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What else have I forgotten to remember?

batontwirler

I found an empty tube leaning against one of the counters in the office workroom. It was white cardboard, about the length of my arm and the perfect size for a poster I wanted to bring home.

I grabbed the cylinder and walked back to my office, my mind sorting through an endless list of tasks and deadlines. And suddenly I stopped.

Without thinking about it, I’d been twirling the packing tube like a baton. And then, to my horror, all these memories came flooding back… images of a much younger, little me in pleated skirts throwing batons in the air and doing routines.

I’d completely forgotten.

How is that possible? I remember the gymnastics… learning to do cartwheels and roundoffs and back walk-overs. But the twirling – I’d somehow blocked. Forgotten. Until this afternoon, when autopilot kicked in and I started twirling my cardboard tube.

What else have I forgotten? Has this ever happened to you?


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Family Gatherings

 bridal shower

A bridal shower holds so much promise. Family and friends join the future bride to break bread and assist her on the way. Boxes wrapped in pink with oversized bows stack on a table. Floral and spicey perfumes mingle with the scent of crisp bacon and omelets. A cake, shaped like a giant sunflower, sits in a corner.

The maid of honor passes around homemade bingo cards. Games are played. Flashbulbs flash. Cameras whir, spent film cartridges rewinding.

Some women look older, thinner, plumper, shorter. I recognize my childhood conspirator in the face of the woman before me, a baby boy on her hip. My mother sits beside her mother, first cousins, cramming in the last ten years into a 3 hour brunch.

Frayed photos are passed around. Mini-albums pulled out of leather purses. The women proudly showing their loved ones, their young ones, their children and grandchildren.

What is it about women? Living individual lives, yet coming together to ensure their own succeeds? No matter how different, how radical, the common shared traits are often most significant.

Pregnant women, married women, single women, little girls, mothers, daughters, cousins, friends, sisters.


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Food for Thought

Tribune

Because he says it so much better than I ever could… here is an editorial by Don Wycliff of the Chicago Tribune.

Bush reaping the benefits of journalistic professionalism
Covering an inarticulate president

Published April 29, 2004

Why is the press protecting George W. Bush?

You heard me right, Russ. And Larry. And Byron. And all the rest of you folks who pen those jeering notes to me every day about anti-Bush bias in the Tribune’s news reports.

Why is the Democrat-loving, Republican-hating, pond scum-swilling, lower-than-the-rug-on-the-floor, biased, liberal [curl upper lip when pronouncing] press protecting George W. Bush?

You don’t believe it’s happening? Well, then, tell me about the furor over W’s speech last week to a joint meeting in Washington of the American Society of Newspaper Editors and the Newspaper Association of America.

You didn’t hear about it?

That’s the proof.

If the press were not protecting Bush, you’d have read in your Chicago Tribune–or Washington Post or New York Times or Wall Street Journal or USA Today–that he delivered one of the most confusing, inarticulate public addresses since … well, some people would say since his press conference a week earlier.

As it was, those hopelessly biased reporters who cover Bush overlooked the mangled syntax, penetrated the rhetorical fog and extracted some usable lines from the dross and manufactured stories that had the president sounding, if not quite statesmanlike, then at least intelligible.

The New York Times’ Elisabeth Bumiller led with Bush’s response to a poll that showed the majority of Americans expect another terrorist attack in the U.S. before the November election. “Well, I understand why they think they’re going to get hit again,” Bush was quoted as saying. “This is a hard country to defend.”

The Washington Post focused on his remarks about Iran’s effort to acquire nukes. “The Iranians need to feel the pressure from the world that any nuclear weapons program will be uniformly condemned–it’s essential that they hear that message,” the president was quoted.

Neither The Wall Street Journal nor the Tribune carried a story about the speech per se, although the Tribune carried an Associated Press story that wove one quote from the speech into a story on the unexpectedly high costs of the Iraqi excursion. “The Iraqi people are looking at Americans and saying, `Are we going to cut and run again?'” the quote ran. “And we’re not going to cut and run if I’m in the Oval Office.”

I can’t prove it, but I would bet that most of the editors and publishers went away from the speech wondering why Bush, who long ago proved that he is no extemporaneous speaker, hadn’t ordered up an address for the occasion from his stable of White House speechwriters. I heard more than one of those in attendance say the same thing: “He wasted an opportunity.”

But you didn’t read about any of that, because the reporters, trained to seek meaning and the meaningful in any utterance by the president, focused on what could be understood.

Bush has benefited from this journalistic professionalism throughout his presidency. In a column almost two years ago, in July 2002, I quoted the complaint of a reader who claimed we had misquoted the president’s statement in a press conference denying any “`malfeasance’ in his business dealings prior to becoming president.”

“The word that he actually used … sounded to me something like `misfeance’–something which is not a word in any dictionary I’ve ever seen,” the reader, Sean Barnawell of Chicago, wrote. “I feel the Tribune should not be in the business of `cleansing’ what the president says in order to make him sound more articulate than he is.”

I replied thus: “Ideally, we would have a president so articulate that we would never be in doubt as to what he said. In reality, we have one who regularly mispronounces. … This confronts us with the question whether our purpose is to transmit to readers what the president means when he speaks out or to simply relate what he says. I have always felt that transmitting meaning is paramount. ..”

And so “nuculer” becomes “nuclear” in the newspaper. And “misfeance,” unknown to any dictionary, becomes “malfeasance,” because an experienced White House reporter has learned to translate Bushspeak.

Bush benefits from the reporters’ professionalism. And his cheering section jeers from the sidelines about journalistic “bias.”

The investigation continues

In response to queries from outside the Tribune and within, let me assure you that the review of Uli Schmetzer’s past work is going forward. My colleague Margaret Holt and I continue to read stories, marking those that seem to merit additional attention and turning them over to a researcher in the paper’s editorial library for deeper investigation. Those that merit even deeper attention after that will get it. But it would be imprudent of me at this stage to suggest when the investigation will be finished.

———-

Don Wycliff is the Tribune’s public editor. He listens to readers’ concerns and questions about the paper’s coverage and writes weekly about current issues in journalism. His e-mail address is dwycliff@tribune.com. The views expressed are his own.


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Cinco de Mayo

 margarita

Twelve steps to make the perfect margarita:

Fill shaker with ice
Squeeze two fresh lime wedges into shaker
Add 2 oz. Cuervo 1800
Add 1/2 oz. of Jose Cuervo White
Add 1-1/4 oz. of Roses Lime Juice
Add 1/2 oz. of Bols Triple Sec
Add 1/2 oz. of Cointreau
Add “a splash” of Bols Orange Curaco
Cover shaker tightly and shake vigorously for 30 seconds
Salt the outside only
Strain mixture over ice
Squeeze in 1 lime wedge

Happy Cinco de Mayo!


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Better than fiction

 heart

I can see the Made-for-TV movie now…. a lovely, bright co-ed played by Hillary Duff logs onto her boyfriend’s laptop to find (GASP) emails, flirtatious messages, definitely romantic in tone, to a female (maybe they’ll reinvent Jennifer Love Hewitt to portray this phantom vixen). Distraught and desperate, she deliberates the pros and cons of various plans to get him back.

I’ll tell him I’m pregnant.
No, that’s been overdone. And we haven’t had sex in months. I can come up with something better. Hell, I AM a college student.

I’ll hire someone to take out that bitch.
Nah – that’s too Quentin Tarantino-ish. I need to be original. REALLY grab his attention.

I’ll abduct myself.
I mean, make it seem like someone kidnapped me. Then he’ll realize how desirable other men find me and worry that he’ll never see me again and … and… then he’ll find me and we’ll live happily ever after.

WHAT is wrong with this girl? Talk about crying wolf! She disappears from her apartment, with no coat or purse, and four days later is found in a marsh. Hundreds of people band together to search for Audrey Seiler, fearing the worst. After she’s found, she claims a man with a knife abducted her, setting off a police manhunt that cost the authorities $96,000.

And her lawyer is great. Randy Hopper keeps stating that Seiler is a “model student and a model citizen.” I’d like to know his definition of the word ‘model.’

I prefer the word manipulative. And the phrase big trouble.

What would be a proper punishment for this woman? And aside from the charge of lying to police, what other crime(s) is she guilty of? Or perhaps you’re convinced she’s a troubled soul who needs help? What do we do about Audrey?


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Sometimes a dream is just a dream

 iceberg

I had the strangest dream last night. Actually, it started off as a dream, but ended as a nightmare. Well, not really a scary nightmare, but very…. disturbing.

A group of people were sitting at a conference table. I looked around and recognized faces from my past, people I knew from college and high school. I thought, “How weird, what are they all doing here? Never thought I’d see HIM again.” That sort of thing.

This guy stood up at the head of the table and announced that he had made his decision. He looked nothing like Donald Trump, but I knew it was Trump. Very, very peculiar.

I realized the situation was something out of the “Apprentice” (which I’ve never watched, but seen plenty of promos for), but it was real life and not some reality program.

So Trump’s standing at the head of the table and all eyes are on him. He points to me and says, “I’ve selected her.”

All heads turned in my direction and a collective groan grew in volume as everyone complained at once. “What? Her? Why her? But I’m so much better. But I have more talent. She was the token idiot. She can’t run anything. Give me another chance. She’ll run your company to the ground.”

And all of a sudden, while everyone in the room protested my selection, they all started getting undressed. As if, by taking off their clothes, Trump would reconsider and choose one of them instead. I just continued to sit there, horrified, as people around me stripped during this business meeting.

I didn’t say a word the entire time I was in that board room. Just remained seated in a leather swivel chair, wearing a navy blue suit, looking around in constant bewilderment.

Anyone out there have a clue what all this means? Do you want to take a stab at deciphering this dream?


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What’s in a name

 names

Imagine that you’ve just survived 22 grueling hours of labor and given birth to a healthy baby girl. Your husband bursts into the room. You’re exhausted.

Weeks before, you had settled on a name together – a beautiful biblical name. After spending time bonding with some other soon-to-be dads in the waiting room, your husband has thought up something better. Something different.

“Let’s name her Tiffany,” he says.

You nod, give him a vague smile and sink into a deep sleep thinking this too shall pass.

The next day, you cradle the tiny baby in your arms. You’re not a Tiffany, you think. But your husband is sure, positive, that his inspiration, the new name, is best.

So you argue. The doctor walks in and asks what is the problem. And then, pulling a shiny object out of his pocket, he announces a solution. Let’s flip a coin, he says.

Mom called heads.

Dad called tails.

And to this day, I always choose heads.

Six years later, mom was pregnant again. I was thrilled, so sure a little sister would join our family. I rearranged my room, separated my toys, and devised elaborate plans to train my protege.

Mom and dad went to the hospital. I soon arrived with my grandparents in tow, eager to meet my new sister. Dad walked me down the green corridor and stopped in front of a room filled with cribs.

“Which one is ours?” I asked, my nose pressed up against the glass.
“That one,” he said, pointing to a baby with a blue cap.
“Can we take that one instead?” I asked pointing to an adorable creature in pink.
“Well, um, no,” he said. “The baby boy is ours.”

I was distraught. Another brother? This can’t be. Why couldn’t we swap him for the baby girl? The baby room blurred in an endless stream of tears. I was inconsolable.

Early that evening, my dad and I visited with mom. I sat down on an orange chair and squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the hard plastic. My parents looked at each other and then faced me. Did they reconsider? Were we going to bring home a sister?

“I kept telling you it was probably going to be a baby boy,” my mom said softly.
“I know,” I choked, looking down. “But….”
“And we see how upset you are,” my dad interrupted. “So we’re going to give you a very important job.”
“Why don’t you name the baby?” my mom asked.

Such an honor – to name a person. This was almost better than growing up with a sister. I wanted to choose a special name. A name he could live up to…. and immediately I knew.

“Darren,” I said.

When my baby brother was in kindergarten, he learned the truth about his name and didn’t talk to me for days. Apparently my parents had considered “Mark,” “Kevin,” and “Eric”…. all of which he preferred.

“Why Darren?” he spat out at me.
“Because I wanted to give you a famous name,” I said, exasperated.
“No one famous is named Darren,” he said.
“Sure there is. I named you after Samantha’s husband on Bewitched.”

Someday, he’ll forgive me.