Author Archives: Marie Walden

Dolls and Trolls

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PeignoirAfter reviewing my slightly mean-spirited post about average guys sporting babes (remember Sybil and feel for her) I am compelled, as Marie, in the interest of fairness and full disclosure, to discuss the other side.

We’ve established that it is terrific for a man’s ego to be sporting a gorgeous blonde on each arm. But what, what in the hell, would motivate a woman to go along with the plan?

It could be that the man is well endowed (a type of good news that travels very quickly, trust me). This is my theory behind David Spade’s incredible success with Hollywood hotties. Why in the world would he, of all people, land Heather Locklear, among many sexy others? He is only 5’5″ but it is my guess that he is hiding bigger and better things and every girl in the vicinity knows it.

It could also be money. Brandon Davis, Stavros Niarchos, Randy Spelling…the Hollywood trust funders always have cute girlfriends and seem to have plenty of fun. However, I dated a trust funder all through college and beyond. At some point, the aimlessness and sheer pointlessness of a self-centered easy existence began to wear on my psyche. I had to move on to greener (ha) pastures because, like Solomon, it felt like all was vanity…..nothing under the sun mattered.

No, power is the true aphrodisiac. There is nothing sexier or more alluring to me than a man who has power and influence. A man who knows what he wants and can easily get it. A man who exudes confidence and is surrounded by people willing and able to do his bidding. This, more than anything, has been my undoing. I love arrogant men. I love the big boys. And they love me.

This flaw of mine explains why I’ve spent most of my adult life somewhat alone….physically, emotionally, spiritually. Powerful men rarely have anything else to offer. They are not accessible. They are edgy. They are hostile. They are controlling. Conversations consist of carefully chosen phrases. Sex is a zero sum game. There are always conditions, clauses, opt outs.

I think I’ve learned a thing or two in the past few years. Real power is not tied to money or political/business influence. True authority lies in the power of one’s convictions. A person who is passionate about something, anything really, has power. A person who is clear headed, rational, relational, loving and committed is a change agent. Someone I want to know. Someone I want to be around.

I won’t be arm candy (I’m getting too old anyway). I don’t give a whit about money or power. I want to associate with real people who have passion. People who are selfless, brilliant, committed, creative. This, more than anything, will bring me to my knees.

Trolls and Dolls

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TrollWe’ve all seen it. The beautiful girl on the arm of a troll. A troglodyte. At best, a man who is physically average. We never see the opposite, do we? A gorgeous man paired up with a fat ugly girl. Sometimes there is still a first wife in the picture, pretty average by today’s media standards…the high school sweetheart, the smart one, probably athletic, the one with the good DNA. The child-bearing thing can complicate the beauty pursuit significantly. Every man knows that he wants brilliant and competent children. Even his daughters. But once that goal is met, all bets are off. Enter the trophy wife. Arm candy for the insecure man.

Why is this? Let me enlighten you (and I claim expert status here for a variety of reasons). My favorite book (and all-time bestseller) says that man is the glory of God, meaning that man is God’s highest achievement, a source of honor and great praise. Well guess what? The Bible also says that woman is the glory of man. Woman, more than anything else, can bring happiness and respectability to a man. That is why the experts say that the happiest people on the planet are married men.

Hooters girls, models, women who are defined by beauty and little else, and whose personalities reflect that, don’t make great mates for intelligent evolved men. Besides, outward beauty will undoubtedly fade. Real beauty will not.

I think most men figure this out because statistics show that 80% of second marriages to Marla Maples ultimately fail.

Dear Principal

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Safe handsDear Principal,
I attended the Halloween festivities at school this week and was left afterward with a feeling of sadness because it seemed that the school has lost some of its spirit, maybe a little of its heart. The children were quiet, especially during the classroom parties. The parents and teachers seemed reserved.

It is my impression that you do not respect the fact that our school has long-held traditions. Because it is your first year, you believe that you have a clean slate and will create your own traditions. I completely agree that you should leave your mark on our school. But that will, and should, take a number of years to accomplish. Mrs. Principal, do you know us? Do you know who I am or who my children are? I have had kids in the district for 16 years. My father-in-law was a former superintendent. My mother-in-law a teacher and principal for years. All three of their children were valedictorians! My mother taught for 30 years in our parochial school system. Maybe you should learn our names, even a little more about what we value, before you tell our children that they need to walk with their hands behind their backs and stay quiet in the lunch room. Had there been a problem with lunchroom chaos? With dangerous hands? If so, I had never heard about it.

I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says “Rules without Relationship Lead to Rebellion.” I put it there so I would remember that arbitrary rules, rules that don’t allow opinions to be respected and honored, even with my own 6 children, will lead to insurrection. It may be subtle or it may be overt, but damage will be done. Respect for authority will be compromised. Institutional authority is generally obeyed, rarely respected.

You have come into our midst and enacted many new laws. You’ve erased our artwork. You’ve discontinued our weekly school assembly, changed the recess schedule, altered things in the cafeteria. You’ve changed our long-held Halloween traditions. My children, in the past, have never expressed a hint of reticence at my directive to load into the car and head off to school. On Tuesday, a parent ran up to me and grabbed my arm. “Is it true you’re pulling your kids out of the school? My daughter is so upset.” “No,” I replied. “Not true at all. I guess it’s just wishful thinking.” To know that my children are unhappy with their school and are longing for change is upsetting to me. That’s why I’m speaking up.

Mrs. Principal, I know feel you were brought in to accomplish a task. I understand that there was a vocal contingent of parents worried about CSAP scores. But let’s be brutally honest. Our CSAP scores will not improve until we stop accepting so many out-of-district students. I know this. I spent 8 years at another D-12 school. I know that there is no difference in curriculum. I know that there is no difference in teacher quality or parental involvement. There are, however, fewer kids from other districts. Fewer kids from lower socio-economic classes. I am not advocating that we do this. I like the fact that our school has more diversity than many others in the district. I think it enhances my children’s education.

Besides, can you show me a connection between no Halloween masks/no AARFF/no BRAG/no recess/safe hands/quiet lunchrooms/orderly parking and higher test scores? I rather doubt it. Eliminating fun and freedom is not going to solve the “problem.” There is, however, a direct connection between socio-economic status and test scores. Truth needs to be on the table before our CSAP scores will increase.

I understand that every authority figure has her detractors. I have found, in my roles as parent, boss, committee chairman, that respect and openness to tradition and to differences of opinion, make an effective leader–a leader who can and will shape the future and, at the same time, preserve the morale and the joy that should be inherent in every elementary school.

I, and certainly other parents, would be happy to meet with you and discuss how we can work together to preserve what we’ve built over the years and still allow you to accomplish your goals. Please call me if you’d like to set up a time to get together.

Thank you,

Marie Walden

Pot smokers rejoice!

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maryjaneColorado Amendment 44 would legalize possession of an ounce of marijuana by individuals 21 or older. If it passes, it could be a first step in a long journey toward a rational and effective federal drug policy. It could generate a national debate about drugs, about civil liberties, about lots of important things.

A few days ago, I said to myself, “Oh, Marie. Don’t get your hopes up about 44. This is Colorado. This is the land of the God Squad. The permanent homeland for a buttload of Jesus freaks (not the cute hippie-types). The promised land for tens of thousands of self-righteous nimrods (a biblical place, by the way). There is no way in hell that this will pass.”

Then, in what can only be defined as an act of divine radicalism, or perhaps it was cosmic libertarianism, Mike Jones happened. And everything changed.

Perhaps this coming Tuesday, as thousands and thousands of the Colorado flock are still wringing their hands and lamenting Chief Ted’s vision quest along the straight and narrow path (wink, wink), they’ll feel too sheepish (ha! I’m slayin’ myself) to pull the little “no” lever. Perhaps at the Holy Spirit’s prompting they’ll experience a new sense of tolerance, of empathy. The scales will fall from their eyes as they wrestle with the complexity and difficulty and joy and pain and duplicity and faithfulness of fallen humanity. Maybe an ounce of pot won’t seem like such a big deal.

Party at my house.

Ted Haggard crucified

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If today’s bombshell doesn’t prove the existence of God, nothing will. Perhaps Pastor Ted should have listened to God’s inerrant words a tad more closely. Maybe he should’ve spent some time memorizing the verse clearly stating that “pride goeth before a fall.” Biblically, pride is considered arrogance. And I’d say there is something inherently arrogant about a man who claims to speak for God on a daily basis, to millions of people. Yet this same man can very conveniently ignore many of Jesus’ words, you know those that are written in red, like “blessed are the peacemakers…”

Now we find that there may be a whole slew of God’s inerrant words that Pastor Ted conveniently ignored. For shame.
 
I expect to see all of you heathens in church on Sunday.

Let the dead bury their dead

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I know it’s Monday and I should be toiling away at my job, thinking about bringing home a large rasher of bacon, double-checking the kids’ Halloween costumes, deciding what to do about the brand new fake fingernails I bit off in a weekend fit of pique.

For some reason I am perseverating on the subject of death, especially the death of a child. I watched an interesting film last year about how Americans handle the dead bodies of their loved ones. I, of course, had never questioned how we do things until I saw this film and realized that we are one of the only cultures that whisks away our corpses, tags ’em, drains ’em, pumps ’em full of some other liquid, gives ’em a bad hairdo, an even worse makeup job, dresses them in their least favorite outfit, sticks them in an incredibly expensive and garish casket and dumps ’em in the ground really really quickly. In short, we turn our dead over to complete strangers, nearly instantaneously, and by the time we lay them to rest, still firmly in the denial phase, they bear no resemblance to the one we’ve known and loved. We give ourselves no real opportunity to grieve, to come to terms, to “give up” the body and take hold of the spirit.

Other cultures allow the deceased to take up residence in the living room. Propped up, perhaps, in their favorite chair, dressed in their normal clothes. Friends, colleagues, family are able to hang around, to view the body, to hold the hand, stroke the hair, feel the pain and the loss. I understand that after a few days, as the cheeks and eyes have become sunken and there is no sense of life whatsoever, those of us left behind are able to make peace with the fact that this body IS NOT our little boy or girl or father or mother or sister or brother. This is, in fact, a shell. An earthly vessel. We have time to grieve the loss, to let go of the body and embrace the spirit.

Of course, the funeral business, just like the wedding business or any of the other “ritual” businesses that are so ingrained in American culture, doesn’t want us to consider anything besides the norm. Five thousand dollar caskets are expected because, after all, we loved Uncle Joe and want only the best for him. What a fucking scam.

Note to anyone who knows and loves me……When I die, please choose a very simple pine casket, perhaps lightly distressed just for effect, dress me in my flannel pajamas, put my hair in pigtails. Give people a few days to come by to look at me, hold my hand, tell me how they’ve loved me, how they’ve hated me, whatever they’d like to say.

When everyone has had enough time to comprehend that the body is not me, that I’m waltzing with Jesus, or dirty dancing with Satan, or whatever people do in the afterlife, dump me in a hole that you’ve all dug together in the back yard. That would make me happy.

Activism home grown

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My siblings and I frequently talk about our “activist” upbringing. We grew up with parents who walked their talk. Our mom hung out with the radical nuns protesting around Rocky Flats. And I can’t remember a single Thanksgiving where we didn’t have a couple of homeless men sitting at our dinner table. Our parents introduced them by name and we were expected to be gracious and make interesting conversation.

Then there was Robin, a retarded young man who was obsessed with a pair of moccasins that we had in our front closet. My mom made a rule that the front door be always open so that Robin could come in for his moccasins any time he wanted. As a mother, I question the wisdom of this now but, at the time, we just accepted that at any time Robin might walk in and open our front closet. It wasn’t anything we worried about….just another one of mom’s people.

At the 1975 fall of Saigon, Divine Redeemer, our home church with hundreds of families, decided to sponsor a family fleeing Communist oppression. They asked that someone step forward to host a family of 8 people for several months. Guess who stepped forward? Much to our horror, my mom and dad did. We had 6 of our own children, aged 6 to 15, living in a small house and suddenly we had 16 people living under the same roof. They didn’t speak a word of English. We certainly didn’t speak Vietnamese. Our mom and their dad were able to communicate in broken French.

We reminisce about how our mom used to read little kid books to them, VERY LOUDLY, as though she could make them understand English if only she shouted. They used to stare at us and we back at them while she did this…all of us trying hard not to laugh.

Because my dad had been a part of the war in Viet Nam and a number of families we knew had been widowed during that war, we lost friends because of the choice we made to support this family. I didn’t understand this at all at the time. It’s taken many years for me to understand that to stand for something, anything, is to risk the wrath of those who don’t agree.

As kids, we remember it as crazy fun. We made Chef Boyardee pizzas and they chopped off the heads of weird little fish and made carrots look like flowers. We were all about the same age, they dressed weird, we dressed weird….we laughed and figured out how to communicate even without words. They showed us martial arts. We taught them to hula hoop. We laughed our asses off day after day.

Once, the 10-year-old girl, incredibly beautiful, her name was Ngoc (pronounced Nop), and I sat on the swing in the front yard. She placed her hand in front of my face, put up her index finger and said “Mot.” “Mo,” I said, knowing that she was counting. “Hai.” “Hi.” “Bah. Bon. Nam. Sau.” After she taught me to count to ten she grabbed my hand and rushed me into the living room where 15-20 people sat, always at the ready, listening to the Vietnamese singing American anthems, which was both lovely and hilarious since they didn’t really understand the words. “Ma cunry tis a vee. Swe lan a liverty.” Ngoc got everyone’s attention and suddenly 20 people were staring at me, a 14-year-old, not exactly at the age where I wanted a lot of scrutiny, and she said, encouragingly, “Mot.” I felt like throwing up but I understood that the stakes were high so with red cheeks I recited what I just learned. When I finished a loud roar went up….I swear there were even a few tears from the Vietnamese parents.

This family went on to become a success story. Ultimately, the boys, Phat, Dat and Loi, became Tony and Billy and Joey. They went to DU, studied engineering. Mom and Dad opened a successful restaurant on Federal Boulevard in Denver. The girls married Vietnamese men and carried on Vietnamese tradition on their new soil. Oddly, my two brothers married Asian women, one Vietnamese, one Thai.

This family had another baby after they came to the United States. They wanted to choose an American name to honor the country that had given them a second chance. They chose Helen. My mother’s name.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the past two decades “wasting” my time doing things that may or may not ever register on anyone’s radar. One of my inspirations has been Margaret Mead who said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” That’s what my family taught me….what I’d like to teach my own.

Child

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RooI was holding my little boy (at almost 9, not so little anymore) on my lap the other day and I was looking at his hand. His long fingers, still slightly pudgy, tapering to perfect little fingernails. I took off his sock and looked at his little foot, again with clear beautiful skin and perfect tiny toenails. He, of course, thought I was weird for doing this but my thoughts were, “What if I never got to see this again? What if I could never hold this warm little hand, or look into these lovely clear green eyes? Or touch these sweet adorable freckles?” I’m not sure how I’d get my head off the pillow each day.

I once knew a woman who lost a young child to an accident. She held the toddler in her arms for hours after his death and when the nurses finally insisted that she give up the body she asked if she could undress him so she could look at him one last time. She said she wanted to memorize every inch of him so she’d never forget. Especially his little fingers and toes.

The mothers and fathers in war-torn countries encounter this nightmare every day. They’re forced to live with the horror and the guilt of not having protected their babies from harm. Their children become statistics that are reported to us daily, but, believe me, as a parent I can tell you that a child is not a statistic. Even a grown up child.

Oppose war…any day, any place, any time….It’s not worth it.

My Fellow Tribesmen

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KILL BUSH? Worry about Karl Rove? Fix Afghanistan? Remove the homeless from public libraries? Wow, you guys have a lot of mental energy! I am starting to feel like maybe I’m not part of the tribe. I’ll agree that the world has a few issues, but nothing like the nightmare occurring at Chez Walden right now.
 
arch.jpgMy resident bachelor and I decided recently to spice up our lives by adding some color to the house. We planned to paint three archways in the living and dining rooms in bold colors. After much cajoling by him (I tend to like beiges and grays) and many hours spent at Sherwin-Williams, we settled on Martha Stewart’s Old Copper Kettle (kind of a turquoisey thing) and Russet Rose. [A little background info….ever since I explained to the bachelor the ins and outs of “insider trading” and how rich people do it all the time and how retarded it is that it’s illegal, he’s been slightly obsessed with Martha. He understands the steep price she’s paid to appease the common man and is grateful for her selflessness.]

So, we got our supplies and taped everything off and yesterday was paint day. Here’s where it starts to get ugly. I was happily painting away, picturing myself in Morocco riding a big sexy camel, when not one but two of my children, at separate times, came up to say, “Cool, Mom. Looks like La Casita.” Eeeeeek! Not at all the look I’m going for! Talk about pinking shears through the heart!

So during my day today, instead of traveling to Washington to kill Dubya as I’d planned, I’ve had to call in my faux finish people, wait for them to arrive and fix the mess that I’ve created. I’m sorry that I’m letting everyone down. I promise, if George W. shows up at my door I’ll give him a good slap, I’ll pull his hair. If I’m feeling really plucky, I’ll give him an Indian burn. But right now I have to call and cancel the rainbow awning. Mea culpa.

For You

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did-1.jpg
Some days as fierce as a tiger.
Others as fragile as spun sugar.
Some days as close as skin.
Others as distant as Polaris.
Some days an easy stroll down a shaded path.
Others scree and crampons and dangerous crevasses.
You never know.
I never know.
Don’t give up on me.

Blather

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I sometimes read what I’ve written the night before and wonder why I have any friends at all. What a bloviator I am. I think that I have Multiple Personality Disorder (which is nothing to be ashamed of, Sybil). I feel like I’m writing from the heart and the next day I wake up, full of hope and good cheer, and I think “Who is this weird, arrogant, angry person who’s taken possession of my body and mind?”

The truth is that I have small boobs and a big butt; I’m way too old to be a MILF; I barely make ends meet every month; my hair looks terrible every other day; I love my kids’ cute little school and all the lovely and caring teachers that adore my children and tell me as much every chance they get. I’m not overly fond of government control and I don’t like the war but, if the truth be known, I don’t even hate Dubya nearly as much as I should. I think he’s sort of sweet and boyish and he’s married to a very nice woman which elevates him in my eyes. He loves his cute daughters and gets along with mom and dad and cares about his siblings….all the things that I strive to engender in my children.

The truth of the matter is that my life is a daily grind, just as yours is. My lofty goal each day is to stay on track, to keep a whole lot of people sane and healthy, to counsel them and love them and instruct them and pray for them. To cook and clean and do laundry and pay bills–to try to work in a little exercise, a little charity work, an occasional shower. My nights are filled with homework and sporting events and bathing, toothbrushing, Halloween costumes…it never ends. Nor do I want it to.

I am my best self when I am giving to my family, my community, loving my people and my God. It’s hard for me to care that much about the war, about poverty, about abortion. I don’t have a lot of spare time to think, less even to act. So, late at night, I let my alter ego come out and say whatever she’d like. I get up early to make breakfast and send the kids off to school and when I read what she’s written I think to myself, “Please shut up now and make me some coffee.”

MILFs and the state of public education

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Yes, I know. I’m lucky. I was born under a lucky star. I have my health and my wealth. I have a big house, two fantabulous cars, and six exceptional children. I recently won the Filling the Deep End of the Gene Pool award. “Oh my goodness. I am so honored. I’d like to thank the Catholic Church, especially Father Foxhoven for his guidance during my difficult teenage years.” I have big boobs, a small butt (think upside down pear), and I’m generally considered a MILF, my daily affirmation. If you don’t know what a MILF is then (A) You don’t know any high school boys or (B) You don’t watch WEEDS.

My point? I am supposedly part of the elite….the people who have NO WORRIES….NO HEARTACHE….GOOD HAIR EVERY DAY. We wake up each morning and weep tears of joy at our good fortune. We drink mimosas before school and feel compassion for those who have less. “God, why? Why, oh why, isn’t everyone as blessed as I?”

Speaking of school. I am in a district with an incredible curriculum. We have a college prep program, Gifted and Talented programs, Science and Math Olympiad programs, Music programs, Advanced Placement programs that can get our kids into Stanford quicker than you can say “Will that be MasterCard or Visa?”

So what is my gripe? Well, the Ninth Court of Appeals recently ruled that when we turn our children over to the public school system, we check them at the door. THEY are in charge of MY children. My dynasty. They determine what my children learn, both in and out of the classroom. THEY? Who are they? Do THEY live on my street? Play golf at my country club? WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY?

Here’s who they are. THEY are the administrators who allowed a troubled little girl, out-of-district-but-we-do-like-to-be-inclusive, push my perfect baby boy off the top of the slide and break his arm with absolutely no punishment. THEY are the principal who suspended my perfect baby girl for writing a clever cartoon about how girlz can deal with pesky boyz by spraying them with freeze spray and framing and hanging them in the hallway–something about a specific threat against a named individual. THEY are the government fuckheads who make my perfect darlings walk through the halls with “safe hands” clasped behind their backs so they can’t threaten anyone. THEY are the counselors who called my children in during my very amicable divorce without my permission to tell them about how uncertain their futures are now that their parents have split up.

I am one of the fortunate individuals who has options. I can move my children to another school within the district. I can change districts. I can move to a private school. I can home school. Actually, I’ve opted to do several of these over the years. But since I pay my property taxes and abide by the Constitution, I would rather bitch. Bitch about government overstepping its bounds. Bitch about social engineering. Bitch about the NEA. Bitch about revisionist history. Mostly I want to bitch about people–people who control people. The unluckiest people in the world.

Jarts

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JartsDo you remember the good ol’ days when we were reckless and free? Unencumbered by good sense and family responsibilities? When we were able to get together with friends on a sunny day, have some hot wings and cold beer, and play a dangerous little game called Jarts? Yard darts, lawn darts, whatever you recall, were steel-tipped weighted mega-darts that one hurled gleefully into the air toward a yellow plastic circle across the yard. It was truly a “team” sport because everyone at the party had to pay close attention to the action to avoid being impaled in the temple. The wayward dart was most likely tossed by the belle de jour in a polka dot sundress (oh! how we laughed!)…the “new girl” once again brought by Ashton Chase, our friend with connections to Chase-Manhattan. Dammit, Ashton. Stop it. Think about us for a change.

We were the only people with a kid at the time…a preschool-aged boy. I know for a fact that one of his fondest childhood memories (oddly, he remembers this in slo-mo) is of 6 adults dropping full beers in unison and racing across the yard to body check him into a fence to save his life. Kind of a boozed up backyard version of Swan Lake. Without the tutus. Well, except for Ashton.

Sadly, they have made the game of Jarts ILLEGAL. I don’t know who “they” are. Whose job is it to troll back alleys, looking for young people having fun, and then steal our toys and jump up and down on them in black Gestapo boots while we hold our blankies and our beers and sob aloud at the spectacle? Yes, them. They took our darts and our plastic rings and left us with no way to amuse ourselves.

That’s when we starting smoking pot. Dang it! They’ve got us here too. Not only have they made our harmless little substance illegal, they’ve made pretty little glass sculptures with rubber hoses and small pieces of very thin paper off limits as well. What a bunch of fuddy duddies. Puh-lease. Let us have our fuuuuunnnnnn! We are functioning members of society, doctors and lawyers and brokers and developers and financial analysts, all of us. Now we can’t smoke pot and play jarts in the privacy of our own yards? Well, then we quit. We are all going to go on welfare and stop paying our mortgages and and mowing our useless lawns and wasting our time volunteering with the PTA.

Actually, I have a better idea. I was on eBay this morning trying to buy a set of illegal lawn darts and I noticed that, instead of the $14.99 I remember, a used (vintage) set of crappy darts is going for more than $200 (and are to be used for nostalgic display purposes only). And, pot. Well, we all know what a nice sticky bud of Wowie Maui is going for these days (okay, I’ve dated myself and revealed that I don’t actually smoke pot but I still like it conceptually). Perhaps we should walk away from the rat race and make our fortunes selling reasonably harmless illegal things! Yes! We could each play a role in the family business. I, the CPA, could count the beans and file the tax returns (oh, wait, tax free! ha!). Tad, the broker, could invest the profits and set up retirement accounts for each of us. Ashton, the banker, could fund our start up costs. Betsy, the attorney, could get us out of trouble and Dave and Tim, the doctors, could act as money launderers. Chris, the developer, could find us a place to grow our inventory. The only thing we need is a horticulturalist to help us with the hydroponics. Horticulturalists? Any takers? Why don’t we know any horticulturalists? Dang.

Come to think of it, I think we’ll start manufacturing and selling yard darts as well. At $200 a pop, it won’t take long until we we’re ready to retire en masse and move to gentler climes. Sipping mai tais, swimming with dolphins, playing limbo. Just like the good ol’ days.

I hope they outlaw beer pong as well. Bora Bora, here we come.

The Affair

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My lover is having an affair. In our own house. Night after night I am alone in bed, hugging a tear-stained pillow, wanting to talk, longing to be held. As I head upstairs I look over at him, hunched over his paramour, enraptured, and I say, “I’m going to bed now.”
“Yuh,” he grunts.
“I hope you’ll join me soon,” I beseech him, casting away any remaining pride.
“Yuh,” he responds without looking up.

When it’s nearly dawn I hear him slink into our bedroom, like a cur, head down, ears back, a little foam around the mouth. Of course he showers before getting into bed, erasing any lingering scent of Lulu. French whore! Does he think I don’t know? What exactly is the lure? I don’t get it.

We were at a mall recently and I noticed that he was shopping for her, right in front of me. “This red one would look beautiful on her, wouldn’t it?” he asked me. He tenderly fingered the quilted material, wishing to dress, and then undress her. I recall the last article of clothing he bought her, a little black dress. He put it on her and the two of them existed only for one another, impervious even to the sun, cooing and touching and laughing.

I suppose I deserve this. I remember not long ago when I was the intruder, the muse. Day and night my lover and I sat together, holding hands, besotted. He listened to my every word, looked deeply into my eyes, hoping to win me, to possess me, to touch me. I remember Lulu sitting there on the desk. Dust-covered, pathetic, lonely. I think I even wrote my name across her screen in a brazen act of superiority. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe I knew even then that it couldn’t last.

How happy you must be, Lulu, to have him back. He never leaves home without taking you. His thoughts are never far from you. How adored you must feel. Oh, I am envious of your position.

I’ll bet you’re smarter now. Maybe even a little jaded. You’ll never feel entirely secure again, will you, Lulu? You’ll always hold back a little, protect yourself just a bit. You know how it feels to be cast aside, if only for a moment.

I think it’s time for me to understand and accept my fate. I’ve lost my sweetheart to an enticing French pomme. But I shan’t linger in my misery! I shall grieve my loss and look to the future. I will head to a nearby computer store and buy the biggest, blackest, most rigid tower I can find….I will install it in my bedroom and I will name it Pierre. He will have eyes for me alone.

A rational assessment

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A guy friend of mine said to me not long ago, “Even when I’m falling in love I’m still aware of the rational assessment I am making.” Really? I’m sure I’m wrong but it seems to me that rational thought and love are polar opposites…unable to understand each other…mortal enemies even. Isn’t love supposed to be an affaire de coeur? Isn’t the rational mind supposed to be balancing the checkbook in the next room while the heart pursues its passion?

I picture my friend in a hip martini bar clutching a clipboard. He carefully approaches each possible “love recipient” with his Rational Assessment Rubric. On a scale of 1 to 10…Physically fit? 8. Clear skin and decent teeth? 7. Reasonably fashionable? 8. Correct eye color? 9.

Next, the home visit. Good floor plan? 8. Interesting decorative touches and finishes? 6. Acceptable lighting? 9. View? 9.

If the assessment is going well, a document inspection follows. Please provide bank and mutual fund statements for the past three years and any other relevant financial information that might help me make my decision. Hmmm, looks quite good. Yes! I’m in love!

After the initial test is passed, I wonder if the score is adjusted periodically. Uh oh, a little thickening at the waistline. Minus 2. Small inheritance from Aunt Edna. Plus 1. How low do the numbers have to fall before it becomes a rational imperative to fall out of love?

I may be mistaken but I thought love was supposed to be unconditional. I thought that to be loved was to be known and accepted, supported, trusted. I believed that it was as much about giving as receiving. Isn’t love supposed to be a sanctuary…a safe haven? This “rational” love feels about as safe as the time I walked on a tightrope drunk in the dark over molten lava (CU-Boulder, 1982 Spring Break). It’s something that I might be able to pull off for a minute or two…certainly not for a life time.

I wonder where my concept of love became so twisted. I think it may be traced back to my days spent in parochial school, memorizing Bible passages, learning that a function of the Holy Ghost is to remind us of what we’ve learned in case we should need it at some point. Maybe that’s why I keep waking up with 1 Corinthians 13 on my mind. Love is patient, love is kind….Love does not brag and is not arrogant….does not seek its own…is not provoked…does not take into account a wrong suffered. Love bears all things. Love believes all things. Love endures all things. Love never fails.

I imagine that many, if not most, relationships are based on mutual self-interest. I know that I’ve been a party to many such relationships myself. Indeed, a very rational assessment is made at the outset. Perhaps all along the way. Maybe every single day. And there’s nothing wrong with that if it works for both participants. I think we should call these relationships what they are … friendships, partnerships, pacts, contracts, arrangements. But I hope you’ll agree with me–we should reserve the word love for something more sublime.

Humor

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I once had to break up with a perfectly good boyfriend. He was 6’5″, 240 pounds, Denver Broncos tight end, straight-A student, fast car, cool apartment….blah, blah. We had dated for two years, discussed marriage and children, a serious deal. But I knew that it was time for me to pull the plug. Why, you ask? Here’s the honest truth. He thought the Three Stooges were HILARIOUS.
 
pictureThis may seem a ridiculous reason but, really, when your man is curled up in a fetal position night after night, laughing convulsively at Larry, Curly and Moe, a feeling of separateness, a moat that no drawbridge can span, envelops you and leaves you completely alone, bereft, devoid of vision and hope.

I’ve often said that my sense of humor has saved me as I’ve weathered the storms of life. Don’t laugh. I’m very serious about this. I think the ability to see irony or absurdity, the ability to be self-effacing, has enabled me to cope with all that has come my way. A sense of humor is more therapeutic to me than Prozac or Valium or crack cocaine (it was only that one time, I swear).

This past weekend I stumbled across VH1’s 100 Best Saturday Night Live skits. I think I may be one of the only people on the planet who has watched SNL religiously, season after season, since its inception in 1975. I was in the 8th grade when SNL began. I’m 44 now. In a good year perhaps 30% of the skits could qualify as funny. But those that are change our perspective, change our lives really. Do you remember when the old George Bush overcame the wimp factor to become our 41st president? Do you remember when he drew a line in the sand…daring the Iraqis to mess with the US of A? His approval rating was higher at that time than almost any president in history. Enter Dana Carvey. His affectionate, yet biting, parody of George Bush allowed us all to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Yes, we elected him, we like him….but we have reservations. Na Ga Da…what the hell does that mean?

Now we have president number 43, Dubya. Shit, hell, fuck. Please give us something to laugh about because he’s letting us down big time. This war sucks. At least let us mock his laugh. Hehehehe. My goodness, can’t we make fun of his fraternity boy demeanor….his inability to speak in complete sentences? If not, how about those daughters of his? Texas girls…tequila-swilling, blow-job-giving hose bags. Well…nothing that I wasn’t but who cares? I wasn’t in the public eye so too bad presidential daughters!

And Hillary. You went to Wellesley like all smart lesbians do. You could be our next president if only you didn’t have cankles! Look it up in the dictionary you’ll see a picture of Hillary Clinton’s lower leg. Hahahahahahaha! No credibility with me because no differentiation between your calves and ankles! Universal health care?! SHUT THE HELL UP, FATTO!!!

Thank you, Lorne Michaels, for sticking with SNL. Thank you for being politically incorrect (a phrase that didn’t even exist back then). You’ve given wings to a whole new generation of political satirists…..Dennis Miller, Bill Maher, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert. We hunger for someone to interpret our global reality. It sucks. But it’s funny. Yes, there’s terror in the world but there is also laughter, my friends. Tell me that there isn’t something humorous about tall skinny Osama hiding in a cave needing dialysis. Poor Osama. Just the name Osama doubles me over. O-S-A-M-A.

Back to you, my Stooge-loving former sweetie pie, I know you married not too long after we parted. I imagine that your wife is beautiful, your children perfect. I picture their prowess on the field, their superiority in the classroom. But mostly I picture grubby hands, erect across the bridges of freckled noses….avoiding the inevitable double eye poke. It’s a life that I could never be a part of. Nyuk, nyuk! Woo, woo!

Personality types

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You’ve known me for 25 years and still I am a complete enigma to you? I’ve slept in your bed, given birth to your children, spent countless evenings watching the Cubs lose, folding laundry, tending house with you. You’ve known me since I was driving a (very cool I must say) green Camaro in high school. For crying out loud, we’ve grown up together! We’ve shared a life that no one else will ever be part of.

You tell me that you loved me, that you poured yourself out for me, bled for me even, and all I see is an aloof and unreasonable dickhead. I’ll tell you that I tried to be pretty and intelligent and in control, perfect and accomplished in every way, but you see a tragically flawed and irrational human being. I’m all about a lively battle between the sexes, but this is ridiculous! There must be something else afoot.

Well, here is our long-awaited chance to thank the Junior League. Well-groomed women wearing pearls have taught me something that I will forever remember and appreciate always. It’s not about the externals, the things that make us look like a great pair. It’s not about how smart we are, or how funny, or how attractive or talented. It’s about the inner sanctum…the sacred and holy place that makes us US. It’s how we perceive the world, how we process information, what we value.

You are an extrovert. You get energy and inspiration in the presence of other people. I am highly introverted. I may look like the life of the party but I spend three days alone in a closet after a backyard barbeque to re-energize myself.

You are sensory. You feel fantastic after an intense game of yard darts, the sun overhead, the wind at your back…You hike mountains, you travel…you pay attention to the outside world. I am intuitive….I live inside my head. I can easily content myself on a blanket alone watching, feeling elated and peaceful…knowing that everyone is having a great time and that this is a lovely slice of life. I’d be the happiest quadriplegic on the planet….so unimportant is the sensory to me.

You are a thinker, you follow your head, you’re comfortable with the impersonal, the exacting. I am a feeler…I follow my heart, I’m in touch with the personal and the emotional. I cannot divorce myself from the inner life….matters of the heart…the divine. You easily can. Here’s the solution, you say. TaDa!

You rely on knowledge and information to make a judgment. You feel a sense of urgency until a decision is made, you like to tie up loose ends. My reality is based on perception, facts be damned! I keep my eyes open and look for alternatives…I am spontaneous and in no hurry to resolve things.

No wonder we can’t work it out. We live in the same world, yet it is a world completely apart. We love the same children but view them in very divergent ways. We encounter the same problems yet our solutions are diametrically opposed. On many days, we don’t speak the same language at all.

I am an idealist….I’m enthusiastic, loving, giving, spiritual, nurturing, focused on personal journeys and human potential. I have a deep commitment to the positive. You are a rational….you are self-controlled, logical, pragmatic…you have incredible strength of character and are decisive and autonomous.

Here is the funny part. You need me. You need me to give you vision, to give you wings, to keep you human and relational. And I need you…to keep me grounded, to keep me sane, to appeal to reason and make me strong.

I think we did our best to work things out. We didn’t understand each other….we still don’t. I’ve now chosen a new mate. Guess what? He’s a lot like you. He’s rational and logical but softer and more accessible than you were. At least I hope so. And you’ve chosen a new mate. She’s pretty and kind but more rational and exacting than I am.

So maybe we’re wiser. Time will tell, I guess. But I know one thing…..there is no one that I would rather have been linked to for the past 25 years than you. No one that I would rather share parenting duties with than you. My love and respect for you is undiminished. I am incomplete without your guidance and strength. You are still my better half.

Gay marriage

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Lovely coupleWho says gays and lesbians can’t marry? Of course they can marry. They absolutely can. They simply have to marry EACH OTHER! C’mon gay men, admit it, a large athletic woman around the house would come in DAMN HANDY! Lawn mowing, house painting, lightbulb changing…not to mention protection from would-be muggers. And you dykes. Fashion advice? Culinary prowess? Feng Shui? Sounds brilliant to me!

Things in the boudoir won’t be that thrilling you say? Oh, grow UP! Even straight couples get bored after a year or two. Is sexual incompatibility enough reason to deep six an otherwise beautiful union? I think not.

Surely I jest. Take heart! You’ve made some headway here. A majority of the American public supports the idea of legal civil unions for gay and lesbian pairs. Civil unions would give you many of the rights and responsibilities associated with traditional marriage. The sticking point seems to be the idea of full-fledged “marriage.”

Once again, falling back on my handy Catholic upbringing, I’ll shed a bit of light on this. Marriage is considered by many to have spiritual significance in addition to its legal ramifications. To most it is a sacrament which, in Latin, means “something holy.” It is a visible sign, in the form of a religious ceremony, of invisible grace–God’s protection and favor. Christians, most notably Roman Catholics, believe that all seven sacraments were instituted by Jesus in the New Testament.

True or not, this explains why, according to a recent poll, 54% of Americans favor gay civil unions while only 35% support gay marriage. Most Christians, and fully 84% of Americans identify themselves as Christian while 60% identify as “committed Christian” (the scarier ones) are not going to be easily convinced, if they can EVER be convinced, that God is prepared to confer his special favor on a homosexual union. They are okay if the state confers a little of ITS protection and favor…but God Almighty? NO WAY.

So I’m sorry, gays and lesbians, I know that you would love to feel that God approves of your lifestyle…but asking me to give you a legal/spiritual rite of passage is actually asking for MY approval. There are quite a few who, like me, don’t feel comfortable speaking for God. So please don’t ask us what he thinks. Take it up with him privately. If he’s the God that I think he is, you’ve got nothing to worry about.

Now, in the spirit of cooperation, I have something to ask of you too. Would you please STOP TALKING about gay marriage already! Especially in an election year. You are scaring people right into the big flabby bosom of the GOP by allowing them to portray the Democratic party as the gay marriage party! The anti-family values party! You’re taking the focus off of the war in Iraq, off poverty, off education, race relations, welfare reform, healthcare, global warming…the crazy cowboy in the White House. Let me tell you, the Republicans are lovin’ you for it! So please please please take civil unions for the time being and shut the hell up.

USAFA, I’m glad I knew ya!

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pictureAhhh, it’s September again….my favorite time of the year. Lazy Saturday mornings spent in oversized sweatshirts and fluffy slippers, drinking coffee, aspen trees on Cheyenne Mountain clad in autumnal glory, jets practicing for afternoon Air Force football games.

I’ve attended many such games. When the jets fly overhead without warning I feel an incredible patriotic stirring in my loins. The poor unwitting soul seated next to me invariably must endure my tongue in his or her ear and my breathy rendition of Lee Greenwood’s neo-national anthem, Proud to Be An American. Tears stream down my face as I stand up and shout PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! (I think I remember a similarly-named Japanese film from my youth). Could there be anything sexier or more masculine than an F-16 suddenly overtaking me from behind? A Blackhawk helicopter hovering over me quivering, gyrating, rotoring away? A sleek submarine slipping into the murky depths? MY GOD, I don’t even need to sit on the washing machine anymore. The military presence in our town leaves me FULLY SATISFIED.

Unfortunately, I was raised Catholic and was compelled by nuns and priests of dubious character to consider always the plight of my fellow man. Okay….sigh….I’ll give it a shot. I wonder what it costs the taxpayers to bring out the heavy artillery in the name of athletic superiority? How much jet fuel do we have to buy so that the flyboys can do their thing? Is this truly the most expensive pre-game show in the history of college athletics? Shit. At the bottom of my hill are countless families biding their time at Fort Carson while fathers are in Iraq fighting terrorists on behalf of the good ol’ US of A. Families are living paycheck to paycheck….moms are alone making breakfast, lunch, and dinner….helping with homework….singing lullabies….fixing broken cars, peeling paint, fractured bones.

Oh, well. That’s what they signed up for, isn’t it? If it wasn’t military service it would be incarceration. Really. They should just shut their fat yaps and be grateful that Uncle Sam has given them a job at all. Meanwhile I’m going to sit on my deck and watch my protectors doin’ their thing….for you, for me, for the team. Ohhhhh. Mmmmmmm. Ahh, baby….Yes. Yeeessss. TORA! TORA! TORA!

Our prison system

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Returning home from Aspen recently, I drove by the state correctional facility in Buena Vista. My blood sugar was a bit low at the time and I had an epiphany of epic proportions. The individuals incarcerated in those ugly buildings aren’t criminals. No, not at all. They are simply victims of POOR NUTRITION! Show me a man who ate lots of Wonder Bread as a kid and I’ll show you a serial killer. Too much soda pop and Mike and Ike’s? A bank robber. Not enough cruciferous vegetables? Most likely a white collar criminal. Show me a young girl who doesn’t get her full complement of leafy greens and I’ll show you a young girl who has a lot of speeding tickets. And cake eaters? Well, I haven’t been able to discover a direct crime link but I think we all agree that they are, by and large, angry and annoying people.

WHAT? Yes! Trust me on this. It’s all about brain chemistry. It’s about neurotransmitters, chemical substances that cause our brains and our bodies to feel good and function normally. It’s about serotonin and epinephrine and dopamine and adrenaline. They regulate our moods, our thoughts, our sleep, our impulses. When certain substances are in short supply or are overabundant, it is IMPOSSIBLE to be a decent human being. Frequently, those that we lock up are drug addicts and alcoholics. Why? They are self-medicating! They know that they don’t feel quite right, and they are trying to fix the problem. But it’s not the right solution.

So how DO we stay healthy and happy? PROPER NUTRITION AND EXERCISE! This leads me to my proposal. Instead of incarcerating individuals who perpetuate wrongs on the American public, let’s send them to nutritional camps. They can eat the proper foods, get moderate cardiovascular exercise, lots of quality sleep. . .maybe we’ll even throw in a couple days of weight training. As a special treat, probably on Sundays, we’ll bring in a cute Pilates instructor so they can work on their core strength and develop flexibility.

Of course, the retards at the FDA can’t be in charge of my revolutionary program. They, after all, are the douche bags that gave us the food pyramid. Nor can any nutritionist who graduated from the General Mills College of Bullshit (it’s everyone’s alma mater. . .ask ’em). No. I’m going to call my friends, Dr. Julian Whitaker and Dr. David Williams, the most awesome health gurus in the country. They can come up with a diet that includes freshly-milled whole grain products, raw organic produce, hormone-free lean proteins, and lots of distilled water. I’ll call Kathy Smith to put together an exercise program. THE FIRM can be in charge of the weight training. We’ll get these “criminals” put back together in no time flat! We’ll educate the heck out of them and when they’ve completed the program we’ll drop them off at the local Whole Foods market with a couple of crisp $20s. The 400 employees of the prison (a career choice, by the way, which is also closely related to a paucity of necessary neurotransmitters) can run the program, under close supervision.

If you really think about it, you know I’m right. You know that certain foods make you feel great, others not so much. You know that a lack of sleep can leave you unable to cope with the stresses of the day. A nice hike on a beautiful afternoon is a fantastic tension buster. Shouldn’t we give these people a chance to experience all that life has to offer? Is it really their fault that no one taught them how to stay sane and healthy? I think not. I think they are victims.

Most days I’m just one Hostess HoHo away from committing an unthinkable act. There, but by the grace of God, and the power of sensible nutrition and moderate exercise, go I.

Where’s Osama?

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Osama bin WaldoShhhh…OMG…You’re not gonna BELIEVE this but I think I just found Osama. He or his identical twin, I KID YOU NOT, is sitting on the couch in my basement, eating Cheerios, watching our new plasma TV. My kids have been telling me for the past few weeks that there’s a “foreigner” down there but I thought they were talking about mice. We’ve had a rodent problem as of late and my kids, you know, have a pretty good sense of humor. But holy shit!
 
EVERYONE STAY CALM. I alerted the authorities over an hour ago. I’m sure they’ll be here very soon.
 
I’m actually pretty excited about this! The $25 million reward is going to come in QUITE HANDY. Especially because the basement smells like a cave now and will certainly need to be fumigated!
 
Well, okay, I’m starting to worry. I hope the law enforcement officials didn’t get into a fender bender or something on the way here. Oh, hello Osama. OSAMA? Where are you going? Osama! No, don’t leave yet! How ’bout a waffle or something?
Osaaaaammmmmaaaaa. SHIT.

I feel REALLY sorry for the men at the Department of Home Security, or whatever it’s called. This guy is like a modern-day frickin’ Houdini. Maybe they should call Dog Chapman. He’s probably pretty expensive, what with his own cable TV show and all, but I bet he could get the JOB DONE.

For Osama, we need to bring out the BIG GUNS, you know what I mean?

Government surveillance

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Last night I was, as I’m sure many of you were, privileged to watch an ABC docudrama about 9/11. We were invited by the ACLU to ponder how we should we respond to such an attack on our precious soil. Let’s look in a mirror..let us be reminded of who we are as a nation. Yes, let’s! Who are we as a nation? Are we all in agreement here? Were Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson on the same page ‘lo those many years ago? Most definitely not!

Jefferson, radical that he was, believed in personal autonomy. He advocated a decentralized government with the majority of power and authority residing with the states and, ultimately, with the individual. Jefferson was fearful of tyranny and was a proponent of personal freedom. Hamilton, on the other hand, favored a strong central government…one that acted in accordance with the interests of the “people” and needed the full faith and support of the American public to thrive. He said that a vast body of powers were to be implied and authorized Congress to “make all laws that shall be necessary and proper” to carry out powers specifically granted…like “national security.”
 
Can you guess who prevailed? It’s obvious that we live in a Hamiltonian society, rife with rhetoric and hyperbole, where the government “protects” us and is willing and able to trample individual freedoms on a daily basis. Why? Because they can! Because we let them! We’ve asked them to!   Jefferson and Hamilton duel

The frat boys in Washington are drawing upon Hamiltonian principles in the wake of the attacks of 9/11…they watch us, they engage in racial and political profiling…they imprison American citizens without due process…they make new laws every day that restrict our civil liberties. Why? Because they are fighting the “war on terror” and what they are doing is, of course, both necessary and proper.

Well, thank you very little. Don’t forget that every new law designed to “protect” us, every new rule enacted by our chums in D.C., comes with a price…our personal freedom. Are we safer now? I don’t feel it at all.

September 11th

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You can’t find Osama bin Laden? Oh, really? You can’t? I’m sorry…I don’t mean to come across as skeptical, or pissy, or even downright hostile. But are you sure you’re really looking?

According to the ABC docudrama that aired last night, you’ve had Osama in your grasp several times recently. But suddenly he’s become elusive, uncatchable, a superhero the likes of which we’ve not seen before! He’s rich and tall and somewhat fetching really. Wow. How cool. Maybe, just maybe, it might be better for you to keep him “out there”…keep us off balance, frightened.

Why would you do that? Well, let’s think. This wouldn’t be a power grab, would it? You’re infamous for exploiting the American public’s fear…expanding the power of the government to save us from casually-defined “enemies.” Government entities leap from the tops of tall buildings to protect us. The IRS, one of the most tyrannical organizations on the face of the planet, the bottom quarter of the graduating class clad in red-white-and-blue spandex, has unilateral power to come after anyone, to freeze our assets, to torture us until we bleed…without mercy, without oversight. The Department of Social Services watches over us…”Doc, please, let us know about any broken bones, about any bruises, uncombed hair, cavities.”

Now you want to monitor our phone calls, our friendships, our opinions. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? I know who you are. You’re the frat boy who walked me home from the college party to “protect” me…didn’t have anything to do with your agenda, did it? You’re the C-average Ivy League fuckers, legacies all! You’ve used 9/11 to gleefully expand the power of the state…to increase your own personal power. You, of course, know what’s right. For you. Bastards! People are slowly, very slowly, figuring you out.

I live a stone’s throw from NORAD, the North American Air Defense Command. On 9/11/2001, I had F-16s flying overhead all day long. You know what I feared most? Not Osama and his band of thugs, or wayward planes or nuclear bombs, but George W. hanging out in my back yard “protecting” me. Fuck you, frat rat, swaggering drugstore cowboy, and all of your slight-of-penis asshole friends. Unfortunately for you, I know your kind.

Private philanthropy

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I was recently introduced to a young couple, both 21 years old, proud parents of a month-old baby. They live in low-income housing, dad works a joe job. . .mom stays home, no friends or family nearby, to take care of baby.

Is this an untenable situation? YOU BET IT IS! American society requires that we become rugged individualists. . .nuclear families reign supreme and exist in a vacuum of our own making. In the days of yore, mother/grandmother/sister were omnipresent. . .helping with practical matters but, more importantly, providing guidance and wisdom and support in navigating life’s tricky waters. WHERE IS MY RED TENT?

Wanna make a difference? We have lots of opportunities. We can bankroll large ventures that help people help themselves. We can write and protest and travel the world looking for the downtrodden. . .hoping to shine some light on injustice.

But another option is to look a bit closer to home. Speak some kind words, bring a dinner, offer to babysit, share your experiences, your wealth, your time. I BELIEVE in private philanthropy. I believe that anyone who comes across my path presents a challenge to me, an opportunity for me. Maybe it’s all my years spent in uniform as a Catholic girl but an old song keeps playing in my head. “All that I am. All that I do. All that I’ll ever have I offer now to you.”