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.

John Boehner, Ideals, and Really Bad Guacamole

         When I was a kid I thought I wanted to be in Congress. I liked the idea of being part of a large, governing body.  I liked the idea of being a part of something. But now that I’m older and wiser, I’ve learned to be more selective.

And never have I had to be as selective as I do now. Because since we moved to West Des Moines, I don’t know who is going to be over at our house, when. And even though it was me who pushed for our relocation, it’s Monty who’s enjoying the social benefits. I’m constantly amazed at how many old high school friends he has, and they’re all still in the area. And then there’s his family.

I love them; I really do. I never had siblings or cousins, and it’s great to finally be a part of a big family. But last week I got home late, after staying with my dad so my mom could go to her book club. At 10 o’clock that night I walked in, and I found Monty and his brother Jack in the middle of one their frequent, weird competitions. What’s worse is I got sucked into it.

Monty, Jack, and their cousins were sitting in our huge, dance-studio-sized kitchen. Well, to be more accurate, they were sitting out on the deck that’s attached to our massive kitchen. The glass sliding doors were open, and I could hear them all before I could see them. And on the kitchen counter I saw a cutting board with an avocado pit sitting lying against it, an open jar of Prego tomato sauce, a salt shaker, and garlic powder.

Outside it was warm for early October, and a gentle breeze was blowing. But you would never have noticed the peaceful, Midwestern night because like members of Congress, everyone was talking over each other, protecting their own interests, and accomplishing nothing.

“We have to average the scores. You need three judges. That’s the only way,” said Robin, who is Monty’s youngest and only female cousin.

Monty, who was holding a dish of guacamole in one hand and a bowl of chips in the other, answered. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine with that. But I get to be one of the judges.”

“You can’t be a judge!” Jack cried, using the angry voice that he reserves only for his brother. “That would be like Olympic athletes scoring themselves and having it count. It’s ridiculous.”

“Well then you can’t score me either.” Monty scowled at Jack. “You want me to lose, and you’ll give me a low score no matter good my guacamole is.”

Ian, Monty’s other cousin, gestured toward Robin and her boyfriend, who still barely knows any of us. “The three of us will be judges. That’s the only fair way.”

I saw panic register on Robin’s face. Whatever this stupid competition was, I could tell she didn’t want to involve her boyfriend. So that was when I stupidly spoke up. Nobody had noticed my presence yet, but when I said, “What’s going on?” everybody turned in my direction.

Monty’s face lit up. “Lucy can be a judge!”

Jack grimaced and shook his head. “No way. Uh uh. She’ll inflate your score.”

My jaw set, and I crossed my arms over my chest as I slid open the screen door and came outside. Everybody was sitting, except Monty, who stood with his guacamole and chips as if he was about to run a race, and Jack, who was leaning against the railing of the deck.

I sat down on a vacant patio chair. “Inflate his score for what? I asked defensively.

Robin answered me. “Jack said that Monty is so inept in the kitchen that he doesn’t even know how to make decent guacamole. Monty said that sounded like a challenge, so then it became one. Now we need three judges to taste and score it.”

Jack cut in. “We’ll average the scores out, and if he gets a five or higher, he wins. But if you get to be a judge, I get to be a judge.”

“I don’t want to be a judge,” I said.

“Yes you do,” Monty affirmed, then turned towards Jack. “She won’t inflate my score. So Lucy, Robin, and Ian can be the judges.”

“No way,” said Jack. “Me, Lucy, and Ian. That’s my final offer. Besides,” he said, with a smug smile, “I don’t know what you’re worried about.  If your guacamole is so great, you should have no problem getting an average score of five, even if I do give you a one.”

Monty sighed. “Fine.” Then he shot me a meaningful look, communicating his demand: You’d better give me a high score.

I gave him a meaningful look back. You will pay for this, is what it said, and Monty turned his mouth up in a half smile.

After Jack handed out slips of paper and pens to use for scoring, and Monty handed out chips dipped in guacamole, I took a bite and considered my options. Or I tried to anyway, but my senses were confronted with the awful combination of avocado and spaghetti sauce. As I swallowed it down and wished for a palate cleanser, several thoughts ran through my mind:

1.       It was by far the worst guacamole I had ever tasted.

2.       If I gave Monty a low score he might hold a grudge.

3.       If I gave him a high score, Jack’s earlier accusation about me would be true.

4.       Either way I’d be screwed, because one of them would be annoyed and the other would use it as ammunition for future weird challenges.

5.       They’re in their forties, for the love of God. Why can’t they grow up and stop competing?

6.       I really just wanted to go to bed.

And I thought of John Boehner, who I would not want to be this week. I’m not saying I feel bad for him – quite the contrary – but it does seem that he’s in a no-win situation. If he blinks and allows a vote on the budget, then he angers Ted Cruz and all his Tea Party minions, and Boehner possibly loses his position as Speaker of the House. At the very least he loses face. But what’s the alternative? Obama and Reid are not going to budge on the budget or on Obamacare, and they shouldn’t have to. The minute we let one minority part of the majority dictate and hold bills hostage, our democracy turns into something decidedly undemocratic. After Obamacare was upheld by the Supreme Court and survived a presidential election, it’s time to let it happen.

But Boehner is more worried about his own political ramifications than he is with the people who suffer from a government shut-down. It isn’t right, but it is human. And in a twisted kind of way, I understand.

I calculated. If Jack and Ian both give him a score of one, then I’d have to give him a thirteen in order for Monty to win, and obviously I can’t do that. But what if Ian gives him a three, or even a four? I could give him a ten and he’d still win, but could I live with the dishonesty?

But then, where is my loyalty, and what price would I pay for disloyalty?

I wrote a number down on and handed my slip of paper to Robin, who was keeping score. She collected scores from Jack and Ian, and then read them off.

“One,” she announced, after reading the first slip. Monty shrugged and looked over at Jack.

“We all know who that is from,” Monty said.

Jack shook his head. “What were you thinking? Italian sauce in guacamole? It was disgusting!”

“We didn’t have any salsa,” Monty replied, defensive and a notch louder than he’d previously been talking. “I figured the two tastes are basically the same.”

“No they’re not!” Jack’s face contorted in horror. Jack owns a restaurant, and to him the correct mixing of flavors is a sacred science.

Robin read off the second score. “Four,” she said, and everyone looked over at Ian, who was staring at his feet.  My stomach flipped because I knew what was coming.

Robin’s eyes widened before she read the last score. “Ten?” she said, as if she couldn’t believe it herself.

Monty whooped and started dancing around in victory. Jack shook his head and glared at me. “Are you kidding?” he said. “What is wrong with you?  I don’t care if he is your husband, how could you possibly give him a ten?”

I started to defend myself, but before I could, Monty came over, grabbed my shoulders, lifted me to my feet and planted a joyful kiss on my mouth. And even though people were watching and Jack’s eyes were shooting daggers, I couldn’t help but respond and kiss Monty back. Just for a second.

But then Ian spoke. “I was the one who gave him a ten.”

Monty pulled away and we all stared at Ian.

“What?” Jack said. “Why?”

“Because,” Ian said, his cheeks turning pink, “I liked it. I had never tasted guacamole made with spaghetti sauce before. I thought it was really good.”

Robin started laughing and Jack, speechless, let his mouth hang open. Monty turned towards me. “So you gave me a FOUR?”

I bit my lip. “I guess I wasn’t as crazy about the taste as Ian was.”

“Because it was disgusting,” said Jack, and I sort of nodded in agreement. Jack squinted at me. “You should have given him a lower score then. If you think it’s disgusting, why didn’t you give him a one?”

So there I was, trying to compromise but making nobody happy. Because when you’re in the middle of a standoff, forced to choose between loyalty and ideals, there is no way to escape unscathed.

But after I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and washed the unpleasant taste of Monty’s weird guacamole away, we all managed to laugh and change the subject. Then I forgot how tired I was and enjoyed myself. The only real repercussions I suffered were the next morning, when I awoke at my usual time, exhausted, because I didn’t get enough sleep.

If only that was the extent of John Boehner’s problems.

Hillary Clinton, Huma Abedin, and the "Opt-Out" Generation

So it’s been an interesting summer for Hillary Clinton. Between her connection to scandal-makers like Anthony Weiner and Terry McAuliffe, questions about the Clinton Foundation’s finances, and speculation over whether she’ll run in 2016, one thing is clear: she’s incapable of keeping a low profile.

But what else is new? Sometimes it surprises me how little things change. For instance, years ago Hillary stood by her man after he’d publically cheated on her, because that’s what political wives do. Now Hillary’s protégé, Huma Abedin, is standing by her man, Anthony Weiner/Carlos Danger, even though his sexting habit has made him a national joke as he runs for New York City mayor. Friends of Abedin’s pontificated that she stays with Weiner because of their son, or possibly because her upbringing in Saudi Arabia has made her more submissive than a woman here would be.

Or, maybe it’s because she has political ambitions of her own.

That certainly makes her a lot like Hillary Clinton, which leads me to another question: if Hillary had actually left Bill, as in filed for divorce, this-is-over-for-good sort of leaving, would she be a viable candidate now? Perhaps, but then there's that unspoken assumption, that when a woman leaves a man because he wronged her in some way, her act of leaving is an acknowledgement of her own culpability. She couldn't fix the problems in her own marriage, so how will she fix world problems, which are far more complex than infidelity? (Unless you’re married to someone like Bill Clinton or Anthony Weiner, that is.)

So maybe both Hillary and Huma wanted to leave, but felt forced to stay. That's the reverse of my own situation from earlier this summer, when I felt forced to leave Monty even though it went against what I wanted. And with the craziness of our move and all the new adjustments that came with it, I’ve been grappling with my own issues of ambition and identity.

“You don’t have to work, you know.” Monty said this to me a couple of weeks ago, as we sat down to really examine our finances. Relocating from Seattle to Des Moines with a Washington D.C. salary is beneficial in a lot of ways, but there are still sticky points.

“I just mean,” he continued, “it might be better if you don’t. Because then we’d have to pay for childcare, and the money you’d make teaching would barely even cover that expense.”

“I’ve thought of that,” I said. “But if I don’t work…” I shook my head, unable to complete my thought.

“You’d have plenty to do, Luce.” Monty tapped his pencil against the table. We were sitting in the expansive kitchen of our expansive new house in West Des Moines. I was still getting used to the constant air-conditioning, shiny surfaces, and humongous closets.  “Hell,” he continued, “the 2016 campaign is already underway, and we’re in Iowa for God’s sake. If you don’t work you’ll have a lot more freedom to get involved.”

“Yeah…” I bit my lip and stared at the sheet of paper that outlined our monthly budget and expenses, but my mind drifted.  Ten years ago the New York Times wrote a piece about “The Opt-Out Generation.” It profiled many women who had decided to give up their careers and be homemakers instead. Now, ten years later, a follow-up piece has revealed that a lot of these women want their careers back, but their time away has made them undesirable when it comes to hiring.

“I think I need to do something,” I said. “Even if it doesn’t make sense financially, just to keep my options open for further down the line.”

 “Okay.” Monty shrugged. “I’m certainly not trying to hold you back. I just want to give you a choice.”

And while I’m sure this was all coming from a sweet, well-intentioned place, it occurred to me: why is it always the man who gives the woman a choice?

I stood, intending to refill my glass of water at the sink, but I kissed the top of his head as I passed. “I appreciate it,” I said over the running water. “But between taking care of my dad and taking care of the kids, I’m going to need something that’s my own. And even if it’s part-time, at least I’d be contributing financially a little bit.”

He didn’t argue and I certainly didn’t complain. After all, Monty had agreed to uproot our lives, accommodating my desire to move back home, so lately he’s gone above and beyond in the good husband department. And I realize I’m lucky to have the choice of whether to work or not. The fact that it’s a choice at all is a luxury, and part of me is tempted to simply care for my kids full-time and follow my interests without the inconvenience of a “job.”

But then I read a column by Maureen Dowd, a savvy career woman if there ever was one. She said, “Hillary Clinton’s first term will be seen, not as a continuation of Obama, but as Bill Clinton’s third term.”

So no matter how accomplished she is, Hillary Clinton will first and foremost always be Bill Clinton’s wife? I hope not. Her advisors have said that in 2016 she’ll embrace the idea of electing the first female president, and she’ll campaign on issues of female empowerment.

That’s good. Because power for her could mean power for us all.

 

 

 

 

 

Blue State

Welcome to a special, long installment of November Surprises blog. Read on for part one of Blue State - then download the rest either on Amazon or Smashwords for only 99 cents!

1. Wealth and Well-Being

It was late, I was tired, and I should have been asleep. Instead I kept flipping through the pages of my Title Nine catalog before I ran them through the shredder.

I don’t kayak through rapid waters, surf high waves, or climb treacherous rocky cliffs.  I feel good about myself if I manage to get in a run on a workday or if Monty and I take the kids hiking on a weekend. So I guess the Title Nine “real women” models are all just over-achievers, as they’re pictured pursuing their out-door adventures with trendy clothes and gazelle-like legs that go higher than my torso. On one page, a way-too-smiley model named Meryl was spelunking. The sidebar information about her said she’s a mother of four and an animal masseuse. Her goal was to visit everywhere on earth where there are underground caves.

Women like Meryl exist. She’s every other woman in my neighborhood.

I started getting their catalog because the chic, outdoorsy clothes Title Nine offers are the type that all the chic, outdoorsy women in Seattle wear. But looking through this catalog was as disheartening as a trip to the neighborhood playground, where mothers push their jogging strollers, walk their rescue dogs and pontificate about how old their kids should be before they go to Belize for the first time.

I sighed. Traveling is another thing I don’t do much of, but my husband can’t say the same. A few weeks ago, over dinner and without ceremony he said, “They’re sending me to Botswana for a month. I have to go if I want to keep my job.”

I didn’t disagree; I just tried to digest this piece of information as I swallowed down my peas with cream sauce. We’d been fighting about his traveling for months and I always lost the argument. So I pushed the issue to the back of my mind, choosing instead to focus on the here and now, like work deadlines, daily tedium, and the task of raising a family.

That only worked for a while. Then, the night before he left, the truth came crashing in and I didn’t deal with it well. While he packed his bags, I cleaned. I had a sudden, urgent desire to dust the bookshelves and the coffee table, to wash the towels, and to rid the microwave of grease and grime. I guess I thought if my house was in order that my life would be too.

 At around 11:00 Monty came downstairs and found me in the office, sorting through all the old mail, including the Title Nine catalog. I had gotten the paper shredder out and was feeding it credit card applications and useless insurance information.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you coming to bed?”

His t-shirt and shorts hung loosely on his lean, muscular frame, and his dark hair was all mussed up. It was an appealing look but I resisted his charms. “In a few minutes.” Another sheet went tearing through in a noisy grind. “I don’t know why they send us this stuff; it’s such a waste of paper.”

He stepped up behind me and put his arms around my waist, pulling me close and murmuring into my neck. “You have to do that now?”

I pulled away. “Yeah, I kind of do.”

He slumped against the wall. “I’m leaving for a month tomorrow.”

“I know,” I said, looking at an old bank statement instead of him. “And whose fault is that?”

“So you’re going to be passive-aggressive and punish me?”

I sighed in irritation. “No. I’m going to be plain old aggressive and tell you that I’m still mad you’re going. You promised me last fall that you were done with this kind of trip.”

“We’ve been over this a million times.” He tapped his fingers against the wall, rapidly and with power. “You know I have to go. It’s my job to take trips like this. I don’t have a choice.”

This was his usual argument. For as liberal as Monty claimed to be, he still had this archaic idea that his role as “father” was to ensure the well-being of his family, and well-being means wealth. I understood but I didn’t agree.

I dropped the bank statement on the desk and pushed the whole stack of papers away. Then I faced him. “You have a choice and you choose to stay with this job where you have to travel 30% of the time, where you’re often unreachable and you’re putting your health at risk. And it doesn’t matter how much I tell you not to go, you’re always going to go anyway, aren’t you?”

His chin dropped and he rubbed his eyes before answering. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

I folded my arms across my chest and looked away.

“What do you want me to say?” he demanded. “I asked you to consider moving to New York so I could do something else and you said no. I don’t know where that leaves us.”

“Nowhere good,” I replied.

He shook his head and his green eyes darkened. “I don’t understand why we’re arguing about this now, the night before I’m leaving, when this trip has been planned for weeks.”

I shrugged. “I guess tonight it just finally feels real.”

Monty took a deep breath in through his nose and slapped his hand against the wall. “I’m going to bed.”

“Fine.”

He walked away and I continued with my paper shredding, thus halting the last argument we’d have in the home we’d bought together.

 

 

 

This month's story is too long to be a blog post! To read the rest, download it at Amazon or Smashwords for only 99 cents!

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Love. Family. Growing Older. They’re all part of the state we live in.

Lucy has left her home in Seattle and possibly her marriage too, because her father’s stroke has turned things upside down. When she’s not at her dad’s bedside, she’s at her mother-in-law’s house, caring for her children while avoiding her husband’s calls. Re-examining her professional goals and staving off heartbreak is only part of it; Lucy has to decide where it is that she belongs. But when Monty returns early from his month-long trip to Botswana, she’ll also have to decide which is more important – the life she has made for herself, or the life she left behind.

Blue State is a short(ish) story written for fans of November Surprises blog (www.NovemberSurprises.blogspot.com), November Surprise the novel, and the novella Campaign Promises.  As a special bonus the first two chapters of The Hold Out are previewed in the back, which continues the saga of the Bricker family, this time with Jack and Monty’s younger cousin, Robin.

 

 

Freedom Blows (Whistles)

Every June students across the country pack their bags and head home while abandoned campuses turn quiet and subdued, waiting for autumn to arrive. Sometimes I feel sad about this because it’s just one more marker of how quickly time goes by. But not this year. This year June could not come fast enough.

“Brad is graduating,” I said to my friend Sally the other day. “You must feel relieved.”

She didn’t even smile. “If you’re saying that then you must not have heard.”

“Heard what?”

“He’s been telling people that I hit on him and that I tried to plagiarize the paper we were working on. I thought everyone had heard by now.”

We were in her office and she was packing boxes. I had assumed she was packing for the summer, but suddenly I had doubts.

“Well… I hadn’t. And if I hadn’t…”

She cut me off with a terse voice. “If nobody has said anything to you it’s because they know you’re my friend. But it’s only a matter of time before everyone hears about it and my reputation will be ruined.”

She started pulling books from shelves and stacking them haphazardly into a crate.

“Sally, don’t say that. This is not the time to be impulsive. You can’t throw away a good career over something so small.”

She shook her head while avoiding my eyes. “It’s over, Lucy. For so many reasons, it’s just over.”

The air thickened as I struggled to swallow my rage. “I’ll be back,” I said as I rushed out the door.

I knew just where to find him; he almost always sat in the poli-sci lounge during lunch. And sure enough, he was there, eating a sandwich in one of the comfier chairs. I walked toward him with purpose and an accusatory finger pointed at his chest.

“You,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

He stood, towering over me. “If this is about Sally, save your breath. I was doing the right thing and I was telling the truth.”

“Why did you have to say anything at all? All you did was ruin a good person’s reputation!”

“If she’s that good then her reputation shouldn’t be in jeopardy!”

I’d never wanted to hammer someone in the head more. “We’re done!” I said. “That paper we submitted? Forget about it! I’m withdrawing it from consideration.”

“Good. I don’t want to work you either.”

Then he sat back down and resumed eating his sandwich, eyeing me with arrogance while he chewed.

 

“You can’t fix this,” Monty said to me later, after I told him the story at dinner.

“I feel like I should try.”

“Try all you want, but Sally’s right. Once things like this get out it’s over, especially if there’s some truth to it.”

I knew he was only being realistic, but I hated to hear it nonetheless. “Are you done?” I asked, grabbing his plate and clearing it before he could answer. In the kitchen, I rinsed dishes while I fumed.

 

It’s funny how one guy can come along and betray the systems we’ve spent years building in one hasty confession. Nothing that involves people and information can work without trust and one person should not have the power to abandon that trust.

Why not, you may ask. What if he had good intentions? What if he was telling us something we needed to know? What if what he’s saying is true?

Well, who gave him the power to decide what is right for everyone else? He gave himself this power, and that’s only the beginning of the problem.

Twenty-nine year old guys with limited education and extremist views (especially when it comes to civil liberties) might see themselves as saviors, but if they don’t reflect first and act second, who knows what sort of damage might be done to the greater good. And once one bit of truth leaks out, there is no controlling the lies that may be generated surrounding it.

So for example, Edward Snowden blows the whistle, and suddenly people believe the government is reading our emails and forcing Facebook to share private information. How many people are aware that Congress was briefed about the Prism program over a dozen times? Do they realize that all the information that was turned over was done so by a court order? Have they read that only 3% of the information garnered is from U.S. citizens, and that the rest is mostly from Pakistan and Iran? Most importantly, have they considered not just the attacks this information has prevented, but also the damage that this new leak has caused?

Before Edward Snowden told his secrets he had promised to respect the confidentiality of the information with which he was entrusted. And the harm of his betrayal extends far and wide. It reached his coworkers, many of whom were his friends. Now they will always be part of the story; their motives will always come into question. Other people, not yet involved, will be less likely to be trusted because of what he did.

And then there's the government. In this day and age the government is often painted as the enemy, but it's possible there are a lot of good people at the National Security Agency whose sole intentions are to protect the safety of U.S. citizens. Snowden's intentions may have been good as well, but who is more dangerous?

And because of him we will all be looking over our shoulders, afraid to take a chance, scared to get caught for doing nothing wrong. And the people who don’t follow the rules will have a better understanding of how to break them.

Edward Snowden was self-indulgent and self-guided by his own preferences. Yes, he faced a moral dilemma and he came to a point where he had to decide what to do. In the end, he came to the conclusion that the secret he was hiding was more precarious than the disloyalty he would cause by telling it.

But at what cost? When does the truth become more important than the loved ones we are trying to protect?

*****

 

Next month, watch for a special installment, with the short story Blue State. The first part will be posted here, and the rest will be available for download on Amazon and Smashwords for only 99 cents.

 

Story description:

Lucy’s life finally seemed on track. Happily married to Monty and teaching college in Seattle, she’s been raising her children in one of the bluest states in the country. But then her father has a stroke while Monty is on a month-long work trip to Botswana, and Lucy must travel home to Iowa in order to keep her family together. While there she comes to question her priorities and she must decide which is more important – the life she has made for herself, or the life she left behind.

Blue State is a short(ish) story about the politics of home, marriage, and growing older. It was written for fans of November Surprises blog (www.NovemberSurprises.blogspot.com), November Surprise the novel, and the novella Campaign Promises.  As a special bonus the first two chapters of The Hold Out are previewed in the back, which continues the saga of the Bricker family, this time with Jack and Monty’s younger cousin, Robin.

Trailer:

 



A Week of Secrets and Scandal

Doing stuff in secret is usually a mistake. Often times it’s not the action itself but the secrecy surrounding it that implies guilt and scandal. Because one secret is usually hiding a whole family of secrets.  So, on Sunday evening I was completely open and transparent when I told Monty I wouldn’t be home much in the coming week.

“You’ll need to pick the kids up from daycare, and you’ll most likely be putting them to bed as well. The deadline to submit a paper for the Northwest Political Science Association’s annual conference is Friday, and like it or not, I promised Brad I would work with him to submit something.”

His mouth set into a frown. “Can’t you get out of it?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t published anything for a couple of years. This will be good for me too. Besides, you owe me.”

“Why do I owe you?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Your trip?”

His mouth clamped shut, because he knew better than to argue. Another one of his work trips is coming up, this time to Botswana, and it’s still a point of contention between us that he’s going. So he agreed to come home early enough every night this week so I could work late. Nonetheless, on Monday night I came home anyway, made dinner, gave Noah and Abby a bath, then changed into a shirt with dry sleeves. I told Monty not to wait up and returned to my campus office.

If only every day had been like that.

I can imagine how Obama must feel. When the week began, he probably thought the lingering questions about Benghazi were the worst he would have to deal with.

Like a rash that won’t go away, the spreading of blame about the Benghazi attacks continue to irritate. And Hillary Clinton is at the root of it. After all, if she’s going to run for president in 2016, it’s important to paint her as motivated by self-preservation and self-interest, to the point where she would deny, for whatever reason, a resurgence of Al Qaeda.

Yet while this issue may have teeth, so far there’s been no real bite, and it’s easy enough to let it hibernate until 2016. If Clinton is the nominee it will definitely be brought up again. Repeatedly. And if there is any secrecy to be revealed, that will be more damning than the events themselves.

Tuesday evening I sat in a meeting that ran late. Then I called and talked to Abby before bedtime, and I sang Noah the “Five Little Ducks” song, though he dropped the phone before I had made it to the third duck. Afterwards I ate a sandwich at my desk and reviewed Brad’s work while I waited for him to show up. But I was tired and to give myself a break, I ran the paper through my computer program that checks for grammatical errors. It also checks for plagiarism.

That’s when my stomach turned.

It was like seeing the headline about how the Justice Department secretly subpoenaed phone records from the Associated Press.  This wasn’t something that could be dismissed as groundless.

When Brad showed up I confronted him. “Do want to explain all this? There is stuff in here that should have been cited. You know that’s plagiarism.”

His face turned bright red. “I… I thought that part…that it had all been taken out.” He stammered, like now he was testing his words for accuracy as he spoke them.

I sat up straight in my office chair, my back unsupported and stiff. “What do you mean? How could you not know if it had been taken out? Why was it even there in the first place?”

He wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. There was a stretched out, silent moment before he said, “Originally, Sally and I were working on this paper together.”

It took a minute for his words to sink in. I skipped reprimanding or interrogating him any further. “We’ll talk more about this later.” I got up and gathered my stuff. “I need to talk to Sally.” He nodded and exited my office, and I left to go home. By the time I walked through my door Abby and Noah were asleep, dreaming and unaware of the world around them.  But my own anxiety gnawed away at my thoughts, keeping me from sleeping soundly myself.

“Why would they keep it a secret?” The next morning I asked Monty as he prepared to leave for the day.

“Only two people can answer that.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck talking to Sally.”

On Wednesday I taught in the morning, and Sally taught in the afternoon. It was close to five before I could find her alone. But Brad must have warned her about what was coming, because she was tapping her pen expectantly against her desk when I entered her office.

“It’s not what you think,” she said.

“So explain it to me.”

Her breathing seemed shallow, making her voice sound tinny. “We were working on this paper together. I contributed some sections, but I lost track of some of the sources, and I meant to go back.” She looked down, and drew circles on a piece of scratch paper with her pen. “I was never going to submit it like that. But then, well, something happened.”

It was warm in her office, but I felt a chill. “Did you…”

She set down her pen and looked at me. “Nothing happened, okay? But we developed feelings for each other, and...”She leaned back, suppressing a sigh. “…I don’t know. I wanted to start something more than Brad did. And then he felt it would be best if we didn’t work together anymore, so I agreed, even though I was hurt by it.” She rolled her pen, back and forth underneath the palm of her hand. “But I made him promise to take out all of my contributions to the paper, and I warned him there was stuff in there that wasn’t cited yet. And he promised me that he would.”

I strained to find my voice. “Well, he didn’t, and if I had submitted it with my name attached, I would have been guilty of plagiarism too.”

She closed her eyes and dropped her head in her hands. “You’ve just lost all respect for me, haven’t you?”

I stared at my feet instead of answering. Like learning that the IRS has been targeting Tea Party groups for intense scrutiny, the realization that some paranoid accusations are actually true plowed into my brain like a headache.

“Things haven’t been good between Carl and me,” Sally continued. “But I never meant for anything to actually happen. Lately I feel like all I do is damage control.”

So is it the action itself that is so terrible, or is it the secrecy surrounding it?

Case in point - Tea Party groups are openly against paying taxes, right? Wouldn’t it make sense that the IRS should target them? The IRS’s mistake was doing it without telling people. Similarly, while Sally wasn’t acting with much integrity, perhaps one lie snowballed into something worse than the genesis of what happened.

“Please don’t tell anyone, okay?” Sally pleaded.

More secrets. “I don’t know,” I replied. “This is about me now too. If someone else finds out…”

“Nobody else has to find out.”

I stayed and we talked a while, and I tried to be the good friend who listened to Sally’s convoluted story. But at the end of the day I still didn’t know what to think.

On Thursday afternoon I texted Monty and told him I would pick up the kids from daycare. When he got home at 6:00 they were already eating dinner, and afterwards we played outside in the backyard. It was a beautiful spring evening, and Abby picked weeds and chased after ants while Noah ran around in the mud.

“They’re both getting baths tonight,” I said.

Noah then fell. Monty smiled and placed him on his feet again. “Are you going back to work afterwards?” he asked me.

I sighed and looked up at the evening sky. “I can’t decide. Brad is expecting me, but I don’t want to.”

“If he’s expecting you, you should go. I can give them baths.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

So I went, and we worked, talking only about the paper and nothing else. I guess when you’re swimming in a sea of controversy the only real life preservers are the facts.

Love, Fear, and the NRA

Seven days ago there wasn't as much to talk about. Who knew then that the coming days would bring bombings, explosions, and high stake man hunts? Who knew then that the news week would be so action packed that a Ricin-laced letter from an Elvis impersonator, to the president, would barely make the front page? It was last Friday evening, and we were at a mixer for the political science department. The days to come would be both tragic and compelling, but we didn't know that yet. For now, students and faculty socialized while drinking wine and eating cheese on crackers. Most of the conversations were naturally about politics, and most of the people there were more or less of the same mind. But not all.

I wanted to punch him. I know that’s ironic given my stance on gun control. But here he was, a member of the NRA, defending the organization that has singlehandedly prevented the U.S from passing reasonable gun control legislation for decades.

Brad, my graduate student, took a civilized sip of wine. We had been talking for several minutes, and he wasn’t responding to any of my most salient points. He spoke in a soft, reasonable tone that contrasted with the nonsense he was speaking. “This bill isn’t a good idea, and it won’t be until lawmakers understand the mentality of the gun owner. If you talk down to them, treat them like children, or tell them which guns they’re not allowed to own, then the gun owners will get pissed off.”

“But what about everyone else? Recent polls show that around 90% of Americans support background checks for buying guns, and around 60% want to ban assault rifles and magazines. The senators aren’t representing the people, they’re representing the NRA.”

Brad shook his bald head at me. “The NRA is the people. Look, someone who is determined to kill isn’t going to be detoured by having to jump through legal hoops to buy a gun. These proposed laws are punishing the wrong guys. The NRA understands what the government doesn’t.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. The NRA doesn’t even understand itself. They’ve become more about the argument than the cause, and their biggest “success” has been scaring a bunch of senators into voting against gun control legislation that most Americans support.

It hasn’t always been this way. In the 1920s and 30s the NRA wasn’t against gun control. They supported permits for carrying and concealing, a national registry for all handgun owners, and a required two day waiting period to buy any sort of gun. Today the NRA is strongly against all this. But that was before gun control was ever truly an issue.

Ironically, the first people in favor of gun control were conservative Republicans. Their main incentive was to keep guns out of the hands of black people.

 Reagan was governor of California at the time. He led the conservative Republicans in their support against increased gun control. Then the assassinations of MLK and RFK led to the gun control act ’68. This made it more difficult to buy a gun, particularly the specific handgun favored by inner city residents, and it also stated who shouldn’t be allowed to buy one – namely felons or ex-felons, the mentally ill, illegal drug users, and minors.

And the NRA was okay with all of this. In fact, in the 1970s they planned to move their main office from D.C. to Colorado Springs so they could focus less on lobbying and more on sportsmanship. But then there was a coup by a fringe group of the NRA, and they took over and switched their focus to a more forceful interpretation of 2nd amendment rights.

In 2008, a landmark ruling from the U.S. Supreme Court mandated that the government can never disarm its citizens altogether. But in the opinion section, Scalia essentially stated that doesn’t include gun possession by felons or the mentally ill, and that guns should never be in schools or government buildings, and laws can impose conditions (like background checks) on the sale of guns.

Yet the NRA continues to contradict all of this as they grow more and more extreme. They also grow more and more powerful, because as gun ownership in this country decreases, the passions of the minority rises and the NRA is determined to motivate its shrinking base. Wayne LaPierre, the head of the NRA, is known to be a lover of strategy more than guns, and into lobbying more than he is into sportsmanship. And even he supported background checks in the late 1990s.

My neck was tightening into little knots. “You know, Canada and Australia started implementing common sense measures on gun control, and they both saw a decrease in gun violence. Sure, it won’t stop it altogether, but it’s a start. If we could do something, cut gun violence in half, that would save 15,000 lives a year.”

Brad stuffed his free hand in his jacket packet. Were his fingers forming a fist? Perhaps this conversation was making him tense too.“Ideally, sure. But the guns are out there already. We need to focus on armed guards and mental health, not on gun control.”

“No.” I tried not to let the hand holding my wine shake with tension. “Other countries have crazy people. Other countries have armed guards. But the U.S. has 13 times as many children murdered by guns in a year than in other industrialized countries. And that’s not including recent figures from Sandy Hook.”

Suddenly there was a warm hand on the back of my neck, right where I had grown the most tense. I turned around and smiled. “Hey, you made it!”

Monty leaned in and kissed my forehead. “What have I missed?”

“Not much, really. Brad and I have been talking gun control.” I gestured to Brad, who was still standing there. “Monty, this is Brad, my graduate student. Brad, this is my husband, Monty.”

Monty smiled and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you! I heard about how you helped Lucy out with Noah when they were both throwing up. That was really nice of you.”

Brad shrugged and smiled in self-deprecation. “It was no big deal. I remember what it’s like to have a boy that young. It was the least I could do.”

Monty raised his eyebrows. “How old is your son now?”

“Twelve. He’s the product of a college romance. His mom and I aren’t together anymore, but Toby is definitely the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Monty continued to ask Brad questions as his inner-talk show host is liable to come out at functions like this. I exhaled, relaxed a little, and looked around the room. Through the corner of my eye, I saw Sally, my colleague and Brad’s original advisor, watching us.

Later, at home, I confessed my suspicions to Monty.

“I wonder if they had a thing.”

He scrunched up his face. “Happily married Sally and Brad? Why?” He was brushing his teeth and I was leaning against the sink as he did, and I watched him spit out his toothpaste. I spoke to his reflection in the mirror rather than to him.

“Because she wouldn’t tell me why she quit being his advisor. And she was desperate; she didn’t even warn me about him.”

He spoke with his toothbrush in his mouth, so his words were slurred. “What is there to warn you about?”

I counted off the reasons on my fingers. “He’s in the NRA. He’s a Libertarian. He likes Rand Paul! And I’m helping him start his career. I’m getting him ready for insertion into the public arena!”

Monty started laughing.

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

He spit out the last of the toothpaste and rinsed out his brush. “Honey, you’re the one who believes in open discourse. You can’t pick and choose who gets an education just because you don’t agree with them.”

Logically, I knew he was right. But these are emotional times we’re living in. “The world’s gone crazy. There’s no such thing as safety anymore, and Brad is fine with that, as long as his civil liberties aren’t infringed upon. I hate that line of thinking.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is. I’m sure Rand Paul and Wayne LaPierre are also nice. But I don’t want them running the country any more than I want Brad.”

Monty continued to laugh at me.

“It’s not funny!”

“It sort of is.”

I reached my cupped hand under the running water and splashed him. So he splashed me back.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“What!? I’m not allowed to defend myself? Don’t take away my civil liberties, Lucy!”

I was laughing now. "Please. You used to work for ACLU. I couldn't take away your civil liberties if I tried."

"But you love me anyway."Then he grasped both of my arms and pulled me in for a kiss. So I managed to forget about my righteous indignation for a while. And it's not something I hold onto most of the time, because like everyone, I have my day to get through.

 But now I know that I haven't been angry enough.  Tonight, when I looked in on my children, asleep and innocent in their beds, I realized this. Obama's strong words in the Rose Garden, the tears of the Sandy Hook Parents as they heard the Senate vote, the cry of "Shame" from a hero who is far more courageous than any Senator was that day - it all replayed inside my mind.

 I know I would trade a million tiny freedoms for the ability to keep my children safe from harm. I bet most parents would. Yet every day, for more and more parents, it’s too late to make that wish.