Angry Mobs v. Governor Walker in Wisconsin (or how to run away from a fair fight)

Those that know me really well know I generally don't climb mountains but I would climb a mountain if it meant I could avoid a political debate.  I would circumvent the globe if it meant I wouldn't have to stand toe to toe with an over zealous protester who believes in their cause just enough to bring harm to others or worse yet, an ex-husband who morphed from an agnostic to a right winged conservative political pundit/candidate right before my eyes.  The very same conservative Republican candidate then committed a federal fraud landing him in jail for a term of 30 months. I fucking hate politics, the game, the facade, the labels placed upon us all.

I grew up in Oklahoma and as such, I was given the legacy bestowed upon me by me "Democrat" father.  I place the word Democrat in parenthesis as his version of Democrat does not jive with the culture of today.  I clearly recall my father being a hard working American man who would drive me through the northeast sections of Oklahoma City, pointing out the people who chose to sit on their porches instead of working.  He called them many names. He routinely used the "N" word and referred to them as porch monkeys. 

He told me his tax dollars were allowing them to live on their porches. I didn't understand his words at the time but I could taste his hate.  I rebelled against it, arguing with him in my uneducated 11 year old brain.  I insisted he could not understand their plight for he had not walked in their shoes.  He told me they didn't need shoes on the front porch. (Insert internal soul-killing death scream here.)

Living in Wisconsin for the past ten years, working in a politically conservative environment, I have hidden my Democratic roots.  I have been told many times, my actual philosophies align more with the Republicans and I know that is true when it comes to taxes, for God's sake, that was a real eye-opener moving up here.  But, I have held onto my beliefs because I cannot stand the soap box diatribes from those that would like to condemn homosexuals, women who have had abortions and people who need a helping hand from time to time.  I do not like to judge.  I do not care for people who judge and I believe in extending an open arm to those who find themselves in need of a little help from their friends.

But today, I am ashamed to call myself a Democrat.  I work hard for my money.  My company has been forced to cut raises, bonuses, incentives, holiday parties, monthly luncheons, technology upgrades and staff.  I have watched my co-workers walk to their cars with boxes in hand.  I have endured annual increases on health insurance, with this year being the worst - nearly 40%.  I am on my own, raising my children with no help, no support and my salary has regressed as raises diminish and health insurance costs rise. 

Today I witnessed no less than 15 schools in the state of Wisconsin shut down because the teachers took a day off to protest at the state Capitol in Madison.  Today I saw thousands of people demanding, expecting; nay,  feeling entitled to a set of rights I have never been given, never offered, never even considered as a possibility.  Today I am proud of our newly elected Governor because I believe sometimes you have to break necks to cash checks. 

I am not ready to call myself a R....R...Re....Rep...Republican. I don't like labels.  Never have, never will.  But I want to say to that group of cowardly politicians that fled the state to avoid the new sheriff in town, you have shown your true colors and they are yellow.  You were elected to stand up for us, not to run.  I'm not sure if I've made this absolutely clear but I hate politics and hate is the strongest word in my arsenal.  Imagine myself and my fellow senior managers catching wind of an uprising among the workers in our company.  Let's say the accountants are feeling under appreciated during their busiest time of the year and they are screaming at us for the high cost of health insurance.  They took pay cuts for two years straight and yet, they work harder than ever. But that is not going to happen because you know what?  They have a job.  They are employed and in this economy, they have accepted the sacrifices because the alternative is much worse.

Why then?  Why do all these people march on the capitol of my state and insist they should be treated better than I, better than my co-workers, better than most of the hard working American citizens, including my late, misguided, uninformed father?  Why?

I am at a crucible. My brain is telling me to write something my heart does not want to believe. Was my father right?  Was my registered Democrat, Reagan hating father spot on in one respect? Should people be entitled to that which another is not?  His characterizations were based on racist principles; those that my heart shall never embrace.

But today, it was not about race.  It was not about poverty or privilege.  It was about a man whom I formerly placed in the category of a cad.  Not my father, but the former Milwaukee County Executive, now Governor of Wisconsin, Scott Walker.  I categorized him based upon my ex-husband's affiliation with him.  "He is one of them". Just another politician, well spoken, family man - probably stealing money on the side or sleeping with staffers.  I have met him, sat across a luncheon table with him, liked him and appreciated what he was doing for Milwaukee County but jaded I was.  Jaded, for sure.

Jaded no more.  For you, Mr. Governor sir, I respect.  And God only knows how utterly difficult that is for me to admit.

My Swan Song Sounds More Like Gurgling

The phrase "swan song" is a reference to an ancient belief that the swan is completely mute during its lifetime until the moment just before it dies, when it sings one beautiful song. It's not true of course, but it makes for a good expression. Today, I was supposed to be that fabled mythical creature; yet instead of a swan song, I looked and acted more like a swan diving beak first into a pool with no water. The swan would not sing a beautiful song because she was flapping her wings at the bottom of that pool with a badly damaged ego and a wretched bloody beak.

I have served in a leadership position on a particular board of directors for the past ten years. This was all volunteer work, done with my company's blessing but certainly not required. Today was my last board meeting followed my a luncheon to install the new board. It is tradition to recognize those going off the board, to say nice things about all their efforts, even when they've held their seats for years without doing much of anything important.

During my ten years on this board, I challenged the status quo, asked the board to break apart the current structure, created new committees, restructured initiatives, pulled from reserves to build and invest back into the organization, and personally recruited most of the leaders who went on to follow me, each year making us better, each year building on what I started.  I served for five years as an officer, including two terms as president.  This had not happened since 1973. It was important for me to have two years.  I needed to spend more time overseeing the implementation of the new committees and strategic plans.  I wanted to make sure the roots were firmly planted before I walked away.  It was my baby. My passion for this organization was further demonstrated by my choice to remain on the board for the next five years, until today, when I arrived ready for my swan song, ready for tears and accolades to flow.

I invited my closest friend to be my significant other.  Someone who could revel with me.  I even asked my son to attend but his work schedule prevented it.  Thank the Lord for those small blessings, I would have been mortified to have him witness my gloriously embarrassing swan dive.  As the entire 2010 board was called up to be recognized, I was expecting my moment.  They had to say something about me before they installed the 2011 board.  If they didn't, it would be too late.  So I stood there with my head in the clouds, waiting to act surprised and humbled by the good words that were surely coming my way.

I had been too busy rehearsing my speech to realize they had already transitioned to the 2011 board installation.  People in the crowd had to motion for me to sit my ass down. And just like that, it was over.

Now everybody knows I've never once been mute.  Perhaps that's why I was not given my swan song moment. I had tendencies to hog the microphone and passionately disperse my particular brand of what one of my friends referred to as "diarrhea of the mouth" at more than one event. Everybody knew it, I knew it but I was all about generating excitement.  And being a writer, excitement presents itself in me through words. Every leader that has followed me seems to be making a conscientious effort to limit their speeches, as if they are making up for all the time I babbled on and on.

I don't think it was intentional, I know and love these people and believe they would never purposefully slight me or hurt my feelings.  There is a lot to do when you're planning these big events and some things just get missed.  During my years as president, my passionate writing and love of the cause drew national attention to our little Milwaukee chapter.  We were named best of the best for those two years, competing with mammoth chapters like Chicago, Dallas and Houston.  The annual reports were written by my hand but encapsulated the excitement I felt from a passionate hard working board who had created something truly wonderful. I wasn't doing that for the recognition. I did it because I needed them as much as they needed me. I was going through my divorce. It replaced my marriage, giving me something to love, something to quell the post divorce trauma while I healed. All my talent, time, energy and passion went into this chapter because a new chapter was being written in my life. And yes, it is true what they say, in the end you get more than you give.

I received bountiful blessings in terms of personal development, confidence building, leadership training and making life long friends around the world.  I was meant to be there at that time with too much time on my hands and an ability to write and inspire those around me.  It was one of my many personal beginnings as well as the beginning of what has become a Milwaukee legacy.  We remain the brightest, shiniest star in the entire international organization.  It is my legacy, along with all those that served with me.

As soon as my bruises heal and my beak stops bleeding, I will remember that and I will sing my own personal swan song to myself.  Not just before I die, but just before I begin, yet again.

And Justice Was Served

We arrived in court Monday morning, expecting it to be a short hearing in front of the judge to report on the status of our mediation. It was scheduled just prior to lunch; thus, my attorney shot down my expectation of a ruling. She said we should expect around 15 minutes.

For over an hour, the Honorable Judge Linda Van de Water sat and listened while simultaneously pouring over the fifty plus pages of copiously detailed documentation. She questioned Mr. Sunshine as to each specific area of expense and why he thought he didn't need to pay for it.  She listened to his excuses, his outright lies and his impenetrable fortress known as Troyland, the world in which he lives.

This particular judge has recently transferred to family court after a career spent in the criminal court system. She has a very low tolerance for people who do not accept responsibilities for their actions, people who refuse to see how their decisions affect others and people who are, well let's just say it like it is, criminals.

She finally broke when she noticed on his notes, he had written that he refused to pay for our son's broken retainer because it was not specifically broken at his home, but rather at school.  She interrupted his per se arguments to let him know exactly what she thought of  him. She told him she had heard enough of his excuses as it was abundantly clear he had an excuse for everything. The only excuse she bought was that he is a sorry excuse for a man who had "obviously caused nothing but heartache for me and for his children over the past five years" and she ruled in a way that said to the world, "your actions, your choices, do not diminish the responsibilities you have for your children".  Here sir, may I present to you your ass, on a silver platter.

She not only awarded me every cent of his share of past medical bills, counseling bills, hospital bills, orthodontic treatment and school fees but she went on to require him to pay 100% of the legal fees I had to incur in pursuing him. As if that wasn't enough, she asked my attorney how much she would be billing me for her services that very morning so she could add that in. She noted that he had never paid me the $5,000 he owed me from the sale of our home. I'm certain she took into account the fact that he had stolen $1.3 million dollars and still didn't pay me when he was out buying Cadillacs and taking three week cruises with his fiance around the Mediterranean.

Yes, Judge Van de Water did not like Mr. Sunshine. He now owes me approximately $16,000, which must be paid in thirty days or he goes to jail.  But wait, he will already be in jail.  Hmmmm.  How does THAT work? If he doesn't pay it by the time he gets out of jail, he goes right back in, except this time it won't be a federal prison "camp". It will be Waukesha County jail.  I hope he hones his prison skills before he faces county lock-up.

He further embarrassed himself in court by mentioning the handwritten counter-suit he had filed that very morning, asking me to appear in court to have our arrangement amended for me to be responsible for 100% of the kids expenses while he is up the river for the next 30 months. The judge would not hear his argument as this filing was not before her court; however, I'm certain she used that as one more weapon in her arsenal when she rendered her judgment.

I have a friend who graduated from MIT with a masters in mathematics. He is a veritable math savant, making him a high income earner. Yet, when he went through a divorce here in the state of Wisconsin, he had temporarily lost his job (through no fault of his own). He proposed to the court his intent on becoming a high school math teacher. He had always dreamed of using his talents to teach others. He spent hours volunteering at his son's school to facilitate this passion. He envisioned a life where he could teach during the school year and spend all summer with his two boys, being with them full time during their days with him. Noble right?

The court ruled that he was not allowed to pursue this most benevolent of ventures because he had proven his earning potential in the corporate world and his ex wife was accustomed to that level of living.  Therefore, he would be required to jump back on the corporate treadmill, denying countless high school children his gift, denying his children the precious time he could have given them, and denying himself of the dream he had carried throughout his lifetime. He ended up being a guest on the Dr. Phil show in an episode about men losing their rights in a divorce.

Contrast that to a man who lost his job during our divorce but chose not to look for another job, starting what was the second or third of many failed business ventures. He needed to do that in order to allow him the freedom to run for the state Assembly position he was pursuing. He lost that race of course, and stayed true to his pattern of ending up broke and without resources yet again.  That's when he went to work for the employer he would eventually steal from and well, the rest of the story you know.

The court system denied a man wanting to downgrade his earning potential for the benefit of thousands. What do you think they (the former criminal court judge) thought of Mr. Sunshine and his excuse that he would no longer be able to earn at the rate commensurate with his history due to the fact that he chose to commit a felony crime? She ruled that he would be responsible to pay child support to me based on his full earning potential for each and every month he is away, I am to receive $1,500.

What? You mean I won't have to deny the kids their orthodontic treatment or rip them out of their schools because I can't afford to hire someone to pick them up everyday?  You mean I will be able to pay for full time child care during the summers and perhaps even take them on a family vacation? You mean I won't have to explain away Christmas presents and birthday parties and dinners out and new video games because I won't be struggling to pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads for the next two and a half years?

What a relief that is. What a blessing that is. Yes, it appears justice was served.

Those of you who have read the annuls of Mr. Sunshine know he will find a way to avoid paying me this money.  He acknowledges most of what he owes, yet he came to mediation with a settlement offer of $300 for half of our son's orthodontic down payment and another $300 to pay for his school lunches for the remainder of the year. It was a gesture of yes, I know I didn't pay you for half of our daughter's hospital bills but oh well, guess I just don't have the money, sorry. It's $600, take it or leave it.

Bite me.  Try $16,000 on for size.

His is in the process of selling his cars and his furniture, he will receive a security deposit back on his rental, he will continue to have meetings to keep his business generating revenue, he will drain his mother for legal fees and cell phones and probably even channel money to his church but will he, they (he and his mother who travels the world on extravagant summer vacations) give one thought to providing for his children? Well, you be the judge.

I'm done Mr. Sunshine. Your new home away from home, Waukesha County jail, awaits.






(To see all posts related to Mr. Sunshine, click on the "Mr. Sunshine with a Chance of Pain", link below.)

If You Lie to Them, I Will Cut Your Balls Off and Feed them to the Bunnies in my Yard….Then, I Will Tell Them the Truth

The Commando was telling me an interesting story the other night. He is worried about his dad. He doesn’t understand why his dad won't give up on this whole cell phone recycling venture and get a real job with a paycheck.

He knows his mom has a career where they actually pay her money to do work. He wants that for his dad. He can see him struggling financially and he wants him to be secure.

When the little guy brings these concerns to his dad, he is told daddy likes what he does. He feels it is important and he has invested too much time and money in it to give it up now.  He is told daddy plans to save the world one cell phone at a time, even if it means he might one day get into trouble for it.

My 11 year old, freckle-faced child proceeded to tell me it is possible for his dad to receive stolen phones and not know they are stolen. Sometimes, when you’re a "middle man", he says, you can get into trouble when you actually did nothing wrong. “Mom, I don’t understand why dad won’t give this up if there’s a chance he could go to jail.”

The bastard is making up a bed of lies and asking all of my kids to nestle up all safe and cozy underneath the covers of darkness and deceit.

I  have spoken to the US Attorney who is prosecuting Mr. Sunshine's Case. Next week, he will be entering a guilty plea. A sentencing hearing will then be set for later this summer.The US Attorney tells me to prepare the children for their dad to go to jail.

Their dad tells me the company he stole from actually made money from the phones he took as they have been activated by thousands of people, creating new revenue for them. They should be thanking him.  They should give him a commission and a pat on the back for a job well done.  They should not send him to jail. See case study – Narcissist 101.

Meanwhile, as the days pass by in a twisted, anxious blur, I attempt to think the unthinkable. How do I keep these kids whole and healthy when their super strict, church going, Jesus loving, ultra conservative, saint of a father goes to jail?

And now, I have to figure out how to tell them the truth when/if he leads them to believe daddy was an innocent pawn in a twisted scheme to defraud. I will tell them the truth. I will get them help. I will not have them find out from somebody else and have their world collapse unexpectedly.

But first, I will give him a chance to man up, tell them the truth and keep his balls because I hear he’s going to need them where he’s going.

Immaculate Heart of Darkness

Dear Readers, I have confessed to you my deepest, soulful hurts and hopes; yet, I am not done. There is more, so much more but you must know, it is daunting. I have consistently tried to spare no detail, no matter how shocking, no matter how personal, no matter the cost. It has been and remains a form of therapy for me.  I slice myself open, lay bleeding, let it all run out then I turn it over to you – to the universe – to take it from me, to find something useful from it or to know that maybe, just maybe you feel a little better knowing there is someone out there who keeps showing up. As of this day, May 10th, I am here.

Mother’s Day was and always is hard on me. My real family, a/k/a/ my girlfriends, sent me messages throughout the day. My kids made me breakfast in bed. My boyfriend even loaned me one of his kids so I could snuggle up with her as I went to sleep on Saturday, knowing my own offspring would not be arriving until the next morning.

I focused on the many blessings I have but it wasn’t enough to sustain the place of darkness that resides within my otherwise peaceful heart. My next series of posts are going to be a bit idiosyncratic. Peculiar for me. I hope you will allow me to indulge and wallow in it. I hope you will follow me to the dirtiest of places as I enter a new phase of grief. Actually, it’s not new; pretty sure I just conveniently skipped over it.
Anger.

I desperately want to express it to you in my usual verbose, four-chapter- novella style with a touch of humor to soften the jagged edges but I’m too twisted, too tormented to go there. Instead, I’m going to free flow. It’s not intended to be poetry.

It’s me, unfiltered, unedited and undone.

Zen Mama will be taking a break for a while.   In her place, you will be meeting Mad Mama. See photo to the right. 

Come with me as I swing wildly through the vines, screaming like the spider monkey I am.

The Conclusion of the Rear-Ender Offender

When I told #1Son about the incident, he said holy cow mom, your description of that old geezer reminds me of Frodo's uncle who turns all crazy and mean after being asked to give up the ring. He couldn't have been more spot on because suddenly, I was staring deep into the watery eyes of a man possessed.  Bilbo Baggins for sure.

Good thing I'm used to dealing with douche bags.  Even old ones.

I cannot say the same thing for him. As I began to size him up, studying him from head to toe, observing his clothing and mannerisms, taking copious notes of my opponent, I realized he was a man who was quite accustomed to pushing people around. He was not dressed in the customary 80 year old man, pants up to his nipples ensemble. He was a power monger.

Driving around in his newer model red Caddy, wearing his perfectly creased Brooks Brothers blue and white striped dress shirt with white cuffs held together by what can only be described as old man bling. I kid you not, his cuff links were emerald shaped aquamarine or possibly blue topaz boulders. I'm surprised his frail little arms could hold those things up.

I'm fairly certain he must have been relieved when he saw he had smacked into a woman. I'll just stand here in front of her bumper, tell her everything is okay and she'll believe me. Oh look, she's got curly red hair and she's wearing a lacy, delicate feminine sweater.  Even better, he thinks. She's not a feminist, she looks like someone who has been taught to respect their elders and act like a lady.  She looks like a woman who knows her place. Piece of cake, he thought, I'll be back on the road driving recklessly in no time.

As we now stood in front of the officer, telling two very different sides of the story, he kept looking at me as if he didn't understand why I would be upset. This was the most puzzling aspect. It was either pure evil in its truest form or some form of dementia was at work. In my moment of very un-zen like rage, I chose to believe he was a pompous ass who had picked on people his entire life.

The policeman informed us without an independent witness, he could not take one side or the other. He would write both sides into his report and let everyone go without a fine or citation.  Essentially, he said your insurance companies will fight it out - it's the law here in the cheese state. Oh, and get this, they don't ask you for proof of insurance. We are one of only two states that allow uninsured motorists to roam the streets at their leisure.  Positively, unbelievably, fucking delightful.

When the PoPo went to his car to write up the paperwork, I decided to venture on over to Bilbo-bling-daddy and let him know exactly what I thought of his behavior. Drawing from my very best dignified, steady and precise Julia Sugarbaker impersonation, I strolled up to him in a friendly manner and said, "Sir, may I ask you a question?"

Of course, I didn't care or even wait for a reply.

I am wondering how you sleep at night? When you close your eyes, do you have trouble falling asleep or do you sleep like an innocent baby, free from any thought of guilt or remorse? Tell me, do you do this often? How many other people have you hit lately. Have you hurt any small children with your 3,000 pound weapon of mass destruction? Do you have many children and grandchildren?

My children and grandchildren are of no concern to you, he protested as he folded his arms in front of him with righteous indignation. 

I was just asking because I am wondering how you look them in the eyes knowing their beloved role model is nothing but a lying old sack of bones, willing to hurt other people to protect his own worthless ass. My mom and dad raised me to be honest by example. Can you say the same for your own kids. Did they turn out okay or are they as fucked up as you are?

I will not allow you to speak to me that way. Who do you think you are talking to me like that?

I'll tell you who I am.  I am your worst nightmare.  You will wake up at night and think about me and when you do, I want you to remember, I'm a single mom who works a full time job to do the best I can raising four children.  It's not easy but I get up and I do it every single day. I'm the woman who just purchased this car three weeks ago because my other car was not safe to drive in the snow. I'm the woman who will not rest until I have your license revoked in the state of Wisconsin. That's who I am. Now, if you don't want to have this on your conscience, you get over there and you tell that policeman the TRUTH!

The cop can hear me now as he is walking toward us with our driver's licenses in hand. He turned to me first and calmly explained he already knew the truth. He said he knew I hadn't backed into him, like duh, that's pretty obvious. Then he looked at the old guy and said, "Sir, do you realize you're driving with a suspended license?"


Post Script: He's a slickster alright. A record check revealed a long list of violations and when I say long, I mean 25. Some were for traffic issues, speeding, failing to stop at a stop sign, passing on a hill or curve, while others were for evictions, tax warrants, small claims and large law suits. Apparently, he used to live on Lake Drive, which translated for non-Milwaukee readers means he was living in luxury in the wealthiest area of the city with a view of Lake Michigan out his window. He now lives in a condo in  Waukesha and drives a red Cadillac with a damaged front bumper and hood. He was able to pay $50.00 to reinstate his license so he is still at large. He was insured however, so my agent is going to fight to get me covered under his policy. I haven't figured out how just yet but I do plan to take action to get him off the roads for good. In speaking with a police officer friend, I was told the police have to catch him in the act of a violation then require him to go in for a driver's test and reevaluation. Hmmm.  Wonder how I could arrange that, any ideas??

The Case of the Rear-Ender Offender

There I was, dangling in the middle of one of those busy highway intersections where you have to cross three lanes of traffic, then wait in the median for traffic to clear from the other direction, enjoying a picture perfect, practically unprecedented April 1st here in typically cold-until-freakin'-July, Milwaukee. I had just purchased my fast food lunch at Sonic; opting to grab and go instead of eating in my designated stall with the other throngs of people who were there enjoying the weather. The traffic was thick. I hunkered there in my beautiful new car purchased three weeks ago, with plenty of time to pop a tater tot or two when WHAM!

It took me a few minutes to figure out what had happened. Wait, where am I? I thought, as I tried not to choke on a tater tot. Then he appeared at my window. He was old, 83 to be exact. He looked sad, slightly confused and visibly disoriented. With his watery eyes and mumbling voice, he apologized profusely, holding his hand to his heart.

I'm so sorry, he said.  It was totally my fault, I didn't see you at all, I was looking the other way and didn't see you, I'm so sorry. You didn't do anything, you were just sitting there and I honestly did not see you at all. I'm very, very sorry. Looks like there's no damage but I'm so sorry, he said with his hand still resting over his heart.

Well, anyone who knows me knows I have always been a sucker for the old timers. My mom and dad used to tell me one day I would grow up to work in geriatrics because of my constant concern for their well being. I clearly recall them telling me I wouldn't mind cleaning up their soiled sheets.

Thanks for having such high aspirations for me.

I guess I couldn't blame them for their conclusions. It wasn't uncommon for me to see an elderly woman in the grocery store and run to offer my assistance to reach the upper shelves or stop to steady an old man making his way across a parking lot. When my grandmother was placed in a nursing home, I would sit and visit with all the residents (except for that dirty old guy that would chase me down the hall in his wheelchair mumbling something about big boobies) because they craved me (and not in the way the dirty old man craved me), they needed someone to talk with and my heart was soft and open for them.

As I watched this shaky old man on Friday, I immediately felt so bad, I got out of the car saying things like, sweetie, don't you worry about it......are you okay.....are you hurt.....is there someone I can call for you honey?

No, I'm fine and it looks like there's no damage to your car so you don't have to worry about anything.

Okay sweetie, I said.  But listen, I just got this car so I'd like to take a closer look and see for myself, if you don't mind.

Oh, I already looked it over, he said while standing directly in front of my right rear bumper. There's no damage at all.

At this point, I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and moved him out of the way while bending down to take a closer look at my busted bumper with a deep gash, a few dents and some paint scratches.  Well I'll be, this affable old man couldn't have lied to me.  He just can't see very well, I mean after all, he didn't see a large Mazda CX9, one of the largest vehicles of its type with three rows that seat 7 people. If he can't see that, then he most likely couldn't see the damages.

Listen sir, I would feel more comfortable if we call the police so I can have a report for my insurance company.

There's no need to call the police, they won't even come to investigate something this minor. I will give you all of my information, my drivers license, my insurance carrier, I will take care of everything for you. The police cannot respond to every little fender bender. Let's pull out of this busy intersection and I will give you everything you need.

This made a lot of sense as we were in the middle of a six lane highway, with cars turning in all directions around us. It didn't feel safe. All we needed was to have more cars piling up. I agreed to move to the bank parking lot across the street but I told him I would need to take his drivers license with me.

What, you say? Why was I suddenly leery of this beloved citizen of the senior persuasion? Let's just say, once again at the age of 46, I have learned to listen to my instincts. Thank the heavenly stars above. My 20 year old self would have hugged him and told him to be more careful while sending him on his merry way.

He pulled into the bank parking lot and proceeded to park his bright red Cadillac sedan perpendicularly across the only two drive-through lanes the bank had, cutting off full access. By the time I turned my car around to get to the bank, he had a bank employee at his window, asking him to move. He sat there for a good little while, with his quivering hands and sodden eyes obviously telling her of his accident. I could see her heart bleeding from two rows away.

I called the police.

After he found a real parking place, he came up to my window to give me his information. When I told him I had called the police, I witnessed the emergence of a new character.  Suddenly my helpless, decrepit old man turned into a belligerent, raving crackpot who was either in a terrible hurry as he had been insisting or he had something to hide.

I dropped the tender affection immediately and with my best raised, calm, clear and slow, mom means business voice, I said,

"step....away.....from.....my.....car......NOW".

He took a step back, looking shocked, appalled and unsteady again. Why would you talk to me that way, he said, as his wide eyes began to look all gray, red and moist again.

I rolled up the window and called my insurance agent. The very same woman I had spoken to such a short time ago to tell her I got a new car. She was commiserating with me when he came back to the window and told me he refused to wait any longer. My agent told me to get out of the car and get his license plate number as he could be charged for leaving the scene. She could hear everything he was saying. She told me to be careful. Even over the phone, two cities away, he didn't sound right to her.

I grabbed my ever present small notebook where I jot down blog ideas or inspirational thoughts and began to take down his license plate number. I asked him to give me his name, address, phone number, and insurance information. He refused at first but when we saw the police officer turning into the lot, he began to cooperate. I got everything down except the policy number when the officer came up to us to begin his questioning.

Gramps proceeded to get uncomfortably close to the officer, positioning himself between us, with his head turned, speaking directly into his ear with that sad, old, shaky, helpless voice said, "I was just sitting there officer, and she backed right into me".

(To be continued......)

The Warrior Princess Takes a Pee - Part Two

The surgery was finished. We arrived in her hospital room around 2am on Tuesday. For the rest of the day, she was made comfortable with various forms of narcotics. The surgeon had said her belly was a mess. He had operated laparoscopically, using three small instruments through tiny incisions. He admitted he did the best he could but was not able to guarantee she was out of the woods. There was simply too much infection for him to be sure he took care of it all.

We were told we could be there up to a week to keep her on an antibiotic drip. This would be the only way to ensure her recovery. Even with those words, I don’t think it had really resonated with me just how sick this little girl really was.

On Wednesday morning, she was allowed to come off the clear liquids and have a bite to eat. The nurses were required to get her up and moving so we faced our first walk together. She got to the door of her room and said okay that’s it, then promptly turned around and headed back to bed. She was as drugged up as anyone could be, enjoying a veritable cocktail of heavy pain killers; yet, the agony of those first few walks were clearly registering on her face.

She didn’t want any of it. She didn’t want to walk, she didn’t want an IV needle sticking out of her arm, she didn’t want to get poked every day to draw her blood nor did she want to be told she had to use the restroom or face having a catheter reinserted. It hurt to go, it burned like hell. The walk didn’t hurt as much as the simple act of going pee-pee did. She didn't want to do anything but in her own words, "run from this awful place screaming". Yet she always managed to find a way to do everything asked of her. Making up and letting me know her rules as we went along.

She would delicately get out of bed, using my hand to pull herself up while insisting I not pull with my arm. As difficult as it was, as much as I wanted to not only pull her but to give her every bit of strength I had, I perfected the ability to extend my arm to her without pulling. Once up, she would slowly walk to the restroom, sit down, then immediately clench up so tight, it was impossible for her to go. The urge was there, her bladder was full but her natural defenses and instincts were not letting her go through that much pain. We would sit there together, me squatting on the side of the shower, facing her. Our eyes locked on each other as if we were having a staring contest. Sometimes she would let me encourage her but mostly she shushed me when I tried to speak. She was drawing from her inner strength; my words were nothing but useless distractions.

After 15 to 20 minutes, she would ask to go back to bed. The moment she laid down, the urge would come and up we would go again. This went on for a few hours. Up, sit, stare, down. Up, sit, stare, down. As the night drew to a close, the nurses brought in a machine which was able to give us an accurate measurement of the contents of her bladder and they issued the ultimatum. She goes or we go in and get it.

With courage true to her Warrior Princess spirit, she was able to override her protective instincts and endure the painful burning, emptying her bladder with a little moan and a tight squeeze of my hand but not a single tear. She maintained her stoic little frowny-face, cleaned herself up and walked back to the bed as if nothing big had really happened.

Meanwhile I am internally dancing, twirling, jumping up and down and shouting for joy all inside my head. It was our victory. We did it! Nothing was going to stop us now. This little girl is amazingly strong. This child of mine was revealing her character to me and I knew she was going to be okay.

With that, I was relieved enough to think of other things, such as the fact that I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth since Monday morning. I was comfortable sneaking away for a quick shower while Mr. Sunshine sat with her. I returned in an hour and found her standing just inside the door of her room, throwing up in one of those plastic buckets…..something that looked very much like blood.

(To be continued…..)

Mama Bear, The Warrior Princess and the Narcissist - Part One

I come to you today from a place far, far away from the comfort of zen. Fuck zen.  I am steeped in anger, seething with a fury that can only be likened to that of a mother bear, charging at that which threatens her cubs. I am in full stride, mouth dripping, teeth bared - my enemy identified. 

My muscles are tense as they lunge toward this predator. I cannot be stopped. I can climb faster and jump higher with my claws curled and sharpened to afflict torture and dispense suffering upon this vile menace.

I instinctively desire nothing more than to wrap my jowls around the neck of this beast of prey, picking up his helpless body and shaking it until it is limp and lifeless. I am growing dizzy from the taste of the kill. But I stop short of taking his life. For I want him to eventually perish from that which ultimately brings the demise of all who linger in their own reflection. He will be his own undoing. As with the 16th century painting of Narcissus from Greek mythology, attributed to Caravaggio, shown above. He will face his own nemesis and he will perish; not in a physical sense but in the worst way possible for a narcissistic man. He will fail.

The son of a bitch almost killed our youngest daughter.

As is typical of his patterns of behavior, he was either too busy investing all of his time and energy into his new business venture or two unaware and imbecilic to notice the youngest of our seven-year old twins was suffering from more than your average stomach flu. I suspect it was a combination of both. Narcissistic people tend to believe nothing bad, really bad shit like a ruptured appendix, will ever happen to them. She had been throwing up for three days, then became listless, refusing to get out of bed for the next three days. She had pain and she told him about it.

He dropped her off to me Monday afternoon of last week. He said nothing about her pain.  He simply said she is still weak from being sick. She went straight for my couch. I could tell she had to gingerly position herself to lie down and I noticed her flinching from the pain. By this time, her appendix had ruptured. The deadly toxins were already spilling into her abdominal cavity.

I sat down at her feet and rubbed her legs prompting her to scream at me for touching her.  This is the same child who has some sort of built in magnetic feature where the moment I stop moving, the very second I sit down, she is immediately on top of me. She has always required more loving, cuddling, tender touching than any of my other children. All of my mommy senses were now in full alert. I asked her to show me where she was hurting. When she pointed to the lower part of her right side, almost at the crease where her stomach reaches the top of her thigh, I knew this was not the fallout from a bout with a bug.

I called Mr. Sunshine to ask about the leg pain. He said he hadn't really noticed anything but he did think perhaps she might have a bladder infection because it had been hurting her when she went to the bathroom. This would have been a nice piece of information to share with me earlier when he dropped her off.

A quick call to the doctor advised me to take her to the emergency room. Mr. Sunshine was busy, letting me know he could come pick us up in an hour. By this time, my baby girl, whom I now and forever shall refer to as The Warrior Princess, could not sit up, stand or walk. When he arrived, he insisted we go to the after-hours clinic instead of the hospital. He stood firm on his belief this could be nothing more than a really bad bladder infection. The clinic was on the way to the hospital so I agreed to let them take a look at her.

Ten minutes later, we were on our way to the hospital.

When we received the diagnosis and were told she would need immediate surgery, she had already endured nine examinations. Each one beginning with the same incessant, redundant questions and ending with pressing on her belly forcing her to scream from the intensity of the discomfort. She had been poked by the urgent care nurse, the hospital triage tech, the hospital triage nurse, the ER nurse, the ER doctor, a new ER nurse that just had to see for herself, the surgeon, the surgeon's PA and finally, the surgery nurse.

Just before being wheeled off for a CAT scan, a young medical student walked in and asked to take the medical information and give her an exam.  He had a look of fear on his face indicative of this being his very first time to do so.  He began by asking the same questions we had already answered during the previous nine interviews.  He frequently checked his handy pocket notebook to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. I was holding it together, maintaining my trademark calm in the midst of a storm persona, when he informed her he was about to poke on her belly again.

At that moment the calm broke, the dam burst open and mama bear looked him straight in the eye and said, "you touch her belly and you will lose that finger Doogie". I then explained that nine times was enough and there would be no more pressing, prodding or poking on her because ten pokes is gonna get you a prize; namely, you will be the lucky recipient of everything I am currently holding inside and it won't be pretty.

He very quietly said he would make a note to the record that parent refused the exam and he left the room as quickly as he could.

They took her away and operated on her mess of a belly for well over an hour. The surgeon said she would not have made it much longer with all the internal draining. When she was in recovery, we came to see her. She had taken one of her favorite stuffed animals into surgery with her. He came out wearing his own surgical cap,which the Anesthesiologist had taken the time to cut holes for his floppy ears. This is what we saw.

I took the first deep breath of the night, feeling as if we had made it. We could rest easy now. She would be going home tomorrow and would be back to herself in short order. I did not realize, the worst was yet to come.

There were serious complications in store. The narcissist would virtually abandon us while he went about his life and I was to spend the next full week at her side teaching her how to be strong but instead learning the strength of a woman was already there. She would be the one teaching me.

(To be continued.....)

Also, look for the continuation of the #1Son series soon!

Never Choose the Chipmunk with the Big A on His Shirt

A friend of mine recently took her daughter to see the chipmunk movie sequel (The Squeakquel). I can't say it any better than her so I will quote her here, "The Chipmunks Squeakquel was so awful, I found myself getting all worked up and offended by how the boy chipmunk with glasses fell in love with the girl chipmunk with glasses, the chubby boy chipmunk fell in love with the chubby girl chipmunk, etc.  As if people only fall in love with people just like themselves!  How narcississtic!  Then I realized they were a bunch of damn rats and got over it!"

I immediately sided with her.  How dare they pair off  the chipmunks according to the preordained lab rat class system mimicking and mocking life as we know it?  Alvin has already solidified his alpha-rodent status by placing an obnoxiously large A on all of his clothing.  Does he really need to take it one step further by procuring the equally self-centered, bitchy head of the female chipmunk clan, Brittany?

Then Simon, the smart chipmunk, chooses to link up with the other chipmunk who wears glasses because God knows, if you wear glasses, you must be intelligent.  Finally, Theodore is left to scoop up the dredges of the sole remaining female overweight chipmunk and by golly, doesn't that work out well because Theo seems to be carrying around a spare tire in case the chipmunk-mobile has a flat.

I laughed at her email as I always do because she is funnier than shit.  But then, as the days passed - I began to think further into the deeper meaning of chipmunk love.  You know, Chipmunk Suzie and Chipmunk Sam?  Oh damn, they were fucking muskrats doing the jitterbug on muskrat land.  Classic Captain and Tennille. Who gives a shit about muskrats anyway, this blog is about me. For the record, I would like to say I believe chipmunks should be allowed to do the jitterbug, the quick step or the lindy hop on muskrat land if they so desire.  Only God help them if Len Goodman is in the house. Though I hear he prefers hanging out with squirrels.

By the way, I used to sport a perfect Toni Tennille hairstyle.

Here she is......

 And here's me circa 1977....

My point being, I married three times and failed three times.  True, one of them didn't count but nonetheless; I am a walking, talking muskrat/chipmunk manual on how NOT to select a mate.   I married the chubby chipmunk with the good heart but not so much happening in the excitement or intelligence departments. I tried my luck with the most popular boy in school who seemed to be able to find trouble in the seemingly most unlikely of places. One could even make an argument that I married the smart one when I found a man who impressed me with his goals and visions at such a young age.

My blog is all about taking the chaos of my past, filtering it through the reflective, compassionate consideration of a well balanced yet sometimes completely insane perimenopausal woman and heaving it upon you, written in a way to make you laugh, cry, and ultimately comprehend some of the answers, okay my opinion of the answers, to the greatest mysteries of the universe.

Thus far, we have tackled addiction, racism, death and whether Bill Gates is the Anti-Christ. Now this? Can I really figure out if it's okay for all the chipmunks to link up with their custom drawn perfect likenesses? One has to ask, would it work out if Alvin teamed up with the smart one or would she be too smart to put up with his shit? And if Simon selected the chubby, yet obviously daft chippette, what would they have to talk about while gathering nuts?

I know why my girlfriend was incensed by the movie. She is the type of woman who chooses to live her life outside of the expectations of society. She adopted an African American baby using an open adoption. She keeps up with the birth mom for the sake of her daughter; though at times it can be extremely frustrating. In Oklahoma, people still stare at a Lilly white couple walking around with a beautiful little girl of color. She's an attorney who purposely stayed off the high-powered, big-bucks career path because she likes her life just the way it is. She does things people don't expect. She wins her cases because she's prepared, smart and savvy but she walks in looking cute, sweet and unassuming.  Then she pounces and before they know it, her adversaries have been handed their butts to them with a dainty little bow tied around it.
 
She and I both tend to cheer for the underdogs of the world.  We want to see the smart girl land the good looking guy but in reality, we both know it won't be long before the good looking guy is cheating because it happened to both of us.  This is what I know for sure. You must choose the person whom you like on the inside. You must be able to see who they are. If you look really hard you can see their essence. You must literally like the smell of them. If the dude is wearing a large A on his shirt and getting into trouble he might be an asshole.

When the day comes, and according to Maya Angelou it will come, when they show you who they really are,  BELIEVE THEM.

Then act accordingly.

Don't Get Your Spanx In A Wad

I am adding a new label to my blog log today. I thought of it while driving home tonight just after I discovered I had been wearing my dress backwards all day. Seriously, how does someone manage to pull that off? My office is small - we're all fairly close, that's to say we're close as in a) we seem to like each other and b) there are very few actual walls in our office.

Granted, the dress looks virtually the same from the front or back. I shouldn't have expected anyone to notice but why did it take ME to the end of the day to finally stop and realize the darn thing was choking me. The higher cut back was riding up my neck like a dog collar while the lower cut front had surely exposed my bra straps during that brief stint when I took my blazer off to deal with the stagnant air in our tight-knit little community of unobservant, preoccupied desk jockeys.

If I am ever so lucky to be able to publish my musings in a format other than this, I should like to title my work, "Don't Get Your Spanx in a Wad". It's a way for the sisterhood of backwards-dress-wearing, crazy ass, powerful women to relate to each other. You have to laugh and accept these oddball happenings and love yourself to death for all your human frailty.

I can't begin to imagine what the uptight "Brookfield Betty's" ( local term -utilize your own euphemism for the perfect people in your community here) would think of a woman who embraces this kind of decorum. I not only embrace it, I revel in it - you hear me? It's time for us one and all to unite and admit we can rule the world with one black pump and one navy blue pump pulled from the closet during the early morning haze of burnt toast, fussy children and a make-or-break presentation you're supposed to give later that morning.

You will give that presentation and you will dare them to say something, just one thing, about your clashing clodhoppers. Hold your head up high, take a deep breath, click your mismatched heels three times and then consider yourself blessed to be a part of the sisterhood of the unraveling spanx.

Note to Bill Gates

If I were a God, I would smite thee, Bill Gates. I am not a God, not even a Goddess. I'm just a frustrated mom with a large chip on my shoulder. Actually, it's more like I've got the entire mother board on my shoulder. I have donned my armor and charged into battle against the red ring of death while you, Bill Gates, are happily esconsed in Xanadu, enjoying your eco-friendly mansion. I am wondering if any of the elaborate rooms in your earth-sheltered abode are sporting an XBox 360?

I suppose you don't really have to worry when (not if) the red ring of death comes knocking on your door. Do you keep an extra supply lying around for just such occassions or do you have the units specially manufactured without all of the internal problems? I'm just askin'?

I am not technologically savvy or even technologically aware - I am tech challenged at best. The last time I was considered on top of the tech game was when commands like "C> dir a:*.ex" meant something. I was once the DOS queen. Now I am hopelessly lost in a sea of windows that do not open for me. I get angry sometimes and I forget my limitations. I try things that I shouldn't try. I get pissed, then I get dangerous.

I watched countless Youtube videos on how to repair your vile invention. I learned about X clamps, CPU's, GPU's, heat sinks, and RF modulators. I invested in new tools, an arsenol of Torx screwdrivers, a heat gun and a tube of arctic silver thermal compound. I went to war with these implements and you fucked me over. You scoffed at me while you were playing XBox live in your faux fur slippers.

I feel much better now that I have vented. My son wants me to buy another XBox 360 so he can play one of the many games from his now useless collection. He is heartbroken and I am still pissed. They say the failure rate in the electronics industry is typically 3% to 5%. Depending upon the study or the source cited, your systems fail between 52% to 100% of the time. How DO you sleep at night?