Carrie Fisher Can Wait but I Need a Quick Fix Read

There was a rush on Carrie Fisher books at the Denver Public Library. I was something like number 67 on a list of 110 who had requested Postcards From the Edge and Wishful Drinking. It seems the unexpected death of the  actress and writer, spokesperson for people with addictions and mental health problems, and daughter of Debbie Reynolds, had stimulated many patrons to want to read her caustic, insightful humor.

I've gotten into the habit of reserving books online at the library. I choose a book and I go to the DPL web site to see if they have it. If they do, I click a button to put it on hold. If and/or when it's available, they send it over to my local branch and I go to pick it up. It's a great service.

Why don't I buy the book, you ask? Are you kidding? Why would I spend money on something I can read for free?

I may splurge on travel and eating out, but when it comes to reading material, I'm cheap. The only time I buy books is if I read them over and over again (like Dorothy Sayers's Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane mysteries) or if I like a library book so much that I want to give it to someone.

You can even borrow electronic books from the library. It's a lot easier to carry around 10 books in a back pack if they are digitally packed into a Kindle.

The point is, I like to read. When I don't focus my brain on the flickering images of that 46 inch screen in the living room, or a smaller screen on my lap or in my hand (or, I suppose, when I'm not reluctantly interacting with the real world), I stare at symbols on a page which mystically transform into complex ideas that transport my mind to other places and thoughts.

I never go anywhere without a book. It's impossible to predict when the car is going to break down or I'm going to have to take someone to the emergency room - either instance requiring me to sit for hours in an uncomfortable waiting area surrounded by other unfortunate people with a television in the corner blaring sports.

If I'm at lunch alone in a cafeteria or restaurant, I have to have a book. Other people just look at their smart phones while they eat. That would only keep me occupied for about a minute. I don't get that many emails.

The thought of a long flight, or even sitting at the airport gate waiting to board, is unbearable if I don't have reading material while I'm waiting.

It probably has something to do with ADHD. If I don't have something to focus on, my mind goes flying all over the place. I'm sure Carrie Fisher would understand.

Nothing New to Say, but Donald Trump is a Pig

I really have nothing to add to the conversation about what's happening in this country. I can't say anything new. But I'm going to say it anyway.

Donald Trump is a pig.

Perhaps I can be a little more constructive.

Trump and the people he's surrounding himself with are abusing power and pushing the constitution to its limit, just like many of us expected.

Less than a month into his administration, we're a nation in turmoil, demonstrating in the streets, others around the world confused (at best) about our standing in the lineup of nations.

I do not trust our government. I fear that they do outrageous things to distract us while they do other, more dangerous things we don't know about. There is no reassurance forthcoming, and if it were, I wouldn't believe it.

I'm afraid to imagine how bad it could get at this rate and I wonder how far it can go before Congress puts a stop to it, if they can work up the guts to do it.

The people in government I do trust and respect seem unable and/or unwilling to adequately respond to the crisis. I'd like to think they have a plan and are working behind the scenes to effect some sort of impeachment proceedings or something which will save us. But I'm afraid they are too disorganized and just as confused and scrambling as we out in the sticks seem to be.

To reflect on how we got here seems futile at this point, but I can't help but continue to feel dumbfounded that people actually voted for this. What ignorance! Did they really believe that their jobs would come back to them? Did they really think that a New York billionaire who lives in a penthouse relates to them? Understands them?

I look to my faith for comfort. I look to the old Biblical stories where there is hope even in the worst of times, and where there is light even when it is darkest. I remember that in the face of insurmountable evil, we are called to fight for justice and make a difference even in small ways where we can. I remember the parable of the tiny mustard seed that grows into a giant tree.

I also look to history for perspective. This is not the first time that government has turned bad. We are not the first people to take to the streets in protest.

And there is something unique about us: we are are American. We are a mix of freedom loving people who don't like to be messed with, who don't tolerate it when the government goes too far, who won't tolerate it when some line is crossed. We are mostly peaceful in our protest. Remember that huge women's march a couple of weeks ago? 200,000 in Denver and not one arrest. Not one. And once you get our attention, Americans are compassionate. We care about others and we like justice. We value family and relationships and somewhere deep inside, we champion the chutzpah of immigrants who arrive in this country to work hard and build a new life, which is what most immigrants want to do. Sure we are prejudiced, but we've overcome a lot of our bigotry, and once we get to know each other, we see each other as human beings. That will happen the more we demonstrate and come out to defend each other and unite to overcome this current challenge.

Our press is much maligned and battered by changing technology and social media. But the truth about what the government is doing will still come out. Through all the "fake news" and gossip and stuff that doesn't matter, the truth will continue to expose the festering corruption of lies and deceit and people will wake up to the falseness of empty promises and hollow slogans.

Americans don't always do things gently or in the right order. Sometimes we make terrible mistakes. But if you look at history's jagged line, it tends to go in the right direction eventually. The real question is how many will have to suffer this time while we correct the line's direction? How many rights will be trampled? How many will die for lack of health care? How many will perish from being turned away at our borders before we get it right again?

I'm sure the course we're on will be corrected. I just wish we didn't have to go through everything we have to go through to get there.

Mary's Tired Feet in the Time of Trump

You think it's tough being a progressive liberal in the time of Trump, try being a Jew under Roman occupation a couple of thousand years ago.

Mary was just a teenager, finding herself pregnant and attached to Joseph who was probably just as bewildered as she was. As if that weren't enough, they had to walk - WALK - from Nazareth to Bethlehem to take part in a census. They didn't have cars in those days, or buses. The mythology presumes they had a donkey, but there is no scriptural evidence of that. Even if they did, one donkey for two people, one of whom was pregnant, wasn't going to speed things up much. As part of an occupied people, they didn't have any choice in the matter. They had to go.

We always see the beautiful creche, so lovely and serene, with angels floating above, gentle farm animals laying about (again, no scriptural basis, except for sheep, which can be inferred by the presence of the shepherds). We don't think much about the walk. The dusty, sweaty walk to Bethlehem and how dirty their feet must have been, and how tired and sore those feet were. Much is made of foot washing in the Gospel. That is why. When you walk everywhere in sandals on dusty unpaved roads, your feet get pretty dirty. Add to that a late term pregnancy. Can you imagine the misery?

And then, to reach your destination only to find that there are no vacancies at any of the inns. Wouldn't that just about push you over the limit?

The storytellers who passed the Gospels down first orally, then in writing, must have glossed over it a bit. After all, this was about the birth of Jesus Christ. It would be unseemly to portray Mary as exhausted and Joseph as grouchy. But if there's any truth to the story, you know they were at the end of their rope when they reached Bethlehem and thought they couldn't go on, only they had to. It had to be a relief to finally be able to take shelter in nothing more than a stupid barn.

I don't know much about childbirth, but I'm sure a barn is less than ideal.

Veneration of Christ as the divine Messiah is all well and good, but the point of the Christmas story is to show that Jesus was born as a person sent by God to live among regular human beings so that we could relate to him, and he to us. If Jesus's mother could have dirty tired feet, if she could be exhausted and even grouchy, then I can relate to that.

Jesus didn't grow up in a royal household, surrounded by privilege and luxury. He probably lived a middle class life at best, educated and cared for, but hardly spoiled. We don't know a lot about his early life, but his parents weren't rich. They most likely worked hard, lost their patience occasionally, but did the best they could.

There were always the Romans to deal with. Those oppressors who would eventually arrest and execute Jesus, who would himself suffer exhaustion, pain, and even death at their hands.

I don't care whether the story is literally true. It's a great story. It inspires me, as it has others for many hundreds of years, to try to keep our own exhaustion, our dirty feet, our pain, our perseverance, and even our deaths, in perspective.

Because it doesn't end there. Jesus's life and death, his exhaustion, his parents' dirty feet, his sacrifice meant something. It reminds us that human though we are, as Jesus was sent as God to live among us, we are made in the image of God to live among each other. He brought, and brings, hope, healing, and love to a broken, suffering world. We are meant to do the same.

I am depressed about what is happening in the world today. To keep from falling into utter hopelessness this week, I'm meditating on Mary's tired feet. How she must have wondered if she could continue. But she carried hope, healing, and love within her. She had to go on.

The 50s Aint What They Used to Be

I just found out Patrick Dempsey is 50.  You might know him as Dr. McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy. He's the very definition of hot.

John Stamos and Rob Lowe are in their 50s. So is David Duchovny. Hot, hot, and hot.

Yes, there are well known sexy women in their 50s too, but I don't think about them as much. Ok, I am very close in age to Sarah Jessica Parker and when I reflect on which one of the Sex in the City characters I am, I believe myself to be a Carrie. Or possibly an Amanda.

50 doesn't look like it used to. Lew Parker, who played Marlo Thomas's father on the 1960s sit com, That Girl, was only 50 towards the end of that series. I would have put him at least at 65. Ed Asner, who played Lou Grant on the 1970s sit com, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, was only in his 40s at the time. I'd have guessed him at about 60.

I guess men didn't age as well back then. But they had to grow up faster than we did. They'd been through the Great Depression and World War II. They smoked more. They drank martinis at lunch. They didn't exercise. They wore black socks with everything.

Why is this on my mind? Because my birthday is this month. I will be 54.

I'm not saying I'm as hot as Patrick, John, or Rob, but they project good images to which one might aspire. Like, if I really tried, I COULD look as good as they do.

So am I more of a Rob Lowe or a Lew Parker?

On one hand, I show definite signs of age. I've been bald on top for quite some time. Gray hair is finally showing up around the edges. I sometimes groan when I rise from the couch. I have to hold my prescription bottles further away from my eyes in order to read them. I prefer the radio station that plays good music - from the 1980s. I listen to the radio.

On the other hand, many things that were true about me in my 20s are still true today. I wear shorts whenever I can get away with it. When I have to dress up I wear jeans. I don't own a suit. I never iron anything. I put off haircuts until I'm really shaggy. When I listen to music alone in the car (admittedly mostly 80s music), I turn the volume way up and sing along as loud as I can (when Like a Prayer comes on, I nearly drive off the road). I still don't know for sure what I want to be when I grow up.

I suppose around the mid-21st century, if the birthdays keep coming, millennial relatives who care enough to visit will find me confined to a rocking chair, blind as a bat, but still wearing shorts and listening to Madonna.

Apologies to Susan Stamberg - My Cranberry Sauce is Simpler

I wonder if Susan Stamberg's colleagues at National Public Radio ever get tired of hearing about her mother-in-law's cranberry relish every Thanksgiving. I guess it's a charming annual tradition: "Here comes dear old Aunt Susan again, insisting that everyone try her cranberry relish ..." It's probably pretty good, but even if it's not, you say it is because you don't want to hurt her feelings.

I have my own traditional way of serving cranberries at Thanksgiving.

Cranberry sauce. Chilled, right out of the can. No fuss, no muss. No pickled anything. If you want to put some effort into it, you can cut the perfect can shaped masterpiece into ready-to-serve slices.

People like it. I've never had any complaints.

Martha Stewart would not enjoy Thanksgiving at our house. If the table is set ahead of time, chances are a cat will lounge among the plates and flatware before the guests arrive. The hosts are generally dressed casually, in shorts if the weather is nice. The paper napkins are not folded into the shape of anything. The tablecloth is usually a little wrinkled, unless Clyde is inspired to iron it, which I don't encourage. The plates don't all match. The food is served in kind of a free-for-all, a combination of pass around and buffet, depending on the crowd, the food, and the space. Sometimes, guests have to get up to refill their own beverages. In terms of formal manners, it's pretty ugly. The pies, which come from Village Inn (they are not made at home), are topped with Cool Whip instead of whipped cream. Dessert is a strictly serve yourself affair.

We do have some standards. Football is not allowed on the television in the main room. Guests are encouraged to go to another room if they must watch.

It sounds like Thanksgiving at our house is kind of a bummer. It's not. Most of the guests enjoy coming back year after year. It's laid back. The conversation is good. We laugh a lot. Usually, we agree politically, which will come in especially handy this year. No one expects a formal black tie affair.

Years ago, I tried hard to impress when I hosted Thanksgiving. In particular, I tried to make fancy stuffing. One year I made special apple stuffing which didn't go over very well. Another time, I got a fairly ok cornbread stuffing recipe off the Internet. One year I made one with wine that smelled up the house for days. Then, for a few years, my sister-in-law tried. She got stuffing recipes out of Bon Appetite magazine. One made with rosemary was pretty good.

Until one year after dinner, someone yawned, "You know, I like Stove Top just as well as any stuffing I've ever had." Around the room, sleepily digesting, everyone agreed.

Years of research and anxiety over recipes went out the window. Why had I bothered?

The next Thanksgiving, in addition to my special way of preparing the cranberry portion of the meal, I began a whole new tradition of making stuffing for the family: several boxes of Stove Top. Just add water and a little butter, right at the last minute. They gobble it up.

Thanksgiving is not about fancy recipes. It's not about impressing guests or good china or which fork you're supposed to use. It's about having a good time and enjoying food with people you love. Even if it comes from a box or a can.

The Four Other Stages of Grief

I, like many of you, am grieving about the shocking and horrifying election of Donald Trump to the U.S. Presidency on a wave of populism fueled in large part by racism, sexism, and anti-immigration.

I believe it is necessary to grieve now in order to properly respond to the challenges of the next few years.

What is often not understood about the five stages of grief, first written about by Elizabeth Kubler Ross, is that they don't always occur one at a time or in linear fashion. Often, they overlap or occur intermittently. I've already covered denial in a previous BillsWeek entry. Now, I thought I'd hammer out some thoughts about the other stages. Sharing in this way helps me cope with my own grieving. Plus, I'm not sleeping and I have nothing better to do right now.

For the record, what I say here reflects either my own thinking or something I've overheard from others. These reflections don't necessarily reflect my exact point of view. Or maybe they do.

Bargaining

• The people who elected him aren't really racist (sexist, etc.). They were voting for Trump for some other reason.
• He was polite to President Obama when he visited the White House. Maybe he's not so bad after all. Let's give him a chance.
• He did hold up that rainbow flag that one time (even though it was upside down).
• Maybe his stupidity (and/or other shortcomings) will render his presidency ineffective. Perhaps if we give him enough rope, he'll hang himself. 
• Since he was so slippery and flip floppy on issues during the campaign, perhaps he isn't as conservative as we fear. Maybe he only acted that way to get elected.
• He was once a Democrat and a friend of the Clintons. Maybe he's a liberal in disguise. 
• Let's just be really nice to our racist neighbors and try to get along with everyone. 
• Ok, we don't have to be anti-gun. Let's just be "pro-gun safety."

Hmmm. I see why this one usually comes right after denial.

Anger

• If you voted for Trump, explain to your Black/ Muslim/ Immigrant/ LGBT neighbor/ coworker/ friend/ family member why they don't matter to you.
• Since our citizenship and civil rights are under fire, can you be surprised that we are questioning our patriotism?
• How can you come to my home, have friendly conversation with my boyfriend, attend my wedding, and still vote for Donald Trump? Don't you know what I have to lose? Don't you know what the stakes are? Don't you really care about me at all?
• Be alert for that "Kristallnacht" event to happen when the KKK and other thugs start destroying the property and lives of minorities, first without consequences, and then with the endorsement and support of the government. Think it can't happen? It was less than a century ago in a first world country called Germany...

 When you think about it, anger is really just fear turned inside out. It's what has motivated the other side to become so hateful. Fear is what fuels bigotry. It's why a great Presbyterian minister, Jane Spahr, once said, we must love them through their fear. Easier said than done.

Depression

• Can we just go to bed and wait until this is all over?
• Isolation: no talking to friends, no allowing for the comfort of company. Being alone seems less painful, somehow, even though it probably isn't.
• Music might help. Where are those old Peter, Paul, and Mary recordings?
• Depression is the scary one for some of us who have suffered from the chronic, clinical disease of the same name. We fear that if we give into this one, we'll be stuck in it and unable to get out. To us, depression looks like a long, dark, sucking tunnel that pulls you in when you haven't the strength to fight it. It gets all mixed up with the normal, circumstantial depression that happens to everyone when some terrible, external event happens.

Acceptance

• I don't accept this. Racism, sexism, and homophobia are not acceptable norms.
• I don't accept that the U.S.A. is over.
• We can only clearly see what's behind us. What is in front of us can only be estimated at best, and that is often informed by fear. Think of how frightened people were at other times in history when our national life felt threatened and the future was seriously in question: the Cuban missile crisis, Watergate, the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, and 9/11, just to name a few. Remember how frightened we were, and how shocked. At times we were despondent and hopeless. We always came through it. We always had a response, sometimes a questionable and debatable response, but we did respond. We never just rolled over and let it get to us. We're Americans, goddamnit!
• I do accept Elizabeth Warren's challenge to get involved; to volunteer, to connect with others, to add my voice to others' voices so that we are heard.
• I accept that every couple of years we get to elect new representatives. Look out bitches, mid-terms are only two years away.

Denial is a Good Stage

Crawling out of bed this morning felt like climbing out of ashen ruins after the apocalypse. The extra dose of Seroquel I took helped me sleep after the nightmarish election returns, but didn't make getting up in a strange new world any easier.

The world initially didn't look any different. The cats needed feeding. The coffee needed making. The dishwasher, having been run overnight, needed emptying. I didn't want to shave, but I did. Clyde woke up by himself today so I didn't have to wake him.

We eventually got around to turning on the TV just to make sure it wasn't all a bad dream. It wasn't. Trump was elected, oh my god, I can't even say it.

The world was looking a little different after all.

Like many others, I live in a bubble of like-minded people. Almost everyone I know - friends and family, people I like and hang out with, have the same political views. I read and listen to news that reinforces what I already think and believe. So it's not a surprise when I say that I really don't know very many people that voted for Donald Trump; just a few people at work and on Facebook. In fact, the state I live in (Colorado) didn't go to him in the electoral collage. I have that thread to hold on to. So I simply can't wrap my head around how this disaster happened.

And I'm not even close to ready to contemplate the implications of a republican house and senate (no, I don't intend to capitalize those words for the next four years at least).

I'm still stunned and in shock. I haven't yet declared myself "no longer American," like some others I'm reading about. My extended family is hatching a pretty serious sounding plan to move to Canada. Even though it's guaranteed to be warmer up there in the future (thanks to runaway climate change), I'm not quite yet ready to go. I'm still waiting for it all to sink in.

I'm sure that later I'll be enraged. I'm sure that I'll be terrified. Later. I'm sure I'll be sad. Hopefully at some point in the future I'll be motivated towards activism, but that's not happening yet.

I think this is the denial stage. It's a good stage. This is the stage where you go on doing things which keep you going. So I eat, I work, I feed the cats. If not for denial, I couldn't function at all. I'd just curl up in a ball and not move. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.