Dancing on a Cloud

We hadn't exactly planned on the rain. Or the wedding dress emergencies. Or the absentee grandmas.

A few days before the wedding, my daughter seemed startled -- and a little bit annoyed -- that I was ignoring some of the logistics and insisting everything would work out. Maybe it's because I was curled up under my covers in a quasi-fetal position. I get why she might have found that annoying -- and not terribly reassuring -- but it should not have been all that surprising. She's known me all her life.

I barely remember the logistics -- again, not surprising, since I was pretty much ignoring them when the nightmare was in progress. Somehow, the wedding day arrived and almost everybody showed up, which, when you think about it, is the most important part. Frankly, I barely remember the wedding. I heard the desserts were amazing. And the band. I vaguely remember having to clamp the bottom of my dress with a ponytail holder so I wouldn't trip on it. I remember the confetti floating down onto the dance floor. In the pictures, my daughter and her new husband seem to be dancing on a cloud.

We couldn't do anything about the rain. As my father used to remind me, all you can do is let it rain. The photographer and the hairdresser tussled over the pros and cons of a quick picture of the bride on the balcony. An umbrella saved  everything -- for the moment and for posterity.

We couldn't do anything about the absentee grandmas, though I admit my efforts were slightly more herculean on that score than they were for the ordinary logistical nightmares that drove me under the covers. As for the wedding dress emergencies, with a few extra trips to New York and a little blind faith, I knew everything would work out, despite the horrified look on my daughter's face.

What I do remember, vividly, is watching my daughter as she approached where her father and I waited to catch her, halfway down the aisle. My daughter who hates to be the center of attention, my daughter who is bright and independent and far too modern to be the shimmering princess walking slowly toward me. I wanted to inch toward her a little, so she wouldn't have to walk too far alone. I tried not to seem too overprotective when I grabbed her arm.

A year ago, I handed my daughter over to her husband, with not an ounce of doubt. I can see it in his eyes -- not just that day but whenever I see them together --  how much he loves her, how well he will take care of her. There will be plenty of logistical nightmares, and, odds are, it will rain. Together, they will just have to let it rain. And keep dancing on a cloud.

Hot Lips is Coming Home

I'm so confused.

As it turns out, Dr. Huxtable, the benevolent obstetrician, was spending plenty of time checking out cervixes, but he definitely wasn't birthing babies. Kind of a busman's holiday, I suppose, except he wasn't raiding the pharmacy for epidurals. I ache for his victims, and I ache for all of us, the loyal viewers who truly believed he was a good doctor and an even better dad. How could we have been so duped.

Meanwhile, back on the Korean peninsula, war is over. Just like that. A handshake, a little tap dance across a line in some sand (or concrete), a quick flourish of two pens. Hot Lips and Hawk-eye packed up their MASH tents long ago, but at least the brave healers who fearlessly practiced their craft while grenades exploded around them can finally take comfort in knowing their efforts were not in vain. Big Sigh. Job well done, Radar, but you already know that, don't you?

Television doctors do health care commercials, because we trust their expertise. We care about what Kanye West and his wife Kim K. think about Trump and politics and anything of any import, as if either one of them is qualified to speak about or for anybody but themselves.

Like lots of people, I have fallen for fictional characters, assuming that's just who the actors are. That's what good writing and good acting does. I've never been a fan of reality shows, though, and I've never had much interest in any of the stars, mostly because I've always wondered how something can be deemed "real" when it's so contrived. If a camera were following me around all day inside my house, I'm guessing there wouldn't be dirty coffee mugs in the sink or stacks of unopened mail on my desk or piles of clean but rejected clothes on the floor of my closet. I'd close the door when I pee.

But the latest reality show, the one being played out in the Oval Office and by Tweet and on 24 hour cable news shows, has caught my attention (to put it mildly). Though we have certainly had our share of goofballs in office over the years -- if politics makes strange bedfellows, it's no surprise that it attracts a good number of folks who are already strange, before they ever get into bed -- no casting director worth her salt would ever have cast 45 as president. Or the various and sundry inept cabinet members as cabinet members. Well, unless it was supposed to be a farce.

Countless heads have rolled in the last 15 months, some deservedly so, some not. But where the stakes are highest, Teflon survives, with barely a scratch. Every day, or at least every few days, we think we've seen it all, and we think, finally, the camel's back is broken. Dr. Huxtable has been exposed and might be carted off to prison. The M.A.S.H. units on the Korean peninsula can officially be packed up. We will finally put this president of ours where he belongs -- either in a padded cell or a concrete one with metal bars -- before he seals our fate as the world's laughing stock, or worse, gets us all killed.

It's difficult, though, when so many of us have trouble separating fiction from truth. When we cannot imagine that television doctors are rapists, or that they would not be capable of tending to mortal wounds to the tune of exploding grenades. When quality "fiction" is floated, we get taken in, and the lines become blurred. Unfortunately, it seems, the same goes for bold faced lies. And as long as we have a president who keeps floating utter bullshit, there will be folks who fall for it. And there will be folks, like me, who become so confused they find it hard to believe anything.

A Pearl in the Rough

It struck me as ironic that only a few hours before Barbara Bush passed away I was chatting with some friends about pearls. I own a strand, given to me by my mother long before she gave up on the idea that I would dress properly.

Sad as the news about Barbara was, it was a welcome respite from the endless hours of exaggerated hand-wringing and second-guessing and collective gasping on cable news shows about the latest surreal tidbit oozing out of our fledgling kakistocracy. (My new favorite word, meaning "government by the least qualified or most unprincipled citizens.") Who knew we'd need a word for that? Who knew we'd get to the point here, in America, where the kakistocrats possess all sorts of power, except the power to shock.

Jewel toned suits, a triple strand of pearls, cottony white hair, and sensible shoes. Behind her benignly predictable demeanor, Barbara was sharp and principled and a force to be reckoned with. Her hair went white when she lost her young daughter to leukemia, and she never did anything to change it. There were too many other important things to do. I am kicking myself now for occasionally referring to her as the President's mother, before she actually was the President's mother. Could there be anybody more admirable, more real, more poignant, than a grieving mother whose hair color disappears with the death of a child.

The Bush family has its flaws, as most families do. But the stark contrast between the no-nonsense Barbara and, well, just about everybody who hangs in or near the White House these days seems to embody our precipitous fall from dignity and grace.

I spend a lot of time wondering how we got here, until I realize how little I appreciated things like pearls and white hair and sensible shoes. It's not that I'm ready to change my wardrobe or go gray (I'm pretty sure I would not be blessed with a Barbara-esque fluffy white cloud). But I'm as guilty as the next guy -- or gal -- the ones who fell for the facade and the reality show entertainment and the bullshit. I am part of a culture that often forgets to look deep or dig deep, and, now, here we are.

We live in a world, now, where an aging porn star is one of the most dignified people in a Federal courtroom in New York. Where we have become accustomed to hanging our hats on all sorts of tawdry details in hopes that something will break the kakistocrat's silver spoon. Maybe it will be #identifythethug -- the thug that threatened Stormy, not to be confused with the President. Maybe it will be traces of urine in a Moscow hotel room. Maybe it will be some wag the dog war that finally gets everybody's attention.

Maybe the death of Barbara Bush, a truly great lady, will remind us of the sheer beauty of dignity and grace and truth. And pearls.

A Smoking Gun, On Fifth Avenue?

                                                                                                                                                                  Does anybody think it's weird that the search of the pit bull attorney Michael Cohen's "offices" happened only a day after a contained but startlingly aggressive looking blaze obliterated some reclusive guy and all his treasures near the top of the vile NYC tower (not to be confused with the still stalled Moscow monstrosity)?

Maybe I have always been a conspiracy theorist. Back in the early '90's, I had lots of working hypotheses about who killed Vince Foster. Well, not lots of them; just one really. But nobody ever seemed all that interested in my Bob Dole counter-conspiracy theory, and I've long since let it go. Well maybe not completely -- but when I smell smoke, it's usually because there's fire. This time, there actually was a fire, but for some reason nobody's paying attention.

This morning, somebody assured me that Michael Cohen is brilliant, and had to know the FBI was coming and was well prepared. Brilliant is hardly the first word that springs to mind when I think of someone who claims he would take a bullet for his boss, and described him -- out loud, no less -- as generous, compassionate, humble, kind, and empathetic. Did he mean to say shameless, delusional, whorish? I'm sure Mike's children are feeling pretty proud these days.

Brilliant, no, but I do believe he's ruthless and immoral and sly like a fox, and I do believe he had already tucked away the really good secrets somewhere else. Say, in the sprinkler-free, unsaleable apartment of a depressed and eccentric, bankrupt recluse who is stuck in a building from hell, surrounded by pricey old paraphernalia that nobody wants. Vintage guitars, ukeleles, artwork, tax returns. You know, the usual stuff.

In this era of assault on truth, who's to say my fake new is any more fake than all the other crap out there. I can't help but think, though, that the fire seemed a little bit too catastrophic, a bit extreme. Had the poor collector wished to kill himself, he could have pulled a Vince Foster. Why die from the outside in, and why destroy all those other treasures. Unless....  Unless....









                                                                                            

Lyin' and Tigers and Mulligans, Oh My!

It did not take me long to give up on golf, a game for which I have little aptitude and the attention span of a flea. A decent shot off the tee might, occasionally, inspire me sufficiently to get all the way to the green before picking up my ball in disgust, but after four holes, no matter what, I was desperate for lunch. 

There were lots of good things about my brief foray into golf (unflattering outfits notwithstanding).  There are worse ways to spend a sunny summer morning than strolling down well manicured fairways with friends who take neither you nor themselves seriously, but love you all the same. There are valuable life lessons to be learned from the foot wedge that reliably catches the close but not close enough putt, the Mulligans, the true meaning of "I'll take a six" (as in, I don't have enough fingers and toes to count any higher). I learned how to overlook a minor, harmless cheat. I learned the beauty of second -- and third, and fourth -- chances. And I learned that the honor system may well have its flaws, but when the stakes are low, who cares? 

And now, out of the woods, comes Tiger. Inhumanly perfect, robotic, actually, until all of a sudden he wasn't. Tiger was unattainable perfection, so much so that it was always difficult to see him as a role model. Sure, I admire greatness as much as the next gal, but it's the chinks in the armor that impress me most. The patently human need for a foot wedge; the yearning for a Mulligan; the urge to embellish the successes, or soften the failures. The admission, sometimes too long in coming, that we are, by nature, deeply flawed. 

I find myself rooting for Tiger, no longer the golden child pushed to greatness by relentless parents, but the aging and battered icon who has clawed his way back from a precipitous fall from grace (and gracefulness) to seek and, just maybe, earn redemption. Even if he doesn't end up wearing the hideous green jacket, I like his story, now, much more than the story that was created for him all those years ago. He is far from perfect, and I mean that as a compliment. 

As Tiger goes, I hope, so will go our country. We were supposed to be a near perfect union, and for a couple of centuries, with a few Mulligans and missteps and maybe a little bit of spin, we held ourselves up to that standard. Until we didn't. Somehow, the things that could never happen here have happened and continue to happen. With a little help from corporate media giants and far away enemies who want to take us down a peg, lies have become truth and truth is mocked. We have elected and sustained a president who denigrates all that makes us great -- not perfect, but great -- and who continues to abuse his ill-gained power to ruin all that we have built. He is the master of the Mulligan, the king of free passes -- for himself. I have no doubt in my mind that, for him, there is no hope of redemption. How can there be, when a person is unaware that he needs it. 

What worries me, though, is whether we, as a nation, can be redeemed. In our own eyes, in the eyes of our children, in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of our imperfect but well-intentioned founders who are turning over in their graves. We may be well served to keep our eyes on Tiger. His redemption may or may not include another Masters, but, most importantly, it appears to include a return to humanity, to decency. To respect for others, to a renewed ability to smile, to a new realization that we are deeply flawed but can, more often than not, take that Mulligan and do better, for everyone.