Curing Hiccups

If I could only teach my dog to stand behind me and rub my earlobes while I drink water when I get a chronic case of hiccups, I'd be perfectly content living alone. 

I thought about this last night, as I curled up on the couch with Eli for a marathon MSNBC hand wringing session on the huge flat screen TV I bought a few years ago so the guy I was dating could watch sports or other crazy shit when he came over. I remember wondering how somebody could stay so happily glued to the television, waiting for something interesting to happen. These days, I'm happy I don't have to compromise.

Even Eli rolls his eyes at me. He sighs audibly as I perk up each time "Breaking News" flashes across the screen, knowing full well it's the same stuff that keeps on breaking. He got to me yesterday, so I decided to flip to something different, something light and refreshing. Madame Secretary. Guest starring Hillary Clinton, Colin Powell, and Madeleine Albright. Sprinkled with some white nationalism and nuclear threats and a whole bunch of women's issues and, of course, faint glimmers of hope that decency will prevail and we will all live happily ever after. Well done, at once uplifting and depressing. 

I felt wistful. Sort of the way I felt when I watched my friend rub her husband's earlobes the other day while he drank water to quash his hiccups. I'd be perfectly content, if only I knew this thing we are witnessing every day were nothing more than a hiccup. 

What struck me most about the episode -- which ended with an inspiring speech warning of the difference between nationalism and patriotism -- was the woman piece. There's the obvious one, of course -- Tea Leoni's character:  beautiful, brilliant, ambitious, powerful, and married to a fabulously handsome and brilliant and sensitive man (that's just not fair). And there were the more subtle ones, about how we all wrestle with our inner contradictions and try to define ourselves in a world so filled with possibilities and barriers. I loved the mix of tension and comprehension between a very young woman and a much older woman, how the accidents of birth and moments in history and and the passage of time put our dreams and ambitions on a rocky continuum. I loved Tea Leoni's confusion, how her competency at work dissolved into blithering idiocy when her daughter lay in a hospital bed, how this superstar on the grand stage could come up with nothing better than more pillows for her immobilized child. 

It made me think about all the twists and turns in my own life -- blissfully less extreme -- and how dangerous it is to think about us women as one monolithic group. At worst, as victims, or an angry mob. At best, as a threat to the old guard, those women who don't shut up, who refuse to know their place. 

We have our struggles, but, like everybody else, we persist the best we can. Must persist, really, no matter where we end up on our own continuum of dreams, if we are to get rid of this hiccup. 

Dialogue vs. Demagogues

This is not about democrats versus republicans. This about democracy and the republic. Enough already.

An old friend commented on my last blog. Right after the 2016 election, when I was loudly wondering, on Facebook, how we had somehow elevated the personification of indecency to the presidency, he had been suggesting -- equally loudly -- that we sore losers stop whining. We both, I am guessing, wondered how we had ever been friends. Our dialogue, last night, based upon his comment, reflects the deep divide, but at least it was civil.

I am over Trump. Not over my firmly held belief that he is an unprincipled conman who cares about nobody but himself (and maybe Ivanka and Don Junior), but over my once irrepressible urge to express exasperation at his vile insults and grossly uncivilized behavior. He is just the flame, the shiny object, the thing that captures our attention while everyone chokes on the smoke. What we don't see -- and what we need to pay more attention to -- is the stuff that fans the flame, the oxygen that fuels the disaster.

The oxygen is everywhere. In the media, both liberal and conservative. When I watch the rare press conference, watch the president or Sarah lie and insult and shut down questioners, I silently implore the journalists to either call them out or walk out. The calling out comes later, when everybody goes back to their ideological cable camps and preaches to their own choir. The walking out never happens. I wish it would. I wish the media would stop covering Trump rallies. I wish they would stop giving air time to his vile tweets.

But how do we stop the oxygen that has revealed itself so starkly in the last few weeks in the United States Senate? Peaceful protest, the thing that defines democracy more than anything, is referred to by the majority leader and his buddies as "mob rule." When asked whether he believed that George Soros (and maybe other wealthy Jewish liberal philantropists?) were paying the Kavanaugh protesters, Chuck Grassley said "I have heard so many people believe that. I tend to believe it." I tend to believe it. Now there's a standard. Just like he tended to believe Kavanaugh was truthful in denying anything that might make him look bad, even when his bad behavior was on full display, in real time. Mitch McConnell persists in referring, from his bully pulpit, to the Democrats as if they are our country's mortal enemies. He talks about how he observes the rules, which I suppose is true, since he has the power to change them, and does, as he sees fit. I listened as Republican after Republican uttered the absurd talking point, about Kavanaugh's accuser, that they believe she is credible because they believe she truly believes that she is telling the truth. What? Is there anything more insulting? More demeaning and patronizing, to say about a woman who has risked everything to come forward? Don't even get me started on Lindsay.

I see no righteousness in any of this, yet there are people out there, old friends even, who disagree. We dig in our heels, and we have grown to view each other with distrust and disdain. We have, somehow, forgotten that it is okay to disagree, and, I believe, it is because we have given oxygen to the loudest and most powerful purveyors of divisiveness. Mitch and Chuck and their ilk still invoke the Clinton name as a last resort to fan the flames, the tried and true dog whistle for the haters. Kavanaugh did the same. What about Bill? What about Hillary?

What about what's happening right now, before our eyes. Americans versus Americans, when we should really be worrying about common enemies, about bigger issues that affect us all. I welcome the dialogue with my old friend, and anybody else, even the ones who call be a snowflake. I think it's our only hope.

The Rape of Lady Justice

A Republican friend thrust his phone at me this morning so I could read about what an asshole Obama was as a teenager. They don't publish those kinds of "truths" in my newspapers, certainly don't discuss those kinds of things on my cable news shows. (I cut this particular Republican some slack, because he refers to me as "nice, for a flaming liberal," even though I am neither.)

The truth, my only truth, I suppose, is that I don't really care how much of an asshole Obama was when he was a teenager. If you're going to be an asshole, the teenage years are certainly a good time for it. Life is a series of trade-offs, I think. What we lose in skin elasticity we gain, theoretically, in the wisdom of age. Theoretically. And possibly some measure of generosity and a modicum of good judgment and even  a small dose of sobriety -- within reason -- that just isn't all that cool when you're 17.

The year I turned 50, I began to reconnect with some old friends from high school. Facebook was being hijacked by folks my age, and the half-century milestone seemed to spur us on. I thought it was pretty cool, even though my kids did not. (They mocked me because one time -- seriously, ONE TIME! -- I mistakenly referred to it as "The Facebook.") Eventually, the kids moved on to more hip things like Snapchat and Instagram ("the Instagram"?) and let us have our old-fashioned cyber fun. Those were heady times, reconnecting with people who had been so much a part of my daily life so long ago, people I had not seen, sometimes not even thought about, for over 30 years. My friend list grew; for the first time in my life, I was impressed with my social life.

Fast forward nine years. We are knocking on the door of 60 now, and we are older than our parents were when we knew each other.  Yikes. One of my old friends sent me a message the other day. I knew him when we were 17, but only to the extent we can know anybody when we are 17. I know him at 59, but only to the extent you can know a person from his pictures, or his posted thoughts, or the pictures of his family. Oddly, though, I think I know him better now, because, well, like I said, with the loss of skin elasticity comes at least a bit of wisdom. We have journeyed through lots of years together, my high school friends and I, even though we have been apart. My friend and I agreed it was a good thing there had not been security cameras in our high school newspaper office. Enough said. That was a long time ago.

My point is, and I've probably said this once or twice in the last week or so, that it's okay to be an asshole when you're 17. It's even okay, sometimes, to be an asshole when you're all grown up. As long as you own it and apologize for it. It is not okay, ever, to be, well, whatever the fifty-something year old Kavanaugh was at his Senate hearings, no matter what happened or didn't happen when he was a teenager. A grown man tossing questions back at his questioners, sneering at them, weeping openly as he reminisced about summer nights with Tobin and Squee and, to quote Matt Damon, Donkey Dong Doug. As if a place on the Supreme Court bench was his birthright, and damn all those Communist Hillary lovers trying to pull it out from under him.

Seriously? Almost every 17 year old I have ever known would have behaved better. He threatened us, all of us, that what goes around comes around. This, as of tomorrow, is our new swing vote.

Mr. Kurd's Wild Ride

I have always liked to think I have a pretty good sense of humor. Maybe I have misjudged myself.

When I walked into Starbucks this morning, a man I had never seen before was talking to two men I know. I stopped by to say hi; the new guy glanced over and immediately went back to his conversation. If you could call it that, since he was the only one who appeared to be talking.

"My sister lives out in California," he told them. (As far as he was concerned, I was not there.) "She thinks Trump is crazy." My guess is he was rolling his eyes, but I cannot be certain because I could only see the back of his head.  "He's a genius."

I may have made some sort of noise, because he turned to me, for a moment. "You don't think he's a genius? You have to admit he's entertaining. Even if you don't like his politics." His politics? What are those?

Not only do I like to think I have a sense of humor, but I also like to think I'm pretty good at conversation, always ready with a quick response. Again, the best I could come up with was some sort of noise. I left.

Okay, when I want to be entertained, I watch late night comedians. When I want genius, I read a good book. Or watch late night comedians.

My jaw dropped yesterday, stayed dropped for over an hour, as I watched a raging imbecile who calls himself our president insult pretty much everybody (except Sean Hannity), lie about pretty much everything (except his devotion to himself), and reveal the kind of ignorance of the world around him that tops Sarah Palin waving at her Russian neighbors from her back yard. He referred to a Kurdish correspondent as "Mr. Kurd," although he did, to be fair, announce that the Kurds are great people. He referred to the press corps (except for his friends at Fox, even though he rarely talks to them) as maniacs, liars, and failing. He said he just wants the Palestinians and Israelis to be happy. One state, two state, red state, blue state. Dr. Seuss must be rolling over in his grave. He's leaning toward the two state thing, by the way -- just another real estate deal.

Contrary to what several men of the Republican persuasion have accused, I do not automatically believe women and disbelieve men. I have no idea what our Supreme Court nominee did or did not do back in the day, although I do know that I dislike his politics and his hard line views and I am not a fan of having the likes of him in a position to shape our future. I am certainly not a fan of the process -- the one he thinks should be fair (to him). As for hypocrisy, there is plenty of that to go around. Except when it comes to the president. He's pretty consistent.

His news conference yesterday was not funny. It was downright frightening.

A Work in Regress

I saw The Wife recently. I don't think I'm giving anything away when I borrow the quote from the preview, when Glenn Close refers to herself as a "kingmaker."

Behind every great man there's a strong woman. It's a quaint and somewhat antiquated idea, certainly in the two thousands, when the concept of gender equality is old news, almost as old as I am. I grew up with the small, incremental victories of budding enlightenment; I still remember when they changed the rules and allowed us girls to wear pants to school.

By the time I went to law school, classes were more or less equally divided between the sexes. There were no barriers to success, to having it all. Well, not until later on, when we had to figure out how to juggle careers with motherhood -- not just in the logistical carpooling kind of way, but in the visceral and instinctive kind of way that none of us anticipated when we were studying for the bar. Back when our strength and our brains and our independence were ours alone.

Behind the nominee for the highest court in the land sat his wife, cringing inwardly, no doubt, as they sat for a softball interview on Fox News. They were both robotic -- he, with his repetitive non-responsive responses that would have had even the most passive jurist tearing at her robe, and she, with her perfect posture and preternatural muteness. At one point, a question was directed at her, the woman behind the man. She bobbed her head, opened and closed her mouth a few times, and stared helplessly at her man. He responded for her. Non-responsively, of course.

I don't know what the justice-in-waiting did when he was in high school and college, though I think I know more than I want to.  Certainly, his wife, the strong woman sitting slightly behind him for the interview, knows too much, but she also knows her place. She is a kingmaker. She may be strong and intelligent and independent, but her job is to remain mute. He would not be where he is without her.

Only the nominee and his accusers know the truth. But what I do know is this. A man with views as antiquated as the ones I was born into, when I had to wear a dress to school, stands poised to dictate what women can do with their own bodies and, by extension, their own lives. A man who cannot answer a soft question with a straight answer stands poised to demand clarity from others on matters that will have a broad and deep impact on all of us. A man who seemed comfortable with his wife's muteness will shape our nation for decades, a half century after we all thought gender equality was, at the very least, a work in progress.

It should give all of us, not just women, pause. I, for one, never signed on to be a kingmaker.

Facing Out

I was startled when the woman approached me, hand outstretched, to reintroduce herself. I was certain we had never met, though she somehow knew my name.

Occasionally, rarely I like to think, I am wrong. When she identified herself, I remembered her immediately. I remembered her long, perfectly straightened hair, and I remembered what always appeared to be an air of overconfidence. We had played tennis either together or near each other a few times, and I remember thinking how odd it was that her hair was always down. Other than that, I never paid much attention.

The woman who approached me yesterday had a chic short haircut, the tendrils shiny either from a fresh wash or a touch of product -- it was tough to say. She was strikingly pretty, with high chiseled  cheekbones and a straight nose and a warm smile. Her teeth were ever so slightly imperfect -- almost overlapping a bit, as if an extra one had been crammed in. I knew very little about her, but I had heard that she had been gone from tennis for a while. Breast cancer.

I debated for a nanosecond before I blurted it out. "I love your short hair." Of course I knew it could not have been her choice, this new do, but it was so stunning I couldn't help myself. She didn't seem offended, and didn't feel compelled to tell me why her hair was suddenly short. I marveled to myself at how so much seemed different about her, with her long hair gone. She had never seemed to be particularly friendly, and I had never been drawn to her. Now, I had this overwhelming urge to ask her if she wanted to grab a coffee later.

She admitted she felt unsure about her short hair, how it put her face "out there." Yes, it certainly did, and I could only see that as a good thing. She admitted she was trying to grow it, go back to her long hair that never went into a pony tail, even for tennis. She wondered if anybody had ever noticed that, thought it strange. Yes, actually, I had. She admitted to her vanity; her obsessive need to hide parts of her face, no matter how impractical or uncomfortable. I touched my own sloppy pony tail, suddenly self-conscious about the mismatched clips pinning down my stray hairs, suddenly self-conscious about all that face "out there."

Whether she grows her hair out, post-chemo, or keeps it short, my guess is this woman has changed in more ways than I can imagine. What I had perceived to be an air of overconfidence was, I suppose, vanity, but it strikes me more as under-confidence, a misguided sense that she should not reveal too much. Funny, what an arduous journey can do to someone. The whole episode made me want to shed all my bullshit, maybe even shave my head. Ahh, maybe if I had finely chiseled cheekbones and a straight nose I would.

Hit to the Girl

Years ago, on a bunch of Saturdays, I somehow found myself filling the last spot in a tennis game with a bunch of guys.

It was fun, in a different sort of way. I enjoyed the male banter, especially how they went at each other without fear of being rude. Never hurtful, but never afraid to tease about the stuff that I only find funny when I tease myself about it. Guys don't tend to be self-deprecating, except when they can do it on some other self's behalf. Not that I mean to generalize.

Of course, there was the girl watching. The favorite was Pocahontas, the woman a few courts down. Not Pocahontas in the derogatory sense that has become so familiar these days, but in the dumb, star-struck kind of way that men admire a goddess from afar. Tall and tan and fit, with smooth and shiny jet black hair that didn't seem to frizz with sweat. She seemed goddess-like to me as well, from afar. I was kind of disappointed when I met her. It's not that she wasn't tall and tan and fit, with smooth and shiny jet black hair that didn't seem to frizz. She was pretty but mortal, supremely ordinary when she spoke. I always hoped the fantasy lived on a bit longer for the guys.

I ran into one of the guys the other day, and we had fun catching up. About the group, about what everybody is up to. He still plays, although some of the old guard has been replaced. I played on those courts just the other day, and was surprised to learn that some of the young women playing nearby were the daughters of women I used to play with, now with children of their own. I reminisced about how I was one of them, years ago. A minute ago, or so it seems. I remembered what it felt like to transform myself from mom to amateur athlete for an hour or two, how satisfying it was.  My version of a fantasy. George Cloo

ney could have been on the next court, and I wouldn't have noticed. Okay, well maybe just a peek.

Hit to the girl. My old friend told me that's what one of the guys used to say when I was on the other side of the net. Funny. I would have looked at it differently, hit to the one most likely to give me a run for my money, whether it was the girl or the boy. Even if it meant I would lose the point. After all, it's just a game., isn't it? 

It's Saturday morning now, and in a few hours the guys will be on the court. My friend said he's going to tell the other guy that he ran into "the girl." As I recall, that guy -- the one who said hit to the girl --he's the one who had no daughters, only sons.