“Doing the right thing” or “How to get burned”

I'm telling you, I was here first!

I didn’t kill anyone. This is what I’m choosing to focus on at the moment. I’ve come to realize that life is all about perspective. So I’m committed to having a positive one on my most recent mishap.

I had my bi-annual melanoma check-up this week. (Btw, in case you’re a grammarian, I am consciously choosing to keep the “m” word in lower case in order to illustrate it’s powerlessness and insignificance.) Good news though. I’m eight years free of the despicable disease that claimed my father’s life 11 years ago. Feeling relieved and almost invincible, I carefully pulled my tank out of its tight parking spot while being ever so careful not to hit the tree on the rear passenger side. I almost succeeded until I inadvertently clipped a poor unsuspecting Acura on the front driver’s side and dislodged its bumper completely.

I have to admit, I wanted to drive away and pretend the whole thing never happened. But alas, that’s never an option for an uber-responsible neurotic like myself. After scribbling out four versions of an apology note, I finally settled on one and placed it on the crippled car’s windshield.

A few hours later I received a call from the owner, we’ll call him John. He sounded worried and distraught. “This isn’t a tragedy,” I told him. “It’s just an inconvenience. I’m really sorry. But we’ll make it right.”

In the time between leaving the note and talking to John, I’d received a barrage of feedback from friends and family:

“Why did you admit guilt in writing? You should never do that.”
“Did you take photos? I hope you took photos.”
“You really should have called the police. What were you thinking?”
“You’re in big trouble. This guy’s gonna take you to the cleaners.”
“Did you forget all about the Brett MIchael’s affair?”

I should probably explain that last one. About a year and a half ago I was in a minor fender bender with the Rocker’s now wife. There was no damage but in attempting to do the right thing, I insisted she take my name and information. A few hours later, all kinds of vehicle issues emerged that required several thousand dollars worth of repairs. It was a nightmare. And one that I brought upon myself by trying to do the “right” thing. I suddenly shuddered thinking I’d done it all over again.

But after speaking with,John, I realized that he had likely received similar admonitions about trusting an anonymous stranger who was promising to make things right. We were both navigating in unsafe waters. Welcome to America, where doing the right thing is terrifying because it turns you into a potential target for every scammer, swindler and con artist out to ease their own economic woes by taking advantage of yours. It’s really pathetic.

I remembered how my dad used to make business deals with handshakes. Most of the time they went well. The few times they didn’t weren’t enough to sour my dad on the human race. He kept believing in people and trusting what they said.

I guess that’s kind of where I net out on all this. Sure, I could get screwed. The guy could claim everything from a busted carburetor to a bruised hip bone (which would really be incredible since he wasn’t even in the car.) Weirder things than this have actually plagued us these last few years.

But John seems like an honest guy. So I’m gonna trust him and try to repair the damage I inadvertently did. You can’t walk around protecting yourself from everything. Sure, you might get burned once in a while. But I’d rather spend my energy believing in the goodness of the human spirit, even if you have to shake off a few charred ashes now and again.

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Fried at “Fry’s”

Yesterday my eldest son, Levi, got electrocuted at

No, I don't want FRYs with that!

“Fry’s” Electronics. The irony of that is not wasted on me. It was truly a horrifying event. We sat down in these massage chairs and when they weren’t working, Levi went to check and see if they were plugged in. When he picked up the cord it exploded into flames, knocked him back about three feet and singed his hand badly. It was terrifying. He then became completely hysterical and I tried to comfort him while also barking out orders to nearby nitwit employees who just stood there staring at me.

He is fine, albeit a bit fearful of anything electronic. But the fact remains that this could have been a grave, irreparable tragedy. That’s the part I can’t get beyond. I’m haunted by the “what ifs.” What if the current had been stronger? What if the explosion had caught fire and spread. What if something truly terrible had happened to my son?

It’s funny. When bad things happen, I almost always realize how lucky I am. It’s that Jewish “imagine the worst” thing that guides my thoughts towards the worst possible scenario. Then I’m deeply grateful for whatever minor event has befallen me. But I can’t forget how quickly life can turn — forever. It can leave you shattered, alone, sick, lost, afraid; for no other reason than random chance, and there’s simply nothing you can do to control it.

I stood right next to my son as he innocently picked up a cord, an ordinary event that had an unexpected, extraordinary outcome. A friend of mine told me how her toddler daughter had fallen and broken her arm, twice, as she walked helplessly alongside. I remember countless times when minor accidents occurred under my watch and only through luck and good fortune amounted to only a few cuts and bruises.

It’s all very frightening. I want this realization to make me live more fully, embrace every moment, appreciate all that I have. Instead it makes me want to slip under the covers, barricade my front door, and turn out all the lights in the house like my lame neighbors on Halloween night. I want to keep my family safe, my boys alive and unscathed by life’s darts and daggers.

Today my car was broken into. The window was shattered and an expensive item was stolen. My first reaction? Relief. Thank God no one was in the car. Thank God my husband and kids were safe. Thank God no one was hurt. But maybe I’m too passive. Maybe I ought to be more proactive, see potential bad things around the corners before they appear. Maybe my “thank god it wasn’t worse” attitude is really just a manifestation of fear, helplessness and the reality of how truly ineffective I am in life.

Help, I think I’ve fallen into a philosophical minefield and I can’t get up.

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DWS (Driving while sharing)

Listen; your kids might talk to you

A woman I know once told me not to talk on my cell phone while driving if my kids were in the car with me. The funny thing about it was that she wasn’t cautioning me at all about safety. She had older kids than me. And she said that driving in the car was always the place where her normally reticent children shared their most intimate life stories. She learned about bullies at school, first crushes, and all kinds of fascinating personal philosophies.

Lately I’ve really been working on this. And it’s paying off in spades! Last night, for example, I learned where my ten year old plans to go to college. It’s ASU, by the way, and he plans on only living in a dorm his freshman year because he wants to have a really nice kitchen where he can cook delicious meals. “Mom, did you ever eat uncooked Ramen when you were in college?” he asked me. “I’ve heard that lots of college kids eat that.”

“No, sweetie,” I smiled. “I always made it a point to take 30 seconds and cook the noodles before eating them.” But then, recounting my earlier days, I added, “But they sure were a great value. We used to buy 10 packs for a buck. That could feed you for a week back in the day.”

After discussing his future menu selections, we moved on to intermarriage; he thought it was not the right choice for him since he wants to raise his kids Jewish. Then he told me about a girl who wasn’t terribly kind in his class, his future career aspirations, what his perfect wife would be like, and how disgusting the egg frittata at school was that day.

It was a mixed bag of somewhat scattered thoughts, yearnings, and beliefs. On the more banal matters, I needed to read between the lines and ferret out the deeper truths that lurked within his complex psyche. Like his obsession with how he would ever be able to pay for auto insurance. It reminded me how much of a planner he is and how uncomfortable he is with uncertainty. His focus on having the consummate spouse represented his ever-growing anxiety around making mistakes; a topic we surely need to raise next week at the talking doctor.

I learned an inordinate amount. And by the time we got home, I felt certain that I knew him better. The mere 10 mile trip that could’ve easily been occupied with a phone call to my mom or a quick voicemail message to a friend, had served as a safe haven for a deep and meaningful dialogue. His off-handed sharing about the everyday facts of his life, his worries and future aspirations, had served to open a portal into his soul and I was deeply grateful for having been granted access to this private sanctum.

I’m not deluded enough to think that this kind of sharing will go on forever. I’m painfully aware of what happens to heart-sleeved little boys who all too often grow into “strong, silent” young men. But for now, I’ll stay off the cell phone. I’ll keep asking the questions. And I’ll keep listening, hard, for the truth behind the words, the essence beneath the answers. Because after all, is there anything more important than that?

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He’s driving me crazy!!!

Driving him away

I am an enabler. Really, I am. I’m like the classic example of someone stuck in a destructive relationship. I make excuses for indefensible actions. I forgive innumerable disappointments. I turn the other cheek so often, I’ve developed chronic whiplash and need to see a chiropractor on a regular basis. This abuse has got to stop.

You see, it started innocently enough back in ’05. I needed new wheels. So I went out looking. I never expected to fall in love with a Rover. It just happened. It was like…destiny.

From the moment we hooked up, I knew he was trouble. Sure he was handsome, in a different sort of way. He wasn’t like all the others. His unique, boxy shape made him stand out in a crowd. I loved the way I could always single him out in a busy parking lot. He was powerful and rugged and I felt safe in his charge.

But the honeymoon was short-lived. Soon he started to have all kinds of “issues.” That’s when he began having an intense relationship with our service technician. At first it was once a month. Then weekly visits. Their connection seemed unusually close to me. But I ignored the looming sense of danger. What a fool I was.

We stumbled through a rocky five years together until I hit rock bottom and kicked him to the curb. I believed I was on a path to wellness. But I was merely fooling myself. This spring I met his brother. I was definitely on the rebound. I fell instantly in love, and I fell hard. But I told myself I knew what I was doing. Sure, there was a striking family resemblance. He had the same strong features, the same well-defined body, the same rugged exterior. But I believed the hype — that he was fitter, tougher, lower maintenance. Oh, how we deceive ourselves under the guise of loving.

I leased the 2010 model in March convincing myself that it was only 36 months, that it would be over in no time. “Besides,” I reasoned, “With such a clear-cut ending in sight, I could surely keep my attachment in check.”

But here I am. Summer vacation in California, and he did it to me again. He started having electrical “difficulties” on the drive over. I figured it was just another ploy for attention, a clumsy attempt to steal focus from my kids. I tried to ignore the warning signs, the flashing orange lights, the minor inconveniences. But then this morning, he wouldn’t even turn over. He just sat there silently, brooding, while I raged and cursed and swore I’d leave him forever.

Now we’re stuck. After an interminable wait for a tow truck and another excruciating intake interview with an out-of-state service tech, I’m back in my all too familiar state of profound disillusionment, waiting for this week’s diagnosis. What could it be now? A faulty computer glitch? A loose radiator cap? A fuel injection hiccup? Does it even matter anymore? I feel hopelessly trapped in a dangerously addictive dance of deception and doom.

Where can I turn for help? I need to break this sick pattern of attachment. I need a ride that wont let me down, that will be there for me in good times and bad, that wont leave me stranded in strange cities, with unfamiliar mechanics and coffee machines so advanced I can’t even figure out how to brew hot water for tea.

Please, someone help me. I admit my powerlessness over my addiction and am ready to turn my life over to a power greater than myself. But who could that be? Do you think “Motor Trend” might qualify?

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Your tax dollars at work!

Okay, what is wrong with this picture? Our State is literally going broke. We don’t have enough space to house the criminal offenders we have. Our law enforcement officers are radically understaffed because of funding issues. Our courts our ridiculously overcrowded. And yet, there’s enough manpower, money and chutzpah to send an official “officer of the court” to my private residence at 8:30 at night (on a school night) to serve me f-ing papers for a traffic camera ticket I received in July. I have to ask, could we possibly put our resources to better use?

So I’ve finally gotten my five-year-old to bed and am tucking in my 9-year-old when the doorbell rings. This is odd since we live in a gated community and never received a call from the guard gate that someone was here for us. We live in a very anti-social neighborhood (don’t get me started) and only know a few of our neighbors, none of whom randomly show up at odd hours of the night to borrow a cup of sugar or ask for help with a run-away pooch. I run to the door and ask the obligatory “Who is it?”

No answer.

Now any sane individual wouldn’t open the door at this point. But I guess I figured it was some poor, lost mute looking for aid and I swung the door open with total abandon. There stood this scramble-haired, gen-Y kid in jeans and a skater-looking t-shirt. “Um…Are you Debra?” he asked. Suddenly my senses returned and I realized this probably wasn’t the Publisher’s Clearing House here to deliver my 10 million dollar prize. In the meantime, my little guy, who was jarred awake by the doorbell, is now screaming frantically for me to come to him, and my older son is anxiously shivering in a towel in his doorway.

“No,” I said with the conviction of a well trained perjurer. “Why?”

“I have to…um…serve these papers to…um…Debra.” he clumsily announced.

“Well, she’s not here,” I continued with the fabrication. “Do you want me to give them to her?” (Now, let me note here that I thought in order for papers to be properly served they had to go to the individual named in said papers.)

“That’d be great,” he said handing me the papers. He turned to leave and then looked back. “By the way, what was your name?”

“Um…Diane,” I said, “I’m the baby sitter.”

“Uh huh,” he smiled as if to let me know he wasn’t fooled by my inane charade.

I closed the door and immediately opened the letter It was a photo-radar ticket from July. “You have got to be kidding,” I muttered with incredulity, adding a few choice words along the way. “What the hell is wrong with these people? Aren’t there real criminals they could go after? I mean, what are they gonna do, put me in jail?” My nine-year-old is now sobbing uncontrollably. I run to him and pull him close. “Honey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I don’t want mommy to go to jail,” he wimpered.

“Mommy isn’t going to jail, sweetie. This is nothing. Please don’t worry,” I reassured him.

I finally managed to settle my children, calm their fears and get them to bed. But it was already after 9 and I knew that the next day was bound to be a tough one since they usually go to bed well before 8.

The ticket is for $220. I don’t deny that the ticket was deserved, or that the hideous photo is actually me. But can anyone tell me why they needed to come to my house at 8:30 at night, disrupt my children’s routine, and waste an abundance of time, energy and resources for something as insignificant as a four-month old speeding ticket?

Maybe I should send this to Sheriff Joe. He’s a sensible guy. I bet he’d go after the idiot beurocrats who sent the scraggly kid to my doorstep to terrorize my children and annoy the hell out of me. Hmmm….maybe he’ll help me if I tell him that kid was an illegal?