The Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in a room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index card files -- like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read, "Girls That I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards, then quickly shut it in shock as I recognized the names written on each one.

Without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life! Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail that my memory could not match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their contents.

Some brought joy and sweet memories, others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird: "Books I Have Read," to "Lies I Have Told," to "Chores I Have Done," to "Jokes I Have Laughed At."

Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers," or "Days My Clothes Weren't Put Away." Others I couldn't even laugh at: "Times I Broke The Hearts of Those Who Cared About Me," or "Days I Forgot to Even Say Good Morning," or "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents."

I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I had expected; sometimes, fewer than I had hoped.

But when I saw categories such as "Girly Magazines Hidden Under My Mattress," "Habitual Lack of Gratitude," "Nights the Stereo Was Up Too Loud," and "Times That The Garbage Had Not Been Taken Out," an almost animal rage broke within me.

Sickened as I was to think that such moments had been recorded, only one thought dominated my mind. "This is crazy!" I yelled. "This can't continue!"

Enough was enough.

I had not previously suspected the depth of her obsession, but I surely knew who was stalking me, and I had to stop her, now, before things got too far out of control. I had read enough enough Time-Life serial killer books to realize how such relationships could spiral into broken hearts, shattered dreams, and -- eventually -- uncontrollable gut-wrenching violence.

I stormed outside, crossed the porch, and burst through the door on the other side of the duplex. I did not knock or announce my presence. I wanted to surprise her.

I failed miserably. She already knew I was coming and had baked my favorite cookies.

I glared at her from across the kitchen table. "All right, Mom," I said. "I can't take this anymore. The baby pictures and hair clippings were one thing, but this filing card business has gotten out of hand. You've got to end it. Now."

She studied me carefully, then began to scribble something down and filed it under, "Times He Forgot To Wipe His Feet Off Before Coming Inside."

"All right," she lied. "It's finished."

Moral: Three things in life are certain: Death, taxes, and a mother's undying love.

Pit of shame
Read the original version of "The Room."

A Shmily for You

Throughout a marriage lasting more than half a century, my grandparents played a special game with each other. The goal of the game, from what I could tell, was to write the word "shmily" in unexpected places for the other to find. They'd take turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was that person's turn to hide the word once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the yellow canisters of sugar and flour to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in steam on the gold-trimmed mirror after hot showers, where it would reappear bath after bath. Once Grandma even unrolled an entire roll of lemon-hued toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.

Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found taped to the dash and steering wheel of the gold Audi, stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. The word was traced in mantelpiece dust and fireplace ashes, scrawled across catheter bags, prescription bottles, the canary-colored driving citations. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the Metamucil in the medicine cabinet.

Although I once asked my grandfather what "shmily" meant, he only shook his head and said it was something that my grandmother really enjoyed, so he played the game so that she'd know just how much he cared for her. When I asked my grandmother about the word, she'd purse her lips and say nothing.

It took me years before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' antics. Although three failed love affairs (two ending in botched suicide attempts) have kept me from believing in love that is pure and enduring, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than just a game to them. The word "shmily" colored their entire relationship, bringing to it an intensity that few are lucky enough to experience.

I remember how Grandma was always cornering Grandpa in the tiny kitchen, wrapping his arms around her for an affectionate hug or a peck on the cheek. Grandma knew Grandpa well enough that she could always finish his sentences before he got the words out, and she'd insist on helping him with the daily crosswords and word jumbles. She'd never let him forget about the household chores that needed done, or the special milestones in their relationship that deserved recognition, and with a quiet grace he'd always indulge her.

Sometimes he'd even smile whimsically while watching her from a distance and say, "Yep, I sure do know how to pick 'em, don't I?" Before every meal, both grandparents would bow their heads and give thanks, marveling over how God had blessed a marriage such as theirs.

But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: Grandma's breast cancer. When the disease had first appeared ten years earlier, Grandpa had doted on Grandma with considerable passion. Day and night he hovered by her bedside, as if the exhaustion and pain that often made her too tired to talk was not a bother to his eyes. On his own initiative, he enthusiastically painted their bedroom bright yellow so that Grandma could be surrounded by sunshine while bedridden. It was while she was stuck indoors that the word "shmily" appeared with greater frequency. Often Grandma wrote it several times for each time Grandpa did, a sign of her deepening love for him in her time of need.

That time, Grandma amazingly had recovered, but now the cancer had returned, with a vengeance. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, the couple continued to attend church, where often Grandma was surprised by decorations in blazing autumn hues. At Grandpa's encouragement, the children's classes often would present Grandma with painted pictures of smiley faces. And on Easter morning, the word "shmily" appeared 32 times on a special insert printed on beautiful goldenrod paper.

Quickly enough, my grandmother grew too weak to attend the services and could no longer leave the house. During that time, Grandpa would go in her stead and come home with bouquets of bright daffodils, buttercups, and tulips provided by concerned parishioners.

Shortly, what we all dreaded finally happened. Only a day after Grandpa surprised Grandma with a new blonde wig, to replace the hair she had lost, she was gone.

"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet, on the church banners, over the altar, on little placards given to everyone in attendance to wear. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and creditors came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time.

As they sobbed, Grandpa stepped up to the casket. "Forty-five years," he murmured in a heartbroken voice. "Forty-five long years." Sighing, he stared at Grandma's body, dressed in a mustard-hued pantsuit he had bought her especially for this occasion, and then, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing. Despite his tears, his song was a melody of unexpected triumph and freedom amid the palpable despondency of the others.

Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty. When it had ended and the crowd dissipated, Grandpa sat down in a chair, smiling to himself as if he had been able to find God's peace amidst the tragedy of Grandma's death.

I could wait no longer to learn the secret of such a love. I approached him and asked what "shmily" had meant. Holding back his tears, he finally explained its deep significance.

"S-H-M-I-L-Y," Grandpa spelled, his soft laughter clean and sober as his eyes drifted back to the golden casket. "It was your Grandma's phrase, that old bat. 'STOP! How Much I LOATHE Yellow!'"

Moral: True love is color-blind.

Pit of shame
Read the original version of "A Shmily for You."

I have two choices

Barry was the kind of guy you love to hate. He was always in a good mood and always had something positive to say. Whenever someone asked him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I would be twins!" Rumor had it that he had lost a public-relations job because he was so positive even the client got edgy.

Barry was a unique editor because several reporters followed him around from newspaper to newspaper, due to his positive attitude and the deep-seated passion that it would inspire in those around him. Even after reporters found better-paying jobs, they were still committed to following Barry to his new workplace just to warn his coworkers and give him wedgies when no one was looking.

Barry's managerial style really confused me. "I don't get it!" I said to him one day. "You can't be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?"

(That was before I had a true understanding of bipolar mania, and realized I was always hitting Barry on the upswing.)

Barry chuckled outrageously. "Each morning," he said, "I wake up and say to myself, 'Barry, you have a choice today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood.' So I choose to be in a good mood.

"Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim, or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn. And every time someone comes to me with a complaint, I can choose to accept their complaining, or I can point out the positive side. I always choose the positive side of life!"

"Yeah, um, right," I said, wondering what that dark lump was on the side of Barry's neck but deciding not to say anything. Instead, I began to look for an escape route. To my left beckoned the door to the dark room. All the photographers were currently out on assignment. If I could duck inside, I might escape.

"You know, you should try some St. John's wort," Barry said. "That stuff will clear the blues right out of you! Have you ever tried it?"

As he searched through his desk, I dived into the darkroom and scurried behind a case of chemicals.

Unfortunately, Barry's intuition was as strong as his perpetual enthusiasm, and he quickly found me, flicking on the lights and smiling a toothy grin that was just screaming for a hammer.

"Life is all about choices!" he said. "When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live life!"

"Barry!" I screeched. "You probably just ruined miles of footage by turning on the lights! Mark's going to kill you!"

"Oh," said Barry. "Well, Mark has a choice. He can either be upset about losing his exclusive Pulitzer-winning negatives, or he can see this as a chance to get even better pictures."

"But when is the president getting impeached again any time soon?" I said.

I managed to escape Barry that time by drinking a few chemicals and lapsing into a coma. When they carried me out, he was telling the ambulance squad that we could either feel bad for me for drinking the chemicals, or be glad that now no one would accidentally spill them.

Soon thereafter, I left newspapers to start my own magazine in Alaska. Barry and I lost touch, but I often thought about him when I ate too much candy and got a sugar buzz.

Several years later, I heard that Barry went to cover a bank robbery and was held hostage by three armed robbers. During the stand-off, seventeen of the bullets fired by police went awry and hit Barry.

After eighteen hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Barry was released from the hospital with fragments of the bullets still in his body. (He had been shot in the head.) My curiosity was aroused, and when I saw Barry about six months after the accident, I asked him how he was.

He said, "If I were any better, I'd be twins! Want to see my scars?"

"Only if I can re-open them," I replied. I asked him what had gone through his mind when the robbers had held him hostage.

"Well," Barry replied, "the first thing was that I should have had Tony cover the robbery, although he would have been the one in this mess then."

"Probably not," I interjected, although it went unnoticed.

"Then," continued Barry, "as I lay bleeding on the sidewalk and the police were taking care of the paperwork, I remembered that I had two choices. I could choose to resent the cops for ignoring me while I lay dying at their feet, or I could choose to live. I chose to live."

I tried to hide the disappointment on my face. "So weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness? A few brain cells?"

"The paramedics were great, really positive! They kept telling me I was going to be fine." Barry smiled at the memory. "But when they wheeled me into the emergency room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read, 'He's a dead man.' I knew I needed to take action."

"So what did you do?" I asked. "Pass Smiley buttons out to the crowd?"

"Well, there was a big, burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Barry. "He asked if I was allergic to anything. 'Yes,' I replied. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, 'Bullets!' Then I laughed."

"'Oh swell,' one of the doctors said. 'He's one of THOSE. Can't we just list him DOA? Please?' The other doctor just shook her head and shoved an ether mask on me, to administer the anesthetic.

"I pulled down the mask and told them, 'I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead!'

"'Shut up, or I'll finish the job,' the doctor said as she shoved the mask back onto my face. So I took their advice and passed out."

Barry lived thanks to the skill of his doctors, all of whom since have resigned their fellowships at that hospital and scattered across the country.

I will never forget Barry as long as I live, nor will I forget the lesson he taught me. Every day we have a choice: We can choose to live fully, or we can choose to annoy the stuffings out of everyone around us.

Moral: You too have a choice: You can either send us oodles and oodles of money, or you can let our poor, penniless, innocent children go hungry. Please make the right choice.

Pit of shame:
Read the original version of "I have two choices."

Smile

She smiled at a saddened stranger.
Her smile made him feel better.
He recalled the kindness of a friend
And so wrote him a thank-you letter.

The friend was so pleased with the thanks
He left a large tip after lunch.
The waitress, surprised by the tip's size,
Bet all the money on a hunch.

The next day she picked up her winnings
And gave away part to a bum
The bum was oh so very grateful
He'd starved for two whole days, then some.

After the bum finished his dinner,
He left for his small dingy room.
He did not know that, at that moment,
he might face a terrible doom.

En route he grabbed a shivering puppy
And brought him home to keep him warm.
The small worn pup was very grateful
To be taken in out of the storm.

That night the house burst into fire.
The puppy barked a loud alarm.
He yelped until the household woke,
protecting all of them from harm.

One of the boys the puppy rescued
Grew up to be the president.
When strife ruled in the Middle East
Nuclear bombs were what he sent.

The missiles killed millions of people
perpetuating World War III.
Soon famine ruled in every nation --
the end of all humanity.

In all of mankind's history,
this made a pretty nasty dent --
all stemming from a simple smile
That hadn't cost a man a cent.

So next time that you feel like smiling,
I beg you, heed this warning well:
Remember that the life you save
could send this merry world to hell.

Pit of shame
Read the original version of "Smile."

The Price of Freedom

Have you ever wondered what happened to the fifty-six men who signed the Declaration of Independence? Neither did we, until it became a homework assignment, but then we did some research and were humbled by what we found. As the Fourth of July celebration approaches, remember the terrible price paid by these men for the freedom we now have to choose between presidential candidates George W. Bush and Al Gore.

* Five signers were captured by the British and pickled in brine before being packed off to England, where they had to scrub the royal toilets just to earn enough to buy a few measly scraps of crumpets and scones.

* Twelve signers had their homes ransacked and razed by the British. Worse, their insurance agencies refused to pay even a bent shilling because their homeowner's policies did not cover acts of war.

* Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army, only to find them three months after the war ended, working at Wal-Mart with tongue studs and green hair.

* Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War, and yet were never memorialized in an NBC miniseries or PBS special, nor were their descendants showcased with bit parts in Mel Gibson's "The Patriot."

Yet despite these horrors, fifty-six men signed the Declaration of Independence. They pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. What kind of men were they?

Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists (which means they pretty much deserved what they got, if not worse). Eleven were merchants who ran double-coupon specials only after raising their standard prices. Nine were farmers and large plantation owners who built their fortunes upon slave labor, after encouraging the original American Indian squatters to head west.

They were men of means, and well-educated, but they signed their names on the Declaration of Independence without reading the fine print because George Washington, Thomas Paine, Ben Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson had assured them that King George III couldn't read Jefferson's writing anyway, especially with those silly flourishes that couldn't decide whether they were S's or F's. Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his boats swept from the seas by the British Navy. He raffled off his home and properties to pay his debts and died wearing bargain-brand clothes he had scrounged from a Dumpster behind Kmart. George Washington, on the other hand, a landowner who had seduced a rich widow, became the first president of the United States.

Thomas McKeam served in the Congress without pay, never realizing how much pork a congressman could funnel before finally getting caught. He was so hounded by the British that he was forced to hide his family in a cemetery plot in southern Virginia to avoid capture. (The ruse was so complete that even history books believed McKeam's family to be deceased.)

British troops looted the summer homes of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton -- forcing them instead to spend all year on their sprawling 400-acre estates, basking on pitiful green lawns with stylish lawn furniture, throwing summer barbecues, and suffering the luscious scents of their imported rose and tulip gardens all year round.

At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson Jr. noted that the British Gen. Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged Gen. George Washington to open fire, thus permitting his home to be destroyed. (It later turned out that Nelson had instructed Washington to fire upon the house of his neighbor Bob, whose German shepherd Rufus had kept Nelson up many a night.) Almost two centuries later, the family suffered its final humiliation when a half-cousin, Charles Nelson Reilly, became a celebrity on Hollywood Squares.

While Francis Lewis was away from home, his irate wife sold his home and properties to Thomas Nelson Jr.'s now-homeless ex-neighbor Bob. The British destroyed Lewis' estate and jailed his wife, who fell in love with her captor and eloped with him to the Dominican Republic, where their descendants still man the fence separating that country from Haiti. Meanwhile, Bob moved his belongings into a hollow tree in the New Jersey Pinelands, eventually spawning tales of the mysterious Jersey Devil.

John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside by her snoring. After hiding for more than a year in local forests and caves, to reduce his sizeable sleep deficiency, he returned home to find her snoring worse than ever, his children working as unpaid interns for Jefferson's law practice, his fields and property in ruins, and his friend Bob nowhere to be seen. Driven mad by loss, Hart began a career of gorilla warfare that involved dressing in an ape suit and stealing bananas from British troops. Eventually known as "the wild man of the woods," Hart became the basis for Edgar Rice Burroughs' "Tarzan of the Apes."

Norris and Livingston and the others suffered similar, equally indescribable fates. (Barring the part about the bananas, of course.)

Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. These men were not wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians (well, none of them, perhaps, except for Thomas Paine and Patrick Henry) but soft-spoken gentlemen who preferred bottled water and non-alchohoic beer. And while they could have possessed a lifetime of free admission to Wimbledon tennis under English rule, they valued holding the reins to power in this country even more. Standing tall, straight and unwavering, they pledged: "For the support of this declaration, with firm reliance upon the protection of divine providence, we [State Our Names] mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our fratboy honor."

These men gave us an America run by rich white men from Washington, D.C., rather than by rich white men across the Atlantic Ocean. The history books don't say much about what happened in the Revolutionary War. We didn't just fight the British. We were British subjects at that time! We were actually fighting against our *own* government.

(Eighty years later, the United States government would whip the South back into line for pulling that same kind of stunt.)

Some of us take our liberties for granted, but we shouldn't. Take a few minutes during your Fourth of July holiday and silently thank these patriots for not being around to draft you for private conscription. It's not much to ask for the price they paid. Remember: Freedom is never free! (Nor are public parking lots, thirty-day trial subscriptions to travel protection services, and free window installation estimates.)

Show your support by sending this to as many people as you can! It's time we get the word out. The Fourth of July has more to it than bottle rockets, hunting rifles and Michelob beer.

Pit of shame
Read the original version of "The Price of Freedom."