I am the Threat

While everyone goes on about their business, posting selfies, funny memes and chatting about how big of a douche Kanye is, 6 people abruptly left this earth. They were simply random victims of a random act of violence in a tiny town in Michigan. You know... shit happens.

At this point we're all so worn out by the repeated fodder for gun violence conversations that we're not going to bother addressing this one on Facebook because - shit - who wants to open that can of worms? I mean ... how tired are we all at this point? How many times can we post the words 'enough already' before their very posting is  enough already. Besides, I can already predict the responses. I could pre-populate the replies:

"It's our constitutional right to bear arms!"

"Guns don't kill people, people kill people!"

"Those Liberals are constantly threatening our freedoms. They are the real threat!"

That one is my favorite. 

No, but seriously, it is my favorite. You see, I am the threat. I'm the one threatening your lifestyle.

But the dude with a gun. No, he's just fine.

They will all be missed.

Guess which one of us killed 6 people Saturday?

Some Friends Make Better Enemies

Today she came by to help me with my job search. I saw a position for Manager of Business Strategy at a company I admire. I was reading through the qualifications and requirements when she shot me down. "They want someone with good business intuition. Two out of your last two ventures didn't go very well, did they? I don't think you qualify."

I argued that if my advice had been followed, both of the projects would have done much better. "Sure, but you weren't respected enough to have your advice heeded, now were you? Why would you expect someone else will?"

With a sigh, I moved on. "OK, what about this Executive Assistant job?" I asked. "Surely I qualify for that!"

"Oh absolutely you would!" she gushed "You'd be over-qualified in fact. And bored. Plus you'd be tied to an unfulfilling job 9-5 Monday-Friday with a 2 hour commute. You'd see Dia on the weekends basically. You said you didn't want to fail as a mom."

She was right, I guess, but the word "fail"..? Ouch.

I gave myself a "just keep swimming" pep-talk and soldiered on. "Ah, look at this!" I said pointing to the listing. "A start-up that needs someone with my exact skill set. This is where I live, where I thrive, where I shine!!!" I was visibly thrilled. My heart began to warm up. I sat up straighter. This is exactly the kind of thing...

"Oh HELL no!"

"What?"

"Did you see the bio on the CEO?" she implored. "He's literally 20 years old. He's like a boy genius. And look at the other guys on the team. I think the oldest one there might be able to legally drink. They are not looking for a grandma to bake them cookies, for God's sake. They'll want some young, hot college student with enough skills to get by. This is Los Angeles, Katie. What are you thinking?"

Enough. That was what I was thinking: enough. "I'm getting burnt out on the job search." I said. "Wanna go for a run?"

She did (thank God), so we suited up and went out for a quick 3 miler. A few hundred feet into it, she asked if this was the pace we were going to keep for the whole time. "I dunno" I shrugged. "I just wanted to clear my head." Thankfully she said nothing more and stayed with me, but I had the sense she really wasn't pleased about it.

We had jogged about halfway when she asked "How old do you think Robin Wright is?" We both enjoy the series "House of Cards" so I thought nothing of it at first.

"I guess around 50. She plays 50 on House of Cards, right? Why?"

"She's your age, then. She's very natural looking - isn't she? Doesn't look like she's had any work done. And that body! She's had two kids, too. And when she runs on the show, it's a way faster pace than this."

There it was.

Well I don't like to talk when I run and, besides, where would I begin? I tried to pick up the pace.

On the way up the hill with the sun in our eyes, she looked at me and asked "Why do you make that face?"

"Huh? Oh..." realizing my eyes were scrunched up and my lip was raised in a bit of a sneer. "Sun's...in ...my... eyes" I panted. "and the ...hill... is... challeng...ing."

"What do you think drivers passing you think? Do you suppose they think you're this ugly all the time? Or maybe they think you are just so out of shape that you are practically dying?"

I countered - while gasping for air - that I probably was too middle-aged and plain for any driver to bother checking me out enough to notice my sneer. "You are probably right" she said.

When we finally got home, she looked at her watch. "That was one of the slower times for that run, huh?" "Probably" I responded. "I need a shower."

I was hoping she'd take the hint and suggest packing up, but instead she declared this the perfect time to jump on the scale and weigh in. "You first" she insisted.

I reluctantly plunked myself on the scale. Looking between my feet I saw the number glaring back at me larger than the time before. "Oooo" she cooed. "That's a gain, isn't it? What are you eating?"

I took inventory over the past few days' meals. It wasn't that bad and I told her that. "Maybe it's water" I said. "Or wine," she quipped. "Could be all that wine."

I really needed that shower.

"Dia will be home soon." I said. "I'm going to get in the shower. I assume you can show yourself out?"


"Oh sure" she said. "I'll come check on you later."

"I'll be here."

The Quest for Poopfection

I'm cheap. Well, let's call it 'frugal' shall we? So when I clean my birds' cage, I just use pages from a magazine I'd otherwise be tossing out. None of those fancy pre-cut, grit-infused scratch sheets for these parakeets. Recycle, re-use don't ya' know?

This task usually does not require a lot of brain power. Tear out pages, lay them on the bottom of the cage. Done.

Lately, however, I've been putting a lot more strategy into the arranging of said pages. It's getting more and more difficult to get it done these days.

Now, I'm not going for a Martha Stewart mosaic of bird crap, nor am I hoping for a featured photo in BirdHouse Beautiful. Plus, I'm fairly certain not one of my friends has ever examined the bottom of the bird cage much less gotten judgy on the editorials... BUT. I do try to mind the photos that face upward and I try to ensure that they are suitable to poop on in a house with an impressionable girl.

Our local "Inside SCV Magazine" is a perfect size for the bottom of this cage and, therefore, typically is my go-to. Plus it's shit anyway, so why not? Sure, I know there are a lot of "Want-New-Boobies?" ads and even articles, but Tetris was my game back in the day, so this rag can't beat me. Right? Right! Except with the latest issue, I ended up with about 1/4 inch more paper than required and it had to be strategically layered criss-cross style before I could get the top layer to NOT show an augmentation ad.

I'm not going to go off on a huge rant this time or connect the dots for everyone on how this very issue is why it's less likely that we'll elect a woman president in my daughter's lifetime than a raving lunatic with a chimp for a sidekick, but I will leave you with this:

Right now my birds are doing more for good for society than we are doing for ourselves. Poop on, dear little birds. Poop on!

Too Close for Comfort

"Momma?"

Her voice was shaky, unsure, sounding much younger than her 30 years. I could feel her fear in my bones. It became my own.

I could picture her huddled in an airport bathroom with alarms sounding out in the corridor, afraid and uncertain.

Sitting in front of the computer, the phone to my ear, toggling between a half dozen webpages: the weather radar, 2 different tornado alerts, a map of Dallas, a map of the airport and Twitter - trying to find something that would prove her safety, I felt completely helpless. "She has to be safe. Keep her safe" I silently prayed.


Her texts during her brief stop in Dallas - one where she wasn't supposed to have even deplaned - went from a cheery banter ...

...into a terrifying reality.

And then she called. We talked as they moved the passengers off the plane, into the terminal and eventually into an "Authorized Personnel Only" area in the lower part of the airport.

I was somewhat comforted being on the phone with her, but as the events unfolded and the situation became more and more dire, I began to panic a little. What if? What if I lose the connection? What if? What if the tornado hits and debris and devastation are raining down on her and I'm not there?

She can't be hurt. She can't be scared. I have to protect her.

But I couldn't. The best I could do was man the computer, stay on the phone and pray.

So I did. I reported each town the tornado hit as it traveled on its course of devastation. I obsessively watched the radar relaying to her how the storm, miraculously, was everywhere around the airport but never exactly there. "It doesn't hit there" I said. "It's south east of you and its moving north east. It's going to miss you!" I said. "But it touched down?" she asked "What about those people! Oh, Momma! Are they OK?"

Even in her own panic, she thought of others. Now I proudly reflect on what an angel of a heart she has, but at the moment it just tore at my soul. "She has to be safe. Keep her safe" I prayed again. "I cannot be talking to her for the last time, God. Please."

For one of the longest hours of my life, I stayed with her on that phone, thanking God we weren't disconnected. When the series of storms finally yielded and the break was long enough for the passengers to be lead back upstairs into the terminals, we hung up. She kept me updated through texts that her flight, fortunately, wasn't canceled. After a few more delays for various reasons she was finally safely in the air and eventually into the arms of the man she loves. There was some comfort there for me - that she was where she was happy and loved - but today as I read the horrifying news of the devastation, of the 11 dead, of exactly how close it came, I just wanted those arms that are holding her to be mine.

-KC

Liberté, égalité, fraternité

We gazed out the window at the quiet, late Sunday afternoon. Occasionally a couple, arm-in-arm, strolled along the path next to the canal. Paris closes on Sundays, or at least the part of Paris we were staying in did. The shops shuttered early if they were open at all and we were hard pressed to find a café open this late after lunch.

Needing dinner, we ventured out to the tiny market on the corner hoping to find something we could turn into a decent meal for our first night in Paris. The store was just a few steps away from the apartment, maybe five doors down. I’d noticed it when we’d driven in, but I’d mistaken it for a flower shop. The entirety of the storefront overflowed with carts filled with bouquets. Here had gathered most of our strollers, it seemed. A steady stream of people passed back and forth between the flower merchant and the restaurant across the street.

I would have walked past it still ignorantly searching for the grocery if the realization of where we were hadn’t stopped me in my tracks.

The Petit Cambodge stood closed, of course, but the sidewalk was alive with activity. Wilted bouquets were removed as fresh flowers were lay down. Votive candles twinkled in the dusk illuminating notes, postcards and photos of the fallen. It was somber, but not sorrowful. It was human kindness, patriotism and compassion.

We wandered a bit down the cobblestone streets, the tall walls of apartments along the narrow sidewalks hugging us. It felt warm and friendly. Safe.

The sky grew larger and the path widened. Before us stood the magnificent statue of Marianne in the center of the Place de la République. A symbol of the triumphant French democracy, the monument now stood covered in graffiti and surrounded by a melee of flowers, candles and words of defiant love. There was no mention of war or hate gracing the landmark, only pleas for peace and a declaration that they would not be broken. The words “même pas peur” repeated on banners and signs. Indeed, the scene was not one of fear. The crowd was as a democratic nation’s should be: filled with individuals free to emote in whatever way they wished. Yet none chose anger.

A couple holding  a sign reading “free hugs” drew me in. I carried Dia toward them, smiling and asking aloud who could turn down a hug. We embraced – all four of us – while some stranger took our photo. There were television crews everywhere, set up under canopies and working out of vans, but they remained a respectful distance from the group. This was no media circus. No one was exploiting the scene and we were free to feel whatever emotion gripped our hearts.

In my case I still have yet to find the words for that emotion. I’m not sure if I haven’t processed it clearly yet or if the words simply haven’t been invented. All I am certain of is that in that surreal first impression of our Canal St. Martin home, Paris won my respect, my love and my loyalty.