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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are we giving ten minutes, Jack?”

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

“But –“

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

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

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

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

“Okay…” I said. “So it’s nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obamacare, Not Enough Turkey, and Too Many Brussels Sprouts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, why would it?”

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

I sighed. “What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghosts, Mirrors, and Ted Cruz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?” I was intrigued.

“But only in the bathroom.”

“You have a haunted bathroom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Holdout

Hey, November Surprise fans! A new post by Lucy is coming soon, but if you're eager for more, there's good news. The Bricker family saga continues, and this time it's about love, justice, and reality TV! The Holdout has just been released today, and it features Robin Bricker, Jack and Monty's cousin (Jack, Monty, and Lucy are in the story as well.)

To buy it on Amazon (only $2.99!) click here.

Robin wanted to win The Holdout, a cutthroat reality TV show, so she gave it her all, challenge after challenge. Then she fell for Grant, with his irresistible eyes and heartbreaking life story.

But Grant was only using Robin as they competed for a million dollars.  Once home, Robin wants to hide from the humiliation as episodes of The Holdout are aired, and she worries her family was right all along; she’s not a survivor.

Yet she could surprise everyone, and have the last laugh.

Besides, Robin now has jury duty. And as she forges ahead, confronting her demons about bravery, justice, and romance, Robin will come to decide which is more important: the courage to stand alone, or the strength to love again.

Laurel Osterkamp’s award winning novels have been hailed as funny, intelligent, snarky and poignant. She is the author of four novels and two novellas, including the November Surprise series, which, like The Holdout, features the Bricker family. Laurel was recently on a federal jury, and she loves watching Survivor.

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!

Click here for Amazon.
Click here for Smashwords.

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.