Today, I've Got Nothin'

Today, I have no funny stories. No satire. No irony. Today, my muse has abandoned me. Today, you'll not hear complaints about where I live or even a reference to the nickname I use for my real-life suburb. Today, the wind has been taken from my sails. My heart is heavy, my faith evaporated, my joy missing. I've lived enough, grieved enough, experienced enough to know this is most likely not a permanent state and that if I embrace this moment in which I find myself, lessons will be gleaned from the floor of the desert that is currently my soul.

This post will be long, likely cumbersome, and raw. You need to know that today I write solely for myself. My writing will be purposely self-indulgent with no care taken to the structure or final product. It is simply a baring of myself. Honesty put into written form, that I hope will lift the melancholy that has descended upon me.

I've had a rough year in the area of loss. It was just this time last year that I found out that my friend, Janet's breast cancer had returned. This time there was to be no more remissions, no more second chances. She would die. And so she did on a beautiful late October day. She left behind a husband and twenty-one year old triplets, two boys, one girl. She was diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time when her children were eleven. She told me once her goal was to live until they finished college. She didn't make it.

At Janet's memorial service I was acutely aware as I hugged her children that I was experiencing a privilege that Janet would never again know. When I arrived home, I hugged my own children very tightly. Janet's children will live the rest of their lives without their mom. The mom who fought so long and so hard just so she could live to deliver them safely into adulthood. The injustice of her death still weighs on me.

In March, I lost my beloved uncle and seventeen year old cousin in a boating accident. A one in a million kind of accident. A bizarre and unusual series of events that stole two lives. It took days to find their bodies. All the while the family waited on the lake shore. A wife, a mother, a father, a brother, a son, a daughter - their hearts breaking and horrified all at the same time. Shock can only protect you so much. I waited at home for the call with Seven Spanish Angels playing on my iPod. It came. I went. We grieved.

Life has somehow moved on. I've searched for meaning in their deaths. I've found none. Bad things. Good People. It weighs on me.

Last week, my son entered the youth program at our church. He's ready. He's cool. He fits with the group of teenagers he has waited so long to join. Wednesday night they made gutter sundaes and tie dyed t-shirts that read "Tried Died Risen". Just as I arrived to pick up my son, my beloved minister and friend asked if he could speak with me in his office. This is not unusual and I assumed we had church business to discuss or that, possibly, my son had misbehaved in some way. It was neither. His words went something like this, "Boyd died of a massive coronary an hour and a half ago. He was home with Leslie and the boys when it happened. They took him to the hospital, but there was really never a chance that he would survive."

And I did what I do when news like this is delivered to me. I was silent. No tears. No questions. Just a million thoughts processing through my head.

I've known Boyd since 2003 when he joined our church. He was a forty-one year old, very eligible, bachelor then. A doctor, a kind and gentle soul. We were never close on a personal level, I can probably count on one hand the number of conversations we had. However, what I knew about Boyd was this - whenever there was a need in our church, he was there. I cannot count how many obituaries I've read where the family specifically thanked Boyd for his kindness during their loved ones' final days. He was there for my friend Janet and her family.

Boyd married last year. He married a woman with two young children who is also a member of our church. Her boys are just a bit younger than my own children. Boyd had finally found his someone. Boyd and his new wife are expecting a baby boy in October. The boy will be named Jack, after Boyd's father who Boyd never knew because he died when Boyd was three.

So it was that I found myself yesterday at yet another funeral - my fourth in ten months. The enormity of Boyd's loss slammed me right in the gut when is wife entered the sanctuary. Pregnant women should not bury their husbands. Babies should not be born without a father.

Wednesday night at the conclusion of my conversation with my minister I said, "I have no idea what to do." He said, "Neither do I." In an odd way this was comforting. If he didn't know what to do how in the world could I? And yesterday at the funeral I watched as the three strongest people I know - my minister, his wife who is the associate minister, and the music minister - wept openly from the altar. I watched their grief and felt even more helpless myself.

I listened to those closest to Boyd talk about the kind of person he was. He was a rare man who valued people over things, conversation over wealth, and compassion over judgement.

One cannot compare their life to a life such as Boyd's and not come away feeling like a fraud and wondering how it is that such a man, forty-seven years old, never having seen his only child, is now gone. And I, am still here.

Let Me Explain

Okay, if you read this post then you might be a little confused about what exactly it is that I'm doing with a Facebook badge like this

Kristi Stevens

Create Your Badge
on the sidebar of my blog. Well, here is the deal. My objections to Facebook were mainly centered around having all of Stepford as Facebook friends - and therefore, all up in my writing business. It has occurred to me, however, that I'm missing out on what some of my best online friends are doing if I ban Facebook from my life entirely. And even more deviously, it occured to me that if I left my Stepford Facebook profile up and continued to accept friends over there, I could create a fan page for my online friends about which no one in Stepford need know anything. And, if Stepford thinks they've already found me over there, they are much less likely to come looking for me over here.

I know, right?

I'm too clever for even me sometimes.

So, friend me, fan me, meme me, whatever it is that you Facebook people do. Let's rock.

Jill's Got Skills

Jack and Jill stepped on the field to play a game of soccer.

Jack did fall.

Jill stole the ball.

There's just no way to stop her.


I'm breaking two of my own loosely held blogging rules today. 1) No pictures of my kids and 2) no facebragging.

My son took this picture of my daughter and me at the conclusion of a game that qualified her team for the national tournament. (Please notice and be impressed that I am holding The Husband's I Pod and that in the excitement I caused no damage to it.) Ultimately (and two losses later), her team placed fourth for the state of Texas. I don't think I could be prouder of her than at the moment pictured here. And not because they won, but because they left everything they had on that field and that is hard to do.

So now? We're going to Disney World. No shit. The national championships are held at Disney.

Okay - facebrag off. On a less personal note. I came away from this tournament (our first that included travel) with a greater appreciation for the coaches in my children's lives. I saw a lot of bad coaching behavior. Unfortunately, the worst I saw was from a Stepford Husband, known to me, who has a son the same age as my daughter. My heart broke for the boys on his squad whose parents apparently do not have the sense God gave a goat. If they did, their boys wouldn't be allowed play for a man (and I use that term loosely) who degrades his players like he does. My son said, "Mom, you've GOT to get a video camera. I could get like a million hits on YouTube by filming that jerk." Sadly, he's right.

NINE

Seriously. This is absurd.

Republicans, only NINE of you could vote for Sotomayor? Really? The most qualified Supreme Court nominee like, ever?

Hmpf.

My Boys Still Have It

My boys, Bill and Al, still got game. (I once caused a dead silence at my church's women's retreat by sharing that I had a crush on Bill. But that's neither here nor there.)

Sarah, Is That You?

I'd like to give a big shout out to my late-night visitor from Wasilla, Alaska! Whoo Hooo! I don't really think it was Sarah, but with Wasilla's population being around 7,500 it's not like the chance is zero. Ya know?

Welcome Wasilla. I hope you'll visit again soon.

Call of (Jury) Duty

I am the Susan Lucci of Jury Duty. Really. One day I’m going to open my mailbox and see a summons to come to the Stepford County Courthouse to pick up my lifetime achievement award—which we all know is code for you’re-never-really-going-to-win-but-your-repeated-attempts-are-getting-awkward.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve received a jury summons from Stepford County. And not once, have I been seated as a juror (I know, I can’t believe it either). I’m always very excited when I open the mailbox and see a summons addressed to me. (Shut up. I know it’s a little weird.)

I always diligently respond to the questionnaire. I never claim an exemption. Even when I was a stay-at-home mom, I would hire a baby sitter so that I might be given the chance to perform my civic duty. I’m always hopeful that by being eager, prompt, and thorough, I’ll receive some sort of favor from the karma that governs jury duty and this time, finally, I’ll be seated as juror number whatever.

Truth be told, the reason I have not so far and most likely will never be seated as a juror is because ... wait for it, wait for it ... I’m too smart (and I have big mouth). Really. Attorneys do not want jurors who are extremely bright. Bright people think for themselves. Bright people have well formed and thought out opinions. Bright people are not easily manipulated by emotionally charged arguments delivered upon silver tongues. Because of this blatant discrimination against the intellectually superior, someone always has a problem with me. Okay, okay ... the prosecutor always has a problem with me. And so it was for the billionth time last week. I had promised myself I would be as silent as a Republican at a Fourth Amendment Convention (which I’ve determined is the easiest way to get on a jury short of being stupid). And perhaps, just this once, I would slide under the radar and into the jury box.

No dice.

The morning started out well. The case I was assigned to would have six jurors. I was number seven out of a twenty member pool. This meant that as long as I could keep my mouth shut, I just needed someone numbered one through six to say something that would get their ejector chair to fire. I was hopeful.

Number six, who was sitting to my right, pulled out some reading material while we waited to be called into the courtroom. Being curious (okay, nosey) I couldn’t help but notice when he cracked open Glenn Beck’s Common Sense: The Case Against an Out-of-Control Government, Inspired by Thomas Paine. (I suddenly felt a need to bathe, vomit, bolt from the room, whack Number six about the head and shoulders— you get the idea). Unfortunately, Number six took my discomfort as interest and spoke to me. (Damn. It. To. Hell.)

Number six, “Ya read Mr. Beck?”

Me (stifling an eye roll), “Oh, um, no.”

Number six, “This book here, Common Sense, is really a good ’un.”

I just gave a thin lipped smile in response. There was no way I was getting booted from this jury pool by getting into an argument over Glenn-the crazy train-Beck.

Number six, “Ya know who Glenn Beck is?”

(Good God. Why does this ALWAYS happen to me?)

Me (deciding that just this once honesty was not the best policy), “No.”

Number six, “Not much on politics, eh? A lot of women ain’t. That’s why I thought Sarah Palin would a been good for the country. Ya know, would a given you ladies a gurl to look up to an all.”

(Father in Heaven ...)

Before I can appropriately respond to Number six (because I was going to respond), we were called into the courtroom and Number six’s life was spared and I still had a chance to be seated on the jury.

The judge addressed the jury pool, telling us that the charge in the case was driving while intoxicated and that he expected a verdict to be rendered by the end of the next day. At that moment, I’m sure if I could have seen myself in a mirror, my face would have been red. I felt a physical rush of heat that began in my toes and eventually landed on the crown of my head. I looked at the defendant. Latino. I looked at the defense attorney. Latina. I looked at the prosecutor. Caucasian Stepford Wife. Shit.

Here’s the problem. I have a big issue with how drunk driving cases are handled in the state of Texas. Before you start hate mailing me, let me clarify. I absolutely, one hundred percent understand the devastation drunk driving causes in this nation each year. I’ve been personally touched by it more than once. I do not support drunk driving. I also don’t support most other things that are against the law. That does not mean, however, that I think it is okay for the civil rights of drunk driving suspects to be violated. And I believe that this happens routinely in Texas.

The questioning of the jury pool began.

Prosecutor, “Mr. One, I’d like to pose a hypothetical question to you. Let’s say you attend a happy hour after work with some friends. Let’s say you’ve had two drinks and you are now happy-hour happy.”

Mr. One (interrupting a little too loudly), “I’m a complete teetotaler. Don’t touch the stuff. Would never happen. Well, used to happen. I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober since 2001. I guess if you said the happy hour happened in 2000 I might could play along. But I wouldn’t have stopped at happy hour happy. I would have been more like happy hour GONE.”

(At this point my heart starts to beat a little faster. I am so on this jury as long as I can be quiet. And that’s a BIG if.)

The questioning continued. Mostly lame stuff for prospective jurors Two through Ten. The Prosecutor was now ignoring Mr. One, a sure sign she had decided he was a little too risky and had put him down as the first of her three free strikes. The Prosecutor was getting close to hitting her time limit and I was feeling a little giddy that I had made it this far. Then it happened.

Prosecutor, “Mrs. Stevens, do you know what a blood warrant is.”

(Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I may as well just leave now.)

Me (trying not to look like the paralegal that I am), “Yes.”

Judge, “Mrs. Stevens, you’ll have to speak up. No one can hear you.”

Me (louder), “Yes.”

Prosecutor, “And what is your opinion of blood warrants?”

(Do I have bleeding heart liberal tattooed on a part of my body that everyone can see but me?)

Me (hedging), “I understand that certain police departments in the area use them and that they are issued by a judge over the phone.”

Prosecutor, “Yes, yes ... that is the procedure. Do you know what a blood warrant allows the police officer to do?”

Me, “Yes.”

Prosecutor (clearly a little frustrated that I’m eating up her last five minutes), “And what is your understanding of that?”

Me, “It is my understanding that once a blood warrant is issued by a judge, the suspect must submit to having their blood drawn.”

Prosecutor, “Do you have a problem with that?”

(And ... she’s outta here.)

Me, “Yes.”

Prosecutor: “Why is that?”

(Screw it ... maybe I’m not cut out for jury duty anyway ... I think I’ll get a pedicure this afternoon ... at the spa that serves WINE.)

Me, “Because I’m fairly certain that as soon as someone challenges having forcibly had their blood drawn, by a non-medical professional, on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, on the basis of a warrant issued over a telephone, in Federal court rather than a Texas court, this practice will be deemed unconstitutional.”

(And there was stunned silence in the courtroom. My very own Perry Mason moment.)

And with that, I made eye contact with the defense attorney. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. I apologized to her with a slight bow of my head and she forgave me with a sigh. And I was off to spend the afternoon not performing my civic duty, but having my toes painted lavender while sipping on a nice Riesling. Perhaps my destiny really is to be just another Stepford Wife in a pedicure chair. But you can bet your ass I was the only one there thinking about the constitution.