Nuke 'Em

UPDATE: Reports about the recent murder of Kasandra Perkins and subsequent suicide of Kansas City Chiefs' player, Jovan Belcher, provide some clues about their relationship. Apparently they were the "perfect couple" who quarreled all the time. Kiss of death, if you'll pardon an expression. As a former battered women's advocate, what I read hints of a guy who was jealous and controlling, perhaps even imagining that his girlfriend was cheating on him. As for the Chiefs' lame attempts to help them with counseling, I can only laugh. Since when has an organization of professional male athletes, a business owned by men, run by men, and beholden to men, ever done anything for women, except to use them? And now for my timely re-post of a seven-year-old entry about a solution that could have prevented this mess. 


Mrs. Linklater may seem like she spouts the liberal company line here for the most part, but she ain't as knee jerk as you may think.

Ever since spending six years working with victims of domestic violence, I think there should be better ways to keep the bad people from hurting the good people. Or let's just say there are things we can do which could provide a more targeted, accurate deterrent than a piece of paper with an order of protection signed by a judge. Or that .357 under your pillow. 

Perpetrators of violent crimes would be selected for a new, special treatment after they are released. And it wouldn't be a spa day.

Back in the nineties, almost twenty years ago, I learned from a former LA police officer turned security guru, that it is possible to imbed a disabling microchip inside a person. You read that right. The microchip can be loaded with chemicals and a GPS locator, so bad guys can be tracked down and then stopped in their tracks. Or vice versa. Naturally, one would hope that they wouldn't be cutting down trees or driving your car at the time.  

Since the courts can't seem to do much to prevent rapists from raping again, or child molesters from molesting again, or men who batter women from battering women again, or violent criminals from committing violent acts again, or illegal immigrants who commit crimes here from coming back into the country again, I like the possibilities of this idea. 

In my world, there would be three types of chemicals in each chip. Strong, stronger, and strongest. We'll get to them later. 

Along with violent criminals, there would be other types of prisoners who qualify for a chip as a condition of their release. 

First, every mope who makes parole would be required to have a chip. What better way to remind a parolee that freedom ain't free than with the sudden loss of consciousness when they don't color between the lines?

And parole or no parole, some felonious types should be required to have a lifetime chip. Child molesters, rapists, and men who batter women are the first three that come to mind. 

Just think of the jobs we could create! Somebody's got to make the chips. Somebody got to make the chemicals in the chips. Somebody else has to install the chips. And more people will have to monitor the chips. Plus you always need people to market the chips. Wow. I think I've stumbled upon Mitt Romney's wet dream. But I digress.

Where was I? Oh. Chemical Number One, the strong one, would be activated when a criminal goes out of bounds. The courts can define the boundaries. For instance, consorting with someone else who has a microchip would be considered out of bounds. Being near a school, a playground, or a bar could be another. Getting too close to certain people, i.e., wives or girlfriends who have orders of protection, is a third. Did I mention deported criminals who cross the border illegally? 

Push a button from a remote location like say, Roswell, NM, and the bad guy would start to feel a clicking in his implant like a countdown to zero. He has fifteen to thirty minutes to find a cop or a police station to turn himself in. Based on the GPS in each chip, the police stations nearest the locator would also get a warning signal. 

If the bad guy misses the deadline, Chemical Number Two, the stronger one, would make him very sorry. He could become nauseous or dizzy or start hallucinating. Or maybe he wets his pants. I'm still working on this one. 

Chemical Number Three, the strongest, would knock him down and out, if the cops haven't tracked his GPS and found him already. The chemical would also emit a distinctively sweet smell like that pink soap they use in bus terminal bathrooms. That alone would help identify the perp. And keep people out of harm's way. One sniff and they'd know to run. 

At any time of course, the chemicals could be escalated to another level with another push of a button.

How Bladerunner of me.

I figure there are two chances of any of this happening -- slim and none. The Fourth Amendment and all. The possibilities for abuse [i.e., the Patriot Act] are too numerous to count. And the ACLU, well, they worry about people like me every day.

But a girl can dream can't she?

Shut Up and Put Out The Welcome Mat Already

I heard the Spanish version of The Star Spangled Banner today for the first time.

Before I actually heard it I was offended, annoyed, and suspicious of translating OUR song into THEIR language.  I was going to agree with everyone who says the anthem should only be sung in English, but boy did I change my mind.

It rocks. It's more exciting and uplifting than any English version I've heard in years, including Whitney Houston's.  I also think the words are more apppropriate, since they took out all the references to war. 

Listening to this impassioned new version of America's classic song of freedom made me start thinking about what it means to have 12,000,000 undocumented people living here.

Peacefully.

Any other time and any other place that many millions of immigrants coming into a country would constitute a wholesale invasion. But they walked in on little cat feet. So, for the most part, most of the country hardly noticed. And they insinuated themselves into our lives by working hard and making themselves indispensible. 

Of all the immigrants, Latin or otherwise, who have come to this country, never have so many been so successful so fast, while insinuating their colorful culture and tasty cuisine into our lives in exchange for a chance to pursue the American Dream.

Do you think for one minute we would have been able to put up with twelve million undocumented Frenchmen coming here?

Mrs. Linklater Has a New Cockamammy Theory

I've decided not to die just yet.

However, I have made plans to donate my body to medical science. To get you to volunteer, medical schools offer to have your body cremated for free after they use it for anatomy class. Your ashes are sent back to your family. Did I mention FOR FREE?

Coming from a family where my doctor father had a joke name for his medical school cadaver, you might think I would have second thoughts. He called his cadaver Ernest, because he was working in dead Ernest.

However, after my father died and his burial costs were enough for the downpayment on a summer home or a really nice double wide in a trailer park, I decided there had to be a way around spending that kind of money. Needless to say my family wasn't thrilled with the idea of donating my body. The idea of saving a boatload of dough didn't have the appeal I thought it would, but, so far, they are willing to honor my request. I don't think they had their fingers crossed.

To help them feel better about my decision, I heard that Northwestern University medical school put some rules in place to prevent the rampant disrespectful behavior of the past.

These days, I guess, instead of allowing disparaging nicknames for cadavers, they tell the students the real first name of the person whose body they will be dissecting -- to remind them that this was a real person. Accepting a cadaver as a real person can be hard because cadavers are shot full of so many preservatives that they don't look real. Why do I know this? One of the perks of dating a med student in college is that they always want to show you things like that. Lucky me.

After the anatomy class has ended, I understand that NU holds a non religious ceremony to honor the bodies for their service. So I thought that would help my squeamish relatives accept my wish to be donated.

Personally, I figure once I'm dead, I am gone -- my body is just a shell, but I am glad there has been an effort to prevent medical students from thinking it's okay to steal cadaver ears and put them on someone's Jello -- like I saw at lunch one day at college.

When my ashes are returned I want them scattered around my favorite places -- the drive up at Wendy's, my computer screen, Russell Crowe's pocket, the bakery aisle at Costco, you know. Or scatter them to the wind. Just don't put me in the ground, please. They'll want money for that too. Frankly, the thought of being in the ground makes me feel claustrophobic, even though I'll be dead.

Unfortunately, lately I've been reading about unscrupulous people at funeral homes [for instance, FUNERAL DIRECTORS] who work in collusion with greedy people at medical schools, hospitals, and related businesses to sell them body parts for hundreds of thousands of dollars. It's much more ghoulish than that apparently, since some also harvest organs [skin and corneas, etc.] to be transplanted, without regard for what the person died of. 

To recoup their losses for not being able to sell you that overpriced, natural veneer, mahagony finish coffin with the genuine satin interior and the real brass handles, along with a huge cement vault to protect it from the worms that will feast on your remains, the funeral folks just PRETEND your body has been cremated [or sent to a medical school] and make a killing, pardon an expression, by selling your parts. 

The practice gives new meaning to ARMS DEALER.

Here's a heartwarming dissection, oops, sorry, of this whole body parts business that I found at a newsblog.
http://www.newsinferno.com/archives/1064

Let's get Mrs. L's cockamammy theory rolling. People who want to be cremated can really affect a funeral home's bottom line. I saw one place that wanted $3500 for an urn, which is a joke, but that was nothing compared to $10,000 for their cheapest coffin. I should mention that they give you a viewing room, play nice music and drive the body to its hole in the ground as part of the deal.  Nevermind what it costs for the hole in the ground, even when you're in an urn, although there's always the mantle.

I am their worst nightmare. No viewing except at the hospital or the house or wherever my body has come to rest, within reason. Only my kids and immediate family. Just get me to the place that prepares bodies for the medical school -- they may even come pick me up. For free.

Meanwhile, I think some funeral home association has hired a pr firm to spread the awful stories about bodies being stolen on their way to cremation, or medical school, so that people will beg to have a coffin and be buried in the ground. Of course, if you can't close and lock the coffin yourself, they can get you on the way to the cemetery too, but let's not go there.

Funeral directors -- the honest ones -- have to be thrilled that there are people dealing in illegal body parts. Especially since there's no easy, inexpensive way to identify the ashes that your family gets back. Nothing like creeping people out to build up your business. What do you bet they'll be adding a window to the top of the coffin so you can see that the body is there before it goes into the ground?

But that won't stop me on my mission to die for free. Or perhaps even make some money on the deal.

Finding out I'm worth a small fortune as a dead body sold for its parts gives me an idea, actually. Why not cut out the middle man altogether and have my family sell me directly to the arms dealer, as it were, so they -- my family -- can pocket the money themselves. My value is up to $300,000 in some places. Plus I'm tall, so there's more of me to donate.

A nice little legacy don't you think?

Workshop or Woodshed? You be the Judge.

I haven't posted since Sunday. Not because I haven't been writing. Because I've been writing for MY CLASS, the one taught by Da Teach [see earlier link that I'm too lazy to link to.]

Boy, has it been time consuming. And it won't pay me any money when I'm finished. And I don't get a grade either. But it will give me the satsifaction of a job well done. Sheesh. I am so beyond that. Show me the money.  

The exercise started with a three hour interview at a restaurant on Monday, during which I recorded what we said AND I took copious unreadable notes. The people sitting at the next table kept looking over to see if I was Barbara Walters or something. This was followed by an hour and a half interview of another person at his "emporium" on Tuesday, also recorded and noted. Both so I could write a rough draft for an article that was due on Wednesday at my non credit Magazine Writing for Dummies class. However, after the interviews I also had to transcribe them so I could get accurate quotes and have my facts straight before writing up the draft.  Well, i didn't finshed transcribing -- in fact listening to people talk with all the extraneous noise in the background pretty much sucks.  But I managed to write almost 1000 words -- the max we're allowed for this -- which simply means I sure can sling the BS. 

Well, Da Teach [once again, I recommend reading the earlier entry that I'm too lazy to link] took a quick look at what I wrote, threw it down on the table and said THIS SUCKS!!

Just kidding. He actually did that and said that. But he was just kidding.

He then read my BS out loud and we started to "workshop" what I wrote. Eviscerate it, rip to shreds, tear it up. You get the idea.
 
Now I get to start over. For free. Again. This whole going back to school for no credit or pay is something I'm probably not going to do any more. What did I spend four years in college for anyway?  So I could have a do over?

If I ever finish the thing I'll post it here and you can WORKSHOP it yourselves. Here's my new opening quote -- it's a real quote by the way:  "In a former life, I was a pimp in China."  For an article about wine cellars. 

Bring your hammers and nails. 

Global Dimming

Okay. Let's see if I can explain this theory I saw on PBS the other night.

We have determined that global warming is taking place. The earth's temperature is going up. Over the eons there has been a relationship between rising carbon dioxide levels and global warming. I guess things are going off the charts lately. BUT --

Did you know that global dimming is also going on? Despite the increasing temperature, there is actually less sunlight reaching us. The sun isn't flaming out by the way.

However, there is as much as thirty per cent less sunlight reaching the earth in parts of Siberia, a trend that has taken place over the last fifty years. The amount if reduction is sixteen per cent in the U.S.

You would think those two things -- less sun, more heat -- would be mutually exclusive. Hang on. There is more.

The pan evaporation rate has been reduced by 100 ml in some places during recent years. This refers to the amount of evaporation of water from a container [a pan, who knew?] measured daily. For a hundred years there have been people around the world who go out back every day and check how much water is gone from the tank. Then they fill the pan back up.

Apparently there is a direct correlation between the amount of water evaporation in a given area and the amount of sunlight reduction. 

Here again you would expect more water to evaporate when the temperature goes up.

AHA!  Apparently evaporation isn't affected as much by temperature. Instead it is affected by photons from the sun that interact with the water molecules, causing the water to become vapor. More sunlight, more photons, more evaporation. And vice versa. Wind and humidity are two other factors. Temperature isn't.

How did we discover there was less sunlight hitting the earth? Some guy got curious. The reduction of sunlight from jet trails alone was discovered following 911, when all the planes in the US were grounded for weeks and the sky cleared.

Air pollution has also made a huge contribution to the reduction in sunlight and evaporation. Also global warming. The particulates in the pollutiion reflect the sunlight back to the earth and may be the greatest contributor to global warming.

We have more air pollution from many sources. Therefore there are more particles in the air that act like mirrors to reflect heat from the sun back to earth, increasing the temperature.

The air pollution that causes more heat simultaneously blocks the sun's photons from reaching the earth. The warm air melts the glaciers and ice packs, which is bad news for polar bears. The lack of evaporation means Venice will soon be under water.

So fix the air pollution and the earth cools off. The oceans evaporate more, the polar bears don't become extinct, and you can take that gondola ride on your honeymoon.

I wonder what kind of time we have on this one.

DA TEACH

The one thing I kept thinking during our conversation was -- who cuts his hair?

I was interviewing Mike Thomas, a feature writer for one of Chicago's two remaining daily papers -- the less expensive one, the one with the better sports writers, the one with the smaller page size that makes it easier to read on the train, the one you can finish during your morning break at work, the one whose upper management ripped off the company for millions of dollars to finance their ritzy lifestyles. That one.

Mike writes about arts and entertainment and I write ads and commercials. We live in parallel universes, which, under ordinary circumstances don't often intersect. But, our paths have crossed because he is my instructor in a class called Magazine Writing for Dummies. Okay. It isn't really called that, but it could be. We, the ten women who signed up for this non credit class, are there to learn the tricks of his trade and maybe even sell something to a magazine for a paycheck.

Everyone has a real job -- accounting, marketing, teaching. The mostly young women, except me, each confess they are in the class because they have always had a desire to write.

I am the only one, besides our teacher, who harbors no longings, because I, like him, already write for a living. Ads, commercials, video scripts, press releases, new product concepts, the list goes on. Everything but feature articles and books.

When it comes to a place on the food chain, however, writing ads is to writing feature stories as Jello pudding is to chocolate mousse. One just seems way classier than the other. Plus, nobody attacks you for selling out or doing it for the money.

In my twenties -- I'm feeling defensive now -- I dabbled in feature writing. But early on, after comparing the paltry $100 I got for two lifestyle articles I sold to a magazine, versus the regular paycheck I got writing ads, I stuck with writing ads. For a couple of years in the nineties, I wrote a column of sorts, Creative Couples, for a local production magazine. I also took the pictures and wrote a short article about the sculpture at the Chicago Botanic Garden for my local paper. Impressive, no?

Going around the table introducing ourselves during our first class together, I discover that Mike Thomas, the feature writer, has always wanted to be Mike Thomas, the adwriter. The guy who has the job I want once wanted the job I have. Perhaps we both harbor illusions, or maybe just delusions about the other's profession.

In no time we reach week four in class and the assignment is to practice interviewing techniques by using each other as guinea pigs. Since there is an odd number present, Mike volunteers to be my partner for the exercise.

"Treat the interview like a conversation," he tells us, after showing off his very small, sleek digital recorder that's about the size of an elongated cigarette lighter. Very unobtrusive. Clearly, it's a easier to have a conversational interview without a clunky recording device sitting between you.

"Pay attention to details, what the person is wearing, what the room looks like."

Details. All right. Our classroom is in a red brick, re-habbed factory building across from the train tracks in one of Chicago's gentrified neighborhoods. As proof, there is a great breakfast joint down the street that is packed on the weekends with gay couples and young marrieds.

Beyond the industrial gray walls and floors lining the inside of the building is an eclectic group of businesses that function on the other side of huge metal doors. Waiting for class to start on my first night, while sitting on the hard steps leading to the second floor, I noticed everything from a dance company to some kind of exercise class to an antique shop.

Each week our writing group gathers around a makeshift conference table in a long and narrow, very chilly, painted brick room on the first floor. Hot water and herb tea bags for our ten minute break are only steps away in the student-teacher lounge. To further sustain us during the two and a half hour class there is a glass container the size of a fish bowl in the middle of the table. Before we arrive, someone mysteriously replenishes the bowl with a fresh assortment of candy pieces.

I am partial to the Tootsie Rolls myself. I take them out, one at a time, peel off the wrappers carefully so I don't rip them, put the candy in my mouth and spend the next five minutes folding the wrapper into tinier and tinier squares until it won't fold anymore.  Then I throw it into the wastebasket by the door. During the class, I usually go through six or seven Tootsie Rolls that way.

Eating Tootsie Rolls, I realize, is not the best way to disarm the subject of my interview, seated at the head of the conference table. Opening my pocketsized notepad, I begin."So when did you realize you wanted to be a writer when you grew up?" I ask Mike, astonished at how mundane my question is. He leans back in his chair. To get more comfortable? To get away from me? I can't tell.

Trying to capture everything in my mind's eye if nothing else, as I ask one dumb question after another, I suddenly notice his hair. It is short, brushed back, jet black and gleaming, with a hint of curl in front. Not something ordinary men can accomplish without help. I am suddenly fascinated by the perfection of each hair's alignment vis a vis his head. Barber or stylist? I wonder as I continue with my inane queries. Local neighborhood guy, or some Michigan Avenue salon for men? For some reason his perfect hair makes me assume he must be organized. Neat, too. Probably drives his wife crazy squeezing from the bottom of the toothpaste.

This is confirmed, I decide, by his uniform -- a smooth, starched white dress shirt, a Brooks Brothers blazer, and shockingly spotless designer jeans, which look professionally pressed.

I realize that he wore the virtually same thing the week before. He probably has a closet full of bright white dress shirts, lined up next to several fitted blue blazers and sends his jeans, at least twenty-four pairs, to the dry cleaners. In fact I would make bet that the next time we have class he will be wearing a white shirt, blue blazer, and jeans again.

Suddenly my pen drops and I reach down to pick it up, only to notice that his black boots aren't freshly polished. Not scuffed or anything. Just not shiny shiny. That's a relief. We all need a little imperfection to let out the evil spirits.

Somehow I manage to learn that our teacher used to make up and write his own stories as a little boy growing up. He discovered an interest in writing about music and the arts in college, working for his school paper. When he couldn't get his dream job in advertising after school, he went to work in the communications department of a corporation that makes cardboard boxes, writing videos for their sales meetings. One thing led to another and now this thirty something husband and father is on the staff of a major metropolitan newspaper, while also writing for magazines like GQ. He's even co-authored a couple of books. Obviously, I got a lot of facts, but I sure didn't get much of a story.

The entire interview is compressed into twenty minutes. After one of my most penetrating questions no doubt, Mikelooks at his watch and says it's time to finsh up. I wonder if we'll get any feedback from our partners on how well we did with our interviewing techniques. We don't. I wonder if we'll be asked to write up our little practice interviews. We aren't. But I decide to write mine up for my journal anyway. I didn't use a tape recorder during my impromptu interview, so I don't have any quotes I can use, except for his brief instructions. The editor of my journal has low standards, so a dearth of quotes shouldn't be a problem.

The next time our class meets we discuss ledes, which I always spelled "leads" -- the opening line or paragraph of an article. To paraphrase the old dandruff commercial, your lead is your one chance to make a good first impression. One chance to grab the readers by the throat and get them to read what you wrote. We also talk about "walk offs,"  which, just like their baseball counterparts, are the paragraphs that end your article, where it wouldn't hurt to hit a homerun. Next week -- nut grafs. What the heck are those?

I tell Mike I'm writing up our interview, promising to email it to him when I am done.  I recite my opening line for the piece, where I wonder who cuts his hair. He laughs and says, "Ed."  Not Mr. Edward, Monsieur Ed, or even Eduardo. Just Ed.

So, Ed it is. Like Da Coach -- Mike Ditka. Or Da Bears -- Shecawga's favorite sports team. And Da Mare -- the first Mayor Daley. A guy named Ed is Da Barber for Da Teach's hair.

Mrs. Linklater's Rules for a Long and Happy Life

Sorry. I can't write about that. I'm laughing too damn hard. Like I would know about happy.

But since you're here and I've got this space to fill up, help me come up with a theme or themes for this journal. Mrs. Linklater hasn't been much of a guide to anyone's universe lately. I haven't even felt like making fun of the advice ladies over at my Ask Mrs. Linklater Blogspot blog. And that one actually has a theme.

A perusal of my recent entries here reveals an entirely too eclectic smattering of stuff. Coming here is like opening up the hatchback of my Jeep and having a full size folding chair, a spare tire cover, two rugs, four rolls of toilet paper, three plastic sweater boxes full of mail, and a bungee cord fall out. I feel your pain.

Those of you who show up one day thinking you've discovered a lunatic and come back just to see if I've been committed are sorely disappointed to find a recipe for fudge instead. That's just an example. I would never share my fudge recipe.

So help me with a theme. Or themes. Something I can write about for more than one entry. The Duke rants are an example, but I'm only writing about their lacrosse team because I went there. Otherwise I could care. I need fuel to fire up my anger and I'm running out of steam on that one. Did you see two of the players got arrested today.  And they're looking for a third guy. Just remember an indictment is not a conviction.

Jeff over at What the Hell? once asked everyone to submit words he could use as subjects for his entries. I sent him a bunch. But he hasn't posted an entry since last year, so that may not be such a good idea.

I would write about my daughters, but one of them has asked me to include her out. She's worried that people might put two and two together and realize I'm her mom. Nothing personal, but I could do some serious damage to her career apparently. That whole live long enough to become an embarrasment to your children thing sure is working for me. 

My other daughter lives so far out of town that I have to recover from jet lag when I see her. So the day to day family thing is out.

All the animals I used to have are croaked. I know, bad grammar. Work with me here. Having no living, breathing, furry creatures right now doesn't mean I haven't mined the lives and deaths of my old pets for entries here and there.

My private life is like watching grass grow. Only slower. Plus talking about getting old gets pretty old. Not that I couldn't regale you with tales of my latest infirmities. And what you have to do to accommodate certain things. Not going there.

Looking around my computer area just now, I realize I could use this space to sell off some of my cherished memorabilia [okay JUNK] and make some money for a plane ticket to get out of Dodge.

For instance, the teal blue lava lamp with the yellow ploppy stuff that floats inside is just sitting on my desk. It was a gift from two guys I'm really close to. But I haven't turned it on in three years.  It's yours for $30 plus the postage. Hey, it has hardly any mileage.

Then there's my old Polaroid camera, an SX70, just like the one Michael Going, the famous Polaroid photographer, uses. I keep thinking I'm going to manipulate film like he does so it looks like art. Yours for a mere $15. Okay, $10. Plus the postage thing.

And the small framed oil painting of The Tetons with the Snake River flowing in the foreground which I bought in Jackson Hole to remind me of my favorite view in Wyoming. Yours for $50.  And postage blah blah blah. [NO LONGER AVAILABLE]

Anybody need a Trojan horse left over from my younger daughter's fifth grade art project on Greece?  I'm thinking I might be on to something. But I better take some pictures first. And don't tell me to lower my prices; this isn't a yard sale.

Yet.

SISTER JOAN

I saw Joan Chittister on Meet This Press this Easter. When the transcript of that show is ready, I will replace this entry with quotes from what she said. She was the first intelligent voice on stem cell research, abortion -- in fact, all the questions about life -- that I have heard from any member of any religion. So I Googled her. I found that she has a column, FROM WHERE I STAND, in the National Catholic Reporter. I have reprinted her most recent column here.  If you are a liberal female, no matter what your religious persuasion, Sister Joan rocks.

‘Our childhood is killed in Iraq. It is killed’

By Joan Chittister, OSB

 [Program Note: Erie Benedictine Sr. Joan Chittister has accepted an invitation to be a panel member on the special Easter Sunday edition of NBC’s “Meet the Press” public affairs television program. The program will air Sunday, April 16 at 10 a.m. (eastern time). The “Meet the Press” Web site, www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3032608, carries a video and written transcript of each program soon after airing.]

 The question to the group of women delegates from Iraq was “What would you like to see come out of this meeting?”

 I was not prepared either for the answer or for its explanation: “What we need now,” one of the Iraqi woman said, “is the end of the blood-letting. Women are very necessary to this operation. Fifty-five to 60 percent of Iraqis are women. The minority is ruling ... Women must interfere in the affairs of men. We should take over.”

 It was hardly a statement I expected to hear in this place from these women. But I couldn’t forget it.

 “The minority is ruling.” Right. And not too well, it seems, either here or there.

 When men sit down to negotiate peace treaties -- when there’s even someone to negotiate with, which, given al-Qaeda, is not a luxury we seem to have anymore -- they disband armies and guard borders and hold military tribunals and form new governments and punish old ones. But they put no faces on the victims.

 When they tote up the cost of the war, they do not include the number of women raped, the number of families displaced, the number of schools bombed, or the number of babies without milk.

 The victors take their spoils, monitor the guns, forget the defenseless and leave the people to clean up the rubble. War becomes the daily dirge of the anonymous victims.

 But when you bring women together to discuss the effects of war, the things that need to be changed, the real problems of a war-torn society, the conversation takes a sudden turn.  

 At the first Iraqi-American dialogue convened by the Women’s Global Peace Initiative in New York on March 29, the differences were plain. The women’s first agenda did not concentrate on who did what or who profited or lost by the doing of it. “Take the oil. We don’t care about the oil,” one woman called across the room. “We never got any value from it anyway,” she went on. “Never mind yesterday,” another woman said in answer to the Sunni- Shi’ite tensions. “Forget who did what to whom. We must turn the page now. We must rebuild the country.”

 “And what is the first thing that must be done to rebuild the country?” we asked them. I sat with my hands over the keyboard, sure that the list would be long and varied. I was wrong. To a woman, the call was clear: “Take care of our children.”

 It was a sobering moment. Take care of our children. “Oh, them,” I thought. “The tiny, the forgotten, targets of this war.”

 Take care of the ones who now carry within themselves the sour taste of fear that came as bombs dropped through the dark sky shaking their houses, destroying their streets. Take care of the children, the ones who went cold as stone at the lossof brothers and fathers and dead playmates.

 Take care of the ones who felt the sweat of terror when the doors of the homes in which they were sure they were safe broke down in the middle of the night or the lights went out or their mothers wrapped their shawls around their heads and cried. Take care of the ones who went into psychic paralysis at the sight of blood and bodies. Take care of the ones who woke up one morning to find their lives completely disrupted for no apparent reason.

 Take care of the ones to whom then Secretary of State Colin Powell was apparently referring when a reporter asked him how many Iraqis had been killed or injured at that point in the war and his answer was, “That is a number in which I have absolutely no interest whatsoever.”

 But maybe he and we should all rethink that answer. Because these children do not feel “liberated” by this war; in these children the seeds of the next war have already been planted.

 The Iraqi women were very clear: the most injured of all in this war are the children of Iraq. “The war has made deep wounds that have become part of our souls,” another woman said. “They can never be forgotten. The living conditions, the lack of security is affecting everything the children do. They cannot even deliver newspapers anymore.”

 Their schooling has been interrupted. Even if the school buildings still stand, there are no supplies for them. And there are few people in them anyway. Teachers are dead. Classmates are gone from the area -- refugees somewhere or dead themselves. Most of all, their parents are afraid to send them out of the house even if the schools are undamaged.

 “Our childhood is killed in Iraq,” a woman said. “It is killed.”

The small jobs children once held to help with family expenses are gone now. No one buys flowers on the street now. No one drives a car whose windows they can wash.

 Drugs are flooding the streets now and drugs are the best and quickest way to ease the pain.

 The number of street children -- children whose parents are dead, whose extended families are fractured -- have multiplied beyond anything modern Iraq has ever known.

 Orphans are a commodity now in Iraq but orphanages are not. “We are taking care of the orphans, trying to give them love,” the woman said. “But they are traumatized. They don’t speak.”

 Recreational programs are a thing of the past, so children are restless or rebellious or simply bored with life.

 “Fifty percent of the bodies in the hospital are women and children,” the doctor said. “We are afraid that a large number of children will be affected by the depression of their mothers and the loss of their fathers and the poverty of their families.”

 The future of Iraq is at stake. But it is not the banking system the women are concerned about. It is the treasure of the nation that is being squandered, they know. It is their future. It is their children.

 The U.S. budget for fiscal year 2007, according to The National Priorities Project, earmarks 51 percent of all discretionary spending for military use. “Spending on the Iraq War in fiscal year 2006 alone will reach $96 billion,” the Project reports. (www.nationalpriorities.org)

 The Bush budget calls for the elimination or reduction of 141 domestic programs. Among other things, we cut the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants and Children by $200 million and the department of education by 9 percent and eliminate vocational education. “Level funding” is provided for other domestic programs.

 The overall cost of the war in Iraq for the United States is already being estimated at at least a trillion dollars. But so far not a penny of it is specified for the children. Neither theirs nor ours.

 “We see the prisoners’ rights,” another delegate said sadly, “but where are the rights of the children.”

 From where I stand, I can’t help but wonder that if we sold some of our weapons and used the money to buy crayons, food, houses and schools for Iraqi children, we could stop worrying about being terrorized ourselves. Indeed, the minority is ruling. Maybe the Iraqi woman’s idea about what to do about it wouldn’t be a bad one after all.

http://www.nationalcatholicreporter.org/fwis/

Today is Marshmallow Peeps Day

In case you think Easter is the only holiday being celebrated today, ask yourself whether Easter has its own website? I think not.

Marsmallow Peeps has a website. Yes. Those strange little confections with the gooey center and the odd crusty exterior that seems to have been rolled in pastel sand have a place where you can see what they've been doing lately.

http://www.marshmallowpeeps.com/index.html

Does Easter have a registered trademark? Ha!! Marshmallow Peeps does. In a day and age when a URL address means that you have a measure of importance somehow, somewhere, the Peeps have made their mark in cyberspace. Easter not so much.

There are Marshmallow Peeps recipes, a fan club, and clear indications from the number of cute buttons to click that you can enjoy Peeps on Valentine's Day, Halloween and Christmas too, as well as that other holiday celebrated at the same time, Easter. Who knew? I'm surprised that St. Patrick's Day, Fourth of July, and Sweetest Day haven't been included. 

A visit to the website revealed a whole world of Peeps you may not know exists. Peeps e-cards, Peeps icons, Peeps recipes. My personal favorite is Peeps fondue. Just the thought of dipping those triple sugary confections in chocolate should please any pancreas wasting away on salads and lean meats.

There is also a Peeps fan club. I joined. Yes, really. I may be their oldest member. I also signed up to get email alerts about any new Peeps recipes. Peeps and potatoes. Creamed Peeps and onions. There is a special area called Sneak Peeps. But they didn't have anything sneaky to peep at and suggested coming back another time.

You're probably familiar with all the Peeps pastel colors usually found peeping out of the grass in an Easter basket. Yellow, pink, blue, green, and purple come to mind. 

At the website you'll notice that visitors are encouraged to suggest other colors which might strike their fancy.  I lean towards burnt sienna, avocado green, and harvest gold which I noticed hadn't been suggested yet. Gun metal gray is nice, too Might as well jump in with both feet.

But hereI am going on and on about Marshmallow Peeps when you could be hunting them down yourselves, crawling around on all fours looking for all the secret places where they've been hidden. Remember how much fun it can be to find one, maybe two if you're lucky, several months from now, hardened to petrified perfection?

And today, when the lamb or ham is served at your holiday table, assuming Marshmallow Peeps Day is a holiday that you celebrate, remember that Easter wouldn't be Easter without them.

NIGHT ON THE PORCH

A friend of mine lives in a wonderful Victorian house with a long and wide front porch. Last night was the first night we could all sit out and enjoy an evening without frostbite or gale force winds.  Such are the vagaries of springtime weather when you live near Lake Michigan.

For almost six hours, their friends and neighbors stopped by to chat and nibble on platters of fresh vegetables, cheese of all kinds, fish salad, prosciutto [I'll check the spelling later] with sliced pears, green and black olives, sweet and spicy sausage, you get the drift. All washed down with a variety of extraordinary wines. Or in my case, Target's house brand diet tea.

In the final hour a plate of sweets and a huge tray of very large strawberries appeared. Along with chocolate to dip them in. 

A discussion of chocolate ensued. Personally, and I'm not ashamed to admit this, I shop at Walgreen's. Regardless of the medicinal value of dark chocolate, I have suddenly developed a taste for the unhealthy milk chocolate version made by Dove. They have huge plastic bags of the stuff in little foil wrapped squares that serve to abate my frequent cravings during the day.

While admitting that Dove doesn't do chocolate too badly, the other people present revealed an encyclopedic knowledge of all things chocolate that left me cowering in a corner. Apparently I was sitting amongst a group of isomer junkies who could 1] discourse on single source availability and their countries of origin  2] confess to past intimacies with every esoteric, out of the way chocolatier in the metropolitan area, and 3] toss off cocoa percentages like mathematicians.

Next time I'm going to steer the conversation to mustard. I can talk honey dijon and spicy horseradish with anyone.

IT'S ONLY MONEY

A bunch of people in Missouri just won a huge lottery last week. I believe they will each get eight million dollars apiece after all the taxes. 

Vice president Dick Cheney's income was more than eight million dollars last year.

Is there a lottery we don't know about?

THE DUKE LACROSSE TEAM -- AN IRONIC METAPHOR?

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

   -- Langston Hughes


Writing about the Duke debacle, one of Bloomberg's syndicated columnists invoked the rhetorical question asked by poet Langston Hughes, whose query presaged the eruption of the civil rights movement in the sixties.

As the days and weeks since the lacrosse team incident have passed, the resentment born of poverty and generations of dreams deferred, because of race and lack of education, has bubbled up to the surface once again in Durham -- a small city of 148,000 which is fairly evenly split along racial lines.

The incident can no longer be defined as the result of male college athletes continuing their historically misogynistic treatment of women.

Race is clearly driving it now. Be assured that if a typical Duke coed, white and upper middle class, had gone to the police and claimed she had been sexually assaulted by members of the lacrosse team, the crime would have remained a local incident. Such is the status quo of most assaults perpetrated on women by men on campuses across America.

But not in a southern town, especially in this sensitive day and age, when the accused males are white athletes and the woman is black.

A black woman at a recent press conference on the North Carolina Central University campus, where the alleged victim attends class, wanted to know why she had been taken to Duke hospital for her rape kit exam.

Clearly, anything having to do with the university was suspect, not just the three young lacrosse players as claimed by the victim. Essentially the angry questioner impugned the integrity of the hospital personnel because she assumed they would be part of a cover up, since they were white.

To his credit, the white district attorney, Mike Nifong, who has been obsequious in his deference to the black community while handling this case, refused to dignify her question with an answer.  

One player hasbeen suspended, the coach has resigned, and a highly ranked team's entire season has come to a premature end. All despite a lack of DNA evidence. More and more the young woman's accusations are beginning to look like she said, he said.

Many lacrosse players have left campus worried for their safety. There are concerns about drive by shootings aimed at Duke students still living in the area surrounding the house where the incident took place.

Rightly or wrongly, one of the finest lacrosse teams in the country has been dismantled by one woman's -- so far unsubstantiated -- allegations.

The question to ask is -- whose dreams have been deferred now? Whose hopes and inspirations have been put on hold? Who will feel the anger of suppression, the frustration of inequity and the impotent rage caused by racial prejudice?

Langston Hughes' poem, so spare and simple, yet so devastatingly powerful, takes on a new, and surely unintended, meaning.

PASS THIS ON OR YOU WILL DIE

I have received this message so many times I've lost track.  So instead of deleting it, I'm putting it here with my own comments.


Without a doubt one of the nicest good luck forwards I have received. Hope it works for you -- and me! [I HOPE I NEVER SEE THIS AGAIN]
         
You have 6 minutes  [OR YOU WILL DIE]

There's some mighty fine advice in these words, even if you're not superstitious.  [WTF DOES THIS MEAN? IF YOU ARE SUPERSTITIOUS, IT'S MORE MEANINGFUL?]

This has been sent to you for good luck from the Anthony Robbins organization. [LIKE THEY HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO].

It has been sent around the world ten times so far. [TEN TIMES AROUND THE WORLD ON A BICYCLE IS A LOT. ON THE INTERNET, NOT SO MUCH.]

Do not keep this message. [OR YOU WILL DIE]

It must leave your hands in 6 MINUTES. [OR YOU WILL DIE]

Otherwise you will get a very unpleasant surprise. [IN CASE YOU MISSED IT -- YOU WILL DIE]

This is true, even if you are not superstitious, agnostic, or otherwise faith impaired.  [YOU WILL DIE HARDER IF YOU AREN'T]

ONE. Give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully.

GIVE THE JERK WHO STOLE YOUR PARKING PLACE THE FINGER AND SMILE
         
TWO. Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.

AS YOU GET OLDER THEY MIGHT JUST TURN AND ASK YOU TO SHUT THE HELL UP FOR ONCE
         
THREE. Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have or sleep all you want.

THE REASON FOR FOR THIS ADVICE WOULD BE?
         
FOUR. When you say, "I love you," mean it.

DON'T JUST SAY IT LIKE YOU USUALLY DO -- TO GET LAID.
         
FIVE. When you say, "I'm sorry," look the person in the eye.

AND SAY, "ASSHOLE."
         
SIX. Be engaged at least six months before you get married.

SO YOU CAN MAKE SURE ALL THE BLOOD TESTS ARE NEGATIVE.
         
SEVEN. Believe in love at first sight.

THEN REMEMBER THAT LOVE IS ALSO BLIND.

EIGHT. Never laugh at anyone's dream. People who don't have dreams don't have much.

THERE'S ALWAYS INTERNET PORN
         
NINE. Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt but it's the only way to live life completely.

PAIN IS THE NEW OXYCONTIN

TEN. In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling.

SAVE THAT FOR THE DIVORCE.
         
ELEVEN. Don't judge people by their relatives.

AS LONG AS THEY HAVE MONEY.
         
TWELVE. Talk slowly but think quickly.

YOU MAY HAVE TO EXPLAIN THAT YOU'RE NOT HAVING A STROKE WHEN THE PARAMEDICS ARRIVE.
         
THIRTEEN. When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask, "Why do you want to know?"

THEN SAY, "ASSHOLE."
         
FOURTEEN. Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk..

HERE AGAIN MONEY IS A GREAT LUBRICATOR

FIFTEEN. Say "bless you" when you hear someone sneeze.

OR THEY WILL DIE!
         
SIXTEEN. When you lose, don't lose the lesson

YOU'RE A LOSER
         
SEVENTEEN. Remember the three R's: Respect for self; Respect for others; and responsibility for all your actions.

IT WORKED FOR MARION BARRY, BILL CLINTON, MIKE BROWN, AND SO MANY GREAT AMERICANS.
         
EIGHTEEN. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.

YOU CAN ALWAYS END IT BY EMAIL
         
NINETEEN. When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.

BLAME SOMEONE ELSE
         
TWENTY. Smile when picking up the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.

HE'LL THINK YOU'RE LAUGHING AT HIM.
         
TWENTY-ONE. Spend some time alone.

NAKED ON A PARK BENCH

****************

Now, here's the FUN part!  [DO THIS OR YOU WILL DIE]
         
Send this to at least 5 people and your life will improve.

          1-4 people: Your life will improve slightly:

GASOLINE WILL DROP TEN CENTS.

          5-9 people: Your life will improve to your liking:

STEAK WILL NOT AFFECT MY CHOLESTEROL. NEITHER WILL FULL STRENGTH BUTTER, SOUR CREAM, REAL ICE CREAM, WHIPPED CREAM OR CHOCOLATE.

          9-14 people: You will have at least 5 surprises in the next 3 weeks:

MY MORTGAGE WILL BE PAID FOR BY SOMEONE ELSE, THE FLOWERS WILL BE PLANTED BY SOMEONE ELSE, THE GUTTERS WILL BE CLEANED BY SOMEONE ELSE, THE GARBAGE WILL BE TAKEN OUT BY SOMEONE ELSE, THE TOILET PAPER WILL BE REPLACED BY SOMEONE ELSE.

          15 and above: Your life will improve drastically and everything you ever dreamed of will begin to take shape:

RUSSELL CROWE WILL HAVE MY BABY, THE NEW BENTLEY CONVERTIBLE WILL APPEAR IN MY DRIVEWAY, THE COST OF CABLE WILL DROP TO A BUCK THREE EIGHTY, SETTING UP MY DSL WILL TAKE TEN MINUTES LIKE THEY SAID THE FIRST TIME, MY LIFE WILL BE ON REWIND TO 1978. 
         
A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.

SO WHEN A STRANGER REACHES OUT AND PUTS HIS HAND ON YOUR LEFT BREAST, DO NOT BE ALARMED.

Do not keep this message!

OR YOU WILL DIE!!!!!!

NO DNA MATCH TO DUKE LAX PLAYERS

That's right. There were no DNA matches to go along with the accusations of sexual assault. Nothing from the players was found on the exotic dancer who filed the complaint. Nothing from the woman herself, i.e., her blood, saliva, etc., was found in the bathroom where the attack supposedly took place. Nothing resembling the latex and lubrication of a condom was found either.

Apparently the cops swabbed every orifice of the accuser that could have been penetrated for purposes of lacrosse team gratification. So it's looking like the claims of sexual assault may be bogus. If they are bogus, what were those women thinking? That they wouldn't be exposed for the frauds they may turn out to be?

But the team should still be punished for underage drinking and the stupidity of hiring a stripper. Because false accusations could and did happen. Because hiring a stripper should fall under conduct unbecoming scholarship athletes. Because those lucky few whose entire educations have been paid for should be held to a higher standard. And because the team's lack of judgment brought disgrace, however undeserved, to the university.

And if the accusations turn out to be false, throw the book at that bitch. Reinstate the coach. Let the team play the rest of their season, less the two games they had to forfeit for the underage drinking. But uphold the suspension of the kid who wrote the inflammatory emails about killing strippers and skinning them.

Meanwhile, there will be people who will claim that the crime lab has whitewashed [pardon the expression] the results. Or falsified the testing. Whatever. Nobody is going to come out a winner on this one.

Duke understandably caved under a lot of local and national pressure. They've been accused of not responding quickly enough. But, with the passage of time, their response may have been unnecessarily speedy. There is enough bad boy history among college athletes to justify the decisions that were made. Now we're reminded that there are enough lying women to make you realize that the more things change the more they stay the same.

Two words -- Tawana Brawley. A New York grand jury found her accusations of sexual assault by six white members of law enforcement not credible. Subsequently three of the men she accused sued for defamation and won. 

It ain't over till it's over.

The Duke Thing Ain't Over

Strippergate continues.

The Duke lacrosse team as a collective unit still claims that no sexual assaults of a stripper occurred on the night in question.

The Durham prosecutor, attorney general, head cop, whatever his title, is just as confident that something did happen. When the DNA results get back, he plans to charge some players.

The DNA looms very large in this legend.

Now, however, there's something new. The integrity of one of the women is being questioned.  You be the judge.

There has been a report that the woman who called police on that same night, in the same area of the assault, claiming to have been insulted by students yelling racial epithets as she walked by, was -- TA-DA! -- the second stripper. Hmmm. Why would she do that? To set the stage for something else?

Unlike the first stripper who claims she was sexually assaulted, the second woman is not a student anywhere. She does however have an arrest record. Allegedly. Aha. The plot thickens.

Meanwhile, you gotta give Duke credit. Instead of waiting for the DNA to come back, they're kicking ass and taking names.  You also have to ask, if race weren't the subtext, would they have made the same decisions?

So far, the LAX team's season is over. [LAX = lacrosse, get it?] Their legitimate chances for a national championship are toast. I wonder if cancelling the rest of their games is a first for a Division I team ranked as high as Duke was this year. They were expected to meet Johns Hopkins again in the NCAA finals. Not going to happen.

The coach of the team has resigned. Or, if you prefer, the president of the university supposedly asked for his resignation and he obliged. The trail of bad behavior by players has to end somewhere.  But usually the coach gets a pass. Unless he's caught on film drinking and groping coeds at a party. Not this time. The buck not only made it all the way up to him, but it bitch slapped his sorry ass.

One of the lascrosse players sent out an inflammatory email shortly after the night in question that was disturbing for its sexual implications and Hannibal Lecter-like message about killing and skinning strippers, so he's been suspended. 

Like all schools of higher learning with the required layers of bureaucracy, committees and commissions have been established to determine how and why the team got so far out of whack. With racism running like a river of mud underneath it all.

If these blue ribbon panels discover that the women have been lying and the whole mess was a hoax, perpetrated by some nasty ass females bent on showing those smarty pants rich boys a thing or two, there will be more lawsuits -- this time for rushing to judgment.

In retrospect, will ending the team's season, suspending a player, and firing the coach turn out to be just the knee jerk response of a predominantly white university feeling pressured to do something now about hundreds of years of racial injustice?

Or will the DNA actually point a guilty finger?

I can't wait. 

Do you have your Easter outfit?

If you're Jewish, probably not.

On the other hand, did anybody see Mary J. Blige's outfit on Saturday Night Live tonight? The show that Antonio Banderas should have thought twice about hosting? I was intrigued by the way her skin tight black leather lowriders melted seamlessly into her six inch catch me f*ck me shoes -- but mostly I was amused by the circle of bare skin surrounding her target rich belly button and the subtle open jacket styling she'd chosen to wear over the snapfront bra that barely covered her titillatingly bare chest.  The only thing missing was a top hat and she could have been the ringmaster in a porn movie.

Do you think I could get something like it in pink? Or that subtle green Martha Stewart likes for dessert plates? Add a big white flower, some pearls, and I've got me an outfit for Easter.

Writing and Watching TV -- Like Walking and Chewing Gum

How do you know when you're no longer best friends?

This probing question was asked this morning on pre-dawn television and darn if it didn't make me think about all my former best friends during the forty-five minutes it took me to get out of bed.

[By the way, Katie Couric is going to be making $60,000 a DAY in her demanding new job as a newsreader. I have no problem with that, since I also aspire to excessive weath, although my fiduciary clock is ticking. I do have a problem with someone named Katie doing Walter Chronkite's job. She should change her name to something more appropriate for the solemnity of the position. Heath, Alexandra, Mrs. Linklater.]

Patsy, my very best friend from birth until I was ten years old was taken away by a moving van. Our friendship was rent asunder. I think that's the phrase. I may be wrong. I used to think the phrase "various and sundry" things was actually "various unsundry" things.

She and her family moved out east the day before my family moved to the suburbs. I remember her dad got a thousand dollar raise and that was enough for them to pack up and leave. Staying in touch was almost out of the question. Long distance phone calls were limited to announcements of deaths and births by my frugal mother, so there wouldn't be any free range chats about little boys between two little ten year old girls. Keeping in touch by snail mail about our mutual crush on Ralphie Regabuto wasn't going to maintain the friendship in any meaningful way.

Dear Patsy, Today I played dolls. It was fun. I thought about the time we saw Raphie walking home from school. What are you doing?  Love, Mrs. L

So, like most little kids, we got sidetracked with other things. Our lives, for instance. 

My second best friend didn't happen until high school.  Before that I had a series of friends that I thought were best friends, but they didn't stand the test of time. Or stealing my clothes.

Ann and I became best friends at the end of sophomore year in high school.  We were very close all through the summer before college. I was dating my first true love and learning that the only reason girls wore bras was so boys could take them off.  She was dating a guy who used to climb up the trellis on the side of the garage to reach her room and have sex with her.  Her only comment  the first time it happened was, "It's not that big a deal."  Apparently she learned to make it sound like it was a big deal because he came back for a whole lot more.

[For some reason I'm reminded of today's announcement about the newly discovered 385 million year-old fossil of a five-to-nine foot scaly thing with an alligator head that trolled the ancient rivers --  the one that is supposed to be the missing link between fish from the ocean to animals on land. Apparently scientists claim this is an important link to the little tiny salamanders which grew to be huge dinosaurs, which in turn, after a lot of practice, led to the appearance of humans. My only question is how do they know that this creature wasn't going from land to water, instead of water to land? And how do they know it didn't just look that way because it lived in shallow rivers and could get around better with an alligator fish like body designed to navigate muddy river bottoms. Sheesh. somebody has to come up with a better answer to Darwin, but so far Creationism is pretty sucky.]

When it came time to go to college, Ann and I managed to continue our friendship with a lively correspondence from her school in California and mine in North Carolina. The next summer we went to a dude ranch together and one night she felt the need to tell me something after the evening festivities.

She told me that my boyfriend -- now my former boyfriend -- had called her up for a date when I was out of town the summer before we left for college. I already knew this. He had asked me ahead of time and I had said he could take my girlfriends out.  Well, I had no idea she'd take the lessons she'd learned from her trellis climbing friend and use them on MY boyfriend.  Not that MY boyfriend was innocent in their little caper.

Now a year later, she felt this uncontrollable urge to tell me what they did on their date. Why she decided to tell me -- a death wish? -- remains a mystery.

As soon as she finished sharing, I remember thinking THIS IS THE END OF OUR FRIENDSHIP.

Which brings me to the end of another friendship. One that has been dying like flies do when you pull off their wings. We haven't been best friends for awhile, although this past Christmas she just sent me a picture of the two of us in a frame that says FRIENDS FOREVER.

When I got the picture I thought, hmmm, how about FRIENDS NOT SO MUCH ANYMORE.

The end of that friendship has taken a few years. But it came to a head a few months ago when one of my children FINALLY told me why she didn't like this woman, something I never understood. Her dislike stemmed from something my friend had said to her when my daughter was twelve. Basically, it was "You aren't good enough for my son."  Her son and my daughter had hit it off during a vacation. And my friend, who had plans for him to be the next president, didn't think my daughter would make the best first lady for her perfect boy. So she made a pre emptive strike.  Had I known what she said, I would have made my own pre-emptive strike.

So after years of ignoring her habit of fibbing about EVERYTHING, her annoying bossiness, her sense of entitlement and the recent discovery of what she said to my daughter, the neon lights started flashing, FRIENDSHIP OVER!!! FRIENDSHIP OVER!!!  A couple of weeks ago when she called to say we need to catch up, I decided not to call her back.

[Have you taken a gander at the piece of ancient manuscript they just found that purportedly absolves Judas of betraying Jesus and makes it seem like he kissed him because they were gay?  How could anybody read anything on that disintegrating scrap of rag?  It could be a grocery list. Ten years from now there will be yet another interpretation that claims Paul's real namewas Art.]

Remind me not to watch TV while I'm trying to write important thoughts in my journal.  It's so distracting.

THE GIRL THING

I didn't get into the girl thing until late. I was deep into my fifties when I started hiring people to re-tread my hands and feet and style my hair on more than a semi-annual basis. Then, as I began to sprout undesired growths in unwanted places, I graduated to waxing, and I've been hooked on being female ever since. Something about pouring hot melted candle snizzle on various body parts that makes me feel so very feminine.

Most of my rehab work for the last few years has been done in the spa at my healthclub.  But my club closed after 25 years and the two people who loaded up their 401k's at my expense went to two different places, where they work as independent contractors.

Being an independent contractor just means I don't call their places of work, I call THEM directly on their cell phones to make appointments. This usually means that instead of talking to some gumsmacking receptionist type who tells me when someone is available, I deal with the people who actually do the work themselves. I don't like this forced intimacy. Doing my hair and nails is one thing. Talking to me on the phone is another. I like a little distance between me and them when I'm making appointments. So I don't have to hear what's going on in their lives and they don't ask about mine.

The conversation starts with me stating my time preference. Why bother. I should just ask them when they want me to come in because they're never available when I am. But they are available any other time, especially when I'm not.  And so it goes. They try to get me to change my mind and we finally agree on something.  Have I mentioned their accents? Charming and delightful until you're trying to understand each other.

Unfortunately, after making all these arrangements, they usually call me back to change the time to the one I originally wanted in the first place. Except that I've already changed all my plans to get to the appointment we agreed upon at the time they wanted. Assuming I understood any of what they were saying at all. And vice versa.

In a nutshell, this sucks.

On top of all the phone calls, I bought some fancy schmancy hair products from the salon that my hair lady said she'd keep just to use on me.

When I showed up for my wash and set the other day, two things happened.  First of all my stylist wasn't there. She'd gone to visit a sick relative and assumed I would wait for her.  Yeah, I've got nothing but time.

To mollify me, she called me twice from wherever she was to say she'd be right there. She was only two minutes away. That's right up there with the check's in the mail, I don't have herpes, and you can't get pregnant if I pull out.

While I was waiting for her, tick tock tick tock, she suggested that I get my hair shampooed.  So I told the shampoo girl that I wanted to use the shampoo products that I had purchased from them for use on my hair and my hair alone at the salon. I wanted my special shampoo, my special conditioner and some other stuff that was so special I didn't even know what it did, but it was called something like rejuvenating hydrolyzing do-dah.

They couldn't find it. So I said I would wait for my hair stylist to find it when she arrived.

She was half an hour late.  Of course, if I'd already had my hair washed it would have dried by the time she arrived. But I had waited so she could use my special shampoo products. That I paid for. That make my hair so beeyoutifull that no one will notice any of the imperfections I have, which are too numerous to list in this small space. But wrinkles are the tip of the iceberg.

She couldn't find anything anywhere.

Earlier, while I was waiting for my stylist to arrive, my younger daughter called my cell to chat.  I went outdoors to enjoy the nice weather and avoid big ears, while she caught me up on her life and I waited for the person who was roostering up mine. If you think I meant rooster, you would be wrong.  I groused about my displeasure over the missing shampoo, my delayed appointment, and how I didn't like having to deal directly with the person who does my hair.

Just as I finished my tirade something made me turn around and I saw that one of the people who works in the salon was outside smoking a cigarette and could hear everything I said.  Oh, good, now I wouldn't have to explain my disappointment in a nice way.  She would be sure to convey how pissed off I was later.

My hair got washed with an inferior product I'm sure. But it looks fine, dammit.  My plan was to take all those shampoo products with me, but I have to wait now for them to be found or replaced.  Then I'll take them. And never go back. Except that I know my stylist will call and ask why I haven't been coming in.  And I'll have to deal with explaining myself to her instead of just walking away from it the way I would if I were going to Elizabeth Arden or Sassoon or Oprah's guy.

This whole thing is just one more reason why I hate being a woman.  It takes so freaking much of my time. 

HURRY UP SPRING I'M TIRED OF WAITING

This herd of tulips, from a couple of years ago, was blooming in one of the postage stamp patches of land outside a four-story Chicago brownstone. My own tulip [yes, there's only one left thanks to the squirrels who went on a rampage and left just a single one behind after their feeding frenzy] looks like it's got three potential blossoms this year. If the rabbits don't eat them first, I will try to produce a photo -- when and if they bloom.

HAPPY BABY ALERT

My cute nephew.  Thanks to my brother. 

CUTE TODDLER ALERT

Some photos of my niece.  Thanks to my brother. 

WHY I SHOULDN'T READ THE NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE

Today is April first. I just finished reading the January 22nd issue of the New York Times Magazine. No joke. You do the math.

I am left with the feeling that I've been living on an alternate planet, one that I thought functioned adequately for my needs. Clearly, however, after reading the last page, it becomes obvious that my planet lacks the light, sound, varied textures and bright colors of the one in. . . THE MAGAZINE.  

My planet is a trip to Wal-Mart by comparison. On. . . THE MAGAZINE'S planet, everything matters more. Every word has greater meaning. Every drawing more impact. Every photo more nuance. Every headline requires more intelligence to plumb.

Even the Letters to the Editor seem to be written by more interesting, inspiring people. A graduate of West Point, stationed in Iraq, takes time from his task of preventing roadside bombs from turning his men into roadkill to sum up his well-argued premise with an interesting view of the plight of Muslims.  

UNLESS A STRONG, VISIONARY LEADER RESOLVES THE DISSONANCE BETWEEN THE REAL SOURCE OF THEIR SUFFERING [OTHER MUSLIMS] AND THEIR USUAL SCAPEGOATS [ISRAEL AND THE UNITED STATES], THE ARAB PEOPLE WILL CONTINUE TO SUFFER.

Another letter taking issue with the writer of a discourse on recent developments in ART left me drowning in its wake:

TO REGARD THE HOOPLA SURROUNDING NEO RAUCH AND HIS STUPEFYING RETURN TO A QUASI SOCIALIST REALIST FIGURATIVE ART OF MORE THAN HALF A CENTURY AGO, AS ANYTHING MORE THAN A PASSING FANCY, IS NOT ONLY A SLAP IN THE FACE TO THE GREAT ACHIEVEMENTS MADE IN THE LAST CENTURY BUT ALSO A DISGRACE IN THE POSSIBLITIES INHERENT IN THE FUTURE OF PAINTING ITSELF.

I wanted to jump up and shout -- YOU BETCHA!! Before realizing I had no idea what anybody was talking about.

Finding a short essay on text messaging was a relief after the Letters to the Editor. It caught my eye because I finally got a cell phone last year and have the sore thumbs to go with it.  But this being. . . THE MAGAZINE, I should have known that their discussion of this shorthand communication would include a text messaged version of Paradise Lost sent between British scholars -- for no other reason than those wacky Brits can.
  
The reduction of one of the classics into twenty-first century minimalist communication is fascinating -- in a sign of the Apocalypse kind of way.

"Devl kikd outa hevn coz jelus of jesus&strts war. pd'off wiv god so corupts man [md by god] wiv apel, devl stays serpnt 4hole life&man ruind. Woe un2mnkind."

I found myself having a flashback to the mid-sixties. After all these years. why did the mention of that ancient poem have to come back to haunt me like a recovered memory? In my defense, I aced my college course in Milton, which was English major code for "We will be reading Paradise Lost."

With all due respect to those people who have spent their entire professorial lives dissecting that endless drivel, I considered it a completely useless waste of words on the page, written by a mean-spirited old man. 

My "A" was achieved by cracking the professor's code: Figure out what he wants us to know for the exams. I chose to appeal to his vanity, remembering word for word details of what he said in class -- gleaned from the pages and pages of notes I took each lecture, not from any fascination I had for the subject, but to stem the tide of boredom. The night before the midterm and the final I simply went through Paradise Lost with my notes. And spit back what he said in my bluebook. I never actually read the poem. The best part was when the grad student who sat next to me leaned over to ask how I got an A and she only got an A-. 

See what reading. . . THE MAGAZINE can do to a person?  If I hadn't read that issue I probably wouldn't have had to think about Paradise Lost ever again.

I also wouldn't have remembered how much I longed to get into the course on Shakespeare's sonnets instead, which never seemed to be available when I could take it.

The professor who taught the sonnets also taught Shakespeare's plays. He toyed with me the day he took one of the sonnets and resuscitated the language on the page with an extraordinary and delightful interpretation. Just to give us a taste. I know my life would have taken a different direction, if only I could have studied the sonnets and never, ever heard of Paradise Lost.

But I digress.