Part One of Two.

Superpowers are something we all dream about – come on, you know all do. Mine, someday, will be flying – and NOT just for the cape.

I can wear that anyway, and you know I will, too, even grocery shopping.

For some people, though, it’s invisibility – a superpower I myself would hate, loving attention the way I do.

The funny thing is, invisibility is remarkably easy to achieve right here and now.

One effective means of invisibility is to be a woman and be overweight. Not grossly so: that will turn heads faster than being a mostly naked Miss Thailand, but not in a good way, since fatness remains an acceptable way to garner yourself a public stoning in today’s society. But being slightly to moderately overweight? That right there will render you immediately invisible to most men and also, oddly, to most women.

If, also, a woman doesn’t take her appearance as seriously as the multi-billion dollar advertising industry does? And, for instance, has the nerve to skip a day or two slathering on costly makeup, age-defying moisturizer (for it is SO not acceptable for women to age further than, say, forty years or so and then leave their homes expecting to be regarded as anything besides mothers, aunts, or other servile creatures – certainly not worthy of receiving attention) and having donned the latest – also costly, and recently replaced – fashions?

She, too, will find herself rendered virtually invisible.

(It’s so cute how you Constant Readers think I’m kidding…)

Try it for yourselves. Pad yourselves out in some sweats – not the cute spandex kind, the kind that are all pilled out and grey, or grayish green, so you look schlumpy and worn. NO makeup, and don’t even bother with a ponytail. No hat to pull it all together, either, and not even some hair gel. You’re definitely going for a bad hair day.

If you typically wear contacts? Don your glasses, even if you’re SO nearsighted you can barely even see your own teeny eyeballs behind the frames.

Watch your superpower in action.

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO.

… Aldous Huxley, author of Brave New World

(a novel which, if you haven’t, you really ought to go sit down with it today or tomorrow)

Our family pets.

Tucker in tie-dye

Oliver in the violets under the California sun.

Amongst the debates raging in our society, one of the most critical to our civilization at this very moment – one upon whose outcome the very fabric of our lives depend…

Is not whether one prefers dogs to cats.

It is, however, the subject of today’s discussion.

My youngest daughter vastly prefers the company of her cat, Oliver, to most humans. (To be honest, my youngest daughter, in general, vastly prefers the company of four empty walls to the company of most humans, but that’s another blog post.)

Oliver, to her, is a companion, confidante, a cuddly sleep mate (he actually DOES spend the night with her), and often a cooperative ragdoll, coolly suffering various indignities like bows, brushings, baths, and that ilk.

Once, after a brief escape (he’s generally an indoor cat with wanderlust, although he always returns), he’d obviously had a philosophical disagreement with another feline who’d decided to settle things with a rude claw to the face, leaving Ollie to return home to nurse what would become a ferociously nauseating abscess.

(Enter the dog, stage left.)

Tucker Dog was raised with eleven cats, many of whom he raised as kittens. So many cats did he live with in New York that when he went to obedience school, the trainer – without knowing anything about his environment – asked if he lived with cats.

Why? I asked. Because, said the trainer, he’s exhibiting cat behavior. Often, apparently, when multiple species live together, they mimic each other’s behavior. Which would explain Tucker Dog’s habit of rubbing against my leg, and circling the bed several times before lying down on it.

The problem? Oliver loathed and detested Tucker Dog, much to Tucker Dog’s dismay, and thus, they’d had developed an uneasy, wary existence together – with Tucker Dog swiping cat food when Oliver’s back was turned, and Oliver purposely jumping on the kitchen table, just to drive the relentlessly obedient Tucker Dog batshit nuts: half German Shepherd Dog, Tuck is driven by instinct to “herd” even cats where they belong – and where they don’t.

(A nice bonus whenever I decide to knit: Tuck will shoo the cat away from the tantalizingly dangling yarn.)

A common sight: Tucker Dog, ambling happily by a kitchen chair, only to receive a sudden swipe from Oliver out of absolutely nowhere.

HOWEVER…

When Oliver returned from his sojourn – and the altercation no one yet knew about – it was only Tucker Dog who sensed something was amiss. The dog, normally keen on avoiding the cat at all costs, began sniffing at the cat, and even licking his face. The cat? Mysteriously allowed it.

Since Tucker Dog works for me, I’m usually paying fairly close attention to him. Since Oliver is usually wailing at me for food, I’m usually paying fairly close attention to him, too. Ergo, I noticed this sudden, bizarre change of behavior.

It was like watching The Ranger give Yogi and Boo Boo a picnic basket.

Or Mojo Jojo surrender himself to the custody of the Powerpuff Girls.

Or like Batman and the Joker announcing their engagement.

Days later, Ollie’s face swelled up like a baseball, dripping with goo. I’ll spare you the details.

But it was the dog who noticed it first. It was the dog who first treated the cat with kindness, who put aside the long-standing enmity in order to help.

There’s a joke floating around the Internet, mocking the stupidity of dogs, versus the intelligence of cats – I’ll reprint it here, although to my dismay, I cannot find the brilliant author.

It’s often said: you can own a dog, but the cat owns you. I deeply believe neither is true.

I’ve had cats – like Oliver – who come when you call them. Who actively demonstrate love and affection. I’ve had cats barely look at me, except to glance up and show how much contempt they have for my audacity to fill their food bowls.

I’ve had dogs, too – but here, I must say: universally, I have never encountered a canine whose heart was less than pure, less than devoted, less than the perfect model of what true, unconditional love is.

One can abuse a dog, mistreat it, ruin it, surely. But that’s on the putrid soul of the owner – and even many of THOSE dogs can be rescued by love. Tucker Dog himself was badly abused in the first year of his life; I rescued him as a stray from the local pound, and a more loving, obedient dog you will never meet in your life. It took a little socializing, sure – but when treated with love, most dogs will respond with MORE than the same.

When it comes to love? Dogs put humans to absolute shame.

Cats? Well… gotta say: My youngest puts it best. You don’t own a cat; they own you. Furthermore, if they even get the sense you’re trying to lay the hammer down, they’re as ready as a Revolutionary War Minuteman to go guerilla war on your ass.

Dogs? Not one. They know it’s way better to be loved than to be right.

Dog Diary versus Cat Diary:

The Dog’s Diary

8:00 am – Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am – A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am – A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm – Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm – Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm – Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm – Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm – Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Cat’s Diary

Day 983 of My Captivity

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now …

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear
Frank Herbert’s Dune

::-::-::-::

Two weeks ago I met someone for the first time I’ve known for two years.

As the billions of my slavish readers are aware, my youngest daughter, just-turned-13, is on the autism spectrum, which explains many things: her refusal to allow me to sleep for any regular or reasonable period of time – or to sleep regularly in my own bed –

- And why, two weeks ago, when an unlikely knock at the door around midday, I was sound asleep on the living room sofa.

Aforementioned five-foot-nine-inch, willowy daughter bent over me, her vast mane of blue hair a bleary blur in my blinking eyes. As always, her soft child’s voice floated towards me from the deceptively mature body in which she bounces around.

“Mommy? There’s some lady at the door.”

I’d say this was odd, but odd, for my life, is pretty much par for the course. Alice, of Wonderland fame, talked about six impossible things before breakfast. My family and I, upon hearing that for the first time, basically looked at each other, and said: “Just six?”

You’d think I’d check out whether or not I was fully dressed, or whether my recent botch-job of a haircut had my hair sticking straight up toward the ceiling (it does that now).

Nope.

I tossed aside the quilt, squinted at the blob at the door, concluded the shape was too unfamiliar to recognize without my eyeglasses, and resigned myself to the idea I’d actually have to lift myself into a vertical position and come within at least twelve inches of the human being to bring the face into anything resembling focus.

(The fact my youngest did not recognize the human being did not rule out the possibility of our knowing her; for all I knew, she might be my own mother. Welcome to autism.)

I’m not often shocked; not only have I traveled extensively, but for some reason, I seem to draw around me a cast of characters who have somehow managed to grope and bumble their way through life without the encumbrance of something most of us call “boundaries.”

This has led my daughters and me on more than quite a few … er… adventures, and has led more than a few scoundrels to mistake our kindnesses for dumbassery.

Fortunately for us?

Kindness beats dumbassery.

Hands down.

Also fortunately for the woman, now standing in my doorway, unbeknownst to me, now living in her car, having been shredded like mozzarella by aforementioned scoundrels.

++++ BEGIN DIGRESSION++++

Constant Reader:

Perhaps some of you will recall an earlier post, where you were regaled to the delightful stories of how my mother once was convinced (falsely) that I was addicted to crack cocaine.

She was convinced because I was thin, and because I was involved with my local police, as well as with their D.A.R.E program, in helping people recover from crack addiction, and I therefore knew an awful lot about it.

For instance, I learned folks on crack can get “stuck” – that is, they resemble folks deep in OCD… (or “CDO” – in alphabetical order, like it OUGHT to be) … and will obsessively, and repetitively, perform the same useless task.

Crack addicts will also steal your kid’s birthday money, then attempt to lie to you about it later, then break down, and sobbing, apologize profusely.

Stoners: i.e., folks who smoke weed pretty much all the time? You can count on them to accept your invitation to do something fun, then when you get to their house, they won’t feel like going out anymore, but instead will ask you if you’ve played the latest version of Halo yet, if you want to try a bowl of some complicated and pompous sounding sativa or indica weed they just purchased “that will blow your mind, man” (while you think to yourself, looking back and forth at the game console, and the resin-crusted pipe, indeed, there is at least one mind, blown, here…)

Alcoholics? If you like surprise parties, then this will be your favorite, because this version of substance abuse is the most unpredictable of all: a drunk can go from happy, loving, carefree and devoted to absolutely black-hearted and murderous in sixty seconds or less.

One Day At A Time.

Since coming to California? I’ve learned a whole new breed of substance abusers, and unlike all of the above, “tweakers” – or methamphetamine addicts – have very few redeeming qualities, except sometimes they can be funny, because based just upon our observation of tweaker behavior, one might assume every dose subtracts IQ points.

Basically, a tweaker will steal your shit and help you look for it, and our family had the piss-poor bad luck to encounter a stalker female of the species – a rather comical one at that, actually, because she rather fancied herself a genius – the Wile E. Coyote “super-genius,” as in all of her schemes failed, which brings us to the woman at my door.

+++ END DIGRESSION+++

When you’re Overseer of the Imbeciles, you can easily begin to see yourself as a super-genius – it’s sort of a “big fish in a little pond” syndrome, except the fish is on meth, both its eyeballs are going in different directions, it can’t stop trying to unhinge its jaw, and it wants very much to turn $40 into $400 at the nearest casino. Also? The fish has just finished helping you look for your own last $40.

In the particular case of this particular self-dubbed super-genius, whom we shall, for the sake of compassion (an emotion aforementioned super-genius has yet to exhibit), call: “Maleficentish.”*

As in, you know: would-be villainess, but didn’t quite have the chops for it.

Maleficentish – or, The Not-So-Divine-Miss M – spent nearly two years pinching shit from my house, tormenting souls (mostly men), and other sundry (largely drug-related) acts of mischief, mayhem and madness in an erratic and bizarre dance around my family and me, but fortunately, since she is an amateur in the art of, well…

… everything,

… and I am a professional, she was unable to do us any real harm, and she ended up basically in fear of me, which I occasionally hear through the grapevine manifests itself via lame mockery of me.

(Poor thing is just nowhere near as funny as she thinks she is; which breaks my heart. There really are few things as pathetic as a joke landing on a tough room. Except, as Miss M may someday learn: being a joke yourself.)

NOT so pathetic, however, is what the troubled Miss M did to the woman standing in my doorway, who trusted Miss M, and because of that, ended up losing her home, her children, her husband, and – she supposed – me.

It took a hell of a lot of bravery to show up at my door that day and ask if she could borrow my phone. She was living in her car with her dogs, and had nowhere else to turn (or so she thought, having just had a blowout with her mom.)

The thing was: the woman, (let’s call her “K”) now standing in front of me, on the verge of tears, asking for nothing except to use my phone, did not tell me until after coffee, hugs, and conversation that her home was now her van.

She asked me for nothing.

Therefore, I offered her everything.

::-::-::

A year and a half ago, the girls and I were as broke as a two-legged table, and we hadn’t eaten for two days.

Haunted by the many times I’d been told I could never take care of my kids myself, my spirit was close to broken, when someone – I wish I could remember who – told me there was a kind woman next door who might give us something.

That was K.

I came unannounced. All I told her was that my children were hungry; she did not know me at all. Rarely do I feel humiliated, but I was now – until K’s warm kindness, which was palpable throughout her home – put me at my ease.

She filled my arms with food – her best things, and I was not allowed to refuse it – then sent more over, later, to spare me a trip.

K restored my spirit, and my resolve, in a way she never fully realized, and perhaps never will. I say with certainty it is because of K’s kindness that one single day I was able to make it here by myself in California.

Despite, later, being under attack by tweakers; despite unstable landlords describing their shotguns at length; despite rats in my building – and my bedroom – that made me wonder if the Pied Piper advertised in the Yellow Pages; despite Miss M’s multiple attempts to break into my home; and Miss M’s attempt to take me to court (which she later dropped, particularly after the justice scolded her for making shit up)…

… K was always – even when she thought it was a terrible idea to talk to me – always kind. And because everyone, no matter how out of their mind with the substance of their choice they were, respected the hell out of K, she shielded my family more than she ever knew.

::-::-::

K has been with us now for going on three weeks.

Both of us feel like we’ve discovered a sister.

K says she feels like the past two years was wasted time – like we could have been friends.

We might have, but I don’t believe in waste. Not when it comes to experiences.

While some people say there’s a reason for everything, I’m not sure myself. I do know this: we water the blooms of our joys with the tears of our sorrows – and this particular friendship, I feel certain, would not be quite so precious had we not undergone the betrayals we had first.

::-::-::

* Okay, maybe not the most compassionate nickname, but at least it’s obviously not her real name.

As Americans from coast to coast, those who pepper the long-conquered islands dotting our surrounding waters, and those who populate the land of the six-month night … (paging Sarah Palin… )

No! That’s a joke. No one really wants Sarah Palin anywhere near them.

The web site, USA.gov, lists the following most popular resolutions Americans make in order to better themselves as people, improve their health, and increase their personal growth.

Yeah. Right. Let’s take a look.

Drink Less Alcohol

Alcohol is empty calories, plus it reduces your judgment, plus there are usually TONS of free, salty snacks at the bar. Drink less alcohol? Consume fewer calories, look way better naked. Easy.

Eat Healthy Food

Why? Lose ugly fat. Look better naked. Live longer. Look better naked, longer.

Get a Better Education

Make smarter choices when you’re choosing with whom to get naked.

Get a Better Job

With more money? A far better class of people are likely to want to get naked for you.

Get Fit

Getting fit means looking better naked. I’m starting to hear an echo in here. Also, getting fit means looking better in clothes – tighter fitting, NEARLY naked clothes. Which, as we cynics know, can lead to a better job, even if one skips the better education step, providing one zeroes in on the right evil company.

Lose Weight

Yeah, these are all pretty much the same.

Manage Debt

Manage Stress

What’s the difference? I mean, to the average American?

I mean, isn’t money the only REAL stress in an average American’s life?  According to the NY Times, (Jan. 9, 2012)

Money Fights Predict Divorce. *

Let’s face it: most Americans are NOT even aware yet that Iran has begun enriching uranium at a highly fortified site. They are blissfully unaware over 200 people in Baghdad this week alone are dead or gravely wounded from bombers; nor do they know if the bombs were dropped by US soldiers or if they were carted cheerfully by suicidal dissidents in that politically fragile region.

Closer to home: go ahead, I dare you. I double-dog dare you.

U.S. President Barack Obama’s Chief of Staff stepped down today.

Anyone know his name? WITHOUT GOOGLING? **

BONUS QUESTION: With which Washington veteran did our President replace him? ***

Quit Smoking

It’s expensive, it stinks, and (except for fast-tracking the old metabolism) it makes you unattractive to non-smokers. Which basically means, again, Americans, and which would basically leave you open to getting naked with the French, who light one off the other, or, say, the Russians, whose embassy is divided into the smoking section and the cancer section, but alas!

Few Americans speak anything but English.

Unlike, of course, the entire rest of the world, which realizes, of course, THERE IS A REST OF THE WORLD.

Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle

Oh, please. This has nothing to do with getting naked, and everything to do with buying something ELSE plastic to clog the landfills up with: something colored green, though, so that makes it okay,

Save Money

Take a Trip

These two make me wonder: do people mean “Save Money to Take a Trip,” or are these two different things?

Volunteer to Help Others

This one is just kind of annoying. This has to be a resolution? I mean: really? People don’t do this, and they have to resolve to try to do this?

Oy.

::-::-::

* England’s “The Guardian” calls Facebook a primary cause.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2011/mar/08/facebook-us-divorces

** Bill Daley

*** Budget Director Jack Lew

After great pain a formal feeling comes–
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions–was it He that bore?
And yesterday–or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow–
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

—   Emily Dickinson

All of us have, or will, feel it surround us; agony so terrible it literally shocks us into feeling nearly nothing, at least until we can process enough of it to begin to experience this most horrendous of pain. We call it shock: whoever designed this system did it to protect us.

Often, this shock renders us without words. “Speechless” is a cliché, even.

For me, however, each time the angel of death has blown through my world like Godzilla trampling his toddler-style rage through helpless Tokyo, shock has untied my tongue.

When Daddy died, we experienced utter shock. Beyond the shock typically experienced by those who mourn. The shock experienced witnessing the impossible: alien landings, or absently handing a teething baby a Rubik’s Cube®. When you realize the infant’s finally peacefully giggling and look down?

It’s not because she’s chewing on it. It’s because she’s solved it. That kind of shock.

Maybe we shouldn’t have been so dumbfounded; after all, he was sick for about a dozen years, and had made so many round-trips to Death’s Door they’d actually made him his own key, complete with a souvenir Grim Reaper key chain.

Nevertheless, dumbfounded we all were. We’d grown so accustomed to his rallies that when doctors called in the wee hours from the Intensive Care Units in hushed, careful voices, urging haste, we’d respond casually, and arrive long after breakfast, to greet Dad smiling and enjoying his own, baffling those same doctors who hours before had been clucking at our callous disregard.

Daddy died in a vegetative coma after a massive myocardial infarction brought on by congestive heart failure six years ago, one bleak February in Georgia. It all happened in less than the space of two weeks.

Honestly, though? As I stood next to his comatose body, it was plain as day: whatever my father had been was long gone from him. Still, I spoke to him, since technically, he was alive, and maybe some spark of his soul lingered – in him, near him – some part of him, perhaps, could hear me.

It had been, after all, years, since I’d spoken to him.

So behind a too-narrow curtain, in a dimly lit room full of echoes, cluttered with stainless steel and blinking lights, I spoke a small portion of the words I’d wanted to say to him since I’d learned to speak.

That I loved him, despite his random anger.
How sorry I was that I wasn’t a boy.
How I’d tried my whole life to make that up to him.
How I saw that everything I’d ever accomplished was really to please him: that he was, in fact, my hero.
That the only advice, nearly, I ever truly followed were the small but sage bits he’d doled out.

If he heard a word, after I was through weeping over his body?

He never said.

When I was just 21, my Uncle Robert died in our house of a consuming cancer that twisted his body into something small and shadowy and nothing more than a carrier of agony.

Uncle Robert’s will to live was all that dragged him stubbornly into those final, terrible last six weeks, as the pounds, then ounces, withered away, and it became clearer the morphine could do no more but kill him.

He was waiting for his brother, Richard, to come see him before he would let go.

When at last Richard arrived, I was furious – as were the rest of the members of the family – but I was the only one outspoken enough at last to ask: “Where have you BEEN?”

Richard, the charming, youngest, and most absent member of my mother’s clan, was ALWAYS forgiven, always let off the hook – something I was determined to see made right, this time.

He looked me directly in the eye, and after careful consideration, answered.

“I was afraid to watch my big brother die.”

All my anger, all my resentment, melted away in that moment, for who could not immediately understand such a sentiment? Even an arrogant would-be adult?

Moreover? He was the first “grownup” who was ever truly honest with me. And in that moment, I saw a fundamental truth of life: No one has their shit together. Not even the grownups.

Uncle Richard died this month, after he and I had been corresponding rather closely via Facebook, because he was still in Georgia, and I’m in California. He was still relatively young.

I did not attend the funeral. I know he’d understand.

A 42-year-old friend of mine here in California died suddenly in a motorcycle accident at the beginning of this month. I didn’t know him as well as some, but I liked him enormously, despite his propensity for making terrible decisions.

Last week, the day before his birthday, a friend of mine who’s so zealous about baseball he plays on two recreational adult leagues watched a teammate of his fall to the ground, and later, die, in hospital.

We haven’t talked about it. We probably won’t, ever. It’s just not the kind of thing we talk about; we’re not that sort of friends. We stay friends by avoiding such talk. Best to stick to subjects like the score of the game. Not tragedies at the game.

But I have something to say about it here.

At my father’s funeral, there was a pause to invite anyone inclined to say a few words to do so.

No one rose.

So I began to stand, and was immediately and vehemently discouraged by hisses and gestures from my very proper family; this was very understandable, since my father and I had a troubled relationship, and I am well-known for speaking my mind.

Nevertheless, I could not let my father’s life and memory go without some eulogy.

I can not remember for the life of me what I said, but I know I said it in less than three minutes, and I know there was applause.

I know I was in tears at the end.

I know, too, from that moment forth, I have never refrained from telling anyone I loved how I felt about them.

Even if I wasn’t sure if I’d get a “thanks,” or an “I know,” back. It’s always been worth the chance, because love is never wasted. The way loving words are never wasted.

Because what a shock it always is, the way your whole life can change, in just a few moments – or how someone you love can be simply gone, like that.

You can shout all you want, later – and if they can hear you then?

They’ll never say.

+ + + + + + +

BONUS feature:
After my dad died, I wrote several poems. You can read them here.
http://elizabethbushey.com/look/about-the-author-elizabeth-williams-bushey/for-my-father/ 

Hard as this may be to believe, at eight years old, I was a very quiet kid, and very eager to please.

So eager to please, in fact, I was a combination of ridiculously obedient when noticed; otherwise, I typically took great care to remain unnoticed whenever possible.

One chilly, early summer morning, I shivered with a gaggle of other skinny eight-year-olds on the gritty sand by the Fireman’s Lake, awaiting instructions from a beefy, blonde lifeguard who would soon – we hoped – teach us the mysteries of how to avoid sinking like a stone in water deeper than your average tub.

She was friendly but ominous – at least to me – and every other kid seemed to be fast friends. I stood alone, but determined to learn this mysterious skill.

Beefy blonde lifeguard, too, seemed to be fast friends with every other kid – and their family – except for me and mine, and so, as our first “task” was to go out into the water further and further – that is, up to our knees, then up to our waist, then chest, then neck, when I finished – and waded over to report – Beefy dismissed me absently, and suggested I simply “repeat” – as in “lather, rinse, and.”

So I did.

Problem? Beefy failed to inform me about lake bottoms.

In case YOU don’t know, as I didn’t: lake bottoms, unlike swimming pools, kitchen & bathroom floors, or tub bottoms, are NOT, to my bewilderment, FLAT. They are instead raggedy, rocky, and apt to dip downward several feet with no warning whatsoever.

Which, as I waded backward in water up to my neck, this Fireman’s Lake
diabolically DID.

One moment, I had lake bottom under my feet. The next? All I had was lake WATER. Never had a heard of TREADING water, either – so all I did was what came naturally, which was FLAILING.

Also gulping and gurgling. And much swallowing.

Surprisingly, I was fairly cool-headed. I recall thinking: Okay. I’m eight. I will never be nine. This is how I die. I will never get to be a grown-up, which kind of sucks, because I was really looking forward to driving a car.

After what seemed like hours, I was rescued at last – only to be scooped up by my hysterical mother, and prevented for the entire rest of my childhood from approaching any body of water deeper than roughly five inches or a diameter larger than your typical bathtub.

Needless to say? I did not grow up to become an Olympic swimmer.

Fast forward, the Jersey shore.

My youngest is three, and she is held by the hand on either side by both of her parents. She is laughing as the waves of the Atlantic Ocean bounce her around – it’s a little rough that day.

So rough, in fact, that without warning she’s ripped from both our arms by a sudden wave and undertow combination, leaving her parents staring blankly for a nanosecond at each other.

I’m sending a telepathic message: “Well? YOU’RE the swimmer, not ME.” This is obviously not received, as he stands, motionless – a totally unsatisfactory response as far as I am concerned.

Despite my own terror of all things wet, I dive under, and after (again) what seems like hours, I see my baby, tumbling ass over teakettle in the briny not-that-deep – but deep enough, of course, to drown. I grab her, swim back toward shore (although, as I may have indicated, this is not something I actually know how to do) and stand up, pulling her up with me, gagging and spitting.

“I wanna go back to the beach!” she says, indignantly, when at last she CAN speak.

So do I, I think, struggling to control my own shaking. Instead, I laugh.

“Why?” I ask, as if this is the most ridiculous request I’ve ever heard. “That was so much FUN! Like a roller-coaster, only WET!”

I look hard at her dad. “Let’s ride some MORE!” I say, heartily. Each of us take her hand again – this time, of course, closer to shore – and we ride the waves until she is, once again, laughing.

Only then do we retire to the beach – where I find the nearest garbage can and vomit discreetly.

A few years later, we talk about conquering fear – and I retell the incident, which she remembers – and she also mentions her dream of becoming a marine biologist.

Yesterday, at the American River in northern California, where we are currently living – northern California, that is, not in the river – my youngest, now twelve, was swept away by the rapids, and for a few terrifying minutes, it looked as though she might be lost.

But she never lost her cool.

The first few rocks she attempted to cling to were too slippery to grab, but when she finally got a hold of some, as soon as fear began to try to creep in, she kept telling herself: “No. That CAN’T happen.”

That cool head – that bravery, despite fear – is what saved her.

Most impressive of all? She has Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism.

After her dramatic rescue, everyone wanted to take her straight home. To scoop her up, as I’d been scooped once, long ago.

She refused. “I have to go back in,” she said, remembering my own story. “If I don’t? I’ll be afraid the rest of my life.”

So she went back in, until she felt comfortable again. Then, and only then, was it time to go home.

I tell my kids all the time: Anyone can be your teacher – even if all they teach you is patience.

By remembering what I’ve tried to teach her, she has taught me more than I ever thought possible.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1EB5mtzzGB8

FABLE:

Young boy is on the sand, throwing beached starfish back in the water, one by one.

Old man, watching him, comes up and says: “Boy! There are thousands of starfish. What a futile task! You can’t possibly think you can make a difference.”

Boy responds, holding up a starfish: “Makes a difference to THIS one.”

While standing in what may have been a record-breaking queue of itchy, hot, impatient customers one summer’s day in New York, a single, frazzled cashier frantically scrambled to take orders for waiting vehicles outside, make sandwiches AND deliver correct change, and pretend he didn’t hear obnoxious comments from those more distant in line.

Because, of course, the further away one is from someone, the more courage one has to be rude, it seems.

I was intensely grateful I’d left my daughters to wait with their earbuds blasting music in the backseat, and glanced over through the glass doors every few seconds with that ever-present maternal paranoia – you know, that assumption every mother has that she’s got the ability to turn into Batman, should anyone approach the car in which her Most Precious Darlings are cradled?

I was thus occupied by daydreams of dramatic ninja flips, whipping would-be kidnappers into smithereens, when an elderly woman straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting tottered in, came straight up, oblivious to the cashier’s manic frenzy, and politely inquired:

“Excuse me, young man, but could someone please assist me? I need my gasoline pumped.”

A downright nasty groan went up from the waiting crowd, almost as if they’d been possessed by the Jungian über-consciousness. The cashier froze, speechless in disbelief, and turned to the queue, which by this time had wrapped itself around the dairy case, and was beginning to resemble a Siberian soup line.

It was One Of Those Moments.

You know: when you sigh to yourself, look around, and it becomes plain. No one else is going to do anything. You have a choice. Either watch everything spiral downhill from here, or step in.

“I’ll help you, ma’am,” I said.

If this was a television show, the crowd would have cheered me on – but this was New York. No one said it out loud, but you could feel the wave of “sucker,” as my place in line closed up faster than quicksand.

My daughters chose just that moment to come bouncing into the store, looking to cage some snacks.

“Back in the car, girls,” I said. “Something we have to take care of first.”

“What? What? What’s going on?”

“Never you mind,” I said briskly. “Just hop back in your seats and keep your eyes open.”

As I suspected, the woman was no dope.

She was not only grateful for the assistance – she was delighted when I offered not only to help her pump the gas, but to show her how to do it herself, so she’d never be in a jam again. To her credit? She picked up the process faster than I did.

“How can I thank you?” she said.

“Tell you the truth?” I said, and as I spoke, it was just dawning on me. “I should be thanking you. Over there are my kids. You just gave me a real-life opportunity to show them – not just tell them – what you do when someone needs a hand.”

The woman nodded wisely. We were cool with each other, and I got back in my car, and explained to the girls the story.

My oldest’s comment?

“Yeah – but would you have done it if we WEREN’T here?”

I’d like to think I would.

In California, about a month ago, I was in a Starbucks, when I noticed the woman who handed me my Grande in a Venti cup had a weird, sort of nasty bandage/sticker on her forearm.

“You all right?”

She was fine. But Starbucks Corporate wasn’t. Turns out they have deep objections to employees displaying tattoos.

No objections, though, to employees displaying nasty bandages, or to the possibility of them falling off into, say, the coffee.

“Got a comment card?” I asked.

The staff was a bit nervous, at first.

I gave it to her. “YOU decide if this goes up,” I said. “I don’t want you to be worried about retaliation.”

I wrote a polite but firm paragraph about how blitheringly stupid their policy was – especially if they wanted their stores to have a hip, cool image.

About a week ago, I was down to my last two dollars. I decided to spend it at a Starbucks, but when I got to the register, one of my dollars had vanished.

“Ah, well, never mind,” I said, pushing the coffee back. My disappointment was ridiculously huge.

The cashier threw the other dollar in for me, to my everlasting gratitude. I looked up in surprise, as she smiled at me. Then she held out her bandaged arm.

Yesterday? I got a letter from Starbucks Corporate. They’re rethinking their policy on tattoos. Tomorrow, I’m headed to Starbucks to show her that letter.

You think one person can’t make a difference? If one person can do this much, holy shizzle.

Imagine if we ALL did?

Since all of you out there are definitely dedicated to my OWN personal success, I thought I’d consolidate here all the links – for your handy and convenient reference – for your ease of use, and convenience.

After all, if you’re going to rocket me to superstardom, <gag>, I might as well make it easy for you.

I’m running for a Shorty Award. I did NOT expect the nomination – but I WAS thrilled & honored when it came.

(I confess, in the spirit of truth telling, that a hint of “Finally!” went through my soul, but that was petty and selfish.)

At first? I noticed the Disney-generated celebrity Hilary Duff was on the list. Near my name. This, for some reason, bugged the piss out of me, since my own tots had been Duff acolytes around the time her hit single So Yesterday came out. Duff, herself, being so yesterday, apparently has “written” a book, too: although, thought I: However could a chick who couldn’t manage to write her own songs produce a whole book using things like WORDS?

Mean, I know. But I used it, ruthlessly, as a campaign slogan, because at that point? All I really WANTED was to beat the Duff. When I realized I’d garnered nominations on Hillary-Hate, I relented.

Then, when I read the rules, and learned all I needed was to hit the Top Six? I thought: Shoot. Maybe I CAN. And if I can? Maybe I can use the platform to sell books, and thus raise money for a cause dear to my heart. (I DO, in fact, have one. A heart, that is.)

Autism.* Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you groaning now. I know: everyone’s into autism awareness now. Not like me, though. Sure, kids are cute. And early intervention is critical. So yeah: give them money.

But teens and adults? NOT so cute. Awkward. Make you uncomfortable. Seven year olds still in diapers, because their autism makes them not give a rat’s ass about social conventions? Not so cute.

THAT’S what I want to raise money for. Helping THEM. Autistic people as they MATURE. Because they ARE NOT RETARDED. But they DO have special needs. And they need HELP. And nobody else is doing it.

If you want? Check out the web site in progress, autism2t.org.

That’s why I want a Shorty Award. Yeah, it’d be a nice award. But it’s not about the award. It’s about the attention it will raise for autism.

Cause really? I personally have little problems getting attention for myself, if you haven’t noticed.

NOTE: Want to buy my book, but don’t have a Kindle? No problem: Here’s a link to download a FREE Kindle reader.

PRINT VERSION COMING SOON.

* Full disclosure: My daughter has Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism.

(To anyone who doesn’t understand this post? That’s perfectly okay. There’s always the next one.)