Doctor Murray Catches a Break

He took the oath they all take.  First, do no harm.  He spent a minimum of 14 years after high school earning the right to practice cardiology, the most demanding specialty in medicine.  He can’t be stupid, so he must be seriously flawed in character.

Judge Michael Pastor sat seething on the bench as the principles in the case of the State of California versus Conrad Murray, M.D. presented their arguments to persuade the court in the sentencing of the convicted cardiologist who was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter in the death of pop star Michael Jackson.

When it was his turn to speak, Pastor’s disdain for the defendant was palpable.  For three full minutes, he revisited the numerous ways the physician had failed to comply with the basic standards of care:

• Exchanged medicine for $150,000 per month and willingly complied with the patient’s wishes without regard for the patient’s best interest
• Administered a dangerous anesthesia outside a properly equipped hospital environment
• After delivering the anesthesia, left Michael Jackson alone for a short period of time during which Jackson stopped breathing
• Failed to call 911 immediately
• Failed to tell emergency personnel that the patient had been given the anesthesia
• Lied to emergency room doctors about the drug
• Showed absolutely no remorse or sense of responsibility for the death of Michael Jackson

And then Judge Pastor threw the book at Murray.  He sentenced him to four years in the Los Angeles county jail.

Say what?!?

Judge Pastor’s obvious pique was not just because he loathed the doctor and his obvious lack of character.  He was livid because he couldn’t even send the man to the state prison to do his time.  California law, recently revised, limited the penalty for involuntary manslaughter to a maximum of four years in jail.


But it gets worse.  California’s jails are filled beyond their capacities.  The only solution to that condition is to shorten the terms of inmates to make room for the newly convicted.  So, Conrad Murray, in all likelihood, will serve no more than 2 1/2 years and even less when time served and good behavior are factored in.

In the meantime, people are going to notorious places like Folsom and Pelican Bay state prisons for non-lethal crimes such as possession of illegal drugs and burglary and serving out their terms.

There are times when the justice system in our country makes very little sense.  This is one of those times.

What Do We Do About Santa Claus?

The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy entered the restaurant together.  They figured the Big Guy was already seated at their reserved table, digging into a pile of Toll House cookies, a gallon jug of ice cold milk at the ready.

This was a meeting that probably should have happened centuries ago.  These three timeless characters found themselves the objects of both adulation and scorn, year after year, while children around the world continued to have all sorts of cockamamie expectations about the fantastic feats each one could perform.


EB had never had much luck explaining to eight year-olds who have just had a science class how a mammal like him went about laying eggs.  Little Johnny was confused by the long-eared hopster’s gender and his species. A little book knowledge plays hell with a guy’s credibility.

The Molar Pixie was plagued by her tendency to have lapses in memory.  Try as she might, every night she was bound to forget to nab a fallen tooth or two and replace it with whatever the going rate for that decade was without waking the little snaggle-toothed darling.

Santa’s problems were becoming monumental.  Literally.  His legendary girth was the kind of problem even accomplished liars like parents had trouble explaining away.  While his belly expanded by inches each century, modern chimney flues were getting narrower, not wider, and way too many of them had blue-flamed furnaces at the bottom, not hearths.   Add to all that the recent collapse of the world’s economies, and Santa was having a tough time getting the investors he needed to keep his operation, er, flying.

This summit meeting of the world’s three most cherished pipe dreams was being held in the North Pole, hosted by Nick himself at the new Igloo Grill.  A haughty elf dressed in an emerald green tuxedo led the two shivering visitors to their seats.

“Ah, you made it,” boomed Nick.  “Forgive me for not standing.  I seem to be stuck between the table and the back of my chair.  Please…sit.”

As several waiters bustled about, tending to the wants and needs of EB and Pixie, Nick collected his thoughts.  He wasn’t feeling his jolly old self.

“I asked you both here because I have serious concerns about the children in America,” he began. 
“Yeah, I know,” said the bunny.  “Things have gotten so tough in the States, people are starting to burst their children’s bubbles at every turn.”

Pixie shook her tiny head in agreement.  “I can’t tell you how many kids I had crying just last night because their parents couldn’t afford the dollar I needed from them to put under their little heads.  In desperation, their mommy’s or dad’s broke down and told them I wasn’t real.” Nick thought he heard a little sniffle come from Pixie’s direction.

“Last Easter I had to spend about a month going through landfills searching for those old-fashioned L'eggs pantyhose containers to color because nobody could afford to buy the eggs and dye them for me,” EB concurred.

Even though the entire world was struggling, the trio worried most about America’s children, because they believed in the damn-near miracles they performed more than any other kids on Earth.  Over the centuries, these were the children who were taught by their parents to expect to receive more gifts, more treats and more money than all their friends.  These were the ones whose families went to incredible lengths to prolong the belief in impossible dreams.  And now their dreams were vaporizing as quickly as the bubbles that were blown by the electric machines at their latest, lavish birthday parties.

“So, what should we do?” asked Nick.  “Unlike the two of you, I have a huge business to run here, with many little mouths to feed.  Without the investment of the parents of the earth, I cannot continue to keep the reindeer alive and fueled for the annual flight.  I cannot get the materials I need to create the toys.  And Mrs. Claus is not getting any younger, so who knows how long she’ll be able to help?”

Just then, the maître d’ walked up and whispered something in Nick’s ear.  As he listened, his cheeks began to pink up and that legendary twinkle started dancing in his beautiful eyes.

“Well, well, well,” Nick said to his companions.  “It seems the Americans had something called a Black Friday last week.  It’s hard to understand, quite frankly, because some 14 million of their people remain unemployed, but apparently those parents found a way to drop nearly 18% more money for holiday gifts on that one day than they did a year ago.  As a result, their stock market soared 300 points on Monday and from what I can understand, people are practically dancing in the streets.”

EB looked confused.  “But wait a minute.  How many people went back to work since this time last year? It must have been a lot to make that big a change.”

“On the way up here I read the October 2011 unemployment rate is still at 9,0 percent.  That doesn’t sound like that much of a change,” said Pixie.

“There was a  .7 percent change since October 2010,” Nick told them.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each staring at the contents of their plates.  How did this happen?  Have the American parents learned nothing from these last several years of decline?   Have they who have been lucky enough to either keep a job or secure a new one gone right back to their old habits? 
Nick slammed his meaty hand against the tabletop and struggled to his feet.

“ ‘Ours is not to wonder why.  Ours is just to do or die.’  Or something like that.  I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got to get to work.  Christmas is coming!”

Alfred Lord Tennyson was heard spinning in his grave.

Less on Thanks, More on Taking

It is with deep sadness that I report the passing of the last family-focused American holiday.
Thanksgiving, the annual gathering of families to celebrate the gifts of bountiful harvests, blessings of the heart and the prosperity that enables a sumptuous feast for both the eyes and the body, was killed Thursday evening by America’s corporations.

My sister works for one of the major retailers as an office manager.  Four of her grandchildren, ranging from age 5 to 18, look forward for weeks for her annual effort in the kitchen to turn out traditional Thanksgiving fare with their finicky palates well in mind. 

Because she was scheduled to open the store at 11 p.m. on Thanksgiving night, everything had to be moved to an earlier time so that she could take a brief nap before heading in for a 10-hour shift.  She would be in charge of crowd control this time.

As anyone who cooks these major holiday meals knows, many hours are needed to turn out those spreads.  After working all day Wednesday, my sister spent most of the night cooking. By the time we started arriving around 2 p.m. Thursday, she was already exhausted.  Offers of help from me had been declined.  (Probably because I won’t cater to the whims of my grandnieces and grandnephews as much as she will) 

Retailers interviewed about the resistance to this intrusion on their employees’ family time claim customer demands as the reason for their decisions to open on Thanksgiving Day.  I call B.S. on that.  Customers pile into those stores for the price bargains – period.  The so-called Black Friday could start on Saturday or Wednesday or any other day; it is the deal they are seeking.  Corporations have created the Black Friday phenomenon to suit THEIR own need to turn red ink to black in one fell swoop. 

Bereaved survivors of the deceased include after-dinner conversation, football game banter and turkey sandwiches to go.

Another Lobbyist Running Amok

 

“Today's Republican Party may revere Reagan as the patron saint of low taxation. But the party of Reagan – which understood that higher taxes on the rich are sometimes required to cure ruinous deficits – is dead and gone. Instead, the modern GOP has undergone a radical transformation, reorganizing itself around a grotesque proposition: that the wealthy should grow wealthier still, whatever the consequences for the rest of us.”
Tim Dickinson, Rolling Stone

Americans who actually listen to the empty words spewed by politicians, in this case of the Republican variety, often hear the name of Ronald Reagan invoked as the grand poobah of anti-taxation conservatism.  For many of the GOP faithful, that’s all they need to hear to feel all warm and fuzzy about the state of the nation as soon as their guys and gals “take their country back.”

Other Americans, like me, pay very little attention to what is being said by either side, mainly because no one is saying anything particularly coherent.  We are numbed by the failure of rhetoric and party-line catch phrases to move us out of the deep muck we slipped into in 2008.

This morning, however, the spectre of another critical deadline in Washington has gotten my attention, and for the first time I can recall, I actually listened to Candy Crowley interview members of the Deficit Super Committee.  That’s when the name Grover Norquist penetrated my political brain fog for the first time.  This is the guy who convinced the majority of the Republican members of Congress to sign a pledge written by his lobbying tool, Americans for Tax Reform (ATR.)P

^{photo by Gage Skidmore from Flickr}

The ATR web site describes The Pledge as follows:

In the Taxpayer Protection Pledge, candidates and incumbents solemnly bind themselves to oppose any and all tax increases. While ATR has the role of promoting and monitoring the Pledge, the Taxpayer Protection Pledge is actually made to a candidate's constituents, who are entitled to know where candidates stand before sending them to the capitol. Since the Pledge is a prerequisite for many voters, it is considered binding as long as an individual holds the office for which he or she signed the Pledge.
Read more: http://www.atr.org/taxpayer-protection-pledge#ixzz1eGPKi4Rb

Norquist claims he was asked by Reagan himself to form ATR in 1986.  Apparently, there is no term limit on that pledge, no opportunity for renewal or  a decision NOT to renew.  The Huffington Post reported on November 9, 2011 that a growing number of House members want out of that pledge, but Norquist refuses to remove their names from the published list of signers.

In the meantime, Norquist’s pledge keeps coming up as a major reason the Super Committee cannot reach an agreement.

 [The players:  Sens.Pat Toomey (R-Pa.), Jon Kyl (R-Ariz.), Rob Portman (R-Ohio), Patty Murray (D-Wash.), John Kerry (D-Mass.), and Max Baucus (D-Mont.) and Reps. Jeb Hensarling (R-Texas), Fred Upton (R-Mich.), Dave Camp (R-Mich.), Chris Van Hollen (D-Md.), Xavier Becerra (D-Calif.), and Jim Clyburn (D-S.C.).]

“The difficulty we find is that every one of these discussions, Grover Norquist seems to be in the room,” Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nev.) told reporters last week. “I am hopeful that the Republicans on the super committee will break away from this.”

The idea that one man, not an elected official, but a powerful Washington lobbyist, can effectively bring the nation to the brink of yet another failure to do the jobs for which they were elected, is frightening to me.  Even Republicans who believe it is time to take a look at forcing the rich to pay a more reasonable share of taxes are finding it impossible to circumvent the pledge they might have signed several campaign cycles ago, because “the voters don’t want any tax increases.”

I think it’s time for us who see things differently pay more attention to what the other side is saying and doing.  I may be one of the few who, until this morning, was unaware of the name Grover Norquist or his organization, but I doubt it.  If you, the reader, needs a concrete reason for my concern, see the chart below from the November 24, 2011 edition of Rolling Stone:

Measuring the Worth of My Words

 

Do I write because I’m a good writer, or am I a good writer because I write? Am I even a good writer?  Am I a writer at all?

Writing, to me, is like fine art.  The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  I like it or I don’t.  I “get” it or I don’t.  Matters of technical execution on a piece of art are important only to those who make a career out of judging such things.  Technique is a collection of motor and contextual skills, put together to create a work of art.  And art is to be enjoyed, even by those of us who wouldn’t know an Impressionist from a cartoonist.

For me, the answer to just about all the questions posed above is: Who cares?  But that’s just me.

People write for so many different reasons.  Some are enamored of books with pages to flip and margins to write in and they imagine their own names on the cover of one.  Others have received positive feedback on their efforts for so long, they see writing as a possible way to make a living.  And others have a lot on their minds, things they want to say and they choose writing as the way to communicate. Of course, there are people motivated by some combination of them all.

So how do we know if what we write is good?  The easiest assessment, or at least the base line for all assessment, is the mechanical:  things such as spelling, grammar, use of literary tools like alliteration, onomatopoeia and repetition of words or phrases. Anyone who aspires to be considered a writer in the eyes of others is going to need to deal with the mechanics of writing.

And isn’t that exactly what we mean when we question our own abilities?  How others receive what we write will be the accelerator for our trip to what we consider to be success.

I am always amused by the discussions I observe about the quality of writing.  There is little agreement, if any at all.  What seems to be the common criterion about what makes high quality is one’s own writing.

For example, I am a fan of writing for understanding.  I prefer simple sentences with accessible vocabulary.  I’m not the biggest fan of adverbs and adjectives, although I am capable of employing them when required.  For me, lots of what my parents called 50-cent words strung end to end are not necessary when fewer 25-cent words accomplish the same meaning.  Whether or not my preference for writing that way is based on my preference to read others who write that way is not clear.  It’s possible.

Does that mean I cannot appreciate the work of writers who can wrap a sentence filled with descriptive prose around column inch after column inch?  On the contrary.  I am a fan of William Faulkner.  Enough said? 

But when I read writers like that, my reason for reading is completely different.  Instead of being satisfied with getting the message the writer is imparting, now I have the added challenge of simply navigating the prose in order to unravel that message.  It is a distinctly different process with distinctly different motivation on my part.

When I first started blogging, my only objective was to get some of the clutter out of my brain and onto something hard, as in paper or drive. Having no one at home with whom to converse about all these things, writing it down does the trick.  The only person I knew for certain was reading what I wrote was the person who persuaded me to start blogging.  So my writing was purely a heart and mind dump, meant mostly for myself.

But when I began to write on a writer’s web site, where competition for recognition was added to the mix, I  was temporarily derailed by what just happens to be two of my most prominent personal values:  Achievement and recognition.  These were formally determined by a series of personality tests I’ve taken in my lifetime.  Suddenly, I was writing, not for me, but for the editors who had the controls over which posts were selected for recognition.

In order to satisfy only two of my personal values, I found myself searching for things to write about that had a better chance of being selected.  Why? To gain the approval of a single individual who is marching to a set of drums that have nothing to do with my own cadence?

I have come back to home base.  I don’t want to whine about the relative quality of writing or the topics people choose to explore.  There is really only one set of eyes  I need approval from:  my own.  My currency, my payoff for any effort I put in at the keyboard, is in the form of reader’s comments.  I live for the “conversations” that take place in the comment strings.  I learn from the points of view offered in response to my own. 

It is nice – very nice—to be told I am a good writer.  The thing is, when I ask myself what that really means, I get no answer.

Sandusky Sinks His Own Ship

Jerry Sandusky, the Penn State dirt bag accused of sodomizing a ten-year-old boy in the locker room shower, is one sick puppy.  And by sick I mean the lowest form of human detritus roaming the globe, a predator masquerading as a tender-hearted do-gooder.

Bob Costas reportedly learned of his bluebird interview with Sandusky just 15 minutes prior to airtime of the new NBC newsmagazine program “ Rock Center” Monday night.   Costas was originally scheduled to interview Sandusky's lawyer, Joseph Amendola.

The first version I heard of how things went down Monday night said Sandusky himself had called in and volunteered to be interviewed.  I thought: "Woo Boy, I'll bet his lawyer is pissed at him!"  I mean, I'm no lawyer, but even I knew Sandusky was flirting with disaster.

Now that I know it was Amendola who set it all up, all I can say is "bravo, Bob Costas,"  and hasta la vista Sandusky.  Costas was golden in that interview, launching direct questions with no wiggle room, time after time after time.

On the outside chance that a viewer tuned in to that interview who had somehow managed to know nothing at all about the Penn State scandal, said viewer might have been convinced by Sandusky's denials of wrongdoing.  Maybe said viewer would find some unconscionable way to give Sandusky a pass for "horsing around" -- IN THE SHOWER, BUTT NAKED -- with a ten-year-old!  

So, just to make sure there were no suckers out there falling for Sandusky's pitiful I'm-a-good-guy act, my local TV station hired a voice analysis expert to take a listen to the taped interview.

According to the results, Sandusky was lying his frequently bare behind off. 

TV shrink Dr. Drew Pinsky has gone on record predicting that Sandusky is so trapped by his own words in the interview, he will attempt suicide.  Just the admission of "horsing around" in the shower with the boy is enough to convict him.  But I’m wondering if this monster is in such denial about his own behavior he can’t accurately process the gravity of the case against him.

The 23-page transcript from the Grand Jury investigation was reviewed by the Daily Beast on Tuesday against the assertions of innocence Sandusky made to Costas.  Eight pre-pubescent victims testified to everything from inappropriate touching to oral sex in that probe, and two adult eye-witnesses described seeing Sandusky perform oral sex on one and forcible anal intercourse on another.

Sandusky's dissembling performance on the Costas interview was both fascinating and disturbing.  As I listened to his soft voice delivering lie after lie, it was easy to see how Sandusky slowly and deliberately persuaded his innocent victims to do his bidding.  And, of course, he sweetened the deal with gifts of computers, sports equipment, clothing and outings to football games.

Jerry Sandusky's admission to horsing around in the shower with a young boy can and most likely will be used against him in court.  Either  his lawyer is convinced the evidence against his client is overwhelming and he's trying to build an insanity case or he is the poorest excuse of a defense attorney to come down the pike.

Penn State Matter Triggered Motherly Panic

 

I felt the unwelcome signs of impending panic.  It wasn’t rational.  It certainly wasn’t timely.  But there it was.

As often happens when I watch the news, I became emotionally involved as the details of the Penn State molestation scandal were slowly revealed.  Disgust.  Anger. Horror. Empathy. Questions. 

As I put the pieces together, I realized the victim in this matter was a ten-year-old boy, and the alleged perpetrator was a Penn State football coach.  That’s when the overwhelming, heart-stopping, breathe-impeding sense of utter fear swept over me.

My son, my only child, is 42 years old.  He was a professional athlete who began taking instruction from coaches at the tender age of 5.  As I sat there staring at the sportscasters debating the fate of veteran Penn State head coach Joe Paterno, I tried to count the number of men I had entrusted with the most precious part of my entire life. I stopped when I reached 25 and I had only gotten through his high school career.

Over the years I asked my son questions designed to produce answers that might alert me to inappropriate touching or time spent alone in suspicious places.  There were no alarms, no alerts.

Curious, I did a computer search of the local news station I watch here in Atlanta.  I found the following headlines:

^{BARTOW: Mayor accused of attempted child molestation}

DECATUR: CDC Deputy Director arrested on child molestation, bestiality charges

^{CANTON: Former sheriff's deputy arrested for child molestation}

^{SANDY SPRINGS: Preacher charged with child molestation}

All of these people, some men some women, are in positions of power we would teach our children to respect.  And these were only the local incidents reported within the past three months.

I couldn’t shake the panic I was feeling.  What if I had unknowingly exposed my son to one or more of the same kinds of people who were described in the news stories I found?  What if he had been to afraid or too ashamed to tell us?

I picked up the phone and called my son.  “I was lucky,”  he said.  “I only had good guys as coaches.  I can honestly and gratefully say no one has ever done anything out of line to me.”  

As parents, we can’t lock our children up and protect them from the dangers that exist outside their homes.  All we can do is teach them what is appropriate and what is not, make them feel they can tell us anything, stay vigilant for signs of trouble and keep them as safe as possible.  Child predators do not wear identifying badges.  They look like the local coach, the neighborhood cop, the minister that delivers the Sunday sermon, the scout leader and the next door neighbor.

All I Want to Do is Read a Book

 

Like the majority of the people reading this post, I love books. I devoured as many as I could carry from the public library as a child.  I actually read the classics assigned in American and English literature classes; no Cliff Notes for me.  In adulthood, when I started earning my own money, I purchased and read a minimum of a book a week, sometimes more.

Often around the lunch table in the company cafeteria, the discussion would include the best-seller of the moment.  We would swap paperbacks and hardcovers, argue about their relative merits, then move on to movies, my other passion.

Sometime in my mid-forties, I started experiencing wild mood swings, outbursts of temper, crying jags, night sweats and depression. I thought I was either losing my mind or I had an exotic disease transmitted by some insect I encountered in the mountains of California or the sandy beaches of Mexico, where I had recently vacationed.

It was perimenopause.  I was going to be one of those women who goes through the “change of life” -- as it was whispered by the older women in my family, as if it were an even worse form of “The Curse” than the womanly secret it follows and halts – rather early.

According to a web site I found on the subject, there are 34 separate symptoms one can experience in menopause.  By the time I was 50 I had wrestled with at least 19 of them, but a tiny maroon pill called Premarin seemed to be all I needed to keep myself reasonably comfortable.  But there was one symptom at work that I neither noticed at first nor had ever heard about from anyone.

In retrospect, I realize there was a gradual change in my ability to concentrate, especially when trying to read anything longer than a few paragraphs.  Whereas in my prime my memory was as close to photographic as one can get without actually being one, little by little, I was having to reread sentences or paragraphs in order to retain the meaning.

If I was reading a book, instead of picking it up where I left off the last time, I might have to backtrack in order to refresh my memory of the plot.  Unless the plotline and/or the dialogue was particularly exciting (or salacious, I must admit)  I found my mind wandering into completely unrelated territory, losing complete focus on the words on the page. 

According to my doctor, some women’s menopausal symptoms come to a complete end at some point after they began.  Others, like me, have lingering, sometimes lifelong, side effects.  In my case, the one that lingers and drives me up the wall is the inability to sit still for long periods reading a book.  I also have a difficult time staying awake in a dark theater for an entire movie.  The only exception, lately, has been a movie in which my son has a role.  That seems to be enough incentive for my hormone imbalanced mind to stay alert for the entire length of the film.

I have tried all the remedies suggested to rule out other culprits that could be causing this troubling change.  I sleep an average of seven hours a night.  I eat a healthy diet rich in brain-friendly nutrients like omega-3 and omega-6.  And I take my little maroon pill religiously.

In the meantime, I buy the books my blogging friends write because I want to support their work and because they are excellent writers with points of view I can learn from, or senses of humor I can laugh at and enjoy.  I have dutifully read at least the first chapter of each.. but little more.

I have come to terms with the other 19 symptoms.  I have finally let go of my dream of returning to my pre-menopausal weight and figure.  I have resigned myself to the fact that, like my mother and grandmother before me, my thinning hair is going to keep on thinning and I’ll just have to get used to seeing my pink scalp through what remains of my variegated strands.  Or invest in a good wig.  And I’ve had enough brain freezes of my own to find a smattering of sympathy for Rick Perry and his oops moments.

But the last book I was able to read from cover to cover was The Di Vinci Code.  That was what, eight years ago?  This is a symptom I’m never going to be able to accept.  Suggestions are welcome.

Will “White Folks” Come Between Us?

 

Children choose their friends mostly by happenstance, I think.  They have no say in where they live or who moves in next door.  They are confined by vigilant parents to their front yards or, as they gain some years, to the block on which they live.

Their schools are populated mostly by the children who live within a few blocks or maybe a mile or two.  There is no Match.com (yet) for four-year-olds to mine for play dates or “besties.“

Tommie and I met like that.  Named after her father, who apparently was hoping for a male heir, Tommie and I were born six months apart and lived less than two blocks from each other.  Her mother died when she was quite young, so her dad was left to raise Tommie and her older half-brother and half-sister.  He did his best, but a mother’s touch was visibly missing.

Tommie is very dark.  Her skin mimics the texture of silk velvet and the blended colors of piano-key black and Belgian chocolate.  Her fine features suggest a family tree populated by the handsome and elegant people from Somalia, with their aquiline noses, smaller heads and bright, white smiles.  She had a curvy figure long before I developed anything resembling a curve.  The boys seemed to be drawn to her like metal shavings to a magnet.

My mother wasn’t usually crazy about dark people.  In fact, the more my little friends appeared to be NOT dark, the better she seemed to like them.  For me, her biracial child, that point of view was deeply confusing and I instinctively rejected it.  I’m sure to Mama it seemed as if I deliberately sought out dark-skinned friends just to challenge her.  Perhaps I did.

But Mama felt sorry for Tommie, being motherless and all, so she took her under her pale white wing and allowed us to be friends.  Mama treated her to an outfit that matched mine for the first day of high school.  Before that she had helped us both understand the meaning of the booklet “You Are A Woman Now,” and schooled us in the selection and use of feminine hygiene products.  And she tried her level best to convince us that all boys were evil sex fiends who had  nothing on their minds except getting into our day-of-the-week panties.

We couldn’t have been more different.  I loved school and excelled.  Tommie liked the hallway and lunchroom camaraderie of the school experience, but she had little interest in the words that filled the spaces between the brown-paper-bag-protected covers of those text books.  With a lot of help from me, she managed to graduate with me and the rest of our class, never to set foot in a classroom again.

Life took us our separate ways – I went to college, got married, and had a baby; in that specific order.  Tommie got a job, has never married, had a baby and stayed in the Chicagoland area for all these years, while I lived in Milwaukee, Chicago, San Francisco and now Atlanta.  We were on different paths, but, thanks to her, we never completely lost touch.

Yesterday, Tommie called to wish me a happy birthday.  Whenever the caller ID displays her name, I have a concurrent assault of conflicting reactions.  I don’t want to answer because I know the call will take longer than my stamina will endure.  At the same time, I feel guilty for being such a bitch, for who else has put up with my aversion to phones and my failure to ever reach out to friends just to say ‘Hi.? Tommie has remained loyal all these years, in spite of my trifling ways, as she calls them.

This time I took a deep breath and answered.  Tommie was unusually hyped, even for her.  She was watching MSNBC, indulging her drug of choice – politics.  During the 2008 presidential election cycle, she would have me on the line for hours railing against her favorite target:  White folks.

There was a time when Tommie would remember to watch her mouth around me, in deference to the “white folks” who happen to be my immediate family members.  Not any more.  She even refers to white folks in disparaging terms when she calls my mother!  But of course, instead of my mother letting Tommie know how much that hurts her feelings, she complains instead to me.  Neither of us can bring ourselves to call Tommie out on her blatant prejudice.  We make exceptions for her because of our history with her.   And I feel extremely conflicted about that.

Yesterday’s subject was how “the white man” at Morgan Stanley ignored her documented self-classification as a risk averse investor and lost $200,000 of her rolled-over 401(k) in the recent economic calamity.  She insists he wouldn’t have done that with a white investor’s money.  My attempts to explain that it was her responsibility to monitor the investments this guy made on her behalf make her angry.  She has never been big on listening.

The final straw followed the conversation’s shift to Herman Cain.  Although she allowed as how she would never vote for Mr. Cain, she believes he is being unfairly targeted over the sexual harassment claims because, and I quote:  “Back in those days everybody was doing that sort of thing.  Those white folks were notorious for it and they are still doing it.”

“My problem is the way he has handled the situation since it was leaked,” I responded, biting my tongue.  “He should have told the truth from the beginning.”

Her response?  “The white folks lie all the time!”

Recently I wrote about some time I spent with old friends who happen to be white and Republican.  I hadn’t seen them for many years and was somewhat shocked to learn of their membership in the Tea Party. Whereas early in our friendship, it was easy to accept our political differences and move along with the fun and games, this time it was not. 

Something has changed, and I think it is me. 

I, Scorpio

 

So, today’s my birthday – again!  I don’t mind telling you I am pretty sick and tired of getting older.  But, considering the alternative, I have decided a good use of my time would be to analyze myself.  It’s okay.  It’s what I do.  Cuz I’m a Scorpio.

We Scorpio’s are well-documented and apparently well-known.  If I get sick of talking to a new stranger at a party, for instance, all I have to do is mention  I’m a Scorpio.  His eyes widen, there’s a quick intake of breath and the barely perceptible movement of his entire body backwards. Before I know it, he’s checking his watch and backing away toward the door.

Oh, yes, everybody seems to have been warned of the nasty sting we November women are capable of delivering.  What they don’t seem to understand is we don’t just run around stinging people unprovoked.  It’s only when somebody asks too many silly questions.  Or when they make some kind of backhanded insult they think is so clever.  Or when they act as if they don’t know what we’re talking about.  Or…

Well, let’s move on to another trait.  Intense.  Everything we do we do with every ounce of our being.  It sure is true of me.  I don’t know the meaning of giving up when I’m trying to solve a puzzle or figure out a mystery.  And when I’m in love, I love so hard I can barely stand myself.  It is all-consuming, ever-present and – regrettably – a bit unreliable.  It sometimes only takes one complete night of sleep for me to wake up having lost that lovin’ feelin.’ Intensely.

According to Linda Goodman and the rest of the star-gazers, Scorps are usually rather bright and more than a little curious.  My brightness is clearly a matter of opinion – ask my ex – but no one will deny the heights to which my curiosity rises. I seem to want to know everything for no particular reason.  I wear out the word “why” in a conversation, causing some to feel as if they are being interrogated instead of engaging in a friendly chat.

Tenacious?  Giving up is not something I do easily, if at all.  Long after everyone else has thrown up their hands and gone to bed, I will be up trying to assemble that piece of furniture I bought in a box, or rebuilding my entire hard drive on my computer because it has crashed with a virus.  The idea of calling someone in to do either of those tasks is morally repugnant to me.  So, people shake their heads at me a lot.

What I didn’t know before I did the research to write this post is Scorpios generally prefer to be alone or in very small groups.  They seldom seek out the company of others, although they do well socially when they have to.  Damned if that isn’t exactly the way I am! 

I used to think that astrology stuff was mainly for flower children and people who go around talking about karma, feng shui and such.  But everything I read today about the personality traits of a Scorpio sounded like a detailed description of me.  No wonder people regard me with skepticism.

The one trait that every article I read mentioned is contradiction.  Yes, I am secretive, stand-offish on occasion and a bit of a hermit; yet I was once elected Miss Congeniality in a beauty pageant.  You might think that was just a consolation prize – and maybe it was, because I sure didn’t win the pageant – but it was the only prize that was determined by votes of the contestants and not the judges, so I must have been considered personable.  I am an introvert, but I also enjoy assuming leadership roles in group projects.  I am outspoken and extremely direct – never ask my opinion if you are not ready to hear the unvarnished truth from me – but I am also sensitive and easily hurt.

I am delighted and relieved to say, however, there is one common Scorpio trait I don’t have:  revenge.  There are three types of Scorpios when it comes to revenge.  The first two will exact revenge on someone who offends them if it takes them the rest of their lives to do it.  My type, The Grey Lizard Scorpio, believes that others who offend them will be “gotten” by the fates, or the gods or whatever other forces there are that take care of the what-goes-around-comes-around duties.  Revenge is not my job.

One last thing.  I also figured out why I have been such a flaming failure in the marriage department.  Scorpios are least compatible with other Scorpios, Tauruses and Aquarians.  My first husband was a Scorpio.  The second is an Aquarius.  Who knew?