Guilty With An Explanation

Thoughts on Love and Suffering

2011-12-18T19:33:00.000-08:00

The great philosopher, Moses Mendelssohn, 1729-1786, was one of the most esteemed minds in the Age of Enlightenment in Germany. Referred to as "the Socrates of Berlin," his intellectual brilliance and moral superiority were renowned and he won many prestigious prizes. Unfortunately, he was also notably unattractive as he had a grotesque hunchback.

One day, while visiting a merchant named Gugenheim in Hamburg, he glimpsed the merchant's beautiful, blue eyed blonde daughter, Frumtje, and fell hopelessly in love with her. Her father, eager for a match, had told her of Mendelssohn's reputation, but the first time she saw him she was so repulsed by his misshapen appearance that she burst into tears and hid in her room to await his departure.

Moses gathered his courage and climbed the stairs to speak with her one last time. He had never seen a woman as beautiful as she, but all his attempts to engage her in conversation failed. Finally, he softly asked her, "Is it my hump?" She nodded.

"Let me tell you a story then," he said. "Do you believe marriages are made in heaven?"

"Yes," she answered, still looking at the floor. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do," he replied. “As you know, when a child is born, proclamation is made in heaven of the name of the person he or she is to marry. When I was born, my future wife was also named, but at the same time it was said that she herself would be humpbacked. ‘O God,’ I said, ‘a deformed girl will become embittered and unhappy. A woman should be beautiful and well-made in every way. Please, Lord, give me the hump and let her be fair and perfect.’”

Frumpje was so touched that she looked into his eyes and saw his loving soul shining out at her. She gave him her hand and soon became his devoted wife. They enjoyed a blissful marriage and had six children, all of whom were brilliantly successful in their various fields.

This story always makes me cry a little. I find that there is much to cry about these days, both in my personal life and in the world at large. Every day I sit at Flip's bedside and bear witness to his ongoing disintegration as his illness claims him at a shocking rate. I have begun to wonder if perhaps I was the one who was supposed to be so afflicted, but that Flip begged to take on the disease himself to spare me, and because he knew that I could not endure it with as much grace as he does.

The Buddhist practice of Tonglen, assuming another's pain, is also very much in my mind. Its purpose is to awaken our compassion by connecting with suffering, our own and that of others. The practice dissolves the armor of self-protection we create around ourselves by reversing the usual avoidance of suffering while seeking pleasure. If we can accomplish this, we become liberated from the self-imposed prison of selfishness. We perceive a larger view of reality and learn to use our personal suffering as the path to compassion for all beings.

I am trying to teach myself to take on Flip's suffering, to somehow ease it for him, but this is way beyond any capabilities I presently possess. But did Flip, like Moses Mendelssohn, take on the terrible infirmity intended for me, and is he even now breathing in my pain, doing Tonglen for me? I cannot know the answer but I do know that if he could, he would. And perhaps he did.

OPEN LETTER TO DIRTBAG

2011-12-05T16:08:00.000-08:00

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I have painstakingly deleted every one of your comments on posts going back two years, and will continue to delete any you make here. I have also traced your IP address and reported your activities to Blogger. What you are doing amounts to harassment, stalking and even persecution and you need to stop now. If you do not, I will have you arrested. I am serious. STOP. NOW.

Morality Play

2011-11-10T17:22:00.000-08:00

Students at Penn State are rioting because their beloved football coach, Joe Paterno, was fired for not acting nearly a decade ago when he knew that his assistant coach, Jerry Sandusky, was molesting children. Pennsylvania's two U.S. senators quickly withdrew his nomination for the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian honor.

His defenders cite the fact that he, himself, was not a child molester, and should therefore be held blameless. I don't agree. I feel strongly that he was wrong not to inform the police of Sandusky's ugly secret because as Edmund Burke said, "All that is needed for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing." He enabled heinous crimes against helpless children, so he is guilty even though he did not personally commit those crimes. Morality must begin with each of us. We are our brothers' and sisters' keepers, and decency dictates that we look out for those who cannot protect themselves.

Our country is rapidly eroding every sense of responsibility for others and becoming an arid place in which people care only for themselves and their own families. This is not only profoundly unconscionable, it is impractical; we cannot continue for long in a climate of every man for himself (and the devil take the hindmost.)

No one would dispute that it's sad to see a man with great leadership abilities, a living legend esteemed by many, go down in flames. But blaming the University for destroying Paterno's legacy begs the issue. No one can destroy another's legacy. He did that himself by not acting impeccably for all those years in which numerous children were abused. Paterno sowed the seeds of his own destruction. Poison cannot be contained in one aspect of ones life and hidden away from the light forever. It festers and seeps out, gradually infesting everything one does, rotting from within.

This story has epic qualities like a Greek tragedy or an Arthur Miller play, but everyone's life is epic, whether played out on a ball field in front of millions, or lived quietly away from the spotlight. Every human life offers the same choices, no matter how they are presented: Do we do what is right and honorable or do we not? Like Joe Paterno, we are always free to choose, but we should remember that those choices, large and small, will confront us sooner or later. The consequences we experience are always up to us. Life may seem unfair, but it isn't. We get what we deserve. We are not punished for our sins, but by them.

"Do good with what thou hast, or it will do thee no good." William Penn, Founder of Pennsylvania.

Hanged by his own Petard

2011-11-06T22:17:00.000-08:00

Mr. Chu was caught half-in and half-out of someone else's room after his latest theft. The poles on his wheelchair got stuck, and the staff left him there for at least an hour. There was much merriment in the nursing home, even among those whose life's work is helping others. It was like watching a beetle on its back without righting it. I murmured, "Crime doesn't pay" as I walked by, and he ignored me. A little schadenfreude, anyone?

Fast Times and the Chinese Wheelchair Kleptomaniac

2011-11-04T19:41:00.000-07:00

Mr. Chu is the stuff of Wanted posters. A desperado. A one-man crime wave on wheels. He whips around the nursing home all day long, in and out of rooms, stealing things from other residents while paddling his wheelchair with one foot. Since Flip spends all his time walking back and forth in the hall, his room is easy pickings. To date, Mr. Chu has taken his eyeglasses, his prescription Ray Ban sunglasses (multiple times,) his CD boom box, which now has a broken antenna and barely works, at least five times a day, his portable CD player, 15 or 20 CDs, various items of clothing, some of them never worn and never found again, strangely, a book of photos of Los Angeles taken from the air, his toiletry kit (countless times,) his shoes, sneakers and Crocs, and various treats I have brought him which were stationed on his bedside table.

Some of the doorways now have thick metal bars across them, near the top, since Mr. Chu's wheelchair has two long poles attached to it. Unfortunately, this won't work in Flip's room as Flip is over 6'3" and wouldn't be able to get in and out without hitting his head. Yesterday, several staff members ambushed Mr. Chu and removed a veritable Santa's toy sack from behind him, all of which they had to return to a dozen or more people who were missing items. It was a good day for small gains, until the market tanked.

Today I saw him maneuver his chair into a room with barred doorway and then flounder, unable to wheel himself out again. It was oddly satisfying. I have never had the slightest desire to hunt or trap animals, but it suggested a predator caught in a bear trap. I even related to the hunter's elation for the first time, briefly. Later, one of the aides brought back the bottom of Flip's CD boom box on which I had written his name in black marker, clearly a trophy since it serves no purpose without the rest of the unit. I wonder if he was a cat burglar before he was in a wheelchair. Or maybe a politician. Habits never die. Perhaps the wheelchair is just a ruse and he can run like the wind.

It would be romantic to think of Mr. Chu as a tropical tradewind, but he never gives anyone anything. He only takes, and acts defiant when confronted with his purloined booty. I assume he can't help it, but it's getting old. I wish he would find another way to entertain himself. Still, it's endlessly fascinating to observe the many forms of wackiness that afflict people. I wonder what I'll be like in a few years.

The Dragon and his Wrath

2011-11-03T10:31:00.001-07:00

A 23-year old woman in Texas has released a video she made of her father beating her with a belt when she was 16. As if that were not bad enough, her father is a judge who decides child abuse cases. Hillary Adams, who suffers from cerebral palsy, was caught downloading pirated music on her computer but was often beaten by her father, which was why she secretly recorded the incident.

She has received a great deal of support since the video went viral. She claims that her motive in releasing it was not revenge, but a desperate attempt to get her father the help he needs. Her mother, who is also in the video aiding her husband's abuse of their daughter, divorced him after 22 years, blaming his violence on an addiction which she did not identify, calling it "a family secret."

The judge has received death threats but insists he did nothing wrong in disciplining his daughter. I beg to differ. I am adamantly opposed to hitting ones children for any reason and consider it a hideously traumatic form of bullying. Violence at the hands of those who are supposed to love and protect us has the emotional effect of locking a child inside a box with no way out. There is no excuse for treating children like enemies.

When I was 16, I was going steady with a boy my parents disliked. He was a kind and gentle boy as well as good looking and fun, and he treated me with great care. He was also the captain of our high school football team. The reason my parents didn't want me to date him was because he was a Catholic from a working class family. My father was a lawyer and my family was Jewish, although they didn't practice the religion at all. The family credo was that we were "just American" and I never identified as a Jew; yet when I began dating boys, suddenly I was supposed to date only Jewish boys. It seemed like bait-and-switch to me.

My parents met secretly with my boyfriend's parents and my mother informed me that his mother had said, "Susan is a very nice girl, but we want (our son) to marry a Catholic girl." I was ordered to break up with him but we cared deeply for each other, so we went underground. One of his teammates who was Jewish picked me up for dates, my boyfriend picked up his friend's girl, and we switched partners later. Everything was fine until the night my mother, listening in on an extension phone, realized that we were still seeing each other. She told my father, who gave me the worst beating of my life.

I ran out the door and down the street but he jumped into his sports car and sped after me, catching me a block away. He threw me into the car and drove home, where I jumped out and tried to run again. He grabbed me and beat me with his fists until I fell down in the garage while my mother, standing on the steps between the garage and the laundry room, said "Don't kill her. Don't kill her." This was a valid warning as my father had been a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth. Finally, I was allowed to crawl to my room, where nobody checked on me all night to see if I was still living.

In the morning, my mother stopped me at the door and informed me that I couldn't go to school "looking like that," as if it were my fault. She kept me home for nearly two weeks while my bruises healed and then gave me a note stating that I had been sick. She looked deeply into my eyes, conveying wordlessly that if I told anyone, I would be a bad person. I never did.

The incident was never mentioned again, and I'm positive that like Judge Adams, my father believed he had done nothing wrong. I believe as strongly that violence never changes minds or hearts and that only kindness and respect can do that. I still do not consider religion or race important in choosing ones life partner or friends and have always felt that we learn little from those whose backgrounds are identical to our own. The world's people constitute a vast smorgasbord of cultures and appearances, knowledge and world views, all of which are wasted when we cleave only to our own kind.

There are a few animals in nature which eat their young. I consider beating ones child, either literally or emotionally, exactly the same as eating ones young. The laws regarding corporal punishment of children are different in various states, but I really hope they throw the book at Judge Adams. There is no way he should be deciding child abuse cases, and what he did to his own daughter is unforgivable. I applaud her courage and hope that she, too, got the counseling she needed. It's tragic that she didn't have the parents she needed.

Dry Bones

2011-10-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

I am a body divided. I have been partitioned and parceled out to several orthopedists, each of whom treats only one specific body part, like a paint-by-numbers kit. Or packages of chicken parts at the butcher's. Don't they know the thigh bone connected to the hip bone, the hip bone connected to the back bone? (Now hear the word of the Lord.)

Last week I saw a neck doctor for a stiff neck which has been hurting for at least two years and makes noises like a car that needs brake pads. He sent me for x-rays: Degenerative disk disease, herniated disks, osteoarthritis, and a couple of disks facing the wrong way. No wonder it hurts. He prescribed physical therapy and Aleve, which I decided not to take after I opened the bottle and then read the warnings. Anti-inflammatory drugs are contraindicated for those with bleeding disorders, and I am such a person.

I went to the drugstore for Tylenol and they didn't have any gel caps, only tablets. I am a poor pill taker. Tablets are harder for me. They did have Walgreen's brand Acetaminophen in a gelcap, and it was even on sale so I took a bottle to the register. The sale price was one for $3.99, two for $5.98. I only wanted one. The clerk rang it up for $8.99. I told him what the sign said. He went to look at the shelf and returned, saying it was $8.99. I peeled the sign off the shelf and took it to a different register. The second clerk said, "You have to buy two."

I said, "You never have to buy two just because it's offered. See, it says One for $3.99 or two for $5.98."

"That's for a different product," he said. "24 count." "This is a 24 count," I said. "$14.99," he replied. I walked out and went to the other Walgreen's a few blocks away - yes, I live in a two-Walgreen's neighborhood - where the clerk rang up one bottle for $3.99 plus tax. No problem. She even wished me a nice evening. It's hard to believe those other two people have jobs when so many with working brains do not.

Today I visited a shoulder doctor because my right shoulder hurts so much that I am trying to become left-handed. This may be even harder than switching ones sexual orientation. The condition has persisted for at least a year. He also ordered x-rays: Osteoporosis, a probable torn rotator cuff, inflammation and tendonitis. He gave me a cortisone injection and a prescription for physical therapy. All roads lead to ~~Rome~~ PT. Surgery may be necessary at some point, but I can't do it now because of my responsibilities to Flip and a cat who gets injections twice a day. It is outpatient surgery, though, so I could get home in time for the evening shot.

This is a song with many choruses as I also have bursitis in one hip, for which I was given 8 or 10 cortisone shots by an orthopedist in 2009. I haven't yet made an appointment with a hip doctor, but it will not be the same one. He is on my permanent shit list, and I don't think he liked me either.

The whole thing is absurd. Last time I looked, I was healthy, young and strong. And now I need a whole body transplant. How did this happen? I am trying to keep it in perspective by reminding myself that I would unhesitatingly choose body over brain issues. We have all heard the old homily about how if all the world's problems were in a huge pile, we would pick out our own. It always made me sneer, but when I think of what Flip is enduring with Alzheimer's Dementia and Parkinson's, physical pain doesn't seem all that bad. Of course, it doesn't seem all that good either. On the upside, it's nearly Halloween and Day of the Dead and I am the best skeleton costume ever. I need to figure out how to light myself up in the dark.

Big Brother is Watching Me

2011-10-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

My mother used to refer to my life as "The Perils of Pauline," which I think was an early movie serial about a heroine who went from one catastrophe to another, a perennial damsel in distress. I felt vaguely offended and never asked her what it was. Nor did she ever tell me. My mother would be happy to know that today, there was a new installment.

I got a traffic citation in the mail - how cowardly - with photographic proof that I ran a red light. There were four pictures: my car at the red light, my car turning right at the red light onto a freeway onramp, me at the wheel and my license tag. Also included was information from the car's registration and my driver's license: My height, weight, age, birthday, hair and eye colors -- total violation. I smell a rat. It isn't that I believe I am perfect. I am capable of running a red light, but I don't believe I could do so without knowing about it. I am a careful and conscious driver. But if I did, it's legal to turn right on red unless indicated otherwise, and I don't believe there is any signage to that effect at this intersection.

Nowhere on the paper does it state the amount of the fine although I'm sure it's a whopper as mere expired parking meter tickets are $75. The fine for a moving violation involving a red light would probably make the paper burst into flames, causing extreme consternation at the post office. What is more, it states that within 30 days I will receive another notice telling me what the "bail" amount is, and if I don't respond by the deadline, they will attach more fees, have me arrested and take my firstborn son. They are placing the onus on me in a city notorious for bad mail delivery. (Example: We never get mail on Saturdays. I've heard rumors that the post office is considering saving money by discontinuing Saturday delivery but it won't make a difference in my neighborhood. We don't get it anyway.) So now I have to try to remember to keep track of the date so if I don't receive the nasty missive, I can report it. Or move to Saudi Arabia, maybe, where women are not allowed to drive at all.

I have the option if I qualify of attending traffic school - in Oakland - to prevent getting points on my license and higher insurance premiums. After I pay up, of course. I wonder if there is an online traffic school I could do instead. I hope they don't sentence me to ten lashes with a whip. And make me wear a burka.

Update, because Updates are so much Fun.

2011-10-11T16:40:00.000-07:00

For over a week, Flip has refused to enter his room unless he is unconscious. When I check on him at night, the nurses tell me he is either wandering aimlessly and falling a lot, or sitting in a wheelchair by their station. It's clear to me that he knows something is not right about Shekiya, and he expresses his displeasure in the only way he can. It was time to do something.

The director wasn't available so I spoke to Hillary, the director of nursing, about the problem. He took a firm party line, stating that if Flip is dissatisfied, he should be the one to move despite the fact that (a) when I complained initially about Shekiya's placement with Flip, the director said she would move "her" and (b) Flip suffers from dementia while Shekiya, who is 36, apparently does not. It would be disorienting to Flip.

He said, "Shekiya has not complained and moving her would be prejudiced." He leveled a stare at me and said, "I don't know if you're prejudiced or not." I responded that as it happens I am not, but that I do not regard this as a political issue. It's a medical care issue and I would object to any apparent female being Flip's roommate if it made him uncomfortable. (It occurred to me later that he may have been referring to the fact that Shekiya is black, as is he, but at the time I assumed he meant prejudiced against transgendered people.) Who knows? There are so many potential reasons to be prejudiced. Pick a card, any card. I am developing a prejudice toward unreasonable people, though.

I reiterated that Flip was unwilling to enter his room and he demanded to see for himself. Flip refused to be moved out of the hallway where I had fed him lunch in a wheelchair. Hillary insisted that he could not tell the reason for Flip's behavior and that I could not, either, pointing out that Flip wanders a lot anyway. I said it was not an issue until Shekiya arrived. He refused to budge from his position. I said that I still stand by my initial objection and had decided to take a wait-and-see position so as not to make problems for the director or for Shekiya, but that my primary concern is for Flip. Since he seems not to be anyone else's, my only option is to transfer him to another facility. I had hoped to keep him there despite the inconvenience to me, but if he has to move to a different room, I might as well move him altogether because both will be disorienting.

I think they are bending over backward not to be perceived as politically incorrect while railroading Flip, whose mental capacities are seriously compromised. Meanwhile, they shoot him full of potentially dangerous drugs the minute he seems agitated, and because he is uncomfortable with his situation there, he is increasingly agitated. They are choosing a specious political correctness over compassionate patient care.

The doctor we saw yesterday leans toward the belief that Flip suffers from both Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. We are doubly blessed. There is no way to tell how much the Parkinsonian symptoms were exacerbated by various medications he was given, but his physical movements resemble those of Michael J. Fox.

The staff member who went with us yesterday to help was very nice, but when she tried to pull Flip from the car and into a wheel chair, he fell on the pavement and she fell on top of him. She is a huge, heavy woman, but neither was hurt although her skirt was muddied in the rain. Next week, we'll be going to the hospital for an EEG and back to the doctor on a different day. Two more outings. I can hardly wait.

Mario/Shekiya

2011-09-28T15:51:00.000-07:00

Flip has a new roommate! Her name is Shekiya, formerly Mario. She is a transgendered person with darling sandals. It struck me as inappropriate that a person who considers herself female and is referred to as "she" by the nursing home staff should share a room with a male, so I expressed my view to the social worker who took me to see the director. Also present was the new patient's doctor, who was displeased that I dared to challenge their authority.

I explained that I am not prejudiced against transgendered people and in fact, I also support same-sex marriage. (They are different issues, but rights organizations always lump them together as LGBT {Lesbian,Gay,Bisexual and Transsexual} people.) Nor do I object to the patient him/herself. My objection is based not on biology but on personality, and Shekiya believes that she is female. If a person who was born female but was transitioning to a male identity like Chaz Bono were to become Flip's roommate, I would be fine with it because that person would identify as male, like Flip.

The doctor, who strongly resembled a rhinoceros and will henceforth be referred to as Dr. Rhino, made me repeat everything I said. I explained that since I cannot see the patient's genitalia and do not want to, and since everyone refers to said patient as "she," I felt that she should be rooming with another she. Dr. Rhino repeated exactly what I had just said but added a question mark at the end. For clarification. I was losing patience and prefaced my repetition with "As I said."

The director shared that it is the first time they have faced this issue, and they expected problems from the family of whoever they placed her with. But since Flip was a musician and therefore more likely to be liberal, as well as from San Francisco and not very aware of his surroundings anyway, it was the best place for Shekiya. She was missing the point. It was not about being politically liberal but about the fact that I did not believe Flip should be sharing a room with a female. Stephen, the social worker, assured me that there was in fact a male/female pairing in one of the rooms. I know who they are -- a husband and wife, which is not the same thing at all. Apparently, nursing home policy is based on genitalia and therefore Shekiya must be placed with another man. I asked what she was there for, but they insisted they were not at liberty to tell me.

The director agreed to move Shekiya as soon as they could arrange for another room, which might take "awhile." I went back to Flip's and Shekiya's room to feed Flip his lunch, and it occurred to me that it really doesn't make any difference. In fact, although Shekiya seems to complain a lot about everything, Flip could do worse for a roommate. I am still struggling with the fact that my husband has dementia and lives in a nursing home, so I was probably more likely to be thrown by the new development than I would have been otherwise. There is also the consideration that a person who believes she was born into the wrong gender has almost certainly suffered a great deal of rejection already, and I don't want to add to it.

This is new ground for everyone but if I claim to support transgendered rights, how can I fairly object? This is my chance to actually practice what I preach, even though I don't see this as a transgendered rights issue. So I went back to the director and told her that I was withdrawing my objection, and would accept the new arrangement. My only regret is that I can't share this with Flip, who would get a huge kick out of it.

Besides, if I play my cards right, maybe Shekiya will let me borrow those adorable sandals.

Gullible 'Til the Cows Come Home

2011-09-27T16:49:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I went to a gazing. I had no idea what to expect but since I had never been to one before, it seemed like a good idea.

A friend had sent me an email about Braco, a Croatian man who heals with his gaze, although he does not call himself a healer. He travels the world gazing over rooms full of people who are encouraged to open their hearts and gaze back into his eyes. There was a long line of pilgrims in expensive designer hippie clothing, angel tees, glittery shoes and even a white woman in traditional African garb, many of them snacking from greasy paper bags while hoisting soda cans. There was the obligatory woman on crutches and others pushed in wheelchairs. I was jostled rudely by two men who didn't apologize while cutting the line.

Many people were there for all the sessions, running all day and evening, but I went for only one because I can't sit still that long, do not have a groupie mentality and have never wanted to join a cult. But I am curious. The session consisted of a lot of cheerleading, testimonials both in person and on a movie screen, a great deal of hype and instructions to be open to whatever came and to gaze back at Braco during his 7-8 minutes before us. When he finally made his appearance, he stood on a platform but since everyone in the room was standing and I am 5'1", I only briefly glimpsed his eyes. If there was anything genuine going on, I'm sure the energy reached me anyway.

Braco looks like a peaceable man. His hair is long like Jesus, and his face, which never changed expression, seemed kind. I thought of holy icon paintings with eyes that follow you around the room. The website had recommended that we bring photos of those for whom we seek help as the power of Braco’s gaze can reach people through photos, and the same level of healing and transformation occurs as if they were there in person. I held my loved ones' photos over my heart as directed so they could receive the blessings I silently asked for them.

His website says, "Some call Braco a healer. Some call Braco a Conduit of Divine Energy. Some call Braco a Gazer, a Lightworker, a Miracle Master, or even a Vibrational Healing Artist who is somehow able to silently and instantly heal or peacefully massage the consciousness of tens of thousands around the world for years into feeling better or embracing more joy. We just call Braco a beautiful man ... with an extraordinary gift to share." Also available are Braco DVDs, books and jewelry. He has a worldwide following so you would think there is something real happening.

The peppy hostess asked that pregnant women past their first trimester and children under the age of eighteen leave the room as the energy is too powerful for them. They are allowed to stand outside the door, though. The website claims that Braco does not accept any payment for his work, and the charge per session is only $8.00. However, thousands of people attend his sessions every day, many of them for the entire day at $8.00 a pop, so he is not hurting. He also offers a line of Sunce (sun) jewelry that displays a symbolic golden sun with 13 rays. The price of the jewelry ranges from $190 for a pair of earrings to $2395 for a diamond pendant. Testimonials claim these talismans bring good luck to the wearer.

A woman sitting next to me, giggling incessantly, said that she had been to many Braco sessions and could hear his voice inside her head as if it were originating there. It was impossible to tell if she was euphoric or merely neurotic. Another woman claimed that she had heard his voice saying "Hello, Yes!" to her and knew that he was taking care of her creative difficulties and dispelling negativity. We were told to be YES by the handlers, who suggested that we would feel heat, tingling or other healing sensations or find ourselves laughing or crying as the energy reached us. New Age music played while members of his team roamed the audience with microphones to take testimonials. We were assured that we would experience the deepest love we had ever known. We were also told that healing changes might not occur instantly, but would definitely occur. It seemed that he was taking credit for anything good that might befall us for the rest of our lives while officially claiming not to be a healer.

I would like to believe. I sent him my kindest thoughts while he was in the room and thanked him for any help he could give. I want to think I am not so cynical that such things are lost on me, so unspiritual that I cannot open my heart enough, and yet I would also like not to be thrilled by the Emperor's beautiful robes if he is really naked. We will see. The physical pains from which I seek relief have taken a long time to develop - it's unlikely that they can be vanquished in seven minutes. I'll be paying attention.

Afterward on the bus, I heard a woman say, "Five dollars and you can eat roast beef until the cows come home." Lady, if those cows are already roast beef, they are not coming home. I had opted for public transportation to avoid parking hassles, but that may have been the highlight of my day.

Asked and Answered

2011-09-26T15:51:00.000-07:00

I have become friendly with a woman who visits her mother, Mary, a lovely 93-year old woman from Senegal, at the nursing home. Ethel, the daughter, was named for her grandmother, but the name is colossally misleading. Ethel resembles Lena Horne, one of the most beautiful women of all time, and should not have a name we associate with Lucy Ricardo's sidekick, Ethel Mertz. Or gasoline. "Fill 'er up with Ethyl." I always stop in Mary's room to talk to both women when I am there to see Flip.

Today, Ethel stopped me in my tracks. "Do you date?" she asked. Brain freeze. "What?" She repeated herself. "Do you date?" "You mean, like men?" I said. "Yes," she said, smiling. I scrambled to compose my face because this was not a question I have even asked myself in over twenty years. "Uh, no." I stammered. "Because you're married?" she said. I started to laugh. It seemed obvious, but Ethel, a kind, elegant woman, was serious. "You're so pretty," she continued, "and I have a friend."

I said, "Have you been listening to Pat Robertson?" She took a step back. I wasn't sure how to interpret that, but she didn't know who he was. I explained that he is a televangelist who recently remarked that it was okay to divorce a spouse with Alzheimer's and go on with ones life, and that this was getting a lot of airplay. I said that while I wouldn't judge a person who did that, it wouldn't work for me. She agreed that everyone is different. I told her that I always welcome new friends and have both male and female friends, but I still feel married to Flip.

Driving home, I thought about what my marriage means to me now. "In sickness and in health" is obvious, of course, along with "for better or for worse." Flip is the love of my life, and we've had twenty beautiful years together. It has never occurred to me that I "deserve" the trappings of marriage despite his present inability to participate in it. Sex without love has never appealed to me, even when I was young and had more demanding hormones, and I can enjoy good conversations with men or women without hoping that they will lead to someone's bedroom. I wonder if this means that I am over some mythical hill and have become a lesser being than I was. Perhaps it does, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

I am still grieving the disaster which has taken Flip from me, and from himself. It's strange to mourn someone who is still alive. Perhaps on some illogical level, I am waiting for him to "get better" and return to his former self, although I know that won't happen. Alzheimer's is for keeps. It takes no prisoners. Elvis has left the building. And yet, he still knows who I am, and he trusts me. I am not offended by Ethel's question because she meant well. She hoped to put two lonely people together so they wouldn't be lonely any longer. She doubtless even believes we would get along. But the equation is far more complicated than 1+1=2.

I have three grown children who mean the world to me, so I am not alone. I really don't want or need another partner. I think it may be time for me to fall in love with myself a little, to explore some of my own interests and learn skills I have put on a back burner for so long. I'd like to become more fluent in French, Spanish and Italian, and to learn Japanese and Mandarin. I'd enjoy classes in painting, French pastry making, sewing, photography, advanced knitting, as well as traveling. This independence is a gift from Flip, who believed that I could accomplish anything. He praised and celebrated my mind, my talents, even my cooking, and always made me feel special. The best way I can honor him is to become as fine a person as he is and my own capabilities will allow, and I could not do that if I were part of another couple.

In the past, I have flirted with the idea of becoming a Buddhist nun, but I don't think the required discipline would appeal to me. Freedom appeals to me, the kind of spontaneous freedom to go where I please without accounting to anyone, to stay up all night reading (or writing) without disturbing someone, to skip dinner if I'm not hungry or to eat a box of cookies if I like. I will always miss Flip by my side because he was the best friend I've ever had as well as my ideal romantic partner. But if we are not destined to walk into the sunset together, I'd rather go by myself. And I'm going to retire his number because no one could ever take his place.

The Goddess of Swimming

2011-09-24T11:43:00.000-07:00

I think I'm in love with Diana Nyad. Even her name is beautiful, and she is an amazing woman. The 62 year old long distance swimmer is currently making her third attempt to swim the Florida Straits from Cuba to Florida, a journey of 112 miles, after aborting her last attempt in August because of an 11-hour asthma attack and an intensely painful shoulder injury. Her first attempt was in 1978 at age 28, but she claims to be in the best shape of her life now.

The swim was made successfully by Australian Susan Maroney at age 22 in 1997. However, she did it in a protective shark cage while Diana Nyad is trying to become the first person to make the swim without one. Instead, she is relying on special equipment that surrounds her with an electric current imperceptible to humans but strong enough to keep most sharks at bay. Kayakers are also paddling alongside to gently prod away any that make it through. There are also hundreds of jellyfish species in those waters, some of which have already stung Ms. Nyad early in her swim.

She blamed the asthma attack on an allergic reaction to pain medication she took for the shoulder injury, but she is confident she can achieve the record which has been her lifelong goal. She said the asthma had her flailing through the water "like a dying, floundering fish."

"The asthma took me down, but ironically enough, that 29-hour swim was like a very, very expensive training swim," she said.

This time, her 30-person team has injections for asthma just in case. Nyad was subdued but determined as she greased up ahead of the swim.

"Not that I was ever cocky, but having been through this now and been so deeply and emotionally disappointed, I don't want to take anything for granted," she said.

In an interview several weeks after the August attempt, she told CNN's Dr. Sanjay Gupta she was still strong, and was not ruling out another attempt.

"I am capable of swimming from Cuba to Florida, and I will give it up, if I just can't make it," she said, "but I didn't prove that to myself in this particular swim."

To attempt this swim again, Nyad said she would need good weather, calm waves and warm water, though she was willing to swim in less optimal conditions than she once thought she needed.

"I used to have almost a paranoia of waiting for the (ocean) surface to be (completely) flat," she told Gupta. "(During the August attempt) we were out in some slappy waves, and it wasn't fun, and you can't glide across the surface, but I can make it."

She will not be allowed to touch the boat for the length of the crossing if the record is to count, nor can her team physically aid her other than to pass her food, medicine, a new swimsuit and so on. She will try to sustain her energy by eating peanut butter sandwiches and pasta, and she sings Beatles, Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin songs in her head to keep her mind occupied, especially during nighttime.

"I never ever — it's the cardinal rule — I never look up because it's very depressing to see the horizon with no lights, no nothing. And I never ask my trainer here in the boat what time it is or, 'Are we almost there yet?'" Nyad said. "They're going to tell me when we're about 10 hours away."

If she succeeds, the Los Angeles woman would set a new record for open-water swimming without a shark cage. She already holds the previous record for a 102.5-mile (165-kilometer) swim from the Bahamas to Florida in 1979.

Diana Nyad touches my heart because she is not just a superior athlete trying to set a record. She hopes to be an inspiration to others that they can still achieve their dreams at any age. She also wants to help end the bitterness between the United States and Cuba which has persisted for over 50 years. I hope she makes it. I am cheering her on in my heart and hoping that her particular Red Sea parts for her, all the way to her goal. But I also believe that when anyone attempts to do a difficult thing, no matter what the outcome, that person has already succeeded. Diana Nyad proves that the tyranny of age is only in our own minds and that if we overcome massive negative cultural conditioning, we really can accomplish our dreams. She gives me hope, and that is no small thing.

It Makes Me Fighting Mad

2011-09-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

A video of two eight-year old British boys cage fighting has gone viral. The children were not wearing protective padding or head gear as they grappled in front of a large adult audience. Cage fighting, or mixed martial arts (MMA,) is the fastest growing adult sport in the world.

Former presidential candidate John McCain famously called such events "human cockfighting." I agree.

Wikipedia describes MMA as "a full contact combat sport that allows the use of both striking and grappling techniques, both standing and on the ground, including boxing, wrestling, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai, Kickboxing, Karate, Judo and other styles."

Children as young as four are being encouraged to participate by parents whose credentials for parenthood should be revoked, in my opinion.

The British culture minister, Jeremy Hunt, condemned the match as "barbaric," but Nick Hartley, the father of one of the boys, insisted that his son was not in any danger. "He loves the sport. It's not one bit dangerous, it's a controlled sport. He likes to do it, he's never forced to do it, he wants to do it, so leave him to do it," Hartley told the BBC. "Until he gets a bit older and he starts doing physical contact, kicking and punching, then maybe, but at his age it's wrestling, like grappling." Lancashire police said it had "looked into this matter fully and there are no issues for us to pursue"

Chris Cloke, head of child protection awareness at children's charity NSPCC, said: "We would strongly discourage parents from letting their children take part in this kind of fighting. It's quite disturbing that some of those involved in the bouts were as young as eight, an age when they are still developing, physically and mentally. The organisers of these activities should think very carefully before allowing children to be involved when they are egged on to inflict violence."

The sport's violence has provoked controversy everywhere. It's illegal in New York and Connecticut but in Tennessee, where it is popular, boys fight boys, girls fight girls, and sometimes boys fight girls while their moms cheer them on. Christie Hawkersmith, the wife of a fighting gym's owner in Winchester, Tennessee, insists there are strict safety precautions for kids in mixed martial arts bouts.

"Under 18, they cannot punch to the face, it's not an all-out brawl. They learn skills and they try to master those skills," she said. Her husband added that the kids learn discipline and self-esteem, and that people who think mixed martial arts too violent for youngsters are ill informed."It's a proven fact that football has more injuries, and more severe injuries, than [mixed martial arts] by far," said owner Bunny Hawkersmith.

Four-year-old twins Danika and Nyomi Arellano are already seasoned competitors. When they are not in the cage at Bunny's gym, they like to take part in beauty pageants. It's a split decision on which type of event they prefer.

"Pageant," said Danika.

"MMA," said Nyomi.

And what is their mother's view of the controversial sport? Rita Arellano admits she has mixed emotions when she sees her daughters fight. "Deep inside yeah, it's like, Uhhh! It's hard to see your kid. You want them to win, but you don't want to see them get hurt."

One of the top three movies this past weekend was the mixed martial arts film Warrior, starring Tom Hardy and Nick Nolte. Is the moribund economy causing a general increase in violence, or have we devolved into a society that really doesn't care about others? We still have states endorsing and even celebrating the death penalty, and in a presidential debate last week, the audience cheered loudly for those without medical insurance to be allowed to die.

What manner of self esteem is instilled by training young children to maim other young children? Is this really the kind of world we want our children to inhabit? Really?

We'll Always Have Chocolate

2011-09-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

I realized today, really realized in my gut, that I can't save Flip. My husband is gone, and there was no precise moment in time when I could say goodbye and gain closure. His expression is mostly blank, he seems unaware when his diaper needs changing, and he walks in a half crouch like a giant praying mantis. I can still visit him every day and take him small comforts and treats, but I cannot hold back the force of this disease which is destroying him.

The occupational therapist told me that his is "a very complicated case." His symptoms don't fit the parameters of any specific disease so it is unclear at this point whether he has Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, or some bizarre combination of the two with perhaps other components as well. My own body aches with mostly unshed tears. I think I'm afraid that if I start crying, I won't be able to stop.

It's horrifying to think that he may have been misdiagnosed all these years, and that he could have been helped before it reached this point. His neurologist of the last four years specializes in Alzheimer's, so perhaps she sees Alzheimer's in all her patients, as when you're pregnant and suddenly the world is full of pregnant women. You drive a red car, and every car on the road is red. The newest research confirms a genetic link to Parkinson's, and since Flip's father and sister had it, it seems likely, especially considering how early it manifested in him. To be fair, I took him to several neurologists before we settled on her, and all concurred in the diagnosis. Of course, he hadn't yet begun to exhibit the symptoms which suggest Parkinson's. Even the best of doctors can't diagnose what they don't see. I hold them all blameless.

He has an appointment with another neurologist, his 6th or 7th, in October. I don't think anything can change the course of his illness now, but all knowledge is helpful to some degree. Flip said "Susy" very clearly today, but the rest of his sentence was lost in translation. He deserves a Medal of Honor for not exploding with frustration at his inability to express himself. I couldn't do it.

It is time to take myself in hand. Most people eat too much when they are stressed but I am the opposite, a compulsive starver. I only have an appetite when all the signs are right. When I was a child, I read a book called "The Story of 100 Operas" and thought the Aida story the most romantic of all. At the end, when her lover is in a tomb with the walls closing in on him, crushing him to death, Aida jumps in to die with him. Many of my previous relationships reflected that view, sadly. Flip would not want this for me, and as it turns out, neither do I. So I am going to do the most life-affirming thing I can think of, short of buying shoes. I am going to hunt down a piece of chocolate cake with mocha buttercream icing and eat every crumb. If it's the last thing I do.

Let the Good Times Roll

2011-09-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Vulgar language abounds in this post. Only adults with strong stomachs need apply.

The nasty nursing home crone was stationed in the hall today, lurking in wait. As I took Flip for a walk to keep his blood moving, she yelled, "You have a lovely husband." Surprised, I said, "Thank you. He is lovely." I thought that maybe yesterday was an off-day, that she is really a nice old woman.

"You're a witch," she added.

"I'm glad we cleared that up," I said and tried to pull Flip away by his hand, but he was stalled in place.

"Too bad you're an ugly fucking bitch," she screeched. "You're a fucking piece of shit slut and everybody hates you. I hate you." (I could use coy asterisks, but what's the point?) Usually, people have to know me before they hate me. She was jumping the gun.

I pulled harder on Flip's hand and he decided he didn't want to be moved. Who could blame him? All the action in the place was right there. Everyone else was dozing in wheelchairs.

"Fucking slut asshole!" she yelled. "Eat shit and fuck you." She reprised all her insults, including some I've forgotten, cackling like the green broomstick witch in The Wizard of Oz. She could have been her understudy - she really had the laugh down. She kept on shrieking with hateful laughter as I dragged Flip down the hall, not nearly fast enough.

Latifa, one of the nurses' aids, sidled up to me, "Just give her the finger," she said. "She told me I was FAT. I told her 'You're much fatter than I am.'" She flounced off muttering "FAT."

"Fat and ugly. Fucking ugly!" screamed the old woman behind me. "Your husband hates you, too!"

I learned that her name is Roberta. It figures. Roberta is my middle name, which I've never liked. I dislike feminizations of male names in general, but I dislike it mostly because it sounds ugly unless you're Spanish, which I'm not. When my older daughter was a child, I once threatened her with writing a story about her and calling her character "Roberta" if she didn't stop whatever she was doing. It was effective. It's an icky name.

Latifa told the director of nursing that Roberta needed to be out of the way somewhere, preferably in the locked psych ward, and she was removed from her post in the hallway. Dementia has not been kind to her. Of course, dementia is not kind, ever, to anyone, but it's possible she was a lovely lady before. It's hard to imagine because she is so utterly hateful now. There is probably a cautionary tale here, but since we have no control over what happens to our minds as we age, I know of no way to ensure that we will not turn into Robertas. And that is a very chilling thought.

I snapped a picture of her today but my new iMac is running a different version of iPhoto than I've been using, and I can't figure out how to get it onto my desktop. But know that even in my moment of despair, my last thoughts were of my awesome blog friends.

Hell on Wheels

2011-09-01T19:41:00.000-07:00

I would like to reward those of you who have stuck with me through these depressing blog posts with one that is all fluffy and hilarious. But that is not going to be this one. Flip was discharged from the third hospital this afternoon and transported to the third nursing home, one I had visited a couple weeks ago and disliked because it's bleak and smelly. It was the only one in the Bay area which would accept him, but I am holding my breath as he lasted only three nights in the first and two in the second. I am braced for The Phone Call which tells me that he has been taken back to the hospital again. With an armed guard.

If that happens, they will quickly discharge him and absent another nursing home, I will have to bring him back to our home which at this point is not safe for either of us. There is also the fact that if he comes home, MediCal will revoke his approval and refuse to pay for anything, nor will he be allowed to reapply. Much as it pains me to say this, our life will not be tenable at all with me caregiving 24-7 in our small apartment as I did for so long. The disease is advancing at a shocking rate.

The first thing I was asked upon arrival was whether I had selected a mortuary. So much for sensitivity. Since the answer was no, Marlene, the admissions woman, asked if she could write in the name of a local one because the form required something on that line. I shrugged, and she assured me that she could change it when I found one I liked. Question: Does anyone like mortuaries? Auditioning funeral directors is not high on my to-do list. I said that Flip and I had discussed burial and cremation over the years and we both leaned toward cremation. (But that doesn't mean I ever expected to do either of those things. It was just a philosophical discussion, that's all.)

There was an Inspirational Hour going on in the main gathering room. A man was standing on a table loudly hawking Jesus while other residents mostly snoozed in their wheelchairs. "Oh, Jesus," I muttered. Sometimes I wonder how enduring tasteless and predatory behavior in his name all these centuries compares with the agonies of crucifixion. The answer could surprise us.

As I sat in Flip's new room with him, a harridan in a wheelchair rolled up and began to scream at me. The old biddy knew every word for female genitalia and wasn't afraid to use them, so I shut the door. She slammed it open and I shut it again. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. All accompanied by a stream of invective that would have made a sailor's parrot blush. Finally, I leaned myself against the door to hold it shut and she rammed it with her wheelchair. I was definitely in the wrong weight class. Nobody came. Flip looked unbelievably weary, and I knew he was sure he was either in a nuthouse or in Hell. I yelled down the hall, "Can I get some help here?" and about ten minutes later, Marlene returned with more forms for me to sign. All business, that one. The old hag began to curse her out, too, demanding that Marlene take off her dress because it was really hers, stolen this morning. I closed the door again and told Marlene that I was concerned the woman would give Flip a rough time when he is already going through so many changes, including another new place. "Oh, she hates females," she said. So comforting.

And that was our welcoming committee. They really went all out and the entertainment was phenomenal, but there wasn't any cake. There should have been cake.

Just When Things Were Going So Well

2011-08-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

I wuz robbed. Seriously. I realized it after I hauled my laundry to the launderette and opened my car trunk for the supplies I keep there, all newly replenished and unused, I might add. They were gone. Last week, when I picked up Flip's suitcase full of clothing from the first nursing home, I left it in the car so I wouldn't have to carry it up and down stairs next time it was needed. The suitcase is gone, too, plus an expensive bicycle pump, never used, and many tools of various kinds. I wonder what else was stored there that I can't recall. Yet how can I complain when Flip is losing everything?

For several days I've been putting things in the back seat because the trunk was full. There is no sign the lock was jimmied - the culprit must have used a skeleton key or something. He's done it before. I suspect it happened the other night when I was parked about 1/2 mile from the ER in a neighborhood so dodgy that one of the security guards escorted me to my car about 1:15 am. I should mention that my car does not look as if it would have anything valuable in it.

Flip and I picked out two matching suitcases on wheels a few years ago for a trip to New York. Mine was red and his, green. Now his is gone, and the symbolism is blatant. It makes me very sad.

What kind of person would steal laundry supplies? I cannot fathom the level of depredation that requires.

Another Hospital, Another Show

2011-08-29T10:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I visited Flip, as always, and when he fell asleep after I fed him lunch, I left. The traffic was very heavy both ways because it was Sunday. I bought more cat supplies and a few groceries as I intended to force myself to eat dinner although I have no appetite anymore, but the nursing home called to say that Flip had gotten outside. He was combative and they needed me to calm him down. I said I would come but it wouldn't be for a while because the cat needed his insulin injection at a precise time. I checked a few minutes later and they had called the police and an ambulance to take him to the hospital again.

After I ministered to Pekoe, I headed back to the East Bay in very heavy traffic. I think there was a Giants game and AT&T Park is near the entrance to the Bay Bridge. When I got to the hospital in Berkeley and parked in the garage (most of the doctors' spaces were empty,) I went to the ER, which had no record of him. Finally, they learned that Flip had been taken to a different hospital campus in Oakland and gave me directions. I found street parking but wandered all over the vast complex trying to find the ER. You would think it would be easy to find -- people are generally in a hurry when they go there. I saw a man steam cleaning a huge truck and yelled to him, but he couldn't hear me, so I kept walking.

Flip was on a gurney in a hallway talking to himself and didn't seem surprised to see me. They needed a urine sample so someone handed me a urinal, but I was unable to get him to produce anything. I told him that if he didn't, they would have to catheterize him, a procedure he doesn't take kindly to, understandably. After several hours, I told the attending doctor his saga including the fact that every time he is given Ativan, he becomes aggressive. The doctor wrote on his chart that he is "allergic" to Ativan. Finally. A voice of reason. Flip was given a shot of Haldol and Resperidol. One of the security guards offered me a sandwich as I mentioned that I had eaten only a croissant (almond) with coffee and a banana all day. The sandwich was turkey - starvation trumps vegetarianism - but Flip thought the sandwich was for him so we shared it. Then he conked out.

The doctor spent a couple hours on the phone, trying to find a hospital that would take him as they don't treat Alzheimer's patients. No one would. I thought of Mary in her hour of need, with no room at the inn. They decided to admit him anyway and have their social worker locate another facility in the morning, if such exists. The admitting doctor needed to speak with me, so I waited another hour. I asked the security guard if there was any coffee, and he found me a cup. It was still scalding after I added two creamers, so he got me four more, which was perfect. Another security guard escorted me to my car about a half-mile away, we high fived each other, and the coffee got me home safely at 1:45 am. There wasn't much traffic.

Today I will go to the hospital and also pick up Flip's belongings from the nursing home, the ones they haven't lost. We are no closer to finding him a place in San Francisco but I can't care for him at home any longer, which breaks my heart. All I can do is be a presence, speak sweetly to him and rub his back. It's like watching someone drown.

I just received calls from the attending doctor and social worker at the new hospital, who are going to put out a bulletin asking for placement in San Francisco. "This time I know our side will win." (Victor Laszlo, Casablanca.)

Is There a Writer in the House?

2011-08-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

When I turned off my computer last night, I noticed kitty paw prints on the monitor. I had no idea Pekoe was a writer! I looked to see what he was working on because I'm nosy like that. I justified my snooping as getting to know my new roommate so he'll be happier until my daughter, the love of his life, returns from Paris.

We all remember Snoopy's great epic, derivative of Tolstoy, which began "It was a dark and stormy night." I admit I was a bit surprised at the excellence of Pekoe's spelling, even though he was raised by my eloquent and highly educated daughter after she saved him from a beer cooler in which he had been abandoned as a newborn kitten. It seems that despite my love and respect for non-human animals, I still retain a trace of human arrogance, which embarrasses me. I have always believed that we two-leggeds are not the pinnacle of Creation -- we are simply more likely to sing our own praises than other species.

Pekoe seems to be having an existential crisis, trying to make sense of a world in which everything familiar is gone, like coming home to find all the furniture moved. He and Flip are having remarkably similar experiences. Pekoe has moved from the home he knew to one he had never seen before, and the person who was his entire world has disappeared. We both hope ardently that it won't be for long, although I, who have been to Paris while Pekoe has not, am also thrilled and excited for her to be realizing a dream which was also something I would have loved to do when I was young. Strangely, it turns out to be just as exhilarating to experience my dreams vicariously through my children. This grown child, my youngest, has also visited Tahiti (twice,) another dream of mine from the time I saw my first Gauguin painting as a child. I even bought an English-Tahitian dictionary in my teens, when Barnes & Noble was a single brick and mortar store in Manhattan, so I would be able to converse with the natives on arrival. I'm still waiting, but somehow the fact that my daughter has been there makes it more a part of my world than it was. And she did not find it lacking, although she said that nearby Moorea is far lovelier.

Pekoe's writing is amazingly precise, yet unpretentious. I think posting his work here will not create ugly problems regarding copyright laws as I am not plagiarizing but giving full credit where it is due. It's likely that this is his first draft, so hopefully you will take that into consideration when you read it, and be kind. Here, then, in his own words, is my roommate, Pekoe:

Catie's mom is trying hard, I'll give her that. I'm sorry I scratched her (twice.) She speaks sweetly to me, at times in a voice so high it must hurt her throat, and seems to have an endless supply of foods to tempt me when I go on a hunger strike. We both know that I am only allowed to eat one food, the same flavor even, because I am diabetic, but the poor woman is desperate. The first morning I was here, I refused to eat and she ran to the store in pajamas to buy tuna for human consumption and a ripe avocado because my lovely Catie had mentioned that she should not leave avos ripening on the table as I've been known to ravage them. (I really like mangoes, too, and their skins are easier to penetrate with tooth and claw. I'm strategizing how to make her understand that I need a mango. Humans are dense, even when they mean well.) She also laid in a supply of Gerber's baby food (chicken) which savvy cat people know we can't resist. She was unbelievably grateful to me for eating, couldn't thank me enough and even sat on the floor stroking my back while I ate. Despite my intention to be indifferent to her advances, I let her. I think I'm going to like it here, but of course she can't be allowed to become overconfident. Humans will walk all over you if you let them. For now, I'm allowing her to sleep in my new bed. It's a queen size, and she isn't a large human. I can be generous.

I like her house plants and wonder what happened to the rest of them. There is a pile of plant saucers which makes me think that some of them were removed, probably because they were toxic to cats. How stupid does she think I am? I know better than to nibble on anything that could hurt me, but it must have made her feel better to think that she was providing a safe environment for me. There is a cleared two-story table in front of the bay windows with a nice view of the garden, and a big tree next to the building with a pair of small birds who visit me sometimes. They are rather entertaining creatures. I may let them live awhile, at least until I figure out how to open these heavy windows. If I can pull that off, the screens are easy. I have very sharp knives at the ends of all my claws and I know how to use them. I wish she would get me a fish tank as I need a hobby.

I'm not sure how I feel about sharing a bathroom with her. At Catie's house, I had my own bathroom. There is a chair in there which is made of the same material - I think it's porcelain - as the sink. Whenever she sits on it, no doubt to admire my new litter box which I am doing my best to keep full, I rush in and rub against her knees so she can pet me. It also provides a leg up to investigate the stuff she keeps on the shelves above it. Last night I had the most fun hiding. She kept calling me and looking under the bed a million times, checking the door to make sure she had closed it. Finally, I got bored and came out of the kitchen cupboard. All the pots and pans clattered to the floor after me and it was very satisfying, especially since I had just pooped and she had to pile all the cooking stuff into the kitchen sink and wash everything. I notice that cupboard door and all the others are firmly closed now. She is obviously educable. Now, how to use that to my best advantage...

Hope Springs Eternal

2011-08-26T22:24:00.000-07:00

There is no comfort in resignation. To achieve that state, you have to give up a dream, a belief that things will get better than they are. It requires the most brutal honesty with yourself and strips away illusions. If I believe that it will be easier for Flip and because I love him, for me, too, when he loses all awareness of his situation, I am relinquishing forever the good stories I might tell myself about a cure for his disease which will completely restore him to his former self. And while I know that brain cells cannot regenerate themselves, I am unable to completely write off that life raft of a thought and wish him oblivion. Oblivion is too final and irrevocable. I cannot sanction it.

Flip does not go gentle into that good night. I admire his fighting spirit. I applaud that something in him is trying bravely and desperately to hold the fort, against all odds. I love that he values life enough to struggle so against a disease that is sweeping him away from his moorings like a monster riptide. I just want things to be the way they were.

He was discharged from the hospital today and transported to a nursing home in Oakland. I think he's relieved to be out of the hospital, but not impressed with his new surroundings. He has a roommate with only one leg and a loud TV. His attendant until 11:00 pm is a pleasant Ethiopian man named Tesfu, who brought him "dinner," egg salad on white bread, noodle soup and applesauce because he missed the regular dinner hour at 4:45. I hope the real meals are better. I am quite a good home cook, and it makes me sad that he will never again taste any of the meals I make which he enjoyed so much. It seems wrong to make them just for me, not because I'm unworthy but because cooking and baking are both forms of artistic expression and demonstrations of my love. Cooking for oneself seems like masturbation with food.

The first thing I was asked was whether they should let him die naturally if he got sick. No euphemisms were used. I know they need to know, but I was barely in the door. I said that it would depend on the circumstances, the quality of life he'd be leaving, and that he should not be in pain. Also, I did not wish to make such an important decision when I was utterly exhausted. I was given a sheet of paper, pink, which I promised to fill out and bring back. I haven't looked at it yet.

The neighborhood, which is reputedly dangerous, is just a barrio and seems perfectly safe in daylight. At night, many places are unsafe. More terrifying was the ride home, driving due west into the setting sun which was below the visor on my windshield. I missed a turn because I was literally blinded on a murderous freeway with everyone speeding around me, but managed to find the Bay Bridge which was so fogged in that I had to navigate by the tail lights of the car ahead of me. And tomorrow I get to do it all over again.

The facility in San Francisco has apparently changed its mind about accepting Flip. He has been branded as trouble because of the incidents of aggressiveness, even though they were caused by a drug he was given to control him. It's going to be a long, hard road. The turbaned tollbooth man is gone. (I hope it wasn't something I said.) Perhaps I only dreamed him. Why not? If life is a dream, everything we see is our own invention. I think it matters less if something is real than what we do with that perceived reality. Giving up our hopes and dreams diminishes us, and maybe with a little practice I could even rebuild a husband.

'Twas Brillig and the Slithy Toves

2011-08-25T20:57:00.000-07:00

A very hard day today. Flip was fine when I fed him lunch and took him for a walk around the floor, but he awakened from a nap a totally different person, angry, aggressive, frustrated and not his sweet-tempered self at all. He was throwing punches at everyone, making fists, baring his teeth and hissing like a small child who is pretending to be a scary monster. Several people were in fact scared, and the woman who was scheduled to be his evening sitter refused because she said he spat at her. (I think he must have hissed and perhaps some saliva escaped, but I didn't see it.) Security was called (again.) He remembered the words "Fuck you!" and hurled them at everyone. I think he has reached the end of his endurance for the hospital, which is like prison in his case as everyone is pushing and pulling him and controlling everything he does. Another dimension to his pain derives from being relatively young and used to exercising his body. In his mind, I think, he is fighting for his life, Flip against the world. He even yanked my arm off his, even though I had just helped him in the bathroom by aiming his penis (inexpertly) at the toilet. His life has lost much of its dignity.

He has been accepted to a facility in San Francisco, but it will take more than a month before his name comes up on the waiting list. The hospital is discharging him tomorrow, and unless another place in San Francisco comes through at the last minute, he will have to go to one of two nursing homes in Oakland, which is even farther away in the East Bay than Berkeley. The better of the two is in a dangerous slum, and I am not pleased that I'll be alone on the street there at all hours, going to and from wherever I find parking. I have fought hard against this but don't have a choice as he is considered medically stable, and Medicare won't pay hospital charges once a doctor has made that determination. This explains why the hospital in San Francisco booted him against his doctor's orders and without my consent. It's obscene that our health decisions are no longer made by medical people but by insurance adjusters and accountants.

There will be many days like today, and some better ones as well, randomly distributed. A youngish, strong man with an elderly person's disease is a lot like a Doberman Pinscher, a breed that was created by crossing the Rottweiler with the Black and Tan Terrier and German Pinscher. While I have known some lovely Dobermans, it is generally a recipe for disaster to combine an energetic, tenacious terrier with a much larger, aggressive animal. My point, admittedly far-fetched, is that Flip's youthfulness in combination with a mind that is rapidly losing its behavioral filters is someone who could become dangerous to himself and others. While I am not afraid of him, today made me aware that he has become unpredictable and cannot be relied upon to be the delightful, intelligent, extremely compassionate man he always was. I just called to see how he's doing tonight and was told there was another episode. It sounds as if he may have had some kind of psychotic break, but perhaps it's just his brain cells exploding like popcorn over a fire.

So tomorrow he moves again, ready or not. This disease is intellectually fascinating and utterly heartbreaking. I can honestly say that given a choice, I would have preferred to remain ignorant of this particular knowledge.

I'm Sikh of Your Silent Treatment

2011-08-22T22:52:00.000-07:00

The nursing home in Marin sent someone to assess Flip this morning and she decided that he was too physically active for their facility, as in ambulatory. This issue comes up every time because he is outrageously young for his ailment. Flip and Alzheimer's are a poor match. He has always been athletic and his body still works fine; it's his mind that is losing ground fast. So he is still in the hospital which would like to discharge him, and we still have no working plan.

Tonight I picked up my daughter's cat's drug paraphernalia, and everything is in place. All that's missing is the cat, who arrives tomorrow. My daughter is moving to Paris in a week and while I am thrilled for her, I am desolate that she will be so far away. I don't know when I'll be able to visit her as tending to Flip's care is still a full time job, and I'll have a diabetic cat who gets injections twice a day. But I'm happy that she is following her heart, and can't wait to see how her jewelry design and photography are affected by living in the City of Light. It's always exciting to watch someone's destiny unfold, especially when it's someone I love so much and who has such extraordinary gifts. Her greatest talent, though, is living life to the fullest.

Every night, returning from the hospital, I seem to be in the same lane at the Bay Bridge because the gentleman in the turban is always there. I always say "Hello" to him, or if I am feeling talkative, "Good evening." He never answers. So then I say "Thank you" as I hand him money and he silently turns on the sign which says I paid. Actually he should be thanking me as I am giving him money but he never speaks, although he does make eye contact with me. I always smile, lips closed, no teeth, but he does not.

I think his outfit is Sikh, and wonder as I drive away whether there is a religious taboo which makes it unholy to speak to a strange woman. Sikh teaching emphasizes equality of all humans and rejects discrimination on the basis of caste, creed, or gender. Maybe he is silent because the prospect of speaking to everyone who passes through his toll booth is daunting. Or maybe he is mute. He looks like a nice man with kind eyes and I would really like to exchange a human greeting with him. I wonder what would happen if I silently offered him a flower, after paying my toll of course. I wonder where I can find a lotus.

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

2011-08-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

Today I crossed all three Bay Area bridges: Golden Gate, Richmond, Bay. I drove to Marin to check out a nursing home, then up to Sonoma to see another after which I went to Berkeley to see Flip in the hospital and finally home after stopping for cat food. You know all those t-shirts that say "My parents went to the Bahamas and all I got was this lousy t-shirt?" Well, my daughter is moving to Paris and I'm getting her diabetic cat who requires insulin injections twice a day, so whatever hell I get into will have to be confined to the 12 hours between shots. This morning before my grand tour criss-crossing San Francisco Bay, I went to the pet store and selected a litter box, litter, scoop -- like putting together a baby's layette.

The place in Sonoma was dark and dreary with a nurses' station, like a very scutzy hospital. The director had Nazi tendencies, which is never good. He said dementia patients are not allowed on the patio, only in their own wing, and that Flip's 5150 psych hold might blacklist him so he was going to call the director of the place that had him handcuffed to get her side of the story. The one who gave Flip the bum rap. He would also visit Flip to assess him. He referred to the "general population" as opposed to the dementia unit inhabitants. It sounded like a prison term, which seems fitting. As he was showing me around, he suddenly stopped in a doorway and said, "Don't look in there. Mr. Jackson has fallen out of bed." I peeked and an elderly man was trying to clamber onto the bed from the floor. My tour guide didn't go in to help him or call someone else to do it.

The facility in Marin was the least odious of all I've seen, sunlight pouring in the windows and the beautiful Northern California hills beyond. There was a little more human warmth and kindness evident and the residents looked better cared for. No bad smells. I suspect they don't leave people on the floor if they fall, and the man I spoke with seemed very kind. Flip will probably be transported there tomorrow or Monday. I've told him that he's going to a new place until he's able to come home. I wish it were true. I am not in the habit of lying to my husband, but the truth in this instance would be too painful for both of us. I'm exhausted and living on Odwalla bars, mostly Strawberry-Pomegranate.

There was a very drunk man ahead of me in line at Safeway, where I stopped for cat food before coming home. He was clutching a bunch of roses by their heads which I first thought were plastic as they were improbable colors until I noticed they were half-dead. He lurched toward me, leered, and slurring badly, said, "I got flowers for my lady so she'll forgive me." "Well, you shouldn't have done it," said I, ever the sympathetic one. "I don't want these," he told the checker as he flung them on the counter and staggered away, knocking over a display of home carpet cleaning machines.

"How are YOU?" she said to me.
"Sober."
"I don't know what it is," she said, shaking her head. "They all get in my line. And he didn't even buy her flowers." ("Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.")

It's been a very long day. I've had my dinner Odwalla bar, Berries GoMega, and need to sleep. Sometimes I think about waking up in a different life, but I'm still curious about how this one will evolve, so I guess I'll keep it.

What Fresh Hell Is This?

2011-08-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

Flip got himself sprung from the nursing home. Yesterday as I was leaving for there I got a call from the director, who said he tried to escape and I needed to get there right away. I arrived breathless 40 minutes later to find the nursing home surrounded by police cars, but it didn't occur to me they had anything to do with Flip. I walked in to find him lying on the floor with his hands behind his back in handcuffs, baring his teeth in frustration while nine police officers, six paramedics, a psychologist, the nursing home staff and several nosy residents in walkers and wheelchairs surrounded him.

The director took one look at my face and said, "It's all right."
"It is NOT all right," I said. "He's in handcuffs." I knelt down and stroked his face while they all watched, transfixed by the unusual entertainment. An ancient crone dragged her walker closer for a better look, scraping the floor.
"He hit one of my employees," said the director.
"I'm sorry about that, but he is not a criminal. He's an Alzheimer's patient. He doesn't deserve to be in handcuffs." Flip grimaced and moaned as they cut into his wrists since he was lying on them. "Take the damn handcuffs off him!" I yelled.
"Ma'am, it doesn't help for you to yell at us," said a paramedic. "It's for our protection."
"I'm not trying to give you a rough time, but he's a very gentle person," I said.
"We don't know that."
Mitch the psychologist stepped forward and told me that Flip tried to leave the building and was being forcibly restrained when he decked someone. (That's my boy.) The director called the police and every unit in Berkeley responded. It was a lot of head of policemen, a cluster of blue as far as the eye could see.

Someone grabbed a towel from a nearby room to place under Flip's head and the old man (wheelchair) whose room it was bellowed, "I want it back. And it better not have any semen on it." (I couldn't make up this stuff.)

Eventually, Flip was hefted like livestock onto a gurney and wheeled to the ambulance. They wouldn't allow me to ride with him so I followed in my car. I have never been in an ER with bouncers before -- every ten feet, a large man in a shiny black suit sat at a table, looking mean. They put a 5150 on Flip, which is an involuntary psych hold on a person deemed a danger to himself or others. Big, bad junkyard dog. He would love it if he were still in his former mind. Of course if he were, none of this would have happened.

After many hours, he was admitted to a room and a very large man from Cameroon (2 sons, 2 daughters, 16, 13, 5 and 2) was assigned to sit with him all night and watch him. Mark Fezeu (I give his real name because somebody should name a street after him) was as gentle and patient as he was big. He handled Flip with supreme grace, asking permission in his deeply accented, lovely voice every time he touched him for any reason. He never compromised Flip's dignity, even while helping him in the bathroom.

When I left the hospital at 9:00, I discovered that the parking lot across the street from the ambulance bay had closed at 7:00 and I couldn't get my car out without crashing the turnstile. I went back to Flip's room, where a nurse brought me a cot and placed it in the bay windows with city lights (as far as the eye could see.) I didn't sleep all night, so I saw Mark change Flip's wet linens and hospital gown twice with great loving humor. At first light he noticed I was awake and said, "Susan, should I shave him?"
"Mark,you've already worked twelve hours. Don't do anything you don't have to do."
"But I do have to do it," he said. "We have to keep him handsome." And he did. Mark should have sonnets written to him or win peace prizes as he and nearly everyone I have met at this hospital is proof of the fabled kindness of strangers.

The ER doctor tried to get Flip readmitted to the San Francisco hospital that discharged him so rudely on Friday, but they refused to take him back. Yes, they have that option. So for now, Flip will remain in the Berkeley hospital until we figure out what to do for him. I believe he's in good hands. There has been a lot of discussion, not initiated by me, about DNR orders regarding Flip. I should probably give some thought to my own, too.

Meanwhile, despite my repeated failure to get Flip's brother involved in his situation, I thought I should inform him of these changes. No good deed... As I related the handcuff episode, he interrupted me to yell that I was "too defensive" of Flip, that "he broke the law and deserves to be punished." How curious that Flip is the one considered demented. Then he screamed that if I had done my homework, this would not have happened, and it's all my fault. He said that this hospital has the lowest ratings of any hospital in Berkeley. I'm sure he's wrong as it seems like a wonderful, caring place. I tried to ask how I should have anticipated that Flip would ever be in a hospital in Berkeley but he interrupted to rant some more. He insisted that it wasn't a hospital at all, but a nursing home with a different name. He said he knows I think he doesn't care (good guess, Sparky) but not a minute goes by that he doesn't think of Flip. (You could have fooled me.) Every time I tried to say something, he burst out with more profanity (hitting the sauce a bit much, I think) and I abandoned my intention to tell the hospital it was okay to give information on Flip to his brother. The HEPA Law binds hospital personnel not to disclose anything except to the patient's next-of-kin, which is me. The third time he yelled "BULLSHIT" I hung up. He has since sent me sarcastic emails accusing me of lying to him about which hospital campus Flip is in. I wish I could discuss this with Flip, who would put it into perspective and enable me to breathe again. I remember breathing. I always liked it.

Flip's wrists are raw and bloody from the handcuffs. At least no tasers were used and for that, I am grateful.

Save the Flip

2011-08-12T22:34:00.000-07:00

I am livid. I am trying to convince myself that things happen for the best, but it's a hard sell.

Flip's neurologist put him on Dilantin a few months ago for severe muscle spasms or seizures. One of the known side effects of this drug is confusion, not really optimal in an Alzheimer's patient, and his symptoms continued to worsen until I got his doctor to wean him off it. She then put him on Gabapentin, also known as Neurontin, which increased both the frequency and intensity of his seizures. The hospital doctors decided that since he wasn't improving, they would triple the dosage. It practically killed him, so I went to his neurologist's office and left her an urgent message. She had him taken off it immediately and ordered an EEG, which was apparently shocking in the amount of full-blown seizure activities it showed. She said the seizures couldn't be left untreated and put him on a third drug called Keppra, jump-starting him with an IV.

Meanwhile, the hospital's case manager had found a nursing home in Berkeley, which is a good distance from our home in San Francisco, especially in traffic, as well as an expensive commute with gas at $4.00/gallon and bridge tolls. I told Flip's neurologist of my reluctance to place him there, and she stopped by his hospital room yesterday on her way to the airport and wrote in his chart that it would be unsafe to move him over the weekend until it is known how he reacts to the new medication. She also ordered another EEG for Monday, which she assumed would buy me a little time to find another place. I arranged to visit the nursing home today anyway, and was about to leave when I got a call from the case manager.

He said they had discharged Flip and arranged for an ambulance to transport him to Berkeley at 3 o'clock. I asked about the EEG ordered for Monday and he said they were doing it today. "It won't show much," I said. "He's only been on the new drug for a day and a half and the last one isn't out of his system yet." "We're doing it anyway," he said. "I wanted to let you know." (Oh, what a good boy am I.) Deceitful turd. I spoke to a nursing care director recently who told me that she used to be a musician, too, but the music business wasn't mean enough. We agreed:Health care is.

I went to the hospital to spend time with Flip before his transfer, and the little creep case manager had his door closed, which is unusual as his room is really a closet. I'm sure he didn't want to run into me. (I have power.) The EEG was done in Flip's bed. I noticed that the abrasion gel hadn't been washed out from the one he had the other day.

The ambulance was an hour late, and it took me an hour and a half to drive there in rush hour Friday traffic. The place is dispiriting, to say the least. Flip shares a small room with an elderly gentleman who has a loud boombox. There are two small cubbies, both on the other man's side of the room, and his large easy chair and table block access to the one for Flip's things. I had packed him a suitcase and also brought a small CD player and some CDs including his own music so he can always remember who he is. There is no room for any of it. I didn't see a bathroom with a sink, only a toilet. I should have taken him camping instead.

His dinner consisted of a sandwich made of either stale bread or toast - it was impossible to tell - with a slice of American cheese inside. Dry. No mustard, no mayo, a small cup of unheated canned tomato soup - how much trouble is it to microwave it for a few seconds? and a "salad" of shredded iceberg lettuce with a dollop of bottled dressing. Dessert was a small cup of canned fruit. There was nothing with any nutritional value at all. He ate a little. I would have passed on all of it. They attach ankle bracelets on the residents so they can't escape.

I have to spring him. Realistically, I can't take care of him alone any longer, and our apartment is too small to have someone else here to help. But I can't leave him there. I just can't. I've told him he is there to recover until he's well enough to come home. I'm not exactly lying because I'm not committed to his being there for the rest of his life. If the place is better than my first impression and he ends up staying there, I will have to move to Berkeley. Then I'll be Heart in Berserkley. But it doesn't have the same ring.

In case my day wasn't perfect enough, I have no hot water. An unhappy plumber arrived at 10:30, but he can't get into the boiler room so it won't be fixed until tomorrow, at best. Sometimes I think God doesn't believe in me.

Hospital Widow

2011-08-05T21:25:00.000-07:00

Flip is in the hospital. I took him to the ER a week and a half ago because he was massively confused and combative, and I thought he might have had a stroke. After many hours, it was evident that I could no longer safely care for him alone, and he was admitted. He has been there ever since.

I spend many hours with him every day, and he seems to be worsening at a shocking rate. The hospital staff is wonderful, and has arranged for personal care assistants to be with him at all times as he needs help eating, walking and performing the most private acts. He is deprived of his dignity on an ongoing basis, mightily confused and often agitated, but still aware enough that he is miserable. It will be easier when he loses that awareness, even though it will also be sadder as there will be almost nothing left at that point which is incontestably Flip. This disease is eating his brain, his body, and his very essence. For me, every day inflicts a fresh wound as I steadily lose him in increments. He is dying inch by inch. What manner of deity concocted such a cruel punishment, and why has it afflicted someone who has always been incredibly compassionate, generous and kind?

The hospital case manager is pressuring me to take him out of there as he has overstayed his welcome, but the nurses who are actually involved in patient care agree that I can't safely care for him any longer. They claim to be amazed that I managed to do it for so long.

Yesterday, I visited my first-ever nursing home. It truly did resemble death's waiting room superimposed on an elementary school with a very low budget. All the residents I saw were decades older than Flip. I also disliked the fact that it was located in Daly City, which is a particularly odious part of the Bay area. I think Daly City is God's punishment for anyone stupid enough to leave San Francisco without crossing either the Golden Gate Bridge or the Bay Bridge. Plus, I have always gotten lost there on my occasional forays to Krispy Kreme Donuts, the only one in the entire Bay area, on the way back from Home Depot. Yesterday was no exception. Mapquest helped me to navigate many surface streets and two freeways until I got to Daly City, at which point I got so lost I thought it must be a sign and nearly turned around. I was a half-hour late for my interview.

Today, the nursing home's administrator came to the hospital to assess Flip and decided that since he can still walk, he didn't belong there. Good! I wasn't planning to take him there anyway. In fact, I'm not sure what I'll be able to arrange because he doesn't qualify for Medi-Cal, called Medicaid in other states, but we can't afford private care at thousands of dollars per month. So we're at an impasse. I know there has to be a solution which hasn't yet revealed itself to me. One of the worst aspects of this dilemma is that I would normally discuss it with Flip and we would arrive at a solution together, but that is no longer possible. It feels a lot like betrayal and it tastes bitter, like blood, in my mouth.

A young couple moved into our apartment building today. I haven't seen them yet, but I have been hearing them since I returned from the hospital. They just noisily saw friends off who noisily arrived an hour ago, and yelled "Thanks for the champagne!" From this I infer that they are at the beginning of their life together, and I wonder what it will hold. Will one of them develop Alzheimer's after twenty happy years, and the other be where I am now? I'd like to think that in twenty years this disease will be cured or rarely contracted like small pox and bubonic plague. It deserves to be obsolete. But statistically, it is gaining in the polls and becoming epidemic, just when our national healthcare system is at its sickest. What manner of deity indeed?

Respite Care Widow

2011-07-19T20:54:00.000-07:00

Flip is in a respite care center for three days. I told him he was going to camp, and that the nice people there would get to know him and try to help us through his disease. He seemed positive about going, which surprised me, but by the time I left an hour and a half later, he had noticed the decrepit old people hovering like crows in their bathrobes and said something in my ear which I'm sure meant "WTF?!" but was unintelligible, like everything he says these days. He had been set up at a table with a 26-piece jigsaw puzzle of the New York City skyline at night. He is by far the youngest person there.

I told the program director that if he seemed miserable and really wanted to come home, I would pick him up early. I know that I badly need a break from constant caregiving with almost no sleep, but leaving him didn't feel nearly as good as I thought it would. It feels like a betrayal just when his own body is abandoning him. It reminds me of having to take beloved but incurably ill animals to the vet to be put down. And yet, the prospect of three nights of uninterrupted sleep and a spotless bathroom is alluring. As he has rapidly lost the capacity to do most things for himself, I have had to take over and do them for him.

I know that if our situations were reversed, Flip would do the same for me. In our wedding ceremony, we vowed to always put our relationship before our individual wills, and I believe we nearly always have. It's painful to realize that for the most part, Flip has left the building. It is time for him to be in a facility where he can get 24-hour care from people more skilled than I who work in shifts so one person doesn't have to do it all. I have almost forgotten how easy it is to bathe, feed and dress only myself.

He is on a locked floor with an elevator which only operates when the code is keyed in by employees because he is a flight risk. I called the reception desk on his floor at 8:00 pm to see how he was doing. A woman named Freweyi called him to the phone. As soon as he heard my voice, he began to spout rapid Martian and got so worked up that she took the phone away from him. Whatever he said, I know it was code for "COME AND GET ME. NOW." I may not understand what he says, but his intent is usually clear. I know he'll survive the experience, but I would get more out of my three free days if it were not at his expense.

Alzheimer's is the gift that keeps on giving.

Land of the Free

2011-06-25T11:03:00.001-07:00

New York, my home state, signed into law a marriage equality bill yesterday. It is not the first state to do so, following five other states plus the District of Columbia, but it is by far the largest and most populous state to uphold the principle of equality for all, and more than doubles the number of same-sex couples living together in this country. The impact will be enormous when some of those couples choose to marry, and social commentators more knowledgeable than I are confident that most states will follow suit within a decade. This is a proud day for America as we finally begin to live the principle that we are all created equal. It's about time!

We do not have the moral or ethical right to dictate whom others choose to love. I have never understood why so many people feel strongly about an issue which is not their business, and I believe it cowardly at best to cite the Bible as justification of their prejudices. There are numerous passages in that book which preach fairness and tolerance toward ones fellow humans, but bigots conveniently ignore those in their lust for power and control. I think it matters not whether one loves a man, woman or Boston fern, and feel deeply sorry for those who cannot love anyone at all.

The battle for gay rights began in 1969 when police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in New York's Greenwich Village, and its patrons resisted. The incident is considered the start of the gay and lesbian movement, so it's most fitting that this issue has finally come full circle. I am proud of those who have fought for so long for their basic human rights, and I am proud of those legislators who helped to make them a reality for all. In the face of so many foreign wars, a tanked economy, and general, widespread despair among Americans, we finally have something to celebrate.

There But For the Grace of God Go I

2011-06-18T13:28:00.000-07:00

Flip just returned, highly upset, from a walk, the only activity he can still perform by himself. I tried to determine if he had fallen, or nearly been hit by a car, but those things seemed not to have happened. His speech is completely gone now ~ his attempts to express himself are unintelligible to the extent that even with a longtime common frame of reference, I usually have no idea what he's saying. But as nearly as I can tell, he attempted to be friendly to other people he met and was rudely rebuffed. I have seen strangers turn away as he smiled at them, and I understand their instinctive fear of someone unknown evincing familiarity. But he has also grown quite frail ~ he now weighs 154 pounds at 6'4" despite all my attempts to fatten him up, and looks very old lately. He is clearly no threat to anyone -- at worst, a kindly old man struggling to retain contact with the rest of humanity which is failing him dreadfully. It's a sad thing when fear eliminates compassion.

Alzheimer's Dementia is incredibly isolating. I'm sure it's because people don't know what to say, so they avoid discomfort by avoiding contact with us. His old friends have long since abandoned him, and it's impossible to make new ones now. No one should ever be shunned as undesirable, and it's particularly sad when that person was as outgoing, witty, talented and kind as Flip. He is not sowing what he reaped, at least in this lifetime. He was the most generous person I have ever known, yet I can't remember the last time anyone who was not born to me returned his smile. Apparently he has been deemed a person with nothing more to give.

Yesterday over lunch, I said, "You know I love you, don't you? I get impatient because taking care of you is hard, but I do love you." And for just a second, he was lucid and said clearly, "I know." Then he lapsed into gibberish, none of which was understandable at all.

I feel called upon to provide the loving mothering he never got from his own mother because he deserves as much, and more. But the burden is enormous. The expectation in our dealings with others is that they learn more every minute, which is the normal human condition. With this disease, the process is reversed so that its prisoner unlearns everything he ever knew, day by day, until presumably he is as blank as he came into the world. Watching Alzheimer's relentless march through Flip's brain is like taking an arrow between my own eyes over and over.

It would be nice to insert something positive here, but hopelessness characterizes this disease. If I could ask one thing of others, it would be to return a friendly gesture whenever possible instead of recoiling in suspicion because we never know the burdens others carry, and a smile really could make someone's day.

"A warm smile is the universal language of kindness.”
William Arthur Ward

A Self-Inflicted Wound

2011-05-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

Today's news reported the death of Huguette Clark at age 104. She was the daughter of William A. Clark, a U.S. Senator and copper magnate from Montana whose fortune was rivaled only by that of John D. Rockefeller. She lived as a recluse for 75 years in a luxurious apartment in Manhattan, but apparently spent the last 23 years in hospitals for unknown ailments. Her only relatives, nieces, nephews and cousins, were denied access to her as were all but her trusted accountant and lawyer, both of whom are now under scrutiny for perhaps mishandling her vast funds. At the time of her death, she was worth an estimated $500,000,000. She gave sparingly to charity, and had no friends. Even her lawyer and accountant knew her only as a voice behind a closed door, like the Wizard of Oz.

Huguette Clark spent her early years in Paris and New York and spoke English with a French accent. She took dance lessons from Isadora Duncan in her teens and was a fixture on the society flapper scene of the 1920's. She married in 1928 but divorced two years later, never married again and had no children. She owned multi-million dollar estates in California and Connecticut, but confined herself to her sumptuous quarters on 5th Avenue with her priceless collection of French dolls.

The normal expectation is that wealth will buy freedom but Ms. Clark seems to have kept herself a prisoner, which intrigues me. The world is vast and wondrous. I cannot imagine having the means to see it all, and not doing so. I never dreamed I would find anything to respect about Paris Hilton, but she undeniably makes use of her family's wealth. Yet even beyond the waste of bottomless resources which bestowed an enormous capacity to enjoy life and do good, Ms. Clark's story seems like a life unlived. We have all heard that money can't buy happiness, but I wish she had at least tried. How very sad to die, and be missed by no one.

On Celebrating the Death of Osama bin Laden

2011-05-02T18:36:00.000-07:00

I'm glad he's gone but I don't think his death solved anything, although it surely helped our President's reelection campaign. Bin Laden was a symbol of evil, but his victims are all still dead while al-Qaeda is still alive and will surely seek reprisal against us. Our public celebrating compounded their perceived insult, and while I admire the unbelievably brave Navy SEALs who took him out, it always makes me nervous when civilians take to the streets chanting slogans. Especially when they're chanting in my own language.

I would have preferred solemnity and quiet after President Obama's announcement, not because bin Laden deserved it but because our own national dignity does.

Old Dog Learns New Tricks

2011-03-31T17:37:00.000-07:00

For a very long time, a young man who lives in the building next to mine has been smoking in our doorway, creating noxious conditions for non-smokers. I am well versed in the dangers of second hand smoke as I grew up with it, and have had pneumonia five times. My brother suffered from asthma as a child, unsurprisingly, as we were daily victims of our father's chain smoking at home and in closed cars. Walking out of my building through clouds of blue smoke every day has make me angry, and has also made my hair and clothing stink on a regular basis.

Yesterday, after glaring at our neighbor for months, I finally summoned the courage to ask him not to smoke in front of our door. I was prepared to back up my request with the fact that a San Francisco ordinance makes it illegal to do so within 18 feet of a door or window, but tried to find words which would not be overtly hostile.

"Would you please not smoke in front of our door?" I said. He replied, "I don't. I smoke in front of my own door." I said, "Well, it seems as if you're over here a lot, too." He said, "Is the smoke getting into your apartment?" "Yes." "Oh, sorry. I won't smoke there anymore," he said. I thanked him and went on my way, quite stunned at how nice he was about it. He is also so young that my maternal instincts fluttered for a moment, but I refrained from lecturing him on the effects of smoking. Quit while I was ahead.

Today, I noticed him puffing away on the far corner, across the street, his back to my building. I almost felt bad for banishing him, so I walked over and said, "I just want to thank you again for being so nice yesterday." He smiled and said, "There are lots of other places I can smoke." I continued, "I hesitated to mention it because I know everyone is mean to smokers. I don't hate smokers, I just hate smoke." Exhaling like a chem trail, he said, "No problem."

I've been hating him for months, and it was so unnecessary. I could have saved myself all that angry energy if I had manned up and mentioned it sooner. How could I have forgotten that most people are really nice if given a chance to be? I don't think we'll be Facebook friends or go to movies together, but now I'm sending good thoughts his way, and it's such a relief. Some of life's lessons come from the most unexpected places.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2011-03-14T11:04:00.000-07:00

First, the good news: I won the gift basket at the farmers' market I visit every Sunday morning. Once a month, they have a drawing for a wicker basket with $100 worth of produce, and I have never won it before. I had a strong feeling I would win it this time so when they called with the news, I was not surprised.

The produce in the basket is predominantly green in honor of St. Patrick's Day. I thought briefly of giving it back as I am not Irish and therefore, perhaps, undeserving, but luck of the Irish, the urge passed. And now I am in a moral quandary as there was a huge stalk of brussels sprouts, which I heartily despise although it is undeniably picturesque ~ like a shillelagh with lymph nodes, capable of inflicting grave mortal damage. So I mentally inventoried everyone to whom I could give the thing and came up empty. Throwing it away is not an option because it would be wrong to scorn free food, nasty as it is, grown by a farmer and given to me. There have been times in my life when I was hungry, and I'm not about to tempt the fates again.

I looked online for recipes and learned that brussels sprouts on the stalk are likely to have tiny bugs in them and should be soaked for 15 minutes. I'm a vegetarian. After removing the little heads from their momma, I set them to soak in the kitchen sink last night and they are still there, emitting a terrible odor. As a child, I was often importuned to eat because of all the starving children in Europe. I passionately wished that my parents would take all that liver and cauliflower and send it to them. In today's world, there are starving children everywhere, and some of them would doubtless love to dine on brussels sprouts. Again, I am powerless to repair this inequity.

Yet my resistance is great. I even looked to The Buddha for loopholes, but he laughed. He instructed that we think about where the food came from and the amount of work necessary to grow it, transport it, prepare it and bring it to the table. I've already covered the growing and transporting part on my own, am stuck on preparing and eating it. One should then consider if one deserves the food. Do I detect a slight bit of wiggle room there? Clearly I am unworthy if I am spending so much energy on not eating food I was given. I am the very definition of "unworthy." If you look it up in the dictionary, you will see my picture. Food is only received and eaten for the purpose of "realizing the Way," which is undeniably difficult to accomplish while gagging. What we have here is a doctrinal dilemma.

The Five Moral Precepts are no killing, stealing, sexual misconduct, lying, or partaking of intoxicants. I do none of those except maybe lying on occasion. You would think I could finagle a pass on brussels sprouts. Reading further, I learn that onions, garlic and other pungent plants are forbidden. No one could deny that brussels sprouts are pungent. I read faster, but no. The five plants are onions, garlic, scallions, chives and radishes because eating them creates anger and bad temperament as well as attracting hungry ghosts. I would be willing to attract ghosts if they would take these brussels sprouts off my hands.

My limited understanding of Buddhism tells me that food, eating and taste are all illusions anyway, not a part of our true, seeing nature, which is distorted by our ignorance. Buddhism aims to end all suffering, and I believe that I can best advance my true, seeing nature by not suffering at dinner. After all, charity begins at home. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Greenwich Village Musings

2011-03-01T00:14:00.000-08:00

My first apartment as an official adult was at 12 Gay Street in Greenwich Village, New York City. Gay Street is a tiny, winding street which runs for only one block between Christopher Street and Waverly Place. Originally a stable alley, it was widened in 1833 and became a stop on the Underground Railroad for escaped slaves on their way to freedom in Canada. When I lived there in 1960, it was barely wide enough for a single car. The sound of children roller skating on summer nights echoed against the buildings.

The original occupants of Gay Street were mostly black servants of the wealthy white people on Washington Square. It soon became home to many black musicians, which gave the area an artsy, boho quality. It was a magnet for diverse creative people.

The street runs through the site of a brewery owned by Wouter van Twiller, who succeeded Peter Minuit, the first Governor of New Netherland, in 1633. Federal houses, built between 1826-1833, lined the west side of the street, where I lived. On the east side, the houses were built in 1844-1860, and favored a Greek Revival style.

Around the corner on 6th Ave. was Balducci's open air produce market, from which I stole the occasional peach. There was a heady freedom in being a very young woman, walking around the fabled streets of Greenwich Village and feeling that I owned it, and myself, for the first time. Bob Dylan and other folk singers performed in coffee houses around the area, and the Village Vanguard, The Village Gate and The Blue Note hosted some of the biggest names in jazz on a regular basis. The Beat Generation began here in the 50's with Alan Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac and others, most of whom later migrated to San Francisco, which had a growing Beatnik movement and better weather.

Small and secretive, Gay Street was a natural location for speakeasies during the 20s, including the Pirate's Den at 12 Gay Street. The building was owned by Mayor Jimmy Walker, who kept his mistress, Betty Compton, there. A few years later, Frank Parris built his famous puppet, Howdy Doody, at that address. The house is believed to be haunted by an entity called the Gay Street Phantom.

Ruth McKenney lived next door at 14 Gay Street with her sister Eileen in the 30's, and wrote the book My Sister Eileen, which became a play, a musical and a movie. Eileen died in 1940 in a car accident with her husband, writer Nathanael West, a few days before a stage production of the play was to open. The movie, Carlito's Way, was also filmed here.

Nearby Bedford Street is the site of the city's narrowest house, 8 1/2 feet wide and 42 feet long, built in 1873. Edna St. Vincent Millay lived here between 1923 and 1924. Cary Grant and John Barrymore also lived in the house during its long history. It is currently for sale for $2.7 million and yes, I would buy it. I am small. It would fit me perfectly.

In 1969, I moved to the Village again with my two older children. My youngest had not been born yet. My daughter was in 1st grade at PS 41, and my son, a Montessori Preschool dropout, was my constant companion. We bought puppies to save them from pet store cages, played in Washington Square Park, and walked all over the city together. One day in March of 1970, strolling with both children on W. 11th Street, we heard a deafening noise and watched a house explode a half-block away. As emergency crews swarmed the area, I decided it would be wise to remove my children from the scene in case there was further danger, and we left.

The explosion was caused by the detonation of a bomb being built by a radical group called the Weather Underground, which was intended to be set off that evening at a dance for noncommissioned officers and their dates at the Fort Dix, NJ Army base "to bring the Vietnam war home." Several of the bomb makers were killed in the blast while others escaped. Dustin Hoffman and his first wife, Anne, lived next door and their home also sustained some damage, but they were not hurt.

In 1969 police raided The Stonewall Inn, a gay bar on Christopher Street. The patrons resisted and a riot ensued. This first rebellion and accompanying press coverage gave birth to the gay and lesbian movement.

Greenwich Village remains a haven for artists and non-conformists of all stripes, and much as I love my adopted city of San Francisco, I still miss it. They say three is a charm.

Singin' in the Rain

2011-02-19T17:24:00.000-08:00

Today I reclaimed a part of myself that had been MIA for a very long time. I always loved to sing, and as a child, often sang a cappella in my room for hours for the sheer pleasure of it. When I attended drama school, one of the required courses was singing, but the voice coach said that I had a professional quality voice, that I could become a singer if I wanted to. I didn't have the kind of voice I liked best, Lena Horne, Sarah Vaughan or Julie London, but I sounded exactly like Julie Andrews. And I had perfect pitch.

When Flip and I were first together, I was especially thrilled that he was a musician because I was sure that music had kept me sane through a difficult adolescence and later. The first time he heard me sing, he said, "What did you do with the money?" "What money?" I asked. "The money your momma gave you for singing lessons." I was so hurt that I never sang in front of him again.

This afternoon we had to make an emergency visit to the mall to get his eyeglasses fixed. This is a frequent occurrence, right up there with taking his computer to the Apple store so the Genius (the very best job title, ever) can unscrew it again. We are a fixture in both businesses, and what is more, he seems to choose the worst possible times to animal his glasses apart, like Christmas Eve, when no one with any self-protective instincts would be caught dead at a mall. Today it is pouring. It is raining so hard that all those people with self-protective instincts are undoubtedly building arks, not driving to the mall. I was riding my last nerve.

Our car radio is tuned to the classical music station I love, but today I flipped it to a rock station, which was playing "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Rolling Stones, and I forgot myself and began to sing with Mick and the guys. Perhaps Alzheimer's is responsible, but Flip said, "You could do this." He seemed impressed, as if he had never heard my voice before, and perhaps he hadn't. After all, he was the professional musician in the family. I sang along with Van Morrison, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, Peter Cetera, Sting and Robert Plant while driving through pounding rain, and by the time we got there, I felt that I could handle anything. Even a spouse with Alzheimer's who no longer knows what he's doing and destroys everything he owns, leaving me to pick up the pieces. You can't always get what you want, indeed, but I do believe that we get what we need, even if the reasons are unclear.

What is clear is that I needed to lighten up. I had cut myself off from a source of joy because caregiving is serious business, but singing still makes me happy. Flip's disease has changed both of us, but today he gave me back a piece of myself and I took it and ran. I will always love chamber music, but I think I'll leave my car radio tuned to the rock station for now.

A Woman of Substance

2011-02-09T00:22:00.000-08:00

I am humbled after spending a few hours today with a woman I met months ago in the Alzheimer's support group we attended, which turned out not to be very supportive. Her husband, like mine, is afflicted, but unlike mine, he is of the appropriate age, if such exists, for this miserable disease. He is in a nursing home now as caring for him became too much for her, despite having household help. I am mostly in denial that Flip and I will reach such a cruel pass, but that is not the point of this particular post.

I greatly admire my friend D's endurance as she has withstood multiple personal tragedies which would have completely destroyed most people. Her daughter, who suffered from depression, committed suicide three years ago, leaving a year old baby. Her son-in-law quickly remarried and moved far away, so she rarely sees her grandchild. I can't imagine anything worse than outliving ones own child as it is out of the natural order of things. When D was fifteen, her own mother was a suicide. An only child whose father was not in her life, her relatives declined to take her in so she has been on her own since then. And she has had to watch her husband disappear into Alzheimer's Dementia.

D lives in a Victorian house which is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, and we are in a city noted for its stunning architecture of that period. She is an artist, and the light within her home is exquisite, as is her taste. Everything has been selected with love and an artist's eye, yet it is warm and comfortable. I could effuse endlessly, but I'm sure you get the idea.

I wonder why some people are able to withstand unspeakable pain with courage and grace, while others implode. D is a devout Catholic and her faith is an enormous comfort to her, yet I don't think it is necessary to be religious, or even to believe in God. I do believe it is important to find something larger than oneself which inspires passion and offers solace. Whether that is art, volunteer work, spiritual practice, a business, teaching, or something else is immaterial as long as it is fulfilling. D has a strong support system in her two remaining children, although one lives in Spain and she doesn't see him often enough. I'm sure she also has many friends as she is a lovely, kind and intelligent woman.

But maybe some people are just stronger than others, whether by nature or because they were nurtured. Strength derives from being comfortable within ourselves, and not needing others to validate our worth. It is important to resist defining ourselves by our tragedies. Since we never know the burdens another carries, envy is absurd as well as unworthy of anyone's higher self. It is also a careless waste of our brief time on earth and inevitably leads to a victim mentality which serves no one well, while spending time with people of strength and character can only help us to become more like them. At least, I'm counting on it.

Let Them Eat Cake

2011-02-06T15:40:00.001-08:00

I think I may have found my calling. I made a coconut cake today - yes, of course from scratch - and I wasn't even snowed in. It is as yummy as I hoped. I wish my high school Home Ec teacher could see me, not that she would know who I was as I nearly always cut her class except for the time I discovered a package of shredded coconut in her cupboard, and sat in the back scarfing it from the box while she demonstrated something in which I had no interest up front.

Flip was helpful, as always. He ate two large pieces, and when I mentioned my Home Ec teacher, he said, chewing, "She's dead." Oh. Thanks for reminding me that most of the generation that raised me is gone.

I was slow to develop any domestic abilities, so it was a great surprise to discover that I actually enjoyed cooking, and also eating. Growing up, I didn't even qualify as a picky eater as I hated everything. My parents considered mealtime an opportune captive audience, and often reviewed and reprimanded me for whatever crimes I had committed that day. It was impossible to eat on demand, especially since they told me often how ungrateful I was when other children were starving in Europe. I sincerely wished they would take all that liver and cauliflower and send it to them, but nobody asked what I thought.

My high school also attempted to instill the housewifely art of sewing, to which end we all made flannel nightgowns. I managed to sew mine closed across the bottom and had to smuggle it home so my mother could undo the stitches. My mother was a talented seamstress, which was not always an advantage. We would walk through high end department stores together, and whenever I admired something, she would say, "I could make it for less." Except she rarely did. It was just code for leading me out of temptation with her purse intact. She did, however, make me a wonderful prom gown in my senior year, an ice blue satin strapless number, tightly fitted in all the right places, and I was elected Christmas Prom Queen in that gown. I do not have her talent, although I bought a sewing machine several years ago, determined to unlock its mysteries. And if I didn't have an endless supply of books, or my computer, I surely would have done so by now.

Flip just strolled by with another huge hunk of cake. I won't have to worry about it getting stale. I remarked that "man cannot live by cake alone," but he may prove me wrong.

Name Calling, California-Style

2011-01-29T10:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I watched a boy of about 12 hurl his backpack repeatedly at a chain link fence until it finally cleared the top. I briefly considered helping him, but realized that I was even shorter, a fact I tend to overlook most of the time ~ I think of myself as a tall person traveling incognito. He then climbed over the locked gate and landed hard on the concrete school playground.

He wasn't hurt so I started to walk away when another boy passing by yelled, "You look like an illegal alien!" I thought he was joking as the other boy had surmounted a tall, locked fence. The first boy picked up his backpack and took off across the school yard. "Illegal alien!" yelled the boy on my side of the fence. "ILLEGAL ALIEN!!" Transported by his own cleverness, he yelled it several more times as he continued on his way.

It seemed a strange epithet, especially since the kid doing the name calling looked Hispanic while the climber was Black. One can only guess at the family situation which would make "illegal alien" the worst thing a person could be, or call someone. I guess with determination, we can always find something to make us feel superior to someone else.

Thinning the Herds

2011-01-17T23:54:00.000-08:00

Like a highly skilled sharpshooter, Alzheimer's is taking out one part of Flip after another. I arranged to sell most of his musical equipment as he can't use it any longer, and it takes up precious space in our small apartment. There is too much for me to transport, some of it heavy, so someone came from one of the guitar shops to look it over yesterday. Today, she called with an offer which was considerably less than I expected as we have a small fortune invested in this gear. Although some of it has hardly been touched as it was purchased after his abilities began to disintegrate and is in mint condition, it is still officially used, and the store needs to make a profit when reselling it. Flip and I agree that musical equipment should be used.

I was also forced to factor in my own attachment to his guitar gear because of my memories of him playing music. Flip was a fantastic guitar player who actually jammed with Jimi Hendrix in Maui when he was 19, but maybe removing the visual reminders will be less painful for both of us. I know that my memories are not worth money, but being offered so little seemed to imply that they are not worth very much at all. It's hard to separate Flip from Flip-the-musician, though. He has made music all his life, and more than anything else, it has defined him.

"How can you tell the dancer from the dance?" WB Yeats

Starving to Death in Designer Duds

2010-12-30T15:58:00.000-08:00

Anorexia is perhaps the most bizarre of modern illnesses in a world where millions of people are starving. Isabelle Caro, a French actress and model whose emaciated image in a shocking Italian ad campaign helped rivet global attention on the problem of anorexia in the fashion world and beyond, has died at the age of 28.

In 2006, Ana Carolina Reston, a 21-year-old Brazilian model, also died from the eating disorder. She was 5'8" and weighed 88 pounds. Italian photographer Oliviero Toscani was inspired to produce a 2007 billboard campaign which featured a naked photo of Ms. Caro with vertebrae and facial bones protruding under the slogan "No Anorexia."

Her affliction began at age 13, and she weighed 59 pounds at 5'4" when the famous photo was taken. She wrote a book in 2008, "The Little Girl Who Didn't Want to Get Fat," served as a member of the jury on Top Model France, and worked as a film and television actress. She ended an online video with words of advice for aspiring models: "Believe in life." How sad that she was unable to take her own advice.

Some groups working with anorexics feared that the attention her ads garnered would encourage others with the disorder. Images of Caro appeared on so-called pro-ana, or pro-anorexia websites including one with her death notice and photo captioned, "die young, stay pretty."

The international fashion industry has been unsuccessful in attempts to address the health issues facing ultra-thin models. London Fashion Week organizers dropped plans in 2008 for international health certificates for models, while French industry representatives signed a government-backed charter pledging to encourage healthy body images by promoting "a diversity of body representations," but industry executives around the world refused to cooperate. A French bill that would have cracked down on websites advising anorexics how to starve was passed by Parliament's lower house but never considered in the Senate. I don't know of any such efforts in the US.

Needless to say, the effects of advertising campaigns featuring women who resemble Auschwitz survivors continue to be devastating to teenagers and young women worldwide, and their families. As long as this dangerous practice persists and emaciated women are considered the beauty ideal, many more will starve themselves to death, convinced that food and their own bodies are their enemies.

Joy To My World!

2010-12-01T15:23:00.001-08:00

'Tis the season for Christmas brag letters, and they have begun to arrive in sickening splendor, so I thought I would write one of my own. I don't know the people I'll be writing about, but since the letters I receive never bear any resemblance to persons living or dead, it shouldn't matter.

HOLIDAY GREETINGS TO ONE AND ALL!

As another joyous year draws to a close, I want to share our good fortune with all you less fortunate beings so that you can ~~eat your collective hearts out~~ rejoice with us.

The first major event of 2010 was that I finally changed my name legally to the name I have used forever, as Donna was not nearly fantastical enough for the exotic creature I have become since I hitchhiked away from the family farm and never looked back. I am now Marcella in both word and deed, the name by which most of you know me, and which suits my fabulousness so perfectly.

In September, James and I bought the ketch of our dreams and look forward to sailing around the world with a small crew of 100, including a manicurist and colonic hydrotherapist, of course. There was some tough competition for this boat, but we outbid that upstart Donald Trump and the entire Hilton family, and she is now ours. Bon voyage to us, darlings! We have christened her "The Odyssey," naturalement, with many gallons of the best champagne.

Our eldest son, Lafcadio, the Captain of Industry, was lauded by Business Week as a Superstar Businessman. His Fortune 500 Company is indeed fortunate to have him. His filly, Heart O' Gold, won the Triple Crown this year as well, and his lovely wife, Loma Linda, gave birth to a baby with two heads, both of them gorgeous, proving the old adage that two heads are indeed better than one.

Our second son, Olfactorio, the perfume industry genius, launched his new fragrance in Paris and Milan, named for his loving mama, Marcella. He confided to me that he always knew that if what I have could be bottled, it would make billions. I'm so proud.

Our daughter, Cinderella, who washes dishes at the best five-star restaurant in New York, caught the attention of Georgio Armani and will be strutting the runway in his next show. Even ~~a jealous mother~~ dishpan hands can't keep a beautiful woman down.

Finally, our youngest son, Destino, who is twelve, has received early acceptance to Harvard. By a wonderful coincidence, he also won the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer and the Library of Congress Living Legend Award. It's been quite an exciting year for our 7th grader.

2010 saw my wonderful James installed as President of the World, and if I may be immodest for a second, yours truly was featured in a delightful spread in Town and Country for my work with starving orphans in Rwanda. I am told that my generous gifts of designer clothing, worn only once, were much appreciated, and I plan to continue sending them all the jeweled evening purses their little hearts desire.

Our Christmas roundup letter would not be complete without mentioning that our French Poodle, Marie Antoinette, won Best in Show for the 4th time at Westminster this year.

The Ming vase I dug up while vacationing on the beach in Aruba has been added to the vast collections at the Louvre, and darling James surprised me with the Hope Diamond for our anniversary, just a little something to ~~flaunt~~ wear while sailing the Southern Seas in our ketch.

Our main residence, Valhalla, is being photographed for the March issue of Castle Homes Magazine, and we're all so very excited. Our racing silks won the Grand Prix at Monaco in April for the first time, and we donated the specially-built mechanical marvel to the Smithsonian amidst tremendous international brouhaha.

My toenail clippings were sealed into a Space Capsule to be opened in 100 years, along with photographs, of course, and I owe it all to darling James, without whom I would still be a little farm girl from a Red State, trying to become Miss Rheingold. It makes me humble.

From our houses to yours, I wish you all a healthy and prosperous New Year. Ciao, darlings!

Oodles of love,
Marcella

London Bridge is Falling Down

2010-11-27T19:15:00.000-08:00

I have never bought a copy of The Globe before except once, when I was very, very ill, but the headline screaming at me in the drugstore today was irresistible: Queen Elizabeth II has passed over her son, Prince Charles, and intends to vacate the throne in favor of her grandson, Prince William, after his marriage to Kate Middleton. Elizabeth has been Queen for nearly 60 years, since the death of her father, King George VI, in 1952, when she was 26 years old.

Her father, a second son, had become King in 1937 when his older brother, King Edward VIII, abdicated his throne rather than give up the woman he loved, a once-divorced and currently remarried American commoner, Wallis Warfield Simpson. Edward had struggled his entire life to be normal, a regular guy, as he was embarrassed by being a person requiring homage. So he was, in effect, an anti-monarchist, surely an unusual position for a member of Great Britain's royal family. Mrs. Simpson, allegedly eager to be Queen, sued her husband for a divorce so she could marry Edward, but the royal family wasn't having any of it.

The entire British government was extremely discontented and threatened to quit over the King's new policies and his politics -- his intended Queen was the icing on a very nasty cake -- and Edward was forced to either tow the line or abdicate. He chose the latter, and he and Wallis Simpson, now the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, were married.

They were exiled from England and lived most of their lives in France except for a stint in the Bahamas where he served as Governor during World War II. amid accusations that he was pro-Nazi. He reportedly told an acquaintance: "After the war is over and Hitler will crush the Americans ... we'll take over ... They [the Commonwealth] don't want me as their king, but I'll soon be back as their leader." He also told a journalist that "it would be a tragic thing for the world if Hitler was overthrown". Comments like these reinforced the belief that the Duke and Duchess held Nazi sympathies and the effect of the abdication crisis of 1936 was to force off the throne a man with extreme political views.

There has been rampant speculation about the Windsors, even rumors that Edward's mother, the Dowager Queen Mary, was told that Wallis Simpson had some sort of sexual control over Edward, and had released him from an undefined sexual dysfunction through practices learned in a Chinese brothel. Suffice to say that the royal family was not pleased. The future prime minister Neville Chamberlain wrote in his diary that she was "an entirely unscrupulous woman who is not in love with the King but is exploiting him for her own purposes. She has already ruined him in money and jewels." What I want to know is how a woman attains such powers, and how I can get some.

By all reports, their marriage was miserably unhappy, a tradition apparently followed by Prince Charles and Camilla, his longtime mistress whom he continued to see while married to Diana, and married after her death. The Queen and her consort, Prince Philip, however, have seemingly enjoyed a very happy union for many years. For the first time ever, I feel almost sorry for Prince Charles, despite his abominable treatment of Diana, by all accounts a lovely person, and the fact that he resembles a flounder.

Prince William and his fiancee are extremely popular with the British people, and the Queen has decreed that Kate will be known as Queen Catherine upon William's coronation, which is expected to take place next year.

The Globe's cover also proclaims that Cher's transsexual daughter Chastity, now her son Chaz, has grown a beard. Now THAT is the kind of news we can relate to in America.

Stir It Up

2010-11-11T20:29:00.001-08:00

Flip looked up from his computer. "Barbara " " " " (indecipherable) line." He has Alzheimer's so all the words were garbled.

"What?"

He tried again. "Barbara " " " "." No luck. He walked into the kitchen and pointed to the glass mason jar in which we keep our coffee beans.

The charades game was on. "Barbara Boxer?" Blank stare. "Barbara Streisand?" Vigorous head shaking. "Bob Marley?" He nodded excitedly. Ahhh. "Bob Marley has a line of coffee beans!" He nodded again, beaming. And Flip wants to buy them. Of course.

"Are you thinking they have pot in them?" I asked. He looked hopeful. Ganja coffee. There are many flavored coffees on the market, it's not such a stretch. Jamaican Blue Mountain is my lifelong favorite coffee, but it sells for about as much as a Porsche, another brand I hold in high regard. I can't afford either, however.

Flip was intent on supporting Bob Marley's business enterprise. I reminded him that it would not benefit Bob Marley himself since he is dead. Flip looked crushed. Apparently he had forgotten. I felt bad for both of them, but I was on a roll. "He died in 1981," I added. I could have skipped sharing that detail. It was probably mean, although I was just trying to clarify something, anything, in hopes that our world would somehow return to its formerly reasonable state.

Rohan Marley, one of the singer's sons, founded the company as a tribute to the great reggae legend. He says, "My father came from the farmland in Nine Mile. There, he learned a deep respect for nature and humanity - respect that helped guide his life and ours. He said he would return to the farm one day. That was his dream."

Bob Marley's real name was Nesta Robert Marley. Maybe they're calling the new product "Nestacafe."

Why Can't I Own a Canadian?

2010-11-04T15:43:00.001-07:00

I don't usually post things that I didn't write myself, but think this is hilarious:

In her radio show, Dr Laura Schlesinger said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance.

The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, written by a US man, and posted on the Internet.

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination ... End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Lev.11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14) I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I'm confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your adoring fan.

James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus,
Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education, University of Virginia

PS (It would be a damn shame if we couldn't own a Canadian)

Ennui Is Me

2010-11-02T20:34:00.000-07:00

I am a misfit. The Giants won the World Series tonight and while I am happy for them and their many fans, I couldn't care less. San Francisco is exploding with screaming, cheering, honking horns, dancing in the streets and general hysteria, but the whole thing makes me yawn. I am laying low in my apartment, avoiding everyone so I won't have to pretend to a manic joy I don't feel, which I could fake about as well as the Saturday Night Live Coneheads managed to blend with their neighbors. Besides, I look terrible in orange.

I know it's downright un-American, even subversive, to prefer a good book when I could be watching baseball on TV, but I haven't had a favorite team since the Brooklyn Dodgers moved to Los Angeles when I was a kid. Like all New Yorkers, I felt abandoned. Betrayed. I could get psychoanalytical and say that I never got over it, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Far be it from me to rain on anyone's parade. Our nation's pastime is a perfectly fine game. I have even enjoyed playing it on occasion. But one team's victory over another does not make me walk taller. I have never understood sport rivalries when so many other things are more interesting. In fact, I am so disinclined to commemorate a baseball landmark that I didn't even remember to post this confession, which I wrote last night.

Ode to Grandparents

2010-10-28T10:53:00.000-07:00

Warren Charles Plauche',MD

I never had viable grandparents, although all four were living until I was grown. My father's parents lived in Brooklyn, New York, and I was on Long Island, but there was considerable bad feeling between him and them so we saw them only on State Occasions every several years. They had been separated since before I was born and I never heard them exchange a single word, although they sat on opposite sides of my aunt's Thanksgiving table. My grandmother supposedly disapproved of my parents' union, so they eloped two months before their planned wedding day, but always celebrated the official one. I have heard that she tried to break up their marriage even after my brother was born, but since I was not there and he, being six months old at the time, is an unreliable source, I don't know if it's true. Everyone who would know is now dead.

My cousin once told me that our grandmother taught her to knit and crochet and to this day, she said, she can do those things better than most people. I was fond of my grandmother but kept it to myself because I knew better than to express an opinion about anything which differed from my father's. My grandfather taught my brother to play chess, but since I was younger and female, he paid me little attention. He did write poems for me on all my childhood birthdays though, Edgar Guest-like rhymes on yellow cap, tucked into a card.

My mother's parents lived in California when I was born but moved to Ohio several years later. We visited them once, when I was seven, but I never saw them again until I went to college in Florida, where they were then living. My parents were more concerned with preserving my chastity than improving my mind, so I was shipped off to the least of the universities that accepted me because my mother's parents, two brothers and sister all lived nearby. I guess they assumed that this extended family would supervise my social life as stringently as they had to keep me "marriageable." To my relatives' credit, they didn't.

I adored my grandparents although I never felt as much a part of their family as my many Florida cousins who had known them all their lives. Every Tuesday, I took two buses from my dorm to my grandparents' house and we walked to Tyler's, their favorite neighborhood restaurant, for the Early Bird Special at 5:00. My grandfather would throw open the door and yell, "This is my granddaughter! Isn't she beautiful?" And every time, my grandmother rebuked him, "Charles, lower your voice." He would pull out my chair, grinning as he announced loudly, "I can't hear you, Daisy. I turned off my hearing aid." On their 50th wedding anniversary, he gave her a solid gold bracelet with large disks for each of their four children, engraved on the back with the names of the grandchildren. The largest disk said, "For 50 years meritorious service." He presented it to her at a large family party, and she read the inscription and threw it at him.

It has not escaped my notice that I have no grandchildren, although my three children are now adults with many qualities that would surely enrich another generation. But I only today put together this lack with the fact that I also lacked most of the experience of having grandparents, and I can't figure out what this means. No doubt some of you will dispute that it means anything at all, but I cannot believe it is random. Like any parent, I want my children to be happy in whatever way suits them. And while I would love to be a grandmother, it is absolutely, categorically, massively not about me. But it seems strange that I have thus far missed out on the grandparent issue from both ends if there is not a connection.

My brother knew all our grandparents better than I did because he was the only child in both families until he was six, when I was born, and he has eight grandchildren on both sides of the Atlantic. Did knowing his grandparents make it possible for him to be one someday? Was the die really cast all those years ago, when I was still a child myself? If I had known my grandparents better, would I now be swimming in grandchildren too?

Josephine the Plumber Got Nothin' on Me

2010-10-23T14:58:00.000-07:00

I am inordinately pleased with myself. It does not happen often, so I am giving myself high fives and posting this in celebration. Doubtless you are wondering if I won a Pulitzer, Nobel, or Academy Award. Well, no. While those would all be nice and surely lead to unthinkable earthly delights, statuettes are nowhere near as useful as the award I gave myself, the one that will keep on giving. I changed a toilet seat.

I have had no previous plumbing experience. Flip and I spent seven years renovating an old house, but he did the plumbing and wiring while I ripped out paneling, painted, tiled and landscaped. He is no longer able to do mechanical things, so I am learning despite a decided lack of natural ability. Or interest. Necessity, as everyone knows, is a great motivator. In the grand scheme this is a pretty small achievement, but it reminds me that I can still learn new things. I won't say it shows that I can do anything because I'm a bit too cynical and self-aware for that, but I'll happily settle for being educable at an age when sadly, many people are resting on laurels. And while I hope that my epitaph will be a bit juicier, no accomplishment should be sneezed at.

I would like to commission an occasional poem to commemorate this extraordinary event. Where is that damn poet laureate when I need him? W. S. Merwin was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States for 2010-2011 by the Library of Congress. I had to look it up. It seems odd that we are all familiar with the names of our leading generals in Iraq and Afghanistan, but our nation's leading poet is virtually unknown. I wonder if Merwin can change a toilet seat.

Great Artists Never Die

2010-10-12T15:10:00.000-07:00

This has been an incredible week in the Art world. A painting which is almost certainly a lost Michelangelo has been found in Buffalo, NY. The painting, called "The Mike" by the family which owns it, was knocked off its peg by a tennis ball-wielding child in the mid-70's, so it was wrapped and stuffed behind the living room sofa. It has been there ever since. Martin Kober, a retired pilot, claims to have had no idea the painting, which he inherited from his great grandfather, was valuable.

The unfinished painting of Mary and Jesus may be the art find of the century. It is part of a series of Pieta paintings done by the great master, and Antonio Forcellino, an Italian art restorer and historian specializing in Michelangelo, believes it is authentic. He says it is even more beautiful than others hanging in Italian museums. When contacted by Kober, he assumed it would turn out to be a copy, but a scientific analysis of the painting proved that it is probably the real thing. Infrared and X-ray examinations of the painting -- on a 25-by- 19-inch wood panel -- show many alterations made by the artist as he changed his mind, with an unfinished portion near the Madonna's right knee.

"The evidence of unfinished portions demonstrate that this painting never, never, never could be a copy of another painting," said Forcellino. "No patron pays in the Renaissance for an unfinished copy." He added, "The first time I saw it, I was so struck by the strength of it that I felt breathless. Only a genius could have painted this; the darkness which underscores the suffering, the Virgin who looks as if she's screaming and the figure of Christ after he has been deposed from the cross. It's small, but the technique is extraordinary."

The ownership history shows a long and tangled path to that upstate NY living room. The work was done by Michelangelo around 1545 for his friend Vittoria Colonna, 45 years after he did his famed "Pieta," or pity, sculpture of Mary holding Jesus, housed in St. Peter's Basilica. The painting was given to two Catholic cardinals, and then to a German baroness named Villani who willed it to her lady-in-waiting, Gertrude Young. Ms. Young was the sister-in-law of Kober’s great-grandfather and she sent the work to America in 1883. It has been in the Kober family ever since. It is now stored in a bank vault, and will be restored and exhibited in Italian museums next year. It is probably worth about $300 million.

What a magnificent gift to the 21st Century this is! In Art there is hope, perhaps even the reason for our human existence. The key to our redemption. You would think that such an object of reverence would emit a radiance which could be seen and felt for miles around, like the Star of Bethlehem.

When is Zheng He Day?

2010-10-10T13:35:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is Columbus Day, and guess what? Christopher Columbus was an also-~~ran~~ sailed. An imitator. A Johnny-come-lately.

Half a century before the first Europeans suspected the world was round, an armada of Chinese ships crossed the China Sea and ventured west to Ceylon, Arabia, and East Africa. Many scholars now believe that Zheng He, the most famous of the Chinese explorers, discovered America while circumnavigating the world. From 1405-1433, the treasure fleet made seven journeys to ports around the Indian Ocean, trading Chinese silk, porcelain, and lacquerware to Arab and African merchants for spices, ivory, rare woods and pearls coveted by the Chinese Imperial Court.

The fleet consisted of giant nine-masted junks and supply ships, water tankers, transports for cavalry horses and patrol boats, with a crew of 27,000 sailors and soldiers. The largest junk was over 400 feet long by 150 feet wide, while the Santa Maria, Columbus' largest ship, was only 90 by 30 feet, with a crew of 90.

It's interesting that the Chinese under the Ming Emperors chose not to exploit these newly discovered lands politically or commercially, as the Europeans did when they arrived. They did not slaughter or enslave any Natives. Zheng He didn't even open a restaurant. We may have to change a lot of place names from Spanish to Chinese when this hits the fan.

Meanwhile, the Nobel Peace Prize was just awarded to Liu Xiaobo, a Chinese dissident who is serving an 11-year prison sentence for campaigning for political reform and human rights. His government has censored the news, blacking out all mention of it in the media, although his wife was allowed a visit to inform him of the honor bestowed upon him. She is now under house arrest and unable to communicate with anyone. Chinese authorities consider Liu a criminal and said that his winning "desecrates the prize," while the state-run newspaper called it "an arrogant showcase of Western ideology" which disrespects the Chinese people.

I wonder if Zheng He would be in prison if he were alive today, not for discovering new lands but for declining to turn them into mindless authoritarian states.

Real-Life Enchantment

2010-10-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite childhood fantasies was finding a secret attic in my house filled with treasures from bygone eras, especially art works. If I had visited Paris as a child, it would surely have figured into my reveries.

Recently, an apartment in the 9th arrondisement in the middle of Paris, locked and untouched for 70 years, was opened after its owner died. She had moved to the South of France shortly before World War II but continued to pay rent on the apartment, a veritable time capsule, for the rest of her life. It was filled with furniture, books and paintings, including one by the Italian artist Giovanni Boldini which recently sold at auction for $2.9 million US.

The untitled painting of a woman in a pink evening gown, painted in 1898, was of the artist's muse, Marthe de Florian, a French actress, and had never been listed, exhibited or published. Her granddaughter was the owner of the apartment. A scribbled love note from the artist to his muse was also discovered. One art expert said it was like creeping into Sleeping Beauty's castle, where time had stood still all these years.

Boldini was born in Ferrara, Italy in 1842 and moved to Paris in 1871. He was greatly influenced by Courbet, Manet and Degas, with whom he established lifelong friendships. He became known mainly as a portrait artist whose subjects included the Duchess of Marlborough, Giuseppe Verdi and Edgar Degas. In his portraits of elegantly-dressed women, he developed a 'whiplash' style in which the model appeared to be thrown onto the canvas. Boldini died in Paris in 1931.

Marthe de Florian had entertained her many admirers in the apartment and kept letters from her lovers in packets wrapped with ribbons of different colors. The calling cards of senior statesmen from the period were found tucked away in drawers.

Happily, the exquisite painting went to a good home. The art specialist who authenticated and appraised the portrait said, "It was a magic moment. One could see that the buyer loved the painting; he paid the price of passion." I find that most fitting for a work that was doubtless created in passion and, like Sleeping Beauty, waited silently all these years for the right person to open the door and break the magic spell.

Note: If anyone owns a painting of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse on velvet, it is probably not a Boldini.

My Brother's Keeper?

2010-10-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

A Tennessee family lost its home last week as firefighters watched it burn to the ground with three dogs and a cat inside, along with everything they owned. The rural community of Obion County charges an annual $75 fee for fire protection outside the South Fulton city limits, which the owners had not paid.

Homeowner Gene Cranick said, "I thought they'd come out and put it out, even if you hadn't paid your $75, but I was wrong."

The firefighters refused to respond to several 911 calls, although Cranick offered to pay all costs if they would save his house, and only came to the scene when the field of a neighbor, who had paid his fee, caught fire.

Cranick begged the fire chief to make an exception and save his home, but the chief said, "The city manager will make a statement in the morning and ya'll can see him in his office." The town's mayor sided with the fire department saying, "Anybody that's not in the city limits of South Fulton, it's a service we offer, either they accept it or they don't."

Friends and neighbors said it's a cruel and dangerous city policy, but Mr. Cranick doesn't blame the firefighters themselves, only the people in charge. "They're doing their job. They're doing what they are told to do. It's not their fault," he said. I beg to differ.

Small bureaucratic minds believe that if they make an exception, the rules become meaningless and nobody will pay the fee. I would like to think that most people are basically good when they follow their conscience, but a mindless adherence to inhumane policies is a slippery slope. The Holocaust should have taught us that.

(I don't make the rules; I just work here. I'm just following orders. It's not my problem. It's not my fault.)

I believe that we do have a responsibility to help others when we can. It's unconscionable that firefighters, generally perceived as heroic, even checked their ledgers when the 911 call came in to see if the caller had paid his fee, and even more unforgivable in tough economic times when $75 could buy a family's groceries for a few days. I wonder if we are devolving as a species.

Dream Big

2010-09-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

Ernest Pullen, a 57-year old Missouri man, won $1 million in a lottery in June and this month he won $2 million in a second lottery. Needless to say, the odds of winning either are astronomical, about 1 in 2.28 million, while the chances of winning both cannot even be calculated because they are independent games, so let's just say that Mr. Pullen is very, very lucky.

He quit his job after the first win but claims that he will continue to purchase lottery tickets. I am always amused by people who win millions and proclaim that it won't change them in any way and that they will continue to work as garbage collectors until they are old enough for Social Security.

Mr. Pullen, who took the cash payment instead of the annuity for both wins, received $700,000 for the first and about $1.3 million for the second, before taxes. Maybe he could win a third lottery to pay the taxes on the other two wins. He plans to use the money to fix up his new lakeside house. That's a lot of fixing, but it's good to have a project. He's probably not a golfer.

I am intrigued by the fact that six years ago, he dreamed of winning a lot of money, but didn't feel that the dream was "complete" after winning the first lottery. It probably is now, but what would I know? I have never won more than $2 in a lottery and gave up buying tickets long ago because I got tired of never winning. I guess most of us are just meant to earn our own money and I'm ok with the concept because lotteries are capricious and I'm a control freak. But I am delighted to see someone beat the odds, and hope Pullen enjoys his new wealth and does good things with it.

Mindless Conformity Can Be a Religion, too.

2010-09-17T13:22:00.000-07:00

A 14-year-old girl has been suspended twice from school in North Carolina for her nose piercing, which she claims violates her First Amendment right to exercise her religion. Ariana Iacono and her mother, Nikki, belong to the Church of Body Modification, a small group with a clergy, a statement of beliefs and a formal process for accepting new members. The school states that she is in violation of its dress code.

The American Civil Liberties Union believes that she has the right to wear her nose ring and has contacted school officials with concerns about her religious rights. The school's policy does allow exemptions to the dress code on religious grounds. Ariana's mother asserts that school officials are judging what constitutes a "real" religion. "We pretty much flat-out asked them, what guidelines are you following? What do you need to establish a sincere religious belief?," she said. "We were told that if we were Hindu, or she were Muslim, it would be different."

Richard Ivey, the Iaconos' minister, says,"They're basically saying, because they don't agree and because they choose not to respect our beliefs, that it can't be a sincerely held religious belief." He describes the church as a non-theistic faith that draws people who see tattoos, piercings and other physical alterations as ways of experiencing the divine. "We don't worship the god of body modification or anything like that," he said. "Our spirituality comes from what we choose to do ourselves. Through body modification, we can change how we feel about ourselves and how we feel about the world." The two-year old church claims 3,500 members nationwide.

Sally Gordon, a professor at the University of Pennsylvania who focuses on Constitutional law and religious issues, says schools have the right to issue rules on dress as long as there's a good reason and no specific religion is targeted. "One of the remarkable things about religious freedom is that people have all kinds of beliefs that look to others as bizarre but make internal sense to them," Gordon said. "We really can only claim to be a country that respects religious liberty if we respect the variety of beliefs that exist in the country — both new and old."

The ACLU, like the Iaconos and their minister, hope the issue can be resolved without going to court. Meanwhile, Nikki and Ariana pick up schoolwork for her to do at home while her peers sit in class. "I hope they're going to stop suspending me and clear some of these absences from my record," Ariana said. "I want to get into a good college."

You would think that with all the really important issues going on in the world, a teenager's jewelry would be small cause for concern. The fact that it is goes beyond petty control issues and sounds the death knell for individuality in our society. And that to me is the real tragedy.

Never Again

2010-09-11T09:54:00.001-07:00

Remembering American heroes and innocent lives lost -
September 11, 2001.

Still Stupid After All These Years

2010-09-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

The photo accompanying this post gives new meaning to the word "mug" shot, which should probably be changed to "mugging" or perhaps, "simpering" shot. Las Vegas police claim that Paris Hilton was released within three hours of her arrest on suspicion of cocaine possession to avoid disruption of jail house operations.

Several people, including a woman who regularly posts bonds for hookers detained for nonviolent soliciting, are outraged that the hotel heiress received special treatment. It is, indeed, shocking that the legal justice system could be so crass, so unjust. So predictable. Hilton is scheduled to appear in court on the felony charge in October. Last month, she was briefly arrested in South Africa for smoking pot during a World Cup match but the charge was dismissed. Apparently her family's influence works in any currency.

In the incident on August 27th, Ms. Hilton and her boyfriend, Cy Waits, were stopped by police because their Escalade was emitting a trail of pot smoke and Waits was driving erratically, for which he was charged with DUI. She opened her purse in front of a police lieutenant and a bag of cocaine fell out. She claims that neither the purse nor the cocaine was hers, and that she was merely looking for a chapstick. The purse must have belonged to one of her girlfriends, who was not identified. (The World Cup weed wasn't hers either. I'm not sure if ownership of the boyfriend has been determined.)

If stupidity were a crime, I doubt she would ever get out.

Is There a Worldwide Conspiracy?

2010-08-22T18:07:00.000-07:00

For years I've heard rumors of a secret society that runs the world. It sounds like the plot of a Dan Brown novel, but Fidel Castro recently condemned the Bilderberg Group, an unofficial, invitation-only conference of about 130 influential people in the fields of politics, banking, business, the military and media. Heads of state, prominent politicians from Europe and North America as well as board members from many large, publicly-traded corporations have attended. It is based in The Hague in Holland, but meets annually in different cities. Because of its secrecy and refusal to issue news releases, the group is frequently accused of political conspiracies. The organization, also known as the Bilderberg Conference or Bilderberg Club, is closed to the public, and despite Castro's interest in it, no one from a so-called Third World country has ever been a member.

Denis Healey, British labour politician and Bilderberg founding member, has said:"To say we were striving for a one-world government is exaggerated, but not wholly untrue. Those of us in Bilderberg felt we couldn't go on forever fighting one another for nothing and killing people and rendering millions homeless. So we felt that a single community throughout the world would be a good thing."

The Bilderberg Club today controls 33% of the world's wealth. In 1973, some of its members established an even more powerful center of research and analysis, the Trilateral Commission, led by David Rockefeller, president of the Chase Manhattan Bank. Members include Sirus Vance, Warren Christopher and Zbigniew Brzezinski, chief executive of this group which manages 60% of international wealth.

Both groups are empowered by the vast wealth they control and from the political appointments, presidents and prime ministers they place in office and guide. Candidates are chosen to comply with the international decision-making philosophy. They must not disturb the global balance, which refers to the global profit and loss account so as to ensure the income of the two international centers. Politicians are servants whose masters do not allow them to make any independent moves. These centers determine every important aspect of the lives of ordinary citizens in every country, including the percentage of international wealth they are allowed to claim. If a head of state does not go with the program, he is terminated by scandal, forced resignation or assassination.

Their worst fear is that people around the globe will wake up and demand the wealth that is rightly theirs. To prevent this, the NSA (National Security Agency) was founded in 1952. It has more than 2,000,000 agents and scientists worldwide, but it is not listed anywhere as an official agency; therefore, no laws control its activities, but documents exist to protect it. It has the most comprehensive computer center in the world which constantly monitors information and oversees the telecommunications of both friendly and enemy countries.

The NSA cultivates the impression that the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) and DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) are in charge of spying operations for the United States, but they are actually subordinate to the NSA, which is the executive organ of the Bilderberg Club and the Trilateral Commission.

If all this is true, the only thing that will free us from such totalitarianism is a universal awakening. When politicians value their own integrity over ego gratification and the privileges of office, they will refuse to be tools of powerful special interest groups. It is extremely dangerous to opt out of the program and few have such courage. But until ordinary people cause things to change, most of us and our children's children will continue to live in oblivious servitude to the few who hold all the power on our planet.

I thought conspiracy theorists were all nutjobs until I researched this topic. I'm not so sure now. It's easy to write something off as "conspiracy theory," but just because some people see conspiracy in everything is not proof that it doesn't exist. As Delmore Schwartz, 1950's Greenwich Village poet and short story writer said, "Even paranoids have real enemies."

Over the Moon with MOONSHINED

2010-08-04T12:36:00.001-07:00

I am delighted to celebrate the launch of the most fabulous jewelry line ever, Moonshined Designs. The artist behind it, my daughter Cate, is one of the most creative people I have ever known with a background in Philosophy, Literature, Theater, Dance, Film, Psychology, and Architecture. Her jewelry is truly movable art. Descriptions of each piece are incredibly fun to read, and the website is as clean, simple and beautiful as the designs. A portion of all sales benefits Marine Animal Rescue or Breast Cancer Research.

The profound wonders of the natural world consistently amaze me. It is with this wonder that I began designing: an attempt to capture the innate/latent magic that exists in gemstones, metals and other organic objects. I have included the reported powers of each stone and metal in the item description, as a gentle reminder there are always qualities in each of us that can use enhancement.

I strive to keep my designs simple, true, powerful, and made from only the purest materials. Each detail has been crafted with care, right down to the clasp on any necklace or bracelet. That means that when it inevitably slips ’round, it will always look just as beautiful, no matter what position. Even when the openings show. Especially when the openings show. It’s my belief that life is like this… or can be. So wear with confidence. True beauty comes from within. But a little sparkle here and there never hurt anybody.

I couldn't agree more! And now I have a little shopping to do.

Bears Will Be Bears

2010-07-30T16:28:00.000-07:00

Early Wednesday morning, a mother grizzly bear with three cubs attacked a sleeping camper at a campground near Yellowstone National Park, dragged him 25 feet from his tent and mauled him to death. The bears then attacked campers in two other tents, injuring but not killing them. Wildlife officials said the attacks were surprising because none of the campers had any food inside their tents.

The sow was euthanized today after DNA testing proved that she was the bear who had attacked the campers. An autopsy will be performed to determine if there was a medical reason for her unusual actions as bears normally do not commit unprovoked attacks on humans. The fate of her cubs has not yet been decided, but some fear that their mother has taught them predatory behaviors. Grizzly bear mothers spend up to 3½ years showing their cubs where and how to obtain food. They are highly intelligent animals whose ability to form mental maps and remember locations may exceed that of humans. The lives of these cubs may be spared if a zoo will accept them because they are very young.

While I feel terrible for the loss of life in this incident, the fact remains that we humans are encroaching on territory which has always belonged to other animals. And as we develop more and more of those lands, we leave them with less and less area in which to find their food and to live comfortably.

I have always cringed at the arrogance that places us at the pinnacle of Creation with the implicit entitlement to control and destroy all other creatures as we please. Animal species including ours are interdependent to an extent which our "modern" culture has largely forgotten; what hurts non-human animals ultimately hurts us, too. All creatures play a role upon which all other creatures depend, whether or not we are aware of it.

I think that these particular bears must have been desperate for food to attack humans because bears are predominantly vegetarian. Executing them is just another attempt to reassure ourselves that we are still in control, despite all evidence to the contrary. Sometimes I think that like Pooh, we are Bears of Very Little Brain.

No Forgiveness Possible

2010-07-28T21:35:00.000-07:00

Mark David Chapman, who murdered John Lennon on December 8, 1980, is up for parole in early August. He will be interviewed by a three-member parole board panel for the sixth time. He was originally given a sentence of 20 years-to-life for his crime, and is allowed to apply for parole every two years since he became eligible for release in 2000.

Yoko Ono, John Lennon's widow, music partner, soul mate and the mother of his younger son, Sean, has consistently opposed Chapman's parole on the ground that she and his two sons would not feel safe for the rest of their lives. She also makes the valid point that Chapman, himself, would be in danger since he killed one of the most beloved figures in the world. In fact, he has been incarcerated in a special unit apart from Attica Prison's general population since he began serving his sentence.

The board denied Chapman's last request for parole in 2008, citing the massive impact of his crime. "Your conduct thus precipitated a horrendously tragic event which has impacted many individuals," the board wrote. "Your discretionary release at this time would thus not be compatible with the welfare of society at large, and would tend to deprecate the seriousness of the instant offense, and undermine respect for the law."

It is unthinkable that this man should ever be free again. He shot John Lennon at close range as John and Yoko returned home from a recording session, and Yoko has been forced to live with these gruesome memories for nearly thirty years. John's sons Julian and Sean have had to grow up without their father, and the world has been deprived of the music and wisdom John would surely have produced if he had been allowed to enjoy a normal life span.

Chapman is now 55 years of age, while John Lennon would have been 70 this October.

Please sign this petition asking the NY Parole Board to deny Chapman's release.

http://www.gopetition.com/petitions/no-parole-for-mark-david-chapman.html

Vigilantes, Go Home

2010-07-17T13:03:00.001-07:00

Things have gotten a tad dicey in Arizona.

Governor Jan Brewer signed a controversial new immigration law in April which allows police to question a person's immigration status if they suspect someone is in the country illegally. The Minutemen Movement patrols the desert on foot, horseback and in airplanes, reporting suspicious activity to the Border Patrol, which has more agents than ever.

And now Jason "J.T." Ready, an ex-Marine with ties to the National Socialist Movement, has declared his own war on "narco-terrorists." The NSM is a neo-Nazi organization that believes only non-Jewish, white heterosexuals should be American citizens and that all non-whites should leave the country, "peacefully or by force." He and his group wear military fatigues, body armor and gas masks and are heavily armed with both assault rifles and the conviction that they are operating in service to God and country, which history has shown is a most dangerous combination.

"We're not going to sit around and wait for the government anymore," Ready said. "This is what our founding fathers did." It's hard to picture George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, John Jay, James Madison and Alexander Hamilton in powdered wigs with swastikas on their sleeves. Law enforcement officials say that such patrols undermine the work of officers on duty along the border, especially if they try to enforce the law themselves by vigilante "justice." This can only end badly.

The people who came to America, and in many instances brutally displaced the Native Americans, viewed these shores as a place of refuge from persecution, poverty, and a lack of opportunity to pursue success. The United States seems to be suffering a schism of identity in which we still pride ourselves on being a free country which welcomes immigrants while we also strive to keep them out.

The Statue of Liberty welcomes people to New York Harbor with these words engraved on her base: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door." Her upraised torch is a symbol of enlightenment, showing the path to Liberty. She is not in Arizona.

If we no longer believe in the concept symbolized by this statue, perhaps we should dismantle it and return it to France, which gave it to America in 1885 to celebrate the friendship between the two countries and a shared reverence for freedom. But if we fail to control vigilante activity wherever it exists, a statue of Hitler might take her place.

What About Cars for Seeing Eye Dogs?

2010-07-09T00:27:00.000-07:00

This week, the National Federation of the Blind and Virginia Tech demonstrated a prototype vehicle equipped with technology to allow a blind person to operate a car independently. The technology, called "nonvisual interfaces," uses sensors to let a blind driver maneuver a car based on information transmitted to him about his surroundings: whether another car or object is nearby, in front of him or in a neighboring lane.

My first reaction was frankly, skeptical. With all respect, there are already too many seemingly blind people driving in San Francisco. But it's an intriguing idea. Louis Braille opened worlds to the blind in the early 1800's because he desperately wanted to read. The arrangement of raised dots he invented has been adapted to nearly every language on earth. Perhaps no disability is as limiting as we generally assume.

Advocates for the blind consider the invention of such a vehicle a "moon shot." President Kennedy, who urged America to land a man on the moon and return him safely to the Earth, would surely agree. He said, "We need men who can dream of things that never were and ask 'why not?'..."

Licenses requiring eyeglasses could become obsolete. And the words, "Waddya, blind?" so beloved of New Yorkers, could lose their impact along with brandishing middle fingers at other drivers who can't see them. Big changes, people. Big changes coming.

Armed Robbery with Special Circumstances

2010-07-08T11:37:00.000-07:00

The latest candidate for Mother of the Year is Ethel Mae Nelson of Newberry, SC, who took her 7-year old daughter along while she held up a gas station at knifepoint. The clerk gave her about $300 and she fled with the money and the child. Soon after, a deputy spotted her in a taxi and apprehended her. She tried to run away, leaving the child behind, and broke her leg in the process.

She has been charged with armed robbery, possession of a weapon and unlawful conduct toward a child.

Ms. Nelson is hospitalized and her daughter has been placed in state custody. It's really rough when you need to commit a crime but can't afford a baby sitter. There oughta be a law.

Dick and Jane Do a Museum - See Dick Run

2010-07-07T11:45:00.000-07:00

Claude Monet: "The Seine at Vetheuil"

Yesterday, we went to the de Young Art Museum in Golden Gate Park to see an exhibit called "The Birth of Impressionism," which is on loan from the Musee d' Orsay in Paris. Some of the paintings and I were old friends who hadn't seen each other in half a lifetime. I was thrumming with excitement at the thought of seeing them again.

The lines were obscenely long and slow moving and snaked around extensive real estate like endless airport security queues. We weren't even allowed to get in line for an hour after our arrival - I'm sure security requires that they let in only as many people as they can monitor - so we killed time in the gift shop. Flip got an overpriced tee shirt and I looked in vain for postcards of the exhibit. As soon as we got on the line, Flip decided he'd had enough and wanted to go home. He held up his bag with the tee shirt and said, "Let's just take this and go."

I explained that we had already paid to see the exhibit and I really, really wanted to see it. He persisted. I explained again. He got more and more upset with the lines and chattering people but each time the line moved a little, I told him with false cheer that we were nearly there now.

"Where are we going?" he asked. "We're in a museum," I said. I told him that the canvasses had arrived clandestinely in huge moisture-controlled crates unlabeled or marked "croissants," accompanied by security details in unmarked cars between airport and museum. They were unopened for 48 hours so they could acclimate to their new home. "Let's just go," he said. My happy mood floated away like a liberated balloon.

Edgar Degas: "The Dancing Lesson"

I often took my children to the Metropolitan in NYC when they were toddlers, and they adored such outings. "This is bullshit," Flip said. "I want to go home." The "real" Flip was an art lover. Apparently, Alzheimer's Flip is not.

"I'm sorry, but I'd really like to see it." I thought of ways to kill myself. Every time the line moved a foot, I cited this as evidence that we were nearly there. The Art Dodger wasn't having any of it. I wondered if hemlock was painful. After more than an hour, we entered the exalted space with paintings by Renoir, Degas, Monet, Manet, Sisley, Cezanne, Pissarro, Morisot and other artists, and it did not disappoint.

Flip went into near-cardiac arrest when he saw "Whistler's Mother," which is huge. It is always a shock to stand in front of the actual canvas an artist worked on, close enough to touch it if security weren't watching ones every move, especially when the work is one that has been reproduced millions of times. To me, this is as thrilling as if the artists themselves were standing before me, reaching out in greeting across the years.

James McNeill Whistler: "Arrangement in Grey and Black: Portrait of the Painter's Mother"

In late September, the de Young will host a second show, "Post-Impressionist Masterpieces From the Musée d'Orsay" featuring works of Van Gogh, Gauguin, Seurat, Rousseau and Toulouse-Lautrec. The Musee d' Orsay is undergoing extensive renovations which would have required storing about 250 paintings. Instead, they decided to mount two touring exhibits, but the de Young in San Francisco is the only museum in the world which will host both collections. This particular combination of paintings will never travel again.

Transportation costs are over $1 million for each exhibit, while insurance exceeds $1 billion each. "Arrangement in Grey and Black: Portrait of the Painter's Mother," by James McNeill Whistler, was required by the d'Orsay to travel in an unmarked plywood crate with a pine base and protective coat of varnish, face up, cushioned by shims for spacing and foam of varying density to soften vibrations. Gloved technicians removed her from her crate and hung her on a wall with hooks strong enough to hold a car. The contract between the d'Orsay and the de Young specifies that all crates remain inside the museum, a stipulation intended to guard against vermin.

Today, I am going to visit my favorite art supply store and see which medium speaks loudest to me. I haven't painted, sculpted or worked in pastels since I was in my early 20's but the exhibit made me realize how much I've missed it. No masterpieces will be created, but I'll be smiling broadly at the self-medication of it all.

With a Friend like This...

2010-06-30T19:42:00.000-07:00

For a couple of years, Flip and I have attended a support group run by the Alzheimer's Association of Northern California and Nevada. They divide participants into two groups, the diagnosed and their caregivers, which meet in adjoining rooms. Each is run by a facilitator. Flip has complained to me several times that the woman who leads his group has been mean to him. She has scolded him, treated him like an imbecile when he tried to contribute to the group, and on one occasion, said, "Just spit it out already" as he struggled to express himself verbally. One of the symptoms of this disease is the increasing inability to do so.

It's possible that he misunderstood her intentions. Since I was not there, I can't say for sure. But I think she's a bully who believes that those in her group lack the capacity to report her treatment of them. If so, she underestimates them, and perhaps she overestimates the degree of job security she has. I would think very seriously about going after someone's job, but it is unacceptable for Flip and other victims of this disease to be treated with anything less than respect and kindness.

We have not attended the group much the last several months despite our need for any support available. There is something terribly wrong when someone in an Alzheimer's support group feels ostracized for showing symptoms of Alzheimer's by a representative of the organization founded to fight the disease. It makes you wonder.

Move Over, Hallmark

2010-06-29T21:23:00.000-07:00

The newest fashion statement for summer is temporary cleavage tattoos with such statements as "Happy Birthday," "100% Natural," or "Paid For," in case they aren't. They last for about a week and are a steal at $12.95. The company founder says, "Ta-ta-toos allow you to express traditional statements in a unique way. They’re for when you want to do more than wear your heart on your sleeve."

Many designers are featuring them in their new collections. Even the venerable House of Chanel has the iconic double "C" logo available so you can look expensive-trashy if you're conflicted about your intended message.

Also available are inks that say "Special Delivery," "Let's Celebrate," "Naughty/Nice" and "Guess What? I'm Pregnant." I would suggest "Since You're Talking To Them Anyway, They Might As Well Join The Conversation" if it weren't so long. I don't know about you, girlfriends, but I don't have room for that much verbosity on my whole body.

It sure beats worrying about oil spills that threaten to swallow North America, the economy (which already has) or the many wars we're fighting. How about "I'm a twit" and "Ditto" on the other one?

Watch Out for Exploding Barbies

2010-06-26T10:53:00.000-07:00

It's never too early to become a terrorist. Alyssa Thomas of Ohio, who is six, is on the US Homeland Security Department's "no-fly" list. Her family learned of this while attempting to board a flight from Cleveland to Minneapolis. The purpose of the list is to prevent people with known or suspected ties to terrorism from flying.

Her father said, "She may have threatened her sister, but I don't think that constitutes Homeland Security triggers."

The Thomas family was allowed to make its flight, but later attempts to remove Alyssa's name from the list were unsuccessful as the FBI confirms that a list exists but will not discuss who is on it, or why. Does this not sound a bit Orwellian? Alyssa's parents were told that her name will stay on the list but that the FBI will rely on the common sense of security agents every time she flies. The family flies often and this has never been an issue before because the Secure Flight Program just began for all domestic flights.

This makes me uneasy for a couple of reasons: I don't argue with the need for such a list, but the information on each listed person should be more precise and at the very least, should include a photograph. Since that is clearly not the case, leaving decisions to the common sense of security agents is worrisome. Six-year old Alyssa was allowed to fly, but where will the lines be drawn? How about a twelve-year old? Fourteen? Seventy-three? Also, my first and last names are common, so it is only a matter of time before someone with the same name becomes a security risk and I end up in airport jail.

The other day, Carly Helm, a ten-year old girl flying from Atlanta to Milwaukee with her sisters was forced to abandon her 2-inch pet turtle in its cage before the flight would take off. She dumped him in a trash can by the boarding gate and re-boarded the plane, sobbing. It's hard to fathom how a tiny animal could be a flight risk.

This is not a good summer for little girls on airplanes.

My Kingdom for a Horse

2010-06-24T21:50:00.000-07:00

Or a bag of meth.

A couple tried to sell their 6-month old baby for $25 outside a Walmart store in Salinas, California. Patrick Fousek, 38, and Samantha Tomasini, 20, approached several women with offers to purchase the child, but the women became suspicious and alerted police. Officers who arrested the couple said they appeared high on methamphetamine. The baby's mother told Child Protective Services, which removed the baby from their home, that she had breast fed the infant while under the influence.

You really can buy anything at Walmart.

All I Need is a Miracle

2010-06-19T18:15:00.000-07:00

Ever since Viagra met blockbuster success in 1998, the drug industry has sought a similar pill for women.

Now, Boehringer Ingelheim, a German drug giant, says it has developed such a pill and is trying to persuade the FDA that its drug can help restore a depressed female sex drive. The effort has set off a debate over what constitutes a normal range of sexual desire among women, with critics saying the company is trying to turn low libido into medical pathology.

It would be the first drug aimed specifically at low sex drive in premenopausal women and includes side effects of dizziness, nausea and fatigue. The idea of women performing normal non-sexual activities like driving while experiencing potentially dangerous side effects makes it sound like the main benefit of this drug would be for men. Also objectionable is making women who already carry more than their share of life's burdens feel inadequate because their libido does not measure up to the imagined sex drives of "other women." I think we would all like to know who those other women are, and how they got so lucky. As far as I know, these libidinous populations have not been determined or at least, disclosed. Or maybe they are in protective custody.

Needless to say, the drug companies are gleefully rubbing their hands together in anticipation of raking in huge profits at least equal to those reaped by the sale of Viagra, Cialis and Levitra.

It is too easy to label women as suffering from sexual dysfunction, especially without taking into consideration other legitimate demands on their energy. The willingness and ability of their partners to arouse them should also not be ignored. Perhaps it's a generational thing, but today's postmenopausal women were often encouraged to feel generally inadequate. It's hard to imagine that the drug companies are not attempting to capitalize on such tendencies to sell their product.

Leonore Tiefer, a psychologist and professor at New York University who has researched female sexual desire for more than a decade, says Boehringer has gone too far with its publicity effort. “Women’s sex lives are often a struggle, a disappointment, an archipelago of regret,” she said. “Is there a small group of women who could benefit from medical intervention — probably.”

But she believes that if the drug were approved, “the much larger group of women without any medical reason for their sexual distress will inevitably be misinformed and misled into thinking that there is a pill that can get them the sex life they read about, the one they think everyone else is having.”

The drug companies have even come up with a name for this brand new medical malady: Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder, which will doubtless soon be abbreviated to HSDD as we become more comfortable with the idea that many women are basically flawed and need medication to make them "normal." It's well known that women have a more complicated response system than men, so finding us abnormal by male standards is both impractical and stupid.

I think that inventing a drug to alleviate some of the passion-stealing concerns that consume most women might bring about an amazing recovery in sluggish female libidos. And if treatment consisted of a few weeks in Hawaii or Montego Bay, we could probably be very healthy indeed.

Still Sailing to Byzantium

2010-06-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

I feel quite wrung out this week. I followed with horror the story of Abby Sunderland, the 16-year old American sailor who attempted to become the youngest person to circumnavigate the globe but ran into a storm in the Indian Ocean which destroyed her mast. I sat at my computer hours past my usual bedtime, seeking news of her plight as she drifted 2,000 miles from land on any side.

It brought back memories of my family's 32 foot cabin cruiser exploding in the ocean when I was seven.

One perfect August day, we left our boat slip on Long Island, New York and headed out to sea. Our destination was Nantucket, off the Massachusetts coast. My older brother and I were sitting in the fore cockpit with our Irish Terrier, Patty, enjoying the sunshine and salt spray.

My father, who was an excellent swimmer, had taught my brother to swim, but my mother did not know how, nor did I. I owned a child-size life jacket but was not wearing it that day. It was stowed in a cupboard in the cabin, and there was no access to the cabin from our perch in the bow of the boat. To get there required inching around the catwalk holding onto a rail along the edge of the upper deck, above my reach.

The sun sparkled on the waves as we plowed through them, and soon there was no land visible in any direction. We cruised for hours until suddenly, my brother and I heard a loud explosion. Turning, we saw the cabin engulfed in flames and felt the searing heat.

My brother grabbed our dog, threw her into the ocean and jumped after her. I was afraid she would drown but didn't know what to do about it. I didn't know what to do at all, so I waited. The flames leaped higher into the blue sky. The heat was intense and the air looked wavy. It would have been beautiful if I weren't so scared.

After several minutes, my father eased his way around the catwalk holding an adult life jacket. He had been unable to get to mine because the hardware on the locked cupboard had melted. He tried to drape the adult one around me, but his hands were burned and it fell on his new Sperry Topsiders and ricocheted into the water.

"Should I jump?" I asked.

"I'm afraid you'll have to," he said. He seemed apologetic, which I noted because I had never known my father to evince any kind of remorse before.

I held his pinky for a second, then jumped into the icy water. The fire raged toward me because I had jumped off the leeward side of the bow. The orange life jacket had already disappeared, so I paddled as fast as I could to get away from the flames leaping off the boat as it burned down to the waterline. Within minutes, there was nothing left of it but smoke and the charred black wooden hull that got smaller so fast it looked as if something were eating it. The water was bitter cold and dark.

About an hour later, just before sundown, three men in an open fishing boat who had seen the flames from afar approached and found me struggling to stay afloat in the water. They held out a long pole with a hook on the end for me to grab, pulled me into their boat and wrapped me in a rough gray blanket. I was shaking violently and burst into tears.

"Why are you crying now?" one of the men chided me. "You're safe now."

I stopped crying immediately, ashamed that I had forgotten I was not allowed to cry. The fishermen took me into port, several hours away, and handed me off to a policeman on the dock. I didn’t see my family anywhere.

The next thing I remember is visiting my mother in the hospital where she was being treated for third-degree burns on both legs. She had been standing above the hatch when the engine blew up. Her legs were slathered in Vaseline and covered with white gauze bandages. My father had kept her afloat until help arrived.

She noticed that I had been washing only the part of my face I could see, leaving the back of my neck gray and grungy. She asked a nurse for a washcloth and rubbed my neck hard until it was pink and sore as the water dripped down my back.

I am older now than my father was when he died. But even from an adult’s perspective, I don’t understand why he couldn’t save me and my mother, too, instead of consigning a seven-year-old child to the deep, to literally sink or swim. I swam.

The next year, he bought another boat. It was a 34-foot ACF, one of very few pleasure boats made by the railroad car and locomotive manufacturing company, American Car and Foundry. Some of the new boat’s appeal was unquestionably its exclusivity.

My parents never mentioned the boat accident or my ordeal again, as if it never happened. I don't dwell on this memory consciously, but as I followed Abby Sunderland's story, hardly daring to breathe or even sleep, I felt like a terrified seven year old in a cold, dark ocean again. I even dreamed of drowning, and yesterday I took a book out of the library about the drowning death of Natalie Wood although I normally eschew celebrity books.

I cannot imagine taking a small child out on the ocean without a life jacket. I also cannot imagine allowing a sixteen-year old to attempt a solo sail around the world. Perhaps most bizarre of all is the fact that this same week, a rare photograph emerged from history's attic of two slave children which was probably taken by Matthew Brady, the famous 19th century photographer of President Lincoln and General Robert E. Lee. The same North Carolina attic yielded a document detailing the sale of one of the children, John, for $1,150 in 1854. Both children are ragged and barefoot, their faces hopeless as they contemplate the short, brutal lives awaiting them.

There are still many children like John and his unnamed companion in the world today. In fact, there are many more such children than those who possess 40-foot yachts to sail around the world in pursuit of a record. Rescue missions from several nations went to enormous trouble and expense and even put themselves in danger to save Abby Sunderland, and while I am glad they did, it makes me wonder why such effort is not mobilized to save other children from slavery, starvation and disease. And it makes me ashamed.

Addicts Have All the Fun

2010-06-07T23:52:00.000-07:00

I am hatching a plot to get into rehab. There is a place that advertises on TV which looks so very peaceful with beautiful rolling fields and mountain views. People with drug or alcohol addictions can go there to hang out and eat spa food off trays in the sunshine, waited on hand and foot, day and night. It sounds delightful. The only problem is, I'm not an addict.

I've inventoried everything I do that could be considered excessive. I buy a lot of plants. I really like raspberries. Sometimes I talk too much. I read constantly. Does chocolate count? Surely there is some reason I belong there. I promise I wouldn't be any trouble, plus I am small; I don't eat much. I can even fake it if I have to, not DT's, maybe, but the jonesing. I know I could do that.

Do you think they have massage therapy there? That would be heavenly. They probably have group sessions in which everyone talks about his problems. No problem. I used to wish I could try peyote, or shrooms. I never did, but surely it's the thought that counts. I know I could pass the audition if I didn't brush my anarchic hair for a day.

Suggestions, anyone? I really need a vacation.

Love 'Em and Leave 'Em

2010-05-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

Today I attended an estate sale in a mansion 1/2 block from San Francisco Bay. Although it was within easy walking distance of my home, I do not live in such a place. The views from its high vaulted windows, framed in wrought iron, were of the postcard scenery for which this city is famous: the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island, the Marin headlands, and the bay clotted with weekend sailboats of every color.

There were many huge and tasteful pieces of furniture, none of which I could afford or have room for, but I was enchanted with an English enamel walking stick decorated with flowers in my favorite colors. What is more, it was the perfect height for me, which is unusual. I love canes because they are often handmade, carved with fanciful animal heads in beautiful woods. I always admire them in antique stores but do not own any. I have often thought they would be a delightful item to collect.

The one I saw today was affordable, also unusual, but I am superstitious that owning a cane would cause me to need one to get around. At present I do not, although I have osteoarthritis (maybe) and bursitis in both hips, plus fibromyalgia. Thus far, my determination to stay active has made navigational aids unnecessary. I would like to keep it that way.

I reluctantly placed the beautiful cane back in its place next to the grandly carved wooden banister and strolled home along the bay, practicing the air guitar version of walking with a cane. They say practice makes perfect, so if the time ever comes that I need one, my muscle memory will already possess the skills. All I will need to do is choose my weapon.

Overkill

2010-05-27T21:52:00.000-07:00

I couldn't help staring. I know better. My mother taught me manners, but the woman behind the counter at Nordstrom was shocking. She looked exactly like Jocelyn Wildenstein, aka "the cat woman." Seriously. I needed my sunglasses tightened so they would stop sliding down my nose. She offered to call the sunglass person but I knew she was probably on her break, so I left them with cat woman.

She caught me staring. "You look like a famous model," I blurted, "but I can't think of her name."

"Everyone says that, but nobody can remember who it is," she replied. "I have one of those faces..."

Oh, trust me, Sweetheart. You do NOT have one of those faces. Any real face you ever had is long gone. But nobody wants to invoke the "W" word.

Her eyes were pulled back so tightly that she probably can't drive without a seeing eye dog, and her fishy, collagen-bloated lips must make eating impossible. To say that she resembled an astonished alien slanders aliens. Her long platinum hair was not long for this world.

I don't get it. We all want to look beautiful and stay youthful as long as possible, but trusting our faces to Dr. Frankenstein is insane and has become epidemic. Such addictions used to be a malady of the rich and famous, but now even people in minimum wage jobs are saving every penny to buy themselves a new look and hopefully, a better life.

Call me crazy, but such drastic, permanent changes would feel disloyal, even ungrateful. I am also curious about how the natural process of aging looks as I journey through it.

While there are extremely talented cosmetic surgeons out there, even Hollywood stars often end up looking worse than they did before their nips and tucks. Apparently, there are no guarantees, and that's too much of a crap shoot for me. I would rather look old than deformed.

Tiffany-Brittany-Ashley-Crystal-Samantha and the Dinosaur Dung

2010-05-26T22:10:00.000-07:00

On the sidewalk, I encountered a young woman with a large, squatting dog on leash. The dog was producing the biggest turds I have ever seen, and I have had many very large dogs - and a wolf. I've had ponies. This dog was a freak of nature. After he had filled most of the concrete squares within a two-block radius, she yanked his leash and began to sashay away, flipping her voluntary-blond hair.

"You're not going to clean that up?" I asked.

In a voice so impossibly high that only dogs could hear it, she wailed, "I don't have anything with me."

"Use your hands, bitch" was the appropriate answer, but I was holding my breath against the odor - not the best way to have a conversation. She pranced on her way, dragging poor Fido, who must have weighed at least 20 pounds less than he had a few minutes before.

So here's the thing: If you're walking a dog in the city, you should be carrying plastic bags for poop scooping. It's the law. Unless you have no intention of abiding by it, which clearly she didn't. Nobody loves dogs more than I, but many dog owners seem to think they're exempt from the responsibility that goes with it. I'm not feeling the love right now.

And She's Not Even Running for Office

2010-05-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

Journalist Joe McGinniss, who is working on an unauthorized biography of Sarah Palin, has moved next door to his subject.

The Palins had just returned to Alaska after attending rallies in other states. She went outside in shorts and tank top to enjoy a little sun, a rarity in the far north, and noticed a strange man on her neighbor's deck. Her husband walked over to introduce himself and learned that the "peering stranger" was the journalist, normally based in Massachusetts, who has rented the house for five months.

I am not a fan of Sarah Palin, and that's a colossal understatement because I try to keep my sailor's parrot rants to a minimum on this blog. But I really think this is taking First Amendment rights too far. While McGinniss is not breaking any laws, he is totally intruding on her privacy and her family's. His action offends my sense of the sanctity of ones home. While his dedication to his work is impressive, scrutinizing anyone and her entire family under a daily microscope is wrong, no matter who she is or what she stands for, and is tantamount to stalking.

It makes me uneasy because he could as easily be a sniper. We live in a free country and I am extremely grateful for this in all its ramifications. But I think that with such freedom should come responsibility not to abuse it by trampling on the rights of others. The families of celebrities should not be considered fair game, or fodder for a journalist's pen. A line has been crossed here, but it is admittedly a nebulous one. McGinnis has done nothing explicitly "wrong" but implicitly he has committed a wrong, in my view, no matter how indefinable it is.

It's easy to write off his actions as amusing if one does not care for Palin. But if we truly believe in the equality we tout so proudly, it must apply across the board, both to those we like and those we do not. What are your thoughts on this? I'd really like to know because I am always open to other views. Let's talk.

UPDATE: May 27 - Mr. Sarah and his buddies have erected a 14-foot fence around the property. Now McGinnis will have to buy a giant crane.

Sometimes I Despair of my Species ever Becoming Human

2010-05-18T11:17:00.000-07:00

A gay couple in Malawi, arrested the day after their engagement party in December, was convicted today of unnatural acts and gross indecency under laws dating from the colonial era. The two men face fourteen years in prison for the offense of being gay. The government, backed by Malawi church leaders, says they broke the law because homosexuality is "sinful," and the West should not be allowed to use its financial power to force Malawi to accept homosexuality. Malawi relies on donors for 40 percent of its development budget.

Homosexuality is illegal in 37 African nations, and even in South Africa, the only African country that recognizes gay rights, there have been numerous rapes of lesbians. In Uganda, lawmakers are considering a bill that could sentence homosexuals to life in prison and includes the death penalty for "repeat offenders."

Quite apart from the obvious inhumanity of such arrests, it sounds the death knell in the fight against AIDS as people with HIV, the virus that causes it, are afraid to seek treatment. In Malawi, nearly 1 million people, an estimated 12 percent of the population, are living with HIV.

It seems to me that if the Malawi government wants to make this a political rather than human rights issue, the only way we can help is to withdraw financial aid until they abandon such brutal and ignorant practices. It's impossible to understand how those whose belief in God justifies cruelty fail to realize that if there is a God, He/She made everybody, not just heterosexuals, and they are the ones committing grave sins.

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"If it were possible to cure evils by lamentation and to raise the dead with tears, then gold would be a less valuable thing than weeping."
Sophocles

Softly, I Will Leave You Softly

2010-05-10T17:37:00.000-07:00

We have lost one of the great ladies of the world. Lena Horne has died at the age of 92, and while that is a respectable age, I really thought we'd have her forever.

Born in 1917 to a middle-class family in Brooklyn, NY, she joined the chorus line of Harlem's famous Cotton Club as a teenager. Like all the clubs of the day, the performers were black, the audiences white. In the 1940s, she was the first black performer to play the Copacabana nightclub and to sing with a major white band. She was equally at home singing blues, jazz, and Broadway standards.

She stood out from the beginning as an amazingly gifted singer with impossibly perfect features. She later went to Hollywood, but the only roles for blacks were either servants or savages. The studios, mired in racism, had no idea what to do with an elegant, classy, sophisticated and immensely talented young woman who clearly did not belong in either category. Other black performers like Josephine Baker and Paul Robeson had gone to Europe to land the movie roles and fame they were denied in Hollywood. Finally, Lena Horne got her first movie break with the all-black musical, "Stormy Weather." She appeared in several other films but only in musical numbers which could be cut without affecting the story line when screened in the South.

In the 50's, Ms. Horne starred on Broadway in "Jamaica" with songs by Harold Arlen and an ensemble which included Alvin Ailey, Ossie Davis and Adelaide Hall. In 1978, she played Glinda the Good in "The Wiz," directed by Sidney Lumet, her son-in-law, and starring Diana Ross and Michael Jackson. The world had finally evolved enough that Diana Ross achieved the superstardom denied Lena Horne because of widespread prejudice in the entertainment field.

In the 1960s, she was one of the most visible celebrities in the civil rights movement, joining 250,000 others in the March on Washington in 1963 when Martin Luther King Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech. I was also there, and it remains one of the most thrilling experiences of my life. Ms. Horne also spoke at a rally that year with Medgar Evers, another civil rights leader who was assassinated a few weeks later.

“I wouldn’t trade my life for anything,” she said, “because being black made me understand.”

When she was in her 60's (and still radiantly beautiful,) she made several enchanting appearances on Sesame Street, followed by a one-woman Broadway show, "Lena Horne: The Lady and Her Music," for which she won two Tony awards. Her signature song, Stormy Weather, was the perfect analogy for her life because she weathered the brutal and soul-destroying storms of bigotry and eventually garnered the accolades she richly deserved.

Lena Horne was so unique and special that attempts to describe her become mere cliches. Perhaps she said it best herself when she remarked, “I don’t have to be an imitation of a white woman that Hollywood sort of hoped I’d become. I’m me, and I’m like nobody else.”

Truer words were never spoken. Lena Horne, thank you for sharing you with us for so long. We will miss you.

"After all the years
I can't bear the tears to fall
Softly as I leave you there"

from "Softly as I Leave You" by Lena Horne

Seriously?!

2010-05-06T17:45:00.000-07:00

A 13-story mosque will be built on the site of a building damaged by the airliners that destroyed the World Trade Center and killed thousands of people on September 11, 2001. Two Muslim organizations have partnered to open the mosque and cultural center at a cost of $100 million to create a venue for mainstream Islam to worship in lower Manhattan. The intended location is two blocks from Ground Zero.

Cordoba House, a glass and steel building, will include a 500-seat performing arts theater, a swimming pool and basketball court. 2,000 Muslims are expected to pray at the mosque every Friday.

I surprise myself with viscerally negative feelings about their choice of location. I know it is only real estate and that most spiritual disciplines urge people to move on, but this is hallowed ground to many whose loved ones died on that day. At best, it seems like tasteless nose thumbing at Americans and at worst, an attempt to replace our native cultures, square foot by square foot. In fact, the planners hope to begin construction on the 10th anniversary of the attacks that changed America forever. And that's just wrong.

Is Weirdness Genetic?

2010-05-05T10:33:00.000-07:00

The mummified body of a baby, kept as a family heirloom for nearly a century, is missing.

Charles Peavey of Concord, NH, present owner of the small mummy, said it was possibly the newborn son of a great-great-uncle which has been in his family for over 90 years. Police learned of it in 2006 after Peavey's 4-year-old niece mentioned it at her day care center. Authorities collected the 18-inch mummy for testing, and Peavey went to probate court to get custody of it. The tests concluded that the baby died of natural causes shortly after his birth decades ago but failed to prove he was related to Peavey. A judge ordered the remains buried, and it was placed in an unmarked grave in the children's section of a local cemetery where stuffed animals and other toys decorate the grave sites.

This week, it was discovered that the grave had been exhumed and the corpse of "Baby John" removed from his casket, which was reburied. Disturbance of a grave and abuse of a corpse are felonies. Peavey denies any knowledge of what happened and has not been charged with a crime.

Relatives had treated the mummified infant as a family member, giving it cards on holidays and a dried fish as a pet.

So Nice to Have a Man around the House

2010-05-01T23:51:00.000-07:00

Disney has introduced a new fairy on its website, Pixie Hollow - a dude named Slate. He is a variation on Tinker Bell from "Peter Pan," J.M Barrie's famous play and subsequent novel, "Peter Pan and Wendy."

The androgynous new character is not called a "fairy boy," however. "Sparrow Man" is the preferred term, and now both genders are represented on the website which allows children to choose a flying avatar. Just as Barbie had to have Ken for that touch of um, reality, the girl fairies needed some masculine energy in the Hollow. With big wings.

Now boys can openly log onto Pixie Hollow without embarrassment, and children may choose which gender they want representing them. It also increases the wardrobe possibilities - Slate has some very cool hats. I'd like to believe that making toys and games non-gender specific will lead to true equality in the home and the workplace where people are free to pursue their interests without fear, and accepted as more than their reproductive roles. A concept which is long and painfully overdue.

The Little Haircut that Couldn't

2010-04-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

Here's a first. I was rejected by the hairdresser I hoped would correct my recent haircut that resembles a bad Farrah Fawcett wig. It turns out it's even worse than I knew because I never look at the back of my head, but operate on the theory that what I don't know can't hurt me.

I normally have a lot of hair, but Hairdresser #1, we'll call her Annette, thinned it so severely that the crown suggests male pattern baldness while the rest of it bulges oddly on all sides. Carlos impressed me wildly with his honesty in turning down the price of today's haircut plus tip because he thinks it should grow out for at least three months first.

So I made another appointment for June, which is only six weeks, because I am not a paragon of patience and because my birthday is in late June. I'm hoping to look presentable by then. Meanwhile, maybe I can learn to do that adorable comb-over favored by deluded old gentlemen, or shave it off like Grace Jones, Sinead O’Connor and Britney Spears. But seriously, who gets rejected by a hairdresser? I laughed all the way home.

Marriage as Weapon

2010-04-29T17:39:00.000-07:00

In 2008, at the start of her school vacation, 12-year-old Reem Al Numery of Yemen was forced to marry her 30-year-old cousin.

“While my hair was styled for the ceremony, I thought of ways to set fire to my wedding dress,” Reem told U.S. Embassy officials in an interview. “When I protested, my dad gagged me and tied me up. After the wedding, I tried to kill myself twice.”

Young girls in Yemen are often condemned to marriage by their families to relieve economic pressure. Custom dictates that when the bride is a minor, her husband wait until she reaches puberty to consummate the marriage, but Reem was brutally raped on her wedding night. Her husband choked and bit her, dragged her by the hair and overwhelmed her with his greater strength when she resisted sex.

Reem initiated divorce proceedings but since her father will not consent, a judge ruled that she must remain married until she can make her own decisions at age 15. Apparently the inconsistencies are lost on the Yemeni courts that she can be married against her will at any age but not divorced until she is old enough. She now lives with her mother, but is still at the mercy of her father and husband because Yemen has no laws addressing sexual abuse within a marriage.

The exceptional courage of Reem Al Numery exposes a tradition of paternal complicity, and challenges her country's legal system to put an unequivocal end to a practice that robs girls of their childhood. It's impossible to fathom a concept of parenthood which does not include protection of ones children.

“My dad said he'll kill me for defying him,” Reem told reporters, “but I want to go back to school.”

Reem was recognized by the U.S. Secretary of State with a 2009 International Women of Courage Award. I hope she lives long enough to escape and determine the course of her own life. That seems so little to ask.

Stupidity of Obscene Magnitudes

2010-04-28T09:53:00.000-07:00

It's official. We are a damaged society. Two of the mistresses (one each) of Tiger Woods and Jesse James are in talks to host a reality show called Celebrity Cheaters. The show's creators want to catch celebrities "with their pants down." Oh, blind me now. Must we suffer through more of this lunacy while people with nothing to offer exploit themselves for those who are titillated by fame, no matter how spurious?

Michelle "Bombshell" McGee, mistress of Jesse James, and Jamie Jungers, Tiger Woods' squeeze, are ready to sign on for big bucks while all the other Woods/James mistresses scramble to make their own deals. Apparently mistresses are red-hot now. Rachel Uchitel, (Tiger's) is also going to star in a reality show about her life. A life whose high point, so to speak, was having sex with a famous golfer is not something I want to watch, no matter how SINtillating.

Reality TV is a cynical ploy to provide low level entertainment without paying real actors, but rewarding people for bad behavior is beyond offensive. I see no difference between this and legal prostitution, except the latter makes more sense.

When Harry Met Linda

2010-04-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

All is not well in the penguin exhibit at the San Francisco Zoo. Pepper, a Megellanic penguin who was dumped last year by his long term same-sex partner Harry for a widowed female named Linda, has not found love again this breeding season. He has grown depressed, avoiding contact with other penguins as much as possible so as not to be confronted with Harry and Linda's blissful relationship.

After Linda stole Harry from Pepper, the two males engaged in a brawl so fierce that their keepers had to separate them for months. They still glare at each other aggressively when they meet and have not evolved into the elusive ideal of "just friends." Harry and Linda are incubating an egg, which must particularly rankle because Harry and Pepper once raised a chick named Chuck Norris together. They were one of the most devoted couples at the zoo until Linda's partner died and she and Harry began spending more time together.

Everyone knows how these things happen -- long ago, Elizabeth Taylor's husband, Mike Todd, died and she and his best friend Eddie Fisher, the singer, consoled each other so successfully that Eddie soon left his wife Debbie Reynolds and married Elizabeth. (The marriage failed because she hated his singing in the shower, and she is now about to marry her 9th or 10th husband.) I don't know how many mates Linda the Penguin has had, but I'm betting Harry won't be her last. He'll come crawling home to Pepper, begging forgiveness for his terrible mistake, but it will be too late. Even if he goes to cheater's rehab.

There will be those who tout this as proof that Harry wasn't really gay after all, just experimenting. But I don't think it's relevant. Breakups are painful for everyone, for any reason, whether ones love is a male, a female or a Boston Fern. So I hope that Pepper finds the penguin of his dreams next mating season and finally gets to live happily ever after. Because we all deserve that.

Enjoying Poor Health

2010-04-24T11:33:00.000-07:00

Flip just turned on a Law and Order repeat, and my buddy Olivia Benson has a cold too. Of course she still looks drop-dead gorgeous, while I just look as if I recently died. I hardly ever get sick but when I do, it's bad. I think my body saves up all its sick coins and then blows them on one major contagion. I am a terrible patient. Chicken soup makes me sick and I have probably exceeded the legal limit on cough drops. I was going to soak in a hot bath with epsom salts but it's too much effort. I don't feel well enough to be sick. I have a stack of Kleenex boxes as tall as I am, but someone is eating all my sick person popsicles, especially the tangerine ones.

I do not lack for entertainment, however. For six days, a tiny bird who lives in a big tree by our windows has been pecking on the glass constantly. Folk superstition holds that this portends a death in the house and since I am sick, it has crossed my mind about 2,000 times.

We are also babysitting for Joey-the-cat who lives upstairs. Joey and the bird quickly discovered each other and now the bird and his mate are hurling themselves into our windows repeatedly, fluttering feathers like a troupe of Burlesque dancers to taunt the great white and black hunter. I cleared a path through my plants so he could get a better view and all his killer instincts kicked in, even though he has not had to bring down a can of cooked chicken in a very long time. Fortunately, the glass is thick and Joey is trapped inside a plastic Elizabethan collar to prevent him from scratching a sore on his head. He thinks we are morons because he asked us with yowls and pantomime to remove it, but we didn't. Of course, every cat and dog knows that humans are mentally inferior, hardly worth the trouble if we didn't have thumbs. But he protects us from small, marauding birds anyway, because he's that sort of cat. He even guards me while I shower, sprawled menacingly across the bathroom threshold. Cats know how dangerous water is, and besides, I know where all the cans are buried.

Gray Panther Power

2010-04-23T20:03:00.000-07:00

A serial bank robber dubbed the "Geezer Bandit" by the FBI robbed his seventh bank in San Diego County this week. The man appears to be in his 70's and totes an oxygen tank. He also carries a snub-nosed revolver inside a day planner with which he threatens tellers and is considered "armed and dangerous." When he receives the money, he tucks it into the day planner and strolls out of the bank.

The FBI, San Diego Police Department and San Diego County Sheriff's Department are offering a $16,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the man, who began robbing area banks in August of last year. I think he's worth more than that, just for the movie rights. He is described as white, 6 feet tall, and weighs about 190 pounds. Some witnesses have said the robber may be wearing an old-man mask, which is reminiscent of the 90's movie, Point Break, in which a gang of surfers robs banks wearing rubber masks of ex-presidents. Bonnie and Clyde move over. I think we have ourselves a new folk hero.

This is what happens when the government doesn't give Social Security cost-of-living increases.

IQ Tests Should be Required for Parenthood

2010-04-19T22:35:00.000-07:00

A 7-month-old baby named Sofia Wisher died in Antioch, California after being left inside her family's car Saturday night for over 14 hours. They returned home from doing laundry at a relative's house and carried their clean clothes and their two-year old inside, but each parent claims to have thought the other removed the baby from her car seat and put her to bed.

The father woke up at noon the next day and drove to the gym without noticing that Sofia was still in the car. When the mother awoke even later, she discovered that the baby was not in her crib, so she called the In-Shape Sport Club where her husband was working out and the staff tracked him down. Police were called to the parking lot where the baby was pronounced dead. The temperature in the locked car was over 110 degrees. The coroner's office said the death appeared to be a tragic accident.

What is surely accidental is that this self-absorbed neglectful couple became parents. How can anyone condone such a shocking lack of interaction between parents and child? Babies need to be fed and changed often, yet it seems not to have occurred to either of them to tend to their children.

This is one of the best arguments I have ever heard for abortion -- of the parents.

RIP, My Friend

2010-04-14T15:23:00.000-07:00

I just learned some shocking news. Chani of the blog "Finding My Way Home" died on March 23rd. While we have never met in person, we emailed each other often and chatted on the phone many times. She was in the process of moving, and I thought that perhaps I couldn't reach her because she wasn't yet hooked up in her new place. Today I remembered the name of the apartment complex she was moving to, and just got off the phone with the manager who told me that "no one can speak to her now but Jesus."

I don't know what happened, but I'm very sad. If I recalled the name of the family whose home she rented space in for many years, I would call them. Chani was only in her 50's, a highly intelligent, courageous and compassionate woman and a good friend. She had a small dog named Shanti. I don't know what will become of the dog. I will miss Chani, and I know that many of you will, too. If anyone knows of a way we can honor her memory, please share it. Thank you.

Make PETA Extinct

2010-04-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) has lost its way. For weeks they have been shoving Pamela Anderson down our throats as a contestant on Dancing With the Stars, and now they have announced the winners of their Sexiest Vegetarian contest. The female winner is - surprise! a Pamela Anderson look-alike: Voluntary blond hair, collagen-laced lips and of course, grotesquely enhanced mammaries. Why didn't they just select a cow to win their trip to Maui? They're vegetarians, too. I didn't include her name because bimbos all have interchangeable parts.

Pamela Anderson may be an animal lover, but she also owes about $500,000 on her Income Tax. Not my definition of ethical. She is no stranger to these pages, however. I first blogged about her when I was a newbie. The marriage I ~~sneered~~ wrote about ended less than a year later after she allegedly feigned a miscarriage to dance on other men's tables, but alas, she is still with us.

I liked PETA better when they were protecting penguins in Antarctica.

The Bad Ole Days

2010-04-11T23:31:00.000-07:00

Confederate History Month sounds like a bad Saturday Night Live skit for April Fool's Day. The Governor of Virginia, Bob McDonnell, says that Confederate history "should not be forgotten, but instead should be studied, understood and remembered" because its leaders "fought for their homes and communities and Commonwealth in a time very different than ours today." The Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust and the Crusades were also different times, but that is no excuse to celebrate them.

The NAACP objected. Can you imagine? Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour claims that he was not aware of any complaints that the holiday was offensive and says the "dustup" over Virginia's proclamation seems like a "nit," a lot of noise over something that "doesn't amount to diddly." I wonder why the state with the largest Black population in the nation doesn't have a Black Governor, and also why no one has put a muzzle on this guy. His white hood probably got in the way.

Are You the Party to Whom I am Speaking?

2010-04-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

Will the real Vernon Pope stand up? For over six years, I have received dunning phone calls for him despite at least five conversations with various offshore Customer Disservice folks with Indian accents, each of whom assured me that my number would be removed from their annals. They all lied.

Exactly what part of "We don't know him - this is not his number" do they fail to understand? It seems that his debt, however large, should have fallen off his credit report by now. I think this occurs after seven years, but during that time a lot of buying and selling of accounts transpires among collection agencies. Kind of like a Virginia Reel, or a very large cluster fuck.

Meanwhile, Vernon Pope is doubtless living it up in Tahiti or Marrakech, leaving me holding the bag. He is laughing as he sips countless mai tais on breezy verandahs because he knows that I am taking care of business. But he is deluded. I want a divorce. We have never met, nor do I have the slightest interest in doing so, yet he has caused me considerable distress as countless debt collectors invade my life at all hours, demanding money on his behalf.

Vernon Pope, you and I have irreconcilable differences, and it's time you manned up and took responsibility for your own steaming pile of bills. Nowhere in that custody agreement am I mentioned as a person who will tend your errant progeny without benefit. You need to euthanize it, humanely or not. It makes no difference to me -- I have no dog in this fight.

Only changing my phone number will get rid of you, but I should not have to incur further inconvenience. I hope you understand that we cannot keep going like this. I want my freedom. Oh, Vernon Pope. we hardly knew ye.

Blindsided Yet Again

2010-04-03T18:26:00.000-07:00

Things just get better and better for Sandra Bullock. Now rumors have surfaced that one of Jesse James' mistresses - I'm not sure which one because I am mathematically challenged over 1,000 - was pregnant with his child within weeks of his marriage to the Academy Award winning actress.

James' lawyer claims that his client is a "broken man." "This whole thing has destroyed Jesse's entire universe," he said. "Right now, he's a broken man." This would seem to imply that an arbitrary universe caused these events to happen to a passive, helpless James. What a grotesque attempt at damage control! Adultery doesn't just happen -- you have to take off your clothes first. He is portrayed as desperate to save his marriage and allegedly told Bullock that he would get help “like Tiger" because he is still in love with her. Does he think that broaching the "T" word somehow elevates his behavior? Safety in numbers maybe? I'm sure that he and his role model will be a great comfort to each other in dick rehab.

"The single most important thing to Mr. James and the children is that the marriage somehow survive," his lawyer declared. He even said it with a straight face, which is quite impressive. He probably gets a few million extra for that.

When all else fails, round up the usual suspects. The Oscar Curse. Give me a break. Meryl Streep has won so many times that she probably has an entire wing of her house consecrated to her statues, and has been married to the same man for 89 zillion years. I'm guessing the dude does not cheat.

This is War

2010-03-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

Discovery Communications, the parent company of The Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, TLC and others known for their wildlife-focused programs is planning to produce an 8-part TV show on Sarah Palin’s Alaska. She will be paid $1,000,000.00 per episode. This is wrong on so many levels that I struggle to comprehend how they have not managed to connect the dots.

Discovery regards Palin as "one of Alaska's proudest daughters." I think they mean "richest." Because she is famous, personable, attractive and comfortable before the cameras, they are somehow, inexplicably, missing the fact that she also escalated a bloody aerial wolf-slaughter campaign that continues to this day, and even planned to offer a $150 bounty for the severed forelimb of each brutally murdered wolf. She also fought against increased protections for endangered Cook Inlet Beluga whales and for America's dwindling populations of polar bears. Sarah Palin is America's most unrepentant destroyer of wildlife, and her policies while Governor of Alaska pillaged her state's immense natural beauty for fun and profit.

That money would be better used by organizations dedicated to the preservation of wildlife and wild places. Please sign Defenders of Wildlife's petition now, demanding that Discovery Communications reconsider this grave insult to all who depend on their shows to celebrate our natural heritage, not its destruction.

Further Proof that I'm an Underachiever

2010-03-17T21:38:00.000-07:00

Donna Simpson of New Jersey announced that she intends to eat her way into the record books, and has already been offered a reality show and book deal. Maybe the rest of us have it all wrong, trying to attain and maintain a healthy weight and even passing up a second cupcake, no matter how yummy, now and then. Oprah, Dr. Phil, Inside Edition and Entertainment Tonight are vying madly for the rights to her story.

At present, she weighs a mere 604 pounds at 5'4", but she aims big. She means to top the scales at 1,000 pounds and has worked out a plan to accomplish it. The New York Post reported that she hopes to reach her goal in two years, eating 12,000 calories per day. That’s the rough equivalent of 11 Big Macs, six large orders of French fries, and 10 large sodas from McDonalds. A registered dietician who weighed in on the topic says that she will reach it in less than a year at the rate she is going. She needs 4,000 to 5,000 calories per day to maintain her weight, but if she boosts her intake to 12,500, a mere 7,500 more, she will gain about two pounds per day. Do the math. I did, and my calculator immediately died of congestive heart failure.

Ms. Simpson loves cake and doughnuts, but her favorite food is sushi -- she can eat 70 pieces in one sitting. She has petitioned the Guinness Book of World Records for the title of world’s heaviest mother, but Guinness has no such category. She gave birth to a daughter in 2007 when she weighed only 532 pounds, and required a team of 30 doctors to deliver the baby. It's unknown how the child's father navigated the appropriate channels to make conception possible.

She makes money posting scantily-clad pictures and videos on Supersizedbombshells.com, where people can pay to watch her eat. Under the alias Treasure Bombshell, she lists her hobbies as going to restaurants, talking with friends, watching videos, snuggling, being fed and traveling in cars. Not surprisingly, she also loves to receive gift certificates to restaurants.

Some of the health implications associated with her goal include serious cardiovascular risks, arthritic conditions resulting from pressure on her joints, irritated skin and of course, death. Her Body Mass Index, a statistical measure which compares a person’s weight and height, is 103.9, while a normal BMI is 19-24; someone classified as morbidly obese is 40.

At the very least, this woman's daily intake could feed a small Third World village. Whatever her personal pathology may be, there is something terribly obscene about one person eating that much food when much of the world is starving.

Saturday Night is Wasted on the Married

2010-03-14T00:03:00.000-08:00

What I needed most in the world tonight was red grapefruit. I ate the only one in the refrigerator and craved more. I decided that my body was telling me something, so I walked around the corner to the neighborhood grocery. Flip came along to protect me, although I am far tougher than he is.

He tried to tell the store clerk that the girls outside the bar next door looked like hookers, but he couldn't remember the word. I'm not sure why he wanted to share this, but I reminded him that he came from a gentler era in which girls didn't look like hookers unless they were hookers. Everyone we passed was duded up and trailing perfume at near-toxic levels, wearing death-defying skimpy outfits despite the low temperature and a fierce wind off the Bay. I wore paint-streaked sweat pants, Ugg boots and a shape-hiding down jacket, topped by a bad haircut. If I were a hooker, I would starve.

Yesterday, I had my hair cut and I've been plotting a rematch ever since. I couldn't remember when my last one was so I consulted last year's calendar, which had many haircuts for Flip penned in but not a single one for me. I checked the entire year twice. Then I found my calendar from the year before and realized that my last one was in March of 2008. Exactly two years ago. I could probably lose my reputation as a high maintenance woman if I'm not careful.

The person I used to go to was a flake but he gave good haircut, and over several years he got to know my hair, which is finicky. Unfortunately, he disappeared into another dimension or maybe witness protection, leaving only a vague message on his cell phone. The new stylist gave Flip a good cut a month ago, so I thought I would try her. Now my hair looks like a bad Farrah Fawcett wig. With a little Minnie Mouse thrown in for good measure. It's a rotten way to be wounded.

I've been to doctor appointments in which medical interns doing a rotation in a particular specialty sat in. My hairdresser had her own intern, a facialist who wanted to learn about hair so she watched, owl-like, as my hair was washed, cut and flat-ironed. It reminded me of the actor's fourth wall, the space separating the audience from the action of a theatrical performance, traditionally conceived of as an imaginary wall completing the enclosure of the stage.

I do not possess the skills to flat-iron my hair, or even to style it with a dryer and brush. I haven't looked at the back of my head in years because I believe that what I don't know can't hurt me. As soon as I got outside in the rain, my naturally wavy hair reasserted itself and I realized that she flat-ironed it to delay my discovery that it bulges oddly with large clumps that seem to belong to some other haircut entirely.

Flip, however, was looking good when he escorted me to the store. Our hot Saturday night date netted several grapefruits and some red grapefruit juice, plus a dark chocolate bar with crystallized ginger. Between that, the strawberry-rhubarb pie I made yesterday and several boxes of Girl Scout cookies, our his 'n' hers diabetic comas are assured. If that's not romantic, I don't know what is.

Let Them Eat Cupcake

2010-03-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

I'm convinced that the adorable little cupcake shop in my neighborhood, That Takes the Cake, is spiking their products with crack cocaine. When I belly up to the counter for the 3rd or 4th time in a week, the charming owners smile and greet me by name. They sing, "See you next time" as I leave, clutching my little white box which gets bigger every visit. I have never believed that I was an addictive personality, nor have I had an uncontrollable love of sweets before, but I think about their cupcakes nearly all the time. "I hate Mondays" has taken on a whole new meaning because they are closed on that day. I spend Mondays in withdrawal, waiting for Tuesday.

Their cupcakes have delightful names, even: Elvis has Left the Building. Blonde Bombshell, Alfred Hitchocolate, Gentlemen Prefer Reds, Double Trouble, Three's Company, Hella Nutella, Key Lime-o-Licious and more. My favorites are Orange Zinger and one made with Meyer lemons whose name I don't know because I scarf them so fast I haven't bothered with introductions. The owners state that the main ingredient in their cupcakes is happiness. I don't doubt it, but I know that crack is in there too, maybe the sparkly jimmies on the icing, maybe the scrumptious filling, or maybe it's cleverly blended with the flour and baking powder. But trust me, it's in there somewhere. With a little angel dust thrown in for good measure.

I haven't started selling off our silverware or shoplifting in jewelry stores yet, but it's inevitable. I just don't know when the monkey on my back will grow to unmanageable proportions. Only that it will, and when it does it won't be pretty. I will balloon to 500 pounds and none of my clothes will fit but I won't be able to buy new ones because all my money is in cupcake futures. You could say that cupcakes are my future.

Please don't suggest that I join a 12-step program. I know they exist, but I would rather eat cake.