Too Damn Big (a short story)

Judith Blue stands by her Gran Torino in the parking lot and watches as two women scream at each other out their car windows. “Jesus! Will you learn to drive that thang!”
“I was here first.”
“So the fuck what! You can’t drive worth shit!”

She turns and looks at the line of women that snakes out the door and down the sidewalk in front of the small specialty stores that share this rather large strip mall with The Beefeater, the restaurant, bar, and disco she manages for Chuck Smart. Women are beginning to push each other in front of Yin Lee’s Oriental Delights.

“Oh god, what am I going to do now?” She thinks this aloud and the sound of her own voice startles her. A very pregnant woman gives a mighty shove at the woman in front of her, who goes down, hits the pavement on her knees, and as her hands come down on the concrete she screams, “Jesus H Christ!” Judith turns toward the restaurant and starts moving as fast as she can, considering her high heels and the slope of the parking lot. She keeps thinking, ‘I didn’t know this many women lived in Springfield. Oh god, what am I going to do?’ When she gets to the doors she slips past a trio of women standing too close jostling a little against the two men stationed at the door. One of the guys guarding the door whispers in her ear as she squeezes through, “We need more wait staff.” It’s 5PM of a Tuesday night. The show doesn’t start for two hours and the restaurant and bar are packed already, and the only men inside the place work there. Them and the cops guarding the stage in the disco. A couple of months ago she took this job as a lark. Now it's turning into an albatross.

She needed a distraction from the faculty wives parties. When they first arrived she’d amiably gone along with the suggestions that she “participate.” The first abomination was a tea for faculty wives. Full dress regalia. It looked for all the world like the 1950 version of the Junior League, The Garden Club, and the DAR all rolled into one. Like something out of a Cheever story. Then there was the Gourmet Club. What a fucking joke that was. Someone brought a green bean casserole, with canned green beans and Campbell’s mushroom condensed soup. God, it was so sad. After that she knew she had to get a job so she'd have an excuse.

During her interview with Chuck she asked all the questions while Chuck’s girlfriend/accountant Linda, gave her the skunk-eye. Both Chuck and his girlfriend came from Paducha where Chuck’s daddy owns the Caddy dealership. Must be a lot of pimps and drug dealers in Paducha. Chuck and his accountant/girlfriend are in their late twenties and have no idea what they hell they’re doing but seem to have unlimited funds to do it.

She must have been his first interview. When she’s thinks she's through asking him questions, she asks one more. “Do you want to ask me any questions?” He stands up, and giving her his most charming look (which is one raised eyebrow and an Elvis lip curl) sticks out his hand and says, “Welcome aboard.” She shakes his hand and asks one last question. “What do you plan to pay me to make this into a profitable venture?” His left eyelid flutters a little and he says, "A grand a month!” and beams. She says without batting an eye, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and turns toward the door. He says, “Whoa, not so fast, that’s just base salary. If you can turn a profit, I’ll give you 2% and of course, you eat and drink for free.” She pauses for a couple of seconds and says, “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”
“4%?”

“Make it 5%, and don’t hassle me about the changes I want to make. By the way, what’s your advertising budget?” She looks at the accountant who looks at Chuck who says, “Let me know what you need to spend, and we’ll pay the bills.”

“On time?”

He looks at her sideways and says, “Sure. Is that it?”

“No, I need to spend a week or so assessing staffing, supplies, talent. Any changes I want to make, You’ll Okay?”

“You’re the boss.”

“If I find that you have not paid staff, or vendors, or advertisers on time and in full, I’ll quit. Are we clear on all of that?”

“Yes mam.”

Walking to her car she knows she has just made a huge mistake, not asked for enough, got nothing in writing, but what the hell, she can always quit.

When she gets home Henry is there, smoking, drinking straight lukewarm vodka in a half full ice tea glass reading student papers. If you are a lucky student he gets to your paper just before that ice tea glass is empty. By then he doesn’t even bother to read them. He just gives the last four or five A’s and leaves it at that.
“I got a job.”

Silence.

“Have you eaten?”

“NO.” He says this rather too loud for her taste, and she wants to say, “Henry, go fuck yourself,” but refrains for once because she really doesn’t give a shit if Henry’s eaten or not, she’s not cooking for him, so, why engage?

She heads for the shower. An hour later, after the shower, drying her hair, and getting dolled up a little, she grabs her handbag and starts toward the living room. Henry says in his whiniest voice, “Aren’t you going to fix dinner?”

“How astute, Henry. Was it the click click of my high heels?”

“Yes.”

“Want to have a conversation, Henry?”

“NO. I want to eat. Are you going out?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I got a job, Henry. I told you, but it didn’t seem to register. I thought maybe you’d nodded off. I’d take you to dinner, but I doubt you could walk, and really, I want to see what the dining experience is like for a woman alone.”

“Why?”

“Henry? Are you in there? Why, to what? Are you so obtuse in class?

“A restaurant? Really? Will you bring me something back?”

“Probably not, since you’ll be asleep before I get back. Stay sober and I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow night. Till then there's food in the fridge. Good night Henry.”

As she drives to Beefeaters, Judith thinks about the possibilities. The place is huge. Restaurant seats two hundred. The bar is another hundred . Fire code says the disco can hold a maximum of five hundred. She does not know the population of Springfield, but thinks keeping this place busy is really going to be a challenge. It's Thursday evening, just past 6 PM when she pulls into the parking lot. Stores are still open, but even so, the lot is almost empty. Oh God.

That first week she feels she has located all the major staffing changes she will need to make. She spends most early afternoons meeting with the back of the house—mostly the three cooks, one of whom has Culinary Institute training. They revamp the menu with specials that will not necessitate reprinting menus. Add dessert specials, everything is made in- house, bread, desserts. They work on a new wine list. Not necessarily more expensive, but better. Printing costs will be small. She gets rid of the English serving girl dresses with all the cleavage exposed, and the long skirts that are a tripping hazard, and puts everybody in black pants and white shirts.

She spends her evenings in the bar. They have a cowboy quartet that starts playing at six. She gives them two weeks notice and puts up posters at the University’s music department and an ad in the classifieds of the News-Leader asking for jazz musicians. On Wednesday afternoon she auditions three groups. Hires a band called Entropy. Judith thinks the bands name is pretentious and not apt, since they play quite swinging or soulful Jazz standards but decides it isn’t worth arguing about, since very few bar patrons will have the slightest idea what the fuck it means. She hires a great looking female bartender and keeps the one male bartender who doesn’t hit on her right off. She asks everyone to put out the word that she’s looking for another bartender. She has three cocktail waitresses to start with. She’ll add them as she needs.

Judith Blue is now on a mission to poach talent from restaurants and bars in the surrounding counties since she’s stolen all the good ones in Springfield. She’s left Horton’s alone because it is her only refuge from the Beefeater, so Larry and his staff are safe for now. Henry is too deep in his cups to really notice her absence.

Now she is concentrating on the disco. It’s days as a disco are numbered. Donna Summers is sort of old hat now, and it's time to transition to another incarnation. But what the fuck will that be? The place has a stage and dance floor and is too big by half. One morning in Fayetteville she stops for breakfast at a coffee shop near the the U.A.F campus, and while reading the paper, notices a small piece on page four about a club in Kansas City that sparks her interest. This little club, the Plug Nickel, has made news by offering the ladies a male strip show. The reason it makes any news at all is the huge crowd it draws—all women. Fancy that. She finishes her coffee, puts out her smoke, tucks the paper under her arm and heads for the parking lot. She climbs into her Gran Torino and lites another cigarette before she turns toward Springfield. It’s a beautiful drive once you get past the strip malls that blight the landscape around Fayetteville, Benton, Rodgers, then she’s off the beaten track and on to Cassville, then Monett. Gorgeous farmland, no strip malls here. And she’s thinking all the way home.

She spreads the word among her staff of mostly S.M.S.U. students, that she’s looking for male dancers, real dancers, for an all female audience. Within a week she has fifty eight names on an audition list. And Beefeaters is buzzing. Business is picking up at a steady rate. Sometimes on Friday and Saturday nights there is a waiting list for dinner and the overflow is enjoying the jazz in the bar. Everybody’s making money and bickering and backstabbing is at a minimum. Even Chuck and the accountant are pleased.

So far the disco is a cavern still mostly empty, despite the sound of Donna Summer, Grace Jones, Gloria Gaynor, and Chic blaring from the huge speakers, the glittery disco ball still twirling in the dimly lit space. She has banned the Bee Gees from the playlist, but there is always a small crowd late at night around the long bar, and a few diehard dancers still making the most of the big dance floor. But the times, they are about to be changing.

For three mornings she holds auditions in the empty disco. There are the dancers, the cocktail waiters, and the female DJ’s all in separate lines. Judith stands on the bar platform and tells them her plan. DJ’s have always been guys, but that is going to change on Tuesday nights. The women auditioning for DJ head to the booth. Dancers are limbering up down by the stage. But the first players in this performance are the cocktail waiters. Sixteen guys begging for ten spots. Mostly college athletes and frat boys, thinking this is going to be easy. They have to audition just like the dancers and the DJs. She is going to turn the night-life gender roles upside down and see what falls out just one night a week for a month. She tells everyone exactly what her intentions are and what she expects of them. She will be the choreographer and majordoma of this whole shebang. An experienced cocktail waitress from the bar gives lessons to the waiters auditioning. They have to be able to carry a heavily loaded tray high above their heads, arm fully extended, weaving their way through closely placed tables, with a certain grace and agility while not spilling a drop. Almost every guy fails his first couple of tries. We're just using plastic glasses loaded with water and ice. The weight is less than it will be, but the balance is what we're working on at the moment

The regular DJ is demonstrating in a showoffy way the inner workings of the booth. Music gets going and then stops abruptly. Judith leaves the bar tournament to the cocktail waitress who will assist the female bartender. These two very competent and charming women will now make Tuesday night a regular part of their schedule. The buxom redheaded bartender Jeannette is filling fake orders and the tall thin brunette cocktail waitress Cathy is loading the trays for these desperate waiter wannabes. Judith heads for the dancers.

This is going to be the tricky part of the whole deal. They needed to have a little sit down. “Hi, I’m Judith Blue. Nice of you boys to show up, but this might not be exactly what you understood from the ad and posters. We are going to put on two shows a night one night a week for an all female audience. Women only. And you guys will be the entertainment.” There is a slight rise in the energy level of this group of attentive young men. They look at one another and smile. “I want to incorporate several elements to this performance, but I know this is a highly religious community, so to be fair to all of you, I must tell you first off, that there will be a little stripping involved. Anybody object to taking off your clothes while dancing and ending up nearly naked ought to leave now. We’re not doing anything illegal, but…” She shrugs, and sits at the small round table at the edge of the dance floor looking at the handsome, eager faces arrayed before her, spread out in repose on the dance floor, languid and muscled young men. Not a sound. No one moves to leave or even shifts his weight. “Is there a choreographer among you?” Three hands shoot up. She motions them over. They take chairs flanking her. “Will the remaining fifty or so of you break into groups of ten or eleven”? She waves her arm in the direction of the DJ booth and shouts, “Keep the volume low for awhile. We need to be able to talk in a normal tone, OK?”

There is a low murmur taking place in every part of the room now, then a large crash as one of the loaded trays hits the concrete floor. Dead silence for just a long moment, then the murmur starts again.

She has a powwow with her three choreographers and sketches out what she wants to see tomorrow, same time same place with some rough costuming. Is this possible? Yes, it turns out, it is.

Everywhere she goes she tells the women, in hushed and whispered tones that they might want to come for a special night just for women at the disco. At the bank, the grocery store, the doctors office, and throughout her strolls through the halls of academe.

By the following Monday morning they are ready for a dress rehearsal. She has ten well-trained waiters in black shorts and white wife-beater T-shirts, wearing white tennis shoes on their feet. She was tempted to make them wear high heels, just for the object lesson, but decided against it in the end. Her DJ is not only a hot babe, but she has great taste and timing. Judith’s strippers are dressed up and ready to go. The only thing missing is the audience, but it all works flawlessly in practice.

By six, the restaurant is full and the bar is overflowing. Women all over the place, and the excitement of anticipation is palpable. Conversation is decidedly more animated this evening. Judith surmises that without the sobering influence of the menfolk, the women are a little more uninhibited. She opens the disco doors and there is a near stampede from the bar. Women are running for the tables up front. Oh my god. Judith has the first of what will be many moments of dismay this evening. She stands inside the huge room and watches it fill in minutes. Her waiters are in full swing fast. She slips into the stock room behind the disco bar and uses the wall-phone to tell the boys bar-tending in the bar to come into the disco and assist the waiters at either end of the bar. This frees the two women bar-tending to mix drinks for the female customers three deep the length of the disco bar. Oh shit, this is not going to work as planned, there are just too many of them. Not one single ad and this is what has happened? There is a half hour to go and she already senses the chaos that might ensue if the bar fills with men waiting for the end of the shows and the emerging women. She checks with the wait staff in the restaurant. All the waiters agree that they will help out in the bar or disco when their tables empty. The waitresses express their displeasure at being left-out. Judith says, “Check your pockets at the end of the night and then tell me how left-out you feel.”

The show is perfection. But it is not the show that concerns Judith, it is the audience. This is like a fucking rock concert. Women are screaming and jumping up and down, throwing their panties. Waiters have come to her saying women are pulling their shorts down when they bend to take an order. These guy are getting groped. What the hell’s going on here? She gets goose bumps on the back of her neck. But gives a quick demonstration on how to squat at a table to take an order so as not to get ones shorts pulled down. This does not however solve the groping behavior. These guy are going to get groped. Nothing she can do about it now.

There are obviously things to be worked out, but there is no denying Judith is on to something here. Just what, she is not sure. She decides right then and there to do a fashion show on Wednesday night. She wanders into the bar and sees a milling mob of cocktail drinking men. They are waiting almost patiently.

After a month of strip shows with an ever growing mob of women and the men who follow them, she has received television news coverage as far away as Kansas City. Now she gets a visit every Tuesday evening from the fire marshal to make sure they do not exceed capacity. Two burly cops flank the stage. Boys are coming out of the woodwork begging to cocktail for free, claiming all kinds of experience. But the crowd of screaming women of all ages and in all kinds of conditions, like hugely pregnant, or swooning and falling from the arms of their chairs where they stand to get a better view? This she cannot deal with. So, once the first show starts, she heads for Horton’s for a drink and a quiet dinner. They hold a seat for her at the bar and a table in the dining room. She loves the piano bar. Johnny plays jazz classics so soulfully.

The minute she's seated at the bar a dirty martini is placed in front of her by a smiling bartender named Bill Bailey who always winks at her. Everyone up and down the bar looks at her and they all smile. The gorgeous waiter named Tom blows her a kiss when he comes to the bar to pick up an order. This is more like it. She eases out of her jacket and crosses her legs, letting one black open toed high heel dangle from her toes, rocking slightly. Johnny swings into "Straight No Chaser" and she smiles and nods at him. He winks at her too. A tall blond man in his early twenties walks up and wraps his arms around her from behind. She takes a deep breath and nearly swoons he smells so good.

She longs to leave Chuck and Beefeaters, the screaming hordes of women, repressed too long and full of pent up rage and randiness. Her success is a monster she can no longer control. She's made more money than she imagined she would. It's socked away in her own account.

She longs to leave the sinking ship that is her third marriage. Henry is on his way down. He'll probably drink himself to death and she knows there is no way to stop him. She doesn't participate in Henry's drinking. He takes no pleasure in it. He's just getting drunk. Henry's started to stink.

My Blog Is Fading Away

I haven't given you much of interest lately. And my blog roll just makes me feel guilty. My two year anniversary is coming up in December or January, I can't remember anymore.

I've been talking about my novel forever it seems, and now it's time to get serious. I can't write here and keep focused on the story. I've disassembled a linear first person narrative story and now I have to figure out how to write it anew in a more interesting way. I have to sneak up on you with this story or it's just too awful, relentlessly painful. I insist on keeping the major events intact, but they will be revealed in a present time, mostly in Santa Barbara. See, I can't even write a decent placeholder.

And to be honest watching my numbers climb on twitter while they dwindle here is not a great incentive to be prolific here. I like the immediacy of the conversation on twitter. I like seeing you there and discovering a new you that I never saw in your blogging. I'm not dismantling Utah Savage, but I am going to be posting less frequently.

I've found lots of agents on twitter and some of them are on my blog roll. I've found publications that are having contests or are asking for submissions from poetry to the novella. I need to focus my attention there and start getting serious. I'm old and time might be running out.

I've moved most of my writing to this place, relearned to write here, on blogger. So I'll keep writing here, but mostly on the fiction for now. Feel free to look in and see whether I'm making a story better or worse. And if you want to start a conversation leave a comment here or find me on twitter. It was fun while it lasted.

My Horoscope This Week

On the surface, everything looks just fine as your day moves along according to your plan. But even if you have an upbeat attitude today, it's apparent that something weird is going on and you cannot put your finger on it. Just accept that the wall separating your life from the Twilight Zone has worn thin and there is a surreal flow of energy between the two worlds.

National Equality March

This is a lovely fall day and I have spent it inside listening to the speakers at the National Equality March and tweeting my support for granting full equality to all our citizens. It is astonishing to me that in 2009 there are still people who are afraid that their rights will be trammeled if we respect the rights of others (already guaranteed by our Constitution). And so we go about deliberately taking civil rights from our GLBT family, friends and neighbors, state by state. We write legislation taking rights away. There is nothing less democratic and more hateful than this. Why is it that the right wing always wants to deny full citizenship to Native Americans, women, African Americans, and GLBT people? It is exactly like the civil rights movement of the 50s and 60s, which gave full civil rights to all citizens, excluding no one. But these civil rights have been amended by various states to exclude GLBT people explicitly--most notably by California in it's recent passage of Proposition 8 in November 2008. Utah is another state that has recently attempted to legalize discrimination against GLBT from every aspect of full participation in society--housing, employment, marriage, service in the military and national guard.

Bill Clinton had the opportunity to oppose Don't Ask, Don't Tell and the Defense Of Marriage Act, but failed to do so. In my opinion this was his greatest failure, this abandoning of the rights of all our citizens to full participation in our society.

President Obama gave a wonderful speech last night in support of granting full civil rights to GLBT citizens by ending Don't Ask, Don't Tell and the Defense Of Marriage Act. He did not set a time limit, but I believe he will follow through on his promise. If he does this, he will have earned his Nobel Prize.

Now the Good News

Today I had the follow-up appointment with my hematologist. I went with trepidation, since last time I saw him it seemed I was facing a bone marrow test. I've heard this is a hellaciously painful test. I also know the the diseases they're looking for are bad and worse. There is no good thing that they are likely to find when taking bone marrow, since what they're looking for are mostly autoimmune diseases that range from bad to dire.

Today they had the results of my abdominal ultrasound which showed normal spleen and liver. The only problem they found was several gall stones. I have no symptoms of gall stones--no pain, no nausea, no vomiting. And even better than that news, was the news that my platelet count is up. It's not normal yet, but it's better than it was two weeks ago.

From now on I will have an appointment with Dr Frame, my sweet, cute, friendly hematologist every three months to monitor my platelet count. This means between my once a month appointment with my internist to check my clotting factor as well as the four appointments a year with the charming Dr Frame I'll be getting the best possible care. If he ever decides I have to have my bone marrow looked at, I'll know it will be an early diagnosis and that he will make sure it hurts as little as possible.

Hooray for Medicare, the best health insurance in this country! This is the public option I hope all of you get. I have never had any test or referral challenged by Medicare.

Big Cyrus

Cyrus came to me from Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. I'm one of the few people who prefers an adult dog to a puppy, so when Best Friends found Cyrus in dire straits and on very shaky ground they called me. He'd been kept for nine years in a "shelter" in the desert outside of Tucson. The woman who was collecting unwanted animals had Cyrus since he was a puppy. For nine years she fed and watered him, but did not address his health problems. Then she died, suddenly, of a heart attack, leaving 93 animals unattended until a family member of the woman couldn't reach her by phone and called the authorities. The police called Best Friends to come deal with all the animals. Cyrus was the biggest of the lot and had some of the biggest problems. His teeth were a mess, he knees were shot, his thyroid was in need of medicine, and he was in serious pain due to arthritis. Best Friends did all the work they could to improve Cyrus' chances. His teeth were cleaned and the worst of them extracted. He was put on pain medication and thyroid medicine. Then they needed to find him the right home. I feel very lucky to have been the one they chose to take him. He is a saintly, sweet, loving soul and I've loved every minute with him.

Due to Cyrus' joint problems he's only able to hobble outside a couple of times a day to do his business. He isn't comfortable outside. He's very sensitive to loud noises and will cut off a pee mid-stream if a walnut falls from the neighbor's walnut tree and hits the ground with a soft thud. I know there will come a day when he can't rise. That will be the day I call The House Call Vet to come give him the easy way out. Too bad our doctors aren't allowed to ease our way out of a bad end. How is it we are more compassionate to our pets than we are with our fellow humans?

Yesterday The House Call Vet came by to check on a sore on Cyrus' muzzle, close to his nose that flared up and required antibiotics. Turns out it might be a tumor. It's in a very bad place for surgery and even if it could be treated it would take a forklift to get him out of here. He weighs 170 pounds. I weigh 145 pounds. If Cyrus doesn't want to budge from his bed beside my bed, I can't make him. He's had two good years with me. More than Best Friends thought he'd live. So I will cherish every second I have with him.

This Week in Bad News

Tomorrow I go to the oncology hematologist to find out the results of the tests he ordered and to plan the next step in diagnosing the cause of my low platelet count. In the meantime I've seen both my therapist and my psychiatrist. They seem to think I'm reacting to bad news well. We just didn't know how bad bad news might be. So, up to that point I was reacting to uncertainty the way anybody would, bipolar or not.

But now I have the result of my recent eye exam and I have rapidly worsening cataracts. My eyes are getting bad fast. This might have something to do with my seeming inability to read a book. I used to read a book a day. I might forget my vitamins but I never went a day with out taking a very big bite out of a book. It's been two years since I read with the sort of passion and focus I always had. Maybe the new glasses will help brighten my outlook, but I'm feeling pretty gnarly. right now.

I called my Congressman, Jim Matheson this morning to express my hope that he vote for a robust public option in healthcare reform. The staffer who answered the phone, hung-up on me the minute I said, " ...robust public option..." Then I went to twitter and looked up Congressman Matheson to tell him how offensive that hang-up was. I sent him messages for about an hour. Then I noticed other twitterers were picking up my tweet and retweeting it. Pretty soon two Utah reporters were retweeting my tweet. I hope Congressman Matheson gets my message.

I was shocked to find that I actually made a doctor appointment at 10:30 tomorrow morning. I must have been rattled when I made the appointment. 10:30 AM for me is like 4:00 Am for most people. I hate mornings. I'm a night person.

And to top it off, my big dog Cyrus has had a sore on the side of his very large muzzle, next to his very big nose. It was so bad over last weekend I called his Veterinarian, The House Call Vet, for a prescription for antibiotics. Monday it looked a bit less red, less swollen, but Tuesday it looked bad again. I called The House Call Vet again and this time asked him to come take a look at it before this Weekend. He'll be here any minute.

I'm dreading tomorrow.

I'm Losing My Keys; Am I losing My mind?

This first happened about a month ago. I was cleaning up a bit--doing laundry, emptying trash, tidying up, making trips from the little house to the big house to change the laundry from the washer to the dryer, bringing clean clothes into the little house to fold and put away. And somewhere between here and there, I misplaced my keys. I hadn't left home so the keys are here, somewhere, unless I tossed them in the trash when I poop scooped. I searched pockets and purses, I looked under furniture. I emptied trash and looked behind the garbage cans. Nothing. And all the while I looked I grew more panicked, more desperate. Two friends helped me look. Nothing. I finally gave up and started over getting a new set of keys made. Once I'd done that, I moved on, forgot about finding the old set and resolved to hang on to the new set. Well it's happened again, and in much the same circumstances. It's not like losing a key. This is a gob of keys on a key ring with a bright red plastic tag.

Keys are a metaphor for a lot of things, but the one that worries me most is my mind. Am I losing my mind?

Losing keys was one of the things my mother started to do when she lost her mind. She first lost her keys. Over and over again, she lost her keys. Lost keys was not the only thing that was going on with her, but it might have been the first sign. I wasn't living in Santa Barbara when all this loss began. But by all accounts of the progress of her illness vascular dementia, it began with her losing her keys and then moved on to losing control of her bowels and bladder and not even realizing it. So I'm terrified.

The Maze

This poem is what my childhood felt like. It's what my life as a young woman felt like. It's only now when all the rest are dead and gone that I feel safe. I can't claim that all women who were sexually abused within what should be a safe place, with family, at home feel like this, but I bet it's a lot. We could be a terrifying army of wounded women, who might have become just a little bit heartless.

Daddy was an expert at driving the lab animals mad
It was his job, it was his passion. Daddy had talent for it.
Daddy married a woman with a pretty child and no maternal
Instinct drove them to it. Unhinge that child Daddy, see what
She can take. The little whore becomes your slave until she is
Too old. Unhinge that child. What is she but a ticking time bomb.
Call her a liar and she becomes one, threaten the cage again, bind her
Mind with fear like Chinese women’s feet. Women are used to torture
The women her mother hates so much, apron wearing women, domesticated
Dumb cows. The girl will run the hamster wheel of repetition repetition repetition
Until she’s the only one left alive, alone at last. Talks about it like normal life, like
normal life
Like Normal life.

The Cost of a Childhood Stolen

Yesterday I felt compelled to write about Roman Polanski and the little girl he plied with drugs and drink and raped. I'm as shocked by his defenders as I am his own behavior. I think of him as a sexual predator who preys on children. The thirteen year old girl was not his only child victim. Jang-chub Ozer pointed out to me in a comment to that post yesterday, his next little girl was Nastassja Kinsky. At fifteen Kinsky was Polanski's sexual partner. Did he drug and rape her? I have no idea, but no matter the how and why of that relationship, it did lead to a Golden Globe Award for her role as Tess in Polanski's adaptation Tess of the d' Urbervilles the marvelous novel by Thomas Hardy. It was at the urging of her parents, that Polanski was prodded into helping her career along, perhaps keeping promises made. Two more parents who should have remained childless. A movie career doesn't make up for a childhood stolen. And who are all the people in Polanski's social circle who have no qualms about a middle aged man and his child lovers?

This is a topic I know a thing or two about. I was raised by a pedophile who used me sexually until I was too old for him at eleven. I was six when he started. My father was a psychologist and I was not his first child, I'm sure. But he knew very well how to gain my love and trust and how to keep me a compliant and willing victim. And it was my willingness that he used against me to keep me silent long after the sexual abuse had ended. It was his skill as a psychologist that transfered his guilt to me. I seduced him. I was a very provocative little girl. I begged for it. I never protested. I never told anyone. But I didn't need to tell anyone. Everybody knew. My mother knew. My grandparents (father's parents) knew. Family friends knew. Neighbors knew. No one intervened. No one tried to stop him. My menses was the event that made me too old for him. He liked his little girls very young. I sure I 'm not the only one who spent all her money on therapy. I'm sure I'm not the only one who tried to kill herself over and over. I'm sure I'm not the only one who failed at every relationship she ever had with a man. I'm sure I'm not the only one only feels safe alone.

Roman Polanski and the Little Girl

I was working for the Fat Bald Jew (that was how he answered his phone-more on him another day) in Denver while my last husband got his PhD at the University of Denver, when Roman Polanski got busted for drugging and raping a thirteen year old girl, whose mother had given permission for her daughter to have a photo session with the famous director. As I recall two other bad boys were on the premises at the time of her rape. I remember both Jack Nickelson and Warren Beatty were there that day. She should have had an adult with her. Notice I do not imply that any of the three men could be called an adult supervisor or agent/parent surrogate. I've never really thought of any of this trio of old bad boys as "adults."

I remember that all of the men I knew at the time, including the Fat Bald Jew and the graduate students at DU who were friends and acquaintances of my last husband, all thought it wasn't rape. "The girl looked at lot older than thirteen." "Her mother gave her consent to the photo session." "Come on now, rape, really?" Yes rape! No one thirteen is capable of giving consent ~ drunk, drugged or sober. There is no place in the United States where getting a thirteen year old drunk and drugged and having sex with her in several orifices is considered okay or legal. If she were your daughter and anyone, famous or not, got her drunk, drugged her and had anal sex with her, would you think it was "not worth prosecuting?" "Her fault?" Or any other bullshit rationalization for giving Polanski a pass? If you answered yes to any of that, you are not fit to be a parent. If, like this girl's mother you gave consent for her to go to Roman Palanski's place for a photo shoot without an adult chaperone, you are not fit to be a parent. But no matter how unfit the thirteen year old's consenting parent was, it isn't her fault Polanski drugged and raped her daughter. It's Roman Polanski's fault and it's illegal anywhere in this country. It's a crime and no matter how it's handled, there will be long lasting consequences for the child, now a mature woman. And there were nude, provocative photos taken. That makes it kiddie porn. So let's all stop bullshitting ourselves as to who's guilty of what. Roman Polanski not only pled guilty, he skipped bail and left our jurisdiction. He should be prosecuted for that. And I don't give a shit how talented or special he is. He's a pedophile in my book.

I had screaming fights with almost every man I knew over this case, when it was everywhere in the news and everyone had an opinion. However, not one of those men was a father of a girl. They argued that because she looked so sexy and mature the crime was maybe not such a bad crime. And they argued that the mother gave consent to the whole thing. They argued that it was a shake-down, that the mother and daughter somehow set the whole thing up to get money from a famous man. I did a lot of screaming of the word "Bullshit!" What was wrong with all those men?

Introducing Snarly Gnarly Miss Marley Honey-Fitz

But My Mental Health is Great!

I had a mental health summit today on very short notice. When I get bad news and or the days are growing shorter, I call my therapist to schedule a check up , much like I take my car in for winterizing and a safety inspection. If you're bipolar and you don't have regular check ups you're crazy.

While I'm waiting for test results on medical stuff it seemed quite possible that I might get depressed and as winter comes on not be able to pull out of it. I didn't expect that my call Monday would be returned this fast and time made to see me. Usually you need to make your appointment with the psychiatrist a couple of months in advance. Not this time. She skipped lunch to meet with me. And I'm feeling pretty good that both my mental health experts think I'm peachy in the mental health department. I've been doing the happy dance. Don't worry, it's just the happy dance not the manic dance.

Even My Horoscope's Crappy

You would be smart to exercise caution today because it's easy to set your sights on something you want and start off in a new direction before you think about the results of your actions. Additionally, nearly anything you do now has unforeseen consequences and there's no way to get around this dilemma. Delaying major decisions for a day or two may be your best strategy at this time.

I'm Slipping Down the Rabbit Hole

There have been things going on with me I'm barely aware of. But yesterday when I had to get up at 7:30 AM (a reasonable hour to most of you, but the middle of the night for me} and forego coffee to have an ultrasound of my liver and spleen it hit me that my low platelet count is a potentially serious problem.

A big storm is blowing in and I've been running around putting cushions and dog beds, rugs and baskets and garden tools in the shed. I still need to pick pears, cut my Pucchinis or Zumpkins, toss the vine. I have to pick a few more plums, put the ladder away, bag the debris and toss it in the garbage.

I grocery shopped earlier today and now need to reorganize my cupboards, clean the fridge. Anything to keep from thinking. I've cancelled scheduled dental work because I don't know how I'll afford it now that this diagnostic process goes forward. What looms on the near horizon is a bone marrow test. I've just had a couple of routine tests that are considered preventive and will be paid by Medicare which might be of interest in the search for solving the low platelet mystery. But none of the possibilities (and there are many) sound good to me.

I called my therapist to let him know that this morning it was clear to me I'm teetering on the abyss that is depression. I had no desire to get up today. I might have slept till noon or later, if Nick hadn't called and told me he was coming over in a half hour to pick plums. He's offered to be my medical trustee, to be he one with power of attorney to make sure my wishes are honored.

Ms M is talking about moving. This afternoon she's looking at a job as the maintenance person for an apartment building. There would be housing, but she has big Roscoe, a yellow lab who has spent most of his life here with a pack of dogs and a permanent baby sitter. He'll miss us and we'll miss him. And she won't have benefits. I hope she doesn't do this, but a landmark birthday looms and she's lived here a long time. Boredom is driving her now. Maybe a bit of fear as well.

I have no apatite for twitter now. I'm starting to look inward again. There's work to do. I am half way through a difficult rewrite on the novel. It is becoming a complex jigsaw puzzle. All the pieces are here, what is missing is a frame to hold them in tight frightening suspension. I need to finish, give it my best shot and then move on. When you think you see the end looming you want to tidy up all the lose ends finding that one tiny missing piece.

Then again, when it's cold and raining hard, I may feel smug, snug and peachy. You never know.

Life Like Twitter

What would it be like if we all said our tweets to real people in the real world? Watch this. This is probably how it would be.

I'm Not Feeling Well

It's funny that I was feeling well until I saw the oncology hematologist Friday. I thought it was only a one time thing that my platelet count was low. But it's been the last two tests (6 months apart) that showed a low platelet count. Now that I know it's been going on for awhile, I'm starting to worry a little. After my exam yesterday and talking to my new doctor, it looks like it might be more serious than I thought. How powerful is the mind that once I realizes it might be a more serious problem I start to feel ill. They took more blood to do other tests, more specific tests. It's now a waiting game to know whether it's bad or really bad.

Tomorrow at the crack of dawn I have to haul my ass out of bed to go get an ultra-sound of my liver and spleen. I have to do this fasting. This is tantamount to torture for me. No coffee with loads of milk and a bit of sugar? No dallying with the dogs? Out to pee and then breakfast for them and then I'm gone for most of the day. I have to drop my car off in the AM for safety inspection and to have it winterized. Then a friend is giving me a ride to the ophthalmologists for the appointment I should have made two years ago.

Again, I apologize for not visiting you at your blog to read and comment. I'm still rewriting the novel and tweeting. I've found that twitter is a powerful tool for lobbying politicians for healthcare reform. Now that I'm old and less inclined to do the boots on the ground work of real protesting, along comes twitter to make it possible to demonstrate online. It's a powerful tool. Not a social networking tool, but a power to the people network for societal change. I resist the "friending" thing. If I talk to you on twitter, your part of my network. You're all special to me, so "friending" seems silly to me. It is the friending aspect of FaceBook that turns me off, like high school cliques. Twitter is not like that. And I love the challenge of saying something meaningful in short bursts. I think in many ways this can only help with writing in general.

For the few of you who do still stop by, I thank you from the bottom of my shriveled little heart.

Let's have a passionate conversation about racism in America

Grayquill said...

The speaker seems very invested in keeping racism as a tool in his tool box. Some truth but mostly huge generalities made from a few extremists. I think he became in his talk the one he speaks against.

themom said...

I saw a little of what Graquill mentions...but the general premise is the point. I get more and more frustrated by those who state that this is NOT a racial environment. I beg to differ, and believe just about all the rethuglian mechanics of the moment are all to "stonewall the black man." When will this mentality go away? Not in my lifetime I'm afraid.

Ghost Dansing said...

for pete's sake.... we're talking about the rump core constituency of the Party that has been using the "Southern Strategy" for the last 30 years....

As a member of the Reagan administration in 1981, Atwater gave an anonymous interview to Political Scientist Alexander P. Lamis. Part of this interview was printed in Lamis' book The Two-Party South, then reprinted in Southern Politics in the 1990s with Atwater's name revealed. Bob Herbert reported on the interview in the October 6, 2005 edition of the New York Times. Atwater talked about the GOP's Southern Strategy and Ronald Reagan's version of it:

Atwater: As to the whole Southern strategy that Harry Dent and others put together in 1968, opposition to the Voting Rights Act would have been a central part of keeping the South. Now [the new Southern Strategy of Ronald Reagan] doesn’t have to do that. All you have to do to keep the South is for Reagan to run in place on the issues he’s campaigned on since 1964… and that’s fiscal conservatism, balancing the budget, cut taxes, you know, the whole cluster...

Questioner: But the fact is, isn’t it, that Reagan does get to the Wallace voter and to the racist side of the Wallace voter by doing away with legal services, by cutting down on food stamps...?

Atwater: You start out in 1954 by saying, “Nigger, nigger, nigger.” By 1968 you can't say “nigger”—that hurts you. Backfires. So you say stuff like forced busing, states' rights and all that stuff. You're getting so abstract now [that] you're talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you're talking about are totally economic things and a byproduct of them is [that] blacks get hurt worse than whites.

And subconsciously maybe that is part of it. I'm not saying that. But I'm saying that if it is getting that abstract, and that coded, that we are doing away with the racial problem one way or the other. You follow me—because obviously sitting around saying, “We want to cut this,” is much more abstract than even the busing thing, and a hell of a lot more abstract than “Nigger, nigger.”

Utah Savage said...

Interesting points of view here. I believe most of it is racist and isn't even coded. It's blatant. It's in-your-face. It's a view of itself as entitled to be on top even when one lives at the bottom: at least they think they're better than black people who they still think of as niggers. I think that's not even conscious. It's drunk with mother's milk and all of daddy's conversation. It's preached at the pulpit and taught in the schools. Texas school boards have been trying to find a way to take the negative parts out of the history books. What are the negative parts? White emigrant culture slaughtering native peoples and working slaves stolen from Africa. Yes, by all means lets take the history books back to the 50s before everybody got so damn uppity.

All this in response to this video. What do you think?

And They Say It Isn't Racism

Grotesque, Unprecedented, Bizarre, Unbelievable.

You guessed it. I'm talking about Sarah Palin. Those words were used to describe her "speech" in Hong Kong by attendee Robert Fisk.

"There'll be one or two self-deprecating remarks, a reference to healthcare, taxation, out-of-control spending and a poorly told joke,"

To prove her shining Republicanism, Sarah quoted Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher. She quoted Lincoln. She quoted Thomas Jefferson. History and common sense were not on the side of liberalism and "utopian pipe dreams". But there'd been progress. In the past, we had the "horse and buggy business", she said, then Ford came along with the motor car and the kids sat singing in the back, but now the kids have headsets. And what happened to the Reagan legacy? "Many Republicans in Washington gambled it away."

She talked, of course, about the infamous "death panels" – a big smirk here from Sarah – and "market-friendly responsible ideas" (this must have been the speech-writer) and offered slippery advice: "We can responsibly develop our resources without damaging the environment."

She spoke too fast. She gabbled her words. Scatty was the word for it. We slalomed between the fall of the Berlin Wall, the break-up of Yugoslavia and 9/11. Then it started. The war on "vicious terrorism", the war against "violent fanatics who wished to end our way of life", our battle against "radical Islamic extremists" with "twisted vision". This was not a clash of civilizations but "a war within Islam". We slalomed again. Asia – "what an amazing place!" – was at its best "when it was not dominated by a single power".

What on earth was happening? Had Sarah just looked up from her podium and seen China? Addressing what was surely the neo-conservative wing of the Republican party, she could not "turn a blind eye" to Chinese policies that created "uncertainty", which supported "questionable regimes" and "made a lot of people nervous". America wasn't going to impose its values on other countries, but America was going to have to "ramp up" its defence spending.

I would have run screaming from the room, blood pouring from my ears. But there is this last tidbit from Mr Fisk: "Then family again. "I have a husband," she said. "I think I could have used a wife. He's awesome." This really floored the Chinese. Poor Todd."