Reflecting...

People who write do so for one reason and one reason only.  Because they have a story they need to tell. And that is why I write this blog, to tell you a story.  Sometimes they're good, sometimes they're bad, sometimes they're funny, sometimes they're not.  But they all end up here because I can't NOT write.

So, I'm going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, about thirty years ago I suffered a catastrophic psychotic breakdown.  It completely rebooted my life and my personality and how I think.  I have never had a second breakdown because I decided Dr. Jackson the psychiatrist knew her business pretty well, and so I made the changes that would ensure I would stay...sane.  Or mostly so, anyway.

I'm telling you this story because I noticed something happening in people around me that I don't like, and in case any one reading this is somewhat like me, I'm hoping you'll take heed and avoid the disaster for yourselves.  I hope I tell it well enough that you can read the map and avoid the pitfalls and find comfort.

While the world views a competitive spirit as the mother lode of good things in life, for some of us, it's a recipe for disaster.  Because for some of us, the need to be the best, or even just to be better than whoever is standing next to us, is more than a nudge to try harder.

That need becomes the crystal meth of achieving.  We will push and strive and compete til we weigh 80 pounds, have a resting heart rate of 170 and are completely insane, and then we'll keep competing until we're dead and we can't get up anymore.

That was me.  There was no such thing as enough.  I don't know why.  I just know I couldn't live unless I could do it better than you can.  Til I had more degrees and made more money and owned more things and was a better lover and knew more songs and played more instruments and was a better chess player and could play tennis at Wimbledon and anything else any other person in the whole free world could do, I could do better.

You probably don't know that about me.  I hope you never thought I could be like that.

So there I was, exhausted, 89 pounds of total, vibrating, full out fight or flight anxiety and completely insane.

And I decided that I could go on, and die insane.  Or I could let it all go and never compete with anyone for anything again.  So I did.

I have stopped seeing people if they persisted in competing with me.  Friendship wasn't worth the  whistle, I can refuse to compete, but I can't refuse to be competed with. I don't work outside my home, I don't need to have any particular thing to prove my value, I don't care what you think of my house or my life or my children, and I don't want you to care what I think of yours.

Because what I think doesn't matter.  Please know that.  What ANYBODY thinks of you doesn't matter.  Let it go.

If someone needs to be prettier than you, richer, stronger, wiser, kinder,  better in any way whatsoever--let them be.  Concede graciously and go do something you like to do.  Something you really like to do, not something you think you should like to do or that will impress people if they think you like to do it.

I still play games sometimes, as long as I don't care if I win.  If I start to care, I concede and go make tea.  I write because I like to write.  I'll never get famous and I'll never get rich at it and I don't care because that isn't why I do it.

I like to knit hats.  I make perfectly awful hats, really.  Some so bad not even my grandchildren will wear them to go sledding.  But I still make them, because I like to knit hats.

I like to study.  Because there are things I want to know.  I know a lot of things, now, and I hope to know more as I go along.  I do not need college credits or a degree to prove I have learned these things.  That's not why I study.  I study because I like to know things.

I really like to sing.  I sing fairly well, dogs don't howl and children don't cry, but there are thousands of people who sing much better than I do.  And that's okay, I like to listen to them, sometimes.  But mostly I like to sing, so I do.

If I get too fond of something, I give it to somebody else.  Nobody should care so much about things that they have to have them to be happy.

So here's my thought for the end of this year and the start of the next one:

Anything I can do, you can do better.  Enjoy.

Pilly's Christmas Carol

And if you're waiting for three ghosts and a trip back through time and an epiphany of life changing proportions, let me remind you that was Dickens.  My Christmas Carol is not all that great.

So, anyway, Ida's very big and generous heart can stretch to accommodate limitless numbers of people for the Christmas party, but her house cannot, so she moved the whole thing to the community building where we can have all the bacchanalian glee we want and all the kids have room to do kid things.

I had the most stupendous time and I would just like to tell Betty that she has to get well and stay that way, on account of now that I have discovered what a truly great sister-in-law she is, I need to make sure she will be there for the next twenty Christmases.

I will even hold Ida at gunpoint until she agrees to raffle off that Chrystal sleigh and reindeer harnessed with silver chains.

AND I will personally knock down the guy drawing the numbers out of the hat and dig through til I find Betty's and make sure she wins.  I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "But who will be holding the gun on Ida while you are fixing the raffle, Pilly?"

HA! I have that covered.  We will just make sure Larry is feeding her some devilled eggs at the time and everything will work out nicely.  Just trust me.  I'm good at this stuff.  I took care of the whole deputy incident, didn't I?  Yes, I did.

So, anyway, it was so wonderful I can't even begin to tell you how much fun I had.  That Ida knows how to throw a party.

She brought seven million ride on toys from many generations of Clark children and had races for the little people.  It's true that some little people clearly felt that all was fair in this no holds barred, highly important and serious quest for the best stuffed animal and were willing to do almost anything to insure that they had first choice.  Up to and including riding over the top of other racers.

Emma at one point was so fueled by single minded determination to have for her very own a pink spotted dalmatian that she cavalierly shoved Aiden out of the way, rode over Ada (who was enjoying a nice sugar cookie in her walker) and even mowed down the judges, since that was what it took to win.

I am happy to say she is now the proud owner of a prize pink spotted dalmatian puppy.  Later, Aiden threw her off his scooter and chased her around the hall as she rode the broom grandpa was using to sweep the floor, so it all evened out in the end.  Well, not for Ada, but still.

It turns out Ada really likes Christmas. From the moment she entered the hall, it was clear that nothing in her life up to this point had prepared her for a holiday so wonderful as this one.  The floor was a highly polished basketball court, thus making it possible to zoom around in a walker at 500 miles per hour shrieking "Ahhhhh" through a very big grin.

Then there was the food.  Clearly this was heaven.  Total strangers give you cookies, cake, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, fruit salad and more delicious things you never heard of.  Other children share lollipops with you.  You can run over your sister and nobody even cares!

And then, as if this was not glorious enough, Aunt Ida plops you on the floor and hands you a bag of presents.  Filled with things that jingle, sing, shake, stack, roll and whistle.  And someone hands you to Santa and lo and behold, he's your Grandpa!  Which no one ever told you before and is obviously a delightful surprise.

Emma is not the least bit impressed that her grandparents are famous.  If there is no competitive driving and stuffed prizes, Santa can go to the North pole for all she cares.  Unless he can pull a scooter out of that bag, she's moving on to the pinata.

And so she did.  I would like a word with the fellow who thought up the pinata.  Did it honestly seem like a good idea to you to fill a cardboard box with treats, hang it from a tree and then allow blindfolded and dizzy toddlers to wander around with a baseball bat swinging at every sound?

No one really wants a subdural hematoma for Christmas.  I'm sure it seemed like a giggle when you invented it, but you were wrong.  And then there is the small matter of the pinata mix currently sold by wal-mart to fill the pinata.

Some things that do not mix well with drunken, blindfolded toddlers are hard candy, small toys with parts that can be swallowed and the kind of taffy that requires a trip to the orthodontist if you ever want to speak again.  So why exactly are those things in the pinata mix?  Do you have a secret kick back scheme with the emergency room and the dental community?  Wouldn't hershey's Kisses do as well?  Just think about it.

God knows I would not want to deprive you of the joy of ruining Christmas for countless human beings in America.  After all, you are so good at that whole pharmacy business and you know how I feel about that.

But I digress.

We played bingo and tic tac toe, had fun prizes, ate until we were in danger of exploding, and best of all, got to spend Christmas with about 100 assorted grandchildren.  Among whom was the newest member of my family, little Miss Bailey who arrived suddenly in Mommy's bathroom one morning.  The earliest--and best--present I received this year.

I treasure Callies, kissing her dad and stroking Bailey's forehead, Autum playing bingo with me and Great Grandma Yvonne, Zoey running madly through the hall with Emma, laughing.  I treasure Aiden cuddling with me in a chair, Nina kissing me and softly saying, "Gumma" as she laid her head on my shoulder like a weary little traveller reaching home at last.

I treasure my Mandy, and Linkin who smiles just like Jacob and is his Mama's mainstay, always.  I treasure my little Heaven, who believes that Grandma can do all the magic things, even dance like a ballerina, and I treasure my little JM, another gentle little Jacob for me to love.  I treasure Mabel Rainbow, sleeping safe under her mother's heart and willing to kick me now and then, to say hello.

I treasure Emma and Ada sharing a lollipop like two other little girls, long, long ago.  And my parents, connecting us all from the biggest to the very smallest, with the golden thread that we so often take for granted, love.

I treasure my brothers-in-law and their wonderful wives and children, who share all their grandchildren with us.  I treasure Ida, because I am sure she  is the Saint of Christmas, but she has no idea she is, Ida who holds us together, our center, whose heart is the light that leads us home.

I treasure my two dads, who have both loved me and been there through all the moments of my life.  Father and Father-in-law, If I could have had you made to order, I would have ordered you just as you are.

I treasure my mother, the person I am most like, which is an honor, always.

I treasure my sons and my daughter, you are not all the children of my body, but every one of you is the child of my heart. I am so proud of you, and I love you without measure.

I treasure Rob and Jim and Buzz and all my boys who let me adopt them.  Rob who shares his heart and his sons with me, Jim who gives me my daughter, Kat , and his friendship and his humor, and Buzz who shares with me his wonderful way of thinking and his mom, my friend.

I treasure all of you and if I didn't mention you, it's not because I love you any less, but only that my heart is full and running over with the richness of your love, and with a measure as great and abundant as that, sometimes a drop slips by me, unremarked.

You have made me the richest woman in the world, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Adultery a Crime in Wisconsin

You heard me, it carries a fine of up to $10,000 and a potential sentence of 3 and 1/2 years in prison.

Am I surprised that the government has now decided to poke it's long nose not only into my private life, but directly into what my genitalia are up to?  Not really.  I think it's wrong to legislate a person's sexual habits, but I'm not surprised.

Why, just think, coming soon will be the official government virginity test for females desiring to marry!  And who knows but what even men will have to find some way to prove they, too, are virginal.

Perhaps we can implant a computer chip in the genitalia to sound an alarm in case any child discovers the fun of masturbation.  It will certainly be more effective than that "you'll go blind" thing we had going on a long time ago.

What kind of person wants their spouse to be faithful by main force?  Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of love and faithfulness as a direct result of love?  And if one were to make a mistake while young, commit adultery in the heat of the moment or under great duress or anguish of mind, and sincerely regret it later, is there no hope of forgiveness after that?  Are we to assume that love itself can be eradicated by the making of one, small physical error that has no more emotional significance than say, moving one's bowels?

Is making my spouse pay a fine or serve time in any way likely to improve my marriage?  What exact purpose does it serve?  What is it's expected benefit?

It's not a deterrent, because we all know from experience that people break rules all the time, you're either a person who "won't do it because it's wrong"  or you're a person who "probably won't get caught and is therefore willing to take the risk."

In other words, we are all human and fallible and subject to making poor decisions depending on the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

So what good do we expect to be accomplished by the moral police?

This country is going plumb to hell and one of us should really say something.  We live in a country where our mouth has freedom of speech but our genitalia are regulated by law.

Strippers can legally take it all off and give any enterprising old man a lap dance, but the man's body better not respond or it will find itself in a prison cell with Bubba, for whom it is not a crime to commit adultery with the man's orifice's, and even if it were adultery, what's three and a half more years to a man already serving 25?

And I doubt the fine is going to be a lot of comfort to the old fellow, either, after all, they're not paying it to him.  And if he should be so bold as to suggest they should, that would be soliciting prostitution and we all know where that leads.  Right back to Bubba.

And I should like very much to know how one proves the crime of adultery has been committed.  Is the appearance of guilt enough to secure a conviction?  And if it is, don't you think you ought to start worrying about what other things you may find yourself in prison for based on a mere likelihood or appearance of guilt?

Did we not once have a Constitution and a Bill of Rights that both guaranteed us certain freedoms and protected us from certain oppressions?  Where the hell have they gone?  Shouldn't we try to find out?   Do you want to wake up next to Bubba thinking, "I should have gone looking to see what happened to my freedom and protection..."  Well, it's a little too late to do the right thing then, Buddy!

So, back to adultery and how to prove it, is photographic evidence required?  Do we care at all how it is obtained or by whom or under what circumstance? 

Battered Women unite!  Big brother has just given the abusive SOB the perfect weapon.  No one will dare to help you now, not even the shelters.  Every wife beating bastard out there has accused the staff of being lesbians who exist for the sole purpose of ruining the marriages of good old red blooded American husbands who only want to own their wives and occasionally break their bones.

So how big a step is it for the rat bastard to claim you committed adultery with the intake volunteer?  Then it's a big fine and off to prison, so how many women are going to be willing to leave the abusive bastard with her children while SHE trots off to prison for three years for committing adultery?

I suppose murders may increase.  Dead rat bastards tell no tales and at least you'll know the kids are safe while you're rotting in prison.

This whole thing is an outrage.  I am disgusted, disappointed and I disapprove.  Heartily.

Pilly from the Edge

Of something, I'm not sure what.  I have the flu and I can tell you, the flu is mostly composed of edges.  The edge of sleep, the edge of breathing, the edge of death, you know what I mean.  You are never actually sleeping, breathing or dead, but you feel any one of them could be close at all times.

So yesterday, in the midst of dying from the flu (I'm always sure I'm dying when I get the flu, don't panic) I had to drag my sick, sorry, old, put upon and mistreated self out of bed in the freezing cold and drive to town to see the judge.

I like the Judge, he's a gentleman, and lord knows I hope he stays the judge forever and enjoys perfect health to the end of his greatly extended life.  It's just that I don't feel that way about the District Attorney, who has now managed to make Jacob both my brother and my husband as well as being my son, and frankly, I resent the implication that Dad and I had children.

Which is the only way Jacob can be both my brother and my son, I still have not figured out how they managed to get us married.  Of course, if the District Attorney can claim to produce such miracles as the bilocation of human beings, what's a small matter like incestuous marriage?  Piece of cake, I'm sure.

Also, while I love my dad with all my heart and soul and have admired him greatly since I first had memories, which was about the age of two, I assure you I never wanted to have his children and he never wanted to have any with me, either.

Well, there was that whole cloning debate where I toyed with the idea of how cool it would be to get to give birth to and raise one of your parents through the miracle of cloning.  But we decided it would never work because Dad would just follow me around telling me I was raising him all wrong and God knows  how he might turn out with both of us either spoiling him or arguing about his discipline, so we gave up the idea altogether.

At any rate, Jacob is just my son, not my husband and not my brother.  No matter how confused the District Attorney might be, it's really fairly simple.  Even when you consider that if I am married to my brother, and that brother is also my father, then my father needs to have fathered both me and himself, which is a neat trick.  Never mind how incestous that would be, I'm fairly sure it involves time travel, and had we figured that out we would simply have gone back a year and stopped all of it before it happened.

We might even have gone back far enough to stop the District Attorney's mother from ever conceiving him and all of this would be moot.

So, anyway, that's why I didn't wear a mask in court to contain my flu germs.  Because I did so hope I'd get to see the District Attorney, and possibly shake his hand.  The opportunity to give him a kiss would have been ideal, but the circumstances didn't allow so I just coughed in his direction repeatedly and hoped a lot.

You're asking, what about the rest of the people?  Aren't you?  Well, war is hell and collateral damage and everything.  And I hoped God would protect them.  And I notice no one had any tender sensiblities when I was collateral damage and I'm sick of being the only one with a conscience, thank you very much Vernon County.

I have a new policy, it's called see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil, so don't expect me to ever be a witness to, for, or about anything ever again.  If somebody decides to hold a massacre in the street in front of my house I plan to pull the shades and go to bed.  If it wears a uniform it can stay right the hell off my porch.  I have already informed the children that if I am dying of a heart attack and they call 911, I will disinherit them.

They can drive me to the hospital or they can let me die right there on the floor, what they may NOT do is call anyone likely to be reached at 911.

Not counting Bob the town Constable (and his lovely wife) whom I still love.  I would help him with anything and he is always allowed in the house provided he is not accompanied by anyone else in a uniform.

So anyway, I got a fine.   It costs exactly $100.00 to obstruct justice, just so you know.  And I had a lovely visit with the judge, who asked me repeatedly did I understand everything, and frequently tried to explain things to me, til I finally just gave up to the buzzing in my ears the fever was causing and answered yes to everything.

And then they let me go home to bed, thank God.

So there you are, the end of Pilly's experience with a life of crime and all of it's consequences and the next time I tell a lie I'm just going to confession and giving the hundred dollars to the church.

And may I strongly encourage you to do likewise.  When somone cleans house over there to the DA's office, we can go back to doing our civic duty.  Until then, refuse to be intimidated.

'Twas Right Before Christmas...

And all through the house I had been decorating.

And one of my better finds for the season had been my lovely plastic doorcover of the Holy Family which came complete with lights and music.  At least, initially I thought it was a better find.  What could be nicer than the Holy Family, some lights and Silent Night?

Okay, it's true that as Jimmy was attempting to attach it to the door with assorted screws, as we didn't find the included hanger hook until the next day, by which time it had become redundant, and after repeated trips to Ida's house for thumbtacks so the Holy Family would not droop and sag and generally flap around, there was some language used that one would hope the Holy Family would never hear one speak.

For instance, the repeated utterings of "Jesus Christ" might have been affirmations of the purpose of the season, and asking God to damn a lot of things such as Christmas in general and door covers in particular may not have been exactly appropriate to the mood I was attempting to create, but still.  Eventually the thing was up and ready to welcome visitors with a spirited Merry Christmas.

And boy howdy, did it ever.  I had never realized how many times in a day people came through or went out that door.  Every ten  minutes choirs of angels were singing Silent Night in an increasingly shrill and desperate way, because as near as I can tell, no one ever recorded choirs of angels on a dandy little computer chip ever before.

Had they done so, I would not be listening to it today, as people would have discovered that constantly shrill renditions of Silent Night incline one to murder people and someone would have made a law forbidding the recording of choirs of angels.

I know that real choirs of angels cannot sound like that, because if they did all the shepherds and herds of sheep and any kings hanging around would have run as quickly as possible to Egypt and never have been seen or heard from again, and it would have put a real dent in Christmases yet to come.

And may I point out that we Christians are not all that popular today, anyway, and if we want to avoid being vaporized by some terrorist, perhaps it would be a good idea to just not record Silent Night on a computer chip, drive scores of people mad and somehow manage to associate that with the Holy Family.

I would take the thing down, but I am committed.  That and I paid eight dollars for it and since it's the Holy Family I can't use it to line the cat box or anything, and so I plan to use it until it wears out.  No matter who it drives insane.

If only I could send one to the nice Sheriff's Department, with a special note attached designating it for the Sgt....but, no.  Seperation of church and state, you know.  And I don't know his home address, more's the pity.  Because it is Christmas after all, and one should always try to set aside one's differences for Christmas and what could be nicer, really, than a Holy Family door cover and maybe a Poinsettia?  But I digress.

So then there was the tree.  By the time Chritmas is over, I usually don't care if it never comes again--not the Birth of Christ part, you know, the rest of it--and so I have a tendency to tear down the tree any old way, toss the ornaments in a box, heave the lights into the closet and attempt to erase all memory of it until next year.

Except by next year I've usually managed to forget why I hate it all so much and so I'm all dewy eyed and sentimental and ready to decorate with a vengeance, and that's when I discover that someone took down Christmas the year before with a great lack of regard for the guy who would decorate the tree next year.

This year Lacey and I spent a good two hours unraveling strings of lights only to discover none of them would light.  This year I'm sticking a note in the box that just says, "dispose of this and go to Wal-mart for three new strings of lights."  I won't listen, of course, but at least I will know I tried.

So, anyway, upon setting up the tree we noticed that only two legs of the built in stand were in evidence. Although Lacey gamely buried herself up to the neck in the closet at the head of the stairs, and at one point discovered some mice in her pant leg and made an exit that could have set a new land speed record, we never did find the leg to the tree stand.

Ever resourceful (and unwilling to drive to town for a new tree) we just screwed the remaining two legs to the floor of the sun porch.  Emma helped.  That was fun, but required that we censor our language which made for a very interesting conversation as we thought of many, many new words to replace the word f***, which would have been very much in evidence had it not been a totally PG event.

Could we have gotten an R rating I assure you Christmas would have been very colorful this year. The only strings of lights which never fail are those that have a computer chip that plays Christmas music at the top of it's lungs, not only giving one a headache but competing now and then with Silent Night as played by the front door.

And which you can never find the box for, which is shaped like santa's head and if you press his left eyebrow repeatedly will shut up the lights.  Until some little kid trips over the cord once again, thus resetting Santa and causing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen to resume at top volume.

As if this were not enough, I also have a beautiful set of Carousel lights which were Aunt Margaret's and which I treasure, even though Emma invariably turns them on, turns them up, removes all her clothes and begins to dance to Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.  Which as you have no doubt guessed, is competing wildly with both Santa's God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and Silent Night as played by the Holy Family Door Cover.

If I am very lucky, about this time the Target Commercial comes on the television so we can add the Carol of the Bells with stupid advertising lyrics to the general mix.

So, anyway, we're having a blizzard and there's nothing to do now but brew up a nice pot of tea, find a good book and start praying that no one wants to use the front door for anything, no one plugs in the tree and no one turns on the television. 

Perfect quiet, what bliss.

A Few Minor Details

I was feeling a little depressed earlier and when I get like that I like to read over that whole criminal complaint thing, on account of it reminds me of a few things I want to be sure and include in my suicide note, and so even though I was going to save this until the matter had been officially settled, there are one or two things I would like to make sure the District Attorney is aware of before we actually get to court.

At no point, for instance, have I ever been married to my brother.  Although the official charges do state that at one point I am apparently married to my brother, Jim.  I would like to point out that I don't have a brother Jim.  In fact, unless my father has new information he would like to share with mother and I, I'm fairly sure I have no brothers at all.

And if I did have a brother, I would like to state for the historical record that I would not, at any time, marry him.  I was willing to go to Tennessee to marry my cousin, and while I completely understand that not everyone understands our choice to marry, the fact remains that unless father got up to some didoes with my Aunt and then failed to mention it, my husband is not my brother.

If the District Attorney (on the advice of the deputy) has any remaining doubts about the matter, I will be quite happy to submit to DNA analysis, but I think he should have to pay for it, I can't even afford an attorney, and anyway I am not the one who seems to have some confusion as to the exact relationship I bear to my husband.

Then there is the matter of my taking the rifle to my brother, Jim.  Once again, let me state that I do not have a brother Jim,  Nor do I have a brother Dave, although he also appears in the story.  I don't have a brother at all, and furthermore, I wouldn't marry that brother either, if indeed I had a brother.  And I don't.  Unless, of course, father got up to some didoes with his brother's wife a couple of times and, once again, failed to mention it.

Also, while I would like to agree that the accusing authority figures are "truthful and reliable"  I feel compelled to point out that they have me married to my brother Jim and delivering a gun to my brother Jim, and since I have no brothers and certainly would not marry one if I had, exactly how truthful and reliable can we reasonably believe them to be?

I am willing to allow that an otherwise truthful and reliable person could make a mistake, but frankly, if I'm not allowed to make a mistake, I think it is only fair that somebody charge the person who wrote up the report and made the accusations and delivered the complaint because marrying someone to their nonexistant brother is, I think we can agree, a mistake of epic proportions and with grave and far reaching potential consequences.

I think it's illegal to marry one's brother, I think whoever wrote the report might have noticed that it was unlikely I was married to my brother, and if they could miss a mistake that ridiculous how reliable can one reasonably expect the rest of the report to be?

And then there is the small (but important) matter of which of my sons was actually involved in the incident.  The complaint mentions two of them by name, sometimes in the same sentence.  I would like to point out that they cannot both be married to Amanda.

In fact, Jason's wife may take exception to being told her husband was married to his sister-in-law on October 5, apparently at the same time as he was married to her and fathering the baby she's having any minute now.

Of course, if I can be married to my brother, I'm sure that there is no reason a couple of my sons can't have two or three wives at the same time.  In fact, maybe they trade off every second Tuesday, just to keep life interesting.

Here again, we run into that whole truthful and reliable issue. 

I'm going to spare you the entire account of the interview with my daughter-in-law, except to just say that there are a few things that violate the laws of physics.  I realize that no one can force a person to adhere to the laws of physics, but defying them tends to result in things that can only have occured via an act of God, and unless the Pope has been here and authenticated a couple of miracles no one told me about, there's a big question of truthful and reliable there, as well.

I already told the judge I lied to the officer, I'm pretty sure there's no doubt in anyone's mind about that.  The only thing still undetermined is why I lied and since no one has asked me, why should I tell anyone?  If anyone ever does think to ask me, I will be quite happy to tell them exactly how and why I came to tell a lie to a police officer.

I have long since passed beyond the point where I care at all what happens to me next.  I have a good contingency plan should things go badly awry in the courtroom.  I feel confident that I have allowed for all the possibilities.  I have, as they say, set my affairs in order.

I would like to remind you of what happens when we put bullies in positions of authority and allow them to set an example for our children.  Some people made just that mistake in 1939 and before they were able to rectify their mistake, roughly eleven million people had been murdered by the people most of them had believed were there to protect and serve them.

A bully can yell long enough and loud enough to make you say anything to shut him up and get him off your porch, but I don't know as I would sign my name to anything that described his ensuing report as truthful or reliable.

Refuse to be silenced, never go quietly and always be willing to suffer for what you believe to be right.

Fortune Cookie

There's an old superstition that says if you open your fortune cookie and the paper is blank, it means you're going to die.

And that would be entirely true.  You are going to die, or failing that, you're going to be the first person in the history of the world to live forever, and how likely is that?  I mean, seriously.

I don't know why I was thinking about fortune cookies, it just occured to me because, after all, I did get a blank fortune once.  It was about twenty years ago, but I do remember that the children were all quite impressed and watched me with great interest for weeks.

Apparently because they expected my death to be somewhat spectacular, and they didn't want to miss it.  They got on the school bus saying things like, "Promise you won't die before I get home!"  Not tearfully, like they might miss me if I was gone.  More like with intent interest, like I was a science project and I might go bad while they were away.

After weeks had passed and I hadn't died they got kind of tired of the whole thing and moved on to more reliable interests.  You know, they went back to making the goats faint and trying to string the baby up as a horse thief while playing Old West.

So, either my blank fortune meant I was going to die but it hasn't happened yet, or God was trying to give me a hint that I was going to have the most boring future imaginable and did I really want to go on.  Or God had already met the Sergeant and knew he was in my future and it was only a matter of time before I obstructed justice and went to prison, so why bother writing it down for the fortune cookie?

I did go to court and it turns out the judge is the nicest man you ever met.  He does not yell at all, which I was very grateful for because you know how badly that yelling thing usually ends up--it's either me and the coumadin and a boxcutter, or an emergency visit to the therapist and frankly, neither one is all that fun.

I have to go back on account of I didn't have an attorney and the judge is very nice like that, he wants you to have every chance, really.  Or possibly he got tired of listening to two hour long rambling accounts of how it all went wrong but was not really the person's fault, and a lawyer can get it said in three sentences or less.

But either way, he's a gentleman, so I don't care.

The public defender people said they would like to help me, but really I am too rich and so they can't.  They have obviously never been introduced to my $900 light bill and my husband who has that lecture on why we will never retire.

But it's good to know that on paper, at least, we are tremendously successful and would someone kindly inform the neighbors, because I am pretty sure they don't know it, yet.

So, anyway, I suspect that in the final analysis I will end up being represented by Bill the Lawyer who got his Juris Doctorate from the same place I got my clergy certification, and who probably lied about passing the bar.  Or he just didn't know that walking past the Iron Horse was not "passing the bar" in any official capacity.

I'm thinking I'll probably get the death penalty.

Of course, that will nicely do away with the need for the overdose of coumadin and the boxcutter, so it's all good, really.  Also, it will not be ALL MY FAULT and I am damned sick and tired of everything being all my fault, so I can't say as I would mind all that much.

It is some consolation to know that Emma is also in the doghouse over the "all my fault" thing, as it seems her parents get right irate if she flips the walker with Ada in it, thus resulting in a concussion.  Also, locking the new kitty in the microwave, climbing in the dryer to hide and using one's Suzy Homemaker broom to sweep the cat box.

I believe it is only a matter of time before she offends the sensibilities of some Deputy and ends up in the cell next to mine.  And I look forward to it, because confining Emma is likely to be the last thing they ever do before building a new prison and getting all the inmates back from the Grand Caymans.

Ah well, there is hope for me and Em, yet.  I have great confidence in things coming right in the end,

The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine, you know.  Be advised, power of any kind incurs a comensurate amount of responsibility.  If one were to forget that, and not exercise power judiciously, well.

I would not like to be the one explaining THAT to the Judge.  And I don't mean the one sitting in the courtroom, either.  As Harry Potter said to Lord Voldemort, try for some remorse, it's your only hope.