Monday, December 12, 2005

Did I ever tell you that when I covered the police beat back in Hawaii, one of the cops asked me out on a date? He was 36 years old but said he was 32, and was recently separated from his wife. And I did it. I went on a date with this guy. How naive I was, not even a year ago. Fortunately, it didn't go beyond one lunch date and I haven't thought of him sense. He had problems. His (now ex) wife being one of them probably. Another one could possibly have to do with this:

He's the cop that got dragged. Incidentally, the accused murderer went to my high school. In fact, he was probably my classmate. I don't remember him though. Not surprising if his claim of having only a "ninth grade education," holds true.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

A dog named Chance

This is Chance (left) flirting with one of his girlfriends, Sasha. Sasha belongs to one of Chris' clients. That's her bone Chance is refusing to let go of (whadda gentleman). When Chris and I take Chance out to the dog park, we enjoy making up dialogues between Chance and the other dogs. It's fun. Sometimes we even assume character voices. OK, we do it all the time.


I learned last week that my mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. She will most likely opt for the masectomy. She was also diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.

I remember the time, when as a surly teenager dragged along with her to the public library, I muttered, "Stupid bitch," at her under my breath. She heard me and turned on me in fury, clamping my cheek between her sharp nails and twisting until I shreiked, "Ouch!" and pulled away violently. The look on her face told me she wished she could have punched me instead.

I remember how she dutifully dragged me to piano lessons, even though I hated it because the teacher made me sing. The day I finally threw a tantrum and demanded to quit, she slammed the car door on my leg, not intentionally, but she didn't apologize either. The full-scale piano my parents bought me collected dust in the living room for years after I quit, and I never really used it anyway. Eventually they sold it, along with the flip-up bench with storage space for music books that came with it. Some other kid, more dedicated to the craft, got a cool piano and I shrugged it off thinking, Well, I don't give a shit.

For years, I have held memories like these against my parents, against my mother. But she called me to tell me she had breast cancer and diabetes. She called to tell me that she is calling to find out who else in our family may have had these diseases, especially the diabetes because her doctor told her that one was definitely heridetary. She called because she was scared and concerned, above all, for her children.

My memories can be skewed. They tell my truth, but not the truth.