Not yet Daddy – Reflections on Mortality

I am wide awake at this ungodly hour because my body and soul are restless. That, and there seems to be a party of sorts going on next door; I looked over and believe me, for all the noise, it sure isn’t much of a party.

Not much of a party, but loud

I decided to write, but I fear with my fatigue and general irritability, it will come to no good.

What the hell, it is just a blog, and further more it is my blog, so write I will, and critics be dammed, I am going to click publish.

A year or two before he died they had a party

Today is November 25th – this morning my father will have been dead for 40 years.

That is a long time.

My mother outlives him yet, even though as she gets closer to 90 her fragility increases with each passing day. She thinks about death more and more, although I am quite sure she is no hurry to make that journey.

I wonder, does he wait for her on the other side?

My mother says that November is by far the grayest and dumbest month of the year. I agree with her, if it weren’t for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade I would stay in bed the whole month.

Drunk.

Daddy, rest in peace, but you can’t have her yet.

His Insouciant Smile

Dearest Carl

Oran le 12 Fevrier 1946

Dearest Carl,

I am sorry to answer so late your long and charming letters which reached me only in January; because I have had a lot of troubles home, though I have been thinking of you and I am thinking at you always. I have been very happy to get some news of you, I have not had that pleasure in a long time; you are in the best of health, that is the mere point. I think that when you receive my letter you will be discharged and happy to get back home. I am pretty sure, Darling, that you can’t come back to Oran, but I will surely go to the States to see you, if you care to give me your address. My brother Daniel will stay in the States and must marry himself pretty soon, so it will be easy for me to got there, and I make you a little surprise! Ho, la la —– oh! Darling I think of you always, and the good time we had together.

I like often to see like you the little pictures! souvenirs of our good time, and in the last one that you sent wish your letters, I see you a lot better, I can see pretty well your insouciant smile.

There are no more Americans in Oran, I think that elsewhere in North Africa it is the same: The dispensary, the Florida Club, the Navy-Hospital, all that buildings are closed, nothing else is open and I never pass by them without having a strike in my heart. I will never forget, dear Carl, all the kindness you have had for me during your stay in my home;

…

My dad served in the Navy during WWII, he was stationed in Oran, North Africa. Like many men of his generation, he didn’t talk about his time in the service so what little I know, I found out after his death.

My dad suffered from depression throughout my childhood. I loved him but I was afraid of his darkness; I learned early on not to get too close. It was a matter of self preservation.  To his friends he was an entertaining guy, but to us, he was moody and distant much of the time. He died in 1968, the day before Thanksgiving.  The year leading up to his death had been a tough one. My older brother, C, my father’s pride and joy, was away at college. My other older brother, D, his other pride and joy, was having a rough time in high school. My mom was struggling under the burden of yet another of my father’s breakdowns and his decision to buy, of all things, a candy store, so that he could get off the road.

That November was filled with tension. My mom was working long days at the candy store, while my dad was on the road as a salesman for Columbus Pharmaceuticals. On our own much of the time, D and I settled into an amicable indifference, leaving each other plenty of time and space to pursue our favorite hobbies. He cut school all the time to work on cars; I ate.

The day dad died my mom was at the store, my brother was home and I was at school (probably thinking about cookies).  My dad died on the road, D took the message and called my mom to tell her. You can imagine the chaos that ensued. My mother was exhausted, my older brother far away and D and I too young to be of much assistance.  Somehow all the arrangements got made, there was a funeral, dad was mourned and buried. Life moved on.

If my mother was distracted before my dad died, now she was almost completely unavailable. D used this time to jockey for a better position in the sibling pecking order. He was brilliant in his machinations; by the time the month was out he had conned my mother into buying a 1969 Chevrolet muscle car, complete with stick shift and air shocks. Left to my own devices (you can only eat so many cookies), I  spent my time alone sifting through my father’s life.

My parents’ bedroom, down the hall from ours, had pretty much been off limits. But now there was no one to discourage snooping, so one cold December afternoon I decided to investigate what my father left behind. I pushed open the bedroom door, one of those old ones, heavy, with a rough surface from too many uneven coats of cheap varnish, and stepped inside.

The smell hit me first, a combination of hair cream, cologne and despair.  A bottle of Old Spice, in its iconic white bottle, still stood on the dresser. His worn dark red bathrobe with tiny white and black diamonds hung on a hook inside the closet door, a scrap of paper from his company, neatly folded in half was taped to the inside showing a record of my dad’s weight over the past year (162 1/2 lbs. the week he died), inside were a few dark suits and a line of pristine starched white shirts waiting to be worn.

On the mahogany dresser sat a mysterious pearl inlaid box and a stack of 3×5 index cards covered with his impossibly neat handwriting. I gathered up the box and the cards and stole away to my room to read.

North African Box

I learned more about my father and my mother that day than any other.

The stack of cards seemed to be from my father’s most recent hospitalization. Only weeks before he had been hospitalized (yet again) for depression. This might have been therapy, or, more likely his own attempt to sort out his broken family and feelings of regret. Reading through card after card, I finally found out why my Uncle and his wife (a true witch – and not in a good way -of a woman ) never spoke to us and the pain that family wounds caused my dad. It certainly explained why family gatherings and holidays were celebrated with an edge and an afterthought.

I never disliked my Aunt and Uncle more than I did that day. In the years that followed my uncle tried to make up to my mom for all those years of pain, but no matter how kind or welcoming they seemed, there was always a part of me I held back from them.  How unfair that after years of ignoring and hurting my dad that they dare pretend to love or care?

My mother seemed more forgiving, either that, or she was too worn out to care about hurt feelings. She seemed then, and now, impervious to memory. Now, it is the vascular dementia that keeps her in the present with no regrets, but even then she didn’t seem to hold on to much in the way of memories, good or bad. That might be why, when I opened the wooden box, I found an old love letter, yellow with age, folded over on itself many times, along with a picture of a dark haired woman, my father’s wartime love while serving with the Navy in North Africa.

My mother was not given to affection or praise. I think she loved my dad, but I cannot believe she was anymore demonstrative to him than she was to us, and that is to say, she wasn’t. I can count on one hand the number of time my mother said “I love you” to me during my childhood; I never heard her say it to my dad. I cannot remember being hugged as a child.

Her view of him, and her view of us, seemed to be that we her charges. She was responsible to a fault. She took impeccable care of us. Our clothes were clean, there was always food on the table and if we were sick, she would sit by us. She wouldn’t say much, but she was always there.

Given all that, I wasn’t surprised she let my dad keep the picture and the letter. Nor was I surprised that she knew all about the woman and was willing to share the story, which she did, without any trace of emotion. The last page of the letter is long gone now and I can’t remember her name, I think it was Lillian. My mom told me that she was a French Jew  who fled Paris for North Africa before the Nazis invaded. She adored my dad – the letter certainly bears that out. My mom thinks they stayed in touch for awhile after his discharge.

Your insouciant smile

My mom and Lucille gave me a gift. I never knew my father as anything but a disappointed man. His happiness, when it came, was rarely shared with his children.  It softens his memory to know that he was young and charming and happy, even if it was long ago and in a world far removed from ours.

I wonder if she ever tried to find him, her love with the insouciant smile.

Just call me Judy Btfsplk

I know I am dating myself with that reference but, I could care less about dating myself, since in fact, I am only dating myself.

Do you see now why my head spins when I think too much? And internets, my head is spinning.

Much like the trinity (“a mystery wrapped in an enigma” or so my catechism told me),* today was a comic-karmic cesspool wrapped up in a nearly perfect day. Thursday Obama announced a Cleveland rally featuring none other than “the Boss.”  I love Obama and I love Bruce Springsteen (who doesn’t?) so I RSVP’d on Obama.com, donated 5 bucks* (maybe please to win a front row seat on election night) and started planning.  Being single (alone again, naturally) and with a surfeit of absent and/or crowd averse friends, I was worried I would have to attend alone. And you all know how people look at single women of a certain age mumbling to themselves in crowds. Not pretty. So I started recruiting.

I convinced my good friends and neighbors the M’s to go; N and P (two of the finest people G-d put on this earth) said they might go.  Son No. 2 wanted to go but had a Leadership Conference this weekend and would be in East Podunk doing rope/rock climbing at a YMCA on Sunday. Saturday it looked like it was a go for everyone except the boy – by Sunday the M’s were still working out the details, N & P (wisely) decided to watch at home and the boy was texting me that he wanted to, oh and by the way, would I drive to East Podunk on Sunday and pick him up so that he could rock to witness the Boss history.

I am a softy, I would drive anywhere for the boy.  But my car (like everything else since I lost my job) suffers from lack of maintenance. I agonized over whether the bubble in the rear tire would be a problem; I worried about spending money for gasoline. But after 70 billion-ty texts and cell calls I decided I would pick him in East Podunk (over an hour away), drive to downtown Cleveland and find a parking place far from the madding crowd so we could rock the vote participate in history.

By 10:30 AM, I was scrubbed and dressed, ready to grab my keys and zip out the door when I reached for my trusty eye glasses -

cue foreboding music – dum dum dum

SNAP – they broke clean in half.

Broken glasses, insurance card, tea and Mounds miniatures to dull the pain

Dammit I thought is this an omen?

No, I have to stop being afraid and worrying – get out of the house and get out of this isolation.

Bravely I grabbed a set of old glasses, logged onto to Map Quest to get directions to East Podunk. I printed everything while I tied my most comfortable pair of shoes.  I turned off the computer and grabbed the stuff from the printer and hit the road.

Sort of.

First, I forgot my cell phone, then I realized I forgot to print the directions to East Podunk. No problem I thought – I’ll get them on my cell. I googled map quest on my cell – WTF – no results. I googled google maps – WTF – had to install an application.  I was multitasking like Kate Plus 8 when I walked out the door. I moved the boy’s car to the street (it’s complicated the garage situation here) and made one last return to the house to get my ipod.

Finally in my car and on the road I was making progress, zipped out 271, got on Rt. 8, I was cruising to the Dixie Chicks not making nice and congratulating myself on getting out of my way and into the world.  So far so good – right?

Umm – no.

After about 10 minutes I noticed a lot more buildings than usual on Rt. 8 – hmm – lots of building – wait wait wait – dammit I am going the wrong direction – I am headed back home. I turned the car around and got myself going in the right direction which included LOTS road construction and 40 MPH speed limits and a 100 billion-ty text and calls from the boy – WHERE ARE YOU!

Finally I made it to the general vicinity of East Podunk in the middle of nowhere Ohio. One hand on the wheel and one hand trying to mapquest, I suspected I had gotten lost.  Spying 2 churches ahead I thought – SALVATION! and pulled into the lot to consult my map.  I couldn’t figure it out, but luckily a car was pulling out of the church lot, I pulled beside it and motioned for the driver to roll down her window.

She did. I asked do you know where Nimsalla Road is?

She replied – I’m deaf.

What are the odds? When I am not flustered I can sign enough to be polite but I was so flabbergasted I just mumbled – I am sorry.

Geez. Hey G-d it’s me Maragaret Judy Btfsplk – are you trying to tell me something.

I forged on, ultimately arriving at the YMCA camp where the boy was waiting. He jumped in the car, allowing me only the briefest of bathroom breaks**, and we were off to Cleveland. We arrived in Cleveland about 1:15 PM and parked a good distance from the Event. We hoofed it fast and got to East 9th and ran smack dab into the line for the event. We got in line and waited

the line

and waited

more line

and waited

We made it!

until about 2 hours later when we inched our way forward as the last lucky few to make it into the actual event. We were way way way in the back, but we were happy.

the back of the rally

After about another 45 minutes the Boss came on and he was awesome. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him.  About 30 minutes after that, Obama came on and he was even more awesome.  I couldn’t see Obama either; not only was he far away, but they had HUGE BRIGHT rapture lighting blinding my field of vision.

rapture lighting Bruce Springsteen

It was impossible to even look in the direction of the stage without being blinded.

But it was great and everyone was having a good time until Obama mentioned Dick Cheney’s name. Dick must have some heavy dark mumbo jumbo because right then it started to rain and it didn’t stop. Don’t get me wrong – it was still awesome – only now it was awesome and wet.

Rally over, aching from standing in one place on cold concrete, headache from the rapture lights, we headed back the seeming gazillion miles back to our car. Needing a drink and a bathroom by this point, we were frustrated at every block by our city’s non-existent nightlife. Finally just when I was about to pass out we spied a Starbucks.

AHHHHhhhhhh – we zipped in and while the boy got us coffee I stood in line for the one, now very popular, ladies room. Soaking wet, worn out and looking pretty ghastly, I was glad I had not run into anyone I knew when, dum dum dum, the bathroom door opened and there she stood.

A perfectly put together HR person who didn’t hire me for one of the jobs I applied for – dammit.

Maybe she won’t recognize me.

Then she looks me in the eye and says Clare?

Ahh no I said – Judy Btfsplk.

No time to chat, la la la, we got the heck out of there.

By now I am starving (no lunch, no supper, no coffee, no energy) and I still have to get the boy fed and back to his leadership conference, which I did cuz I am awesome.

Finally, 8 long hours after I left, I  returned home with visions of Advil and my jammies dancing in my head – but wait – the boy’s car is in the street and I have to put it back in the driveway. I can barely walk I am so cold and sore, but I hobble out the street, open the passenger door (the only one that unlocks on his jalopy) and climb my old tired ass into the driver’s seat.  I start the car and back up to pull into my driveway. Only, in the inky blackness of the night and unaccustomed to his car, I put it into reverse and

CRASH – right into my neighbor’s car.

Listen guys, I am tired, I am broke, I haven’t been able to find a job in spite of mad crazy wonderful skills and sterling references. The last thing I need is another day like today.

Send light, send prayers, send good thoughts.  I am ready for CHANGE.

* I know I am being irreverent – don’t hassle me – at least I am not talking about my ideas for Imprimatur panties or a Pop up Pope book.

** the East Podunk YMCA has the loudest most powerful hand dryer on the planet except maybe at the KFC in Roanoke Rapids, NC

Letter to my son

My son is participating in a leadership conference this weekend.  Parents were invited to send letters to their children to be opened as a surprise during the weekend. One of the many stresses of long term unemployment and poverty is that opportunities like this get jumbled and mixed up. His dad can afford to buy/do/provide what he needs – I cannot.

This sets up stress. He walks and lives in 2 different worlds. His father’s, where their home is a McMansion and his archetypal stepmother doesn’t work, has a trust fund and gets weekly massages and manicures at home and mine, his childhood home (still owned by dad), where I live rent free in lieu of child support, and where, since I lost my job, there are no frills and sometimes, not even the necessities.

His father works hard, makes a good living, but has always balked at paying additional child support and I made a decision early on not to put my child through the pain of litigation over that issue.  In retrospect, I think it was a mistake, but with only 8 months until he leaves for college, it is water over the dam.  I think in not fighting for what could have made my life, and by association his life, better, I think I lost his respect. Without a job, and struggling to keep my car, food on the table and the lights on, sometimes I feel I have nothing to offer him. When he tells me how his dad is spending all this money on college application fees, I die a little inside that I, in spite of all my education and skills, cannot help.

The worst pain is that in the day to day stress of trying to survive, sometimes I feel like all I give him is pain. This letter is my attempt to give him something more.

Open letter to my son.

My darling boy,

It seems I am always running to catch up – last week when the school’s request came to write a letter to be presented to you this weekend, you were unsure about going so I didn’t do it. But here in between breakfast and driving you to school I am stealing a few moments to let you know how proud I am of you.

You are an extraordinary young man – full of courage and heart. You work hard and you play hard. These traits are not new – you have always embraced the challenge and joy life brought to your plate.  Never lose your passion for sport – it nourishes your spirit and keeps you safe from the inevitable stress of life.  Never lose your ability to savor joy in every moment, no matter how small, because this will keep you optimistic when life becomes challenging.

You are my pride and my joy – I know you are your father’s as well.  I am sorry for the troubles that my life and my choices have placed on your shoulders.  With deep humility I ask that you not let these troubles make you bitter or hard, rather open your heart so that within the pain you feel and see every day, you grow in compassion and strength.

You do not have to be cold and dispassionate to get things done. The truly strong are not afraid to really see the pain and struggles of their fellow human beings.  When you know and feel what those around you are dealing with, you have the opportunity to lift them up, and in lifting them up, you create strong relationships. This is true in family, business and community.

Honey, you have all the qualities of a great leader.  As you continue to mature and grow, don’t ignore any aspect of who you are.  Your spirituality is just as important as your physical strength. Your compassion is just as important as your intellect.

I am so proud of you – I love you very much.

Mommy

Homecoming 2008

Homecoming 2008

Friday night

The marching band

Saturday night – the picture event

Waiting for the girls

and waiting

and waiting

The girls arrive

ECK and date

I am one of 760,000 Americans who lost their jobs this year – UPDATED

And it is awful and terrible at a level that is hard to comprehend unless you are living it.  I (usually) don’t write about it because, really, what does it help?

Over the past 10 months of unemployment I have used up all my financial and emotional resources.  In the beginning, thinking this would be a temporary situation, I accepted offers of help from friends for groceries, a haircut (before job interviews) or a tank of gas. But no more.

Why do I have regret?

Once you have accepted help from friends and you are unable to pay it back, and your situation worsens, if they stop calling you begin to wonder whether the reason they don’t call is that they are afraid you will ask for or expect help.  The calls stop coming, the emails slow down and the isolation deepens.

My situation as a single woman who receives minimal child support means I don’t qualify for any public assistance (even if I could bring myself to take it.)  I have a heart condition, no health insurance and can’t afford doctor visits or heart medication.  My stomach churns all the time from stress and my jaw aches from gritting my teeth. I think about dying every day. I cannot imagine ever being happy again.

I am educated, competent and middle aged.  At least I used to be competent.  I obtained an excellent result for a client in December, raised a lot of money for various causes over the past few years, but my previous successes don’t seem to count for much of anything. I have applied for jobs I am well qualified for without success.  I have applied for jobs I am over qualified for without success.  I have applied for jobs I am ridiculously overqualified for with no success.

Potential employers, if they communicate at all, tell me that so many people apply that they can get exactly the skill set/person they want even without consider everyone’s application, including mine. I would hang out a shingle except that people in my field who have worked for years to build practices can’t pay their office rent – business is tough, very tough.

Job loss makes life more challenging. Family stress rises when there is not money enough to cover basic needs. My family is no different. Things that are hard to deal with become unbearable when poverty is added to the mix.

My mother is slipping into dementia. She lives 65 miles away. I can’t afford to visit her very often.  I do call frequently and every time I talk to her she asks me the same question over and over again, “have you found a job yet?”  When I answer no, she repeats, over and over again, as if she cannot believe me, “nothing, nothing at all.”On days like today when I am beyond sad I don’t call her because I can’t stop crying. She shouldn’t have to share this burden; she deserves her last days to be happy.

My ex will not pay more child support – that is why my older son lives here.  It is my ex’s way of “helping.” In my ex’s defense, he is a good father, but no one disputes that he is the cheapest human being on the planet. For years I let this go because I wanted to spare my child’s feelings.  He loves us both and he cannot bear for us to fight.

But something was lost in the process – my child’s respect for me.

My choice to put him first, over career, was important. I was a good mother, and a good mother puts her  children first, especially when they need love and devotion through serious childhood struggles.  I put him first, I wouldn’t change that, it was my responsibility and what I wanted to do.  Always and no matter what I had to do, or do without, I did what I could for him.

But now his first words to me when he walks in the door from school is “have you found a job yet?”  His father, lives comfortably (he deserves it – he works hard) has taken him on his college tours, vacations, out to dinner and football games. I am selling the few things I have so I can buy him an 18th birthday present. He tells me I am no fun, I am always depressed, that he is unhappy with the living situation.  One home has money, plenty of it, with the security, comfort and luxury it brings.  The other has none of this anymore.  I understand his anger and frustration.

I was forced to let my older son move in with his family/children/pets to keep the lights on.  It is stressful beyond belief.  I feel like an intruder in my own home. Last week in a fit of anger he told me in no uncertain terms how pathetic I am.  Yesterday he informed that it would be “disrespectful” to him for me to put an Obama sign in my yard.

You can bet I walk on eggshells.

My friends are largely absent.  My phone never rings and, even if it did, when you really really have no money, you can’t go for coffee or lunch.  And accompanying friends while they buy for parties or fret about, what is now to me, luxury worries, it is a toss up whether being alone is less painful than being a third (loser) wheel.

One friend, in a moment of poignant clarity, told me (in reference to another friend’s troubles) that she cannot bear to hear anyone’s sad news.  She doesn’t want to hear it.  She herself is depressed.

She asks me “does that make me a bad friend?” I don’t know, but I certainly understand her need for self preservation.

The longer the unemployment, the more challenging it becomes. I send out resume after resume after resume – if you ask people in my situation how it works they will tell you it is like throwing a resume into a black hole. The months wear on. My clothes get shabbier and shabbier.  I can’t afford a hair cut or good shampoo.  I am looking older and more worn out.  After years of not looking my age, I fear that I look even older. Small things that would give me comfort, make me feel younger, cheered up, more well groomed are out of reach. I wonder for the next interview, if there is a next interview, how I will brighten myself up to the point where I feel I can sell what I have to offer.

I started this blog as a writing exercise. Through the first 4 or 5 months of unemployment it energized me.  Now I don’t know.  Although my real identity is not front and center it isn’t exactly a secret, and let’s face it, what I am writing here is hardly flattering.  I guess it is a mark of my pessimism (or stupidity) that I just don’t care.

Maybe it is my optimism; my calling, my dream job is advocacy for the less fortunate, and if my writing here moves one bureaucrat to vote with compassion, or one republican to vote for Obama,  it is worth it.

I wonder, with the state of the economy, how many women like me are out there?  Over educated elitists who gave freely when they had it, sacrificed job advancement for more time with their children, volunteered and served their communities, who chose unwisely in the “happily ever after” department and who find themselves middle aged, bitter, isolated and broke.

I am sure I am not alone.

You should not be surprised that John McCain, Sarah Palin and their ilk make me want to vomit.  I fear for this country where so many clamor “right to life” while so many, once born, suffer their ridicule and abandonment. Think Sarah Palin campaigning in Canton, Ohio with the head of Timken who was responsible for so much job loss. Think John McCain who canceled couldn’t be bothered to send a representative attendance at March’s Foreclosure Forum in Cuyahoga County, Ohio.  If it were held today you bet your your unemployed ass he would be here, kissing yours.

Can Obama help?  Can he win the election?

With Catholics and the neocons focused on morality issues I don’t know.  With Jews focused on G-d knows what, Israel or racism, I don’t know. With the degree of racism that pervades every level of our society, I don’t know.

I only know that I am one of 600,000 760,000* and the past 8 years have been economic hell for me as a single working mother.

And I am tired – damn tired. And fed up, but way too depressed to be angry.

If you are supporting McCain please read my words and consider them seriously.  This country faces challenges that are beyond the capabilities of John McCain and Sarah Palin and the folks they surround themselves with.  And for you working class republicans – are you really truly better off than you were 8 years ago?  Are you safer?  Are you richer? Do you have better health care?

I think not.

If you felt safer you wouldn’t be so afraid of Muslims.  If you felt richer you wouldn’t fear tax cuts for the middle class or more accountability for corporations. If you believed all that McCain and Palin are selling you would be more compassionate.

I hope Obama wins; I hope, if and when he does, that he has the support of this entire nation, because it will take all of us, taking care of each other, to survive.

* Updated to reflect September job loss figures

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Democratic Family Values Questioned in Ohio

Although “family values” has become the political buzzword of the conservative right, I always felt certain that we democrats also held our families and the accompanying responsibilities as the highest priorities.

I may be wrong and the right may be just that – right. In view of the bias the republican party has suffered over the past few days, especially the “sharper microscope” over Sarah Palin, and in the interest of fair and balanced investigation of this important issue I must share with you a troubling story. The story of a democrat so intent on electing Barack Obama to office that he left his family behind.

No phone calls, no letters and no visits, even when his campaign stop was his own hometown.

Several weeks ago young Thornton was left in the care of friends while his sole family member, Justin, went off to work for Barack Obama at a Hollywood spectacle called the Democratic National Convention. Shockingly, prior to the dark night Justin sent Thornton off to Five Husbands house, Thornton had never even been introduced to his temporary family. One needed only to look at the disconsolate expression as he peered through the door day after day to see that Thornton was devastated to be left behind in the care of virtual strangers.

The first few days Thornton barely made a peep. He ate his meals away from other family members and stayed in the background whenever possible.  As the convention week wore on he warmed up to Five Husbands, sometimes snuggling against her as the long nights without Justin wore on.

He watched the convention carefully and reached out to Obama as he gave his acceptance speech, happy that Justin’s candidate had done so well, hoping that this meant his family would soon be reunited.

You’ve heard the stories about those left behind when a parent fails to show up for scheduled visitation – the inability of those waiting to understand why daddy doesn’t come home.  Yes there were tears, although he did his best to hide them, and yes there were temper tantrums, which I only wish he would have hidden.

Justin never came to pick Thornton up; Justin never even visited.  I type this post away from his prying anxious eyes as he looks first out the window and then out the door and then finally, in despair, lays down to sleep.

Justin, oh Justin, how could you do this to one so young? Try as I might I cannot be you, nor can I provide the kind of security that only his real and true family can give him.   He got your gifts (if you can call them that) but what he really wants is you!

Like so many Americans I listened in amazement as Sarah Palin courageously put her family first Wednesday night as she called out Bristol and her precious bump, “Track I’m going to Iraq” on 9/11 and all the rest of the Palin clan – I know she would not have left Thornton behind.

Is there any question now who will get my vote?

I think not.

Republican Women You’ve Been Punked!

No matter what Peggy Noonan said the morning after, the audio recording is clear, in her opinion John McCain’s campaign is over and his selection of Sarah Palin is nothing but a cynical gimmick.

Peggy Noonan is a smart woman – she knows Republicans are being sold a bill of goods. If McCain really wanted to shatter the glass ceiling he would have picked one of the many accomplished, impressive and savvy female republican politicians out there – women like Kay Bailey Hutchison or Christine Todd Whitman.  Instead McCain picked a shiny anti-abortion package guaranteed to appeal to the far right Christian base.

The media, doing what they are supposed to do, what I expect them to do, started to ask the questions – who is she, what has she done, and where does she stand on the issues. Faster than you can say “equal pay for equal work” Republicans, who a few months ago excoriated Hillary for even suggesting that sexism was in play, started screaming foul.  When the media dared to even ask Palin, wait, they are not allowed to ask Palin, when the media dared to ask one of John McCain’s talking heads for concrete examples of Palin’s foreign policy experience they morphed it into an attack on women everywhere.

McCain’s chief policy adviser Nancy Pfotenhauer who not so long ago chided Hillary’s supporters for playing the gender victimization card now complains that Sarah Palin is the victim of an outrageous double standard.

The mind boggles to hear Dick Morris and Sean Hannity complain about how deep sexism runs when a few months ago Dick Morris taunted Hillary on what she was going to do when the boys in Russia or the boys in the middle east or the boys in China started picking on her.  Morris made it very clear that a woman who wants to be president shouldn’t complain when things get tough.

What should Sarah Palin do?

Perhaps she should follow her own advice to women politicians faced with “excess criticism and perhaps a sharper microscope” to “work harder, prove yourself to a greater degree that you are going to be a better candidate.”

Double standard indeed.

Let’s talk about double standards.  First Palin’s experience – she might have been Mayor, but she didn’t make decisions, she had a City Manager to do that after rash firings of perceived enemies within a few months of taking office sparked threat of a recall.  Next her reform claims – her record in Wasilla proves that is far from the truth.  A town with no debt when she took office was riddled with debt and lawsuits over incomplete projects that have yet to be settled.  She hired a Washington lobbyist scoring federal funds at a level high enough to catch the old John McCain’s ire.

Give it a break everyone – if she were a democratic man with the same experience the Republicans would be cutting her apart with glee.

Don’t believe me?

Not long ago Karl Rove was asked his opinion about the fitness of Tim Kaine, the former mayor of Richmond Virginia now in his third year as governor of Virginia, as Obama’s Vice Presidential choice.  Rove dismissed Kaine’s gubernatorial experience, belittled his mayoral experience saying Richmond was only the 105th largest city in America (population 200,000 – Palin’s Wasilla’s was 5,000) then pronounced that such a choice would be purely “political ” and not one concerned with good government.

As for the outrage about Bristol’s pregnancy – your guy O’Reilly said, BSP, that parents of teens who get pregnant out of wedlock were“pinheads” with no control over the morals of their child.  So if there is only one standard then the Palins are pinheads who have no control over the morals of their child. Wait, now O’Reilly says that it is a private family matter.

Double standard my ass. You have your proof.

There’s more but I will save it for another day; thinking about Sarah Palin’s snarkiness and the wilful ignorance of the conservatives makes my blood boil. I am going to write about the really scary as hell stuff tomorrow.

Need more Palin information – check out What was McCain thinking?

(T)HORTON HEARS A WTF?

Life has a way of making fun of you me when you I are am feeling all profound and full of self-importance.

I am an Obama supporter, vocal in my claims of doing anything I have to do to get him into office. The operative word is anything, and just to be clear by anything I meant anything (except huge donations donations or traveling around the country of course).

Eric, Son No. 2, a first time voter and Obama supporter, came to me a few weeks ago and said “you are a huge Obama supporter aren’t you mom?”

“Why yes I am, you know that, and by the way are you calling me fat?”

“Ha ha ha, Mom you are so funny. Do you remember my friend Jason? He is on Obama’s campaign staff and he needs a HUGE favor. And you will do ANYTHING to help Obama, right Mom?”

“Well yes” I said starting to get that sick feeling of accountability dread.

“Jason has a cat, a nice cat, and he has to go to Colorado, and maybe other places – can we watch his cat?”

“Yes, but only if I meet him and he gets along with the other cats.”

“Okay mom – you’re the best!”

Fast forward to last Friday evening, Ev’s 7th birthday celebration, with me sick as a dog and Jacob, still unsteady from his seizure, both of us grateful for Eric’s efforts to make Ev’s party all that we wanted it to be.

It's my party!

He worked like a dog while Jacob and I were at the ER and Ev’s mom was treating Ev and her friend to an afternoon of fun things.

The smoke from the candles on Ev’s cake had barely cleared when Eric pulled me aside.

“I did good mom, didn’t I? I am really trying to be helpful – did you have a good time – is there anything else I can do?”

“No honey, thank you so much.” Hugs followed.

“Uh, mom remember my friend Jason? He leaves for Colorado tomorrow so I am bringing his cat over in a little bit.”

“Uh, WHAT – we don’t even know if he will get along with Mittens and Cloud.”

“Yes he will, he is a nice cat.”

Thornton: Cat and Obama Operative

And for the first few days he was. Until I penned the beautiful and probably too self-important post about Jacob and I was feeling all like I was the best mother ever.

Thornton brought me down to earth fast.

Last night while I was attempting to write another heartfelt what a good mom I am post – Thornton started to act odd, scratching around the family room, and especially on the BRAND NEW DOG BED I just got for Jacob’s dogs, TH and Chaucer.

“What are you doing Thornton?”

Then I made the mistake of looking away. A moment later a smell not unlike the bowels of hell assailed my nostrils.

“What the FUCK!”

Thornton took a dump on the dog’s bed.

I cursed and cleaned and then dragged my weary ass to bed where again ….

“What the FUCK?”

On my sheets, on my just CLEAN sheets and just clean comforter and floor there was kitty puke with a 3 foot spatter pattern.

I fell to my knees and renounced my self-important and heartfelt postings. Internets – I have been warned.

You've been warned