Dollars and (a Lack of) Sense

I try, and I try, but I can't comprehend this one:  basically, while our financial system was melting down, our financial watchdogs were watching porn.


According to reports that came out last week, employees of the Securities and Exchange Commission were, quite literally, playing with themselves while my retirement account was vanishing.  That pisses me off!


Apparently, one senior attorney at SEC headquarters in Washington was logging 8 hours a day on porn sites while he was at work.  One accountant, a woman, viewed porn sites 1,800 times in two weeks.  Another employee made 16,000 attempts to view blocked sites in one month.


Out of 31 serious alleged offenders, 17 were senior employees who made between $100,000 and $222,000 a year.
Makes Tiger Woods seems like an innocent little pussycat, doesn’t it?  And the comparison begs the question of whether serial cheaters like Tiger and Jesse James are really sex addicts.


I mean, Tiger was at least working 8 hours a day and winning major tournaments while getting his action on the side.  These idiots at the SEC were working full-time with their porn.  It makes one wonder if the people around them didn’t notice that productivity had taken a nosedive.


I love what author Mike Leahy said about the SEC boys (and girl, apparently).   The author of Porn Nation:  Conquering America's #1 Addiction, he candidly said on Good Morning America, “Trust me, these guys are addicts.”   And for those who must know exactly HOW in the name of Hugh Hefner someone could jeopardize a $100,000-a-year job with pictures of things that make some people lose their lunch, click on Leahy's link.  He explains it well.


But really, I'm not so interested in how those folks got to be so addicted to porn.  I’m just wondering if the whole mess could have been avoided if Bernie Madoff and the boys at Goldman Sachs had just been wearing leather chaps and spiked collars while they were screwing with our financial system.


Come to think of it, Bernie's prolly wearing chaps these days.  Punishment for the SEC idiots should be having to turn their retirement funds over to Bernie's investment expertise.


That would give me a little satisfaction.

Can I Have an Epiphany with that Apple Fritter?

Sex addiction has been in the news so much lately that one can’t ignore it. As the long-time primary caregiver for three products of sexual activity, I’ve had a hard time understanding how anyone could be addicted to sex. Shopping for outrageously expensive shoes – that’s something I could get addicted to. Food addiction, especially to those lovely apple fritters at Starbuck’s, I understand. Alcohol addiction even makes sense to me when my teenager shows me the rash on her abdomen that is an allergic reaction to her fourth attempt at a navel piercing. And don’t get me wrong: I like sex, well, a lot.

But sex addiction?

The definition of sex addiction, according to the experts, is a preoccupation with sex that causes problems in a person’s life.

Take, for instance, the three men arrested this week in Gwinnett County, Georgia, for soliciting sex in a K-Mart bathroom.

The blue-light special they got wasn’t quite the one they’d been hoping for. I may not be an expert on sex addiction, but because the only thing that could lure me into a K-Mart bathroom would involve some serious intestinal parasites, I’m thinking that sex is definitely causing some problems for those old boys.

And then there’s the Forest Park, Georgia, teenager who spent a night in jail last week for sending a picture of his wanker to his girlfriend from his cell phone. Apparently, his was special, not at all like the millions of other ones out there, because she forwarded it to a few friends and teachers. That got the attention of the county solicitor, a woman who must not have a sense of humor, because even though he sent it as a "joke," he ended up in jail and on the evening news.

I don’t think this kid is a sex addict, though. It sounds to me like he may have learned his lesson after only one night in jail. Here’s what he said about his ordeal: “Once you hear that [jail] door close, and you’re laying on that bed thinking about it, you like, ‘Wow. I know I did something wrong, and then your conscience kick in, saying, ‘You know you did wrong.’”

He concluded by saying, “I think lots of people have epiphanies when they in jail.”

They also have STDs and a taste for teenage boys. If all he came out of jail with is an epiphany, he’s a lucky kid.

Personally, I’m going to stick with my fritter fetish and hope my conscience always kicks in and my epiphanies come before I hear a jail door close.

Whatever is a Girl to Do?

I almost lost a dachshund. If I hadn’t been wearing my red Baywatch swimsuit the other day when Shirley fell into the pond, she would have drowned.

I was sitting on my back porch enjoying a rare day of sunshine when I heard a strange-sounding “thunk.”

I looked up to see that Shirley was in over her head. And given the fact that her legs are two inches long, she was not going to be able to pull herself out.

Thank God I was there. And thank God I didn’t have to do CPR, because there’s no telling what she’d eaten that day. But God knows I would have done anything to save that little dog because I love her and because I need the great anecdotes she consistently supplies, especially since I’m apparently allowed to only write about my pets.

My kids have already extracted a promise that I will not write about them without first securing permission concerning the subject matter. In fact, my oldest daughter didn’t speak to me for several weeks after the Mt. Rushmorgan entry.

My ex threatened to sue me for writing about him. Since he realized that I’m not liable for pointing out that he makes Alec Baldwin look like Mother Theresa, he’s taken to having the kids beg me not to write about him. So I’ll lay off him for a while but with this warning, one of my favorite quotes (and one he abhors): “If you don’t want it told, don’t do it.” That, by the way, is courtesy of the great modern-day philosopher Jimmy Buffett. We’ll cross our fingers, kids.

I can’t write about my church, either. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually written about my church. Probably because this is not a blog about church. But I won't write about my church because I'm tired of silly people thinking my blog is an appropriate place to vent their frustrations about a place I love.

And according to the blog trolls, I can’t write about my divorce, my faults, addiction, my taste for beer, or Tiger Woods. Or sex. Especially not sex.

Thankfully, one anonymous blog troll was kind enough to tell me what I’m allowed to write about. The person wrote, “Can you shut the heck up and focus on talking about your dogs, a bengal cat or whatever?"

Whatever? I wish someone would tell me the topics included in that category.

So Shirley almost died. I pulled her out, dried her off, and fried her an egg to comfort her. She licked the plate clean, then looked up at me and said, “I need to warn you that if you write about this incident in your little blog, I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer? Since when do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

“Since I read your blog the other day on animal rights’ attorneys. I called the real estate attorney who lives down the street. He’s got some time on his hands these days, what with the real estate slowdown, and he said it was only a matter of time before we could slap you with a libel suit.”

She looked around the kitchen. “Before long, I’ll own this house, and you’ll be the maid. And I’ll require two eggs over easy and two slices of toast cut into one-inch cubes every morning.”

“Dammit! What am I going to write about now?” I asked my dog.

She burped and said, “I’d write about 'whatever.' But I wouldn’t piss off that cat. She’s already trying to kill you for calling her a tainted pussy.”

Whatever.

Tiger's Apology: Par for the Course?

I sat down to watch the Tiger Woods news conference with a massive dose of both skepticism and contempt. I’d already made up my mind that his apology was going to be a ridiculous horse and pony show timed to sneer at Accenture for dropping his endorsement deal and designed to be the venue for the proclamation that he is returning to golf. Integrity, you see, is sort of like virginity: once you've lost it, it's gone for good, even though you keep the package it came in.

I laughed at Jimmy Kimmel’s monologue last evening. He said, “Tiger won’t be taking questions from the press at the news conference. I think it would be fun, though, to watch him take questions from his wife.”

You see, I’ve been in Elin Woods’ shoes. I’ve been to Family Week in rehab, where the patient makes amends for the bad behavior and the family expresses its support for the recovering addict. So I was watching very closely for clues as to whether or not I believe Tiger is sincere and is going about the recovery process in the right way. After what I’ve been through, believe me, I can smell a rat.

I have to say, I was impressed by his apology for several reasons.

First, he’s returning to rehab, although I suspect he won’t be going back to the facility in Mississippi where he spent those 45 days. After my husband completed his initial stay in rehab (at the place where, incidentally, the expert at Tiger’s Mississippi center used to be on staff), they strongly advised him to check into another place in Los Angeles for two more weeks. It was, I suppose, a sort-of halfway house. He went, unwillingly, but he got kicked out within a few days. The fact that Tiger is continuing therapy and is willing to say that he’s putting his career on hold to focus on his recovery, to me, is a very positive sign.

Secondly, he took full responsibility for his actions and refused to blame anyone else. He stuck up for his wife and made it clear that it is his bad behavior that has caused all the problems in their marriage. That’s huge. In contrast, my husband blamed me. He had a list of things I had done wrong that caused him to seek out the arms (and other parts) of other women. Now, I’m not for one second saying that I was or am blameless. In fact, I wasn’t and still am not. But I know this for goddamn sure – if you’re in rehab and can come up with even a smidgen of blame for any other person as the reason you’re an addict, then the dollars you’re spending on that expensive rehab are doing you as much good as the “mom” jeans did for Jessica Simpson’s figure. We can only change when we stop giving other people the power in our lives. If Tiger truly does blame no one but himself, he’s on the right track.

Next, he doesn’t know when he’ll return to golf. The fact that Tiger Woods has no plans to play the Master’s or Pebble Beach means he’s not trying to hurry though rehab and recovery to check them off his list and placate his wife, sponsors, and fans before getting back to his career. To me, it means the therapists are getting through to him. He’s willing to submit to the process rather than arrogantly and defiantly saying he’s been through rehab and everything’s fine now.

The final thing that made me think this apology might be genuine was his mention of getting back to his spiritual foundation. I realize that most of my readers are not Buddhists and might scoff at its teachings on sin and redemption. But when it comes to dealing with addiction, I don’t believe it matters which spiritual practice you follow – it’s following a spiritual practice that makes the difference. And as Tiger pointed out, “Buddhism teaches that a craving for things outside ourselves causes an unhappy and pointless search for security. It teaches me to stop following every impulse and to learn restraint.” Learning to control his impulses is the whole point of his rehab, right?

Addiction has been wisely defined for me as a lack of intimacy with one’s soul. I don’t know if Tiger has reconnected with his soul. And I don’t know if the tears in his eyes were genuine. His wife said it best, that his apology will ultimately not be in words but in how he lives. So we’ll have to wait and see if it’s real. What impresses me is the simple fact that he seems to be acting so very differently than my husband acted during and after rehab.

For the first time in my life, I actually find myself betting on and rooting for Tiger Woods.

A Lot of Huffing and Puffing (and Blowing)

A common urban legend has it that men think about sex every seven seconds. And if that statistic were actually true, one might reasonably argue that all men are sex addicts. Although that myth has been debunked, it brought to mind a college literature professor I once had.

A friend had warned me about this particular professor, saying, “The man makes everything about sex.”

Given that much of literature does actually have sexual overtones (and undertones, highlights, lowlights, and the occasional weave), I assumed that the professor was merely pointing out the obvious sexual references in modern literature and that my friend, a biology major, simply didn’t understand how prevalent it was.

I was wrong.

The professor really did make everything about sex. I mean, in the space of two minutes, the man could turn “Mary Had a Little Lamb” into graphic porn. His lectures made it sound like sex makes the world go ‘round. Sadly, from the looks of him, it was a slow rotation.

One day, we were reading T. S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock in class. Not surprisingly, he began by talking about the sensuality of the poem, quoting the line, “Do I dare to eat a peach?” This is what he said: “Can you just see and feel and taste the sensuousness of the peach? The juice dripping down your chin and running down your arm after you bite into the flesh of the peach?”

There was a collective gulp in the room. Thirty sets of eyes widened, and then we all ducked our heads in embarrassment.

Then we came to this part of the poem:

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


“What is the word picture here?” he asked the class. Duh. It’s a cat. But a big dumb jock in the back of class said, “Sex?”

So I can see where the “experts” might come to the conclusion that men think about sex every seven seconds. It’s not a big stretch to guess what topic is most on their minds.

But what about women? What do we think about when we’re not cutting gum out of a toddler’s hair or teaching a maniacal teenage girl to drive?

For me, it’s hair.

I swear I was a woolly mammoth in a previous life. The time I met Jon Bon Jovi and he came out of his dressing room with a pissed-off look on his face? It wasn’t because someone woke him up to go meet a fan. No, he took one look at me and my daughter and saw two chicks with more hair than he has, and it rocked his world.

Now, I’m not complaining about how much hair is on my head. I’m grateful, actually. But the fact that I blow out a hairdryer every six months plus the Great Hairdryer Debacle of 1979 and the Wedding Cake Disaster of 1984 means I have hair nightmares.

In the summer of 1979, I was at a teenage camp in Hollywood, Florida. The building was a former luxury hotel that had been built in the 1930s, and I’m pretty sure the wiring had never been updated. I was innocently drying my hair when the lights went dim. There was a pop and a flash, and my hair dryer started smoking. Then the lights went out completely. I set the hairdryer down and walked out of the bathroom. The hotel room was dark. And so was the hallway.

Basically, I knocked out power to three floors of that ancient hotel because my hairdryer overheated. And for the rest of the week, no one -- not one of my so-called friends – would lend me a hairdryer.

The Wedding Cake incident was worse. I was serving cake at a teacher’s wedding reception the summer after I graduated from high school. When I bent over to slice into the Groom’s Cake, my hair fell into a burning candle and caught on fire. I wasn’t hurt, but the scent of burning hair can actually ruin a wedding reception.

Much of my thoughts are about keeping my hair out of my eyes (and away from burning things) and how long I can go without washing it. And when I do wash it, I must schedule enough time to dry it, including several rest periods for the dryer during the process so that I don’t set off the eleven smoke alarms that were installed in my home by the paranoid previous owners.

And the problem is only getting worse the older I get. Josh, my hairdresser of fifteen years, said to me the other day while he was drying my hair, “You know, I think you have more hair now than you did when I met you.”

He’s right. I have more hair on my head AND on my entire body. In fact, my face is now covered with a fine blonde peach fuzz that makes it nearly impossible to wear makeup. I complained about it to the girl who does my facials.

“Why don’t you just shave it?” Chris asked.

Huh? Girls don’t shave their faces. I don’t need a five-o’clock shadow. Now that would really piss off Jon Bon Jovi.

“No, girls don’t have the hormones that would make it look like they had a beard,” Chris insisted. “A lot of my clients do it.”

I'm thinking about it – every seven seconds, in fact. But I'm afraid people will see me walking around with tiny toilet paper booboo blotters stuck to my face. If I decide to do it, will I ever actually admit to shaving my face?

Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.

Screwing with Forgiveness

Although I’m not in the habit of replying to comments by those too lily-livered to reveal their identity, a comment regarding my “Open Letter to Elin” must be addressed.

Anonymous wrote: “Yeah, Screw forgiveness. That’s just some 2000 year old ancient concept anyway.”

The English major in me is screaming that I cannot overlook the glaring punctuation errors in your post. But since we’re on the topic of forgiveness, I’m going to completely and utterly forgive you for those errors.

See, according to my dictionary, to “forgive” is to “stop feeling angry or resentful toward someone for an offense, flaw, or mistake. And I’m not feeling the least bit angry or resentful because you don’t know how to correctly punctuate a sentence.

Now, your reference to a “2,000-year-old concept” leads me to believe that you are a Christian and that you believe Jesus Christ, who was born just over 2,000 years ago, is the author of forgiveness by becoming a sacrifice for our sins. But if you’ll check your concordance, you’ll find that the word “forgive” and all the derivations of it are used more in the Old Testament than in the New. So, at least for Christians, it’s more like a 6,000-year-old concept. Again, I forgive you for the error.

I also find your opening sentence interesting: “Screw forgiveness.” Were you using the word “screw” as a verb or a noun? I’m assuming from the rest of your comment that you meant it to be used as a verb, much like the way I would say on this 24-degree day, “Screw this cold. I’m going to Key West for a few days.” In other words, you are saying my advice to Elin about getting out of that marriage is my way of ignoring God’s command to forgive others the way He forgave us.

Are you implying that Elin and every other woman married to a serial cheater should just stick around and hope her husband doesn’t give her herpes, AIDS, syphilis, or the run-of-the-mill skank crud? Really? Is that what you’re saying?

Or maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe you intended for “screw” to be a noun, implying that we need to invent a whole new brand of forgiveness, one called “Screw Forgiveness.” I kind of like that. Finding out your spouse is cheating is such a horribly heart-wrenching experience that it really takes a lot more effort to stop feeing angry or resentful toward the offender than, say, someone dents your car. “Screw Forgiveness” could define a whole new level of forgiveness.

All our quibbling about semantics aside, I think our real issue goes back to the definition of forgiveness. While the dictionary's first definition of forgiveness is to “stop feeling angry or resentful,” the second is, simply, “to pardon someone.” The word “pardon,” of course, means to “release from punishment.”

I can do the first kind of forgiveness. In fact, I must, and not just because God says to. I have to do it for my own mental health. But releasing someone from punishment, negating the consequences of the offending action? Only God can do that. And for me to try doing God’s job isn’t forgiveness. It’s stupidity.

A child whose parents unfailingly shield him from the consequences for his actions, incidentally, often grows up to be a full-blown narcissist. And go check every sex addiction treatment center in the country. I’d be willing to bet they’re all full of narcissists.

Another erroneous belief about forgiveness is the idea that forgiving and forgetting are synonymous. Three years ago, I visited Notre Dame. On the back side of that magnificent old cathedral, out in the garden, is a memorial to the French citizens who were taken away during the Holocaust and never returned. In blood red letters are the words Pardonner mais ne jamais oublier. The translation: forgive but never forget. Those words helped me sort out my feelings about forgiveness.

I’m passionate about pointing out these errant concepts of forgiveness because I struggled with the issue for years. I forgave my husband when he confessed his first affair. I forgave when he went back to the girl the next week. After that, there were more women. The simple truth is that my “forgiveness” didn’t help a single person on this planet. It just let him believe he could keep getting away with it. It actually made things worse.

You tell me, which affair should be the final straw for Elin? The first mistress, or the thirteenth, or whichever number we’re up to in the skank count? I’m all about Elin forgiving if we’re talking about her learning to stop resenting her husband, but screw the notion of forgiveness as pardoning forgetfulness. The whole point of my post was that he’s probably not going to change. She needs to save herself and her children from any more heartbreak so that she can begin the process of forgiveness.

Yes, forgiveness is a grand (and ancient) concept. But I don’t believe it’s possible to fully forgive until you’ve removed yourself from the offensive situation. And for that reason alone, I would encourage her to leave.

Screw stupidity.

An Open Letter to Elin Woods . . .

Oh, girl, what a mess you find yourself in.

I don’t have all the facts, but here’s what I think happened. You met a handsome, charming, very wealthy and very famous athlete, and he asked you out. For some reason, you turned him down at first. He continued to pursue you, and the whole world started screaming in your ear: Are you crazy? He’s Tiger-freakin’-Woods, the greatest golfer of all time!”

You couldn’t put a label on it, that feeling that something wasn’t quite right, so you ignored your gut and went out with him. And then, when he asked you to marry him, you asked him, probably over and over, what it was – that something – that was making you hesitate.

“I’m the greatest golfer of all time, quite possibly, and I’m handsome and charming and fabulously wealthy, and perfect. Nothing is wrong, sweetheart,” he said. “Now please marry me.”

So you married him and had two children with him, all the time thinking how silly you were to doubt him. Anyway, since you loved him so much, your love could fix everything. But still, something was bothering you.

And then there was a rumor. Or maybe two. But he laughed it off, saying that people always want to take down greatness. He probably said, “People are always looking for dirt. It’s a tabloid world, and we’re famous. Ignore them. Just keep being gorgeous and fabulous, but don’t ever mention to anyone that something is bothering you. Keep your mouth shut and your makeup on at all times.”

So you did. You ignored the rumors and the feeling that something was wrong. Until the day you found out the truth and couldn’t ignore it any longer: Tiger is a bad apple. And all your hoping and wishing and praying and loving couldn’t make him a peach.

A few years ago, my sister and her husband noticed that one of their toilets wasn’t working properly. Sometimes it flushed, and sometimes it didn’t. Their children were young and newly potty trained, so the possibilities were endless. The Barbie doll torso on the floor of Faith’s closet? Her head and lower extremities could have been the potty clogger. Hell, it could have been anything, perhaps even the puppy who had “run away.”

Kevin used a plunger. He used a pipe snake. Every time, the problem would resolve itself for a day or so, but in the end it always came back. This went on for weeks: the toilet worked sometimes, but just as often, it was clogged horribly. Finally, he took the entire toilet out of the bathroom, turned it upside down, took it apart somehow, and found the culprit -- an apple with several bites out of it. A child had apparently been eating an apple on the potty, dropped it, probably shrugged, and flushed.

See, dear Elin, an apple is the most natural thing in the world, a nearly perfect food. But in some circumstances, it’s a huge problem. Tiger may be the greatest golfer in the world, but being a great athlete has never made anyone a good spouse or even a good person.

I’ve learned not to ignore that gut feeling that something isn’t quite right about a person or a situation. I believe it’s God’s way of telling you to walk away, or at the very least, go beneath the surface and dig deep until you discover what’s making you uneasy. Quite often, the cause of your uneasiness is that a person is not what they claim to be. It’s a lack of integrity that’s at the core of every bad apple and also what, according to the proverb, “spoils the whole bunch.”

But you already ignored that nagging little voice, and you know what I’m saying is true. How does that help you now? You’re probably hoping to save the marriage for the sake of your kids. You want to give him a chance to turn things around. I hate to say it, but all the expensive rehab in the world isn’t going to coax an apple out of a toilet or reverse the damage that has already been done to your marriage. And please pardon the obvious pun, but a Tiger never changes his stripes. Despite what he and his therapists are telling you, I’m betting that your gut is still telling you that things aren’t right.

And although I’ve learned not to ignore the feeling that all is not right, I’m still not sure what the proper term is for it.

I just call it a “crapple.”

Fooling Around with Proof

Twice in my life I have received a letter ending with the words “govern yourself accordingly.” The first was a citation from the neighborhood association concerning a noise violation caused by the dachshunds’ barking. I complied with the demand that I bring them inside before ten at night, even though the letter technically should have ended with the words “govern your dachshunds accordingly.” It was, after all, their behavior that was offensive and not mine.

The second letter was from my ex-husband’s attorney, who deemed the more salacious details of my story to be “provably false” and threatened to sue me for slander if I told it. I analyzed the assertion that my ex-husband’s antics were provably false and decided that his attorney could not, for example, prove that the man had never paid for sex. To be fair, I can’t prove I wasn’t a crack whore sleeping with thirty-dozen Hell’s Angels while married to my Prince Charming. I can say it didn’t happen, but I can’t prove it. And by the same token, my ex-husband can’t prove he didn’t try to fool around with the turkey thawing in the refrigerator on or around Thanksgiving 1999. Now, I’m not saying he actually did anything illicit with that frozen turkey; I’m just saying he can’t prove he never did.

The inability to prove a negative, according to my third cousin’s brother-in-law, an ambulance chaser who studied law in Surinam, is covered in the first semester of law school. Evidently, my ex-husband’s attorney missed that part. And yet I applaud his ability to exploit my ex.

My attorney responded to that letter by telling him to save his arguments for something valid, lawyerspeak for “up yours.”

In response, my ex and his attorney demanded that I submit a copy of everything I write for their review. The lawyer was offering to read it and circle all the mistakes in red ink, and the fees for this editorial process would be charged to my ex-husband. Tempting, I’ll admit. I thought about asking him to be on the lookout for any dangling participles or split infinitives while he searched for the provably false. I’m always up for a free edit.

In the end, however, I decided to take my chances and insist they pay for anything of mine they wish to read. I can use the money, and his edit wouldn’t be worth much anyway. After all, any attorney who can’t spot an error in logic probably wouldn’t be able to differentiate a dangling participle from other little danglers.

I did, however, give my attorney a Cliff Notes-version of my story to forward to my ex and his minion for their review. Titled “My Story in a Narcissistic Nutshell,” it goes something like this:

“Once upon a time, there was a drug-addled sex addict who spent every sober moment attempting to bully and intimidate the people around him.

“One day, his ex-wife told him to go screw himself.

“Being a sex addict, he thought that sounded like a good idea. In achieving that sexual position, however, he tied himself into a narcissistic knot so tight that, now, every way he turns, he is faced with his own ass. THE END.

The man really does not want to mess with me. He won't win.

First Lady of Rehab

What do politicians and addicts have in common?

The easiest answer is that with both, you know they’re lying if their lips are moving.

Another quirk the two share is the ability to blame everyone else for their mistakes, their favorite target often being the people they’ve screwed.

Finally, both subsets of the larger group affectionately titled “Vile Human Beings” can claim my ex-husband as a member. While he was in rehab, he was elected Mayor.

As in Mayor of Rehab. Not exactly something you’d want on your resume, I wouldn’t think, but as a politician he can probably twist it into something useful. “Ran for and won political office in small Arizona community” perhaps. It could get him added to some “Who’s Who” list anyway.

Yes, for $35,000, you, too, can spend thirty days in the desert conning a counselor into believing you’re the best thing since lubricated condoms. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason, the folks out there in Arizona thought it helpful to both the staff and the inmates to have a go-between, someone who could speak for the entire community of addicts. And some staff sucker nominated him.

I’m pretty sure that up until that time, the official duties of the Mayor of Rehab had primarily been more symbolic in nature – making proclamations like “We’re all Perfect in our Imperfections!” to the cheers of the entire cafeteria during Thursday dinner; kissing the babies who come to see their drug-addled mommies on visitation Sundays; and of course, being presented the key to the commune. But when my husband was voted Mayor, he took that job seriously. He actually went to work for his peers.

For example, the center has Movie Night once a week. The movies must be pre-approved and, ideally, affirm the values of the rehab center. Think Clean and Sober with Michael Keaton or When a Man Loves a Woman with Meg Ryan. No sex, as it might stimulate the sex addicts. No movie with anorexic actresses, as that might stress the patients with eating disorders. No alcohol, except if it is portrayed in a “this is poison, it will kill you” light. No violence; you never know what the rage-aholics will do. In other words, Movie Night choices are pretty much limited to those I’ve already mentioned plus Mulan (strong feminine character who stands up for herself while honoring her ancestors – good rehab material) and Beethoven (pets are healing, but remember that the only live thing an addict should be responsible for the first year after treatment is a plant).

Obviously looking out for his constituents, the Mayor decided that the television used for Movie Night was pitifully small. So he called his parents and directed them to ship his $9,000 video projector to Arizona for the viewing pleasure of all the addicts. And that’s not all.

He didn’t like the movie choices either. So his parents sent some movies along with the projector. The movies were immediately confiscated because they did not reflect the values of the treatment facility. He called me to complain.

“But you’re only there a few more days,” I said, after hearing the story. “Just let it go.”

“I’m not letting it go. They can’t ban my movies because of language because they allow bad language in the group sessions. They believe it’s a way of expressing your true feelings. My movies don’t have any graphic sex, no nudity, and hell, people in here had better get used to seeing a drink without needing to have one. That’s the real world. I’m so sick of the hypocritical bullshit in the place, and I’m about to expose it.”

Lawyerlike, he took his case all the way to the top. And when the man who owns and directs the treatment facility told him no, he took his case to the inmates. They could stage an uprising or a sit-in like the center had never seen before. They could boycott breakfast or pull a Gandhi, refusing to eat until they were allowed to watch what they wanted (the eating disorder patients could be counted on for this part of the demonstration). In fact, it wasn’t jail; anyone could leave at any time. They could all just up and walk out. Goddammit, they were the customers, and they were right!

That’s basically what he told the director of the treatment center where he was paying $35,000 to be treated for addiction – that he was the customer, and he was right, and if they didn’t let him watch the movie he wanted to watch, then he would leave.

Incredibly, the center gave in, and he got his way.

Even more amazing is that it became his rehab story. In the weeks after he got home, as friends and family welcomed him back, hoping he was intent on being a loving husband and father, what did he report about his time in Arizona? The Movie Night Story. He didn’t talk about how he faced the horror of losing his family and decided to end his affair. He didn’t talk about realizing that staying out all night drinking was not only bad for his health but also devastating to a wife who loved him and sat up all night fearful he wouldn’t make it back.

I, for one, could totally understand the center’s insistence that The Godfather was inappropriate viewing material for the rehabilitation of alcoholics, sex addicts, and gamblers. Hell, that director probably capitulated because he was terrified he’d wake up to find the decapitated head of his cat Fluffy in bed with him the next morning. Reymondo, the patient who was a high-ranking Central American diplomat had some pretty good connections, after all.

I sat listening to him tell the story over and over, and I began to wonder if that was all that he took away from his month in rehab.

If so, I can think of about 267 better ways to spend $35,000. For $35,000, I could buy a fishing lure business on Ebay or a custom portrait of the children by the same artist who painted Jimmy Carter’s presidential portrait, or, hell, half a Hummer. Ten years from now, I’d conceivably still have any of those things. But I’ve got a bad feeling that he’s got nothing to show for that $35,000. He would have been better off spending that money on campaign pencils – “Dick for Mayor of Rehab.” Pencils last a long, long time.

Given that he kept his campaign promises and enjoyed a high popularity rating in his tenure as Mayor, I’m sure he would have been elected to a second term if he’d chosen to extend his time at the facility. Looking back, that probably would have been good for everyone.