A Real Turkey

About two weeks before Thanksgiving, Mom started concocting a plan. She had that twinkle in her eye - the one that heeded warning:  "Watch out, everybody."  She and Dad put their heads together and with each exchanged idea, the laughter became more uproarious.  They were working up quite a scheme, those two.

I heard more laughs and hushed talk of logistics in the days leading up to the big holiday.  I didn't pay much attention to any of it - I was only 11, after all.  Those two were always up to something, and I needn't bother with it.  Besides, I had matters of my own to attend to.  You know, cutting Barbie's hair, playing games of Sorry with my imaginary friend, setting up a barbershop for the cats in the hay loft.  Important stuff.

The night before Thanksgiving, Mom sat me down and carefully reviewed the next day's plans.  We'd be spending the holiday with Uncle Alan and Aunt Pat - this much I already knew.  That was standard fare.
This time, cautioned Mom, we'd be spending the night.  I was down with that - more time to play with my cousins.  But there was one more thing Mom wanted me to know, and I had to promise to keep a secret. My interest piqued, and my eyes grew wide.  Mom paused, looked me in the eye, and told me all the details behind her cockamamie scheme.

Thanksgiving Day arrived and we didn't miss a beat.  We packed up the van and headed to the "big city" - bearing in mind that any city seems big when you live on a farm outside a town of 700 people.  An hour later, we were at the door of Uncle Alan and Aunt Pat's house - their big, gargantuan, larger-than-life house complete with seven bathrooms.  We cousins promptly made our way to the basement where the rec room awaited us.  The grown-ups did their grown up things, whatever those were.

And then the moment came.  The moment I had been warned about, and the moment that would be locked deep in family history forever more. Early in the afternoon, the mansion's doorbell rang, and Uncle Alan went to see who might be there.  There before him in the circle drive was a yellow taxi cab idling, its driver standing at the door to explain he had a most unusual delivery for the family.  Uncle Alan arched an eyebrow, and more of us gathered in the foyer to see what was going on.  The cab driver returned to his car, pulled out a crate and headed straight to the door.  The Dr. Alan Swearingen family had just become the unexpected recipient of a live turkey.

The crate with the turkey bore no message and the cab driver was unable to offer any explanation about its sender.  Not knowing what else to do, Uncle Alan accepted the crate and the turkey was placed in the garage. Hours of debate followed about who would do such a thing.  Why on earth would anyone think they wanted a live turkey?  And whatever would they do with it?  Mom, Dad and I kept a poker face.  It was the first time in my life I had been given permission to tell a lie.  My cousins tried to divide and conquer, cornering me to ask if my family - known country bumpkins - had arranged for this strange turkey delivery.  I assured them with a very straight face that we had not.

And so, with no other choice before us, we sat down to enjoy our Thanksgiving dinner and partake in our usual traditions.  It wasn't until the next morning - long after the colossal feast and even after every last piece of crystal had been carefully placed back in the china cabinet - that my parents 'fessed up.  Yes, indeed, the whole turkey hoax was us.  And aren't we funny?  I must admit, I think Uncle Alan and Aunt Pat thought a little bit yes, and a little bit no.  But you had to appreciate Mom and Dad's chutzpah, there was no disputing that.

The hour ride home seemed long because - let's be honest - this time we had a live turkey in a crate in the back of the van.  We played the events over and over again among each other, laughing harder each time. It was officially the first time I had been let in on the joke.  I was grateful to be right there with them, too.  I truly was.

So all of that is to say...Happy Birthday, Mom.  You left us way too soon. But know this - I carry you in my heart every day.  And that twinkle in your eye?  It found its way to me.

I Am Running for Mayor

I've had it, people.  I can't take it another day.  But I've decided that rather than complain, it's time for me to get off of my tush and do something about it.  I am running for mayor.

I've threatened to do this for years, but recent events have pushed me over the edge.  Disheartening as it is to point it out, things just keep getting worse and worse with each passing year.  I say, enough with the bipartisanship - it is time for us to come together.  There are topics that can join us together, and I believe I have one that is important enough to build my mayoral platform upon.

My fellow citizens, it is time we have an honest conversation about Christmas lights.  As I drove home from a lovely evening at my friend's house late last night, I was troubled to see that Christmas lights were aglow everywhere.  On November 8th - a full 47 days before Christmas. There are radio stations already playing Christmas music, stores showing Christmas ads on TV. Things have spiraled out of control, and it's time we did something to rein it in.  We are a sick society, and, as the future mayor of Brown Deer, I'd like to help us find a better way.

If we can't get this Christmas situation righted, our future generations are screwed.  And as I write that, it occurs to me - I think that would make a nice little yard sign.  "If you don't vote for me, your children are screwed." I like it.  Anyone interested in being my campaign manager?

But seriously, let's do it for the kids.  If we don't, they'll never get it right. They'll be eating turkey for Halloween, setting off fireworks on Easter and eating jellybeans on Veterans Day.  We've blurred the lines for them with all of this "two months of Christmas" nonsense.  Let's do the right thing, before the world implodes.

If we can get this Christmas situation resolved in Brown Deer, I vow to only do one more thing as mayor: officially change our village name to The Brown Diggity.  Thereafter, I will sell my house, move to Milwaukee, and start working on this passionate campaign there.

Barack Obama said it best:  "Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we've been waiting for.  We are the change that we seek."

Let me know if you are willing to make some phone calls or stuff some envelopes.  I can't do this alone.

I Love You Still

People seem to act surprised when someone they love hurts them.  "But I thought they loved me. How could they do this?"  To which I say, "Duh." Really, it's no surprise at all, nor should it ever be.  It's no surprise, because the only people who can hurt you are the ones you truly love. Who else did you rip open a piece of your heart for to allow in for permanent, painful residency?  Who else did you give a front row seat to your most sacred vulnerabilities?  Who else did you show over and over again, even to your own detriment, how much they mattered to you? Then who else, I ask, has the capacity to bludgeon your heart for a moment or two?

No one, I tell you.  No one.

But that is not what really matters.  It doesn't matter, because every human will eventually fall short of their own standard to never hurt the ones they love.  So putting it aside that it happens - because it will - the only thing that truly matters is what happens immediately after.  If after the knock-down, drag-out conversation of "I-can't-believe-you-thought/said/did-that-thing-to-me-I-hate" you can look at the other person and think, "I love you still," things are probably about as right as they can possibly be.

You Can't Un-ring a Bell

Working in the position that I do, I've had to learn a thing or two to survive.  My job has such high visibility and high stakes, there is little room for error.  People's lives....their very fragile, complicated, unbelievable-at-times lives, mind you...depend on me to do the right thing in the right way at the right time, all the time. Because of this, I have to keep relationships vibrant and healthy, I have to walk fine lines, I have to find a way to like people even when I don't at the moment.  It's not always so easy.

Being a public sector employee is an interesting experience.  Don't get me wrong - I love what I do.  I have an opportunity that few have ever had.  I get to help steer the course for an entire system that I am incredibly passionate about.  The most basic things I hold to be true - that we must be good to one another so that we can be good to our patients, that everyone deserves help, that much of the world is deeply hurting and we can change that with our compassion - get to be addressed in part through my actions and my vision.  It is a tremendous privilege.

And yet, and yet.  Being a public sector employee also means every day I have the potential to face very open criticism that comes through in some very vitriolic and irrational ways. I have spent more days feeling misunderstood, defensive, or downright disappointed in the last five years than I had cumulatively in the forty years prior. Strangely, I've become mostly immune to it.  I think it's part of the deal, when you are paid for by taxpayers. Transparency is expected and rightly so. Diplomacy is the high road and the only acceptable path.  It's actually kind of amazing that it only occasionally gets to me.

Given all of this, I've had to fine tune some very specific skills.  Patience. Understanding. Listening. Reading between lines. Stepping in.  Walking away. Giving in. Holding ground. And last, but certainly not least, waiting 24 hours to click "send" to ensure I don't say anything I will later regret. Because as the blog title says, you can't un-ring that bell.  The job has enough problems on its own; heaven knows I don't need to create more for myself.

Every skill I've learned, every opportunity I've had, every mistake I've made and every sucker punch I've taken...I promise you this:  I wouldn't trade it for the world.  What I believe for sure is that I am making my corner of the world a better place.  Knowing that is what keeps my world right, even on days that feel all wrong.

Picking the Right Dance Partner

In seventh grade, I was subjected to a "Map & Globe Skills" curriculum in Mr. Thomason's science class. We were required to pair off, and of course I picked my number one road dog, Mindy.  Now, anybody who knows anything about me knows I love me some Mindy for real.  Mindy is my girl, and she will be my girl until I take my last breath.  But picking Mindy as my Map & Globe Skills partner was a mistake with terrible, ever-lasting consequences.  You see, Mindy was more interested in the Sharpie marker that came with the map and globe than she was in the learning of said Map & Globe Skills.  So instead of learning basic skills like how to read a map or find a country on a globe, I spent my time during the Map & Globe Skills session watching Mindy draw a handlebar mustache on her face.  Did I get a good laugh out of it?  You bet. Did Mindy end up with a handsome mustache that lasted for a few days?  She sure did.  But to this day, I can't read a map to save my life.  And I think we know who is to blame for that.

I heard a story today of a potential business pairing that made me want to cringe.  Actually, I didn't want to cringe.  I wanted to cry or throw up a little or run after the one half of the pairing I respect and scream, "NOOOOOOOOO!" at the top of my lungs.  I quickly realized that last scenario involved running, so I opted out.  But I thought about it, and that counts for something. Right?

If our level of happiness is directly linked to the five people we spend the most time in life as research indicates, it occurs to me that we must always choose well.  Flaky friends?  No time for it.  Boss who doesn't respect you? Moving on.  Problematic employees?  Help them find the way...out the door.  You see, life is too short for the riff-raff.   They will only distract you from what you need to do, stop you from being the best you.  So I say, take your time, assess the situation, and pick the right dance partner - for every dance - right from the start.  If you find yourself with a dancer who has two proverbial left feet, get yourself a new partner right quick.  It really is that simple.

Because let's be honest, if you don't pick the right dance partner you might end up like me:  unable to read a map.  And that is no way to live.

A Gentle Toast

A Facebook message came in a few weeks back, and the outset I was confused.  Someone I had never heard of named Angela was messaging me.  A couple sentences into the message, however, and I felt my heart skip a beat. My old (as in long time, not old old) friend Jane from a past life was reaching out to me. She had assumed a pseudoname on Facebook because she is a teacher or in the witness protection program or something along those lines.  She had stumbled upon my blog and then found me on Facebook and decided to reach out.  I was instantly glad she had.

Tonight the lovely Ms. Jane and I got together for the first time in I believe ten years or more - she had been one of the unexplained casualties of my divorce.  Jane is about as sweet and cute as someone can be without being obnoxious about it.  I had thought of her often over the years and missed the friendship.  So as I left work to meet her for dinner, I felt a few butterflies in my stomach.  I remembered a bunch of details, and a bunch more I did not.  As I arrived to the restaurant, I could not remember...is Jane an early or a late arriver? Does she like mushrooms or hate them? (Let's be honest, no one falls in the middle on that one.) The little details escaped me.  I hoped this evening would not be awkward or hard. Mostly, I hoped we still had a thing or two to talk about.

When we sat down at the table, we promptly fulfilled our civic duty by ordering cocktails, and when they arrived we did a toast. "Here's to reuniting, but make it a gentle toast," said Jane.  Gentle, because her froofy girly pink Cosmo drink was filled to the brim, and we mustn't spill. But gentle, too, because we had some catching up to do and some history to retrace.

If our gingerly ways lasted more than a moment, I surely did not notice. Turns out, ten years is a long time and also the blink of an eye.  A lot had happened in that decade- family additions and family losses, career changes, and a whole lot of growing up.  But one thing hadn't changed:  I think we still adore each other.

At the end of the day, I can say this:  my heart is grateful that Jane found me and more so that she made the move to reach out to me.  It's hard to do that, hard to retrace the past and find a new way. I don't know why we haven't been friends for the last ten years, but really, who cares?  At this point, it's kind of irrelevant. And even though Jane ordered two drinks and I only ordered one, but then we split the bill evenly and I paid more than my share and now Jane totally owes me a drink (the hilarious content of her voicemail message to me two minutes after parting ways) I'd like to keep this friendship alive forevermore.  No more ten year breaks.

Hotter than Hot

You know what's hotter than hot?  It's not abs.  Not eyes.  Not arms or thighs or even a well-shaped butt that is high and tight.  (OK, I lied.  That last one is kind of hot.)  I'll tell you hat's hotter than hot.  It's banter.

I love banter.  Banter, when done masterfully, is as good as it gets.  I consider myself the Queen of Banter, don't you know?  So when someone can step up, accept a challenge to go toe to toe with me, ignite the twinkle in their eye, cock their head, and give me a run for my money, I am all in.  All in, I tell you!  Bring it.

If you can forsake all others for a moment in time, and point by point match me on wide-ranging topics such as micro-brewed beer, marriage equality, art, Milwaukee's restaurant scene, the glaring truth that no one cares about the Bucks, the glaring truth that it is not possible to care too much about the Brewers, the Pope, and then end it all with a Shakespeare quote, I'm pretty much all yours.  Do it all with a layer of sass and sarcasm?  I mean really, just take me now.  I'm a puddle.

And sometimes when this happens, your friends whisk you away from a perfectly beautiful match of banter to go eat a mediocre (at best) meal at a restaurant you hate.  While disappointing at the outset, that's okay too. Because the second best thing to it actually happening is having an encounter that reminds you it will happen again.