The Worst Jury Duty Ever
My Thoughts on Jury Duty
Every US citizen has an obligation to their country to serve as a juror. Somehow that obligation never fails to come at the most inopportune time for everyone. Still we manage to change our schedules and rearrange our lives to show up for jury duty.
In Florida, Pinellas County and even Tampa Federal Court, they let you call the night before to see if you are needed. In Louisiana, I had to go in for three days to sit in a jury pool on the off-chance they might need me. They didn’t. Tampa’s Federal Court had me calling every night for four nights. That was two years ago as I nervously prayed I wouldn’t be called because Spring Break was starting and I had a flight out to Santa Fe. This time the evening call said to show up the next day. Wanting to do my civic duty and all, but mostly since I was subpoenaed, I showed up for jury duty.
The courthouse is at the end of 49th Street in Clearwater, about a thirty minute drive. I had gotten lost out that way the week before and from the people I saw waiting around out front I had already determined there was no way I could ever be a “jury of their peers.” Just sayin.
Once in the jury pool room, I had my number and a form to fill out. Had I ever been called to serve on a jury? Yes. Was I chosen? No. Did I know anyone or was related to anyone in law enforcement? Yes. Had I ever witnessed a crime? No. Has anyone in my immediate family been a victim of a crime? No. Has anyone in my immediate family been convicted of committing a crime? No. Where did I work? What was my job? What was my marital status?
I was sure my Yes to the law enforcement question would be immediate dismissal from any jury. I was wrong. I was called to Courtroom 2, Division K for a criminal case in the second pool of 50 jurors. We waited around outside of the courtroom until a bailiff came out and called our numbers. Mine was the second one called. I was now juror number two and we went in for Voir Dire. Inside was a judge, court reporter, two bailiffs, a clerk of court person, the assistant district attorney, and the attorneys for the defense. I thought there were three of them, but soon found out the lead defense attorney was the woman, her co-counsel, a man, and the third man was the defendant. I thought that was strange that he would be there.
The judge had a lot to say, and asked if there was anyone who didn’t understand English. Three women raised their hands. He asked the first one, Hispanic, how long she’d been in this country. 17 years she said. The next one, also Hispanic, 19 years. And the last, a Russian, 19 years. After the first break, he excused them.
That was so wrong on many levels. First of all, I think they were lying, secondly that only made other people want to bolt. The worst thing is, what does that say about our system and its process? With the illegal immigrant issues, and the non-English speaking issues in the news, how unjust is it to be able to say “I’m sorry I don’t understand your language” while taking advantage of the benefits of this country. Oh, and they got paid because that came just from being there unless, like me, your employer covered your salary and didn’t dock your time off. So what if it’s only fifteen bucks. It’s the principal.
With the floodgates open, at least ten others had reasons why they couldn’t serve. And we had to listen to them all. “I have a lawn service business and there are only two of us.” “I have a grandchild I have to pick up.” “I have a son who had a ‘skroke’ and I have to take care of him.” “I don’t think I can serve because I have a lot on my mind right now.” The judge asked how many people had something on their mind that would prevent them from concentrating on the trial. A few raised their hands and we had to listen to them whine. “I just have a lot on my mind right now.” “I need to pay my rent and I had to take time off work.” And then the guy who said, “I have to pay my rent and bills and had to get someone to cover my shift.” The judge asked what time was his shift. “At night.”
A young effeminate black guy threw his hand in the air and didn’t really wait to be called on before having his hissy fit. “I just don’t want to be here. I just can’t stand this. Being here in the courthouse, it’s, it’s just bothering me.” As the judge questioned him he said he was 25, and he had been on trial but couldn’t remember when or what for, and wasn’t sure of the outcome, but he guessed he got off because he was sitting there now. When we left for lunch, the judge had him stay behind. I figured they’d excuse him, but no, he was still with us after lunch. I heard him say the judge said he was being disruptive.
So I was stuck next to juror number one, a huge fat toothless woman who told the judge she had sugar issues and would have to go to lunch by 12:30. After the first break, she was crackling the plastic wrap on a honey bun and eating it in court. The she started burping.
As the ADA asked his questions of the jurors. When he got to the Hispanic woman who’d been here 15 years he had her stand. He asked her what she did, and how long she’d been speaking English and if she understood what he said. She said, “Yes.” And nodded vigorously. Then he said, “So you have no problem being firm with your decision and not letting the other jurors sway your opinion?” She said, “What?” I had to laugh.
The ADA then asked about our experience with law enforcement. He got to one older black man who said his experiences had not been good. He has been stopped numerous times in St. Pete for no reason, and each time had run all sorts of checks on his license and registration. The ADA asked, “So why do you feel they stopped you?” “Well,” he said, “I call it ‘Driving while black.’” I thought, good for him. The ADA said, “So you feel they were profiling?” “Yes, sir.”
One older guy with a little white pony tail raised his hand and said, “I’m retired and I don’t have anything to do. I can be here every day, and you can count on me to be fair and impartial.” Shut up and sit down, I wanted to say.
The lead defense attorney had her turn. Personally, I would fire her if she worked for me. She was way too earnest and pleading. She went on about “reasonable doubt.” She used a “hypo” a hypothetical situation, but kept calling it a “hypo.” She said how many of you have walked out of the house and not been certain you turned off the iron, or locked the door? She went around the room. When she got to me, I asked her what the question was again because by then she had explained and changed it. She restated, “Have you ever walked out of the house and not been sure you locked the door?” I said, “No.” I think that floored her. She went on, “Really, you’ve never had that happen?” I said, “No.” The judge, finally more exasperated than I, said, “Let me read the law on this again.” It was about “reasonable doubt” and how it was your personal reasonable doubt that you would arrive at, not anyone else’s on the jury and don’t let yourself be swayed.
Her next “hypo” was “imagine you are a school principal and two 8th graders were in a fight. They both say the other started it and there are no eye witnesses. You have to suspend the one who started it. One student has a prior suspension from second grade. Would you hold that against him, or be able to judge him on the current charge?” She went around the room and on a scale of 1 to 5, one being you’d hold it against him, or 5 being you wouldn’t let it play in at all, asked us all. Fat Juror Number One said 5. I said 4 because I know it would play into it. Surprisingly, no one said two or one.
We were finally excused at 2:50 to sit in the hall while they chose their jurors. Twenty minutes later, back inside, three older white women, one young white woman, two older white men, and one Asian man were chosen. I was miffed I wasn’t chosen.
Later at on the internet, I found the defendant had a long, long list of charges—quite a few felonies dating back to 2003—drugs, theft, battery, burglary, DUI, possession, etc., and aliases. This was the reason for his attorney’s question, the hypo, about holding a prior offense against him. I’m sorry, obviously this guy has issues and has many prior offenses of the same nature, and they should be taken into account. Turns out this was his first jury trial, he had pled guilty the other times.
So I checked the day after the trial was held. And there, in the court records, much to my surprise was “Not Guilty.” Holy Shit. I want to read those transcripts.
The Best Basketball Player EVER!!!
This is naturally one mom’s opinion, but I’m pretty sure it’s 100% accurate.
Quin Cooper with Crowley’s Ridge College in Arkansas was just selected Player of the Week for the SECOND time this season!
Quin Cooper, senior from Covington, LA, scored over half of the Crowley’s Ridge Pioneers points in a 83-70 road win over Boyce College last week. His career high 46 points along with a 24 point performance in a win over St Louis Christian College gave him a 35 point per game average last week. Cooper also posted 12 rebounds, 4 steals, and 4 assists in the 2 wins.
http://www.thenccaa.org/news/2014/11/5/MBB_1105140933.aspx
Quin Cooper, senior from Covington, LA, scored over half of the Crowley’s Ridge Pioneers points in a 83-70 road win over Boyce College last week. His career high 46 points along with a 24 point performance in a win over St Louis Christian College gave him a 35 point per game average last week. Cooper also posted 12 rebounds, 4 steals, and 4 assists in the 2 wins.
http://www.thenccaa.org/news/2014/11/5/MBB_1105140933.aspx
Basketball–The Best Sport EVER
Today Yahoo newsfeed had an article about a kid who wasn’t offered a college scholarship to play basketball and went on to wow people with 24 points a game because his father was lucky enough to sit next to a coach on the airplane. I think it’s great, and I’m glad to hear it. But…
There are so many others just like him, and one is my son. Quin Cooper. He was always tall, and thin. He has worked his entire life to play basketball. He has practiced and workout to gain muscle mass. He is athletic, strong, tall, fast and a great shooter. He is currently averaging 26+ points a game in Men’s College Basketball.
He came from an area in South Louisiana where football was king, and a high school that did not have the best basketball coach or record. Still, he was a star. He played Freshman, JV and Varsity ball in his freshman year of high school. He was skilled and a starter. By the end of high school, he was 6’5” and had scored over 1,000 career points.
As his mother, I always have supported him, and continue to do so. I sent DVDs of his games to countless colleges, and tried to get him looked at, but we just weren’t in the big basketball zone colleges look at. One local coach from another high school helped him with a contact at Centenary, and he played there his Freshman year of college. It was Centenary’s last year as a DI school, and as a Freshman, he didn’t get much playing time.
He transferred to Southeastern Louisiana University, another DI school, and was promised a scholarship. Fortunately, he is also very smart and had TOPS money to attend school. Again, he didn’t get much play time, and his junior year he red-shirted. Then the coach was fired and the new coach said he needed the money to lure in other players.
Quin just wants to play. He transferred to an NAIA college in Arkansas, Crowley’s Ridge College, where he gets to start, and play most of the game. Why? Because he is that good. He was the Men’s Basketball DI National Student Athlete of the Week the first week of December, 2014.
Quin’s dream was to play DI, which he did, sort of. Then it was just to play, which he’s doing. He doesn’t say it, but I know he dreamed of the NBA, and I think he’s good enough. He’s not a man of color, but he still deserves a look, and a chance.
Used to be one of the best Christmas shows ever! Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer animated cartoon with Burl Ives was created 50 years ago at a cost of $500,000. I was five when it first aired and grew up loving it. It was a part of Christmas. I showed it to my own children who are now in their 30s. They were not as thrilled as animation has change drastically. Last night my granddaughters, 9 and 11, wanted to watch it, so we sat together as a family. Frankly, I was horrified and here’s why.
The show is blatantly bigoted and sexist. Sure you could get away with that in the 60s, but not now, so I’m surprised they still show it. Santa rejects Rudolph, as do his parents, because he is different. The other reindeer are allowed to make fun of him. I made a point of discussing certain issues with the girls hoping to steer them in the right direction.
Included in this show is an elf who feels different because he wants to be a dentist. First of all, what little boy in the 60s really wanted to grow up to be a dentist? He, too, is rejected by the other elves for his chosen career. Incidentally all of the children elves are blonde and blue eyed. All of the girls look alike and all of the boy elves look alike.
I suppose the overall message was meant to be a triumph as everyone comes to love and appreciate Rudolph for his difference when his nose lights up the way to make Christmas happen. Frankly, the real message is if you can put your difference to use/have a talent, you will be accepted, but no one will just accept you because different.
The other issue was sexism. Dasher, Rudolph’s father tells his wife she can’t go with him to look for Rudolph because it is too hard for a female. Okay, so that was the message back then, but seriously, let Dasher try having baby Rudolph and see just what kind of hard work the female deer can handle. I told my granddaughters never let a man tell you that something is too hard because you are female (unless it’s something like yard work that you don’t want to do anyway, then leave them to their little fantasy!)
Near the end, after the Abominable Snowman has all of his teeth yanked and is pushed into a crevasse, someone volunteers the idea that they must get the little women back to safety because it’s too dangerous. Seriously? They already came all that way braving the elements and the snowman, what else is left?
The Abominable Snowman is later brought back, stripped of his one true calling—being a scary monster, and “rehabilitated” to be the guy who puts the star on top of the tree because he’s the tallest. Another great message.
I’m glad I have lived through and made it to the other side of those periods during 60s and 70s and later where bigotry and sexism was worse than it is now. No, things aren’t perfect, but we’ve come a long way. So much for nostalgia.
My Recent Trip (Good, but not the best ever)
Recently I flew Southwest to Houston for my niece’s wedding. The trip from Tampa was non-stop and uneventful. The weather and the wedding were beautiful, and I truly enjoyed visiting with my family. My sister dropped me off outside of Hobby for the return trip. I wheeled my bag to the outside baggage guy who proceeded to check it in for my connecting flight through Austin. I was looking around to see where to go when the baggage handler, a middle aged man named Skip, said something about how tips are appreciated. I pulled a dollar from my pocket and handed it to him. I felt bad it was only a dollar, but it was the only small bill I had and I’ve since been told the customary tip is a dollar per bag. He didn’t do anything differently than the baggage people inside would, and they don’t get tipped.
So I caught the flight to Austin, where I found the connecting flight would be ten minutes late. No big deal. On the flight down to Tampa, the pilot begins what feels like the descent into the airport. Then he announces it would be another 45 minutes. I checked my watch and realized that will put us close to an hour late.
In Tampa it was storming. Visibility was low with lightening crashing all around. I headed to the baggage claim area to find there are three other planes and tons of people standing around waiting. Due to the lightening, they could not get the bags off the plane and drive them over. I was supposed to get in at six. It was 7:00 I called my family to let them know. They were waiting in the cell phone lot. We had planned to go to dinner. I hadn’t eaten anything except peanuts since breakfast, so I went upstairs to scout out restaurants and find a TGI Fridays and a Carabbas—both grossly overpriced—but fairly decent food. I called my family and suggested we eat at one while waiting for the bags. We ate at Fridays, and went down to baggage claim where we found the place nearly empty with piles of luggage off to one side. I checked the piles for mine. No suitcase. I asked the handler who couldn’t find it and suggested I file a claim.
The baggage claim clerk was very helpful. She offered to either drive it over when it arrived or give me a $50 voucher if I want to drive back and pick it up. We chose the voucher option. They used my baggage claim ticket to see where it was. Turns out old Skip never put it on the plane. Probably because of the dollar tip, but come on that’s no excuse not to do your job.
Southwest called at 11 pm. My bag was in. After a rough night (my sleep aid was in the bag) I woke at six a.m. regretting that I didn’t let them deliver it. The makeup in my drawer was old and not what I’m used to using. I ended up looking worse for the wear as they say. In all my years of flying I have never had this happen. Next trip I will pack accordingly.
The Best Vacation Ever
Last month over Spring Break, and for the first time in thirty years I had the chance to vacation without children or pets, and to go someplace other than to see family. I wavered between fear and excitement in the weeks leading up to my Santa Fe trip with my friends, Vickie and her husband, Ken. Fear of something new, far away, different from the norm. As the day grew closer, I found the excitement building, carrying me forward into the moment.
The day began at 4 am and I awoke feeling well rested and ready to travel. The security line was interminably long with interesting people to watch: a Buddhist monk in his saffron robes, white athletic socks and shower shoes, a group of young men in identical t-shirts proclaiming New Orleans as their bachelor party destination, and an older woman who was so nervous about her first flight in thirty years she wouldn’t stop talking. Naturally, I was the one who had to take off my shoes because something buzzed as I walked through, but I made the flight on time, and the rest of the trip was uneventful.
We arrived in Albuquerque to beautiful sunny, chilly weather and headed out to Santa Fe, stopping first at a Blake’s where I fell in love with my very first green chili hamburger. I had been to Santa Fe via Albuquerque twelve years before, but the landscape still took my breath away.
We wound our way through the neighborhoods of Santa Fe to our little walled casita. The ceilings were low, white-washed walls, wooden floors and little kiva fireplaces in every room. We stayed there for four nights and enjoyed pinon fires each night and Sunday morning when we woke to snow flurries.
While in Santa Fe, we sampled local fair at Maria’s where I had enchiladas, La Meson for tapas and classical guitar, and Jinja—an Asian fusion restaurant reportedly owned by Gene Hackman. Lunch was at Cowgirls where I had pulled pork, The Stand for more enchiladas, and Tune-Up for brunch.
We walked the Plaza, Canyon Road to look at art, and went to see Georgia O’Keeffe’s museum. I loved her New York work along with the cottonwood paintings and the winding roads and rivers through the mesas.
Evenings were spent in local haunts listening to some great music. La Fonda had a band playing music to dance to, not that I know how to dance, but I gave it a whirl with a great dancer and friend of Vickie’s, David, who very patiently reminded me not to lead. David is a musician and wonderful writer (Check out his blog: David Goldberg’s Blog—The Pieces of My Heart is wonderful reading.) I got to meet more of Vickie’s old friends there too, Larry and Katie Seeley. Larry is a fabulous mystery writer. (Check out his stuff on Amazon.) The band even played “King of the Road, an old song I remember from my father’s record collection.
Sunday we hiked Tent Rocks to a gorgeous view. Coming back to a glass of wine, a pinon fire and a late supper made it a perfect day. One of the best things about the whole trip was the leisurely pace with which we greeted each day. There was no rush to get out and see things, we got up around eight, had coffee, read a bit, then wandered out for lunch and to see the sites, then back to relax and read, then get ready to go out. It was lovely.
Tuesday morning we packed and made our way to Abiquiu. We stopped for more green chili burgers and headed into the stark winterized countryside. The house was near Lake Abiquiu eight minutes from the main road, which was off in a desert like area and then up to a mesa where the views from all sides were stunning. The Pedernal was outside my bedroom window, Lake Abiquiu down the mesa and across the plains in front of the house. I took several walks collecting rocks and scaring jack rabbits. Pinon and other brush, a deep green, dotted the ochre colored hills, and from afar, the mesas glowed softly in oranges, pinks and purples.
We made it to Georgia O’Keeffe’s home and took the tour. From the tour guide we got directions to a place she painted in the white hills and next to it the buttery yellow Al Islam mosque. We had hoped to sit outside and enjoy a pinon fire, but the wind picked up each night, blowing sand and bringing and colder air, so we opted for inside fires, but we did slip out for some star gazing.
Wednesday morning we woke to see the mesas covered in light snow and that was the day we toured the countryside. On Thursday, Vickie and I drove to Ojo Caliente where we submerged ourselves in the healing waters of iron, arsenic and soda. We got massages and enjoyed a delicious lunch of fish tacos and bean burritos. It was heaven.
All too soon it was time to leave. Friday we packed up and headed back to Albuquerque where we caught a plane back to sunny Florida—an all day trip. I was exhausted and spent much of the weekend sleeping, recovering from my vacation.
I knew when I set out I would first long to be back home, then when I got home, long to be back in New Mexico, and that’s what has happened. I always want what I don’t have. I was worried my friends would get sick of me, I’m very quiet and when faced with new situations, become even quieter, but I don’t think that happened. They were wonderful traveling companions and Vickie did a fabulous job of selecting restaurants and sights to see. I got the real flavor of the area.
Now that I’m reading Larry Seeley’s mystery, Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves, I can see the area clearly in my mind, and it makes me want to go back. And some day, I will.
The Best Workout Ever
My friend Vickie has been inviting me to workout with her at Orange Theory by Publix. I finally decided to go with her last Sunday. She had wanted to meet for lunch, so I said I would join her before that at OT.
I arrived and as I pulled up in my car saw she wasn’t there. I didn’t want to go at all and thought about just texting her, the plan I should have gone with as you should always trust your first instincts. I went to Publix, got my prescription and went back. Her car was there so I reluctantly went inside.
They gave me a form to fill out and a heart monitor I had trouble getting on under by bra strap even in the bathroom. The instructor, JJ, was young, about 28 or so and covered in tats the kind you need to read, so that’s what I was doing as he led the little group in a pre-workout pep rally. They all bumped his fist as they passed through into the workout area. Not bumping fists got laughs from the clients and a shrug from him. What the hell, I didn’t know it was part of the routine I thought they knew him and since I didn’t…
Vickie liked to start on the rowing machine, so about 12 of us did that while 12 did the treadmill. JJ had given me a quick how to on the rowing machine before class started but that wasn’t enough. We all jumped on and started rowing. No problem so far but he’s calling out directions that I couldn’t hear over his extremely loud music. After 6 minutes he says something and everyone gets up and goes to get a ball—like a small basketball only 8 pounds or more. Vickie handed me an 8 pounder and we were to take it back and intermittently row then stop and throw the ball in the air—yeah, right an 8 pound ball up over my head as I straddle a rowing machine—then grab the ball and thrust it to the side and then the opposite side, never mind the other people next to you doing the same thing and the length of our arms was just right for colliding. Then we were to just use our legs on the rowing machine and keep doing these ball, row, leg, ball rep things. I lost count and did my best. Fortunately my legs are in fair shape from walking.
Suddenly we jump up and march over to replace the ball and then start using I don’t even know what to call it—a half ball where we flop on the floor and flounder around like beached fish waving an arm and leg on opposite sides and then switching. Once again we had about two feet in between and the rather large lady on my right was flopping around in my space freaking me out. Then we did fake pushup things, another move where we jumped to our feet then dropped down to the ball—I had to pass on that one, I was afraid I’d strain something or fall over. I kind of stood there half in disbelief, and half frowning at the instructions that were so fast I had no idea what to do. Vickie showed me an easier way, and then we pulled out a round thing on wheels and knelt down to push it around in circles—arm moves. I felt totally uncoordinated because I am, this shit just brought it all to public light, but I did my best. After flopping and rolling for 20 minutes it was finally our turn on the treadmill. Finally something I knew how to do.
Of course, it couldn’t be just normal shit on the treadmill it had to be let’s start at an incline of 3.5 and a pace of 3.5. Having walked now for over two years in the flatlands of Florida, an incline, even that slight was like hiking Mount Everest, and the pace far faster than Max can drag me on a good day. I decided to just do what I could and dropped the incline which made the pace semi reasonable. I did try to raise it and walk faster, but it didn’t last long because I was actually sweating by then. Drip down my face sweat. I had been instructed when I arrived to put my stuff in a locker, so that’s where my towel, water and keys were. Thanks a lot people!
During the treadmill I glanced around a bit and saw a few people with their treadmills at an escalator like incline. That’s not even natural. Then he had everyone start running, except for me because I don’t run. Ever. My knees don’t like it. One of the worst parts about the treadmill is the huge mirror in front of all of them. Not only am I uncoordinated and sweating, I have to watch myself. Gross.
JJ’s playlist was horrible. So bad I can’t even tell you what it was. I only recognized one song, In Da Club by 50 Cent. So one song, ONE SONG was tolerable the entire hour. All I could think over the loudness was OMG STOP THE MADNESS!
Not soon enough the workout was over. Everyone crowded around for a pep talk or something from JJ. I figured I was just visiting, and had had enough so I walked into the reception area to give back my monitor. Apparently I missed where you found out how well you did and how you did compared to other visits—this was in front of everyone—more public knowledge.
As I turned in my monitor, a peppy woman said, “So, how do you like it?” I shook my head, and in my usual blunt way said politely, with what I felt was a regretful look on my face, “I didn’t. “ She said, “That’s okay, either you really like it or you don’t on your first visit.” I felt relieved that she understood. Another peppy girl came up to ask the same thing. This time I decided to be a bit more honest and said, “It’s too loud and I can’t hear anything he was saying. It’s all a bit chaotic for me.”
They were having a “block party” and invited us to stay. I must admit the wine and liquor selection was tempting along with all of the calorie intense sweets, but we were going to lunch and while drinking sounded like a good idea after all I had just been through, I don’t drink during the day, at noon especially I might add.
JJ had told us how the workout continues to burn calories, etc, but didn’t warn me that the next day I would barely be able to move. From my waist up to my neck I was stiff and sore and it got worse by Tuesday, but I have slowly recovered and come to the realization that I am out of shape and should do something about it. The soreness is almost gone but the residual emails from OT may last forever.
The Craziest Best Week Ever
This past week was crazy eventful. The girls arrived last Saturday and the house exploded with a colorful assortment of clothes, flip flops and toys. Max and Murphy were delighted to see them as they get lonely. I think they get bored with our conversations.
We had my friend’s, Deb and Rick’s dog, Maya, a Border Collie, staying for about five days. She was very well behaved but a bit hairy. She left Tuesday night. Wednesday morning, Max and Murphy were scrambling around on the patio and I heard Murphy screaming. I ran out to find they had a squirrel who was fighting back. I yelled at them to drop it. Murphy ran off with him and I yelled at him until he dropped it and went inside. I scooped the rather large adult squirrel onto a shovel and dropped him in the garbage all the while mindful that he might jump up and attack me.
I went back inside to check on Murphy only to find fifty million tiny bloody paw prints all over the tile and the arm of the sofa and the table by the window. I scooped him up and saw blood by his outside toe on his front left foot. I cleaned it with peroxide and noted there really wasn’t anything visible, nothing needing stitches or bandaging. The bleeding stopped fairly quickly and I cleaned up the mess. I kept an eye on him for the next few days and he limped once or twice, but seemed fine—and he is up to date on his rabies. (Had this been Max it would have resulted in a $300 trip to the vet for stitches and his foot would have blown up like a balloon, ‘cause that’s just Max, but Murphy comes from hardier stock.)
Friday I took them to the dog park where Max always rolls around in the dirt being submissive to every other dog there. The result is black dirt all up in every crevice. I think if he ever equated a trip to the dog park with a bath he’d pass on the dog park—Murphy too. Getting wet through baths or rain is not nearly as much fun as splashing in the Gulf.
After bathing, I trimmed nails. I was told the water softens them and makes them easier to cut. Murphy doesn’t mind having his nails done, but Max is not fond of it. I try to do it as quickly as possible, but unfortunately this time I nicked one of his back nails. It bled, I held it and it stopped.
The neighbor was having a new fence put in and he removed Doug’s old fence which left the yard wide open. I had to keep the dogs in. About three hours later I look to see there is still one section missing and no one is working. I take Max out and walk around to the front to find Ron, the neighbor talking away with Bubba and Bubba Jr—two short, stocky, yet enormous guys who are supposed to be doing the fence. They are sitting in the truck smoking and talking. Max sees them and starts barking which thankfully gets them all out of the truck.
Now, let me clarify by saying this whole fence issue has me a bit pissed off because 1) Ron didn’t tell me they were coming, 2) they came in cutting bushes , breaking terra cotta pots, etc. where if they had told me they were coming I would have moved everything, 3) I can’t leave the door open for the dogs to run in and out and they are used to, and 4) this whole thing involves Ron cutting out Doug’s pump to the well and moving it so the fence will fit—I find that part ludicrous which I will explain in a moment.
So anyhow, I’m sure the three could see it in my eyes that I wasn’t thrilled with the process. I proceed to give Ron a hard time about not telling me, and how I really need the fence finished for the dogs unless he wanted them go swimming in his pool. Bubba, cigarette still in hand, was standing there—a big burly bearded guy with the tiniest, squinty eyes I’ve ever seen. In this other hand he was shaking the post and indicating to Bubba Jr., who was also enormous and a 20-something kid, that he needed to remove the post. Obviously, Bubba was in charge, the brains of the operation because he certainly didn’t contribute much to the actual labor part.
Max had wandered to Ron’s back yard to check out the pool. When he came back the three men and I stood near Doug’s gate having a discussion about how much it would cost to replace it. He offered a deal of $40 off and he’d do it himself (which meant cut out the owner of the business) I said fine and Ron noticed blood on the grass. Max’s toe nail was bleeding again probably from scraping it on the concrete around the pool. I told them I had nicked his toe and Bubba said a dog could bleed to death from that and launched into a story about his old dog that bit the only person he didn’t like, his neighbor. I was thinking all kinds of things at that moment, even though I do like Ron, but like I said the project was getting on my nerves. I took Max in the house and cleaned it with peroxide and stuck his toe into an old antiperspirant because I had read that the aluminum will stop the bleeding. It sort of worked.
I went back out to check on the fencing and take the guy a check. Ron was discussing the moving of the pump. He showed me how he was going to cut it in four places, and turn it so there would be more room for the fence. I asked if he was planning to put it back together and he said no, Doug could do that. I said, Doug won’t be home for another three weeks and I need to water the grass. I told him if he moves it he needs to put it back together. He hemmed and hawed and I said why do you have to move it anyway? It was clear to me that the line of his house missed the pump by about four inches. He said no, but the Bubbas jumped in and agreed. Big Bubba said why not just come out with Doug’s section of the fence about six inches further than Ron’s and miss it altogether. I said what a great idea, (I guess Bubba is the brains after all), and had suggested that to Ron weeks ago when I gave him a check for Doug’s part of the fence/gate project. Great. Problem solved.
Back inside with Max lying on the bed Jaiden and I noticed his toe still looked damp with blood. Bubba got in my head and I was fixated on the idea that Max might bleed to death. If anyone is going to bleed to death from a toe nail, it would be Max. I thought, what would they do if I took him to the vet (which I was not going to do)? They would cauterize it, most likely with one of those silver nitrate q-tip things, which I didn’t have. So what do I have that would work? A glue gun. I heated it up and Jaiden helped me distract him so I could glue the end of his toe nail. I got it on there, but he flew up in a bit of a rage and sort of went postal on us. I think it was the gun—he didn’t like the way it looked. (Now, don’t call PETA or anything, really, it was his nail—there isn’t any feeling in the nail.) It worked too.
Later I see the gate for our yard is complete and the dogs can go outside. About 7:30 we were coming home and I saw Ron on his porch. His gate, and the outer gate for us were not up. He said he’s fine with whenever they come back because he hasn’t paid them the full amount only 1/3 of the price. I said, well good for you, but they got it in full from us and ours isn’t finished. I asked when the guys were coming back. He said Sunday. I said, what? They work on Sunday? Why not tomorrow? He said, the had a fencing emergency. What? A fencing emergency? What the hell is a fencing emergency? Now I’m fixated on what a fencing emergency could possibly be. Hell, I had a fencing emergency as I had no fence to keep my dogs in the yard and the Bubbas didn’t seem to give a shit.
So we shall see. I said to Doug don’t ever plan a project with Ron if you aren’t going to be here. Doug says he’s glad all this happened while he was gone. I said, don’t worry, more stuff will come up like this week to add excitement when you get here. It always does.
I Found Love on the Sidewalk
I was walking the dogs the other day when I found love on the sidewalk. On the Pinellas Trail behind my house, I saw a tiny silver heart. I picked it up and turning it over saw the other side was inlaid red and the word LOVE embossed in silver. At first I got the title for this essay, and then I started thinking about the places we find love, and more importantly, the circumstances. How easy it would be to find love in this way; if we could just pick it up like a word and absorb it into our lives we could all have it.
I have loved and been loved, but I still don’t really know love or if I’ve ever had true love. I have fallen in love and had my heart broken. I’ve lost loved ones to death: both parents, my younger brother, my beloved 16 year old dog. Each time I thought my heart would burst from the pressure inside my chest.
I think lasting love is the kind you take with you regardless of what happens, the kind that makes you a better person for having loved and been loved by that person, or even that animal. My children, my family, provide that kind of love. It will always be there no matter what they do or say, and even if I were to never see them again, as with my brother, the love will endure.
When it comes to love with the opposite, or same I suppose, sex, love always seemed to come with strings. I love you, marry me, let’s have sex. Know me, love me, read my mind. And when you couldn’t, the other, whomever it was, sulked and quietly withheld love until, by some fluke, you made them happy again. But you never understood how. To me, that’s not love.
The rapturous angst filled idea of “falling in love” isn’t really love either. That kind of love is short lived and again based on what the other does or doesn’t do, and whether the love is returned. It sure feels good though, and serves some sort of purpose in the physiological process within involving endorphins and such. And reports by doctors say being married is healthy for you, and I guess they assume love is part of it.
For some, being in love or falling in love provides a reason to live, but to me that is putting the control and responsibility into another’s hands. I’m not a control freak, but I don’t like that idea. I’ve been there and it’s not a pleasant place to be. I want to be in charge of my own life and I’ve worked hard and spent many years to accomplish just that.
My mother always said, “You can marry a rich man as well as a poor man.” I ignored her words and married for love. Three times. If I had listened, today I wouldn’t be broke and divorced, just divorced.
Love changes over time as people change, and if your marriage is growing with you the changes will be good. If you married a friend, I think you’ll be fine regardless of the changes, but it you married just for love, or just for money, to have a baby, for social reasons, for status–or anything other than to share a relationship and all that goes with it, you’re setting yourself up for failure.
Love between two people can create drama. It’s what keeps kids from puberty on steeped in drama that creates a soap opera-like life. It’s how reality shows come into existence. Working in public school from 6 through 12th grades reveals the extent of teen angst and how, without it, their lives are boring.
So you have to ask yourself is the love I feel for this person real? What is it based on? Will it last? If it doesn’t last, will I be able to move on and will I and the other be better for having loved?
Now if we move from the love between to sexual beings, we have love between friends, children, siblings, parents, pets. And are those types of love enough?
I don’t have many friends, but the ones I have are good ones. I’m the type of person who would do anything for a friend. I’ve had friends who I’ve had to leave behind to move forward in my own life and we’ve lost touch, but they’re still friends and I would be there for them.
While I love my friends, it is a different kind of love than the love I feel for my children and family. It’s not as deep, but it’s also not as difficult. I don’t play games in love any longer. I don’t guilt my friends, family or significant other into loving me or manipulate them with my silence. I make a point to accept my friends–everyone for that matter–as they are. They can be who they are. If I were to have serious issues with who they are, then we don’t need to be friends. That goes for family members too. Just because we are blood doesn’t mean we are right for each other. They can be who and what they need to be, they just might not need to be around me and vice versa.
As I type this I realize I sound very pragmatic, and I have come to that in my life, but having Asperger’s adds much to my viewpoint on this subject. It causes sensory issues and I have a hard time touching and being touched. I also have difficulties with empathy, yet strangely enough I’ve had eight serious marriage proposals, three of which I accepted. It’s also most likely why the three ended. I have no idea what they wanted, but I couldn’t do it anymore.
Pets are easy to “love.” I sometimes have issues with the amount of attention and affection they want, but they are warm bodies , always there and offering unconditional love. Still, I’m sure some would say they are no substitute for human contact.
I raised my three sons to be independent and I loved them as best I could although I think at times I substituted doing for them as loving them. I came by that one legitimately having seen that growing up. Many times I had to use tough love and they weren’t happy. In fact, looking back most of the way I chose to love all of the people in my life was often questioned, never right, never good enough. That leaves me wondering, what is love? Was it me or them?
Reader, I invite your opinion on these questions, and in fact, I am asking for your opinion on this one in particular: What is Real Love? Help me hone this article and clarify this topic. Is love just a word, is it just a feeling, if it’s more, what is it? Is it something we can just find on the street?
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