• goodbadi

    Dear Mr. President: New Car Needed

    During Obama’s presidential campaign I appreciated his nuanced assessment of the abortion rights debate. I didn’t appreciate his we’re-going-to-track-you-down-and-kill-you approach to terrorism. In his first days in office, he acted in both areas.

    This week Obama overturned a law disallowing U.S. dollars to support family planning groups involved in abortions. “This should serve as a bitter pill for those who campaigned for him, all the while proclaiming their belief in the cause of life and family,” NPR quoted one abortion opponent.

    While I haven’t researched the overturning beyond NPR’s precursory skimmage, I would wager that the abolishment effects hugely complex ramifications not all of which result in abortions. That said, however, to any pro-Obama-er who, like me, is also pro-life not just in pre-birth matters, this move–if indeed it does result in increasing abortion rates–by the new president is as unjustifiable as his approval of so-called anti-terror military strikes.

    I’ve been writing recently about the children devastated in military conflict. Obama’s actions this week have furthered this evil devastation in no inconsequential way. According to The Guardian, “Obama, in his first military action as president, sanctioned two missile attacks inside Pakistan on Friday, killing 22 people, reportedly women and children among them. The attacks drew criticism from Pakistani officials at the weekend. Pakistani president, Asif Zardari, told the US ambassador to Islamabad, Anne Patterson, that the strikes ‘do not help the war on terror.’ According to reports, he also warned her that ‘these attacks can affect Pakistan’s cooperation in the war on terror.'”

    I think it’s rather obvious that the war on terror is about as silly and counterproductive as is the war on drugs or was Prohibition. The best way to deal with any of those problems–terrorism, drug abuse, alcoholism–is not to outlaw them or to fight them but to dig out their roots. These self-destructions need to be preempted through the cultivation of concrete opportunities and founded hopes that usurp the desperation that lures people into such behaviors.

    Similarly, both the expansion and limiting of abortion have one thing in common: neither deals with the underlying social ills that supply the abortion industry with clients. To say otherwise would be like claiming that encouraging people to eat junk food–or outlawing it entirely–will solve the problem of people not growing their own tomatoes.

    I resonate with selected concerns aired by Frank Schaeffer back in campaign season: “We can’t [reduce abortions] by concentrating on politics, or silver bullets such as trying for that one magic court appointment. It’s the ‘holistic’ approach that is really what’s important if our goal is to reduce the number of abortions rather than just ‘win’ political games…. What kind of care do we provide to mothers and children? What is our educational system like? Is health care available to all? Do our preschool programs and everything from paternal and maternal leave to the economic well-being of our country come first? Or do we argue about abortion rights while we live lives of such supreme selfish decadence that the nature of our country means that no matter what we do with the laws about abortion life will not be valued?”

    We need to preempt abortion through myriad concrete opportunities and options, not the least of which are better adoption processes that allow caring parents to welcome adoptees into their homes without ridiculous delays and legal encumbrances. M and I know personally two loving couples our age who are at different stages in the adopting process, and it’s no less than nightmarish, considering their frustrated willingness to meet needy children’s needs.

    From-womb-to-tomb pro-lifers concerned about abortion, military action, and counter-terrorism need to demand the crystalization of the change so welcomely promised by our new president over the past year. In a sermon this morning one pastor said it approximately in this way: “We have a new driver, but we’re still in the same car.”

    Dear Driver: Our nation needs a new car.

  • goodbadi

    N Today

    At breakfast, N helped us finish up the strawberry smoothies from last night. Then she read while M and I worked in the kitchen.

  • goodbadi

    Tapping Past Passions

    Well, after all was said and done, I pilfered (with permission) the John McCain campaign sign that a well-meaning neighbor had placed in M’s parents’ yard. They’d immediately brought it into their garage, where it stayed put until I spoke up for it.

    “I’ll put it in my parents’ yard when they’re not looking,” I said.

    During our next visit to my parents, I excused myself from the late-night Scrabble game. “I should bring in N’s backpack,” I said, “so it’ll be ready for our hike tomorrow.”

    In the pitch black dark of the cloudy country night, I stole down the driveway, groped for the roadside, and shoved the sign’s wire legs into some soft ground. The next morning, Dad claimed that a student had played the prank on them.

    I hid my face behind the newspaper he’d just brought in and gave myself away with, “Really? It wasn’t there when I went out for the backpack last night.”

    Of course, they didn’t want the sign, even if the polls had been closed for nearly two months, so I stowed it in our trunk once again, plotting a future placement at my sister‘s house.

    The opportunity bared itself this past weekend, when she invited us over for a sampling of her latest food tremendosities. I made sure to park the car near the road, and before we left, I again stumbled to the roadside and planted the sign.

    The next morning, M emailed me the details:

    “She just called–she found the sign and thought it was pretty funny.”

    “She knew it was us?” I wrote back.

    “She asked if I did it–‘No.’–Then if you did it, and I confessed. We must’ve been primary suspects.”

    Us? Suspects? Well, okay.

  • goodbadi

    Decompression

    The first major excitement of the day was M’s email: “HOUSE NEWS–CALL ME ASAP.” The news? Our offer was accepted without countering.

    The second major excitement was that at 10:30 this morning the principal came on the PA system with a delighted twinkle in his voice: “May I have everyone’s attention, please,” he said, paused, and then said it again. “May I have everyone’s attention please. I have An Announcement. We will have an early release today at 12:15 today due to the snow,” the principal said.

    The brilliant flurries that had started accumulating outside had not gone unnoticed by anyone, apparently the superintendent notwithstanding.

    At the next class change, I tracked down one of my carpool buddies. “Hey,” I said. “Two things: I learned this morning that our offer on that property we really really want has been accepted. And can you give me a ride home? I’m afraid of hitting slick spots, on my bike.”

    I was sad, really, about not getting to ride my new bike home–it’d get lonely all by itself in its day closet, and some other day I’d end up having to hitch a ride in to school and then bike home, which is fine except it doesn’t feel nearly as good to ride just half the commute instead of the whole 26.4 miles.

    “Didn’t you listen to the weather forecast this morning?” another teacher asked when I bemoaned not getting to finish my ride.

    “Yes,” I said, “but they said precipitation was just a 60% chance–and concrete trucks go out up to 70%.”

    But soon enough the snow stopped, and by the time the buses had left, the sun was even shining–and the temperature was comfortably above freezing. I ended up riding home and enjoying most of the ride, my new fenders keeping the melting snow down where it belongs and my new gearing and lightness making everything seem so much easier.

    It was a pretty sweet deal, really, getting away from work early. It meant I could ride in the nice mid-day light and then have an early afternoon snack of M’s fresh bread and hot chocolate. It also meant I could make a number of new-house-related phone calls (except that the bank was closed for the holiday), reschedule our purchase agreement signing appointment for earlier in the afternoon, and banish my pensive anxiety that our offer would be disregarded, we’d be ditched, and that house would go to someone else.

    My mind is spinning, now, with house to-do to-do, but I’m breathing much easier. Maybe I’ll take over the futon to further decompress.

  • goodbadi

    New Bike

    Today was the day my custom-built “commuter project” would “most likely be ready,” the bike shop owner told me, and so at 10:05 I showed up with my old clunker trade in. I’d pedaled the half mile to the shop with an 8-degree head freeze.

    “We just have to put on the tires and adjust the brakes,” the college freshman on duty told me while the shop owner ran helter-skelter, dealing with other customers.

    At 12:15 M called the shop. “Are you coming home for lunch, or what?” she asked.

    “We can call you when it’s finished,” the freshman said. “It might be an hour yet.”

    Now, sitting in a bike shop watching your bike slowly take shape before your eyes is fun because it’s not generally how commerce happens these days, and it’s incredibly boring because it takes so long, and it’s interesting because you get to watch other customers’ idiosyncrasies even as they look at the dude back in the corner sitting on a stool like he’s not doing anything, which he isn’t because he’s waiting for his bike, and it’s incredibly mind numbing because you’re not really doing anything except sitting there hoping to absorb bicycle wisdom from the atmosphere of the cluttered little hole-in-the-wall shop.

    “Is that van outside really electric?” one customer asked the owner.

    “Yes, but it lacks batteries and a motor,” he replied.

    “Really, it’s a storage shed that looks like a van,” the freshman told me.

    Another customer eyed a bike on a repair stand. “I want that,” he said.

    “It’s the same bike model the [such-and-such] team uses in the Tour de France,” the owner said. “It’s the best aerodynamic design wind tunnel tested. All carbon fiber. The cranks cost a thousand dollars. A local doctor rides time trials with it.”

    I leaned over to the freshman. “How much does the whole bike cost?”

    “More than some cars,” he smirked.

    Another customer, a young woman there with her dad, was getting a bike for a triathlon this summer. “Isn’t it pretty?” she kept saying, and then said that she didn’t know how to use the bike rack, since her boyfriend that she just broke up with always put it on her car when they’d go riding. So her dad and the shop owner went out to put the rack on the car, and she stood inside chatting with an older man who’d just gotten back from skiing in someplace where it was really, really cold. When the shop owner and her dad came back in, she asked, “Did you guys figure it out? It took you forever!”

    I just kept sitting there, until that call came from M, and then I pedaled my old clunker back home for lunch, after which I dozed on the futon until the freshman called me back in. I again suffered tremendous brain freeze, but this time came away with the new bike.

    It looks very much like my old one, but with matching tires, fenders, and more black components. It weighs about half as much, though–and is much stronger, with more gears, and other great improvements.

  • goodbadi

    Interested Worry

    The auctioneer representing the sellers of a house we really really really really really want to buy commented today that “worry is interest on a problem that hasn’t happened yet.” I’m not really worried right now, as much as full-to-the-brim-with-anxious-expectation-that’s-not-too-certain-to-be-satisfied.

    In two ways, this is the case.

    The first way is that the temperature tonight, wind chill included, will be down to an ohmygosh -3 degrees. Okays, so that’s nothing like my sister-in-law’s balmy -15 of last night, but I’m hoping it’s cold enough to bring down a two-hour delay or maybe even a day off from school.

    The second way I’m soggy-bottom excited is that we’ve placed an offer on the house we really really really really really want to buy and pretty much no matter what the sellers counteroffer, we’re going to accept the price and pay for it because we really really really really really want it.

    In neither situation does my jittery self-splatment really help anything move along or make me any more tolerable to my dear wife and daughter. In a way I can feel the compounding of that worry-esque interest into a sleepless night that will leave me even more jittery, discombobulated, and otherwise fuddled.

    Good grief.

    Amen.

  • goodbadi

    No News

    Two full business days have passed, and I’ve still received no news from the credit union. While I find this sobering, I’m also delighted that my new bike is being built for me and maybe will be ready by Saturday.

    Hopefully the credit union will come through retroactively.

  • goodbadi

    Better Than Hybrid

    Here’s a message I sent this afternoon to my credit union:

    “Greetings! I appreciate very much your tremendous service. I do have one suggestion: When I was in the credit union office on Saturday I saw that if I would buy a hybrid vehicle, the credit union would contribute $500. I commend you for this–and would challenge you to go a step further and also sponsor commuter bicycle purchases. My personal goal is to ride 78 miles of my 130-mile weekly commute. To that end, I hope to purchase a better bike in the next week or two. Since biking is tremendously greener and cheaper than even hybridizing, I wonder if you would consider contributing to my purchase and adding it to your hybrid purchasing program so that others may be encouraged to get green and healthy. Thanks for your consideration!”

    Now, I know that the credit union’s hybrid program is actually part of their car loans program, so since I will not be taking out a loan to buy a bike, they may scoff and smirk. But it’s worth a shot, eh?

    I’ll let you know what I hear back.

  • goodbadi

    Pudding in Perspective

    Even pudding–lots of it–can’t make the world entirely palatable.

    In a fit of misguided foresight earlier this week I made not one 8-ounce serving per upcoming school day but, instead, the whole dang bag of instant chocolate pudding. It was Monday night–with but four packed lunches to go, my friend–and I made seven servings, plus a large cereal bowl full of the stuff. I used all of the milk M had mixed for us (skim with whole, since we like 1% or 2% but N’s supposed to have whole), for which I felt kind of bad but only until I saw that there was still plenty back.

    Since then I have been faithfully imbibing the stuff. We ate the bowl on Tuesday night for desert, and every day I took one serving to school for lunch, except for Thursday, when I rode my bike to school. I ate two that day, one for lunch and one just before riding home. It gave me quite a boost.

    It’s a good problem to have, mind you, in comparison to what so many other people have to deal with, which is what I learn about at lunchtime at school. That’s when I usually I grab my bread and cheese and (this week) pudding and sit down at a computer to listen to NPR’s hourly news updates, surf other news outlets, and watch Reuters news videos. It’s my junkie time.

    Lately while I’m watching news, though, I’ve noticed a side effect of my increasing enamoredness with N: I find it unbearable to watch news of children harmed–and there seems to be no shortage of imperiled children, most recently in the midst of the Israeli-Palestinian atrocities. In Gaza, “as many as 257 children have been killed and 1,080 wounded — about a third of the total casualties since Dec. 27, according to U.N. figures released Thursday,” says MSNBC.

    The pudding appeal pales, but that’s the least of humanity’s worries.

    War? Good God.