"Put Me In, Coach, I'm Ready to Play, Today..."

An Open Letter to Mr. John Moores, owner of the San Diego Padres:

Please, Mr. Moores, sign Trevor Hoffman. I’m begging you, don’t put us through this. I’m really sorry you and the missus are divorcing. It’s tough; I know, I’ve been there. And it’s usually toughest on the ones with the biggest stake and no voice. So while I’m sympathetic, please, stop making it our problem.

We survived previous fire sales, we made it through the Tom Werner ownership which brought us Roseanne Barr’s destruction of the National Anthem (and her dignity). We got past the departures of Tim Flannery, Dave Magadan, Merv Rettenmund, Bruce Bochy. We even came out okay after numerous nuisance lawsuits delayed Petco Park to the point where Tony Gwinn didn’t get to play there as a Padre. By the way, very nice of you to host his Aztec Invitational there before opening for the inaugural season. Very classy of you. Thanks.

Don’t make us wave good-bye to Trevor. I know there are lots of loud fans who think he’s washed up. But there are more and louder fans who disagree and want him here. The guy’s got intangible assets. I believe in business parlance that’s called “goodwill.” Trevor’s got goodwill oozing from every pore. If all that was market priced, even George Steinbrenner couldn’t afford him. Plus, the guy sets a new record every time he steps on the field. How can you let that go? How can you make us let that go?

So I hope you like those seats at Petco Park, because if you let Trevor Hoffman put on another team’s uniform, you’re going to be seeing a lot more (empty) seats.

My Smelly Neighborhood

I love walking around my neighborhood. I think I might like to be a dog because there are so many interesting smells all around, and that doesn’t even count the other dogs.

There are the seasonal smells, barbeque in the summer, fireplace in the fall and winter, jasmine in the spring. During the remodeling season, when front yards sprout Caseys, you might catch an errant whiff on the evening breeze.

There are always cooking smells, stroganoff, garlic, grease. Sometimes I pass a house with that musty smell hanging about it, as if the occupant doesn’t move fast enough to stir up the air, and it settles into must. One of the most interesting smells I catch when I’m walking is that of dryer sheets. It is a comforting smell, evoking memories of cozy sweatshirts and fluffy bath towels.

Wonderful sights and sounds greet me on my walks as well, like the purple morning glories blooming among the yellow-leafed hedges, or the delicate peach-colored rose thrusting its head through an opening in a block wall. There are the deep red velvet roses entwined around the white picket fence that seem to bloom all year. I love hearing a dog bark at me from inside its house, as if by passing on the sidewalk I’m violating their sacred territory. And the tiny wind chime that jangles joyously always makes me smile.

Come walk with me sometime. But bring a hankerchief, ‘cause you don’t want to miss anything!

Melmac Mom

My kids hate it when I use their names in my posts. They say it’s a violation of their privacy. So out of respect to their wishes, and to keep peace in the home, I’ve given them blog names of Oldest Daughter (OD) and Youngest Daughter (YD). Not very original, but chances are I wouldn’t remember an alias or a “Nome de Plume.” Oldest Daughter and Youngest Daughter sounds kind of Charlie Chan, don’t you think? If you don’t know who Charlie Chan is, that’s OK.

If you ever meet OD, ask about the little scar on her head. No, maybe you shouldn’t ask about it, but today I feel like “true confessions” so I need to tell you about the time I split her head open. Until recently, this was a funny in-house story that my kids would bring up once in awhile when they wanted to tease me. But recently, at an extended family gathering, my kids “outed” me about this, so now it’s public…

I’ve been a single mom since my daughters were still in diapers. And I’ve worked full-time since my oldest was in kindergarten. For a few years, they were enrolled at schools where I worked and childcare wasn’t a problem – they could hang out in the library or on the playground for an hour or so. But when they got a little older, they wanted to go to the neighborhood school and be with their friends. My kids weren’t exactly latchkey kids, but there were many afternoons when they came home from school a few hours before I got home from work.

During especially lean times, I took second jobs to help keep us afloat. There were days that I left the house at 6 a.m. and didn’t get home until 11 p.m. Not many – sometimes I got to spend an hour or two at home with my daughters before having to rush off to work again. Luckily, I didn’t need to keep the extra jobs for long – usually just a few months or until the holidays were over.

Anyway, after a particularly long week, I came home to find the house in total disarray. Dishes scattered all over the living room, clothes in piles everywhere, shoes kicked off by the front door, scummy water in the kitchen sink because nobody had washed dishes in three days. I did what every child expert says you should never do. I started yelling.

“Look at this mess! Get those dishes out of this room and stack them by the sink! Pick up your filthy clothes! You two are PIGS! I am sick of this crap!”

I was frustrated and angry, not at my kids – at my life. But I was taking it out on them. OD, who was at that adolescent age (about 13) where her lips would run before her brain could catch up, picked up a melmac plate and tossed it across the living room like a Frisbee. It hit my leg and fell to the floor. It wasn’t a hard toss, just a flick of the wrist; such a brazen thing for her to do that it almost made me chuckle.

I picked up that plate and said something like, “Do NOT throw dishes at me – put this in the sink!” Then, I tossed it back at her. Again, not a hard toss, just a little flick. But at that moment either a breeze blew through the room or some nefarious spirit lifted that plastic plate, because it seemed to rise and then gently turn sideways. It grazed lightly across the top of OD’s head like a buzz saw and fell to the floor.


The smart aleck comment she was about to make turned into a screech when she put her hand up to her head and felt the blood oozing out of the inch-long cut the plastic disk had made. My first aide training taught me that even tiny head wounds will bleed a lot, but the mother in me wasn’t thinking of that. She had blood dripping down her forehead. I grabbed her up in my arms and carried her to the bathroom. Just a couple minutes of a clean, dry washcloth pressed against the wound stopped the bleeding. I could see it wasn’t deep. But Oldest Daughter had always been afraid of the site of her own blood. She was shaking in my arms.

“Do I need to go to the emergency room?” she asked me, those beautiful, tear-filled brown eyes looking up at me.

“No, honey. It’ll be fine.” I told her, trying frantically to think of what I could possibly tell an ER doctor to make him or her understand that I had not meant to hurt my baby.

Then she got that “knowing” look in her eyes and said, “You can’t take me to the hospital, can you? Because they’d want to know how I got this HOLE IN MY HEAD! And you’d have to tell them that you ABUSED ME!” She was in full righteous anger mode, and ready to throw me to the wolves.

What should I do, what should I do, whatshouldido, whatshouldido…my brain was stalled and wouldn’t shift into gear. Finally, like a big burp, my brain started firing again.

“Is your head hurting?” I asked. “No.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” “Two.” Correct.
“Do you have a headache or feel sick to your stomach?” “No.”
I went over the usual checklist that school office employees learn when we do first aide for kids on the many days there’s no nurse on site. She checked out fine.

I said, “OK, if you want to go to the hospital we will. They may want to put a stitch or staple in your head which means they’ll have to shave your hair in the front. But it looks fine and I think you’ll be OK if we just put some Neosporin on it. If it’s still bothering you in an hour, we can go to the ER.”

I meant what I told her. If she wanted to go to the hospital that minute, we would. But I was hoping she’d be so horrified at having her head shaved that she’d opt to wait an hour. It really was just a surface wound, no more than an inch long and already forming a thin scab as the blood dried. She’d scraped her knees worse than this before and I’d cleaned and bandaged them, and sent her on her way. This wasn’t deep or wide enough for a stitch or a staple. But truthfully…I didn’t want to go to the ER because I didn’t want to explain to a stranger why and how I had tossed a melmac plate at my kid. No matter the circumstances, I was guaranteed to come out the bad guy.

An hour later, she was already outside, hanging out with her cousins. She was probably telling them how she got me to do all the housework. Yup – while she was outside bragging about her war wound, I was cleaning the house from top to bottom. I think I also agreed to host a sleepover for her friends that weekend. Guilt – they know how to work it from a young age.

This is the same kid who, several years before, I had spied practicing her “crying” in front of a mirror and giving Youngest Sister pointers on how to sniffle and hiccup like you do when you’ve been crying really hard. She’d rubbed her eyes until they were red and dribbled water on her cheeks to look like tears.

I backed quietly out of the doorway and a minute later she was in the kitchen, telling me “tearfully” about how she really, really wanted the new Barbie doll we had seen at Target that morning. Would I please, please, please get it for her? I was tempted…if only because the acting was good enough to win an Oscar.

Shortly after the “melmac incident” as we call it in my family, I got a promotion with the school district, which meant that I didn’t have to work those part-time jobs anymore. I’d like to say that things settled down to a normal routine, but that would be a huge lie. Anyway – now it’s off my chest. Feel free to throw melmac at me if we ever meet.

Prop 8, Jim Crow, and Civil Rights

Marriage didn’t work out for me. In the years since my divorce, I raised my daughters alone and, not wanting to bring a series of men into their lives, I’ve stayed single. Now they’re grown, and my life feels full and happy without a husband. So I never really understood the desperate search that some people go through to find a partner – someone to share their lives with.

Like many Caucasian folks who take all the benefits that come with being white for granted, I also took my heterosexuality for granted and never gave much thought to gay and lesbian people who were rallying for the right to marry. It wasn’t “my issue” and I was too busy raising my daughters alone, trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table, to pay much attention to an issue that didn’t impact on my life.

Then Proposition 8 hit the ballot. It was an eye opener for me to realize there was a whole group of people who really, really wanted the “right” to marry the person of their dreams - even if that person happened to be the same gender. The rancor this issue caused in my workplace and my church surprised me. My own naiveté in believing that everyone else should recognize that this is a civil rights issue, and not a religious one was, in retrospect, pretty silly. But it seemed like a no-brainer for me.

In 1983, when we married, my husband and I took it for granted that we had the right to marry, have children, buy a home, and make a life together. Yes – there were times when we faced racism, but we never doubted our right to be together. I’m Caucasian, my former husband is African-American. Until 1967, when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that anti-miscegenation laws were unconstitutional, we would have been jailed in many states for being married and having biracial children. Many opponents of the Court’s decision were certain that this would result in the downfall of society. Many people, calling themselves Christians, used the Bible to support their views that marriage between the races was an abomination to God. For centuries, proponents of Jim Crow laws had cited chapter and verse in the Bible to support their views that African-Americans were an inferior race and therefore unworthy of being treated as equals.

Society didn’t fall apart when the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed, and it’s telling that most of today’s children don’t even know what “Jim Crow” means. Many people cried tears of joy when Barack Obama was elected as our 44th President. We’ve come far on this journey of civil rights, but the passage of Proposition 8 tells me that we have much farther to go.

Marriage between consenting adults is a civil rights issue, and whenever we single out a group of people and vote to take away their civil rights, we are treading on dangerous ground.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes or Breaking the rules part 2

For many years, I’ve been in an odd sort of situation. Because my family’s business owned commercial property, I’m considered “rich” by both the IRS tax code and my ex-husband. Unfortunately, I’ve been living just this side of cash-poor. Throw in the fact that I’ve been raising a special needs child, without support from her dad, either moral or financial, and I’m stretched pretty thin. So when I hear the words “spread the wealth around” come out of Candidate Obama’s mouth, I get…concerned. If I’m stretched any thinner part of me may disappear, most likely the part that modestly contributes to charity and sometimes buys Girl Scout cookies. My life’s ambition is to become a philanthropist, and I just have this feeling that the next four years will push that goal farther down my road.

Barack Obama is not my rescuer, but he is my president. I will be respectful and…hopeful.

Oh, yeah, the title of this post? Roughly translates to “who will guard the guards?” I’ll leave you with that thought, and this companion one from Thomas Jefferson: Any government powerful enough to give you everything is powerful enough to take everything.

My Country ‘Tis of Thee…and some Post-Election Thoughts

My heart is joyful this morning. Yet my heart is sad, also. Last night we elected a new president and I am very happy. But, this morning when I arrived at work full of new hope and triumph, my friend was upset that I expressed my delight. Her candidate did not win. She is angry and disappointed because she says the man who was elected does not support her beliefs. She took my expression of joy as an insult. I’m sorry for her unhappiness. But democracy is a two-edged sword. It’s about citizens being able to choose who they want to govern them in fair and free elections. Sometimes your chosen candidates win…sometimes they don’t. This system has worked for almost 250 years, and I believe it will still be working in another 250.

A co-worker who voted for Obama is married to a man who voted for McCain. This morning, they sat across from each other at the breakfast table while her husband explained to their daughter that he’s not sad because his candidate didn’t win. He is glad to live in a democracy where we are free to vote, without fear of reprisals. He also told his daughter that he will support the new president because, even though he didn’t vote for Mr. Obama, the man is now HIS president and deserves the respect and support of every U.S. citizen.

Prop 8 is expected to pass. I voted against it. This makes me sad for my gay and lesbian friends who must be feeling marginalized and ostracized by a majority (albeit a slim majority) of the population. My faith and belief that the Holy Spirit is moving to evoke change in our hearts was the deciding factor in my vote. My friends, this battle is not over. Love will win – it always does.

Each week in church we’ve been praying for “John McCain, Barack Obama, Joe Biden, Sarah Palin and their families…the citizens of the United states of America…for all the nations of the world…for Christians in their vocation as citizen…all who serve in public life…” The list goes on to include our governor, mayor, the people of Iraq and their leaders, for those who are serving in the armed forces, and many others. We don't just pray for the people we like - as Christians we pray for all our brothers and sisters on this earth.

Do you ever get a song in your head that keeps repeating itself? This one has been doing re-runs in my brain since last night:

My country tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrim’s pride.
From every mountainside,
Let freedom ring.

Freedom is ringing, loud and clear this morning. Aren't we blessed to live in this time and place?

Breaking the Rules

Okay, I’m going to break the cardinal rule of entertainers. Not that Hollywood follows this rule, but when my husband and I worked as a singing duo in (shhh!) bars, he emphasized this rule: do NOT talk about religion, do NOT talk about politics. You just couldn’t chance annoying a customer who might jeopardize a) your job or b) your personal safety. (Think flying beer bottles in “The Blues Brothers.”) So here goes. (Sorry, Sweetie.)

In the year 2000, when Proposition 22 was on the ballot, I voted for it. Naturally. My contact with gay people was limited, so I made no connection between the proposition and anybody I knew. Homosexuality was still an abstract idea for me; I just hadn’t spent any energy thinking about it. At the time, I was attending a neighborhood church, and there were a couple of people I understood to be gay. This was the beginning of the change in my attitude. One woman in particular was becoming a close friend, and subtly forcing me to consider things I had wanted to ignore.

The following year, my daughter was baptized, and this close friend gave her the gift of a week at a Christian camp in the mountains of San Bernardino. I knew this friend to be a lesbian, from things she’d said at a new members class at church, but it had never come up in our conversations. We decided the two of us would drive my daughter to camp on that Sunday. When we got there, I had to declare who would pick her up on Saturday. My friend was saying, “I can come get her.” My daughter was standing right there, and she didn’t know that after getting home on Saturday, she would be leaving again on Monday to visit her grandmother for a few days. Because she would be leaving, I was loathe to miss any time with her, but it was tempting to allow my friend to make the long drive alone. I was trying to process this very rapidly, fearing that she might think I didn’t want her to be alone with my daughter on the long drive home because she’s gay. I managed to tell the camp counselor that we both might return on Saturday, and told my friend we could decide later in the week. When we drove home that afternoon, I revealed to my friend my daughter’s travel plans for the following week, and that she didn’t know yet, since I wanted her to focus on camp, and not anticipate the next week’s adventure. That was the extent of our discussion on that topic, and conversation moved on to other things, like trying to raise a child with moral values when her father was changing girlfriends more often than his underwear.

A couple of days later, I received in the mail a very thoughtful note from my friend. In it, she declared her homosexuality, unsure if I knew. She said she would never discuss adult topics with her, but if she ever heard my daughter say anything derogatory about gays, my friend would correct her. I called my friend and we met for a little chat. I told her I knew she was gay, she had in the past mentioned a partner, and from the context I assumed it wasn’t a business partner. Face to face with my friend, I confessed my confusion between what I had “always thought” and what I saw to be the truth of her life. When I looked at her, I saw Christ reflected. Without saying a word, she was challenging me to think for myself.

Now, in 2008, we are faced with Proposition 8. Unlike Prop 22, I will be voting against Prop 8. It is personal now, as I know and love a few gay people. We use the word “marriage” to describe flavors in recipes and styles in fashion. Why can’t we use it for two committed people, regardless of gender? I refuse to believe the prognostications of social disaster. That would mean stereotyping all gays as militants, and I know that’s not true. Will there be divorce and custody arguments among gay couples? Of course; we are all imperfect humans. Heterosexuals have been messing up marriage for generations. Why should we have all the “fun?” As for schools, I think we should deal with the issue if it arises. Parents are the ones ultimately responsible for their children’s education, and that should be reiterated. We allow parents to opt their children out of reciting the pledge of allegiance. We allow them to opt their children out of participating in the Christmas, oops, Winter Pageant so they aren’t exposed to flying reindeer and singing snowmen. Parents must retain the authority to decide when and how their children learn about gay marriage, as they do now regarding human sexuality curriculum.

Attitudes cannot be legislated. My attitude changed over time, by the living examples of people around me. Maybe this is our chance to re-elevate marriage as a sacred covenant, something to be cherished and nurtured. The more people with that attitude, either gay or straight, the better for all of us.