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Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Onesies and Wikileaks

There is a difference between a leak and a hack and it all comes down to intent. I personally don’t see how Julian Assange can misrepresent the DNC’s emails as a leak of information, not when it’s clear that Putin, or some Putin-like-guy, broke into the DNC’s system to retrieve the damning material that rocked the first day of the Democratic National Convention.

Meanwhile, my breach was not malevolent by nature. Yes, Robin confided in me about her fairly new pregnancy, and yes, I promised not to tell. But a couple of days after she swore me to silence, Monty lost his cell phone and one of the places he looked was between the cushions of our basement couch. He didn’t find his cell phone down there, but he did pull out an adorable polka-dot onesie that both Abby and Noah had worn as infants, and had been stashed away years ago into a storage bag of baby clothes.

Monty found the onesie and then he found me, upstairs in the bedroom, where I was petting our cat, Captain, and (unfortunately) talking to him as if he was my furry feline baby (which he is.)
“Who’s my good boy?” I used a voice reserved for infants and pets as I buried my face into his soft, expansive tummy, and Captain gently swiped at my hair without using his claws. But when Captain heard Monty approach he startled, straightened himself, and sat in a more dignified position. “Did you find your phone?” I asked Monty, my back to him.

“No,” Monty came and sat beside me and Captain, placing the onesie down on the bed and right in front of me. “But I did find this. What was it doing out?”

I grabbed the onesie, as if hiding it could relieve me from having to explain. I looked up from the polka-dots to see Monty’s eyes which, to my horror, gazed at me with pity. “Lucy,” he said with gentle patience, “I don’t understand. I thought you donated all the old baby clothes to Goodwill before we moved from Seattle.”

“Yeah, I did donate most of them, but I kept a bag of sentimental stuff, in case Noah or Abby ever wanted it for their children.”

He cocked his head and gave me half a smile. “Okay, hopefully it will be at least two decades before we have to worry about that…” he took the onesie from me and held it up like it was exhibit A, “…still, what was this doing out?”

I glanced around the room and scratched my forehead. “What difference does it make? I can look at an old onesie if I want to!”

“Yeah, of course - ”

“I mean, really Monty, I don’t appreciate the third degree!”

“I’m sorry!” His offhand tone suggested that he wasn’t actually seeking forgiveness. “I just need to know that we’re clear. We’re not having any more kids.”

“No kidding.”

Monty’s face relaxed. He set down the onesie and used his hand to cover mine. “But some part of you must want another baby, or you wouldn’t have gotten that onesie out.”

My laughter in response did nothing to convince him otherwise.

He squeezed my fingers. “Luce, it’s okay to admit how you feel. I mean, I know this sort of thing can be… difficult for a woman your age.”

Suddenly I identified with Hillary. She’s always walking that fine line between cheering and yelling, between shrillness and conviction. Truth is, there are certain unavoidable perceptions that society forces upon women and growing older may change what those perceptions are, but it doesn’t make them any better.  Yet while society might choose to see me as a desperately aging cat-woman, I refused to let my own husband see that too.

I yanked my hand away and fought the urge to give him a firm shove in the chest. “Give me a break! Robin is pregnant, okay? I got the baby clothes out for her and I accidentally left this onesie out!”

Captain chose that moment to rise from his sitting position, arch his back and stretch. Then he forced himself onto Monty’s lap. Monty’s jaw dropped before it rose into a smile. “Really?” he said as he absently stroked Captain’s fur. “That’s great.”

“Humph.” I got up to go brush my teeth.

“What’s your problem?” Monty called after me.

“I’m glad your cell phone is lost,” I said over my shoulder, “because her pregnancy is a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

But I knew Monty would eventually find his phone and I also knew it was pointless to make him promise not to spill. Words tend to fly from his lips before he even realizes that he shouldn't be saying them. At least he doesn't inflate himself into an information anarchist; he's not like Julian Assange, but in this situation, the difference between a hack and leak was irrelevant. They both resulted in trouble.

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Twenty years ... Six Presidential Elections... One Consuming Love Affair!
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