Why I Love Greg Maddux

He's the tenth winningest pitcher of all time. As of last night, Steve Carlton takes a back seat and the Professor takes sole possession of 10th place with his 330th win. Good is sexy, great is hot.

He's modest. In last night's postgame press conference, he spoke respectfully of passing Carlton. "It's kind of cool. I got to watch him in a few games when I first came up and I always admired and respected what he did on the mound."

He's an all-around baseball player. He hits -- he got his 80th RBI last night. He fields -- 15 Golden Gloves. With Greg Maddux in the world, there's no reason for Roger Clemens to exist.

He has the sweetest smile. He looks like a Precious Moments doll in a Dodger uniform. Which comes in handy, since I've read that in person he's as slick and insincere as Tim Matheson's Otter. Reporters make it sound like he's likely to grab a stranger's hand and pump it, "Eric Stratton, damn glad to meet you."

His looks are deceptive. Friends who do not understand why he inspires my lust as well as admiration have dismissed Greg Maddux as looking like "a suburban dad" or "a computer geek." That is precisely the point. When you see Michael Jordan, you know instantly he's the best there ever was, the best there ever will be. MJ looks like he was kissed by the angels before he was born. Greg Maddux is an example of the power of concentration, will, and intellect. And I think that is sooooo hot.

His wife is his high school sweetheart. The first time I saw her, I thought, "Of course, a blonde." I mean, he's a ball player, and aren't blonde wives one of the reasons boys want to become ball players? And Greg Maddux is more than a ball player, he's a ball player who grew up in Las Vegas. I just assumed that meant he had the desire for peroxide in his blood. Amazingly, all my assumptions are wrong. Greg and Kathy met in high school! And here they are, quarter of a century later.

He gives back. The Maddux Foundation supports youth programs and shelters for abused women and children.

Yes, I've seen the old Nike commercial where he said rather memorably, "Chicks love the long ball." But rest assured, Greg Maddux, this chick will love you till I die.

Melanie Griffith = Mother of the Year

Love that photo of Melanie Griffith lighting her teenage daughter's cigarette for her. Clearly in the Griffith/Banderas household, the health and fitness regimen is built around Pilates and nicotine.

I've been seeing the photo bounce from website to website for a couple weeks now, but have yet to read any comment on the subject from Ms. G. herself. I wonder what she has to say …

I know that Melanie Griffith has battled addiction since her teen years. And I am very sincere when I say that I appreciate her struggle and applaud her for staying on the straight and narrow.

But this means that she has an addictive personality, a trait she could very well pass on to her kids. To borrow a phrase that has become very popular here in Illinois (thanks to our gubernatorial race): what's she thinking?

Labor Day Dilemma

I love, love, LOVE the MDA Jerry Lewis telethon. Jerry is the King of Show Biz Schmaltz. I adore it when he calls Ed McMahon "Pussycat." I quiver when he goes to the big tote board. I thrill when he insults the people (everyone from firefighters to convenience store managers) who bring him those oversized checks. And where else can you see ventriloquists, impressionists and plate spinners? (Yes, I appreciate all the good works MDA does all year around; that's why I make monthly contributions. My joy and delight in Jerry's antics have nothing to do with how valid and useful MDA is.)

But, in a masterstroke of counter programming, the USA Network is running a Law & Order: SVU Labor Day Marathon! I am comparatively new to Elliott and Olivia and am completely hooked! There are so many episodes I haven't seen.

So what's a girl to do? Which will I choose to accompany me as I go through my annual Labor Day ritual of cleaning my closets, putting away my summer things and going through my fall clothes?

The Important Stuff of Life

Watching the Emmies instead of changing my shower curtain liner, these terribly important observations have occured to me …

It's not like Tom Cruise is an anti-Semitic, misogynistic, homophobic drunk driver or anything. OK, I happened to be home last year when Tom jumped on Oprah's sofa proclaiming his love for poor Katie Holmes. Seeing it live and unhyped, it completely creeped me out. (Though I thought Oprah was just as weird that morning, murmering, "The boy is gone!" over and over.) And the Brooke Shield thing was awful. And where is Baby Suri? All that said, this piling on really bothers me. It's my way. Once a cause is completely lost, I must support it. First Tom gets fired by Paramount because he's only made them one gazillion dollars when they hoped for three gazillion. Now tonight on the Emmies, the South Park boys show him coming out of the closet. Enough. Let's leave poor Maverick alone. And start aiming our bile at Mel Gibson, where it belongs.

Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart are perfect. No, really. They are.

Mariska Hargitay has outstanding shoulders. I wish I had her body, Debra Messing's face and Lindsay Wagner's voice. There. I believe I have constructed my perfect alternate self completely out of Emmy winners.

Steve Carell deserves all the praise he's finally getting. I just saw Little Miss Sunshine and he's poignant. Who knew?

Of all the Sheen men, Martin is still the only one I'd do. And I wish Jed Bartlett had been our president these past 6 years.

I never thought Seinfeld was funny. Nor anyone who ever appeared on it. So I really don't care that Julia Louis Dreyfuss' win tonight heralds the end of the Seinfeld Curse. I'm far more interested in "The Kotter Curse." The actor who played Horshak mentioned that on the THS or something. Except for Travolta, none of the Sweathogs are working. And yet somehow the academy still found people to award Emmies to!

Patrick Dempsey is the most gorgeous thing on the show. Of course, that's only because Hugh Jackman lost to Barry Manilow. (Wonder how well Barry would have done if there had been a swimsuit competition.)

I wonder if Mrs. Greg Maddux is happy. This has nothing to do with the Emmies, but it's on my mind anyway. Rumor has it Bruce Springsteen and his "Red Headed Woman," Patti Scialfa, have hit the skids. We already know that Heather Mills is about lose her title. I have long lusted after The Boss and have loved Sir Paul since I was 6 years old. My admiration/obsession/adoration of The Professor has increased with time, and if he was to become suddenly single right now, what a fantasy trifecta that would be!

I really do appreciate the sentiments, BUT …

Last Saturday I received a surprise phone call from a good friend of mine. She's not a "phone person." Generally she only calls to confirm a meeting date, time or location. On this day, she had an important message to convey. She was at a weekend-long seminar called The Landmark Forum and it was having a huge impact on her. She wanted to tell me that she had a breakthrough about her marriage; she was concerned that I disliked her husband because of things she'd said to me about her their relationship. I told her not to worry -- that I just thought of her comments as "venting" and I never doubted the strength of her marriage to a good man. She then told me she wanted to share The Landmark Forum experience with me, that she knew I had issues I was wrestling with and she hoped I could get as much out of the Forum as she did. So I told her that yes, I'd go with her the following Tuesday night. She was very sincere in wanting the best for me, and I appreciate that. Also I was honored that she wanted to share this with me. So I went with an open mind.

The Forum ran from 7:15 to 10:00. I listened to everything. I participated in the exercises. I shared with the rest of the class. I admit that I got something out of it. I felt energized about my power to shape my own short-term future. I had gotten my Day Planner out (I'm not a Blackberry girl yet) and was trying to juggle dates and finances so that I could take the full Forum myself this autumn. Then my session leader -- an unpaid volunteer named Dan -- started on me.

He moved his chair too close to mine and wanted to know which Forum I was signing up for. I said I was thinking about it but simply couldn't commit just then. Needed to check on when/if my windows are being replaced, which weekend I'm going to Vegas, my nephew's birthday … He told me that was a cop-out, that with this attitude I was never going to reach my goals. Huh? What? I told him I didn't see how being responsible to loved ones and commitments would doom me to failure. He wanted to know details ("Why?" "Why not?") and I told him I resented having to share my finances with him. "I don't care about your money," he said. "I don't get airline miles or a new toaster if you sign up." But then he took the brochure out of my lap and wrote on it, showing me different areas of the fine print regarding refunds. Honey Bunny, I'm a financial writer. I COMPOSE fine print. Nobody's got to show me what to read before I sign something. I know that he was trying to convey to me that if I signed up then and there, I wouldn't necessarily be out anything if I had to reschedule. But he was invading my personal space and intimidating me. (Remember Hillary Clinton's debate with Rick Laszio?) I told him I felt bullied and he apologized. I also told him he had strengthened my resolve not to sign up. He apologized for that, too.

Not good enough.

My friend told me that his goal was strictly to help me reach my goals. Since he was an unpaid volunteer, what other motive could he have? How about being the center of attention? And the opportunity to force his will on a new woman?

I can't emphasize enough how uncomfortable his behavior made me. So I googled The Landmark Forum and was surprised to see quite a bit of negative input. And that it's just EST renamed. There doesn't seem to be a terrific premium on independent thought at the Landmark Forum. And it seems you're never "done" with the program. There's always another continuing course to take. The word "cult" was used more than once.

So I won't be going back. We're all different, like snowflakes. If my friend got something of value out of this, I'm genuinely happy for her. I'm glad I went that evening because now I will better understand what's going on with her. Most of all, I'm touched that she cares enough about me to try to help me out of my current funk.

But I won't be going back.

Get well, President Ford

What do Linda McCartney and Gerald Ford have in common? I was unnecessarily harsh to them in the 1970s and I'm sorry about it now. Let's blame it on my youth.

When it was announced that Gerald Ford was Nixon's choice to succeed Spiro Agnew, I was in the backseat of a friend's family car, being ferried to some after-school activity. As I heard Nixon prattling off Ford's attributes through the car's AM radio speakers, I remember adding my own, "And he cheats really good, too." Cracked up my friends, but their dad behind the wheel was quiet. As a kid, I had no idea how serious this was for the country. All I knew was that Richard Nixon was a loser, a crook, a waste of space, a bad man. And anyone he selected as his second in command had to be a loser, crook, etc., as well.

When Ford became president himself and pardoned Nixon, I was appalled. Gypped out of an impeachment by his chickenshit resignation, I wanted to see Nixon go to trial. When the pardon came down, I was sure some kind of "fix" was in.

Decades later, during the Whitewater/Lewinsky affair which weakened our country and made us look more than a little ridiculous the world over, I appreciated what Gerald Ford did. That pardon was patriotic. That pardon saved this nation a messy and ultimately pointless debacle. Naturally Nixon deserved impeachment more than Bill Clinton did, but with the wisdom of age I understand better how much a Nixon trial would cost this country, and how tiny the benefit would be compared to the cost.

Gerald Ford is an old man now. He has health problems. I hope that he takes solace in the Profiles in Courage award he won a few years back, awarded by the Kennedy Library in honor of his courageous decision to pardon Richard Nixon. I hope he knows that people like me are sorry we were so hard on him back in those dark days.

Get well, and God bless you, sir.

OK, so I'm xenophobic

Here I am, trying to kill time while my new Wamsutta sheet set is in the dryer, taking a voyeuristic peak at other people's lives by hitting the "next blog" button over and over.

As I'm surfing from blog to blog, I don't want to be confronted with Asian symbols or exclusively Spanish entries. To be honest, I don't even want to read English entries by American expatriates living in New Zealand or wherever the hell they've gone. I don't want to expand my horizons by learning about other cultures and foreign lands.

I want to read about relationship troubles, money troubles, career troubles. You know, the juicy stuff of life. I enjoy reading about the triumphs, too. And looking at cute pictures of other people's dogs and cats. Peering into other people's blogs is as much fun as an old Judith Krantz novel. (Remember Scruples?) And I don't want it interrupted with foreigners and educational stuff, OK?

Confused

So let's just say for a moment that John Mark Karr is a pathetic nut with a fragile grasp of reality. If he didn't kill JonBenet Ramsey, does this mean her parents are suspects again? To borrow a phrase, "Where's Johnny?"* Is he still under an "umbrella of suspicion?"

*Heard someone on TV say that today's incoming college freshman have only known Jay Leno as the host of The Tonight Show. Does that make anyone but me feel really, really old?

The End of an Era (Hopefully)

I've had bad skin for about 30 years now. Not really bad skin. Not bad enough that if you sat next to me on the bus, you'd say, "Oh, that poor thing." If my skin was that bad I would have done something done about it long ago.

Instead my skin is just bad enough to sap a lot of my time, energy, money and self-esteem. I've got a little of it all: monthly hormonal break outs, a few acne scars, uneven color, stray facial hairs. Every morning I spend an enormous amount of time tending to it. Then I can go out without scaring children, or horrifying you if you so happen to sit beside me on the bus.

I went to a new dermatologist today. It was rough to go out of the house without foundation. But I did it. And since he's a dermatologist, he's seen worse and wasn't the least bit horrified. He pretty much contradicted everything my former doctor told me. Yes, I can use a topical cream on my monthly break-outs. Yes, I am a candidate for laser hair removal. Yes, he can help me even out my skin color/tone.

I wish I wasn't so shallow. I wish this didn't fill me with relief. I wish I didn't care so much.

But I do.

… as big as my head!

There's a Lane Bryant Store opening soon on Wabash. I walk past the location every day, twice a day, on my way to and from the el. The in-store renovations are going along furiously, and to keep the public in suspense until the grand opening, Lane Bryant is doing what many stores do: covering the windows with big, full-color shots of models in their fall finest.

So far, so good.

Except one of the photos is of a model in a black strapless bra. It's a big photo and, since Lane Bryant caters to women size 14 and up, she's a big model. And I hate walking past it because, well, it kinda scares me. Just one of her cups is, quite literally, as big as my head!

I'm no longer a petite flower. I wear a size 10. But oh me, oh my! That photo is darn right intimidating. Forget Snakes on a Plane. The Lane Bryant window on Wabash -- now THAT'S scary!

YUM!

Check this out.
No, really.
Ladies, I promise you will thank me.

http://www.tmz.com/2006/08/23/matt-lauers-pricey-pecs/

The Laurie Guy

Now that my life is half over, I have belatedly come to the realization that I have "a type." Three of the men I have loved look very much alike. Short dark hair, lighter-than-you'd-expect eyes, good cheekbones, glasses. I'm pretty short (my driver's license says 5'3") so height isn't really relevant. Two of the three were very into martial arts; two were Catholic; two were (said affectionately) financial nerds.

How did I never notice these similarities before?

Is it that my affection for these men subconsciously began with attraction (OK, lust) but my conscious mind wanted to dress it up as something loftier?

Certainly my relationship with the 1980s model Laurie Guy was based on lust. He was savvy and boyishly charming, but certainly not smart. (The phrase "dumb as a box of rocks" has been used to describe him.) We had two speeds: fighting and f***ing. I cannot remember anything we had in common, other than our mutual willingness to blame me for all his problems. Whence last I heard, he was working at a Domino's Pizza. He would easily be 50 now. (I could look it up; he was very proud of the fact he and DisneyWorld had the same birthday.) To borrow from Babs, "It's the laughter we will remember ..." so I will try to remember something positive or sweet about that relationship. Ummmm ... In addition to martial arts (carefully pronounced "kuh-rah-TAY"), which he did obsessively but not well, he loved The Three Stooges. Considering how depraved many areas of his life were, his love of The Stooges was pure and kinda touching. His favorites were (in order) Curley, Moe, Larry, Shemp and Curley Joe.

The 1990s model Laurie Guy and I had a more genuine connection. He actually thought about stuff that we could talk about. Things neither of us could necessarily discuss with other people, because not everyone was as geeky as we were. Like the relevance of the Electoral College. (Yes, I sure know how to seduce a man, don't I?) I loved how his mind worked. The two people he admired most were Dr. King and economist Adam Smith. Now come on! How can you not be intrigued by that? He also had a terrific body and terrific control of it. He was a black belt in kuh-rah-TAY. He was modest and very, very remote. No matter how often he said it, I never really believed he loved me because there was so much he kept tucked away. He was smart, never boring, and could be very tender. My happiest moment with him: being awoken by how tightly he was holding me as he slept. He's married now, and I hope he's happy because he really was a very nice man.

The New Millenium Laurie Guy is my best friend. Since we've never slept together, and aren't likely to, I don't know if we'd be compatible. I do know that there is a certain level of tension between us that we diffuse most clumsily. (Bickering, teasing, kicking one another under the table ... come on, you remember 7th grade!) I love how open he is with his emotions, how hard he works at being a good dad, how accepting he is of the things about me other people find grating. In fact, I don't think I've ever felt as accepted by anyone in my life as I have been by him. While he's more serious than people realize, my favorite thing about him is how when we're together we play and act silly. My favorite moment with him would be (this is very non-PC) the night we watched Brokeback Mountain on pay-per-view and laughed till the pizza and beer were practically coming out of our noses. "Stem the rose" is a phrase that can still crack us up.*

Let's see now ... what have I learned on this jaunt down Memory Lane. That I have "a type." And that (saints be praised!) I never make the same mistake twice. The 1980s Laurie Guy was an abusive drunk with questionably calibrated moral compass. 1990s Laurie Guy and New Millenium Laurie Guy are better men, better to me and for me.

*I know, I know ... Brokeback is one of the great movie love stories of all time. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Gay cowboys lassoing one another out on the range is funny. It just is. Not our fault.

This is so sweet, so heartening

The other night my nephew Brent, the one I barely know, the one I just met, called to ask me to attend my neice Becky's baptism. Of course I couldn't. For reasons all her own, my kid sister chose to invite the relative who molested me, and who still harrasses me when given the opportunity. I couldn't tell Brent that -- he's 19 and has quite a bit on his own plate -- so I made up an excuse about having to work.

After I hung up I was so angry. Once again I'd been put in a position to protect the skinny mean old ass of the man who fondled me.

I didn't have to. When Brent asked my mother and his mother why I wouldn't be there, they told him. Not the whole truth, but a reasonable facsimilie thereof. They told him that old Jim made me uncomfortable and unhappy and I couldn't bear to be around him. Brent said he'd "protect" me, not leave my side, not let Jim be alone with me. I answered so quickly and so definitively and so convincingly that he didn't bother to offer.

This is big. This is important. This is the first time I can recall that anyone ever offered to protect me. Brent, my young nephew.

Also, my mother seems to get it now. She seems to believe that my pain is real and substantial and lasting -- and not my fault. This is big and important, too.

I want to cry. And it's because it's so good.

Forever my guy

Former President Clinton turns 60. Happy Birthday, Bill. Stay healthy and active. Love 'ya.

Oh, Bill and I have had our moments. I believe that he was so concerned with saving his political hide during the Lewinsky Affair (all puns intended) that he wasn't able to pay enough attention to business, so he bears some responsibility for 9/11. I've never been able to understand how he could square the circle and get behind that welfare reform bill. And yes, I've heard the rumors about Belinda Stronach. And yes, everything I've just written leaves me feeling either a little heartbroken or a little skin crawly.

But then I think of my America BC (before Clinton), and I forgive him.

Remember that song, "The End of the Innocence?" We had twelve years of "the tired old man that we elected King" and Bush 41. In those days, my leaders had no connection to my life, nor to the lives of my friends. The chasm was so great that any interest in politics or goverment felt irrelevant … or worse, hopeless.

Then Bill arrived and it was like one of those Warner Bros. cartoons. The clouds broke, the sun came out, all the little woodland creatures came out of their holes and down from the trees and the birds began to sing again. With Bill at the helm, I had a leader I recognized. I felt like I knew this guy. And that even if I didn't agree with all he did, I believed my interests were heard, understood, appreciated.

Bill managed to convey that he was a man of faith, yet he understood the vital importance of the separation of Church and State. He cared about individuals rather than corporations. He spoke in a way we could all understand about issues we (my friends and I) cared about.

Best of all, he made everyone feel he was their President. And he still does. This past spring I visited the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock. I was there alongside a busload of middleschool students from Dallas. I watched them watch the little film Bill made as an introduction to the library exhibits. He had them. These are kids at an age when it's fashionable to make fun of everything. These are kids who are really too young to remember much about his presidency. And yet he connected with them.

I used to compare and contrast Bill with Senator Kerry and it seemed very unfair. I believe that Senator Kerry is as smart as Bill, has exhibited better judgement than Bill, and is the right man for this country at this time. Yet Senator Kerry would not have been able to grab and hold those kids' attention -- by video, no less -- the way Bill did.

George W. Bush is just as casual in speech as Bill. Just as loose in body language. Yet his message would not have resonated with those kids. So it's not just about charism or packaging. Content plays a role, too.

Bill came from nothing. His gifts and determination carried him from Hope, AR to the highest office in the land. He never forgot where he came from, and how to reach out, communicate with, and include everyone. And from that inclusion comes faith in goverment and hope for the future.

That's intangible, I know. But it's important. So thanks, Bill. Enjoy your birthday and take care.

Happy Birthday, Hubbell

The Sundance Kid. Johnny Hooker. Jay Gatsby. Paul Bratter. Bob Woodward. Roy Hobbs. They're all Robert Redford, and they all turned 70 this week.

70. Gulp.

I had a LIFE magazine cover with his beautiful photo on it in my high school locker. I had a big black and white poster of him in his STING pinstripes next to my bed. And he turned 70 this week.

70. I feel so old.

Well, happy birthday. Thanks for all the great work that entertained and influenced me. Thanks for launching a million square-jawed, blue-eyed fantasies. And thanks for the Sundance catalog, which sells really great jewelry.

About a boy … or two … or three … or four

I have a weakness: I really like men. I think most of them are fascinating, even when I find them frustrating. These days, these specimens have been on my mind.

Brent. He's 19, the oldest child of my lunatic older sister. Because he lives 2000 miles away and because he is the son of my lunatic older sister, I really have not had much, if anything, to do with him. Last time I saw him was (I think) in the summer of 2001. As I recall, he had no real interest in me then at all. So imagine my surprise when on Tuesday he called me as soon as he arrived for the Big Baptism. "Hi, Laurie. This is Brent. I want to have lunch with you tomorrow. What train and bus do I take?" Seems that now that he's almost an adult, beginning a new phase in his life (starting classes at the community college), he has decided to reach out to his rogue Aunt Laurie. Part of it was curiosity, part of it was to annoy his lunatic mother. Still, I was surprised that he did it and have to acknowledge that it was courageous of him. Both he and his younger sister, who came along for the ride, are attractive and literate. I was impressed. And sad, too. They really do hate their mother. I certainly understand it; all the best people hate their mother. But still, to think of those three unhappy people rattling around in that house together … it's sad. I gave both kids my email address, just in case they ever want to contact me again.

Ed. My former boss. We got together for dinner this week. He brought his daughter's college graduation photos, gave me an update on his health maladies, bragged about his wife's new-found professional success. He even had a little present for me -- a DVD similar to VH1's I Love the 70s. I left with a really good feeling. Ed's a good friend. When I was unemployed a few years ago, Ed made sure I had freelance work. He's one of those people who thinks about me every now and again, even if I no longer cross his path ever day. I am lucky to have friends like Ed.

My best friend. He is ensconced in his new job. You'd think that would mean I'd hear from him less. But, thankfully, it's just the opposite. Now that he has a routine again, we have a routine again. And while he has a new job, we're both still in the same industry, so we still have that in common. It's comfortable, natural. None of the stress of the conversations we had when we spoke less often. I wake up in the morning and I'm happier. When I was freaking out about all my family drama, he was very available to listen. I have my best friend back. We're still us.

Perry March. Poor SOB. He was convicted on all counts related to his wife's disappearance and death. Yet he was deprived of his day in the Court TV sun. From opening arguments, through prosecution and defense testimony, onto closing arguments and the beginning of the deliberation watch, Perry was the brightest daytime star on that cable tv channel. And then, Wednesday night, after 10 years, some skinny perv in Thailand admits to the JonBenet Ramsey slaying and steals all his thunder. I read that Perry is on death watch. No wonder.

Frustrated

The agency I work at (not for) is on a losing streak of epic proportions these days. One of the major daily papers is gleefully chronically our demise. For the most part, I don't care. Since this place is poorly run and pretentious, the old Lennon song "Instant Karma" keeps running through my mind. If things get much worse, there will be more layoffs, and I don't think getting cut would be a bad thing for me. I know I should find another job but I'm not doing a damn thing about it. Getting laid off might be just the kick in the butt I need.

The agency is working on a multi-million dollar pitch right now. I read in the paper that winning this new piece of business is critical because we are on the verge of losing one of our more famous and venerable existing clients. (It says a lot about this place that I learned that from the newspaper.) This pitch has been in the works for weeks and weeks. All the creative and marketing elements have to be tied up by Monday morning so the team of Cool Kids who are presenting can be in Northern California on Tuesday morning.

Wednesday afternoon it was decided by the Cool Kids that my team needed to be brought in. We were told to cancel all our evening and weekend plans so we could spend all our time from here on in at the office. This should have occured to this brain trust weeks ago. This reveals the contempt the powers that be here have for my team and our discipline, but OK. Pitches are always a pain in the ass, but it's the nature of the beast. My complaining about spending Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday night at the office would be like an accountant complaining about long hours at tax time. Plus, given four days and four nights, we could put together a presentation we would be proud of.

If we had four days and four nights. It's now Friday morning, and the Cool Kids have yet to give us any real input, any real explanation of the parameters of the project, so that we can get started. I called Mr. Primo Cool Kid every two hours yesterday, leaving voice mail messages explaining what we need to get started. He not only never returned my calls, he was gone by 5:30, when I walked over to his office to speak to him directly.

Prick.

So my team and I get to spend all night tonight, and Saturday, and Sunday, doing work that is destined to suck. Creating new concepts is like cooking a Lean Cuisine; it takes as long as it takes. If you're supposed to cook a Lean Cuisine at 7 minutes but you only have 5, it will be barely edible. That's the professional situation we're in now.

I'm frustrated. Upset. Pissed.

Oh well. I've vented here. Now I have to suck it up and be all enthusiastic in front of the team.

We meet again

Today I had a very emotional conversation with my mother. She had no idea I'd be as upset as I am about being "bumped" from my neice's and nephew's baptism this weekend so that the "highly respectable" relative who molested me could attend. It was a good exchange. I felt that my mother heard me. Not that this will make a lasting difference in my relationship with my family. It won't (though it is comforting to know my mother loves me). But because I understood something very clearly about myself.

My mother heard my POV and said it was no wonder that I was so hurt and angry. That gave me pause. Certainly it would make sense if I was hurt and angry. But that didn't quite describe it. I'm a writer, I try to be precise with my language. My feelings were big and uncomfortable and unacceptable. I was upset because this situation made me feel fragile and helpless. It made me feel vulnerable.

It made me feel like HER, my past self. She was isolated and defenseless. A victim.

I hated being her.

I have worked my adult life to become strong and self-sufficient. To reject being a victim. To leave her behind.

Today, she and I met again.

The teenage girl I was, the confused and repulsed and overwhelmed girl he fondled, still lives in me. Instead of denying her, I should recognize her, and reassure her that this will never, NEVER happen to her (to us) again.

Perry March: Snidley Whiplash for the New Millenium

I know I shouldn't view murder as entertainment. I do, of course. But I want you all to know I feel really bad about it. And I feel just terrible about how much of my day off I spent devouring the Perry March trial on Court TV. Shame on me.

For those of you not in the know, Janet Levine March disappeared in August 1996. She left her suburban Nashville home one night after a fight with her lawyer husband, Perry. According to ever-lovin' Perry, the fight was about all the passes he'd been making at one of his paralegals, and how he seemed headed toward a sexual harrassment suit. (Some women are soooooo humorless!) Perry says his wife, his college sweetheart, the mother of his children, left the house with a suitcase, her bike, and a small bag of pot. Perry told authorities that she left him and their two children Sam and Tzipi (yes, that's Zippy with a "t," poor kid) in the middle of the night and no one has ever seen her again.

Now, 10 years later, Perry is on trial for Janet's murder. The system demands that even Perry March get a zealous defense from a dedicated lawyer. And it's Perry's lawyer that I feel so sorry for. His client is so arrogant, so unlikeable, so obviously guilty that he makes OJ Simpson and Scott Peterson look like Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

Let's see what poor lawyer man has to work with:

Perry's own father has testified against him. According to dad, father and son worked together to dispose of Janet's body. Isn't it lovely when two generations come together?

Perry has been found criminally responsible for Janet's death … twice. The first conviction was overturned on a technicality.

The letters Perry wrote his paralegal, while still living with wife Janet, are downright pornographic. Which is not to say I didn't enjoy hearing them. I just don't think they will endear Perry to a jury.

Perry has a little problem with embezzlement. He's been found guilty of stealing from his law firm.

Perry has a little problem with his inlaws. He has already been convicted of conspiring to have the Levines killed.

If an author (anyone from Judith Krantz to Stephen King) had made Perry the villain of a novel, that book would be panned as unbelievable.

I appreciate Perry so. He keeps my mind off the mess the world is in. Iraq is an expensive sinkhole that is absorbing all of our resources and keeping the government from making us safe here at home. Our ports are trecherous. Our borders are porous. Yet as a country we scoffed at Senator Kerry during the campaign when he told us that from now on, the war on terror should be an intelligence and police issue, not a military one. He was right, of course, as he was on so much in 2004. I mean, let's look at who rounded up the Londor terror suspects: the London police. We're still trying to find terrorism on the map so we can bomb it. It's sad. It makes me angry. It breaks my heart.

I tried my best, my hardest, to get Senator John Kerry elected. I raised money, I wrote letters, I worked the phones. I was never an ABB Girl (Anybody But Bush). I always emphasized Senator Kerry's biography and qualifications. It didn't work. I feel responsible. I feel hopeless. I feel like pulling the sheets up over my head and crying.

Instead I take refuge in the Perry March trial.

Lookin' better than a body has a right to

Remember that old Dolly Parton song? "Here you come again and here I go …" I'm watching Sen. John Edwards address a barbecue in New Hampshire. He's so gorgeous.

He's talking about how we don't need politicians, we need leaders. He's talking about the heart of the American people, and how the world doesn't realize that in addition to being powerful, we're decent and caring. He talked about Darfur and New Orleans, about healthcare and poverty. I agree with everything he said and was striken by how long it's been since our dialog has included talk about the less fortunate and our responsibility to our fellow citizens, fellow humans.

I was also, truth to tell, striken by how good that blue shirt looks with his blue eyes.

That's not all, of course. I love how proud he is of wife Elizabeth, who is waging a battle against breast cancer. I love his moonlight and magnolias voice, and how his hair looks in the sunlight.

Having a crush on a possible president makes me uncomfortable. My never-disguised lust for Edwards was OK back in 2004 because he was undeniably our vice presidential candidate. Senator John Kerry was the top of the ticket, our alpha. There was never any Bush/Cheyney "whose in charge here?" confusion.

But with the possibility of John Edwards being our candidate, and our president, in 2008, I'm not sure my distinctly carnal feelings are appropriate. Politicians should be leaders. Presidents should be even more than that. Viewing the president as my dream date just seems wrong somehow. Frivolous. Icky/incestuous. Like being in love with your minister.

So instead I'll turn to ESPN, and more comfortable territory. Why look at that! Greg Maddux is taking the mound for the Los Angeles Dodger! The 12th most winning pitcher in the history of baseball, the one with the sweetest baby face, is about to face Barry Bonds in the heat of a pennant race. Dodger blue doesn't look as good on him as Cubbie blue did, but to me he still looks better than a body has a right to, too.

How do I help?

A good friend, old and true, is having money troubles. Her ex-husband is up to date with child support but a few months late in his payments to the kids' doctors and school. Her payments on the new used car don't fit as easily into her monthly budget as she thought they would. Neither she nor the kids have dental insurance, so she has quite a bit of toothy debt on plastic.

To make matters worse, she feels like a fiscal crimnal because the man she is involved with and desperately wants to marry does not believe in accumulating credit card debt. (Because he's been "cleaned out" by two ex-wives; a man with two divorces behind him may not have money issues, but I bet he's carrying baggage of the emotional variety.)

And now her cat Callie has resumed urinating on the furniture. "Callie's got to go." I asked her what she was going to do with Cal. After all, shelters are overcrowded and prospective owners never come in looking for overweight adult cats who pee on the furniture. She said she didn't know. We both know what she's going to do with poor Callie. I asked her to please not do anything until she takes Callie to a different vet. Her current vet dismisses Callie's behavior as purely behavioral, and while I know that cats are finicky critters, I believe there must be a solveable problem at the root of this. (My cat Charlotte peed on the carpet for months and months until the vet discovered an internal infection and I installed a second litter box.)

Karen says that she simply cannot afford to take Callie to the vet at all.

I want to help. I make more money than she does and I have a very strong credit rating. I get tons of balance transfer offers in the mail every week. I'm thinking of lending her money that way and letting her pay it off according to the terms of the promotional offer.

I realize that will just be more debt, but I'm quite sure it will be at a more attractive interest rate than she's paying. I wish I could just give her the money outright, but I can't afford to do that right now. I have more debt, and less in retirement accounts, than is wise for a woman my age. Digging myself in deeper to help her just doesn't make sense. Plus it would send my long-term goals, renovating my kitchen and bathroom, even further into the distance.

And I can't take Callie. That would be 4 cats in a two bedroom condo. Aside from the fact that I'd be in violation of village ordinance, it would further cement my reputation as crazy cat lady.

So we'll see what this week's mail brings, credit-offer-wise. If it makes sense for her, I hope she'll take me up on it. This is what friends are for, right?

Farewell, Mike Douglas. Way to go, Kinkajou!

I'm not stupid. I'm not airheaded. Honest. I just enjoy taking refuge in lowest common denominator entertainment. Like Court TV. And The Insider. I love that my job has summer hours, so I can leave early on Friday and catch up on all the celebrity news with sleazy Pat O'Brien and plastic Lara Spencer. I positively devour every second of it.

Today I was sad to learn from Pat and Lara that Mike Douglas died at age 81. His show was on every day after school and I watched it because … well, we didn't have cable back then and you didn't expect me to go outdoors or do homework, did you? Mike Douglas seemed like such a nice man. I thought it would be neat if he was my dad (instead of the one who came home angry and argumentative every night at 5:30). And it was through Mike Douglas that I saw all those Vegas-y acts like Steve & Eydie and Charo and Wayne Newton. I still love all that schmaltzy crap. I'm a sucker for a crooner in a tux who snaps his fingers when he sings, or an over-ripe gal in bugle beads.

And Paris Hilton was bitten by her pet kinkajou! This wise little rascal chomped down so hard that Paris had to go to the emergency room. She was told by the authorities that it's illegal to own an exotic animal in Los Angeles, so I hope that someone responsible takes custody of kinkajou and gives him a more suitable life than he gets riding around in that dumb slut's purse. He deserves it. Kinkajou didn't do anything that the rest of us wouldn't have done if we were condemned to long-term exposure to Paris Hilton.

Awfulizing: It's, like, what I do

As an inveterate news junkie, and one with a cat who simply refuses to let her sleep through the night, I was able to watch the latest air/terror plot unfold on live TV.

I have one friend who is vacationing with her family in Ireland. Since they have family in England, I'm quite sure they plan on flying home through Heathrow so they can squeeze in a visit with loved ones. Her little girl (second or third grade) doesn't like riding the "el" because people are so noisy and mean. Wait till she gets schooled in terrorism on the way home. I am so concerned about what these heightened security features will do to her. It's a scary world. Poor little Rosie.

Then there's my best friend, who happens to be a diabetic and has a new job that will involve air travel each and every week through the end of the year. Since he just moved last week, he doesn't have a driver's license from this new state of residence yet. So his government-issued ID will be from one state, while his e-ticket will show him living in another state, and he'll be carrying a week's worth of insulin in his carry-on. Security is just going to loooove him. I'm so worried about him I can barely stand it.

Don't bother telling me not to worry about situations I can't have an impact on. It's not like I enjoy doing this. If I could figure out how to stop doing this, I would. It's just an ingrained part of my personality.

So I think I'll go work out. I'm having dinner tonight with an old friend, so that will keep me away from the news coverage for a while. I'll do what I can to distract myself.

But I'm scared and sad. Our lives are different, post-9/11. Things are getting worse, not better. My heart is so heavy. I don't like this new world.

Trying new things isn't all it's cracked up to be

I recently got a free sample at the Smashbox cosmetic counter. It was a foundation primer called Photofinish. Erik, the sales associate who waited on me, assured me that I'd be in to buy a whole bottle.

It's supposed to make my tinted moisturizer just glide on. OK, it did.

It's supposed to fill up or minimize fine lines. I didn't notice any great improvement.

It's supposed to make me break out in bright pink little zits all around my mouth. OK, Erik didn't promise that. But Photofinish delivered on that, anyway.

I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and bright!

I'm a Millenial Girl

Last night was high stress. I was watching the Cubs/Brewers game on TV. I was watching the Dodgers/Rockies game on mlb.com. I was switching over to the newschannels and sites to see how Lamont/Lieberman was shaping up. I had my cellphone on my lap, in case my best friend had time to chat before he boarded his flight. (He did, but he called on my landline so I missed him.) It was information overload.

So this is how it is in the new millenium, isn't it? We are constantly accessible to the world, and have 24/7 access to all kinds of information. Sometimes this old broad gets overwhelmed by it all, even though it's my choice to stay connected.

There are those out there who would say that the two ballgames weren't worth stressing over. We pity those sad people. There's something completely charming and right about how well the Cubs are suddenly playing, now that they are completely out of contention. And now, every 5 days, I am a Dodger fan because every 5 days Greg Maddux goes out on the mound for them. It's essential that the Dodgers make the playoffs. Otherwise the heartbreak of his trade won't mean anything, and I simply refuse to accept that.

There are those out there who say that a Democratic primary in Connecticut shouldn't matter to an Illinois resident. We pity those sad people, too. This was a referendum on the Iraq War, and on the heart and soul of the Democratic Party. It matters to all of us who vote in our two-party system. Now I just hope that Lieberman has the grace to leave the stage. I suspect he won't. I remember in the waning days of 2002 and early days of 2003, he insisted he had "Joe-mentum" and could wrest the Presidential nomination away from Senator Kerry, John Edwards or Howard Dean. Finally after losing state primary after state primary, he was like Wily Coyote after the ACME Anvil falls on his head, and Lieberman dropped out. I guess it'll be that way again. Someone is going to have to convince him that he cannot win, or that he shouldn't be siphoning votes away from Lamont, before he exits stage right.

Hillary Clinton's enemies are her strength

Let me preface this by saying I've always loved Bill Clinton. Yes, he's facile (OK, slick). But he's very smart, very talented, and was peerless when it came to getting the disenfranchised in this country to feel like they have a place at the table. I admire Senator John Kerry with every fiber of my being and still believe that he is the right man to lead us at this time. Senator Kerry is as smart as Bill Clinton, certainly more wise, and I believe he's probably a better person. Yet Senator John Kerry doesn't connect on a human level the way ol' Bill does. Also, I've worked on Bill's winning campaigns and the Senator's heartbreaking effort. Gotta tell ya, winning feels a whole helluva lot better.

All that said, I'm not crazy about the junior Senator from the great state of New York.

There is something greedy about her. Greedy for power, greedy for money. Back when I followed the Whitewater mess, I got a sinking feeling in my gut. I believe the First Lady's fingerprints were all over that dubious deal and the ensuing coverup. Do I believe Bill was in on it, too? I'm very willing to believe he wasn't. After all, don't the Clintons seem like a couple who may not answer each other truthfully when one asks the other, "What did you do today, hon?"

When it comes to the 7 Deadly Sins, I understand lust more than greed. And in addition to flesh, I believe Bill lusts after each one of our hearts. Hillary is a harder nut for me to crack. How could she have voted for the war in Iraq? Both W. and Bill agree they reviewed virtually the same intell. Bill chose not to go to war, to give the UN time, because he believed it would be better to let Saddam Hussein inevitably crumble from within. We know what W. chose to do. And Hillary never asked her husband about this? I don't believe it. And if she didn't, I'm not happy about that, either. The reason I'd vote for Hillary is to get Bill back.

Or because she's a chick.

I never thought I'd say that, but I also didn't expect to have such a powerful, visceral reaction to watching her with Rumsfeld. I saw it live (in a Holiday Inn Express as I prepared to check out and come back home after a client presentation) and I've seen replays since. When she asked him how, with his track record, we should believe what he says about staying the course in Iraq, he was sooooo condescending. He told her she'd have "a dickens of time" finding instances where he had been "overly optimistic" about Iraq.

A "dickens of a time?" At least he didn't call her "Little Lady."

Whether any of us likes it or not, she's a Senator and he's the Secretary of Defense. He is accountable to her, and to us. It behooves him to drop the Superior Rich White Guy routine and treat her as a formidable adult who is his equal.

Watching him interact with her, I felt like I was watching myself with every doctor, appliance salesman or janitor who ever talked down to me.

I don't want to vote for Hillary just because she's a woman. I hope some journalist really holds her feet to the fire and gets her to answer a lot of serious questions. I hope that I accept her answers. I hope that, if I end up voting for her, it's not because no matter how I feel about her, I believe her enemies are worse.

There are worse places I could be

Yes, I hate this job. Yes, I have lost respect for the agency I work for. Neither of these things is good and I know I should direct some of my resources to looking for a new job.

That said … I went to Border's at lunch today and overheard one of the retail staff saying he didn't want a promotion. It would mean a raise of $1/hour, and being in management just wasn't worth $9/hour. Assuming he works a 40-hour week (and that is by no means a safe assumption), that would mean that as a manager he'd be making less than $20,000 year.

I make 4x that.

Looked at through the prism of this agency, I am underpaid. I actually produce work that helps move our clients' business along. I work on weekends and evenings, for no pay, writing or researching. Even though I always promise myself I won't, I think about my job and my clients on my own time. Unlike most of my coworkers and bosses, I don't dismiss our client as a drag, too uncool to exist and fortunate to get the benefits of my hip, Michigan Avenue wisdom. And I don't make anywhere near as much as some of the flotsam and jetsam that drifts by my office.

But this agency is not the real world.

The guy I was listening to at Border's is undoubtedly on his feet most of the day. He has to smilingly field questions from the public, many of whom I guess are not that polite. He probably has to return misplaced stock and all kinds of other tasks that are invisible to us shoppers.

He may not have to deal with the deadline pressure that I have here, but I'm quite sure he has his own minefield of office politics to maneuver through.

That's why I'm not at all sure I work 4x harder than he does.

It's good for me to remember that every now and again.

Not funny anymore

I'm watching the 1981 movie Arthur as I write. When it first came out, I loved it. A couple fighting convention to follow their hearts, clever writing, a wonderful performance by Gielgud, and my crush on Cuddley Dudley Moore. Oh, and I was involved with an abusive alcoholic. I was ripe for a movie that completely romanticized being in love with a drunk. (He was, to be fair, better looking than Dudley Moore. But he was mean, selfish and, in some ways, dumb as a stump. The key to our powerful attraction is akin to the conventional wisdom about Fred and Ginger: he gave me sex appeal and I gave him intellectual validity. That's why back in 1981 our friends referred to us as "Sam and Diane.")

But back to Arthur. I can't believe a movie with so many scenes of drunk driving, so many scenes of excessive drinking, was mainstream entertainment. Alcoholism is not funny. There are health consequences to drinking from sun up to sunset. There are very, very serious consequences to driving drunk.

Ask Mel Gibson.

Too bad, because the dialog is still very, very funny. But I just can't enjoy it anymore.

Avoiding Mr. B.

Hiding in an alley for nearly 10 minutes. Yes, I'd say I've reached a new low.

My downstairs neighbor is a very nice old man. But he is sooooo annoying! All of our conversations are ultimately pointless, which is what makes them grate so.

This retired gentleman sells Avon. At first I found this charming. A little additional income, a way to stay active. Well, things are not quite as they seem.

Mr. B. not only owns his condo outright, and his unit has appreciated considerably over the last few years, he also owns the unit beside his and rents it out. The old boy is a land baron! And he always gets my Avon orders wrong. He forgets to place them, forgets what I ordered, forgets what to charge me, forgets to deliver my order to me. The only constant in dealing with Mr. B. is that you can count on him screwing up.

Yet every time I see him, he says, "Buy, buy, buy." He wants to know when I'm going to place my next order. He confesses to having my most recent order in his apartment and vows to bring it to me "tonight," even though "tonight" never arrives.

I want to be polite. I want to be pleasant. I just don't want to order anymore Avon. Nor do I want to spend long, looong minutes in inane chatter. So today, when I came around the corner after breakfast and a quick trip to the grocery store, I saw him waiting out front and ducked into the alley.

I put down my 12-pack of Coke and Woolite and checked my voice mail, even though I knew there wouldn't be any messages. Then I counted the cars that went by (only one light truck and no SUVs). As I listened for the sound of a car door closing and someone taking Mr. B. away, I sat there in terror, afraid someone I knew would walk by and ask me what I was doing there in the alley.

This is no way for a grown woman to behave, is it?

Sorry, but The Nanny Diaries are soooo 5 minutes ago

The Friends of the Oak Park Public Library sponsored the used book sale this weekend. I so dearly love this event. The Village of Oak Park has three libraries, and this is their big fundraiser. Beginning right after the July 4th weekend, Oak Parkers start going through their bookshelves, deciding what to part with. It seems like the whole town gets involved, which gives the sale a unique personality and makes it a joy. There are so many people, and so many books, that it's held not at the library but at the cavernous OPRF high school.

Today is free, but last night … that was the event! Admission was $5, the doors open at 6:00. I got there at about 5:30 and the line was already around the block. I saw people with bags (I brought a sturdy oversized green plastic bag from The Body Shop), people with wagons, people with carts, empty suitcases, childless strollers and even one catless cat carrier. We were all ready to go in and scoop up some treasures. Hardcovers are $1, paperbacks 50¢. (I've often wondered if they would make more if they charged us by the pound, but the Friends have been hosting this for 35 years now, so I guess they know what they're doing.)

I made a deal with myself: I donated a bag of books, so I was limited to purchasing a bag of books. I headed straight for the mystery table and grabbed myself a Robert Parker hardcover I somehow missed and a terrific old Nero Wolfe paperbook with its original, lurid vintage cover. Then I perused the rest of the room. This fascinates me. You can tell which books were in vogue, but aren't anymore, by all the copies that have been donated.

John Grisham is always big at this sale, but he shouldn't feel bad. He should be proud. Year after year there are tons of Grisham paperbacks for sale. I believe every man, woman and child in the western suburbs must buy at least one Grisham each year. Besides, for the most part, Grisham is not really a writer you re-read. Once you know "whodunit," you know, and what's the point of going over the story again?

To the gals who wrote The Nanny Diaries, though: Sorry. Tons of copies of that book, in hard cover, were turned in. In theory, that's one that could be read again and again. I'm afraid your time is done, and your movie hasn't even come out yet.

Every year there's one like that. If not a single title that the public is just done with, then a topic. One year it was Princess Diana. About two or three years after her tragic death, it seems like the mourning ended and those big coffee table books about her clothes, her reign, her wedding and her funeral just weren't worth hanging onto. They could have filled an entire table that year, just with Diana. I don't know if that's sad, or just the way it is. Life goes on.

After all, I was invited

I am not really invited to my neice's baptism. Place plenty of emphasis on the word, "really." Everyone in my family is. This is a perfect example of how my family works. (Or doesn't.)

I got word through my mother when the baptism will be. I was told that of course I'm welcome, but she wasn't sure I'd want to attend when I heard the exclusive little guest list:

My neice and nephew, naturally. My lunatic older sister, unavoidable since she's the mother of my other neice and nephew, who will be acting as godparents. And Jim and Joyce.

Jim is a relative who sees Becky and Nicky once a year. He is, however, a Good Lutheran and a Pillar of his Church. That's why he deserves a spot in the pew. He also molested me when I was in high school. He was between wives at that time, and I don't know if Joyce knows.

That molestation brought me years of pain beyond the confusion, revulsion and rage that came with being fondled. It's not so much that my mother and kid sister don't believe it happened. I suppose they do. They just don't know why I can't brush it under the rug. Why can't I just put it behind me and show up at family gatherings? It's so hard on them to have to explain why I don't attend anything with Jim.

Part of it is that he violated me and never apologized, never got help. He deserves jail time or couch time for what he did to me, not post-baptism cake and ice cream.

The other part of it is that it still gives him some kind of perverse joy to have gotten away with it. The last time he and I were together (at my mother's 60th birthday party) he kept standing too close to me, moving up behind me and leaning into me, whispering in my ear. I was holding then very young Becky on my hip and he asked me if I wanted one of those (a baby) and was I willing to do what it takes to get one. Yes, the pig actually said that to me. He was almost daring me to make a scene in front of everyone.

No more. He no longer gets the opportunity to humiliate me.

I would love to see Becky's baptism. But I love me more. I need to protect myself. Even it if it's from my family.

Besides, I believe in God and Jesus. I respect Christianity. We must remember that behavior like Jim's is serial, and I doubt I'm the only relative he fondled. (His second wife, Joyce, came with daughters.) To see him sitting there in church smugly, secure in his position as Super Lutheran, just makes a mockery of something very important.

So I'm sending gifts for Becky and Nicky to be opened on their special day. I got them each an age-appropriate book and made a donation to the local children's home in their names. I'm including a note with each gift. I don't know what I'll say to Nicky that he'll understand, but I've chosen to quote JFK in Becky's ("Here on earth we must make God's work truly our own").

And I may smile to myself when I think of Becky asking, "Why isn't Laurie here today?" And my mother and my sister exchanging "Damn that Laurie" looks as one of them makes something up that will begin with, "She was invited …"

An exceptional young woman

My neice, Becky, is finally going to be baptized on August 22. She is not a baby, far from it. She will be 14 in November. This baptism is her doing. She engineered it for herself, and her younger brother (who is going into first grade). I am so proud of that girl.

My kid sister did not have the same introduction to organized religion that my older sister and I did. By the time she should have begun confirmation classes, my parents' marriage had deteriorated to such a sad state that other things took precedence. My sister fell in love with, and then married, a lapsed Catholic son of a not-so lapsed mother. It was easier for them to have their wedding in a non-denominational church. When my neice and nephew were born, it was easier for them to not have the conversation with his mother about not having the kids baptised Catholic. At least that's what they say. Since Mike's mom has been dead for years and my sister never belonged to any church, they were never clear about what faith they would raise their children in instead.

Which is because it simply wasn't a priority for them. This concerned me. I used to ask them where the kids would go for answers to the big questions about God, fate, death, the afterlife, etc. My sister actually said, with a straight face, "the Internet."

My neice has always been very bright and an independent thinker. When she was barely in Kindergarten, we were walking around town one day and she asked, "If there's only one God, where are there so many different churches?" As she got older, she became concerned about sin, and punishment -- both on a macro level (war) and on a micro level (her own anger). It came to a head when my sister heard Becky crying herself to sleep because she had enjoyed teasing her obnoxious kid brother. Was that a big enough sin, would it displease God enough, that she would end up in hell?

So much for my sister's plan that, when confronted with the big questions, Becky just Google "Jesus."

Becky's pain convinced her parents that it was time to shop around for a church. They ended up at the one where my late grandmother was very active, where my sisters and I were baptised and I was confirmed. That was fine, except the services are too early and it's such a drag to get the whole family dressed and to church on time. My lazy ass sister wondered if Becky would think about some other nice church, with more convenient showtimes and a nearer location.

My neice politely, but seriously, stood up to her mother. She wanted to go to this Lutheran church. To Becky, the fact that two generations of women before her worshipped there made it the church she wanted to go to. She told her parents that she understood how hard it would be for them to get the whole family to services and not to worry about it. She could there on her own. She could ride her bike.

This completely got to my brother-in-law, who has always had a special and very lovely bond with his little girl. No, he said he'd go with her. He has been as good as his word. He drives her over, attends the service with her. He also drives her to her Saturday confirmation classes, and the Monday evening volunteer work she does (currently cleaning and folding the used bedding that's been donated for the homeless).

In order to be confirmed with her class, Becky has to be baptised. She is in junior high. Being baptised like a baby during a regular service, in front of everyone, made her too nervous and embarrassed. She discussed it with the pastor and he is bending the rules to allow her to be baptised between services on August 22. And, thank goodness, her kid brother is being baptised at the same time and will start Sunday school in the fall. Saving him the turmoil she's gone through.

Becky doesn't have any real friends in her confirmation class. She likes the kids she volunteers with, but they're already in high school and she doesn't have much in common with them. This isn't about social connections or peer pressure. My neice has found peace through worship.

She has done this on her own. I am so incredibly proud of her.

More than a game, more than a team, more than a player

I am bereft. I am desolate. I am all kinds of other synonyms for sad that I'm too sad to think of right now. Yes, all because of The Trade. Greg Maddux to the Dodgers.

I feel bad about Todd Walker, too, because he was hot. But Greg Maddux is one of the best pitchers to ever pick up a baseball. It was a privilege to have him here … twice. I looked forward to his every start. I was actually there, within the Friendly Confines, that rainy night last summer when he got his 3000th strikeout. Losing him hurts like hell.

Don't say it's "just a game." It's so much more than that. It's the Cubs. And the Cubs are the only thing that brought my dysfunctional family together. As an adult I have converted to another religion and certainly vote differently than my relatives. But I'm still and always and forever a Cub fan. It feels like the only thing that links us.

My mother's mom was a serious fan who preferred the radio broadcasts to watching TV because she hated the Cubs' announcer, Jack Brickhouse (or "Jack Brickhead," as she called him). Her son, my uncle, is battling Parkinson's disease and his body fails a bit more every day. Yet one of the things that still makes him happy is Vineline, and passing the back issues along to me. My dad watched every game he could and yelled at the set when they lost (which has been often). I'm a fan in the mold of my dad's parents. I learned from them that it's not whether you win or lose, it's loyalty to your guys. So what if we didn't win? Did a Cub hit a homer or make a terrific catch? Was the sun bright and the beer cold? Then it was a good game. Winning is wonderful, but not mandatory. My grandmother loved her team so much she wore a Cubs jacket when she gardened. Her all-time favorite Cub was Ryne Sandberg. I just knew she was happy, watching from Heaven on the day he was inducted into the Hall of Fame, and whenever I catch a glimpse of the #23 pennant waving above Wrigley Field, I think of her and smile.

Ernie Banks. Ron Santo. Glenn Beckert. Don Kessinger. Billy Williams. Mark (sigh) Grace. And now Greg Maddux. I have loved them all. I have said farewell to them all. God, but this one really hurts.

In his exit interview, the ever-classy future Hall of Famer said that part of him would always be a Cub. Amen. Once my guy, always my guy.