Does This Look Like A Mug Shot To You?

It is October and I am in jail.  

Moments earlier, I had the most surreal experience when I realized they were about to take my mug shot and I remembered how I always wondered what I might do in the event of a mug shot. Would I want to fix my lipstick, slick down my hair and smile or would I want to look surly and disheveled? I had spent more than a few minutes contemplating this after seeing mug shots of Mel Gibson, Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan and that guy from 48 Hours, what was his name?  Nick Nolte.  Paris smiled, Lindsey looked trashed, as usual, while Mel and Nick really had no business being in front of a camera at that moment.

The fingerprinting process had been fascinating. I chatted nervously with the deputy as he rolled my fingers over a tiny computer screen until it beeped. I watched as he gingerly manipulated each of my fingers with his purple rubber-gloved hands until the beeps indicated all ten had been registered, viewed and approved for picture perfect clarity and content. Like a fine diamond. 

These were the same fingers that spent the day wrapped around my golf clubs, happily chipping away at the Grand Geneva resort. It was the first time I had golfed the magnificent and aptly named Brute, at over 7,000 yards, it is one of the most challenging layouts in the Midwest and is considered one of Wisconsin's best golf courses. Enhanced with 68 bunkers and huge rolling greens, this par-72 perfectly manicured and immaculately maintained course had kicked my ass for the better part of an afternoon.

My fingers had also spent most of the day wrapped around an assortment of Styrofoam cupped free cocktails. Funny, but I never paid much attention to alcohol until I moved to Wisconsin. Now I’m considered one of their own.  I don’t drink domestic beer or cheap wine the way they do in Oklahoma.  I live in Brew City where there is a tavern on every corner, directly across the street from the Catholic Church and immediately adjacent to the church cemetery. Drinking is a serious business here. It is embedded in the fiber of every tight knit community up and down the shores of Lake Michigan. 

On this particular work sponsored golf outing, I ordered a few Bloody Marys, followed by a few beer chasers, followed by a pre-dinner Vodka cocktail, followed by white wine with raw fish appetizers and red wine with my gorgonzola encrusted filet.  I had the impression after dinner that I somehow still needed to catch a buzz so I rallied the troops and headed out to the resort’s fire pit for more wine where I kid you not, there was a convention of office supply sales people from around the country, doing their conventioneer thing, drinking heavily, hiding their wedding rings and hogging all the good seats to the fire pit.

Surveying the situation, I immediately noticed they were all men, save a few token females who were referred to as the hired help.  In my impaired state of mind, I stood up and asked for the dick who was in charge of this mess to show himself.  The time for reckoning had come. Little did I know, the time for my mug shot was soon to come. 

While staring down the lens of the DMV style camera, preparing for my Mr. De Mille moment, I am told to stand with my feet against the wall, do not move your head, look straight into the camera. No, do not tilt your chin, this is not Vogue, look up here.  

What to do, what to do?  If I become a well known author, this shot will be seen by millions.  If I smile, it could appear apathetic and smarmy, as if I were saying not a problem, I got this.  On the other hand, if I don’t smile, I risk pulling a Gibson or Nolte, and I can’t have that. I mean, how embarrassing. Maybe I could ride the fence, looking calm with just a hint of a curl at the edge of my lips, not nearly a full smile.  Some will question whether it’s a smile at all, like the Mona Lisa.  It could become a pop culture debate as countless intellectuals joust enthusiastically as to the meaning of my facial expression, or lack thereof.

       

And like that, the photo was taken and I was unceremoniously escorted to my cell in the Walworth County jail.

Don't kick me out of the vagina club, but...

I am fucking sick of breast cancer. I'm sick of pink ribbons, facebook games and poignant spam filling up my email inbox.

Last week some NFL players wore PINK SHOES while they were playing football. Others had pink towels tucked in their pants.

And that helps people with cancer how?

I'm sick of people assuming that I had breast cancer when they learn I'm a survivor.

I know that breast cancer is bad. But get this--all cancer is bad.

Breath.

Did you see 60 Minutes last week? If you didn't, go to CBS.com and watch the segment on Bill and Melinda Gates. These people aren't running around wearing pink shoes and matching ribbons--they are spending BILLIONS to cure malaria and HIV and to improve schools.

They're spreading their money all over the world because they know that along with a lot of luxuries, $60 billion can buy a lot of time for thousands of people.

They're not doing it from a distance either. Melinda Gates is on the ground, making sure that the people she wants to help are actually getting the care she's paying for.

OK. I know a couple of you are out there cynically rolling your eyes and muttering "photo op" under your breath. But I really don't think that's the case here. Bill Gates is the classic nerd who struck gold. Melinda was the lucky Microsoft employee who caught his eye.

They're not fame whores and they didn't inheirit this fortune. But they are determined to give it away.

So here's the deal. Don't just put on a pink ribbon or post something cutsey on facebook. Do something that actually helps someone. It doesn't even have to cost any money.

Give somebody a ride.

Cook a meal.

Say a prayer.

Wife Strength

There is a twitch under my right eye and my knees and ankles are throbbing. I have poison ivy that is drying up on my wrists, forearms, chest and at the left side of my solar plexus. I'm strangely glad for it's remaining itch. Part of me wishes it was five days ago when it was still an oozing and all consuming mess.

It's Thursday. No, it's Wednesday.

Last night I stayed up until 2am waiting for the news to go public. I knew it was going to. I kept going online to the major local news sites to see if it was there yet. It wasn't. I fell asleep on the couch using one of our dogs as a pillow and one corner of a little blanket over my shoulder to convince myself I was warm.

At 4am I got up, peed, and got into bed next to my husband who had been sleeping since around 10pm. He could barely stand the whole thing and had finally gone to sleep to avoid thinking about it anymore. I couldn't blame him.
I knew she'd done it. I always know when people have done things. Bad things. The worst things. I can tell. I can feel it. The more evil, twisted, depraved, sick, disgusting and horrifying it is; the more I know it.

Around 6pm I had been in the shower and my husband pulled the curtain back.
He said, "T's baby is dead."
I was holding my head under the shower head to rinse out the shampoo. I closed my eyes. I breathed. My teeth clenched together so hard that I thought I might crack one. I opened my eyes and watched my husband. He wanted me to do something; to make it better. To make it go away or take my beautiful, strong and sun filled arms and hug the earth until little sunflowers pop up all over the place and everyone is happy. I'm good at that - sunflowers and happiness. But not for this.
"She did it," I said.
His eyes widened and he started to shake his head.
"You know she did it and we might as well deal with that fact right here and now."
He closed his eyes, pressed his lips firmly together and continued to shake his head.
I moved away from the shower head and put my warm and wet hands on either side of his face.
"Give me your eyes," I said firmly.
He opened his eyes and I hated everything about everything in that moment. I hated his pain, his running for the hills of denial, and his loss.
"Do not close your eyes while I am telling you this," I said, pressing more firmly on either side of his face.
"Do not look away from me. Keep your eyes on mine."
I could see him shift into gear and get with me. He moved forward until our noses were almost touching and put his hands at either side of my waist so I could get the reality train started.
"She did this, and you know it. She killed her baby and that's all there is to it. She is horribly, terribly, sickeningly, enormously mentally ill and there is nothing - absolutely nothing - in the Department of Family Services system that would or could do anything about the fact that they had to return that baby to her. Our society did nothing to protect her before she had a child, and is not capable of doing anything for any child that has or ever will come out of her body."
I let him close his eyes at that point, but continued to hold his head firmly in my hands. I waited for what I know is one of the loss things in his heart; the death of his own son at 10 days old from an uncontrollable and irrevocable illness.
His chest heaved and his hands drew into fists on either side of me. He pulled me close to him and we stood as one at the edge of the shower. I wanted to pull him into the water with me - to stand him there and strip him down naked. To load up our body sponge with every bit of shampoo, bath gel and soap in there and begin scrubbing. To make him tip his head back and drink water directly from the shower to cleanse his insides as I scrubbed and scrubbed his outsides. Something. Anything. To make it go away.
Alas, he released one deep and lonely sob and said, "My son."
I said, "I know."
He released me and we pressed our foreheads together.
"You in this?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said.
"You really in this? Ready to look at this, because I am telling you, without doubt, that she killed her baby and we are getting ready to hear some horrifying shit."
"I am," he said.
He pulled away to look me in the eyes again.
"Are you in this?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.

But I wasn't. Not really. I lied to him because his son died 10 years ago and the thought of a baby dying at the hands of another human being, its mother no less, takes him down a road of anger and grief that will need lots of support. I am already talking with two of my most trusted friends about this; dumping my own horror, shock, disgust and grief outside of my home so I can support my husband with the strength he deserves.

So I stayed up. I monitored the local news sites. Nothing happened until around noon today when this came across the wire:

WOMAN CHARGED IN INFANT SON'S DEATH
October 6, 2010
In _____________ a woman has been charged in the death of her not quite two-month-old son. She admitted using pillows to suffocate her son for one hour, and has been charged with 2nd degree murder in the baby's death. Police were called to the scene where they found the infant lying unresponsive on his mother's bed. He was transported to ______________ Hospital where he was pronounced dead.

The Nobility of the Mundane

As I sit to write this, I've just received a series of messages from my soul mate. She resides in a castle in the Hills of Nichols, yet she intuitively knows when I need her.  She has produced the softest tears in me. They are flowing steadily but without the twisted, painful emotion that would usually accompany them. I've been beaten and broken and left for dead in so many ways; yet, this moisture runinng from my eyes, down my neck and into my clothing feels as if it could, just possibly, be cleansing me.

I wipe my neck and then notice I have soaked the keyboard with my fingers. The thought occurs to me, are  my tears being transmitting electronically through this post?

When I awoke this morning, I wasn't sure where to begin. What do I do now? Should I be working on the large trees that fell into my house or should I be working on me.  Should I write, should I walk, what should I do to begin to feel human again?

Then her first message arrived, in a Jacob Marley-esque manner, forewarning me she would be sending three thoughts to me today. They began to arrive at slow, thoughtful intervals.

Message One:  Keep waking up.  Many would be in more pain than you feel now without you.

Message Two:  This time, suffering and pain brings a lesson.  Be with it, ask it questions. Listen. Learn. Pain is the crucible that brings peace.

Message Three:  While you are 'being' with the pain, remember the repetitive meditation of the ordinary. Start a load of laundry, clean the kitchen sink. Watch Nemo or Top Gun. Find the comfort and nobility of the mundane.

I sometimes wonder if it's easier to find nobility in the mundane when you live in a castle and not a house with trees in it but I must believe the universe has gone to great lengths to bring these lessons to me. The sharp popping, cracking sound at 2am that split one tree in half and hurled it into my house, and then the fifty foot tall, majestic hickory tree that was pulled from it's roots, leaving not so much as a stump of evidence that it once stood there came thundering across the fence line at 3am. I sat up in bed when I felt my house shake, looked up to the sky and said one word to God, "Seriously?".

You see, the trees were not the worst thing that happened to me this week.

My friend may reside in a castle but it's really just a fancy nest. She made it that way by always being able to find the nobility of the mundane. She found it while staring down the same demons that have possessed me. She found it while standing strong against the storms of family turmoil and gail force winds that try to take you down when you watched loved ones dying. She found it when trees were falling, not on her home but in her mind. And she brought these reminders to me today.

That was an hour ago, and the tears haven't stopped. It makes so much sense. All I have to do is start with a load of laundry, or perhaps take a shower to wash the smell of quiet yet anguished desperation off my body. Then I will simply accept and be with my lessons until the tall trees in my mind have been stripped of their leaves, branches and bark in order to make way for new growth, tiny buds of hope and the promise of a new life.

I got it Universe, I am listening. In fact, you have my full attention. Now strip me bare, cut me down to size then let me commence to grow into the direction of the sun this time, for I am so very tired of the dark.

The Aunt Saran Wrap Commitment

Last night I was using Saran Wrap to cover left overs from dinner (a fantastic pasta, smoked salmon and vegetable dish, by the way). The result was, as usual, a taught, clear and well organized film of Saran Wrap beginning at one end of the rectangular dish that slowly digressed into a series of lumps and wads of that shit at the other end of the dish.

This particular Saran Wrap experience ended in cussing, consternation and contemplation of my Great Aunt Mary Maxine. I pretty much could just call her "Aunt Saran Wrap". Not only because she used to make fun of me when I was a girl because I couldn't properly handle Saran Wrap, but also because she is so like Saran Wrap. She starts out, upon first sighting, as a taught, clear and well organized woman. Her clothing always matches. She still maintains, at age ninety-two, whatever her hairdresser tells her is the most modern hair cut and color. She wears giant, black and bug-like Jackie O. sunglasses that are, thank goodness for her, back in style. She walks as if being carried to the party upon a well carpeted litter on shoulders of her minions was 'just too much'.

But, just like Saran Wrap, she quickly digresses into a series of lumps and wads once you get within ten feet of her. She snarls the word stupid at those who cannot beat her at a game of cards, curls her lip and tells people to their face that they are fat and their hair looks like a bird's nest, and is angered to the point of spittle shooting from her lips if her host or hostess doesn't notice she's in need of a refill of scotch.

Last night, looking at the lumps and wads of Saran Wrap at the 'bad' end of my dish, I thought,

"If I believed in a God I would curse Him for the creation of Aunt Mary Maxine and Saran Wrap. I would rip this Saran Wrap from this dish, wad it up, walk with purpose and strength across this kitchen floor in a way that would insure every living being in the house knew something was going on in the kitchen, slam my foot down on the lever that lifts the trash can lid, and slam the wad of Saran Wrap into the trash. I would then walk with continued purpose and sound back to the counter, yank the dish from it, walk with purpose and sound to the kitchen door, slam it open, stomp onto the back porch, release a primal scream, and heave the dish into the woods behind the house."

This, of course, led to me standing quietly at the kitchen counter and staring down at the lumps of Saran Wrap on my dish. I sighed. I closed my eyes. I thought about a commitment I made to myself long ago. It goes something like this:

"Mongo, here's the deal - any time you are putting Saran Wrap on a dish and it causes you to think of Aunt Mary Maxine, understand you are having a very bad day. Just get with that. Understand that it's not about the Saran Wrap. It's not about Aunt Mary Maxine. Yes, she is a cranky, crusty, cruel crone that you were probably afraid of her from the time you were an infant and she leaned in close to get a good look at you and soured your entire crib with the smell of rotten scotch. Stop thinking about Saran Wrap and Aunt Mary Maxine immediately. Move. Go. Point your brain cells in another direction - the real direction of what's bothering you."

As much as I would like to tell that commitment to go fuck itself, I cannot deny it is right on track. It has never failed me did not fail me yesterday. The moment I remembered it and my brain cells were pointed in another direction - the real direction of what was bothering me - I acknowledged that I was indeed having a very bad day.

I suspect I am having another one today, but it's a bit early to tell. I suppose the best way to find out is by opening up the refrigerator and looking at the lumps and wads of Saran Wrap on that dish to see if it causes me to feel insufficient and think of Aunt Mary Maxine.

Get in the Game

Note: This started as a comment to Rassles post, but it was too long so I had to post it.



Ok Rassles, I am going to tell you the truth as I know it. Be forewarned, this is my truth and doesn't apply to everyone, I am certain there are countless examples of the contrary.

In high school, I was every guys friend but nobodies girlfriend. I was the cool girl that got invited to boys only camping and boys only poker but alas, I didn't get poked. I got attention for my big boobs but that was about it. I was like a size 10 when every other girl(it seemed) was a size 4. I was hugely self-conscious in part because I got my boobs way too early. In college, I met a nerd who was a late bloomer like me and he was a good guy but very inexperienced in dating and he wore me out getting him to be a good boyfriend. Then I had a handful of other boys here and there, though at times I felt like I was kind of getting the dregs.

Then I moved to California where being a now size 12 made me virtually undateable. It was way worse then the Midwest dating scene, I felt invisible. Then I got sick of it, maniacally dieted and worked out to get to a size 6 and holy shit, they all came out of the woodwork. I had more dates then I could keep up with. I got attention at bars, my friends who were used to me being the wingwoman were getting pissed that I was getting attention. Still, most of the guys were idiots, there were just more of them. I learned to maintain a more reasonable weight/size(8) and did the internet dating thing actively(being in another city from where I went to college, I didn't have a large social network to meet people). After a handful of goombas, I met my husband.

Now he loves me, the real me, but I will concede as much as he is a good guy who is attracted to real women, it was my looks that got him first. Not that I am a major beauty but my looks appealed to him, I was petite, blonde hair, cute face, big ass, all the things he likes.

Of course years into marriage, kids, I am back to a rounded 12 but he doesn't care, because we like the same things and get each others humor, we judge people together, have a secret language and a secret handshake.

My point isn't that you have to be a size 6 but the truth is that men are attracted visually, and yes, I think you have to put yourself out there and try, it's like wrapping a present and it's retarded but it does seem to make a difference. Maybe it's about capturing their attention long enough for them to get to know you.

I know you don't need a guy to be happy but I also know that my life with an awesome co-pilot is way better than when I was single, way harder too with the kids and all the grownup responsibility but I feel privileged to have met the right guy, thinking that there just wasn't anyone out there who could handle me.

It's ok to want a guy, it's ok to be horny, it's ok to put an effort into looking attractive, you are a girl so it's kind of a biological starting point. You have the self worth and presence to not let someone treat you like crap and you are comfortable enough being uncoupled to not reel in just any guy, that is a really good place to be.

Be yourself, you will be somewhere, railing about something and some guy listening to you is going to light up and be taken in by your feistyness. I know it sounds trite but there is someone for everyone, I think the internet has taught us that.

At one particularly difficult point in my single days I was crying to my mom about how boys sucked and I was never going to find someone I liked or who liked me and that I was lonely but unwilling to couple just for the sake of not being alone. She said to me, and I never forgot it because it ended up being completely true,

"I see it as clearly as I see my hand in front of me, you are going to meet someone and fall in love and it is going to shock the hell out of you because you won't even see it coming, and when you finally find him, you will wonder why you ever worried about it."

I see the same thing for you Rossi, you are just too dynamic and challenging and interesting not to find someone who wants to look at your stupid face every morning and roll his eyes while you make your lists or offer you a footrub to make the stroganoff or extol your trivial genius to one of his friends. But I also remember the stupid adage about the guy who keeps praying every night to win the lottery and after several weeks God booms down from the heavens, son, you need to at least BUY a ticket. You have to put yourself in the game.

Not My Battle To Fight

Last weekend we drove a few hundred miles down the Natchez Trace Parkway to visit my husband's favorite uncle and aunt in Jackson, Miss. The uncle has always been a bit of a mentor for my husband and they email regularly.

They're in their 80s now and not in the best of health. He was always energetic and robust, but developed a lung condition that requires supplemental oxygen at times. She suffered a stroke in January. She's made a good recovery, but is frail with upper arms the size of my wrist.

Their only child lives half a country away in Connecticut.

I've always been aware of his chauvanism and conservative political leanings, but this time they just got to me more than others.

"Hon," he'll say to his wife as we're sitting outside, "the Wall Street Journal is sitting on my desk in the office."

That's her cue to jump up and fetch him the paper.

"Hon, I think some chocolate ice cream" he says while she's clearing the dinner dishes.

Those are the obvious manifestations of his nature. There were others...

The week before, he had been in a traffic accident which very well may have been his fault according to what he told my husband. Now he's nervous about driving. (But won't admit it.) Because of her stroke, my aunt is taking blood thinners and the slightest bump causes her to bleed. My husband noticed that she had been wearing the same bandage for two days and inquired. She told him she was out of bandages, but didn't want to trouble her husband to drive her to the store (she can't drive). Naturally my husband took her to the pharmacy immediately and helped her stock up.

Because my uncle can't stand to be cool, the air conditioning stays at 80 degrees without regard for anyone else's comfort.

They've moved to a downstairs bedroom so we stayed upstairs in the master suite. When I got into the bed that night, I almost rolled right out--the box springs were broken and I hate to think of how long my aunt slept there uncomplainingly. I know that was her side because the air conditioning vent over the other side was closed.

But I think the thing that got to me most was when we were walking to the car on Sunday morning to go to church. He walked right up to my car and got in the front seat like he owned it. It's such a small thing, but it pissed me off beyond belief.

"I'll get in back," I muttered, knowing he'd never hear me because he's deaf as a post. After church we had an amazing breakfast with other parishioners. The men at the table kept up a lively conversation with my husband about his work. No one even asked about my job.

As much as I wanted to challenge him and tell him to get his own fucking ice cream, I didn't. It wasn't worth it. He's been this way for 84 years. In fact, the only time I questioned one of his pronouncements was when he called Clinton a draft dodger. My husband and I both jumped on that one.

What I wonder is whether or not the aunt ever wished for something different. She's never had to work outside the home and has always had housekeepers and gardners to take care of things. Did she trade her ambitions for financial security? Did she ever even have any ambitions? I wonder if he was this way when they first married or did the behavior increase along with his bank account?

This good woman would never, ever, consider herself abused. But I'm not so sure. I believe that if you asked her, she would profess perfect happiness with her husband and her life.

But I'm not so sure.