into a one-quart Ziploc bag.

My only real problem when I travel is overpacking and still having nothing to wear. That's why I once found myself sitting in the Newark airport in sweltering heat wearing a hot pink bra under a tight white T-shirt. That's why I once wore heels with shorts because otherwise my colors wouldn’t match. I must say, I looked pretty hot in both outfits, but that's beside the point.

If I had been smarter, I may have become a social anthropologist or an anthropological socialist or whatever those people who study human interaction are called. I don't study it, but I can write about it if I want to. Unless you're in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, or in San Francisco at a gay pride parade, there's no better place than an airport for people-watching.

I absolutely love exchanging banter and laughing with total strangers or overhearing everything from mundane conversation to good-natured bickering to full-up verbal brawls. I smile at them in recognition, because they always know when someone is listening. And I think we all identify with each other. (Except for the occasional weirdo.) I drink in the shared experience-of-life stuff, those moments of time when you connect with fellow human beings you've never met and will never see again. Even if you did see them again, you wouldn't know it because you never even got a chance to register their faces.

The Jamaican-sounding woman at the deli who sold me a sandwich wore a nametag that said "Comfort." One might think that would be a good stripper or hooker name, but to me it sounded like childhood and home. It made me smile.

I was in an airport a few months ago in line at a Chili's takeout counter. I stood behind this little blonde (not that I'm stereotyping, I'm just saying) spinner of a sorority girl as she ordered a Diet Coke. The brunette clerk handed her the cup and apologized that they were out of regular lids and explained that she used a coffee cup lid instead. (It was the kind like Starbucks uses with a little sippy hole.) So the blonde, all confused and irritated, goes, "So, like, how am I supposed to put a straw in there?" I shared an eye-rolling look with the clerk over the girl's shoulder as if to agree, What an idiot. So the clerk got a straw and, with the flair of an infomercial spokesmodel, demonstrated. She looked at the girl with eyes that said, "Watch carefully." She slowly and methodically pulled the paper wrapper off the straw and then rather brutally shoved the end of it into the hole. She then held out her hands like Vanna White after someone buys a vowel and showed her best "Voila!" face. By this time, I realized the women in line behind me had been watching this display and were as pleased with it as I was. After blissfully ignorant Blondie floated away, I told the clerk, "Yeah. I was smarter too before I went blonde."

From my seat at the gate, I just watch and imagine. I don't stare. Unless it's someone really hot, or really heavy on the body décor, or both (which would be rare).

I see:

A brooding teenage girl in her logoed shirt frantically texting her boyfriend, worried he'll cheat on her while she's gone. (He will.) A gay couple discreetly touching hands as they walk side-by-side, wishing people understood them. (But knowing most won't.) A frazzled mom with an overflowing diaper bag, a baby in an umbrella stroller, trailed by two busy, excited children wheeling their Dora the Explorer and SpongeBob suitcases. She wonders why she didn't listen to her parents, why she didn’t get her tubes tied, and when he'll find her. (Too soon.) A businessman with his BlackBerry, looking like he's doing something important, but is really just waiting for a message from his mistress. ("Room 725" is all it says.)

I hear so many different languages and try to identify them. Is that Dutch? Do I hear Greek? Can that be Farsi? What if it is? I try to understand the French I hear and have little luck. They were saying something about history or art or philosophy, I'm sure. The French are big on chatting about cultural crap. I sat with three German guys on a flight one time. I couldn't understand anything they said until I heard "Chewbacca" and "Han Solo" and "Skywalker." I smiled at the one next to me and said, "Finally, I understood what y'all were talking about." The quite masculine (I'm just saying) black (just to give you a realistic picture) male (because if I didn't say "male" you'd assume a masculine female) flight attendant spoke to the German guys and said that he went to Germany one time. He said, "I stayed in that hotel . . . Oh, I can't remember what it's called . . . it was that one that Michael Jackson shook his baby off of. Which hotel was that?" The Germans and I shared a good laugh at the whole Michael Jackson baby-shaking thing.

I could never be a flight attendant. I get too claustrophobic for one thing. But what must really suck for them is all the repeating. I'm sure it's automatic and they don't even have to think about it. "Something to drink? Something to drink? Drink? Excuse the cart, Watch your elbows, Tray tables and seatbacks, Tray tables and seatbacks, Upright and locked position, Upright and locked position, B'bye, B'bye, B'bye." If I weren't already, I would go insane in a job like that. Especially now when people will have to buy their little plastic cup of Coke that is mostly ice, or pay for their little sack of nuts. I might have to make change, and that is just not gonna happen with me. I'd be repeating, "Exact change please, Exact change please."

One time I got a same-day reservation, so I was stuck in a middle seat. I hate middle seats. Especially when the person in the window seat lops over into the space I paid for, and the aisle person won't give up their seat to let the loppage go into the aisle. Not that aisle loppage would be allowed anyway, for safety reasons. I have nothing against overweight people, but when they are so big that a fire department crane had to pull them from the bed they have been living in for the last 12 years just so they can get into a seat on a plane next to me, forgive me for feeling a little imposed upon. This woman somehow, without any lubrication, managed to work herself into that seat, then proceeded to raise the armrest I was using (and had intentionally, in advance, made sure I had first dibs on) to make extra room for her entire left butt cheek. No apology, no "Excuse me for being a fat-ass and taking your armrest without asking." Nothing. If she had been polite, I may have cut her some slack, but I still wouldn't have been happy about it. Hey maybe I don't love everything about traveling.

I find my baggage carousel by recognizing flightmates. Some look different standing up. Most seem relaxed and glad to have arrived. Cell phones on every ear. Strangers helping grab suitcases for those who couldn't reach theirs. So many black bags, most with a different colored identifying tag or ribbon. I see my overstuffed suitcase and feel reunited with my only travel companion. Well, that and my notepad.

I don't particularly like take-offs, but I tolerate them because they mean I'm probably going to have a happy landing somewhere. And see a lot of life in between.

My Four Cents

Let me apologize in advance for the brevity of this post. I know it won't hold you for long, but too much time has passed since my last entry and I started feeling like I was neglecting my legions of loyal readers. Not that I felt guilty about it, mind you. More like sorry for you. So here's a bone:

I have never pretended to be a numbers whiz. Or even a person capable of rudimentary math. As you can see, I'm more of a language arts person. In college, I took basic math. Math for English majors. We learned about sets and about how to write a check. I even tried to master balancing a checkbook. I think that was our final exam. It was an 8:00 class, so I made a D.

I get an upset stomach every time I have to figure out a tip. That's why I always hope someone else will pay. Or, I may say something stupid like, "Let me at least get the tip." (Just the tip.) Then I take an hour and a half writing the numbers on a napkin--doing math in public. I can't do percentages on a calculator. I carry one to help me when I'm shopping and find something that's "half off." I can divide by 2. To figure a tip, I round up, move the decimal to the left, divide that amount in half, and then add that amount to the first one. People say to just double the tax. I guess that would be about right here where tax is about 8-something percent. I can handle tax-doubling (if I round it down of course) as long as I have my trusty calculator. Bad math has caused me to tip as little as $2.50 on a $50 check and as much as $30 on a $15 check. So I guess it evens out.

Aside from bussing tables and supervising the games area at Chuck E. Cheese, I never had a job in food service or retail. The reason? First, I was a spoiled brat. But aside from that, I could never make change. Even with the help of a cash register, I would still need to count the money out. Sure, I can identify all the coins and bills; it was just the quick gathering of them that I could never master. I liked those old registers that would spit the coins down a little chute on the side. I guess that was back in the days of wheat pennies and buffalo nickels. And no, I'm not old enough to remember those days. I'm just imagining. The days when everything was in black and white and when people never noticed the smell of cigarette smoke because it was pretty much the same as the air.

While I love shopping at garage sales and flea markets, I dread the whole exchange of cash thing. The vendor will fork over some coins and ask, "Did I count that right?" "Sure," I say. Not wanting to appear less intelligent than the toothless sucker who just sold me a highly sought-after, authentic, vintage, mint-condition Gucci bag for $4.50. (Look for it on eBay soon.)

As much as I dislike making change, I do love finding coins. I even wrote a super cheesy story about it called Lucky Pennies. It's in A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (Page 293). That was 10 years ago. I like to think my writing has improved since then. Or at least become less cheesy. In college and even law school, I used to casually check pay phones and vending machines for change. Like a homeless person. One time, in high school (this one time...in high school...) I was in line at McDonald's with a friend. We were waiting to ask for medium Cokes in large cups so we could add our Jack Daniel's to it when we got back to the car. These were the days before it became "socially inappropriate" for 16-year-olds to drink and drive, and to do so without even a passing thought about using a seat belt. Goood times… (My amazement at our survival must wait for another post.) So anyway, there we are in the line, probably already buzzed, and I spot a nickel on the floor. Well, I of course bend down to pick it up as my friend draws my attention to the puddle of pee the coin is swimming in thanks to an unattended and incontinent toddler. Can't remember whether I went for it anyway.

One time I took our change jar to one of those Coinstar machines at the grocery store. I dumped the jar and enjoyed watching it do its thing. It spit out a voucher for like $94, which I thought was great until I decided to read the sign on the machine that says it withholds like 9%. I didn't know how much 9% would have added up to as I think I would have had to employ some impossible algebraic equation. I was pretty sure that 10% of $100 was $10. But I'm not sure how that related to my exact circumstances. I don't do as well with numbers other than 10. I just felt ripped off and wondered how much I really had in that dang jar. How much would the bank have given me? I'll know better next time.

Now to the reason for the title. When I go to Sonic (which is one of the most unhealthy fast food places ever, so the kids love it) I always act like a generous big spender and tell the carhop kid to keep the change (unless I use my debit card, in which case they are SOL). I never think about how much the change might be, so I have probably tipped up to 99 cents sometimes. Today I pulled a fairly recent Sonic receipt out of my purse. I paid $9.00 in cash on a total bill of $8.96.