A Saab story

I can see paradise by the...

Several years ago, I inherited my father-in-law's Saab.

It's a terrific car. It has way more power than my Honda Civic, plus the windows are automatic. It has a lot of buttons for things I still have no idea about. It's a fancier car than I'd ever had.

However. It now also gets all quitty when it's hot out and it has to sit in traffic.

Maybe some of you remember how last year my car and I both broke down in hysteria on Rock Creek Parkway at rush hour?

One of the things that I managed to tell Nick, through my sobs and inability to breathe or articulate, was that there was an icon on the dashboard that looked like a yellow submarine. It is number five on this chart, which I got from a UK site called The Auto Agency.

I'm pretty sure my friend Steve referred to number three the "butt crack" light. This makes me feel better.

I mean, do you know what all those symbols mean?

In any case, my car stopped, and we had it towed to the Saab place in Virginia.

They fixed what they thought it was, and then I drove it to the Outer Banks to hang out with Wendy and her family, and lo, on 95 in Friday rush hour, my car started doing that thing where I press on the pedal and it does...nothing. I knew this was the precursor to it flashing the yellow submarine light and then just plain stopping.

So I pulled off into a small town that coincidentally had a garage that was about to close. There was nothing they could do for me. So I bought the kids ice cream, which they proceeded to drip on the floor because the temperature was approximately one million degrees.

Nick suggested we let the car cool down, and then get ourselves to Potomac Mills, which was about five miles away. We could have dinner while a storm was due to roll in and drop the temperature significantly, after which point we could drive home.

We did all these things, as well as buying Jordan a pair of maroon Chuck Taylor shoes at Off 5th, which he then referred to as his "designer fashion sneakers".

Once the car cooled down, I drove it home without issue. Nick took it to the Saab place, and they replaced something, or two somethings, plus the part that keeps the gears from suddenly snapping, because that was about to go, which sounded rather alarming.

It's an old car.

So we did all these things and all was fine all winter. Longer than all winter, because it stayed cold cold cold forever.

And then in April I drove India and some friends to a birthday party in Leesburg. It was a hot, sunny day. And on the way back, on 66, my car started doing that nothing thing that it does when I press the pedal.

I knew it was about to get quitty. I was trying not to freak out.

But traffic was moving. I got our friends home just as my car flashed a bunch of lights and then stopped.

I turned it off and got it started again, drove the mile home, and left it for three days. I didn't even want to look at it. I was pissed.

We dropped it off about three weeks ago. Nick asked them to keep it until they figured out what was wrong with it.

Yesterday they said they've run through two tanks of gas trying to get it to quit. They left it running for eight hours, and then drove it home.

No stalling. They can't make it fail.

They said they're stumped. One idea they proffered was that maybe, just maybe, Nick's wife, which would be ME, had perhaps filled it up with regular gas, rather than premium. The engine is old, and at this point, kind of picky.

Now. I may not know what the yellow submarine light's real name is. I may thing that one of those lights looks like loops of spaghetti. And I may have Nick talk to the garage because I genuinely don't know what I'm talking about with cars.

All these things are true.

But. What's also true is that I am a first-born rule follower. And. I happen to know that the octane rating has to do with the temperature at which your car burns gas. I learned this on NPR. You have to use the right number for your car's engine.

(Even if you think it's annoying, because your Honda used cheaper gas and also never quit on you. But you had to work up to that crazy left-side merge into the GW Parkway to Alexandria, because your Honda didn't actually have the power to merge in with anything approaching alacrity.)

The fact is that we have two cars, when one of us rarely drives. We have no car payment, because both our cars are old as god, and mine was free. There would be no reason to buy a new car if we got rid of this one.

And I actually love this car. Except for the quittiness, which makes me very resentful.

So.

This afternoon I'm picking up my car, crossing my fingers, and driving it back into the city. And then I'm basically never driving it to Virginia again.

What I really, really need is Car Talk. The Tappet Brothers would figure this business out.

No one can find the rewind button, girl. So cradle your head in your hands. And breathe.

So we hug our babies tight and spread the love we can.

Tuesday night I drank a lot of gin and stayed up too late.

It was clear where the election was going, but I refused to believe it. Nick, usually the voice of moderation in the house, was gone. I rely on him to stop me from binge-watching a show until 4 am and being a zombie the next day.

So I kept pouring more gin and more tonic and slicing more lime. And serving my friend Andrea more beer.

This wasn't really happening, was it?

And then at 1:30 am, we threw in the towel. It was actually happening.

I woke up with that sick feeling in my stomach. I looked at my phone. It really happened.

The kids were all excited when they asked who won. And I had to say, "Trump."

Their first question? "Where are we moving?"

And I had to explain that that had been idle talk. Because Daddy's job is here. It was easy for us to say, because we never, never thought Trump would win.

Yesterday DC seemed like a post-apocalyptic town. It was strangely quiet. People were out, but very subdued. 

At school drop off, everyone looked traumatized. India clung to me in her classroom.

I started talking to another mom who said they were going to move to Colombia. Her parents are Colombian, and her husband is black. They don't believe they are safe under the new regime.

I started to cry.

I stopped to talk to a couple moms out front. They'd been crying. One friend, who is Turkish by birth, joined us. She feels particularly vulnerable as a Muslim woman.

We got a letter yesterday from the principal saying that they had assured the kids that they are safe, and that the adults in their lives will protect them. That all students regardless of religion and documentation status have the right to an education and protection within a school.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

When have we ever needed language like that after an election?

I certainly joked about fleeing to Canada if McCain or Romney won. But I had not been made to feel unsafe during the election just for being a woman.

I am a blond haired, blue eyed white woman. I am not a person of color. Nobody's eye stops on me for racial profiling. I don't wear a hijab and fear that someone will threaten me for it.

I'm married to a WASPy white man. We have white kids. We don't fear that someone will bully them, or worse, for the color of their skin or their religion.

Nobody is telling us to go home. Although for me, born in India, I am tempted.

(Actually, though I was not, all four of my grandparents were born in the U.S. So I'm a legitimate voter in that evil Anne Coulter's fantasy world.)

Friends are saying we need to dig in and work hard in our communities and promote kindness. We need to volunteer for the social services we think are so important.

We need to stand up to bigotry. We need to point out racism, even if it makes us uncomfortable. We need to be on the lookout for bullying and stand strong against it.

I agree.

But I also think, hell, let's just walk away. I get that it's an elitist viewpoint to consider this option, because most people can't just walk away even when there's a hurricane approaching.

And the truth is, Nick's work is here. It is not portable. He supports our entire family.

But in my fantasy world, we all walk away. We take our talents and our brains to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Portugal, wherever else.

We leave the country to those who voted for Trump. They can have what they deserve.

In fact, he doesn't give a shit about the bulk of them. They will get what they deserve in voting for him.

But we'll be stuck with it as well.

For now, I hug my kids every chance I get. I remind them that everyone is equal. I tell them they are safe and loved.

I tell my daughter she can do anything, anything. We're not talking about a woman presidency right now, because when we talk about the presidency I feel sick to my stomach.

I feel like I should be looking for the good in the world, but right now I feel hopeless.

And I can't seem to help myself: I'm having arguments with creeps on Nick's FB wall. They've crawling out of his past, out of the basket of deplorables. They are white, male, and angry.

They refuse to acknowledge that white privilege exists. They work hard! They're not privileged!

And they are so rude. Hateful and rude. And this from people who are ostensibly old friends.

They're defensive. They call us the "liberal elites" who think we're smarter than them. One felt the need to point out that he got an MBA from Wharton. So don't tell him he's not smart.

(So I didn't. I just pointed out that he was white, privileged, angry, and rude.)

There's no grace from the winners.

And it says to me that, at least for the next four years, we are all losers.

And I am really fucking angry. And don't know quite what to do about it.

Which is why I should probably just stay home

Two weeks ago, my mom and I flew to California for my cousin's memorial service.

On the way there, we didn't have seats together, but at the gate they let us switch seats. We had two seats together in the very last row--the one that doesn't recline. But we were together, and I was on the aisle, which is always my preference.

But immediately I started worrying. I mean, more than usual. Because you know I expect death on a flight.

Was it bad luck to change seats? What if the plane broke in half? We were both in the middle, near the wings, but in middle seats, before I switched us. But wouldn't the middle of the plane be more likely to survive?

Had I jinxed us by switching?

A friend said the plane breaking in half was unlikely, but I wondered about a water landing. The pilot lands the plane in the water, and then the back half, with us in the way-back, cracks right off.

And there we all are in the death and drowning and sharks.

My head can be an exhausting Mordor disco rave sort of place, I tell you.

Anyway, we landed safely, and then our bags were nowhere to be found. My gate-checked bag and her checked bag.

I finally located Betty's, which was so much bigger and heavier than I remembered. I dragged it to her, and then she insisted it wasn't hers, and I insisted it was, and we went back and forth in front of all these people in the American Airlines WHERE ARE MY DAMN BAGS line, which had two agents and a million people.

Finally, after much crabby, tired back-and-forthing, I opened it to show her.

The first thing I saw was a giant thing of lotion. I pulled it out and was like, "Look! This is...uh...not your brand of lotion. And not your bag. Sorry."

I skulked back to the carousel with it as quick as I could.

And then we got up to the front of the line. And the guy put our info into his computer and was like, your bags are on the second carousel. And I was all, "But the first carousel says IAD."

He said, "Yes. But you flew from DCA. Which is carousel two."

---

And then on the way back, we thought we lucked out! Two seats across the aisle from each other!

All was well until a couple hours into the flight. At which point a woman hurtled herself towards us. I was reading (Guns of Autumn), and saw her forward motion out of the corner of my eye.

Listen, if we'd been up front and she'd been sprinting for the cockpit, I'd have been all ninja warrior. But we were toward the back and she was running that direction.

Our seats were about six from the back. Exactly the point at which she began projectile vomiting.

Yes.

She vomited on lots of people. Starting with us. And then all down the aisle. 

So Betty and I, in our lucky lucky aisle seats, both got puked on. One arm each. The back of my seat. The ends of my hair. MY HAIR!

And, I discovered when we got home and I went up to scour my whole self with Clorox (because plague! Ebola! Cholera!), I had dried puke on one of the arms of my eyeglasses.

On the upside, we didn't crash.

I watch the ripples change their size but never leave the stream

I don't tweet very often, but yesterday, I sent this out:

I was venting anger. Rage at the morning's shooting, anger at the power of the NRA, anger that our kids have lockdown drills at school because, as I said, any jackass can buy a gun and take a life. Can buy assault weapons and take so very many lives.

Frustration because the same people who are so quick to yell "murder" regarding abortion are often also quick to defend the right to own guns, no matter how many people, including children are murdered.

It's been suggested that the anti-choicers care about unwanted babies until they're born, but don't want to fund services for them once they're actual out-of-the-womb people.

In any case.

It was foolish of me to put them together, no matter how stupid I think it is that both of these things are true at the same time. Because though it got a bunch of retweets, it also garnered me some attention from both gun owners and anti-choicers. Because, duh, lemongloria, "murder is illegal, and dismembering babies should be."

That was a popular one. A number of these people seem to support Ted Cruz. Anyway, now I know who some of the Ted Cruzers are.

I texted Rachel, who is a social media and women's rights expert, and asked what to say in response to the first person about dismemberment of the unborn.

She gave me a suggestion, and then reminded me that you don't have to say anything. Unless you want to be in a back-and-forth all day.

I most certainly did not. I said nothing. I responded not at all.

As my dear friend Mark Bennett said some years ago (and I still refer to this list on the regular), "If you don't have to deal with a crazy person, don't."

Sometimes I remember this advice and sometimes I unfortunately do not.

Someone also called me a racist, suggesting I want to take guns away from black people and make them unable to defend their families.

What? I want to take guns away from everyone. So that nobody can attack anyone else with a gun.

Not all anti-choicers are crazy, but it is true that we will never agree. So I did not engage.

Not all gun owners are crazy, but we don't keep the crazy ones from owning guns.

And the argument that you need a gun to defend yourself from an intruder? If your intruder doesn't have a gun, why do you need one?

After Sandy Hook, I was naively sure that things would change. How could anyone defend gun ownership when so many children had been killed?

But nothing changed.

My friend Wendy said, "Once we decided that slaughtering children was unworthy of action, it was over."

I hate to agree, but I think I have to.

And I'm sticking to tweeting about my kids. I'm just not a controversial person.

And now I am 46

This birthday business. It happens so predictably and yet somehow arrives so quickly and out of the blue.

When I was a kid I remember always wanting to be older than I was. I couldn't wait to be grown up. And my parents would say not to wish my life away, because it really does go so fast.

You don't really get it until suddenly you're in a position to understand it all too well.

Summers, my absolute favorite season, were almost endless--in the very best possible way--when I was a kid. And now they fly.

Although I will say that this summer home with my children has pretty much been the longest year of my life. I love them with my entire heart and soul. And still. It is so exhausting to watch and listen to and interact with them all day long.

We've started going to the pool a lot, which is fun for all. I have wonderful memories of long days spent at the pool in my youth. It also makes them very tired, which inures to my benefit.

But this requires a lot of watching. Not only because I'm making sure that my little dumplings don't drown. But because they are doing things. Things that would clearly otherwise not happen, like the tree falling in the forest with nobody around, were their mother not watching.

"Watch me, Mama!"

"I am watching you, sweetheart."

"Are you still watching?"

"I sure am."

"Mama! Look at me!"

"Do you see my eyes? They are looking. Straight at you. They are watching you and looking at you with the watchiest looks ever."

Recently I said to Nick, "I'd be a complete fucking lunatic if I were an actual stay-at-home mom."

He paused and said, "Lisa. You are an actual stay-at-home mom."

Oh. Yah. Well.

I think I actually grew up a lot in the past year, which sounds silly because hell, look how old I am. But I did. I realized some huge things, and let go of some even bigger ones. And I'm lighter for it.

I'm not saying I'm limitless (maybe one day!). I'm just stronger and less bound.

So tonight I plan to do something that I would never have done in the past. Maybe for you this is not a big deal. But it has never been something I felt like I could do.

I'm taking myself out. I'm going to a delightful restaurant in our neighborhood. Just me. I'm going to get dressed up and sit at the bar and order dinner.

When Betty asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said, "Time." I want some time. Oh, and a pedicure.

So I cooked up this plan whereby I leave my mother and my progeny and I walk out the door and spend a few hours doing whatever I want. With nobody asking me for anything.

When I told Nick about this plan, he said, "But don't you want to have your birthday dinner with me?"

"Of course I do. Except that you're in Boston."

It's not that I'm trying to be alone. I just want to have a grown-up evening without organizing anyone else, is what it comes down to. I don't want to ask people about their availability or accommodate anyone.

Mostly, I want to go where I want to go and just be.

It feels very selfish.

We ate cake for breakfast because we're not having cake tonight. I felt a pang of guilt because we're not having a real party, and my kids love birthday parties. And then I remembered that we are having birthday party for Jordan very soon. Tiny, and his request, but with candles and cake, which is really what constitutes a party in their eyes.

And anyway, it's my birthday. I got over the guilt pretty quickly. I mean, cake for breakfast, guys.

So. Me. Alone.

I've traveled alone, but I've always been self-conscious about sitting alone at a restaurant. I'm not, as my friend Kaysha likes to say, particularly food motivated. So it's always been easy for me to skip a meal or grab a sandwich or something.

I'm so good with alone at home. I revel in alone at home. And I love running alone.

But being alone at a nice restaurant? Being so very obviously on my own, sitting still? This is the kind of alone that I have avoided like the plague. I was not OK with it.

And now I am.

I'm 46. And I'm taking myself out for dinner.

Seriously hope they grow out of this. It'd be so awkward in college.

You know how dogs meet and then immediately smell each other's butts all, hey, let's get to know each other!

Jordan asked about it, and I explained that it was kind of like us shaking hands with a new person. I was all, "Aren't you glad we don't smell each other's bottoms when we say hello?"

He found the idea both hilarious (because who doesn't want to talk about butts ALL THE TIME?) and revolting. I'd agree that it is both.

But I was thinking about it. I don't know what it is about children that compels them to try and taste random non-food things. Or maybe it's just my children? I dunno. And yet I cannot get my son to taste something new and delicious at the dinner table.

I mean, in this case, I get it. It's a GIANT M&M. Even if he has a face and arms and legs. My kids knew it was not a real candy, and yet they couldn't help themselves. Too tempting!

But you know, we used to have this big poster of that little wretch Elmo at our bus stop. He was promoting vegetables or gun violence or some such thing. Anyway, Elmo.

Every time we saw this poster, which was daily, the kids would go running towards it. "Ellemo! Ellemo!"

I was so glad when then changed posters. Because both of them would head straight up to it. And then open their mouths and press them against the bus stop glass.

It didn't matter how many times I told them that there might be all kinds of yucky things on the glass at the bus stop. They couldn't help their little selves.

Ellemo! You are so awesome! I just want to lick you!

The hell?

Know your audience

It is such a what-the-fuck world.

Yesterday I got a call from an unknown 202 number, which turned out to be Nick, who was in a locked-down federal building near the Navy Yard, not allowed to use his phone. He borrowed a land line to let me know he was fine.

He was, thank God, not in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, 12 other people, who went to work on a seemingly-normal Monday, were shot to death by a gunman, who was himself killed.

It was a day of obsessively checking the news and Twitter as the reports came in. Navy Yard is right across town from us. The first I heard of the shooting was a friend who works there posting on Facebook about being on lockdown.

So many federal buildings and schools were on lockdown. There might be two more shooters on the loose.

Also, when did lockdown come into common parlance? And shelter-in-place? These terms sound so normal now.

As I said, what the fuck?

Random, terrifying violence and destruction, and as it is going on and the death toll is mounting, on Twitter people are insisting that guns are not the problem and this is why you should be able to take guns to work and the shooter was a black guy and if Obama had a son it would look like him and President Obama is going to use this for political gain and and and.

It just made me so sad and so angry and so want to throat punch so many people.

Last night, Dana posted the following on Facebook, and it seemed just right: "Fourth-grade jokes are a welcome relief on days with heavy, incomprehensible news."

I immediately offered Jordan's favorite: What does a train that has a cold say? Ah-choo choo!

Heh.

So then I turned around and tried to tell Jordan one of those jokes I'd just read.

"Jordan! Why did the chicken cross the playground?"

"Chicken!? Why is a chicken on the playground?"

"There's not really a chicken...It's just a joke. To be funny."

"Oh. Are we going to the playground?"

"Not tonight. You want to know the answer?"

"Of the chicken? OK."

"To get to the other slide! You know, going from one slide...to..." 

FLAT SILENCE, with a look of MAMA, YOU'RE AN IDIOT. (Coupled with the realization, on my part, that you need to know the chicken crossing the road in the first place, and Mama, you're an idiot.)

"Jordan, would you like some orange juice in a DOO-DOO CUP?"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" (Beams at me for my brilliance.)

No. They live this way.

Australian Builder asked me last week if I remembered the Mt. Pleasant drive-by shooter from the early 90s. And I immediately said yes.

He actually played an important role in our lives, in a weird way.

So this confluence of things has had me thinking about living in my first apartment with Maude.

That conversation plus state of our house - and telling people who haven't seen the house in it's normal state that we're living with all these open walls and ceilings and plastic and waiting...but it's fine living like this (which is true)...

And most importantly, seeing Maude recently, who added a detail to the story of the night of her almost-rape....

Because, like my farting-on-the-plane incident, this is one of our stories, to be repeated forward forever and ever.

I've written about this before, but instead of sending you back and forth, I'm just going re-tell it here, because I believe I'm a better storyteller than seven (yes, almost seven!) years ago.

So. Here you go.

Way back right after college, my friend Maude and I lived in this sketchy apartment in Mt. Pleasant, back when the neighborhood was considered marginal.

I had an entry-level job at a non-profit and Maude worked at a day care, and $700 rent was about what we could swing. We had a slum lord whose name I cannot remember; Lyrae, who lived with us the first summer, named him Mr. Mostaccioli, and that's what's stuck in my mind.

The wonderful neighbors, the fun parties, the furniture acquired from the curb, the bodegas that sold the flavors of Tang Maude and I grew up with, Mr. Mostaccioli, the drive-by shooter, the rapist.

So.

During the spring of 1993, there was a drive-by shooter on the loose, and, it turned out, a serial rapist, who ultimately broke into our apartment and attacked Maude.

We had lived in our apartment almost a year. We were both, to put it mildly, rather casual housekeepers. Which is to say, our place was always a wreck. Piles of clothes, piles of books, newspapers, mail.

We weren't hoarders. We just weren't tidy. 

That night, I wasn't home, because my brother, who was visiting, and I were at the house of friends until late. Somewhere around midnight we called to say we were sleeping there because we were afraid of being shot on the street coming home that late.

I do not exaggerate here. It was a scary time.

Maude. Maude had fortunately dozed off in a big comfy chair waiting for her in-a-band boyfriend, and at 3:00 am awoke to a half-naked man about to put one of my sweaters over her face. He'd found it on the floor. Which, as mentioned, is where we tended to keep much of our clothing.

The half-naked was his M.O. He left his boxers at every scene.

Kind of an expensive habit, actually.

We were shocked that the police weren't interested in taking the boxers, although this was prior to DNA evidence, Nick has since pointed out.

And the police didn't jump at Maude's band-boyfriend's suggestion that since each person has a personal smell, wouldn't they want to take them to maybe match the smell when they ultimately caught the guy?

(Look. He was very cute, and in a band.)

It is that night, past 3:00 am. Maude is asleep in the big squishy chair in the front. The chair that makes it impossible for anyone to get a good grip on her.

Serial rapist, we later come to understand, has been watching our apartment. He knows to climb over the wall in the back. To stack up bricks high enough to get to the back window. He is thin enough to fit under the bars. He is strong enough to break the flimsy lock.

He undresses in the back, which is Maude's bedroom, leaves his boxers in the bathroom on the way to the living room in the front.

Our living room lights are on, because Maude was up reading while she was waiting.

Maude awoke, she says, not because she heard anything. She just sensed a presence.

And when she saw the guy and the sweater - a black alpaca cardigan - she immediately began to scream very loudly. She screamed and struggled and he hit her and tried very hard to subdue her but to no avail.

She is tough.

Our walls were thin, and our neighbors were good friends, and they heard her and called 911 immediately.

And this is where the drive-by shooter is important.

The rapist knew that because of the drive-by shooter, the police were all over our neighborhood. They were a block or so away when this happened, in fact. He knew there would be a cop nearby. So when he could not subdue her, he stopped attacking and ran.

It turned out, once he was caught, that his girlfriend lived in the neighborhood. He knew it well.

A police officer arrived almost immediately, walked in, looked around at the chaos of the living room: clothing strewn about, books on the floor, general calamity. He did a double take.

"Did HE do this?!!?"

Maude said, "Uh, no. We live like this."

This is the story I know by heart.

What I didn't know was the following. Minutes later, more police arrived. The next one to walk in looked around and began, "Did HE do this?!!?"

To which the first officer drily replied, "No. They live this way."

Been caught stealing, once when I was 5. I enjoy stealing. It's just as simple as that...

Currently a member of the Curious Gang

My Jordan is a sweet boy. He's big and strong for his age, but he still sucks his thumb.

He likes his blankie and snuggling in your lap when you read to him and taking baths with his sister. He hugs his little friends. Whenever he gets near a sandbox or dirt, he immediately begins digging a foundation.

A foundation for what? Just a foundation. Duh.

He smiles a lot, gives kisses, and says things like, "Sleep tight!" to India before she goes to bed. He gets all bashful when we run into the day care woman that he still has a huge crush on.

But.

He's been fighting at school.

The other day I arrived to pick him up and his teacher was putting ice on the start of a huge bruise on his cheek. One of the other boys - his frenemy - had pushed him and he'd fallen into something. And now he has a shiner.

But Jordan does his share of pushing. And hitting. He and this frenemy, who I'll call Duke, like to lay down on the floor and kick each other. They think it's funny. But they get into hitting and pushing and one of them gets hurt. Sometimes there is a third boy in the mix.

Yesterday, however, when I arrived to pick him up, they told me that he hit one of his after-care teachers.

When he does things he knows he shouldn't, and he gets called out on it, he laughs. I think he's embarrassed. But the laughter upset the teacher.

It turns out that she broke up a fight between Duke and him and then Jordan hit her. He's a few months from turning four. He's still a little boy. But he's a big little boy. And he's old enough to know not to hit.

Now, whenever he gets in trouble in school, he has to apologize. It's uncomfortable for him, and he realizes the magnitude of things when he has to look an adult in the eye and say he is sorry for whatever particular thing he has done.

I was originally thinking his little frenemy Duke is a thug, but I now recognize Jordan is just as culpable. He wouldn't behave so badly if he didn't have an instigator, but the fact is that he's still behaving badly, and now on a fairly regular basis.

Yesterday I came to the conclusion that he and Duke, who is a bright kid, get kind of bored, and then they start fighting.

But I also immediately had this vision of Jordan as a teenager stealing cars and setting cats on fire and spray painting gang signs on the sides of buildings.

What do I do to stop this bad behavior?

Robert's got a quick hand. He'll look around the room, he won't tell you his plan.

Yesterday at the office, I heard an unfamiliar voice raised in anger. I cannot remember the words, but the tone was threatening.

I whispered to my Quad-mates, "Who is that?"

One of my colleagues, sitting nearer the office from whence the voice emanated said she thought it was someone recounting a story, not an actual argument. As there was then conversation and no further angry utterances, I strolled that direction - past the office, to the next one over. I ducked in and asked a friend of mine what he thought had happened.

He said a visitor was talking to our colleague in the next office, and she was talking about something like an accident she was in, and repeating the harsh words of the altercation.

Which is not so interesting. Here's what I did find interesting, however.

All of us in my corner were immediately on guard, clenched, poised for escape. One woman said she had her phone in her hand, and she knew exactly where she was heading.

I said I would run for the stairs, but another colleague pointed out that that would necessitate crossing the hallway, and it's a long, open, straight shot down the hall. Whereas we could climb over our cupboards and hide in a back room.

One of our colleagues watches a lot of CSI and some other show I didn't know. She pointed out that we should figure out the duct work.

Which, if I can't make it to the stairs, seems like a great idea to me.

Seriously, world?

Dear laawwd ... what happened here?

Yesterday, we took Jordan to a marina to feed ducks and look at boats. While strolling in the lovely fall weather, we came across this disquieting scene. There was nobody around to ask.

Twinkle, twinkle, little, uh...

At Target the other day, I passed a shelf of Always Radiant Maxi Pads.

Which gave me pause. Radiant. Maxi pads. Radiant.

Radiant is a word I would use for makeup. Radiant eye shadow! Radiant nail polish! Shampoo! Toothpaste! Radiance is sparkle, glow; it is light projected.

Radiant! works nicely for cosmetics in general, I think.

"You look radiant!" This is something people say to beaming brides. To their faces. Not their vaginas.

Because radiance in your pants?

I imagine radiant maxi pads being covered with glitter. Which sounds itchy. And sketchy.

I mean, you know how when you wear glitter, it gets everywhere, into weird little nooks and crannies, and never goes away? For years and years you find little glitter bits in upholstery, carpets, clothing you've washed repeatedly. Seriously, for years.

So Radiant Maxi Pads. Here's what I picture:

When wearing them, you'd walk down the hall at work, leaving a discreet trail of glitter.

Every time you sat down, you'd leave your sparkly mark.

Your butt would be very subtly shiny. Dare I say radiant?

The gynecologist, at your annual exam, would notice something odd, and then be all, "I've never actually seen glitter on someone's cervix before. I don't want to pry, but..."

In which I have the power to multiply the loaves and doctors talk about cars. In other words: Jordan's birth story

I don't think I ever told you Jordan's birth story.

It stands in stark contrast to India's, and I figure I might as well write it down before I forget it entirely. Although truthfully, I've had to ask Nick about Jordan's birth, because I was stuck behind a sheet and also rather drugged up.

I mean, my face was stuck behind a sheet. They had the rest of me. Probably goes without saying.

I'd gone in to be induced on a Tuesday night, and then Wednesday they tried to manually open my cervix and it wouldn't budge and also caused me to practically fling myself through the roof with pain.  So they they gave me an epidural and tried again and nothing doing.

So they said: "You're going to wind up with a C-section. You can decide to have one now, or you can wait until your baby goes into distress."

In retrospect I think, oh fuck you very much for the manipulation. But at the time, it only seemed reasonable to not wait until potential harm came to the baby.

Anyway, the bitchy OB on duty that day was having an allergic reaction, and so my OB came to fill in for the surgery.

(On a side bar: I told my now-ex-OB how awful his colleague was, and he said that actually she was about to have a baby herself. I was all, "How nice for her." And only because of Karma, which I hope exists but don't actually much believe in anymore, did I not wish her a C-section.)

Anyway. Back to the Sibley operating room, August 19, 2009.

I don't know if they added more drugs for the procedure or not. I do know that I was awake, but barely present.

I also don't know if they always spread your arms straight out from your sides for surgery? Maybe so there's easy access to your sides? Or it's easier to manage the IV?

Regardless, they had me on the table with my arms out at my sides, completely numb from the chest down, unable to see anything that was going on. And the men - the doctors were all men - started talking about cars. Seriously. Cars!

I recall being puzzled but not bothered, because it was so surreal. And also I was having my own personal mental rave party right there on the operating table.

I'd been so upset all day, but at that point, I was not much bothered by anything. 

So there I was, looking up at bright lights, arms out, face behind a white sheet, listening to car chit-chat. I remember turning my head from one arm to the other. I felt very floaty.

I lay there thinking, "Wow. I. Am. Jesus."

And then there was a loud wail, because Jordan cried as soon as his head was out in the world. And then they got the rest of him out, which I knew because Nick said, "He's out. And he's perfect."

They whisked him across the room to do all the drops and cleanup and whatever.

I smelled burning and wondered if I was on fire, so I asked Nick. Who said they were cauterizing the incision.

And then they showed me my baby, all wrapped up in a hospital blanket.

I was no longer Jesus at that point, in case you're wondering.

And then, as they wrapped up, no fewer than three people said to me, "Look at the size of that head! You are so happy he didn't just come out of your vagina."

But of course a moon colony and taking choice away from women and school lunches away from children are much more important than health care for all

Let me start by saying that I do have employer-provided health insurance. And this issue is being resolved.

But this situation made me stop and really pay attention to medical charges, what's covered, and what health insurance does for you.

And how screwed you could be without it.

OK. So back in November, I had an amnio. I paid my copay, they did their thing, and except for fretting about the results, I didn't really think about it again. Until I got a notice saying that if I didn't provide my insurance information, I could be liable for a $1,500 Labcorp bill.

As you would, I faxed them my insurance card.

About a month later, I got a Labcorp bill. For $1,500.

I started by calling the doctor's office, who said, "Oh, they clearly charged you for the entire amnio procedure, and they didn't process it through insurance. This is a mistake."

So I went to our HR person to ask who I should call next. Blue Cross? Labcorp? And anyway, what the fuck? She suggested I hand it over to our insurance broker, who would handle it for me.

Our insurance broker. Who is a very nice person. But it seems to me is also a reason why our insurance is expensive. Because her company is a layer between my office and Blue Cross. Which of course adds cost, no?

But she got involved very nicely. I gave her a copy of the bill, the fax, and the explanation of benefits that I'd gotten from Blue Cross. Which was for $1,200. But for the same day and the same doctor.

But you know how they break all these charges into parts? So you don't really know what's what? You've gone in for one thing but there are 15 different billing codes?

Yesterday she told me that actually, my explanation of benefits and my bill were for two different things. The $1,200 bill had been paid. The $1,500 second bill had never been processed by Blue Cross, but they were doing so now. I'd get an explanation of benefits in the mail soon.

Second bill? What second bill?

Here's the deal. My doctor's office charged my insurance $1,200 for their piece of the amnio. Genetic counseling, the sonogram, and the actual amnio, which was about five minutes of the doctor's time.

$1,200. What my insurance actually paid them was just under $500.

Now, Labcorp is charging $1,500 for their piece of the puzzle. Cell culture and so on. I don't know what all is involved, so I can't speculate on time, although holy hell, $1,500 seems like a lot to stick some cells into a culture and wait for them to grow, doesn't it? I also don't yet know what insurance will pay them.

What I do know is this: if you don't have an insurance company that has cut deal with doctor's offices, you are fucked. Seriously - you'd be charged $2,700 for an amnio.

I realize it's an optional procedure - not like having your leg reattached or something - and I don't know what we'd have done if we had to pay full charges, out of pocket.

But if you are in a non-optional leg-reattachment situation and you don't have insurance...what do you do? Forego the leg? Wind up going bankrupt because of astronomical fucking cost of American health care?

And that brings us to the present. In sextuplicate or so, with yellow sticky reminders.

Alive and Kicking

OK, so the AC came back on at the end of the day, and none of the guys dropped dead on the golf course, and in fact, after drinking far too much the night before, they even played doubles tennis the next morning.

Nick was kind of insulted when one of them - who was semi-pro when he was younger - told me over breakfast that Nick's a good tennis player with "cat-like reflexes" and I thought he was kidding.

I love the man, and he's strong like bull, but who knew?

-----

Filed Under Shit I Don't Know Why I Do This Shit

So, here's the deal. I have three email addresses now. The Lemon Gloria one, and then two that are my real name (I know, you totally thought it was Lemon Gloria), one Yahoo and one Gmail. Both of which forward to Yahoo, because I can't have LG@gmail and MyName@gmail open at the same time. So I keep Yahoo and LG open.

Still with me?

And so last week, at your suggestion, I started importing my Yahoo email into Gmail. It pulled a few hundred of them, and then stopped. I thought about not forwarding, but then I thought, oh, I should forward just to be safe.

And then I went away to the charming country club in Charlottesville. Which is full of bucolic charm, if not powerful air conditioning or Internet.

So while they have Internet, the signal was too weak in our room, so essentially I had no access to the World Wide Web which made me a little frothy at the mouthy but then I was all, ferchrissakes, Lisa, just chill the fuck out. Plus I had my iPhone, although I find it tedious and exhausting to read or type email of any particular length on it.

Also I was all busy swimming and eating waffles and drinking milkshakes and shaking with rage in Target.

In other words, I didn't check the email so much.

Here's what happened during that time. I now have almost 1,000 new emails in my Yahoo. I have up to eight copies of all recent emails in my inbox. It's multiple copies, but not the same number for every email.

I think it's all been arriving into one account and forwarding to another and then bouncing to another.

It's bonkers.

-----

And One Further Reason I Don't Work in I/T

Which reminds me. The other day I was in the examining room at the doctor, reading blogs while I waited, and he walked in and looked at my iPhone and burst out laughing.

Because I had a yellow sticky note pasted on the back of it.

What? Saves me from writing on my hand. Which never got me anywhere good in the past. And you know, the funny thing is, I didn't even eat butter on my bread back then.

Which just makes me so glad I don't have a lawn

The other day I stopped into the Gap, thinking I would buy some totally basic NOT BLACK T-shirts. Because I believe spring is here.

I couldn't find any normal T-shirts. What I did find, however, were these stretchy cutoff jean shorts. For $50.

They also have them in a light wash.

They look a little more polished here, plus these women are tall with skinny-winny legs. They were more fraying and fringy in the store. The shorts, I mean.

Can someone please explain this business to me?

Now, I made some very questionable fashion decisions in my teens. (But I tell myself those were the 80s; we all made questionable fashion decisions.)

If I were younger, would I think these were awesome? Would I wear them with heels? I think I'd have to, so my legs didn't look totally stumpy. But would I feel stupid and/or hideous wearing very tight stretchy cutoff denim shorts?

I'm pretty sure I would.

Because even if I had a lawn, I certainly wouldn't mow it in those. I'd find something cheaper and more comfortable and less frightening. Something that might breathe while I was sweating. Mowing the lawn is hot work, you know? I can only imagine I would frighten the neighbors in those. And then get a yeast infection.

Which then would mean none of the s-e-x and then Nick would always be obliged to mow the lawn and he'd feel deprived with all the no-s-e-x and we'd both be grumpy and the quality of our marriage would decline.

Also, grass makes me itch. It would just be so ugly all around.

Plus, who mows the lawn in heels? I mean, if I did have a lawn. For example. Because heels and grass just do not mix. I'm going to an outside wedding next month. Shoes are always a problem at outdoor events.

I'll tell you one thing I won't be wearing, though: stretchy cutoff jean shorts.

But if they seem like something you could rock, and you understand them, would you please tell me so? Because it could be that I am old and set in my ways and suspicious of things I don't understand.

Also, it is sunny, and it is Friday, and happy everything, everyone!

Well, except the ants. Happy Terro to you guys.

Upping my vigilance

I got mugged a long, long time ago. And for years afterwards, I was scared to walk in the dark. Or I'd hear a quick footstep behind me and my heart would start racing.

It took me a number of years to get past it. And even after I stopped having the visceral reactions, I walked around with an increased awareness of my surroundings. And an increased suspicion of men.

I also started listening to my gut instinct, no matter what other people might say about a situation.

But as I said, it was a long time ago, and while I'm careful when I'm walking alone in the dark, for the most part I feel comfortable in my areas of DC and don't spend a lot of time thinking about safety.

Well, I didn't. Until Monday.

So. Since Monday was sunny, I decided to go for a run at lunch.

I don't usually go out running with my iPhone, but I was waiting for a call and so I carried it with me, using it as an iPod.

And there I was, all running along, enjoying the sunshine and the pop music in my ears when all of a sudden a hand grabbed my left hand - the one carrying the iPhone.

He was quick and deliberate, and if I'd had a looser grip, I'd have dropped it. As it was, I was so startled to be grabbed that I pulled my hand in towards my body. And screamed.

If you have never heard me scream, it is a very high pitched, girly screamy scream.

The guy ran about 10 steps ahead of me, crossed the street, and looked back.

I looked to my left, which is where he was looking, and there was another guy about the same age, right next to me.

As I was already running, I kept going. I sprinted around the corner, stuck my phone in my bra, and headed back towards my office.

Both guys were bigger than me, and if they'd wanted to wrestle the phone from me, they could've without great difficulty. I assume that the first guy wanted me to drop it, and the other guy would pick it up.

So technically, nothing really happened.

But what it did was underline how vulnerable I am, even at 12:30 pm on a Monday, in a decent neighborhood. I was on T, just about to hit 17th. There was nobody else on the street in those moments, but it's not a deserted area.

Maybe this kind of thing, where you get scared but you don't get hurt, is a good lesson.

I hate thinking that I need to walk around vigilant.

But maybe as a small woman, I do.

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert.

Nick is currently in Roanoke, Virginia for work. He sent me this picture last night.

He took it in the convenience store down the road from his hotel.

Now, there are things I like that not everyone else does. For example,one of my favorite sandwiches is one Jane made up years ago. Plain bagel with cream cheese on one side and peanut butter on the other and dill pickles in the middle.

And there are combos you see regularly that I dislike. I hate fruit in savory food. I don't want raisins in my rice, or grapes or pears or apples in my salad. The only exception is this amazing sesame chicken with prunes dish that my mom makes.

So, I may be biased, since I've never understood the appeal of clamato. Like, who wants to drink something that tastes like clams in the first place? And then clams with tomatoes?

And who decided clamato plus beer would be delicious? Do people really drink 24 ounces worth of clamato beer? Maybe if you were having beer for breakfast you'd be all, well, it's also got a serving of fruit (because they are a fruit, you know, those 'matos). And trace amounts of clam protein.

Maybe? Would you?

Because look. Clearly, there's a market for it.

Which brings me to this: how come Nick never has cases anywhere that I want to go?

Because how could you not speculate on the ingredients of said menu item?

Apologies in advance to anyone who might be horrified.

Say you're hard at work in your little worker bee cubicle world.

You're focusing on writing about something scintillating, like endowment spending or the effect of the economy on federal funding for education. For example.

Suddenly, your concentration is broken. By a question from the Quangle wafting over the cubicle walls.

"What's a merkin? I know I've heard of it."

Surely not because we used to talk about them far too often for a workplace.

It turns out one of your colleagues, the lovely Maricel, in pre-wedding diet mode, is looking at a diet plan's week-long menu.

She says, "This diet plan has a lunch item called a Mirkin Burger."

(It turns out to be spelled differently. But still seems a poor choice of name.)

How would you respond?

A. My best guess is a thin slab of tofu covered in sprouts.
B. I don't know, but one of the ingredients is surely tuna fish.
C. Ewwww! Gross!
D. What's a merkin?
E. ____________

I chose A. Kaysha is the one who said there should be tuna fish.

Because I am a 12-year-old boy. And so is she.

And maybe you are, too. Thoughts?

I feel pretty, Oh, so pretty...

Yesterday, yesterday I was stewing.

If I had canned it, it'd tide us through next winter. I mean, if we liked canned stew heavily peppered with vitriol. With a side of vituperativeness.

I love those angry V words.

Anyway, I've simmered down a little. But yesterday I was just too angry to respond to comments. However, I really appreciated them; please don't think I didn't.

They definitely made me feel better, and less aberrant.

So, thank you.

But every time I thought about all of it, I was back in the furious. And I'd still drive that truck if I weren't worried about the law and karma. Seriously.

And don't think I haven't been brainstorming for untraceable things one can do. I mean, so one could eliminate the fear of the law. Karma is another matter entirely.

If you have suggestions, I am open.

But you know, I was raised not to be angry. Seriously.

Because anger in women? Is so unattractive.

Positivity! Sweetness! Agreeableness! Those are attractive.

And of course attractiveness is Very Important. Because otherwise you might not get married. You also won't be attractive (and thus probably won't get married) unless you're thin. And tidy.

You think I'm kidding about this?

Skinny, tidy, cooperative. I've managed one of the three fairly consistently. I bet Nick would love it if I were tidier. And probably more cooperative. But he loves me loves me loves me for me (not to sound all Bridget Jones) just as I am.

Plus, I'm never actively working to bring down the household, so there's that.

If we have another kid and it's a girl, I swear I am not going to put this kind of fucked up stuff on her. Although apparently girls' self-esteem comes from their interaction with their fathers. Nick won't feed her these weird messages either.

Did you have these kinds of unhelpful messages growing up? If so, how have you dealt with these things in adulthood?