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Last Updated : Sunday, 26 January, 2003 at 10:37 PM -0500
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| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Sunday, 26 January, 2003 at 10:37 PM -0500 |
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Monday, January 20, 2003 |
Big Week
Well, should you folks hear a crackling-popping noise next weekend, specifically Saturday, around 2 pm Central Time (GMT -5), that would be yet another seal on the Apocalypse cracking. Yet another of my sisters will be walking down the aisle. And this one's the baby of the family.
Unfortunately, the rumors apparently abounded, as it were, and after the first two suckers gentlemen married my first two sisters, we had to import this one - from London, where she's going early next week, to live, probably permanently.
I'm thinking we're going to have to import the next one from off-planet. Failing that, Australia - it's close enough (Just kidding, Jon - and Mike 
).
Prayers and Positive Thoughts
My buddy Matt Beland could use your good thoughts today. He's run afoul of some lunatic or other at his place of work, and the supervisory PHBs are being the typical Pointy Haired B(fill in your favorite word starting with "B").
Further news as events warrant...
Damn
Well, as the saying goes, you win some, you lose some, and then there are those which REALLY suck...
No, not me. Mr. Beland had a reversal of fortune, and is currently seeking employment. Keep him in your good thoughts, please - he could use them.
Other than that, it's been one of those painful days. The tree went out this evening in a storm of dry needles, the ornaments came off, and now need to be bundled away.
I had a brief discussion with a friend of mine - we'll call him Bubba so as not to confuse the issue - who said "oh, bad Karma - the tree should be gone by 12th night." Yeah, right.
As a much younger, far more foolish man, our Christmas tree didn't go up until somewhere between December 20th and 24th. Once the tree was in and had "dropped" some (depending on the storage method, the tree might be already down, or tightly bundled with some form of wrapping - including, one year, sheets), I'd put somewhere between one and two dozen lights on the tree. None of this "big" bulb stuff for us - these were all the little bulbs, all strings of 35 or more lights. Once this was done, the ornament-fest began in earnest, and took somewhere between one and three days for full loading. The Year From Hell saw us with a tree that measured sixteen feet tall to start (I trimmed it down to ten and a half, and scratched the vaulted ceiling at my folk's house), and over fifteen feet wide when "down" and decorated. And we emptied nearly all of the boxes; conservative estimates put the number of ornaments on the tree at over 25,000.
Once you've got all that stuff up, you do the math. Up and down in less than two weeks? Bah. We had tourists to entertain.
Typically there was the Christmas Day visits from various relatives, some more welcome than others. Then there were the post-Christmas visits by other relatives. Then there was the annual New Year's Day party where all the local relatives showed, plus a potential Vikings Playoff Appearance or two (let me remind you again that in my youth I sat through four super bowls, watching the Vikes lose to the likes of Miami, Oakland, and Pittsburgh. Yuck).
There were also the inevitable "say, my daughter told me about your tree, could I come see?" visits, along with the friends parties of my father's friends, my mother's friends, their mutual friends, and occasionally, us kids had friends over as well.
Then there were the evenings where we'd shut off the TV and the living room lights and just look at the tree. As my mother hated lights which blinked, we had the steady sort, which could be boring if you only had a string or two. Given the fact that I hate carrots and I've got glasses, the fact that I could easily read books by the light of the tree should tell you that we were keeping at least one powerplant running full-out when those times happened.
And all of this lead to the inevitable "Birthday Week". For some reason (which I will not speculate upon here, for it is somewhat disconcerting to me), I have three sisters who have managed to clump their birthdays into five days at the end of January and beginning of February. The oldest comes last in the series, on February 2nd. The second-youngest kid decided to muck up her older sister's birthday by diving down the chute prematurely, and while she arrived and was pronounced perfectly healthy after some time in the hospital, the rest of us are fairly sure she's a little half-baked. And, of course, the tail-end Charlie of the kids, the one who is getting married this Saturday, will be celebrating her 32nd birthday a week after her trot down the aisle.
And we typically had the tree up for those events. Mind you, the watering of the tree was an event which occurred daily, and for some years relied on technology I myself put together to measure the whole setup - and it worked, to a point. But sooner or later, you had to bundle the whole mess up and get it out of dodge. The best idea my mom ever had was the year she decided the tree would go out in pieces, rather than wholesale. She brought in the loppers (think short scissor blades with three foot hardwood handles, and you'll have the idea), and started nipping off the branches, putting them on a plastic sheet, and when she had enough, she'd call one of us kids, we'd have a go of tossing them outside.
Most years, the tree removal process was just like tree installation, yet in reverse. I'd remove it from the stand, lay it down, get a hold of the trunk, and run like a bat out of hell down the stairs and straight out the front door. Never lost an arm or the tree, though a fair number of needles and branches were ejected after the tree. I'll never forget the year my father was coming up the stairs from the basement (the living room was a split-level addition to the side of a standard first-floor-basement house) and I was tearing down with the tree. I think he retired into the bathroom to hide, and pick pine needles from his scalp for the remainder of the weekend.
So yeah, we did tend to keep the tree up for a while. Never past valentine's day, though. Really.
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Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |
I Guess I'm Just Odd
But we already knew that, didn't we?
Back when I was a kid and involved in various activities which required fundraisers (things like Boy Scouts, band, Boy Scouts, school, and, of course, Boy Scouts), there seemed to be an unwritten rule. Telemarketing was OK, as was getting your parents to take the sheet to work for you, or whatever. But the way you made most of your sales was on your feet, walking from door-to-door, knocking, and doing the pitch.
"Hi, my name is John Dominik, and I'm representing Troop 11 in Sartell here, and we're doing a fundraiser (selling pocket calendars, lightbulbs, pantyhose, or tickets to the spaghetti dinner, take your pick). The cost is $X and I was wondering if you and your family would be interested?"
Sometimes it worked wonderfully well. Sometimes there were events which I am most fortunate that I was a complete and utter nincompoop when it came to the opposite sex, because otherwise, I might have had some serious problems - like the time we were selling pocket calendars in the apartment buildings in Sartell (there was only one set of them when I was a kid, right next to the high school), and I knocked on the door, and it was answered by a woman in a short satin robe. She bought two of the calendars, and I apparently collected plenty of fodder for some rather interesting dreams through the remainder of my teenage years.
But that's not the point. Last weekend, my daughter, one of her friends from the Brownie troop, and Ann went door-to-door in the neighborhood. They hit about twenty houses on a rather cold morning, and made four sales. Not bad.
What made me more than a little angry, though, were the people who said "oh, sorry, we already buy from someone at work." Um, yeah. I could see buying from the boss, just to keep him or her happy - but I guess it takes a special kind of person to look at two little girls trying to raise money for summer camp activities and all the rest and telling them "sorry, we get ours elsewhere" - and you never, ever see the kid who sells them to you.
All of this is frustrating to Rhiannon - with the loss of her old daycare (63 boxes), my old work (another 15), a reduction in relative purchases (she has a cousin who is now selling), and the general economic downturn, I don't think she's going to hit the 200-box limit. But then again, it's best to learn how to deal with adversity when young. I think.
Color me a bit miffed, anyway.
Before I forget
I'm sure some older Vikings Fans (not myself) will be tuning in to watch this Sunday's Super-Duper Whatchamacallit Super Bowl (yawn). Rich Gannon preceeded Brad Johnson as the starting quarterback by a few years. Both were discarded when "other" talent came along. If I remember correctly, we had Tarkenton, who was replaced by Tommy Kramer, who was replaced by Gannon, who was replaced by Johnson, who was replaced by Warren Moon, who was replaced by, oh, heck, who cares?
It's Not Me That's Weird
This afternoon I let Jack watch "Slime Time Live" on Nickolodeon - it had the rugrats on it.
One of the characters was going to the doctor, and the doctor's name was "Dr. Le Petomaine". Saw it on the sign, I think. And they used the dialogue to refer to it.
Is it me, or do you think it's a bit inappropriate? Then again, I suppose a muilti-lingual capability in that regard may come in handy some day. "'Scuse me, I've got to le petomaine".
Just don't fluff the blankets afterward.
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Wednesday, January 22, 2003 |
Thirty years ago, I was nine. My daughter's age. I was in third grade. And a court decision in this country caused an uproar I still do not understand. I spent the next nine years being indoctrinated that abortion was wrong. I brought in classified ads from the newspaper, and wore out black crayons making black wreaths to put on the altar at church, to commemorate the life of a child lost in an abortion. I spent years learning that abortion was wrong.
After a few years of struggle, I was able to throw off the indoctrination, and look at the issue. And I came to the conclusion that while I would never get an abortion, due to the lack of a uterus, I also would never face the decision. I could be a party to it, if a girlfriend or fiancee or wife might become pregnant and we find out that the pregnancy, for whatever reason we decided, would have to be terminated, but it was not something that I would have to carry in my body and heart for the rest of my life.
Some years ago, I started thinking about what might come about if those who oppose legal abortion would get their way. What if the John Ashcrofts of the anti-abortion world succeeded in convincing our Supreme Court, our President, our Senate, our House, and our people that Abortion was, indeed, the very tool of the devil and must be prevented?
Frankly, it scared the shit out of me. It still does. See what you think.
Karin Jonnson sat at her kitchen table, and continued to weep. The devastation of her kitchen, which until last week had been immaculate, was nothing compared to her life, her mind, her heart, and her soul. The kitchen was strewn with the assorted detrius of a week's worth of stress-eating Rick had done. She had little desire to clean up. Healthful, filling, positive meals with vitamins and minerals had been the rule of the day until a week ago. Until Michael Marcus, or Stephanie Marie, had ...
Her soul, her heart, her mind, and her life were going to be a lot harder to clean than the kitchen. At the moment, she had strength left for none of them.
In fact, she had little strength or desire for anything at all. The previous week had been the longest of her life. Thirty-eight years had gone by in a blink. Four months were gone in less than that. The last week was all she would ever recall. It defined her. "Before" and "after". The woman she had been died. The woman she would become had not yet risen from the ashes. She doubted her new self would ever rise far from the events of the last week, and doubted seriously if she would ever really want to.
The last week defined her. It was who she would be. Ever since the panicked call to her doctor, she'd known, somehow, that things would never again be all right. Rick, her husband, had looked at her with something between pity and horror at what had happened ever since. Not the love in his eyes that had been there, but the horrible accusations he dared not voice. She knew he was aching as she was, but couldn't stop blaming herself. It was her fault, and if she could not comfort herself, how could she comfort him?
She still didn't know why. Her doctor hadn't finished the tests, yet. She'd received a call from the office the day 'before' - "Mrs. Jonnson, please call us back for your test results." It was standard, now. You had to make an appointment to get the results. No more "good news, we call, bad news, you come."
She drew the robe more tightly about her. It still hung loosely. It's deep purple color normally complimented her eyes and hair, but today, instead of a normal curly auburn hanging to mid-back, it hung damp and listless down like a wet towel. Her eyes, which for the previous three months had shone with excitement and joy, looked out on a glorious sunrise with nothing but dread in them. Another day to get through. Another long, horrible day, made better only by the light. The dark was so very much worse.
She couldn't stop crying. She cried in her sleep. She cried while eating, what little she did eat, when she ate it. She cried looking out the window. She cried. It defined her soul, her sorrow. The loss emptied her body, and the tears emptied her soul. It was appropriate.
The tears fell, just as they had when her husband kissed her on the forehead and went out to the garage hours earlier. Rick had been working so hard to make their financial dreams succeed, and he had been the most attentive of husbands. His handling her with kid gloves irritated her, but she understood his reasoning, and was looking forward to the day when he could, again, sweep her into his arms as he did for the previous nineteen years of marriage, at least once a day. It had still taken her breath away, even all those years later, because he was still the handsome man she had married. Still college sweethearts, still acting like kids.
Or, they had been.
She cried all the harder. Today was his second day back at work, and she knew she had to get through it. The lack of his presence wasn't as painful as yesterday, when she clutched his robe and cried. Today, his robe was on the hook in the bathroom. Where it belonged, according to her rules. She had managed yesterday, and would manage tomorrow, and would manage the day after that. Somehow. Time didn't heal all wounds, she knew. It just piled itself between the "now" and the pain, and made the pain seem less by being remote. Or so she hoped.
The hours passed. She sat, crying into her favorite coffee cup, for an unknown time. The cup had become her favorite when she had heard those glorious words from the bathroom upstairs. Her husband had shouted them so loudly, she was certain the neighbors had heard - and since their yard was large, this was certainly embarrassing. Or would have been. But no one was willing to admit they'd heard then. They all knew, now. The ambulance. The return with the slow-traveling car. The announcement in the obituary column. A short, one-paragraph note. Below their name.
Her head rose. The sunrise, now suddenly changed to mid-morning light, shone brightly on the new swingset and fence they'd built in the back yard. Well, Rick, some friends, and his brothers had done most of the work; she'd been allowed to "supervise". They even ordered pizza for lunch to spare her the cooking for six guys. She hadn't been allowed to even dial the phone. "Gotta protect this woman from everything" Rick had joked.
Every time she was certain her tear ducts had dried, a new flood would erupt, as it did now. She felt certain the lines on her cheeks and around her eyes were due to the moisture soaking into her skin like her fingers in a hot bath - but she knew the lines they represented in her soul would never, ever heal.
She raised the coffee mug, surprised that it was still orange juice. Part of her new habit, she remembered. She'd even gone off the herbal teas, for a time, just in case. And as she had learned, it wasn't enough to think of a thousand little details. There were billions, and sooner or later one would get you.
There wasn't even vodka in the house for a decent screwdriver. Not that she'd had a permit for alcohol, as she'd been pregnant, but it would have been nice.
She had no idea what time it was when the doorbell rang. Her stomach lurched, remaining as unsteady as it had been that first night, and as empty as it had been three days later. She remembered the neighbors, stopping by in a fog. Her mother had been there to help, and it seemed Rick's was there, too - but Rick's couldn't have been. Lila died over three months ago. The week before they found out. Another regret, but the doorbell rang again.
She pulled the robe more tightly about her as she stood to go to the door. Walking through the big house, her eyes saw the obvious warning signs everywhere. Padded corners, rounded edges. Nothing sharp, breakable, or dangerous. Non-toxic paint on the walls, in environmentally friendly colors, warm, inviting, and colors that would interest and stimulate an infant. Yes, it was obvious, if you knew what to look for. This would have been a good home for little Michael or Stephanie...
In her previous career, she had been considered very attractive. She used that in the courtroom to lull witnesses and jurors into a comfort zone, before she sank in with the questions you never expected. One of the reasons she made an effective attorney, and why she made so many enemies. It was the nature of the job, and why she'd quit. With a baby coming, she knew that the work she did would, sooner or later, bring the one screwball client who would haunt her nights. Better to get out before it was too late. She still loved the law, but love was such a small, thin word these days. When compared to others, like "lost". Or "dead".
She reached the front door, and without checking her appearance in the nearby mirror, she opened it. Instead of the neighbor or friend she'd expected to see, the front porch of her home had been invaded by seven armed officers. She recoiled a step before anyone could speak.
"Mrs. Jonnson? Karin Jonnson?" The short, older man seemed to be in charge. His round face, with a gray mustache in the middle of it, reminded her of someone. She couldn't remember whom. But it was a kindly face, she thought, until she recognized the uniforms. She nodded, abruptly, snatching for composure in the face of this new assault.
"Yes, officer? How may I help you?" Instinctively, she drew the robe even tighter around her, as if it would somehow turn into armor and prevent the coming hell. As an attorney, she'd worked with many police officers, but did not know this one. She knew the uniform, and it was one right out of her deepest fears. The Blue Shirts.
"Mrs. Jonnson -" Another, younger officer cleared his throat, and mounted the last step, withdrawing a card from his pocket. He began reading mechanically.
"You are being investigated by the United States Child Safety And Health Bureau. We are required to investigate all reported miscarriages to determine the causes therein. This is not a criminal investigation, but a finding of fact. You do not need a lawyer present, but the law provides for you to have one if you cannot afford it. You have the right not to speak with us today, but in choosing not to do so, you guarantee the opening of a public federal investigation into your recent miscarriage."
He looked up. The older man spoke again. "May we come in?" He smiled. Karin's mind flashed on the rictus grin of a skull, leering in death, at her. Not now, damnit, get it under control, she screamed inwardly. Her mind imagined that Death's smile must look something like that. Not that she had seen it, but she knew her infant child had. Karin stepped aside, and bade them enter.
They tromped into her home, and as they did so, the atmosphere changed markedly. What little happy-baby-home vibes there were fled as the soft-soled shoes crossed the hardwood floors to her furniture, comfortably arranged about the front room. It no longer felt like a home. More like a prison. She closed the door.
"Can I get you anything?" she gestured. Only six officers had entered. She turned. The seventh stood in front of the window to the side of their front door, his back to the window, watching the street. Odd, thought Karin. You'd think he was worried someone would be breaking in. Or someone might try to break her out...
No one wanted coffee, juice, water, or anything else. She shrugged. Her obligations lifted, she looked to sit. First, formal introductions had to occur.
"Mrs. Jonnson, I'm Lieutenant Groves, from the Federal Medical Investigation Service. This is Doctor Wallace Pugh" he said, indicating a young man with a definite nervous twitch in his manner. "Nurse Becka Kline," another young-looking girl, just barely out of training, Karin thought. "Nurse Michael Thompson," who had probably been a linebacker in college. If they wanted to examine her against her will, he'd be the one to hold her down. "Officer Tom Plum," another young man, who looked too young to shave, let alone carry a loaded firearm in public. "And Detective George Arthur," Groves concluded, indicating a man who was the twin of her old professor of contract law. No, Professor Oakenburg had passed away nearly fifteen years ago.
When all were seated, Groves continued. "We're sorry for your loss, but as you know, your miscarriage must be investigated to allieviate the public's concern there might have been an unauthorized medical procedure performed to terminate your pregnancy."
"Yes, officer, I'm aware that there are witch hunts like this going on around the country. I'm also certain that you do not know what it's like to lose a foetus." Karin was upset that these people felt it their duty to intrude on her grief. It angered her. And, instinctively, she knew, anger was good. It was better and far more productive than sorrow.
"Mrs. Jonnson, please, we're only trying to do our jobs. The term 'foetus' is no longer legally viable, as you know. From the instant of conception, the legal definition is 'child'. And, as you also must know, our investigations only occur when there is the suspicion that the pregnancy terminated abnormally, or the removal of a uterus which shows abortion-like damage..." Here, Karin could endure no more, and cut him off with a slap to the chair arm.
"Yes, Mr. Groves, I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that there's only one termination to the pregnancy which is 'normal' for you folks, and that's a vaginal birth."
Officer Plum, by far the youngest in the room, appeared to flinch. Apparently he didn't like the term "vaginal". From the looks of him, Karin thought, evilly, he'd only been near one once in his life. "Ma'am, that's just not true. We don't pry into every loss of a child..."
"Officer Prune, is it? Officer, what do you know of childbirth other than your own experience?" Karin deliberately goaded him, misremembering his name.
"Plum, ma'am. Tom Plum. And my momma had eleven kids before she passed away in childbirth."
"Good heavens. Let me guess. No birth control?" Karin had heard of such pharmo-luddites, but was fascinated to be confronted with one.
"My mom and dad didn't believe it was right. I don't either." Lovely. The meek won't inherit the earth, Karin thought. It would be the folks too dumb to control themselves, and too stupid to use modern means to avoid pregnancy. A long, slow slide to the dark ages, it was.
"I see. So how do you and your wife avoid pregnancy when you don't want to?" Karin thought it a shot. A kid as young as Plum, with a job like this, the odds were that he was still mumbling and stumbling when it came to the opposite sex.
"My wife and I have six children, so far, with twins on the way." Plum seemed proud. His wife, maybe all of twenty-four, had gone through six pregnancies - seven, now, and was up for more? She suspected Plum's idea of foreplay was to say "Roll over." Good Lord. What a hell.
"Your mother had eleven children, you say?" Karin decided to push for an advantage, if she could find one.
"Yes, ma'am, and was pregnant with a twelfth who died in childbirth with her." No, not a seventh pregnancy of his wife, but his mother - Plum must have been at least fourteen by the time his mother passed away. That was the original age of inclusion, if she remembered correctly.
"How many survived to reach puberty?" Plum seemed unsurprised by her query. No one else seemed to be willing to break them up, so Karin watched Plum carefully.
"Eight, ma'am." He stared at her, daring her to continue.
Fine, thought Karin. I damn well will.
"And how many graduated high school?" Officer Plum's eyes now had a hunted look. Karin knew he'd be ready for the question. She had to ease him back a bit.
"Six so far, ma'am. One never will, he's not what you'd call right in the head, but Dickie, my little brother, will do just fine." Plum dared her to ask about the mentally challenged brother, as Karin thought of him. She decided it would be too easy.
"And how many of you went to college, Officer?" Karin softened her tone, easing Plum's mind. Gone was the distraught woman of the last week. Gone was the deliriously giddy joyous one of the previous four months. The tiger attorney had returned, and smelled fresh prey. Fresh, foolish prey.
"Just me, ma'am. Three of my older brothers paid the way for me to become a cop, and by the Grace of God, I'll be a good one." Plum stood straight and tall, showing why his family thought a police officer would be a good career for their darling. He did look good in a uniform, Karin thought. It was such a shame he was a blue shirt.
"Where's your father, Officer?" With her tone, she tried to convey the sense of loss she'd felt with just her voice. Plum looked down, at his shoes, before replying.
"He died nine years ago - He was working a double shift and had an accident, which killed him. Crushed under a bus when the jack slipped. His heart had broken when mama died, we knew it would be a matter of time..." He tailed off. The sadness in his eyes, and the distance she saw there, let Karin know he was ready.
"I'm sorry to hear that. What made you want find women who had miscarried and behave like a Gestapo stormtrooper?" Gone was her comforting tone. Back was the angry attorney, coupled with not just a little bit of the mother she felt she could be.
Plum staggered back, shocked that she would say such a thing. "Ma'am, we're just doing our jobs. Just trying to make sure the law's being obeyed." Plum was obviously in full retreat. None of the others had said much, and Karin realized she'd been played.
The youngest and weakest of them had been used to draw her out. She'd been played. A good attorney didn't allow herself to run out of ammo until the case was closed, or had rested. She was out of the big guns, and all she had left was logic. Karin knew better, but this wasn't a client. This was her very own life. She would use logic as she could.
"If it were a good law, wouldn't it be obeyed? Automatically?" Karin pushed forward in the chair, knowing Plum wouldn't have an answer, hoping she could rock the confidence of the others. Plum's smile at the corners of his mouth told her all she needed to know. He was older than he looked. He was much harder than he appeared. She'd been suckered by a master. She had failed. She sank back into the chair.
"If I may, Mrs. Jonnson; we'd like to get back to the particulars of your case." Lt. Groves seemed to exude concern. Fine, thought Karin. I've been upset enough the last few days. Here was a battle she hoped she understood.
As Groves flipped open his PDA, she began. "Perhaps you can tell me why you have the right to intrude on my grief to insure that I lost my baby 'the right way'." The scorn dripped from her voice and seemed to shock the female nurse. The male nurse, she could tell, looked sympathetic. For now, thought Karin. For now. Plum had looked similarly sympathetic, initially. She wouldn't fall for that trap again.
Groves simply looked at her like an interesting specimen. A fish, he's caught, but doesn't know if he should keep, Karin thought. What an ugly image. Here I am, struggling in the net - or worse, the bottom of the boat. Flopping around, gasping for breath. Will he put me on the stringer, or back in the water?
"All right, Lieutenant. What are your concerns?" She settled into the chair. Made a production of it. It was leather, and squeaked a lot. She could use this. Squeaking to drown out the questions, she thought. How juvenile. Groves obviously knew the trick, and waited for the noise to stop.
Groves was still looking at her. Watching. Waiting. Challenging her with his silence. Finally he began again.
"Well, Mrs. Jonnson, as you know, when you presented to the hospital, you had no good reason to be in the midst of a miscarriage." Groves seemed perfectly comfortable mouthing words which, she knew, had no effect on him - where he lived - where his family came from. They tear through me like bullets, she thought, distractedly.
"Lieutenant, is there such a thing as a good reason to miscarry? Especially when you are thirty-eight, have tried for SEVEN FUCKING YEARS to get pregnant, and then lose the damned baby once you're out of the nominal danger zone?" Everyone seemed shocked. Even though profanity had been outlawed, and the fine per word was $25, Karin knew that in her home, her rules played. She'd fought that fight to the Supreme Court, and won, as a lowly associate on the team, but she'd been there.
"There's no need for profanity, ma'am. And yes, I know what it's like to lose a child. My daughter miscarried last year." Groves seemed to deliver this fact automatically. Karin's husband had not yet said "miscarriage". The closest he'd come was "terrible loss".
"I'm sorry," said Karin, and she was. The tears began to flow for the daughter she didn't know of this man who didn't seem to be her adversary.
"You see, the only way you get to lead one of these units is if there is a miscarriage in your family. It's not a position anyone wants, but it's required by the law that established us, so we know, personally, what we're dealing with." Groves seemed sympathetic once more.
"I didn't know that, I'm so sorry" Karin sobbed, her composure quickly gone. A young woman going through this hell. It was too much. "It's just so damned hard..."
"I know. I can see that this has affected you deeply," said Lieutenant Groves. "We'll try to be as quick and painless here as possible, if we can, Mrs. Jonnon. Do you have your pregnancy records?"
"Excuse me?" Karin was shocked.
"I need to see your pregnancy record. You know, the measurements, meals, and physical activities you've been doing since you got pregnant." Groves seemed businesslike, again. This was very, very confusing.
"Lieutenant?" Karin reached, desperately, for some guidance. The term "pregnancy records" tingled something, but what, she couldn't remember. The hormones had affected her mind, and her memory often failed her when she most needed it. It was like having a brain made of swiss cheese, with new holes forming all the time, she thought.
"You know - your pregnancy activity records - the ones you are required by law to keep. Anyone undergoing a first pregnancy, anyone having had a history of pregnancy terminations, anyone over the age of thirty who is pregnant - pregnancy record. They track your exercise, food intake, activities, exposures to various chemical agents, other things. You do have them, don't you?"
Karin was panicked. She'd known they would have to be filled out, but as the doctor said "there's nothing to worry about if this is a normal pregnancy." Karin and Rick and heard "if" as "as" and ignored the implications. Of course, it would be normal. Of course, it would be a wonderful time, and of course, they would never need those records... Until the pregnancy terminated four months and one week into it.
"By law, your doctor is required to inform you at every visit of the nature of these records. You signed the form again in his office two weeks ago stating that you had heard and were keeping your records. Yet Dr. Steine reports he never saw your logs." Karin remembered signing the usual packet of forms. It took more time than meeting with the doctor did, because a nurse had to read each form before they signed it. Yes, she vaguely remembered the term "pregnancy event record". Then something else he said penetrated the fog.
"You went to Dr. Steine?" Karin was disturbed. Lawyer-client privilege and doctor-patient privilege, along with the Catholic confessional, were the only confidences legally binding any more - and those had holes in them big enough to play an old-fashioned circus with all three rings going. Groves looked smug.
"Yes, Ma'am, we did, because it's all part of our investigation." An insane calliope went off in her head - the merry-go-round of the damned, she thought bitterly. Karin realized that it was possible to feel even more empty, even more violated, than before. She felt thin - like a hollow paper figure - a paper bag, ready to blow away, if someone removed the last rock inside.
"What else have you done?" Her voice came out as hollow as she felt.
"We got a copy of all of your pregnancy tests. They indicate that you were taking care of yourself and your child right up until the end..." Groves tailed off. Everyone but Karin was now on the edge of their seats. Karin, feet drawn up under her, felt as if she was on the edge of a cliff. The fall was this way, safety was that way. But she couldn't turn to get away.
"I told you that." Karin felt as if she were being pushed to the edge. Groves pushed her off.
"No, you didn't, because we haven't asked it yet. Why did you miscarry, Mrs. Jonnson? Did you decide you didn't want the child?" His manner suggested all business, and Karin broke. She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she spoke in a slow, rhythmic monotone.
"Lieutenant, if you say that once more, I will personally see to it that your badge, your gun, your whole desk full of reports and your squad car end up where the sun doesn't shine. I wanted this child more than life itself. I would have gladly died to give this child life. Four years ago we moved into this house in the suburbs, and you know why we did?" She didn't wait for his answer.
"We moved out of an inner-ring suburb, with the pollution from down on street level, the cars, the crime, and the other troubles like six inches of pigeon dung on the window sills, and we built this house, on ten acres of land, using a contractor who builds holistic homes, with low-pollution methods, and low-contaminant building, and no-threat methods. We surrounded it with spruce pine and other woods because we were told that they generate positive energy and oxygen. We picked this suburb because it was being built in an area that hadn't been farmed, sprayed, chemicalized, or in any other way, damaged by modern living. Our entire neighborhood is united in a ban on any chemical application - that's why you see so many weeds in the yards. My husband drives forty-five minutes one way to work, where he used to drive ten. He goes into work three hours earlier than he did, mostly to beat all of the traffic. We moved our bedroom from the top floor of our home to the main floor SIX MONTHS AGO, to comply with the Federal regulations that pregnant women never use stairs. We boarded up the stairway down from our deck, and dedicated one parking space in our two-car garage to a ramp so I could get in and out of the car in the garage, and avoid steps. I didn't put a garden in this year to avoid walking a slope greater than four degrees. Our home has been tested by chemical analysis and is a 'clean home' for the last twenty-two months running. We even had a Feng Shui master re-arrange the entire home to make it more habitable for our conception and our child. What else do you people want?" Every point she made, she hammered harder on the arms of the chair. Her hand hurt, but she barely noticed.
Lieutenant Groves feigned sympathy. Most of the other invaders of her home looked uncomfortable. Karin had feared this day would come, and had half been hoping to get it over with. The pain of losing a child was nothing compared to the dread, and pain of reliving it in front of strangers. They wanted to climb into her womb and ride every one of those one hundred twenty-nine days she had been pregnant, but none had a time machine. It wouldn't happen.
She hoped that this would avoid the formal inquiry which would smear her name all over the headlines. Formal miscarriage inquiries were the rule of the day. Some of her more radical friends still called them "witch hunts." Most of those who did, though, did so from the safety of Canada.
"Mrs. Jonnson? Why did you have an amniocentisis?"
"Excuse me?"
"Why did you consent to the amniocentisis ten days ago?"
"I HAD NO CHOICE! The insurance company would not pay for further office visits or any of the birthing expenses without certain assurances. These were only available from an amnio!" Karin felt horrified. She knew that an amnio could cause a miscarriage, but the chance, they had assured her, was infinitessimally small.
"Mrs. Jonnson, you might not be aware of this, but the tests that the doctors did on the amniocentisis came back showing your child would most likely be born with a mental handicap." Lieutenant Groves had dropped the pretense, and now looked suspicious, rather than sympathetic.
"Mental ... handicap? You got the results of my amnio?" It was her turn. Her perfect infant? Perfect no longer? How? The few coherent thoughts she'd been able to form had been swept from her mind like an arm clearing a table. The blank slate before her said "no, not healthy, not normal" Like a stupid eight-ball. "Sorry, answer hazy. Try again later."
"Yes, Mrs. Jonnson, we did. As soon as your doctor reported the miscarriage, he had to turn over all of your medical records to our investigative staff."
"But I only got that test three days before I miscarried! I hadn't even GOTTEN THE DAMNED RESULTS!"
"Mrs. Jonnson, that's not the point. The point is that a healthy woman who takes care of herself and is very appearance-conscious suddenly gets pregnant. The first trimester is successful, and there is no miscarriage. Then, suddenly, after an amnio that isn't confirmed, after a test which shows the possibility that the child might be 'defective', the child is terminated through what everyone close to the woman calls a miscarriage. What would you think?"
"I would think," she shot back, "that you bastards would find a better way to spend my tax dollars than by harassing me with your questions. I'm thirty eight years old. Thirty-nine in a few months. Twenty thousand dollars of fertility treatments and drugs and homeopathic remedies and stress relievers and all the rest just died, along with my baby. I'd gladly have paid two million dollars to have kept the child. I did not kill this foetus!" She collapsed back into the chair, crying openly now.
"Mrs. Jonnson, is your husband abusive? Did he find a way to push you down the stairs? Do you have any bruises you want to show us?" Her old contracts professor - no, Groves had introduced him as Detective Arthur.
"Why is it, Detective Arthur, that you people assume there's some external cause. Don't you know that amnios can cause miscarriages? Are you investigating the insurance company?"
"No, ma'am, we're not. We're just trying to avoid opening a formal inquiry. If we could find an obvious cause for your miscarriage, we could let this slide under the rug..."
"With, no doubt, murder of an unborn child charges pending on someone. Well, Detective, you aren't going to get that satisfaction here. I'm sorry. I think you people will need to leave now."
With a nod to the others, Groves stood.
"You understand, Mrs. Jonnson, that we have no choice but to open that inquiry. There are only about two hundred inquiries a year, in this country. I had hoped to spare you that."
"And I, good sir, had hoped to have a baby. We all live with disappointment in the world. I get the feeling you aren't disappointed at all, though."
"Let's just say, Mrs. Jonnson, that your behavior fit a very specific profile, and one that we know well. We'll be talking more in the coming weeks. In the mean time, we'll leave two officers to guard your home, just in case there's anything you want to tell us."
"Fine. You got in here, you know the way out. Close the door behind you, please." Karin remained seated in the front room until well after dark. No lights were on in the house when she heard Rick pull in, the garage door open and close, and he opened the door from the garage.
"Karin? Honey? Where are you? Are you OK?" Rick was concerned. His wife continued to wallow, and he had no idea how to resolve it. He could only wait.
"In here" she replied, on autopilot. He followed the sound of her voice, rather than her ridiculous direction. A year ago, it might have been funny. A year from now, it might have been funny. Today, it just was.
"What's with the cops?" Rick seemed unsure of himself. She suspected he knew the reason, but didn't dare to admit it to himself.
"Well, the fine folks at the Foetus Patrol think I killed our baby. And I'm going on trial for it." She looked at him, again with the dead eyes and the
"Dear God, it doesn't end, does it? We ARE in Hell..."
Yes. It's fiction. Sure. It's an extreme example. It's a far-off-the-end-of-the-handle supposition on my part. Karin, Lieutenant Groves, and the rest of the bunch are all fictional, and I hope they remain there, in my nightmares.
But what will we think, if Roe V. Wade is overturned? Are we prepared for the pregnancy police to investigate all wombs in the land for signs of unauthorized termination, for that is what will happen if the anti-abortion people win their arguments. Are you prepared to have to wait for a legal opinion before undergoing a procedure such as a hysterectomy? What about a fast-moving cancer? "Sorry, we have to check this with legal before we can operate."
My God
The world is not stranger than we imagine, but stranger than we dare to imagine. Just a guess, but I'm thinking he's probably not dating a whole lot more since he got the web site. "Yeah, man, it's at mrmethane.com - no, really."
What's that old saying? "It's an ill wind that blows no good"? I dunno. I guess I'm just glad he's not blowing this way.
Then again, I once burped the alphabet to "R" in a single belch.
Everybody's got to have a hobby...
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Thursday, January 23, 2003 |
Humor
Well, I thought it was funny.
BRRRRRR
It's bloody cold here today. Minus eleven on the television, reportedly. Minus sixteen, according to the car console thermometer. Minus thirty-seven, wind-chill. Damned cold, that.
The Vietnam Legacy
One of the ugly little leftovers from Vietnam is the ability most of our population has to differentiate the motivation for war from those fighting the war. Many people look at the motivations with a completely different mind-set than they do the soldiers. After all, the soldiers aren't the ones begging to be put into the front lines of a battle. Far from it. And most people understand it.
But another ugly little legacy will soon rear it's ugly little head and hind parts as the coming war with Iraq looms. The blind faith that our leaders do know their stuff. Regardless of whether or not they do, the sickening truth is that we tend to cut the chatter and fall in line, and what's especially disturbing is that when the war is won (and let's face it, we all know it will be), gone are the "well, we shouldn't be doing this" comments. Truth be told, I'd trust a magic eight ball to lead this war, more than I do Bush - then again, for all I know, Bush might well have that damned eight ball in front of him. Or between his ears. Your guess.
But I think if nothing else, Dubyah learned from his pappy. If there's a war to be fought, damnit, do it a lot closer to the elections. Then you can ride the wave of popularity you're bound to get for it through the election, and beyond.
You know, it just occurred to me that regardless of the outcome, sooner or later Dubyah is going to retire to "elder statesman" status. What in the hell are we going to do with a Alfred-E-Newman Lookalike Ex-President?
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Friday, January 24, 2003 |
Yeah, I'm A Little Tapped Out
Let's see. Where do we go from here? I'm a little thin on content yesterday and today, primarily because
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Saturday, January 25, 2003 Joann's Wedding Day |
Jeez
I go off-line for a day, and you people come up with THIS? Argh. I know this stuff was patched before I was laid off - and that was six months ago this last week.
Bottom line, folks, is if you're running SQL Server, lock/block/disable ports 1433/1434. If you MUST allow access, do yourself about eight favors - patch your damned server ALWAYS, and try hard to lock/limit the IPs that can access it. SQL Server is a very nice product when run properly and competently. When ignored, left to it's own devices, or just run incompetently, you have stuff like Code Red, SQL Slammer, and the various other numbskull nincompoop crap which comes out.
IT isn't a fun-and-games pursuit, boys and girls. Anyone who spent a week cleaning up after Melissa or Nimda can tell you that. But then, some of you folks are sharp, and block this stuff. Others are still looking over their heads regarding this conversation and asking "what's a port?"
No, it's not a city on a seaboard. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?
Ding-Dong, Wedding Time
The joke I've been using all day has been "Well, this one came from Scotland, and we've got one more sister to marry off. I'm hoping we'll be able to import off-planet for the next - we might have to go that far."
Yes, my baby sister did the deed today and got married. Scariest moment of the day? "Say, that's mom's wedding dress. And they didn't take it in for Joann." Good grief. Mom, I'm terribly sorry - us kids completely screwed you up...
Other than that, it was a wonderful day. I've got a new brother-in-law who is, no matter how you slice it, another good one (the other two are great, so he had some stiff competition), and the only downer is that by this time next week Joann will be in London, and we'll see her every couple of months/years now. The kids are a bit bummed, but excited. Bruce's folks were great, and I really regret not getting the chance to spend more time with them.
I think Joann had people coming from practically all corners of the globe to be there for the wedding, so that was pretty cool. And, of course, there wasn't a single hitch. Well, other than the fact that I drove the 80-plus miles from our home to the church in an hour and twenty-three minutes (no, officer, at no time did I exceed the posted speed limit by more than 50%), and of that, I would guess that about a fifth of it was city streets - you know, 30-45 mph? So yes, there were times when I was "stretching the envelope" of my driving skills. I can assure you that on dry freeways, my Eagle showed no serious issues ... and should there be an official inquiry, I'm quite happy to admit I saw no police vehicles on the trip, and I'm also a pathological liar (sometimes). Just in case this gets used in a court of law... Ahem.
But yeah, we left late, got there with a few minutes to spare, and then enjoyed the rest of the time.
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Sunday, January 26, 2003 |
Worm Aftermath
I see where Microsoft is taking a beating (deservedly so) for their part in yesterday's SQL Slammer worm.
On the one hand, it's easy, if you lack an understanding of SQL server, to blame administrators of that system for their stupidity. One site I read claimed, in pious ignorance, that port 1434 shouldn't be open through a firewall when you're running MS SQL Server.
And it's easy to lob bricks like that from ignorance. Lord knows I've heaved entire truckloads over the years. But the bottom line is that 1433/1434 are necessary for "replication". Now that nearly all of my NDAs have expired from my previous employer, I can tell you that ports 1433/1434 are used by Microsoft SQL Server for that technical operation. Not that that was secret, you understand, but one never can tell. Replication is, simply, the process of coordinating two databases. One remote, or in our parlance, "untethered" and one sitting on a big fast box in the computer room.
I'll spare you the long examples, and just think of a salesman sitting in front of a customer, able to review order history. Said customer is upset that last June, an order arrived a week late, nearly shutting down production. You can show them that you received the order ten days later than normal, and expedited shipment, because one of their people had been on vacation and no one figured out how to get more until it was nearly too late. No, you never win arguments like that, but it helps for you to be able to say "how about we set in place a minimum regular order we ship unless we hear otherwise. That way, your regular production continues, and if you need to modify quantities, you notify us. We'll revisit the amounts quarterly, and make sure that we're not overshipping you." You walk out with an automatically renewed order, rather than a "hi, I'm back, how many do you need this week?"
CRM, otherwise known as Client (or Customer) Relationship Management software, does that sort of thing. Now, if you've got ninety sales reps doing that, replication is a wonderful thing, because they can upload the changes they've made, including orders, while at the same time getting the new information.
All through replication, which requires 1433/1434 to operate. And that means leaving the ports open. But do you need to be open to stuff like this which is a bit like allowing the wolf AND the fox into the chicken coop? No, not really. There are other simple things you can do. Such as adding a password to the default SQL server management account (which, by default, has no password - thanks for that, Microsoft - Secure computing, my aching, festering backside), for starters, and look into other validation.
So no, blaming irresponsible systems administrators for leaving ports open isn't the answer. The problem lies fully in the lap of the people who create a system whereby security patches, once applied, can be rolled back and replaced with ineffectual or defective software. Something like buying a new deadbolt for your front door, buying new doors, and finding out that the doorframe disintegrated when you replaced the door. The lock works like a charm. It's the small problem of the door falling out of the wall when tapped that causes the hole big enough for the burglar to enter.
So yeah, in the end, blame Microsoft. Not the internet, not the admins, Microsoft, and their "Trustworthy Computing" initiative. Bottom line is that you truly CAN trust Microsoft computing - to fail your ass when you least expect it. The problem is the homogenous environment which the Internet has become that has allowed this sort of a Worm to spread and cause such a problem.
What would I do?
Painful, yeah, but it beats the alternative. A hammered server, downtime to rebuild, and a long, long talk with the boss about instability in your core business systems.
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No, none of us imbibed heavily last night (I had two glasses of Gionelli Asti Spumante, which is much improved if consumed within a few weeks of purchase, rather than holding the bottle in the back of the fridge for years), and a half a glass of the nastiest white wine I've ever tasted. Let's put it this way - I've got a rather unsophisticated palette when it comes to food. Especially when it comes to things like wine. But when the bouquet (see, I know something about wine) reminds me less of grapes and more of paint thinner, well, folks, that's a problem. At least, for me it most definitely is.
Of course, had I known it was the finest wine to come in a cardboard box, I would have forgone the honor. Now I know, though.
But no, no heavy alcohol after-effects here. Some tiredness, mostly due to the running, yesterday, plus a little stress. My new brother-in-law Bruce hit the nail on the head (and learned a valuable lesson, methinks) when he noted in his after-dinner speech "I know Joann and I have planned this event in a rather compressed five months. Every conversation we had for the last five months involved some significant planning for this day. And now that we're nearing the end of it, I can honestly tell you I don't remember a damned thing."
I piped up "you said 'I do'." And was immediately smacked by my lovely bride, who later complained I never said anything so nice about her. Well, that's because in Iowa, following the dinner, the bride and groom are forcibly removed, the bride to do various things with the groomsmen, and the groom is hauled off in the presence of those women, married and unmarried, above the age of sixteen, below the age of forty, who haul his ass to a bar and get him drunk.
Mind you, when this horrible event occurred to me, it was the first time I'd been inside a bar and a woman had purchased ME a drink in ... well, my lifetime, and the fact that a fair percentage of them were then-single (and I was no longer) was not at all lost upon me. At all. But there you go.
So today, much of it passed in a haze as we watched all six hours of Gettysburg, and some of us are now watching for "the new ads" in the super bowl. I was grossly underwhelmed when the officials blew the first major call of the game (calling a fumble on Tampa Bay in the first few minutes of the game), but then again, assuming intelligence on the part of the officials is perhaps reaching a bit.
Then again, the Budweiser ad with the Zebra officiating the game between the Bud Clydesdales was rather humorous...
Some Hope
That chart, to the left, there, shows every year's record from this year's super bowl winner. With an overall franchise record of 160-259-1 in the regular season, and a postseason record of 6-6, they don't look so good on paper. Especially those 1980-1996 years, where they were a strike, a couple of close games, and sheer blind luck away from running 16 consecutive losing seasons. Then again, it only takes one good season to make history, and Tampa Bay did tonight.
The only good news from it is, of course, that Tampa Bay this year moved out of the NFC Central (where they made about as much sense as a hockey team does in Tampa, let me tell you), and that means the Vikes don't have to play them (and lose, as they did in about half of their meetings most of those years above, even when Tampa Bay REALLY Sucked. I think the term "snatched defeat from the jaws of victory" was coined about the Twins, and the phrase "Omigawd, can they play to the level of their opponent" described the Vikings - for a few years, anyway. And neither one was particularly kind, of course). We takes our favors where we gets them.
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