I played high school golf. Which is just about as nerdy as it sounds. This wasn’t rich kids from country clubs. We were a group of teens from middle class families, who’d been relegated to the golf squad because we weren’t tall enough to play basketball, strong enough to play football, or smart enough to be on the debate team.
We were deeply mediocre, equipped with a poor short game and plenty of insecurity. Tournaments were always intimidating, playing against golfers of pedigree. Kids from whom golf was a birthright. Whose clubs were not second hand. Who spent practice time actually practicing, not just trying to hit the caged cart that drove around the driving range, picking up balls.
During a tournament my junior year, I was playing against a particularly odious, skill-soaked kid. And I was awful. The shanks, the yips, and everything in between. I had it all.
By the 11th hole, it was clear I was cooked. My opponent was smoking me. And because, in high school golf, opponents keep each other’s score, I had the indignation of saying whatever astronomical score I’d registered after each hole. And this hole, a lengthy par 5 was particularly brutal. I shanked, I scuffed, I duffed.
At the end of the hole, the walking trust fund asked, “What did you have?”
“Nine.”
It was a lie. For the first time in my golf career, I’d cheated. I didn’t count one of the strokes near the green. I regretted it as soon as it tumbled out of my mouth. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit a double digit hole.
By the time the 18th hole came, it was eating me up. Far more than the embarrassing 103 I’d just posted. The fact I was reduced to cheating.
The shame didn’t wash off. Not that afternoon. That night. Or in the 27 years since. I’ve continue to play golf throughout my adult life. And since then, I’ve been a stickler for the rules, never so much as improving my lie or picking a clump of mud off the side of the ball.
It is my albatross. My cross to bear. The shackles I wear during every game of golf I play to this day.
In 1990 I was The Director of a small NFP Child Care Center whose bylaws required primary recipients to be children of low income families’ who lived in SE Portland (which was near a grade school).
The Board started discussions with another provider in NE to take over and move the program there (which would also leave the after school 6-9 years old program unavailable).
I indicated to couple of parents not on the Board that they might want to visit the open meeting that evening.
Change not approved; I was fired for insubordination; the SE located program lived on for 32 years. This remains on of my two proudest moments in breaking the rules!
“Don’t worry about it,” my doctor said. “Your lump doesn’t meet the characteristics of cancer.” I threw on my sweater and danced out of her office. But by the time I made it to the parking lot, my blissful feeling was gone. What kind of doctor doesn’t check a lump, I thought. From my car, I scheduled a scan, and I felt like I was breaking a rule. Is it okay to second guess a doctor? What would she think if she knew? My results came back: triple negative breast cancer, advanced, spread to other parts of my body. They told me I had three months to live and “to get my affairs in order.” In my life, I’ve had plenty of close calls, dodged a lot of bullets, broken a lot of rules, but that time, breaking the rules saved my life.
I remember sitting in that parking lot, hesitating. It almost felt like I was betraying the doc by asking for a scan. But you're right -- now that I'm older, I feel more confident in my own intuition and common sense. Thanks for the like and for your kindness. Often I feel like life is a miracle.
Honestly, I agree. Life is a miracle. But also, you listened to your gut and your heart and did what was best for YOU. So often we feel like we are betraying professionals by not trusting/listening to advice, something we must have learned as children. You are one strong gal! And I bet your story will inspire so many women. It inspired me. :-)
The high GPA on my resume impressed the promoter Johnny Premier, who wanted to hire me on the spot as a list girl, as if book smarts equated with street smarts, as if a goody-two-shoes wouldn’t shrink into herself scamming the bridge-and-tunnel crowd outside of overrated New York City nightclubs. I needed the $17 an hour in cash he was paying, so I had to admit to him that I was only 20, having graduated college a year early. “Take care of that before your first shift,” he said, and I found a friend of a friend to give me a copy of her driver’s license for $20.
I memorized her name, address, birthday, star sign, thinking there would be a pop quiz. But the blasé nightclub bouncers hardly gave my fake ID a second glance even though I used a different name than the one listed by the photo that only sort of looked like me. Night after boring night working the door next to bouncers who probably knew I was underage emboldened me to take my fake ID to Beauty Bar for their $10 martini and manicure special. The door guy held the drivers license close to his face, then looked at me, then held it far from his face and looked at me again. My palms began to sweat. Then he squinted and asked, “What’s your address?” and my heart leapt; I was a good student! I had prepared for this moment! After I recited the other girl’s address perfectly, the bouncer sighed and let me in, defeated.
As I sipped my lychee martini and got my nails painted electric blue, the manicurist asked me how old I was. “I’m 20… one,” I blurted with my alcohol-loosened lips. The manicurist smirked. “I love when underage people get in here. The bouncers are so strict.” “No no, I’m 21, I just had my birthday and forgot,” I stammered. She wanted to share in the triumph of my scheme, but I was too scared. Even though I loved the freedom I got from breaking the rules, I was too conditioned as a good girl to revel in the act.
Some years ago I was the senior night nurse on a first-floor medical ward. One of our patients was in a single room and receiving end-of-life care. Harry was the patriarch of a large Gypsy clan.
Traditionally, the whole family gathers around the dying man’s bed. Hospital rules were strict; only two visitors per patient. By allowing at least twelve relatives to stay in his room, I was already bending the rules. Someone had smuggled in his dog, Peggy, who was lying loyally beside her master. I pretended not to see her.
When I checked Harry’s pain medication was sufficient, his wife Rose asked to speak to me.
“Please, please, Harry is asking to see Blossom. It’s his last wish. Can we bring her over?”
Thinking that one more person in the room wouldn’t make any difference, I agreed to her request.
Rose went over to Harry;
“It’s OK Harry, the nurse says we can bring your old gry over.”
Having nursed Gypsy people previously, I knew that gry is the Gypsy word for a horse. Dogs and extra visitors I could cope with. A horse was not an option. What should I do? I couldn’t deny a dying man his last wish.
“Rose, you should have told me Blossom was a gry. I can’t have a horse on the ward.”
“I’m sorry, Sister. She’s coming with the boys now. Surely there’s something you can do?”
Well-maintained gardens surrounded the hospital. Gardeners laid out flowers and shrubs along paths and regularly mowed grass.
“Right, Rose, here’s our plan. These windows can open fully. I will unlock one of them. Then, we will move Harry’s bed right next to the window. Tell the boys to bring Blossom to the open window.”
Rose went out to meet her boys. I got Harry’s grandsons to help me move some chairs so we could reposition Harry’s bed.
As soon as Harry was beside the window, I could see the boys bringing over a beautiful dappled Gypsy Vanner. The boys led her to the window. Blossom quietly put her head through the open window.
Harry stretched out his arm and stroked the muzzle of his faithful old gry. Blossom whinnied as if she knew this was her last farewell. I left the family together.
Twenty minutes later, Harry’s eldest daughter came on to the main ward to tell me her father had just died.
Going back into Harry’s room, I confirmed he had passed from this earthly life. I expressed my condolences to his family. It was usual in the Gypsy community that Harry’s family would lay him out. I checked they had everything they needed. Then I returned to the ward, giving Harry’s family privacy to perform their sacred ritual.
Once everything was complete, the family left, leaving Harry in my care. They were so grateful for the care I and the other nurses had given to Harry. I walked with the porters as they wheeled Harry to the hospital morgue. He remained there until the following day. The family could take Harry home once a doctor had signed all the paperwork.
At break time that night, I sat next to my colleague Bryony from the surgical ward. As usual, we talked about our patients. Bryony told me that one of her patients claimed to have seen a horse in the hospital gardens.
“I was too busy doing the medication round to check on this woman’s crazy idea. When I looked out the window later, I couldn’t see a horse. I think she’s getting more confused, not less.
I tried not to giggle. Quickly changing the subject to the eccentricities of the new Night Matron.
The rest of the night passed quickly. Our new student nurse was keen to learn about Gypsy culture, so we had an impromptu teaching session.
In the morning, when I was walking across the gardens towards my car. I heard two of the gardeners talking.
“Any idea when this horse manure arrived, Bert? Whoever dropped it off didn’t leave us much. Looks as if they brought the horse too; there’s a load of hoof marks on the grass.”
“How should I know, Fred? Let’s just be grateful for the manure; it will improve the roses no end.”
As I drove home, I felt satisfied and rewarded. We had given Harry a good death with all his family surrounding him. One of the most important ways nurses can care for a patient. I broke the rules for Harry and his family. That’s why I’m proud to have been a nurse.
It was early on day 4 of a 7 day silent vipassana retreat. I’m walking out of the meal hall and I see a friend. The silent abiding meticulously set out by our instructors would come to an early end.
No eye contact. No smiling. No communication of any kind with others. I didn’t didn’t feel like my authentic self anymore.
So I walked up to my friend quietly, smiled at her, made eye contact and said, “So how are you doing with all this?”. She looked kindly back at me and replied, “I’m doing okay, it’s just this silence stuff is just so weird.” I broke silence and so did she. Just two really bad rule breakers.
Handcuffed for sarcasm: a small court misadventure.
Passing the one-story Van Nuys Small Claims Court on my way to a day labor job, I flashed back to a courtroom misadventure too stupid to believe.
A year earlier, I’d been dating this girl who borrowed her sister’s car to pick me up for a night of bar hopping. Later that evening, she was driving drunk and recklessly, with me clinging to the passenger seat. I kept begging her to slow down and let me out, so naturally she responded by driving faster. When she finally returned the car to her sister, the front window was broken.
Technically, I was the one who broke it. The window just happened to be between me and her sense of reason.
Her sister sued me in small claims court for the damage. I missed the first court date—probably because I was drunk—but eventually dragged myself in, wearing my usual court attire: cut-off jeans, tank top with large Marijuana Leaf across the chest, tennis shoes with no socks, and a look that said I don’t plan ahead. Or I don’t own a mirror.
The judge asked why I’d failed to appear. With my best wise-ass delivery, I told her that if I’d known she was going to ask, I would’ve brought a note from my mother.
Apparently, sarcasm doesn’t play well in small claims. I may have been the first person ever taken into custody in that courtroom. They didn’t even have a holding cell, so they handcuffed me to a file cabinet in the lunchroom until the sheriff showed up. It felt like a scene cut from Alice’s Restaurant – me playing Arlo Guthrie, minus the guitar and peace signs, detained for the crime of smartassery and window-punching justice.
In college, I was selected to be the editor of non-fiction for the university’s recently-revived literary arts magazine. In order to “break the ice” and turn the editorial board into some semblance of a family, the editor-in-chief proposed we all go on a “team-building retreat” to kitschy Gatlinburg, Tennessee, just a 3.5-hour jaunt from our high, happenin’ hills to lower, smoky ones. We did all the things that one does at the Myrtle Beach of the Mountains: took an old-timey Western photo, stayed in a sub-par hotel-lodge, and ate Mexican on Margarita Night. We hit almost all the highlights that one sets out to do in that town—except Ripley’s Aquarium.
Fueled by liquid courage, I bravely told my new crew that I had an idea for how we could get into the aquarium without paying for a ticket. They leaned in, out of interest and awe. This polished, certified brown-noser, sitting right in front of them, was about to… BREAK THE RULES?! Gasp!
With a wide, surreptitious smile, I unfolded the plan: at first, I’d walk in alone and explain the ‘situation’ to the security guard on duty. I’d tell him how I had left my brand-new Canon digital camera in one of the big rooms inside, “You see, I was here earlier with my friends (I’d point to them at the entrance, and they’d smile and wave), and I put my camera down on top of a trash can to throw away something and totally forgot to pick it back up. Could I pretty please go and retrieve it before they closed for the night?”
To this day, I don’t know if the security guard completely bought the story or saw straight through it, but he let me and my new friends in. For half an hour, we owned the aquarium. We paraded the hallways and swam through the underwater tunnels, taking photos of ourselves, high-fiving, and marveling at the sad/stunning ocean life. I became a hero that night—the story, a myth—forever immortalized in the memories of seven rag-tag English majors.
I was eight years old, playing in the street in front of my house with a slightly older friend, when the police picked us up and brought us to the precinct station. They had repeatedly warned us not to play in the street -- because, a few months earlier, a kid playing in the street had been struck by a passing car and killed. But what choice did we have? We lived in a neighborhood of row houses and semi-detached houses, and there was not a single playing field within a mile radius of our street. So the street was where we played every day, and we would quickly scatter whenever we saw a patrol car approaching. But on this occasion my friend and I were not quick enough and we were apprehended.
The police thought they would make an example of us. At the precinct station, we were booked and fingerprinted, and then we were locked up in a holding cell. My older friend, who was more worldly, was frightened and tearful; I was simply bewildered. After a couple of hours, the police called our respective parents, who came to take us home. The next day were again playing on the street.
The weekly Saturday night routine was to wait for Mom to wake up (on the couch) at about 1, finally go upstairs and get to sleep by 2, then I'd unhook the garage door's chain from its electronic mechanism that opened it easily but noisily, and pull the door open by an old, rusted, warped metal handle at a silent snail's pace. Our driveway was perfect—not only at an incline, but where it leveled off at the bottom it merged with the neighbor's driveway, serving as a great skateboarding and bicycling route in earlier years, more innocent times.
Put the car into neutral, push it slowly out of the garage, and the moment that back wheel falls off the one-inch entry curb, you've got six more inches of "garage floor" leading up to the driveway. Jump in as quickly as possible! Close the door. Ease gradually on the break. Roll safely onto Henry Driscoll's driveway, turn on the engine, and we'd be writing graffiti in Harlem within the hour. I'd done it a million times—well, at least twenty—but for whatever reason on this fateful night in October of '94 I missed the jump. I'd either moved too slow or pushed too hard and was forced to watch helplessly as the 3,000 pounds of metal rolled on its own, a driverless car generations before driverless car technology, gaining momentum towards Mr. Driscoll's house. Mr. Driscoll wasn't an enemy of ours, though nor were he and my parents friends. They were mutually curmudgeon, suburban American neighbors of the 20th century, preoccupied with each other's flaws as neighbors instead of intent on honing community.
I prayed for the best possible outcome and might have gotten it in fact, as the car turned just enough to avoid smashing into Henry's own garage, instead absolutely obliterating an open firewood storage box he'd constructed basically out of 2x4's to the side of his home. It was loud. Lights went on everywhere. First in Mr. Driscoll's house, then my parents' bedroom. I had to think quick. There was no way to conceal my error but I could at least conceal intent. Diving into the backseat, for some reason I figured the best place to stash my backpacks full of spray paint was beneath the car that would undoubtedly be relocated within minutes. My parents came running outside in their pajamas, exhausted, infuriated, forced to engage with Mr. Driscoll for the first time in months. Dad pulled the car back into the garage. Mom yelled and found the bags that were under it, and I was grounded... again. Six more months before I'd be permitted to take my driver's test.
I was a 20-year-old high school dropout when I arrived in Berkeley in 1970 from the East Coast in Berkeley, California, with my boyfriend, our two dogs, and $700. It was clear even to me we were late to the hippie scene of the 60s, but I still hoped proximity to San Francisco might offer a chance to turn around my life. We rented a room in a house where Creedence Clearwater Revival had supposedly lived, the closest I got to peace-love-and rock-and-roll.
I worked at a Doggy Diner and cleaned houses in the Oakland Hills. Between this and my boyfriend’s pot dealings, we barely made the rent. Hungry for more than rice and beans, we hatched a plan to steal our next meal from the Safeway up the street.
We would have been easy to spot in the wide, well-lit aisles. My boyfriend’s shaggy haircut, my bell-bottoms ragged and dirty at the heels, both of us high from hunger and pot. We roamed the aisles too many times before I slid the hamburger package into the front of my pants and zipped my boyfriend’s too-big Army jacket over the bulge. Against my belly, it was cool, but I was not. Throat tight, eyes down, ears pounding with fear, I was sure we’d be caught. We tried to act like we couldn’t find what we’d come for and slid out the exit.
A couple months later, I bought Volkswagen bug that “needed work” to drive back east without the boyfriend. When I rebuilt the engine using the “Idiots Guide” in the basement of our Berkeley house, I found a confidence and purpose that changed the trajectory of my life. I never tried to shoplift again, and I think back to that pack of burger meat, the idiocy of risking an arrest, and the luck of not being apprehended.
As a high school senior and editor of the school newspaper, I got to read the administration's morning announcements over the school-wide intercom every Friday. The announcements frequently included directions to members of various clubs or teams to report to the gymnasium, the library, music room, or a particular classroom at the end of the school day or -- occasionally -- just after the announcements.
For the last Friday of the year, I made a list of a dozen or so fellow seniors and ordered them to "report to Room 329 immediately." There was no such room.
A couple of my victims, caught on to the ruse when they couldn't find the room. They tracked me down between classes and made a ruckus that attracted the attention of an assistant principal. I was promptly sentenced to an hour's after school detention.
Word of my crime and sentence spread rapidly. By the middle of the day, when I got to Algebra class, Mr. Boyer, our much-beloved teacher and a rebel-at-heart, began class by demanding that I stand and be recognized. He then led a round of applause.
I'm 74 now, and I don't know that I've ever been more proud,.
The weekend of my first week of college in the 1970s, my out-of-town high school boyfriend visited me in my all-women dormitory. The dorm rules allowed men, there was no curfew, but males were not allowed in the bathrooms. For ANY reason.
What a clever little twist!
My first taste of college freedom was nearly my last.
The second morning, my boyfriend wanted to take a shower. We decided to sneak him into the bathroom. With a robe and a towel wrapped on his head, from a distance it wasn’t evident that he was a guy. Our main goal was to avoid Jeannie, the Resident Aide who was a junior and managed the first-year women on my floor. She took her job seriously for which she received a stipend as well as free room and board.
The shower stealth went well until my boyfriend realized he did not have any shampoo. I was in the next shower stall, so he called out to me in his best falsetto, “Jackie, can you pass me some shampoo?”
And just my luck, Jeannie was in the bathroom standing next to his shower stall when he said this. She instantly came to his rescue, still unaware that the voice belonged to a guy. She started to pull back his shower curtain saying, “O I have some, here you go!” Thinking quickly, my boyfriend stuck his head out with the curtain wrapped around him. And all I heard was a loud shriek. “There’s a man in the bathroom!” she screamed and then, “Get out! Get out now!”
Once it was determined that the "man" was connected to me, I expected follow-up from the dormitory director. The next day I was called down to the director’s office. She was sitting with a group of other dorm directors and told me to please recount what had happened to this audience. I told my story, including the part about the phony, high-pitched voice that my boyfriend had used.
The group looked at each other and appeared to be stifling their laughter. My dorm director looked at me and said, “Consider this your warning. If you want to remain a resident of this dormitory, you cannot break any more rules of any kind for the entire year.”
As I left her office and closed the door, I heard the roomful of dorm directors break out in hysterical laughter. Humiliated as I was, I was relieved that I had provided them with comic relief. The power my R.A, thought she had over me dissolved with their mirth.
If you find yourself in Perth, Australia with seven dollars to your name no plane ticket home, it's clearly time to take desperate measures. In my case, as an American with a tourist visa, technically, I shouldn't have been allowed to work. But. one of the best things about a country like Australia is that it's not big on "technicalities," and I was able to go to work driving a taxi. I ended up overstaying may visa and having to spend tern days at an airport detention center.with an assortment of detainees from places like Chinna and Indonesia.
The whole deportation process was conducted in a civil manner, but the immigration people were irritated out of their skulls that they had to deal with an American rule breaker. In the end they put me on plane to my requested destination and even gave me cash from a bank account
Humans are made to follow rules, but I always liked to believe that animals were meant to be free. That’s why, whenever I used to find myself in the park alone, I’d unhook my dog’s leash and let her run blissfully beside me. The problem that day was that I was visiting my in-laws, and I had forgotten that they share their property with geese. Hundreds of geese.
My dog is a small, fluffy poodle with incredible manners. Her name is Folly, and her nickname is Mrs. Fancy Pants. She’s been made fun of by men who call her elegant gait “prissy,” and she’s been complimented by women who are jealous of her voluminous updo. I’ve watched her taste an ant and then instantly spit it out, so I assumed she would never hurt a fly, either.
So as we turned the corner toward my in-laws’ lake and saw the flock of geese, I was shocked to watch my dainty, precious beauty transform into a menacing, psycho-killer beast.
As Folly ran, wings flapped and the flock dispersed. But to my horror, one goose remained on the ground with my dog. I ran toward the pair, screaming, as the animals ran circles around each other. After milliseconds that seemed to stretch hours, the goose flew away, and my dog ran toward me with a crazed look in her eye. I hooked her leash, thanking the stars that my lovely walk through my in-laws’ HOA neighborhood didn’t end with a cold-blooded murder and a hefty, humiliating fine.
I’ve long known that people contain multitudes, but I never knew dogs contained multitudes, too. After Folly’s wild goose chase, I was reminded that some of the biggest trouble-makers don’t look the meanest or scariest. Sometimes, they’re hiding in plain sight, even snuggling up to you with their cute, button nose. And everyone—man, beast, and everything in between—could probably benefit from some hard and fast rules.
Morning dream – I don’t know where I was in this dream – a store? – the dining room of the retirement community where I live? – but I walked out without paying, or asking permission. And it was my decision. I questioned myself, but kept on walking.
One stroke, 27 years ago, haunts me to this day.
I played high school golf. Which is just about as nerdy as it sounds. This wasn’t rich kids from country clubs. We were a group of teens from middle class families, who’d been relegated to the golf squad because we weren’t tall enough to play basketball, strong enough to play football, or smart enough to be on the debate team.
We were deeply mediocre, equipped with a poor short game and plenty of insecurity. Tournaments were always intimidating, playing against golfers of pedigree. Kids from whom golf was a birthright. Whose clubs were not second hand. Who spent practice time actually practicing, not just trying to hit the caged cart that drove around the driving range, picking up balls.
During a tournament my junior year, I was playing against a particularly odious, skill-soaked kid. And I was awful. The shanks, the yips, and everything in between. I had it all.
By the 11th hole, it was clear I was cooked. My opponent was smoking me. And because, in high school golf, opponents keep each other’s score, I had the indignation of saying whatever astronomical score I’d registered after each hole. And this hole, a lengthy par 5 was particularly brutal. I shanked, I scuffed, I duffed.
At the end of the hole, the walking trust fund asked, “What did you have?”
“Nine.”
It was a lie. For the first time in my golf career, I’d cheated. I didn’t count one of the strokes near the green. I regretted it as soon as it tumbled out of my mouth. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit a double digit hole.
By the time the 18th hole came, it was eating me up. Far more than the embarrassing 103 I’d just posted. The fact I was reduced to cheating.
The shame didn’t wash off. Not that afternoon. That night. Or in the 27 years since. I’ve continue to play golf throughout my adult life. And since then, I’ve been a stickler for the rules, never so much as improving my lie or picking a clump of mud off the side of the ball.
It is my albatross. My cross to bear. The shackles I wear during every game of golf I play to this day.
One stroke, 27 years ago, haunts me to this day.
In 1990 I was The Director of a small NFP Child Care Center whose bylaws required primary recipients to be children of low income families’ who lived in SE Portland (which was near a grade school).
The Board started discussions with another provider in NE to take over and move the program there (which would also leave the after school 6-9 years old program unavailable).
I indicated to couple of parents not on the Board that they might want to visit the open meeting that evening.
Change not approved; I was fired for insubordination; the SE located program lived on for 32 years. This remains on of my two proudest moments in breaking the rules!
Nancy Chapin
“Don’t worry about it,” my doctor said. “Your lump doesn’t meet the characteristics of cancer.” I threw on my sweater and danced out of her office. But by the time I made it to the parking lot, my blissful feeling was gone. What kind of doctor doesn’t check a lump, I thought. From my car, I scheduled a scan, and I felt like I was breaking a rule. Is it okay to second guess a doctor? What would she think if she knew? My results came back: triple negative breast cancer, advanced, spread to other parts of my body. They told me I had three months to live and “to get my affairs in order.” In my life, I’ve had plenty of close calls, dodged a lot of bullets, broken a lot of rules, but that time, breaking the rules saved my life.
The older I get the more I believe in intuition and common sense. Thank God you had both. I’m happy you are still here and able to share your story.♥️
I remember sitting in that parking lot, hesitating. It almost felt like I was betraying the doc by asking for a scan. But you're right -- now that I'm older, I feel more confident in my own intuition and common sense. Thanks for the like and for your kindness. Often I feel like life is a miracle.
Honestly, I agree. Life is a miracle. But also, you listened to your gut and your heart and did what was best for YOU. So often we feel like we are betraying professionals by not trusting/listening to advice, something we must have learned as children. You are one strong gal! And I bet your story will inspire so many women. It inspired me. :-)
The high GPA on my resume impressed the promoter Johnny Premier, who wanted to hire me on the spot as a list girl, as if book smarts equated with street smarts, as if a goody-two-shoes wouldn’t shrink into herself scamming the bridge-and-tunnel crowd outside of overrated New York City nightclubs. I needed the $17 an hour in cash he was paying, so I had to admit to him that I was only 20, having graduated college a year early. “Take care of that before your first shift,” he said, and I found a friend of a friend to give me a copy of her driver’s license for $20.
I memorized her name, address, birthday, star sign, thinking there would be a pop quiz. But the blasé nightclub bouncers hardly gave my fake ID a second glance even though I used a different name than the one listed by the photo that only sort of looked like me. Night after boring night working the door next to bouncers who probably knew I was underage emboldened me to take my fake ID to Beauty Bar for their $10 martini and manicure special. The door guy held the drivers license close to his face, then looked at me, then held it far from his face and looked at me again. My palms began to sweat. Then he squinted and asked, “What’s your address?” and my heart leapt; I was a good student! I had prepared for this moment! After I recited the other girl’s address perfectly, the bouncer sighed and let me in, defeated.
As I sipped my lychee martini and got my nails painted electric blue, the manicurist asked me how old I was. “I’m 20… one,” I blurted with my alcohol-loosened lips. The manicurist smirked. “I love when underage people get in here. The bouncers are so strict.” “No no, I’m 21, I just had my birthday and forgot,” I stammered. She wanted to share in the triumph of my scheme, but I was too scared. Even though I loved the freedom I got from breaking the rules, I was too conditioned as a good girl to revel in the act.
Some years ago I was the senior night nurse on a first-floor medical ward. One of our patients was in a single room and receiving end-of-life care. Harry was the patriarch of a large Gypsy clan.
Traditionally, the whole family gathers around the dying man’s bed. Hospital rules were strict; only two visitors per patient. By allowing at least twelve relatives to stay in his room, I was already bending the rules. Someone had smuggled in his dog, Peggy, who was lying loyally beside her master. I pretended not to see her.
When I checked Harry’s pain medication was sufficient, his wife Rose asked to speak to me.
“Please, please, Harry is asking to see Blossom. It’s his last wish. Can we bring her over?”
Thinking that one more person in the room wouldn’t make any difference, I agreed to her request.
Rose went over to Harry;
“It’s OK Harry, the nurse says we can bring your old gry over.”
Having nursed Gypsy people previously, I knew that gry is the Gypsy word for a horse. Dogs and extra visitors I could cope with. A horse was not an option. What should I do? I couldn’t deny a dying man his last wish.
“Rose, you should have told me Blossom was a gry. I can’t have a horse on the ward.”
“I’m sorry, Sister. She’s coming with the boys now. Surely there’s something you can do?”
Well-maintained gardens surrounded the hospital. Gardeners laid out flowers and shrubs along paths and regularly mowed grass.
“Right, Rose, here’s our plan. These windows can open fully. I will unlock one of them. Then, we will move Harry’s bed right next to the window. Tell the boys to bring Blossom to the open window.”
Rose went out to meet her boys. I got Harry’s grandsons to help me move some chairs so we could reposition Harry’s bed.
As soon as Harry was beside the window, I could see the boys bringing over a beautiful dappled Gypsy Vanner. The boys led her to the window. Blossom quietly put her head through the open window.
Harry stretched out his arm and stroked the muzzle of his faithful old gry. Blossom whinnied as if she knew this was her last farewell. I left the family together.
Twenty minutes later, Harry’s eldest daughter came on to the main ward to tell me her father had just died.
Going back into Harry’s room, I confirmed he had passed from this earthly life. I expressed my condolences to his family. It was usual in the Gypsy community that Harry’s family would lay him out. I checked they had everything they needed. Then I returned to the ward, giving Harry’s family privacy to perform their sacred ritual.
Once everything was complete, the family left, leaving Harry in my care. They were so grateful for the care I and the other nurses had given to Harry. I walked with the porters as they wheeled Harry to the hospital morgue. He remained there until the following day. The family could take Harry home once a doctor had signed all the paperwork.
At break time that night, I sat next to my colleague Bryony from the surgical ward. As usual, we talked about our patients. Bryony told me that one of her patients claimed to have seen a horse in the hospital gardens.
“I was too busy doing the medication round to check on this woman’s crazy idea. When I looked out the window later, I couldn’t see a horse. I think she’s getting more confused, not less.
I tried not to giggle. Quickly changing the subject to the eccentricities of the new Night Matron.
The rest of the night passed quickly. Our new student nurse was keen to learn about Gypsy culture, so we had an impromptu teaching session.
In the morning, when I was walking across the gardens towards my car. I heard two of the gardeners talking.
“Any idea when this horse manure arrived, Bert? Whoever dropped it off didn’t leave us much. Looks as if they brought the horse too; there’s a load of hoof marks on the grass.”
“How should I know, Fred? Let’s just be grateful for the manure; it will improve the roses no end.”
As I drove home, I felt satisfied and rewarded. We had given Harry a good death with all his family surrounding him. One of the most important ways nurses can care for a patient. I broke the rules for Harry and his family. That’s why I’m proud to have been a nurse.
It was early on day 4 of a 7 day silent vipassana retreat. I’m walking out of the meal hall and I see a friend. The silent abiding meticulously set out by our instructors would come to an early end.
No eye contact. No smiling. No communication of any kind with others. I didn’t didn’t feel like my authentic self anymore.
So I walked up to my friend quietly, smiled at her, made eye contact and said, “So how are you doing with all this?”. She looked kindly back at me and replied, “I’m doing okay, it’s just this silence stuff is just so weird.” I broke silence and so did she. Just two really bad rule breakers.
Small Claims Court
Handcuffed for sarcasm: a small court misadventure.
Passing the one-story Van Nuys Small Claims Court on my way to a day labor job, I flashed back to a courtroom misadventure too stupid to believe.
A year earlier, I’d been dating this girl who borrowed her sister’s car to pick me up for a night of bar hopping. Later that evening, she was driving drunk and recklessly, with me clinging to the passenger seat. I kept begging her to slow down and let me out, so naturally she responded by driving faster. When she finally returned the car to her sister, the front window was broken.
Technically, I was the one who broke it. The window just happened to be between me and her sense of reason.
Her sister sued me in small claims court for the damage. I missed the first court date—probably because I was drunk—but eventually dragged myself in, wearing my usual court attire: cut-off jeans, tank top with large Marijuana Leaf across the chest, tennis shoes with no socks, and a look that said I don’t plan ahead. Or I don’t own a mirror.
The judge asked why I’d failed to appear. With my best wise-ass delivery, I told her that if I’d known she was going to ask, I would’ve brought a note from my mother.
Apparently, sarcasm doesn’t play well in small claims. I may have been the first person ever taken into custody in that courtroom. They didn’t even have a holding cell, so they handcuffed me to a file cabinet in the lunchroom until the sheriff showed up. It felt like a scene cut from Alice’s Restaurant – me playing Arlo Guthrie, minus the guitar and peace signs, detained for the crime of smartassery and window-punching justice.
In college, I was selected to be the editor of non-fiction for the university’s recently-revived literary arts magazine. In order to “break the ice” and turn the editorial board into some semblance of a family, the editor-in-chief proposed we all go on a “team-building retreat” to kitschy Gatlinburg, Tennessee, just a 3.5-hour jaunt from our high, happenin’ hills to lower, smoky ones. We did all the things that one does at the Myrtle Beach of the Mountains: took an old-timey Western photo, stayed in a sub-par hotel-lodge, and ate Mexican on Margarita Night. We hit almost all the highlights that one sets out to do in that town—except Ripley’s Aquarium.
Fueled by liquid courage, I bravely told my new crew that I had an idea for how we could get into the aquarium without paying for a ticket. They leaned in, out of interest and awe. This polished, certified brown-noser, sitting right in front of them, was about to… BREAK THE RULES?! Gasp!
With a wide, surreptitious smile, I unfolded the plan: at first, I’d walk in alone and explain the ‘situation’ to the security guard on duty. I’d tell him how I had left my brand-new Canon digital camera in one of the big rooms inside, “You see, I was here earlier with my friends (I’d point to them at the entrance, and they’d smile and wave), and I put my camera down on top of a trash can to throw away something and totally forgot to pick it back up. Could I pretty please go and retrieve it before they closed for the night?”
To this day, I don’t know if the security guard completely bought the story or saw straight through it, but he let me and my new friends in. For half an hour, we owned the aquarium. We paraded the hallways and swam through the underwater tunnels, taking photos of ourselves, high-fiving, and marveling at the sad/stunning ocean life. I became a hero that night—the story, a myth—forever immortalized in the memories of seven rag-tag English majors.
I was eight years old, playing in the street in front of my house with a slightly older friend, when the police picked us up and brought us to the precinct station. They had repeatedly warned us not to play in the street -- because, a few months earlier, a kid playing in the street had been struck by a passing car and killed. But what choice did we have? We lived in a neighborhood of row houses and semi-detached houses, and there was not a single playing field within a mile radius of our street. So the street was where we played every day, and we would quickly scatter whenever we saw a patrol car approaching. But on this occasion my friend and I were not quick enough and we were apprehended.
The police thought they would make an example of us. At the precinct station, we were booked and fingerprinted, and then we were locked up in a holding cell. My older friend, who was more worldly, was frightened and tearful; I was simply bewildered. After a couple of hours, the police called our respective parents, who came to take us home. The next day were again playing on the street.
The weekly Saturday night routine was to wait for Mom to wake up (on the couch) at about 1, finally go upstairs and get to sleep by 2, then I'd unhook the garage door's chain from its electronic mechanism that opened it easily but noisily, and pull the door open by an old, rusted, warped metal handle at a silent snail's pace. Our driveway was perfect—not only at an incline, but where it leveled off at the bottom it merged with the neighbor's driveway, serving as a great skateboarding and bicycling route in earlier years, more innocent times.
Put the car into neutral, push it slowly out of the garage, and the moment that back wheel falls off the one-inch entry curb, you've got six more inches of "garage floor" leading up to the driveway. Jump in as quickly as possible! Close the door. Ease gradually on the break. Roll safely onto Henry Driscoll's driveway, turn on the engine, and we'd be writing graffiti in Harlem within the hour. I'd done it a million times—well, at least twenty—but for whatever reason on this fateful night in October of '94 I missed the jump. I'd either moved too slow or pushed too hard and was forced to watch helplessly as the 3,000 pounds of metal rolled on its own, a driverless car generations before driverless car technology, gaining momentum towards Mr. Driscoll's house. Mr. Driscoll wasn't an enemy of ours, though nor were he and my parents friends. They were mutually curmudgeon, suburban American neighbors of the 20th century, preoccupied with each other's flaws as neighbors instead of intent on honing community.
I prayed for the best possible outcome and might have gotten it in fact, as the car turned just enough to avoid smashing into Henry's own garage, instead absolutely obliterating an open firewood storage box he'd constructed basically out of 2x4's to the side of his home. It was loud. Lights went on everywhere. First in Mr. Driscoll's house, then my parents' bedroom. I had to think quick. There was no way to conceal my error but I could at least conceal intent. Diving into the backseat, for some reason I figured the best place to stash my backpacks full of spray paint was beneath the car that would undoubtedly be relocated within minutes. My parents came running outside in their pajamas, exhausted, infuriated, forced to engage with Mr. Driscoll for the first time in months. Dad pulled the car back into the garage. Mom yelled and found the bags that were under it, and I was grounded... again. Six more months before I'd be permitted to take my driver's test.
I was a 20-year-old high school dropout when I arrived in Berkeley in 1970 from the East Coast in Berkeley, California, with my boyfriend, our two dogs, and $700. It was clear even to me we were late to the hippie scene of the 60s, but I still hoped proximity to San Francisco might offer a chance to turn around my life. We rented a room in a house where Creedence Clearwater Revival had supposedly lived, the closest I got to peace-love-and rock-and-roll.
I worked at a Doggy Diner and cleaned houses in the Oakland Hills. Between this and my boyfriend’s pot dealings, we barely made the rent. Hungry for more than rice and beans, we hatched a plan to steal our next meal from the Safeway up the street.
We would have been easy to spot in the wide, well-lit aisles. My boyfriend’s shaggy haircut, my bell-bottoms ragged and dirty at the heels, both of us high from hunger and pot. We roamed the aisles too many times before I slid the hamburger package into the front of my pants and zipped my boyfriend’s too-big Army jacket over the bulge. Against my belly, it was cool, but I was not. Throat tight, eyes down, ears pounding with fear, I was sure we’d be caught. We tried to act like we couldn’t find what we’d come for and slid out the exit.
A couple months later, I bought Volkswagen bug that “needed work” to drive back east without the boyfriend. When I rebuilt the engine using the “Idiots Guide” in the basement of our Berkeley house, I found a confidence and purpose that changed the trajectory of my life. I never tried to shoplift again, and I think back to that pack of burger meat, the idiocy of risking an arrest, and the luck of not being apprehended.
As a high school senior and editor of the school newspaper, I got to read the administration's morning announcements over the school-wide intercom every Friday. The announcements frequently included directions to members of various clubs or teams to report to the gymnasium, the library, music room, or a particular classroom at the end of the school day or -- occasionally -- just after the announcements.
For the last Friday of the year, I made a list of a dozen or so fellow seniors and ordered them to "report to Room 329 immediately." There was no such room.
A couple of my victims, caught on to the ruse when they couldn't find the room. They tracked me down between classes and made a ruckus that attracted the attention of an assistant principal. I was promptly sentenced to an hour's after school detention.
Word of my crime and sentence spread rapidly. By the middle of the day, when I got to Algebra class, Mr. Boyer, our much-beloved teacher and a rebel-at-heart, began class by demanding that I stand and be recognized. He then led a round of applause.
I'm 74 now, and I don't know that I've ever been more proud,.
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Love this, Dale!
The weekend of my first week of college in the 1970s, my out-of-town high school boyfriend visited me in my all-women dormitory. The dorm rules allowed men, there was no curfew, but males were not allowed in the bathrooms. For ANY reason.
What a clever little twist!
My first taste of college freedom was nearly my last.
The second morning, my boyfriend wanted to take a shower. We decided to sneak him into the bathroom. With a robe and a towel wrapped on his head, from a distance it wasn’t evident that he was a guy. Our main goal was to avoid Jeannie, the Resident Aide who was a junior and managed the first-year women on my floor. She took her job seriously for which she received a stipend as well as free room and board.
The shower stealth went well until my boyfriend realized he did not have any shampoo. I was in the next shower stall, so he called out to me in his best falsetto, “Jackie, can you pass me some shampoo?”
And just my luck, Jeannie was in the bathroom standing next to his shower stall when he said this. She instantly came to his rescue, still unaware that the voice belonged to a guy. She started to pull back his shower curtain saying, “O I have some, here you go!” Thinking quickly, my boyfriend stuck his head out with the curtain wrapped around him. And all I heard was a loud shriek. “There’s a man in the bathroom!” she screamed and then, “Get out! Get out now!”
Once it was determined that the "man" was connected to me, I expected follow-up from the dormitory director. The next day I was called down to the director’s office. She was sitting with a group of other dorm directors and told me to please recount what had happened to this audience. I told my story, including the part about the phony, high-pitched voice that my boyfriend had used.
The group looked at each other and appeared to be stifling their laughter. My dorm director looked at me and said, “Consider this your warning. If you want to remain a resident of this dormitory, you cannot break any more rules of any kind for the entire year.”
As I left her office and closed the door, I heard the roomful of dorm directors break out in hysterical laughter. Humiliated as I was, I was relieved that I had provided them with comic relief. The power my R.A, thought she had over me dissolved with their mirth.
If you find yourself in Perth, Australia with seven dollars to your name no plane ticket home, it's clearly time to take desperate measures. In my case, as an American with a tourist visa, technically, I shouldn't have been allowed to work. But. one of the best things about a country like Australia is that it's not big on "technicalities," and I was able to go to work driving a taxi. I ended up overstaying may visa and having to spend tern days at an airport detention center.with an assortment of detainees from places like Chinna and Indonesia.
The whole deportation process was conducted in a civil manner, but the immigration people were irritated out of their skulls that they had to deal with an American rule breaker. In the end they put me on plane to my requested destination and even gave me cash from a bank account
I'd started with my taxi earnings.
All in all , I reckon I was. lucky
Humans are made to follow rules, but I always liked to believe that animals were meant to be free. That’s why, whenever I used to find myself in the park alone, I’d unhook my dog’s leash and let her run blissfully beside me. The problem that day was that I was visiting my in-laws, and I had forgotten that they share their property with geese. Hundreds of geese.
My dog is a small, fluffy poodle with incredible manners. Her name is Folly, and her nickname is Mrs. Fancy Pants. She’s been made fun of by men who call her elegant gait “prissy,” and she’s been complimented by women who are jealous of her voluminous updo. I’ve watched her taste an ant and then instantly spit it out, so I assumed she would never hurt a fly, either.
So as we turned the corner toward my in-laws’ lake and saw the flock of geese, I was shocked to watch my dainty, precious beauty transform into a menacing, psycho-killer beast.
As Folly ran, wings flapped and the flock dispersed. But to my horror, one goose remained on the ground with my dog. I ran toward the pair, screaming, as the animals ran circles around each other. After milliseconds that seemed to stretch hours, the goose flew away, and my dog ran toward me with a crazed look in her eye. I hooked her leash, thanking the stars that my lovely walk through my in-laws’ HOA neighborhood didn’t end with a cold-blooded murder and a hefty, humiliating fine.
I’ve long known that people contain multitudes, but I never knew dogs contained multitudes, too. After Folly’s wild goose chase, I was reminded that some of the biggest trouble-makers don’t look the meanest or scariest. Sometimes, they’re hiding in plain sight, even snuggling up to you with their cute, button nose. And everyone—man, beast, and everything in between—could probably benefit from some hard and fast rules.
Morning dream – I don’t know where I was in this dream – a store? – the dining room of the retirement community where I live? – but I walked out without paying, or asking permission. And it was my decision. I questioned myself, but kept on walking.