from happyrobot - updated 6/9/2026 3:08:59 AM https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp en-us https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9906 Read them.  Smile.  Laugh at yourself gently.  Put them away. ]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9902 My father is a tall and honest man. He always reaches out a long lean arm or comes in for a suprisingly tight hug (for a man of 1950's reserve) with a hearty--Hey guy!  I say this now too.

He loved my mother through many angry years when she was unlovable. (She would never admit it, but I know she is grateful now and thanks her lucky stars they never hung it up.)  He enjoys mildly off-color and ethnic based humor.

My father wanted to be a history professor, but came from a family and time when "Business Major" was the only college alternative. He was a dedicated though ultimately failed business man. See "honest" above. He reads long biographies and naps through History Channel programming.

He makes a mean breakfast. Thin buttery pancakes, ham and cheese omeletes, perfect bacon. I got up too early as a kid and we would have long mornings reading on the porch or on the family room floor, walks to the bakery or drives for the paper and then I'd sit at the kitchen table and watch him make breakfast as the rest of the house finally stirred. It was the only part of the day that I was never in trouble.

My father does not complain. When I've tried to complain to him, he is quick to point out that I have four working limbs, my health, family and friends. This was infinitely irritating in adolescence and infinitely comforting as an adult.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9867 1. I used to believe Anita Hill was lying.

      1. (a) I used to believe that sexism was limited and largely imagined in this day and age.

2. I used to believe I would get married in my hometown church, St. Joes, and we would all sing The King of Glory Comes, A Nation Rejoices.

3. Subsequently, I used to believe I would never marry.

4. I used to believe I looked badass smoking.

5. I used to believe discussing another person's past tragedies or sorrows was interesting.

6. I used to believe I was smarter than most and uglier than most.

7. I used to believe in loneliness.

8. I used to believe I controlled what would happen next, or at least--I believed very much in planning.

9. I used to believe tomorrow would make up for today.

10. I used to believe Steak-ums were real meat.

11. I used to believe there were things as-or more-important than good and kind.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9847 In the summer of 2003 I fell hard for John Edwards. I was in North Carolina for the summer and was feeling N.C.'s surprising pull toward permanence, which I've found never quite releases you. A second-life parfaited with straightforward and nostalgia. Edwards was in the air there then, everyone seemed to be working for him or wanting to. I loved the two Americas speech the same way I loved the best of times worst of times symmetry of Dickens. I even went to a rally and stood in the rain holding signs and shouting high school football cheers modified only slightly to accommodate a candidacy. I defended him sheepishly as long as I could.

So it is with a pretty big amount of sympathy that I think of Elizabeth Edwards. Toddlers, dying, and married to a douche-bag. When is it enough? The affair? The affair when he knew you were sick? The alleged promise to have The Dave Matthews Band play at their wedding after your demise? The child? Denying the child? Undenying the child? Dealbreakers often pass you by, paralyzing in their magnitude. There seems to be some other, internal source that controls when we can begin dissolution. An independent strength that will only move in its own time. Perhaps for Elizabeth it was the realization that "terminal" still holds many, many days, but they don't have room for extra indignities.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9837 Particularly in college and, more embarrassingly, a few times after, I borrowed some of my friends' crushes. This is a mortal sin in the land of girl-loyalty. The only thing worse than someone stealing your boyfriend is someone casually making-out with the guy-you-are-hooking-up-with-but-wish-was-your-boyfriend. I didn't want to keep them or "win", at least I don't think so, but I sure did love making out with some off-limits goods. I really don't know what got into me. But I always returned them. blah. That sounds even worse. Its amazing I still have girl friends.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9480 When I first moved to DC, I was in the habit of giving food to homeless people. Because, of course, if I gave them money they would spend it on alcohol, or worse! In the smaller towns I had been living in, the homeless recipients of my benevolence were always polite and grateful and I would move along feeling warm and self-righteous. (And keep my money to buy myself alcohol, or worse!)

One Saturday afternoon, on a date, walking around Dupont Circle with all the confidence of early dating, where the new person does not yet know that you are in fact occasionally boring, un-cool and ridiculous, I came across the meanest homeless man in DC. He was 7 feet tall and had a loud bellowing voice that I heard a block away: WHAT DOES A MAN HAVE TO DO TO GET SOMETHING TO EAT? Over and over again he shouted this out. Angrily. He was standing in front of Chipotle. I ignored him and my date, said I would be right back and went inside. One burrito later, I emerged and handed it to the meanest homeless man in DC.

With a sneer, he said, did you put guacamole on it? Taking in the stunned look on my face, he shouted: WHAT, YOU DON'T THINK I HAVE THE RIGHT TO ASK THAT? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I HAVE THE RIGHT TO ASK FOR GUACAMOLE!  And on and on.  He followed me down the sidewalk, berating me until I ran across the street, dumping the burrito in the trash as I went. Everyone stared. My face was red for miles.

I give money now.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9457 I have one of those mothers who was overvigilant in her parenting when I grew up and often imposed long sentences of "you're grounded" without consulting the calendar first. Like a judicial order, she would often leave a post-it on the mirror at the end of the hall, something to the effect of: Stuff under the bed. Again! Grounded - three weeks. In that same script they all learned in Catholic school in the '50s.

On at least two occassions during the prime Halloween enjoyment ages, lets say 7-11, Halloween fell during one of these pronouncements.  As a point of pride, my mother would never say something to her children "and not follow through" like all those hippie parents raising lawless, spoiled brats. So there was no negotiating. Every time the doorbell rang I wanted to (1) answer it and try and at least pilfer some of the candy we were handing out (2) die of embarrassment and (3) cry, angry angry ten-year-old tears.


]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=9017 On Fridays (and occasionally on other days) I like to sneak out of work early. Usually that just means leaving at five. I cram keys and phone and card and license and blackberry into my pants pockets. Picking up my keys gently so that my secretary doesn't here the tell-tale signs of packing up. I don't hit G on the elevator, in case anyone gets on with me and instead lurk off on the second floor. To the front stairs and out the visitor's entrance. In the summer, I'm usually a little giddy and run for a block or two. Overcome with that feeling of sneaking through back yards or stashing a 40 in your bag into the movies.

But the winter is cold and obviously bundling into a coat and hat and gloves before sidling down the hallway would be a give away. I wince at the bus station and shift from foot to foot clenching my fists (my pockets, you'll recall are quite full). Or I'll shiver guiltily into a cab.

If I can't leave early but I'm not being dragged along by a neck rope of deadline stress, I literally can't do anything. Endless detention hall minutes stall in my office.  I stare at my coat and hate-dream about leaving it behind for good. Walking out and wearing layered sweaters on Monday and all the Mondays after.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8722 I've had some splendid summers. By the lake in North Jersey. 13 on and 3 days off lifeguarding, never seemed too much. Hot dusty dirt faking at sand and pulling-on-my-arms kids. A beat up planked raft in the middle of all that blue and a rowboat I handled better than any car. I usually covered even on my days off. Who wouldn't.

One of those I met Paul. The first one to also be hung up on stories and sentiment. The night sky on top of you when you lay in the middle of still warm roads that you've driven your entire life. Did everyone have that summer? I was 19. I conveniently forget the diner that November sitting across from him in a silent vinyl booth. Curling the scalloped paper edges of my placemat as I realized he'd never leave that town.

Another I was a counselor. Afterwards there was that lake party in the Poconos, drunk clambering on the roof, promises to be friends forever. Destiny and purpose thrown about that roof like so many cigarettes smoked down and flung off, not caring where they might land. A trip to a grandmother's lake house and an uninterrupted swim. Still hunting that lake.

The one where I fell in love in a stairwell, sweating and surprised.
The ones where I tried to get back to that stairwell over and over.
That great one that was nutty but had rain and a reservoir and a secret.

I'll have some more I think. But sometimes those other ones just kick sand in my face.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8379 In anticipation of potential snow today, my firm sent out a helpful reminder of its inclement weather policy. I've included excerpts below:

"The firm's policy is to remain open at all times during normal business hours-- our responsibilities to clients require that we follow this policy. . .

This office does not automatically follow the Federal government as a means of determining how to respond to severe weather conditions.*(emphasis in original).

* Unless weather conditions are severe (e.g., hurricane, blizzard, terribly-heavy snowfall), the office will remain open."

That's right, not just heavy snowfall, we must have terribly heavy snowfall (which I believe is terribly unlikely in DC) to even think about a day off. Unlike those lazy Federals who left at 2 p.m. today just because of some icies. No wonder the terrorists are winning.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8359 I make a harsh immediate judgment on people when I first meet them. I label them entitled or not entitled. Entitlement people start sentences with "I deserve_____" [fill in the blank with a raise, a vacation, more love, cashmere, respect etc]. Some of my friends are entitleds, as are about half the people I've dated and most of my family. Entitleds are hard in restaurants and in hotels. They complain to waiters and desk clerks and the injustice of a drafty window seat or a noisy hotel room can ruin meals or whole mornings of vacation.

I can't stand entitlement. To a fault probably. I overcompensate for my overreaching comrades by silently chewing the cold soup, refusing to ask for refunds, making excuses for others when I even sense they won't be able to live up to the basics of love.
A smart friend of mine said that she hates all the "I deserve" comments because they are so small. That what was really maddening about every, but I deserve a new car! is a whimpering underbelly of a question: is that it? is that really all you deserve?

One of my favorite books as a child had a chapter called: What it means to be a wanter. Young girl Robin, big family, jalopy truck, migrant workers, California, the Depression. Think Steinbeck with pictures. Robin had an older sister always asking for little treats from cash-strapped Dad: nail polish, candy etc. Robin never asked for such frivolity. But Robin wanted a house and a yard and to go to one school. She wanted a childhood. And every time Dad had to move the bedraggled family to one more temporary fruit picking shack, Robin filled the broken down truck with her silent wanting. After complaining again about her sister's petty demand for hair ribbons or some such thing, Dad finally called Robin out: you're the real wanter in this family.

What does it mean to be that kind of wanter? To never ask not because you're some bigger contented person, but because what you want is just so much.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8356 When I was looking for a place in dc for me and my then girlfriend, a friend introduced us to a partner at his law firm who had a cute place right in dupont. The place was too small and both of our wide open spaces rebelled. The owner, I'll call him John, was charming and serious and I remember thinking I hope I make friends like him when I move up here. I was jealous of the pirate t-shirt he wore. I told him so.

after we decided not to take that place in dupont.
and after she decided not to come with me anyhow.
and after things had ended.
My friend disclosed that John has been a prime suspect in a murder case since August. Not just shoot the clerk or run over your ex-wife murder, but stabbing a good friend who slept over his house repeatedly in the heart for no apparent reason murder. John may very well be innocent. Or we may have rented an apartment from a stab you in the heart in the middle of the night murderer.

We were standing on his parquet floor on a September Saturday, yawning about where the sofa would go and which coffee shop we'd favor. and I didn't know anyone in that room.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8207 "Once an objector appeals, control of the proceeding lies in the court of appeals. The court of appeals may undertake review and approval of a settlement . . .or may remand to the district court to take advantage of the district court's familiarity with the action and settlement."

p123 of The Revised 2006 Rules of Federal Procedure.

words to live by. and not far off from basic principles of grade school: if you get the teacher involved with your fight with suzie, you have to live with what the teacher says. unless the teacher is sick of you and suzie and then she'll send you off to settle it yourselves.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8146 As tallied so far in the Virginia Senate race 1,172,020 people voted for Democrat Jim Webb. 1,165,109 million people voted for George Allen. 1,325,668 people voted in favor to amend the Virginia constitution to protect the Commonwealth from gay marriage. 1,003,967 people voted to leave the constitution alone.

This wasn't one of those run of the mill marriage equals one man and one woman amendments. Ever wordy in its laws, the Commonwealth added the following:

“This Commonwealth and its political subdivisions shall not create or recognize a legal status for relationships of unmarried individuals that intends to approximate the design, qualities, significance, or effects of marriage. Nor shall this Commonwealth or its political subdivisions create or recognize another union, partnership, or other legal status to which is assigned the rights, benefits, obligations, qualities, or effects of marriage."?

Now that's really going the extra mile. (I especially like the ? mark at the end). That's not like--hey, you have to sit at the back of the bus. . . it's a little more like you can't sit anywhere on the bus, oh and if you try and build your own bus, well you can't get on that either.

My point. About 315,000 people had enough sense to vote against George Allen, but not against this amendment. Now I'll knock out some religious independents and pissed off Republicans. That still has to leave a good chunk of run of the mill Democrats who in the privacy of the voting booth elected to say, well maybe on this one little issue, I do have a little Jerry Falwell in me.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=8121 My last job blocked happy r. It had one of those filters that blocked any non-approved sites that were accessed too much. I guess I accessed too much.

I changed jobs and moved this month. Or rather, I elected to perform my soulless ankle-biting job at a different desk in DC instead of the south. [contrary to the opinions of some New England friends, DC is not the South. It has Dunkin Donuts and places to buy nice shoes].

Much is the same. I am still a lazy time waster at this job. My chair is the same. My secretary has the same name as my old secretary. But there is a seriousness that is different. The young men around me never smile. Never. Already defeated by the lie of adulthood at 26. When I get off the train in the morning I have to fight the urge to shout “Captains of Industry!” and raise a fist in the air. Such is the relentless surge toward productivity chugging through the opening doors and up the escalators.


When I leave at night the dome of the Capital is at the end of the street to my left. In the cold dark it is the most perfect white I've ever seen—so perfect that I never look during the daytime. At night, I see the very first day of every intern, every staffer, every politician. The immense hopefulness of all those breathless first days piles into a brilliant white heap, gleaming at the end of a grand avenue. I smile in spite myself and for all the lost boys still sitting at their desks.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=7661 came home for cigarettes and a jacket. stopped short for neko case and a longing for old friends. i am lucky. i have a table at the bar next door. an outdoor irish carved upon table. everyone at it delights in me and is waiting. and they are the best of acquaintances. if i was a little less comparative i would just love the ones i'm with. and not take five more minutes to type right now: why can't it be ginny and blaine and karen and olivia and genoa and dana. i would be thankful. i will leave and try again. because the world is kind, and i owe it my very best, best effort.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=7654 Last night I went to a poetry reading. At a college. Was the last one when I was in college? Perhaps. The crowd was more earnest, dirtier and prettier than I recall. The sweat of four o clock practice licked me. The poet was an almost-famous. Sought after by this small school, and delivering great lines, but not quite great poems. He wrote too much of wrens and the passing shadows of cranes. What is it with poets and birds? I always want to shriek out in homeless lady voice: YOU CAN'T FLY. GET OVER IT.

He read a ten part twenty minute poem. Do they not teach against that practice in poetry reading class?

I passed the time by conjuring every line from literature that rumbles in my brain while peering obviously around the room at breathless shaggy haired poets leanining forward, eyes closed, chin in palm. Here are a few:

my knees bounced and I jounced the limb

i saw the best minds of my generation, starving, hysterical, naked

a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every 25th of december

tyger tyger burning bright like a forest in the night

that is not what I meant at all, that is not it at all

one must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs and the fir trees crusted in ice; one must have been cold a long time. . .

if only i could say mother. mother.

out out damn spot!

snow was general over all Ireland

come live with me and be my love and we would all the pleasures prove

water water everywhere and not a drop to drink

and on and on. I was so grateful for the interminable chorus of my education.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=7612 I am a believer in spring break as a permanent part of life. Highlights from those past:

Walking into a friend's house in Fort Lauderdale to find a platter of fresh cut pineapple, shrimp cocktail and the warmth of retired parents delighting in four 19 year olds to fill up their pool and dinner table with silly chatter for five days.

Booze cruise, puerta villarta 1998. Do I even need to describe? I will just a bit. . . there were flirty Mexican boatmen, a donkey ride to a water fall on a lush island (you could slide down the waterfall!!), tortilla buffet, illegal diving off the top railings of the anchored boat, a newlywed couple folded into one another on the ride home, dolphins, tequila shooters. . .

A camping trip to Assateague, late spring, but a break nonetheless. Wild ponies, an imagined future reminisced over a camp fire, a breathless heart beat the entire ride home, do I say the word love, this soon, in this minute, maybe the next mile, maybe after another cigarette.

Rushing out of a VW van after an all night trek across the mountains in Costa Rica to a 6 am beach, the mighty Pacific wagging its finger at me, why do you never visit? and I, with guilt, stripping off winter and running into her--vowing never to tell my loyal Atlantic about my spring time affair.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=7603 In honor of all those in party attendance; clearly I am not. In fact, sadly on this Saturday night I am entering my time for the month and drinking beer. Must factor in treats when I can. As if I didn't have enough trouble writing for anyone other than The Man (The Man by the way gets an average of five to six pages per day; apparently my writing impulses are currently owned by over-grown smart southern frat boys) my firm has surf blocked happy robot. So only non office computer time for me.

But all is not whiny blather. . . this week brings vacation. Miami, south beach, art deco hotel. The beach, dog races, mojitos, late afternoon sunburt kisses. I can't wait, but I will.

I talked to friend tonight who I used to teach with (before I sold my soul to the above mentioned Man). She spoke about her life's goal of living and teaching in one community so that one day she teaches some of her first students' children.
I keeping hop-scotching life stones. She is standing solidly on a timeless kind of rock.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/state_line.asp?id=7520 Springtime here yesterday and today. All my windows are open and the flowering trees are flowering. My sister calls from home with snow on her ground and I recall how angry I felt as a child that the lion of March always crushed the lamb.

The year 2000 was my first spring in the south and it felt like a lucid dream. I still get that feeling. This morning I am not really negotiating the balance of unfinished work. . . I am wandering through a misty backyard, green and with edges of white and palest of pink buds. I am warm from sleep and the coolness of the wetted air reminds me that I am a live and living thing, and that soon, I should awaken.]]>