"NO!"

September 1, 2013

One in every four women is a survivor of sexual assault. A woman is raped every two minutes. I am shocked by the alarming statistics as I watch “Until Someone Wakes Up,” in which eight performers (one of whom is my wonderfully successful actor daughter) at Hamline’s auditorium. The show consists of 20 vignettes that depict true stories of women and men who have been victimized by their attacker. It is a charged performance that made me squirm in my chair in the dark room, while I consider the people closest to me whom have experienced parallel stories.

Incoming Freshman at Hamline and students at campuses across the country will watch this play, learn about how to stand up to protect themselves, scream if they have to, or communicate with clarity what has happened, if it does. No does actually mean no. One in four will continue to be a survivor of a sexual assault, unless we decrease those figures, by taking a stand on education, talking to our children about sex, and being more aware.

Thank you, my precious Taelor, for helping the cause, spreading the word, and being a courageous, and fabulous actor. 

"Like" the Lynx

August 31, 2013

It’s like bringing sand to the beach. I am overjoyed to be at the Lynx game with my good friend, who surprised me with tickets. A ride on the LightRail and beers downtown, then joining the masses to watch the women play. What a blast! My High School and college basketball experiences came whooshing in and I got into the groove of clapping, bopping to the tunes on the loud speakers, stood to cheer every five minutes, made lewd comments about the many entertaining acts the marketers came up with in between quarters and waved off the cotton candy, beer, peanuts, kettlecorn, coffee, massive sodas and slushies that paraded by. Impressed with the crowd of four seated in front of us since they were cheering the Seattle Sonics with gusto. They had won the trip in Washington state, which included airline tickets, fancy room at the downtown Marriot and their well appointed seats at the game (Lynx stomped them.)

One day I am groping a woman from behind to steal the ball on the court, the next I am sitting in the stands, watching women half my age or more, play like their lives depend upon it. Looks like the Lynx may very well head to the Championship.

World Cup Shackles

August 30, 2013

Some of my old Puma soccer teammates want to go to the World Cup next April. I could easily arrange to chaperone a group, to the preferred city of Natal, one of the smallest venues. However, my Brasilian friends are already protesting my participation, disturbed by the defamation of the black people (in Salvador, for example, the overwhelmingly black city, has chosen Ivete Sangalo, a white singer, to perform the national anthem for the inauguration,) destruction of many homes and local businesses, erecting masses of new spaces, injurious to the country, to create a more culturally appealing scheme. In the marketing pieces, large chunks of green space are dubbed-in to amputate the scarred and real impoverished segments of the cities. I am in doubt as to whether I want to contribute to this humiliation. The estimated cost to Brasil, to host these events, amounts to $33 million. Like South Africa and the UK, they will most likely lose their shirt and have years of recovery. Companies like Coca-Cola and McDonalds will represent the food venues in the stadiums, leaving out the local sources, even banning them from up to two kilometers from the stadium walls. Homes, albeit windowless cracker boxes, are being stripped from the areas, displacing so many. New transportation fares caused massive riots in my old home town and across the South American country not long ago. My heart bleeds for my kindred spirits, the grief and loss they are already experiencing. Just under a year prior to the kick-off and I mourn the changes, for Brasil and her people. 

Rest Haven

August 29, 2013

Should have withered away to nothing by now, downsized to size zero or something as chic but, no such luck. Sweating is contagious, I’m afraid, and the worker bees upstairs have caught it from me, or vice versa. They are gulping iced tea from weeping glasses by the hour and I cannot get past the next few steps on my project without stopping to pour another shot, like a German barmaid, sans a handful of coin for a tip. I sit in the blazing heat, glistening, while the ceiling fan mocks my progress, or lack thereof.  I am wearing as little clothing as I can get away with, aside from being arrested for indecent exposure while the two helpers have on jeans, clunky pleather boots, most likely sensible absorbent cotton socks with a few holes, and white undershirts beneath their button-down short sleeves!

The Nursing Home (usually they are named things like Rest Haven or something so far removed from the reality of the joint, it is crazy) is situated on acreage, seems more like a golf course or conference center than a nursing home/rehabilitation/assisted living spot. The halls are soothing and luxurious. I couldn’t even strain to view the residents saturated into their hospital beds, and believe me, I tried, as I sashayed down the corridor. Was in to visit with my new client and her son, discussing the ins and outs of her care, once she arrives home again. We calmly talked about meal options, my hours, swabbing the deck and other rooms in the apartment, the details of the laundry situated in the basement and finding things the senior lady wants to do in her spare time. She is a mere 88 and in a bad way, at the moment. Once she is shipped home, I will pitch in to take care of her. I draw the line at making and serving lime jello, however, so I insisted they put that in the contract.

I look forward to hearing about little Lacey, my good friend (who is now 52) and her shenanigans while staying at my client’s place when she was a child. All of those family memories that get rearranged in the mind, expanding and contracting with time. Something to look forward to. It comes with the aging territory, whether we like it or not. 

Special on Half and Half

August 28, 2013

The clerk at the West Side Grocery store had no clue how much the pint of half and half should be. He asked me if I had bought it before and how much was it the last time. I didn’t have any idea so we made up the price of $1.79 and he counted out the change with a doubtful expression across his heavy, yet obviously youthful face, and doled it out in a clump. We shared a good chuckle and a “Have a great night,” the stranger mathematician and I, as I made my way out the double doors to collect Tyrus. He was tied to the metal pole out front, impatiently waiting for me to return, ignoring the gang of boys smoking and exchanging remarks about this and that. One louder voice comments about the size of the dog, guesses his breed as a tough Pit, another cheerful tone claims Golden, yet another, Yellow Mellow Lab or the brazen and dangerous tone suggests a mixed breed of sorts. Only one man, about a year ago, commented with certainty, that he is a Bull Mastiff. I tell the motley crew that he is a guard dog and leave them hanging.

Two men came to the door with their black tool boxes and extension cords, a drill, Gorilla Glue and various other supplies carted in a plastic Walmart bag, just to piss me off. They came to bang and un-wedge, spray fine dust over the furniture and pets, break a window and depart, with chai tea sloshing around in their bellies. I had to hydrate them or I was afraid they would keel over in the house and be here for days on end. The black moldy spot on the bathroom ceiling is patched over again, not sure how they resolved the mildly functioning stovetop and the shower still runs cold. Claim they will be back tomorrow to finish up.

A few break-in reports are scattered across the neighborhood web page. Someone was hit last night between 10pm and 1:00am, while they were at home, asleep in their beds. The electronics were targeted. Close the windows in the night, the message urged me and my unsuspecting neighbors. Another woman suggested they are moving sooner than later since she discovered the motion-detector lights had been unscrewed from their sockets, most likely in preparation for a hit. It is terrible that people are frightened in their homes. We should feel safe and secure during our REM sleep. I am tired and hope the thieves keep their hands to themselves tonight because I just do not have the patience.

Mail Carrier With a Hernia

August 27, 2013

Jade Alexandra Larson lost her driver’s license amongst a few French fry sleeves and paper sacks from White Castle, tossed serendipitously from a car onto the medium. I am the trash-picker-upper on my nightly walks and happened to spot Jade’s mug staring at me from the prickly grass. The plastic is slightly bent yet not irreparable. Large cash rewards aside, I don’t think twice about plopping it in an envelope to go out in tomorrow’s mail. Miss Larson should have it in her hot little hand in a day.

The streets are quiet, mostly just humming noises coming from house after house, as we climb the sidewalks through the neighborhood, scooping garbage. It is good to be back home. Cat curled up next to me on the loveseat, dog slathered across his bed near the front door, AC blowing warmish air around the room.

Earlier today my aged friend and I drove five minutes down the road from his place, to the local health clinic. He immediately forgot why we were there, as the PA’s attendant checked him in. Peppered with questions about his current and past medications, previous visits to the clinic, inquiries regarding his heart condition, and details about the up-and-coming follow-up, left him looking dazed and discernibly confused. The PA turned up the volume and asked my pal another series of questions that made my heart vibrate like a crash of timber next to my head. She seems nice enough, competent, thorough, perky, and concerned yet I can only brood over a system that encourages one doctor (or in this case, a Physician’s Assistant) to support the whole scheme of care. She scrolled through many doctor’s notes and added some of her own before turning us out with sheets in hand. At least we secured an appointment on Thursday to take care of his painful toe issues, at yet another clinic, not nearly as conveniently located.

Arriving back at the ranch, we met the postal worker at the edge of the driveway. He toted a massive stack of mail for my buddy, who cheerfully suggested I assist him with the letter opener. I am astounded by the number of solicitations, from many organizations I have never heard of, to help them build schools, save the whales, puppies, fish, birds, prairie grasses and crystal rock from destruction. He got 2014 calendars, a bracelet, pen, a nickel, three shiny pennies, notepads, stickers, return address labels, measurement conversion charts, all quite necessary in the weeks and months to come. I honestly thought he had stopped the mail for several days, weeks, months but he assures me not. I didn’t want to suggest how many trees were ripped down and shredded to send out the umpteen inquiries for dwindling his precious retirement account.

Spot an eagle

August 26, 2013

When I am 89, I just hope I am able to get to the bathroom on my own, let alone share a fish sandwich and pound of Texas-style steak fries, a tap bear and staccato conversation over a pseudo wood table in a bar in St Francis, MN with a St Paulie Girl (that’s me, by the way.)   

A three foot wingspan glided away from me at the base of the cove this morning. I was ecstatic to find a white tail floating towards the middle of the Rum River and coast to the right so I was able to positively identify the eagle. My new best friend insists he wants to come to the river tomorrow, with the hopes of spotting the big bird of prey. I highly doubt he is capable of maneuvering the sketchy trail since I can barely slither along with my one semi-strong ankle to get to the dingy water. Hate to discourage him yet am not confident I could carry his, I suspect, under 90 pounds up and down the path. By that time, he will have slept and most likely forgotten all about the eagle.

I wander from one room to another, trying not to create too much hot wind around my body for fear it will consider sweating again. Cool washcloths against my forehead, belly and underarms only generate a moments reprieve from the stickiness of the humid air. How is it that we are hotter than the majority of the country. Impossible to imagine the heat index so high at 8:30pm. Need to wedge my head into the freezer for a bit so I can wind down for the day. Night.