May I call you Sarah? By Toni Maita

I had to steel myself before I was able to watch the V.P. debate last night. I knew what to expect, and I knew that I would be angry and offended before the evening was over. I must say that Sarah Palin did not disappoint me.

May I call you Sarah? (wink)

Sarah, you were completely true to form last night. I knew that you wouldn’t make the same truthful blunders that you made with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric over the past few weeks. Indeed, you were well prepared by the heavy hands of the GOP to grease the American public with your brand of obsequious blathering that only your “base” would be electrified by. As you prattled on about “hockey moms”, “Joe six-pack” (whoever the fuck that is referring to), and “white flags of surrender”, you sunk to a new low when you failed to acknowledge Joe Biden’s thoughtful moment when reflecting on his own personal losses.

Your body language was cartoonish at best, kind of like a Barbie doll on meth. Who advised you to present yourself in such an obviously shallow and ridiculous way? We’re you winking at me Sarah? Don’t wink at me! In that moment I wanted to reach my hand through the TV screen and bitch slap you. You’re more smug and condescending than Dick Cheney, and that’s a major accomplishment, and truly terrifying.

Did I really hear you right, Sarah? Did you say that you wanted to expand the power of the V.P.? Is that what you think that I want to hear? Who advised you to take that position? Have you completely snapped your cap?

I also wondered Sarah, whether you would really answer any of the moderator’s questions. You danced around those questions like a cat on a hot tin roof. May I call you “Maggie the Cat”? (Wink) Clearly you have something to hide Sarah, and it’s little to do with your lack of national experience. You are a rapacious, power-seeking politician, who would lie to me, and to millions of others to suit your own power hungry ego.

Sarah, you do not represent me, my views as a woman, or my views as an American. I happen to believe that you are no maverick (whatever the fuck that really means). I know that the Republican Party has led this country to the depths of despair, vis-à-vis the Iraq war, and to a near financial meltdown of our markets through deregulation and neglect. I happen to know that the policies that would be put forward by the McCain administration would only fuel that flame. You can spew the same lies over and over again about the democrats and their leadership; it doesn’t make it any more true or real. I think that you need a reality check Sarah. (Big wink and smile)

Furthermore, stop injecting “God” into everything Sarah, especially when you’re speaking to a truly national audience. It just makes you look scarier that you really are—or perhaps you really are that scary. Anyone who injects religion into politics has no basic understanding of what it means to be an American. Did you have a “brain-fart” Sarah? Did you know that there are registered voters in the country who are not Christians? Has that ever occurred to you, or any of the other self-righteous fuckers who would blend God with politics, and somehow degrade that into a litmus test for patriotism?

Do you realize that you effectively alienated the large population of gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people as you uttered the words “tolerate”? Sarah, what United States of America are you living in? It’s certainly not my USA, and I am ashamed that you would say that you are representing “Americans” on that stage last night.


I really don’t need to remind you of your performances that were broadcast on the nightly news over the past few weeks. Clearly, you were more “you” in those interviews, than you were during last night’s rehearsal for the Miss America pageant. (Head cocked, smug smile and a wink too>)

I used to believe that I could “tolerate” John McCain, should he be elected to the Presidency, but Sarah, you have effectively soured me to any notion that I could ever support John McCain now.

Nice work Sarah. (Wink)

In memory of Flame

Shalimar Dolce's Burning Love CD "Flame"
June 19, 1994 - September 29, 2008

Dear Moo

I can't believe that you're gone. I will never forget the day that we brought you home from Tom and Jocelyn Lewis' house. I held you in my lap as Vaughn drove us home, and I held you up and starting singing, " a dinky dinky dinky, a dinky doo doo". I laughed at smiled and wondered at you, and I always will.

Remember when we tried to show you when you were 6 months old? Ha ha! You really didn't think much about that, and we decided that it really didn't matter about that championship thing. You did go on to earn your CD, and in your own inimitable style, you slayed me. When you were going for your third leg during the sits and downs, you assumed the "frog" position and began wagging that splendiferous tale of yours, and you smiled and beamed for the entire exercise. I thought that I would bust up laughing, but I bit my tongue, and we got that CD! I was so proud of you Moo!

You produced 3 beautiful litters for me, and beside me sits your daughter Leia from CH Ashford's Saffron O'Reilly. Leia went on to produce the grandchildren and her children the great grandchildren still living in my house today. They always paid you all the respect and deference that you deeply deserved. They are your living legacy Moo, your shining stars.

Moo, you were such a comedian, and so good natured. I can't ever remember you ever having to correct anyone in our house, except to bare your teeth at an annoying puppy in your face, and I KNEW that it was all for show, almost comical really. You were sweet and loving beyond words my old Moo. One of the greatest things about you, was that you were so musical. I will always cherish the arias that you sang for us. It cracked me up the way that you would be lying in the kitchen or down the hallway, and suddenly I would hear your singing, or "mooing". I'd come in the room and there you were, laying flat on your belly, tail wagging wide and slow.

It was so hard to let you go today. Until the end, I was really in denial about it. It's so hard to make that kind of choice, but I could finally see it in your eyes, and I knew that if you could talk, you would have said "mama, I feel like crap. I am so sick and tired, and I don't think that I can go on much longer. Don't feel bad mama, because you loved me so good and so completely, and I'll always be watching over you and papa."

Moo moo dog, those were some awesome 14+ years together, and you will always be in my heart, and deeply missed by me and papa Greg.

Love always,

Mama

Keith Olbermann Special Comment

Keith Olbermann is blatantly honest and unapologetic about the exploitation of 9/11 by the GOP at their recent convention.

The Hand of Karl Rove - McCain's VP Pick

This Republican VP selection of Mrs. Palin is straight out of the Karl Rove play book. She's going to be used to go into the bible belt and once again try to divide this country on issues like gay rights and abortion, and sadly, it could work. I find it incomprehensible and terrifying that the citizens of this country may potentially be distracted ONCE AGAIN from the most important issues that we face as a country; health care, the economy, national security and foreign policy, education, and social security---that people will once again divide on issues that have NOTHING TO DO with our strength and solvency as a Nation. It's irresponsible and dangerous.

I also find it astonishing that should McCain win this election, and fall ill and die while in office, that we would be faced with a 40-something year old woman with absolutely no national political experience and no education in the nuances of foreign policy. She stated publically that she has no interest in the Iraq war---that she hasn't even followed it.

It was reported on MS-NBC that John McCain only met her once before he selected her as his V.P. nominee. What kind of vetting process does this suggest? It suggests that they are playing a dangerous game with the American people.

Yes, she's a "hockey mom", a former beauty queen, and has raised 5 kids, the youngest with Down's Syndrome. Well, that's terrific! That's a great American story, but it doesn't qualify her to lead this country.

Also of note, she eats "Buffalo" burgers (now there's a selling point), is a member of the NRA and a hunter, is anti gay rights, and wants to OUTLAW abortion in all 50 states, even in the case of rape or incest. Is this the kind of myopic person that we want running our government?

It's ironic, because people like Pat Buchanan are referring to this woman as a "feminist." Feminist? John McCain doesn't believe that women deserve equal pay for doing the same job that a man does. Feminist? You've got to be kidding me. Holding down a job and raising a family does not make you a feminist.

The McCain campaign is going to try and sell it that they selected Mrs. Palin to try and gain the women's vote. That's spin, and it's a red herring. Democratic women who supported Hillary have NOTHING in common with Sarah Palin, and it makes no sense that these women would suddenly vote for John McCain simply because he put her on his ticket. Do they think that women are really a bunch of morons? Women who supported Hillary are NOT right-wing conservatives.

I for one will not allow them to manipulate me with this Rovain slight of hand. As Barack Obama stated strongly and with complete conviction during his acceptance speech, "ENOUGH!"

The Red Suitcase

My parents were a mystery to me when I was an adolescent. At a time that I was beginning to experiment with drugs and sex, apparently my mom and dad were too.

It was 1975, and my parents were in their early 50’s.

One afternoon, my pal Dennis and I snuck into my parent’s bedroom while they were out. There was good reason for this stealth mission---they had recently redecorated it with a mirrored tile ceiling, a white faux fur bedspread, black and white Grecian wallpaper, and black lacquer furniture. This love shack of a bedroom conjured up images real and imagined, almost too much for a 13-year-old girl to grasp.

As if the wonder of their bedroom wasn’t enough titillation, the actual “holy grail” that we were after had been shining like a beacon before me for weeks. I had seen the red suitcase in their closet, and I couldn’t understand what it was doing in there. No one was planning to take a trip, and the rest of the luggage was neatly tucked away in the basement.

There had to be something explosive in that suitcase. My parents had started down a strange and lusty path of pot smoking, ménage a trois’s, and hysterical fighting. I had witnessed much of this from my vantage point of the bedroom next door. I never got a visual of any of this, but I had heard them in their room with one of my mom’s friends, and I had smelled the pot, and had heard my mother urging my aunt to try it one night when they were over for dinner.

I was sure that the red suitcase contained something forbidden, and possibly shocking.

I opened the sliding closet door, and grabbed hold of my prize. Dennis was standing beside me, urging me to hurry. I placed it on the bed, held my breath, and opened the latches.

First we gasped, then we laughed, then we began rifling through the contents. There were battery-operated vibrators, a few dildos and a huge strap-on, that Dennis proceeded to insert one of the vibrators into, extracting some leftover bodily fluid that “grossed” us both out.

There was that lid of marijuana that I was sure that I had smelled, and a copy of “San Francisco Screw” magazine---the centerfold being a blown-up photo of a vagina; an image that I can still picture vividly in my mind as if it were yesterday.

After about 10 minutes, all of our curiosity spent, I closed the suitcase and placed it back in the closet exactly where I had found it. I think that I may have lifted some of the pot from that notorious lid as a consolation prize. I figured that they would never know, and even if they did suspect, they would never be able to admit that it existed in the first place.

I was angry and outraged, but I just laughed it off, told my friends about it, and internalized all of my fears about who my parents were, and who they were becoming. They were unrecognizable to me, and there were times that I hated them.

Yes, the red suitcase was symbolic of a bigger picture for me, and my experience of my parents. I saw them as betrayers and abandoners. I accused them of being selfish and neglectful. I may have even accused them of not loving me. It was impossible for me to see or fully grasp how their own lives were changing, even unraveling. I was a complete little narcissist, like every other adolescent on the planet. My parent’s existed for me, and the very idea that they had their own problems, needs, and desires, were not a part of my paradigm.

Today I can look back at my parents in 1975 and see them through a different prism. Through all of the drama and change, the passion and the folly, the shocking and bizarre, I can forgive and accept them as having been human---just people struggling through their own lives. It’s really not that hard to figure.

You see, I have my own red suitcase.

Facing death

You rarely work on a Saturday, but sometimes you prefer it. Most of the administration, office staff and doctors aren’t there on the weekends, and it feels more relaxed and casual. You won’t have to compete with the doctor for a look at the chart, and the physical therapy department is closed. You figure that you’ll find most of your patients either in bed or in a wheelchair in their room.

As is your routine, you grab the charts of new patients from the nursing station, and begin flipping through the pages, making special note of the person’s age, sex and diagnoses. If there are patients with dementia, you put those charts aside. They will most likely require a phone call to the family so that you can get accurate information. As a social worker, you usually conduct a long psychosocial interview, and assist families and patients with discharge planning when needed.

One new admission catches your eye today. You’re always intrigued when there’s a relatively young patient. He’s 50, and you immediately wonder why he’s here. Stroke? Cancer? Infection? You turn to the History and Physical sent by the hospital. There should be some answers there. Yes, the H & P tells a part of the story. He is here because of an spinal abcsess. He had been admitted into the acute hospital because the neglected infection had gotten so bad that he could no longer walk. You also note that he has a long-standing heroin addiction. He was transferred to the nursing home yesterday to start a course of IV antibiotics.

Before you go into his room, you start talking to his nurse. You had noticed that there was a sign outside of his door that read “please see the nursing staff before entering this room” You figure that he has a staph infection, which is contagious, but want to be certain before going in. You take particular note when she says that he is HIV positive, and also has hepatitis C, and possibly B. You figure that this is most likely the result of shared needles. You begin to feel apprehensive about meeting this patient, so you mentally steel yourself before you go in. Heroin addict, HIV, hepatitis; you’re not sure who you’re dealing with here.

When you enter his room, you immediately notice how thin and pale he is, but you see that he had been a nice looking guy. In fact, his face still bares a boyish quality that you find appealing. His teeth look as though they have suffered obvious neglect, his hairline is receding, but his eyes are blue, clear and engaged. As you briefly scan his body, you notice tattoos that run the length of both of his arms. They are inelegant, almost ghoulish looking tattoos, and you wonder about their origin.

You sit down next to his bed and introduce yourself as his social worker, and begin with the usual questions—are you married, do you have children, are you close to them? He tells you in a soft-spoken voice that he married when he was a teenager—and that he is still with the same woman, and that they have 1 daughter, and a grandchild. This surprises you; you had assumed that with his history that he was either single or divorced. 32 years of marriage is impressive. He tells you that he is devoted to his wife---that she has been the glue in their marriage.

He begins to tell you about how he had 4 siblings, but that they had all passed away. Inside you cringe a little. How could he have lost all 4 of his brothers and sisters? Then he proceeds to tell you that his youngest brother had died just a few months ago. He weeps as he tells you about his brothers paranoid schizophrenia, his lack of social skills, and how when he was dying at the hospital he kept calling “mama, mama.” “Do you want to go be with mama?” he asked his dying brother. “Yes, yes” he answered in a small and desperate voice. You feel yourself welling up with tears as well, and you tell him that you lost a brother too. You see that he cares about his family, and he feels a great sense of loss that you immediately connect with. You scoot your chair closer to the bed. You want him to feel your concern; that you’re with him in that moment of despair.

You continue with more questions about his education and work history. He hadn’t graduated high school, and his work history was sketchy. He then admits that he had spent about 13 years in prison. “San Quentin?” you ask him. “Yeah”, he utters without hesitation. He tells you that he had hurt someone pretty badly. You have to ask the question, but are afraid of the answer. “Did you?” You can’t finish the question. “Yeah”, he answers flatly. He knows exactly what you are asking. He had murdered someone. You are repulsed and fascinated at the same time. You quickly run through the possibilities in your mind. Had he used a gun, a knife, or his bare hands? You have never knowingly met someone who has committed murder. You are 2 feet from his bed, and you suddenly wonder if you are in any kind of danger. You think better of it. He can’t walk—he is completely trapped in that hospital bed.

He goes on to explain that he used to beat people up when they owed money. You figure that he had been a drug dealer, but don’t bother asking that question. You have already learned more that you had initially bargained for. You have met a lot of people with varied personal histories in your work, but this was extraordinary. You only read about murderers in the newspaper, or hear about them on the nightly news.

You feel conflicted. He had just wept over his brother’s agonizing life and death, and you felt his sorrow. He had opened up and reached out to you, and now you feel like backing away from him. You’re seeing him through a different prism. In fact, you rise from your chair, holding his chart in front of you as if it would shield his reality from touching you.

You feel in control of the situation, and have successfully hidden your reaction to his revelation. You are in a position of authority, but you begin using words like “dude” and “man”. You slip into this persona easily---you think that if he believes that you’re “cool” and street-wise, that he will trust you. It makes you feel less vulnerable, and protects you from your own sense of disgust and horror over what he had done.

He tells you that when he was released from prison, he contacted the wife of the guy whose life he had taken. He asked her to forgive him, and he said that she did. He tells you that this wife said that he “probably deserved it”. You have a gut reaction to this, and wonder what kind of woman she must be. You wonder if you could forgive someone who had intentionally killed your husband. You doubt it.

He says that he lives with what he did every day, and that if he could take it back, he would. You feel skeptical. You’ve always wondered what kind of person could choose to take someone else’s life. It just doesn’t jive with your moral compass. He said that he “knew” that he was going to do it, that he “had” to do it, and you are filled with disbelief. Had to? Knew?

It’s emotionally incomprehensible to you, and suddenly you feel glad for having been raised in a small town with working class parents who instilled in you a sense of right and wrong. You’re relieved that you’re not the kind of woman who thought that her husband deserved to be murdered. You’re overcome by how lucky you are, when compared to that damaged soul lying in the bed in front of you.

Perhaps it’s his “karma” you muse, the fact that he is laying in that bed, helpless, full of infection and regrets. He’s vulnerable now. He is being murdered at his own hand---his past choices being the weapon that he wields.

Still, you think about how he had wept over the death of his brother. His grief was palpable---not merely for show. Through all of the deadly choices that he has made, he feels pain, loss, and even fear, and you can't deny that, or run away from it.

You return to his room a few days later and pull up a chair next to his bed. You extend your hand, and plainly ask “how are you feeling?”

He tilts his head slightly, perhaps surprised by your return, and replies, “You came back.”

A usual morning

This morning the usual grind
dogs grunting at 5:45, wet noses bumping my cheek
get up, mama, get up!
The sun is up!

Husband snoring, or pretending
it's your turn, not mine you think
but you steel yourself and rise
to the occasion

Stumbling down the stairs
steaming milk
6 dogs peeing in the dawn
a race to the back door
nearly knocked over
I curse "stupid dog"
a tear into the kitchen
6 noses buried in metal bowls
crunching
inhaling
belching

Back to my latte
back outside for round two
6 dogs have to pooh
Ugh
Why do I live this way?

The apple tree is the big attraction
all Spring and early Summer
Crunch, crunch, crunch
These apples are small
and must be bitter
crunch, crunch, crunch
they love them
and mourn when all are eaten from the tree
another year to wait

Bleary eyed scooping
nature always calls
after breakfast at 6 AM

Lighting another American Spirit
all dogs sate for the moment
back to my latte
on the beautiful balcony
in a bedroom that smells like sex
and dog butts
and cigarette butts
since I sometimes smoke in the bedroom late at night
like lastnight with my glass of Italian white wine

On the balcony
I order my day
while husband rushes off
muttering about feeling tired
one more day until a weeks respite from work

First the shower, a wake up call
as hot as most people can tolerate
hair wet, pulled back
pulling on gym pants, bra top
it's the treadmill today

Stalling for awhile
the newspaper, my latte
another cigarette
in the garage
after my peanut butter and toast
breakfast of champions

6 dogs wandering about
following me
hoping for another
bitter green apple

Flipping the switch
to the on position
I mount my motorized steed
and sweat more at 47 than I ever did
in my youth

6 dogs watching
stopping in to check my progress
won't she ever be finished
they waggle
and wait for another
bitter green apple
I'm a sucker for wagging tails
and wet noses
and big Golden grins