Channeling Betty Sue

Someone somewhere reading this post is going to think I'm angry. Trust me; I'm not. I'm just a mom who's likely overreacting.

However.

My darling daughter called earlier this week to share with me a conversational encounter with a non-immediate family member who lives in a distant state. Said kin was passing through daughter's neck of the woods, called us to secure her digits, made the connection, and kindly treated her to dinner. She told me that, from the time they were seated at the restaurant, she intuited that this was more than a friendly I Was Just Passing Through On I-75 And Thought I'd Call To See How You're Getting Along Honey type of situation. Sure enough, before the beverage order arrived, a proposal was on the table that amounted to an offer of employment (sort of).

(I apologize for sounding covert ... I could provide you with ample minutiae to connect the dots but as the fine print is not germane to this discussion, I won't.)

What is profoundly germane is that before our relative made his case, along the lines of laying groundwork he managed to convey to our smart and beautiful girl that the personal and professional scenario he was suggesting she embrace (which by the way would have called for a comprehensive dismantling of her life as she knows it) had already been deemed (by him) far superior and ultimately beneficial to her than the life she is currently leading.

Okay ... maybe. Let's stipulate that he's a shrewd prognosticator and happens to be right about that. But then he went a hair too far: he implied that her life as she is leading it at present is of little worth to her or anyone else. That she might as well sell all she hath and follow him because as anybody with one eye and half a brain can see, what he proposes is clearly more desirable than any prospects she may have or hope to have befall her.

Hmmm ...

Have you ever just plopped down on the sofa, stared into the middle distance, and asked yourself: "Where in the sam hill do some people get their nerve?"

Well, I have. And I know the answer: at the same place where you get wholesale insensitivity, mindboggling shortsightedness, fatal cluelessness, and unmitigated gall. In bulk.

Ever notice how some people can make their (uninvited) "solutions" to your (perceived) "problems" sound like a cross between last Sunday's sermon and a juicy prayer request? And don't you just love it when that happens? When I was little and a body acted thataway, my folks said they were being nasty-nice.

This is the deal, y'all: If someone who knows (or should know) you well and who claims to care about you, starts talking to you like you're four years old and in dire need of their sage guidance on what to do, where to go, what to say, and how to be, without taking the time to be careful of your feelings, and without taking into account that you are a person of above-average intelligence (if indeed you are), rest assured of two things. One, they have an (often unspoken) agenda that is designed to benefit them far more than it does you, although they aver otherwise; and, Two, they are threatened by and/or jealous of you. Sometimes all of the above factors are at work simultaneously.

And as I advised my child, while you're wise to remain objective long enough to hear most people out, you're required to accept neither a person's patently negative assessment of your situation nor the corollary, i.e. their take on what you should "do" about it. Often mistaken for garden-variety hubris, this attitude, when carefully cultivated, can actually be a special kind of humility that has simply been smart enough to grow a businesslike tooth or two in its level head. Because as I told my lovely daughter, ultimately no one but God and you will protect your vision of your life as you hope to live it.

Speaking of teeth, although the multi-fanged vagaries of incorrigible, relentless time (and God, its creator) will eventually teach us all everything we need to know -- and then some -- there are moments when cruel time can seem like a geriatric de-clawed housecat compared to the sly judgments and helpful suggestions blithely proffered by those who insist they have only our best interests at heart. Let's not smarm around: in the same time it takes to effectively invalidate and perhaps even eviscerate someone, you have the opportunity to encourage and uplift them. And unsolicited advice, in all its guises, will never be anything but a mild form of criticism.

Be that as it may, I do believe it behooves us to cut as much slack to those who (sometimes in ignorance) piously patronize and appallingly underestimate us as we would want lent to us when we inevitably (and often equally unwittingly) cast ourselves in the role of would-be mentor. And when my sweet daughter asked what I thought about her situation, I reminded her that no one but God Almighty, and she herself, has the authority to put the quietus on her life ... the only life she'll ever have on this earth, with all its disappointments and defeats, its delights and dreams.

Baaaaaaad.

Why is it that when I have to get up really early in the morning (six o'clock is early to me, y'all ... I am a certified lazy buzzard), I have a hard time sleeping soundly the night before? Such was the case last night. I went to bed earlier than I normally do (which is midnight or thereabouts) because this morning's job called me to Summerville, South Carolina, over 100 miles away, for two depositions, the first one beginning at ten o'clock, which meant I had to be there by nine thirty to set up, do a sound test, get coffee (please God, let this law firm have good coffee), and prepare to faithfully keep the record.

While I arranged my face and hair I listened to cable news and weather. A 200-mile-long squall line was poised to the south and east -- the very direction I would soon be traveling -- and tornadoes had been spotted lurking in the orangey-yellow cells. Even so, as I set out for Summerville what had been a heavy rain was spluttering down to a noncommittal random misty spitting. (The all-night downpour was part of the reason I had trouble sleeping soundly. I had the window open as it has been unseasonably warm, and the insistent rain accompanied by rumbles of thunder were woven into my sleep that was more like a series of fitful naps.)

But oh, the rain on I-26 as I traveled southeast! Torrential. The weather began deteriorating just about the time I reached the I-77 split and began the monotonous 75-mile leg to the Summerville exit. I had to breathe deeply to keep from white-knuckling the steering wheel as I passed mile marker 133, the scene of a grisly 2006 accident that claimed the life of a young Texan. I knew this because only a few weeks ago I sat through five hours of testimony in the resulting lawsuit. Remember the late Trooper Haynes? He was to have been deposed in that case today. He does not have to worry about that now. I said a prayer for his wife and boys. I also prayed for the gone-too-soon young Texas man's parents as I passed the bleak spot where he died alone, many miles from home and the hearts that loved him.

The rain continued to lash and drone. Visibility was reduced by more than half; everything was as gray as my little car. I kept to the right, eschewing the passing lane for at least 40 miles. Anxious, foolhardy (in my opinion) drivers barreled wetly and furiously by on my left. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Then I saw the first wreck. It had occurred in the westbound lanes, going back Columbia-ward. The median is bifurcated by a stand of mature pines which abruptly stops the vehicles that, for whatever reason, leave their lane of travel in an uncontrolled manner. The result isn't pretty and this was no exception, but I only had a second to glance over so I can't give a full report.

I left the jittery bounce of candied flashing lights behind and continued on. The next wreck was about ten miles farther up the road; a one-car affair that may have only been a breakdown but was attended by no fewer madly sparkling signals of dire emergency. The rain relented for about two miles, then reasserted itself as if remembering what it had been so het-up about. (Wind-driven liquid weather can seem so spiteful at such times.) And then I saw what all motorists on all interstates dread: everyone slowing, everyone displaying brake lights. Everyone wondering how bad the situation is and how long it will take to break free. I fingered my cell phone, hoping I wouldn't have to call in late.

But, it didn't take long because evidently the accident had happened within the previous five minutes. It was again in the westbound lanes. A small car and a pickup had both left the road and -- whether making contact with one another first it was impossible to tell -- had slammed into the trees with enough force to accordion the vehicles. All four doors on the small sedan were flung open. The hood of the car looked as though it were attempting to climb one of the pines. Sullen smoke rose from the engine area. The small truck had met its tree-stops in more of a broadside fashion but had fared no better. A man stood forlornly beside it and I told myself he was the truck's fortunate, uninjured driver. What a way to start your week.

So: this is what I learned today. First, slow down on the interstate. The life you save may be your own. Especially when road conditions are less than favorable, SLOW DOWN. How I hope my children are reading this and, having read, obey. Second -- and I don't have time to explain this but it arises out of the three hours of deposition testimony we took (and they did have delicious coffee at the law firm in Summerville) -- don't ever sign anything until you have read and fully understand what you are signing. DO NOT let anyone rush you into signing something that you have not read. DO NOT get all emotional and in a hurry and stick your head in the sand. Read every single word before you sign, every single time. Hope my kids take that one to heart too.

I should quit now because this next thing I learned today is a total non-sequitur, but I don't think I can get a whole blog out of it and it's on my mind because it was also on cable news this morning. Apparently at many regular grownup rodeos, there is a popular event known as Mutton Bustin'. This is when small (sometimes VERY small) children are placed on the bare backs of sheep, where they cling precariously and are sent through a gate out into a ring as though they are riding a bull. Of course they're not far off the ground and sheep don't flail around as heartily as bulls, but the result is the same.

The brave little kid, after holding on for a few seconds, is deposited without ceremony on the hard ground. The mutton ride trots indignantly away. A rodeo clown rushes to the little kid to help him up, sometimes retrieving a stray boot or hat and replacing these items on the child's person. I suspect this activity is not restricted to male children, nor is it restricted to children who really want to do it. I hope all the parents of these kids do a bull ride ... just because.

I know you'd never doubt me, but just in case, here's a youtube.

Update on Tuesday, February 19, 2008 at 12:08AM by Jennifer

Non-Renewable And Inflation-Proof

There are several things The Gregory and I will not tolerate from one another. Some you might be able to figure out, but one may surprise you: we are both wholeheartedly opposed to wedding vow renewal.

(One thing I myself will not allow -- but which The Gregory does not seem to mind contemplating when his own time comes -- is the viewing of my remains after my soul leaves my body. I have threatened to haunt whomever subjects me to this humiliation, and I will make good on that promise if I have to. The very thought of someone ... anyone! ... commenting on my hair and makeup after it has been "done" by a mortician, is infra dig to the millionth power. It just will not do.)

As to vow renewal ... where, oh where shall I begin? Okay ... let's start with the obvious. On June 16, 1979, The Gregory and I exchanged wedding vows in a church before an ordained minister and over 100 assembled guests. It was all very legal and permanent in nature; through lips numb with nervousness I'm pretty sure we agreed to stay married until one of us dies. It wasn't like getting a driver's license, which in time has to be renewed. I would even go so far as to say that the vows we took are NON-RENEWABLE, since they have no expiration date except for the eventual, inevitable expiration of either me or him, after which I think you will agree that renewing the vows would be a waste of time. This is an infinitely and elegantly simple concept, made all the more so by the fact that it is non-negotiable.

Not that we are completely without recourse in the unlikely event that we experience marital strife. If things get rough, I personally concur with whomever first said: Divorce? I do not believe in divorce. Murder, yes; divorce, no.

Now, I realize it's cold in the Midwest and a lot of people suffer from cabin fever at this time of year, and I like to think that's at least partially to blame for the type of nonsense that took place in Grove City, Ohio, this very week. Several couples had planned to get together at their church on Valentine's Day where they would take part in a "recommitment service." Only problem was, one lady who wanted to participate could not because her husband was away on a business trip.

Anyone besides me see the humor in this? Mrs. Smith wanted to renew their vows -- and who knows, maybe Mr. Smith did too -- but when it came time to actually do it, he couldn't commit. He was out of town. In absentia. AWOL, y'all. But his wife attended the ceremony anyway, planning to serve as "matron of honor" for her friends whose husbands were sufficiently committed to show up at the recommitment service.

As if all of that were not exhausting enough, imagine Mrs. Smith's surprise when her "friends" presented her with an inflatable "groom," complete with little tux and festive boutonniere, as a "stand-in" for her missing husband. They even thought to tape a picture of her husband's face over the air apparent's blank noncommittal stare (presumably so that she could really get lost in the romance of the moment when he recommitted to her).

I know if I were all dressed up and surrounded by our friends, in our church, ready to renew my wedding vows, clutching an inflatable doll with The Gregory's picture where the face goes, I would feel exactly as though my husband of 29 years were by my side promising once again to love me forever! I would want lots of pictures, plus a two-carat, three-stone diamond "recommitment" band. Just in case he later wanted to run (or float) away with a younger, prettier inflatable chickie-babe doll.

The questions that nag at me are these: How could Mrs. Smith "recommit" to an inflatable doll she was never married to in the first place ... even if it did resemble her husband? If she repeated vows to the doll, is it now her husband and she its wife? Does she have a decent lawyer? Do her children like their new stepfather and will they maintain a relationship with their dad? Where did the newlyweds spend their honeymoon?

I hope they went to Southern California where such behavior is accepted and even encouraged. Last but not least, I hope the bride remembered to pack a portable air pump.

A Big Green Blind Spot

Recently I was reading some humorous quotes by comedian George Carlin. Such conundrums as If a man is standing in the middle of the forest speaking and there is no woman around to hear him, is he still wrong? had me cackling for quite some time. But the one that caused me to ponder was this: What do you do when you see an endangered animal eating an endangered plant? Good question.

Reminds me of a segment I watched on cable news this week. Seems a couple of suburban gentlemen in Sunnyvale, California, have faced off over who gets to be greener. Mr. Green has installed a solar panel array in his roof to supply his household with power from the sun. The panels allow him to heat his house without a furnace, thereby saving him money and ostensibly conserving energy. (That global warming thing comes in handy sometimes, eh, friend? Not to mention it's convenient you live in a nice climate.)

Mr. Green's next-door neighbor's yard is ringed by several tall, old Sequoia trees that provide shade and privacy. The problem is, the magnificent trees are blocking the sun from fueling Mr. Green's solar panels during crucial energy-gathering times of day. The solution? Mr. Green has the backing of state law to force his neighbor to cut down the beautiful trees! Apparently this is okay with the tree-huggers because in this case the solar power is deemed more important to the environment than the trees that must be sacrificed to ensure its unimpeded "progress."

Talk about trading one set of environmental stressors for another set that are more palatable ... or at least more expedient. Sounds like a wash to me.

Then I picked up the March 2008 issue of Reader's Digest. As I was leafing through its pages I came across an article about 46-year-old rock singer Sheryl Crow, ex-fiancee of cyclist Lance Armstrong, single mother to an adopted son, and breast cancer survivor. Sheryl's all about doing something to stop global warming and save our planet. When asked about the "politically strong stand" she takes on her latest record, she responded: How do you explain to a kid what a polar bear looked like or why it's so hot in summer? How do you explain that we inherited this earth and didn't take care of it, and now it's going to be up to him to try to put a big Band-Aid on it?

Last time I checked, it's hot in summer because that's what summer is: hot weather time. This ain't rocket science. And does Ms. Crow really believe that in her son's lifetime he and his ilk will be required to find a Band-Aid for the environment? I don't understand what she's trying to say figuratively, much less literally.

As to polar bears (you know ... those big animals with white fur), I decided to do a little online research ... I figure it's at least as reliable as Sheryl Crow and Reader's Digest put together. This is a direct quote from a UN website dedicated to endangered species of animals:

Muffled against the bitter artic cold by thick white fur and layers of fat, the polar bear lives and hunts in the snowbound lands and ice flows surrounding the North Pole. A strong swimmer and a lone predator, it is at home ice flows, which may carry it far from its original locality. The polar bear is found on the arctic coasts and islands of the five countries around the North Pole, the United States (Alaska), Canada, Denmark (Greenland), Norway and Russia. It is the only species that still lives throughout its original range, with an estimated 20,000 still in the wild.

It is my humble opinion that if the supposed plight of the polar bear has been undertaken, even partially, by a United Nations organization that misspells the word "arctic" and writes "it is at home ice flows" (instead of "is at home on ice floes"), then maybe the polar bear is better off being left alone. God created the polar bear and He can protect it. Twenty thousand bears is a lot of bears ... do you think maybe the species knows about the birds and the bees? Perhaps that's why it "still lives throughout its original range."

In response to the next question, about why Ms. Crow "sings angrily" about the war and global warming, she had this profound response: We can't cling to despair. We don't have time to wallow.

Oh ... that's IT? Okay. I understand ... I think. We must do something. I let go of my despair and read on, perplexed.

Does Ms. Crow grow her own food? We're building a chicken coop and planting an organic garden. We've got a stocked fishing pond. I don't know about the beef thing. It's too hard for me to have a couple of cows and then kill them and eat them.

How do you know? Have you ever done it? What are your plans for the chickens and the fish? Are you saying that bovine life is more valuable than poultry and marine life, and is therefore an inhumane food source? I personally am confused but maybe Crow's cows are the ones on the Chick-Fil-A billboards. Eat mor chikin.

How is Ms. Crow planning to help clean up the mess? I'm trying to figure out how to get wind and solar power to my ranch and to get my whole farming community off the grid.

How valiant and touching. But I wonder how Ms. Crow would like it if the hospital and cancer treatment center where she received the care she needed to send her disease into remission had been taken "off the grid"? I wonder how she'd like it if the recording studios, TicketMaster outlets, and concert venues were taken "off the grid"? I wonder how she'd react if suddenly the factories where her CDs are produced, and the distribution centers where they are housed prior to shipping, were taken permanently "off the grid"? And what about the carbon footprint made by the trucks carrying her product to retail chains? And hey, while we're at it, let's take those retailers -- and the financial institutions where Ms. Crow stores her money -- "off the grid" and see how she likes that. Think of the energy we'll save. I for one will not miss Wal-Mart.

When asked, in conclusion, what else people can do, Ms. Crow shared this insight: It's doing what you can do. Some things seem expensive but ultimately save you money, like energy-efficient lightbulbs. Driving a hybrid car is a lot less money than a huge gas-only SUV.

I notice Ms. Crow does not suggest that people save money by declining to buy her albums. Beam me up, Scotty ... if there's any intelligent life down here, it's off the grid and hiding behind a green blind spot.

My Valentine

My valentine and I have the same exact middle name even though he's a boy and I'm a girl. My valentine and I share the same four wonderful children (three girls and a kid), the same son-in-law, the same two granddaughters (one three years old and one as-yet unborn), and the same comical excuse for a dog. My valentine and I love sleeping and snuggling in our king-size bed. My valentine and I enjoy being together to talk, listen to music, watch our favorite programs, or quietly read.

My valentine and I laugh at most of the same things and get sad at a lot of the same things. My valentine and I have many of the same memories because we have been friends for 32 years. We have been together as a couple for 29 years, 5 months, and 21 days and have been husband and wife for 28 years, 7 months, and 28 days. My valentine and I surprised some people when we paired off, and we still smile about that.

My valentine thinks I'm pretty, funny, smart, and interesting. My valentine calls me "Little Miss Fire and Ice" and means it in a good way. My valentine is always bragging on me to others and I brag on him too. My valentine knows when to be romantic but understands when it's best to leave me alone. My valentine is tall, dark, and exceedingly handsome in addition to being uncommonly sweet, amazingly intelligent, and endearingly modest. My valentine smells incredibly good. My valentine has wide hazel eyes, high cheekbones, a disarming smile, and lovely long fingers. My valentine has the most tender touch.

My valentine and I love to discuss various topics and we almost always agree on what's ridiculous and what's not. My valentine and I never have to avoid the subjects of religion and politics because we feel the same way about both. My valentine goes out of his way to make me happy and give me the things I want. My valentine appreciates the things I do for him, even though I don't think I do nearly enough. My valentine likes to kiss my hand and I like to kiss his lips. My valentine can still make me go weak in the knees.

My valentine is never demanding and always supportive. My valentine knows my name but usually refers to me as precious or baby. My valentine is my beloved and I am his. My valentine and I both think this is a pretty good deal. My valentine is not perfect but he's close enough for me. I wish everyone a valentine like my valentine.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone ...