Princes and Progress

In March I let Monty leave for D.C. without ever apologizing for calling him a self-important prick, and he left without ever giving me an opening to say I was sorry. I guess I had been hoping for a détente, much like a slow melt of the ice and snow in our yard and on the streets. But here’s the problem: Gradual thaws leave behind brown, dead grass and slimy leaves that should have been raked up months ago. They also reveal all the icky stuff that was on the ground when the snow first fell, like dog poop and political fliers from the last election.

And I was thinking about this the other day as I got home with my kids.  Abby, who is in a princess phase and loves to think about which prince she will someday marry, started drilling me as we got out of the car.

“Mommy, Daddy is your husband?”

“Yup,” I said. “He is.”

“So you married him?”

“That’s right,” I told her, as I lifted a heavy, squirming Noah from his car seat and tried to pick up both our bags with my other hand.

“And Daddy won’t be home for a long time?”

I sighed. Forget about the princess stage, when was her question stage going to end? “He won’t be back for several more days, Honey.”

“So you miss him? You miss your husband!”

Leave it to Abby to use deductive reasoning to arrive at an emotional conclusion. Perhaps she has a future as a Supreme Court justice. Of course, our conversation took place several days before the court’s decision to strike down the overall limits on campaign contributions, citing free speech as a reason to make it easier for wealthy donors to buy elections and, consequently, policy decisions.

It seems that lately, progress has been working backwards.

Anyway, I told her yes, of course I missed Daddy, but he’d be back soon, and then I told her to stop being so pokey and to come inside. But later I realized that I really did miss Monty, so later that night, after the kids were asleep, I picked up the phone and dialed.

“What’s up,” he answered, already sounding beleaguered and put out.

“I was just calling to say hi.”

“Oh. Hi.” Then I heard some chewing, and he spoke with his mouth full. “I just got back so I’m eating a salad.”

“But it’s after nine where you are.”

He talked slowly, like it took effort to be patient. “Yeah, but if I work long days then I can home sooner.”

“Right.” I was in our bed, lying on my back, and I lifted my legs, stretching them towards the ceiling while I stared at my socks. And my mind raced. If I said I’d like him to come home, the sooner the better, would he take that as a criticism and get defensive? Should I just apologize and get it over with? I was about to, but Monty spoke up first.

“Did you read about the Hobby Lobby case today?”

“Only a little,” I said, referring to the Supreme Court case about whether or not businesses should have the right to exclude birth control coverage to employees because of their (the businesses) religious beliefs. “Why?”

“It’s all anyone can talk about here. And it just baffles me that we’re willing to reverse all the progress that we’ve made over the years.”

“Yeah,” I replied, more in tune with his tone than with his words. I knew him well enough to read his mood through the phone. Whenever his voice took on that frenetic edge and he started talking in platitudes I tried not to challenge him.

He sighed, chewed, and swallowed all at the same time. “It sounds like the only conservative judge that was even on the fence was Kennedy, but I guess he got taken in by Roberts, who seemed okay with these corporations just deciding that the birth control in question is actually a form of abortion, which it’s not.” His volume rose. “Like that could be a matter of opinion after it’s been proven otherwise. And since when did courts give corporations the right to hold a religious belief? It’s crazy.”

“Sure,” I said. “But you can’t be surprised. You must have known how it would go.”

He huffed. “I guess I thought they’d consider all the ramifications, like for civil and gay rights.” More chewing, another swallow. “Whatever,” he crooned, his tone sarcastic. “I mean, it’s way more important to ignore the rights of women who need birth control, right?” Monty’s voice was growing louder and more indignant. “Right?’

“Yeah, I mean, I get your point.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

My words caught in my throat. Usually it was me who went off on rants and Monty calmed me down. “Umm… what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know!” I heard him get up. It sounded like he was pacing. “You could be more concerned about all the disadvantaged people whose dignity is getting stripped away. And I’m not just talking about the United States. What about Russia? Or Uganda? They’re throwing people in jail for homosexuality and they’re denying women birth control, which practically forces them to get dangerous abortions.”

My head was swimming. “Okay, I’m not sure I follow. You’re talking about the Supreme Court, gay rights, women’s reproductive rights, civil rights…”

“Of course you follow. You’re not dumb. It’s all tied together and it explains how the progress that we’ve made as humans has been reversed.”

By now my legs had plopped back on the bed, and I stretched one more time before I sat up. “Thanks for not calling me dumb.”

There was a silence, and I pictured him closing his eyes, trying to ease the tension headache he most likely had. Monty’s consulting job with the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation is in international policy development and advocacy for things like gay rights, voting rights and women’s reproductive rights in places like Uganda.

“Did you have a bad day?” I asked.

He sighed. “A major initiative that I thought was going to come through just got wiped out.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Which one was it? Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah...” I could hear him breath and I could almost see the rise and fall of his chest. “I still have some emails to send. I’m going to get those out and try to get some sleep.”

I paused. I didn’t want to hang up yet but I also knew I shouldn’t push him. “Okay. I guess I’ll talk to you soon, then.”

“Bye.”

He had hung up, but I could still feel his frustration from miles away, and the next chance for a real conversation didn’t happen until he got back. But I was determined not to reverse any of the progress we had made.

On the night he got home I found him in the kitchen, doing dishes. His shoulders were loose and he was humming something under his breath. “Hey,” I said as I walked up behind him. “Any news on that proposal?”

He looked at me and then back at the tray he was scrubbing. “They want me to submit it again, with some changes. It’s a pain but I’ll do it.” He scrubbed really hard at a stubborn bit of burnt cheese. “That’s my job.”

I leaned against the refrigerator. “You never told me what it was about.”

“A way to distribute birth control to women in Uganda.”

“Oh.” No wonder he was so worked up about the Hobby Lobby case. A rush of love swelled up in my chest, or maybe it was pride. Probably both. I really did marry a prince.

“Hey,” I ventured. “I’m sorry about before. I was just really disappointed about not getting to go to the conference, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Monty turned off the sink and found a dishtowel with which to wipe his hands. He kept his eyes off me. “You know I hate disappointing you, right?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “And you hardly ever do.”

“But,” he continued, “you’re not the only one with stress or problems.”

“I know.” I inched closer to him. “So we should talk to each other more and share the burden.”

“That’s not easy when we’re so busy and you’re mad at me all the time.”

I stood up straight and waved my arms around. “I’m not mad at you all the time! And I’m standing here, right now, apologizing.” I looked at him, waiting for a response, but he just smirked and raised an eyebrow, obviously waiting for more. I took a deep breath and continued.  “Okay. I’m sorry I called you a self-important prick.”

Monty’s body seemed to loosen at that, and he tilted his chin up and raised his eyes in contemplation. “Technically, you never called me a self-important prick. You said I was acting like one, which is not the same thing.” He held up one finger to make his point. “And that was the chain of causation from the beginning…”

I swiftly moved over so I was standing in the middle of his personal bubble. I grabbed his face in both my hands and, standing on my tiptoes, brought my mouth to his, a firm kiss just to get him to stop talking. But his response was intense and his mouth opened to mine as he took me in his arms. I let go of his face and I put my hands against the warm base of his neck, feeling like I could burst with heat and desire.

After several moments we came up for air. “You know you make me crazy when you talk semantics.”

He laughed and nibbled at my ear. “I missed you,” he whispered.

“Me too.” I kissed him one more time before I pulled away. “Come upstairs,” I said, tugging on his arm.

“I thought you wanted to talk more.”

“We will,” I smiled, took his hand, and pressed it to my cheek. “We’ll talk all you want.”

“Okay,” he said, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Then he willingly followed me, and we forgot about a détente and went for a more affectionate sort of reunion.

Since then, the news has been full of evidence that Monty is right; the world is moving backwards. The Supreme Court’s decision in the McCutcheon case is only one example. There’s the Fort Hood Shooting, the violent campaign in Afghanistan, and the continuing unrest in the Ukraine, just to name a few. But there’s also been the surprising number of people enrolled in Obamacare, the discovery by scientists on why zebras have stripes, and… okay, I had trouble finding a third bit of good news.

Yet I believe that progress doesn’t always get reversed. I suppose that’s easy for me to say, since I don’t live in Uganda or Kabul, and a good week can affect my world view. Still, for those of us with the luxury of perspective, sometimes we just need to take a step back before we can analyze and move forward again.

****

Good News! For the next couple of days, The Holdout is only 99 cents on Amazon, and November Surprise is free! (Click on the titles to visit their Amazon page.) Also, American Angst will be out soon, so you can get more Lucy/Robin stories. Read the post below to find out more!

Coming Soon - American Angst

A new post by Lucy will be out this Friday, but for now, read on for a preview of American Angst, which will be available on Amazon soon!

American Angst is about love, family, self-discovery, and the crazy society we live in. These stand-alone stories follow Lucy and Robin Bricker, characters from The Holdout and November Surprise, as they simultaneously search for freedom and for the ties that bind.

Within Earshot – Can 7-month pregnant Lucy make it through her first Bricker family Thanksgiving? Not without Robin’s help!

An Elaborate Truth – For Robin, love has never been about lies or revenge. Until now.

History Lesson – Lucy learns that the joy of motherhood is accompanied by pain.

Underwater – What led Robin to audition for the reality show The Holdout? Find out!

Talking Points – Read all of Lucy’s blog entries during the 2012 election, with new, additional material! (Spoiler:  Obama still wins)

American Angst – On a trip to LA, Robin gets caught up in a celebrity murder scandal. How will she use her charm and wit to get out of it?

Emotional, shocking, humorous and profound, American Angst is a collection of stirring tales that you won’t want to miss, whether you’re new to these characters or you think of them as old friends. Watch for it this spring on Amazon!

 

 

Cold Medicine and a New Cold War

It’s been a very long winter – unusually cold and harsh, and the darkest days had only just passed when there seemed to be a respite.  At least with the Olympics we could celebrate the ice and snow, and while there were problems and controversies in the buildup to Sochi games, the execution turned out okay.

So I, along with the rest of the world, got used to seeing Putin in the audience during those skating events, and while I still wasn’t his biggest fan, I started to think of him like a co-worker. He became that higher-up guy who I would never go to happy hour with, but I could revere him and possibly say hi when I passed him in the hall, and I was slightly less afraid of him than I had been a week before.

And I was lulled into a feeling of complacency, so much so that I was actually shocked when Putin condemned the actions that led to Ukrainian President Viktor Yanukovych's overthrow as an illegal takeover. His refusal to acknowledge the new Ukrainian government places Russia and Ukraine in a showdown over control of Crimea, and meanwhile Obama is in an impossible situation as he faces the reality of a new cold war.

But that’s how it works. Things can seem fine, until something dramatic happens and everyone gets heated and upset, and suddenly there’s no visible way to overcome the obstacles that yesterday hadn’t seemed so bad. It was easy enough for the rest of the world to ignore the Ukraine’s new anti-protest laws and the wave of violence and police-brutality that they spurred, but now we can’t just close our eyes and wish it all away.

And it was easy enough for me to ignore the less than perfect aspects of my own life. My father, who suffered from a massive stroke last summer, has become angry and depressed. I was the one who insisted that we move back home so I could help take care of him, but every time I go over there, he lashes out and says terrible things: I’m a disappointment, I messed up my own life and wasted my potential, he wishes I had stayed in Seattle.

“He says that because he feels trapped and frustrated,” my mother told me. “He’s so proud of you. You know that. And he couldn’t love you more.”

I do know that. But his criticisms tapped a nerve that has pulsated into everything else. There was a time when I was devoted to my career, publishing and working to become an authority in my field. Now I'm a mother and I work part-time at a Des Moines community college, and in between that and caring for my dad, my highest ambition is a nap.

So I was looking forward to going to this political science conference in Baltimore next week. I wouldn’t be presenting but I could spend several days hearing other presentations, talking and thinking about my work, and pampering myself a little. I was consoled with the idea of this the other night, as I drove back from a particularly bad evening with my dad.

"I don't want you here!" he had yelled, when he saw  it was me making his dinner and not my mom. "Go do something constructive with your time."

He hadn't warmed up to me after that, and I spent two hours cajoling him while I wondered why the heck I had moved my family, uprooted my life, and radically changed my career if he didn't want me around. I know he never asked me to move back home, but I guess I thought I'd be rewarded with some amount of gratitude.

When I got home the kids were in bed and I went and checked on them, kissing their damp, sleeping little heads good night. Monty was still down in his office. Since he mostly works from home he’s liable to be at his computer, writing emails or writing policy or whatever it is he does (I should have a better idea, but the details get lost on me) at any hour of the day or night.

“Hey,” I said, standing in the doorway to his office. A single lamp was on, and other than the glow of his computer, it was the only thing illuminating the room. He looked up, his face both in shadows and in need of a shave. “How did it go tonight? Is Noah still sniffly?”

He yawned. “A little. I gave him some cold medicine.”

“What?” I walked closer towards his desk. “You’re not supposed to do that. Kids need to be four before they get that stuff. How much did you give him?”

“Half a teaspoon.” I stared at Monty, my mouth firm, and he rolled his eyes. “The regular dosage is two teaspoons. Noah will be fine. We want him to sleep tonight, don’t we?”

I squeezed the bridge of my nose. I wanted both of us to sleep tonight, but all the headlines I’d ever seen, of babies dying from an overdose of cold medication, went roaring through my mind.

“You look exhausted,” Monty said. “How did it go with your dad?”

I shook my head. I’d told Monty about my dad’s Jekyll and Hyde personality shift before, and Monty had consoled more than once already. “About the same,” I said. “You know.”

“Yeah.” Monty started tapping his fingers against his desk. “You should go to bed. Get some rest.”

“Okay. When do you think you’ll be up?”

“In an hour, maybe?” he yawned as he answered. “I need to get all this done before I fly out to DC next week.”

I stopped cold in my tracks. “You’re not going to DC next week. My conference is next week.”

Monty’s face went blank. He turned to his computer and called up his calendar. “Oh,” he said with a rough swallow. “Yeah, sorry. For some reason I thought your conference wasn’t until the 28^th.”

“Well, it’s next week.” My pulse began to race in panic. Suddenly this conference felt less like a break or more like my salvation. I had to go. “So can you change your plans? I already have my plane ticket and everything.”

“I already have my plane ticket too.” He spoke slowly, his eyes darting around the room and his jaw crooked. “And Jake Goodall is flying in so we can coordinate the new family planning initiative.”

I took a deep inhale through my nose. “So you’re saying no. You just went ahead and bought a ticket to DC without consulting me, and now you can’t change your plans?”

He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. But they’re already hinting I should be in DC more. If we want this to work I need to accommodate them.”

“But why didn’t you check with me first?”

With his brisk tap-tap-taping of his fingers against the desk I could see Monty’s temper flare. “I can’t always check with you, Lucy. This is my job and if I want to keep it I have to jump when they tell me to.”

“Well, what about my job? You’re saying that your career is the only one that matters here?”

His chest expanded and contracted, and he sighed, answering in a tightly controlled voice. “My career is what keeps us financially afloat. Look, I know you were looking forward to this conference thing, but it’s not like it’s a required part of your job. It was more for fun, right?”

I was so angry that I slapped his desk, for lack of a better thing to slap. “Monty, you’re being a self-important prick.”

He stood. “Excuse me? How is any of this my fault?”

“It’s totally your fault!” I yelled.

Monty’s cheeks flushed with anger. “I agreed to move here FOR YOU. I took this job so we could keep our family together. But now everything’s my fault and I’m the prick? You’re being incredibly unfair!”

I could see the logic in his point. Both emotionally I was blind to it. “It’s your fault that I can’t go to the conference.”

He threw his arms out and spoke in this overly patient way, like I was too dumb to understand. “So call your mom. Call my mom. Maybe one of them can watch the kids.”

“For four whole days?” I shook my head vigorously.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes it would, at least since my dad's stroke."

"Then what about my mom?"

I sighed. "I’m not asking your mother for another favor.”

He reached back and rubbed the back of his head while he frowned. “Do you want me to ask her?”

Why couldn’t he just offer to ask her? Why did he have to sound so sanctimonious?

“No. Never mind. I’ll  just skip the conference.”

“Lucy…”

I could feel my tears starting to build. “I mean it. I don’t want to leave the kids alone with your mom for that long. She and Abby will fight and I’ll feel bad. Just never mind.”

He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Fine. If you want to be defeatist about this I’m not going to try and stop you.”

"Good." Then I turned around and hustled upstairs. I had to be away from him before I completely lost it. If he actually saw how angry and upset I was, if I cried and howled in front of him the way I wanted to, he would turn nice and then I’d have to forgive him. And I'd have to vocalize how tired I am, how much I need a break and just a little time away, and Monty would think he understands, but he won't. He gets time to himself all the time - probably too much, and I'll sound like a broken record playing an already annoying song.

And there was no way I was doing that. So began our own little cold war.

Here’s the thing about cold wars: they stem from vulnerability and stubbornness and contempt. And though they might get triggered by a sudden event, the resolution is rarely anything but slow. Employing sanctions and threatening retaliation will only increase the conflict, so the only recourse possible is to wait for a thaw.

Bridgegate, Brawls, and a Black Eye

This semester I’m teaching a course called American Political Ideals at a community college, so my crowd is both diverse and challenging. There’s a good mix of ages, ethnicities, and socio-economic groups. Some of my students are fighting to continue their education and they value every minute of class time. Others are there only because they don’t know what else to do; for them it’s a safe and thrifty extension of high school.

There are days when I truly love teaching them. Other days I look out at their faces and I’m met with a sea of apathy. Then I become desperate for new ideas to spice things up and pique their interest. So I could barely contain my joy when, three weeks ago, the whole Bridgegate scandal erupted. And when the Christie administration accused MSNBC of reporting each new development with glee, I couldn't deny that I was right there with them (with MSNBC that is, not with the Christie administration).

“Do you think he’ll have a chance at the presidency now?” One of my students asked me this. It was the Monday after the mayor of Hoboken had accused Christie of withholding Hurricane Sandy funds. This particular student, named Alex, was a young girl right out of high school. She sat in the back but even from a distance she stood out, with her purple hair, lip ring, and strong opinions.

“I think it totally depends on what happens next. If nobody contradicts Christie’s story, that he wasn’t in the loop about the lanes closing until after it was all over, then I suppose it’s possible. The public can have a short memory and when it comes to stuff like this. Two years from now, when it’s time to pick a candidate, the Republicans might overlook his tarnished reputation if he’s still their best option.”

A lot of my students were still more interested in their phones than in our conversation, but most of them were sitting forward in their seats, interested in the discourse. 

Alex’s forehead tightened and her nose wrinkled as if she had taken a whiff of something putrid. “How could he be their best option? What he did was illegal!”

“But there’s no real proof,” I said.

“Yeah, but come on. Everybody knows he’s guilty of criminal activity.”

Zach, another one of my students, took his feet off the chair in front of him, turned towards Alex, and spoke in a low, growly sort of voice. “I don’t know that he’s guilty. I do know that Obama and the IRS targeted conservative groups. I also know that people died in Benghazi because of gross incompetence, and the Obama administration lied to cover it up. Why don’t you care about any of that criminal activity?”

“That’s bullshit!” Alex cried. “The IRS targeted liberal groups too, and I’d like to see Republicans be as worried about the gross incompetence that killed people during 9/11 as they are about Benghazi.”

I cleared my throat to grab their attention, but it only sort of worked. Alex and Zach stayed focused on each other like boxers in the ring, and the rest of the class was already choosing sides. “Well,” I inserted, “you both have brought up some relevant points. I don’t think idealism really plays a part in American politics as much as partisanship does. We tend to judge someone as innocent or guilty depending on whether or not we agree with them, most of the time.”

Alex’s head spun towards me. “What do you think? Do you think he’s guilty?”

“This isn’t about what I think,” I said, and I had to stop myself from clenching my fingers into a knot. “I present the facts so you can form your own opinions.”

Zach rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Yeah, right. You’re so clearly a liberal elite, socialist-Obama supporter. I bet you pray every night that Christie gets impeached just so Hillary has no one to run against in 2016.”

I swallowed back a laugh. What Zach said wasn't far off – I’m not a socialist, but the rest of his allegations would be hard to argue against. But Alex was so quick to rush to my defense that I didn’t have to worry about it.

“Don’t talk to her that way!” she cried. “She’s our teacher. Show some respect!”

I waved my hands. “It’s fine, really. But Zach, I do have a problem with one thing you said, simply because – “

He cut me off to yell at Alex. “Don’t talk to me about respect. It’s people like you who are bringing our country down.”

Alex’s face grew red. “What do you mean, people like me?”

Felipe, another one of my more vocal students, interjected. “He means anyone who isn’t white, male, straight, and narrow-minded.”

Zach puffed out his chest. “Hey, nobody asked you to come here, so shut your mouth.”

I slapped my hands down on the podium. “Okay, Zach, that’s enough. At the beginning of the semester we all agreed not to make our political discussions personal.”

“Yeah, fine, great. Blame the white guy. Alex and that illegal immigrant have been making it personal too, but you’re only yelling at me. It’s so typical.”

“I’m not an illegal immigrant!” Felipe shouted, and he got out of his chair and stood over Zach. “I have just as much right to be here as you do.”

“Calm down,” I said, and I moved towards both Zach and Felipe. Zach rose to meet Felipe on his level while several of my other students turned on their cameras on their phones, to film what was quickly devolving into a brawl.

Alex jumped up too. “It’s you who’s bringing this country down, with all your racist attitudes.”

Zach’s whole body compressed and I could see his lean muscles twitch beneath his plain white t-shirt and blue jeans. “What have I said that’s racist? Name ONE RACIST THING that I’ve said.” His goateed chin quivered in rage.  “You can’t think of one, can you?”

I stepped into their contentious little circle and then everything happened so fast. Felipe and Alex started yelling, calling out Zach on all of his thinly veiled racist comments from over the course of the semester. Zach, obviously feeling cornered, tried to push himself out of the confrontation and I was waving my arms around in attempt to keep things from coming to blows. That was when I wound up with somebody’s elbow forcefully jammed into my eye.

“Hey,” I yelled, covering my wounded, watery eye in pain.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Alex cried.

“Everybody out, now! Class dismissed, except for you, you and you!” I pointed to Zach, Alex, and Felipe. So everybody shuffled out, except for the three of them, and Alex, Felipe, and Zach were all ordered to meet with school administrators to discuss a disciplinary hearing. Meanwhile I was told to go home, because my eye was turning the same shade of purple as Alex’s hair.

When I got home it was the middle of the day, and Monty came out from his office, took one look at me and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said, turning my face away as he leaned in close to examine it. “People got heated today in class and somebody’s elbow accidentally rammed into my eye. But I don’t know whose elbow it was, everybody is denying it, and until there’s proof, they’re all more or less off the hook.”

“What?” Monty shook his head at me and my lack of coherence. “I don’t understand.”

So I told him the whole story while he pressed a bag of frozen peas to my face.

“So you know who’s involved, and they’re all guilty to some degree, but you don’t know exactly who did what?”

“Exactly,” I answered. “And Felipe and Alex are both good kids. And even Zach, while I don’t agree with him or even particularly like him - I don’t think he’d have hurt me on purpose.”

Monty stroked the uninjured part of my cheek. “I’m not okay with this, Luce. You can’t have a violent student in your class, putting you at risk. You don’t get paid nearly enough for that.”

“None of them are violent. People just get heated when they’re talking about politics. I can handle it,” I said. “And at least it’s not boring.”

And class has been fine for the last couple of weeks, but the weather turned so cold and classes were cancelled and other times very few people showed up. Plus, all the Christie headlines receded, even on MSNBC, so I reverted to talking about the history of the major political parties and the formation of their ideologies.

But now that David Wildstein sent the letter that states that Christie knew about the lane closures as they were happening, Christie is in the hot seat again, and I guess that means I am too.

On Monday I’m sure Alex will want to discuss it. And I’ll say that until Wildstein can come forth with proof that Christie knew, it won’t matter. Just like I’m sure that at least one of my students has cell phone footage that proves whose elbow it was the rammed into my eye. I was stupid to dismiss class so quickly after it happened; if I had interviewed the other students right away I might have gotten some valuable information. But we don’t always make the most rational decisions in the heat of the moment. And the truth can be like a tree falling in the forest; if nobody hears it, it doesn't make a sound.

Cruzing to the Future and Haunted by the Past (and by a bathroom ghost)

Last October my brother-in-law Jack told me about a ghost that haunts the bathroom of his new condominium.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he said. “But you have to believe me. There’s no other explanation for what’s going on. I definitely have a ghost.”

 Jack chose to tell me about his haunted bathroom and he chose not to tell anyone else, like Monty, because Jack didn't want to be laughed at. So when Jack told me about his bathroom ghost I kept a straight face, even if I wasn't entirely convinced. But Jack could tell I didn't completely buy his story. Then, the other day, he called me on my cell.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I just dropped the kids off and I’m about to go grocery shopping.”

“So you’re in your car? Perfect. Get over here now. My bathroom ghost has come back.”

I was pretty curious, so I drove over to Jack’s condo. When I got there Jack opened his door and pulled me inside, leading me instantly to his bathroom.

“Look,” he said urgently. “All this white stuff?” He used his finger to scoop up a glop of something that looked like shaving cream from his mirror. “This stuff just multiples for no reason.  I don’t know what it is.”

I went to his mirror and scooped up some for myself. It was powdery and odorless, like thick, sticky talcum. “You’re sure you didn't leave it behind when you were cleaning or something? Could it be Clorox?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not Clorox. I don’t use Clorox. Just soap and water.”

“Oh.” I shook my head at him. “But then how are you going to kill germs? You know you need some sort of disinfectant, right?”

Jack let out a weak and watery laugh. “Watch this,” he said. He grabbed a paper towel, wiped up all the white stuff that was along his mirror and above his sink, and threw the paper towel in the trash once he was done.

Then he looked at his watch. “It’s 9:34. We’ll give it ten minutes.” He grabbed my arm again, led me out to his living room, and sat me down.

“What are we giving ten minutes, Jack?”

Jack shuddered like a chill had crawled down his spine. “In ten minutes we’re going back to my bathroom, to see if the white stuff is back.”

“But –“

Leaning forward, his right elbow digging into right knee, Jack cut me off.

“This morning, when I woke up, I saw a dark figure sitting at the foot of my bed.”

I cleared my throat and was trying to figure out how to respond, but Jack continued before I could say anything.

“I know that happens to people a lot – seeing some mysterious figure when they wake up – I think there’s even a term for it, although I googled it and couldn’t find anything.”

“Okay…” I said. “So it’s nothing.”

“Except, now my bathroom is possessed again.” He sat back and his arms rose and fell in defeat. “I called you over here because I need you to tell me I’m not insane. That I’m not just imagining all this.”

I would have reassured him, but somehow the words got stuck in my throat.  What if Jack is starting to lose it? Is that any less conceivable than a haunted bathroom?

“Hey,” I said soothingly. “You’re one of the sanest people I know.” This was true, but I also think there’s a fine line between sanity and insanity, and most of us hover dangerously close to the edge. And after such a crazy year, I don’t know even know what to believe anymore.  Six months ago if someone had told me I’d be ready to end my marriage to move back to Des Moines, teach at a community college, and actually like it, I’d have laughed in disbelief.

And I’d have laughed even harder if I’d heard that Monty would quit travelling to Africa and follow me here.

So you just never know. And as the old year closes and the new one begins, perhaps it’s worthwhile to reflect on all the inconceivable events from the past twelve months. A year ago, would we have believed that “some guy” could nearly bring down the NSA? Would it have seemed plausible that Republicans would press issues like the IRS “scandal” and Benghazi, or go so far as to shut down the government, just to weaken Obama?

 Okay, I guess that doesn't seem so far out there. But who would have known that Obama would've weakened himself, all on his own, with the disastrous healthcare roll-out? It would be funny if there wasn't so much at stake.

Of course, there were political stories that were low in cost and high in entertainment value, like Anthony Weiner/Carlos Danger. Who could have guessed that he would have the balls to seek office, even after the truth about said balls was revealed?

But some stories just made me sad, like the gun control legislation that the senate rejected. How can we live in a world where the idea of simple measures, like background checks and mental health provisions, has become more impractical and unrealistic than the idea of living with frequent school shootings?

It’s a senseless life we lead. And nobody can do more than guess about what’s coming next.

“You’re not crazy, Jack. Crazy people don’t worry about being crazy. Google that and I KNOW you’ll find out I’m right.”

He smiled for the first time that morning, so I pressed on, because I wasn't sure how much of our ten minutes were left.

“Crazy is accepting something without question, and you’re not doing that.”

Jack waffled momentarily, between slumping and straightening himself. But his more determined side naturally won out, and after checking his watch, he sat up, smiled and changed the subject.

“So does Abby like her Ted Cruz coloring book?”

I pulled my knees up onto the couch and crossed my legs, while giving Jack a scornful smirk. “Monty traded her a princess coloring book for it, which she was happy to do. She hardly ever gets princess stuff, so she was willing to take the bribe.

As a joke, Jack got me the Ted Cruz coloring book for Christmas. He had to back order it, because it was the highest selling comic book on Amazon.  But I left it on the kitchen counter, and Abby, who loves to color, found it and claimed it as her own. But Monty was worried she’d become indoctrinated, which is not entirely unbelievable. Abby is a good reader for her age, and the coloring book is pure propaganda.

For example:

There's a page on our national motto, In God We Trust...

and a page with Ted Cruz holding a rifle, exercising his second amendment rights...

And there's a page with kids playing on the playground, to explain why abortion is bad...

And then there's the celebration of Ted Cruz's recent filibuster...

And the back of the coloring book, with his slogan, "Tell the truth, tell it often, tell the children."

But don't forget the page where Ted Cruz holds the government to account by, among other things, making DC listen, protecting life, and lowering taxes.

“You know," Jack said, "for someone who used to work at the ACLU, Monty doesn't have much of a grasp on the importance of freedom of speech and freedom of expression.”

I laughed, and started to explain that Monty just didn't see the humor in the Ted Cruz coloring book, and he didn't want to have to praise Abby every time she showed him a new page she had colored in. But before I could start, we both heard footsteps.

Like someone was walking down Jack's hallway to his bathroom.

“You hear that?” Jack whispered. “I've heard it before, but I convinced myself I was imagining things.”

My chest constricted and it felt like a balloon had suddenly inflated where my heart should be. There was no way that sound was coming from anywhere other than Jack’s hallway, and there wasn't anyone in his hallway; I could see it from where I sat.

When the sound of footsteps had faded, Jack looked at his watch again. “Come on,” he said. “It’s been ten minutes.”

We made our way back to his bathroom, where the first thing I saw was more white powdery stuff along the surfaces that Jack had wiped clean ten minutes ago. There was also a new puddle on the bathroom floor, but no water was running. I looked at Jack's face, and I could tell instantly that he was not playing some elaborate practical joke.

“That’s so weird,” I said. “I mean, if you were a spirit, would you choose to haunt some guy’s bathroom? And why leave behind powder? It must be some sort of message, but of what?”

Jack started wiping up the new mess the ghost had made. “I have no clue. Why does anyone do anything? I don’t understand people’s motives, let alone the motives of ghosts.” 

"Do you think something bad went down in your bathroom?" I asked.

Jack finished wiping the counter. "Like an unfortunate cleaning experience?" He looked up at the mirror, and we made eye contact in the reflection. “Who knows? But you’re my witness now. And you know I’m not crazy.”

I swallowed roughly. “I know that either you’re not crazy, or that we both are.”

That, unfortunately, was little comfort to either of us.

Obamacare, Not Enough Turkey, and Too Many Brussels Sprouts

This November, I did something unforgivable. I offered to host Thanksgiving.

“Are you crazy?” Monty asked me, when I told him what I was thinking. We were sitting on the couch, and MSNBC was on mute during a commercial break, so we had about three minutes to dissect the entire issue.

 I figured his was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer him directly. Instead, I laid out the talking points, or the foundation of my platform:

·         If we hosted it would easier for my dad to be part of the celebration. Ever since he had a stroke last summer, it’s overwhelming for him to be in unfamiliar places. He mostly stays home, and if he does go out, it’s usually over to Monty’s and my house.

·         Our three-year-old  (Noah )still takes naps, so having it at our house would save us the hassle of trying to get him to sleep at a certain time or in someone else’s bed. Plus, the kids would be able to play in the playroom all day, and we wouldn’t have to worry so much about entertaining them.

·         Monty and I have a ton of room and a massive kitchen that ought to be used for family gatherings. Otherwise, what’s the point of even living here? We should share the wealth. We could even invite friends and neighbors to join in.

Monty looked skeptical, so I clutched his knee and went on.  “We’ll take a free-market approach to the whole affair.  People can show up whenever they want and we’ll keep the day laid back. It will be fun.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I suppose next you’re going to say that if people like the current side-dish that they bring, that doesn’t need to change?”

“Well, why would it?”

Monty shook his head and chuckled. “Babe, you’re not thinking things through. I can understand your motives, trying to care for people with pre-existing conditions and providing a quality Thanksgiving for everyone. But you’re forgetting one thing.”

I sighed. “What’s that?”

He took me by both shoulders in a burst of drama. “The status quo will want you to fail, and she will exploit every flaw in your new system.”

“Nope,” I said with utter confidence. “There won’t be any flaws. I’ll make sure of it.”

He peered deeply into my eyes and spoke in a slow, measured tone.  “Lucy, of course there will be flaws. Everything has flaws. And she will pounce on them, insist that you’ve ruined Thanksgiving, and declare that your new system is completely defunct.”

Then Monty looked away from me, realizing that Rachel Maddow was back from commercial. He released his grip and turned the sound back on the TV. It was as if his having the last word was the conclusion to our conversation. And it’s not like I didn’t think about what he said. I did. But in the end, accommodating my ailing father and my young son seemed more important than placating the status quo, aka Natalie, my mother-in-law.

She always hosts holidays. But this is the first year that Monty and I have actually lived here in town, and I figured it was time to revamp the scheme of things. She’d still have Christmas. But Thanksgiving? We could afford a caring holiday celebration that wouldn't simply accommodate to those who were already covered, but to everyone involved. Who could argue with that?

At first, nobody did. Even Natalie welcomed the idea. “Oh, it will be a relief not to have to host,” she said. “It’s a lot of work. Thank you for offering to do it.”

I took her at her word. I mean, sure, Natalie and I have had our differences, but I’ll never forget how supportive she was this summer, when my father was in the hospital and Monty was in Botswana. She cared for Noah and Abby without expecting so much as a thank you in return. It reminded that me that fundamentally, we’re on the same side and we do want the same things.

 “She’s just messing with you,” Monty said, when I told him her response. “You’ll see.”

So I made sure to have all my bases covered. I sent out emails, telling people to bring side-dishes, but I also made suggestions, like “bring a vegetable dish” or “some sort of dessert would be great.” I gave people a window of time for arriving, and stated that dinner would be at four. And I bought a beautiful clay casserole dish, the most expensive type there is, to bake the turkey in. I heard that these dishes make the turkeys incredibly moist, so I figured I couldn't go wrong.

But then I lost my focus, and became more concerned with the details than I was with the bigger picture. I cringe now when I think of it: I just wanted to learn how to sear Brussels sprouts.  Jack has been serving a seared Brussels sprout and bacon appetizer at his restaurant, thus combing two of the hippest food trends right now into one, and capitalizing on both. I have tasted this appetizer, and it’s AMAZING. I made him promise to teach me how to make it, and he said he would.

So on Thanksgiving Day, people were milling around, enjoying appetizers, drinks, and conversation.  The kids were playing and everyone was happy. The turkey was in the oven, and Jack and I were in the kitchen, getting ready to sear some Brussels sprouts. 

Then Natalie came in with a covered dish. Before she even greeted us she looked down at the cutting board and said, “Oh. You’re making Brussels sprouts? I wish you had told me! I always make my Brussels sprouts with pecans dish, and you had said I could bring whatever I wanted.”

“Mom,” Jack said. “It’s fine. They’re different enough. People will eat both.”

Then Robin, Jack and Monty’s cousin, walked in and greeted us. She was carrying a large salad bowl and looked excitedly to Jack, “It’s a shaved Brussels sprouts and walnut salad. I got the recipe off of Pinterest, after you told me how big Brussels sprouts are right now.”

“Wow,” said Natalie, sounding skeptical. “Hopefully not everyone has heard this news yet, and they’ll bring something else. Like broccoli with cheese? That’s always a good staple. Or corn? Corn on Thanksgiving is nice.” Natalie eyed me with contempt. “You did ask someone to bring the corn, right?”

I rolled my shoulders back and tried to keep them from drooping. “I wanted to keep things open.”

Natalie put her hands on her hips. “So we’re having turkey and Brussels sprouts? Anything else?”

I was about to yes, in fact, we were having rolls, and cranberry sauce, and a vegetarian friend had brought a cheesy polenta dish (which counts as corn), but I couldn't get the words out. Because then there was a huge, awful cracking sound in the oven, with a loud popping and some smoke.

“What in God’s name!” Natalie yelled, which only drew attention and several people, including Monty, came running into the kitchen.

“Step back, everyone,” Monty instructed, as he turned off the oven and gingerly opened it up. He scrutinized the disaster and shook his head like a regretful doctor after an unsuccessful surgery. Monty turned in my direction and spoke softly, only to me, but of course everyone else could hear. “I’m sorry, Luce. But the turkey is ruined. That clay pot you bought split down the middle, and everything is just a huge mess.”

“But I bought the most expensive pan they had!” I said, instantly desperate to defend myself. And I was met with the cold, unforgiving eyes of my mother-in-law. She said nothing, but she didn’t have to. She had already won the moral high ground.

“It’s not your fault the pan was defective,” said Robin. “Sometimes that just happens.”

“We’ll clean it up. It will be fine,” said Monty.

“But not in time to fix Thanksgiving!” said Natalie.

“I’ll run down and grab more food,” said Jack, referring to his restaurant kitchen. “We can scrounge stuff together. There will be plenty to eat.”

So everyone was very nice about it, nobody blamed me, and there was plenty to eat, even if we had not enough turkey and too many Brussels sprouts. But I had to live with the knowledge that sometimes, even if you work hard and you really want to succeed, you can still fail. A small crack can grow into a huge, unhealthy gap if you’re not watching. Then what do you do? You hope that there’s nobody waiting, rooting for a fiasco and ready to exploit your mistakes.

To her credit, Natalie was actually very gracious after the mess was cleaned up and dinner was served. “Thank you for a wonderful day,” she said, kissing me on the cheek, “and I’m so sorry about your turkey.”  I could tell she was sincere. So that was enough for me to be thankful for. Because I know, in this country, in similar situations, not everyone takes the high road. Maybe it’s time that we do.

Ghosts, Mirrors, and Ted Cruz

“I still can’t believe we’re actually here,” I said, and then I took a healthy swig of my gin and tonic.

“I can,” replied Jack. “We’re getting free food and it’s actually pretty good.” He took a bite of his beef wellington, and somehow managed to simultaneously smile and chew without being disgusting. After he swallowed his grin got even wider. “Besides, you could use a night out.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Monty had been in DC for over a week, and I was feeling pretty worn down after work, caring for my dad, and my solo-parenting responsibilities. So when my brother-in-law/best friend Jack asked me to accompany him that night, I had said yes, thinking it would be nice to be waited on for a couple of hours.

Now I looked around the room, at all the tightly packed tables, the suits and ties, and the old money that was obviously represented. Jack had been given tickets to the Ronald Reagan dinner through the business association he belongs to, and Ted Cruz would be speaking soon. I had thought the experience would make for an interesting lecture for the Political Science course I’m teaching, but now that we were there, I wasn’t so sure I had done the right thing in agreeing to come. It would have been better to just take Jack out to dinner, somewhere where we could catch up with being bombarded by Republicans.

“Obamacare is going to bring down the country if we don’t do something soon,” said the woman sitting behind me. She was speaking to her dinner companion. “And our constitutional rights just continue to get stripped away. I’m glad Ted Cruz is here to lead us through these dark times.”

I turned to Jack. “Tell me about your new condo,” I said, desperate for a distraction.  Then I scooted in closer and spoke in a loud whisper. “You need to talk to me about something non-political so I don’t start arguing with these people.”

Jack laid down his fork and took a sip of his water. He raised his eyebrows and his face grew animated. “The condo is great, but I think it has a ghost.”

“Really?” I was intrigued.

“But only in the bathroom.”

“You have a haunted bathroom?”

Jack nodded his blonde, balding head vigorously in affirmation. “The other day I was the only one home. I went to brush my teeth, but I realized that I needed a new tube of toothpaste. So I walked out into the hall to get some from the closet, and when I came back, the mirror was streaked in white gunk and there was a puddle of water on the floor. They hadn’t been there moments before.”

I squinted at him, skeptical. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Jack leaned forward, intense. “It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Other times Mikey or Isobel have been over, and even though they said it wasn’t them who streaked the mirror or left water on the floor, I just assumed that it had to be one of them. But this time it couldn’t have been.” He laid his palms on the table with thump. “I have a bathroom ghost.”

I took another sip of my drink, and the ice tinkled. “Wow. That’s crazy. What are you going to do?”

Lines creased Jack’s forehead. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not malevolent, as far as I can tell. It just seems to like my bathroom. Maybe as long as I give it the freedom to hang out, it will be fine.”

I bit the corner of my lip, thinking. “Yeah, maybe. But are you giving the ghost freedom to hang out in your bathroom, or is the ghost simply tolerating you?”

Jack laughed. “You’re saying the ghost is the one in charge?”

I shrugged. “In times like this, it’s hard to tell.” I took one last sip of my drink, draining it. “But whose bathroom is it, really? Maybe the ghost was there first. Maybe that bathroom is more important to the ghost than it is to you.” I tugged on Jack’s sleeve. “What if the ghost’s message is more powerful than yours, and more effectively communicated? It won’t matter that you signed the papers to your condo, and that technically it belongs to you. The ghost won’t give up trying to intimidate you, and eventually you’ll back away.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and scrunched his eyebrows together. “I thought we weren’t talking about politics.”

“We’re not.”

“Yes we are. This is my bathroom ghost, Lucy, not the Tea Party.” He patted my shoulder. “Who knows? Maybe my bathroom ghost is a Democrat.”

“It must be,” I said. “Or else it wouldn’t be expecting you to clean up after it.”

Jack gave me an incredulous look, and I laughed. “What?” I said, gesturing at all people we were surrounded by. “I’m just trying to get into the spirit of the evening.”

Then Ted Cruz’s speech began. He made his jokes about the NSA and the Obamacare website. He talked about how every constitutional amendment except the third has been infringed upon, and how we need to bring back the ideals of Ronald Reagan. I could have refuted a lot of his points with actual historical facts, but nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. He had a rapt audience.

He closed his speech by saying, “As Ronald Reagan famously observed, freedom is not passed down from one generation to the next in the blood stream. Every generation has to stand up and defend freedom so that one day we don’t find ourselves answering our children and our children’s children –  what was it like when America was free?”

The room erupted with impassioned applause, and everywhere I looked I saw someone ready to “defend their freedom.” But who did they think they were defending their freedom against? Obama? The Democrats on the Hill? One thing is sure, these people looked poised to fight a battle, which is more than I can say for my own political party. We seem to be stuck, unsure how to conquer our own demons.

And until we figure it out, those demons will continue to haunt us.