A Change Has Got to Come

     There's so much I wanna say right now, today. There's been so much I've pondered since Saturday night, that I don't feel I've arrived at the best vehicle for blogging just yet however.

     I'm still sad, but I have a luxury that Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin do not have, the ability to move past sad. They never will.

     Not that I'm not angry exactly, and who wouldn't be, but I feel it more as disappointment and despair. You're not supposed to be able to have a license to hunt people in our society, but evidently a portion of our population has just that. And you certainly should never be the hunted, but that seems to exist as well. It's disheartening, terrifying, and so ridiculously unnecessary as to defy logic...and ethics...and human-ness.

     I'm going to continue to collect my thoughts and develop my anger through rage then, hopefully, into constructive action. That seems to be the way to handle this miscarriage of "justice". If I write anymore now, today, it's going to come out wrong or incomplete or misguidedly arrogant. It's gonna devolve into vitriol and there's bloody well enough of that in our world already. I don't want to add to the hate in this precious child's name.

     But I very much want to add to the truth. We need to and we WILL have The Conversation in this country because our future, our children, and our souls depend upon it, the Fulton-Martin family deserves it, and making positive change in the face of unthinkable horror (and thereby retaining our sanity) demands it.

     Watch this space...

What? A Load of Shit?

     It occurs to me that my children may need a primer course in the definition of poop. You'd think this would be one of their strong suits--between guy jokes and a girl with a puppy, but sadly it is not. 

     As I was collecting nuggets of wisdom from the dog run just a while ago, I envisioned how this treatise might go: A PowerPoint presentation perhaps, but with lousy production values, no color, and the obligatory 1950s voice-over dude. The big white-lettered title banner would read: THIS IS POOP. And though there would be eye-rolling and more sighing than must come from the public gallery in the House of Representatives these days, my offspring would not be surprised at this tactic. I am, after all, the mom who just this week wrote out the grocery list on a two-foot by three-foot dry erase board before announcing, board in hand: "Okay, who's going with me?" (I then snapped a picture of the list with my phone, leaving the board in the kitchen. I do have to live in this town, after all.)

     When a person of let's say teenaged years is asked to clean up the dog run or, in another widely available translation, pick up all the dog poop in said run, one, let's say of the half-century persuasion might expect to walk around the corner of the house and find no poop. This is false logic because there will be poop. We have only to ask ourselves why.

     Some queries I developed: Have cop shows taught you about the "Statute of Limitations" after which a thing is simply no longer of import. After poop ceases to smell or if it disintegrates is it no longer poop? Have the dogs become masters of camouflage? Are they "laying the rails" as it were in such a fashion as to chameleon-ize their means of communication? Am I ignoring the slant of light and asking this job be done at the wrong angle, at the wrong time of day? Or are my children simply incapable of concentrating for the 45 minutes it takes to complete the task? All troubling but I dare say not thought-provoking enough to launch a full-scale investigation.

     My kids might simply not care enough or take the matter seriously enough to do it well. Remember that "Everybody Loves Raymond" episode where Ray knew that if he did a thing badly enough he'd never be asked to do it again? I think that's what happens sometimes with teenaged people...and husbands, but that's another story. And as I collected the artifacts of meals come and gone a good six months ago now at least, I contemplated many things, one of which I can repeat to you here. I have really got to get husband to show the kids how to use the doggie septic we installed last summer and have yet to use. Yes, we have a doggie septic system. Yes, they make doggie septic systems. And yes, we are some of those people who get things and then FORget them. I do not want to learn this lesson because then I'll have to do it too, and I believe I have other things to do already. That's my takeaway from Ray's Sitcom Wisdom. (That, and the communion wafer substitute called "I Can't Believe It's Not Our Saviour" which just cracks me up no end. Oh, and Ray's dad's "What contest in Hell did I win?" when Ray's mom insists that she is a trophy wife.)

     I like to picture myself on a beach whenever it comes my time to pick up the poo. But I love irony. And I do take a turn because it's a big job plus my dad always taught me never to ask an employee to do something you wouldn't do. Every now and again, even as a grocery store manager, he would go to the back room and clean the toilet. I can't exactly preach good Union Values and not instill them in my children through my own practice. Keeps down the insurrections as well. And today I wanted it done properly because I care about my neighbors. Right now one of them has a house on the market, this is the first weekend of their listing, it's been near or past 90 degrees for days, you get the picture (in all its scratch-and-sniff glory.)

     So, lads and lassies (and Lassies), This Is Poo: It can be any color from black to brown to grey to yellow to green, it can be almost any shape from a tidbit to a tart to a loaf to a full-on pie (deep dish), it can be warm or cold, hard or soft, smelly or without smell, it can roll or lie very still, it can become the exact same color as its surroundings, it can hide under grass and pine cones and rocks, it can shape-shift, disappear then reappear, in short, this is some pretty magical shit you're being trusted to care for. Just go to your happy place, the place where, yes, you will find enough soap in all of the world to be able to eat lunch in a few hours, and no, you will not feel the need to sniff your fingers before you do so. (This is where you remind them to take the baggie, plastic bag, or disposable gloves outside with them--or all three if they are Those Kind of Kids.)

     And if the shit really hits the fan, just remind them of the explosive times they gave you a few years back. Talk about some indistinguishable shit! If they knew that what they were doing then was pooping, then they are eminently qualified to be dog poop picker-uppers. No arguing. No discussion. Case (and Diaper Genie) closed!

     

     

Tell It To Me, Gently

     There's something to be said for telling a story obliquely. I'm not referring to the BS politicians use to say a whole lot of absolutely nothing, but the time-honored show of sensitivity known as the slow unfolding of the truth. It's a handy tool whenever some firestorm or other could be brewing, as it gives you a way to gauge your audience.

     And it can cover your arse in the event of litigation. This was the case on the original Saturday Night Live show when Chico Esquella, as imagined by Garrett Morris, was in the midst of a paternity suit. The resident sportscaster, and pretend ex-baseball player, Esquella wanted to comment but had been advised not to do so. He retreated to the thing he knew best to tell his story, sports. After showing footage of NBA players doing various things, he played and replayed tape of a big time dunk complete with bursted backboard. Chico then ends the broadcast with ideas for a new material that would prevent this hazard of the court (pun intended), and I paraphrase: You could use fiberglass or plastic, but not rubber because rubber breaks, but I can't talk about it.

    Dr. Joel Fleishman, Rob Morrow's character on Northern Exposure, employed this round-about method to tell Maggie O'Connell that yet another boyfriend, this time Rick, had been killed in some bizarre fashion...by a satellite. He starts out with a joke, again, paraphrased: So my friend was watching a friend's cat while the guy was on vacation and the cat died. My friend just comes out and tells the guy this which shocked him. He said that sort of news ought to be told more gently and with all the details. So he tells the friend the long version which culminated in the cat going up onto the roof and meeting its demise. The next time the friend goes away on vacation his grandmother dies. My guy sits him down and starts out with: Well, your grandmother went up on the roof and... Maggie laughs and expresses her surprise that Joel has actually, and accurately told a funny joke. Then of course Joel's next words are "Rick went up on the roof..."

     I know that there has been a big story in the news lately which has set a lot of people off for different reasons and has driven a wedge between Liberals, Progressives, Democrats, whatever label you favor, and I have stayed away from it. The tale involves a very serious matter and features a main character with a compound word of a name combining a winter variety of precipitation and another word for parlor or sitting room. And while I've followed most of the details and have heard reasoned arguments on all sides, I have yet to mention it here.

     Now I won't tell you that this person has "gone up on the roof" because he hasn't, but he has gone somewhere and that is what I choose to focus on. The biggest point of contention (setting aside the important aspects) is whether or not this is a good guy or a bad guy. Let me say this: He's a stupid guy. If I'm living in Hawai'i with a honey, knocking down a good three-figure salary and not even 30-years-old yet, I'm not hanging my butt out to dry in a Moscow Airport no-man's-land for two weeks. I mean, dude, come on. One day you're having plate lunch the next borsch? Please.

     Think whatever you will of secrets and spying and privacy and your Constitution-given rights--and you should--but realize that this guy is in desperate need of a life coach or a travel agent or both. I was pretty well stupid at his age too, but I did know better than to go where I wasn't invited. And I knew not to piss off at least half of my friends, or the world. And I never, never, ever went up on the roof!