Sexual Predators are Everywhere

A couple of months back, on a Sunday afternoon; I was in Safeway buying a greeting card when I noticed a man hiding behind an end-cap, (shelving) watching some kids. I couldn’t see the kids but I could hear them and at first I assumed he was playing a game of peek-a-boo with his own kids. Something was off though. I stayed right there next to him pretending to look at cards and watching him pretend to look at the box of crackers, and when I finally made him uncomfortable, he moved away. The minute he moved I looked around the corner to see the kids and found that there were a group of young teens, maybe 13 or 14 years old, three girls and one boy. The group left one teen sitting on the floor, (I have no idea what she was doing there.) so I started to walk over to her and I saw the man in the next aisle, now perpendicular to this one girl. He was pretending to look at soda, but he kept looking right at her. He was so intent on his mission that he almost didn’t see me.  There was something about the young lady he was watching that was vulnerable. I saw it right away and believe me, he saw it too.

I walked up to the girl and asked her if she knew the man, who now, was directly behind me maybe 15 feet away. She looked around me and said no. I told her to go get her friends and get out of there because he had been watching her for at least 10 minutes. She scooted.  

I called Safeway the next day and reported the incident—but was not asked my name or anything else so I didn’t expect it to go anywhere.

A week later—on a Saturday afternoon, same time of day as the previous week, I see the man walking through the parking lot as I am driving out. I drove out to the street, turned around, came back into the lot, and saw him still walking with his bag, so I followed him. I took out my phone and while driving started snapping pictures of him. I followed him to his truck, parked outside of the Radio Shack. I moved one aisle over and parked right behind him.

During the next 15 minutes, the man’s behavior was strange to say the least—alarming to anyone that knows about predators.  He opened his truck door but didn’t get in, he put the bag in the back of his truck and pretended to tie the bags handles together for a ridiculous amount of time. He kept his eye on the Dollar store. He walked back and forth to the nearby garbage bin, one small piece of rubbish at a time, eyes always elsewhere. Truck door open all the time.

He gave no indication that he felt or knew he was being watched and/or photographed. I took pictures of him, his truck and finally a close-up of his license plate.

When I got home, I looked at The Megan’s Law website to see if he was listed.  He was not. I sent the information I had along with the photos to the Novato Police Dept. A few days later, I received an email from the NPD thanking me, and letting me know they will look into the matter. (I reported to Safeway again- again no response.)

My purpose for sharing this now is that I hope you will educate your kids and yourselves to this kind of thing. Kids need to pay attention to their surroundings, to who is around them and most of all they need to tune into their intuition. If they are lacking intuition, then you as parents, or educators need to help them cultivate extreme awareness.

Sexual predators are everywhere. Often they are someone you know, some normal looking person with a normal job. They could be in your church, your school, the neighborhood or your grocery store, sometimes, they can be in your own family. None of this is new behavior—it’s not a product of the times. It existed when I was a kid and long before that too.  It’s not just Marin County, or California… it’s a nation wide problem.

We have had far too many missing kids, murdered kids, molested kids to ignore this issue and pretend that we live in a safe world. We don’t. But, it would be a lot safer if people started paying attention to what is around them, and if people weren’t afraid to speak up when they saw something not quite right. When it comes to kid safety and well-being, it’s everyone’s business.

Aging with Grace ~ Fighting The Old Fart Syndrome

For me, looking young is not the goal.  Not becoming a cranky old fart is. I admit, I have old fart tendencies.

I caught myself laughing at some kid the other day, who wiped out on his skateboard because his baggy pants fell down. He went down hard and hit his noggin. I laughed as I walked by and thought to myself, serves him right for dressing like a moron. Then I remembered walking downtown San Francisco one day with my Dad. I was about 14 years old, wearing neon yellow hip-huggers and an orange and yellow ribbed, poor-boy style shirt. A lady—apparently from out of town looked at me, shook her head and mumbled something about “The way these people dress here.”

My dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. I can’t remember what I felt, but since I remember the incident some 45+ years later, it clearly had an impact. I realize now, I was being judged without her knowing anything about me. She didn’t know that my mom had been sick for years,  that I took care of my sister and brother, that I cooked and cleaned and played nursemaid almost every day of my life and  that I shouldered more responsibility than most 30 year olds. – No, she didn’t know that at all.

 I shouldn’t have laughed at that kid. I should have just asked him if he was okay. I acted like an old fart—and I am mad at myself for it.

There is a lot to be said for life experience. We (old people) share our unsolicited advice at every turn. Romance advice (which I failed miserably), education advice, (an incomplete here), health (well- I’m alive at least), wealth (double fail). Honestly- what makes me think I’m so smart? Why would I think I know any more about life than some 15 year old?

With my son, I constantly remind myself, we all have our own path. He has his lessons and his burdens, his own joy and his own grief. You can’t tutor someone through life 101A. Not even if you have completed Life 101B. So why do we always insist on trying?

The old saying, It’s not how old you are, it’s how old you feel, is true enough, but it’s also how old you act. When you start poo-pooing everything the new generation comes up with and start thinking your generation was the only one that had it right- you are without any doubt at all- an old fart.

When you look at someone with tattoos and shake your head, and say something like kids these days. You are an old fart.

When you start to say things like- in my day we didn’t need car seats for babies- you are a stupid old fart.

When you forget your own youth (misspent in many cases) and start hating teenagers just because they are teenagers, or because they have long hair, or baggy pants, or rings in places you don’t want to know about… you are an old fart.

You can dye your roots and lift your sagging skin so high that you can tie it in a knot on top of your head, but you’ll still be an old fart when you open your mouth.  

I have to confess; I have thanked my son on numerous occasions for not dressing like a moron and for walking like a man and not some missing link with something stuck in his behind. I’m appreciative that he was a relatively easy teen – easy, mostly because I have a good memory and there was nothing he did that I hadn’t done ten-fold. I need to remember to keep that same perspective with everyone.

I’ll continue to dye my roots, and try to keep my body in working condition—but it’s my attitude I’m going to concentrate on. I can’t fight the aging process, things will sag and stretch and eventually fall apart, but I plan on remembering things the way they really were and try to look at things from younger eyes.

The Good Old Days

A lot of people send out emails talking about the good old days…mostly about the 50s and 60s. After several years of reading these selective memory, partially fictionalized notes-- here is my response.

I grew up in the 50s and 60s, and I can tell you without a doubt – they were not great. Many women were slaves to their kids and husbands, many of them were physically and mentally abused with zero recourse because divorce was frowned upon and the law didn’t care. Parents could beat their kids bloody without consequence. (Save for the doctor bills and psychiatric care later.)  War veterans suffered in silence because it wasn’t manly to wake up screaming from nightmares or the have the shakes every time they were in a crowd. Black people still couldn’t vote or go to the same schools as whites, and were hung for sport, and just forget about being gay—you would have to go live in Europe if you were out of the closet gay. Our president was assassinated, we lived in constant fear of war, the McCarthy Era was born and stomped all over the rights of many Americans who dared to have an opinion about anything.  The Cold War, the Korean Conflict, Vietnam War ; inequality on myriad levels, all served to make the 50s and 60s a blight on America’s history.  “Leave it to Beaver” was a ridiculous delusion.

Mom, me, Bama, baby Johnny & Linda 1955 Alemany Blvd. San Francisco

I have some warm memories. I remembering visiting my Great Grandmother, my BaMa, in Santa Rosa on Sundays, feeding the chickens and looking for their eggs, and her teaching me to sew on her Singer sewing machine, and bake the best German butter cookies in the world. Watching the birds in the aviary while sitting in the sun-drenched kitchen, the German canaries singing their glorious songs, and the homemade jams spread on the homemade breads. Papa Carl playing solitaire for hours on end and not saying much of anything but letting me sit on his lap and help. We’d sit outside in the shade under the grape vines that grew over a trellis, and sometimes pick berries to make jam.

In the fall, we would gather walnuts from the giant walnut tree and spend what felt like hours, cracking the shells, then baking chocolate chip cookies and warming her house and filling it up with the smell of fresh cookies coming from the old Wedgwood oven.

Easter 1960ish  in San Bruno @ Uncle Pete Scanlon's house

I was lucky to have those memories. My innocence was lost long before my innocence was lost. My parents, until their divorce when I was four, had knockout, drag down fights that left my older sister and I trying to be invisible, curled up in our beds, often huddled together – a temporary peace treaty between water and oil. Still, she remembers the 50s with more kindness than me. I have a steel-trap memory—with amazing clarity, sometimes it's a curse, but for the most part I'm glad I remember what's real.

Kids were kidnapped, molested and murdered—just like today. The difference between then and now is there are more people now, and we now receive news from every city in the nation.  In 1960 you read your local paper, which had local news, unless it was about the President or a war. In the early 1950s 25,000 cases of polio were reported a year, killing many people and crippling even more. If you had cancer, leukemia or heart disease—you probably died. In the 1950’s-60s, if one was born premature, they probably died or were severely brain damaged and the doctors would tell the devastated parents to put the child in state or private care. If you had any kind of mental illness, you would have been institutionalized and/ or forcibly treated with electro-shock therapy or worse, a lobotomy, which would render you semi-comatose for life. Menopause was treated as mental illness.  Teenagers (some I went to school with) were forced to give up their babies or marry if they got pregnant out of wedlock. (Often ruining lives.)

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We have our problems now; there is no doubt. We have been at war for well over 10 years. We have a multitude of veterans suffering from PTSD and TBI. We have gang violence, too many guns on the streets, homelessness, untreated mental illness and the economy, while improving is not quite there and many people are jobless and living far below the poverty level. We have many diseases yet to be cured; global poverty, the War on Terror. Yes, we have our problems.

But, I will take now over then anytime. We have vaccinations if not cures, for polio, chicken pox, measles, mumps, pertussis and more. We have prosthetic devices that look and feel like part of your own body. We have heart, lung, kidney and liver transplants. We have face transplants. We have medication for schizophrenia. Breast cancer is not a death warrant. People are living longer and healthier than they ever have before. Life expectancy is 10+ years more than in was in 1950.

The 50s and 60s may have had some bright spots but none that out weigh the repulsive bigotry, the disgusting lack of respect for the Constitution of the United States and the people’s right to privacy and the overall head in the sand denial of the nation.

As I age, I hope to remember the unabridged past and not the one made up for email forwards, Facebook posts and chain letters. If there was innocence in the 50s and 60s it was self induced. I don’t think we should make that mistake again. I would rather face a hard truth than live an easy lie. The truth is… drinking water from a garden hose is not a good idea.

Happy Mother's Day 2013

Mom 1964

I wasn’t going to write about Mother’s Day this year. It’s all been said—a million times. Then, this week I received a call from my best friend Renee, whose mom has been very sick since having heart surgery. There were times that Renee thought she would lose her. But this week, after six long months, she turned the proverbial corner and announced to the world, that she was going to stick around for a while. When I talked to Renee's mom, Elsie, who I have always considered a second mom, she didn’t sound like a frail 80 something woman, but her old sassy pants self, at forty. This alone was newsworthy and Mother’s Day writing material.

Then today, I found out my mom’s best friend, Gloria, passed away. She was a statuesque beauty with a quick wit, and a no nonsense personality. Her daughter is one of my older sister’s best friends. We lived two houses down from them when I was little, and Gloria and my mom were like Mutt and Jeff. Tall and short, two beauties, always laughing about something and I can still see them in the kitchen of our home, taking a hacksaw to my mother’s cast, (that she was wearing because she kicked my Dad and broke her toe.) They were laughing so hard I thought they were crazy.

My first thought upon hearing the news was that now she would be with my mom, and her husband and all of her loved ones that passed before her. I don’t believe in heaven (or hell) but I do believe that souls find each other.The yin and yang is not lost on me with one gain and one loss, and somehow gives me comfort, that there is balance in life.

The natural order of things is that our parents should die before us. My parents died young, and of course, every Mother’s Day, and many other days I miss my mom. She was a little crazy, and not always a stellar parent, but she was a force to reckon with and I think she may have passed that gene to me. I mostly remember the good stuff. That is how it should be.

On this Mother’s Day I want to give a special shout out to my Marine Mom’s. You have all endured my rants and craziness when it comes to supporting our troops and now our veterans and many of you have encouraged me to keep up the fight. I will. I always will. We may not always see eye to eye on politics, but our common denominator is troop/veteran support and that will always be paramount.

There are all kinds of mom’s in the world; birth moms, adopted moms, surrogate moms, step moms, friend’s moms, auntie moms, dog moms, kitty moms, harried moms, mellow moms, sick moms, health nut moms, Marine moms, Navy moms, Army moms, Air Force Moms, helicopter moms, crazy moms, quiet moms, saintly moms and what my son once called me (and I have no clue why) exciting moms. 

I salute them all – Happy Mother’s Day

A Prepaid Cremation

Last weekend I inadvertently poisoned myself. I wanted to poison the weeds, so I went to Pini Hardware, mine and Toshi’s favorite store, he for treats, me for good customer service, and bought two of the giant size Ortho concentrate and one of those doohickeys you attach to the hose.  Usually in the directions for the poison, it will say what number to put the doohickey on, but I couldn’t find the number so I guessed. I think I used #6.

Well, halfway through, I started to feel a weird sensation on my lips and tongue. I actually did know this was not right, but I continued to spray because I am just plain out of steam for that backyard and the never-ending weeds coming out of the gravel --which I can’t see anymore until the weed-whacker kicks it up and it hits me in the head, the leg, the face... wherever. I do wear sunglasses to protect my eyes.

Anyway, I decided to look at those instructions again and when I still couldn’t find the magic number I took the remaining bottle back to Pini and asked one of the supremely knowledgeable customer service people if I was missing something.

“Oh, that’s not for spraying with a hose, that’s for a sprinkler. It’s way too toxic to spray with a hose.” He said.

“Well I guess that is why I felt like I was killing myself.” I replied and then laughed.

I’m sure he thought I was some kind of nut because who jokes about this kind of thing?  (Especially in Marin County) But really when you think about it, of all the crap I have put in my body, this is probably not the worst.

I’ve had enough booze, cigarettes, McDonalds and more than enough raw cookie dough to drop an elephant. I’ve consumed more sugar than some countries have total and I have ingested a variety of medications meant to kill something.

What is a little poison, really?

Now, because I’m a good mom, I did keep Toshi out of the back. And, when I told Nick the story he was laughing his butt off (he does have my sense of humor) because he pictured the whole thing having witnessed this behavior his whole life. His mom on a mission, doggedly spraying against the wind, lips slightly blue; nothing will stop her, especially not some stupid poison, not Ortho, not Black Flag, not anything.

But here is the sad thing. I still have weeds. Now they are dead weeds but they are there. The backyard looks even worse… if that is possible.

This weekend I took a break from the weeds, I decided to clean my office and the rest of the house instead. I breathed pledge, and Pinesol and just a bit of bleach. I breathed dust mites I’m sure, when I cleaned out the vacuum and dusted under the bed. I inhaled, God knows what, when I dusted the ceiling fans.

I cleaned up the garage and found a bit of mildew, which is always good on the lungs too. The stuff to clean that smells scarier than the Ortho. 

So really it’s no wonder I’m not dead already right?

Yesterday, I received an invite to win a prepaid cremation.  (With my name misspelled of course) Coincidence? I sure hope so.

There Are No Winners

Buddha said,  “Hatred is never ended by hatred but by love”. I can attest to that.

I was explaining to someone the other night, how it was that Nick’s father and I went from World War III to best friends. Well maybe not best friends- but certainly two people who were there for each other when needed.

Our hate ran deep, both of us vying for the love of a little boy. A boy, who was always his own little person, with his chameleon- like demeanor for the parent whose hand he held on any particular day. A boy, who always had a smile for everyone, until it turned to a frown and then later a grimace.  

I hated my son’s dad so much that I once picked poison mushrooms from my yard and planned his last meal, his favorite of course. A friend convinced me it would not be wise and assured me my son would not forgive me if he ever found out and he would find out.  I’m sure my son’s father had numerous conversations with people about my demise. Too bad for him—I was the one with connections.  

One day, after our war, and then our cold war, he sat in my kitchen and declared. “I don’t hate you anymore.”

I laughed at him and told him I didn’t hate him either, even though sometimes I still did. He was being magnanimous because he thought he was the winner. It was before we found out there are no winners.

Neville Chamberlain said, “In war whichever side may call itself victor. There are no winners. But all are losers.”

I understand this now. I think my son understood this when he was in Iraq. Or, maybe when he was ducking verbal bullets from his parents mouths.  I remember my letters from my son when he was in Iraq. He was there to do a job, but he didn’t attach hate to it. He didn’t hate all Iraqi’s or all Muslim. When I asked him what he needed in his care packages, he asked me for things that would help the Iraqi people, especially the kids. I wondered if he felt some camaraderie towards them?  They were stuck in the middle of a war, liking Americans because they brought toys and medicine, hating Americans because they blew up their homes. Just like divorce. Smiling for their photographs. Smiling for whoever held their hand on any particular day. 

Maybe the war at home gave my son a better perspective on the war in Iraq. Then at least something good would have come from it.

Last week my sister and I went to see my son where he works. As we sat at our table eating our sushi, I remarked that I miss his dad. “Do you?” She asked, astonished.

My eyes started to well with tears and I replied, “Yes, I do.” Then my son appeared over my right shoulder. “Hello Mother.” He said. For a second, I thought, maybe his dad nudged him from Nirvana. Go bail your mom out.  But, no I thought, he would like that I miss him, he would let this go on a little longer. 

People who don’t know me very well, which is just about everyone—may not believe in my capacity to forgive. I know now, that forgiving is the only way to move on. Being mired in hate and ill will towards anyone is not who I want to be. I’m not saying I can’t feel anger, because I can and do. My temper is quick and sometimes violent, my mouth volcanic venom if you cross me or mine. If you hurt a child or an animal, I will come down on you like a mountain of crazy and you will be sorry. But, I can forgive.

What I don’t understand is how can this country ever move forward if it stays in hate mode all the time. The left hates the right, the right hates the left; the gun reform people hate the guns for everyone people; people hate immigrants, Muslims, Christians, Catholics, Jews, Blacks, Mexicans, and vegetarians. People are full of hate.

My son’s father and I found out there are no winners when our son joined the Marine Corps. We both lost custody. He was always his own person—and we lost sight of that on numerous occasions. We put our own wants and needs before his because we were blind with our hate instead of enlightened with our love.

I think towards the end, the one we didn’t know was coming, we both saw that was not the answer. I wished him a Happy New Year seven days before he died.  “Thank you!” He said. “Happy New Year to you too!”

The Year of Me

Art.Com United Airlines: Disneyland In Anaheim, California, C. 1960& (Google Affiliate Ad)

The last ten years have been tough ones for me.  I managed to get through a cross -country move to North Carolina,where I knew no one — all by myself unless you count the two dogs and one cat.  I survived my son’s deployment to Iraq and his four years in the Marine Corps.  I started a new career at fifty-five years old, moved back to California (now with three dogs), the loss of my cat of fourteen years, another new job, the loss of two of the best dogs ever, the shocking loss of my son’s father at fifty-three years old, frozen shoulder, a horrible flu, several bouts of shingles — too many to count, and my already poor hearing has recently tanked. I’m not whining though, I’m glad I have lived to tell the story. 

Throughout all of these bumps in the road, I haven’t done much for myself in the pampering department. I get my toes done every few months when the weather is nice, my hair done once a year and I don’t buy myself much of anything, except books. No vacation since 2007 when Nick came home from Iraq and I spent nine days in Palm Springs, (waiting for him to step off that bus.)  at my Uncle’s house. The nine months leading up to that “vacation” was so stressful that the stay in Palm Springs didn’t really have the affect itshould have had on me.

Since I turned sixty-one in February, I have gotten my hair done, I’ve gotten a facial (a gift from my nieces) a pedicure and manicure, started taking Taiko (Japanese drum) lessons, and today I went for a reflexology massage.  Suddenly, I feel like I deserve to do something for me. I realize now, I need to take care of myself a little bit more than I have been.

(see link for
Taiko drum performance)

http://www.youtube.com/user/TAIKOPROJECT

Many moms are like me. They walk around with holey underwear and tattered bras while their kids are wearing 200.00 shoes and taking three trips a year to Disneyland or some other fun-filled place. My son was always better dressed than me, but that was mostly because his grandparents liked to take him shopping. 

Now at 61, I can do a few things for myself without the guilt. I’ve worked hard, really hard, in the last few years and I’m proud of myself for not falling apart when things got bad, not giving up on life, putting one foot in front of the other and staying remarkably hopeful. Sometimes, I didn’t know where that hope came from, but it always prevailed. 

In the past I have offered one piece of advice to new moms, (or dads) and that was always have a hobby, have a life outside your kids just for you, so you are not devastated the day they leave you.  

Now, I’m adding to that advise and hopefully taking awaysome of the guilt. Pamper yourself from time to time it’s okay, really.