Author Archives: Marie Walden

Mystical Machu Picchu

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peru-machu-picchu.jpgI’ve seen it in books, but it’s hard to describe how I felt when I actually saw it. Mists swirling around, emerald green grass, orchids overgrowing the Inka Trail, alpacas standing in our way. Mostly I felt a surreal connection to an ancient culture, sophisticated, brilliant, visionary and REAL. My friend and I stood there quietly for a long time, chewing our coca leaves, taking it all in. Our guide sat quietly as well. Sometimes words truly don’t suffice.
 
Click on the pic to see a bigger version.

Get thee to the Broadmoor! ASAP!

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For Immediate Release: April 12, 2006 9:00am
Contact: Bill Sulzman (719) 389 0644
Activists challenge the blocked sidewalk at the Broadmoor
Colorado Springs, April 12, 2006 —
At 11:30am, TODAY, April 12, members of Citizens for Peace in Space and supporters from Pikes Peak Justice and Peace Commission and Springs Action Alliance will challenge the suspension of 1st and 14th amendment right to peaceably assemble on the sidewalk in front of the Broadmoor Hotel on Lake Avenue. Citizens for Peace in Space and the ACLU have challenged the blocking of sidewalks for the Space Symposium in district court and the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals before.

The annual Space Symposium at the Broadmoor Hotel, through Friday, has arranged a special event permit with the city that says, in part, “This permit grants exclusive use of the sidewalks on the east side of Lake Circle, from the south of Lake Avenue, to the north at the edge of the parking garage during above listed dates/times.” Negotiations with the CSPD have been ongoing and may resolve the situation. If not, the legality of the special events permit, blocking the sidewalk will be challenged, as it was at the NATO conference, and that challenge may include civil disobedience arrests.

National political organizers from around the country including Bruce Gagnon, coordinator of the “Global Network against Weapons and Nuclear Power in Space”, Tim Rinne, director of “Nebraskans for Peace”, and Frances Mendenhall of “Speakout at Stratcom”, from Omaha, will not be attending this year as in other years, but Citizens for Peace in Space will be present as always.

Bill Sulzman of Citizens for Peace in Space said, “The special events permit refers to Chapter 3.2.209 of the City Code as its authority.” “It does not go into detail but says : ‘The event organizer will be billed for the cost of the police officers during the event at the appropriate rate.'”

“This is obviously a huge ‘cash cow’ for the CSPD, and that’s why they agreed to shut down the public sidewalk,” he continued.

As always, the organizers urge everyone in attendance to be lawful and peaceful in word and actions, even in the event of civil disobedient arrests.

Well, that explains it…

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Driving home just now I was listening to the radio. Over the air waves came the lyrical voice of John Tesh, doing his daily show, dispensing helpful advice to his listeners between songs. Today’s topic was anger. Do you ever get really angry at other drivers? Do you shake your fist or yell at them? Does your anger go from zero to fifty in a matter of seconds? Well, if so, you may have Intermittent Eruptive Disorder or IED. IED usually begins to manifest itself in early adolescence. It often takes the form of road rage, a desire for vengeance, or fury at one’s mate.
 
In my case, it generally involves a mad dash to the bathroom after a spicy meal, but I am glad to know that I’m not alone in my struggle.

Let’s not drop the ball!

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This from the Pikes Peak Justice and Peace Commission this morning…

Anyone who wishes to register a complaint with the police regarding the St. Patrick’s Day parade incident (you don’t have to be an arrestee to do so) please pick up a complaint form at police headquarters. Also, we ask anyone who considers him or herself a witness (having seen the incident) and who has pictures which help establish what happened to please call police headquarters and say what you saw. We suggest the latter since the media is implying that all the calls being received by police are supportive of police behavior and of the removal of peace marchers from the parade. Thank you.

The police are hearing mostly praise for their unconscionable actions over the weekend. Typical Colorado Springs. Please call in or file a complaint if you feel that they overstepped their bounds. Whether or not you were a witness. You’ve seen the pictures. You know what happened. Peace activists are getting some attention from the media…Let’s make sure we don’t miss an opportunity to advocate for peace and for civil liberties in our own community.

Shillelagh-bearing lepre-cons

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lepre-con.jpgIf our local media coverage and relative lack of moral outrage on the part of the citizenry over the St. Paddy’s Day debacle has you a bit depressed (with today’s freedom-loving Gazette editorial calling the peace marchers “parade crashers” and “political zealots” serving as salt in our ever-deepening collective “rugburn”), check out the national blog The Daily Kos. They picked up Cara DeGette’s article which, thus far, has generated over 300 comments. Most of them biting and insightful and hilarious. An example:
 
Cops Are Thugs Get it?
I’m sure there is a perfectly good justification for dragging a 75-year-old woman down the street. Maybe their sunglasses were so dark, they thought she was black?
by Snarcalita on Mon Mar 19, 2007 at 11:14:23 PM PDT

Sure made me feel a lot better…..

Win one for the Man(ning)!

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Peyton Manning signed photographYeehaw, Peyton won the Superbowl!
 
Lots of articles this week. Is football America’s religion? Unless you go to New Life Church, hell yeah! We worship. We sing. We dance. We praise. We repent. We are slain in the aisles. We are redeemed. We are brothers and sisters. We sit at the right hand of God. NO DOUBT.

I have to admit to being a rabid sports fan. I don’t know why. I can’t explain. But last night, when it became apparent that Peyton was gonna bring it home, I cried and cried. My kids gathered silently around me in an adorable show of compassion, not completely understanding but knowing that my tears were not tears of sadness.

I guess it’s about connection. I think it’s about dreams. Drama. Victory. Superiority. I honestly don’t know.

My ex-hub is a maniacal Northwestern University fan. He attended both undergrad and Med School there. Unfortunately, NW is an egghead school. No one, except Fisher DeBerry, wants to talk about what that means. It means NOT GOOD FOOTBALL. I’ll go no further.

In 1999, Northwestern won the Big Ten championship. I cannot tell you what an astounding feat this was with the likes of Michigan and Ohio State as competitors. It’s like Vandy winning the SEC. Dave and I, of course, went to Pasadena to see the Rose Bowl Parade (amazing) and the game against the USC (the University of Spoiled Children….better, the University of Low Class Jerks where OJ Simpson was an idol). Never a ruder crowd have we seen. No appreciation for the history. No appreciation for the record books. Just masses running around drinking beer being assholes.

The next year Northwestern barely missed another Big Ten Championship. They, instead, went to the Citrus Bowl. Again, Dave and I went. NW played the University of Tennessee, clad in unbelievably garish orange, speaking with heavy Southern drawls. Because the game was in Orlando, not too far from Tennessee, the crowd was comprised mainly of Vols fans. A pep rally was held on the eve of the big game, thousands of people clad in orange celebrating, partying, laughing. Peyton Manning, at the tender age of 22, stood at the podium and admonished the Vols fans to acknowledge NW’s accomplishments and to invite us to participate. It was a much different experience than we’d had at the Rose Bowl. Real people. Kind people. A classy Peyton Manning understanding the greater significance of football and history.

I am the same age as John Elway. So is Dave. We spent much of our married life loving the Broncos, living and dying by John’s performances and his screw ups. I remember Craig Morton. A great man but unable to move well. Enter John Elway. Bliss and pain. Our lives forever different.

John’s contemporaries are some of the best in NFL history. Dan, Joe, Troy, Boomer, Steve, Bernie, many more. John was stellar. He was amazing. He was bright and classy and visionary. Somewhat erratic in the beginning. Then just magic. Especially in the fourth quarter.

The Superbowl victory eluded John for years. Though he was one of the most accomplished QBs in history, he was diminished by the fact that he never won a Superbowl. Sure, he didn’t have much to work with but, in history, no one cares about that. When the Broncos won in Miami in ’99, I was there. I was overwrought. I was crying and laughing. I think the Rolling Stones performed at half time….I hardly remember. I just wanted John to have his scepter. And he did.

Peyton has had a similar experience. A first round draft pick, like Elway. An incredible record, like Elway. Victories. Accolades. Press. Passion. Love. But no Superbowl ring.

Dan Marino, possibly the greatest QB in NFL history, never brought home the big one. That will be his legacy. He will always be known as the great QB that never brought home the prize. I’m so glad that Peyton won’t have that monkey on his back.

Peyton! Peyton! Peyton!

Dance for Virginity

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Recently, at the Broadmoor Hotel:
 
Once you pop you cant stopFollowing dessert, couples file into the adjacent ballroom. Seven ballerinas appear in white gowns with tulle skirts, carrying on their shoulders a large, rustic wooden cross that they lift up and rest on a stand. A woman cries as she presents each of their three ceremonial dances, one of which is called “I’ll Always Be Your Baby.” Afterward, two middle-aged pastors stand at the cross with heavy rapiers raised and announce that they are prepared to “bear swords and war for the hearts of our daughters.” The blades create an inverted “V” under which girls and fathers kneel and lay white roses that symbolize purity. Soon there is a heap of cream-colored buds wilting beneath the outstretched arms of the cross.

This lovely ritual ended the Seventh Annual Father-Daughter Purity Ball. A hundred couples–fathers dapper in tuxedos, daughters resplendent in backless floor-length gowns, long gloves and tiaras–gathered together to celebrate and pledge to protect the girls’ virginity until marriage.

Okay, I’m sorry. I cannot, for the life of me, think of anything creepier than being in a room full of middle-aged men knowing that each and every one of them, including my own father, is thinking about my vagina. My hymen more specifically, if Christian men even know that word.

Thank God I grew up Catholic where I only had to pretend to be good. If my father would’ve suggested that he and I, or any of my three sisters for that matter, attend the Purity Ball to celebrate virginity, I would’ve perished on the spot. More likely I would’ve had sex with the mailman or my priest or someone, anyone, just to get out of going. “Too late, Dad,” I’d say, bloodied and bedraggled. “I guess we can’t go.”

When it’s time for dads and daughters to take the pledge (some informally exchange rings as well), the men stand over their seated daughters and read aloud from parchment imprinted with the covenant: “I, [father’s name], choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity….” The men inscribe their names and their daughters sign as witnesses. Then everyone returns to their meals and an excited buzz fills the room.

Yeah, an excited buzz like “thank fucking hell that’s over.” I know, I shouldn’t be so jaded. It’s not like I’m exactly a fan of promiscuity. And I do think that a strong relationship with dad lays a foundation for future interaction with the male species. But this is just so icky. And, no surprise, ineffective.

88% of the pledgers go on to have premarital sex. Of course, with more than the usual dose of guilt. They are less likely to use condoms because that would mean planning to have sex. Best that it “just happens.” They are more likely to engage in anal sex (PROTECT THAT FLOWER!), again sans condom, which is risky behavior. Thus, as a group, pledgers have a higher-than-average rate of STDs.

Ideally, the daughter goes from being under the virginity contract right into the marriage contract. More tuxes, more pretty dresses, more cake. Forget the hidden clauses and caveats. Just enjoy your big day. And your special night as you present your treasure trove of earthly delights to your new headmaster.

I deeply wish that the lovely things I have seen tonight—the delighted young women, the caring, doting dads—might evolve into father-daughter events not tied to exhorting a promise from a girl that may hang over her head as she struggles to become a woman. When Lauren hit adolescence, her father gave her a purity ring and a charm necklace with a tiny lock and key. Lauren’s father took the key, which he will hand over to her husband on their wedding day. The image of a locked area behind which a girl stores all of her messy desires until one day a man comes along with the key haunts me. By the end of the ball, as I watch fathers carrying out sleepy little girls with drooping tiaras and enveloping older girls with wraps, I want to take every one of those girls aside and whisper to them the real secret of womanhood: The key to any treasure you’ve got is held by one person—you.

That’s the lesson that we should be teaching our children.

Read the entire scary article in Glamour Magazine.

No strippers allowed

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Good boys dont hire strippers
Three lacrosse players from Duke University have been held hostage by the justice system for the past 9 months. They stand accused of sexual assault and kidnapping (rape charges were recently dropped), allegations made by a stripper who performed at an off-campus party last March.

Initially the woman did not allege rape. Later, she told police that she’d been raped by 2, 5, 10, 20 lacrosse players. Her co-stripper called the claim a “crock.” The woman also claimed that she’d been given a date rape drug. Toxicology tests found no trace of such a drug in her system. Lab tests found no evidence of DNA from the three defendants, nor from any other Duke players. They did, however, find the semen of at least 5 other men.

Cell phone records and time-stamped photographs show strong alibis for a couple of the young men accused. The stripper now says she’s not sure that she was ever penetrated by anyone, and definitely not by one of the men she’d fingered earlier, one with an alibi. She’s been under psychiatric care a number of times. She’s on an anti-psychotic drug, Seroquel. She’s alleged gang rape before. Her story has changed, often significantly, no fewer than a dozen times.

The DA in the case, Mike Nifong, recently recused himself from the case as he faces disciplinary action from the North Carolina Bar for his handling of the situation.

Why would charges even have been filed in such a non-case? A case without any credible evidence? Well, because the lacrosse players are rich and white, and the stripper is poor and black, and Mike Nifong needed to pander to the African-American community in Durham in order to win re-election to the DA’s office.

I imagine when Dr. Martin Luther King told us he dreamed of the day when people aren’t judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character, he was speaking of all people. Even rich white boys.

A Wii of One’s Own

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wii.jpegVideo game playing in my household has never been a sedentary activity. I think that my boys, all three of them, came hard-wired with a gene that had lain dormant in human DNA for millions of years, waiting for the Japanese to self actualize. They are video game phenoms.

When my David was barely two, we got an English au pair who had apparently spent plenty of time in Cornwall video arcades. She taught him to play The Lion King. He was an amazing player from the start. He couldn’t speak yet, but he developed a whole video game language….a series of barks and whoops and shrieks reminiscent of Tourette’s Syndrome. He stood and leaned and squatted and ran back and forth. We once filmed him for America’s Funniest Home Videos. I know without a doubt that we would’ve won had we followed through.

We’ve had every Nintendo system invented. My boys reminded me every day for a month that the Wii came out November 19th. “Yes, yes, I know. You’re not getting one. I know what it will take and I’m not doin’ it. Deal with it.”

I’ll admit it. I have standing-in-line-in-the-dark-waiting baggage. The previously-mentioned English au pair once brought home two absolutely cute stuffed animals. A giraffe and a zebra. “Oh my gosh,” I said. “These are incredibly adorable. Where’d you get them?”

My first-born son, Brendan, was about ten at the time. Somehow, because of him, and partly because of my love of all things cute, cuddly and/or sparkly, we fell headlong into the Beanie Baby craze. I’ve stood in line in front of Little Richard’s, clad in a ski parka and mittens, clutching Starbucks and handwarmers, with myriad other weirdo collectors waiting for the “bear du jour” more times than I care to admit. We’ve dropped hundreds, if not thousands (sorry to the poor), of dollars on BBs.

Truthfully, Beanie Babies taught my children a lot about life and entrepreneurial pursuits. Once Bren said to me, “Mom, if I get $800 can I buy a Go-Cart?”
“Well, how much do you have now?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, okay. If you earn $800 I’ll let you buy a Go-Cart.”

Little did I know that my dad, a major coin and art collector, had been lured into the BB web. He took Bren to a weekend BB trading show in Denver and, yep, the boy came home $1000 richer. I was proud and amazed. Mostly I was horrified because Bren was able to purchase an obnoxious, street un-legal, very dangerous Go-Cart. To this day, a decade later, he is persona non grata at the Country Club of Colorado for racing across the greens late at night.

Then there was the Star Wars stuff. I recall when Toys ‘R Us, very inconsiderately, decided to sell the newly-released toys at midnight on a school night. “Oh, Mom! You have to take Brent and me there or we’ll get nothing!” So, gamely, I sat in my car, with pillow and down comforter, while the boys raced around collecting loot for two hours.

McDonald’s added joy to my life by topping their extra-big colas with a Star Wars lid. Brendan insisted that I take him to MickeyDs every day and then he sold the lids on a very new eBay to collectors in Britain for nearly $200 each. From a $2 soda!

You can probably guess the end of the story. My sweet boy, now 21, showed up on my doorstep with a Nintendo Wii for his younger brothers. He had to draft a friend, stand in line overnight, but he got the goods. Just like I used to for him.

CSAP.com

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Stamp out CSAPYay! The CSAP scores were published last week and we the public are able to assess how our educators are doing. I am exceedingly glad that we have a single test that tells us everything we need to know about our children. Really takes the monkey off my back.

In my district, every one of our elementary schools achieved one of the top two marks: (1) Excellent or (2) High. This should be a cause for celebration. But it isn’t. My children are at a school achieving the embarrassing High mark. This has happened for the past few years and has caused a mass exodus from our school to the Excellent schools. Children are receiving a much better education there, no doubt. In return, we receive many out-of-district children which, like it or not, causes a further slide in our scores.

The funny thing is that my children were in the Excellent school for 8 years and I felt that they were receiving an inferior education there. Lots of control. No enrichment. No affirmation or fun or freedom. I forget. Where on the CSAPs do they measure musical talent? Artistic genius? Creativity? Vision? A high EQ, Emotional Quotient, which psychologists recognize as the true measure of future success? Oh, that’s right. Nowhere. Monkeys, take your number 2 pencils and fill in the circles.

The CSAPs remind me of Match.com. Newly divorced, my friends convinced me that Match.com was a great way to meet cool guys. Reluctantly I put together a rather sarcastic profile, no picture because I felt that a response would indicate a certain level of bravery, and waited for my dream guy to find me. After a few weeks, I started corresponding with someone who seemed super groovy on paper. Athletic, outdoorsy, humorous, intelligent, financially secure. Eureka!

Against my better judgment I agreed to meet for dinner. Oh boy. I could tell within 2 minutes of walking in the door that a paper representation of this man had given me an incomplete picture of his true personality, to say the least. By the end of the night, I was holding his head in my lap, stroking his hair as he sobbed his way through stories of his schizophrenic sister and his abusive father. With my free hand I searched my purse for a razor blade or a hallucinogenic mushroom or a flask of Jack Daniels or anything else that might comfort me, but to no avail. I am happy to report, however, that he finished up the date not with a kiss, thank God in heaven, but by giving me a Scottish tam with fake fur hair attached. A downpayment on a future date he said.

Do I have a point here? I think I do. It’s that nothing real or complicated or meaningful can be reduced to paper. To a score. CSAPs don’t measure true genius, family relationships, athletic ability, talent, the condition of the mind or heart. They don’t measure the capacity to learn. They don’t measure the brilliance or compassion of the teacher. They measure nothing except a child’s ability to regurgitate a head stuffed full of useless information. They tell us nothing more than a rat walking through a maze tells us. Nothing more than a carefully-worded Match.com profile tells us. Both should be taken with a very large grain of salt.

In case you were wondering, I still have the tam.

Super Duper Heroes

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Let’s grieve for Ken Jordan. Let’s grieve for him as a beloved son, a cherished brother, a loving boyfriend. But must we grieve for him as a slain police officer, one who died to protect us? He didn’t give his life. His life was taken from him by a drunken asshole. Just as the lives of the teachers at Columbine were taken, the lives of relief workers and journalists in Iraq and elsewhere are taken, the lives of nuns caring for the downtrodden in dangerous countries are taken.

Since 9-11 we’ve been conditioned to worship the “public servants” who fight our kitchen fires and bust our teenagers for tinted windows. Does anyone really believe these guys chose such a career because they care about us? The same can be said about our soldiers. With rare exception, men who choose a career in police/fire/military do so because it works for them. They don’t want to work at Wal-Mart, can’t work at Apple. The idea of carrying a gun appeals mightily to the kid whose head was bashed into the gymnasium locker by the big jock with the cute cheerleader on his arm. The idea of dressing up in a dapper uniform and becoming part of a powerful club resonates with the guy who has a lot of testosterone, quite a bit of adrenaline, but little else to distinguish him. They love their institutional authority. They enjoy pulling over the red BMW and watching the rich guy quake in his Bruno Maglis. They relish wiping the tears of the pretty girl who didn’t give them the time of day in Junior High.

I saw the procession for Officer Jordan yesterday. And, yes, it brought a tear to my eye. But not because he was a cop.

Handle with care

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Southern craker resists appleThe Snake King is dead. Tragically, Ali Khan Samsuddin, a fifth generation snake charmer, died last week in Kuala Lumpur after being bitten by a cobra. He had been bitten many times before and always managed to survive. Not so this time.

Though originally tied closely to religion, modern day snake handling is a trade without much religious significance. The religious practice of handling snakes does still exist, believe it or not, in the American South.

In 1992, a man named Glen Summerford stood accused of attempted murder after forcing his wife to put her hand into a cage full of snakes. He was the pastor of the Church of Jesus with Signs Following. Services at this tiny church, located in the Northern Alabama town of Scottsboro, include speaking in tongues, playing with fire and drinking strychnine from mason jars. But even more exciting is their practice of picking up poisonous snakes.

The faithful at the Church of Jesus with Signs Following interpret literally a passage in the Book of Acts: And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name they shall cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. When the Spirit moves ’em in Scottsboro, they get out the snakes.

Dennis Covington was a freelance journalist covering Summerford’s trial for the New York Times. After the trial was over, Covington was befriended by some of the snake handlers and other members of the church. He started to attend services at the church out of curiosity and, over the course of a few months, was pulled into a bizarre world of fundamentalist Christianity where “believers” base their entire Christian identity on one or two Bible passages. Apparent lunacy was the result of this type of limited Biblical interpretation.

While mainstream Christian fundamentalism is not quite as zany, nor as interesting, as it is in Appalachia, the practice of carving the Bible up into little passages and verses that serve particular agendas is just as common. Leviticus does say that for a man to lie with another man is an abomination. It also says that shellfish are an abomination. It says don’t cut your hair, don’t wear clothing made with two different materials. It’s okay to own slaves. Just don’t disrespect your father or you’ll be put to death. I say take one verse, take all. Or else step back and open up to a larger perspective, one that doesn’t diminish God or re-create him in our own limited image.by Dennis Covington
Fortunately, Dennis Covington escaped the cult and made it back to New York. He wrote about his experience in an amazing book called Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia. Covington says that the snake-handling experience confirmed his long-held suspicion that madness and religion are a hair’s breadth apart. That feeling after God is dangerous business. That Christianity without passion, danger, and mystery may not really be Christianity at all. I’m with Dennis on this. Let’s not reduce faith in God to a small-minded, verse-picking, powerless and fearful way of life. Gimme a snake.

A puppeteer

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puppeteerI wanted to study dance in college. I wanted to perform on Broadway. I wanted to walk through campus, and life, with “jazz hands.”
 
As a freshman, I was at CU-Boulder, living the life of a lab rat as a Molecular/Cellular/Developmental Biology major. My older brother was a year ahead of me, also an MCDB major, brilliant beyond belief. He seemed to understand the “cell,” with all of its asinine complexity, at an intuitive level. He understood physics, chemistry, had memorized the Periodic Table and was even capable of making hilarious jokes about it. I, meanwhile, stumbled around campus humiliated by the forehead crease left by my lab goggles wondering what geek could help me figure out the molarity of my latest unknown.

I eventually changed my major to business, accounting more specifically. It wasn’t so much that I was wildly excited by debits and credits, I’m still not, or that most of the gorgeous fraternity boys were in the B School (they generally studied “finance,” accent always on the second syllable, and went on to be successful brokers or developers), but that I didn’t come from a particularly wealthy family and I needed a career, not just an education. Becoming a CPA seemed a safe bet. It has proven to be such.

Because of my college experience, and maybe my perceived lack of personal creative freedom, I always find it interesting to hear what young people are studying these days. I wonder how the parents feel, especially the fathers, when they hear that their young son is going to be, say, a puppeteer. Does this revelation cause Dad to puff out his chest and smoke a stogie on the back deck? Does Mom call over her coffee klatch girlfriends to boast about her son’s incredible prowess with a hand puppet?

When my son (now 21) was little he had a puppet as his constant companion. We got it at Poor Richard’s Toy Store and it was, sad to say, a beaver. Furry brown with lewd teeth and a hopeful demeanor. Bren wanted to take it everywhere. Unfortunately, after about five minutes, he wanted me to hold it. He was a very engaging child and, frequently, when he saw someone he found interesting he would shout, in a loud Mickey Mouse voice, “Look at my mom’s beaver!” This, of course, had an EFHutton effect. Everything would slow to a crawl, people would turn their heads deliberately toward me to see how I would respond.

I learned quickly to deal with this recurrent nightmare. I “worked up” a little beaver dance and performed it on the person nearest to me that appeared somewhat sympathetic. I would take “Beav” and bite the person’s forearm and say “Come help me build my dam!”

I don’t want to malign puppeteers. In fact, I want to laud puppeteers. In my immediate family, we have three CPAs, a pathologist, an attorney, a pharmaceutical drug rep. Our parents are proud of us. We all have careers and children, big houses and big mortgages, lots of demands for our money and our time. We’re living the American dream!

I can’t help but wonder, though, if any of my siblings ever feel like I do while I’m scurrying through the office clutching my mechanical pencil and my laptop, wearing the latest Ann Taylor fashions, picturing myself instead in fishnet hose and a bustier, standing under the bright theater lights, bowing demurely to thunderous applause. When my older brother holds his stethoscope does he secretly wish it were a paintbrush? When my sister makes her closing arguments in front of the judge and jury, would she rather be doing improvisational comedy in a little club somewhere? I don’t have any idea.

I know one thing. I hope my children will pursue their passions. It may be an uphill battle. Already their Dad and I have college funds set up for each of them. We have firm ideas about which elite schools they should attend and what careers might hold promise. I imagine we’ll have a doctor or two, maybe a physicist, probably a computer whiz. The IQ tests have been administered and we know where their strengths lie. But not where their dreams lie.

I have secret wish. I want a puppeteer.

Giving thanks

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My third grade twins were asked in school last week to write down three things they were thankful for. Both wrote that they were thankful for family, friends, the earth. Under each category they were asked to elaborate a bit. Under family, my little girl wrote that she was thankful for Mom, Dad, brothers and sisters.

My little boy, however, had a different take on the assignment. He wrote that he was thankful that his family was supportive, funny, and “willing.” Willing. How cute. Willing to do what? He didn’t really say.

Upon reflection I know that I, too, am thankful to the people in my world who are willing. Willing to let me be myself. Willing to forgive my indiscretions. Willing to hike with me on a snowy morning. Willing to be spontaneous and funny and engaging. Willing to offer words of encouragement or words of advice. Willing to confront me when necessary. Willing to love me, come what may.

I want to learn a lesson from my son, accidentally wise beyond his years, and be more willing.

Ladies who lunch: a rebuttal

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Ladies who lunchEric, I hardly know where to begin. I guess I will leave the analysis of sorority girls alone as I was never one of them, neither were any of my sisters, I’m guessing neither were yours. I’m sure I have a few friends who were but I couldn’t tell you who.

I do know many society gals, however. And, yes, we threw a big party this month to raise funds for Newborn Hope. We also educated the 1600 people in the room about prematurity and gave them further opportunity to get involved with the cause.

Because we fed our fat faces, migrant workers on the Western Slope will have access to prenatal care; Peak Vista will have money to see high-risk indigent pregnant women; McKee Medical Center will have a bi-lingual social worker on staff, Penrose Community will hold smoking cessation classes for pregnant teens, etc.

In August we threw a big party called Pasta in the Park to raise funds for TESSA. We challenged each other to make the tastiest pasta sauce, dressed up as though we were heading off to Ascot, and made a bunch of money so that abused women and their children have a safe place to go. Ask Cari Davis what she thinks of the work we sorority gals do, and what she would do without us.

I think in December, it’s S-CAP. The Red Ribbon Ball. Yet another garish event designed to raise funds to help those suffering with AIDS.

In February, it’ll be the Heart Ball. We’ll raise more than $100,000 in a single night. The men will dress in tuxes and we girls will get to wear our ball gowns, maybe even our furs. We’ll once again eat delicious fattening food and dance to the mellow sounds of Moments Notice, or some other local boring band.

I was part of the organization that started the Children’s Literacy Center. Remember, we used to hold the Celebrity Dinner at Jose Muldoon’s? “Important” people served us tacos and margaritas and we made enough money to kick off our fledgling project. If you don’t know what a difference the Children’s Literacy Center has made in Colorado Springs, you should really check out their website. Or talk to any educator in town.

Guess what? The same 100 or so society women hold every one of these fundraising events. EVERY ONE. We also do the Festival of World Theater, the Dance Theater’s wine tasting weekend, the Fine Arts Center’s annual gala–all kinds of arts and culture undertakings that benefit our community mightily.

I took a graduate course on Nonprofit Management a few years ago at UCCS. It was taught by Cathy Robbins who heads up the El Pomar Foundation. She taught us that the role played by society women, the fund raisers, in the world of philanthropy is immeasurable and critically important.

The thing about your post that is the most upsetting to me is the accusation that Newborn Hope has played into the hands of the anti-abortion activists. As the person who was recently in charge of granting the nearly $300,000 we raised last year, all I can say is NOT ON MY WATCH. The ironic thing about society gals is that we are smart. Really smart. Maybe we gave up careers to marry the big guys and raise families, but we were chosen by those big boys because of our DNA. Because of our charisma. Because of our mental acuity. We were chosen by them because of our genes. Not because of our jeans.

My Advisory Council co-chair, former Kappa Kappa Gamma turned attorney who has recently published her fourth book, and I understood very well how the issue of prematurity might be linked to the issue of abortion. She and I are actually on opposite sides of the abortion issue. Be we are most definitely on the same side when it comes to prematurity prevention and the work done by Newborn Hope.

I’ll give you a little education. We give a lot of money for pregnancy tests. This has never felt to me like a great use of our funds. However, because we have several physicians, neonatal nurses and social workers on our committee (we’ll only accept them if they have a least one strand of genuine pearls and understand that Birkenstocks with knee socks are not allowed in any circumstance), the pregnancy test is a very important first step. It is imperative if (1) a provider wants to enter the woman into the healthcare system (2) the provider wants to enroll the woman in the Medicaid system (3) the provider wants to take control of the woman (usually a young girl) to prevent her from obtaining an abortion.

Those in category 3 usually are also interested in funds for “early ultrasound.” From a medical standpoint, there is almost no reason to do an ultrasound at six weeks except to show a young girl that this is in fact a “baby” living within her womb that should not be aborted.

My co-chair and I, despite the fact that we are society gals, are not idiots. Nor are any gals on our committee. We understand very well the dynamic. As a result, we changed the way Newborn Hope grants funds. We now have a rubric that we use to evaluate grant proposals. If the pregnancy test is a first step in getting the patient into Medicaid, or if it is a first step in referring the woman to a doctor who will provide “continuity of care” all the way until birth, we’ll pay for the pregnancy tests. If not, we won’t. On our watch, a local medical care organization, which is actually closely aligned with the anti-abortion movement, got nothing. NOT ONE DIME. For the first time in years. Check out our website at NewbornHope.org to see who gets our money. Our evaluation rubric is posted there as well.

So make fun if you must. But this town would be a much different place without the ladies who lunch. People in the non-profit world know it. They would never belittle our efforts, because we help them achieve their ends in a way they couldn’t without our support.

If you’d like me to throw a little soiree to raise funds for one of your pet projects, maybe the PPJPC, my sorority friends and I could have about a hundred grand in your pocket by the end of next week. So let us know. Even with the holidays fast approaching, lots of shopping to do for our little silver spooners, we’d still love an opportunity to feed our fat faces! And shop for new outfits from our fine local merchants! You don’t have to ask twice!

Crying while eating

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images2.jpgYou’ve done it. I’ve certainly done it. Sitting down for a bite to eat, suddenly overcome by emotion. “My GOD. What has my life become?” Or “Why, oh why, are we fighting WARS when we should be MAKING LOVE?” Or, in my most recent case, “Why the HELL do I spend half my life doing things I HATE?”

Perhaps you were already crying but, through your tears, saw last night’s leftover lemon chicken and could not resist.

Do not despair. We are not alone. Plenty of good people, people just like us, cry while they eat. The difference is that they have the presence of mind to capture it on video.

Privacy freak

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Social Security clownA couple of years ago I took my son to a local college to register for a class. I filled out the required paperwork and when I handed it back to the clerk she said, “Oh, you forgot to fill in his Social Security number.” I replied that no, indeed, I had not forgotten but that Social Security had nothing to do with studying Plant Biology and therefore I was unwilling to give his SSN to them. “But we need it because it will be his student ID number.” I disagreed and informed her that she could simply assign him a student ID number like 999-99-9999.

I am sure I’ve never seen anyone look quite as perplexed as the clerk did at that moment. It took over an hour and several different administrators “reasoning” with me before my son got his random student ID number and off we went to the bookstore.

First mini-moral of the story. You people are giving out your Social Security numbers way too readily. This is obvious because with thousands of students registering every year I was apparently the only privacy nut in the history of the college unwilling to cooperate. Your SSN should never be given to anyone except a company/individual who is required to report your earnings or wages to the IRS. Period. Period. Period.

Next, remember in the not-too-distant past when brilliant geeks in labs participating the the Human Genome Project discovered that the presence of certain genes could predict possible future diseases or health problems. What an amazing discovery, one that could benefit mankind mightily. Enter bastard medical insurance companies. “Oh, we’d sure like to get our hands on that kind of information so we can deny coverage.” Enter corporate assholes. “Oh, we’d sure like to get our hands on that kind of information so we can deny employment.”

Second mini-moral of the story. Guard your medical information in every way that you can. Start by refusing to give doctor’s offices and insurance companies your SSN which is, as we’ve learned, a number you must only give to an employer, possibly a bank or a broker. If you are insured under a group plan, talk to your employer about keeping those numbers private. There is absolutely no reason that Kaiser Permanente needs your fucking Social Security number. Make some noise about it.

And if you ever need to seek treatment for substance abuse or mental health problems, do not do it with the knowledge or assistance of any insurance company. Pay cash, use a fake name. I know this sounds like paranoia (oops! a mental health problem) but this is a monkey that will hang onto your back forever. Once again, denial of employment, medical coverage. Don’t even think of running for public office or being a teacher or a policeman or a firefighter. Medical care providers pretend that our privacy is protected. It’s not protected. Talk to Bill O’Reilly.

The Patriot Act gives the government the right to mine the entire spectrum of public and private sector information. Any walls of privacy that may have formerly existed, shaky as they were, have come crashing down.

Third mini-moral of the story. Teach your children to protect their privacy. I’m not advocating that we make them hate or fear the government, or insurance companies, or school counselors, or Kaiser Permanente (actually I am). But young people should be made aware that personal information in the wrong hands can make life a nightmare.

I saw my son this morning and he showed me his new cell phone. “Guess what?” he said. “I got it at Wal-Mart. Sixteen cents per minute prepaid, no contract, I gave ’em a fake name. Kubla Khan.”

Mission accomplished.

Is something divinely radical afoot?

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I think it’s actually something far more interesting, and hopeful, and maybe even enchanting. Here it is: Maybe these megachurches are not, in fact, a sign that the United States is coagulating like a tumor to the Right, but, in fact, they indicate the exact opposite.

Maybe megachurches are, in short, an anxious and massively quivering reaction to a hot divine upsurge, one they can’t quite comprehend and which makes their eyeballs shudder and their loins burn; their existence is irrefutable proof that something divinely radical is afoot, a massive sea change, a karmic mutiny, with the churches acting merely as a sleek and desperate defense. You think?

In other words, maybe these delirious throngs of blind believers are merely a trembling shield masquerading as a sleek salvation, vainly attempting to protect themselves from the onslaught of, oh I don’t know, divine self-definition? An orgasm of radical sticky nontheistic cosmic beauty? A goddess with a bright red tongue and a wry knowing grin and an appetite for destruction? Let us pray.

Newborn Hope and Faded Beauty

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Tiny handOn Thursday and Friday I, along with 1600 of my closest friends, dolled up and went to the Broadmoor International Center to attend the annual Newborn Hope luncheon and fashion show. This is a spectacular event, something that we look forward to all year. Filet mignon, chocolate mousse and champagne are culinary staples. Beautiful models from Denver, both male and female, entertain us. We have a silent auction (Botox, rounds of golf, ski jackets, jewelry), we sell table decorations and Christmas ornaments, we have a balloon raffle. We have fun. We raise money.

I have been involved with Newborn Hope for more than a decade. I have co-chaired the event, co-chaired the Advisory Council, been a member of the Corporate Board. Newborn Hope is about prematurity prevention and maternal/neonatal healthcare. I could go on and on about my passion for our mission and for the organization, but I think I’ll save that for another time.

What I want to talk about are the women who are Newborn Hope. Shortly after I became involved with the organization, I discovered that I was pregnant with twins. I had had 4 easy pregnancies in the past so this discovery did not deter me from my normal behavior in the slightest. At 26 weeks (normal gestation is 40 weeks) I went to my doctor for a routine check up. Ironically, she informed me that I was in pre-term labor and that I needed to walk across the parking lot and check myself into the hospital.

The long and short of it is that I ended up enduring 10 weeks of strict bedrest. I had 4 young children at home but was told that I was allowed to get up only once every 2 hours to go to the bathroom. Yeah, right. Puh-lease.

My Newborn Hope friends, none of whom I knew well at the time, heard of my plight and knew how important, and how impossible, compliance was. In order to help me and my little preborns, they arranged for a different committee member to deliver a meal to my home, enough to feed the 6 of us, every night for 10 weeks. A woman I hardly knew called me and said, politely but firmly, “I will be in your driveway every morning at 7:45 to take your kids to school. Please have them watch for me.” Another woman drove my little David to preschool three times per week, a thirty minute round trip.

Twice during my confinement, 20 women or so brought me a moveable feast. They showed up on my doorstep with egg dishes and waffles and bacon and sweet rolls, flowers even. They arranged chairs around me, hugged me, talked to me, made me laugh. Two hours later they gathered everything up, washed and put away every dish, left me with a few good books, and out they went. It was a bit surreal. Kind of like Cat in the Hat.

My new friends came and took my little ones to Happy Apple Farm to get Halloween pumpkins. They showed up every day at 3:30 to lift my little Lara out of her crib after her afternoon nap. They heard that I was having a hard time reading so they blazed in, taught me to cross stitch, brought me everything I needed to complete a project, and raced back out to their own lives.

A severely premature infant is the most expensive medical patient there is. Much more expensive than a cancer patient, a transplant patient, an accident victim. More importantly, premature babies can have developmental delays, vision problems, physical difficulties that last a lifetime. My twins, had they been born at 26 weeks, might be very different children today. I am grateful for their good health. I’ll be forever thankful for the women who helped me carry to term.

I took a friend of mine, a guy, to the luncheon this year. I wanted to share with him an important part of my life, to show him what I’ve done for 10 years, to introduce him to the people who’ve made a huge difference to me and to Devon and Ryan. He was one of only a few men among 800 women. I thought that it would be fun. Educational. Inspiring perhaps. Sadly, he saw a bunch of middle-aged women, shoved into leather pants and halter tops, flaunting back fat and delightful but embarrassing fake boobs, hoping to regain lost youth. How sad and how jaded. I’m really sorry that that is all he saw.

I saw my angels. I saw my friends. I saw love in action. I saw gorgeous women who’ve made a difference to me and to the community.

Relax, guy friend. You don’t need to tell us about our faded beauty. We already know. Many of us who are involved with Newborn Hope have had heartbreaking experience with prematurity. We’ve also dealt with breast cancer, aging parents, learning disabilities…you name it. As a result, we don’t worry too much about our saddlebags. Our chin hairs. Our wrinkled foreheads. Our sagging boobs. We’d rather revel in the potential and perfection of our children. And in the beauty and kindness of our aging friends.

So go screw yourself. You’ll never again be invited to hang out with the ladies who lunch.