Health Politics Women

George Tiller. A Look Back.

George Tiller is the fourth abortion-performing doctor executed in America. He is the first in a decade. He was killed inside his church as he ushered people to their seats. Bill O’Reilly, from Fox News, spent much time over the past years vilifying Tiller with little evidence to back it up. “Tiller the Baby Killer.” Now, I don’t know about Tiller’s late term abortion history. I doubt very much if it was “thousands of babies about to be born because the mother was depressed,” as O’Reilly claimed. I do know he was acquitted in a court of law in Kansas. 

The outpouring by the religious right has been strongly in favor of what happened. “There is a special place in the Bible that allows for this type of killing,” is the quote that comes to mind here. I set all of this aside now, and I go back to my days at the University of Nebraska in the mid seventies.

In the early seventies, abortion was legal only in New York. Birth control was not what it is today. Most of the sexually active college girls I knew used condoms when they had the nerve to get them, but really it was about counting days and scary nights leading up to each monthly period hoping they weren’t pregnant. To be honest, some didn’t care if they got pregnant, so sure were they that it would lead to a hasty marriage, dropping out of school, and many happy years together with the guy of their dreams. Promiscuous sex was not the norm, and if they did ‘it’, he was ‘the one’.

Most of the students I knew at the University had never been out of Nebraska. Most of them were from small towns where the trip to Lincoln to go to college was their first time away from the shelter of a small town’s vigilant oversight of all their business.

I was in a sorority. We all ate dinner together each night at 6:00 PM in a lovely dining room with our “mother” at the head of her table. Everyone said grace before being served family style. Every now and again – not often – a can would go from table to table and we all put whatever we had into the can. No one knew who was getting it, but we all put in as much as we could trying to raise the $300 to $500 needed. No one judged. Not all agreed with the decision, but everyone put what they could into that stupid can. We also didn’t discuss it. We looked down and put the money in in the can shamed by the thought of what it all meant. In some ways it was the height of compassion and in other ways, I look back thinking we were cowardly and harsh. Put our money in and don’t ever think about it again.

The recipient of the money (I have no names) would take a morning flight from Lincoln or Omaha (which had a change over in Chicago) and get to New York late in the afternoon. She would stay at the airport in a lounge chair until the next morning when she would take a cab to the clinic on 60th Street and 5th Avenue. She would have the abortion, and then go back to the airport where she would again spend the night in a lounge chair until the next morning when she would fly back to school. 

She went alone. No hotel. No friend. No sleep. I hate that I feel the need to say here I was never in need of the can’s gold. I should say I did just to be one with the sisterhood of what we all did. I don’t recall ever knowing who it was, but I do recall wondering if anyone was one of my close friends, too ashamed to reach out and tell me.  There were only sixty or so young women in the house. It was not so easy to get lost in the crowd. I heard the details of how it worked from one person or another in hushed whispers late at night.

I moved to New York City after college, where I found out about the clinic on 60th street. Ten years later, I met the clinic’s doctor. He and his wife are now good friends. He told me about guards outside his apartment house in the seventies as his small children went to school. He told me about the clinic and the stories of young girls from such far away places struggling to do the sometimes unthinkable. He told me about his commitment and his belief in the right to choose. I told him about my Nebraska days and thanked him for making it possible.

It scares me that there is such anger in America. I feel it growing, and not just around abortion. Perhaps it’s the economy, or perhaps it’s the prejudices brought to life by the differences between the past administration and the present one. I don’t know. This is the first killing in a decade. What does it mean? I sense it’s the beginning, not the end.

I also know that when I was in college, I was glad New York and the brave doctor were there if someone chose to go. Choice. I believe in choice.

Politics Women

A Woman for the Supreme Court? Not So Fast.

Just as there is no crying in baseball, there is no diversity in the Supreme Court. Look, I’m of the female gender (although sometimes I act more manly with my sweats on than I would like), and so I can have this point of view and voice it without recriminations in this moment in time. Stand aside guys, and let me handle this.

I did a little checking. There are no qualifications for being a Supreme Court Justice. It so happens that all justices so far have been lawyers, but even that isn’t a requirement.  When the President determines who he wants to nominate, past protocol calls for him to consult privately with the two senators from the state in which the nominee is from. Other than that, anything goes. (In checking it out, I did learn that we could have as many justices as we want on the court; even the number of justices is not dictated. Interesting.)

I want to see diversity in things, don’t get me wrong. I liked diversity in my daughter’s upbringing and classroom make up. I liked that she was not just surrounded by perfect, brilliant, funny, beautiful children with fabulous parents just like herself. I like to see diversity in colleges where the education is not equal and all points of view in a classroom filled with non exact answers makes it all the more interesting. 

But I don’t care about diversity in quarterbacks, brain surgeons, meat inspectors and now, Supreme Court Justices.

Here is what I do want. I want the best legal mind in the country. I want the best writer in the country. I want someone who has had a successful (meaning not overturned so much in the higher courts) history in interpreting the law. I want someone who is not 22 and just out of law school, but not so old that they had to give up diet coke to keep their mind sound like me. This is not a lot to ask, is it?

Remember Harriet Miers? Remember Alito? Let me give you a quote to chill your bones.

“When I nominated Alito, we thought we’d be getting a justice who would follow the moral tone set by my administration,” Bush said, speaking to reporters jogging alongside during the president’s three-hour morning bicycle ride. “Frankly, from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think that’s what happening, and so I’m going to withdraw Alito’s nomination as soon as I get back to the office.”

News flash. Judges are not about following the President or his moral tone anywhere. Justices are about following the constitution put together by simpler, smarter men than have followed. It’s about putting personal morals and beliefs aside and trying as imperfectly as human nature allows to interpret the constitution as best his or her mind can conjure. That is the whole point about a lifetime appointment, so they will not be tainted by personal needs that call for them to make decisions not in line with the basic premises of our constitution.

Let me save you some time, Mr. Pres. I know you’re busy and me, not so much. Here is my suggestion for the nominee. Note that his only drawback according to the news, is that he is a white man. Ok, his name sounds stupid too, but that’s not his fault. “My name is Cass Sunstein, and I’m a United States Supreme Court Justice.” Doesn’t have a great ring to it, but we’ll keep him out of places where he needs to make that statement.

200px-sunsteinCass Sunstein, Professor, Harvard Law School and Head of Office of Information and Regulatory Affairs

BIO: Age: 54. Harvard Law School graduate, clerk for Justice Thurgood Marshall. One of the nation’s leading legal scholars. Author of numerous ground-breaking books on constitutional law and behavioral economics. Recently left long-time post as University of Chicago Law School professor to join faculty at Harvard Law.

Here is what his supporters say

— He would be a judicial rock star on the court who could easily go toe-to-toe with Roberts and Scalia and leave a lasting legacy for Obama.

— He is collegial and supported Roberts’ nomination to the Supreme Court.

— He is a close adviser on legal issues to Obama, who deeply admires his accomplishments.

Here is what the critics say

— As a white man from the rarefied world of academia — who graduated from and taught at elite educational institutions — he flunks the “diversity” criteria. 

I rest my case.

Fashion Movies & TV Women

Anna Wintour on 60 Minutes

I must begin by saying I have never purchased Vogue Magazine. I sometimes think putting my hair in a pony tail in the morning is the same thing as taking a shower. In case that lead in is too obtuse, here it is plain and simple. I know nothing about fashion whatsoever. But I watched with interest this past Sunday, 60 Minute’s piece on Anna Wintour, Vogue Magazine’s twenty something year iconic leader and known best over the past years as the evil Miranda Priestly, played by Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada.

I was disquieted through the whole thing and couldn’t figure out why, so I watched it again. I watched it three times before my mind figured it out.  I kept thinking she was making me uncomfortable but it wasn’t her. 

Here are the facts on Anna Wintour. She has successfully published the premier fashion magazine (often more than 800 pages) every month for the past thirty years. She makes or breaks fashion designer’s careers. The richest man in France, and head of the Luxury company, LVMH, Bernard Arnault, called her and asked her who should be the new Chanel designer. She told him. And, he hired him. “It was the smartest thing I ever did for Chanel.”  I won’t go on because I’m told I can be too wordy, but you get the picture.

Here is how Morley Safer opened his interview with her. 

“She is said to be the most powerful woman in fashion and she does nothing to dispel that belief.” Huh? Can you imagine an opening line of a 60 Minutes piece with Bill Gates. “He is said to be the smartest man in the world, and he does nothing to dispel that belief.” I can’t continue, but the interview did in exactly the same manner. 

“People have called you ambitious, driven, needy, a perfectionist, a bitch and competitive. Are you?”  She looked out from underneath her shielding bangs and quietly answered, “Well, I am ambitious, I am driven. I care about it being the best it can be so I guess I’m a perfectionist. I try hard not to be a bitch.” Anna, honey, should should have called me. Here is the answer. “Well, Morley, is the head of any company, ambitious, needy, driven, a perfectionist, etc?”

image4525613“Is it true you always look perfect?”  I have no words, but she quietly answered, “I try to always look my best.” He then goes on to say that the company pays for her hair and her make up each day and a reported $250,000 clothing allowance. Duh. 

He shows her at a fashion show. He shows her in her office and talks about how you walk a long way into the office and that’s done on purpose to intimidate. Bite me. Here’s what is really cool. Her office is exactly as the office in The Devil Wears Prada, and she didn’t change it after the movie so it wouldn’t remind everyone of the movie the way I would have done.

So, I go to the 60 minutes website and look at the videos they didn’t include. You should too. She is amazing talking about the history of fashion. She talks about a piece on American Obesity. She is articulate and brutally honest. She discusses telling Oprah to lose 20 pounds before going on the cover in clear, insightful sincerity.  She is my new favorite person. And, she says her toughness may be an armor because she has a lot to do. I have to also say there are a number of people who have worked for her for years. They didn’t look intimidated or beaten. 

Don’t you worry Anna. I’m mad as hell and taking action. I’m going to lose 50 pounds over the next month. I’m getting my hair blown dry tomorrow and then heading to Saks to get my make up done after which I’m going into debt to purchase every single thing they put on my face including the $200 eye shadow brush. I’m subscribing to Vogue Magazine and giving it to my daughter who will be attending law school next year for Christmas. Don’t you worry new friend, I’ve got your back.

Health Personal Essays Women

My Blind Therapist

I went to a blind therapist for nine years. Going to a blind therapist to help see yourself better is absurd. I can see that clearly now.

My friend Chris is a therapist. She actually has helped me more than the blind man did; and we split the check at the end of our sessions. I can’t get my insurance to pay for our dinner or lunch (actually it’s hard to get insurance to pay for anything these days, but that’s another posting). Nonetheless, she has such amazing insight into my life that I realize that sometimes listening to friends who know you really well is much smarter than listening to someone you pay and tend to not tell things to because you want them to think you are a good patient making progress that they can write about in their next paper. Damn, that is a run on sentence, but I think it’s worth it. Also, I get to feel good at the end of our times together because I think I help her too. You don’t get to help your therapist, it’s a one way street and that’s not good for curbing personal narcissism, nor your self esteem.

There is no shame in therapy when you are a New Yorker.  Most of my friends have been in some kind of therapy or other. When I mention it in circles from my midwest past, they think it’s odd indeed. Ok, maybe not odd, but rather pathetic or scary. It always surprises me that people think therapy is strange or shows something lacking in your personal make up. An old boyfriend of mine used to say, “An unexamined life is a life that didn’t go very far outside the box it started in.” I like examining my behavior and the behavior of those that have had an influence on me.

Presenting yourself to a blind therapist is not easy.

“You might not have noticed, but I’ve gained some weight over the past few months.”

“Really, how much?”

“Fifty pounds.”

I’m not telling you what he said next. But it was at that moment that I knew I needed to leave the therapy.

He also said some amazing things.

“Just when are you going to start behaving the way you want to be remembered?” comes to mind. How good is that? I wake up many a morning and decide that is the day I’m going to start acting the way I want to be remembered. Like the New Day, New Diet plan that after ten years I still believe is going to start each morning, (talk about self deception) by noon I’ve done something or other that is not how I want to be remembered. Alas.

An old boyfriend who died recently, Kenny, went to a therapist four days a week for twelve years. None of us who cared about Kenny  saw one bit of difference in his destructive behavior and finally talked him into quitting. We all met for dinner after his last session, and he sang the praises of his therapist. “You will not believe how honest he was in the last session. He said the only thing I could fault him for was not stopping the therapy sooner when it was clear it wasn’t going anywhere.” None of us said a word. Kenny was not a stupid man. He stood before the Supreme Court of the United States of America – twice. Blind is not just about seeing through your eyes.

I think women have a harder time in therapy then men. We tend to want people to like us and confronting the therapist can often be part of the treatment. I never did that really. Nor have many friends I have who are in therapy. Men don’t seem to care. “I’m paying him,” one guy friend said to me at dinner when I questioned the roughness of what he said to the therapist, “I don’t really care what he thinks.” I want to be that person, not just in therapy, but in life. “Hi, I’m Christine, and I care what I think, not what you think.” What freedom! I’m cured!

After I stopped seeing the blind therapist I found out he became a Rabbi. Does that make him a Rabid Therapist? Tee hee. I’m not Jewish, but my daughter is, and I wondered when I heard he became a Rabbi if I would have converted to Judaism if I was still seeing him when he had his ceremony or whatever right of passage makes you a Rabbi. After all I became a narcissist when he specialized in narcissism.

This next part may seem far fetched, but I assure you it’s true.

My ex husband emailed me last fall to say that the blind therapist turned Rabbi had been in touch and asked him for money for his campaign because he was running for Congress. I checked it out and sure enough, the blind therapist, turned Rabbi had turned candidate. I knew I’d made progress because I actually contacted the blind Rabbi Therapist Candidate to tell him I thought that was extremely tacky. He agreed and apologized profusely. Turns out my ex was on a list that he was given to solicit, and he didn’t catch it.

I realize that being in therapy is sort of like having a life preserver while bobbing up and down in the large ocean of one’s life. “I’m in therapy and will find out why I don’t tell you the truth.” As if the why makes it any better. It’s like the Catholic confession. Be a terrible person all week and no worries; say you are sorry in confession and poof, it’s gone and you are no longer responsible. Or, in Judaism, when God wipes the slate clean each year and you get a big do over the next. I love Judaism for that reason alone.

I’m still examining my life, but have found other ways to do it. I am going to stick with writing which is a form of therapy right? It’s much less expensive. You don’t need to rush to make the appointment time. You don’t have to wonder if you are the favorite patient or not. The list goes on and on.

Books Parenting Politics Women

Book Review: Resilience by Elizabeth Edwards

I saw the Oprah Segment with Elizabeth Edwards in their home in Chapel Hill about her new book, Resilience, and sat mesmerized throughout the entire thing. Friends had it on their discussion list all through the weekend. I downloaded the book to my Kindle (have I mentioned how much I love my Kindle? Such instant gratification.) and read it Friday night.

I always get off track, and this book review is no exception. Can we first discuss the Edward’s house where Oprah’s interview took place? I thought John Edwards was all about environmental sanity. Before we get to the book, you have to look at their prideful presentation of their 28,000 square foot home on 100 acres for four people? Are you kidding me? 28,000 square feet including a full gymnasium? How much does that cost to heat John and Elizabeth?

“Our generation must be the one that says, ‘we must halt global warming,'” Edwards has said. “If we don’t act now, it will be too late. Our generation must be the one that says ‘yes’ to alternative, renewable fuels and ends forever our dependence on foreign oil. Our generation must be the one that accepts responsibility for conserving natural resources and demands the tools to do it. And our generation must be the one that builds the New Energy Economy. It won’t be easy, but it is time to ask the American people to be patriotic about something other than war.”

Ok, enough. But, I’m so glad he didn’t get the nomination.

I’m a mom, and yesterday was Mother’s Day. I read the book cover to cover, Elizabeth, (or really electronic page to electronic page) and can only ask what is your point? Did you really need to put the kids through this media blitz at this time so you could present a diversionary explosion to cover up a simple fact? John slept (for quite awhile) with another woman and that’s the end of that. The child looks just like him and you look like an ass when you say you have no idea if it’s his and it has no matter to you either way.

Supposedly, 60 percent of men cheat in a marriage. Granted, they aren’t doing it while on the campaign trail in 2008 when privacy isn’t even a word anymore, but that speaks more to the fact that John ain’t as smart as he sometimes appeared (remember that great line he had in one of the debates about Obama and Hillary – why do we always call Obama by his last name and Hillary by her first? – about being caught between the two of them?) Or, he’s more arrogant than most.

Her prose flows. (So does that sentence.) She can put a sentence together and tell a story.  My favorite is when she and her sister were walking to church. Her sister, playing with two dimes in her hand – one her allowance and the other the offering – lost one dime down a drain. She remarked, “Well there goes God’s dime.”

She talks about her feelings about her son’s death and those are amazing. With lines like, “Death doesn’t have the same impact after you have buried a child,” make you think about how something feels that you hope you never experience.

But when it comes to John, she’s all about the other woman. Why do we do that girls? Why do we always look at the other woman instead of the commitment made by our partners and the fact that they clearly didn’t mean it? She talks about how Rielle Hunter (yes, Elizabeth, she has a name) was waiting for John outside the hotel and came on with the line, “You’re so hot.” Please tell me you learned more in law school than to believe such an explanation by John. “He has no idea why he responded?” Please stop insulting my intelligence – and yours.

That said, there are points that she uses in her bid to forgive and move on that make sense in living our own lives. She talks about how John has been many things in their marriage; a great father, an attentive husband, a good provider. She says she doesn’t want to define their entire marriage by this one terible act. (Not sure it was one act, Elizabeth, but we get the point.) She’s right, why must we define those that disappoint us by the worst of what they bring to us rather than the best?

You cannot read this book and not think of Hillary. I did not support Hillary in her bid for the Presidency partly because of the Clinton history of lies and the bodies lying in the puddles created by them. But, I give Hillary kudos for focusing her life on actions in areas that matter to her rather than so much self reflection of the injustices of what happened to her. Both Hillary and Elizabeth are strong, mother figures to their childish, weak husbands whose boy-like charms do so well in politics. The parallel ends there.

I wish that Elizabeth left all of us out of her intimate life as Hillary has done. Elizabeth’s strength is in her brain and her toughness. She did so well when she spoke of poverty and their familial partnership desire to change it. I wish she had left her children some semblance of privacy at this very difficult time. Dying too early can’t be easy, and I try and give her that, but the book really serves to manipulate John into a lifetime of shame and guilt publicly, and you could see by the set in his jaw during his time with Oprah that he is paying his penance like the man he pretends to be but clearly isn’t.

Business Women

My To Do List

My to do list is longer than my life span. Sadly, that is not written to be funny, but a simple statement of fact. I sometimes say it out loud on my way somewhere in the car to see how it sounds. 

Not only is my To Do List longer than my life span, but unfortunately, it’s written in too many places to be able to manage the triage aspect of what to tackle first. Sometimes I write my to do list in the “Task” part of my outlook. Sometimes I write it in my notebook that I think I carry everywhere I go but never seems to be there when I need it. I’ve left it on my desk at the office, or the counter at home, or my purse that is in the backseat of my unlocked parked car. (Let’s not discuss that issue.) I even write them in the alarm clock section of my blackberry, not to be confused with my IPhone that I’m trying out to see if I want to switch over permanently. Yes, I carry two phones (I’m not alone you know), and they both have task sections that have to do’s in them.

I took the Franklin Covey course which calls for you to separate out your to do lists; personal versus business. You also have this other list that is your wish list for your personal growth. I love the Franklin Covey system in theory, but I hate the way the book takes up so much space, weighs a ton and unfortunately looks unattractively eighties. These things matter because your to do list is like your glasses, never far away.

I have read a lot about managing to do lists. There are lots of books and articles on the subject. I spend a lot of time reading them. I underline aspects of them and write their pearly words of wisdom in my notebook or in Word on my computer where I then file them in the “Personal Growth” folder in My Documents in my computer. I have two computers that both have the file; one at the office and one at home, so that doesn’t help me much either. I know Sarah will go to the personal growth folder first when I’m dead. She will surely be disappointed that there are no words of my own in it, only words from others telling me how to grow personally which surely could be an oxymoron.

I think after rereading this that I’m done with to do lists. If I don’t remember to do it, it will not get done. There was one book that said if you can’t catch up with your to do list, throw it out and start over. If something doesn’t come back you, you cannot worry about it not getting done. That saying might actually not be about to do lists, but rather relationships – if he doesn’t come back to you, you never had him to begin with… whatever. To Do Lists. Boyfriends. It’s all the same.

If anyone reading this has been promised something by me, and its important to you, please email it to me and I’ll add it to the ONE notebook that will now serve as my TOTAL to do list which I am not going to call a to do list but rather My Notebook.

Movies & TV Women

Ladies Who Lunch

Yesterday a company I do business with had about twenty people to lunch at their new location. Turns out it was mostly women. It was cool and sunny, and I was dressed nicely for me, and I had a swell time talking with the girls over a buffet of salads and desserts that were yummy. After the lunch, I spoke to a few of the women who were there and all said they wished we did girl lunches on a regular basis. They felt better after having been to it. I agree.

There are such good girl’s lunch scenes that come to mind. In When Harry Met Sally, there is that scene where they are at lunch talking about Sally’s break up and her friend pulls out her rolodex of guys to put together with Sally, I laughed along with the rest of the audience. Let’s face it, no one supports better than girlfriends, and having had more than one husband, I can say that with certainty. Oh, oh, and then there’s the amazing scene  in The First Wives Club when they work through their friend’s death at lunch and Bette Midler touches Goldie Hawn’s face to feel her latest botox injection. Love that scene.

My mother used to have people come by unannounced for coffee in the morning – women who lived next door or down the street. The dishes were still in the sink – and I’m talking about dinner dishes from the night before, not breakfast – and no one was embarrassed. I believe my mother was often in her robe. I have never had anyone stop by unannounced for anything, let alone coffee after her working husband left for the office in the morning. Most of my friends leave for work before their husbands, and if they don’t, they are online getting stuff done before heading out. Besides, none of us own robes.

I realized last night that I think I’m connected to my friends. After all, I’m on Facebook, this blog, texting, twittering, cell phone 24/7 access, but I haven’t had a ladies lunch in a really long time. It’s actually embarrassing to write that last sentence that has so much technology associated with my personal relationships, and I’m going to stop twittering right away to make a political statement about my new direction. There is way too much technology in my interpersonal communications.

And, so I have decided that I will host the next ladies lunch in a month or so. It will be fabulous. I will have a beautifully set table, make the dessert the night before, plan the menu a week early, use my silver that hasn’t been shined since Bush Senior left office, have a bow around my dog Luke’s freshly washed neck, fresh flowers from the garden I don’t have yet, and everyone will have a fabulous time and invite me to their Ladies Lunch a month later.

Yep, that’s the plan.

Sports Women

Eight Belles Week: It’s Kentucky Derby Time

I have a picture of Eight Belles in my office on the wall. You remember Eight Belles. She was the filly that ran in the Kentucky Derby last year and broke both her legs after finishing second in a field of nineteen boys. She was only the fourth filly to run in the Kentucky Derby in a bunch of years (I can’t remember how many). Sports Pundits all across America sang of her strength, her commitment, her heart. Animal activists cried of the cruelty of the race and said this should not be happening. It’s the dirt rather than grass; there are too many in the field, there is too much inbreeding and the lower legs are no longer strong enough, and so on.

I didn’t watch the Derby last year and have always felt the fraud when attending Derby parties where everyone seemed to really care about what horse crossed the finish line first. If I bet, it was based on the way the name of the horse struck me, not anything about the horse. And, I stopped going a number of years ago when I realized that I just didn’t feel good about watching them run, run, run being beaten with sticks the whole time. I wonder if the Olympic runners would run faster is someone ran behind them beating them with stick? I am told it doesn’t hurt, but I don’t believe them.

Six Belles Her trainer was very strange. “She ran a whale of a race. She ran the race of her life,” Jones said, fighting back tears. “She ran great. She went out in    glory,” Jones said. “She went out a champion to us.”  Don’t you think that’s a strange thing to say? But let’s not dwell there; I’m sure he’s thinking of her this week, and so am I.

Eight Belles will sit on my wall for a long time to come. I draw strength from her. She gets added to the list of strong women in our history who have gone before, done their best and didn’t always get what they deserved.

Thanks EB.

Parenting Women

The Trollop: Or Teenage Boys Grow Up

Being the mother of a daughter, I have envied my friends who have sons. “They will always love you,” I tell my buddies. “A son loves his mother no matter how many shrinks he sees. Not true of daughters.”

My friend Caroline has the perfect seventeen-year-old son. Aside from the fact that he has eyes with lashes longer than my sixth grade jump rope, he is nice and actually enjoys going places with his parents. They take him skiing, to the country on weekends, and even out to dinner during the week. He is perfect.

Caroline called me early yesterday.

“Something’s up, something big. A trollop called him twice this afternoon, and now he just rushed out of here with his roller blades.”

“Well, call me as soon as you know anything, but I’m sure she’s a slut.”

I received the following text in the afternoon. I think she took to her bed and couldn’t talk on the phone. It reads.

“David and I went for a ride in the car and saw him with her in the Park. She has perky breasts and long brown hair. What do I do now?”

My response was immediate.

“There is nothing you can do. Life as you have known it is over. He’s not going to want to want to go skiing anymore. He’s going to ask to stay home and you can’t let him or you will be grandparents before he graduates high school. Think Sarah Palin.” Did I mention my friend is a staunch Republican and there is nothing like rubbing her nose in Republican shortfalls when she’s down. 

An hour later, I receive the following text.

“How can I thank you for your support?”

I pick up the phone.

“It’s me. I am being supportive; I just want you to be realistic.”

“Do you think I should put condoms in his room?”

“ABSOLUTELY not!!!! That would be like telling him you’re going to be there through the whole thing and he will never be able to get it up until you are dead.”

Last night my friend drove her son and the trollop to the movies. They actually sat in the back seat of the car and she was in the front like Jeeves.

“Why didn’t you let David drive them?” I asked impatiently. Talk about gluttons for punishment.

“Because he’s sick.”

“It better be terminal.”

“Did he kiss her goodnight at the door?”

“I don’t know, I had to park a bit ahead of the house because there was no room at the curb.”

“Why didn’t you sneak out the car and peek out from behind the trunk?”

“Because I didn’t think of it and you weren’t there to tell me what to do.”

“Next time, call me on your cell phone.”

It’s now Thursday night and the trollop is over watching a rental movie in the family room with the no longer perfect son. David and Caroline are stuck up in their room wondering if they can come down and go out to dinner. I have spoken to her twice during the last hour, and she has finally come to grips with the fact that she is going to be bitter shortly.

Daughters are looking better and better.