Trumping Trump

I don’t know how to explain why Tom and I have watched The Apprentice. The first season had a “Survivor-esque” feel to it, and we love Survivor, but the similarity between the two shows is long since departed. And at first I supposed that the show might provide a window into The Donald’s mind, and I will admit to a strange curiosity on my part to get an armchair insight into what makes a guy like that tick. Could he really be only about money and its power to obtain young and beautiful women? I remember a scene in the first season in which Trump rode down a golden escalator toward the candidates waiting in the lobby, with trumpets blaring in the background as though to announce the arrival of royalty, and I thought, “Well, he certainly makes no apologies for his ostentatious displays of ego; let’s see what else he is about.” But it turns out that he isn’t about anything else.

Six seasons into the show and with a slew of people too ruthless to turn your back on left in Trump’s wake, I now think that I may have been watching for the same reason that some drivers have to look at a car accident as they pass by. It’s kind of like when I saw a certain embedded link on my brother-in-law’s blog that made clear to anyone with half a brain that clicking on it would lead to a photo that would be extremely offensive to anyone not interested in viewing what two men dressed in black leather from the waist up and nothing from the waist down will do to each other if they are erect and not heterosexual, and yet I clicked on that link and saw said photo. Argh! When I read the Bible I interpret much of it symbolically and metaphorically, but when I saw that photo on jonsonblog, I wanted to follow the literal meaning of the verse, “If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out.” Mind you, I didn't feel this way because it was gay porn; I think any porn is icky, but that's just me. I personally do not look at car accidents as I pass by, and I will exercise more self control when I’m visiting jonsonblog in the future, but I’m still undecided about whether I will waste my time this coming Sunday night by watching The Apprentice. Why is this? What is wrong with me? There are other things that I could do with my time on Sunday night. For example, I could vacuum dustbunnies from under the bed. I could iron Tom’s underwear. I could get a head start on our income taxes this year. I could eat fried worms. Any of these would be more interesting and worthwhile than spending an hour with Donald Trump.

Every season I watch a bunch of people I care nothing about stab each other in the back for the chance to grovel at Trump’s feet. Never have I seen a larger group of yes men and women gathered in one place eager to do their worst to each other. It’s disgusting. Like a car crash. Like a hyperlink to a nasty photo. This season The Donald has added a new layer to the daily humiliation his candidates must endure for a shot at being beaten up all the way to his payroll: Half of the candidates, the team that has lost (usually by a hair) at the assigned (and asinine) task that week, must sleep in tents in the backyard of the mansion where the “winning” team stays, which mansion is next door to the mansion in which Trump lives. The losers live, eat, sleep, cook, shower in cold water, dress, and do their business outdoors. Trump seems to think it only natural that someone would be willing to debase themselves in this way for a chance to work for him. To him such willingness must be a clear testament to his power and greatness. They say that there’s an ass for every seat, and in this case Trump has found a team of asses for the lawn chairs occupied each week in his backyard.

Then last Sunday comes a breath of fresh air. Michelle. I don’t give a rat’s pitooty about how she performed in the tasks, whether her leadership style was effective, whether her teammates liked her, or whether she should have been fired. She managed the project, lost the task, and was about to get “fired” anyway. But then, in a very gracious and dignified way, she told Trump, to his face, in front of millions of viewers, that she was quitting. She went out on her own terms. And Trump was in shock. He couldn’t rally effectively. His ego-saturated brain could not wrap itself around what was happening. He asked Michelle why? He goaded, was sleeping in the backyard too tough? Dude didn’t get it. Nothing is too tough as far as I’m concerned, as far as most goal-oriented people are concerned, if whatever it is you’re after is worth it to you. It wasn’t worth it to Michelle, and it wouldn’t have been worth it to me, and I’m not even flush when it comes to self esteem either. Maybe I’m soft from privilege, but why sleep in a tent in someone’s backyard if you don’t have to? What kind of wacky way is that to prove your worth in business? That Trump would expect someone to sleep in his yard for the chance to work for him speaks volumes about how he feels about other human beings. And that anyone would sleep in Trump’s backyard for the chance to work for him only proves desperation and a willingness to demean oneself for a buck. And make no mistake about it, that’s the bottom line of why these people want to be near Trump: Trump’s money. Michelle firmly and courteously told Trump that the process was not what she expected it to be and that she was choosing not to participate in it any further. She thanked him for the opportunity, but declined to continue pursuing the job. He called her a quitter. He said he hated quitters. And then Trump made some statement about how he respects a boxer who would stay in the ring and lose while taking his punches rather than a boxer who would quit in his corner. I think a boxer who’d continue to take punches knowing he was going to lose anyway is stupid from having his brains beaten while rich white guys place bets and watch, but that, perhaps, is an issue for a later post. And I think someone who walks away from a highly dysfunctional situation no matter how promising the pay might be is strong and smart and mentally healthy.

So, Michelle, good for you. You’ve been the one sane person in six seasons of dysfunction, backstabbing, and groveling. You stood up to The Donald and you did it with class. You didn’t say no. You said no thank you. Trump’s über-ego is boring, his treatment of the candidates is disturbing, and even more disturbing is the candidates’ treatment of each other. Sorry Donald, sorry Apprentice-wannabes, but being ruthlessly cutthroat and climbing over the backs of everyone around you is not necessary to succeed in life. It might make you some money in the short term, and the money might get people to kiss up to you, but they’d only be kissing up because you’ve got money. Does anyone in Trump’s life like, love, or want to be around him for any reason but his money? And I mean anyone? Would his most recent wife be with him if he were poor? Is Trump a success in business? Maybe. In life? Depends how you look at it. I guess I’m not looking at it like Trump, otherwise I wouldn’t have been watching the show out of morbid curiosity. But if you’re a candidate on The Apprentice, don’t let on if you think that there are more important things in life than money unless you want to be called weak and stupid and then get “fired” on national television. And by the way Mr. Trump, how do you fire someone you haven’t even hired in the first place?

Mind the Gap

At the very moment that we learned that Courtney was accepted into the study abroad program at her university and that she would be living in London from January through June of this year, I began to worry about her feet getting cold and wet. I come by my fears honestly because (a) I’m her mother, and (b) she’s lived most of her Southern-California-born-and-raised life in flip flops. In fact, even on the rainiest days Courtney prefers flip flops because then, she says, you don’t have to worry about your shoes and socks getting wet. But what I tried to tell Courtney, and correctly so I might add, was that London weather, and London rain in particular, is different from Southern California rain.

Courtney was not worried about her footwear. She planned to take UGG boots, one pair of UGG boots. Arghhhhh! I knew that those would get wet on the first day and then she’d have nothing dry and warm for the second day and then by the third day she’d catch pneumonia and then on the fourth day, unable to breathe, she would not be able to call home and then on day five she’d croak off all alone in a foreign country.

So I wanted her to take at least one pair of Land's End All-Weather Mocs, the warmest, driest, most comfy shoes on the planet. Courtney pronounced them ugly and said she would not take a pair with her even if they were free, which I told her they were because I’d buy them for her. She flat-out refused them, even when I offered to throw in the UGG boots. She argued fashion and I made excellent points about function over form. I even bribed her with new sweaters if she'd to go with me and try on a pair. When it was clear that she wouldn’t listen to reason, I enlisted Kristen’s help. Kristen enlisted Adam’s help, and when none of us was making any progress, I called out the big guns: Trish. Trish knows England well, and Courtney loves Trish. Surely, Trish could convince her, I hoped. I was wrong again. Courtney prevailed. She packed up her UGG boots and off she went. I am guessing there were flip flops stowed away in her bags, but I preferred to remain in denial, so I didn’t ask.

Now it doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know that I was transferring my feelings of worry over Courtney traveling and living overseas all by herself to simply worrying over footwear, but still. However, it turns out that not having the proper shoes upon arrival was the least of Courtney’s problems. Courtney had no shoes or anything else upon arrival.

Courtney’s connecting flight in New York left without her due to a ten-minute delay at take off. The American Airlines agent at JFK scolded Courtney for booking her flights with too short of a layover, which flights Courtney PURCHASED ON AMERICAN AIRLINES’ WEBSITE AS A PACKAGE from San Diego to London. American could not get Courtney out on a flight to London in this decade, so they booked her on British Air (in business class!) for the following night. Then they gave her a voucher to a Best Western in the dodgy end of town and a $5 meal voucher (she was delayed for over twenty-four hours). The next day when Courtney arrived back at JFK to check in for her British Air flight, British Air would not honor American’s business class voucher. American Airlines blamed British Air and British Air blamed American Airlines. Tom was on one phone with British Air and I was on the other phone with American, and despite our best efforts for over an hour, we could not get either airline to budge. British Air said it needed a hard copy of a voucher with certain precise wording on it, and because American had already provided a hardcopy voucher with what it thought ought to be sufficient precise wording, American thought British Air should accept any revised precise wording by computer, fax, or telephone, which it would not, and British Air told us she was lucky to be on the flight at all. American allows one carry-on and one personal item, but British Air made Courtney check her carry-on suitcase, and so off she went with everything checked but her backpack.

When Courtney arrived in London there was nary a suitcase waiting for her. And guess what? American Airlines blamed British Air and British Air blamed American Airlines. Courtney filled out a lost-baggage report and headed for her dorm to check in quite late, only to open her backpack and find her laptop broken. Still, this self-sufficient survivor managed to get to the last thirty minutes of her day-long orientation with no sleep, no change of clothes, and no computer. I took out a second mortgage on our house and overnight shipped Courtney a box of her contact lenses, and told her to go buy the essentials she needed while she waited for her luggage. When Courtney went to purchase a change of clothes and what not, the credit card company’s fraud protection unit immediately placed a hold on our account because I forgot to call ahead and tell them there would be charges on it from England.

Throughout this debacle, I was on the phone with Courtney around the clock, and I mean around the clock. My eyes felt like sandpaper, as I know did hers. Courtney left on Saturday morning. On Tuesday afternoon, I had this conversation with her:

Mom: “Courtney? Are you okay, Baby?”

Courtney: “I’m okay.”

Mom: “Do you have your luggage yet?”

Courtney: “No.”

Mom: “Have you called the airline?”

Courtney: “No. I filled out a report at the airport and gave them my dorm address.”

Mom: “Courtney, you have to follow up with them. It’s Tuesday. The last time you saw your bags was Saturday. The longer the bags stay lost, the less chance you have of ever seeing them again.”

Courtney: “I know.”

Mom: “Would you like me to call the airline for you and see if I can track it down? You can give me the number from the report you filled out and I’ll see what I can find out.”

Courtney: “I left the report at my dorm.”

Mom: “Where are you?”

Courtney: “At someone else’s dorm.”

Mom: “When will you be back at your dorm?”

Courtney: “I don’t know.”

Mom: “Well, what are you doing Honey?” [Thinking: “What are you doing that could be more important than finding your luggage?”]

Courtney: “We are going to go see Buckingham Palace.”

Mom: “Aaaaah. Well, when you get back to your dorm, you can call me with the report number if you want, and I’ll try to help you.”

Courtney: “I’ll call you later, Mom.”

Mom: “Okay, but Courtney, as soon as you can, please try to find out what’s going on with your missing bags. You’re not going to go back to your dorm and find that your luggage has magically appeared in your room.”

Three hours later my cell phone rang.

Mom: “Hello.”

Courtney: “Mom, guess what?”

Mom: “What?”

Courtney: “When I got back to my dorm just now, my suitcases were in my room waiting for me!”

It turns out that it isn’t any easier to be a mum than it is to be a mom.

Four Generations Gathered

Tom’s grandmother, affectionately called Oma (German for grandmother, as she hails from Germany), turned 97 in October. By the way, the majority of the females who volunteered to be part of this family (i.e., we married or were adopted into it) have October birthdays, and we October gals are Oma (in by marriage), my sister-in-law Robin (in by marriage), my oldest daughter Kristen (in by adoption), and me (in by marriage). Oma lives in an assisted-living facility in Arizona, and we typically enjoy a birthday visit with her each October, but last year one thing or another kept us busy each and every weekend from October through December, and so our earliest opportunity to go was the first weekend in January. Tom’s parents were also going to see Oma that weekend, and dear Uncle Al would be on hand (he lives near Oma, and, as Oma proudly told us, visits her every Saturday without fail), so we were able to visit with them too. It was with a good deal of trepidation on my part that we put off our October birthday visit, because, well, doesn’t it go without saying that postponing a 97th birthday visit for a few months is risky business?

From what Tom and I observed, at least on the day that we were there (and for that matter during all of our past visits too), that in spite of the loss in her hearing and vision, and being confined to a wheelchair due to a stroke affecting one side of her body, Oma’s still got it going on mentally. Now I think it could be looked at as a double whammy to have your body go and have the presence of mind to know it. Personally, from where I sit today at the age of forty-six, I’m thinking that maybe I’d like to have a hot body right up until the time that my mind goes and then I wouldn’t care what happened from there, but, of course, this strategy will first require me to get a hot body. How I do digress.

We had a very nice visit with Oma, as we usually do. Despite the loss in her hearing, she is remarkably able to keep up her end of conversations. She tells us stories about her days with Hunter, her husband and Tom’s grandfather, who was affectionately called . . . Hunter, by his wife, children and grandchildren. I didn’t have the good fortune to know him, but his professional legacy as a pioneering fluid engineer lives on in his books and the educational films in which he “starred.” His personal legacy lives on, not only in Oma’s heart and stories, but also (if my math is right) in his three children, six grandchildren, and thirteen great-grandchildren (by birth, step, and adoption). Oma leaned toward me to say that she wonders if Hunter is watching all of us from “up there” or whether he went “down there” because he was an atheist. I told her that I personally believe that he’s “up there.” And I do. I refuse to accept that an otherwise good man would be excluded on a technicality. But if I find out that “up there” does not admit atheists per se, then I’m going to opt to go wherever my atheist husband spends his eternity because “up there” wouldn’t be “up there” without Tom. But I’m digressing again.

Oma still has her sense of humor, the sense of humor that the women who were married or adopted into this family must have in order to best survive, er, I mean serve in her role as a volunteer member. After we arrived at Oma’s assisted-living facility and everyone had greeted each other, we all sat down to begin our visit. From her wheelchair, with a clear voice, a warm tone, a German accent, and a twinkle in her eye, Oma looked around at us and then said, “Well, why don’t one of you tell me what’s new with you because not much is different around here.”

Laura with her great-grandmother,
grandfather, and father.

Bride of Chucky

I made a terrible, terrible mistake. And I have nobody to blame but myself. The whole thing is my own darned fault. I can’t even figure out a way to point the finger at Tom, and I’ve really sharpened my skills set in that area over the years too. Nobody in my family even knew I was going to do this. Laura didn’t even ask me for it once. She didn’t ask Santa. I brought this all on myself. And now I will be living with my punishment for who knows how many years to come.

Laura got Amazing Amanda for Christmas. Heard of her? Amazon.com’s product description says this:

Amazing Amanda is one of the first ever interactive large dolls that utilizes voice recognition, sensory technology and articulated animatronics, and the result is revolutionary, nurturing play. Amanda is a toddler who speaks, is getting potty trained, and eats the foods that toddlers love. She can recognize her "mommy's" voice and can respond after just hearing it three times!

Back in the day, Audio-Animatronics were the creation of Disney’s original Imagineers, and the term was trademarked in the 1960s. The Enchanted Tiki Room was one of the earliest displays of this technology. The exotic “birds” move their mouths as they speak and sing, turn their heads as they “talk” to one another, and while their movements are a little course, they are “enchanting” as the name of the attraction promises. At least I think so, although I admit to being easily amused. Eventually, Imagineers went on to perfect their craft to such a degree that I was able to fall madly in lust with Johnny Depp’s Audio-Animatron’s incarnation of Captain Jack Sparrow when I recently rode Pirates of the Caribbean. Even Johnny Depp was impressed with his Audio-Animatronic self.

Toys incorporating Audio-Animatronics have been around for a while, certainly since the days of Teddy Ruxpin, introduced a couple of decades back. Kristen and Courtney had one of them in the ‘80s. Teddy’s mouth and nose moved, his eyes blinked, and he “read” story books. Teddy’s movements weren’t particularly realistic, and as such he was neither freaky nor intimidating. He looked like a cozy ol’ teddy bear (although he was packin’ a loaded cassette deck in his gastrointestinal region), and you could even hear mechanical noises as he moved his mouth and eyes. He was a lot like those birds in the Enchanted Tiki Room.

Amazing Amanda, on the other hand, is like a little blond doll straight out of Disney’s Moments with Mr. Lincoln attraction, except not. Because unlike kindly old Abe, Amanda sits in your living room demanding you do her bidding. And she does more than simply speak, she "listens." I even hesitated to put the word listens in quotes because Amanda must be listening; her responses are given in accordance to that which is said to her. Her facial movements are pretty realistic, and thus freaky. She laughs, cries, and demands to be hugged. She tells you she wants to be fed, and is particular about which of her faux foods you offer. Don’t even try to feed her pizza if she’s asked for pasta. She knows. And she tells you so. But this isn’t even the worst part. Amanda is in the throes of potty training. What person in her right mind would willingly bring home a potty training toddler, particularly one who won’t be able to grow up and sneak Grey Goose into the nursing home for her? Thankfully, the food and drink Amanda “consumes” isn’t real, and blessedly she has no holes in her nethers from which anything comes out. But when she’s gotta go, she’s gotta go. And she tells you so. When she was commanded to do so, Laura put the doll on her little potty seat. Then Amanda elicited gales of laughter from everyone in our living room when she began to make grunting noises. I am not making this up.

As I think about it, Amazing Amanda may not be the worst thing to have happened to me in the 2006. With birthday money from Uncle Andy last year, Laura bought Baby Alive. Baby Alive eats “real” food and drinks “real” juice. Then Baby Alive has to have her diaper changed. Moreover, Baby Alive requires periodic high colonics to keep her “food” from clogging her insides. How do I get myself into these situations? Wait! I just thought of a way to blame Tom! If he had done the Christmas shopping, he would never have brought home Amazing Amanda. There. I feel so much better.

Blogger, Interrupted

Sure the holiday-related activities kept me from my keyboard, but mostly I haven't been able to write freely because there has been a squatter in my office. Her name is Courtney. I like to write in the early morning hours and Courtney likes to sleep then. When Courtney is awake and I try to write, she keeps talking to me. "Courtney, do you hear the keys clicking? That means I'm not listening." But she's not listening to me either, and so she keeps talking. Courtney will be leaving for London on Saturday. And, attention all burglars: The rest of us will be in Arizona over the weekend to visit Tom's grandmother. Oma is 97. After that I suspect that I will be able to get back into my much-loved routine of wasting way too much, er, spending quality time at my computer. Meanwhile, what Trish said.