School starts one week from today. I will still be in a cast, and my face will still be shades of purple and yellow from when I fell on my hosts' tile kitchen floor while I was trying to heat up instant oatmeal in their microwave and my crutch got caught between their tile and grout. Some people's bruises disappear fast. Mine don't. Since I have to go to school regardless, I'm going to be very mysterious about how the bruises got there. My brother pays little enough attention to me that I seriously doubt he's heard any discussion of how they got there -- he probably hasn't even noticed that my face is bruised, for that matter -- so he can't tell anyone how benign the incident really was.
I'm afraid of being knocked down and hurt again all over in the halls by people who are careless when they're in a hurry to get to one class from the next. It's bad enough with the cast on, but with it off, the danger of being reinjured is actually greater. The Utah doctor warned me not to break any fall with my right arm or I'll re-fracture my clavicle. What am I supposed to do? Just fall on my face again? It's a lose-lose proposition from every angle. If I were to break the fall with my left arm, I'd probably end up breaking that wrist, because non-dominant arms aren't as strong as dominamt arms. Let's see, a broken left wrist, or a re-fractured right clavicle? Which one would you choose?
I wonder why nature made it so that almost all of us have dominant and non-dominant hands/arms (and feet/legs for that matter, although it's less noticeable or significant). If one takes an evolutionary angle to view such things, were our less cerebral ancestors so dull-witted that they had a tough time directionally without hand dominance for reference? Did they even have dominant limbs then, or is THAT something that evolved later? Two summers ago at a summer camp I took a university-level course in motor learning. I did my research paper on hand dominance. I'm still a bit obsessed with the topic.
Many more people claim to be ambidextrous than actually are. It's something people like to be, for some odd reason. (Many people like to boast of being "legally blind" because their vision is 20/400 or worse without their glasses or contacts, too, but "legal blindness" by definition is vision of 20/400 or worse with correction . What a dumb thing to brag about, anyway.) Often it's a matter of their non-dominant hands being more coordinated than most of ours are. Then they perfect a particular skill with the non-dominant hand, and suddenly they're calling themselves "ambidextrous." The correct term for when one does some things with one hand and some with the other is technically ambilateral rather than ambidextrous, anyway. On the other hand, even if one had equal ability to master skills with either hand, the smarter thing, for the most part, would be to master a given skill with one hand, rather than spending time mastering it with both hands. That would then make most ambidextrous people ambilateral.Depending upon what skills a person was talking about mastering, it would be a waste of time to perfect every skill with both hands, anyway.
For some skills, there would be an advantage, as in hitting or throwing in baseball, or serving in tennis. For baseball, the ability to hit effectively from either side of the plate would give one a tremendous advantage against pitchers who have difficulty facing batters of a particular dominance. (Usually it's lefty hitters that give pitchers trouble.) Left-handed pitchers often bother batters as well, but mysteriously, the pitching advantage disappears when the batter is also left-handed. It's all a bit confusing to me. The main problem with any of this is that you would need to spend more time practicing to master the skill equally with both hands. Would that time be better spent becoming a super hitter with one's preferred hand? It would vary from case to case. Then we have the concept of "lateral transfer of learning" to consider. In theory, if you've mastred a skill with a particular hand, you have an advantage at mastering it with the other hand than you would have mastering the skill with the other hand if you'd never mastered the skill with either hand in the first place. The degree to which lateral transfer of learning exists varies from person to person, often depending upon cognitive intelligence and relative coordination of the non-preferred hand, but it exists to some degree in everyone. My father's idea in teaching my brother to hit, which my father didn't invent but read somewhere, was to teach my brother to hit first on the non-dominant side, which was left for my brother. Then once he had some degree of mastery in hitting as a lefty (my dad waited two years for my brother), he had him bat right-handed, and it came fairly naturally. This appproiach owrked for my brother, who finshed last season as a junior in high school baseball batting around .400.
Where throwing is concerned, there's less advantage. With pitching, for one thing, a baseball glove fits only the left or right hand. I believe there are baseball rules regarding keeping extra gloves on the mound, and I don't think players and coaches are allowed to randomly toss gloves back and forth for exchange purposes. On the other hand, if the team at bat put in a pinch hitter who was a lefty, and the pitcher could also pitch as a lefty, a trip to the mound could be used to exchange a glove. (Coaches' trips to the mound are limited per inning in all but little peewee leagues for children below the age of eight, and must be used judiciously.) Also, in leagues where pitchers' innings aren't limited, if a player's arm tires, he could switch gloves between innings and be fresh for a few more innings with the other arm. Overall, for reasons of practicality and practice time, switch-pitching idn't one-hundredth as common as switch-hitting. it might be adantageous for a quarterback to be able to throw with either arm in football. Still, this sort of thing is a rarity. i don't think it's ever been seen in the NFL. The difference between success in switch-hitting and switch-throwing could likjely be accounted for in the degree of arm strength required for throwing, and that throwing is a skill that is accomplished entirely with one arm independently, where, in hitting, both arms work together to accomplish the task, so with the other hand assisting, arm strength isn't quite such a factor. (Batting left-handed for a righ-hander is much like hitting a two-handed backhand for a right-handed tennis player, which is practically the norm in tennis ever since the days of Chris evert and Jimmy Connors.)
Where tennis is concerned, some people have thought that there would be an advantage to hitting groundstrokes or volleys in tennis with either hand, which would leave the player hitting entirely forehands -- the preferred groundstroke for most players. Preference of forehand to backhand notwithstanding, a forehand does have more extension. atill, the fraction of time it takes to change the racquet from one hand to the other would cost a person. In the long run, developing a good backhand would be more advantageous. With two-handed backhands being the norm, it's not all that hard to master the backhand stroke. The theorectical idea of mastering the tennis serve with either hand could offer some benefits. Spins and curves would come in the opposite direction, which is confusing to the player receiving the serve. A glove to catch balls is not needed in tennis, so that wouldn't be a drawback as in baseball. One identical disadvantage to throwing, especially pitching, is that it's a task accomplished entirely one-handed, and a strength factor is involved. (A tennis serve is fundamentally a throwing motion.) Few people theoretically possess the strength in a non-dominant hand to master the skill of serving effectively in tennis. On the other hand, when a person's dominant hand is permanently disabled, he or she usually masters the skills anyone else has with his or her non-dominant hand. That would indicate that if a person cared enough to put in the time, skills such as throwing or serving could ultimately be mastered with the non-dominant hand. Not too many people want to put in that much time, though.
In many sports, there is no advantage or disadvantage to using one hand or another. In golf, for example, each player hits his own hots and is not reactive to anything about the other player's strokes. Each player is just trying to hit the ball into the hole using fewer trokes than anyone else. There's the practical disadvantage to a lefty of beeding equipment made for left-handed golfers, and of left-handed golf clubs being not as available, but for the most part, lefty clubs can usuaully be rented and can always be ordered for purchase.
Extending the idea of dominance in handedness from sports to music (I'll focus on the piano, because that's what I know most about), fingers on both hands have to play the keys. Because of the configuration of the piano, with the higher-pitched keys being to the right, the melody of a song is mostly played with the right hand. The accompanying notes may be more or less difficult than the melody, which gives a left-handed pianist no advantage or disadvantage. Mozart wrote many piano pieces using rapid movement of the fingers of the left hand, for which left-handedness might give one an edge. bach keyboard works usually require the right hand and left hand to play the very same lines of music at different times. A truly ambidextrous pianist probably pprefers palying th music of bach to the music of other composers. Regarding other instruments, some are played the same way, while others are played different ly by right- or left-handers.
That could be considered in choosing an instrument.
Exactly why I digressed for seven paragraphs on the motor-learning subtopic of dominance or handedness is probably because I didn't want to think about real issues facing me. I'm still eager to get this awful cast off my leg, but I'm worried about how it will look. Some of the lesions from the infection may have scarred. I'll have to use that scar-fading cream on them. Does it actually work? Then there are the scars from the surgeries themselves. Will my right leg look as though it has railroad tracks running and lunar craters all over it? Probably, but that is the least of my concerns. Will it be straight? When I'm allowed to put weight on it approximately three weeks after the cast comes off, will I have much trouble regaining the ability to walk? Will it be the same length as the other leg? With physical therapy, will I ever run as fast or hurdle as high as I did before? Will even my diving be impaired because of the strength of it? Will it look so awful that I'll lose points on my dives because it looks so ugly that the judges are subconsciously affected by the appearance? Even though girls wear long dresses to the prom, will any boy ever ask me when he knows how ugly my leg is?
I'll find out the answers to all these questions soon enough, I suppose.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Facebook, Judge Alex Style
My abilities fall somewhere between moronic and imbecilic when it comes to Facebook. Because I've been accused in the past of starting any story with either the Creation, the Flood, the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan, or some similarly ancient occurrence, I will skip the reasons why I can neither text message nor have a Facebook account. Almost anyone with Internet can access the very basic page that is presented on someone's Facebook account. In most cases, all you can see very is very limited information about the person whose Facebook page you are viewing if you are yourself not a Facebook member and a "friend" of the person. The avaibale information on such pages doesn't hold my attention for long. I'd just as soon be searching odd facts or reading about Kim Jong Il. A few Facebook pages, however, focus upon celebrities and are open to non-Facebook members. One of such pages belongs to Judge Alex Ferrer of television's "Judge Alex" courtroom television program.
In the case of most celebrity pages, the featured celebrities either know nothing about the pages or do know and wish for the pages to be cyber-eliminated pronto. Such is not the case with Judge Ferrer's Facebook page. He established the page either himself, or someone at his network did it for him. He makes occasional comments and responses to others' comments. Initially, his appearances at the page were frequent. He now comments and responds less frequently (he does have a real life), but he still makes appearances.
I've never been allowed to watch soap operas (I suppose if, at the age of 16, I tuned in to "Days of our Lives," my parents would make a few choice comments, but I doubt that one parent would cover my eyes and ears while the other grabbed for the remote control to change the channel) not that I've really wanted to, but Judge Alex's Facebook page has become my soap opera of choice. I'm convinced it's actually more compelling than the networks' conventional daytime dramas.
All soap operas have characters, major and minor. Some of the minor ones on Judge Alex's Facebook page approach the level of oddity of the litigants appearing on his television program. Others are, or at least seem to be, comparatively lucid. The rest fall somewhere in between. To facilitate your viewing experience, I'll give you a brief overview of the major characters and some of the more salient minor ones. To list and describe them all would make me guilty of the wordiness of which I've been accused. I'll still be wordy, though. There's no way around it with this topic.
The lead role, romantic or otherwise, of the "Judge Alex Facebook page" soap opera is, fittingly, Judge Alex E. Ferrer. (The "E." stands for "Enrique," which, the judge has explained, actually sounds much better with "Alejandro," the Spanish form of his first name.) Judge Ferrer left Cuba with his family to escape Fidel Castro's regime when the judge was less than a year old. Judge Ferrer became a police officer at the age of nineteen, then completed college and law school. He was a trial attorney, then a judge. He was on the short list of judges being considered for an appellate position by then-governor Jeb Bush, but instead opted for the more lucrative TV judge gig. How much more lucrative is confidential; the network doesn't allow that information to be disclosed. By most accounts, though he worked hard in his early years and had to escape a communist regime (at the age of less than a year, he probably was not the braintrust behind the escape operation and thus does not likely take credit for it), he's led a charmed existence, with a beautiful wife, basically perfect children, and the capacity to go almost anywhere he wants at any time he wants, and the ability to snap his fingers and immediately procure a Harley once he gets there. Judge Ferrer's major role on the Facebook page is to make profound comments, post pictures of himself in alluring poses on his personal or rented Harleys, answer questions, graciously accept compliments detailing his degree of hotness, and occasionally tell posters [one cannot "befriend" Judge Alex on this page; perhaps he has a "real" Facebook page where his actual friends can befriend him] to chill when they come almost to the point of cyber-blows or cyber-catfights. (Victor,who shall soon receive his own featured highlight, is not available at this forum to provide saucers of milk to feline-behaving posters.) I'm not in the habit of becoming light-headed over men who are roughly my father's age, but I will say for Judge Ferrer that he looks much better than my father, my father's friends, or any of my friends' fathers, all of whom are in the same approximate age bracket. It isn't his looks, nonetheless, that draw me to watch his show, or even to read his Facebook page.
The man is brilliant. He reportedly each night reads hundreds of pages of documents pertaining to the cases he will try the next day. His recall of what he has read the night before, sometimes probably at 2:00 a.m., is phenomenal. He manages not to confuse documents he read the prior night concerning one case with those from another, thus managing to catch litigants in lies on a fairly regular basis. If the judge were to apply his reading skills to the Bible (I'm not implying that he doesn't already; perhaps he's a profound Biblical scholar and chooses to keep that aspect of himself private) he would put Jimmy Swaggart, Jerry Falwell, the Grahams, Joel Osteen, Paul & Jan, and all the rest out of business with his first televised sermon. If any of the televangelists I've mentioned happen to be dead already, may he, she, or they rest in peace. I apologize for desecrating the memory of the dead if I am indeed guilty of such, and/or taking shots at someone who's no longer on the planet to defend himself or herself. The point remains, however, that were Judge Ferrer to take up televangelizing, the rest would be toast.
The lead supporting role would have to go to Victor Simon, the bailiff. (Mr. Simon will not appear in the upcoming season of "Judge Alex" because he was unable to make the move to Los Angeles. Any discussion of "Judge Alex" without mention of Victor, however, would be akin to an attempt to discuss the history of "Days of Our Lives" without mention of the late Dr. Tom Horton.) Mr. Simon's role on the Facebook page is to occasionally be commended for his hotness. (Judge Ferrer does not appear to be jealous when such happens, as there seem to be enough "hotness" compliments to feed the egos of both men.) He merits his own section of this blog primarily because of his prominent role on the "Judge Alex" TV court program. Mr. Simon, a graduate of SMU and former linebacker for the university's football team, a taciturn uniformed police officer, possesses a build that would deter the most psychotic of litigants from even thinking of attempting to attack the judge. Mr. Simon's secondary role is to serve as frequent fodder for Judge Ferrer's humor; his state of baldness is a particular source of mirth to the judge. Mr. Simon is not himself without a quick wit, and has been known to make jokes at the judge's expense. Mr. Simon has occasionally stepped between feuding litigants. Judge Ferrer has commented on more than one occasion when females disparage each other that that Victor may need to provide them with a saucer of milk. This expression used by Judge Ferrer may be mildly sexist, as I've never heard him offer to send Victor out to get Milkbones or rawhide chews when male litigants take shots at the masculinity, or lack thereof, of one another, but I don't really care because I think it's funny. The Los Angeles-filmed version of the show will feature a bailiff named Mason. Let us all hope for Judge Alex's sake that the top of Mason'a head resembles a cue ball.
The second supporting role is filled by an entity known simply as **admin**. At some point after the Facebook page began to grow in popularity, **admin** took on the role of administrator. Among **admin**'s duties are to let readers know about upcoming episodes of "Judge Alex,"
to answer questions not requiring the level of expertise of the actual judge, and to give updates and ask questions regarding some incredibly exciting thing that's supposed to happen as soon as September. I for one find it a little hard to swallow. I would almost suspect an identity theft ring of some sort, but Judge Ferrer does frequent the board often enough to see the posts, and surely he wouldn't allow his Facebook page to be used for identity theft purposes. (But if it is, I'll have a good laugh at all of you suckers who are allowed to join Facebook and blindly gave your partial identity to **admin** when it was requested.) We've been told that **admin** is also named "Alex." Conclusive evidence has yet to be presented that **admin** and "Alex Ferrer" are not one and the same. Perhaps the network is paying someone to administrate the site. Judge Ferrer may not be willing to share any of the take. We've read references to "The Ferrer Children's College Fund." **admin**'s paycheck may have a direct pipeline into "The Ferrer Children's College Fund," and it's probably even some sort of tax shelter. Some of the posters feel that it is **admin**'s duty to mediate when posters declare verbal war on one another. Either **admin** does not believe that it is his or her job to do so, or is seriously shirking in that regard.
The plots on the actual "Judge Alex' television program are of course centered on the cases tried -- one per episode. They range from sad to stupid to mundane to hysterically funny. The plots on the Facebook page
are sometimes dictated by Judge Alex when he posts something about his weekend plans, what he ate or drank, or perhaps a picture of himself on a Harley. His fans at times take the judge's posts in strange directions.
Once he mentioned visiting Victor's ailing grandmother in the hospital while he was in Houston. Most posters expressed positive thoughts wishing Victor's grandmother well. One obnoxious poster wrote something inquiring as to why Victor's grandmother was so special to merit so many messages of prayer and wishes for good health when people were dying everywhere all the time. "Others" were quick to criticize the hostile "other" for his insensitivity. I don't think we ever learned whether or not a full recovery was made by Victor's grandmother. I certainly hope so, and if not, I hope she's in a happy place.
Some miscellaneous "others" have been known to "hijack" threads and talk about all sorts of matters unrelated to the judge and his show. Plots thicken when other "others" take offense at each other for a variety of reasons. Any hint of a slight aimed at Judge Ferrer will result almost immediately in the loyal "others" "Strategic Defense Initiative"-style barrage of protection of the judge, which ranges from from literate point/counterpoint-style debate to outright verbal assault on the "other" who dared slight the judge.
The significant "others" are too numerous to mention, but I cannot adequately address the drama that is Judge Alex's Facebook page without mentioning a few. I've been advised not to use names, but I'm prone to ignoring advice. I'll limit myself to first names. What I write will be objective information or will be clearly stated as my opinion. I don't think I am setting myself up be sued for such, but I know that hiding behind the "I said it was my opinion" does not shield one from every possible legal consequence. Example: "I think ------- is a child molester" can land someone on the defendant side of a civil suit if one does not have adequate evidence to back up the statement. What I have to say about the "others" is not so inflammatory, and is mostly objective information, anyway. If an "other" actually happens to read this, which would constitute a miracle in and of itself, and does not like the way he or she has been portrayed, perhapsthe "other" should take a long and hard look in the mirror.
I shall start with Beausoleil. I said I was going with first names. Beausoleil is very likely not this "other's" first name, but it appears first in her screen name, so we're going with it. I'm including Beausoleil primarily because it's an interesting name. I've spent considerable time deciding how it should be pronounced.
My father, who speaks French, says it's hard to say exactly without the availability of the French language accent marks, one of which would probably appear over the second e, but it's probably something like
BOH/soh/LAY'. Beausoleil has never posted anything outrageous that I've read.
Pinaz seems very sweet, and her comments are always positive. She's from Bombay, but lives somewhere else now. She hasexperienced trouble with her television recently.
Martin is an actual "real life" friend of the judge. They were on the force and worked riots somewhere in the Miami area.
Jaci is a journalist from the UK who has blogged about things she would do if granted access to the judge's body. She would like to interview the judge, but to date, as far as the Facebook page has informed anyone, the interview has not happened.
Betty seems to be a very pleasant and nice lady. She only posts kind things. She may be moving to Los Angeles, but not, she said, to become an actress.
Rebecca, my Twitter and blogging friend, does not post as often as she would like because of health issues. She's a teen, only slightly younger than I. Her posts exude wisdom.
Matt is a fellow football fan of the judge's. I do not know whether they know each other in real life. It doesn't really matter.
Stephen calls himself a friend of the judge. I took it to mean they actually knew each other, but then, I'm fairly gullible. Maybe the judge is Stephen's friend in the same sense I was taught in Catechism that Jesus is my friend, or maybe they've had face-to-face encounters.
John created a major controversy by twice suggesting in not the most tactful of ways that the judge was wearing excessive makeup on camera. Loyal "others" came to the judge's defense to the degree that the judge stepped in to call off the dogs. Then Gail thanked the judge for taking control, because the "others" calling themselves "The Doghouse" were taking over the boards and "hijacking threads," burying more important and pertinent threads. Then the judge came back on to post that he was joking; he was actually "chuckling" at his defenders as he typed, not intending anything to be a reprimand. He further told posters that he was not available to post on the board constantly, and that "others" should use the board to have fun. It may be that my vision is failing, but I can no longer find Gail's complaining post. If it is still there, please direct me to it by posting its approximate location in the comments section of my blog.
Yesenia is a sweet mother of four who has dreams about the judge, but not R-rated dreams. She's someone you'd want to be your aunt or your friend's mother.
Jim thinks there is a stain on Judge Ferrer's name plate. I've looked at it from every angle imaginable on a high-definition screen and can't find the alleged brown stain. The problem could conceivably be with Jim's own TV, or even with his eyes.[MY OPINION]
Stacey posts with relative frequency, but seems relatively sane.
Kristeen has a vivid imagination. She "saw" Judge Ferrer in a white convertible on the 20th Century Fox lot when he was never in said car. Kristeen probably "sees" the image of The Blessed Virgin in her pancakes and tries to turn them into shrines.[MY OPINION]
Laura desperately wants to attend a taping of "Judge Alex" in 2012 and TO MEET HIM. None of the "others" can understand why she is so fixated on the year 2012 as the time to attend a viewing. One helpful "other" even reminded her that many have predicted 2012 as the year the world will end. Perhaps Laura just wants to spend her final moments in the presence of Judge Alex [MY OPINION].
Catherine is the matriarch of the Judge Alex Facebook page. She frequenty dishes out Greek wisdom to many recipients, including the judge himself. Some recipients are more receptive than others. She is a kind and wise soul, and those who fail to heed her advice are poorer for not having listened. (Catherine has been outed as having possible association with "The Doghouse.")
Sharon is a loyalfan "other" on the JA Facebook page, and will jump in to defend him with the rest of the Star Wars Defense Team.
Joyce is a gentle soul and a lover of animals. She finds good in almost everything and everyone. I think she probably draws the line at Scott Peterson and Charles Manson, though if pressed would probably name at least two good qualities each one possesses. Sometimes other "others" are upset with her, and I cannot for the life of me understand why. She is very sensitive, and if she feels that she has hurt someone's feelings, it hurts her. Y'all be nice to Joyce now, ya hear?
(Alert: possible "Doghouse" connections)
Jillian is an ally to Joyce and other "others" who have called themselves "The Doghouse." If you ask Jillian what color her underwear is, she will write a one-thousand-word response. Her typing is abysmal. I don't know if she's blind, uncoordinated, or truly dyslexic. She has a couple of years of law school under her belt, so she likes to spout legalese. Sometimes she knows what she's talking about, but not always. You have to guess. It's like that old television show "Hollywood Squares."[MY OPINION]
Cathy uses a combination of text-message style typing and unconventional spelling in such a way as to leave the reader wondering if she actually thinks the spelling she uses is standard. [MY OPINION] She is a special defender of Judge Alex; if one of the "others" mentions hoping he had a safe trip home or to wherever, she reminds them that he has a wife and kids to worry about such things for him. Worrying about a person is perhaps akin to committing adultery in one's heart. Maybe she's onto something. What do I know?
Ken practically had a seizure because [my opinion; a medical diagnosis is difficult to make over a Facebook page posting, especially by someone who has no qualifications to make a diagnosis even in person] a preview of a Judge Alex episode alluded to a video that the litigant was then unable to produce in court. Despite Judge Alex's uninvolvement with the production aspect of the program, Ken chose to make a very personal attack against Judge Alex over this seemingly trivial issue. This brought the Star Wars Defense Team out in full force.
If Judge Alex is the Alpha male of the board, Wolf would have to be the Beta male. His primary purpose on the board seems to be to bring levity to tense situations. He does this despite his self-admitted status as an (GASP) atheist. I don't mean to come across as facebook's version of Senator Joe McCarthy (I paid attention in U.S. history and passed the AP exam), outing communists under every bed, but Wolf has been associated with the infamous "Doghouse."
Sandy, despite her known association with "The Doghouse," is often a voice of reason on the JA Facebook page. She defends the judge, but not to a ridiculous extent. She is respectful of others and gets along with most "others." Sandy is an anomaly as a Texan Mormon. You do not find too many of those. Sandy has beautiful red-hair, about which she frequently complains. Victor (and hopefully Mason) would tell Sandy, "At least you have hair."
There you have it in a very large nutshell (maybe a coconut shell?): Judge Alex's Facebook page. It has more drama than any daytime TV drama, with the possible exception of "Grey's Anatomy" re-runs. If you did not find your own name here, consider yourself blessed. If you did, why would you want to sue a sixteen-year-old temporary cripple?
P.S. To my other "mom and dad" ( you know who you are): I miss you!!!!
In the case of most celebrity pages, the featured celebrities either know nothing about the pages or do know and wish for the pages to be cyber-eliminated pronto. Such is not the case with Judge Ferrer's Facebook page. He established the page either himself, or someone at his network did it for him. He makes occasional comments and responses to others' comments. Initially, his appearances at the page were frequent. He now comments and responds less frequently (he does have a real life), but he still makes appearances.
I've never been allowed to watch soap operas (I suppose if, at the age of 16, I tuned in to "Days of our Lives," my parents would make a few choice comments, but I doubt that one parent would cover my eyes and ears while the other grabbed for the remote control to change the channel) not that I've really wanted to, but Judge Alex's Facebook page has become my soap opera of choice. I'm convinced it's actually more compelling than the networks' conventional daytime dramas.
All soap operas have characters, major and minor. Some of the minor ones on Judge Alex's Facebook page approach the level of oddity of the litigants appearing on his television program. Others are, or at least seem to be, comparatively lucid. The rest fall somewhere in between. To facilitate your viewing experience, I'll give you a brief overview of the major characters and some of the more salient minor ones. To list and describe them all would make me guilty of the wordiness of which I've been accused. I'll still be wordy, though. There's no way around it with this topic.
The lead role, romantic or otherwise, of the "Judge Alex Facebook page" soap opera is, fittingly, Judge Alex E. Ferrer. (The "E." stands for "Enrique," which, the judge has explained, actually sounds much better with "Alejandro," the Spanish form of his first name.) Judge Ferrer left Cuba with his family to escape Fidel Castro's regime when the judge was less than a year old. Judge Ferrer became a police officer at the age of nineteen, then completed college and law school. He was a trial attorney, then a judge. He was on the short list of judges being considered for an appellate position by then-governor Jeb Bush, but instead opted for the more lucrative TV judge gig. How much more lucrative is confidential; the network doesn't allow that information to be disclosed. By most accounts, though he worked hard in his early years and had to escape a communist regime (at the age of less than a year, he probably was not the braintrust behind the escape operation and thus does not likely take credit for it), he's led a charmed existence, with a beautiful wife, basically perfect children, and the capacity to go almost anywhere he wants at any time he wants, and the ability to snap his fingers and immediately procure a Harley once he gets there. Judge Ferrer's major role on the Facebook page is to make profound comments, post pictures of himself in alluring poses on his personal or rented Harleys, answer questions, graciously accept compliments detailing his degree of hotness, and occasionally tell posters [one cannot "befriend" Judge Alex on this page; perhaps he has a "real" Facebook page where his actual friends can befriend him] to chill when they come almost to the point of cyber-blows or cyber-catfights. (Victor,who shall soon receive his own featured highlight, is not available at this forum to provide saucers of milk to feline-behaving posters.) I'm not in the habit of becoming light-headed over men who are roughly my father's age, but I will say for Judge Ferrer that he looks much better than my father, my father's friends, or any of my friends' fathers, all of whom are in the same approximate age bracket. It isn't his looks, nonetheless, that draw me to watch his show, or even to read his Facebook page.
The man is brilliant. He reportedly each night reads hundreds of pages of documents pertaining to the cases he will try the next day. His recall of what he has read the night before, sometimes probably at 2:00 a.m., is phenomenal. He manages not to confuse documents he read the prior night concerning one case with those from another, thus managing to catch litigants in lies on a fairly regular basis. If the judge were to apply his reading skills to the Bible (I'm not implying that he doesn't already; perhaps he's a profound Biblical scholar and chooses to keep that aspect of himself private) he would put Jimmy Swaggart, Jerry Falwell, the Grahams, Joel Osteen, Paul & Jan, and all the rest out of business with his first televised sermon. If any of the televangelists I've mentioned happen to be dead already, may he, she, or they rest in peace. I apologize for desecrating the memory of the dead if I am indeed guilty of such, and/or taking shots at someone who's no longer on the planet to defend himself or herself. The point remains, however, that were Judge Ferrer to take up televangelizing, the rest would be toast.
The lead supporting role would have to go to Victor Simon, the bailiff. (Mr. Simon will not appear in the upcoming season of "Judge Alex" because he was unable to make the move to Los Angeles. Any discussion of "Judge Alex" without mention of Victor, however, would be akin to an attempt to discuss the history of "Days of Our Lives" without mention of the late Dr. Tom Horton.) Mr. Simon's role on the Facebook page is to occasionally be commended for his hotness. (Judge Ferrer does not appear to be jealous when such happens, as there seem to be enough "hotness" compliments to feed the egos of both men.) He merits his own section of this blog primarily because of his prominent role on the "Judge Alex" TV court program. Mr. Simon, a graduate of SMU and former linebacker for the university's football team, a taciturn uniformed police officer, possesses a build that would deter the most psychotic of litigants from even thinking of attempting to attack the judge. Mr. Simon's secondary role is to serve as frequent fodder for Judge Ferrer's humor; his state of baldness is a particular source of mirth to the judge. Mr. Simon is not himself without a quick wit, and has been known to make jokes at the judge's expense. Mr. Simon has occasionally stepped between feuding litigants. Judge Ferrer has commented on more than one occasion when females disparage each other that that Victor may need to provide them with a saucer of milk. This expression used by Judge Ferrer may be mildly sexist, as I've never heard him offer to send Victor out to get Milkbones or rawhide chews when male litigants take shots at the masculinity, or lack thereof, of one another, but I don't really care because I think it's funny. The Los Angeles-filmed version of the show will feature a bailiff named Mason. Let us all hope for Judge Alex's sake that the top of Mason'a head resembles a cue ball.
The second supporting role is filled by an entity known simply as **admin**. At some point after the Facebook page began to grow in popularity, **admin** took on the role of administrator. Among **admin**'s duties are to let readers know about upcoming episodes of "Judge Alex,"
to answer questions not requiring the level of expertise of the actual judge, and to give updates and ask questions regarding some incredibly exciting thing that's supposed to happen as soon as September. I for one find it a little hard to swallow. I would almost suspect an identity theft ring of some sort, but Judge Ferrer does frequent the board often enough to see the posts, and surely he wouldn't allow his Facebook page to be used for identity theft purposes. (But if it is, I'll have a good laugh at all of you suckers who are allowed to join Facebook and blindly gave your partial identity to **admin** when it was requested.) We've been told that **admin** is also named "Alex." Conclusive evidence has yet to be presented that **admin** and "Alex Ferrer" are not one and the same. Perhaps the network is paying someone to administrate the site. Judge Ferrer may not be willing to share any of the take. We've read references to "The Ferrer Children's College Fund." **admin**'s paycheck may have a direct pipeline into "The Ferrer Children's College Fund," and it's probably even some sort of tax shelter. Some of the posters feel that it is **admin**'s duty to mediate when posters declare verbal war on one another. Either **admin** does not believe that it is his or her job to do so, or is seriously shirking in that regard.
The plots on the actual "Judge Alex' television program are of course centered on the cases tried -- one per episode. They range from sad to stupid to mundane to hysterically funny. The plots on the Facebook page
are sometimes dictated by Judge Alex when he posts something about his weekend plans, what he ate or drank, or perhaps a picture of himself on a Harley. His fans at times take the judge's posts in strange directions.
Once he mentioned visiting Victor's ailing grandmother in the hospital while he was in Houston. Most posters expressed positive thoughts wishing Victor's grandmother well. One obnoxious poster wrote something inquiring as to why Victor's grandmother was so special to merit so many messages of prayer and wishes for good health when people were dying everywhere all the time. "Others" were quick to criticize the hostile "other" for his insensitivity. I don't think we ever learned whether or not a full recovery was made by Victor's grandmother. I certainly hope so, and if not, I hope she's in a happy place.
Some miscellaneous "others" have been known to "hijack" threads and talk about all sorts of matters unrelated to the judge and his show. Plots thicken when other "others" take offense at each other for a variety of reasons. Any hint of a slight aimed at Judge Ferrer will result almost immediately in the loyal "others" "Strategic Defense Initiative"-style barrage of protection of the judge, which ranges from from literate point/counterpoint-style debate to outright verbal assault on the "other" who dared slight the judge.
The significant "others" are too numerous to mention, but I cannot adequately address the drama that is Judge Alex's Facebook page without mentioning a few. I've been advised not to use names, but I'm prone to ignoring advice. I'll limit myself to first names. What I write will be objective information or will be clearly stated as my opinion. I don't think I am setting myself up be sued for such, but I know that hiding behind the "I said it was my opinion" does not shield one from every possible legal consequence. Example: "I think ------- is a child molester" can land someone on the defendant side of a civil suit if one does not have adequate evidence to back up the statement. What I have to say about the "others" is not so inflammatory, and is mostly objective information, anyway. If an "other" actually happens to read this, which would constitute a miracle in and of itself, and does not like the way he or she has been portrayed, perhapsthe "other" should take a long and hard look in the mirror.
I shall start with Beausoleil. I said I was going with first names. Beausoleil is very likely not this "other's" first name, but it appears first in her screen name, so we're going with it. I'm including Beausoleil primarily because it's an interesting name. I've spent considerable time deciding how it should be pronounced.
My father, who speaks French, says it's hard to say exactly without the availability of the French language accent marks, one of which would probably appear over the second e, but it's probably something like
BOH/soh/LAY'. Beausoleil has never posted anything outrageous that I've read.
Pinaz seems very sweet, and her comments are always positive. She's from Bombay, but lives somewhere else now. She hasexperienced trouble with her television recently.
Martin is an actual "real life" friend of the judge. They were on the force and worked riots somewhere in the Miami area.
Jaci is a journalist from the UK who has blogged about things she would do if granted access to the judge's body. She would like to interview the judge, but to date, as far as the Facebook page has informed anyone, the interview has not happened.
Betty seems to be a very pleasant and nice lady. She only posts kind things. She may be moving to Los Angeles, but not, she said, to become an actress.
Rebecca, my Twitter and blogging friend, does not post as often as she would like because of health issues. She's a teen, only slightly younger than I. Her posts exude wisdom.
Matt is a fellow football fan of the judge's. I do not know whether they know each other in real life. It doesn't really matter.
Stephen calls himself a friend of the judge. I took it to mean they actually knew each other, but then, I'm fairly gullible. Maybe the judge is Stephen's friend in the same sense I was taught in Catechism that Jesus is my friend, or maybe they've had face-to-face encounters.
John created a major controversy by twice suggesting in not the most tactful of ways that the judge was wearing excessive makeup on camera. Loyal "others" came to the judge's defense to the degree that the judge stepped in to call off the dogs. Then Gail thanked the judge for taking control, because the "others" calling themselves "The Doghouse" were taking over the boards and "hijacking threads," burying more important and pertinent threads. Then the judge came back on to post that he was joking; he was actually "chuckling" at his defenders as he typed, not intending anything to be a reprimand. He further told posters that he was not available to post on the board constantly, and that "others" should use the board to have fun. It may be that my vision is failing, but I can no longer find Gail's complaining post. If it is still there, please direct me to it by posting its approximate location in the comments section of my blog.
Yesenia is a sweet mother of four who has dreams about the judge, but not R-rated dreams. She's someone you'd want to be your aunt or your friend's mother.
Jim thinks there is a stain on Judge Ferrer's name plate. I've looked at it from every angle imaginable on a high-definition screen and can't find the alleged brown stain. The problem could conceivably be with Jim's own TV, or even with his eyes.[MY OPINION]
Stacey posts with relative frequency, but seems relatively sane.
Kristeen has a vivid imagination. She "saw" Judge Ferrer in a white convertible on the 20th Century Fox lot when he was never in said car. Kristeen probably "sees" the image of The Blessed Virgin in her pancakes and tries to turn them into shrines.[MY OPINION]
Laura desperately wants to attend a taping of "Judge Alex" in 2012 and TO MEET HIM. None of the "others" can understand why she is so fixated on the year 2012 as the time to attend a viewing. One helpful "other" even reminded her that many have predicted 2012 as the year the world will end. Perhaps Laura just wants to spend her final moments in the presence of Judge Alex [MY OPINION].
Catherine is the matriarch of the Judge Alex Facebook page. She frequenty dishes out Greek wisdom to many recipients, including the judge himself. Some recipients are more receptive than others. She is a kind and wise soul, and those who fail to heed her advice are poorer for not having listened. (Catherine has been outed as having possible association with "The Doghouse.")
Sharon is a loyal
Joyce is a gentle soul and a lover of animals. She finds good in almost everything and everyone. I think she probably draws the line at Scott Peterson and Charles Manson, though if pressed would probably name at least two good qualities each one possesses. Sometimes other "others" are upset with her, and I cannot for the life of me understand why. She is very sensitive, and if she feels that she has hurt someone's feelings, it hurts her. Y'all be nice to Joyce now, ya hear?
(Alert: possible "Doghouse" connections)
Jillian is an ally to Joyce and other "others" who have called themselves "The Doghouse." If you ask Jillian what color her underwear is, she will write a one-thousand-word response. Her typing is abysmal. I don't know if she's blind, uncoordinated, or truly dyslexic. She has a couple of years of law school under her belt, so she likes to spout legalese. Sometimes she knows what she's talking about, but not always. You have to guess. It's like that old television show "Hollywood Squares."[MY OPINION]
Cathy uses a combination of text-message style typing and unconventional spelling in such a way as to leave the reader wondering if she actually thinks the spelling she uses is standard. [MY OPINION] She is a special defender of Judge Alex; if one of the "others" mentions hoping he had a safe trip home or to wherever, she reminds them that he has a wife and kids to worry about such things for him. Worrying about a person is perhaps akin to committing adultery in one's heart. Maybe she's onto something. What do I know?
Ken practically had a seizure because [my opinion; a medical diagnosis is difficult to make over a Facebook page posting, especially by someone who has no qualifications to make a diagnosis even in person] a preview of a Judge Alex episode alluded to a video that the litigant was then unable to produce in court. Despite Judge Alex's uninvolvement with the production aspect of the program, Ken chose to make a very personal attack against Judge Alex over this seemingly trivial issue. This brought the Star Wars Defense Team out in full force.
If Judge Alex is the Alpha male of the board, Wolf would have to be the Beta male. His primary purpose on the board seems to be to bring levity to tense situations. He does this despite his self-admitted status as an (GASP) atheist. I don't mean to come across as facebook's version of Senator Joe McCarthy (I paid attention in U.S. history and passed the AP exam), outing communists under every bed, but Wolf has been associated with the infamous "Doghouse."
Sandy, despite her known association with "The Doghouse," is often a voice of reason on the JA Facebook page. She defends the judge, but not to a ridiculous extent. She is respectful of others and gets along with most "others." Sandy is an anomaly as a Texan Mormon. You do not find too many of those. Sandy has beautiful red-hair, about which she frequently complains. Victor (and hopefully Mason) would tell Sandy, "At least you have hair."
There you have it in a very large nutshell (maybe a coconut shell?): Judge Alex's Facebook page. It has more drama than any daytime TV drama, with the possible exception of "Grey's Anatomy" re-runs. If you did not find your own name here, consider yourself blessed. If you did, why would you want to sue a sixteen-year-old temporary cripple?
P.S. To my other "mom and dad" ( you know who you are): I miss you!!!!
Monday, August 9, 2010
Why Say Anything When You Don't Know What to Say?
The killing of ten civilivans in Afghanistan, with credit proudly taken by the Taliban, leaves me without words. (I'm still typing, so obviously nothing leaves me literally or totally wordless.) Ten people who gave up comfortable existences to help those in need were shot and killed for reasons ranging from bogus to nonexistent. Some were nurses. Others were miscellaneous health care specialists. One, a dentist, looked a great deal like my Uncle Brad, who is also a dentist. I hope my Uncle Brad continues with his selfish pursuit of holding onto his dentistry practice to support himself and his family. His son, my cousin Jeff, has just completed dental school and is considering an extended trip into what I would consider perilous territory for some sort of humanitarian aid mission. Perhaps this will cause him to reconsider.
Compelling evidence showed that these people had no religious commonality; in some cases the humanitarian aids practiced no religion at all. The Taliban claims of the group's working to convert the residents of the area to Christianity lack credibility. Furthermore, why are the Taliban so paranoid of outside groups' attempts to convert their people to religions other than their own extreme brand of Islam? If theirs were such a wonderful form of religion, would we not all be fighting to get into it as opposed to the Taliban leadership's use of force to deny their adherents the knowledge that other religious options even exist?
I know nothing about this incident beyond what I've read in newspapers and on the Internet, or have seen on television. Perhaps I'm the last person in the world who should be offering up an opinion on the topic. What does a sixteen-year-old girl know about killings in Afghanistan?
All I know is that I want no one I love anywhere near that region. Beyond the fact that I have no control over that -- for that matter, I do have a a cousin serving in the military in that region -- I concede the selfishness of my wishes. Underprivileged people in that part of the world should have access to healthcare just as should anyone anywhere.
I've never had a cavity in my life because of fortuitous genetics, fluoridated vitamins, and good dental care, so I have no idea what it's like to experience a single toothache. How can I say that people in Afghanistan should suffer with pervasive dental caries and a host of other dental, visual, and medical problems too numerous to mention? Yet I would be selfish enough to do anything in my power to keep my father, a doctor, from going over there. As far as I know, he has no current delusions of grandeur in relation to saving the world by working his way around the planet starting from the mideast. If he gets any such ideas, however, I'll become the most anorexic, agoraphobic, self-mutilating adolescent the world has seen, someone much too messed up that my father would leave my mother alone to handle the situation. My contingency plan is the epitome of selfishness, yet I would do it in a heartbeat. Some method of helping such needy people must exist or be devised, but until it does not involve religious extremists shooting at people who are merely trying to help, it will have to be accomplished without my close relatives.
Compelling evidence showed that these people had no religious commonality; in some cases the humanitarian aids practiced no religion at all. The Taliban claims of the group's working to convert the residents of the area to Christianity lack credibility. Furthermore, why are the Taliban so paranoid of outside groups' attempts to convert their people to religions other than their own extreme brand of Islam? If theirs were such a wonderful form of religion, would we not all be fighting to get into it as opposed to the Taliban leadership's use of force to deny their adherents the knowledge that other religious options even exist?
I know nothing about this incident beyond what I've read in newspapers and on the Internet, or have seen on television. Perhaps I'm the last person in the world who should be offering up an opinion on the topic. What does a sixteen-year-old girl know about killings in Afghanistan?
All I know is that I want no one I love anywhere near that region. Beyond the fact that I have no control over that -- for that matter, I do have a a cousin serving in the military in that region -- I concede the selfishness of my wishes. Underprivileged people in that part of the world should have access to healthcare just as should anyone anywhere.
I've never had a cavity in my life because of fortuitous genetics, fluoridated vitamins, and good dental care, so I have no idea what it's like to experience a single toothache. How can I say that people in Afghanistan should suffer with pervasive dental caries and a host of other dental, visual, and medical problems too numerous to mention? Yet I would be selfish enough to do anything in my power to keep my father, a doctor, from going over there. As far as I know, he has no current delusions of grandeur in relation to saving the world by working his way around the planet starting from the mideast. If he gets any such ideas, however, I'll become the most anorexic, agoraphobic, self-mutilating adolescent the world has seen, someone much too messed up that my father would leave my mother alone to handle the situation. My contingency plan is the epitome of selfishness, yet I would do it in a heartbeat. Some method of helping such needy people must exist or be devised, but until it does not involve religious extremists shooting at people who are merely trying to help, it will have to be accomplished without my close relatives.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Names
We've all heard the proverb, "Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words (or names) can never harm me." This quotation is generally applied to schoolyard taunts, adult name-calling, and generally insulting and derogatory terms. I'm considering it today in a more literal sense.
Parents in almost all cases name their children. With very few restrictions, a parent can choose just about any name he or she wants to give to a child. Prudence indeed would dictate (sorry for the plagiaristic T. J. reference, but he's far too dead to care, and I think the document has to be public domain by now anyway) that a parent would choose a name that: a) the child might like; b) that would give others a favorable impression of the child; c) would, at the very least, not subject the child to abuse of any kind. Prudence may dictate until her face turns purple, but parents have been known to commit all sorts of atrocities, some bordering or actually crossing over the line to outright tort, in the naming of their offspring.
The most common name faux pas, and possibly the one least harmful to the child, is the choice to combine a given name with a particular surname for the purpose of creating a precious, saccharine, or otherwise cutesy overall name. We've all known a few. Candy Cane comes to mind, as do Chris Cross, Kelly Green, "Ima Hogg," "Candy Barr," and "Pearl Harbour." Those are the ones I've heard personally. One could search the net and come up with a catalog of similarly charming first and last name combinations. (Some are even urban legebds who probably never existed.) The parent or parents presumably thought the name to be innovative and appealing. In the cases I've known where the child was saddled with such a name, the child didn't usually agreed with the parent's overall assessment of the name's endearing qualities. In the cases of the females gifted with such names, often they marry and eventually rid themselves of hearing the same lame comments made each time they are required to give their names. In the cases of females who do not marry, or males in general, although I understand it's unusual but legal for a male to adopt his spouse's surname, they're stuck for the duration of their lives hearing muffled laughter every time their names are read aloud (in middle school, those laughing do not even bother with the formality of muffling their laughter),or shelling out hard cash for court costs involved in legally changing their names. Beyond the cost -- I have no idea what the cost actually is -- there's an embarrassment factor in changing one's name. Usually one is required by law to post the name change in a local newspaper, which in and of itself can be a source of discomfiture (I admit to using a thesaurus here). Beyond that, one changing his or her name would constantly run into the quandary of what to say when meeting up with acquaintances from one's past. Should one tell the person, "I changed my name legally and am no longer named Robin Hood, " or just let sleeping dogs lie? It's funny to me because I don't have to deal with that issue, but I try to put myself in the place of one who does and imagine the baggage that goes along with such a name.
Another charming gift some parents bestow upon their children in the form of names is to name their children after someone famous. George Clooney wouldn't be such a bad name to be given, but what if the poor kid happened to be butt-ugly? Going through life with a name like "Henry Ford" isn't exactly a life-long trip through Busch Gardens, but my cousin had a kid in his football division whose given name is "President Ford." This young man's parents supposedly admired our nation's thirty-eighth president so much that they chose to name their son after him, yet they couldn't even be bothered with looking up his first name of Gerald? In that case, I can't decide if it's more a case of stupidity, laziness, or some more evil force at work. This last one I cite is inevitable, because Keller is something like the tenth most common surname of German ancestry in the Unites States, but couldn't parents with the surname of Keller show just the barest minimum of restraint by not naming their daughters Helen? I'm not suggesting that Helen Keller led anything but an exemplary life, but the jokes alone are sufficient reson to kill the name. Would anyone want to go through life hearing, "Why did Helen Keller masturbate with her right hand? So she could moan with her left." (Sorry, Mom.) If a person wouldn't like having such jokes directed at him or her or said in his or her her presence on a daily basis, why would he or she assume that his or her daughter would like it any more? If a child is determined to be famous, the child will find his or her own path to fame. Giving the child the name of an already famous person will not expedite the process even if fame is the child's ultimate goal.
The next naming spectacle is one my mother calls "The Scrabble Letter Phenomonon." She calls it such because the child's name sounds as though the parents or whatever people chose the child's name were playing some sort of a drinking game whereby each couple was required to draw out a given number of scrabble letters and to somehow combine them, using each letter drawn, to come up with a name. She maintains that or some very similar method had to have been used in choosing some names she's seen because there is no other conceivable reason a child could have been stuck with such a peculiar name. My mother works in the counseling department of a school district. She comes across the name of every student who registers at the high school level in her district. She and her cohorts maintain a list of the more bizarre names they've come across. I would share that list, but I would like to attend college next year. If my mother loses her job, college may have to be put on hold until my mother finds another job. Thus, I'm going to have to keep the list to myself, which is truly disappointing, because I know you'd enjoy reading it. I'll have to make do by sharing with you a few names apparently chosen by "The Scrabble Letter Phenomenon" that I've come across from sources other than my mother's list. Zazzette, Qwerty (actually the first six letters on a standard kepyboard; at least there was a method to this particular madness: the parent would always be able to spell the name if a keyboard were available), Phrygix (perhaps the game's participants were awarded points based on the value of the Scrabble letters, in which case both Phrygix and Zazzette would be contenders), and Sillyhp, which is , coincidentally, Phyllis spelled backwards, although I'm not convinced that had anything whatsoever to do with the actual name, which, to me anyway, a little too closely resembles the word syphilis.
Another naming transgression is usually borne either of a desire to be different and, hence, to make one's child different, or inherent ignorance in regard to standard spelling. Some names have more than one common spelling. Catherine, Katherine, and Kathryn are all recognized spellings of the same name. Even a few slight variations ar not so heinous as to label the child stuck with the name as a freak. Lindsey and Lindsay are both considered standard forms of the name. (Oh, my gosh! Should I edit this part out? Might I be sued for infringing on a copyright or trademark by even using this name?) On the other hand Megan is standard, while Meggun is not. Meggun will have to spell her name to every person who writes it for her for the rest of her life. Maybe Meggun will like the extra attention of being different. Most likely she'll very soon grow tired of it. Furthermore, her parents will appear to be semi-literate at best for having spelled her name as such. As a general rule of thumb, if a child desires to be different, the child will distinguish himself or herself from his or her peers in some way. The parent dose not need to make that decision for the child at birth. One particular anomaly concerning spelling of a name is that a parent's spelling of a name is not required to be either standard or phonetic. In other words, a child's name could be spelled uvfrhgm and pronounced /tim/. I'm not sure why anyone would want to do that to a child, but no law prohibits it.
In the United States, laws concerning naming of a child are both broad and vague. Numerals can only be used in distinguishing a child from a relative of the same name, and are typically Roman numerals, although I'm uncertain that such is a requirement. I could find no law, however, stating that a child could not be given a number for a name; it just has to be spelled out. A child can be named Seven, but not 7. I haven't found the law, but I assume there must be some statute prohibiting the use of recognized curse words in the naming of children. Otherwise, with the number of total reprobates proliferating society, we would have little Motherfuckers and Sons of Bitches in most classrooms. (Some teachers would tell you that we do, but just that those are not their given names. Sorry, Mom.) Since I'm unable to locate any laws pertaining to such, I'll ask Judge Alex. He's busy now, so I may not get an answer, but it's worth a try since he's the most intelligent person of my Internet semi-correspondents. I'll also ask Russ carney, as he's the most culturally aware person among my Internet semi-correspondents. Another legal question I would like to ask Judge Alex is this; what if the parents cannot agree on a name? Is it the mother's final decision? Does it vary from state to state? Does it matter if the parents are married?
In one of my many bouts with insomnia, I developed a solution to the plight of bizarre, attention-getting (in a bad way) or strangely-spelled names. Statistics are kept on names. A person can consult the Internet and instantly come up with a list of the top however many names they want for any state or for the United States as a whole. My proposal is this: A list of the two hundred most frequently chosen names for the state or nation (parent's choice; in a place like Utah, it would make a diference) is printed and given to the parent. If the parent chooses a name that is not on that list of the top two hundred names for the state or nation, a panel will appear before the parent. The panel will consist of a "typical" child a schoolyard bully, a teacher, a human resource director of a hospital, law firm, or other business or corporation, and a member of the opposite gender of the child. The parent must listen to each panel member's take on why that name is or is not a good name. The bully will tell you how other kids will make fun of the name and what about any particular name would bring out his predatory tendencies. The normal kid (a fourth or fifth grade boy or girl who receives many B grades, who is probably not the class representative on the student council but may be the alternate, one who probably doesn't receive a "Student of the Month" award every year, but probably does every other year, and one who is usually chosen neither first not last when teams are selected for anything -- the "average child, if there is such a thing,) will give you an ordinary kid's perspective of that name. The teacher will tell you if your child's name is likely to be mispronounced or misspelled,or if there are presently a disproportionate number of dysfunctional students with that name(my pseudo-aunt, a teacher, says avoid the name Liam like the plague; it was fine for those of Scandinavian descent a generation ago, but anyone under the age of fifteen with that name today is almost certainly doomed to terminal geekhood or juvenile delinquency --usually the latter, if not both). The human resources director will tell you the first impression he or she gets from that name in terms of hiring potential. The member of the opposite gender (five to eight years old; we don't want to promote total pedophilia) will tell the parent if he would go on a blind date with a person with that name. The panel would vote. If the panel were to give the name an OK, the name may be given with no stipulations. If the name is nixed, the parents may still give the name to the child, but must post bond equaling whatever is the total cost, includng court fees, lawyer fees, publication fees, and and other hidden costs, for the child to change the name if the child decides later that it is not a name with which he or she can live. An age at which the child may elect to change the name must be selected. I propose that the age be a minimum of eight years. A minimum of ten years would be preferable, as we know eight year olds can be fairly stupid at times, but if the name is truly hideous, the child's life could be virtually ruined by the time he is ten. Thus the earlier minimum. The child must choose from the list of two hundred most commonly gien names for the child's birth year. If the kid wants to change his name to something ridiculous like X-Box when he's eighteen, he can pay for it himself.
For the sake of argument, middle names can be exempt, embarrassing as middle names sometimes are. If a kid doesn't like his middle name, he should be allowed to simply drop it at the age of eighteen.
What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . . or would it?
Parents in almost all cases name their children. With very few restrictions, a parent can choose just about any name he or she wants to give to a child. Prudence indeed would dictate (sorry for the plagiaristic T. J. reference, but he's far too dead to care, and I think the document has to be public domain by now anyway) that a parent would choose a name that: a) the child might like; b) that would give others a favorable impression of the child; c) would, at the very least, not subject the child to abuse of any kind. Prudence may dictate until her face turns purple, but parents have been known to commit all sorts of atrocities, some bordering or actually crossing over the line to outright tort, in the naming of their offspring.
The most common name faux pas, and possibly the one least harmful to the child, is the choice to combine a given name with a particular surname for the purpose of creating a precious, saccharine, or otherwise cutesy overall name. We've all known a few. Candy Cane comes to mind, as do Chris Cross, Kelly Green, "Ima Hogg," "Candy Barr," and "Pearl Harbour." Those are the ones I've heard personally. One could search the net and come up with a catalog of similarly charming first and last name combinations. (Some are even urban legebds who probably never existed.) The parent or parents presumably thought the name to be innovative and appealing. In the cases I've known where the child was saddled with such a name, the child didn't usually agreed with the parent's overall assessment of the name's endearing qualities. In the cases of the females gifted with such names, often they marry and eventually rid themselves of hearing the same lame comments made each time they are required to give their names. In the cases of females who do not marry, or males in general, although I understand it's unusual but legal for a male to adopt his spouse's surname, they're stuck for the duration of their lives hearing muffled laughter every time their names are read aloud (in middle school, those laughing do not even bother with the formality of muffling their laughter),or shelling out hard cash for court costs involved in legally changing their names. Beyond the cost -- I have no idea what the cost actually is -- there's an embarrassment factor in changing one's name. Usually one is required by law to post the name change in a local newspaper, which in and of itself can be a source of discomfiture (I admit to using a thesaurus here). Beyond that, one changing his or her name would constantly run into the quandary of what to say when meeting up with acquaintances from one's past. Should one tell the person, "I changed my name legally and am no longer named Robin Hood, " or just let sleeping dogs lie? It's funny to me because I don't have to deal with that issue, but I try to put myself in the place of one who does and imagine the baggage that goes along with such a name.
Another charming gift some parents bestow upon their children in the form of names is to name their children after someone famous. George Clooney wouldn't be such a bad name to be given, but what if the poor kid happened to be butt-ugly? Going through life with a name like "Henry Ford" isn't exactly a life-long trip through Busch Gardens, but my cousin had a kid in his football division whose given name is "President Ford." This young man's parents supposedly admired our nation's thirty-eighth president so much that they chose to name their son after him, yet they couldn't even be bothered with looking up his first name of Gerald? In that case, I can't decide if it's more a case of stupidity, laziness, or some more evil force at work. This last one I cite is inevitable, because Keller is something like the tenth most common surname of German ancestry in the Unites States, but couldn't parents with the surname of Keller show just the barest minimum of restraint by not naming their daughters Helen? I'm not suggesting that Helen Keller led anything but an exemplary life, but the jokes alone are sufficient reson to kill the name. Would anyone want to go through life hearing, "Why did Helen Keller masturbate with her right hand? So she could moan with her left." (Sorry, Mom.) If a person wouldn't like having such jokes directed at him or her or said in his or her her presence on a daily basis, why would he or she assume that his or her daughter would like it any more? If a child is determined to be famous, the child will find his or her own path to fame. Giving the child the name of an already famous person will not expedite the process even if fame is the child's ultimate goal.
The next naming spectacle is one my mother calls "The Scrabble Letter Phenomonon." She calls it such because the child's name sounds as though the parents or whatever people chose the child's name were playing some sort of a drinking game whereby each couple was required to draw out a given number of scrabble letters and to somehow combine them, using each letter drawn, to come up with a name. She maintains that or some very similar method had to have been used in choosing some names she's seen because there is no other conceivable reason a child could have been stuck with such a peculiar name. My mother works in the counseling department of a school district. She comes across the name of every student who registers at the high school level in her district. She and her cohorts maintain a list of the more bizarre names they've come across. I would share that list, but I would like to attend college next year. If my mother loses her job, college may have to be put on hold until my mother finds another job. Thus, I'm going to have to keep the list to myself, which is truly disappointing, because I know you'd enjoy reading it. I'll have to make do by sharing with you a few names apparently chosen by "The Scrabble Letter Phenomenon" that I've come across from sources other than my mother's list. Zazzette, Qwerty (actually the first six letters on a standard kepyboard; at least there was a method to this particular madness: the parent would always be able to spell the name if a keyboard were available), Phrygix (perhaps the game's participants were awarded points based on the value of the Scrabble letters, in which case both Phrygix and Zazzette would be contenders), and Sillyhp, which is , coincidentally, Phyllis spelled backwards, although I'm not convinced that had anything whatsoever to do with the actual name, which, to me anyway, a little too closely resembles the word syphilis.
Another naming transgression is usually borne either of a desire to be different and, hence, to make one's child different, or inherent ignorance in regard to standard spelling. Some names have more than one common spelling. Catherine, Katherine, and Kathryn are all recognized spellings of the same name. Even a few slight variations ar not so heinous as to label the child stuck with the name as a freak. Lindsey and Lindsay are both considered standard forms of the name. (Oh, my gosh! Should I edit this part out? Might I be sued for infringing on a copyright or trademark by even using this name?) On the other hand Megan is standard, while Meggun is not. Meggun will have to spell her name to every person who writes it for her for the rest of her life. Maybe Meggun will like the extra attention of being different. Most likely she'll very soon grow tired of it. Furthermore, her parents will appear to be semi-literate at best for having spelled her name as such. As a general rule of thumb, if a child desires to be different, the child will distinguish himself or herself from his or her peers in some way. The parent dose not need to make that decision for the child at birth. One particular anomaly concerning spelling of a name is that a parent's spelling of a name is not required to be either standard or phonetic. In other words, a child's name could be spelled uvfrhgm and pronounced /tim/. I'm not sure why anyone would want to do that to a child, but no law prohibits it.
In the United States, laws concerning naming of a child are both broad and vague. Numerals can only be used in distinguishing a child from a relative of the same name, and are typically Roman numerals, although I'm uncertain that such is a requirement. I could find no law, however, stating that a child could not be given a number for a name; it just has to be spelled out. A child can be named Seven, but not 7. I haven't found the law, but I assume there must be some statute prohibiting the use of recognized curse words in the naming of children. Otherwise, with the number of total reprobates proliferating society, we would have little Motherfuckers and Sons of Bitches in most classrooms. (Some teachers would tell you that we do, but just that those are not their given names. Sorry, Mom.) Since I'm unable to locate any laws pertaining to such, I'll ask Judge Alex. He's busy now, so I may not get an answer, but it's worth a try since he's the most intelligent person of my Internet semi-correspondents. I'll also ask Russ carney, as he's the most culturally aware person among my Internet semi-correspondents. Another legal question I would like to ask Judge Alex is this; what if the parents cannot agree on a name? Is it the mother's final decision? Does it vary from state to state? Does it matter if the parents are married?
In one of my many bouts with insomnia, I developed a solution to the plight of bizarre, attention-getting (in a bad way) or strangely-spelled names. Statistics are kept on names. A person can consult the Internet and instantly come up with a list of the top however many names they want for any state or for the United States as a whole. My proposal is this: A list of the two hundred most frequently chosen names for the state or nation (parent's choice; in a place like Utah, it would make a diference) is printed and given to the parent. If the parent chooses a name that is not on that list of the top two hundred names for the state or nation, a panel will appear before the parent. The panel will consist of a "typical" child a schoolyard bully, a teacher, a human resource director of a hospital, law firm, or other business or corporation, and a member of the opposite gender of the child. The parent must listen to each panel member's take on why that name is or is not a good name. The bully will tell you how other kids will make fun of the name and what about any particular name would bring out his predatory tendencies. The normal kid (a fourth or fifth grade boy or girl who receives many B grades, who is probably not the class representative on the student council but may be the alternate, one who probably doesn't receive a "Student of the Month" award every year, but probably does every other year, and one who is usually chosen neither first not last when teams are selected for anything -- the "average child, if there is such a thing,) will give you an ordinary kid's perspective of that name. The teacher will tell you if your child's name is likely to be mispronounced or misspelled,or if there are presently a disproportionate number of dysfunctional students with that name(my pseudo-aunt, a teacher, says avoid the name Liam like the plague; it was fine for those of Scandinavian descent a generation ago, but anyone under the age of fifteen with that name today is almost certainly doomed to terminal geekhood or juvenile delinquency --usually the latter, if not both). The human resources director will tell you the first impression he or she gets from that name in terms of hiring potential. The member of the opposite gender (five to eight years old; we don't want to promote total pedophilia) will tell the parent if he would go on a blind date with a person with that name. The panel would vote. If the panel were to give the name an OK, the name may be given with no stipulations. If the name is nixed, the parents may still give the name to the child, but must post bond equaling whatever is the total cost, includng court fees, lawyer fees, publication fees, and and other hidden costs, for the child to change the name if the child decides later that it is not a name with which he or she can live. An age at which the child may elect to change the name must be selected. I propose that the age be a minimum of eight years. A minimum of ten years would be preferable, as we know eight year olds can be fairly stupid at times, but if the name is truly hideous, the child's life could be virtually ruined by the time he is ten. Thus the earlier minimum. The child must choose from the list of two hundred most commonly gien names for the child's birth year. If the kid wants to change his name to something ridiculous like X-Box when he's eighteen, he can pay for it himself.
For the sake of argument, middle names can be exempt, embarrassing as middle names sometimes are. If a kid doesn't like his middle name, he should be allowed to simply drop it at the age of eighteen.
What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . . or would it?
Monday, August 2, 2010
How I Single-handedly Saved or Destroyed the Christmas Program, Depending upon One's Point of View
I attended Catholic School for two years. That was long enough; probably too long, in fact.
I'm technically both a Catholic and a Latter-Day Saint, as I was blessed in a Mormon church without my parents' knowledge. (I've blogged about it somewhere in the March or April 2010 section if you're ever interested in the gory details.) My immediate family is Catholic. My dad was born Catholic. He's French-Canadian, and I think they're mostly a Catholic ethnicity. He had a ten-year stint at Mormonism when his family converted, but that, too, has been covered in an earlier blog. My mom is Irish Catholic. She was an Air Force brat and attended public or Catholic schools depending upon where her family lived and what was in close proximity.
Most of my mom's employment has been with public schools, so my brother and I attend public schools for the most part because my mom thinks it's hypocritical for her to accept money to work in a system that is not good enough to educate her own children. For a little over two years, though, we lived in the San Joaquin Valley because my dad was alternating between so many different sites that it was the most centrally located area, and my Godparents (who are also an aunt and uncle, but not any of the evil ones) lived there. My Godmother babysat us after school, so we attended the same Catholic school my cousins attended just for the sake of convenience.
My moment of glory as a Catholic School student occurred when I was almost expelled as a second-grader who was barely seven. The story has no particular relevance to anything that I've written in my blog recently or, for that matter, to anything that's happening in the world today, but I am going to share the experience because just thinking of it makes me laugh.
Catholic schools are known for operating on shoestring budgets and usually do a fairly remarkable job on the limited funds they have. My Catholic elementary school didn't have a teacher who could play the piano. The school could have reduced the tuition for some kid by having his or her parent accompany the school choirs or play for school masses, but this would have resulted in a loss of much-needed revenue. So the principal did the next best thing, which was to use the most accomplished pianist in the student body as the official school pianist. Unfortunately for them, it happened to be a second-grader, me, who was only six until December of that year.
I missed the last ninety minutes of class twice a week to play for the junior and senior choirs. I didn't struggle academically, so my parents never complained. Come to think of it, I'm not sure they ever knew it was happening. Everything was usually fine, because everything I needed to play was pretty much spelled out. Then came the Christmas Program, which happened about two weeks after I turned seven.
This was when my mom had leukemia, and she and my dad were in Los Angeles for one procedure or another. My aunt took me and the other kids in the family to the program. My uncle didn't come with us because he's a Portuguese dairyman whose parents came from the Azores. Except for my brother and me, nearly every kid in that school was the child of Azores-descended parents (even my cousins Michael and Philip were novelties at the school because they were half-breeds, with the other half being Irish), and nearly all were dairymen or farmers. Azores-descended dairymen and farmers, in general, were and still are not overly fond of sitting through children's religious Christmas programs somewhere between ninety minutes and two hours in length, yet most of their wives insisted that they attend.
They did attend, but first they met for an hour or two at a tavern less than a mile down the road from the school in order to anaesthetize themselves sufficiently to make the Christmas program experience almost bearable. (One year a whole pack of them were charged with DUI, so after that, wives took turns transporting them by van to the tavern, and then on to the school. They farmers and dairymen talked about renting limousines, but the wives thought it was a ridiculous waste of money.)
Anyway, the church school Nativity-style Christmas program, typical in most aspects except for the inebriated farmers and dairymen and the barely seven-year-old piano accompanist, started off without incident. Shepherds, sheep, and angels all more or less wandered onto the stage at the right time. Then came the Holy Family right on schedule. Things progressed normally enough until one of the Wise Men, who probably shouldn't have been forced to perform that night, hurled the entire contents of his gastric system all over the stage. The principal, a nun, who was directing the program, rushed up to me and hissed, "Play something!"
"What?" I asked her.
"Anything," she said. "Just not one of the songs that has already been sung or one that is going to be sung." She hurried onto the stage to grab a mop and join the crew that was already attempting damage control. It was so vile that I could smell it from the piano off-stage. I don't know how they avoided having a chain reaction from all the kids actually on the stage who were in close view and smelling range.
Sister Bernadette had told me to play anything except the any of the songs included in the program, but exactly what did that mean? Practically every Christmas song known to man except "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" was included in the program, and even I at the age of seven knew better than to play that one. I thought for a moment, then broke into a song my father had taught me to play. I thought it was religious because it mentioned the Bible, the mortal soul, and the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I don't know if you're familiar with the song, because it's really old, but it's called "American Pie," it's by Don McLean, and I now know it is NOT a religious song.
At first it sounded reverent enough, but not for long. By now, I probably have the skill to play through the entire song note-for-note in a sufficiently Muzak style that few people would recognize it. As a seven-year-old, I lacked that skill. The most devout people were usually seated near the front, while the drunken dairymen and farmers hovered near the exit doors. The pious people in the front gasped as I played. The drunken Azores Portuguese men sang along. One of them, who is supposedly something like the leading sweet potato farmer in the world, had a little higher blood-alcohol content than most, and he knew all the words to the song and had a pretty good voice, so he walked up to the front and grabbed the microphone. He basically led the crowd, except for the pious people, in a rousing rendition of the long version of "American Pie," which is something like six minutes in length, giving Sister Bernadette and her crew just enough time to mop the barf off the stage and scrape it off the costumes of those who were unfortunately near enough to be hit by the fallout.
The program ended soon enough, as the Wise Men don't come in until near the end, and it was a Wise Man who had wreaked the havoc by upchucking all over every surface within a fifteen-foot radius. I played "Silent Night" as the entire audience and cast sang along, as had been planned.
Afterward, my Aunt Victoria attempted to leave hastily, but my Uncle Ralph wanted to pose by the piano with me while all his drunken Azores farmer and dairymen friends took pictures. As brief as it was, it was sort of my moment of glory. I don't think anyone had ever before been nor has ever since been so proud of anything I had done in my entire life as my Uncle Ralph was that night. He reminded everyone within earshot that I was his Godchild and claimed to have taught me most of what I knew. The only song he knows how to play on the piano to this day is "Chopsticks," and he doesn't even play it all that well.
On the way home, my Aunt Victoria acted mildly ticked at my Uncle Ralph for having behaved like a drunken fool (I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall of the sweet potato king's Mercedes), but she didn't seem upset with me. She probably had the common sense to know that if you tell a seven-year-old to play "anything," you're going to get whatever you get, and you should not pitch a hissy fit over it.
When school started the next morning, I was soon summoned to Sister Bernadette's office. She had me writing numerous Acts of Contrition, Mea Culpas, and other prayers of repentance. I spent the entire day in her office. Someone eventually brought my sack lunch to me and allowed me to eat it, but then it was back to copying prayers pleading for mercy for my much-in-jeopardy soul.
At 3:10, my Aunt Victoria showed up to pick up her children as well as my brother and me. All the other kids knew was that I had been in the office all day.
My aunt went into the office. Sister Bernadette met her at the counter and informed her that I still had two hours of detention to serve, at which point a loud discussion ensued. It ended with my aunt walking into Sister Bernadette's inner office and taking me by the arm, pulling me out of the office. Sister Bernadette said, "If you take her now, she's out of this school for good!"
"We'll see about that!" my aunt huffed as she dragged me out.
I don't really know how it was resolved, except that I do know money talks where Catholic schools are concerned, and that a phone tree soon had many wealthy Azores-descended families (probably not the pious ones) up in arms over the issue. There were only two more days of school before Christmas vacation, so my aunt "homeschooled" all of us. Holy Mother of Lady Gaga, I would have rather been back in Sister Bernadette's office copying Acts of Contrition than doing all the work my aunt made us do.
All I ever really knew was that when school resumed after Christmas vacation, my cousins, brother, and I were all back in school and Sister Bernadette had been reassigned to somewhere in Arizona. My Uncle Ralph drinks to excess on occasion, and when I'm around during his drunken stupor times, he loves to tell the story of how I saved the Christmas Program.
The best thing about it was that it was my First Holy Communion year. I learned several of the prayers we were required to memorize just from copying them ad nauseum in Sister Bernadette's office.
Occasionally I'll hear "American Pie" when my parents force us to listen to oldies stations in the car. In some bizarre sort of Pavlovian response, I instinctively begin reciting The Act of Contrition as soon as I hear the opening strains of the song. It's odd how the brain works to make such connections.
I'm technically both a Catholic and a Latter-Day Saint, as I was blessed in a Mormon church without my parents' knowledge. (I've blogged about it somewhere in the March or April 2010 section if you're ever interested in the gory details.) My immediate family is Catholic. My dad was born Catholic. He's French-Canadian, and I think they're mostly a Catholic ethnicity. He had a ten-year stint at Mormonism when his family converted, but that, too, has been covered in an earlier blog. My mom is Irish Catholic. She was an Air Force brat and attended public or Catholic schools depending upon where her family lived and what was in close proximity.
Most of my mom's employment has been with public schools, so my brother and I attend public schools for the most part because my mom thinks it's hypocritical for her to accept money to work in a system that is not good enough to educate her own children. For a little over two years, though, we lived in the San Joaquin Valley because my dad was alternating between so many different sites that it was the most centrally located area, and my Godparents (who are also an aunt and uncle, but not any of the evil ones) lived there. My Godmother babysat us after school, so we attended the same Catholic school my cousins attended just for the sake of convenience.
My moment of glory as a Catholic School student occurred when I was almost expelled as a second-grader who was barely seven. The story has no particular relevance to anything that I've written in my blog recently or, for that matter, to anything that's happening in the world today, but I am going to share the experience because just thinking of it makes me laugh.
Catholic schools are known for operating on shoestring budgets and usually do a fairly remarkable job on the limited funds they have. My Catholic elementary school didn't have a teacher who could play the piano. The school could have reduced the tuition for some kid by having his or her parent accompany the school choirs or play for school masses, but this would have resulted in a loss of much-needed revenue. So the principal did the next best thing, which was to use the most accomplished pianist in the student body as the official school pianist. Unfortunately for them, it happened to be a second-grader, me, who was only six until December of that year.
I missed the last ninety minutes of class twice a week to play for the junior and senior choirs. I didn't struggle academically, so my parents never complained. Come to think of it, I'm not sure they ever knew it was happening. Everything was usually fine, because everything I needed to play was pretty much spelled out. Then came the Christmas Program, which happened about two weeks after I turned seven.
This was when my mom had leukemia, and she and my dad were in Los Angeles for one procedure or another. My aunt took me and the other kids in the family to the program. My uncle didn't come with us because he's a Portuguese dairyman whose parents came from the Azores. Except for my brother and me, nearly every kid in that school was the child of Azores-descended parents (even my cousins Michael and Philip were novelties at the school because they were half-breeds, with the other half being Irish), and nearly all were dairymen or farmers. Azores-descended dairymen and farmers, in general, were and still are not overly fond of sitting through children's religious Christmas programs somewhere between ninety minutes and two hours in length, yet most of their wives insisted that they attend.
They did attend, but first they met for an hour or two at a tavern less than a mile down the road from the school in order to anaesthetize themselves sufficiently to make the Christmas program experience almost bearable. (One year a whole pack of them were charged with DUI, so after that, wives took turns transporting them by van to the tavern, and then on to the school. They farmers and dairymen talked about renting limousines, but the wives thought it was a ridiculous waste of money.)
Anyway, the church school Nativity-style Christmas program, typical in most aspects except for the inebriated farmers and dairymen and the barely seven-year-old piano accompanist, started off without incident. Shepherds, sheep, and angels all more or less wandered onto the stage at the right time. Then came the Holy Family right on schedule. Things progressed normally enough until one of the Wise Men, who probably shouldn't have been forced to perform that night, hurled the entire contents of his gastric system all over the stage. The principal, a nun, who was directing the program, rushed up to me and hissed, "Play something!"
"What?" I asked her.
"Anything," she said. "Just not one of the songs that has already been sung or one that is going to be sung." She hurried onto the stage to grab a mop and join the crew that was already attempting damage control. It was so vile that I could smell it from the piano off-stage. I don't know how they avoided having a chain reaction from all the kids actually on the stage who were in close view and smelling range.
Sister Bernadette had told me to play anything except the any of the songs included in the program, but exactly what did that mean? Practically every Christmas song known to man except "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" was included in the program, and even I at the age of seven knew better than to play that one. I thought for a moment, then broke into a song my father had taught me to play. I thought it was religious because it mentioned the Bible, the mortal soul, and the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I don't know if you're familiar with the song, because it's really old, but it's called "American Pie," it's by Don McLean, and I now know it is NOT a religious song.
At first it sounded reverent enough, but not for long. By now, I probably have the skill to play through the entire song note-for-note in a sufficiently Muzak style that few people would recognize it. As a seven-year-old, I lacked that skill. The most devout people were usually seated near the front, while the drunken dairymen and farmers hovered near the exit doors. The pious people in the front gasped as I played. The drunken Azores Portuguese men sang along. One of them, who is supposedly something like the leading sweet potato farmer in the world, had a little higher blood-alcohol content than most, and he knew all the words to the song and had a pretty good voice, so he walked up to the front and grabbed the microphone. He basically led the crowd, except for the pious people, in a rousing rendition of the long version of "American Pie," which is something like six minutes in length, giving Sister Bernadette and her crew just enough time to mop the barf off the stage and scrape it off the costumes of those who were unfortunately near enough to be hit by the fallout.
The program ended soon enough, as the Wise Men don't come in until near the end, and it was a Wise Man who had wreaked the havoc by upchucking all over every surface within a fifteen-foot radius. I played "Silent Night" as the entire audience and cast sang along, as had been planned.
Afterward, my Aunt Victoria attempted to leave hastily, but my Uncle Ralph wanted to pose by the piano with me while all his drunken Azores farmer and dairymen friends took pictures. As brief as it was, it was sort of my moment of glory. I don't think anyone had ever before been nor has ever since been so proud of anything I had done in my entire life as my Uncle Ralph was that night. He reminded everyone within earshot that I was his Godchild and claimed to have taught me most of what I knew. The only song he knows how to play on the piano to this day is "Chopsticks," and he doesn't even play it all that well.
On the way home, my Aunt Victoria acted mildly ticked at my Uncle Ralph for having behaved like a drunken fool (I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall of the sweet potato king's Mercedes), but she didn't seem upset with me. She probably had the common sense to know that if you tell a seven-year-old to play "anything," you're going to get whatever you get, and you should not pitch a hissy fit over it.
When school started the next morning, I was soon summoned to Sister Bernadette's office. She had me writing numerous Acts of Contrition, Mea Culpas, and other prayers of repentance. I spent the entire day in her office. Someone eventually brought my sack lunch to me and allowed me to eat it, but then it was back to copying prayers pleading for mercy for my much-in-jeopardy soul.
At 3:10, my Aunt Victoria showed up to pick up her children as well as my brother and me. All the other kids knew was that I had been in the office all day.
My aunt went into the office. Sister Bernadette met her at the counter and informed her that I still had two hours of detention to serve, at which point a loud discussion ensued. It ended with my aunt walking into Sister Bernadette's inner office and taking me by the arm, pulling me out of the office. Sister Bernadette said, "If you take her now, she's out of this school for good!"
"We'll see about that!" my aunt huffed as she dragged me out.
I don't really know how it was resolved, except that I do know money talks where Catholic schools are concerned, and that a phone tree soon had many wealthy Azores-descended families (probably not the pious ones) up in arms over the issue. There were only two more days of school before Christmas vacation, so my aunt "homeschooled" all of us. Holy Mother of Lady Gaga, I would have rather been back in Sister Bernadette's office copying Acts of Contrition than doing all the work my aunt made us do.
All I ever really knew was that when school resumed after Christmas vacation, my cousins, brother, and I were all back in school and Sister Bernadette had been reassigned to somewhere in Arizona. My Uncle Ralph drinks to excess on occasion, and when I'm around during his drunken stupor times, he loves to tell the story of how I saved the Christmas Program.
The best thing about it was that it was my First Holy Communion year. I learned several of the prayers we were required to memorize just from copying them ad nauseum in Sister Bernadette's office.
Occasionally I'll hear "American Pie" when my parents force us to listen to oldies stations in the car. In some bizarre sort of Pavlovian response, I instinctively begin reciting The Act of Contrition as soon as I hear the opening strains of the song. It's odd how the brain works to make such connections.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
My Knitting Career
I'm in Utah now with two of my five favorite people in the world. My number of people used to equal six, but one has lost his slot. I'm not yet sure if the loss is temporary and the person will do something to redeem himself, or if he's off my list for good. I'm also not sure he gives a rat's anal orifice as to what is his status on my list.
I had a new cast put on my leg in the San Joaquin Valley about a week or so ago because the old one got so soaked that it was moldy. Once I arrived in Utah, it became apparent that my skin was reacting poorly to the lining of the new cast. The itching was horrible, and the swelling was visble above and below the cast. Scott, on the list of my five favorite people in the world, who is one of my hosts in Utah while my parents are on a cruise, called in a friend from two doors down who has already earned his MD status. Scott is a fourth-year-medical student, but can't legally prescribe and doesn't feel comfortable diagnosing anything but no-brainer cases without an actual MD to confirm his diagnosis.
The friend and Scott poked and prodded. They decided a hospital visit could wait until morning since I was scheduled to be a featured case for Scott's group of little medical student buddies. The friend hooked me up to an IV. They gave me fluids, anti-diarrheal medicine since it had been a problem for days and the antibiotics weren't likely to help the situation, antibiotics, antifungal medication since there was evidence of fungal infection, and giving just antibiotics when a fungal infection is also present can make things worse, anti-itch medication, epinephrine or something similar, anti-nausea medication, and pain killers. They checked it all out on someone's computer to make sure none of the drugs in combination caused problems. They gave them one at a time about fifteen minutes apart so they would know which drug caused the problem if there was one. They cut up one of Jillian's (my other host and one of the other people on my list of favorite people) silk blouses and shoved the pieces as far under the lining into the cast as they could make it go. The friend said he would have cut the cast off, but my bone-grafting surgery was too recent and he didn't have adequate splinting material. They all kept telling me not to scratch, but it was so hard not to. Finally the anti-itch medication kicked in a little bit, than something in the cocktail of drugs made me sleepy, and I dozed off.
When someone carried me to bed, someone found the knitting needle I had been using for scratching inside my cast. It's a really dull needle. I had it hidden it in in my pillow case. I noticed it missing the next morning, but decided it would be buying trouble to ask about it.
I went to the hospital the next morning. The Dream Team of Know-Nothings, as Jillian calls Scott and his cohorts, were assembled to solve my case. Jillian went along so she could ensure that they didn't do anything stupid that would kill me or cause me to lose my leg. When they cut off my cast, one of the guys got light-headed and had to lie down on the floor to keep from fainting. The entire leg apparently looked bad, but the incisions were positively gross. They took samples and ran cultures so that they could give me the right antibiotic. They untrasounded to look for internal infection, but that part looked OK. The internal bone graft and the places where the silk was able to cover the skin were the only places on my leg that looked remotely non-terminal. They splinted my leg and put it in traction.
Everything up to that point was handled as well as anything you'd see on "Grey's Anatomy" on a functional episode. Then the Dream Team made their near-fatal mistake. The called my Uncle Steve in California. My parents are on a cruise, and Uncle Steve is designated as my legal guardian whenever my parents can't be reached.
My Uncle Steve and I have normally had a close relationship. I first met him when I was two. He had just returned from his two-year mission for the LDS Church, but was already on his way out of the church. My grandparents had offered to babysit my brother and me so that my parents could have a skiing trip without having to worry about their two-year-olds.My grandparents had an ulterior motive: they wanted to have my brother and me "blessed" in the LDS church, and they knew my father would never go along with it. So they arranged the babysitting stint so that we would be with them on a Sunday. Relatives who hated my parents showed up in full-force probably mostly out of spite for my parents and their choice of Catholicism over Mormonism.
I discussed this in a much earlier post, so feel free to skim over the parts that sound familiar. Mormon children are usually blessed as infants, so the officials weren't quite sure of the protocol with two-year-olds. Usually all the men gather in a circle and jointly hold the baby as the father, or occasionally someone else, gives a blessing to the baby.
My brother was tall for his age, so someone got a chair and he sat on it. The men placed their hands on his head while my grandfather gave him his blessing. My brother sat there perfectly cooperatively while it all took place. I don't remember what my grandfather said in my brother's blessing, but it seemed like he talked forever.
The it was my turn. They debated using the chair, but decided that since I was roughly half my brother's size, they would hold me as they would an infant. Had they put me on the chair, I would have jumped off and run so fast that it would have looked like an old Keystone Cops movie with a bunch of men in suits chasing an undersized two-year-old all over the church. As it was, there were so many of them that they couldn't find places to put their big hands all over my tiny body. Usually the men just sort of support the baby's weight with their handes, and if the baby cries, the father holds it closer as the other me keep their hands somewhere on its body. It was clear that I would not lie there complacently on their hands for the procedure, so they each grabbed some part of my body in a vise-like death grip while I struggled and screamed. Practically every male relative, and there are many of them, who held the priesthood and was therefore eligible to participate, wanted in on the un-sanctioned ritual. I must have had at least twenty-four hands grabbing me. My grandfather talked to me and threatened me to try to get me to be quiet, but there was no way in hell I would go along with this willingly. My grandfather said what he had to say, but I don't think anyone, himself included, heard a word he said. All I could hear, besides my own screaming, was the sound of giggling children and teens.
The blessing concluded, and my grandfather headed in the direction of the exit door with me firmly in his grip, intending to make good on his threat of beating the living daylight out of me. That's when my Uncle Steve came to the rescue. My grandfather was big (he's since shrunk a little) but my Uncle Steve was bigger. He grabbed me and said quietly but firmly, "Give her to me!"
My grandfather replied, "No! I promised her what I'd do if she didn't stop screaming, and I intend to deliver."
My Uncle Steve said, "We can make a scene if you insist, but you're not taking her anywhere. Give her to me now!"
It was probably the shock of being spoken to in such a manner by one of his own children, which hadn't likely happened before, but my grandfather relinquished his grip and gave me up to my Uncle Steve. From that point, he was my savior and hero. I clung tightly to him in church until I sobbed myself to sleep. I woke up on my grandparents' sofa hours later. I imediately got up and went looking for Uncle Steve. When I found him, I grabbed him around his legs as hard as I could. He picked me up, and basically never put me down for the remainder of the day except if I needed to use the bathroom or if he did. When he used the bathroom, I sat right outside the door so he would hear me scream if my grandfather came near me.
When my parents arrived to pick us up the next day, I was still clinging to Uncle Steve. My parents probably thought little about it, as Uncle Steve looks very much like my father, and they maybe thought I found the resemblance comforting. Steve said he seriously considered telling my parents what had happened, but still had one more semester of BYU and no way to pay for it on his own, so he kept his mouth shut. Neither my brother nor I told our parents anything about it, probably because we thought we had done something wrong and may have been punished. When it all came out about two years later, Uncle Steve told my parents everything. He said he had seriously considered trying to wrestle me away from the men, but was worried I would be physically harmed in the struggle, so he let it continue.
My mother remembered that she had noticed a very dark bruise with swelling just above my left ankle shortly after we got home. She was concerned enough that she asked my dad to examine me. He decided that there wasn't enough evidence of a fracture to warrant an X-ray, but they were both worried. Mom asked me how it had happened. Normally I could have answered very articulately, but I was afraid to tell about the blessing, so I lied and said I didn't know. She called my grandmother to ask if she knew how the bruise got there. My grandmother became irate that my nother would accuse anyone in the family of either not watching me closely or of outrightly abusing me.
When the story came out, my mother remembered the bruise. She asked my Uncle Steve if he knew who was holding my left ankle. My Uncle Steve possesses a high level of intelligence and an excellent visual memory, and was able to replicate in his mind the sequence of men around the circle. "It was Mahonri,' he answered. Mahonri was (and still is ) married to may Aunt Marthaleen, the oldest of my grandparents' daughters, born just under two years after my father. My mother wanted to call him. My father told her he would handle it. I didn't hear the call, but my Uncle Steve told years later that my dad told Mahonri that he was not ever to touch either my brother or me again, as in if we were choking, let us choke until he could find someone else to perform the Heimlich meaneaver, or if one of us was drowning, he could extend a pole, but he'd better not as much as lay a finger on either one of us. If restraining orders and formal charges were necessary, my dad told Mahonri, they would be sought. My mother has never spoken more than twenty words to Mahonri since then. He's been in our home once, and my mother refused to be in the same room with him except for a brief polite exchange.
My Uncle Steve lived with us for four years while he was in medical school. I was his shadow, and he must have been driven crazy by my constant presence, but he showed incredible patience. Sometimes my parents would make me get away from him because they knew he needed space, and they did not allow me in his room so that he could have sanctuary, but he never pushed me away.
Anyway, the most puffy cumulous cloud in the sky usually has a dark underside. and so does my Uncle Steve. Even though the actual MD's and not just the Know-Nothing Dream Team assured him that things were under control, he insisted upon flying to Utah from California to personally assess the situation. I was happy to see him when he first walked through the door. Then he held up the misssing knitting needle. (The very thick and dull needle, I might add. You know how food products come with a tight covering somewhere between paper and cardboard to protect against tampering? An offensive lineman from the 49ers couldn't have broken through one of those protective linings with this dull knitting needle.)
Uncle Steve didn't say anything. He just stood there holding up this knitting needle. I was beginning to think he considered it some sort of religious icon and that maybe I should make the sign of the cross or say a "Hail Mary" or something. It's just as well that I didn't, because he started on his diatribe. Anything I might have said before would only have made things worse.
He started out with, "I believe I may have seen something that looked very much like this before."
I didn't respond because it seemed that no answer would be the correct response.
"Where did I see something that looked like this before, Alexis?"
he asked.
"Many people knit. Aunt Frances knits. She may have used one that looked like that," I replied. It was a lame reply, but it was the best one I could come up with on the spur of the moment.
He set the knitting needle down on a counter and folded his arms. "Did you notice that my arms are now folded?" he asked.
I nodded affirmatively.
"I did that so I won't lose control of myself and slap you,' he explained.
There was dead silence, so it seemed he expected a response from me.
"Thank you," I replied in what I thought was a courteous tone.
"They're folded, Alexis, not stuck together with Krazy Glue. I can unfold them if you push me far enough," he said rather rudely.
"So where did this knitting needle come from? And I want the truth,"
he demanded.
"It was hidden in my pillowcase at Scott and Jillian's apartment,"
I answered.
"Why was it there?" he asked.
"So if my leg really, really itched, I could stick it inside my cast for just a second," I answered.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.
"In California," I answered.
"Would you be a little more specific?" he requested.
"Knitting needles come in sets of two. A friend gave me a package as a gift. My dad took one away. That's the one you probably saw that looks like this one," I answered as politely as I could.
"Who gave them to you?" he demanded.
"A friend," I answered.
"I'll need the name of this friend," he said.
"Oh, I forgot, they weren't a gift. I bought them when Aunt Heather took me to Target," I lied.
"I wasn't born yesterday," he muttered. "You did not buy those when Heather took you to Target. I'm not sure Heather even took you to Target.
A friend gave them to you. Now I need the friend's name."
"I'm not telling. I did not cause these problems with the knitting needle. My friend did nothing wrong. I'm not telling," I concluded.
Uncle Steve sighed. "No, you didn't cause the problems with the knitting needle, but you could have. I need to talk to your friend."
"She'll get into trouble with her parents, and everyone will hate me. So slap me or do whatever you want to me, because I'm not telling!"
I spat out at him.
He softened his voice. "I'm not trying to get your friend in trouble, Alexis. I don't even need to talk to her parents. She just needs to understand why it's a very bad idea to provide you with knitting needles.
Do you want to use my phone to call her? Then you can tell her I need to talk to her, and put me on the phone.'
"I don't even know her number," I pleaded.
"Alexis, I'm trying to be patient, but you're pushing me," he threatened.
"Seriously," I told him, "I know hardly anyone's number. Everything's programmed into my phone."
"Where is it?" he asked
"At Scott and Jillian's house."
"I'll call Jillian," he decided "I don't know if she can get the number off it, or if she'll need to bring the phone here."
"I think she can get the number off. She's not as inept as some people," I told him,coming as close to insulting him as I dared. I saw him put his hand over his mouth, and could tell he was covering a smile. That made me all the more angry.
He called Jillian's number, which was pre-programmed into his phone. He gave the phone to me. I told her where my phone was and what to look for. Soon my friend Kristi was on my uncle's phone. "Hi! It's Alexis, " I told her. "My uncle needs to talk to you." I handed the phone over to him.
I could tell he was trying hard to be nice about it, but I could also hear bits and pieces of her end of the conversation, and she sounded upset.
I assumed it was me with whom she was not happy. When my uncle asked at the end of his conversation if she'd like to speak to me again, she said no.
My uncle walked out of the room. About a half hour later, he came back with a stack of Internet print-outs. "Read these, " he told me as he walked out the door.
I flipped through them even though I already knew what they were about.
It was case after case of someone having an extremity amputated because of infection occurring after sticking an object in side of a cast to scratch. In some cases it was pens. One case was a coat hanger. The broadest knitting needle cited was 2 millimeters. These cases had nothing remotely to do with mine, PLUS I didn't cause one bit of damage with the knitting needle.
He came back later in the day. "Did you read the journal articles?" he asked.
"I browsed through them," I answered.
"We're not trying to be mean to you, Alexis!" he exclaimed.
"We don't want anything worse happening to you than what's already happened."
"So what am I supposed to do all day around here?" I demanded. "I can only use the computer for an hour a day. I get one hour to play the piano starting next week. I'm so sick of reading that I could burn every book I look at. You can only watch so much TV in a day. "There's "Judge Alex" and "Grey's Anatomy" reruns, and that's about it. So what if I want to take up knitting for a hobby?"
"Baby, the day that cast comes off, I'll buy you all the yarn and needles you want," he offerred.
Some day Uncle Steve will probably find a way back onto my list of favorite people, but it's going to take a lot more than yarn and knitting needles (after my cast is off) for him to get there.
I had a new cast put on my leg in the San Joaquin Valley about a week or so ago because the old one got so soaked that it was moldy. Once I arrived in Utah, it became apparent that my skin was reacting poorly to the lining of the new cast. The itching was horrible, and the swelling was visble above and below the cast. Scott, on the list of my five favorite people in the world, who is one of my hosts in Utah while my parents are on a cruise, called in a friend from two doors down who has already earned his MD status. Scott is a fourth-year-medical student, but can't legally prescribe and doesn't feel comfortable diagnosing anything but no-brainer cases without an actual MD to confirm his diagnosis.
The friend and Scott poked and prodded. They decided a hospital visit could wait until morning since I was scheduled to be a featured case for Scott's group of little medical student buddies. The friend hooked me up to an IV. They gave me fluids, anti-diarrheal medicine since it had been a problem for days and the antibiotics weren't likely to help the situation, antibiotics, antifungal medication since there was evidence of fungal infection, and giving just antibiotics when a fungal infection is also present can make things worse, anti-itch medication, epinephrine or something similar, anti-nausea medication, and pain killers. They checked it all out on someone's computer to make sure none of the drugs in combination caused problems. They gave them one at a time about fifteen minutes apart so they would know which drug caused the problem if there was one. They cut up one of Jillian's (my other host and one of the other people on my list of favorite people) silk blouses and shoved the pieces as far under the lining into the cast as they could make it go. The friend said he would have cut the cast off, but my bone-grafting surgery was too recent and he didn't have adequate splinting material. They all kept telling me not to scratch, but it was so hard not to. Finally the anti-itch medication kicked in a little bit, than something in the cocktail of drugs made me sleepy, and I dozed off.
When someone carried me to bed, someone found the knitting needle I had been using for scratching inside my cast. It's a really dull needle. I had it hidden it in in my pillow case. I noticed it missing the next morning, but decided it would be buying trouble to ask about it.
I went to the hospital the next morning. The Dream Team of Know-Nothings, as Jillian calls Scott and his cohorts, were assembled to solve my case. Jillian went along so she could ensure that they didn't do anything stupid that would kill me or cause me to lose my leg. When they cut off my cast, one of the guys got light-headed and had to lie down on the floor to keep from fainting. The entire leg apparently looked bad, but the incisions were positively gross. They took samples and ran cultures so that they could give me the right antibiotic. They untrasounded to look for internal infection, but that part looked OK. The internal bone graft and the places where the silk was able to cover the skin were the only places on my leg that looked remotely non-terminal. They splinted my leg and put it in traction.
Everything up to that point was handled as well as anything you'd see on "Grey's Anatomy" on a functional episode. Then the Dream Team made their near-fatal mistake. The called my Uncle Steve in California. My parents are on a cruise, and Uncle Steve is designated as my legal guardian whenever my parents can't be reached.
My Uncle Steve and I have normally had a close relationship. I first met him when I was two. He had just returned from his two-year mission for the LDS Church, but was already on his way out of the church. My grandparents had offered to babysit my brother and me so that my parents could have a skiing trip without having to worry about their two-year-olds.My grandparents had an ulterior motive: they wanted to have my brother and me "blessed" in the LDS church, and they knew my father would never go along with it. So they arranged the babysitting stint so that we would be with them on a Sunday. Relatives who hated my parents showed up in full-force probably mostly out of spite for my parents and their choice of Catholicism over Mormonism.
I discussed this in a much earlier post, so feel free to skim over the parts that sound familiar. Mormon children are usually blessed as infants, so the officials weren't quite sure of the protocol with two-year-olds. Usually all the men gather in a circle and jointly hold the baby as the father, or occasionally someone else, gives a blessing to the baby.
My brother was tall for his age, so someone got a chair and he sat on it. The men placed their hands on his head while my grandfather gave him his blessing. My brother sat there perfectly cooperatively while it all took place. I don't remember what my grandfather said in my brother's blessing, but it seemed like he talked forever.
The it was my turn. They debated using the chair, but decided that since I was roughly half my brother's size, they would hold me as they would an infant. Had they put me on the chair, I would have jumped off and run so fast that it would have looked like an old Keystone Cops movie with a bunch of men in suits chasing an undersized two-year-old all over the church. As it was, there were so many of them that they couldn't find places to put their big hands all over my tiny body. Usually the men just sort of support the baby's weight with their handes, and if the baby cries, the father holds it closer as the other me keep their hands somewhere on its body. It was clear that I would not lie there complacently on their hands for the procedure, so they each grabbed some part of my body in a vise-like death grip while I struggled and screamed. Practically every male relative, and there are many of them, who held the priesthood and was therefore eligible to participate, wanted in on the un-sanctioned ritual. I must have had at least twenty-four hands grabbing me. My grandfather talked to me and threatened me to try to get me to be quiet, but there was no way in hell I would go along with this willingly. My grandfather said what he had to say, but I don't think anyone, himself included, heard a word he said. All I could hear, besides my own screaming, was the sound of giggling children and teens.
The blessing concluded, and my grandfather headed in the direction of the exit door with me firmly in his grip, intending to make good on his threat of beating the living daylight out of me. That's when my Uncle Steve came to the rescue. My grandfather was big (he's since shrunk a little) but my Uncle Steve was bigger. He grabbed me and said quietly but firmly, "Give her to me!"
My grandfather replied, "No! I promised her what I'd do if she didn't stop screaming, and I intend to deliver."
My Uncle Steve said, "We can make a scene if you insist, but you're not taking her anywhere. Give her to me now!"
It was probably the shock of being spoken to in such a manner by one of his own children, which hadn't likely happened before, but my grandfather relinquished his grip and gave me up to my Uncle Steve. From that point, he was my savior and hero. I clung tightly to him in church until I sobbed myself to sleep. I woke up on my grandparents' sofa hours later. I imediately got up and went looking for Uncle Steve. When I found him, I grabbed him around his legs as hard as I could. He picked me up, and basically never put me down for the remainder of the day except if I needed to use the bathroom or if he did. When he used the bathroom, I sat right outside the door so he would hear me scream if my grandfather came near me.
When my parents arrived to pick us up the next day, I was still clinging to Uncle Steve. My parents probably thought little about it, as Uncle Steve looks very much like my father, and they maybe thought I found the resemblance comforting. Steve said he seriously considered telling my parents what had happened, but still had one more semester of BYU and no way to pay for it on his own, so he kept his mouth shut. Neither my brother nor I told our parents anything about it, probably because we thought we had done something wrong and may have been punished. When it all came out about two years later, Uncle Steve told my parents everything. He said he had seriously considered trying to wrestle me away from the men, but was worried I would be physically harmed in the struggle, so he let it continue.
My mother remembered that she had noticed a very dark bruise with swelling just above my left ankle shortly after we got home. She was concerned enough that she asked my dad to examine me. He decided that there wasn't enough evidence of a fracture to warrant an X-ray, but they were both worried. Mom asked me how it had happened. Normally I could have answered very articulately, but I was afraid to tell about the blessing, so I lied and said I didn't know. She called my grandmother to ask if she knew how the bruise got there. My grandmother became irate that my nother would accuse anyone in the family of either not watching me closely or of outrightly abusing me.
When the story came out, my mother remembered the bruise. She asked my Uncle Steve if he knew who was holding my left ankle. My Uncle Steve possesses a high level of intelligence and an excellent visual memory, and was able to replicate in his mind the sequence of men around the circle. "It was Mahonri,' he answered. Mahonri was (and still is ) married to may Aunt Marthaleen, the oldest of my grandparents' daughters, born just under two years after my father. My mother wanted to call him. My father told her he would handle it. I didn't hear the call, but my Uncle Steve told years later that my dad told Mahonri that he was not ever to touch either my brother or me again, as in if we were choking, let us choke until he could find someone else to perform the Heimlich meaneaver, or if one of us was drowning, he could extend a pole, but he'd better not as much as lay a finger on either one of us. If restraining orders and formal charges were necessary, my dad told Mahonri, they would be sought. My mother has never spoken more than twenty words to Mahonri since then. He's been in our home once, and my mother refused to be in the same room with him except for a brief polite exchange.
My Uncle Steve lived with us for four years while he was in medical school. I was his shadow, and he must have been driven crazy by my constant presence, but he showed incredible patience. Sometimes my parents would make me get away from him because they knew he needed space, and they did not allow me in his room so that he could have sanctuary, but he never pushed me away.
Anyway, the most puffy cumulous cloud in the sky usually has a dark underside. and so does my Uncle Steve. Even though the actual MD's and not just the Know-Nothing Dream Team assured him that things were under control, he insisted upon flying to Utah from California to personally assess the situation. I was happy to see him when he first walked through the door. Then he held up the misssing knitting needle. (The very thick and dull needle, I might add. You know how food products come with a tight covering somewhere between paper and cardboard to protect against tampering? An offensive lineman from the 49ers couldn't have broken through one of those protective linings with this dull knitting needle.)
Uncle Steve didn't say anything. He just stood there holding up this knitting needle. I was beginning to think he considered it some sort of religious icon and that maybe I should make the sign of the cross or say a "Hail Mary" or something. It's just as well that I didn't, because he started on his diatribe. Anything I might have said before would only have made things worse.
He started out with, "I believe I may have seen something that looked very much like this before."
I didn't respond because it seemed that no answer would be the correct response.
"Where did I see something that looked like this before, Alexis?"
he asked.
"Many people knit. Aunt Frances knits. She may have used one that looked like that," I replied. It was a lame reply, but it was the best one I could come up with on the spur of the moment.
He set the knitting needle down on a counter and folded his arms. "Did you notice that my arms are now folded?" he asked.
I nodded affirmatively.
"I did that so I won't lose control of myself and slap you,' he explained.
There was dead silence, so it seemed he expected a response from me.
"Thank you," I replied in what I thought was a courteous tone.
"They're folded, Alexis, not stuck together with Krazy Glue. I can unfold them if you push me far enough," he said rather rudely.
"So where did this knitting needle come from? And I want the truth,"
he demanded.
"It was hidden in my pillowcase at Scott and Jillian's apartment,"
I answered.
"Why was it there?" he asked.
"So if my leg really, really itched, I could stick it inside my cast for just a second," I answered.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.
"In California," I answered.
"Would you be a little more specific?" he requested.
"Knitting needles come in sets of two. A friend gave me a package as a gift. My dad took one away. That's the one you probably saw that looks like this one," I answered as politely as I could.
"Who gave them to you?" he demanded.
"A friend," I answered.
"I'll need the name of this friend," he said.
"Oh, I forgot, they weren't a gift. I bought them when Aunt Heather took me to Target," I lied.
"I wasn't born yesterday," he muttered. "You did not buy those when Heather took you to Target. I'm not sure Heather even took you to Target.
A friend gave them to you. Now I need the friend's name."
"I'm not telling. I did not cause these problems with the knitting needle. My friend did nothing wrong. I'm not telling," I concluded.
Uncle Steve sighed. "No, you didn't cause the problems with the knitting needle, but you could have. I need to talk to your friend."
"She'll get into trouble with her parents, and everyone will hate me. So slap me or do whatever you want to me, because I'm not telling!"
I spat out at him.
He softened his voice. "I'm not trying to get your friend in trouble, Alexis. I don't even need to talk to her parents. She just needs to understand why it's a very bad idea to provide you with knitting needles.
Do you want to use my phone to call her? Then you can tell her I need to talk to her, and put me on the phone.'
"I don't even know her number," I pleaded.
"Alexis, I'm trying to be patient, but you're pushing me," he threatened.
"Seriously," I told him, "I know hardly anyone's number. Everything's programmed into my phone."
"Where is it?" he asked
"At Scott and Jillian's house."
"I'll call Jillian," he decided "I don't know if she can get the number off it, or if she'll need to bring the phone here."
"I think she can get the number off. She's not as inept as some people," I told him,coming as close to insulting him as I dared. I saw him put his hand over his mouth, and could tell he was covering a smile. That made me all the more angry.
He called Jillian's number, which was pre-programmed into his phone. He gave the phone to me. I told her where my phone was and what to look for. Soon my friend Kristi was on my uncle's phone. "Hi! It's Alexis, " I told her. "My uncle needs to talk to you." I handed the phone over to him.
I could tell he was trying hard to be nice about it, but I could also hear bits and pieces of her end of the conversation, and she sounded upset.
I assumed it was me with whom she was not happy. When my uncle asked at the end of his conversation if she'd like to speak to me again, she said no.
My uncle walked out of the room. About a half hour later, he came back with a stack of Internet print-outs. "Read these, " he told me as he walked out the door.
I flipped through them even though I already knew what they were about.
It was case after case of someone having an extremity amputated because of infection occurring after sticking an object in side of a cast to scratch. In some cases it was pens. One case was a coat hanger. The broadest knitting needle cited was 2 millimeters. These cases had nothing remotely to do with mine, PLUS I didn't cause one bit of damage with the knitting needle.
He came back later in the day. "Did you read the journal articles?" he asked.
"I browsed through them," I answered.
"We're not trying to be mean to you, Alexis!" he exclaimed.
"We don't want anything worse happening to you than what's already happened."
"So what am I supposed to do all day around here?" I demanded. "I can only use the computer for an hour a day. I get one hour to play the piano starting next week. I'm so sick of reading that I could burn every book I look at. You can only watch so much TV in a day. "There's "Judge Alex" and "Grey's Anatomy" reruns, and that's about it. So what if I want to take up knitting for a hobby?"
"Baby, the day that cast comes off, I'll buy you all the yarn and needles you want," he offerred.
Some day Uncle Steve will probably find a way back onto my list of favorite people, but it's going to take a lot more than yarn and knitting needles (after my cast is off) for him to get there.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Favorite Child
I am almost certain to face repercussions for posting a blog on this topic. Even if my parents were to follow the agreement that they would not read what I posted but would rely upon three trusted friends and one relative to monitor my writings, and to only read when clear signs exist of violations of stipulations prior to my being given permission to blog, this blog will cause an exception to occur. My parents will almost surely be displeased with me. Whether or not sanctions will be imposed remains to be seen. I'm willing to face the consequences of my posting, because what I am writing are my honest feelings, even if they are highly subjective.
Favoritism among children in parenting is not a new concept. Rebecca and Isaac, a married couple from the old testament, had twins, Jacob and Esau, and each parent favored a different twin. Jacob in turn, when he grew up and started his own family, showed favoritism tooward his youngest son, Joseph. Joseph P. Kennedy, patriarch of an American familial political dynasty, favored his eldest son, Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Had this son not died in World War II, it's dubious as to whether John F. Kennedy would ever have received encouragement, financial backing, and perhaps practical assistance in the form of stuffing of ballot boxes in key states that would have allowed him to become President of the United States, or at least not until his brother had first been successful in the opportunity. In a more recent sense, most of us need to look no further than the ends of our own blocks or cul-de-sacs to observe clear evidence of parental favoritism. Perhaps, in some instances, many of us need look no further than the walls enclosing the homes in which we live.
Favoritism among parents toward children exists, though it does not exist in every case in which it is alleged to exist. It is very easy to claim, when one child receives a privilege that another does not, that favoritism was the sole reason. "You're just giving him this (or letting him do this) because you like him better than you like me!" is a frequent claim when one child receives something (or is allowed a privilege) that is denied another one. I must admit that I have been guilty of making this allegation when it was not entirely the sum of the equation. My brother has probably made this claim as well, but not nearly so frequently because, in my highly subjective opinion, he receives more privileges, and a greater share of my parents' finances are bestowed upon him.
The issue of favoritism probably comes up most freqently when offspring are close in age, with twins being as close in age as siblings can be. When an older sibling is allowed to go somewhere or stay out later than a younger sbling, the parents have the ready-made excuse that the older child is more mature and ready for extended privileges. A sticky situation could arise here when a just-younger sibling has displayed more maturity and responsibility. How does a parent handle that one without bringing on Armageddon? The best course of action would probably be to grant equal privileges to the two, but even that might not solve the problem.
In the olden days of family favoritism, its effects were self-limiting. When Jacob of biblical fame decided to favor his youngest son Joseph (Remember that beautiful coat of many colors Jacob commissioned to be made for Joseph?) His older brothers threw him in a hole and left him there to die as a consequence of the gift. With group dynamics being what they are and always were, these things had ways of working themselves out. Even in classroom situations, while teachers may show favoritism to given students, the favored students usually pay for it far more than they reap any benefits. Not many students volunteer to be teachers' pets.
Except in my dad's part of my family, where parents haven't yet discovered that they belong to the human population and not the rabbit population, most parents limit their number of offsppring to a number of children that can fit in one vehicle (as much as I admire many things they do, the Duggar family bus doesn't count for this purpose) with enough seatbelts for everyone, and often with at least one extra seatbelt for a guest. This greatly reduces the odds of parental favoritism being solved in the manner Joseph's brothers handled it. Another more common form of dealing with favoritism in two-and three-child families is for each parent to have his own favorite. In families with three children, this is cruel. One child rarely if ever has either parent advocating on his or her behalf and is consistently the odd-man or odd-woman out.
In two-children families, the each-parent-has-a-favorite-child can be a solution, but is it a good one? What if one parent consistently spends more time with the children than does the other? The child who is favored by the more present parent has a clear advantage. What if one parent, for whatever reason, has more power in the overall dynamic of the marriage? Then that parent's favored child holds the advantage. Any way this system works, it doesn't really work. Even if the family remains intact in a legal sense, it's neither really together nor functional.
Our local newspaper used to carry a syndicated column authored by a self-proclaimed "parenting expert." For all I know, the man may have had credentials exuding from every orifice of his body. Still, I bristle at the term "parenting expert," as exactly what makes one a "parenting expert"?
It's like being a "nutritionist." Most people are unaware of this, but unless things have changed recently, anyone in the United States can rightly proclaim himself or herself a "nutritionist" with no certification requirement whatsoever. It's not a protected term. I, therefore, am a nutritionist. The only thing I actually know about nutrition is that one cannot sustain oneself on candy alone for a length of time exceeding three weeks and remain in good health; this I learned through trial and error. Still, since the term "nutritionist" is not protected in the United States (I believe it is protected in two Canadian provinces, although I could not tell you which two) I am most decidely a nutritionist. We must, however, return to the subject at hand.
The column to which I referred before I digressed was typically in a question/answer format. The author had several familiar themes for his columns. Some columns seemed so familiar that there was a deja vu sense about them. As it turned out, those columns were the very same columns verbatim that had been printed earlier, minus the disclaimer that they were re-prints of earlier columns. Additionally, because the author liked writing about particular topics so much, no matter how thoroughly he might have covered a topic not much earlier, he would write a question to himself on the very topic he had recently discussed because he wished to address it again. One of the author's frequent themes was sibling conflict. The author's solution was to ignore it to the point that it became impossible to ignore any longer, and then to punish both parties equally (usually by sending them to separate rooms for the remainder of the day and evening) without listening to anyone's explanation. The only advantage of this method of handling conflict (the author claimed such a tactic was avoiding favoritism) was that it was slightly less likely to result in death of a child than the way Jacob favored Joseph to the extent that his brothers all wished him off the planet permanently. Furthermore, by not investigating, the author's tactic advocated favoritism by allowing the one who was truly at fault (and often one sibling is truly at fault) to receive equal punishment as the one who did noting to deserve it. The moral of this is that not everyone who proclaims himself or herself an expert on a given topic is legitimately worth hearing. I am the first to admit that I was being facetious and using rhetoric to make a point by calling myself a "nutritionist" and,if the truth were told, I probably have less knowledge regarding nutrition than 97% of the U. S. population.
Nothing I've written up to now is likely to cause controversy. It is at this point that the parental uproar begins. I am one of two children. I have a twin brother. My mother has a favorite child. It is not I. My mother would argue that she yells at me more than she yells at my brother because I deserve it. She would contend that I am punished more frequently and more severely because my behavior has warrants it. She would say that I receive fewer privileges because I have earned fewer privileges.
My mother has many degrees and certifications related to child, educational, and behavioral psychology. She uses this knowledge all day long in her job. By the time her car reaches our garage door, she is tired of psychology of any kind and has no use for it. If she walks in the kitchen door and sees dishes in the sink or on the counter, it is my fault, because I am the offspring who knows how to correctly load the dishwasher. It doesn't matter that the odds are about a zillion to one that my brother and his friends, and not I, used those dishes. (I'm constantly being yelled at for not eating enough.) It doesn't matter that my brother, while not as smart as I am, most certainly has the intelligence needed to be taught to load a dishwasher properly. It's just that my mother is tired after spending a day working with a kid on some very basic concept he must master in order to pass the high school exit exam that he can't understand no matter how she says it. So then when my brother plays stupid as my mom is trying to show him how to load the dishwasher so the dishes won't all break and the silverware will all come out clean, she screams and walks out of the kitchen and tells me that loading the dishwasher is my job permanently.
Now we shall move on to a subject that will almost surely cause me to regret writing this blog . . .but since I've opened the can of worms halfway, I may as well let the rest of worms crawl out. The subject now is sports. My brother plays basketball and baseball. In three years of playing varsity baseball and in one year of junior varsity basketball and two years of varsity basketball, my father has missed two basketball games and one basseball game. (He would have missed a second baseball game, but it was rained out.) My mother has missed three of my brother's baseball games because of a kidney stone. I played varsity tennis my freshman year. I dove for the varsity team my freshman, sophomore, and junior years. I ran varsity hurdles this year. My parents watched one tennis match. They've watched me from a parking lot as I competed in a diving meet while they were waiting to carpool with another couple to a baseball game. They've never been to one of my track meets and have never seen me hurdle. The fracture of my leg bones may not heal well enough for me to ever hurdle again, or even if I can make it over the hurdles, I may not be able to run fast enough to be competitive. I brought this up once. My mother said, "Well, you never once asked us to go." I may be wrong, but I'm fairly certain that my brother has never asked my parents to attend one of his sporting events. My mom also tried to explain it away as being a social thing. My brother's teammates' parents are my parents' friends, she said. They like to get together and watch games. If my parents ever went to one of my events they might find that they liked my teammates' parents, too.
The next topic about which I will write is going to anger my brother, although I promise to be discreet. I may as well be an equal-opportunity offender and have everyone in the family hating me by the time this is finished, if anyone reads this far. I get into trouble with my parents sometimes because I argue with them when we can't reach consensus. According to one of my responders, who may be a Twitter acquaintance, I argue far too much and need to go along with what my parents want more often. I've tried to take this advice, but at least my approach in debating the topic, whatever it might have been, was honest. Whatever it is we're arguing about, my brother doesn't join in on the argument; he just quietly goes on and does whatever it is my parents and I were arguing about and I was told I couldn't do. I will admit to having done three really sneaky things in my life. I won't say what they were, because I was lucky enough to get away with them, and they're old news by now. My brother probably does three sneaky things every week. I won't give away the nature of any of these things. I'm merely saying my mother's "good child" isn't as angelic as she thinks he is. I know I will catch all sorts of flack for this, because my brother and I have largely operated on the policy of not telling on each other for anything. I'm not telling on him for any specific thing, but I am saying that not everything is as it seems.
My father has treated us more equally. At times I thought he should have stood up for me more to compensate, but I understand why he didn't. He yells at both of us and grounds us both. So does my mother, but in regard to many things, it really seems that I get more than my share of the blame.
The last topic I will address is one that is very sensitive. I've never spoken of it to anyone. This is probably a stupid place to address the matter, but I'll never have the nerve to say it to my mother's face, or even write a note to her about it. If any relatives on my dad's side want to make fun of me for this, go ahead. I'm beyond being hurt by anything you write or say.
My brother came home from the hospital when my mother did, which was five days after our Caesarean delivery. I was undersized and not yet ready to come home, so I stayed in the hospital for a little over a month. Since he was home before I was, they had an entire month to become acquainted before I showed up and basically spoiled their routine. My dad tried to help out as much as possible, but I have early memories (obviously not from when I was a month onld, but very early nonetheless). I can remember that when I was really little, like almost two, I would wake up from my nap. Mom and my brother would be sitting together in the rocking chair, and I never knew if I was supposed to go in the family room where they were or get back in my crib and pretend to be asleep.
One time when I was just barely two I think, because we had just put the Christmas tree up and I was wearing the Rudolph overalls that I wore that year, I woke up before my brother did. My mom was sitting in the rocking chair reading a book. I stood watching her for a minute. Then I took a few steps closer. She either didn't see me or just didn't look up. I finally said, "Hi, Mommy."
She looked at me and said, "I'm reading right now."
A few minutes later, my brother got up. She put down her book and he climbed in her lap. I felt very much like an intruder in my own home. Mom, if I upset you by writing this, I'm truly sorry.
The last part is the very most difficult for me to write, but if I've gone this far, I may as well diclose everything. When you had had leukemia, Mom, you needed a bone marrow transplant. No siblings were compatible donors. Random people who were unlikely to be compatible donors, such as dad, were being tested. No one was compatible. The doctors and dad finally decided they had to test my brother and me. I prayed the rosary three times every day for two weeks that I would be compatible and not my brother. My thoughts were that you might love me almost as much as you loved Matt if I gave my bone marrow to you. My prayers were answered and I was able to donate. Then my dad told me that I was not to tell you the bone marrow was from me because it would make you feel very bad to know that one of your children had to suffer because of you. That crushed me, because the reason I wanted you to have my bone marrow, in addition to keeping you alive, was because I wanted you to love me more.
I went through the procedure. I was sore for about two weeks, so dad sent me to Aunt Colleen's house and told you I had a cold. I kept quiet about it at first. Then you went back to Los Angeles for another treatment. Then it was Christmas morning. My brother and I had made you Christmas presents at school. My class made sngel ornaments with our own pictures glued where the face of the angel would be. When you opened mine, you half-smiled and thanked me. My brother's class made gingerbread boys out of foam stuff with their pictures pasted where the gengerbread boy's face was supposed to be. You hugged him and made a really big deal out of his gift. It bothered me that you liked his gift so much more than you liked mine, so I blurted out, "I gave you bone marrow." Sort of like, "So there! Just try to top that!"
You just stared at me with a look of shock. Dad grabbed me and carried me into my room. He told me what a terrible and selfish girl I was. Then he asked why I told you. I told him it was because that was part of my Christmas present to you. I never told him that it was because I wanted you to love me as much as you loved my brother.
Favoritism among children in parenting is not a new concept. Rebecca and Isaac, a married couple from the old testament, had twins, Jacob and Esau, and each parent favored a different twin. Jacob in turn, when he grew up and started his own family, showed favoritism tooward his youngest son, Joseph. Joseph P. Kennedy, patriarch of an American familial political dynasty, favored his eldest son, Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Had this son not died in World War II, it's dubious as to whether John F. Kennedy would ever have received encouragement, financial backing, and perhaps practical assistance in the form of stuffing of ballot boxes in key states that would have allowed him to become President of the United States, or at least not until his brother had first been successful in the opportunity. In a more recent sense, most of us need to look no further than the ends of our own blocks or cul-de-sacs to observe clear evidence of parental favoritism. Perhaps, in some instances, many of us need look no further than the walls enclosing the homes in which we live.
Favoritism among parents toward children exists, though it does not exist in every case in which it is alleged to exist. It is very easy to claim, when one child receives a privilege that another does not, that favoritism was the sole reason. "You're just giving him this (or letting him do this) because you like him better than you like me!" is a frequent claim when one child receives something (or is allowed a privilege) that is denied another one. I must admit that I have been guilty of making this allegation when it was not entirely the sum of the equation. My brother has probably made this claim as well, but not nearly so frequently because, in my highly subjective opinion, he receives more privileges, and a greater share of my parents' finances are bestowed upon him.
The issue of favoritism probably comes up most freqently when offspring are close in age, with twins being as close in age as siblings can be. When an older sibling is allowed to go somewhere or stay out later than a younger sbling, the parents have the ready-made excuse that the older child is more mature and ready for extended privileges. A sticky situation could arise here when a just-younger sibling has displayed more maturity and responsibility. How does a parent handle that one without bringing on Armageddon? The best course of action would probably be to grant equal privileges to the two, but even that might not solve the problem.
In the olden days of family favoritism, its effects were self-limiting. When Jacob of biblical fame decided to favor his youngest son Joseph (Remember that beautiful coat of many colors Jacob commissioned to be made for Joseph?) His older brothers threw him in a hole and left him there to die as a consequence of the gift. With group dynamics being what they are and always were, these things had ways of working themselves out. Even in classroom situations, while teachers may show favoritism to given students, the favored students usually pay for it far more than they reap any benefits. Not many students volunteer to be teachers' pets.
Except in my dad's part of my family, where parents haven't yet discovered that they belong to the human population and not the rabbit population, most parents limit their number of offsppring to a number of children that can fit in one vehicle (as much as I admire many things they do, the Duggar family bus doesn't count for this purpose) with enough seatbelts for everyone, and often with at least one extra seatbelt for a guest. This greatly reduces the odds of parental favoritism being solved in the manner Joseph's brothers handled it. Another more common form of dealing with favoritism in two-and three-child families is for each parent to have his own favorite. In families with three children, this is cruel. One child rarely if ever has either parent advocating on his or her behalf and is consistently the odd-man or odd-woman out.
In two-children families, the each-parent-has-a-favorite-child can be a solution, but is it a good one? What if one parent consistently spends more time with the children than does the other? The child who is favored by the more present parent has a clear advantage. What if one parent, for whatever reason, has more power in the overall dynamic of the marriage? Then that parent's favored child holds the advantage. Any way this system works, it doesn't really work. Even if the family remains intact in a legal sense, it's neither really together nor functional.
Our local newspaper used to carry a syndicated column authored by a self-proclaimed "parenting expert." For all I know, the man may have had credentials exuding from every orifice of his body. Still, I bristle at the term "parenting expert," as exactly what makes one a "parenting expert"?
It's like being a "nutritionist." Most people are unaware of this, but unless things have changed recently, anyone in the United States can rightly proclaim himself or herself a "nutritionist" with no certification requirement whatsoever. It's not a protected term. I, therefore, am a nutritionist. The only thing I actually know about nutrition is that one cannot sustain oneself on candy alone for a length of time exceeding three weeks and remain in good health; this I learned through trial and error. Still, since the term "nutritionist" is not protected in the United States (I believe it is protected in two Canadian provinces, although I could not tell you which two) I am most decidely a nutritionist. We must, however, return to the subject at hand.
The column to which I referred before I digressed was typically in a question/answer format. The author had several familiar themes for his columns. Some columns seemed so familiar that there was a deja vu sense about them. As it turned out, those columns were the very same columns verbatim that had been printed earlier, minus the disclaimer that they were re-prints of earlier columns. Additionally, because the author liked writing about particular topics so much, no matter how thoroughly he might have covered a topic not much earlier, he would write a question to himself on the very topic he had recently discussed because he wished to address it again. One of the author's frequent themes was sibling conflict. The author's solution was to ignore it to the point that it became impossible to ignore any longer, and then to punish both parties equally (usually by sending them to separate rooms for the remainder of the day and evening) without listening to anyone's explanation. The only advantage of this method of handling conflict (the author claimed such a tactic was avoiding favoritism) was that it was slightly less likely to result in death of a child than the way Jacob favored Joseph to the extent that his brothers all wished him off the planet permanently. Furthermore, by not investigating, the author's tactic advocated favoritism by allowing the one who was truly at fault (and often one sibling is truly at fault) to receive equal punishment as the one who did noting to deserve it. The moral of this is that not everyone who proclaims himself or herself an expert on a given topic is legitimately worth hearing. I am the first to admit that I was being facetious and using rhetoric to make a point by calling myself a "nutritionist" and,if the truth were told, I probably have less knowledge regarding nutrition than 97% of the U. S. population.
Nothing I've written up to now is likely to cause controversy. It is at this point that the parental uproar begins. I am one of two children. I have a twin brother. My mother has a favorite child. It is not I. My mother would argue that she yells at me more than she yells at my brother because I deserve it. She would contend that I am punished more frequently and more severely because my behavior has warrants it. She would say that I receive fewer privileges because I have earned fewer privileges.
My mother has many degrees and certifications related to child, educational, and behavioral psychology. She uses this knowledge all day long in her job. By the time her car reaches our garage door, she is tired of psychology of any kind and has no use for it. If she walks in the kitchen door and sees dishes in the sink or on the counter, it is my fault, because I am the offspring who knows how to correctly load the dishwasher. It doesn't matter that the odds are about a zillion to one that my brother and his friends, and not I, used those dishes. (I'm constantly being yelled at for not eating enough.) It doesn't matter that my brother, while not as smart as I am, most certainly has the intelligence needed to be taught to load a dishwasher properly. It's just that my mother is tired after spending a day working with a kid on some very basic concept he must master in order to pass the high school exit exam that he can't understand no matter how she says it. So then when my brother plays stupid as my mom is trying to show him how to load the dishwasher so the dishes won't all break and the silverware will all come out clean, she screams and walks out of the kitchen and tells me that loading the dishwasher is my job permanently.
Now we shall move on to a subject that will almost surely cause me to regret writing this blog . . .but since I've opened the can of worms halfway, I may as well let the rest of worms crawl out. The subject now is sports. My brother plays basketball and baseball. In three years of playing varsity baseball and in one year of junior varsity basketball and two years of varsity basketball, my father has missed two basketball games and one basseball game. (He would have missed a second baseball game, but it was rained out.) My mother has missed three of my brother's baseball games because of a kidney stone. I played varsity tennis my freshman year. I dove for the varsity team my freshman, sophomore, and junior years. I ran varsity hurdles this year. My parents watched one tennis match. They've watched me from a parking lot as I competed in a diving meet while they were waiting to carpool with another couple to a baseball game. They've never been to one of my track meets and have never seen me hurdle. The fracture of my leg bones may not heal well enough for me to ever hurdle again, or even if I can make it over the hurdles, I may not be able to run fast enough to be competitive. I brought this up once. My mother said, "Well, you never once asked us to go." I may be wrong, but I'm fairly certain that my brother has never asked my parents to attend one of his sporting events. My mom also tried to explain it away as being a social thing. My brother's teammates' parents are my parents' friends, she said. They like to get together and watch games. If my parents ever went to one of my events they might find that they liked my teammates' parents, too.
The next topic about which I will write is going to anger my brother, although I promise to be discreet. I may as well be an equal-opportunity offender and have everyone in the family hating me by the time this is finished, if anyone reads this far. I get into trouble with my parents sometimes because I argue with them when we can't reach consensus. According to one of my responders, who may be a Twitter acquaintance, I argue far too much and need to go along with what my parents want more often. I've tried to take this advice, but at least my approach in debating the topic, whatever it might have been, was honest. Whatever it is we're arguing about, my brother doesn't join in on the argument; he just quietly goes on and does whatever it is my parents and I were arguing about and I was told I couldn't do. I will admit to having done three really sneaky things in my life. I won't say what they were, because I was lucky enough to get away with them, and they're old news by now. My brother probably does three sneaky things every week. I won't give away the nature of any of these things. I'm merely saying my mother's "good child" isn't as angelic as she thinks he is. I know I will catch all sorts of flack for this, because my brother and I have largely operated on the policy of not telling on each other for anything. I'm not telling on him for any specific thing, but I am saying that not everything is as it seems.
My father has treated us more equally. At times I thought he should have stood up for me more to compensate, but I understand why he didn't. He yells at both of us and grounds us both. So does my mother, but in regard to many things, it really seems that I get more than my share of the blame.
The last topic I will address is one that is very sensitive. I've never spoken of it to anyone. This is probably a stupid place to address the matter, but I'll never have the nerve to say it to my mother's face, or even write a note to her about it. If any relatives on my dad's side want to make fun of me for this, go ahead. I'm beyond being hurt by anything you write or say.
My brother came home from the hospital when my mother did, which was five days after our Caesarean delivery. I was undersized and not yet ready to come home, so I stayed in the hospital for a little over a month. Since he was home before I was, they had an entire month to become acquainted before I showed up and basically spoiled their routine. My dad tried to help out as much as possible, but I have early memories (obviously not from when I was a month onld, but very early nonetheless). I can remember that when I was really little, like almost two, I would wake up from my nap. Mom and my brother would be sitting together in the rocking chair, and I never knew if I was supposed to go in the family room where they were or get back in my crib and pretend to be asleep.
One time when I was just barely two I think, because we had just put the Christmas tree up and I was wearing the Rudolph overalls that I wore that year, I woke up before my brother did. My mom was sitting in the rocking chair reading a book. I stood watching her for a minute. Then I took a few steps closer. She either didn't see me or just didn't look up. I finally said, "Hi, Mommy."
She looked at me and said, "I'm reading right now."
A few minutes later, my brother got up. She put down her book and he climbed in her lap. I felt very much like an intruder in my own home. Mom, if I upset you by writing this, I'm truly sorry.
The last part is the very most difficult for me to write, but if I've gone this far, I may as well diclose everything. When you had had leukemia, Mom, you needed a bone marrow transplant. No siblings were compatible donors. Random people who were unlikely to be compatible donors, such as dad, were being tested. No one was compatible. The doctors and dad finally decided they had to test my brother and me. I prayed the rosary three times every day for two weeks that I would be compatible and not my brother. My thoughts were that you might love me almost as much as you loved Matt if I gave my bone marrow to you. My prayers were answered and I was able to donate. Then my dad told me that I was not to tell you the bone marrow was from me because it would make you feel very bad to know that one of your children had to suffer because of you. That crushed me, because the reason I wanted you to have my bone marrow, in addition to keeping you alive, was because I wanted you to love me more.
I went through the procedure. I was sore for about two weeks, so dad sent me to Aunt Colleen's house and told you I had a cold. I kept quiet about it at first. Then you went back to Los Angeles for another treatment. Then it was Christmas morning. My brother and I had made you Christmas presents at school. My class made sngel ornaments with our own pictures glued where the face of the angel would be. When you opened mine, you half-smiled and thanked me. My brother's class made gingerbread boys out of foam stuff with their pictures pasted where the gengerbread boy's face was supposed to be. You hugged him and made a really big deal out of his gift. It bothered me that you liked his gift so much more than you liked mine, so I blurted out, "I gave you bone marrow." Sort of like, "So there! Just try to top that!"
You just stared at me with a look of shock. Dad grabbed me and carried me into my room. He told me what a terrible and selfish girl I was. Then he asked why I told you. I told him it was because that was part of my Christmas present to you. I never told him that it was because I wanted you to love me as much as you loved my brother.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Comments: Am I Missing Something?
I follow several blogs on a semi-regular basis. I dont comment on others' blogs often, but have occasionally added something to the lists in the comments sections. I've never written anything remotely abrasive or inflammatory, much less insulting. On the very rare occasion I've disagreed with any point of a blogger's post (I think this happened only once) I did so in a polite manner, and tried to agree with more that that with which I expressed disagreement. I've made every effort not to come across as negative, which is difficult for me, because in real life, I've been told that I'm often contrary and blunt to the point of rudeness. I've endeavored to keep this aspect of my personality out of the blogging spectrum of my life.
Why is it, then, that my comments are frequently deleted by the blogs' authors? You probably don't believe me when I claim that my comments are respectful. I am the first to admit that my synoptic style of writing is not excessively overloaded with a tone of respect. In this regard, I understand your skepticism regarding my claims. I will offer in my defense a character witness: my own mother. My mother is in this regard and in virtually every other aspect of my life, from the standard of cleanliness I apply to my bedroom and bathroom, to how much damper pedal I use in playing any given Mozart sonata, to how much garlic powder I put into homemade teryaki sauce, my very harshest critic. I do very little in any area that meets my mother's minimum standard of acceptability. Yet she has read my comments as I've posted them, and has found no fault whatsoever with what I've posted. Then these poste have gone on to be deleted by the blog authors. (I've long since stopped posting comments where the comments must be read by the moderator prior to being posted. The only possible benefit to my commenting under such circumstances would be to exercise my fingers. Virtually no chance exists that these comments will ever be seen in the light of day.)
My mother says that I'm taking this far too seriously and too personally. First of all, she says, these are people I do not even know. Why give non-acquaintances the power to hurt your feelings? Next, she saya that many blogs, while not actually designated as such, are "closed communities." The bloggers and respondants are either real-life or on-line friends, and that outsiders' comments are not welcome and will thus be deleted. She's probably correct, but I do take it personally. She says my age may be a factor as well. Many of the people who delete my comments, she says, are young adults who do not wish to be bothered with anything a kid has to say. While I try not to advertise my minor status, it's at times difficult to disguise. Furthermore, I'm not trying to deceive anyone concerning my age status. Even though I wish it didn't matter in such forums, I'm not going to lie and casually work into the conversation that I'm twenty-three.
My intended audience for this particular blog will never read this, so my having wasted the time and space in writing it was largely pointless. The few people who do read my blog are my teachers, all of whom are polite if they comment at all, some relatives, few of whom are polite if they comment at all, and a few "friends" I've come across on the Internet, all of whom, when they respond at all, offer courteous and insightful comments even when they've disagreed with some of my points. Regardless of the nature of the comments I've received. I've allowed them to remain. The only comments I've deleted are ones I've made myself, then have re-thought and decided they would accomplish nothing positive if allowed to stand. I suppose I would consider deleting anything blatantly obscene, as this blog is not designated as containing "adult content."
My mom said I should stop reading the blogs of people who have deleted my comments. Furthermore, she said, someday, if they don't already, most of them will have children. Random people will be rude to or dismissive of their children, and then these bloggers will have a vague idea of how such treatment feels, even if they don't remember my comments that they've deleted. It's highly unlikely that they'll remember my comments and their deletion of such, as people who are habitually rude would not likely recall given instances of rudeness on their part even if they were autistic savants. (No slight is intended toward the autistic savants, or those with "Savant Syndrome," as my mother has informed me is now the politically correct term describing or denoting their condition. On the contrary, I envy the memory aspect of their condition. I have a good but not perfect memory. I desire to be more like those with "Savant Syndrome" in this regard.)
I promise never to delete any comment made here (not that I'm ordinarily overrun with comments) as long as it doesn't contain the maaterial euphemistcally referred to as "adult content."
Why is it, then, that my comments are frequently deleted by the blogs' authors? You probably don't believe me when I claim that my comments are respectful. I am the first to admit that my synoptic style of writing is not excessively overloaded with a tone of respect. In this regard, I understand your skepticism regarding my claims. I will offer in my defense a character witness: my own mother. My mother is in this regard and in virtually every other aspect of my life, from the standard of cleanliness I apply to my bedroom and bathroom, to how much damper pedal I use in playing any given Mozart sonata, to how much garlic powder I put into homemade teryaki sauce, my very harshest critic. I do very little in any area that meets my mother's minimum standard of acceptability. Yet she has read my comments as I've posted them, and has found no fault whatsoever with what I've posted. Then these poste have gone on to be deleted by the blog authors. (I've long since stopped posting comments where the comments must be read by the moderator prior to being posted. The only possible benefit to my commenting under such circumstances would be to exercise my fingers. Virtually no chance exists that these comments will ever be seen in the light of day.)
My mother says that I'm taking this far too seriously and too personally. First of all, she says, these are people I do not even know. Why give non-acquaintances the power to hurt your feelings? Next, she saya that many blogs, while not actually designated as such, are "closed communities." The bloggers and respondants are either real-life or on-line friends, and that outsiders' comments are not welcome and will thus be deleted. She's probably correct, but I do take it personally. She says my age may be a factor as well. Many of the people who delete my comments, she says, are young adults who do not wish to be bothered with anything a kid has to say. While I try not to advertise my minor status, it's at times difficult to disguise. Furthermore, I'm not trying to deceive anyone concerning my age status. Even though I wish it didn't matter in such forums, I'm not going to lie and casually work into the conversation that I'm twenty-three.
My intended audience for this particular blog will never read this, so my having wasted the time and space in writing it was largely pointless. The few people who do read my blog are my teachers, all of whom are polite if they comment at all, some relatives, few of whom are polite if they comment at all, and a few "friends" I've come across on the Internet, all of whom, when they respond at all, offer courteous and insightful comments even when they've disagreed with some of my points. Regardless of the nature of the comments I've received. I've allowed them to remain. The only comments I've deleted are ones I've made myself, then have re-thought and decided they would accomplish nothing positive if allowed to stand. I suppose I would consider deleting anything blatantly obscene, as this blog is not designated as containing "adult content."
My mom said I should stop reading the blogs of people who have deleted my comments. Furthermore, she said, someday, if they don't already, most of them will have children. Random people will be rude to or dismissive of their children, and then these bloggers will have a vague idea of how such treatment feels, even if they don't remember my comments that they've deleted. It's highly unlikely that they'll remember my comments and their deletion of such, as people who are habitually rude would not likely recall given instances of rudeness on their part even if they were autistic savants. (No slight is intended toward the autistic savants, or those with "Savant Syndrome," as my mother has informed me is now the politically correct term describing or denoting their condition. On the contrary, I envy the memory aspect of their condition. I have a good but not perfect memory. I desire to be more like those with "Savant Syndrome" in this regard.)
I promise never to delete any comment made here (not that I'm ordinarily overrun with comments) as long as it doesn't contain the maaterial euphemistcally referred to as "adult content."
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cat Hell: Four More Days!
I have four more days (actually less if I count hours) until I am allowed to use my crutches. Today I went with my Aunt Victoria , my brother, and my cousins who are my Aunt Victoria's two sons, to a place called "Cat Haven." Last night my Aunt Victoria came to pick up my brother and me. Her house is more than three hours away from our house.
We woke up and left at the crack of dawn to arrive at this "Cat Haven" place before it became too hot to be enjoyable. We actually would have needed to arrive by February if we really wanted to be there before it was too hot to be enjoyable. "Cat Haven" is located off Highway 180 in the foothills of the beautiful San Joaquin Valley. (Sarcasm does not translate well into print, so I'll come right out and say that one would refer to either the San Joaquin Valley or the foothills of the San Joaquin Valley as beautiful only in the most sarcastic terms possible.) I'm not certain what the elevation of the place was, but it was high enough for rattlesnakes but too low to be comfortable temperature-wise even for someone who was brought down from the high country suffering from the effects of hypothermia. I often complain about being too cold at night and wear sweatshirts in the greater Sacramento area in the summer when others are jumping into pools and pouring ice water on themelves, and I was hot at "Cat Haven" in the early morning. "Cat Hell" would probably be a more fitting name, although maybe members of the extended cat family like living in ovens.
We knew we would be on a dirt trail, so my Aunt Victoria, who is more of a clean-freak and germophobe than my mother is, triple-wrapped my cast and my upper body from waist to neck in garbage bags. Even the people who worked there thought my aunt was a nut, and they were all worried I would get heat illness. My cousin Michael, who was determined by consensus to be the physically strongest and most coordinated among our group, pushed me in my wheelchair, which incidentally, will probably never be the same in terms of cleanliness. I'm glad I have a spare, and I'm glad I'll be essentially rid of all wheelchairs shortly. After we arrived home, my aunt took my wheelchair to one of the dairies so the employees could powerwash it with one of the hoses they use to wash away cow dung from the milking areas. Isn't it a nice thought that I'm considered in the same league as a cow in terms of cleanliness?
The trail was theoretically handicappped-accessible, but the true accessibility of the trail for the handicapped is most definitely a subject open to debate. I actually fell out of the wheelchair into rattlesnake territory twice (it would be just my luck to have been bitten by a rattlesname at this point), and was almost dumped out at least twelve other times. The people who operate the facility ended up finding another male employee whose job it was just to keep me from falling out of my wheelchair. They considered tying me in the wheelchair, but decided the liability might be too great if the wheelchair overturned with me in it.
So my cousin was pushing me, another young man was walking backwards, ready to jump and catch me at the slightest un-leveling of the chair or at the faintest sign I was sliding forward (this happened at least ten times).
The man leading the tour asked if it wouldn't be easier to put me in one of those toddler backpacks and carry me down the trail. He said someone had left one behind, and he was pretty sure I'd fit. He even offered to carry the pack. I begged him to please not make me get into one of those things; such truly would have been adding insult to injury. Another employee was pouring water down me at such a rate I was sure I would hurl. My brother and my cousin Philip were [jokingly?] pushing and shoving each other off the trail and into the rattlesnake territory while calling each other gay. My Aunt Victoria, who is not an educator and deals with young people only in small groups, was attempting with no success to control my brother and my cousin Philip. Also in our tour group were about twenty-four boys from a day camp whose behavior made my brother's and my cousin Philip's appear appropriate for the U. S. Naval Academy by comparison. The day camp with which we were grouped had roughly fifty kids. They divided them by gender into tour groups. This was great for the girls and for anyone traveling with them, but made life sheer hell for anyone traveling with the male group. (I have neither a teaching credential nor any sort of degree or certification in child development, yet even I could have figured out that it woulld not be wise to put all the boys in one group and all the girls in another group. What does this say for the leaders of the day camp?) The only consolation for me was that the boys were slightly afraid of the crippled girl all covered in garbage bags and in a wheelchair, so they had me go first (this was probably also so that if I fell or my wheelchair went out of control, I wouldn't take anyone else down with me) and largely kept their distance from me, but I still had to listen to them, and I got hit with the things they threw at each other when they missed, which was about 90% of the time. Kids today cannot throw accurately because they spend too much time playing video games.
We went to all this trouble to see a snow leopard (beautiful, by the way, and does not like snow), a serval, a couple of tigers, a lion, a jaguar, and something the name of which I can't remember because I was being pulled out of rattlesnake territory while it was being discussed.
We probably should have stayed home and watched the Animal Planet. Someone had suggested the Fresno Zoo (actually a pretty good zoo), but since we'd all been there before, that idea was rejected.
When we got back to the gift shop, my aunt and the employees cut the plastic off the top of me, then hosed me down. Someone had one of those thermometers that they roll over people's faces, so they rolled it over mine and discovered that my temperature was 103. They hosed me down again, then dried me and cut the plastic off my leg. The place sells gift clothing, so someone who works there found a shirt and shorts to fit me, and helped me change in the "handicapped-accessible" restroom, which was actually the only part of the place that was truly handicapped accessible. They loaded me down with Gatorade and Seven-Up Bottles. My aunt, who is an absolute non-drinker, as in drank Sprite for the toast at her own wedding, bought a six-pack of beer. My aunt tried to pay for everything, but they would not take any money from her. They could not get rid of us fast enough. My brother said the guy who ran the place was writing down the license number of my aunt's Cadillac SUV (I don't remember what the model is called.) I wish them luck, because she gets a new Cadillac SUV every year, and she never has vanity license plates. Their time would have been better spent carefully identifying the day camp and its operators.
As far as my aunt goes, they'll never see her near the place again. She was too traumatized. She polished off two beers before we got into the car and out of the parking lot. My cousin Michael, who is twenty and is a licensed driver, and, if the truth were to be told, has been driving on dairies since he was five or six years old, had to drive us home. We made two more pit stops so my Aunt Victoria could down two more of the beers. She said she was saving the last two to put on her hair, as beer is supposedly a good hair conditioner. I highly doubt that. Once she reached the privacy of her own room, I'm sure she guzzled those two down as well.
As far as I was concerned, I was fine once I got into the air-conditioned vehicle. All I had to do was look pitiful for my aunt to hand me a Vicodin. I was truly in my happy place. (The truth of the matter is that I saw my aunt down a couple of Vicodins as well, but I don't really care. She'd had a rough day.)
My aunt was too exhausted/shell-shocked/stoned/drunk/hung over (take your pick) to cook dinner. My cousin Michael got pizza for us. We had a great time telling Uncle Ralph about our day. My suspicion is that this year my Uncle Ralph will write the family's Christmas card letter (which he has never considered doing before) and mail it off before Thanksgiving, long before my Aunt Victoria has time to tell her side of the story.
It's after midnight. THREE MORE DAYS!!!
We woke up and left at the crack of dawn to arrive at this "Cat Haven" place before it became too hot to be enjoyable. We actually would have needed to arrive by February if we really wanted to be there before it was too hot to be enjoyable. "Cat Haven" is located off Highway 180 in the foothills of the beautiful San Joaquin Valley. (Sarcasm does not translate well into print, so I'll come right out and say that one would refer to either the San Joaquin Valley or the foothills of the San Joaquin Valley as beautiful only in the most sarcastic terms possible.) I'm not certain what the elevation of the place was, but it was high enough for rattlesnakes but too low to be comfortable temperature-wise even for someone who was brought down from the high country suffering from the effects of hypothermia. I often complain about being too cold at night and wear sweatshirts in the greater Sacramento area in the summer when others are jumping into pools and pouring ice water on themelves, and I was hot at "Cat Haven" in the early morning. "Cat Hell" would probably be a more fitting name, although maybe members of the extended cat family like living in ovens.
We knew we would be on a dirt trail, so my Aunt Victoria, who is more of a clean-freak and germophobe than my mother is, triple-wrapped my cast and my upper body from waist to neck in garbage bags. Even the people who worked there thought my aunt was a nut, and they were all worried I would get heat illness. My cousin Michael, who was determined by consensus to be the physically strongest and most coordinated among our group, pushed me in my wheelchair, which incidentally, will probably never be the same in terms of cleanliness. I'm glad I have a spare, and I'm glad I'll be essentially rid of all wheelchairs shortly. After we arrived home, my aunt took my wheelchair to one of the dairies so the employees could powerwash it with one of the hoses they use to wash away cow dung from the milking areas. Isn't it a nice thought that I'm considered in the same league as a cow in terms of cleanliness?
The trail was theoretically handicappped-accessible, but the true accessibility of the trail for the handicapped is most definitely a subject open to debate. I actually fell out of the wheelchair into rattlesnake territory twice (it would be just my luck to have been bitten by a rattlesname at this point), and was almost dumped out at least twelve other times. The people who operate the facility ended up finding another male employee whose job it was just to keep me from falling out of my wheelchair. They considered tying me in the wheelchair, but decided the liability might be too great if the wheelchair overturned with me in it.
So my cousin was pushing me, another young man was walking backwards, ready to jump and catch me at the slightest un-leveling of the chair or at the faintest sign I was sliding forward (this happened at least ten times).
The man leading the tour asked if it wouldn't be easier to put me in one of those toddler backpacks and carry me down the trail. He said someone had left one behind, and he was pretty sure I'd fit. He even offered to carry the pack. I begged him to please not make me get into one of those things; such truly would have been adding insult to injury. Another employee was pouring water down me at such a rate I was sure I would hurl. My brother and my cousin Philip were [jokingly?] pushing and shoving each other off the trail and into the rattlesnake territory while calling each other gay. My Aunt Victoria, who is not an educator and deals with young people only in small groups, was attempting with no success to control my brother and my cousin Philip. Also in our tour group were about twenty-four boys from a day camp whose behavior made my brother's and my cousin Philip's appear appropriate for the U. S. Naval Academy by comparison. The day camp with which we were grouped had roughly fifty kids. They divided them by gender into tour groups. This was great for the girls and for anyone traveling with them, but made life sheer hell for anyone traveling with the male group. (I have neither a teaching credential nor any sort of degree or certification in child development, yet even I could have figured out that it woulld not be wise to put all the boys in one group and all the girls in another group. What does this say for the leaders of the day camp?) The only consolation for me was that the boys were slightly afraid of the crippled girl all covered in garbage bags and in a wheelchair, so they had me go first (this was probably also so that if I fell or my wheelchair went out of control, I wouldn't take anyone else down with me) and largely kept their distance from me, but I still had to listen to them, and I got hit with the things they threw at each other when they missed, which was about 90% of the time. Kids today cannot throw accurately because they spend too much time playing video games.
We went to all this trouble to see a snow leopard (beautiful, by the way, and does not like snow), a serval, a couple of tigers, a lion, a jaguar, and something the name of which I can't remember because I was being pulled out of rattlesnake territory while it was being discussed.
We probably should have stayed home and watched the Animal Planet. Someone had suggested the Fresno Zoo (actually a pretty good zoo), but since we'd all been there before, that idea was rejected.
When we got back to the gift shop, my aunt and the employees cut the plastic off the top of me, then hosed me down. Someone had one of those thermometers that they roll over people's faces, so they rolled it over mine and discovered that my temperature was 103. They hosed me down again, then dried me and cut the plastic off my leg. The place sells gift clothing, so someone who works there found a shirt and shorts to fit me, and helped me change in the "handicapped-accessible" restroom, which was actually the only part of the place that was truly handicapped accessible. They loaded me down with Gatorade and Seven-Up Bottles. My aunt, who is an absolute non-drinker, as in drank Sprite for the toast at her own wedding, bought a six-pack of beer. My aunt tried to pay for everything, but they would not take any money from her. They could not get rid of us fast enough. My brother said the guy who ran the place was writing down the license number of my aunt's Cadillac SUV (I don't remember what the model is called.) I wish them luck, because she gets a new Cadillac SUV every year, and she never has vanity license plates. Their time would have been better spent carefully identifying the day camp and its operators.
As far as my aunt goes, they'll never see her near the place again. She was too traumatized. She polished off two beers before we got into the car and out of the parking lot. My cousin Michael, who is twenty and is a licensed driver, and, if the truth were to be told, has been driving on dairies since he was five or six years old, had to drive us home. We made two more pit stops so my Aunt Victoria could down two more of the beers. She said she was saving the last two to put on her hair, as beer is supposedly a good hair conditioner. I highly doubt that. Once she reached the privacy of her own room, I'm sure she guzzled those two down as well.
As far as I was concerned, I was fine once I got into the air-conditioned vehicle. All I had to do was look pitiful for my aunt to hand me a Vicodin. I was truly in my happy place. (The truth of the matter is that I saw my aunt down a couple of Vicodins as well, but I don't really care. She'd had a rough day.)
My aunt was too exhausted/shell-shocked/stoned/drunk/hung over (take your pick) to cook dinner. My cousin Michael got pizza for us. We had a great time telling Uncle Ralph about our day. My suspicion is that this year my Uncle Ralph will write the family's Christmas card letter (which he has never considered doing before) and mail it off before Thanksgiving, long before my Aunt Victoria has time to tell her side of the story.
It's after midnight. THREE MORE DAYS!!!
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