The Sad Option

David has been doing a Bible study up at the church. It’s a four-year study and it’s involved a lot of reading. This year, his first, covered the Old Testament. Mostly he’s been disturbed by and has commented on the way women were treated and viewed over four thousand years ago. 

“They were treated like livestock,” he says.

“They had no say in anything,” he says. 

“They were no more than slaves,” he says.

It speaks highly of David that he’s appalled that a man with a perfectly intelligent wife wouldn’t make use of her advice or opinions. I am his sounding board, as he is mine. 

“Isn’t it wonderful how we’ve evolved?” This is my merry chorus to his bemoaning, the refrain in major after the verse in minor. 

And we have evolved, haven’t we? Look at all the progress that we, as a civilization, have made. There was a time when equal rights and democracy were unheard of. There was a time when those of an alternate sexual orientation were forced by law to live lives contrary to their truth. There was a time when bullies were respected instead of loathed. 

There was a time that, when a young single woman became pregnant, she dishonored her family and might even be kicked out of her home, in addition to losing her dreams; and in her desperation she sought dangerous methods to make the problem go away. Abortion is as inevitable as pregnancy and as a society shouldn’t we make certain that it’s safe? Legislating against it shows a lack of sense that’s embarrassing. 

 I can honestly say that among the women of my generation that I know well, more have had abortions than not. Each woman I’ve discussed it with says that, all these years later, she still believes that the abortion was the right decision; and she also believes it was a tragedy. 

If that’s not screwed up I don’t know what is. 

Is it possible for a person to hold two opposing opinions at the same time? Obviously, it is. I’ve always viewed abortion as an abhorrent necessity. Also, I don’t believe that returning to unenlightened times is a smart plan. 

There’s practicality to consider as well. Take Kuwait, for example. David interrupts. 

“What does Kuwait have to do with it?” he asks. 

“I’m telling about how the Kuwaitis imported workers from the Philippines and Bangladesh, then refused to pay them so they were forced to take to the streets and beg.”

“I don’t get how that’s relevant.”

“They imported people and then didn’t take care of them. If abortion is made illegal we as a society will get stuck taking care of all the unplanned babies.”

“It’s a stretch.”

That it is. 

“You’re right. I’ll delete that bit.” (But I don’t.)

Much has been made of the fact that the lawmakers who are pushing the anti-abortion agenda are white men. The pictures and names of these men have been released and I believe some of my friends have printed those pictures and pinned them on their dartboards. Truth: unless you’re a woman who’s lived through it, you have no idea how frightening and devastating an unwanted pregnancy can be, or how heartrending the decision to have an abortion is. Having said that, these men were elected. I assume it’s because their policies are supported by the majority of the voters.

Because the topic has recently been brought front and center, a debate has commenced in my head; which is too bad because I’ve determinedly avoided thinking about it for years. It’s a touchy issue that brings about extreme emotions and I prefer to keep things light. 

So. What are my beliefs on the subject? 

I believe that life starts as soon as sperm penetrates egg. I believe that abortion is a reasonable option, though a sad one. I believe that it’s not my place to judge another’s path. I believe in the separation of church and state. I believe every individual has a right to choose. 

And I believe that Roe v. Wade should stand.

Because I didn’t want to post a picture of an aborted fetus, I am posting a picture of the wild flowers across the street. There has been a lot of rain this year, which contributed to a long and prolific flower season. These are Indian blankets and they’re getting leggy, but they’re hanging in there. .

Dilly and Me

It’s grooming day for Dilly. I drop her off on my way to yoga and I will pick her up after. The place I take her is in a strip mall on 1431; difficult to get into and so I go the longer back way in order to avoid getting stressed. 

Gossip has it that the guy who greets us from behind the counter was once a female, an unexpected alteration for someone in simple Marble Falls. He’s friendly and always happy to see Dilly. The bothersome thing about him, though, is that when he takes Dilly into his arms and she starts licking at his face, he licks her back. Tongue to tongue. 

I like dogs and I’d be the first to tell you that my dog is the most wonderful of all the dogs in the world, but a dog’s tongue goes to places I want nothing to do with. I draw the line at a saliva exchange and I think other people should too. 

After yoga I stop by the post office to submit three copies of Why Stuff Matters to the TCU Texas Book Awards. Every time I send my books off it’s with hope in my heart. Winning any kind of recognition is unlikely, but I’m satisfied that three new people will soon enjoy my work. Though it’s immodest to say, it’s difficult to dislike my style, though one critic was quite traumatized by the notion of geriatric crooks and murderers; but I could tell from her tone that she idealizes old folks, which is her problem, not mine. Also, only a person with no sense of humor doesn’t recognize comedy when it’s right there on the page.  

Speaking of traumatized. The groomer also operates a doggy day care and Dilly, freshly trimmed and shampooed, is in the middle of six dogs that are way bigger than she is. When the guy plucks her from the pack and flies her to my arms she goes limp with relief. Then she tries to lick my face. 

“We don’t do that,” I tell her. 

Fearing that she’s picking up bad habits from the guy and from all the uncontrolled dogs, I pay and get her out of there. Into the back seat she goes.

“Did you have a good morning?” I ask, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “You look great.”

In response she wiggles all over, joyous at once again being with me. See, this is why it’s good to have a dog. Not only does she love me unconditionally, but with her it’s all about me. While people expect me to show an interest in their lives, all Dilly’s interested in is where I am and what I’m doing. There’s not a self-absorbed bone in her body. 

When we get home she goes straight to her bed and sleeps for three hours. Poor thing. Getting groomed and then playing with many exuberant dogs has exhausted her. 

After her nap she comes to find me. In front of my computer is the first place she always looks. I pick her up and set her in my lap. She leans into me and gazes adoringly up my nose. She’s a cuddler. They say that the way a dog communicates its love for its owner is by locking eyes, which under ordinary circumstances isn’t comfortable for a dog. Dilly meets my eyes all the time. She meets everybody’s eyes. She loves everyone. She’d give her heart away a hundred times a day if she could find enough people to take it. This little girl needs someone to protect her from herself and that’s why she has me. 

“You’re so spoiled,” I tell her. 

She sighs and I take her off to the kitchen for a treat.

Dilly’s a rescue dog, a total mutt. We got her in October and it’s estimated that she’s about four years old.

My Way

It’s been pointed out that in my first two published novels I misspelled the word y’all. Those who know me well have accused me of obsessing over this error. Untrue. I make mistakes every day and painlessly move on. What I’m fixated on isn’t the misspelled word; it’s the fact that I can’t correct it.

I spelled it like this: ya’ll. In school I was taught that y’all isn’t a real word and, as such, possesses no official spelling. Online there seems to be controversy over the issue—but the y’all spelling seems to be the most commonly accepted; though I took a survey of friends and about half spelled it the way I did. 

In light of this, I’ve elected that in the future I will drop the apostrophe altogether, a course of action which will be considered scandalous in that, though highly debated as to placement, the collective opinion is that there’s an apostrophe in there somewhere. There will be denigrations from reviewers and critics. My spelling will be scorned by grammarians and the IOPS (International Organization of Professional Spellers).

As the writer this is my decision. I’ve made a similar choice by using the word “alright” rather than the archaic “all right.” Even when the computer indicates that my “alright” is in error, I ignore it and continue blithely on. So far no one has voiced a protest. 

Another of my rebellions is the renaming of the panhandle as “North Texas” instead of the way it’s known throughout the state, which is “Northwest Texas.” My fellow Texans have accused me of either ignorance (preposterous, as I was raised there) or of deliberately perpetrating a fraud upon my readers who are unaware of the preferred designations of the Texas regions. Because of my bullheaded renaming I have been asked if I’m even a real Texan. The truth is that I knew my title, Old Buildings in North Texas, would be met with bewilderment and vexation, but I did it anyway. Calling the panhandle “Northwest” when it’s the furthest north, but not the furthest west, has always baffled me. So unapologetically I stand, willing to take the hits, knowing that, in my small way, I have done my part in correcting what I have always viewed as a misnomer. 

As well as spurning the rules pertaining to alright and yall, I have decided to incorporate a fresh way of dealing with tags. For those who don’t know, the tag is the necessary portion of the dialogue that identifies and sometimes describes the speaker. Taken fromSnoop, my mystery series, here’s the way it’s normally done:

“All the women in the building are getting fatter,” she says.

From the same manuscript, here are a few of my less conventional wordings:

“Because, Joe, I spoke with her,” said patiently, as though I’m instructing a child.

“Why are you telling me this?” Wendy wants to know.

“Hey, Miss Nosey.” Manny’s name for me.

“Yes, very much in demand, as always.” Sarcastic. 

“My boss would never let me take a nap in the middle of the day,” from Joan, who lacks discipline when it comes to buying items online.

These techniques are neither typical nor acceptable. In fact, each of these five lines of conversation breaks unassailable rules. How audacious to be so disregarding. Considering that the only purpose of the tag is to let the reader know who’s speaking, it’s best if it’s unobtrusive. The tag is not a platform for showcasing one’s vocabulary; so no “opines” or “ripostes” or “retorts” to distract from the flow. The best way to maintain this link between the spoken words and who says them in an inconspicuous way is to stick with the simplest verbs like “says” or “asks” and this, too, can be distracting in that it becomes repetitive after a while. So in some instances I do away with the “says” or “asks” altogether; instead, as demonstrated above, I use a single adjective or, as with the last quote, treat the tag as a continuation of the exchange. 

Why am I going on about this? For two reasons. The first is because sometimes it’s a good idea to examine goals and think about how to achieve them. How will I go about attaining my prime objective, which is to create a distinctive style that is simple yet complex, innovative yet respected by traditionalists? What decisions will I make? 

And secondly, to make the point that before a person breaks the rules by doing something jarringly wrong, she must know on a profound level how to do it right. So, now that I know how to spell y’all correctly, it’s perfectly acceptable to spell it like this: yall.

Bye yall.

It’s right if I say it is.

Las Vegas

I had a bad attitude concerning the trip. It seems like every time I turn around we’re checking our bags at another ticket counter. After that last flight from Singapore I swore I’d never get on another plane, yet here we are in Las Vegas. It was years ago that I spent time here (I won’t admit how long it’s been) and I recall it being gaudy, loud, and dismal. But this is our second day and I’m having a great time. 

We’re staying in the heart of the eight-mile strip, so yesterday we took the monorail south to the Luxor with the intention of walking back to the hotel. The Luxor was magnificent with a gigantic sphinx towering over the portico and, guarding the entries, several burnished Anubis (tried to find plural for Anubis, couldn’t. Anybody know?) But it was so unlike the real Luxor that we had to laugh. Where were the flies and the stinky smells? Where was the sand? Where were the beggars and vendors who hassle you until you want to knock them down? 

Moving north, the casinos we strolled through were breathtaking. There’s a reason they call the MGM grand. And there was a spring flower display in the exhibition hall of the Bellagio that was magnificent. Tulips of every color and in full bloom reached toward the domed ceiling. Incongruously there was a pagoda and piped-in tunes from the Orient; and blossoming cherry trees were also on display. I don’t know who thought to mix the Dutch and Japanese cultures, but it worked. 

We walked six miles, in and out of vast casinos and malls, across bridges and crosswalks. Every time we turned a corner a facade gave notion of an imaginary or romantic location—faux Paris, faux New York, faux ancient Rome, faux Vienna, faux Camelot. Amazingly, there was a massive roller coaster winding between tall buildings. It was all striking and well maintained. A lot of money’s pouring into this economy every day. Hmm. I wonder where it comes from . . . 

When we arrived back at the hotel we lounged by the pool for a while, a time spent gawking at partying millennials and hearing the whoo-hoos of the zipliners as they flew by. The weather was perfect—clean air, clear sky, just the right temperature. Then we went back out for dinner and to see The Blue Man Group—although to my mind, three does not a group make. We didn’t know what to expect from the show, but it was funny, innovative, and the percussionists took drumming to the highest level. Though the show was so high energy that later I couldn’t settle into sleep. Nevertheless, that’s just me and it’s a show I’d highly recommend. 

This morning the time change is still playing with my head so I wake up way too early—locally four-thirty. I fiddle around with writing until David wakes up; then we get dressed, grab yogurt and tea downstairs, and monorail it north to walk south. Because I’ve heard of Circus Circus I think it must be worth a stop-in. But wow, don’t waste your time. It’s old and smelly. Tear it down and start over. 

Next we come upon Encore, which is as subdued as a library, conducive to thoughtful poker. An interior design genius has been at work here—butterfly themed, colorful, elegant. If I were to give an award for most beautiful casino on the strip, this would be it; well, maybe tied with the Bellagio, but the Bellagio was crowded and noisy, and the Encore is an ode to serenity. 

We get distracted by a mall called Fashion Show. People who haven’t lived in small British villages or third world countries don’t understand why I love malls. So what if they’re bourgeois? Having lost them once, I will never take them for granted again. At The Walking Store we feel compelled to purchase shoes. We walk on with happy feet. 

At this point we’re casinoed out. Dutifully we ooh and ahh through the Venetian, but it’s time to go rest for a bit before readying ourselves for tonight’s show, Love, a Beetle-themed Cirque. On the way to the Mirage we stop for drinks and nachos. There is no normal here. David’s bloody Mary comes with whole strips of bacon, waffle fries, a pickle, and orange slices impaled upon a stalk of celery. It’s a meal perched atop a glass. David’s appalled and somewhat intimidated. What is he supposed to do with this? What prompted someone to ruin a bloody Mary in this way? In this town there is no comprehension of the concept that more is not always better. 

Having claimed chairs at the bar overlooking the pedestrian intersection between Harrah’s and The Linq, we watch tourists wander by. There are so many of them. Everyone seems confused. We witness arguments. There are way too many painfully obese men and women. “People, take better care of yourselves!” I want to shout. Gastric sleeves should be free. Three booming speaker systems pound at us from different directions, no melody discernible. Sensory overload. 

Thankfully, the Cirque is uplifting. We have the best seats, fourth row, aisle. The actors greet us as they await their cues. And, because I know and love the tunes, it doesn’t leave me as unsettled as last night’s show. 

Tomorrow we’re doing a Pink Jeep tour of Hoover Dam. There will be dam jokes, which will be fun. 

One last thing—this has got to be the last smokers’ stronghold in the US. It’s been so long since I’ve been around clouds of cigarette smoke that I’ve forgotten its disastrous effects. After just this small amount of time my inner nostrils are caked with blood, I’m coughing, and my eyes are burning and so bloodshot that strangers ask me if I’m alright. The local activists need to step up their game!

This is the central design in the ceiling of the lobby of The Bellagio. Gorgeous, right?

So desperate are Las Vegas entrepreneurs for novel concepts that sometimes they step across the line between good ideas and bad ones. A restaurant where haircuts are taking place?

And we had to get this shot. See the roller coaster in the background?

The Fashion Show Mall. One of my new favorite places.