A Sharp Kick in the Gut

It has been a week - eight days - since I learned my friend Tricia was raped and murdered on Christmas Day.

In this time, I estimate that I've spent 10% of every waking hour reading memorials on Facebook, investigation updates on The Washington Post, and trolling the comment boards on myriad other news sources that carried the story of her death. I've become increasingly upset with every new detail exposed by the police and with every heart-felt memorial posted on myriad "In Memory Of" pages online,

On day four of this obsessive grief odyssey, I cried, cried harder than I have in a long time. On days five through seven, I gained three pounds, largely as result of my settling into the enveloping stupor of Candy Crush Saga.

And today, on day eight, I met with a therapist.

And about five minutes into our session, she gave me a swift kick in the gut. I was blathering on about how vulnerable I was feeling about my personal safety and she said, "I wonder if your reaction to your friend's death might be about more than your friend's death."

"Whatever could you mean?" I innocently replied.

"Well, there are many Americans feeling vulnerable right now. How are you feeling about the direction in which our country is moving?"

Dammit. Dammit Dammit.

During my brief period of grieving, it has seemed as if my sadness has been out of proportion to my relationship with Tricia. I've felt like I don't have the right to be as immobilized by this terrifying act of violence as I have been.

But, if I think about Tricia's murder as the most terrible straw that broke the camel's back, then this reaction makes a little more sense.

What also makes sense is leveraging this process of grieving her death to find my inner strength.

Rest in Peace and Power Tricia McCauley

I am not so naive as to believe violence only happens to other people.

• Domestic violence claimed the lives of a friend's mother, a friend's sister, and another acquaintance's sister.
• In my younger life, I was acquainted with two separate people who shot themselves to death. 
• The son of someone with whom I briefly worked was murdered by a serial killer.
• The mother of one of my sister's high school friends was murdered in her own home.
• Two old friends, now acquaintances, each discovered a body of someone who apparently committed suicide.
• A colleague recently lost a teenage friend of the family to a car accident caused by another friend of the family. 
• Another colleague knows two people who were perished earlier this month in the Oakland warehouse/artist collective fire
• Shoot! I worked in a juvenile prison for 2.5 years, where many of our inmates were the perpetrators of violence. 

But never has violence affected my life directly.

Until today, when I learned a friend from college, a woman with whom I'd reconnected only 2.5 months ago, was murdered on Christmas. Tricia is dead at age 46. Life is so weird.

Here we are, with our pal Christy (left, holding the full-ish Corona),on the last day of freshman year. Tricia is the perky one in the middle.

And here we are, again with our pal Christy (with glasses, on the right), on Columbus Day weekend 2016. Tricia, an accomplished actress, herbalist, small business owner, farmer and yoga instructor, is still the perky one in the middle. 

As soon as I read the news, at 4:45 this morning, I woke up BMG and cried as he hugged me. Right now, I feel numb, afraid to feel what I imagine is likely true. Afraid to feel that she likely suffered in her death - emotionally and/or physically. Afraid to feel angry that her death is such a waste - a death by someone desperate enough to murder someone in exchange for a Scion IQ and debit card. Afraid to feel the anguish I can only imagine her parents, her brother, her closest friends are feeling as they begin their grief journeys.

Whenever someone I know experiences a death, I share the same message of condolence: "The grief journey is the weirdest and most unpredictable trip we take in our lives. I trust you will make it through yours safely, buoyed by the love of family and friends."

BMG, who never met Tricia, is grieving in his own way - he stayed awake for the entire 75 minutes I was at the gym the morning, wanting to be sure I came home safely. And he's asked me to call him every 10 minutes while I'm at work today, so he can be sure I'm still alive.

Me? I've never been on this violent death journey. So I don't know where it will take me. Right now, I know I feel a little afraid, and resolved to make every moment matter, because life is unpredictable.

Rest in peace and power Tricia McCauley.

Why I'm Voting for Marco Rubio in the Massachusetts Primary

Super Tuesday is on Monday, March 1, 2016. This is when residents of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, along with those in eight other states, cast their votes in the Presidential primary election.


As a liberal pragmatist, I choose to be registered as an independent voter. This means I get my choice of primary ballot on election day. In 2016, I'll pick the Republican ballot and I'll cast my vote for Marco Rubio.


Why?


Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of a United States of America in which Tea Party candidate Ted Cruz, or, God forbid, Donald Trump, is President.


It is impossible to escape the onslaught of political ads on television, the non-stop audio coverage on public and talk radio, and the news coverage painting the walls of Facebook, Twitter, and Flipboard.


As I listen to this coverage, the liberal in me hears the siren call of Bernie Sanders' supporters and their call for a 'revolution.' But we liberals had our revolution when it President Obama was elected. And now the pragmatist in me sees the writing on the wall. I predict that on November 8th the Republicans will have their turn at revolution.


So I'm voting for Marco Rubio in the primary with the intention of doing my part to try to ensure their revolution is not too extreme. (Rest assured, when the nation turns out to vote in the general election, I will choose whichever Democratic candidate is chosen by the people.)


Who will you pick in your state primary?

Putting my bottle where my mouth is (or why I voted against expanding the beverage deposit law)

I voted against Ballot Question 2 in Massachusetts. And so did a majority of the Bay Staters, because it didn't pass.

I voted against it because the pro-side rhetoric claimed that it was an "anti-litter" bill.

But it wasn't an anti-litter bill. At least not in my opinion.

At its core, it *was* a "let's make litter more valuable so indigent people will pick it up" bill. (It was also a "let's make groceries more expensive for people who don't recycle" bill and a "let's make the manufacture and distribution of beverages in the Bay State more expensive because we need to have different bottles distributed here" bill.)

Chuckleheads will still throw their garbage on the ground. But, with an expanded bottle deposit law, more of the trash that clutters our roadways and neighborhoods will now have value. While the pro-side of of the ballot question didn't come out and say it, it seems fairly straightforward to me that indigent people will collect litter that has value. If we make our most prevalent litter - drink bottles - more valuable, homeless people will collect it. Ergo, our streets look cleaner, making ballot question 2 an anti-litter bill. Right?

Not to me. Instead, it felt underhanded, gross and exploitative.

I would rather we talked about the problems of homelessness, un- and under-employment that lead people to rely on collecting trash to make a living. I would rather we talk about the dynamics (laziness, lack of community- and self-respect) that lead jerks to throw their trash on the ground in the first place. And I would rather that we, as a society, make strategic decisions about if/how we want to address these problems, so we can compel our neighbors, corporate beverage manufacturers, philanthropists and lawmakers to direct fund to support solutions to our persistent problems. I know there will always be people who "choose" to live on the streets, and who will always "choose" to collect bottles and cans as their form of income, but I'm not psyched about expanding this as an option for people who are in dire straights.

What I most certainly DON'T want is a subversive bill designed to support - rather than prevent - indigence. And that's how I understood Massachusetts Ballet Question 2.

So, in the spirit of putting my bottle where my mouth is, I have decided that BMG and I will put a nickel in a kitty for every bottle and can we buy that *would* have been covered by the expanded bottle deposit bill. At some point during the year, we will make a donation of the money to  homelessness prevention/work support program serving our community.

I'm doing a dump run this morning. We have 10 Gatorade and Orangina bottles ready to go to the transfer station. So, I'll put $0.50 in the kitty. And when I get back, I'll start researching community organizations that are making a difference in preventing and alleviating the factors that contribute to homelessness. Suggestions welcome.

In a past life...

...I was clearly an animist.

The evidence, you ask?

I intentionally rotate my underpants in the drawer, out of a concern that underpants that might not get as much wear will feel bad because I'm not using them.

Five things I still don't miss about my non-profit job

My heart belongs to the non-profit sector.

I have graduate degrees in Social Work and Public Health, and I think of myself as a community organizer at my core.

But, after 20 years working in the non-profit and municipal sectors in Massachusetts, I decided to call it quits this spring and move into the corporate world.

There is a lot I miss about the non-profit work environment. Things like the feeling that "we're all in this together," the unflagging, personal commitment to mission, the flexible work environment which often compensated for pay that undervalued employees' skill sets.

But, six months after I made the jump, that I don't miss about a non-profit workplace, particularly my last office. These include:

• Having to step over homeless people to get into the office 
• Inadequate basic desk and office equipment (e.g. voice mail and a phone at my desk)
• Lack of administrative/operational systems (e.g. system for sorting and distributing mail)
• Decision-making based on relationships before the interest of the business, and its dirty cousin, excusing mediocrity and poor performance to avoid hurting someone's feelings
• Executive whining when one's sense of mission did not override one's desire to be with family, manage illness, have work/life balance, etc. 

Don't get me wrong. The corporate sector is far from perfect. But, at the end of the day, there is no question about motive or purpose. Whether manufacturing widgets or operating in the service economy, business exists to do the best job it can at the lowest possible price in order to make money. I like what I do and I respect the company for which I work. But I'm under no illusion that I'm saving the world. And this makes it a whole lot easier to take a sick day, walk somewhere to grab lunch, or to leave after eight hours at my desk. 

I look back on my last position now with incredulity. How did I - how did anyone on the team - survive in these conditions? It is nearly impossible to get work done efficiently - a necessity when every dollar you spend is a dollar you need to raise - when there was no consensus on who should check voicemail and distribute phone messages, let alone no professional telephone system.  

I love working with a sense of mission. But, at the end of the day, work is work. So, until I find the perfect non-profit or government sector job, I'll stay where I am, marketing widgets and checking my voicemail. 

The two grossest things I ever saw at the gym were...

Yesterday, at the Planet Fitness in Hingham, the guy next to me on the upright stationary bike was pedaling hard and fast. When I mounted my bike he had already cycled 11 miles at an average RPM (revolution per minute) or 97. (My pace, in comparison is 88-91 RPM.) About 2 miles into my "ride," out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a puddle on the floor. "Wha?!" I thought. "Is his water bottle leaking?" I look a little closer and realize the guy next to me is sweating so hard that salty human brine is literally pouring off of him. The puddles on either side of his bike was fast encroaching on my space, with the square footage of the water increasing so rapidly that I thought I might not be able to dismount without slipping in his sweat.

Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Because that's what I did when I realized, if I stayed where I was any longer, that I would have to walk through the evidence of this guy's workout in order to leave.

So, I decided to get off the bike and find something else to do to get my heart rate up.

But, this isn't the grossest thing I've ever seen at the gym.

"What IS the grossest thing you've ever seen at the gym Clownface?" you clamor, wanting more.

More than ten years ago, while in the common area of the locker room at the HealthWorks in Porter Square Cambridge, I was changing into exercise clothes. The locker room had several pods - with wood paneled lockers clustered around a central bench that could easily accommodate people on all four sides. I was in a pod with one other person who was also partially undressed - either wrapping up or preparing to start her fitness routine. We did not interact, or even acknowledge the other person was there.

Now this is an important detail, because I HAVE to believe that the other woman in the pod with me forgot there was another human being in her presence because what happened next was the most gauche thing another woman can do in the presence of a stranger. She reached between her legs and pulled out a bloodied tampon. Yup. That's what she did. She inspected it, then wrapped it in tissue, and set aside for her next trip to the toiler area.

Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Maybe a lot? Yeah, me too.

If I were just a stump would you feed me Doritos?

I haven't yet documented my DNR, but I'm clear that I don't value life (or fear death?) enough to crave extraordinary heroic life saving heroic measures in the event (knock on wood) that something terrible happens to me. I haven't documented my DNR yet because I'm not sure where the line gets drawn.

My older sister and I were talking about this issue today vis-a-vis her decision making about heroic measures for both of her dogs who are suffering from slightly out-of-the-ordinary maladies.

Big Sister H articulated her (also undocumented) DNR beautifully when she said, "I don't want heroic measures if they will result in me breathing but with a poor quality of life."

"But how do you define 'poor quality of life'" I asked. "This is why my DNR or living will isn't yet written down. I'm now sure where to draw the line."

My sister explained that if she is in a position where she is in constant pain or severe discomfort, or she can't enjoy her life x% of the time - regardless of her mobility, she'd experience that as low quality of life.

I persisted. "What if you had no arms and no legs, but still had full capacity to 'enjoy' things. Is that quality of life?"

"Well, I don't think I'd have good quality of life if I were just a stump," she conceded. "Unless....there was always someone around to feed me Doritos, because I think that would bring me enjoyment if I were just a stump." She paused. "In fact, if they just put a big bowl of Doritos near my stumpy self that I could then stick my face in to eat whenever I wanted, that would probably be a good enough quality of life."

*****

I'm still not sure what my 'quality of life' threshold is. Join the conversation. Share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Starving cats in China

I just reflexively said to the cat, who looked at me plaintively from her perch next to an uneaten bowl of chicken flakes in gravy, "If you you don't like what you are having for dinner you can make yourself peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

I'd pay to see my cat making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

#3 or "If I knew then what I know now"

CAUTION: This is a scatological - and mildly humorous - blog post. If poop stories aren't your thing then feel free to stop reading here.

*****

I recently headed into the bathroom at my sister's house, immediately after one of her kids exited the room.

As I turned the door handle I received the following warning. "Aunt Clownface, I wouldn't go in there right away. I just did some #2 and #3."

"#3? What is #3?" I asked.

"Diarrhea. You know, #1 and #2 mixed together."

Deep breath. "Uh, diarrhea isn't #1 and #2 mixed together." Then I explained what diarrhea is.

Affronted the child responded, "THAT'S what diarrhea is? How come no one ever told me?"

*****

One of my sisters used to carry a very tiny chip on her shoulder that our mom never "taught her that she needed to rinse conditioner out of her hair." My mom claims that she didn't want to point out my sister's greasy hair (which was made so by the unrinsed hair conditioner coating it) for fear of making her feel bad about what my mom thought was an unfortunate, temporary and unavoidable aspect of puberty.

Hearing my niece complain about never having been told what diarrhea is made up of reminds me that you can never predict what your child "needs" to know in order to live a fully informed life.

Good luck parents.

Tilting at Pistachios

So I'm at the fancy new supermarket that opened 9 days ago, waiting at the fish counter to get a 1/2 pound of shrimp. A very well coiffed, older woman appears next to me. She is a walking stereotype of the moneyed class - you know the type with Louise Vuitton (or was it Gucci - I can't tell) purse hanging off her forearm, uberbranded sunglasses on her face (she was indoors and it was raining outside), riding jodhpurs, and very shiny gold hanging off whatever body part could accommodate the expensive hardware.

I glance at her briefly, turn back to the fish case, and then hear a small ping. I look back at the woman, see her staring at the ground, and realize she has dropped a pistachio shell. I can see it plainly, resting on the brand new floors maybe 1.5 feet from her own well clad feet. "Can she see it?" I wonder. "Well of course she can see it! It's right there!" I mentally point.

The woman looks up from the ground and begins staring straight ahead.

"Oh my god! She's going to leave her trash on the ground. I can't believe it. She knows she dropped it. She knows it couldn't have gone too far. What the heck?" I'm in a state of irritated disbelief.

The internal dialogue continues.

"Should I say something? Should I pick it up? Do I just leave it for the staff to find when they clean up after the store closes? If I dropped it and KNEW that I dropped it I'd pick it up. I mean, this is a BRAND new store - it isn't like we're at an outdoor market or something. Picking up your trash is respectful of the people who have to clean up after me. But she must not be respectful of the "peons" who work here, who wait on her. I mean, look at her, she is obviously accustomed to people taking care of her. Oh my god, she is such a bitch."

The rant goes on while I continue to wait.

"I really have to say something to her, to hold her accountable for her actions, to let her know people are watching and judging her behavior. I won' forgive myself if I don't say something. This is what it means to believe in something, and I believe in respect, and beauty. I cannot let this type of behavior slide without commenting. If I do what else will I be silent about. I CANNOT BELIEVE she did that!"

I turn to her and say haltingly, "Uhm excuse me, I think you dropped something." I point to the shell on the floor, "You surely weren't going to leave that there, were you?"

The woman looks at me and then to the ground. She leans over, picks up the shell, and places it in her palm, which then slowly closes around the once discarded object. All without saying a word.

Kids say the darndest things

I had the privilege of reading to a group a second graders today, as part of a local celebration of "National Library Week." I was reading an interpretation of the classic Hans Christan Anderson tale The Ugly Duckling. You know the story - where a swan is accidentally born into a family of ducks. Until the swan grows up he feels ugly and unloved because he looks different.

Early on in the story I paused and asked the question "Has anyone here ever felt like they were being made fun of? Raise your hands if you have ever been made fun of in your life." My goal was to have a brief conversation about how everyone has felt like they didn't belong at some point in their life.

Of course, all of the adults, being good role models who were familiar with the lessons embedded in the story story, raised their hands. About 2/3rd of the children raised their hands too.

One of the little people sitting in the front row declared loudly, "I've never been made fun of."

"Well you are a lucky boy," I replied emphatically.

"Yeah!" he said. "Sometimes my cousin and I play this game where he hits my head like a bongo. That's a really fun game!"

I'm thinking, "Well that's apropos of nothing."

The little buddy on his right spun his head around and accusingly said, "You told me you didn't like that at all!"

I looked at Mr. Bongo Head with my eyebrows slightly raised.

"Well, sometimes I don't like it when my cousin hits me," Bongo Boy conceded.

"Yes," I said, my own head spinning, "Sometimes life is confusing."

"I would rather die...

...than sleep on sheets that have been in a dryer!" This is s recent declaration made by my mother after I suggested that, while her torn rotator cuff remains unrepaired, she abstain from hanging her laundry on the backyard clothesline.

"Let me make sure I heard you right. You would rather die, or at least be in constant and burning pain, than sleep on sheets that have been in a dryer?"

"Yes Clownface. I would rather DIE than sleep on sheets that have been in the dryer."

BMG's response, upon hearing this utterance retold? "What is she going to do when you have to put her in a Home?" Good question. Does anyone know of any nursing homes that hang their clients' sheets out on the line?