Community Health Care System

There is no fixing the current health care system because it isn't broken; however, the health care system can be refocused to provide more appropriate health care services to a much wider client base than this country has ever served, from the very wealthy to the very poor. We have all the huge big box buildings sitting idle in communities across the nation, buildings that could be repurposed into a system of Community Health Care Clinics operated by the federal government through a retooled Community Health Care System.

Just as many military bases use the Civil Service system in an adjunct capacity to support the branches of the military, the government could establish a "civil service" structure to provide offices, support services, and medical professionals managed by a Community Health Care System with a fixed salary basis and both merit and longevity advancement opportunities available to those who choose a career in federal medical professions. These Community Health Care Clinics can be phased in as "mandated" health care providers for the far too many people who are currently clogging both the Urgent Care and the Emergency Room facilities that are designed to provide care for critical patients. The Community Health Care Clinics can provide free care for routine prenatal patients, for well-baby care, for routine physicals and exams required for both the educational system and most employers: vaccinations, basic diagnostic testing, seasonal disease treatment, and other non-emergency, non-critical, routine family medical care.

Extending the concept, promising high school graduates and/or college students could be educated on the government dime, similar to the way military personnel go through both basic training and then specialized schools to prepare them to perform military duties. An obligation of 4-6 years, again mirroring the military system, can be required for all program graduates as payment for their education/training. For those who thrive in a government job, advancement through a salary schedule can be an attractive incentive to stay within the system and make the Community Health Care System one's career, especially if that system is nationwide so a person can relocate to other geographical areas, as well as a variety of cultural communities.

The problem is not the current health care system, but the people who use it in place of common sense and home remedies for the most basic common occurrences, such as colds, flu, ear aches, minor burns and wounds that simply do not require the use of either an Urgent Care facility or an Emergency Room. My annual asthma check-ups can be done in a Community Health Care Clinic, freeing up my specialist to see patients with lung cancer and other major medical issues. Ditto my Type II Diabetes, which requires managed care and maintenance that can be handled by a Community Health Care Clinic. I am currently paying a monthly insurance payment of $561 just in case something happens and I have a medical emergency and/or condition that requires a higher level of intervention and care. Meanwhile, I see my doctor annually to check my asthma, my diabetes, and my general health and pay $6732 for that one visit.

We have come to the other side of President Kennedy's coin, the President who challenged my generation to ask what I could do for my country: our current President seems determined to focus his presidency on what else the country can do for its people, and he wants me to pay for it for those who cannot/will not pay for it themselves. I disagree with the "free" philosophy because I believe that what we get for free we not only come to expect as our due, but what we work for, we value, appreciate, and care for. However, if this president is determined to provide health care for all at the expense of some, then think outside the broken box and see how else that mission can be accomplished. Work within the current system to improve it, to repurpose it to fit the ways that citizens have come to expect the system to work.

Just as President Kennedy's legacy includes the Peace Corps, President Obama's legacy can become the Medical Corps. If we cannot change the people's perception about the health care system, perhaps we can adjust the system to accommodate their use of it.

GRRRRilla in the Garage

I am going through life with my teeth clenched, holding back an explosion of comments that want to erupt, but would probably be inappropriate, at best.

For instance, the PRESIDENT actually said that the local cops acted "stupidly" by intervening in what appeared to neighbors as a B & E because the person acting as if he were burglarizing the home was the BLACK homeowner, a fact that was unknown when the 9-1-1 call was made by a concerned neighbor? Ya know, Mr. President, the cops have a totally thankless job in many respects, especially the part where they walk into suspicious circumstances that could cost someone a life: the cop OR the homeowner. A President who comments on an incident without knowing all the facts loses credibility while demonstrating that racism is alive and well in the black community. And sharing a beer is going to resolve this issue how? There are no do-overs.

Employees at office supply stores who don't agree with a consumer's choice should keep quiet, rather than "putting it out there" in front of the consumer. I have a Palm Pilot and I misplaced the power cord, so I went looking for a replacement: K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Office Depot, Staples, Radio Shack, Target, the independent phone kiosks. All I need to know is whether the part is available; what I don't need to know is that (little giggle) my PDA is a "dinosaur" and I ought to "get with the times" and replace it with a product conveniently sold at the business. If I wanted a different product, I would have asked for it: what I need is a power cord, not your smart-ass attitude about my tech preferences.

I'm not only paying my mortgage, but I'm 3 months ahead on it. ALWAYS: I don't pay late fees. I borrowed the money, so I will repay it: all of it. I read the papers, understood my obligation, and signed of my own free will. My mortgage company continues to call me re: forestalling foreclosure (I'm AHEAD, not behind, in my mortgage), refinancing at a better interest rate (uh, no, mine is already very reasonable), or taking out a line of credit for these trying times (I have a savings account: ever heard of that?). I did receive notification from the county assessor that my assessed value has fallen again, another $10k, the same amount it declined last year, which helps my tax base, but pretty soon, my house is going to be worth less than an empty dirt parcel! By lowering my assessment, I pay less in property taxes, which diminishes the tax revenue for my community, which means more budget cuts. No matter how you look at it, this is a lose-lose.

Why does anyone in government think that I am so terminally stupid that I'd actually turn in my clunker for $4500 to put toward the purchase of a new car? A cheap car is going to cost me $20k; who's going to pay the other $15k? I drive a 2001 Toyota Camry with under 100,000 miles on the odometer, and I have spent a fortune keeping it in excellent condition, doing all of the required maintenance when required. The reason I invest in car maintenance is so I can drive the car well past the loan pay-off date! Keeping a car does not make it a clunker, and I'm offended at the assumption that those of us who do not trade in our cars every 3 years are somehow damaging the environment and stealing carbon footprints from those who always have the newest/most expensive cars in their driveways and monthly payments hanging over their heads. For crying out loud: I replaced all of my old-fashioned light bulbs with the CFLs, allegedly the same as taking 40,000 cars off the road: let me drive my car!

Who really cares if Jon has replaced one Kate with another Kate? The replacement is younger, sexier, more malleable than Kate, the mother of 8 children, comes across on TV, but without all the cosmetic enhancements, Jon ain't all that. The newer, younger, sexier Kate will move on, Jon, because trust me, she can do far better than a somewhat chubby older guy with 8 children and a hair transplant. Clock's ticking on her 15 minutes of fame ... and yours.

Ditto The Bachelorette: does anyone actually believe that a lifelong love can be found on a TV show? We used to call girls who slept with numerous guys in the quest to find the right one a slut, but today? She's just putting herself out there! The old shame on me adage applies here: perhaps it's telling that she picked the guy who left the show, then came back when he realized that he'd made a huge mistake and actually begged her to pick me! Uh, guy? The mistake was auditioning in the first place, compounded by showing up on the set, compounded by actually participating in the whole silly charade, compounded by thinking that any woman who would go on a reality TV show to find her one true love is ... real. Believe me, YOU'VE ALL BEEN LOOKING FOR LOVE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES!!

Why is the Jackson family surprised that Michael died from a drug overdose? Was this not pretty much a foregone conclusion based on the fact that he wasn't just using drugs, but severely abusing them? If there is any story left in this saga, it is Jackson surviving as long as he did. Why does the Jackson family feel they have to blame his death on anyone else? Didn't ALL of them, both individually and collectively, pretty much wash their hands of him and his life? His father is disgusting, appearing on TV in his jaunty hat and pretending that he has any contact with anyone remotely related to him! He's lived apart from the rest of the Jacksons for a full decade: he only showed up at the funeral for appearances sake. Can we please, please just move on?

For all the $$$ I've thrown at watering systems, you'd think they would work regardless of the weather. My plants in the front yard are parched, so I'm back to hand watering. Yes, the new timer works just great -- but I'm not sure what it's timing as there isn't water coming out of all the little sprinkler heads by all the various plants. It has to be telling that I'm killing cactus!!!

I need to rid the house of the huge copy machine that I replaced with an all-in-one printer combo a year ago because it cost me $360 annually for a maintenance agreement on the copy machine, a sum that purchased a pretty great all-in-one. I would be rid of it, but I don't know what to do with it. I've contacted places that might be able to use it, but they don't want it. I can't just throw it away as it works, and if I donate it to a thrift shop, who's going to want it? If I can't afford it, I doubt that thrift shoppers can. Ditto about 8 different cameras still in a drawer waiting for a decision on what to do with them.

There are so many things that I want to be doing, but I'm not doing them. I have a stack of handwork in process, but it's too hot to work on any of those projects. I want to cook and have a pile of recipes all picked out, but my weight has become such an issue that I don't want to put food into my mouth. I didn't like my hair short, but I have no tolerance for growing it out as it's in that yucky ugly not short/not long stage and looks pretty darned bad. Feels good, though, as I'm using Biolage shampoo, but I have to "do something" before I return to work in a few weeks.

Bottom line is that I've spent some long, hot hours in the newly-cleaned garage, picking up where my guys left off so I can finally finish that project. They left boxes for me to make decisions about, but I still don't know what the hell to do with all this crap! There is stuff I don't want to throw away, but why am I keeping it? And the photo albums: good grief, when I put all those pictures into all those plastic page protectors, I never went far enough down the "in the future" road to know that one day I'd be looking at them and wondering what the hell to do with them.

I'm a cranky gorilla in the garage and it isn't going to get better.

Vacation Part IV: Collage

As much as I hate flying, my flights this trip were excellent: not just on-time departures, but across the board early arrivals. I was actually seated in the aisle seats I reserved, although on the last leg, I should have given my seat up to the mom and her son separated from her 2 daughters, who were seated next to me behind her. However, I took a quick look, decided she had her hands full with the youngest son, and got the girls seated, buckled in, and ready for take-off. I did reprimand them a couple of times, gently and quietly, when they infringed on my space and kicked the backs of the seats in front of them, as well as the mini-fight they had halfway through the flight (sisters, ya know?). I helped them with their free drink and snack Mom provided, and they finally wound down and slept for the last hour plus. That time, I didn't mind them infringing on my space as it was quiet and they were so cute.

I am going to pitch a bitch: I had to pay $15 both ways for my very small suitcase to be transported with me, which I would not have minded had EVERYONE been treated equally. I was told that my suitcase was "oversized," which is NOT a fact as it fit into the wire rack, but the gate attendant thought that it was a snug fit that could cause problems once I was on-board as bags cannot be placed parallel to the aisle, but have to fit perpendicular, wheels toward the aisle (which my suitcase does). No, I didn't read that on the list of rules, but my bag was gone and I was paying the penalty in cold, hard cash.

Once I was seated, I watched an endless stream of travelers come on-board with very large suitcases that took up an entire overhead bin lengthwise, not wheels toward the aisle as I was told, as well as "under seat" pieces that had to be stored overhead as they, too, were too large to fit under the seat in front of them. Is an exception made if the person appears to be on a business trip, as that appeared at first glance the reason so much carry-on was allowed for certain travelers. If the rule states what is allowed and any traveler exceeds that standard, the bag should be checked and paid for by the traveler, not winked at because the person is a frequent business flyer. The flights were so incredibly full that overhead bins were filled by the first 2/3 of the passengers, which totally angered those in the aisles with bags they intended to carry on, but now had to check. However, once they got the bags on-board, they did NOT have to pay the $15 fee to check them, which appears to be yet another loophole in the who has to pay standard!!!!!

Again, I don't argue with fair, but I was tagged for $30 extra for service that I did not need, while others didn't have to pay for service for which they should have been charged. If there's going to be a rule, enforce it or forget it: it should not be first on-board get a free pass to stuff the overhead bins with their luggage, while the rest of the travelers get the hassel.

Whatever. I found my suitcase at the baggage claim, located my car in the parking lot, and picked up Mia, who was glad to see me, but had to first find the big chunk of chewy bone she intended to steal from Thor, who didn't seem particularly upset at her theft. I'm going to take care of Thor next weekend so his parents can go to Vegas for a birthday celebration. Mia patroled the property last night, then flopped onto her ratty green shag rug and blue pillow on the floor by my bed, exhausted. Several times during the night she touched my hand with her tongue, but that was just to see if I was still here. She does much better with her separation anxiety since I've been away a few times, but returned home, so that's a relief. I had crashed about 9:30 as I was tired after 2 weeks of having intense fun and being on the road for a full 12 hours to return home. Once my internal clock resets, I'll be fine, but that's going to take a couple of days.

About the garage: oh, wow (I'll take photos when my camera is delivered: ironically, I mailed some things that wouldn't fit into my suitcase). There are still boxes (I didn't want to just toss out everything), but there are shelves to hold them. Above the washer/dryer, B put the wire shelves, which are wide enough to hold the products that I usually store above that area. I have a new mini-workbench, with both my pegboard above it and shelves next to it, rather than the old tossed out cabinet I rescued off the street and used for doing projects. The big plastic shelving my son gave me is in a unique corner just right for it (I actually assembled the shelves and put it there several months ago, when I was going to do the project myself), but now it's organized and useful. I still have my school files, but a few boxes, not 30+ years of files. There are boxes with pots/pans, as well as photos, etc., but now I know what's in them and will go through them one at a time. And, I can park the car with room to spare on all sides of it! And I have a working light over the washer. And a hose hanger. And ... deep gratitude for a project done that was well past the time of doing.

Today, it's off to the post office to pick up the held mail, write bills, buy groceries, and decompress. I'm going to work on updating my syllabi for the fall classes, but that's a fun job, as well as necessary, because I look forward to returning to the classroom when it's a couple of classes, rather than a full schedule. I have a few handwork projects I'm working on and will catch up on missed TV shows while I do so.

Vacation has ended, but there are still a couple of trips pending, so I can ease back into the old and familiar and savor what's left of the summer.

Walking the Last Mile

The garage is finished; however, I'll wait until I return home to enjoy the impact of empty space. There's been a lot on my mind lately, especially the knowledge that my years are dwindling to a precious few and so much of my past is detritus in boxes that I refuse to open. Once opened, the contents have to be handled, and, sometimes, that's not what I'm going to do. I'm not sure why B, my plumber-handyman felt that about me, but he did, and that's why he offered to open them for me. Well, that and the fact that the hour and a half we sat at the edge of the garage and discussed the project, my breathing became so impaired that it was obvious that I could not do the task myself!

A quote from a Nora Roberts' TRN, Tribute, sums up my feelings about dealing with the debris we all accumulate: Sentiment didn't magically restore rotten wood. I have a lot of rotten wood that needs to be discarded so I can restore the framework of my life and continue with the rest of the journey. There is just so much that lurks, that haunts me in the moments least expected. I know in one part of my brain that I should re-establish contact with my siblings, but I won't: even family members can cross a line that should never be crossed. I did the stop-look-listen before I took the first step off the curb when my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer, I thought the street was safe to cross -- but I was run over by a semi just the same. The injuries weren't terminal, but I'm not going to put myself on that curb again. For those who believe that blood is thicker than water, I can honestly say that water is a hole hell of a lot more refreshing and restorative than bad family blood!

I have saved things beyond the point of reason. When my daughter married, I packed every single thing of hers I could find and shipped it to her: it was her turn to make the discard decisions. She laughed at some of what she received but appreciated the gesture. I did the same with my son, culling out that which was for him to care for once he established his own adult life. There was a miscommunication about some documents he thought I had discarded, but he did find them last summer when he packed for the relocation to Canada. I have kept just about 35 years' worth of teaching materials, good lessons and supplemental materials that I cannot throw out on my own. I still have every single bank statement and canceled check from my entire adult life. Unbelievably, I still have all the letters my ex-husband wrote to me before we married in 1967!

Hopefully, I can put some of that into the past tense!

The boxes in my garage represented parts of my life I simply did not want to have to quantify, to assess and determine worth. B understood how torn I was, which is probably why it took me an hour and a half to talk through the process with him! In some ways, it was a relief when he said in a recent phone call that it was easy to see what needed to stay with me and what could be removed. And there were the pieces of rotted wood of no use to anyone: whether they were irreplaceable or not, they had to be discarded either by me or by the person helping me clean the garage.

Another quote from the same source: Neglect takes longer to damage than deliberation, but it does the job just as well. I have been neglectful; I have avoided digging into a sad time in my past, a time when I was living where I wanted to be, had new friends that were special to me, doing a job that I truly enjoyed. When it all fell apart and I felt compelled to return to my past, it was a long, sad journey back to where so much began and so much more ended. I have moved on in some ways, but in other ways -- I can close my eyes and be there again.

It's time for new decisions about where I am in life and where I want to be, not just physically, but in the other realms, the internal areas that make a difference in the quality of the day-to-day. I have about used up my time to waste, but sometimes, wasting time is the point. I've used the past several years to walk through the forest, but I've been standing where the path offers me a choice of which way I'm going to continue the journey. It's time to take the first step on another path, rather than waiting for someone to take my hand and make the decision for me.

Fast & Furious

At the National Zoo, J found the fact board interesting, filled with different kinds of human trash and then options for guessing how long it takes for the different items to decompose. Glass takes one million years, if you are ever asked for that bit of info.

Saturday, M and I were lazing around, had a bit of lunch, and I decided to have a few of the different cherries I purchased when J & I last visited Wal-Mart. About 20 minutes later, I began to feel really bad, really fast. My head was pounding, I got dripping wet from the intense, sudden heat attack, then I went into body-wracking shivers, and in a flash realized that I was going to be violent sick!

I was. Once my body voided whatever offended it, I took a shower and went to bed, where I slept for a solid 3 hours. It came on like food poisoning and pretty much worked its way done by that evening, so I'm not totally sure what hit me. I've never had an issue with fruit before, but perhaps that was the trigger.

Anyhoo, M and I spent a lazy weekend, mostly reading, but she did mow the lawn (cheaper than a gym membership). We made a bookstore run and I found a $5.95 bargain book that had us howling with laughter: there is no way I can read a book that is as poorly written as this one, and I didn't make it past page 5. However, I told M that I'd check the ending to see if it improved. You be the judge:

She and Jace had spent their first night together with their bodies inhabited by others, but they hadn't minded. --Deveraux, Jude. Someone to Love. 307.

Today, J comes home and I'm taking care of the neighbor's son this evening, while Mom and Dad go out for a movie. They kept track of M's 2 cats while she was gone, and I always like to say thank you to those who do nice things because they want to, not because they have to do them. I may retry making the apple pie for the other neighbor, just to ease my guilt over the first attempt, but I'll have to go back to W-M for more apples (oh, J will like that).

I'm flying back home this Friday, so the days are ticking down. It's nice doing not much with my family, but sure makes me miss my son that much more as we've always spent a lot of time together prior to his relocation to Canada. I'm glad that he's there and happy, and I really like his wife, too, but I miss him. Guess I was spoiled by having him so close for so long.

Vacation Part ii

J was totally immersed in the WWII Memorial, asking questions and then standing silently to absorb the meaning of it before finishing the walk to the Lincoln Memorial.

The tiny plane zoomed to the ground, 6 passengers aboard, M in the seat behind the pilot. My first clue came when the ground crew opened the window by a passenger’s head to pull down the boarding stairs; my second was when another crew opened the wings to retrieve luggage. This is an up-close-and-personal commuter flight, relatively new to the PA-BWI airport circuit. No, M didn’t know how small the plane was when she booked the flight, but it cost her $50 to fly here, rather than my driving to BWI to pick her up last night. The good news is that the flight took 30 minutes, was smooth, not bumpy, and comes within 10 miles of home for my commuting daughter; the bad news is that it’s really a tiny plane. Thus ends the DC part of the vacation.

Wednesday, J and I trudged to the Cosi at the DC corner so he could wi-fi (his I-Pod is his new best everything) as I only paid for one 24-hour connection ($12.95). We returned to the hotel to finish the last bit of packing, called for the bellman and our car, and armed with what we assumed were good directions, headed back to PA. We only made 2 errors, the first pretty soon after leaving the hotel, but it turned out to have far less traffic than the way we were programmed to travel, so it was a good error. Down the road, we didn’t go left around Baltimore, but right, and after missing that exit, we also flew past another that would have turned us west toward I-83. No matter; we found our way and made it home, J off to find his posse and I to start the laundry. I timed him out much too early, but he’d been on the road for 3 weeks, so I thought to slow him down a bit and re-establish a better routine than bed at any-time hours and waking up whenever. After he jammied up, we put on a movie, made some popcorn, and enjoyed Homeward Bound for about the zillionth time. It also gave us time to talk and come down from all the going here and there we’d been doing. It was a much happier, more well-rested g’son who crawled out of bed at 8 am the next morning -- his choice -- because we had no groceries!

At Wal-Mart, J found several items that he had to buy -- I’ll pay you back -- and I finally confronted him on that strategy doesn’t work for me grounds. I reminded him that he can ask, but he cannot put items into the cart and inform me that he’ll pay me back. Yeah, that didn’t sit well, but I don’t like being manipulated. I collected my money as soon as we walked into the house, but I know he was thinking I would just pay. Wrong. J wanted to make meat loaf for dinner, which he did, but he was a bit pushed by my offering a couple of cooking tricks, rather than the dump all the stuff into the bowl, pound it to a pulp, mash it into a loaf pan, and put it into the oven for a while. I also showed him how to make “real” mashed potatoes, but he objected to slightly heating the milk and butter before pouring it SLOWLY into the mashing pots, rather than dumping the whole thing and dealing with the consequences. And he doesn’t cook frozen peas, but he allowed that I could heat my serving if I insisted: I did. We had a great dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, then went next door for swimming in the neighbor's pool.

Friday we did our shopping early again as it was my favorite day: neighborhood movie day. We invited in a group, had pizza delivered, sucked on popsicles, popped corn, and made it through one full movie and part of another before becoming distracted. Each one of the invitees is responsible for preparing and serving part of the fest, but I did the clean up my self as it began raining. I suggested they all go outside and get wet, which they did: they are all 11 or 12, still kids, so they played tag, red light/green light, and hide ‘n seek in the rain. I called the party off at 5 so J could shower, pack his overnight bag, and be ready for his time with his dad.

During the day, I made an owed apple pie to thank the neighbor for fixing the garbage disposal (I didn’t do anything: there was something down it that M knew about but thought she had removed), but the pie wasn’t my best effort. I also made a rustic fruit tart that turned out well, but I forgot to decorate it with the apples I had already peeled and sliced! Guess it wasn’t a good baking day. Oh, well.

I’m not sure where we’ll go or what we’ll do this weekend, but it’ll be quiet as M is exhausted. I’m hoping to entice her into a chick flick, the one with Kathryn Heigl, but my dotter isn’t easily entertained by mindless driven as am I. J will be back on Monday and Tuesday is another Movie Day, while M has a lot of work to do. I'll work on a project she needs done while I'm here, so she can see if it's what she wants, and then ship the rest of it home so I can finish it up for her before I go back to work in August.

Time does fly when you're having fun, and I'm having fun!

Vacation Part i

SHHH: don’t tell anyone, but I know where Judge Sotomayor stayed this week: I saw her in the lobby of our hotel as I was on my way to get coffee. I hope she could sleep through the construction that began at 6 pm and ended at 6 am each day: the incredible noise kept waking me up once I was finally able to fall asleep! Hard to comprehend that road crews could repave an entire block of roadway each night: one direction the first night and the other direction the next night, complete with striping. Lots of work and even more noise. For being on the 8th floor, it was noisy enough to have been camping on the curb!

I’ve had a wonderful time so far, walking more miles than I thought possible during 4 full days of sightseeing. We actually had boots on the ground at the Air & Space Museum, where we saw a presentation on Black Holes; American History Museum; National Zoo; Botanical Gardens; cruise to and tour of Mt. Vernon; Congress; Library of Congress; the mall at Pentagon City; dinner at Hard Rock Café, the best HR I’ve ever been in; the WWII Memorial; the Lincoln Memorial; and past the Washington Spire several times, the tickets for which sell out soon after the kiosk opens. Yesterday, after getting up with my daughter for her 4 am jaunt to Union Station and unable to go back to sleep due to the construction noise, I pulled a cab over rather than taking one more step after seeing Abe in his chair. My only hope was that after walking from the Library of Congress the entire length of the Mall to see him that he had not decided NOT to wait around any longer and had taken off before I could arrive. Darn, but that is one long walk!!

G’son and I also went back to the shopping mall at Pentagon City stop as it’s quite enticing, with an entrance off the Metro stop, which makes it handy. He didn’t really want anything, but once you’re at that spot down the Mall looking at Monuments, it’s just as easy to zip over to the shopping mall for lunch, then back up to the Monument Mall to continue the walk. Uh huh, NOW you know why I was so tired: it was one long darned day!

By far our two favorite activities were the cruise and tour at Mt. Vernon and the time we spent at the Botanical Garden. The Museums are not as spectacular as one thinks, perhaps because they have so many old things that you look at, rather than living things and/or various activities to do. G’son was upset that he could not walk into the Library of Congress, which is the entire point of his putting it on his to-do list; however, my pick, the Botanic Gardens, saved the day for him as he loved it and wants to go back another trip in the future.

We did get lost today, driving out of DC and then finding our way to I-83 North, but we pulled off somewhere in the greater Baltimore area and I asked a well-dressed man in an expensive SUV (g’son thought it was cool: getting directions from the driver of a Navigator) where the heck we were. We were so far from where we should have been that he said, “Follow me to the Beltway and continue straight after I turn off. You cannot miss I-83.” We did; he was right; it was smooth sailing thereafter.

I also had to deal with a call from my alarm company: the garage alarm went off this morning at 4:45 CA time, an ungodly hour in anyone’s morning. I do have the 2 men working on the garage overhaul, but figured they wouldn’t be there that early, so told the dispatch to alert the police. Then I called one of the guys who went into panic because all his tools are in the garage. But he called me back about 5 minutes later to tell me that his friend, who is working with him, couldn’t sleep, and went up to start work early. He forgot about the alarm and opened the door to the patio, but did not hear the alarm going off. B called him, got the alarm off, and I hope dealt with the police, so all is well.

B told me that the transformation is astounding and he wishes he had taken a before/after photo. He and A have taken literally a ton of trash to the dump, repacked what I knew I wanted to save, as well as anything about which they had doubts. He said it was pretty obvious what needed to go, as well as what could stay, especially after they found the boxes the rats had been into, as well as the remnants of very dead termites (which could have been brought in from TX). They have patched the holes, made a new workbench, installed the gas dryer, changed out the watering system timer, replaced the light fixture above the washing machine, and reinstalled the towel bar in my bathroom. B assures me that I’ll be able to park both my car and the truck inside -- and have lots of new places to store my new accumulation of trash/treasures. Hurrah!

Wacky Wild Woman Wins!

Okay, so I'll be the first to admit that I am mentally ill, however benign my condition may be. There are some things that I'll agree are wacky, without logic, off the wall weird -- but what's inside my head is very, very real. Lately, I've been having the wildest dreams and the only reason I can find is my mother's admonition that eating hotdogs gives you bad dreams. I have been eating hotdogs, craving the weiner in a bun with mustard, relish, and chopped onions, along with a light sprinkle of grated cheese, and I've had wild, wacky dreams, so perhaps Mom is right.

One of the hotdog-induced dreams is that my water heater falls apart and floods the garage with however many gallons of water therein, which is actually not a totally bad dream as my garage houses about 40-50 boxes from the move in January 2000. Yeah, January 2000, which is where more wacky comes into play, which I'll explain in a moment. Meanwhile, back at the hot water heater, I'm thinking that I'm thinking about it covering the floor with water as a definitive way to have to deal with the boxes: logical thinking from my brain as the flood forces me to do something, anything, with the boxes.

The other night, after another hotdog dinner, I dreamed that I left on vacation and when I came back -- the garage was empty. Now, that seems too good to be true, but get this: my guy sent me an email the next morning and said, "Do you want me to come to the house while you're gone and deal with the boxes?" Again, logical thinking from my brain forces me to accept the karma present in this whole scenario, so I send my one-word response: YES!!! and added ASAP.

Today, he showed up with a chair so he could sit while we talked about the garage project, which led to the dream about the hot water heater (which is 20 years old), as well as the need to get a gas dryer and rid myself of the electric dryer (he has a gas dryer and is donating it to the project). I also don't have any idea how to set the timer for the watering system, so he's going to pick up another one of those when he goes shopping for a new water heater (which will, of course, necessitate new fittings, etc., as well as strapping it to the wall for safety). We decided on 4 options for the contents of the boxes: save, donate, discard, yard sale -- but he has to take the stuff for the yard sale as that's not in my comfort zone. The general guidelines are if it looks old with a foundation in family history, save it, along with my dishes, the rest of my pots and pans, and anything that looks like I really should hold onto it. I've already asked my children if there is anything that I have that they want and both of them said, "Hell, no," so let's git 'er done.

Now, you have to understand that he's totally into this project and has been bugging me since last summer to git 'er done. I tried to explain that I think the reason I cannot open/empty the boxes (since the move in January 2000) is that it will mean that I'm going to stay here, and I don't want to spend my twilight years in the desert. I moved away for a reason, and I came back for an income; between the two, there has to be somewhere else I could enjoy living now that I have my retirement income, but I have no idea where that is or if I'm ever going to go there. Now, the interesting thing is that as long as the boxes stay packed, I think I can pick up and go, but the reality is that once I get rid of all the stuff I haven't seen in almost a decade, I really can get up and go -- and I don't know which of these options to pick! Is there a door number 3???

Just in case, I bought 5 quick picks for tonight's lottery, basing my decision on the fact that today is 070809, which the numerologists say is totally lucky for financial investments. After looking at the check I wrote to my guy as a down payment on all the work he's going to do, I actually need to win so I can pay the balance when I come back from my vacation -- however much that balance is going to be. Suffice it to say that he's going to St. Thomas after cleaning my garage, and I think I may be paying for his vacation, as well as mine.

So there ya have it: one of my dreams is going to come true (a clean garage) and one of my nightmares is going to be avoided (the bottom falling out of the hot water heater). I've polished off the last of the hotdogs, so I should be good to go until the next cravings hit.

Tribulation

I did watch the Jackson memorial service, a beautiful tribute to a person about whom I am ambivalent. As an entertainer, outstanding; as a humanitarian, apparently a Guinness Book of World Records setter; but as a role model for young people, I'm not so sure that he's the one I want my children/grandchildren to emulate. Lots of dysfunction swirling within one person's lifetime, the tip of which we saw in his cosmetic mutilation.

The memorial service was emotionally touching, with friends, family, notables eulogizing a man with whom they shared special experiences. I didn't know that Kobe Bryant and Magic Johnson had such close, personal relationships with Michael, but Magic spoke about him from the heart, as did so many others standing at the podium. Brooke Shields could hardly read her prepared comments, her anguish palpable as she recalled a youthful friendship that apparently suffered from the public's perception about the pairing. The children of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr did their parents proud with the strength of the words and the depth of a tribute that came directly from the writings/teachings of their father.

I'll admit that the tears flowed freely when Jermaine sang "Smile" in front of his brother's coffin. I have no idea how he made it through the song, but it sure would have been nice had the other brothers Jackson joined him. I didn't expect a Jackson Family reunion concert, but that performance could have used some sibling support on the stage as that has to be the toughest gig ever.

I hope that Rev. Sharpton is in the vicinity when Christ comes again because He'll be bringing Michael with him and Al will want the pat on the back he earned for today's stirring sermon. Sharpton pretty much enthroned Jackson with the Trinity, regardless of your religious preference, and he totally moved him to the front of the Civil Rights Movement, leading (spiritually speaking) Rev. King across that color blind abyss in heaven. After hearing about the incredible advances to breaking down the racial barriers in this country attributed to Michael Jackson, I felt sorry that King was such a slacker. However, the blending of eulogies and musical tributes kept a balance that allowed viewers to appreciate the talent no matter how they felt about the man behind the performance.

There were a few things that caught my sometimes wandering attention, such as the news reader who repeatedly referred to the "hurst" carrying Michael's remains to Staples Center. One of the musical tributes was a song with words I tried to catch a couple of times, but the best I can come up with is "krispy and creme me," strange lyrics indeed. Jennifer Hudson looks totally pregnant, showing about a third trimester baby bump hidden behind a dress that resembled a very large, frilly, white Sunday dinner tablecloth. Is it just my reaction or is Stevie Wonder one of the worst singers ever? I had to mute him before he finished his performance as it was excruciating. And, pardon my ignorance, but I thought John Mayer's claim to fame is that he dated Jennifer Aniston. Imagine my surprise to see him stand by himself on the stage and play a really old, crummy-looking electric guitar that seemed much too small for a man. I kept asking myself not only who is he, but why is he playing the guitar? Was he once in a music vid with Michael? The dots didn't connect for me.

Now that the memorial service has concluded, we can turn our attention to a new American pastime: where's Michael? No one seems to know where the body is buried, but if I had to make a guess, I'm going for he was buried at Forest Lawn this morning. A very expensive, ornate casket showed up for the public performance, but it is quite common for high-profile remains to be buried quietly while the ornate casket creates a distraction. Is he at the Encino family compound? Is he in storage somewhere waiting for a special dispensation that will allow a burial at Neverland?

Is it time for all of us to move on?

Hell No!

This morning, I was completely aghast at a post from a blogger on the local on-line newspaper site regarding Sarah Palin's decision to remove herself from the media firing line. The blogger's opinion is that not only will Palin always be trailer trash, but her daughter is a slut (the blogger did not specify which daughter). There, but for the Grace of God, go all of us, victimized by someone with a personal axe to grind and absolutely no way to justify such vicious attacks on someone who is probably a total stranger to the blogger.

I've been the target of false accusations, including those made by a woman who swore that she saw me having sex at a club with a man not my husband the same day my family and I were out of town. The truth did not change her story, but it sure changed my life: I resigned from the organization and never looked back. I was the target of those who allowed their perception to become everyone else's reality, and no amount of truth can undo the damage caused by this kind of lie. I was the target of a student who fabricated a complex lie involving my ex-husband to deflect the consequences of her own actions onto me. My experience has been confined to a relatively small footprint, and I can only imagine how much more devastating it is to have this kind of attack on a national level, especially by people who have no remorse for their accusations and actions, including today's blogger.

The media has taught the public that their right to tell the story is more important than my right to have it kept private, and all too often their story originates in fiction, not fact. It used to be that the goal of journalism is to be the first with the facts, but now it's just be the first: if we get it wrong, sorry. Shit happens, right? As Palin pointed out in her speech last week, she's financially responsible for the costs of getting the truth separated from the fiction, both for herself and her office, and the costs are becoming prohibitive. Based on my experience, it's not just the dollars and the cents, but it's the erosion of the self that is a price too high to pay.

In the public domain of her life, Sarah Palin has done quite well, serving in local and state government, and offering her services at the federal level. I wonder what the blogger has done that can equal Palin's contributions to her fellow citizens -- other than being the first in line to throw stones, that is. I'm sure that Sarah Palin has much more to offer and will continue with public service as a vital component of her life, but as a private citizen, not as a public target. I am ashamed that so few public figures stepped up when Letterman made his crude comments about Sarah and her daughter, but it's always easier to accept that kind of reckless behavior when you aren't the target of it. Other public figures who have made similar irresponsible comments have lost their jobs as a result, but Letterman walked away with a no harm/no foul pass.

It's not about who Sarah Palin is and/or what she accomplishes with her life, it's what others say about her that ends up in the media and becomes the truth. Remember the office staffer who told the media that the Palins were passing their daughter's child off as their own child? The staffer told the media that there was no way Sarah Palin had been pregnant because she didn't gain any weight or look pregnant, proving that the staffer was right in her accusations. The story led the news for a couple of weeks because the public thrives on speculation, innuendo, and mean-spirited gossip. As in Letterman's case, the apology or retraction (if one is made) is never quite as effective as the original accusation, and far too many people, such as today's blogger, believe the accusation, rather than the evidence.

I admire Sarah Palin for doing what is best for herself, her marriage, and her family. Jon and Kate Gosselin could take lessons from the Palins and pull the plug on the media before it destroys not just the marriage, but the family. The viciousness of the media and the false sources that support it go far beyond what any public figure should have to accept. We all need to learn to Just Say Hell No!

Dancin' with the Truth

Our Michael, who art in limbo, Holyworld be thy name. You are redeemed, Our Michael, forgiven for all transgressions both real and imaginary. Your true fans await your final performance; your true fans have emptied the record stores of your albums, good, bad, and mediocre; your true fans have left the unemployment lines for LA and a chance to be a part of media history; and if there is any way at all to make a buck off your death, the sycophants are on it. You remember what it is to be the star at the center of the media maelstrom, so rest in peace, Our Michael, now that your final wish has been granted: everlasting vindication in your own personal Neverland.

Our Michael averred from the TV screen that he was not guilty of the charges brought against him by the families of young boys who were guests at Neverland, Jackson’s personal fantasy retreat hidden from the world in Los Olivos, CA, but the public didn’t really believe in his innocence. His stardom waned, his eccentricities became legend, and his fortune dwindled while the debt accrued. For the past decade, Jackson has been his own Lost Boy, a man who slowly eradicated his past in a futile effort to create a new Michael Jackson: white skinned, mainstream media, father of the year to his suspiciously lily white children, not an accused pedophile, but the King of Pop. He used drugs to anesthetize himself to the reality of who he is, who he always will be, and the one person in the world from whom he cannot hide: himself.

While most people's deaths are defined by their lives, Our Michael's life needs to be redefined by his death, the beginning of a new Our Michael legend that ensures a lucrative lifestyle for those who kept the fallen artist at a distance during his life, but embrace him in death, including his own father. Our Michael tried to be both black and white during his life, but his death affirms that although he cultivated and lived in a white world, the white Michael Jackson has been eradicated in the media coverage of the untimely death of a black superstar who was beloved throughout the world.

Michael Jackson’s family has not revealed the details about where/when/how his body will be laid to rest, but it is becoming apparent that it is all about mourning his demise in a public venue that maximizes the media coverage and the revenue stream that naturally follows. The free tickets for the memorial service at Staples Center are being awarded in a lottery to those who signed up on the internet: 1.5 million vying to be one of the lucky 8500 who actually get 2 tickets. How many of those lottery winners will be black is allegedly contingent on ownership of or access to a computer, as well as the luck of the draw. If you are white and cannot get through the door, that’s karma; however, if you’re black and have to stand on the sidewalk because you don't own a computer or buy coffee at Starbuck's, that’s another potential LA race riot. To be fair and save the tax revenue paying for the logistics and support services in multi-millions of dollars, tickets should have been sold to the true fans of any color who seem willing to pay whatever it costs just to be in the same state as Our Michael's remains.

The concert promoters are chomping at the bit to release a music video of Jackson’s rehearsals for the canceled concerts, knowing that they’ll make a huge profit off the singer’s death and pay down the projected losses that begin at $20 million just at Staples Center. Nothing sells like a dead superstar, and the more suspicious the circumstances, the more the death can be spun to the advantage of those who profit from it. Imagine having the tribute video ready to sell to the crowds outside the Staples Center on Tuesday ... at the gates to Neverland in Los Olivos ... at the Jackson family home ... at the gates to the now-empty rental mansion ... flooding internet vendors and mall stores the same day as the service.

Perhaps Jackson's death hasn't been milked for enough air time or financial gain yet as there is still money to be made when Neverland becomes another Graceland, a museum to conspicuous consumption, living well beyond one's means, and (potentially) the final resting place of the King of Pop, which can be enjoyed vicariously for a mere twenty-five bucks per guest, amusement park rides, parking, and food extra. This single death has done more to stimulate the SoCal economy than anything the state or federal politicians have done in the past 8 months, a moneymaker well beyond anyone's projections.

The media has been interviewing an endless stream of highly-paid experts in every conceivable topic associated with human beings residing on earth since the beginning of time to spin the new legend of Michael Jackson, icon. There is groundless speculation bookcased with eyewitness accounts based on individual perspective. A former nurse swears that Jackson asked for this drug and that drug, literally cashing in on her instant media-induced fame as she apologizes for the lifestyle that drove Our Michael to such desperate measures. A former manager recalls what it was like when Our Michael was a boy ... and his check is in the bank as he blames the father for Our Michael's darkest hours. The black cadre marches in a line: the political activist, the religious yardstick, the professional athlete, the well-known performer, sharing the theme of "I knew Our Michael when," as well as the spotlight on the black experience in America. Our Michael was so much more than just his music: son, brother, husband, father, icon.

What Jackson could not accomplish during his life is being actualized by his death: the transformation of a tarnished angel into a saint. All it takes is a bit of dancin' with the truth, a sleight of perception that the media does better than any Holyworld producer and which the public buys without question, regardless of the price of admission.

Live With It

While I ate my lunch, I watched a TV reality show, Cake Boss, which shows how a family-owned bakery operates. The host, Buddy, is personable, hard-working, Italian volatile, and always both acknowledges and applaudes the dedication of his staff.

In the episode, a bride-to-be and her mother come into the bakery to order a wedding cake, the design and details of which are discussed, sketched, and approved. The baker makes the cake as ordered and puts it into the 'fridge for delivery on the big day. However, the day before the wedding, the bride shows up and demands to see her cake. Her comment: it's ugly. She wants to know if her mother paid extra for the world's most boring wedding cake.

Buddy is astounded as he's worked hard to make a beautiful cake that he knows the bride will love on her special day. When it becomes obvious that the obnoxious bride not only does not want the cake she's ordered but expects him to make her another cake, Buddy walks off to cool down before he continues the conversation. While his back is turned, the bride picks up tubes of brightly colored icing that she squirts all over the beautiful, all-white wedding cake.

I'm sure the look on my face was the same look on Buddy's face when he came back and saw what she had done to the cake. When Buddy directed the bride to leave (probably before he smacked her), she did, tossing off the parting comment that now, maybe, he gets it. The bottom line is that the bride-to-be approved the design and ordered the cake; her responsibility was to pay for the finished product whether she liked it or not because it is what she ordered. She could have asked Buddy how additional color could be added to the cake or how the design could be supplemented or given any other suggestions she had to alter the cake. However, once she defiled the cake, it was a done deal: you ordered the cake, you ruined the cake, you pay for the cake and use it or not -- your choice.

The employees of the bakery said "hell, no" after Buddy talked to the mother of the bride and assured her that he would make another cake and deliver it to the wedding venue the next day. As one astonished employee said, "I have to stay late and work my ass off because this spoiled brat ruined her cake?" Buddy says he wants to be the bigger man for the mother's sake, but in my world the more adults accommodate that kind of bad, inappropriate behavior, the more the behavior becomes acceptable. This bride absolutely expects Buddy to make her another cake, for which she will not pay, and is willing to do whatever it takes to assure that she gets her way.

This behavior has been reinforced in her past: if it didn't work, she wouldn't do it.

I'm sorry that Buddy baked and decorated another wedding cake for this ungrateful bride, but I can understand why he did so. If the bride had expressed even a token thanks, I'd say he did the right thing, but she refused to acknowledge Buddy or the cake in spite of her mother's pleas to do so. Buddy would have been better served by delivering her the cake she enhanced with her personal artistic flair and letting her live with the consequences of her actions.

Sometimes, doing the right thing is the wrong thing to do, and this is one of those times.