Father's Day -- An Epilogue

Dad died three weeks ago.   My stepmom likes to tell people that my dad never knowingly lied, and he never said anything bad about anyone. I don't have the heart to correct her. Whatever he may have been, they loved each other deeply, and their 30-year relationship was a sight to behold. "He's a good man," my stepmom has always said, and to her, he certainly was. Who am I to argue?

I feel quite sure that my dad wanted to be a great father, and he did the best he knew how. But he wasn’t very good at it. He was emotionally unavailable to his kids and their mother. He was narcissistic and judgmental; he could be cold and unforgiving and miserly. His memory was relentlessly selective. Dad was, at times, a destructive force in our lives.

Every once in a while, though, he would surprise us with an uncharacteristic act of love and support, and I would hang on tight because I was so hungry for it. With Dad, you had to pretend.

For a long time, I idealized my dad, refusing to see what others saw. Eventually, I succumbed to outside pressure – I still regret that – and broke off all contact with him. For much too long, my only contact with my dad consisted of the three emails I sent each year: on Christmas, Father's Day, and his birthday. I became as lousy a daughter as he was a dad. Worse, in fact, especially because I knew better.

By the time the cancer came, I was too mired in my own dysfunction to be any help. My only act of support was to ask Dad to keep me posted on developments.  He didn’t, of course. I used that as an excuse to withdraw further. We pretended we wanted to be close while we played off each other’s more authentic mutual disinterest. 

It was the fourth cancer diagnosis – lung cancer – that finally got my attention.

And so I did finally come around, and I did my best to make up for lost time with visits and phone calls. I made it my job to listen, and I got to know him. I learned about a man who had worked hard all his life, who served in the Navy on an aircraft carrier. While on that ship, he asked to be in charge of movie night so he could order Singing in the Rain whenever he wanted. He went to college on the GI Bill, became an electrical engineer, and was a pioneer in the development of early computers for General Electric in the 1960s.

Now Dad was just a sick old man, fighting like hell to postpone a difficult death.  I wondered, looking at him, if he ever could have caused the harm I had attributed to him. But then I saw him vivisect my niece and one of his tenants, and I realized he still had the capacity to be enormously destructive. He gave me a taste of it as well, but I had expected it, so I was prepared.  

Then, two months ago, a loving act of breathtaking generosity. His gift allowed me to pay off all but one of my debts, repair my car, and replace the broken-down HVAC system in my home. The gift was truly life-changing, and I made sure he knew exactly where the money went and how grateful I was for the fresh start.

I wish I could tell you that everything was peaches and cream after that. Three days before Dad died, he called me into his bedroom for a private conversation. We both knew that death was closing in, but it wasn’t that kind of talk. Instead, he started shouting, which must have been very difficult in his physical condition. I’m completely irresponsible with money, he lectured, and I’ve been out of law school for how long? Even now I had to be bailed out. His voice rose as he declared that I will never get my act together, and thanks to me, my daughter is destined for financial ruin, too.

I’m glad to say I didn’t engage. I just became kind of dead inside. I thanked him for his honesty and told him I loved him. He said he loved me, too, and I went home to Georgia. That night he took a bad fall, and went to the hospital for the last time.  That was our final conversation.

My sponsor suggested that instead of focusing on my Dad’s last words to me, I focus instead on his last, loving, generous gift. I’m working on that. I’m working on remembering the dad who loved old movies just like I do. The dad who took us camping every summer, and taught us to sing “Blood on the Saddle,” and took the family out for sunrise cook-outs in the desert. The dad who taught me two perfectly awful jokes that still make me laugh. The dad who was the very best dad he knew how to be. 

A few months back, my therapist said it was important, if someone close to you is dying, to tell them four things: I love you. Thank you. I’m sorry. I forgive you.

So I told Dad I loved him, and I said it often. I thanked him for teaching me self-reliance, for standing up for what he believed in, and for showing me the importance of education. I told him how sorry I was for staying away from him for so long, for denying him access to my daughter, and for the horrible time I gave him as a teenager.

And as for forgiveness? Well, I told my Dad that he hadn’t done anything that needed forgiving. It seemed best to confirm what he already knew.

He was a good man, my dad.

Mother's Day -- And Nancy Rae's Two Cents.

Yes, I'm back, and I'm lazy, too, because this is a repost from 2010. 

I really miss my mom. But I'm grateful for a wonderful stepmom and an even more wonderful daughter.

I am truly blessed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For Mother’s Day, I thought I’d tell you all about my mom. Instead, I’m posting this letter she wrote to me about a month before I got sober. It says more about her than I ever could.

A little background: She had just visited my husband and me in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A lung cancer survivor, she drove all by herself from Albuquerque and back in her little red Datsun.

Just a few months later, she would learn that she had several malignant, and inoperable, brain tumors.  That’s when we moved to Albuquerque.

Mom died a month and a half after she saw me pick up my one-year chip. She was 52, and had nearly 11 years sober herself.

Until today, I've never shown this letter to anyone except my current sponsor and my daughter. I haven’t changed a word, although I have shortened it.  I would have preferred to leave out some other parts, but I believe she would have insisted that I leave them in. So, I did.  Sadly, I’m just now learning the lessons she was trying to teach me back then. Even so, her letter has helped me through countless difficult times.

Mom, thank you. I love you always.

June 29, 1981

Dear Lynne,

I think we haven’t had much chance over the past ten years or so to have mother-daughter – or woman-to-woman talks. I hope Donald will understand if, because of this feeling, I sometimes write to you separately. I don’t mean to exclude him at all. But he has had a mother all his life and you haven’t had your fair share of mothering.

I got the feeling when I was with you that there are some things you don’t know about Lynne. I am your mother and allowed to be prejudiced in your favor. But I am also a mother in the unique position of having seen you so seldom as you changed from a child to a woman, that I am quite objective about you in many ways.

You have heard it so often you don’t hear it – If I could have any daughter in the whole world, I would choose you. I have told Bob the same about a son. These are not just words to me. It is a prayer of thanksgiving. I am twice blessed and my gratitude is boundless.

Lynne is beautiful, intelligent and she has a good heart. That is the way it is. Perhaps a mother could want more in a daughter, but I can’t imagine what it would be. Perhaps a human being could want more in another human being – but what?

I am going to assume you know you are intelligent. If you question that, let me know and I’ll address the question. I have answers that have nothing to do with my opinions or observations. If you don’t give Lynne credit for outstanding intelligence, it’s time you do that.

You are beautiful – physically beautiful. I don’t use the words often because I believe it is seldom appropriate. But you are a beautiful young woman. I know you are not aware of your beauty. I think that’s a terrible waste. It is nothing to gloat over or take credit for. But it should surely be appreciated and cared for.

You quit hiding that beauty, and I guarantee you, Lynne will be one helluva beautiful woman. 

It has taken me 50 years to accept my attractiveness. And the Nancy I finally accepted as attractive has outrageous scars and a face that aged from the illness.

You don’t have to do that to Lynne. I want desperately for you to begin to allow Lynne to live now.

Okay – as for the good heart. You have tried to be good all your life. I’m not saying you’ve been good every minute or that there aren’t times when you just say, “The hell with it, I’ll just be bad.” No one is good every minute. (But) you’ve never been able to avoid trying to be good for very long. You have sought approval from other people – so you have tried to be good as you thought they wanted. But we can’t read the other guy’s mind.

The only “good” we can rely on is our own instinct to be good. I am human – not bad. I’m quite practical, loving, try to be honest and fair with others, mean no harm to other people, and believe everyone has a right to share my world. I think these are good instincts. I believe I have a good heart. I’ve a long way to go, of course. But I am working my life in the direction of acceptance of this one of God’s children.

I am obligated to know your instincts as best I can. You have a good heart, in my opinion.

If you could have any daughter in the whole, wide world, wouldn’t you choose one who is intelligent, beautiful and has a good heart? And wouldn’t you want for her to accept herself as she is?

I want you to learn to accept my daughter as she is – intelligent, beautiful and good-hearted. That’s worth fighting for. And, honey, I’m gonna fight for it.

If we were closer I could tell you all these things in bits and pieces as we go along. I would keep reminding you that you are intelligent, beautiful and have a good heart. We don’t have that luxury. But we do have cheap paper and pens. We do have 18 cents for a stamp. We do both express ourselves in writing when we choose to.

So – whatever –

I love you right where you are right this minute – and this minute – and this minute. That is a given. So you might as well stick it in your personality computer system’s memory and push the memory button a hundred times a day. You won’t figure in enough love – but you’d be on the right equation.

The message is acceptance and love.

Shalom,

Mom

Living on the Bedge.

This was me, a year ago. It's time to post it. I'm so grateful that I don't have to live there today.
 
At this moment, I am blogging on the bed. Next to me are two used cups; four cereal bowls with spoons, all licked clean by the dog; two empty yogurt containers, also licked clean; an almost-empty bottle of club soda from a couple days ago; my purse; a couple of used paper towels; and crumbs. Quite a lot of crumbs, in fact, both in and on the bed.

I’ve been living on my bed for the past three months. Eating on the bed. Playing cellphone games on the bed. Listening to NPR on the bed. Watching movies on the bed. This, even though I have a perfectly good living room and dining room and office. My day is spent traversing well-worn paths, and every damned one of them leads to my bed. Which, by the way, is on the floor because I've never put the frame together -- because I won't let anyone in my house to help me.

Depression. I've had it since I was about twelve, although back then I didn't know it had a name. You can see when it happened in the family photos: the light went out of my eyes. There was no there there. Alcohol brought the light back, until it didn't anymore. Later, sobriety brought relief. But even now depression is a frequent visitor. Thank goodness for meds that take the edge off.

Like addiction, depression is cunning, baffling, and powerful. It's just as patient, too, and as subtle.  It intrigues me, seduces me into unlit, unsafe places. Sometimes it breaks the door down with some big calamity like a death in the family. More often, though, it wafts in through the cracks by way of a small mistake, or a brief lapse in integrity, or a familiar sound that reminds me of failure. Sometimes I summon it myself by listening to really dark songs again, and again, and again. The buzz I crave.

Once depression gets a toehold, it takes on a life of its own. It convinces me that I'm just fine, while it reprograms my mind and my heart like malware running silently in the background. Before I know it, I'm in its caress, warm and thick and downy, sequestered from the world like a baby in the womb – but also cut off from anyone who would help me find my way out. And honestly, at that point, I don’t always care if I find my way out or not.

Despair, with an isolation chaser.

I may not even know depression has taken hold until someone asks the right questions. Ask me how I am, and I'll tell you, "I'm fine. Now let's talk about you."
 
But ask me about my actions: Did you get the mail today? Did you open it? When’s the last time you changed your sheets?  Are there dishes in your bedroom? Have you been listening to sad music? When's the last time you showered? Have you been ignoring phone calls? How many meetings have you made in the last seven days?

By writing this post, I know I’m making the decision to stop. Frankly, I’m not thrilled. But if I waited until I felt like doing the right stuff, I’d rarely accomplish anything of value.
 
That's as far as I got with this post. Writing about it was all the action I could muster. It was just enough.

Lazy- Ass Librarian Friday: Babies!

Two of my favorite animal babies. Oh, and by the way, each of these organizations needs donations.

What Ever Happened to Dennis Fimple?

It was just ten minutes ago, yet I can't for the life of me figure out how I got there.

I started out on eBay, window-shopping for vintage starburst clocks. Something distracted me, and somehow I wound up at some movie site or other. Among the many actors' names on the monitor, my eyes caught the name "Dennis Fimple."

Dennis Fimple? Geez, what a name! And an actor? Really? Uh, maybe he played a hotel desk clerk in some shitty soft porn movie. Or maybe in the third grade he played the lead in "George Washingon's Gold Button."  Whatever this guy did, though, I was pretty sure he could have done a lot better if he'd had the good sense to change his name. Maybe at least I would have heard of him.

Yes, I mused. There ought to be some good blog fodder here. Something touching and sweet, about how everyone is uniquely important and special, even this poor nobody. Maybe I could even make people cry. Yeah, Dennis Fimple was mine. I alone was kind and wise enough to see his value.

So I googled him, and then I felt like an idiot.

This is Dennis Fimple: a talented character actor whom I recognized immediately. Thoroughly successful, thank you very much. He was in a shitload of TV shows and movies. 

What is it the Big Book says about contempt prior to investigation?

I'm considered to be a "nice person." It's a trait I value highly in others, and one I'm willing to work for in myself. Most people smile when they see me coming, and I really like that. Besides, doing nice things for people feels, well, nice.

But this time, when I thought I was being nice, it was really just bloated patronization.

Dennis Fimple is three-dimensional. He worked in a Cheetos factory. He taught school, and he delivered newspapers. He had lots of stories about his experiences, he liked to read, and he was very much into antiques and collectibles. Oh -- and best of all, he was in Truck Stop Women, and I have the movie poster!

Dennis Fimple. A regular guy who seemed to fly under the radar.

I do believe I would have smiled when I saw him coming.

 

 

I'm so sorry...

I promised you an utterly self-indulgent and narcissistic post, and I aim to please. This started out as a blog post. Then it was a letter. Now, it comes full circle.

 “I’m sorry.” People tell me I say it a lot. My mother said you should never say you’re sorry unless you really are. Well, I really, really am.

 I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't know it's supposed to be high T-cells and low viral load. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you better this evening. I'm sorry I'm not prettier, thinner, taller, funnier, smarter, or more graceful. Sorry I walk too slowly. Sorry my socks don't always match and occasionally my underwear is inside out. Sorry I haven't been a better mother. Or daughter, sister, wife, or friend. Sorry for opportunities squandered. I'm sorry I said [insert anything here]. I'm sorry I didn't say [ditto]. Sorry I ran over that rabbit in 1986. And 1999. And 2005, it was never on purpose. Sorry I wasn't a better caretaker for my cat/dog/horse/turtle/fish/guinea pig/hamster/gerbil. I'm sorry I didn't pick up that rubber band on the sidewalk yesterday, because now some poor cat will get tangled in it and die. I'm sorry I brushed my mother's teeth during her last days instead of just holding her hand. I'm sorry I latched onto you like a barnacle on a ship. Or a lamprey on a shark, and I'm sorry I don't know the difference between a metaphor and a simile. I’m sorry I said “I’m sorry” in 115 emails in 2012. I’m sorry I never delete emails. I'm sorry I'm dull and shy and inept, and I sometimes wonder when you'll grow impatient and move on to more interesting and challenging companions.  

When it comes right down to it, I'm sorry for taking up space. It seems a waste. Yet I'm aware that this reveals my huge ego. So I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I'm sorry.

But we seek progress, not perfection, and there is progress. There are even a few things that I'm not sorry for. I'm not sorry I blocked traffic one day to help a turtle cross the road. I'm not sorry I had a daughter, or went to Harvard, or gave up my car, or that I broke my foot. I’m not sorry I fell in love. I'm not sorry that when they made me play an Oompa Loompa at the GLBT chorus concert, I held up signs during the final show as I moved crossed the stage: "Will trade" "sex for" "speaking role."  It brought the house down.

And I'm not really all that sorry I latched on to you.

In which the Subversive Librarian Returns to the Blogosphere

So Chicken Licken came up to Henny Penny and said, “Hey, Henny Penny! When the hell are you gonna blog again? I mean, it’s been more than a year, for Christ’s sake! What’s the problem? Too lazy? ”

Henny Penny looked sadly at Chicken Licken and replied, “I have nothing new to say. Everybody else has already said it better.”

“Aww, you’re off your nut, Henny Penny!” said Chicken Licken. You have plenty to say!”

“It would be nice to start blogging again,” Henny Penny said with just a little bit of hope. “What do you suggest I write about?”

“Ummm… Oh, I know! You’re in love. You haven’t blogged since you met her. Talk about that!

“Well, yes, I’m very much in love. She’s wonderful! Passionate, talented, sexy, and she has a job!”

“Oh, that is new! Congratulations!” smiled Chicken Licken.

“Yeah, but that’s kind of personal.”

Just then, Ducky Lucky came up. “Quack! Whatcha doin’?”

Chicken Licken replied, “I’m trying to get Henny Penny to start blogging again. She says she’d do it but she can’t think of anything to write about.”

“Oh!” said Ducky Lucky. “Why don’t you write about your dear friend Mark King? He’s one of the Grand Marshals at Atlanta Pride this year, you know. And you do love riding on his coattails!”

“Hmmm. That’s a thought.” Henny Penny pursed her lips for a moment. “Naah. He gets enough publicity already without my help. Besides, he never did autograph my copy of his book, APlace Like This.”

“I see your point,” quipped Ducky Lucky. “He’s already famous.”

“You know what?” Henny Penny said. “I’m going to post TODAY.  I’m not going to put it off any longer!”

“Quack! That’s the spirit!” Ducky Lucky shouted, and Chicken Licken cheered. Then the three friends sat down on the curb, in silence, thinking as hard as they could for a topic.

Owlie Jowlie wandered up the road to join them . “Sports!” is all he said.

Henny Penny looked directly into Owlie Jowlie’s big round eyes. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped. And with that, Owlie Jowlie shuffled away, looking slightly hurt.

“What the fuck!” said Chicken Licken.

Henny Penny, Chicken Licken, and Ducky Lucky all returned to deep thought, their chins resting in their hands. After a little while, Foxy Loxy came strutting over the hill, merrily whistling the theme from The David Susskind Show.

“What’s up, my fowl little friends?” Foxy Loxy sang.

“Oh, Henny Penny is trying to decide what to blog about today,” said Chicken Licken.

“And about fucking time, too,” quacked Ducky Lucky.

Foxy Loxy narrowed his eyes. “Why,that’s easy, Henny Penny. You’ve already got a draft post that’s chock full of angst and inner turmoil. Post that one.”

“That piece of bullshit?” clucked Henny Penny. “It’s self-indulgent and utterly narcissistic.” She paused for a moment and smiled. “I’ll post it tomorrow.”

And so she will.

Call me Madam...Librarian

A funny thing happened on the way to my librarian degree.

 But first, a confession. My master's degree in Information Science has been in limbo for a long, long, long time. I mean, I worked as a librarian for many years, and I took all the classes and everything, but when I finished my master's-degree coursework at Florida State in 2002 (or was it 2003?), I kinda sorta owed the school money. And they wouldn't give me my degree until it was 100% paid off.

This meant that I did not have that coveted credential that is the sine qua non of library-job riches:   "You must have an MLS degree from an ALA-accredited school." (in job listings, this is sometimes written with a sneer).

I made the last payment in 2006. Or did I?  According to my recollection, I never actually sent in the last payment. No payment, no diploma. But in 2006 I was too busy screwing up my life to take care of such details. I was a depressive in survival mode, and I figured this was one more thing that was never going to get fixed.  Who needed their silly old degree anyway?

Recently, though, I've been in the process of cleaning up my credit and trying to clear past financial wreckage. So I summoned up my nerve and I called FSU to see if my degree was still on hold. The nice man on the phone told me he had good news and bad news: Yes, my degree was on hold. And I owed ... wait for it ... a single penny. Which FSU generously wrote off.

That didn't end the matter, quite. It took a little time for the plucky, intrepid FSU staff to track down my transcript (most of my school records had been destroyed years ago). But track it down they did, and they conferred my degree retroactively as of 2006. At long last, my diploma arrived, and it's a beaut!
.
So now I am a bona fide, real-live, I'm-better-than-you-are-because-I-have-a-piece-of-paper librarian. Oh, pardon me. "Librarian" is so passe, so card-catalogue. What I am is an information scientist.

With a big-ass librarian diploma.

Why you should never sell your used digital camera on eBay without deleting the pictures.

This.

CDC: Mark's Story, Let's Stop HIV Together

I'm very proud and honored to be part of  CDC's new national HIV awareness campaign with my dear friend Mark King. I'm told the campaign is high profile, and I'm likely to show up on billboards and buses and at the Atlanta airport. This should do wonders for my humility. But enough about me.

The CDC's campaign is terrific -- you can see more stories, and learn lots more, here.

If you haven't been tested lately, it's time. HIV isn't a death sentence anymore, but you've got to know your status. Get the facts. Get tested. And get involved.

I love you all.

Re: Sad message

My dear friend,

This is another hoax, and a hateful one at that. It's been around for years. Here's a link that explains it. The link also shoots down the idea that Muslims, as a group, are Holocaust deniers. Snopes has covered this hoax too.

I am Jewish, and I have no patience for religious or ethnic bigotry. I love you and it's been fun to hear from you, but this is the third time I've had to ask you to quit sending me the anti-Muslim stuff. So regretfully, I must ask that you take me off your mailing list.

Wishing you all the best --
Lynne

From: @@@@@@@@@@@@yahoo.com>
To: "@@@@@@@@@@@@yahoo.com>
Sent: Wednesday, July 4, 2012 9:18 AM
Subject: Fw: SAD MESSAGE

this may be a duplicate cause you are on more than one of my lists. please do not get annoyed - this message needs to be sent round the world

Love and hugs,
@@@@@@@@@

.

IN MEMORIUM This week the University of Kentucky removed The Holocaust from its school curriculum because it "offended" the Muslim population, which claims it never occurred. This is a frightening portent of the fear that is gripping the world and how easily each country is giving into it. It is now more than 60 years since the Second World War in Europe ended. This e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain, in memory of the six million Jews, 20 million Russians, 10 million Christians and 1,900 Catholic priests who were murdered, massacred, raped, burned, starved and humiliated with the German and Russian peoples looking the other way! Now more than ever, with Iran among others claiming the Holocaust to be "a myth," it is imperative to make sure the world never forgets. This e-mail is intended to reach 40 million people worldwide! Join us and be a link in the memorial chain and help us distribute it around the world. Please send this e-mail to 10 people you know and ask them to continue the memorial chain. Please don't just delete it. It will only take you a minute to pass this along.

Lazy Ass Librarian Friday: Two Degrees of HuffPo

Congratulations to Mark King, whose latest blog entry has been posted on the Huffington Post at their request.

Full disclosure: Mark and I have become good friends over the past few years, so I can no longer even feign objectivity. Which is why it's a good thing Mark really is as gifted as I think he is.

It is what it is.

It's about 12:30 on Friday night, and I'm restless. It's that four-in-the-morning-let's-go-to-Waffle-House kind of restlessness that comes with bad news and a long night. Mental exhaustion has set in, taking the edge off any dull emotional ache that might have survived the day. Still, sleep will only come when my emotions are completely dead, when there's no energy left to think, not even about being tired.

My father has lung cancer.

He was characteristically stoic when he told me -- "it is what it is" -- and seemed unprepared for my dismay. It is what it is, he repeated.

There's really nothing else to say.

Well, I'm more unique than average today...

Today I went to the orthopedist (actually, the doctor's PA, who was very good) and got the scoop on my poor old broken foot. Naturally, it wouldn't do for me to have your garden variety, run of the mill boring kinda fracture. No, like any good addict mine had to be special. I have something called a "Jones fracture."

Here's what Wikipedia says about it:

A Jones fracture is a fracture of the diaphysis of the fifth metatarsal of the foot ... at the base of the small toe. Patients who sustain a Jones fracture have pain over this area, swelling, and difficulty walking. The fracture was first described by British orthopedic surgeon Sir Robert Jones, who sustained this injury himself while dancing, in the Annals of Surgery in 1902.

So now, I have a big-ass boot on my foot, which I will be wearing everywhere except in bed and in the shower for the next three or four months. They'll check it in a month and then another month after that, and if it's not healing right they might have to dive into me and put a pin in it. Happily, it doesn't hurt too terribly badly, so it feels a lot more like an adventure than an injury.

Anyway, I say if you're only going to break one bone in your lifetime, make it good. Make it dramatic. Make it count!

Highly technical legal and medical disclaimer: This is not my actual foot.

Mother's Day.

Dear Mom,
I suppose you know I broke my foot on Wednesday. I was in the middle of a photo shoot, and I fell off of a box. It was awesome! The crutches, not so awesome. It doesn't hurt too terribly much, though, and it makes a pretty good story. And it gave me an easy writing prompt with which to reboot my blog after a long period of silence.

Anyway...

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. It certainly has been an interesting year. I moved, again. George died. I hit 30 years of sobriety. Your granddaughter started college and got a job. While she's testing her wings, I'm testing mine. (By the way, thank you for warning me that most mother-daughter relationships aren't as placid as ours was. That advice came in handy this year.)

This year, my faith has grown. I've learned to laugh more, and laugh more easily.  I've started learning to appreciate things about myself. Most of the time, I no longer feel much "guilt for being." But I've also felt deeper loss and greater fear than I've faced since, well, probably ever.

I'm learning how to be a friend, and a daughter, and a sister. I've become reasonably responsible with money. These days, more often than not, I do what I say I'm going to do. This is all basic life stuff, but for me it's real progress.  There's no way I could have grown so much if not for your unconditional love and support, and your wisdom.

I saw the New Mexico license plate at Roxx the other day. Thanks for popping into this dimension to say hello.

Thank you for leaving me your journals. They bring me great comfort, although at the moment they're packed up in some box or other. Oh, and thank you for telling me that when I ride the bus, I should always sit as close to the driver as possible. I always do.

I guess that's about it. Everything is as it should be, except that you are gone, and I am here. But then, I go back to what you told me when you were sick: "If we can be together across thousands of miles -- and we always are -- then mere death isn't going to separate us." And when I can look past the physical, I can see that you were right.

All my love,
Lynne

Why I haven't been posting lately

Well, actually, I haven't been able to think of anything interesting to write. Oh, sure, my head is brimming with brilliant inspiration. Dig these titles:

"My Underwear Has Arrived, and Just in the Nick of Time!"
"When Green Beans go Bad"

And these two, about classical music:

"If it's Baroque, Don't Fix It!"
"Rarely Mozart, but Offenbach"

All right, I guess you had to be there.

Truth is, I'm going through something. Not the little-ups-and-downs kind of something, but the really heart-wrenching, impossible-to-fathom, god-sucks, time-has-stopped kind of stuff.  And I can't write about it here, in this public forum. At least, not for now. Thank god, though, with some outside help and another 90 in 90, I'm looking forward to getting better.

So please don't give up on me quite yet, dear readers. I'll get there.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Wednesday: Navajo Nation sues Urban Outfitters | ajc.com

I'm rooting for the Navajo Nation on this one. Urban Outfitters has lots and lots of other names it can use to make money. Here's the story:

Navajo Nation sues Urban Outfitters

Lifting the Burden: On Money, Footwork, and Blessed Relief

As it turns out, my lovely daughter is taking the semester off from school, which means I have some extra money for the next few months. Isn't that nice?

What's more, I've decided to spend it on me. Specifically, on cleaning up my credit, and then socking away enough money for a small downpayment on a condo or small house. Prices and interest rates are low, and I'd like to take advantage of it.

My chaotic financial history is replete with the usual stuff and wreckage of addiction, even though I was sober when I was creating this mess. Unopened mail. Utilities turned off because I didn't have the money. or because I just forgot to pay the bills. It's probably the part of my life that's been most resistant to change. Likewise, it has brought me the most shame and misery. That, and the food thing.

I happen to know that some of my readers are very stable, sensible people who may not get it. Why not just take care of this shit so you don't have to worry so much? Just stop eating. Exercise, for god's sake. Quit bouncing checks. Pay your fucking bills, dumbass. Duh!

Of course, you're absolutely right, and I've known that all along. But I discovered that it's a lot easier to maintain good health than to try to regain it once it's ruined. I was hemorrhaging money, and I didn't know how to stop the bleeding. From late 2008 until the middle of 2011, there is not a single month in which I didn't have at least one overdraft. My average was about seven overdrafts per month, at $37 a pop. In my worst month, I had fourteen.  From December, 2008 until May, 2011 I spent $8,535 on overdraft charges for over 230 checks. Since May, 2011 I've had just one overdraft -- a slip-up in November.  My credit rating has gone up by about 60 points since then.

In any event, it took a shitload of time and effort and pain for me to get this patient stabilized, and now I've got an extra thousand bucks to toss around every month. I say this not to brag, but to express my suprise, relief, and gratitude for a turn-around that can only be described as miraculous. 

Anyway, this addict still thinks it would be a swell idea, now that things are in some sort of order, to shake things up a little and buy a house. That has led me to a realtor, who has led me to a very nice mortgage broker who told me I can't buy a  house until I get my credit up a little more, and then told me exactly what to do to fix it. Although he probably doesn't know it, he's showing me how to work steps four through nine around money.

So in the past three days, I've gotten into action. I've arranged for the release of a tax lien that was paid long ago, and I've settled four small accounts that were in collections. One of these transactions deserves special mention, and I'll post about that tomorrow. There is still much to do, and some of it is going to be tough.

In the meantime, though, it's a great start, and I'm pretty damned pleased with myself. I really, really am.

On Parenting: The Reprise

Oh, dear. I should have known that this was waaaay too easy. Sigh.

HIV-positive man trounces the APD

Yesterday the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in favor of an HIV-positive man who sued the Atlanta Police Department for refusing to hire him based on his status. The APD doctor who conducted the pre-hire physical told the man – referred to in the lawsuit as Richard Roe – that the APD wouldn’t hire him because he is HIV-positive.  The doctor also advised the APD to prevent Roe from “physical contact or involvement with individuals.”   

Let’s just let that sink in for a moment. It boggles the mind, doesn’t it? A doctor this misinformed to begin with, and then stupid enough to tell the job applicant the true reason for not hiring him?  What a maroon.

So, anyway, Roe sued the APD under the Americans with Disabilities Act, and the APD motioned for summary judgment (a quickie dismissal, basically), saying that Roe hadn’t shown that he wasn’t a direct threat.  (I hate all these double negatives too, folks, but it’s correct because of the burden of proof).

The trial judge bought the APD’s argument, and then added its own garnish to this pile of bullshit. Roe, the court said, hadn’t even shown he was qualified for the job to begin with, apart from any medical issues. The trial court came up with this second issue all by itself, and didn’t bother telling the parties about it beforehand.  The court isn't supposed to do this sort of thing unless it provides notice to the parties. Without such notice, the appeals court noted, Roe felt ambushed.

The appeals court vacated the trial court’s opinion and ordered it to take another look at the case. Noting that the City had no policy against hiring HIV-positive applicants per se, and in fact had some  in its employ, the court said Roe had been “lulled” by the city into believing that his positive status itself is what disqualified him. Accordingly, Roe didn’t introduce evidence showing the trial court that his HIV-status was “non-dangerous.”

So, wait a minute. Roe has to prove he’s non-dangerous? Shouldn’t the burden be on the APD to show that Roe’s condition is dangerous? I mean, I know he’s the plaintiff, so he has the overall burden of proof, but… really?? (Yes, yes, I imagine it has something to do with that whole McDonnell-Douglas-burden-shifting thing. But frankly, it’s my blog, and I don’t care.).

Roe also challenged the validity of the pre-employment physical itself, since federal law requires a conditional job offer before such a medical examination is required. The court of appeals sided with Roe there, too, so he will have the opportunity to present this argument on remand.

It’s an interesting opinion and, of course, I’m pleased with the outcome. But don’t expect it to be a game-changer. The circuit court almost certainly thought the law was well-settled; this is evident by the fact that it issued an unpublished, per curiam opinion.  Unpublished opinions are considered “persuasive” only; they’re not binding on the court in future litigation. In any event,  this case will never appear in one of those big, fancy, expensive books that you see in all those lawyer TV commercials. Hence, proof that the case is not all that important.

Except, of course, to Roe. And anybody who's been discriminated against on the basis of HIV status. And the APD. And pretty much everybody else.

In other words, good news is good news, and any step in the right direction is a welcome thing.

You can read at he opinion here. The Washington Post article is here.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: The Gay Rights Movement in Six Minutes

I think you'll find that this video is worth your time.

That said, it's probably not the video to send to your dear Aunt Frieda who's never seen a gay person, much less studied up on LGBT history. It's more pep rally than substance; more inspiration than introduction. The story isn't told in chronological order and it leaves out some pretty important stuff (I watched it three times and didn't see anything about the Stonewall riots, for example).

Still, it is full of stirring images. In fact, I hate to admit it, but cynical and jaded as I am, I did feel a definite shiver once or twice. 

Oh! And is that Vandy Beth Glenn behind Barney Frank? I do believe it is!

Hat tip to Good.Is. And hell, a hat tip to us, too.

George: Best. Cat. Ever.

George, from Window Rock, Navajo Nation, Arizona.

 I will miss you so very much, my wonderful little Navajo cat.  Enjoy your new adventure, and I'll see you on the other side.

On rain, bad luggage, and why it matters how you wear your pants.

So this morning, my commute to work was very interesting. First, it was raining, which sucked, but I had already resigned myself to that. So I put on my headphones, because music makes bearable even the most miserable journey. But I heard only an echo of what should have been music. The headphones were kaput. They had a long, full life but that didn't make me feel any better. A soggy trek without headphones really sucks. But you know, I'm no hothouse flower. I can take it! 

I got about a block and a half and then a wheel suddenly busted on my very heavy pull-along bag, which I just bought about a month ago. (In-line skate wheels, my ass.)

Well, that slowed things down considerably. Even though the pull-along did the best it could with its one remaining wheel, I wasn't exactly walking anymore. It was more like step-drag-step-drag. And me, headed toward the Capitol! It's pretty hard to impress a state senator when you're walking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I figured I'd better head first to my office and unload.

Did I mention that it was raining?

Finally I made it to the bus stop. There are actually three bus stops within a half-block of each other, with three perfectly good buses that come in quick succeession. I never worry about missing a bus, because if I do, I can just proceed a half-block to the next stop. No problemo.

 Alas, I missed the first two buses, although I was within seconds each time. Then I saw the third bus coming and decided this was the one. I rushed on, leaving a trail of sparks behind me as I dragged that stupid bag along the cement. Yes! I made it, just barely!

And then the driver sped right past me, the insensitive prick, and there wasn't going to be another bus for at least a half an hour.

It was raining, you know.

So that's when I said, fuck this bullshit. I went to the Starbucks across the street (sorry, Caribou, you're just too far) and got myself a venti skinny caramel latte. This helped, especially since it was served up by somebody in the rooms. So fortified, I looked up when the next bus was coming, and caught it with no problem. And I even made it to the office on time. How about that!

Anyway, here's the point. A few hours later I went to the bathroom and made an important discovery:  I had my pants on backwards. I'd been wearing them bass-ackwards all day long. This explained everything! It explained why my pants were suddenly too short. And why the pockets kept trying to point backwards. And why they felt tight in the ass.

And you know what? I think those backwards pants explain the whole damn morning. Because once I put them on right, the day just smoothed itself right out.

I'm just sayin'.

One Step Forward, One Hundred Years Back.

Yesterday the Seattle Times reported that Washington State Senator Steve Litzow, a Republican, has announced that he will be the first Republican in that chamber to stand up for gay marriage. Whatever his other views (and I confess I don't know what they are), it took courage and integrity to stand up to the Republican establishment, especially in the current toxic political environment. I have no doubt that other Republicans will follow his lead. Okay, so I'd be even more impressed if he put it on his website. Still, Senator Litzow, I salute you. Hang tough!

That's the state of Washington. But this is Georgia.

Here, we're a little less evolved. Here, we're still kind of working on the whole slavery thing.

You see, a Gwinnett county elementary school has been called on the carpet after several third-grade teachers attempted to combine Social Studies and Math lessons. Sounds good, no?

No. No, it went awry. Wrong. South. Deep South. 

The kids were studying Frederick Douglass, and of course that's a good thing. Things were going along just fine until the teachers had to start writing math questions to fit with the theme. Hmmm. How to combine Frederick Douglass and math? Let me see....

He's not laughing.

Oh, of course! Story problems! Those things are easy to write.

So the teachers wrote story problems for several classrooms of third-graders. They wrote story problems about slaves picking cotton and oranges. Oh, and they wrote one about Frederick Douglass himself. Here it is:
If Frederick got two beatings a day, how many beatings did he get in 1 week? 2 weeks?

Holy fucking mother of god!

And "Frederick"? Frederick  Douglass? That Frederick, the celebrated abolitionist and statesman? Referred to only by his first name?

Gwinnett County is not some little backwater hole, either. It's suburban to Atlanta, with a large minority population. Their school system is the largest in the state, with 161,000 students enrolled this year.

My head is exploding in all kinda sideways. I have to lay down.

Jesus Christ.

--------------------------
Bias disclosure: When I was in the third grade, I hated story problems.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Monday, New Year's Edition

I'd like to tell you that I spent last week in Key West soaking in sunshine and salt air, and that's why I didn't post. Yeah. I'd like to tell you that. Fact is, I just couldn't think of anything to write about.

Wait, that's not really true. I thought of lots of things to write about. And then I didn't write about them.

At any rate, my fabulous daughter is back from college, and for the next week I'll have two house guests (my kid and her new boyfriend). Between that and the holidays, I'm pretty much spent -- including in the monetary sense. I had forgotten how expensive children are, especially when they anticipate eating. 

The boyfriend (who seems very nice) will be heading back up to Chicago in a few days, but my daughter will be hanging out here for a semester. Her plan is to get a job and save money until summer, when she will return to Chicago, hopefully with money for a deposit on an apartment.

Now, this post was going to be my 2011 list of my ten favorite dead people, one of them being Jon Huntsman, who isn't really dead but is pretty much off the radar for the Republican presidential nomination, ha ha ha.

But then I saw this headline:

TWELVE FAMOUS PEOPLE SARAH PALIN DOESN'T LIKE.

Well, golly, how could I resist? 

And it wouldn't be a real post unless I offered you witty and astute commentary, so here it is: I was sort of appalled to find I agree with numbers 1 and 2. And with number 7, but for different reasons. And even though I like number 10, I have to admit Mama Bear has a point. Oh, and I don't know who the fuck number 11 is.

So welcome to 2012. May it bring you all you wish for, or at least all you need, and may you know that you're loved.

The 2011 Gay Picture of the Year

Congratulations to Navy Petty Officer 2nd Class Marissa Gaeta, serving on the USS Oak Hill, and her partner, Petty Officer 3rd Class Citlalic Snell. The ship has just returned to Virginia following an 80-day deployment, and Gaeta won the raffle to give the first homecoming kiss. Snell is stationed on the USS Bainbridge. They met shortly after boot camp, and they've been together for two years. This is the first time a same-sex couple has had the honor of the first kiss.

Bilerico has named this image its 2011 Gay Picture of the Year.

I love, love, love this picture! 

In search of "Reel Injun"

So anyway, I was looking for something to pass some time, and while I was nosing around Netflix I happened upon "Reel Injun," a documentary exploring the depiction of Native Americans in film. The movie is the work of Neil Diamond (no, not that Neil Diamond), a Canadian member of the Cree Nation.

Right off the bat, Diamond won me over when he said he would need a "rez car" for his cross-country quest in search of Indians on film. I couldn't help but remember my time working on the Navajo Nation where many houses, cars, fences, and pretty much everything else were held together with baling wire and duct tape. You make do with what you've got.

(The mother in me does say, though, that it's damn crazy to trust a rez car to take you thousands of miles. We had a rez car for short time, and ours couldn't even get us from Window Rock to Gallup. Just saying.)

Filmmaker Neil Diamond and his rez car

At any rate, Reel Injun is a study of Native Americans on film, beginning at the turn of the 20th century when movie technology was brand new.  Diamond weaves a rich tapestry through liberal use of movie clips and interviews with prominent actors, writers, and activists.

Although the film is thick with dialogue, Diamond does occasionally use silence (or, more accurately, the strategic lack of narration) to make a point. For instance, one scene involves a boys' summer camp that claims to be based on Native American culture. Once the context is explained, Diamond turns the camera on the boys for several minutes but provides no commentary, so we're left to reach our own conclusions. Here's mine: the boys and the staff did an excellent job mimicking obnoxious, unruly football fans, and I felt like I should be doing something about it.

Diamond's strategic silence, however, almost lost me in one particularly disturbing scene. He visits a rez classroom of second or third graders and has the teacher show them a massacre scene from either Dances with Wolves. or Little Big Man (sorry, I don't remember which). His point: many Indian kids nowadays have never been exposed to these brutal images. As we hear the audio from the scene in the background, Diamond focuses, without commentary, on close-ups of the children's faces as they watch. While none of the kids seemed visibly shocked, all looked troubled and transfixed. I understand what Diamond was after, but the idea of purposely traumatizing small children is nearly as horrifying as the footage they were watching. I sure hope those kids got some help processing what they saw.

Other than that, the film's flaws are minor. For example, he could have made clearer the route he took on his cross-country journey. In addition, I would have liked to hear more about his story, rather than the heavy emphasis on the interviewees. That, of course, is simply a matter of personal taste, but a greater blending of his quest with the subject matter might have provided more depth and color.

Since I love a happy ending, I was gratified that Diamond showcased films made by indigenous people for indigenous people. Diamond focused on two films: Smoke Signals and Fast Runner.  I've seen the former and enjoyed it; I look forward to seeing the latter.

Oh, but above all, there was that golden moment when I just about melted: For a couple seconds, a little house appeared onscreen accompanied by the caption, "Navajo, New Mexico." Navajo is a town of less than 3,000 people, close to where we lived. My kid attend daycare in Navajo for about three years, beginning when she was just a year old. We still treasure the Pendleton blankets the staff gave us when we moved away -- one for me, one for her dad, and one kid-sized blanket for my daughter. Fond memories, indeed.

Anyway, I recommend Reel Injun, which you can view via Netflix's instant queue. In the meantime, I will contemplate the exquisite landscape of the Navajo Nation, which tugs at me still.

Lazy Ass Librarian Friday

See the cool banner in the corner? You can have it, too!

Go to the Occupy Movement Banner Project for instructions and code.

Hat tip to Tennessee Guerilla Women.

Sweet dreams, Harry Morgan.

The venerable Harry Morgan, 96, passed away at his home yesterday morning. If you watched television any time between 1960 and 1983 ever, you saw his work. He was best known for his parts in Dragnet and M*A*S*H, but he was pretty much everywhere. This clip from The Jack Benny Show demonstrates his ability to make any line funny.

Lucky us, that he was in our midst for nearly a century.

I want Hillary Clinton for Chanukah.

If you haven't heard Hillary Clinton's historic United Nations speech on LGBT rights, I hope you'll take the time to listen. I felt moved and empowered as I watched Clinton speak out for equal rights in her official capacity as Secretary of State. Thirty minutes, very well spent.

It's

Oh, yes. Time marches forward.

I'm very pleased to report that the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals has ruled unanimously in favor of Vandy Beth Glenn, the woman who was fired from the Georgia legislature after she announced her intention to transition from male to female. Here's the opinion.

Ms. Glenn worked as an attorney/editor for the Georgia General Assembly's Office of Legal Counsel ("OLC").When she was hired in 2005, she still lived as a man, but that year she began transitioning; and she began living as a woman outside of work. In 2006, she informed her supervisor of her intention to transition fully, and in 2007, she informed her supervisor that she would now be living full time as a woman.

Sewell Brumby, head of the OLC, was not pleased by this news, and he fired Ms. Glenn, stating that

her "intended gender transition was inappropriate, that it would be disruptive, that some people would view it as a moral issue, and that it would make Glenn’s coworkers uncomfortable." (slip op. at 4).

Ms. Glenn sued in federal court, alleging that Brumby discriminated against her because of her sex (specifically, for her failure to conform to male stereotypes concerning clothing) in violation of the equal protection clause of the 14th amendment to the U.S. Constitution. The district (trial) court granted Ms. Glenn summary judgment on the sex-discrimination cause of action (Ms. Glenn had also alleged she was denied equal protection because of her medical diagnosis of Gender Identity Disorder, but the court ruled against her with regard to that issue).

On appeal, the circuit court found that "discrimination against a transgender individual because of her gender non-conformity is sex discrimination," noting a split among circuits. (id. at 9). The court went on:

discrimination on this basis is a form of sex-based discrimination that is subject to heightened scrutiny under the Equal Protection Clause. Ever since the Supreme Court began to apply heightened scrutiny to sex-based classifications, its consistent purpose has been to eliminate discrimination on the basis of gender stereotypes.

And then, just in case there is still any doubt:  "We conclude that a government agent violates the Equal Protection Clause’s prohibition of sex-based discrimination when he or she fires a transgender or transsexual employee because of his or her gender non-conformity." (slip op. at 16).

Applying the "heightened scrutiny" standard for determining liability for such discrimination,  the court then concluded that Brumby's termination of Ms. Glenn was not substantially related to any sufficiently important governmental interest. On the contrary, her termination was based on Brumby's assertion that transitioning was "unnatural" and "unsettling." In the end, then, the court found that Ms. Glenn was entitled to "all the relief that she seeks."

So kudos to Ms. Glenn, and the other folks on the front lines. It's because of her courageous actions, and the actions of others like her, that the LGBTQ community is making steady legal headway, one small step -- and one precedent -- at a time

Confession time: My Favorite Deadly Sin

So when my kid was around four or five, one of our favorite games was "Zoo." Each of us would pretend to be a different animal, providing appropriate actions and habits and sound effects. As I recall, plastic food was often involved. Or maybe I'm thinking of a different game.

Anyway, my kid often chose to be either a wolf or an owl, since those were her two favorite animals. I started out being an otter, because I love otters. But being an otter was a lot of work because, you know, they're pretty much always moving. Swim, play, swim, play. And I was pretty much always tired.

So somewhere along the line I took the low road. It's a road I'm not very proud of taking.

I became the sloth.

Because, you see, pretending to be a sloth (complete with appropriate actions and habits and sound effects) meant, well, it meant lying on the couch. On my back, doing nothing except maybe curling my fingers like sloth toes. And I think plastic food may have been involved. Or maybe that was a different game.

So that's my favorite deadly sin: sloth. And should you doubt the absolute coolfulness of the sloth, then I dare you to watch this, forwarded to me today by my fabulous, talented, and incredibly forgiving daughter.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the sloth:


Meet the sloths from Lucy Cooke on Vimeo.

This is not a test.

Excuse me for a little bit while I try to manage the unmanageable. I'll be back momentarily.

Wow. What a feeling.

Oh. My. God.

 

Ohmygod!  I just made the last tuition payment on my kid's fall semester! My share: a little over five grand, which I rustled up over a period of four months. A year ago I wasn't sure I could even keep the lights on. 

Okay, so I'm still digging change out of the bottom of my purse. But talk about progress!

Yeah. This feels good. Damn good.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Saturday: Herman Cain on Foreign Policy. Epic Fail.

I've got a lot going on today, but I did want to pass on this must-read article about Herman Cain's "seven biggest foreign policy blunders," compliments of PBS's Need to Know.

This guy makes W. and Palin sound like foreign policy brainiacs. Even if you give him a pass on the sexual harrassment thing (which I most definitely do not), the idea of Cain being our head honcho is, well, a really bad one.

Here is the list itself, but be sure to read the details, too.

1. Cain worries that China is developing nuclear weapons – 40 years after China’s first nuclear test

2. Cain says he would negotiate with terrorists (then immediately takes it back)

3. Cain says a missile defense system would have stopped Iranian assassination plot

4. Cain questions the existence of the Palestinian people

5. Cain doesn’t know what the Palestinian “right of return” is

6. Cain doesn’t know that the government targeted a U.S. citizen for assassination (then flip flops on whether it’s okay)

7. Cain doesn’t care who the president of Uzbekistan is.

And this guy wants to be our president.

UPDATED: Occupy Wall Street Library. Wow!

Oops! I totally screwed up the last post about Occupy Wall Street Library. So, let's try this again.

Just in case you were wondering why we should care about public libraries, visit Occupy Wall Street Library here. And watch YouTube clip from the library at Occupy Portland, below.

Gosh, it makes me proud to be a subversive librarian. Librarians really are seriously cool, if I do say so myself..

Today happens to be day two of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. The basic idea is this: a whole bunch of crazy masochists create an online community and spend the whole month of November slaving over individual manuscripts with the goal of writing 50,000 words by the end of the month. It's all about quantity, not quality, which can be pretty liberating.

I actually gave this a shot a few years ago. It probably wasn't the best timing, considering I had a full-time job that required a four-hour daily commute, and I came home each night to a pack of five dogs, five cats, six horses, and a shitload of chaos. Still, I did whip out 11,500 words, which gave me a respectable start on a young-adult novel. Several years later, my little manuscript is now at... uhh... about 11,525 words. Which goes to show you the advantage of doing the whole frantic NaNoWriMo thing.

Anyway, the nonprofit parent company of NaNoWriMo also does some other cool projects.  Most notably for my purposes, they have a Script Frenzy event every April. The goal there: write 100 pages of script in 30 days.

I mention all of this because I get to write a show -- a script -- for our local 2012 LGBT recovery roundup. Since I can't affrord to wait until April to pound out a first draft, I'm cheating. For me, November will be Script Frenzy.  My goal is to write a draft script of 45-60 pages, plus three original songs.

In any event, my posts in November might be a little spotty. Which is to say, it'll be just like always, but with a few more Lazy-Ass Librarian posts to keep things moving along. Meanwhile,I'll do my best to keep watching your blogs, though, and interact with some of my readers there.

Let the frenzy begin!