Drive time

Someone’s been playing with Picassa again.

Some random items because stringing together more than a few loose thoughts seems beyond my pay grade right now.

1. I am in desperate need of a blow up doll. Not for that. I need one to ride shotgun so I can use the carpool lane. What? You think I could make this simpler by getting a real person to commute with me? Please. That would be way more trouble than it’s worth. A real person would expect me to make conversation. A real person might ask me to compromise on the radio station we listen to. They’d expect me to not let out air. Which I never do, but still. If a chick toots and there’s no one there to hear/smell it, it never happened. I’ll bet a real person would be offended if I plucked a chin hair at a red light.

Human being = obligations, manners and expectations. Griselda the Amazing Latex Friend = speedier commute without the hassles.

2. There’s that guy at the office. Two actually. You know. Very serious. Very busy. And these are very serious times. I don’t mean to make light of the good work they’re doing on behalf of the organization.

But.

Anytime I’m doing something boneheaded or embarrassing like crawling around on the floor moving my computer tower or missing my mouth with a spoonful of yogurt as I eat lunch at my desk or like when the caterers spilled iced tea in the tiled foyer and needed napkins to sop up the spill and I wasn’t supposed to leave the phones at the front desk, but dashed down the hall to the mail room where I know we keep the overstock of napkins….

A top-heavy woman dashing in a pencil skirt and pumps? Not a pretty sight.

Of course one of those guys was rounding the corner. One of them is always there to bear witness to my doofishness.

Then there was the day I filled in for the receptionist, and left one of them on hold for three minutes after I thought I’d transferred his call. Did I mention that these two guys are a couple of the biggest dogs in the kennel? Thankfully, they both seem to think despite my perceived quirks, that I’m doing a good job.

Which reminds me – whoever invented “soft” multi-line phone buttons that change when a new line rings in, should be strung up alongside the sadists who invented underwire bras, pantyhose, The Grapefruit Diet and Fox News.

3. Speaking of that guy, there was a different guy on I75 yesterday. He apparently enjoyed my singing with emotive facial expressions and hand gestures as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic. What can I say? Norah Jones makes me invisible. Or so I thought.

He beeped to get my attention and applauded when I looked his way. Lucky for him, me and my bad singing were walled off from the world. I blew him a kiss and he caught it with a big goofy grin.

My lane started moving. The moment was over.

4.  At our house, they’re called Sloppy Jews. But don’t be fooled. They taste just like my mother makes them with ketchup, mustard and brown sugar.

5.  I caught the stealth carpet pooper in the act today. Booing him loudly as he finished his business didn’t stop him mid-dookie, but it sure made me feel better. Sadly, shame has no sway over felines.

6.  Atlanta needs a decent traffic report that isn’t part of the AM right wing talk station. If I have to continue listening to Sean Hannity just to find out if I should take I75, I285 or I20, I will very likely have an aneurysm. Today he and his guests were talking about why George Zimmerman isn’t a murderer. One of his young female guests was quick to point out that young Martin had been suspended from school. Can we start executing kids for being suspended from school because that means I should at least be able to taze my kids for backtalk. Or, you know, that electric cattle prod is just collecting dust since MathMan and I gave up those particular role-playing games……

7.  Every morning, it’s the same thing – straight or curly? Burn myself on the flat iron or the curling iron? Life was much easier when the question was simply  shower or not shower? This morning, I made pin curls which turned out quite nicely, but Mathman was concerned that I was going to leave the house with the coils pinned to my head with bobby pins. Bless his heart. But will he tell me when my shirt is on wrong-side out? Of course not.

8.  Shredding is most gratifying. I like to call it destroying the evidence. I don’t think the shredder is supposed to smoke though.

9. MathMan and I are in a bit of a standoff. I had a fit about the lack of division of labor around here. I shouted something about if I was going to do the majority of the housework, baseball bleacher sitting, kid management, hunting and gathering, doctor/dentist appointment making and keeping, bill paying and cooking, then I sure as hell will not be taking care of the yard, too. Then I scooched up a little higher on that cross and got comfortable.

All of which explains the backyard.

Weedy. But don’t the dogwoods look lovely?

Hi! What’s growing on you?

Drive time

Someone’s been playing with Picassa again.

Some random items because stringing together more than a few loose thoughts seems beyond my pay grade right now.

1. I am in desperate need of a blow up doll. Not for that. I need one to ride shotgun so I can use the carpool lane. What? You think I could make this simpler by getting a real person to commute with me? Please. That would be way more trouble than it’s worth. A real person would expect me to make conversation. A real person might ask me to compromise on the radio station we listen to. They’d expect me to not let out air. Which I never do, but still. If a chick toots and there’s no one there to hear/smell it, it never happened. I’ll bet a real person would be offended if I plucked a chin hair at a red light.

Human being = obligations, manners and expectations. Griselda the Amazing Latex Friend = speedier commute without the hassles.

2. There’s that guy at the office. Two actually. You know. Very serious. Very busy. And these are very serious times. I don’t mean to make light of the good work they’re doing on behalf of the organization.

But.

Anytime I’m doing something boneheaded or embarrassing like crawling around on the floor moving my computer tower or missing my mouth with a spoonful of yogurt as I eat lunch at my desk or like when the caterers spilled iced tea in the tiled foyer and needed napkins to sop up the spill and I wasn’t supposed to leave the phones at the front desk, but dashed down the hall to the mail room where I know we keep the overstock of napkins….

A top-heavy woman dashing in a pencil skirt and pumps? Not a pretty sight.

Of course one of those guys was rounding the corner. One of them is always there to bear witness to my doofishness.

Then there was the day I filled in for the receptionist, and left one of them on hold for three minutes after I thought I’d transferred his call. Did I mention that these two guys are a couple of the biggest dogs in the kennel? Thankfully, they both seem to think despite my perceived quirks, that I’m doing a good job.

Which reminds me – whoever invented “soft” multi-line phone buttons that change when a new line rings in, should be strung up alongside the sadists who invented underwire bras, pantyhose, The Grapefruit Diet and Fox News.

3. Speaking of that guy, there was a different guy on I75 yesterday. He apparently enjoyed my singing with emotive facial expressions and hand gestures as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic. What can I say? Norah Jones makes me invisible. Or so I thought.

He beeped to get my attention and applauded when I looked his way. Lucky for him, me and my bad singing were walled off from the world. I blew him a kiss and he caught it with a big goofy grin.

My lane started moving. The moment was over.

4.  At our house, they’re called Sloppy Jews. But don’t be fooled. They taste just like my mother makes them with ketchup, mustard and brown sugar.

5.  I caught the stealth carpet pooper in the act today. Booing him loudly as he finished his business didn’t stop him mid-dookie, but it sure made me feel better. Sadly, shame has no sway over felines.

6.  Atlanta needs a decent traffic report that isn’t part of the AM right wing talk station. If I have to continue listening to Sean Hannity just to find out if I should take I75, I285 or I20, I will very likely have an aneurysm. Today he and his guests were talking about why George Zimmerman isn’t a murderer. One of his young female guests was quick to point out that young Martin had been suspended from school. Can we start executing kids for being suspended from school because that means I should at least be able to taze my kids for backtalk. Or, you know, that electric cattle prod is just collecting dust since MathMan and I gave up those particular role-playing games……

7.  Every morning, it’s the same thing – straight or curly? Burn myself on the flat iron or the curling iron? Life was much easier when the question was simply  shower or not shower? This morning, I made pin curls which turned out quite nicely, but Mathman was concerned that I was going to leave the house with the coils pinned to my head with bobby pins. Bless his heart. But will he tell me when my shirt is on wrong-side out? Of course not.

8.  Shredding is most gratifying. I like to call it destroying the evidence. I don’t think the shredder is supposed to smoke though.

9. MathMan and I are in a bit of a standoff. I had a fit about the lack of division of labor around here. I shouted something about if I was going to do the majority of the housework, baseball bleacher sitting, kid management, hunting and gathering, doctor/dentist appointment making and keeping, bill paying and cooking, then I sure as hell will not be taking care of the yard, too. Then I scooched up a little higher on that cross and got comfortable.

All of which explains the backyard.

Weedy. But don’t the dogwoods look lovely?

Hi! What’s growing on you?

Adventures in Real Parenting: Safe at Home

I’ve been having nightmares about Trayvon Martin’s killing. In the dreams, he’s that fresh-faced young man in the Hollister tshirt we’ve seen splashed all over the media. Then he morphs into Nathan. I stand helpless, unable to move while he’s pursued.

On his Monday show, Rev. Al Sharpton played the 911 tapes of the neighbors in that gated community calling to report the disturbance while Trayvon struggled with his murderer. I was not prepared to hear the screaming for help and the gunshot. I was on my way to the post office to drop off a small care package for Chloe. I imagined the horror of Trayvon’s parents listening to those tapes.

My cheeks were wet as I carried the box to the door. On the other side of the glass was an African American woman on her way out. Our eyes met. She pulled the door open and stepped aside to let me pass. I thanked her.

I wanted to ask her. Did she have children. Did she have sons? Did she teach them to beware? Did they inherently know they were suspect because of their skin? I asked nothing. She kind of shrugged and turned away.

As I left, she was leaning against her car digging through her purse. I can’t find my cell phone, she said. I was so upset about that young man in Florida who was shot, they were talking about it on the news. When I got out of my car, I don’t know what I did with my phone.

I was just listening to a story about it, too, I said. The woman looked up from her purse. That poor child. His poor mama. I nodded and opened the car door, slipped back inside.

Thursday evening, Nate’s girlfriend and I huddled together under an umbrella. A light rain fell on the batter as he took a swing. His dark skin glistened under the lights. She told me how her teacher asked if anyone knew about the Trayvon Martin case. She raised her hand and was called on to explain it to the class.

I felt so smart, she said. I knew about it.

Isn’t that a great feeling? I asked and congratulated myself for doing something right. Which makes me look like a total tool. I know.

She often spends the weekends at our house because she lives so far away. On Sunday mornings while I watch Up with Chris Hayes and Melissa Harris Perry, she comes into the living room and hangs out. I thought maybe she was bored by it, but last weekend, when Nate wanted to watch something else, she refused. I like watching this, she said.

She told me how the kids in her class, most of them African American, were outraged at what had happened in Sanford, Florida. Outraged, but not surprised. They’re used to the attitudes that separate them from their white classmates. The Rite-Aid across from the school will only let three students into the store at a time. Not that it matters if you’re black or white in that case – three students. That’s it. If the school were mostly white and upper middle class, would such a rule exist?

The team was stomped. Hard. Slaughter Rule evoked hard. This was a big disappointment because they can play better. We’ve seen them play so much better.

After the game, they walked by looking all hang-dog. I wanted to stop each one of them and quiz them. Did they know Georgia has one of those Stand Your Ground laws? Did they realize those laws are meant to make “some” people feel safe, but it made them with their not exactly white skin vulnerable to frightened people. Frightened people who believe the law says they can shoot first and justify their fear later.

Do they know how to stay safe? Did they know that they were in more danger in a white, gated community than Nate is when he goes to their homes? Because let’s not kid ourselves, if Nate gets shot by a black man  claiming self-defense, the black man is going to spend some time in a holding cell.

MathMan and I drove home and Nate and his friends went out for a bite to eat. I couldn’t shake a bad feeling, a sense of something about to go wrong. Antsy and snappish. I was going to spread my misery around to anyone unfortunate enough to have contact with me. I went to my room to worry.

Nate called MathMan. He’d been rear-ended on I75. What should he do? Pull over, call 911and wait inside the car.

Nate did what MathMan said to do, pulling onto the grassy median. The other driver pulled in behind him. MathMan ended the call and went back to lesson planning. I went downstairs to keep busy. A bit later, I asked MathMan if he’d heard from Nate again. He called Nate back. He was on the speaker phone so I could hear what was happening.

While Nate explained to MathMan where exactly he was, the police arrived.

You’re gonna get me killed! One of the officers was shouting. You on the phone? Get off the phone!

Yes, sir, I was talking to my father, Nate said. Then he was gone.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. Made a wish. Let Nate would remain respectful. A nervous kid who’d just been in a car accident being shouted out by a uniformed person with a gun and all the power. He was on his own. What happened next depended on his ability to stay calm and respectful even if the other person was neither.

I asked how much more precarious the situation would be if Nate were a kid with brown skin.

Later he told us how the officer berated him. Do you even have a license? The cop yelled. Why had he been so stupid to pull into the median? Didn’t he know he was supposed to pull over to the right shoulder? Whose car was he driving? Why was he out so late?

Why be like that? Since when does serving and protecting include shouting? I mean, Nate already has a mother for that.

He got home in one piece. I could breathe again. After he went to bed, I stopped in his room to say goodnight. To tell him how much I love him, to make sure he was okay behind that mask of cool, calm, collected.

I had a million questions, but only one thought which gave me little comfort, despite the fact that my sixteen-year-old son was safe at home.

Things could have turned out so differently.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Safe at Home

I’ve been having nightmares about Trayvon Martin’s killing. In the dreams, he’s that fresh-faced young man in the Hollister tshirt we’ve seen splashed all over the media. Then he morphs into Nathan. I stand helpless, unable to move while he’s pursued.

On his Monday show, Rev. Al Sharpton played the 911 tapes of the neighbors in that gated community calling to report the disturbance while Trayvon struggled with his murderer. I was not prepared to hear the screaming for help and the gunshot. I was on my way to the post office to drop off a small care package for Chloe. I imagined the horror of Trayvon’s parents listening to those tapes.

My cheeks were wet as I carried the box to the door. On the other side of the glass was an African American woman on her way out. Our eyes met. She pulled the door open and stepped aside to let me pass. I thanked her.

I wanted to ask her. Did she have children. Did she have sons? Did she teach them to beware? Did they inherently know they were suspect because of their skin? I asked nothing. She kind of shrugged and turned away.

As I left, she was leaning against her car digging through her purse. I can’t find my cell phone, she said. I was so upset about that young man in Florida who was shot, they were talking about it on the news. When I got out of my car, I don’t know what I did with my phone.

I was just listening to a story about it, too, I said. The woman looked up from her purse. That poor child. His poor mama. I nodded and opened the car door, slipped back inside.

Thursday evening, Nate’s girlfriend and I huddled together under an umbrella. A light rain fell on the batter as he took a swing. His dark skin glistened under the lights. She told me how her teacher asked if anyone knew about the Trayvon Martin case. She raised her hand and was called on to explain it to the class.

I felt so smart, she said. I knew about it.

Isn’t that a great feeling? I asked and congratulated myself for doing something right. Which makes me look like a total tool. I know.

She often spends the weekends at our house, using Chloe’s empty room, because she lives so far away. On Sunday mornings while I watch Up with Chris Hayes and Melissa Harris Perry, she comes into the living room and hangs out. I thought maybe she was bored by it, but last weekend, when Nate wanted to watch something else, she refused. I like watching this, she said.

She told me how the kids in her class, most of them African American, were outraged at what had happened in Sanford, Florida. Outraged, but not surprised. They’re used to the attitudes that separate them from their white classmates. The Rite-Aid across from the school will only let three students into the store at a time. Not that it matters if you’re black or white in that case – three students. That’s it. If the school were mostly white and upper middle class, would such a rule exist?

The team was stomped. Hard. Slaughter Rule evoked hard. This was a big disappointment because they can play better. We’ve seen them play so much better.

After the game, they walked by looking all hang-dog. I wanted to stop each one of them and quiz them. Did they know Georgia has one of those Stand Your Ground laws? Did they realize those laws are meant to make “some” people feel safe, but it made them with their not exactly white skin vulnerable to frightened people. Frightened people who believe the law says they can shoot first and justify their fear later.

Do they know how to stay safe? Did they know that they were in more danger in a white, gated community than Nate is when he goes to their homes? Because let’s not kid ourselves, if Nate gets shot by a black man  claiming self-defense, the black man is going to spend some time in a holding cell.

MathMan and I drove home and Nate and his friends went out for a bite to eat. I couldn’t shake a bad feeling, a sense of something about to go wrong. Antsy and snappish. I was going to spread my misery around to anyone unfortunate enough to have contact with me. I went to my room to worry.

Nate called MathMan. He’d been rear-ended on I75. What should he do? Pull over, call 911and wait inside the car.

Nate did what MathMan said to do, pulling onto the grassy median. The other driver pulled in behind him. MathMan ended the call and went back to lesson planning. I went downstairs to keep busy. A bit later, I asked MathMan if he’d heard from Nate again. He called Nate back. He was on the speaker phone so I could hear what was happening.

While Nate explained to MathMan where exactly he was, the police arrived.

You’re gonna get me killed! One of the officers was shouting. You on the phone? Get off the phone!

Yes, sir, I was talking to my father, Nate said. Then he was gone.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. Made a wish. Let Nate would remain respectful. A nervous kid who’d just been in a car accident being shouted out by a uniformed person with a gun and all the power. He was on his own. What happened next depended on his ability to stay calm and respectful even if the other person was neither.

I asked how much more precarious the situation would be if Nate were a kid with brown skin.

Later he told us how the officer berated him. Do you even have a license? The cop yelled. Why had he been so stupid to pull into the median? Didn’t he know he was supposed to pull over to the right shoulder? Whose car was he driving? Why was he out so late?

Why be like that? Since when does serving and protecting include shouting? I mean, Nate already has a mother for that.

He got home in one piece. I could breathe again. After he went to bed, I stopped in his room to say goodnight. To tell him how much I love him, to make sure he was okay behind that mask of cool, calm, collected.

I had a million questions, but only one thought which gave me little comfort, despite the fact that my sixteen-year-old son was safe at home.

Things could have turned out so differently.

Cuz my identity itself causes violence

The Trayvon Martin story has enraged me in a way that I haven’t been enraged in a long time. And, people, I do rage really well. With style and flair. As other artists work in oils, watercolors or clay, I’ve erected monuments to spleen venting. Weaving together whole quilts of seething, snarling, vein-throbbing fury, I once could cast a pall over everything with the single act of swallowing my ugly thoughts, letting the words rest somewhere inside causing something almost electric in its negativity. You’ve heard the phrase sucks all the Oxygen out of the room?

Like that.

Then came the anti-depressants and my ability to rage was dulled. Until now.

Trayvon Martin is my son’s friend. Not literally, of course, but if he’s going to be reduced to one thing – a threat, if he’s going to be tried, sentenced and executed for the crime of simply being black, then I’m going to presume to have him be a stand-in for all the young, black men I know.

He’s Nate’s classmates. His baseball teammates. He’s the students at MathMan High School, the kids in the neighborhood, the boys draped across the living room furniture playing video games, watching TV and emitting deafening decibels of noise. He’s the pick-up basketball players at the park, the young man looking through the sci-fi books at the library, the guy working the Wendy’s drive-thru, the young athletes stoking our March Madness.

They are boys. Young men with young men interests, worries, hopes, dreams and fears. They are not so different, as it turns out, than my own son who is Irish pale.

And yet, every day is a risk for them in ways that I cannot comprehend. Their mothers have to worry about things that rarely cross my mind. They have to live in fear of some pussy with a gun, some asshole who thinks that every young man with dark skin is a potential criminal, an interloper, an intruder in his pristine gated world, a threat, a thug armed with a bag of Skittles and a bottle of iced tea.

Wanna know what happens when you’re a dark mark on George Zimmerman’s gun-toting radar?

You end up with a hole in your chest. Boom, black kid. This is my world and you’re no longer living in it.

Big man with a gun. Playing cop.

The only thing worse than George Zimmerman’s murderous fear – the only thing worse – is the cavalier attitude of the police in Sanford, Florida.

This feels personal to me. This young man was murdered. Murdered. The local authorities refuse to do anything about it. They’ve dicked around with it, made excuses, and entirely gummed up the investigation until all they could do was kick it up the food chain. Talk about pussies with guns.

Listen, I don’t hate guns. I hate guns in the hands of people who don’t respect the power they hold when they’ve got their finger on the trigger. I hate it that guns can be easily procured by fearful people because fear  gets in the way of clear thinking. Guns are more dangerous because the people who have guns for personal protection are afraid.

That’s not to say I don’t have my own fears. Please. I have many and varied. A treasure chest full. Not surprisingly, one of my fears is guns in the hands of frightened people with itchy trigger fingers and not a lot of sense.

The fact that the authorities who are responsible for ensuring justice and the safety of the entire community – not just the white community – have refused to charge the confessed murderer with the crime is the insult, George Zimmerman, the shooter, is the injury. He’s the open wound of our collective hate and fear of the other.

And if we remain silent about this, the shame of Trayvon Martin’s murder belongs to all of us.

Sign the petition to demand justice.  Charles Blow on the Curious Case of Trayvon Martin.

**********

Hey, my loves, my friend Jurassic Pork is in a tough way. If you can help out at all, please do. Thanks, gang. xoxo

Treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough

When my first paycheck arrived, the last vestiges of the clouds of despair parted, a ray of sunlight fell upon the quaint paper check* and the sweet voices of faeries sang an ancient ballad of a bank account not overdrawn.

Aside from the paycheck, the ability to be among bipeds who make great conversationalists and a general sense of being a productive human being**, this job puts a major crimp in my life. No time to read blogs, surf the internet, or work on my Used Dental Floss of the Stars collection.

That’s not to say I’m not grateful. I’m ever so. Every time I answered the phone yesterday with “Good (morning/afternoon), (name of the organization), this is Lisa.” I felt gratitude for being able to do one of the things I do best – greet people then hand them off. And I don’t even have to wear a blue vest to do it.

I’m reminded at this moment that you can’t just greet newborns or cats and then hand them off.

“Hello, Baby, this is Lisa, how can your daddy help you?” or “Hi, kitty! You’re so cute! Now let’s find someone to scoop that litter……”

I’m in limbo because I’ve been filling in for the receptionist since last Monday so my real job hasn’t really began. I’ve spent so little time at my desk that it’s week three and I haven’t set my own voicemail or spilled anything on my keyboard. A good start in my experience!

Oh, and before I forget – if you want to know what really matters to a company’s customers or an organization’s members, answer the phones for a week. There’s much to learn.

So while I try to gather what little wits I had about me, I hope you know that I’m missing reading those of you who blog. My rss feed reader got so full, it’s going to be on an episode of Hoarders. Google is threatening to expose my search history to my mother if I don’t clean out my email. 

This doesn’t mean I don’t care. It only means that while I’m in the probationary period of this job, I don’t plan to get pinched surfing the internet during work hours.

Until I’m a little less consumed, I hope you’ll accept my apologies and know that as I’m toiling away at the multi-line phone, I remember how much you all kept me company while I was home being kneaded by cats.

Speaking of – the cats had a fur-shedding row the other day over the proper spelling of the word whoa. Some were dead certain it’s spelled w-h-o-a and two others insisted on the spelling w-o-a-h. Thankfully, order was restored before the police showed up at the house. When I got home, I tried to get to the origins of the kerfluffle but no one was meowing. Finally, I took my favorite kitty, the one who isn’t so bright, aside and got some answers as she licked at the Mariner’s Catch pate I used to lure her into conversation.

“Why do you guys need to use the word whoa anyway?” I asked, my voice like cream.

Her eyes shifted, searching out bewhiskered spies. “It was just a conversation,” she said between tiny bites.

Unsatisfied, I pressed her. “Ivy, does it have anything to do with the photos of the horses I found on the google history?”

She swallowed audibly then daintily licked her lips. “Horses?”  Her breath smelled of fishy parts.

I know faux ignorance when I see it. “Ivela, spill or I won’t let you sleep in Sophie’s room.”

She blinked. I could tell she was thinking it over. Her Pillow Pet rests at the foot of Sophie’s bed and she does not like to sleep without it.

“It’s not a horse. It’s only a very large dog……”

*Can’t wait for the direct deposit to kick in!
**Which is really nonsense because keeping house and raising kids is productivity.

Cuz my identity by itself causes violence

The following story has enraged me in a way that I haven’t been enraged in a long time. And, people, I do rage really well. With style and flair. As other artists work in oils, watercolors or clay, I’ve erected monuments to spleen venting. Weaving together whole quilts of seething, snarling, vein-throbbing fury, I once could cast a pall over everything with the single act of swallowing my ugly thoughts, letting the words rest somewhere inside causing something almost electric in its negativity. You’ve heard the phrase sucks all the Oxygen out of the room?

Like that.

Then came the anti-depressants and my ability to rage was dulled. Until now.

Trayvon Martin is my son’s friend. Not literally, of course, but if he’s going to be reduced to one thing – a threat, if he’s going to be tried, sentenced and executed for the crime of simply being black, then I’m going to presume to have him be a stand-in for all the young, black men I know.

He’s Nate’s classmates. His baseball teammates. He’s the students at MathMan High School, the kids in the neighborhood, the boys draped across the living room furniture playing video games, watching TV and emitting deafening decibels of noise. He’s the pick-up basketball players at the park, the young man looking through the sci-fi books at the library, the guy working the Wendy’s drive-thru, the young athletes stoking our March Madness.

They are boys. Young men with young men interests, worries, hopes, dreams and fears. They are not so different, as it turns out, than my own son who is Irish pale.

And yet, every day is a risk for them in ways that I cannot comprehend. Their mothers have to worry about things that rarely cross my mind. They have to live in fear of some pussy with a gun, some asshole who thinks that every young man with dark skin is a potential criminal, an interloper, an intruder in his pristine gated world, a threat, a thug armed with a bag of Skittles and a bottle of iced tea.

Wanna know what happens when you’re a dark mark on George Zimmerman’s gun-toting radar?

You end up with a hole in your chest. Boom, black kid. This is my world and you’re no longer living in it.

Big man with a gun. Playing cop.

The only thing worse than George Zimmerman’s murderous fear – the only thing worse – is the cavalier attitude of the police in Sanford, Florida.

This feels personal to me. This young man was murdered. Murdered. The local authorities refuse to do anything about it. They’ve dicked around with it, made excuses, and entirely gummed up the investigation until all they could do was kick it up the food chain. Talk about pussies with guns.

Listen, I don’t hate guns. I hate guns in the hands of people who don’t respect the power they hold when they’ve got their finger on the trigger. I hate it that guns can be easily procured by fearful people because fear  gets in the way of clear thinking. Guns are more dangerous because the people who have guns for personal protection are afraid.

That’s not to say I don’t have my own fears. Please. I have many and varied. A treasure chest full. Not surprisingly, one of my fears is guns in the hands of frightened people with itchy trigger fingers and not a lot of sense.

The fact that the authorities who are responsible for ensuring justice and the safety of the entire community – not just the white community – have refused to charge the confessed murderer with the crime is the insult, George Zimmerman, the shooter, is the injury. He’s the open wound of our collective hate and fear of the other.

And if we remain silent about this, the shame of Trayvon Martin’s murder belongs to all of us.

Sign the petition to demand justice.  Charles Blow on the Curious Case of Trayvon Martin.

**********

Hey, my loves, my friend Jurassic Pork is in a tough way. If you can help out at all, please do. Thanks, gang. xoxo

On a safari in his own country

Cedar waxwings hold a briefing.

You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story. – My fortune cookie fortune this weekend.

Talk about pressure!

The cats are hovering around me and my beef stew. Please don’t mistake their hovering for affection, you silly geese. They’re simply making a display of their disdain for having been reduced from their civilized three meals a day – a full brekkie, luncheon and tea – to the dreadful abuse of two meals with a light snack at bedtime. I’m waiting for the day I arrive home to find them chewing on Sophie who has a habit of taking a nap after school. Perhaps she senses the potential danger because tonight she’d locked herself in her room before crashing.

I drove like a maniac all the way home alternately dialing the home phone and Sophie’s mobile, imagining the worst. She’d choked on a piece of stew meat and lay gasping for air, turning a disturbing shade of blue and writing me one last love/hate note with a shaky hand.

I love you so much, Mother. Why did you have to go back to work? Wasn’t being my mother enough…..

Obviously, she’s fine, only sleeping. I mean, I wouldn’t be so callous as to blog immediately after – –  well, I can’t even type the words.

Is this time change making you loopy, too? Leap forward, my darlings, right into this vat of confusion.

This morning, five of us – Nate’s friend Al spent the night so we were plus one – got showered, dressed, fed and out the door on time. Somehow we managed the feat without any shed tears, broken bones or cross words.

The rest of the week will probably be full of tiny catastrophes and moments resembling the scene in The Poseidon Adventure when the boat is hit by a tidal wave and flips over. I wonder who’ll be the poor sap falling face first through the plate glass window.

It’s not lost on me that no matter how much night-before prep you do, no matter how organized and planned and stringently practiced your routine, when the tidal wave comes, you’re gonna get wet.

By the way, you want to know who really misses me now that I’m not haunting the house all day? Well, I believe I heard the vacuum cleaner weeping quietly in his corner. I haven’t tugged his hose in many days. And boy howdy does it show.

It may be part of my sinister plot to demonstrate to the other Goldens just how untidy and rank things can get around here when I stop cleaning. Then again, it could be that I just plain ran out of time this weekend and, yeah, those assholes I live with aren’t about to pitch in until I throw a big hissy fit. Which I’ve decided I’m not going to do because that puts me back in the martyr box in which I’ve stifled many a time, stewing in my own angry juices and taking swigs from a flask filled with Windex.

Bottom line?  We need an Alice, damn it.

So work is interesting. Very. And damn it, again! I can’t say much about it. I’m waiting for my official legal briefing so I know for sure what I can and can’t say, but for now I have to ixnay on the oliticspay. See, I work for a labor union and we’re preparing for contract negotiations and so I’m not allowed to say much. Which means I really shouldn’t say anything because then I won’t screw up. Well, I’ll try not to screw up. I know I won’t give up any confidential info, but not doing anything political? Gulp.

Because you know I’m dying to crack wise about grits, right?

Just know work is going well. Today I was trained on how to work the front desk, answering phones and routing them properly and logging them, greeting visitors, buzzing them in and not laughing too much at them when they pull instead of push the glass door. Sounds easy, no? Well, I was no Shelley Winters swimming toward safety, but it wasn’t all bad. I got the hang of it. Nevermind that I tried to route a call to the woman who was training me only to find that when she went to lunch, she left her call forwarding on and the call I couldn’t answer was actually me trying to call — me. At the front desk.

Thankfully, the caller was a patient man who only wanted to ask a question about something that’s called deadheading which sounds groovy like psychedelic travels following a band around the country or, at the very least, lopping off the drooping heads of fading flower maidens. But no. It’s about seats.

I’ve had moments when I had to stop and pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I’m actually working for a paycheck again. It’s something I’d nearly despaired of. There were other moments when I had to take a step back and remind myself that I really should have gotten out more while I was in layoff limbo because it was a bit overwhelming to be around all those people for such long, uninterrupted periods of time.

Thankfully, I handled it without resorting to huffing into a paper bag or consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Come to think of it, I didn’t have a drop. I remained clear of head, steady of hand and fully clothed.  I love a good meeting without a hangover. I ate my fill of fresh fruit and hotel pastries and lost a pound. I tried to be indispensible without being too much muchness. I just want to do a good job and be the kind of employee everyone wants to have around.

It’s a fine balance. It’s like the difference between cheese grits and cheesy grits.

On safari in his own country

Cedar waxwings hold a briefing.

You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story. – My fortune cookie fortune this weekend.

Talk about pressure!

The cats are hovering around me and my beef stew. Please don’t mistake their hovering for affection, you silly geese. They’re simply making a display of their disdain for having been reduced from their civilized three meals a day – a full brekkie, luncheon and tea – to the dreadful abuse of two meals with a light snack at bedtime. I’m waiting for the day I arrive home to find them chewing on Sophie who has a habit of taking a nap after school. Perhaps she senses the potential danger because tonight she’d locked herself in her room before crashing.

I drove like a maniac all the way home alternately dialing the home phone and Sophie’s mobile, imagining the worst. She’d choked on a piece of stew meat and lay gasping for air, turning a disturbing shade of blue and writing me one last love/hate note with a shaky hand.

I love you so much, Mother. Why did you have to go back to work? Wasn’t being my mother enough…..

Obviously, she’s fine, only sleeping. I mean, I wouldn’t be so callous as to blog immediately after – –  well, I can’t even type the words.

Is this time change making you loopy, too? Leap forward, my darlings, right into this vat of confusion.

This morning, five of us – Nate’s friend Al spent the night so we were plus one – got showered, dressed, fed and out the door on time. Somehow we managed the feat without any shed tears, broken bones or cross words.

The rest of the week will probably be full of tiny catastrophes and moments resembling the scene in The Poseidon Adventure when the boat is hit by a tidal wave and flips over. I wonder who’ll be the poor sap falling face first through the plate glass window.

It’s not lost on me that no matter how much night-before prep you do, no matter how organized and planned and stringently practiced your routine, when the tidal wave comes, you’re gonna get wet.

By the way, you want to know who really misses me now that I’m not haunting the house all day? Well, I believe I heard the vacuum cleaner weeping quietly in his corner. I haven’t tugged his hose in many days. And boy howdy does it show.

It may be part of my sinister plot to demonstrate to the other Goldens just how untidy and rank things can get around here when I stop cleaning. Then again, it could be that I just plain ran out of time this weekend and, yeah, those assholes I live with aren’t about to pitch in until I throw a big hissy fit. Which I’ve decided I’m not going to do because that puts me back in the martyr box in which I’ve stifled many a time, stewing in my own angry juices and taking swigs from a flask filled with Windex.

Bottom line?  We need an Alice, damn it.

So work is interesting. Very. And damn it, again! I can’t say much about it. I’m waiting for my official legal briefing so I know for sure what I can and can’t say, but for now I have to ixnay on the oliticspay. See, I work for a labor union and we’re preparing for contract negotiations and so I’m not allowed to say much. Which means I really shouldn’t say anything because then I won’t screw up. Well, I’ll try not to screw up. I know I won’t give up any confidential info, but not doing anything political? Gulp.

Because you know I’m dying to crack wise about grits, right?

Just know work is going well. Today I was trained on how to work the front desk, answering phones and routing them properly and logging them, greeting visitors, buzzing them in and not laughing too much at them when they pull instead of push the glass door. Sounds easy, no? Well, I was no Shelley Winters swimming toward safety, but it wasn’t all bad. I got the hang of it. Nevermind the time I tried to route a call to the woman who was training me only to find that when she went to lunch, she left her call forwarding on and the call I couldn’t answer was actually me trying to call — me. At the front desk.

Thankfully, the caller was a patient man who only wanted to ask a question about something that’s called deadheading which sounds groovy like psychedelic travels following a band around the country or, at the very least, lopping off the drooping heads of fading flower maidens. But no. It’s about seats.

I’ve had moments when I had to stop and pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I’m actually working for a paycheck again. It’s something I’d nearly despaired of. There were other moments when I had to take a step back and remind myself that I really should have gotten out more while I was in layoff limbo because it was a bit overwhelming to be around all those people for such long, uninterrupted periods of time.

Thankfully, I handled it without resorting to huffing into a paper bag or consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Come to think of it, I didn’t have a drop. I remained clear of head, steady of hand and fully clothed.  I love a good meeting without a hangover. I ate my fill of fresh fruit and hotel pastries and lost a pound. I tried to be indispensible without being too much muchness. I just want to do a good job and be the kind of employee everyone wants to have around.

It’s a fine balance. It’s like the difference between cheese grits and cheesy grits.

From somewhere in downtown Atlanta

Dear you,

I hope this reaches you in good health and spirits. Even though I’ve been busy with Days 1 and 2 of my new job, you’ve been on my mind. How do I make you feel appreciated while I dive head first into this paying gig? Do we need to set aside some alone time? Should I send flowers? Give you a massage at the end of your tough day?

Let’s sleep on it and you let me know.

I’ve been smiling from the time I leave my hotel room until the moment I return, kick off my pumps and wrestle out of my nylons. I’ve consumed more calories in two days than I ate all of last week. I haven’t stepped in a single surprise from a cat. The people I work for think I’m a cheerful chick who doesn’t drink or hold strong opinions.

Let’s not disabuse them of these notions. Yet.

Meanwhile, they’re all very warm and welcoming which makes giving up my free-wheeling days alone a little easier. I’ve only texted Sophie a couple of times telling her how my tummy hurts or how I might die from a headache if she doesn’t come pick me up and take me home. She’s learned well from her mother. “You have to stay at work. Now stop bothering me while I’m in band.”

Three more days of meetings. I think I’ll survive. My feet, still wondering what happened to the smelly slippers, are in open revolt. My foundation garment may have infused some of its elastic into my DNA. I’ve broken my fingernail I always break when I’m staffing a meeting and, naturally, I snagged my pantyhose on the jagged nail.

I haven’t worn any of my food yet, but I did forget to pack floss. I am a obsessive flosser so this is nearly tragic, but I shall soldier on. I think there’s a CVS down the street if I can slip out for a few minutes…

And now it’s late, so I better go because my alarm will be going off in no time.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite,

Lisa

P.S. I really shouldn’t have mentioned bed bugs.