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Sign of the Times

There is not much to look at, driving south out of Dallas. Some cornfields, cows, horses. Shacks where you can buy fireworks. Churches in shingle houses. After a while, you close your eyes and take a nap, if you are not driving. My daughter and I were heading for camp, south of Austin, north of San Antonio. I would drop her off and then return, four hours each way. After a while, she closed her eyes and took a nap.

I focused my gaze straight ahead. Just south of Waco, I caught a glimpse of George Bush on a billboard. He was in a suit, in a running position. He looked as if he was getting ready to do the high jump. Across the top of the sign, there was a question…”Miss Me Yet?” It was an odd question, I thought, for a President of the United States to ask drivers driving on a highway. It was a question an ex-boyfriend would ask the ex-girlfriend who dumped him, just to annoy her. And she wouldn’t answer. She’d roll her eyes and walk away, or hang up the phone. George Bush was smirking on the billboard.

Underneath the question, there was another question. “Have you had enough of all the hope and change?”

What an idiot. I realize it’s not George Bush who actually asked the question, just a paper version of him, but really, it is the same. He would say that. That is why the people who created the billboard put his running body on it. Anyway, I was annoyed with the sign, with the people who put it there, and all over again, with the fact of this man’s presidency. Not to mention, the buffoons who still claim he is smarter than Barack Obama. I still see “Thank you, George and Laura” placards on Dallas lawns. It is enough already.

My daughter woke up after we passed the sign. We stopped for ice cream and kept going, passing more cows. and baby cows, and places to buy tractors. Finally, we arrived at camp and found the cabin and set up her bed. Looked like it would be a fun week. Hugs and kisses, be safe, wear sunscreen, drink water. I got back into the car and headed north, looking for the rear view of President George Bush but alas, seeing nothing. Vroom vroom.


Okay, Not All Men Are Like Antelopes

I admit, saying that all men are like antelopes is a sweeping statement. Not all men are like antelopes, it’s true. Some of them are. Many of them are. Well, whether most of them are is still out for review. We will never really have the hard data. I do know some men who most likely are not like antelopes, now that I’ve been thinking about it for a day or two. They would not deceive a potential mate for sexual gain. No, they would not.

Here they are, in the order in which they came to me:

Mr. Ellsworth, my 9th grade World Civilization teacher. Out of nowhere, he stood up on our desks, to make a point. Took a running start sometimes. He had other things to think about.

Ernest, my former mailman, in Chicago. He was so nice. He was the nicest man in the Midwest, maybe America. He waited when he saw me coming with my dog, so that we could walk with him. Barney didn’t like many people. Barney loved Ernest. We gave him a plaid scarf for Christmas, to match his uniform. It is cold in Chicago.

I am not so sure about my current mailman. 

Matt Lauer. Maybe not Matt Lauer. No. Yes, Matt Lauer. Matt Lauer is not like an antelope.

The podiatrist who scraped the corn off of my toe two years ago. He was more like a lemur.

Okay, that’s it.

Wait, not Matt Lauer.






Men Are Like Antelopes

In Kenya, it seems the male topi antelope is a bit of a trickster. According to a study reported today in The New York Times, the topi pretends that a predator is nearby in order to convince a female topi to stick around. A female in heat, by the way. When he sees her about to take off, he does what he does when a real cougar or lion is around…stands guard, looks out, makes a certain sound. The female doesn’t risk it and stays, long enough for the male to have a romp. It appears to the researchers that since she mates with many males, this has happened before. They think that perhaps, she’s weighing the odds.

Women weigh the odds sometimes, maybe not when death is perched on one side of the scale. Convenience, perhaps, money, kids, status, fear. But they weigh them. And I know a few men who know this. Graduates of the Topi School of Relationship Building. In a real crisis, though, I’d rather have the four-legged deceiver in place to protect me. That is, if I needed help.

The Finish Line

Imagine that you are 87 years old, a grandfather, war veteran. Healthy, happy, living a life with purpose. You are a regular blood donor, so regular, in fact, that you are celebrated for your generous and kind spirit. The organization that has been collecting your donations, for years, decides to give you a present. For your efforts, it will treat you to a ride in a sportscar around a race track. You will not be traveling at a grandfatherly pace. No, you will be going fast. Really fast.

Odd, I think, for an organization that stores blood to be used in such things as auto accidents, many of which occur when drivers are speeding, to praise the life of a blood donor with a whirl in a speeding car. This is insanity, really. And nowhere in the conception, planning and execution of the insanity did anybody realize it. People do not think enough, except about silly things. 

Of course, as stories go, this one went the way you’d write it. Full of irony and pathos. The strangeness of truth. The car crashed on the track and the man was killed. 

Are You Happy?

In yesterday’s New York Times, David Brooks writes the following and says it is true. 

“Marital happiness is far more important than anything else in determining personal well-being. If you have a successful marriage, it doesn’t matter how many professional setbacks you endure, you will be reasonably happy. If you have an unsuccessful marriage, it doesn’t matter how many career triumphs you record, you will remain significantly unfulfilled.”

Of course, this is an insane statement, when presented as it is as a rule. Mr. Brooks tries to back it up with silly data that proves nothing. When you talk about “personal well-being,” you are talking about lots of different “persons.” For some persons, career success is everything. They are happy with career success even if they like spinach more than their spouses. It is true. For some others, it is not true. Some people don’t care how they do at work; they just like to get paid. And some of these people, I’d venture to say, don’t put all their happiness eggs into the matrimonial basket. I bet there are persons, too, who fall into Brooks’ description, high-achieving workerpersons who are miserable because they don’t eat dinner with their mates.

Then, of course, there are people who don’t have “unsuccessful” marriages. They don’t have any marriages, like me and nine trillion other people. Is this better or worse? Will we be more or less “significantly unfulfilled?” Where do we fall out on the scale? What if we had an unsuccessful marriage and now don’t have an unsuccessful marriage? Were we incapable of deriving happiness from our careers then? Can we be blissful with work now that we have successful no-marriages? Is there a statute of limitations on the unsuccessfulness? 

Mr. Brooks has a funny smile. He doesn’t look very happy, though his bio says he is happily married and he has a career history that appears successful. Could it be that he doesn’t know how to smile? Or can’t curve up his lips on the end? What is making him not look happy? A poorly crafted op-ed piece, maybe? No, work can’t make you unhappy, if it can’t make you happy.

I don’t like people telling me what will make me happy or not happy. Next, they will tell me what bothers me. Silly op-ed pieces bother me.


Wait Just a Minute

The kitchen clock stopped working. This is not astounding, I realize, but there is meaning in its demise, a message. No, not about time hanging mid-tick, or passing, underutilized, nothing prosaic like that, let alone guilt-provoking. Nothing about my buying it twenty-three years ago for my first Manhattan apartment, so modern, slick, or toting it to five different cities and ten different kitchens, without kids and with, with mates and without. None of that. Today, the clock, though stuck, still serves.

Before I knew this, though, I took it down from the wall, feeling the way you do when something gives out. I attempted to resuscitate it, trying assorted batteries, tapping its sides, flipping it like a dime, sun from the window catching its silver face. But the hands remained still. That is it, I thought. I put my clock on the counter. Done. We did not need a functional object not to function, not to tell my daughters and me what the time is, really, the time that other people know and rely upon, then, that minute. We would replace it with something new and effective.

But then, I looked at the wall, yellow, naked, except for the nail. It would have been easy to wiggle it out, just a firm grip at its base. I grabbed it with my thumb and forefinger, then let go, sitting down at the table underneath. I cook every night, a complete meal from scratch, no matter how busy, how much homework, how late practice runs. And we sit at the table and have dinner, give the report, tell the joke, relay the story. Was there an allele question on the test? Mommy, any news about the book? You wouldn’t believe what Mr. Matthews did today.

It is hard not to check the hour, with so much left to finish before the day ends. I wish the time at the table could be longer. It is an important time. It struck me, at the table in front of the wall, that we could put the ticking on hold, laugh at it, dare it not to press on. I picked up my twenty-three year old clock, bold and shiny, and threaded the nail right back into its hook. Eight-seventeen, the hands read, at two p.m. Audacious, it was. Wild.

With fresh purpose, and a certain spunk, it now protests the minutes that are too quick, the seconds that are too full, stealing for us a wonderful and reliable pause.

                       

A Gold-Medal Apology

Last night, the local NBC affiliate ran an apology on it’s late night newscast. Viewers had written to the station complaining about the lack of coverage of two-time gold medalist Shani Davis. They were offended that two female skiiers, who had not won consecutive gold medals, got top billing and lots of air time, in comparison.

The emails were shown on-screen. The anchor said they were valid, and agreed that the station failed to cover Davis the way it should have. Then, he took personal responsibility for the failure, and promised to never let that sort of reporting happen again. 

Who knows what the reasons were for the imbalanced coverage, or for the very big apology. It often seems that certain subjects or people get more or less attention in the media than they deserve, but you rarely hear anyone say he is sorry for it. I would like someone to say he is sorry for parading Tiger Woods across my bedroom screen. That feels unsavory at this point. And he is not news. Shani is news. Good for you, Mr. Anchorman. 






If The Sweatshirt Fits

When my kids aren’t looking, I wear their clothing. Well, sometimes they aren’t looking. I think it is supposed to be the other way around. When you are 12 and 14, and girls, you go into your mom’s closet and borrow the things that make sense to borrow. Small things with appropriate necklines. I borrow small things with appropriate necklines, I’m afraid, yes I do. It is not for any reason other than that they have some garments that I don’t have, and why buy them for me, when I have already bought them for them.

It should be noted that I do not borrow fashion items, anything recognizably current amongst the adolescent set. I do not wear the clothing that you would see in the middle school hallway. Fortunately, for my daughters. I could, and would, except for them. I just borrow athletic gear. Not one to really buy my own athletic gear on a regular schedule, though I am athletic on a regular schedule, I was utterly thrilled when it occurred to me that I could vary my sweatshirts and Ts. I have a tiny collection. I can’t buy sweats, I don’t know why. Or short-sleeved shirts. It seems silly. I only buy  real clothes.

So, when I have rotated my two Ts and two sweatshirts, I hit the racks.

“Mommy, is that my shirt?” they say, getting into the car after school.

“Yes, I love it. Can I borrow it?”

“Yes, you can,” they say, slowly, reminding me that it is already on my body. 

I am careful to select from only the items that my kids do not really care about. I do not pick anything new, or newish. I limit my choice to clothes mashed in the back of their closets. Yesterday, I discovered a fleece pullover with a one-third zipper. Powder blue, in a dusty sort of way. Subtle. Fab. Just fab. My older daughter had outgrown it and given it to her sister. I hadn’t seen it on either of them in months. I wore it all day, really enjoying the thinness of the fabric, which they use now, the designers. They make thin material that keeps you as warm as thick material. This was a technological marvel, this powder blue shirt. I felt very scientific in it. I felt like a lab animal. When I went outside in it, I noticed the other lab animals, in green and blue, with zippers, without. Who is warmer, I wondered. Does the zipper create a draft?

Today, I did not borrow anything. I put on my own fleece shirt. It is not thin, and it has buttons. It is also not blue. It does not keep me as warm as the blue one. There is nothing technological about it. It is a Dark Ages sweatshirt. If I remember, there was an orange one that was purchased with the blue one. I look forward to trying it on tomorrow.

 






Supreme Gall

Before Mr. Alito shook his head in protest during President Obama’s speech last night, I was thinking something about those judges. The big judges. The special judges. The are like statues, I thought. They do not clap, emote, move, breathe. How do they do that, I wondered. Do they train for it? Do they play statue with each other on the lawn in front of the court, their robes billowing in the Washington wind? Whoosh, whoosh.

But then, coincidentally, the guy on the end manipulated his face into that grimace and bobbed his head. So unexpected it was, and obnoxious, too, that he could have been standing on his skull bellowing. That is how large his movement seemed, how wrong. Clearly, he couldn’t restrain himself, couldn’t put aside his own feelings just then, couldn’t listen to the statement objectively. Hmm, funny. Judge…restraint. Judge…objectivity.

And, all this after overturning the critical law that he helped overturn this past week. Such presumption.