Monthly Archives: May 2010

Memorial Day is considered the unofficial start of summer.  Though many kids are still in class, schools are winding down while the mercury shoots up.  It was a solid 85 degrees in Los Angeles yesterday, and the traffic was backed up on Pacific Coast Highway getting into the parking lots at the beach.  Brilliant family that we are, we headed to Santa Monica early for breakfast and volleyball in the sand.  Better to grease the wheels of a child’s psyche with pancakes and ocean breezes BEFORE making them clean their rooms back at the house in the afternoon.

In early April, my Tuesday Tidbit encouraged all of us to drink more water.  For me, it was as much to flush out the bad and hydrate the good, as it was to suppress my appetite.  Bathing suits were popping up everywhere and I wanted to be ready.  Instead, I’ve gained a few pounds and am woefully unprepared for the revelatory aspects of a summer wardrobe.  What else is new?  This has become an annoying cycle in my otherwise cheerful life.  And it’s not about food so much as it’s about enthusiasm.  I have little when it comes to the months of June, July and August.

Other than two of my daughters being born in summer (and they are two HUGE exceptions), my fond memories in life, both recent and historical, involve the fall and winter.  It’s not simply the obvious allure of autumn colors and December holidays.  It’s school schedules, football season, cozy sweaters and all things pumpkin.  It’s a sense of purpose, the idea of getting up in the morning and having a plan.  I like having a plan.  When I was single and working in an office, most of these feelings were moot because the song remained the same whether it was July or November.  Still, there were moments of summer slacking when the margarita at the end of the day was more important than the task at hand, if there was a task at hand.

Now, married with three children, summer days often feel endless.  There’s no bedtime and, save for an occasional week of summer camp, there’s almost no schedule.  My lily white Irish skin is exposed to death inducing rays from the sun, my thighs are touching underneath my tennis skirt, Bun Bun wants to play one-on-one basketball in the blazing heat, Goldie barely gets out of bed, and Miss T simply wants to know, “What are we doing today?”  I’m already depressed and it’s ONLY Memorial Day.

All kidding aside (I’m not), what bothers me most about my dilemma is that I think it’s awful to live for tomorrow and simply aim to endure today.  Yet that’s exactly what I do as the summer marches on.  I endure.  I check off the weeks heading toward Labor Day on the proverbial calendar in my head.  What a waste, and so hypocritical.  I’m always reminding my children not to get ahead of themselves.  When they ask me for the time, I always respond, “Why? You got something better to do?”  When they’re uncomfortable in anticipation of a perceived dreaded event, I encourage them to stay in the now because I truly believe it’s all we’ve got.  Oh, I can stand philosophically with the best of ‘em.

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  And today?  Today is a gift.  That’s why we call it the present. – Babatunde Olatunji

There were deeper quotes but I need to stay playful.  I need to be in attendance, so to speak, to help my children create summer memories like my own mother allowed me to make.  Most involved the ocean where we went often, with another family, and swam like fish.  We body surfed and got mangled up in many a wave too big for us.  We’d always land on our feet and stumble out of the water, looking for food that wasn’t covered with sand.  Later at home, a swim in the pool wrinkled our skin and made the sunburn start to tingle.  We’d lie on the cement in our wet bathing suits, get warm and then head inside for Gilligan’s Island and Speed Racer and the Little Rascals.  Occasionally, we’d find a Godzilla movie.  There was probably too much television, but there was also bike riding, hiking in the hills, sleeping outside in a tent at Sharon’s house.

Most of my friends look forward to the summer.  They like the longer days, the warm weather.  Most grew up in colder climes.  And several mothers I know enjoy the spontaneity of an unstructured morning.  I’ll never be them any more than I’ll be someone who enjoys putting on her bathing suit and getting in the pool with a bunch of kids.  They always want to hang on me.  But maybe I can be around more in spirit.  Instead of looking at one of the many outings we venture to as a way to “kill time”, perhaps I can simply be present and accounted for.  It would help if I could come up with a wardrobe.

A long time ago, I discovered that I was capable of change.  It was dramatic and profound and it is the reason why I’m hopeful.  Most people never do alter who they are but I know, at any given time, everyone is qualified.  Depending on the circumstances, and the choices we make, it’s possible to decide to make things different.

Summer is unofficially upon us.  It is not a foregone conclusion that I simply tolerate these next three months.  I could choose instead to embrace them.  Rather than be at my fighting best in December, I could work to enjoy good health now.  Rather than cross off days on the calendar, I could wake each morning like our new puppy, wag my tail and embrace a season that so many others enjoy.  I could stop writing this post and pay attention to the blond girls who are hovering, looking for me to be the answer to so many of their needs.  I could take up knitting and make them all bathing suits.

Oh, the possibilities.

There is simply nothing left to add at this point regarding the BP oil spill.  It has easily surpassed Exxon Valdez in size, and while the “top kill” procedure begun Thursday to essentially plug up the hole is so far “on track”, it is not yet “mission accomplished”.  President Obama held a news conference yesterday to address the blame game, who’s-in-charge, the moratorium on new drilling, and answer questions about his rapidly graying hair.  I’d resemble Barbara Bush if I had his job.  How did Reagan keep his from going gray?

An investigation last week turned up a proverbial “smoking gun”, proving that North Korea is to blame for sending a torpedo into a South Korean warship on March 26th, resulting in 46 deaths.  Both sides of the Korean peninsula have shut their doors on each other as tensions mount.  Will instability in the region lead to war?  Is that what Kim Jong Il is after?

There’s a better chance today than there was Wednesday that gays will no longer have to pretend they’re not if they want to serve in the military.  The House voted Thursday to send a defense bill to the Senate which includes an amendment for overturning Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).  Say it again.  Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.  Already, some powers that be want to wait until studies on the policy are completed in early December before jumping into this.  It’s been on the books since 1993.  It’s absurd.

Memorial Day is Monday, when we honor those who have died in our nation’s service.  We remember far too many.  Did it surprise anyone else that, with the addition of our National Guard and Reserves, we had nearly enough men and women in the past ten years to fight two wars at the same time?  Without a draft?  Anecdotally, many enlist for lack of other life options.  Some are looking for ways to pay for college.  Other are interested in the rigid discipline of a military life, while thousands upon thousands genuinely want to serve their country, nothing more.

I’m currently reading journalist Sebastian Junger’s book WAR, detailing five months he spent embedded with a combat platoon in Afghanistan.  It’s a macho account and Junger is honest and specific as he details the physical and emotional experiences of these men in the Korengal Valley from June to June, 2007-2008.  What’s stuck in my craw is something he observed early on; the idea that rapidly, the reasons and politics of why and for what these men were fighting were irrelevant.  They were in the armpit of Afghanistan with no electricity, no running water, no phones, where soldiers were encouraged to smoke (if they didn’t already) because there was nothing else to do…except fight.  A shoot-out with the enemy was their sole purpose for being there.  Too many hours without engagement and their lives felt dull, pointless.

Is it possible that war has gone on since the beginning of time because men must fight?

The question is hardly unique, but in addition to reading WAR, I just finished watching HBO’s “The Pacific”.  While World War II had distinct enemies in Japan and Hitler’s Germany, the Taliban has become somewhat elusive in Afghanistan.  Saddam Hussein and his Baath Party were made to disappear quickly in Iraq, but then what?  Both wars will never end in well-defined victory for either side.  War is brutal.  It repels and fascinates simultaneously and it occurred to me that perhaps George W. Bush HAD to go to war because it had been far too long between combat missions.   Honestly, is it in a man’s nature to seek out conflict whether it’s relevant or not?  Is there a physical need to come to blows?

Obviously, not all men are interested in battle.  But historically, one war or another has taken place somewhere on the planet at every point in time.  And for the most part, it’s the men who start them, the men who fight them, the men who win and lose them and the men who die in them.  With humble and great respect for the women killed while in service to our country, on Monday, we’re mostly mourning our sons, brothers, uncles and fathers.  What they’ve done, how they’ve sacrificed, is beyond what I’ll attempt to grasp.  But then I can barely comprehend war because, as a woman, I have no need to battle in ways that could kill me.

As I said, it fascinates me.  I wish it didn’t.

I just might eat the entire plate.

Do you volunteer at your child’s school?  Those who do are often selfless individuals who somehow find time between coaching soccer and their full time jobs as neurosurgeons.  Others simply make it a part of being a stay-at-home parent.  Many are excellent, resourceful and dependable helpers.  They’re good on the computer or can set up a sound system, wicked with a glue gun or comfortable squeezing money out of beggars.  Some of them can sew, thankfully, and are left to make all the costumes.  And some of them can cook.  If you’re part of the PTA, it’s vital to identify these people early on so that when it’s necessary to have meetings where boorish parents drone on about issues that really aren’t, everyone will stay and nosh.  You can even convince slacker parents to attend if you promise them bacon…or Pecan Caramel Bars.

Years ago, I attended such a meeting.  I don’t remember a thing about what was discussed but I do remember walking in, heading for the coffee and eyeing what looked like a shortbread pecan thing.  To me, shortbread is simple perfection.  Flour, sugar, butter.  What’s not to love?  You could put gefilte fish on top of shortbread and I’d eat it.  (Not really.)  After putting the dessert in my mouth, I walked around like a crazy person, asking everyone if they knew who had made them.  When I found the guilty party, she promised to get me the recipe.  I don’t think she’s a biochemist who coaches her son’s Little League team, but she was very efficient.  I had the recipe in my hand the following morning.

I had a hankering yesterday for Cathey’s Pecan Caramel Bars, and I wanted to use the word “hankering” in today’s post.  Take fifteen minutes out of your day and make this treat.  And if your kids are like mine and consider nuts suspicious, there will just be more for you.  Is it obvious I like to eat?

Cathey’s Pecan Caramel Bars

Bottom Layer

1 cup flour

2 T. brown sugar, packed

¼ t. salt

½ cup butter (1 stick)

Preheat oven to 350°.  Combine flour, sugar and salt in a medium bowl.  Cut the butter into the mixture and blend.  I use my hands.  Press into lightly greased 8” square pan (mine was glass, it doesn’t matter).  Bake for ten minutes and let it cool a bit so it’s firm when you spread on the…

Top Layer

1 ½ cups coarsely chopped pecans

½ cup of shredded coconut (if you use sweetened, cut the sugar amount down to 1 ½ cups)

2 cups brown sugar

2 eggs

1 t. vanilla

2 T. flour

Combine pecans, coconut, sugar, eggs, vanilla and flour in a mixing bowl.  Spread mixture over bottom layer.  Bake for 30-35 minutes or until the edges are golden brown.  Cool before cutting.

These are excellent with a cup of coffee.  It’s how I started my day.

Jack: no opposable thumb, therefore no gun.

It depends on your needs.  Let’s pretend that both provide companionship and protection.  Also, imagine that you can’t or won’t go to the nearest county shelter and take home one of the thousands of pit bulls currently available.

A dog or a gun?  Which do you think is easier to get?

For some time now, we’ve thought about getting a “live-in” friend for our dog, Shelby. I say “live-in” because her boyfriend Lucky and their friend Milo are frequent visitors and occasionally spend the night.  When they don’t, I’m left to play tug-of-war or tag-you’re-it every evening around 8:45pm when Shelby gets a wild hair and barks at me, just about the time I’m trying to settle down and do some reading.

Over two weeks ago, I inquired about a young pup I saw on a rescue organization’s website.  I’m drawn to just about all dogs but have a particular fondness for shepherd breeds and mixes.  After sending an email inquiring about Bob (names have been changed), a handsome young boy just my type, I received a phone call two nights later from Kiki at MarryMyDog.com.  She told me another couple would be looking at the dog that weekend and if it wasn’t the right match, she’d call me to set up a visit.  The weekend came and went and sure enough, I was informed that Bob was still available – “they’d never owned a dog before”, Kiki explained – and would I like to meet him?  Four phone calls later, we scheduled a “home visit” with Bob, at which time he’d evaluate us and decide whether or not we were worthy of his love.

That’s not quite the way it went down.  The Sunday afternoon visit was as much for us and Shelby as it was for Bob.  Maybe we wouldn’t like him.  When he arrived, the family went out (except Shelby) to the sidewalk and gentle introductions were made.  Bob and I were drawn to each other like a moth to a flame.  After bringing Shelby out fifteen minutes later (“we want them to meet on neutral territory”) and then moving everyone inside and out to our yard, I wanted to sign on the dotted line and officially make Bob a part of the family.  Oh no, no, no, no.  Not so fast.  Just who do you think you are?  That kind of approach borders on kidnapping, don’t you know?  Ninety minutes later, Bob and Kiki left.  We were assured a phone call in the next few days after all parties involved had time to process the visit.

What the #@*!  He’s a dog.  He and Shelby sniffed butts.  I let him lick my face.  What was there to think about?  I sent Kiki an email letting her know of our great interest in the dog, and the following day the girls made me phone her.  She told me, encouragingly, that we were “great”.  Sadly, so was someone else who’d met Bob and Kiki was having a crisis of confidence trying to make the right decision.  She was meeting with her “Board” that evening.  They’d discuss what was best for the dog, weigh the pros and cons of each applicant (though she assured us there were no “cons”) and we’d hear our fate the next day.

When my ATT 3G network phone rang (barked) the following afternoon, my heart started racing when I saw that it was Kiki.  Just as quickly, my ATT 3G network phone dropped the call.  Nearly six hours later, we finally connected and it took three minutes of preemptory compassion for her to inform me that indeed Bob was going to be making his home elsewhere.  From start to finish, the process had taken fifteen days and we’d been rejected.

Yesterday, I walked into the local Big 5 Sporting Goods store and inquired about buying a gun.  Stacy was standing behind the counter and was happy to answer some questions.  Behind her were rifles.  In the case in front of me was a beautiful display of what looked to be Saturday night specials.  She informed me they were BB and pellet guns and that if fired at close range (less than 40 feet), I’d hurt something or someone.  Shooting her from across the counter, she’d be dead.  Stacy told me I could take one of those home that day.  The firearms on the wall would require that I fill out an application and submit to a background check.  If all was in order, I could take home a rifle within eleven days.  Handguns (a Glock, a Smith & Wesson) could be purchased through a gun dealer, with the same procedure and waiting period.

The DOJ’s application to buy a gun was perfunctory and quantifiable, although it did ask for my weight which I found slightly personal.  Did I have any priors?  Was I a U.S. citizen?  Was I at least 18 years of age?  The MarryMyDog organization’s questionnaire was open to interpretation and subjective.  Why did I want a dog?  Why this breed?  Where would I keep the dog?  What food would he eat?  How important was dog-training to me?  Did I believe it made for a happier dog?  Was I at least 25 years of age?  What was my favorite color?  (Okay, I made the last one up.)

The rifle people didn’t care where I’d store my weapon, whether or not I had any training in handling one or what I’d do if it accidentally shot my kid.  MarryMyDog:  Would you keep the pet if he nipped or scratched a child?  It is required that handgun purchasers demonstrate proper handling and safety procedures but no one is going to ask whether or not I’d ever fired a shot before.  Thankfully, both adopting a dog and buying a gun would require locks, on gates and chambers, respectively.  But only the dog people wanted to know what rooms would be off limits, could they get personal references and how many people were living in my house and what were their ages.

I’m overstressing my point, aren’t I?  And there are obvious differences.  The gun application is required by a government body.  MarryMyDog is a private enterprise.  But honestly, after two weeks, we did not get Bob.  By next Friday, I could be packing whether I was emotionally capable or not.

Some closing thoughts: it’s much too easy to buy a gun and please don’t get me started on the NRA.  Depending on the dog you want, here in Los Angeles, rescue foundations make it much too difficult and absurdly subjective to adopt a pet.  We rescued Shelby from a woman who agrees wholeheartedly that dogs are denied perfectly good homes, and certainly better ones than from whence they came, by genuinely well-intentioned but misguided animal lovers.  And keep in mind that my husband and I had been rejected twice before, years ago.  When I was pregnant with Goldie, we had our eyes on a chow mix.  We were informed we weren’t right for the dog because a chow (though it was a mix) wouldn’t be good with our as-yet unborn child.  At a different organization, the dog with which we fell in love went to a home where another mutt already lived.

Rejected three times, we went to an SPCA shelter last Sunday and brought home a puppy we named Jack.  We weren’t interviewed, per se.  We were given helpful information to assist us in making a smooth transition from one dog to two.  They wanted to know some basic facts about us (“Have you ever eaten a dog for dinner?  Will you use your dog in scientific experiments?”) and all dogs are required to be neutered before they leave.  Thankfully, Jack had already been “snipped”, so we were good to go.  Shelby doesn’t know quite what to make of him, but Jack already feels he’s the luckiest boy alive to be living with us.  He told me.  I speak “dog”.  He also promised to protect the house from bad people, so I think I’m going to withdraw my gun application.  Besides, a gun next to me while watching television at night isn’t nearly as cozy as a dog.

Purple is my favorite color.

When Friday Fodder reared its ugly head last week, I put together a dull rendering of the top stories.  My soul was elsewhere, lurking in some rough neighborhoods and getting pushed around from one indignant thought to the next.

I was in a movie theatre about ten days ago and saw a trailer for the public school documentary Waiting for “Superman”. I’ve been unable to get it out of my mind, and it stalled my creativity until I finally came to realize it was time to address it – both the subject matter of the film and my reasons for being so viscerally affected by nothing more than a preview.

You see, I can tell you that in Thailand last week, over thirty people died and hundreds were wounded during protests by mostly poor farmers and other workers against a government they believe to be indifferent to their needs.  If you were keeping score, Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva’s administration won.  He didn’t resign, parliament wasn’t dissolved and Bangkok’s glitzy shopping district will soon be back to normal.  But the farmers and workers tried.  They were outraged.

I don’t necessarily believe protests do much (nor does Fernando Espuelas) but I usually admire the effort, something along the lines of “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

I also admire Blanche Lincoln, who last week nearly suffered the loss of her Arkansas Senate seat in the Democratic primary.  I don’t think she knows a lot of what Tim Geithner, Ben Bernanke, and a bunch of other financial experts and bankers and Wall Street MBAs know, but it hasn’t stopped her from suggesting that banks perhaps should spin off their derivatives business.  After all, some of these same mind-numbingly complex financial products were in large part responsible for much of the economic meltdown the world is experiencing.  Lincoln is outraged and trying to make a difference.  For her bravery, she faces a run-off against challenger Bill Halter on June 8^th.

But you know who I really, really admire, besides Elena Kagan, who last week reported she had no debt?  I have a high regard for anyone who, after feelings of outrage, has tried to do anything to affect positive change in the public school system in America.

For a brief period, I even respected George Bush’s attempts with No Child Left Behind, which endeavored to make schools more accountable to the students they were trying to educate.  Unfortunately, it was not properly funded and punitive measures put upon schools already in the gutter was like throwing salt on a wound soaked in lemon juice.  But W, the self-proclaimed “Education President”, tried.  Sadly, he was more outraged by Saddam Hussein and went to war with Iraq, a conflict that has so far cost this country around $725 billion and 4400 lives.  Try to imagine a president calling upon some 140,000 troops and storming into the classrooms, declaring war on illiteracy, dropout rates and bottom dwelling math scores.  OUR tax money has funded the Iraq war.  OUR sons and daughters died there, and continue to do so.  Imagine, if you will, that same money and those same lives being used to fight the war at home.

Waiting for “Superman” is about that war.  It’s about the conflict of priorities in a country that increases its prison spending at a rate higher than its budget for education.  It’s specifically about a school district where a lottery system determines which lucky students will go to a good institution and face a promising future, and which students will not.  It’s about a country that most of the world still believes is the greatest on earth but which perpetually fails its youth.

I went to a public kindergarten and then attended parochial school for the next twelve years.  We were Catholic and many Catholic parents chose to educate their children in a religious environment.  I also knew my parents weren’t crazy about their public school options at the time.  Those same options today would be considered “excellent”.  When my husband and I bought our house twelve years ago, I was about five minutes pregnant with our first child and wasn’t thinking about how the baby would learn her ABCs and 1-2-3s.  Years later, when it was time to make those choices, ours were limited.  We missed the “good” public school by a mere two blocks.  I still joke that we live on the wrong side of the tracks.  When push came to shove, my husband and I decided we had two options.  We either lied and used a fake address to attend a better grade school than the one for our neighborhood, or we figure out a way to pay for a private education.  So far, we’ve gone the private school route.

You may have a good public school in your area but chances are you don’t.  If you live in California, chances are you may have and now you don’t, or your classroom with twenty-two students has now ballooned to something just under or over thirty.  You may be facing a “furlough” this week because of budget cuts and are still trying to figure out who is going to care for your children while you work your full time job.  Many of my friends, unable or unwilling to fork over the money for private school tuition, swallow bad news on top of bad news in the Los Angeles Unified School District every day.  We’re broke in California, and even our hallowed public universities and colleges are a shell of their former selves – and expensive shells at that.

California’s public education woes are particularly egregious and yes, illegal immigration contributes to the debacle – or doesn’t contribute, as the case may be.  Undocumented workers don’t pay taxes and therefore fail to pay into the system and yet continue to send their children to our public schools.  But what would we have them do?  So let’s not talk about illegal immigrants as criminals who don’t speak English.  Most of them, in my humble opinion, want a better life than the one they left.  Securing the borders and then granting some kind of amnesty is not the boneheaded idea some believe it to be.  Arizona’s attempts to scare undocumented workers will only succeed in driving them further out of our grasp, not out of the country, and will do nothing, NOTHING to alleviate the issue of under-educating the children.  I repeat, THE CHILDREN – the same children who, if they don’t finish high school, are eight times more likely to go to prison than the child who finishes twelfth grade.  How do I know this?  From the Waiting for “Superman” trailer.

Some other statistics I now know courtesy of filmmaker Davis Guggenheim and his movie: out of 30 developing countries, the US ranks 25^th in math and 21^st in science.  I’m so proud.  This generation of children will be less literate than the one before.  33% of California children will not graduate from high school.  Bill Gates believes it will take “a lot of outrage…to say we can do this.”  He’s right.

Outrage.  It can often facilitate change.  Consider it a first step for the children regardless of where your kids go to school.  What happens to our youth now affects all of us down the road.  Check out TakePart.com (as part of the action network associated with Waiting for “Superman”) and discover ways to make a difference (donate, volunteer).  In the months leading up to November, when many of us will be voting for local and state representatives, ask the politicians about Race to the Top.  How can they secure federal funds like those received in Delaware and Tennessee?  Ask them if they’re outraged that prison spending exceeds money for education?  Ask them what they’re going to do about it and how we can all help.

Outrage.  Watch the Waiting for “Superman” trailer.  Feel it.

(Pledge to see the movie this fall.  And no, I don’t know anyone associated with this film.  This is not a paid post.)

Next: we got another dog.  Recounting the experience, my brother-in-law’s reaction was, “It sounds like it’s easier to get a gun.”