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.

A Special Person, Gone but Remembered, Fondly

I never knew his name, and he never knew mine, but he always asked me about Eli, my boxer. He would tell me how much he loved Eli, which I thought to be impossible. They barely knew each other.

His name was Billy, and, as it turns out, he is the one who died the other day, hit by a car. I had heard rumblings about the tragedy, the circumstances, given it a moment or two of pause, and then tucked it away with all the other things in life that are not my problem. Another death, close to home, but anonymous.

Anonymous until this morning, when a Facebook post popped up, about Billy. The picture took my breath away.

I had heard Billy long before I ever really paid attention to him, narrating his thoughts, seemingly to nobody, early one morning in my new local Starbucks. Other than an occasional grunt, nobody really responded to what he was saying, which didn't seem to faze Billy. I saw him almost every morning after that, and he would stop to tell me about his day, or whatever he was thinking. Sometimes I nodded politely; sometimes, I asked him questions; sometimes, especially at the beginning, I walked away quickly, thinking about all the unimportant things I had to do. I hate that I did that, even once.

Eli and Billy took to each other immediately. Eli loves attention, and Billy loved Eli's slobbery kisses. It's an acquired taste, and most people have yet to acquire it. It doesn't bother me that Billy didn't know my name; he thought of me as the lady who brought him Eli, which was really all that mattered. It bothers me that I never knew Billy's name, though, never thought to ask. Billy would be referred to, I suppose, as a "special needs" adult, but -- as far as I could tell -- Billy was special but not needy. He seemed to find joy in everything and in everybody. He appreciated the things we all take for granted, and couldn't wait to share his joy, even if some of us, sometimes, were too preoccupied to listen. If he needed anything, it was to make sure every person he met could feel the kind of happiness he felt.

We all need a little bit more of "Billy" in life. I will miss the sight of him riding his bike in the neighborhood, greeting everyone. I will miss the sound of his voice, a reminder of how he saw every small thing as a gift, the way a lot of the rest of us do not. I will miss watching him receive Eli's kisses, and I will miss having one more opportunity to ask him to tell me more about the cubs game, or his "Olympic" games, or his family. To let him know I shared his joy.

Postcards from the Bubble

Yesterday, I joined a group of women in my old neighborhood for a postcard writing and phone banking party. I knew many of them, from the days when what drew us together was the dream (and the toil) of raising kids in a safe place with good schools. Our property taxes were high, the carpooling schedules were grueling, but we seem to have, as a village, launched some pretty good citizens.

What drew us together yesterday was the collective state of shock and outrage that has overtaken the bubble, festering as the months tick by and the indignities and atrocities go on, unchecked. We women don't like feeling powerless. I turned in my hand wringing for hand-writing desperate pleas on postcards to folks outside the bubble, imploring them to vote. If I were to receive such a card, it would go directly into the recycling bin, as does much of my mail. If I were to receive a phone call, I would let it go unanswered. It felt good, though, to do something. I stayed the course, kept writing.

Was it any different when we were raising children? I often think -- and admit, out loud -- that I believe my three turned out well in spite of me, and not because of anything I may have done right. As they grew, so too did their independence, and, it seemed, my irrelevance. I wondered, sometimes, if it would make more sense to just sit back and hope for the best. But I stayed the course, and did what I could, as pointless as it might seem.  Not just because I loved them unconditionally, but because was my responsibility, my job.

The night before Stanley, my "grand pup," had a bit of a freak accident, I had a dream that something happened to him. I have since decided that I am possessed of some mystical powers -- and promise to warn my friends and loved ones to be careful if they ever appear in such a dream, rather than wait for the confirming phone call. Stanley, thank goodness, has lived to tell the tale.

Last night, I had a dream that there was an earthquake in D.C., a quake that measured over 100 on the Richter Scale. Whom do I warn? An earthquake in D.C. is highly improbable, but I take comfort in the idea that a seismic shift is afoot, creeping up on us as slowly but as surely as the imperceptible changes that led us to where we find ourselves, now.

Most of us did not see it coming, the train wreck. Just as when my pediatrician told me, when my first born would not relinquish her pacifier, that one day her preferred form of plastic would be a credit card, the thought seemed preposterous. I never saw it coming, for any of my children, as they moved through toddlerhood and adolescence and the teens. I never saw it coming, even when I had already seen it happen twice. And I never saw "this" coming, the racism bubbling back up from its latency, the lure of crassness and indignity and an "us versus them-dom" the likes of which I never thought possible. I didn't even know there was a "them."

The shift is coming. Even if nobody reads the postcards, or answers the phone. I have lived it, and I have dreamt it. No warnings necessary; just rest, assured.

Thoughts About Nothing in Particular (So What Else is New?)

An acquaintance recently suggested I write something more useful than my self-reflective bullshit. That's not a direct quote, but it pretty much captures the spirit of the advice.

Two possible  responses sprang immediately to mind -- the third, to heed the advice -- didn't come into play until days later. I resisted the first option, which was to to simply tell him to fuck himself, and went with the other, my "go-to," which is to get defensive. It is useful, damn it. Even if only to my small handful of loyal readers. And, if not to them, it is useful, to me.

I'm not big on handing out suggestions, even worse about taking them. I cringe when someone questions me. And, by cringe, I mean I shrivel up into an amorphous and blithering little ball and remind myself I have never done anything right, ever. Maybe I should have asked the psychologist about that, the one I dated, once. I told some friends, the other day, that I've come to look at dating as simply a pathway to lots of free meals. The psychologist only sprang for a drink though; I should have extracted some therapy before scratching him off the list.

My son-in-law suggested I write a book about my dating life, pepper it with little vignettes about the man I sleep with on a regular basis (my devastatingly handsome castrated boxer) and the new gentleman in my life, Stanley, the bull dog, my grand-pup. He's recently castrated, but has yet to feel the full effects, and humps my leg whenever he gets the chance. It's annoying and a little painful, but I admit I kind of like feeling irresistible.

Dating, in my early 50's, was bad enough. Now, as 60 looms large, it's awful. It seems less about physical attraction than the absence of revulsion. Chemistry morphs into practicality, something certainly more complicated than a swipe left or right; it's a constant weighing of each other's baggage, assessing whether the two lifetimes' worth of wear and tear can coexist without disturbing whatever precarious balance we've each achieved. Only then do you even wonder whether, if you dim the lights enough, there might be something better than indifference or resignation.

If there's anything useful in here, I suppose it's only apparent to me. I know that dinners out are sometimes more fun than dinner at home, alone, and sometimes it's just better to hang on the couch, smothered by dogs, covered in dog hair. At least the dogs don't talk. If I had anything profound to say, I would write something useful, advise women coming down the pike behind me, divorced, approaching 60.

But you're on your own, ladies. Again, I'm not big on handing out suggestions. Or taking them.