The Reality of Politics

by Meryl Neiman

Every other day it seems, someone is throwing their hat into the ring to be considered as the next president of the United States. As the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, I think this next election is going to be pretty critical so I've been giving it a lot of thought. And here's what I've decided.

We haven't been doing the best of jobs lately picking presidents the old-fashioned way. Very few people are pleased with the current president even though a majority of people cast their votes for him. The election before that, we're not even really sure who won, and the guy before that couldn't keep his pants on in office.

So here's what I'm suggesting. Maybe Americans aren't cut out for traditional democratic elections. We're not getting a good feel for our candidates via paid commercials, stump speeches, and staged debates. We need to see more of our candidates. We need to REALLY get to know them. We need Reality TV.

Sounds crazy I know, but hear me out. Americans are used to reality television. We're interested in it. We watch it. More people watch the final American Idol episodes than any political debate.

Let's say we followed the American Idol model for choosing our next president. Party strategists would travel the country to a few cities, combing the land for political talent. Those selected would journey to Washington where they would compete on live television before a national audience. There would be three "professional" judges. Let's see. . . . Maybe George Will (he'd not be bad in the Simon role -- he has that same ability to make intelligent, cutting remarks); Katie Couric (give her some narcotics and she'd do fine as the political version of Paula) and Al Roker as Randy (okay Al doesn't do political commentating much, but come on, they both had the same gastric bypass surgery).

Instead of singing, each week the candidates would be forced to respond to a serious political issue -- healthcare, the war in Iraq, global warming, America's dependency on foreign oil, etc. -- or handle an inprompu contrived political crisis, or engage in debate. The judges would give their recommendations and then the people would vote. No hanging chads. We wouldn't even have to leave our homes. We'd text message our way to our next US president.

You don't like American Idol? How about Survivor? Don't laugh. I think we'd weed out the idiots and the narcissists pretty quickly. It's hard to hide your spots for long on a deserted island with cameras following you 24/7. We'd toss in the five or so biggest contenders for president and then a healthy mix of non political challengers. I can assure you that if we'd followed the Survivor model, we would all have known about Clinton's little problem with women before he got near the White House (have you seen those skimpy bikinis?). We would get to see how our candidates forged alliances, observe their athletic and mental prowess, determine how they perform under extreme conditions, how they strategize, whether they can make fire . . .

And really, isn't Congress pretty similar to Survivor? A group of people obstensibly trying to get along, but really each one looking to advance his/her own career. We would just have to make one minor alteration. The jury at the end of the show would consist not of other contestants, but the American people.

Not convinced? How about The Great Race. We'd have teams of President and Vice Presidential candidates (yes, they'd have to come right out and pair up at the beginning, none of this pussyfooting around at the end) competing around the world. We'd weed out the ugly Americans, those who can't pronounce the names of foreign cities, those who can't work well in tandem with their partner. It would be a great way for the new president to introduce him or herself to the world at the same time as demonstrating his/her political mettle.

So, what do you all think? Couldn't hurt to try, could it?

Sleep

by Meryl Neiman

I've been thinking a lot about sleep these days. Maybe because I haven't been getting much of it.

I'm prone to bouts of insomnia. If I'm working too late or under stress, my brain refuses to turn off. Once I've had one or two nights of little sleep, then I become stressed about not sleeping. As you can no doubt see, this results in a vicious cycle of sleeplessness.

The past two weeks I was working 24/7 getting ready for an auction fundraiser. I finally turned to sleeping pills, but even those little beauties had their limitations. The event was on Saturday night. Everybody had a wonderful time (except for my husband and I who were running around like chickens with our heads cut off). People spent lots of money. A woman bid by proxy from Maine to win a trip to the world premiere of the new movie 300. Another woman spent over $4,000 to win a walk-on role in Weeds. Guests stayed out late after the event partying.

We came home. To sleep.

But my body was so used to not sleeping, that sleep still did not come. And, of course, there were all those post-event details to ponder. Like how to get the airline tickets and gift certificates back from the woman who inadvertently took them home with her package!

So, I've been thinking a lot about sleep. As babies, we sleep most of the day. Yet, as parents of infants know, sleep doesn't always come easy even then. My daughter would fall asleep in my arms and then awaken a minute after she was placed into her bassinet.

For most children, sleep is the enemy. Kids clamor to stay up late. I remember hating bedtime. Sleep seemed like such a waste of time. The interruption of a good day.

Now, I love to sleep. Snuggling into bed with a good book is my favorite time of day.

Then, of course, there's death. The ultimate sleep. The state that is so elusive to many envelops all of us permanently in the end.

How do you feel about sleep? Waste of time? Pure bliss? Any home remedies for insomni? My ears are open.

Behind The Scenes

by Meryl Neiman

A few weeks ago, I received a rare privilege. The chance to go behind the scenes of the Pittsburgh Ballet production of the Nutcracker. My mother-in-law had purchased tickets for the entire family and the backstage tour was offered to large groups.

We began in the beautiful lobby of the Benedum, but quickly we crossed the threshold into a different world. This was a world of uneven stairs and narrow hallways. This was the story behind the story.

We saw the room where the dressers work. These are the ladies who are responsible for readying all of the costumes for the performance. On the day we toured, we had tickets for the 4:30 matinee. This was the second production of the three performances of the Nutcracker for that day. The costumes are now machine washable (in the old days, the poor performers had to endure the stench of each prior wearing) but these women have to wash all the costumes and have them back in their locations in about an hour and a half. Then the dressers are responsible for assisting with each of the many costume changes throughout the day.

We also learned more about these costumes. They are not made, they are built. The costumes must, and can, survive for years and years of hard use. These are the best made clothes you have ever seen. Each one is sewn by hand. Each bead, each jewel, is hand stitched onto the material. Some costumes have thousands of these individually sewn adornments.

The toe shoes worn by the ballerinas are kept in boxes by size. Although these shoes are themselves well upwards of a $100 a pair, some dancers go through a pair a day. Once the toe box becomes soft, the shoes are no longer usable.

The Benedum is huge compared to most theaters. The stage is the third largest in the country. Yet things behind the scenes still appear cramped. There are costumes hanging in wardrobes in the halls. The Chinese dragon rests perched along one wall.

My daughter's favorite part of the tour was the stage. The curtain was down. Dancers stretched and danced across the specially laid floor. Set pieces were housed along the side. There was the famous Kaufman clock. There were the carousel horses just waiting for the young dancers who propel them across the floor with their small feet.

We saw how the theater can stage multiple productions at the same time. And we saw where the stage manager sits. He is the boss of the show. He cues every action in the performance from the curtain rising to the final bows. He handles the unexpected, like what to do when the children in the cast are suddenly struck by chicken pox!

At the end of the tour, we stood in the audience in the front of the first balcony. We were the only ones in that part of the theater. At first, the curtain is down. It was an empty theater, devoid of magic. But then slowly things began to happen. We watched as the hands on the clock above the curtain moved into the correct position for the beginning of the ballet. The curtain came up. Sets appeared. Lights are dimmed. We saw that moment when the play behind the scenes merged with the production that the audience sees.

And then I realized. This was no different than the work we do as writers. Like the seamstress who hand secures each bead, we struggle to find the perfect word. Not so that the reader will stop and admire it, but so the whole piece will sing. The craft of writing isn't glamorous. Behind the scenes, we plot our books, we make sure that each character's arc is complete, we hone our theme, we add healthy doses of conflict and tension, and we sweat every detail, every word.

But like the Nutcracker, if we have done our jobs right, the reader won't notice any of our work. He will merely be taken away into our fictional world and given a hell of a ride.

Senior Moments

by Meryl Neiman

I had a wonderful blog entry planned for today. I was going to write about my family's behind the scenes tour of the Nutcracker last weekend. I was going to compare the staging of the ballet to writing crime fiction. I had it all thought out. But there was just one problem. I forgot to write it!

Last night I was distracted by my sister's call for help. At age 43, she's changing career paths -- from business woman to genetic counselor. She's applying for a masters degree and wanted me to look over her essays. I couldn't say no.

Today my husband was off from work. I didn't realize he was to have the day off. We planned some errands and off we went. As we pulled into the Target parking lot, I remembered. My blog!

When I arrived back home and turned my computer on, I had to laugh. There was an e-mail from my fellow Sister in Crime, Nancy Martin, frantic with worry that she had forgotten her turn to blog.

No, Nancy it wasn't you. It was me. This isn't my first senior moment. At age 40, I have way more of them than I ever imagined. I forget words, names, and appointments! And now my blog!

Unfortunately, I have to hurry off to my daughter's holiday party. So you all will have to wait to hear about the Nutcracker. I couldn't do it justice in the minute that I have here. So I apologize and wish you all a very happy (and memorable!) holiday season.

Wiiiii!!!

by Meryl Neiman

My in-laws are generous. Too generous. Twice a year, we return from celebrating birthdays and Christmas with a stash of loot you wouldn't believe. I scan the street praying that no neighbors are there to witness my kids' embarassment of riches. The haul that emerges from our mini-van could entertain a day care. My kids don't need that much stuff. They don't play with most of it. And, more importantly, I don't have room for all the crap.

Actually, the stuff's not crap. It might be easier if it were. But the gifts are large. My husband's family lives on the compound out on the South Hills. His parents and two sisters, each with a family, live on adjacent properties. They have large suburban basements suitable for assimilating the bi annual toy onslaught. But we don't.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe my in-laws' strategy is to force us to move to the compound by overrunning our city home with life size Barbies and playmobile trains.

This year I had a plan.

A game system. Something expensive that could consume a lot of Christmas dollars, yet little real estate. So what that my children would be glued to the television set. So what that they would never again venture outside to play. I wouldn't have to Houdini a van load worth of toys into an already overflowing play room.

"Wii," my husband announced proudly, smiling over his laptop's screen.

"Wii, what?"

"The Nintendo Wii. That's the one we want. It's less than half the price of the new PS3 system, it's family friendly, and it features this innovative wireless remote that's an extension of the kids' arms."

I nodded. "Good. Tell your parents."

It wasn't until Thanksgiving evening that I heard of the first problem with our plan. Apparently, my husband wasn't the only one to recognize the beauty of the Wii. The game system was one of the hot toys of the season and impossible to get.

"Stores open at five tomorrow and Best Buy should have some," my husband said. "My dad and I are going to get up early and get one tomorrow."

"What time are you going to get there?"

"Five." He smiled, proud of his planned industriousness.

"But if the store opens at five, won't there be a line before then?"

I was right of course. The line stretched for blocks, but it didn't matter. Best Buy didn't have any Wiis for Black Friday. My husband and his dad returned home in time for lunch. They had scored a blazer, two lap tops for my father-in-law's office, trash compactor bags, an external hard drive . . . But no Wii.

But then something happened. I who knew nothing about game systems. I who hadn't played video games much at all since my Centipede period in college. I became obsessed. The Wii was not available. Hence, I had to have one. I searched websites. I called stores. I was a woman on a mission. We would have a Wii for my in-laws to present at Chrismas.

Last Friday, on an internet forum tip, I drove over to a game store in Edgewood. Just as I arrived, the UPS truck rolled to a stop in front of the store. I knew in my heart that this was my lucky day. Inside the store, two other grown-ups were already waiting for the Wii. We were giddy with anticipation. The store owner was sure that the shipment of Wiis had arrived. But it was not to be. The boxes contained that OTHER GAME SYSTEM. I left disappointed, but my determination intact.

On Sunday morning, I awoke before 5 AM. It was freezing cold. I pulled on my layers of clothing and wasted crucial time looking for a lawn chair that I never found. I intended to stay in my car unless people were already lined up outside Target. They were. In fact, when I arrived, I was told that the word was that Target would have 20 Wiis and I was person number 22. The older couple in front of me (number 21) said they were going to stay and hope. They wanted a Wii for their grandson. He was an honor roll student they said proudly. I thought about venturing off to another Target, but it was dark, and everyone told me the store was hard to find and I have no sense of direction. So I stayed too. And the line grew behind me.

It was damn cold, but the atmosphere was collegial and one man in line was downright entertaining.

Finally, at about 7:15, a Target employee emerged from the store. "We have 24," he announced. The crowd cheered. The target man handed me a ticket. I felt like Charlie getting his entree to the chocolate factory. I gripped the paper with frozen fingers and toddled off to my car to wait until the store opened. At 8:30, I returned home proud and satisfied.

I still check the Amazon Wii forum every once in a while. A lot of people on the list have found their Wii. But now something miraculous has begun to happen. Wii hunters from around the country are now searching for Wiis for others who have not been successful. They saw the posts of military personnel whose orders were cancelled because JCPenney couldn't ship to their address, single moms who can't wait in the lines, parents of autistic children whose kids will be distraught if there is no Wii under their tree for Christmas. And they have chosen to act. They troll stores looking for Wiis, they camp out overnight. Not for themselves but for somebody else's child.

My Wii adventure has been a quintessential American experience. There was the crass commercialism. The allure of what we cannot have. But there was also the generosity of spirit. People sharing Wii-finding tips with strangers around the world. And those that went further and became Wii Santas, determined to share the Wii with others less fortunate.

For everyone out there, I wish you a wiiiwonderful holiday.

Double Jeopardy

by Meryl Neiman

The double jepardy clause of the 5th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution "protects against three distinct abuses: [1] a second prosecution for the same offense after acquittal; [2] a second prosecution for the same offense after conviction; and [3] multiple punishments for the same offense." U.S. v. Halper, 490 U.S. 435, 440 (1989).

It makes sense. We wouldn't want law enforcement to be able to harass an individual, prosecuting them over and over for the same offense. The innocent should be protected from multiple trials. The guilty should be protected from multiple punishments.

Right?

Well, any good principle is most tested in the extreme cases. The ones that beg for an exception.

OJ Simpson is one such case. The man brutally murdered two people. The evidence was more than clear. But the prosecution's case was flawed: tainted by the foul mouth of the racist lead detective, an over abundance of highly technical testimony, and a glove gambit that failed. Ultimately, the jury did not want to convict one of the nation's African American sports heroes.

But rather than slink gratefully off into the night, OJ stayed in the public eye. He vowed to "track down his wife's killer." He enjoyed the high life while hiding his assets from the families of his victims.

Most recently, his case took a stomach twisting turn. OJ Simpson "authored" a book: If I Did It -- a "hypothetical" account of the slaughter of his wife and her friend.

OJ armed himself in the Constitution, relying on the 5th Amendment to protect him from a second trial, regardless of the content of his prurient story. And nobody questioned his right to do so. Our liberties are so entrenched that we embrace them even in those tough cases. And I'm proud we do.

I would never have bought that book. I would never let my dollars enrich a killer. Yet I struggled with whether to watch the Fox interview. I knew that I shouldn't. That I should boycott the television broadcast, just as I would the book.

But yet. What a rare opportunity. A chance to see a double murderer interviewed. A chance to hear him speak about that experience in his own words. Research for a crime novelist that is rarely replicated.

Now, thank God, my moral dilemna is no more. Just as our country stands up for its legal principles, people also speak up about what is right. The people told the publishing company and Fox that they would not tolerate OJ profitting from the lives that he ruined. And the publisher and Fox listened.

Tonight on Thanksgiving, I am thankful that I live in the United States. That I live in a place where law is above man, but man is free to speak and demand response.

Ask Your Father

by Meryl Neiman

It was the night before Halloween. Like a good mother, I scurried around getting my kids' costumes ready to take to school. Only I couldn't find the clown. My daughter had discovered it in my son's costume bag and tried it on a few weeks before. "I look cute," she pronounced. "I'll wear this." Being the savvy woman that I am, I knew enough not to put it back into my son's closet with the other costumes where it might get misplaced. I carefully secured it. Only now I had no idea where!

I have become one of the best educated stupid people I know.

I have no long term memory. Zero. Zilch. For a long time I wondered if my lack of childhood memories indicated some sort of repressed horror. Was I abused as a child? Abducted by aliens?

Now that I have gotten older, my childhood is not the only thing I can't remember. I still haven't found what I did with my daughter's Holloween costume. So I wasn't captured by a Satanic cult -- I'm just dumb.

And when you have kids, one of their prime jobs in life is to probe those missing brain cells. What causes lightning? Are tomatoes fruits or vegetables? Why do we burp?

And my answer is always: ask your father. My husband has an iron clad memory. He remembers everything he learned and he's learned quite a bit. So I refer almost all of my kids' questions to him. I went to college. And law school! But I am the household dunce.

What's the moral of this story? Save your money on college because your child might forget it all anyway.

Relaxing? Vacation

by Meryl Neiman

I'm posting from San Diego. My children are quiet, asleep in their beds. My husband is also asleep (although decidedly not quiet -- he snores!). For the first time in days, I have a moment to myself.

I'm on vacation. Or am I?

I'm in San Diego -- land of sun, water, and postcard perfect vistas. Since we arrived late day Monday, my kids and I have done it all.

We went to Sea World and marvelled at Shamu's athletic process. We fed fish to dolphins and patted their smooth heads (they feel like hot dogs, one child announced).

The next day it was on to the San Diego zoo. The polar bear amused us as he played with a traffic cone. The pandas endeared us (until momma panda had a non photographic moment -- a biological event that happens about 25 times a day now that pandas are vegetarians). One of the giraffes amazed us as she wrapped her snakelike tongue around a leaf.

This morning we took the trolley to Old Town. We visited San Diego's first public school and my children saw their very first dunce cap. They got to dip their own candles and learned about chamber pots! After returning to the hotel, we caught the water taxi to Coronado where we lunched at the beautiful Hotel Del Coronado and frolicked on the expansive beach. And don't forget the daily late afternoon swim in the resort's pool.

My husband's here for a conference. It's the American Academy of Child Psychiatrists. He's busy most of the time with meetings and presentations. So I've been doing a lot of single parenting. Trying not to raise my voice too loud when my son pushes extra buttons on the elevator. After all, I'm single parenting in front of a hotel full of child psychiatrists! They might not find my threats of lost dessert up to par with the latest child development research.

In the midst of this single parenting, I'm also juggling a variety of social expectations. My father in law is also a child psychiatrist and so he and my mother in law are here for the conference as well. Although my in-laws live in Pittsburgh they live in the South Hills, and rarely venture into the city. They want some quality time with their grandchildren. Friends of ours who recently moved to Ohio are here for the conference. Their daughter and my son grew up together and all four kids are very close. Clearly, we want time with them. And my sister who lives in San Francisco happens to be in San Diego for her law firm's annual partner retreat. She's single, without kids, and for the day she had free she wanted the undivided attention of her niece and nephew.

And, of course, none of these people want the kids without me. They don't want to parent. They don't want to remind my seven year old that utensils were created for a purpose. They don't want to be the one to tell my kids that it is time to leave the pool. Or that sightseeing is not about accumulating souvernirs, but enjoying the experience. They certainly don't want to be the one nagging my son about the pile of school work that he hasn't touched.

The parent job is left to moi. And so I'm tired. I'm in beautiful San Diego and I'm tired.

But yet, I got to see my children touch a dolphin for the very first time. I got to watch my son try out his spanish on Dr. Boris and my five year old daughter crack her first crab and proudly wear her bib as a superhero cape. And so it's a good kind of tired.

I can get some rest when I'm back in cold and dreary Pittsburgh, my kids have returned to school, and my butt is back in my chair where it belongs.

Public School Parent

by Meryl Neiman

I left the practice of law to raise my children and write. Little did I know that the job of public school parent is almost as time consuming as the law.

My son began kindergarden and my daughter pre-K at a public Montessori school. I knew that the school had moved to a bad neighborhood in order to expand, but I didn't think my chidren would be in danger in the middle of the day. The school got off to a rocky start because the new teachers at the school were not montessori trained and lacked any montessori materials. This struck me as crazy so I began pushing the school district to provide training and materials. A few weeks into the school year, the dynamic, wonderful principal of the school was brutally murdered by her husband. The same woman who had turned my son upside down and tickled his tears away was gone. Meanwhile, gunshots were going off during the day and people were being killed not far from the school.

One day my son came home and announced he was worried about his coat. When I asked why, he explained that when they blew three short whistles at recess, he was to run to the nearest door to get into the school and leave his coat outside. That was it. My little kids weren't going to go to a school where they had to have gunshot avoidance drills. We pulled our children from the school.

Still wedded to the public school experience, we transferred my son to another city elementary school (that, in itself, was not without its travails -- but that's a story for another day). We loved the principal, the teachers, the program. All seemed good. In fact, the school was evolving into a K - 8. Even better, we would avoid the dreaded middle school problem.

But then there was the small matter of the size of the school. The district expanded the school, but hadn't fully committed to the addition necessary to house those extra children. We had kids in trailers (learning cottages, as the principal fondly called them), Spanish being taught off of carts, and a gym and cafeteria that were grossly inadequate. It was basic math. Add children to building -- need to add more classrooms. But, apparently, the school board wasn't as committed to basic math as they were to other political issues. Once again, I felt compelled to act and devoted much of last year to ensuring that the school district and the city moved the project forward.

This year, with the addition behind me, I focused on my true passion -- converting the barren asphalt lot behind the school into a playground and sports field. It was a huge endeavor, but motivated and talented parents began emerging from the woodwork to help out. One woman wrote a kick-ass letter to foundations, another spearheaded solicitation lists, etc. etc. All was going well.

Meanwhile, Monday morning was the official groundbreaking ceremony for the addition. I was asked to speak on behalf of the parents. I was to receive my golden shovel and hard hat in honor of the occasion. I decided not to attend. Sunday night I received a letter from the superintendent that suggested that the school district was going to make it onerous for us to donate a $175,000 playground to the school. Our virtually maintenance free playground would require a PTO funded maintenance program of about $25,000 a year. I couldn't stomach smiling nicely at these people who made my life miserable the year before and now apparently intended to do it again.

Yesterday's message from the district is that it was all a misunderstanding. I'm not sure. What I am sure of, however, is that being a public school parent is a full time job.

In case you're wondering, another parent picked up my golden shovel and my hard hat. The shovel is propped against the wall of my living room. Come by and check it out. That's my full payment for a year's worth of work.