Kindergarten, Narcissists, and the Harkin Steak Fry

Two weeks ago Monty and I dropped off Abby for her first day of kindergarten. She clung to my hand as we walked towards the classroom, her pink cotton dress getting mussed by the too-big, empty backpack that rested against her shoulders. When we arrived at Miss Mandy’s classroom, a young, bright-eyed, ponytailed woman greeted us.

“Hello!” Miss Mandy cried. “What’s your name?”

“Abby,” my daughter replied, her voice confident and clear. Then she peered past Miss Mandy, making a beeline into the room and towards one of the activity tables. Abby quickly went to work, putting together a block puzzle, while Monty and I introduced ourselves to Miss Mandy and put Abby’s backpack in her cubby. Then we stood off to the side, idly watching and realizing that we weren’t necessary, that it was time to go.

Monty approached Abby first. “Bye, sweetheart,” he said, “have a good day!”

My voice caught in my throat as I chimed in. “We’re so proud of you!”

“See you later!”  She said, not looking at either of us. Abby could barely be bothered to wave goodbye. She was already chatting up the other kids at her table, telling them her life story.

As we walked out I felt ridiculous for crying, but I’ll admit, my tears were leaking a little. I wasn’t the only one who was sentimental. “It seems like just yesterday she was a baby,” Monty mused, “and now here she is, ready to take over the world.”

I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I wouldn’t say that yet. She’s still our baby.”

Monty squeezed my shoulder and kissed my cheek before he veered off towards his car. (We drove separately so I could leave for work.) “She’ll always be our baby, but mark my words: she’s taking over the world. Our Abby could be president one day.”

It seemed like a strange thing to say, so I just told him to have a good day, and I drove to the community college where I teach. It was the first week of classes and that day I taught History of American Politics. So it’s a question I’m used to pondering: what makes a president?

Monty’s statement nagged at me all week, and that Saturday, as we gnawed on overdone meat at the last Harkin Steak Fry, I realized why. “Do you think Abby’s a narcissist?”

Monty roughly swallowed his bite of steak before answering. “What? No, I mean, she is, but all five-year-olds are. Why do you ask?”

“You said she could be president.”

Monty squinted against the sun, leaned back in his metal folding chair, and peered off at all the “Ready” signs the Clintonites had decorated the area with. “I meant that as a good thing,” he replied. “Don’t turn it into a criticism.”

“But all presidents have to be narcissists. Otherwise, they wouldn’t believe they’re up for the job. Do you really think Abby sees herself that way?”

He laughed and widened his eyes. “She’s five!” Then Monty looked around at all the people who were waiting for Hillary to make her appearance. “Be careful, Luce. People might overhear and think you’re making a dig at their candidate. You don’t want to start a riot.”

I sighed. “Do you think she’ll announce her candidacy tonight?”

“Who? Hillary or Abby?”

 I answered him with an eye-roll and Monty leaned in, speaking in a loud whisper. “Do you think she’s narcissistic enough to be president?”

“I don’t know. She’s not Bill, and that’s always been her problem.”

He smiled, thought lines creasing his forehead. We’ve been married long enough that he can answer most of my questions without me needing to ask them. “I only said that thing about Abby being president one day because it’s fun, imaging your kids growing up and surpassing you.”

“I suppose,” I responded. “But it’s also fun to enjoy the moment, while they’re still young.”

“I agree.” And his fingers brushed the bare skin of my arm. “So let’s enjoy the moment, right now.”

My fingers found his, they locked together, and somehow we found a quiet, peaceful moment in the midst of a massive crowd. That day, Hillary did not announce her presidency, but pundits still saw her speech as the beginning of her campaign, perhaps even the beginning of an era. But the crowd wasn’t so analytical. As they sat beneath the Midwestern sky, listening to Clinton, there was a hope and enthusiasm that’s missing from our society most of the time now, at least when it comes to politics.

So what makes a president? Is it narcissism, or is it just being the right person at the right time, with the ability to get elected? Because this week, Ken Burn’s Roosevelt documentary stressed strongly that nowadays, FDR would not be elected. Not a chance.

I mean come on: Imagine if we had a great leader, except he’s in a wheelchair, oh, and he’s admitted to having affairs, and now he has a secretary that’s almost like his wife. But speaking of his wife, his real one is outspoken, liberal, and she has a special female friend who will be living in the White House with them. Do you think reporters would stay away from that? Do you think photographers would agree not to take pictures of him getting lifted out of his car? And if, by some miracle, he did get elected, would Congress pass the New Deal? Would conspiracy theorists not circulate a rumor that the polio had affected his brain?

No wonder hope and enthusiasm are absent from politics lately.

But the nice thing about hope and enthusiasm is that they’re renewable. I was reminded of this when I tucked Abby into bed the other night.

“Sweet dreams,” I said. “Get a good night’s sleep. You have another big day tomorrow.”

“Mommy,” Abby said, giving me a hug. “Do you think that tomorrow I’ll learn how to read?”

I cocked my head. “What do you mean? You already know how to read.”

“Only some words!” She cried. “I want to read all the words!”

“You will,” I told her, and I stroked her curly hair. “Don’t worry. You have a lot of time.”

She shook her solemnly. “But there’s so much I want to know, Mommy. There’s so much I want to get done.”

****

News Flash!

The Next Breath, the latest Robin Bricker novel, is now available on Amazon. Click here to download your copy.

James Brady, Real Fears, and the End of the Bathroom Ghost

The other night my son three-year-old son Noah was afraid to go to sleep. Earlier that evening we’d watched Mickey and the Beanstalk and Noah was worried that a giant was going to come and eat him.

 “Do you understand the difference between real and pretend?” I’d asked Noah, as I leaned over his tense little body, which was snuggled up under bright blue sheets. Noah creased his brow like a little adult and shook his head. “Pretend stuff is in movies and stories, but tit can’t actually happen.” I stroked his forehead. “Things like giants and talking mice are pretend. They can be fun to think about, but they’re not real. There’s no such thing as giants, so I promise you, you’re safe.”

Which of course, was a lie. Not the part about the giants, but about being safe? If I was honest I’d tell Noah that there are all sorts of dangers out there, and we never know when something terrible could happen. But he’s too young to learn such a lesson, and anyway, he’ll eventually figure that out on his own.

We all do. One memory that stands out for me is when Ronald Reagan was shot. I was ten years old. I came home from school and settled down in front of the television, but my cartoons were interrupted by a breaking news bulletin.

I didn’t understand. Why would somebody shoot the president? Why would he kill his press secretary? That was what the newscaster had said, that James Brady, Ronald Reagan’s press secretary, was dead. He wasn’t, but now, over thirty years later, Brady’s 8/4/14 death has been ruled a homicide.

John Hinckley Jr. most likely won’t be charged.

Over thirty years ago, the jury decided he was insane. He’d done it to get the attention of Jodie Foster, after all, and I guess that didn’t work out too well for him. It didn’t work out too well for James Brady either, because he suffered from the effects of the shooting for the rest of his life.

And in those thirty years plus years, and despite Brady’s efforts to advocate for gun control, our tolerance towards gun violence has only widened. I hate to say it, but compared to the shootings of recent years, John Hinckley Jr.’s assassination attempt is pretty tame. But James Brady believed that we should do something about our hypothetical fears, fears which had been proven real to him. 

And sometimes, even the fears we can’t explain, control us. So we have to make a change, which is what happened to my brother-in-law, Jack.

“I’m moving,” he told me. “I’m cutting my losses, selling my condo, and getting the hell out.”

He actually had many reasons for wanting to move, despite the fact that he’d been in his condo for little over a year, but his urgency had to do with one thing and one thing only.

His bathroom ghost.

“It had gone away for a while,” he told me, as we prepared his mom’s birthday dinner. Everyone else was safely out of ear shot, so he could confide in me without worry that others would overhear and call him crazy.

“But it came back?” I asked, as I poured vinaigrette onto the kale salad. By “it” I meant the mysterious white powdery substance that seemed to magically accumulate in large clumps on his sink and mirror, the puddles of water on the floor (when no water had been running) and the eerie sound of footsteps when no one was around.

“Yeah, ever since I called that plumber, and he told me it was just hard water deposits, it all somehow stopped.”

“But that doesn’t explain the footsteps,” I tell him.

“I know.” Jack sighed as he stirred the sauce for the pasta, and his face flushed from the heat of the stove.

I looked over my shoulder, checking to make sure that no family member, most especially Monty, was nearby. There’s no way he’d turn down the opportunity to mock his little brother about this. “What happened?” I asked in a low voice.

Jack kept his voice low too. “I came home late, after a busy night at the restaurant. I was so tired that when I got out of my car, I tripped and banged up my knee. I limped all the way up to my condo, and when I got inside I stumbled toward the bathroom and used the sink to wash off my knee before I even turned on the lights. But when I happened to look up into the mirror, I saw this dark figure standing behind me.”

I shivered at the thought. “Was anyone actually there?”

“Of course not!” He turned off the stove and placed the sauce pan onto a hot pad. “I was alone. So I told myself I’d imagined it, and then I finished cleaning my knee, took some Advil, and went to bed.”

“Okay…”

“But,” he continued, “the next morning I got up, and for the first time in months, there was the same powdery white stuff all over my bathroom.” Jack forcefully waved his wooden spoon at me. “And I’m sorry, but there’s no way it’s hard water deposits. Hard water does not accumulate into little clumps overnight.”

“So that’s it? You’re moving?”

“Are you telling me I shouldn’t move? That I should “deal” with something that I don’t understand, with something that scares me? I can move, Lucy, so I’m going to. Maybe my fear seems silly and irrational, but it’s real to me, and I’m not going to put up with it any longer.”

“Hey, I get it. I wouldn’t want to a spooky bathroom either.”

He squinted. “Are you making fun of me?”

I sighed. “No. I’m being serious. There are already too many things in this world to be afraid of. Your bathroom shouldn’t be one of them. So if you can do something about it, you ought to.”

I only wish that more fears, both real and pretend, could be so easily abated.

  

****

Attention! The Next Breath, which is the followup story to The Holdout is coming soon, but you can read these books in either order. Read on for the book description, and view the cover and book trailer!

I kiss him, choosing love over honesty, which is a choice nobody should ever have to make…

Robin loves sweet, responsible Nick, with his penchant for Beethoven and Ben Folds Five. But she also still loves her college boyfriend Jed, an irreverent playwright plagued with cystic fibrosis. Now Robin is struggling to reveal her secrets and confront her past, as she finally performs in the play that Jed wrote for her, eleven years ago. Will Robin have the strength to keep her promise and stay true to her heart?

Alternating between present-day scenes, college flashbacks, and segments from Jed’s play, this tear-jerking yet uplifting tale illustrates how life is finite but love is infinite, and the road to recovery begins with the next breath.

The Next Breath

Hobby Lobby and I Want to Marry Harry

Does a woman have the right not to be pregnant? Does she even have the right to be a woman?

In light of recent Supreme Court rulings and reality TV show viewings, I have been pondering these questions. Of course, I wasn’t surprised by the Hobby Lobby verdict, but I was sickened by it.  I was actually more surprised by the television show, I Want to Marry Harry, and I was slightly sickened by that too.

I watched every episode. Now, in my defense, it’s summer and none of our regular shows are on, and we’ve already burned through House of Cards. Plus, there’s the World Cup, which Monty’s been watching with members of his middle-aged-man soccer team. That’s left me to myself, because I’m not “allowed” to watch certain shows without him.

I realize it’s unfair for Monty to demand that I put my television viewing on hold, while he’s off gallivanting with his soccer buddies. But equality within a marriage is even more complex than societal equality, and if you don’t buy that justification, well, Monty isn’t “allowed” to watch certain shows without me, either.

Anyway, one night I was scrounging Hulu and I Want to Marry Harry was featured, and as I was bored, somewhat tired, and in the mood for something light. I figured, why not? Well, there were actually several reasons why not, but we’ll get to them later.

I won’t lie. I was transfixed. In the first episode, Matt, the Prince Harry look-alike, had already given the boot to Leah, the one contestant who wasn’t into fashion and who didn’t know how to flirt. I was in the middle of the second episode, and Maggie was being mocked for drinking too much while other contestants debated whether or not “Sir” was actually Prince Harry. I didn’t hear any footsteps so I jumped at Monty’s voice behind me.

“What are you watching?”

“Nothing!” I grabbed the remote and quickly shut the TV off. “Is the World Cup already over?”

“Yeah, for the night.” He gave me a look full of scrutiny. “Were you watching that Prince Harry look-alike show?”

“Maybe. Yes. So what if I was?”

Monty held up his hands in mock surrender. “No judgment, Luce. I just thought you were a feminist.”

Nowadays, “feminist” is almost a dirty word, although really, it just means that you stand for equal rights, equal pay, and equal respect between men and women. So yes, of course I’m a feminist. Yet I watched this show where women were lied to, made to look stupid, categorized into types (the drunk, the slut, the princess, the good-girl, etc.) and they were reduced to being “girls.”

Matt/fake Prince Harry and Kingsley the butler always referred to the women as girls.  Even the women did it, when talking about each other or even about themselves. They were always girls, never women.

Why? Because a “woman” is physically mature, capable of adult thoughts and actions, of caring for herself, and possibly for others too. A “girl” is juvenile, beautiful in her naïveté, and still attached to fairy tales. This show required girls, not women.

But this country’s legal system is no better. With the recent Hobby Lobby decision, the Supreme Court also chose girls over women. One of Hobby Lobby’s main arguments was that the contraception in question can induce abortion, but science proves otherwise. So this case was decided more on fairy tale than on reality: girls don’t need contraception as much as corporations need to not have to think about what real women need.

I don’t claim to know what every woman needs, but I do know that the right not to be pregnant rates pretty high. As for my own needs, there are many, and my desires are even more numerous. I suppose one of them includes entertainment, because I Want to Marry Harry was entertaining, if nothing else. By the time sweet Kelly started sabotaging mean Megan, and every “girl” who suspected that Matt wasn’t actually Prince Harry immediately got sent home, I’d given up the pretense.

“It’s a fascinating comment on American society,” I told Monty, several days later, when I was still watching the show. He just laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

Okay, so maybe I hadn’t given up my pretenses, certainly not altogether. But I’m no worse than the Supreme Court, who still believes that all a woman needs is a fairy tale.

*****

 Special sale! Right now American Angst is only 99 cents! Click here to read more stories about Lucy and Robin.

Also, a new Lucy/Monty story called "Scared Together" is featured in Love is All You Need: Ten Tales of Love from the Sophie King Prize. It will only be available in this book, and I'm very honored to have it included. Click here to download it!

Weddings, Benghazi, and Extreme Measures

What happens when there is nothing new to talk about? If you’re Vanity Fair, you run an article on Monica Lewinsky, if you’re CNN, you run reports on every new ping that might be coming from missing Malaysian flight 370, and if you’re a republican, you appoint Draco Malfoy to head an all new House select committee on Benghazi.

Luckily for me, I haven’t run out of things to talk about, so I haven’t had to go to such extreme measures. However, that doesn’t mean I that I haven’t gone to any extreme measures lately. For me, extreme is normal.

When Robin told us she was getting married, the first words out of my mouth were, “You guys should have the reception here!” I didn’t mean to say it, but I was caught up in the excitement of love and potential, excitement and possibility. Monty’s eyes had widened in horror as the words escaped from my lips, but to his credit, he just nodded and agreed. “Definitely,” he’d said. “Our patio will be perfect for the reception.”

Robin is his cousin, after all, though I’d claim her as my own blood relative if I could. And I seriously admire her determination to make sure all the decorations, eating utensils, and centerpieces are “upcycled,” just like the clothing she designs. However, it’s a lot of work to take old discarded stuff and make it desirable.

“So you're sure you can find everything you need for your wedding in this thrift store?” I looked around at all the old popcorn poppers, workout videos, and 90s style boots, trying not to sniff too hard, because it smelled like dust and Doritos in here.

“Of course!” She said. “This will be awesome; just look at all the possibilities!”

I looked around, and where Robin saw possibilities, I saw junk. But I tried to be diplomatic about it. “I suppose,” I said, “but don’t you want something shiny and new?"

“Nah. What’s the fun in that?” Robin perused the down the aisle of the Good Will, occasionally stopping to inspect a knickknack or a candy bowl. “I like taking old, forgotten about objects, and making them shiny and new all over again.”

“But you’re getting married! You’re entitled to a little bit of indulgence.”

Robin smiled at me. “Exactly, and this is my form of indulgence! Besides, I think indulgence and opinions are the same. They’re okay, as long as you’re not being wasteful or ignorant.  I mean, nobody is entitled to stupidity.”

“Hmm,” is all I said, and I kept my head down.

Sure, I’m all about preserving the environment and not being wasteful, but Robin was making me feel bad about myself. If she can’t indulge in a wedding, what must she think of my lifestyle?

Then again, she was directly benefitting from my lifestyle, or at least from the large West Des Moines home that Monty and I bought last summer. It had seemed like more than we needed at the time, but after selling our house in Seattle, we were trying to avoid paying a fortune in capital gains taxes.

“Lucy,” Robin said, “Don’t worry. I prefer it this way. I like finding treasure from other people’s trash. It’s exciting.”

“Okay,” I said, and I gave her a sideways hug. Then I sorted through a box of plates. Some were from old tea services; others were looked like they came from Target, five years ago, in the clearance aisle.  “Do you think you’ll want all of these?” I asked.

“Maybe. But not if they’re plastic.” Robin tucked her hair behind her ears and examined the plates herself.

“Plastic’s not okay, even when it’s second hand?”

“Normally plastic’s fine. I just want a vintage look.” She held up an olive green one, with a picture of a rooster. “Now that’s ugly,” she said. “I’d rule out olive green altogether, but then we’d never find enough plates.”

This was the sort of look she was going for:

We sifted through all the plates, adding a lot of them to our cart. And once I got into the task, I realized that taking something old and discarded, changing its context and making it beautiful, is a romantic idea and perfect for a wedding. More people would probably do the same, if it didn’t require so much time and energy.

Yet maybe when it’s a labor of love, it's easier.

But what if the desire to upcycle is fueled by anger or righteous indignation? Or confusion? Because when something upsetting happens, people want answers. And in politics, people want someone to blame.

I’m talking of course about Benghazi, and the time and energy Republicans are spending, upcycling this issue yet again, hoping that they can change a tragic mistake, put it in the right context, and change it into a shiny, new political scandal that will bite Hillary Clinton in the butt.

There have already been more than a dozen probes. Republicans insist they want answers about what happened before, and after, the attack, so nothing like it happens ever again. But if that were the case, why not form a select committee to investigate all the attacks against diplomatic outposts in recent years (and there have been a lot) so we can better protect our diplomats?

This is not about good will; it’s about blame, and finding political gain by whatever means necessary.

Sometimes I wonder what our nation would be like if we got rid of all the politicians, and let the goodhearted, well-intentioned people, like Robin, have a try. She can see beauty and potential where most people see only hopeless waste.

After we finishing combing the store over for every possible bit of china and glass, Robin asked me how much time I had.

"I was hoping to hit a few more stores," she said. "I need to get started on my dress."

She plans on taking something like these:

And turning them into something like this:

****

Exciting news! American Angst is now available on Amazon. Read on for the description, and for an excerpt from the title story. Or if you're already convinced you want to read it, click here to purchase a copy!

Intimate, snarky, and completely relatable, American Angst is about two women grappling with love and pregnancy, sex and careers --while attempting self-discovery in a crazy world. 

Lucy needs to save her family. Robin needs to save herself. These tightly interwoven stories chart their growth as they make their way through Thanksgiving dinners, bad breakups, celebrity scandals and political campaigns. For laughter through tears, don't miss American Angst, whether you're new to these characters or you think of them as old friends. 

(Included in this collection are Lucy's posts about the 2012 election, which were originally seen on her liberal blog, NovemberSurprises.blogspot.com. There's new, additional material! Spoiler: Obama still wins.) 

Bonus: This edition includes an excerpt from The Holdout

Excerpt:

I know my fame is fleeting, and I will be relieved when I can go back to my normal, everyday life. At least then I won’t feel like I’m still in high school, terrified that I won’t be invited to the next big party.

At least then, I’ll feel like myself.

Perhaps I’m just trying to make myself feel better. Because as I sit here, side by side with Ava Andrews, I’ve never felt less like myself. Ava is probably the world’s most famous woman, and she is interviewing me as a part of her “Fascinating Females” series. Though when I compare myself to the other women she’s interviewing, it’s like the local news versus the latest gossip headline on Gawker. There’s just no contest.

When you think of me, you don’t think about political scandals, celebrity arrests, or the newest, hottest cat video on YouTube. With me, you think about library closings or the weather report. Slightly interesting? Yes. But fascinating? No.

Now I’m worried that Ava has come to this realization and regrets having me on her show. She raises one dark eyebrow and smiles in her reserved way, like she’s a disapproving bank teller handing out a rather large cash withdrawal.

“You have become something of a role model in the past few months,” she says, her voice deep and significant. “What’s that like for you?”

I stifle a cough and grin. I’m well aware of how I come across on camera and I’m determined to be humble, like an unlikely Olympic gold-medal winner who is more thankful to God, or fate, or luck, than any talent or skill she might have. “I guess I don’t think of it that way – you know, that I’m a role model. If I’ve inspired young women to go after their dreams, that’s fantastic. But I’m just enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame.”

Ava shifts and leans forward on her white armchair, and I shift and lean back on the white couch. The white table in front of me has a glass of water that’s calling to me in a tantalizing voice, “Drink me Robin,” as if I’m Alice in Wonderland in the desert. But I’m worried the glass would slide right through my sweaty fingers and I’d spill it all over Ava’s spotless white set and my drench my blue dress in the process.

My blue dress is what compelled me to get over my fears and do this interview in the first place.

I made my dress from an oversized man’s silk shirt, and I kept the collar but cinched the waist, removed the sleeves and added a ruffle at the bottom so it wouldn’t be too short. And along my breast bone there’s an oval-shaped cut-out, small and subtle, covered by a thin layer of blue chiffon. This dress is the signature piece for my new collection, and I’m hoping Ava will ask me about it and my clothing line in general, so I can generate some free publicity.

Because everyone knows that Ava Andrews has the Midas touch, and her power extends to books, beauty products, and even automobiles. If what you’re selling happens to be one of her “product crushes,” then she’ll not only buy a bunch for her show guests, but her endorsement will ring in the ears of the masses. She literally makes or breaks careers.



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.