Spitzer is Gross

We were driving back from rugby practice.

The 16-year-old: I have alot of issues with Spitzer, but the hypocrisy really sticks out.
Me: Yeah. But I keep thinking of his family. Three teenage daughters.
Him: 3?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Oh, man. Like teenage in high-school?
Me: Probably like 18, 16, 14.
Him: No! Well, I know that my dad would NEVER do anything like that so it's not like I would ever be faced with this, but if he did, I would hate him.
Me: No. You wouldn't. You always see everyone's point of view. You would hate what he did, but you wouldn't judge him and blow him off. That's just not what you do.
Him: Yeah, well, it sucks to be me sometimes.

Actually, it might suck to be him, but not to be loved by him.

By Any Means Necessary

Four of us were in a car headed for lunch: 0ne very conservative Republican, one Dem-leaning independent, and two pretty consistent Democrats--an Obama supporter and an undecided.

"I don't want them back!"
"I'll vote Republican before voting for HER."
"How can I be friends with you if we fundamentally disagree on stuff like immigration."
"Continually, and LOUDLY, distorting facts --even after the distortion is exposed-- is swiftboating."
"Who has executive experience?"
"Why is that important?"
"I'm voting in the Republican primary. I don't want to make a decision on the Dems."
"I don't want them back!!!!"

I don't get why some folks are so nostalgic for the "good ole days" of the Clinton administration. While in my opinion those eight years were better than Bush I or Bush II, I also think that having both legs amputated is better than dying. This doesn't mean that I am excited by the "losing my legs" option.

I remember my exhilaration sitting on a blanket on the Mall; handing the then 16-month-old Cheerios on a pleasant January day; and oohing and ahhing when the F-16s flew over the Lincoln Memorial and Aretha and Diana sang on the steps for the First Clinton Inaugural Reunion. It was the first time I ever voted for a president who won. It was the first time since I had been in Washington that my side was in charge. It was a day of great hope. (oops, did I say "hope?")

I remember my disgust and discomfort when I had to tell the then 7-year-old that his President was in trouble for telling a big lie. I remember my anger with President Bill for dragging the country through his linguistic histrionics about "that woman" and his definition of the word "is." And I felt, at that time, that no matter how much the opposition wrongly chased the Clintons, no matter how disgusting and irrelevant the never-ending Ken Starr investigation was, he and his wife made a fatal misstep with me by not taking any responsibility for their own actions. It was always someone else's fault. They did what was right. It was a vast right-wing conspiracy causing the President to lie under oath. Or to quote Jake Blues, trying to talk his way out of being executed by a jilted lover, maybe it was "... an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts. IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD."

Based on the past weeks of an increasingly uncontrollable attack-dog Bill, I am getting a bit spun up about who would be in charge and who would be leading the charge in (yet) another Clinton White House. And, I am saddened by the take no prisoners, by any means necessary approach of the Clinton campaign.

So Hillary, go ahead and get after your opponents on the issues--and experience is a legitimate issue. Make it clear how you stand for change and provide a contrast with the other candidates. Show that you care about what is important to "people like me"'s all over the country.

But remember, when you take on the bad-guy tactics of swiftboating, when you distort facts, when you try and shift blame to the media or others, when your old man is out of control acting like an over-indulged child who feels entitled to his own Oompa Loompa, you may end up having softer support in the general election than you need-- potentially grabbing a Democratic defeat from the Bush-43 engineered jaws of victory.

You're likable enough, Hillary. But I am looking for a noble warrior. Fight fair and let the best candidate win.

Pickup or Delivery

We were driving back from practice and were going to pick up a pizza on the way home.

The 16-year-old: This coupon is for a specialty pizza.
Me: Well my problem is that I just don't like the specialty pizzas.
The 16-year-old: What?
Me: The meat pizza features "meat products" and that makes me queasy.
The 16-year-old: I like it.
Me: And my big thing is with that supreme pizza. I like everything on it except the green peppers.
The 16-year-old: You can pick them out.
Me: Well, it's really hard to pick out the green peppers. They get mixed in with the cheese and onions and you always miss some.
The 16-year-old: Well, why don't you just order it without green peppers?

Me: [pause]
Me: [laughing and gagging] I am pretty embarrassed. To be honest, I have never thought of ordering it without green peppers.
The 16-year-old: Crap. The way you were laughing I thought you were being harsh on me for asking a dumb question.
Me: [still laughing] No, you can laugh at me.

D'oh!

Homecoming

This week is Homecoming Week for the 16-year old. Today he got to dress like a Bama. So he wore the oddest conglomeration of clothing, primarily consisting of layers of mismatched crap. (Although I do admit surprise to see the T-mac* jersey as the top layer, but this is a digression.)

Also this week, I drove past my old high school, a bunch of times. And for the first time since I graduated, I almost stopped to see what it looked like. It didn't have a football field when I was there. We had to rent from the other school. But we did have fun at those Friday night games! When I was there, kids and teachers would huddle around the exit doors--smoking cigarettes. I bet that there aren't ANY teachers bumming a Newport off of a student these days.

When I was there, me and M.P. used to skip first hour and hang out at the Bicentennial Family Restaurant. Drinking coffee and avoiding a VERY dull class. When I was there, we didn't have AP classes. I was invited by my "college prep" English teacher to sit for a test that could get me college credit. But it cost a bunch of money, and there were no guarantees. I did learn, a few months later, that my college classmates had earned tons of college credit from these AP tests. Shoot, the SAT was a big enough deal, even for me.

When I was there, I had a fight with my social studies teacher who threw me out of class for insisting on fairness in his grading of a test. I only agreed to go out on "independent study" if I could bring 3 of my cronies with me. We obsequiously studied the history of film and were only thwarted by our teacher's inability to pick up the AV on his way in.

As I drove by the school, I thought about stopping in. But then I just kept driving.

*if you do click here, let the song load.

Shut Up and Drive

And yet another great thing about our beach locale is the proliferation of low trafficked roads. Just what the 15-year-old wanted.

Him: Can I drive?
Me: Okay!
Him: Alien, return my parental unit.

We drive standard transmissions, so part one of the lesson is getting the clutch, brake, gas thing together. Oh, and the shift part. He caught on fast.

Next was getting out of the driveway and around the circle in the cul-de-sac. Not bad.

So we went to the next phase--driving on the road, turning and down-shifting. That went well, too. Even that time when there was opposing traffic--a pick-up lumbering in our direction--no freak out. Smooth sailing.

Next was going more deeply throughout the neighborhood, all the way to the main road where we played a version of the Chinese fire drill to swap drivers. Very well done.

On the way back from town, we swapped just as we got off the main road and he drove back. We were coming up to an intersection.

Me: Hey, that was a stop sign.
Him: Hunh? (hitting the brakes a bit late.)
Me: Back up a bit and let's try that again. What do you do at a stop sign?
Him: You mean that was for me? I saw it, but I didn't know that it was for me.

Turns out that he was used to seeing them and ignoring them from the passenger seat.

Next lesson, basic traffic rules.

Seeping Weeping

It's Sunday morning, with the sun reflecting off the roofs and trees making every thing look golden Especially framed by the blue sky. Another sonatina of church bells went through it's drill. I was wondering what was significant about 8:50 a.m. at that church.

The 15-year-old had meekly woke me up. He was pretty grumpy last night but had overslept and needed me for a ride to work. I made him some sandwiches to bring to the pool, and we jumped into the car.

I am having a hard time driving. It's really important to be focused when you drive. I find my mind wandering and my brain admonishing me, "Pay attention. That was a stop sign. You need to look both ways. Yes, the light was RED." Normally, I drive and it works just fine--the past few days I need reminders.

When I woke up on Friday, I didn't know where I was. Really. I was agitated, searching the room to to find a clue to my whereabouts. I was able to verify that I was in my own bed. I don't think that I have ever been so bewildered in the morning. Even after alot of travel, I always knew where I was. Not Friday, though.

I can do tasks. I can even do them in order. But I feel a bit disconnected. That's the word that describes me, disconnected. I looked it up. There are two parts, one is detached and the other is incoherent. I am feeling a bit of both.

My dad was 86 when he passed on June 15th. It seems like it makes sense that old people move on. I was feeling like I had a handle on it. My sibling admonished me for my bare statement to the caterer, "My dad is dead."

Sib: Don't you think that's a little too direct?
Me: That's what he is.

I have been looking at my feelings in third person. Always analytical, I was looking at myself from the outside to see how I thought that I was feeling.

But feelings are not thoughts. I told the 12-year-old that they just are, and that you just have to accept them. You can't judge your feelings.

I guess I am learning that I need to make way for my feelings and to experience them. They are not satisfied to be viewed clinically. Mine are organic, and like some certain force are elbowing my rational self for some room at the surface.

I guess I am more vulnerable when I drive. I better be careful.

Let It Snow

It's a cold, wet morning. The raindrops hit the car with a thud. They are big.

The 12-year old: Man, I wish this was snow.

Me: Well, it doesn't usually snow in D.C. this early. When I was a kid, sometimes we would get snow at Halloween.
Him: At Halloween????
Me: Yah. But it wasn't normal. It wasn't really unusual, but not really common, either.
Him: Like it happened once?
Me: No, more like every five years or so. It wasn't unheard of. But one of my favorite snows ever happened on Thanksgiving. At the J.L. Hudson's Thanksgiving Parade.
Him: You had a parade?
Me: Yeah. I think they still do. But I was there with my sibs, and we were watching the parade and it was cold. And the snow started to come down. And each piece of snow was like the size of a frisbee. And each piece was big and very wet. And we were soaked through and my sister drove home and we had hot chocolate.
Him: I like hot chocolate.

Me too. Happy Thanksgiving.