How did this one slip under the radar?

Bilerico reports this evening that the State of Nevada will now allow transgender people to change the gender designation on their driver's licenses based just on a doctor's say-so. Previously, the state required documentation of gender assignment surgery. This is quite a step forward, given that many people elect not to have reassignment surgery even if they can afford it.

At any rate, that reminded me of a small treasure I discovered last week tucked neatly away in the Administrative Code of Georgia:

 375-3-1-.17 Changing Gender on License

(1) A person may have the gender designation on their driver’s license changed after a gender reassignment operation upon the presentation to a driver examiner of either a court order reflecting such change, or a physician's letter certifying such change. The letter or court order shall state the person's name and date of birth, and the date of gender reassignment operation, as well as other identifying information.
(2) A person applying under Section (1) shall surrender all licenses in their possession and shall be required to pay either the renewal license fee or a duplicate license fee, whichever is applicable. No rebate will be given for any licenses surrendered.
(3) In all cases the decision to change the gender designation on the license is at the discretion of the Department.

For Georgia, this is downright progressive. How the heck did this little regulation manage to get on the books? Probably very quietly. Some state employee deep in the bowels of the DMV decided to make a difference, and got the ball rolling.  I love that!  And then somehow, got it past public review. It wasn't completely without controversy though, at least internally at DMV: Subsection (3), which gives the agency absolute discretion, was, no doubt, a requirement for getting the regulation through. 
 

Perhaps at some point Georgia will follow Nevada's lead and no longer require evidence of actual reassignment surgery. 


Hope springs eternal, even here in the Deep South.

The Transition Begins.

Today my daughter becomes a rising senior, and tonight she is watching many of her friends graduate. As I wait in the car for her, I hear cheer after cheer from inside as the Class of 2010 crosses the church stage. The next time I hear those voices, mine will be among them.

I want to cry.

But I don't, because when I see her across the yard, she's already in tears herself. It's not easy navigating adolescence under the best of circumstances, much less with a mentally ill mother. Some of these seniors are close friends, both boys and girls. They have supported her and nurtured her and loved her when I was too sick to know how. They gave her the stability I couldn't provide. And now she is saying goodbye.

Later my daughter will collapse from excitement and exhaustion and an empty stomach. Her boyfriend will gently scoop her up and place her on the couch, and I'll take him home. No time to cry then, either.

For now, though, I watch the river of people pouring out of the church. The graduates first, dressed in purple, each with a single rose. Their families following, dressed in their finest. I want to write about it, but I'm drawn instead to experience this. I realize I must stay in this moment, here, now, for as long as I can. I see my daughter approach Asher, a close friend. As she breaks into sobs, Asher envelopes her in his purple robe and holds her tight. She is safe right now, right there in those strong, loving arms, but that doesn't make it any easier. My heart breaks for hers.

And then I think about quantum physics. String theory, I've heard, posits eleven dimensions instead of the three we can see. The fourth dimension, I know, is time. I drink in the colors and the crying and the balloons and the hugging all around me. Life is happening. It's exploding. I feel invisible, but pleasantly so. Perhaps "now" -- that infinitely small point where time and space intersect -- is another of the dimensions. "Now" is different, special, apart from all else. My daughter's friends can protect and comfort her in the now. In the now, I can work to regain my health and make better choices. We can love only in the now.

I grasp, just for a second, the profound power of something so indefinable and minute. Whatever it is, this "now" thing, I see only its shadow, if even that. I inhale its essence, and time stops.

My daughter opens the passenger door, cueing time to move forward once again. And as I start the car, I realize there is much to do.

Yeah. Funny.

About this house thing. I’m scheduled to close a week from today. I continue my prayer of “bless it or block it” and so far, the transaction has flowed almost effortlessly. Indeed, the experience has been full of little miracles. Little, but striking.

Last Friday I needed to fax eighteen pages of contracts and paperwork to my attorney, but I didn’t have a fax machine. I was tempted to fax it from work for free, but that’s forbidden and I’m trying to follow the rules these days. Well, at work anyway.

 I’m a Craigslist junkie, and at least once a day I check the “free” category. (Okay, fine, so I’m outing myself as a dumpster diver. What of it?) Amazingly, on Friday, the day I wanted to send the fax, a fax machine showed up on Craigslist for free! I mean, it’s uncanny!

I whipped off an email to the gentleman and waited. Nothing. Clearly someone had gotten to it before me. Good free stuff goes fast like that.

When Monday morning rolled around, I realized I was just going to have to cough up the money to pay for a fax. At lunchtime, I headed over to Kinko’s and sent off the fax.

Later that afternoon, I checked my personal email. And there it was: an email from the Craigslist guy saying the fax machine was mine if I still wanted it. Time sent: 8:30 a.m.

If I had I checked my email before I left for Kinko’s, I wouldn’t have had to pay for the fax. Damn!

No doubt there will be other faxes to send before this house purchase is completed, though, so I told the guy I wanted it.

On my way to work the next morning, I stopped to pick up the fax machine. As I carried it back to the car, I reflected on how grateful and amazed I was at how things work out. And, I admit, I congratulated myself a on how fucking spiritual I’ve gotten lately. I mean, really, I should get a special chip or something for how well I’m aligning my will with God’s.

I stuffed the fax machine into my trunk and got in the car to head for work. And that’s when it hit me. You need a land line to run a fax machine. I don’t have a land line. I haven’t had one in years. The fax machine wouldn’t have done me a bit of good.

But I still got the message: Great rewards will come to me if I just have faith. If I’m properly aligned with the Universe, it’ll work out almost like magic.

That, and God likes to laugh at me.

So, um… Anyone need a fax machine?

It's all about perspective.

Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly broke (which is pretty much, oh, always), it helps to remember that as human beings go, I've really got it pretty damn good.

The Global Rich List has found a way to quantify just how good I've got it. You enter your annual income, and it tells you where you rank financially among the entire world population. I don't know what their methodology is, so I can't attest to its accuracy, but even if the exact numbers aren't precisely correct, the point is hard to ignore: it's all about perspective, and I have a lot to be grateful for.

How rich are you? >> I'm loaded. It's official. I'm the 49,322,169 richest person on earth!

Mother’s Day, in which I give Nancy Rae Rhys the Floor.

Yes, I'm back, and I'm lazy, too, 'cuz this is a post from 2010. It's old, but it's apt. 

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

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

Did Peter Gunn Need Alanon?

I just watched "Fill the Cup," an interesting episode from the old Peter Gunn TV series that ran from 1958 to 1961. If, like me, you're too young to remember the series (I was a year old when it debuted), it was a hip private-eye show starring Craig Stevens. Classic noir. With music by Henry Mancini and cool jazz and everything. 

The few episodes I've seen before have been scripted with some humor, which is not surprising considering that the show was created (and sometimes written and directed) by Blake Edwards.

But "Fill the Cup?" Not lighthearted at all. This one is about alcoholism, and it's grim.  Right here, I'm impressed, because it would have been so easy to make the episode a comedy. Who knows, maybe it was originally written as one.

Here's the plot: William Getty (played by character actor John McIntire) plays an alcoholic who desperately wants to keep from drinking until his daughter arrives by plane the following day. He tells Gunn he can't do it alone, and wants Gunn to keep him sober for the next 12 hours.  Getty warns Gunn that even though he doesn't want to drink right now, he'll be desperate for a drink later on.  Gunn takes the job, takes Getty's keys and money, and settles in to Getty's apartment for the night.

Of course, it's not long before Getty has second thoughts about this whole arrangement, especially after Gunn pours the mouthwash down the drain when he catches Getty about to drink it. Getty tries everything he can think of to escape or convince Gunn he can drink. And Gunn does the stuff all families of alcoholics do to prevent him from drinking. At one point, he ties Getty to the bed with a necktie. Getty, by now somewhere beyond desperate, eventually manages to chew his way out of it. Then he knocks Gunn out, and leaves.

Once Getty leaves his apartment, drinking seems inevitable, but every time he's close to a drink something gets in the way. He manages to get a quarter from someone so he can buy a shot; but the drunk next to him swipes the quarter while he's not looking. After several attempts, Getty finally busts out a liquor store window and steals a bottle -- but then he drops the bottle and breaks it.

Gunn finally catches up to him, and they finish out the night. Getty is sober when he meets his daughter at the airport the next day. Obviously pleased to see Getty, she suggests that they go into the airport bar and have a drink. Getty agrees, following her straight into the airport bar, with Gunn looking on.

And that's how the episode ends.

I'll admit the episode was a tad melodramatic in a couple places. But it did a great job conveying the desperation of addiction, that "incomprehensible demoralization" we've experienced. And it does so compassionately and without judgment. Throughout the episode, Gunn refers to his client as Mr. Getty. I haven't watched enough episodes to know if that's Gunn's usual demeanor, but here it demonstrated respect. At all times, Getty was portrayed as a sick man, not just a worthless drunk.

I especially appreciated the ending, which was understated and chilling. No big speech about how Getty doesn't drink anymore. No debate about whether or not he should go into the bar. He just walks in because his daughter suggested it.

Somebody involved in that episode knew what they were doing.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Sunday: Oh, Sweet Mystery of LIfe, I've Found You!

(in an attempt to get my house vacuumed, dear readers, I'm recycling an old post. So there.) 

I have been deflowered. There, I’ve said it. And what creation has so captured my fancy? No, it’s not a beautiful woman. And it’s not the finest wine in Europe, either. 

It’s Bed, Bath and Beyond that has turned my fair head. I’ve heard mention of it, but I had no idea. The variety! The style! The prices!

I spent some time there today while waiting for a ride, and I learned so much about myself. I learned that there are all kinds of things I simply must have in order to survive!

Think I’m being melodramatic? Absolutely not. Here, let me tell you what I found. Maybe you need this stuff, too!

First, there’s the crème brulee kit for $19.99. I’ve never eaten crème brulee, and honestly, I don’t really even know what it is. But the kit comes with a torch!

The digital grilling fork is another bargain at $14.99. Now, I don’t cook, but I've heard grills are used for baking steaks, and that's reason enough to own one. I must be digitally prepared!

Oh – there’s the AM/FM radio pen. Only $4.99! It even has a string so you can wear it around your neck! It’s purple!

And I mustn’t forget the Fill’Er Up Liquor Pump. You fill this old-fashioned gas-pump thingy with your favorite booze, and then you dispense it out the little nozzle. At $49.99, it brings a whole new meaning to the word “gassed.” Just too cute!

And where else can you get 100 cookie cutters for $9.99? Okay, so I haven’t made cookies since 1997, but I could get a domestic hot flash at any time!

Oh, and the Party Pump! What is a Party Pump? I don’t know! But I’m pretty sure that at $29.99 (on clearance!), I really need one!

Do you see why I’m so excited? And I didn’t even get to the bathroom stuff! I’m telling you, there are just all kinds of things out there that I have to have. 

You’ve got to hand it to our capitalist economy. Talk about efficiency! I mean, knowing what you need before you even know you need it yourself!

But I’m afraid I’ve tarried too long here. You’ll have to excuse me so I can go meditate over my L.L. Bean catalog. Fleece! Flannel!

Choosing Faith that Works.

It was 1982, about three months before my mother died of brain and lung cancer. I had moved to Albuquerque to be with her. It was right around the time I picked up my one-year chip. Right around the time I had to gently tell her to stop looking for subsidized housing, because there wasn’t time.

While she was still able to communicate, she and I would talk about how lucky we were to have such an unusually good mother-daughter relationship. It came from never having enough time together; we were separated when I was 14 due to divorce, alcoholism and, paradoxically, her love for me and my brother. God, how I missed her mothering. Even now, sometimes I ache for it.

During one of these conversations, I asked for a favor: “Mom, if there’s any way you can do it without scaring the shit out of me, please let me know if there's something on the other side.” And she said she would. Then she added, “If we have been able to remain together even across a separation of 2,000 miles for all these years, surely we’ll be together after I die, too.” I didn't really believe that, but it was comforting all the same.

The night she died, I woke up smelling a sweet burning odor. It was strong enough to wake me up, and I took a quick walk around the apartment to make sure we hadn’t left the coffeepot on or a cigarette burning.  It was early, early morning, and just starting to get light. I checked the clock, climbed back into bed, and fell into an incredibly deep sleep.

The phone call from the hospital came about five minutes later.

Was that her? I'd like to think so. There have been many little signs like that through the years. Most commonly, a car with a New Mexico license plate will go by, often at an eerily critical time. The day my husband and I reaffirmed our vows in Boston, we turned out of the synagogue parking lot and found ourselves right behind a New Mexico license plate. (I’m going to have to have a talk with her about that one when I see her). As I was leaving town to attend a recovery retreat in the mountains, I saw one too. So a couple hours later, when I ended up in the middle of a blizzard on nearly impassable roads, I knew that one way or another, I was going to be all right.

Lately, I have been looking for a less expensive place to live, and I’ve been praying for clear guidance. After all, I have an impressive capacity to fuck things up, left to my own devices.

Yesterday, I put in an offer on a house. The seller has accepted, and we're doing owner financing. If all goes as planned, we close three weeks from today.

After I signed the purchase contract, I headed toward a meeting. I was a little early, so I stopped by the bank. I got out of the car and headed for the entrance. And there she was, directly in front of me.

Does that mean I picked the right house? Who knows. It doesn't really matter. The license plate reminds me that either way, it's all figured out for me already. And it's going to be just fine.

And she can write, too!

I’m absolutely in awe of Redneck Mommy. I just took some time to read the latest entry of her blog, which I’ve just started following, and today I read some of the links that tell more of her story. This is a person to get to know and to emulate, not because she’s doing something noble or difficult, but because she’s dealing with life on life’s terms with grace, humor, patience, and wisdom. I have a whole lot to learn from this woman.

Oh, and be sure to read her post on why it’s not okay to use the “R” word. We are 100% in agreement on that one.  

Is this Postal Enough for you, Mark? Huh? Is It?

The very talented Mark King wrote the following on my Facebook page:

Sweetie, you're always apologizing. Now, going completely postal on somebody's ass? THAT'S a ... post I'd pay to see!

Really, Mark? Really? Well, gee, Mark, do you think if I were to go postal on somebody's ass, you might actually READ my blog once in a while? Huh? I mean, you know, beyond scanning it for your own name?

Because we both know you don't read my blog, Mark, despite your feeble claim to the contrary: "Oh, yeah, I read it, sure, umm, well, there was that, uh, Catholic thing, yeah, and, uh...uh..."

Catholic thing, Mark? Catholic thing? I've never written about Catholics, Mark. I even Googled it. I tried "subversive librarian" with Catholic. Pope. Priest. Nun. Alter Boy. Pedophile. Nothing!

And as for comments: Exactly how many comments have you really posted on my blog, Mark? One? Two?

How about zero? That's right. ZERO.

So fine, Mark. I get it. You're smarter, more talented, better-looking, and taller than I am. You're a genius and I'm a hack. But tell me, Mark, would your head explode if you had to read just one of my pitiful little posts that doesn't pertain to you?

Yeah, I know, you're a big star now. You're too busy going to Vienna, and hosting cruises, and interviewing US senators, and touring sex clubs, and insulting other, better-known bloggers in a truly pathetic plea for attention....

Uh... Ahem...

Whatever, Mark. I wish you all the best as your fan base keeps growing exponentially, while I languish alone in bitter, poverty-stricken obscurity. Yeah. The kind of bitter, poverty-stricken obscurity where they turn off your heat because you can't pay the bill. And I'll get sick from the cold and start coughing up blood. After a couple years I won't even have the strength to cough up blood anymore, and then I'll die of consumption.

But it'll be all right, Mark. You know why? Because the last thing I see on this earth will be YOU on television, accepting your second Oscar for best screenplay. And I'll be thrilled for you, truly thrilled, and I'll try hard not to cry when you refuse to take my phone call because you don't remember who the fuck I am. And that's when I'll die. All alone. And they won't discover my body until winter, after the rats have chewed off my bitterly frozen, poverty-stricken toes.

So, I just hope you're satisfied with your handiwork, Mark, because you're killing me here. Fuck you. Fuck you very much.

About that last post... An Apology

First, I want to thank my good friend for pointing out what should have been obvious even to me: War casualties are never, ever something to make light of. Whether American or Iranian, Palestinian or Jewish, Japanese or German or French or Confederate or Union, war is about death. It's about mothers losing children, husbands losing wives, babies who will never meet their fathers.

More than that, I agree that most soldiers who die for their countries feel deeply, profoundly committed to their cause, regardless of the world's eventual verdict regarding its righteousness.

So I apologize for my last post. It was insensitive and boorish. I am very, very sorry.

I referred to Confederate Memorial Day as peculiar, and I still think it is; not because the subject of the holiday is peculiar, but because there seems to be disagreement about whether it actually exists. When I was doing research yesterday (and I admit, it was extremely superficial research), I happened upon this debate string on Wikipedia about whether there is actually such a thing as Confederate Memorial Day. (The librarian in me feels the need to point out that this is why you can't always trust Wikipedia). Comments responding to the wiki article imply that some people, even those living in the South, consider Confederate Memorial Day to be an urban myth:

Having lived in Mississippi for my whole life and never having heard about this "holiday", it seems to be just some paltry attempt at either humor or insult to people south of the Mason-Dixon Line. --J. S. Freeman 18:53, 15 January 2007 (UTC)
...
I don't know what cave in Mississippi Mr Freeman is living in, but CMD has been celebrated every year for the 30 years I've lived in Mississippi. (Ray) 22:37, 26 April 2008 (UTC)
...
I live in Atlanta, GA. The state recognizes this as a holiday and all state offices are closed - including my employer, the State Credit Union. ~Michael Cyr 28 March 2007
...
(to the above) That's interesting, because having lived in GA all of my life I never once had a day off from work or school on that day. And, if you read one of the links posted below, it says that from 1984 on the state government only observes federal holidays. —Preceding unsigned comment added by 219.122.61.124 (talk) 06:17, 21 January 2010 (UTC)

For the record, there is such a holiday in Georgia. Today is it.

By the way, I continue to believe that the Civil War was indeed about slavery, and not just about states' rights; this is where my friend and I continue to disagree, and I say that knowing something about the history of the conflict.

That, however, does not diminish even slightly the depth of suffering experienced by Confederate or Union soldiers and their families; nor does it diminish their courage or commitment.

If there is anything else I need to do to make amends, I hope one of you will let me know.

An apology is forthcoming.

Yes, I ve got the day off for this peculiar state holiday. I m so excited I could spit!
More later...maybe... Right now I m headed for my favorite thrift store, where everything is always half-off on Mondays. Now, THAT S a holiday!

“Bless It or Block It”

I’m trying to make a tough, but happy, decision. I need cheaper digs, so I’m deciding whether to rent or buy a house. I love looking for houses, so this has the potential to be really fun.

Here’s the thing, though: I’m very, very good at self-sabotage, which unfortunately likes to dress itself up as rational decision-making.

My mother used to say, “Some of us are sicker than others, and it’s not always the other guy.” Well, that would be me. I pretty much wrecked my life emotionally and financially a few years back, and it’s taken well over two years just to get my lifeboat turned right-side-up and aimed in the right direction.  I’m only just now starting to paddle forward. Naturally, then, I’m rather anxious to avoid recreating The Titanic.

As I was talking all this over with a good friend yesterday, he gave me this simple prayer to use:

Bless it or block it.

If I’m making is the right decision, let it all fall into place seamlessly. If it’s wrong, throw a bunch of crap in the way. Better yet, if it’s wrong, make it impossible.

This little prayer is perfect for me. It reminds me that I can be really, really stupid about some things. It reminds god (whatever the hell that is, as if it needed any kind of reminding) that I’m none too smart and when the message comes it needs to be in extra-large print and in block letters. 

God, bless it or block it. Make it obvious even to me, because that’s the only way I’m going to get it. Otherwise I will spend all my energy trying to pound that square peg of a house (or girlfriend or car or horse or whatever) into this round hole of a life. Save me from myself.

God, bless it or block it. Aim the car in the right direction. When I think I’ve made a wrong turn (whether literally or figuratively), remind me that this could be just the turn I need to find the gift. Remind me that this is an adventure, and I’m allowed to have some fun watching it unfold. Remind me that if it’s taking a while, it’s because the gift isn’t ready yet.

Over my years in recovery I’ve experienced it over and over again: if I do the footwork and I’m open-minded, honest, and willing, the Universe conspires in my favor. The right solution appears in front of me. So much so, in fact, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll trip over it. 

I don't understand how or why it works, but it does. And for that I am very grateful.

Law and Sausage

(Please forgive any weird formatting and punctuation issues. I m doing this on my phone.)

So many bills, so little time... I am in the gallery at the state capitol listening to a senator explain why the budget for 2011 is so freaking depressing. The senate has 45 bills on its calendar for today, including the budget. So I think I m gonna be here for a while.

One might question whether this is the best way to make laws: they meet for 37 days for a couple hours a day, not getting a whole lot done, and then they rush through 150 bills in the last 3 days of the session in marathon 12-hour days with loads of secret meetings.

Turns out that tired old chestnut is true: Making law really is like making sausage. Except that the latter is prettier and much more efficient.

(And yes, I am qualified to make this statement about sausage, because in the fourth grade I went on a field trip to the Cudahy meat packing plant, and my mom was one of the chaperones. But we got gypped, because the kids on the other bus got cow teeth as a souvenir and all we got was one raw hot dog per kid, and most of the hot dogs ended up in the pocket of the white lab coat my mother had to wear - except not mine, because I think I ate it. And my mom wouldnt cook meat for a month, which isnt surprising considering that the tour included a room with very wet, very slippery floors and a big old table with the chopped up faces of just-butchered cows, including a lone eyeball or two.).

Ummm... What was I talking about again?

Oh, yeah. about how meat processing is prettier than lawmaking. And so it is.

April 19, 1995, Oklahoma City.

April 19, 1995.

When I heard about the Oklahoma City bombing, I was in my home on the Navajo Nation. Five years earlier, I had lived in Oklahoma City during a federal judicial clerkship. My judge's office was in the federal building across the street from the Murrah Building, where the bombing took place. I called to check on the judge and his staff; as I recall, it took me a couple days to get through. When I finally reached him, the judge told me that the windows in his office had shattered from the blast, but thankfully, no one was seriously hurt.

I took the bombing personally, because I felt kinship to the victims. My parking place was in the garage located underneath the Murrah Building, and I walked through the building daily. The Federal Employees Credit Union was my bank while I was there; most of its employees -- the people I had banked with -- were killed in the bombing. In addition, I was undergoing treatment for infertility, and in my optimism I had our day care all picked out: America's Kids Child Development Center, located on the second floor of the Murrah Building.

The clerkship was only for a year, so of course there was never a real chance that I would be directly impacted by the bombing. Still, it hit me hard.

Here is a list of the victims.

NINTH FLOOR

Drug Enforcement Administration

Shelly D. Bland, 25, of Tuttle


Carrol June "Chip" Fields, 48, Guthrie


Rona Linn Kuehner-Chafey, 35, Oklahoma City


Carrie Ann Lenz, 26, Chotaw


Kenneth Glenn McCullough, 36, Edmond


U.S. Secret Service


Cynthia L. Brown, 26, Oklahoma City


Donald Ray Leonard, 50, Edmond

Mickey B. Maroney, 50, Oklahoma City


Linda G. McKinney, 47, Oklahoma City

Kathy Lynn Seidl, 39, Bethel

Alan G. Whicher, 40, Edmond

EIGHTH FLOOR

U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development

Ted L. Allen, 48, Norman

Peter R. Avillanoza, 56, Oklahoma City

David Neil Burkett, 47, Oklahoma City

Donald Earl Burns, Sr., 63, Oklahoma City

Kimberly Kay Clark, 39, Oklahoma City

Susan Jane Ferrell, 37, Oklahoma City

Dr. George Michael Howard, 45, Vallejo, Calif.

Antonio "Tony" C. Reyes, 55, Edmond

Lanny Lee David Scroggins, 46, Yukon

Leora Lee Sells, 57, Oklahoma City

Jules A. Valdez, 51, Edmond

David Jack Walker, 54, Edmond

Michael D. Weaver, 54, Edmond

Frances "Fran" Ann Williams, 48, Oklahoma City

Clarence Eugene Wilson, Sr. 49, Oklahoma

SEVENTH FLOOR

U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development

Diane E. (Hollingsworth) Althouse, 45, Edmond

Andrea Yvette Blanton, 33, Oklahoma City

Kim R. Cousins, 33, Midwest City

Diana Lynne Day, 38, Oklahoma City

Castine Brooks Hearn Deveroux, 49, Oklahoma City

Judy J. (Froh) Fisher, 45, Oklahoma City

Linda Louise Florence, 43, Oklahoma City

J. Colleen Guiles, 59, Oklahoma City

Thompson Eugene "Gene" Hodges, Jr., 54, Norman

Ann Kreymborg, 57, Oklahoma City

Teresa Lea Taylor Lauderdale, 41, Shawnee

Mary Leasure-Rentie, 39, Bethany

James A. McCarthy II, 53, Edmond

Betsy J. (Beebe) McGonnell, 47, Norman

Patricia Ann Nix, 47, Edmond

Terry Smith Rees, 41, Midwest City

John Thomas Stewart, 51, Oklahoma City

John Karl Van Ess III, 67, Chickasha

Jo Ann Whittenberg, 35, Oklahoma City

SIXTH FLOOR

U.S. Marine Corps Recruiting

Sgt. Benjamin LaRanzo Davis, USMC, 29, Edmond

Capt. Randolph A. Guzman, USMC, 28, Castro Valley, Calif.

FIFTH FLOOR

U.S. Department of Agriculture

Olen Burl Bloomer, 61, Moore

James E. Boles, 50, Oklahoma City

Dr. Margaret L. "Peggy" Clark, 42, Chickasha

Richard "Dick" Cummins, 55, Mustang

Doris "Adele" Higginbottom, 44, Oklahoma City

Carole Sue Khalil, 50, Oklahoma City

Rheta Bender Long, 60, Oklahoma City

U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development

Paul Gregory Beatty Broxterman, 42, Edmond

U.S. Customs Office

Paul D. Ice, 42, Midwest City

Claude Authur Medearis, S.S.A., 41, Norman

FOURTH FLOOR

U.S. Department of Transportation/Federal Highway

Lucio Aleman, Jr., 33, Oklahoma City

Mark Allen Bolte, 28, Oklahoma City

Michael Carrillo, 44, Oklahoma City

Larry James Jones, 46. Yukon

James K. Martin, 34, Oklahoma City

Ronota Ann Newberry-Woodbridge, 31, Edmond

Jerry Lee Parker, 45, Norman

Michelle A. Reeder, 33, Oklahoma City

Rick L. Tomlin, 46, Piedmont

Johnny Allen Wade, 42, Edmond

John A. Youngblood, 52, Yukon

U.S. Army Recruiting Battalion

Sgt. 1st Class Lola Bolden, U.S. Army, 40, Birmingham, Ala.

Karen Gist Carr, 32, Midwest City

Peggy Louise Holland, 37, Oklahoma City

John C. Moss III., 50, Oklahoma City

Victoria (Vickey) L. Sohn, 36, Moore

Dolores (Dee) Stratton, 51, Moore

Kayla Marie Titsworth, 3.50, Lawton

Wanda Lee Watkins, 49, Oklahoma City

THIRD FLOOR

Defense Security Service

Harley Richard Cottingham, 46, Oklahoma City

Peter L. DeMaster, 44, Oklahoma City

Norma "Jean" Johnson, 62, Oklahoma City

Larry L. Turner, 42, Oklahoma City

Robert G. Westberry, 57, Oklahoma City

Federal Employees Credit Union

Woodrow Clifford "Woody" Brady, 41, Oklahoma City

Kimberly Ruth Burgess, 29, Oklahoma City

Kathy A. Finley, 44, Yukon

Jamie (Fialkowski) Genzer, 32, Wellston

Sheila R. Gigger-Driver, 28, Oklahoma City

Linda Coleen Housley, 53, Oklahoma City

Robbin Ann Huff, 37, Bethany

Christi Yolanda Jenkins, 32, Edmond

Alvin J. Justes, 54, Oklahoma City

Valerie Jo Koelsch, 33, Oklahoma City

Kathy Cagle Leinen, 47, Oklahoma City

Claudette (Duke) Meek, 43, Oklahoma City

Frankie Ann Merrell, 23, Oklahoma City

Jill Diane Randolph, 27, Oklahoma City

Claudine Ritter, 48, Oklahoma City

Christy Rosas, 22, Moore

Sonja Lynn Sanders, 27, Moore

Karan Howell Shepherd, 27, Moore

Victoria Jeanette Texter, 37, Oklahoma City

Virginia M. Thompson, 56, El Reno

Tresia Jo "Mathes" Worton, 28, Oklahoma City

SECOND FLOOR

America's Kids Child Development Center

Baylee Almon, 1, Oklahoma City

Danielle Nicole Bell, 15 months, Oklahoma City

Zachary Taylor Chavez, 3, Oklahoma City

Dana LeAnne Cooper, 24, Moore

Anthony Christopher Cooper II, 2, Moore

Antonio Ansara Cooper Jr., 6 months, Midwest City

Aaron M. Coverdale, 5.50, Oklahoma City

Elijah S. Coverdale, 2.50, Oklahoma City

Jaci Rae Coyne, 14 months, Moore

Brenda Faye Daniels, 42, Oklahoma City

Taylor Santoi Eaves, 8 months, Midwest City

Tevin D'Aundrae Garrett, 16 months, Midwest City

Kevin "Lee" Gottshall II, 6 months, Norman

Wanda Lee Howell, 34, Spencer

Blake Ryan Kennedy, 1.50, Amber

Dominique Ravae (Johnson)-London, 2, Oklahoma City

Chase Dalton Smith, 3, Oklahoma City

Colton Wade Smith, 2, Oklahoma City

VISITOR

Scott D. Williams, 24, Tuttle

FIRST FLOOR

Social Security Administration

Teresa Antionette Alexander, 33, Oklahoma City

Richard A. Allen, 46, Oklahoma City

Pamela Cleveland Argo, 36, Oklahoma City

Saundra G. (Sandy) Avery, 34, Midwest City

Calvin Battle, 62, Oklahoma City

Peola Battle, 56, Oklahoma City

Oleta C. Biddy, 54, Tuttle

Casandra Kay Booker, 25, Oklahoma City

Carol Louise Bowers, 53, Yukon

Peachlyn Bradley, 3, Oklahoma City

Gabreon D.L. Bruce, 3 months, Oklahoma City

Katherine Louise Cregan, 60, Oklahoma City

Ashley Megan Eckles, 4, Guthrie

Don Fritzler, 64, Oklahoma City

Mary Anne Fritzler, 57, Oklahoma City

Laura Jane Garrison, 61, Oklahoma City

Margaret Betterton Goodson, 54, Oklahoma City

Ethel L. Griffin, 55, Edmond

Cheryl E. Hammon, 44, Oklahoma City

Ronald Vernon Harding, Sr., 55, Oklahoma City

Thomas Lynn Hawthorne, Sr., 52, Choctaw

Dr. Charles E. Hurlburt, 73, Oklahoma City

Jean Nutting Hurlburt, 67, Oklahoma City

Raymond "Lee" Johnson, 59, Oklahoma City

LaKesha Richardson Levy, 21, Midwest City

Aurelia Donna Luster, 43, Guthrie

Robert Lee Luster, Jr., 45, Guthrie

Rev. Gilbert X. Martinez, 35, Oklahoma City

Cartney J. McRaven, 19, Midwest City

Derwin W. Miller, 27, Oklahoma City

Eula Leigh Mitchell, 64, Oklahoma City

Emilio Tapia, 50, Oklahoma City

Charlotte Andrea Lewis Thomas, 43, Oklahoma City

Michael George Thompson, 47, Yukon

LaRue A. Treanor, 55, Guthrie

Luther H. Treanor, 61, Guthrie

Robert N. Walker, Jr., 52, Oklahoma City

Julie Marie Welch, 23, Oklahoma City

W. Stephen Williams, 42, Cashion

Sharon Louise Wood-Chesnut, 47, Oklahoma City

General Services Administration

Steven Douglas Curry, 44, Norman

Michael L. Loudenslager, 48, Harrah

THOSE KILLED IN SURROUNDING AREA

Rescue Worker

Rebecca Needham Anderson, 37, Midwest City

Athenian Building (Job Corps)

Anita Christine Hightower, 27, Oklahoma City

Kathryn Elizabeth Ridley, 24, Oklahoma City

Oklahoma Water Resources Board Building

Robert N. Chipman, 51, Edmond

Trudy Jean Rigney, 31, Midwest City

The Food Thing, Again

Enough with the politics. Let’s talk about me. 

I had something of an epiphany today about my off-and-on recovery from the food addiction thing. I’ve lost 56 pounds out of 125 that I need to lose. It has taken me a looooooooooong time to get this much off, and there have been many setbacks. Make of that what you will.

At any rate, I go to this weight-loss meeting every week. It’s the big famous one, if that matters to you.

Today, our leader did this thing where a volunteer puts on a vest with lots and lots of pockets, and the leader starts loading the pockets with 5-pound bags of sand, up to the total weight the volunteer has lost. Then the leader takes the apron off and the person gets to see how much lighter they feel.

Gimmicky but cute, right? Well, three people volunteered; each had lost about 25 pounds. I was surprised at their reaction: all three seemed genuinely shocked as each bag of sand got loaded. And genuinely relieved when the vest came off.

Something told me I needed to do this, too, so I finally worked up the nerve to volunteer. She loaded the sand on, bag by bag, until she reached 50 pounds – all she had.

I, too, was genuinely shocked. Up to about 30 pounds, each five-pound bag made an alarming difference in how heavy the vest felt. After about 30 pounds, though, the incremental weight of each bag didn’t feel as dramatic. (perhaps this is the “quantum weight” I’ve talked about before).

While the physical impact had diminished, each five pounds after 30 affected me more and more emotionally. I felt like I was suffocating.  Literally and figuratively, I was sinking. Drowning. I felt a growing despair that was too familiar. When she took the vest off, another surprise: a physical rush.

It’s one thing to carry that sort of extra weight voluntarily for a few minutes. It’s something else to live with it 24/7 year after year. I don’t ever want to forget the feeling I had with that extra 50 pounds, because the odds are against me. A recently released study suggests that junk-food addiction may be more like heroin and cocaine addiction than previously thought. I suspect they’re right.

A friend recently told me, as he was congratulating me for my progress in losing weight, that it was time to step up my game. He was right, but I haven’t done it. Indeed, even today I found myself thinking, “yeah, but people don’t actually do all this stuff, do they?” 

Most folks in recovery have heard that “this program isn’t for people who need it. It’s for people who want it.” But recently I heard someone say that the 12-step program isn’t for people who need it or for people who want it. It’s for people who do it. I agree. And – surprise, surprise! – I am not exempt from that.

So, it looks like I’ll be stepping up my game after all.

President Obama Mandates LGBT Rights to Hospital Visitation / Part Two: The Memorandum and Its Legal Effect

I'm not going to paste the whole memorandum here, because the post is already plenty long. But it does contains some really wonderful stuff. Take a look:

[E]very day, all across America, patients are denied the kindnesses and caring of a loved one at their sides.... Often, a widow or widower with no children is denied the support and comfort of a good friend. Members of religious orders are sometimes unable to choose someone other than an immediate family member to visit them and make medical decisions on their behalf. Also uniquely affected are gay and lesbian Americans who are often barred from the bedsides of the partners with whom they may have spent decades of their lives -- unable to be there for the person they love, and unable to act as a legal surrogate if their partner is incapacitated.

 For all of these Americans, the failure to have their wishes respected concerning who may visit them or make medical decisions on their behalf has real [c]onsequences. It means that doctors and nurses do not always have the best information about patients' medications and medical histories and that friends and certain family members are unable to serve as intermediaries to help communicate patients' needs. It means that a stressful and at times terrifying experience for patients is senselessly compounded by indignity and unfairness. And it means that all too often, people are made to suffer or even to pass away alone, denied the comfort of companionship in their final moments while a loved one is left worrying and pacing down the hall.

The memorandum goes on to instruct the Secretary of Health and Human Services to:  

ensure that hospitals that participate in Medicare or Medicaid respect the rights of patients to designate visitors. It should be made clear that designated visitors, including individuals designated by legally valid advance directives … should enjoy visitation privileges that are no more restrictive than those that immediate family members enjoy. You should also provide that participating hospitals may not deny visitation privileges on the basis of race, color, national origin, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, or disability.

 Now, this is a presidential memorandum, not an executive order. Does it still carry the weight of law? Happily, the answer appears to be “yes,” at least based on my (not even remotely thorough) research. The Department of Justice, in a 2000 legal memorandum,  advised the President as follows

It has been our consistent view that it is the substance of a presidential determination or directive that is controlling and not whether the document is styled in a particular manner. This principle plainly extends to the legal effectiveness of a document styled as a "presidential directive." Moreover, as with an executive order, a presidential directive would not lose its legal effectiveness upon a change of administration.

If anybody knows of anything that contradicts this, I hope you’ll pipe up.

Some people have noted with concern that the memorandum also contains the following disclaimer: “This memorandum is not intended to, and does not, create any right or benefit, substantive or procedural, enforceable at law or in equity by any party against the United States, its departments, agencies, or entities, its officers, employees, or agents, or any other person.”

This doesn’t concern me in the least, however, for two reasons. First, the language is pretty standard. Indeed, just this year such disclaimers have appeared in numerous presidential memoranda and executive orders including this one and this one and this one and this and this. 

Second, the disclaimer only applies to the federal government. It doesn’t say anything about not suing a hospital. So there may be limits on suing, say, a VA hospital, but the vast majority of hospitals are still vulnerable to lawsuits if they fail to comply.

So, what happens now?  Based on the wording of the memorandum, the Secretary is directed to enforce current laws regarding patient advance directives, specifically 42 CFR 482.13 and 42 CFR 489.102(a). So, to the extent the law currently permits visitation by LGBT partners, hospitals and staff members are now on notice that ignoring such directives will no longer be permitted, at least in theory. That's the most immediate effect. 

The Secretary is also instructed to promulgate rules to carry out the memorandum's directives. Because the rulemaking process requires a public comment period, that will take a few months. 

Finally, the memorandum gives the Secretary 180 days to recommend "actions the Department of Health and Human Services can take to address hospital visitation, medical decisionmaking, or other health care issues that affect LGBT patients and their families." Other than the introductory stuff, this is the only part of the mandate that specifically refers to the LGBT community. 

I would like to point out here that the President didn't have to issue a memorandum to make this happen. And given that he decided to do it in writing, he could have very easily just stuck the mandate language in there, and not mentioned a word about LGBT discrimination. 

So yes, we've still got DADT and DOMA. And no, we're not going to let up on the President. But this was a courageous move all the same, and the President deserves considerable credit for ensuring our rights so openly and eloquently.

President Obama Mandates LGBT Rights to Hospital Visitation / Part One: Introduction and Background

There's a lot to say about this, so I'll be posting several times today. 

No doubt you’ve already heard the good news: In a presidential memorandum President Obama directed all Medicare and Medicaid-funded hospitals to honor patients' wishes about visitation and decision-making, and prohibited discrimination based on (among other things) sexual orientation and gender identity with regard to such matters.

After he signed the memorandum, the President placed a call to Janice Langbehn, who was denied access to the deathbed of her partner of seventeen years despite having provided a valid, written advance directive. Ms. Langbehn’s tragic loss and mistreatment, and her subsequent activism, were the catalysts that brought about this important development.

Here, she speaks with Anderson Cooper about the President’s action and about her case:  

 

Next up: more about the memorandum itself.

In Which the Subversive Librarian Bites her Tongue til it Bleeds

I love working in (okay, around) politics, and believe it or not, I'm glad that my issue area is one I don't feel too passionately about. That may sound counter-intuitive, but it's a positive for two reasons: First, I discovered a long time ago that I'm a much better advocate if I'm unbiased. And second, when I'm being buffeted by unfavorable political winds (which is usually the case) it's a lot easier to keep up the good fight if I can live with just about any outcome. It all comes down to my boss's advice, which I consider some of the best advice I have ever gotten from anyone, anywhere, about anything: 

"Have fun and don t take it personally."

Still, I often find myself on the margin of other issues about which I really do feel strongly:  Health care. Civil rights. Education. Immigration. And it gets sticky when I find myself in a conversation with a lobbyist or legislator who has views very different from my own.

As a private citizen I can speak my mind (although whether I am brave enough, often enough, to do so is another matter).  As a public servant and advocate, though, my options are limited.  

For one thing, there's the law:  As a public employee, I  am prohibited from participating directly in political activity. So I can attend a gay rights rally, but I cannot publicly speak or sing there (alas, would that I were asked!). 

But I'm even more constrained than that.  I can't allow my political views about (for example) gay rights to compromise my role as an advocate for my agency (which does, after all, pay the rent and put beans on the table, along with doing important work). 

So when I find myself in the middle of a really distasteful conversation, as I did today with a legislator and another lobbyist, I just smile, say something true-but-innocuous ("yes, health insurance really will be a big issue in November"), smile sweetly, and stuff another potato chip in my mouth.  Preferably kettle-cooked.  CRUNCH.

And then I go and I bitch about it. Right here.  Right now.

Assholes.

Play it again, George...

It's popcorn time! Yes, yes, I know you've probably already seen this. But it's just so great, I can't resist:  Here is the President of the United States speaking on Sarah Palin's qualifications viz a viz nuclear arms.

Delicious as it is, note that George Stephanopoulos doesn't let Obama get away with it. He rightly pushes the President to move past Palin and address the substantive issue. Which the President does (sort of), but without letting Palin off the hook. Sweet! 

Okay. My popcorn is ready, so I'm going to watch this just one more time... or maybe twice... 

Quebec Seeks Prohibition of Niqab: Canadians Have Individual Rights, Too.

When I was in law school, and everyone else was taking Bankruptcy and Wills and Corporate Tax, I was taking lots of international and comparative law courses. One of the things I loved about these courses was their ability to challenge long-held assumptions about, well, just about everything.

You see, somehow, somewhere I got the idea that nobody has any rights except us lucky folks in the good old U.S. of A. I mean, we pretty much invented free speech and stuff, right?

Well, no. As a matter of fact, we didn't. We have no monopoly on individual rights. We really don't. We're better at it than a lot of places, but we're just one nation among many that cares about individual rights -- about getting it right.

Which brings me to the question of whether a Muslim woman should be permitted to wear a burqa or niqab in the Canadian province of Quebec.

In a thoughtful, thorough, and provocative discussion, the law students at LawIsCool.com (and the folks responding) have analyzed Quebec's effort to prohibit the use of certain religious clothing.

It's a great article, because the writers provide a good foundational discussion on Canadian law. While it's similar to what you'd read on an American blawg, Canadian law is just different enough to challenge readers to think outside the (American) box when it comes to individual rights. Moreover, the writers have thoughtfully integrated a discussion of choice into the mix: what difference does it make if a Muslim woman chooses to wear a niqab, and how do we define choice in that context?

All in all, very enlightening.

A slight change of subject

Okay, so I was going to write this snarky but thoughtful piece about how the South is getting kind of weird lately, because there’s been talk of secession and because last year, some really creepy secession-ish legislation passed here in Georgia with overwhelming bipartisan support, and how I'd really like to know why just one person voted against it, or more precisely, why some of the most liberal members of the chamber voted for it. 

And I was also going to take a potshot at Pat Buchanan, who has been waxing all poetic about the "Lost Cause” (he means the Civil War). 

Oh, and I also figured I’d take potshots at Ann Coulter and Phyllis Schlafly, just because they’re so despicable.

But my post kept getting longer and longer, and now it’s after one in the morning and, well, I’ve kind of lost interest.

So instead, I’m just going to post about the mother and daughter who tried to board a plane with a dead body in a wheelchair, and got in big trouble for it, but honestly they swear Daddy was still alive when they got to the airport.

Oh, so "religious" doesn't necessarily mean "conservative"

I'm happy to have discovered ReligiousLeftLaw, a thoughtful blog that may just become a major irritant to legal eagles on the far right. Hey. Somebody's gotta do it.

ReligiousLeftBlog has a distinguished group of contributors, mostly law professors from top-tier schools. In other words, really, really smart people writing about really, really complex things. It's not going to be an easy read. But it's sure to be interesting and highly provocative.

Easier to Do than Undo.

Okay, so a friend gifted me a fabulous new haircut, and everyone is making a big fuss over me, and another friend is saying it looks like I'm in woman-hunting mode.

And yes, I've thought about dating. And then I've thought better of it.

Used to be, I didn't date. I just went straight from "nice meeting you" to "til death do us part." And then I hung on way past the relationship's expiration date. Way, way past. Like, if it was a plastic container in the back of the refrigerator, its contents would be black and fuzzy and smell like a body farm.

And what's worse, I've pretty much gone from one refrigerator container to another without giving myself a chance to air out. First relationship 28 years starting when I was 17. Second one 7 years. A whole 4 months in between them. Good people. Baaaaad decisions.

So now whenever I catch myself wanting to date, I look at my scar. Yes, I have a physical scar from my last relationship. Because I gained so much weight after my second marriage, I couldn't get my ring off. Someone finally had to cut it off for me. That was about two years ago, and the dent still hasn't gone away. Here, see for yourself:

The scar, or whatever it is, has become a constant reminder of this sobering truth: It's a whole helluva lot easier to put a wedding ring on than it is to get it off again.

So this time around I thought it would be good to wait a while. I told myself I wouldn't date for a year. The year came and went, and I still wasn't ready. Then I told myself I wouldn't date until my credit score improved. It has gotten better, but am I ready?

Well, perhaps when I lose another oh, I don't know, seventy pounds or so. And maybe just a little plastic surgery here and there. And naturally, I should buy a house first. And pay off at least half the principal. Of course, I can't do anything until my daughter graduates from college. And then there's....

Blatantly Plagiarizing Others' Wisdom on this Lazy-Ass Librarian Saturday --

I watched a dear friend model some wonderfully healthy behavior today (I'm sooo not there yet), and it reminded me of this quote from Marianne Williamson.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

I continue to be overwhelmed - in a good way - by the wisdom around me. The gifts of that wisdom are mine for the taking, so I'm told, as long as I'm willing, grateful, and I put my sobriety first.

Relapse prevented.

Sometimes, even after many years of sobriety, it's still about not drinking a day at a time. Tonight was one of them.

I spent the afternoon climbing onto everyone else’s merry-go-rounds, one right after another. People I care about very much. People I used to lean on. People I still lean on from time to time. Some drowning in tragedies of their own making; some just caught in tragic circumstances. I was drawn to their darkness, and I dove right in after them. Under the guise of “being of service,” of course.

I had just gone to a meeting and met with a sponsee. I had an errand to run in East Atlanta Village. It was beautiful out, and every single restaurant patio was bursting with people having a great time. The store I needed was closed. I had money.

And then I wanted to drink. I wanted … what, exactly? Companionship? A good buzz? The attention I would get if I picked up another white chip? I don’t even know. I just know I wanted to drink.

So I drove home, passing one food mart after another. Wondering what it would feel like just to pull in to one of them. Or maybe go in and just look. Or just buy. Or sit in the parking lot and call someone in recovery, holding a bottle.

But I did none of those things. I just kept driving. And when I got home, I called my sponsor, and I forced myself to tell the answering machine that I wasn’t okay.

My sponsor called a few minutes later. He told me I made the right choice, and he gave me specific instructions: I was not to leave the house. I was not to drink. He made me repeat it.

I watched Rockford Files and then I went to sleep.

This post would have been a lot more dramatic, a lot more interesting, if I had taken a drink. Am I glad I didn’t? Honestly, right now I don’t quite know. But I do know that in the morning I’ll still have the choice of whether or not to drink. And for that, I’m very, very grateful.

Washing My Mouth Out With Soap, or, I Swear To God I Wrote This Post Before...

...before I read this. Honest, I did. Really!! (God, I hate it when that happens!)

Oh, well... Let's move on.

Warning: this posting contains some nasty words. Epithets, to be specific. Words that ought never be used descriptively, even if members of the target community have reclaimed the words as their own. Words like kike. Breeder. Retard. Nigger. 

I've been thinking about the relationship between language and politics because of the recent controversy surrounding the film Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives. (Full disclosure: I haven't seen it.)  GLAAD objects to the film,  but at least one Transgender writer has defended the movie,  finding it more realistic in many ways than TransAmerica.

But what strikes me most is what the two viewpoints have in common: both agree that the word "tranny" is highly offensive.

I've heard the word used by people in the LGBTQ community in contexts that struck me as friendly.  Still, if a word is offensive to a significant number of the people to whom it refers, that's all I need to know. I'm quite content to leave it out of my own vocabulary. 

Which brings me to the whole "politically correct" thing.

I know, I know, political correctness is so ... twentieth century. In fact, these days it's downright politically incorrect to be politically correct.  Just a quaint but hopelessly outdated remnant of liberal do-good-ism. Positively unfashionable.

Well, no one has ever accused me of being on the cutting edge of fashion. So it probably won't surprise you that I embrace political correctness.

The basic diatribe against political correctness goes something like this: "We're sick of having to watch everything we do and say. You're way too sensitive, so we're gonna decide what's reasonable. Get over it." 

But wait a minute: If I can't determine whether calling someone a cunt is offensive (answer: most definitely yes), then who can? Who is better positioned than a gay man to say how it feels to be called a faggot? If the word "squaw" offends many Native American women, who on earth am I to say they're wrong?

Somewhere along the way, a fundamental component of civil discourse got highjacked: respect for the humanity of every participant. In its place is the condemnation of political correctness, which has morphed into a subtle form of blackmail:  "If you get offended by (insert whatever here), we will not only continue to offend you, we will also make you look ridiculous for being offended." This strategy is preemptive: marginalizing the other participant blocks dialogue even before it begins. It is, at its core, an ad hominem attack.

Well, fuck that shit. If I am to enter into meaningful dialogue, I first need to listen to you. Because, see, I don't get to define your agenda. Or even assume that I know what it is.   

And by the way: if the very best argument I can conjure up is that you're oversensitive, then I got seriously ripped off in law school and I want my money back.

I am perfectly willing to adjust my language to honor your personhood, even if our substantive views are galaxies apart.

Call it political correctness if you like. It still translates into respect.  And respect is never out of style.