“That’s not fair.”

How many times have we heard our children say that?  How many times do we continue to say it to ourselves?

Last Sunday, Bun Bun was playing in a league championship semi-final soccer game, which ended in a loss when the referee decided to determine the outcome instead of the players.  Sure, it sounds cliché to blame the officials but I’ve been at this soccer thing now with the girls for six years and it’s a first.  Now that I’m a referee myself and understand our purpose on the field, I know more which makes me conversely less forgiving of incorrect calls.  This was more than that.  This was egregious – a ‘phantom’ whistle that resulted in a penalty kick within the last ninety seconds of a tied game – in which all but one foul was given in our favor – and neither the other team nor the center referee’s sideline assistant, with whom he consulted, understood the call he was about to make.  Why?  Because nothing had occurred.  A bunch of girls were fighting for the ball.  Play on.  Instead, he gave the other team a penalty kick while the parents from Bun Bun’s team (me included) booed him.  We’re gracious losers but we’d been beaten not by the girls of Ventura Blue but by a man unwilling to admit he’d blown his whistle by mistake.  He threatened to eject us all.  We encouraged him to do so.  Flanked by two other refs, he walked off the field after a heated discussion with our coach.  And yes, I stalked him as he headed toward safety, simply to remind him of his error in stealing a soccer match from a gaggle of ten-year-old girls.

The parents gathered, knowing we had to take the high road to set an example but I was having difficulty deciding what that example was supposed to be.  Hey kids, shit happens!  They’re already beginning to understand that life isn’t always fair but…but…but…I’ve never exactly embraced the concept nor inflicted its reality on my children.  I want them to continue to believe that if they work hard – really, really hard – they’ll get what they need and want more often than not.  Yeah, shit happens, but is that really a lesson?

Take the case of Freddie Mac.  I was listening to NPR the other morning and got riled when I heard them talk about the taxpayer-owned mortgage company hedging bets against financially strapped homeowners to increase their profits.  We’ve all heard stories of responsible adults trying to refinance at historically low interest rates in order to stay afloat, only to be denied because of red tape and rules that continue to work against them.  Turns out the same kind of financial products that made Michael Burry a rich man – along the lines of credit default swaps – are being played with at Freddie Mac.  And the rules preventing legitimate borrowers from obtaining more manageable mortgages are being written by the same organization that is supposed to be helping them.  Aaaaaaaaah!  Just because it’s ‘legal’ doesn’t mean we have to shrug our shoulders and say, “Life isn’t fair.”  Freddie Mac should absolutely NOT be betting that homeowners will fall into foreclosure.  Bad, bad, bad.

In the face of injustice, on any scale, my gut kicks into overdrive, as if there’s nothing I can do to prevent myself from running down a dark alley after a thief who just stole my purse.  It’s dangerous, I know, but it’s how my psyche works.  I know life isn’t fair but I want it to be and I want my kids to expect it.  When it’s not, I want them to raise their voices – not their fists, we’re girls – and attempt to make things right.  When and if the battle is lost, or deemed unworthy, ‘acceptance is the key’ but not before.

Yesterday I’m sure it occurred to my friend, after she lost her engagement ring, that life was not fair – but she wasn’t going down without a fight.  Employing small children and old people alike, she overturned the school in her desperate search.  The fact that hours later I found the bauble at the bottom of my purse is beside the point, and another story (not that interesting).  The facts remain: there was a perceived injustice, a will to make things right, and a positive outcome.

Here’s the deal: I don’t want to teach my kids that shit happens.  It does anyway, regardless.

Besides, sometimes it doesn’t.

Yesterday, I apologized to a few friends for being five minutes late for lunch.  I then ranted about being sick and tired of offering apologies.  It feels as if, several times a day, I’m contrite about something.  Usually I’m late – not very, but never early and rarely on time – and so I greet friends and enemies, generally, with the words, “Sorry I’m late.”  On email, my responses usually start out, “Sorry for not getting back to you sooner.”  Too often, my tone of voice with the girls about a ‘situation’ isn’t gracious but grating, and so after taking a breath, realizing I don’t always have to be mean, I say, “Sorry I yelled at you.”  Perhaps I beep my car horn too quickly, unaware that the person in front of me isn’t moving their car because a very old, blind person in a wheelchair is trying to cross the street in front of them.  I hang my head and mouth the words “I’m sorry” and shrink behind the wheel.

I’m sorry, okay?!  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  Shoot me.  I’m flawed.

But what’s up with being late?  Time is quantifiable.  Sixty seconds in a minute.  Sixty minutes in an hour.  I’m old enough to understand how long it takes to get from point A to point B, even in Los Angeles.  I know it takes me twenty minutes to shower and dry my hair.  I have Sigalert.com to help me understand traffic, yet I believe I can wiggle my nose like Samantha from “Bewitched” and transport myself anywhere, with clean hair, in five minutes.  How morosely disturbed do I have to be offering apologies before I change my tune and leave earlier?

Regarding my anger as a mother, how do I remind myself that yelling at my kids, in the grand scheme of things, never moves the story forward?  Sure, there are circumstances when repeating the same request calmly four times is enough and so the fifth time is LOUD, but actually shouting at the girls with contempt only serves to create more chaos.  Afterwards, I generally feel hungover.  How many times do I have to express regret for my actions before they stop listening?  Maybe they already have.  Like the grown-ups in Charlie Brown: Wah, wah, wah.

Regarding the car horn – I don’t beep much, but I have the same reaction when I get into what should be the fastest line at the grocery store and it turns out to be the slowest (naturally) because the person in front of me is writing a check after they’ve stopped to question the price of the tangerines they just bought that were supposed to be on sale but they’re not because the person picked up the ‘organic’ ones instead of the reduced-price tangerines that give you cancer, and so now the produce guy has to exchange the good tangerines for the cheap ones.  Who writes checks?!  Okay, that’s not the point.

I think I need more time.  I might have to lower my expectations about what I can accomplish in any given day, or at least manage them more efficiently in order to stop apologizing more often than not.

I’m sorry for this post.  Sometimes Daily Cup of Jo is just me working out my neuroses.  Cheaper than therapy, no traffic to make me late.

Mitt Romney can finally claim victory in Iowa after beating Rick Santorum – that’s right, Rick Santorum – by eight votes – that’s right, eight – and move on to New Hampshire next Tuesday.  He’ll win there, also, and eventually be the Republican nominee whether they want him or not.  I complained in 2000 about folks who voted for George W. Bush because they thought he was the kind of guy ‘you could sit down and have a beer with.’  I wanted voters to set the bar higher and not end sentences in prepositions.  Now, if you asked me why I dislike Romney, I could get all specific and wonky but the truth is I just don’t want to hang out with the guy, ever.  What I want to do is mess up his hair while swearing like a truck-driver, tell him dirty jokes, and see him fail again at his desire to become president.  The more failures he accumulates, the better I’ll feel about myself, which I realize has no bearing whatsoever on whom should lead the country.  But seriously folks, guys like Romney – with his privileged upbringing, his incredible business success, his pretty blonde wife, his movie star looks, his five handsome sons, his enormous wealth – how can we live with our inferior selves if he gets to put another notch in his belt?  And while I realize ambition is a requirement for anyone seeking the highest office, it cannot be Reason #1.  Like Sarah Palin before him, calling himself President Romney is more important to Mitt than leading us out of darkness.  On that note, I’m hoping against hope that Sarah finds her way back to us as his running mate.  Wouldn’t that be fabulous?

Holy moly!  Downton Abbey!  In my 2011 year-end wrap up, I told of a dismal, anemic television viewing schedule that had me adding just one new show – “Homeland” – to my DirecTV queue.  How could I possibly have forgotten about my addiction last winter to the Brits and their ridiculously entertaining lives in pre-World War I England, the Earl of Grantham, his three daughters, Maggie Smith, and the grand estate of this flawless PBS series?  How?!  Who cares?!  What matters is that they’re all back this Sunday night in part two and by all accounts (or at least one: the Chicago Tribune), we will not be disappointed.  Seriously friends, there’s a damn fine reason this show won the Emmy last September for best mini-series.  It’s that good.

Do you shop at Forever 21?  My daughter asked about the John 3:16 they have printed at the bottom of every bag and I told her it was a Bible quote, the most famous.  I Googled my curiosity and discovered it’s a demonstration of the Forever 21 owner’s Christian faith, according to Wikipedia.  Goldie had a gift card she wanted to redeem; otherwise, I can’t stand the store.  The pants sell for about a dime and the shirts are a nickel.  They last ten and five washings respectively and I wonder what the conditions must be like in the sweatshops where the clothing is manufactured, undoubtedly in China.  What’s Christian about that?

Do you believe in karma?  What about appliance karma?  What about the negative energy that skulks through a home every seven to ten years and infects all the machines that we’ve come to depend upon for clean clothes, hot meals, and cold milk?  Three months ago, the dryer needed a new belt.  Big deal.  Then right before the holidays, it needed a new liver or kidney or something, which was more expensive than a new dryer so off to Home Depot I went.  Three weeks ago, the food in the extra fridge started spoiling.  Three days ago, the oven stopped getting hot.  There’s now a Russian man in my kitchen wearing goggles and an odd look on his face.  Is there any chance he’ll know why my minivan clicker that locks and unlocks the car doors from afar is suddenly no longer working?  If the coffee maker goes next, I’m calling a karmic professional to adjust my appliance chakras.

How’s 2012 going so far?

How much time are you going to spend today blaming a political party or the president on the Super Committee’s failure to come up with a solution to the deficit?  I have about five minutes before I start peeling potatoes.

Superman is a comic book hero.  “Super Fly” is that Curtis Mayfield song from the movie of the same name.  I’ll watch the Super Bowl in February this year, even if my Jets don’t play.  I’ve never won Super Lotto, and “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” is a charming song, mostly because Julie Andrews sang it.  In August, when Congress came up with the idea of a Super Committee, I furrowed my brow the way I’ve been doing since I was ten when I’m confused and cynical.  I have two lines in the middle of my forehead to prove it.  A ‘Super Committee’?  Seriously?  These days, government is not heroic or sexy, charming or grand.  It sounded stupid.  Since Republicans took control of the House in 2010 and Democrats in the Senate lost their filibuster-proof majority at the same time, our government has been in one giant holding pattern regarding the deficit and ways to fund programs that would create jobs.  What the hell difference would a ‘Super Committee’ make?  You could hear the can being kicked down the road when they suggested it after nearly failing to raise the debt ceiling at the end of summer.  Monday, upon learning that this woefully UN-super group had failed completely, Americans simply shook their heads and rolled their eyes.  It wasn’t just Democrats.  Working class Republicans scoffed, too.  Washington truly doesn’t get it.

The Occupy Wall Street movement happening around the country was a good start and continues, but unless we make demands like the Tea Party did and require that our elected officials serve their constituency and not their benefactors, the status quo in Congress will remain.  And while I won’t blame the average Republican, I will blame Republican leaders.  I am not afraid.

The six GOP members of the Super Committee went into budget talks knowing absolutely that they were immovable on the issue of raising taxes on the wealthy.  The Democratic six arrived with their feet dug in regarding cuts in social programs.  They would allow none.  Nearly 14 million people in the United States are unemployed while the top .01% of American “workers” are getting richer than ever at tax rates on capital gains that are lower than ever.  With whom are you siding?  Even the very rich aren’t siding with Republican leaders!  This. Is. Bull. Shit.

Have you called your congressional representative?  Have you visited an Occupy encampment?  When you do, might you suggest they start making demands and stop being pantywaists?

The super-duper committee was a waste of time and money and, once again, we watched it happen.  To a certain degree, I do blame President Obama for a lack of leadership.  I never got the sense he thought this dirty dozen was capable of anything and when there are no expectations, there is little success.

Our government needs to get their act together and find ways to help the small business owner.  If that means taking money from the very rich and using it to pay for projects that can be accomplished in the private sector (and PLEASE let it be the private sector – public works are a joke), then that is how it must be.  Taking money from the poor, from social programs – as badly managed as they may be – is the ultimate cynical act.  (Allow Senator Bernie Sanders to have a few words.)  The vast majority of the lower and middle classes and those living in poverty or barely scraping by, are not shiftless.  We are teachers, craftsmen, service workers, support staff, farmers, artists, cooks, electricians, and daycare workers who look after the children.

Washington, what part of “We are the 99%” do you not understand?

(Check out “Small Business Saturday” and do your part THIS weekend.)

This isn’t a witch-hunt, and I’m not suggesting that women are better than men.  Generalizations aren’t helpful, even if I often believe that women are infinitely smarter than men when it comes to issues of sex.  In the case of Cain, Paterno, and Ratner, there are three very different concerns at hand.

Herman Cain, as you know, is running for president.  He’s currently leading the pack of Republican hopefuls with just over 25% support on average in the polls.  It’s taken a little while, but ‘the scandal’ has emerged and four women have accused Cain of sexual misconduct.  The breadth of his behavior isn’t entirely clear, but we do know he’s been accused of shoving a woman’s head into his crotch.  If it’s true, that’s not good.  And if just one woman was accusing him, we might all question her motives, but four?  Let’s be honest.  At the very least, he’s probably guilty of boorish behavior to which we women take particular offense.  Cain’s clumsy mishandling of the accusations only serves to hasten his demise from the GOP race.  Two things I’d like to say: 1. Don’t harass women.  In one form or another, whether actual or karmic, it/we will come back to bite you in the ass, and 2. Who are we kidding?  Herman Cain was never going to win the GOP presidential nomination.  9-9-9?  Dumb, dumb, dumb.  The guy is not presidential material.

Joe Paterno, as you also know, has been the Penn State football coach for the past 100 years.  He himself is only ninety, so it’s quite a feat.  In 2002, a then graduate student reported to Paterno that he’d seen Paterno’s former defensive coordinator and assistant coach, Jerry Sandusky, having sex with a boy in the locker room showers.  Paterno steered the student toward the athletic director, Tim Curley, and didn’t follow up.  Police were never contacted and no action was taken against Sandusky other than he was barred from bringing boys to the football facilities.  More alleged abuse took place, with boys Sandusky met through his charity Second Mile.  Curley, and a senior vice president, Gary Schultz, have been accused of perjury.  In essence, their stories smell like a big, fat cover-up.  Late Wednesday, the president of the university, Graham Spanier, stepped down. None of this is good, but the worst of it is that young boys were sexually abused and the men in charge didn’t do anything to stop it.  Like my outrage over the Catholic pedophilia scandals and ensuing cover-up, I’m nearly speechless.  My vitriol is fierce and includes wishing the Vatican and college football were run by women.  Generally, we put the welfare of the child before anything else – certainly before the reputation of a football team.  As it stands, the alleged cover-up will most definitely be worse for Penn State than anything Curley or Schultz anticipated in 2002.  Sexual abuse is so heinous, and in the case of a child, unforgivable.  To not do everything in one’s power to stop it is reprehensible.  I’m not saying Joe Paterno is a bad man.  I’ll save that distinction for Sandusky, but Paterno took his eye off the ball, excuse the sports metaphor, just as priests, bishops, and the Pope dropped it altogether.  The victims may never recover.  Paterno’s firing is little comfort, but dramatic enough to make a statement.  That’s good.

Brett Ratner is just a big knucklehead, neither a politician nor an educator.  He’s from the subculture known as ‘Hollywood directors’, men whose heads barely fit through a door with the size of their egos.  They sleep with women in whatever town they’re filming, they rant and rave over the size of their trailers, they insist on paintball fights in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night because they’re disturbingly eccentric and sometimes enormously unqualified – BUT unless you work for them, they’re harmless in terms of the big picture UNLESS they say things like “rehearsal is for fags”.  At that point, they’ve insulted a whole bunch of people, displayed enormous insensitivity, and revealed how incredibly stupid they can be.  Such is the tale of Ratner who was slated to produce the Oscar telecast in 2012.  He resigned after issuing an apology.  Here’s the weird part.  I’m going to defend the guy just a teeny bit.  He said a really dumb thing, but did you read his apology?  I know the guy is a sleazeball, but the mea culpa goes all the way.  He practically calls himself an idiot, and maybe he didn’t actually write the note himself, but he signed it.  Herman Cain gets in front of a microphone and just calls his accusers a bunch of liars.  Sure, he’s running for president and Ratner’s not (thank God), but producing the Academy Awards was a big deal for the guy and he gave notice.  He didn’t ask to finish out the season as Paterno did.  Women understand that an apology is the most efficient response to a perceived wrong.  Ratner tapped into his feminine side.

I’m not entirely sure what led me to this Mars/Venus take on these three stories.  I’m not looking to pick a fight, but I often wonder how different the world would be if there were more women in positions of authority.  Our attitude towards sex is so inherently distinct and so how we react to diverse situations is just that – distinct.  I’ll go one step further and say it’s more thoughtful, less selfish.  These are massive generalizations and it’s been like this since the beginning of time.  Every once in awhile, though, there’s nothing wrong with an examination of the status quo.