Flat Stanley's youngest child (age 22, hereafter referred to as "Thing Three") has spent way too much time in a hospital this year. It's not all bad, however, as Thing Three has a few observations to pass along to Thing One and Thing Two, and since the trouble is with his bowels, you may wish to wash your hands before leaving the room.
Today's Wisdom for Male Patients:
1. When a pretty female nurse or physician touches you in any Area To Be Covered By A Bathing Suit, it's strictly business.
2. When a male physician puts his finger in your butt, it's not because he's gay and thinks you're cute.
3. And the camera's legit.
4. Once the pain medication's kicked in, always be sure to set your bed pan aside before trying to walk unassisted to the bathroom. Otherwise, you risk flinging a puke-filled pan all over your street clothes.
5. The advice above really isn't worth much, because once the pain medication has kicked in, you won't notice the puke-filled bed pan in your lap.
6. Older brothers are for moral support. Do not expect an older brother to lovingly gather your puke-streaked street clothes into his arms, cart them across town on a city bus, wash them, and return them neatly folded the next day. The Bio-Hazard Bag will have to suffice, and you can wash them at your house when you're feeling better.
7. Boost is a poor substitute for wings and beer.
8. Do not expect your roommates to share your liquid diet in some kind of sentimental solidarity. The closest you can hope for is that they are kind enough to leave the room without spending more than a half-hour discussing the great time they're planning after visiting hours. Your truly sentimental roommates may skip a serving of wings when the next keg is tapped.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
For Your Consideration
Flat Stanley's world has been...interesting. Here's a letter FS recently wrote. See what it does to your perspective.
To Whom It May Concern:
My [relative], ------------, has requested that I send this letter in support of his request for modification of probation conditions so that he may travel out of the county for work, family and personal business.
----- and I have been in regular contact via telephone and email in the three years since he was released from prison. While ----- was incarcerated, we exchanged letters a few times a year over the last three or four years of his time served.
------- has impressed me with his relentless drive to realize his potential as a human being. He has invested a tremendous amount of energy into understanding who he was, who he is, and who he wants to be. ------ believes that the world can be a better place and works hard to find his role in achieving that goal. His passion for helping former prisoners develop skills necessary for re-joining society has encouraged me to join him in that effort in my own world.
As of this writing, [another close relative] has been diagnosed with a rapidly spreading terminal cancer. Doctors predict that she has less than one year to live. She would like to see her [relations] and end on a peaceful note. It would be very nice for her and ------ to have that opportunity to say goodbye in person.
More importantly, however, I have come to accept that -------ʼs crime was the result of who he was at the time, rather than the result of an irrevocably formed personality. ------ has never expressed sexual interest in children and has been extremely careful to surround himself in conditions which can in no way compromise the terms of his parole. He has been adamant that we be careful in what kinds of family photos and junk email we send so that there can be no appearance of prurient interest.
As a family, we would like to get together next year. We will honor whatever conditions ------ requests in order to avoid the appearance of impropriety. This is a mark of respect for ------, in that we trust his good judgment, respect his boundaries, and would not dream of placing him in a compromising position (such as asking him to babysit). While at first glance this may seem unfair, I believe that recognizing and respecting circumstance is in the best interest of everyone and is the highest honor we can accord each other.
----- has a sound and supportive family with whom he initiated and maintains regular contact. He is a hard-working person who messed up badly and was punished for it. Without reservation I fully endorse his bid for modification of probation conditions. I will gladly answer questions or provide further input if necessary.
To Whom It May Concern:
My [relative], ------------, has requested that I send this letter in support of his request for modification of probation conditions so that he may travel out of the county for work, family and personal business.
----- and I have been in regular contact via telephone and email in the three years since he was released from prison. While ----- was incarcerated, we exchanged letters a few times a year over the last three or four years of his time served.
------- has impressed me with his relentless drive to realize his potential as a human being. He has invested a tremendous amount of energy into understanding who he was, who he is, and who he wants to be. ------ believes that the world can be a better place and works hard to find his role in achieving that goal. His passion for helping former prisoners develop skills necessary for re-joining society has encouraged me to join him in that effort in my own world.
As of this writing, [another close relative] has been diagnosed with a rapidly spreading terminal cancer. Doctors predict that she has less than one year to live. She would like to see her [relations] and end on a peaceful note. It would be very nice for her and ------ to have that opportunity to say goodbye in person.
More importantly, however, I have come to accept that -------ʼs crime was the result of who he was at the time, rather than the result of an irrevocably formed personality. ------ has never expressed sexual interest in children and has been extremely careful to surround himself in conditions which can in no way compromise the terms of his parole. He has been adamant that we be careful in what kinds of family photos and junk email we send so that there can be no appearance of prurient interest.
As a family, we would like to get together next year. We will honor whatever conditions ------ requests in order to avoid the appearance of impropriety. This is a mark of respect for ------, in that we trust his good judgment, respect his boundaries, and would not dream of placing him in a compromising position (such as asking him to babysit). While at first glance this may seem unfair, I believe that recognizing and respecting circumstance is in the best interest of everyone and is the highest honor we can accord each other.
----- has a sound and supportive family with whom he initiated and maintains regular contact. He is a hard-working person who messed up badly and was punished for it. Without reservation I fully endorse his bid for modification of probation conditions. I will gladly answer questions or provide further input if necessary.
Grandmother at 26!
(no real names used)
Parents of adult children will appreciate this. Parents of young children will shudder, cross their fingers and swear silently that this will never happen to them. Parents of adult children will then smile and nod sagely.
Phone rings. It's Flat Stanley's daughter. She says, "Mom! Joan just called and said that Marti has something to tell us. I can't imagine—"
Flat Stanley interrupts: "She's pregnant."
Daughter: "Oh Mom, it's probably not that. It's probably that she got engaged to that guy, or she wrecked the car. I'm pretty sure that she wouldn't get pregnant. Joan would freak! She's only got one semester of school left. She just met this guy. She wouldn't get pregnant."
context: FS's daughter married a guy several years older than she is. This guy, FS's son-in-law, adopted his first wife's two children. Hence, FS has a 26-year-old daughter whose step-daughter is 20.
Daughter: "Oh Mom, I can't imagine what you guys must have felt, since I feel this upset and Marti's not even my daughter! I'm sure she's not calling to say that she's pregnant. She must have wrecked the car. Oh, I can't believe how upsetting—Oh! There's [FS's son-in-law] calling. I'll call you back!"
more context: It wasn't too many years ago that FS's daughter called home from college (on FS's birthday, of all days!) to tell her parents that she was pregnant. At the time, FS felt like we were the only parents in the world to be so shocked and confused and should we be happy? sad? angry? disappointed? supportive? condemning? In the spirit of ignorance and adventure, we took turns with the full range of emotional options, including, for FS, complete numbness.
later on...
Daughter: "Mom! Marti's pregnant!"
FS: "How about that...you're going to be a grandma at age 26."
Daughter: "Mom, it's so weird."
FS: "You're telling me."
Marti's lucky, though it will probably take her a while to understand it, because she's got FS's daughter and son-in-law ready to give her moral support, wise counsel, and distance enough to make her own decisions, none of which will be easy, few of which will lead to immediate happiness, all of which have the potential to set the stage for a great future soon, should she have the foresight to choose them.
Parents of adult children will appreciate this. Parents of young children will shudder, cross their fingers and swear silently that this will never happen to them. Parents of adult children will then smile and nod sagely.
Phone rings. It's Flat Stanley's daughter. She says, "Mom! Joan just called and said that Marti has something to tell us. I can't imagine—"
Flat Stanley interrupts: "She's pregnant."
Daughter: "Oh Mom, it's probably not that. It's probably that she got engaged to that guy, or she wrecked the car. I'm pretty sure that she wouldn't get pregnant. Joan would freak! She's only got one semester of school left. She just met this guy. She wouldn't get pregnant."
context: FS's daughter married a guy several years older than she is. This guy, FS's son-in-law, adopted his first wife's two children. Hence, FS has a 26-year-old daughter whose step-daughter is 20.
Daughter: "Oh Mom, I can't imagine what you guys must have felt, since I feel this upset and Marti's not even my daughter! I'm sure she's not calling to say that she's pregnant. She must have wrecked the car. Oh, I can't believe how upsetting—Oh! There's [FS's son-in-law] calling. I'll call you back!"
more context: It wasn't too many years ago that FS's daughter called home from college (on FS's birthday, of all days!) to tell her parents that she was pregnant. At the time, FS felt like we were the only parents in the world to be so shocked and confused and should we be happy? sad? angry? disappointed? supportive? condemning? In the spirit of ignorance and adventure, we took turns with the full range of emotional options, including, for FS, complete numbness.
later on...
Daughter: "Mom! Marti's pregnant!"
FS: "How about that...you're going to be a grandma at age 26."
Daughter: "Mom, it's so weird."
FS: "You're telling me."
Marti's lucky, though it will probably take her a while to understand it, because she's got FS's daughter and son-in-law ready to give her moral support, wise counsel, and distance enough to make her own decisions, none of which will be easy, few of which will lead to immediate happiness, all of which have the potential to set the stage for a great future soon, should she have the foresight to choose them.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Elevator Speech
An elevator speech is that 20-second blurb you use to tell people what you do. Nice, quick, simple, easy-to-understand. My elevator speech: I help people get rid of shit.
I'm not making this up. For a cool mil and a half, I can see to it that you have the means to rid the manure stream generated by your confined animal feeding operation. It's pretty simple. A hose here, a tank there, a coupla pumps, some splashy things, a squisher, few more hoses, a tube, some chemicals, sieve or two, more hoses and splashy things and a conveyer belt. Oh. and a lagoon. And another hose. Maybe an aerator. Another pump. Bingo. Put this pile here and re-use it for that...this pile goes into a composter. And, yep. Yep. You just got ridda shit. And I helped.
This technology won't be really, really useful until we can apply it to problems such as desk tops, junk drawers, garages....
I'm not making this up. For a cool mil and a half, I can see to it that you have the means to rid the manure stream generated by your confined animal feeding operation. It's pretty simple. A hose here, a tank there, a coupla pumps, some splashy things, a squisher, few more hoses, a tube, some chemicals, sieve or two, more hoses and splashy things and a conveyer belt. Oh. and a lagoon. And another hose. Maybe an aerator. Another pump. Bingo. Put this pile here and re-use it for that...this pile goes into a composter. And, yep. Yep. You just got ridda shit. And I helped.
This technology won't be really, really useful until we can apply it to problems such as desk tops, junk drawers, garages....
Saturday, October 04, 2008
my modeling career
inspired by Jake the Snake's telling of his early career as a stripper.
I was 19, newly graduated from a two-year school with a degree in science laboratory technology, particularly talented in two highly desirable skills: (1) Drawing blood from humans and (2) Preparing slides of rat livers from rats that I had personally seen raised. (Note to PETA readers: I did not participate in the killing, eviscerating or placing of tiny little rat innards into vials of formalin for preservation. Science is good.)
I was also particularly about-to-be-unemployed, having just barely escaped being fired as a breakfast waitress at a big fancy hotel in downtown New Orleans. It seems that the failure of this rough-edged bumpkin to bring a patron's strawberries at the proper time was huge faux-pas.
Hey, even in the sticks we have French class. I knew the meaning of the concept, just not the behaviors which would prevent me from committing such unimaginable acts of social disgrace. Plus, I didn't know enough to serve from the right. Or the left. Whichever, my choice was wrong. To this day I'm not too aware of the difference, which is why I'm now a somewhat gracious restaurant patron. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Besides that, I still struggle with figuring out left from right. Which was a lot of fun when I was marching Marines in formation, but that's a story for another day.
So I needed a job, didn't have the social skills to find one, and was looking to get out of the one I'd held for the last three hours. And there was my opportunity, succinctly worded, clearly stated, plainly printed in unpretentious black and white: WANTED: MODELS.
Well, hey, I thought: I'm cute and tiny and have blond hair, lemme go try that. Unlike Mr. Jake the Snake, it never occurred to me that being a model meant that you had to know something. Unlike Jake, I did not take modeling classes. I did not learn how to dance. I did not know how to move. I did not know how to flirt. I did not know how to be sexy.
My base tan, though, was excellent. Not a single tan line anywhere. Nothing but pure, natural, creamy, silky pale skin on my body. Unless you count the shirtsleeve line on my upper arms. Which I didn't, because why would I? I'd never heard of a base tan, much less recognized that it was desirable.
Being somewhat more sophisticated than my peers back home (graduating class of 96, including 17 juniors who'd managed to build enough credits to bail early), I did know enough to take a shower and get a haircut prior to the interview (which was a walk-in process.) And I was, if nothing else, confident that if anyone could walk in and take the prize, it would be me. Reference my earlier observation about ignorance.
The haircut should have been an indication of things to come, but I didn't yet possess the social literacy skills necessary to read the clues. I made an appointment at one of upscale department stores on Canal Street. Woe. The salon! I had never been in such an environment in all my life. An Asian woman (another first!) in a silky blouse (boy, she sure did dress well for work) shampooed my hair (holy cow! This was much better than the cold spray bottles that were part of the three or four paid haircuts I'd had growing up). I didn't want color, I didn't want curls, I didn't want a shag, I didn't want a bob (bob? what was that, anyway?). I wanted beautiful, sexy, and no maintenance. I wanted to walk out of that salon a new woman. A woman. Complete, sexy, curvaceous, confident, experienced, and knowing. And tall. And sexy. And tall and sexy. And curvaceous. And knowing. Did I mention sexy? Undeniably, head-turning sexy. My Key To The World.
What an unnerving experience. The hairdresser had no sense of personal space, and at first, I didn't understand the implication. I loved having my scalp massaged, loved the drape of her hand across my shoulders, the sensuous caress of her fingers as they trailed across my forehead, fondled my ears, tracked lightly across my skin. Then she got down to business. Now it wasn't just her hands, it was her entire body. Brushing up against mine. Leaning into me as she picked up a few strands of hair, snip. Move, lean, touch. Snip, snip. Move in closer. I could feel the heat of her body warming mine. Snip. Snip. Getting a little uncomfortable, here.
Reach across the top of my head. Lean in closer. Warmer. Oh. My. Her silky blouse rubbing softly across my cheek. Oh man, I've heard of women liking women...is this woman like, uh, one of those kind? My breath quickens. I am conscious of only one thing in the entire world, and that is the realization that her breast is now resting on my face. There is nothing more than a thin, filmy fabric between one of her parts-to-be-covered-by-a-swimming-suit and me. If I so much as take a deep breath, my mouth will move against her nipple.
I froze like a deer in the woods at the sound of a branch snapping under a hunter's footstep. I froze like the ice covering one of the Finger Lakes in February. I froze like a non-dairy treat in the freezer section of your favorite grocery chain. And stayed frozen for the rest of the haircut. And walked out looking like: Myself. Not tall, not sexy, not curvaceous, not knowing, and quite confused. What had just happened in there? Was that the way of all haircuts? Did I misunderstand her behavior? And if I did, did that mean I was queer? And if I was queer, how come it was news to me?
I wore my nicest dress-up outfit to the interview: A pair of soft lime-green slacks two sizes too big (I wore baggy back then) and a stylish, billowy, multi-colored blouse. (This was, afterall, the 70's). I found the address a few blocks off Canal St. and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened onto a plain corridor covered with a barely-not-avocado green, plush, carpet. The corridor was lined with plain doors, trails of crushed and dirty carpet leading faintly to each one.
Where was the frosted glass double entryway? The polished granite? The ostentatious display of real estate and over-sized furniture? The cool, clean, crisp smell of wealth and sophistication? Must be behind Door Number 402.
Behind Door Number 402 was more that same carpet and a sad rendition of a small-office desk squeezed into a reception room the size of three janitor closets. The woman behind the desk took a drag off her cigarette and appraised me in one dismissive glance.
She said, "You model nude?"
I thought about the answer. I pictured myself as a tall, confident, curvaceous, knowing, sexy, complete, tall-and-sexy-and-curvaceous-and-knowing woman standing naked in a doorway welcoming guests to an upscale, high-society event.
I pictured myself as a short, skinny, un-curved, unknowing, incomplete, barely-more-than-a-kid person standing in that same doorway fully conscious of her nudity and completely unwilling to fill whatever roles that naked ladies might be expected to fill under such conditions.
I said, "Uh, no."
A week later I joined the Marine Corps. A place where men were men, women were women, tan lines appreciated, and where "model" referred to how well you wore your uniform, laid out your gear, and performed on the drill field. No nudity required.
I was 19, newly graduated from a two-year school with a degree in science laboratory technology, particularly talented in two highly desirable skills: (1) Drawing blood from humans and (2) Preparing slides of rat livers from rats that I had personally seen raised. (Note to PETA readers: I did not participate in the killing, eviscerating or placing of tiny little rat innards into vials of formalin for preservation. Science is good.)
I was also particularly about-to-be-unemployed, having just barely escaped being fired as a breakfast waitress at a big fancy hotel in downtown New Orleans. It seems that the failure of this rough-edged bumpkin to bring a patron's strawberries at the proper time was huge faux-pas.
Hey, even in the sticks we have French class. I knew the meaning of the concept, just not the behaviors which would prevent me from committing such unimaginable acts of social disgrace. Plus, I didn't know enough to serve from the right. Or the left. Whichever, my choice was wrong. To this day I'm not too aware of the difference, which is why I'm now a somewhat gracious restaurant patron. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Besides that, I still struggle with figuring out left from right. Which was a lot of fun when I was marching Marines in formation, but that's a story for another day.
So I needed a job, didn't have the social skills to find one, and was looking to get out of the one I'd held for the last three hours. And there was my opportunity, succinctly worded, clearly stated, plainly printed in unpretentious black and white: WANTED: MODELS.
Well, hey, I thought: I'm cute and tiny and have blond hair, lemme go try that. Unlike Mr. Jake the Snake, it never occurred to me that being a model meant that you had to know something. Unlike Jake, I did not take modeling classes. I did not learn how to dance. I did not know how to move. I did not know how to flirt. I did not know how to be sexy.
My base tan, though, was excellent. Not a single tan line anywhere. Nothing but pure, natural, creamy, silky pale skin on my body. Unless you count the shirtsleeve line on my upper arms. Which I didn't, because why would I? I'd never heard of a base tan, much less recognized that it was desirable.
Being somewhat more sophisticated than my peers back home (graduating class of 96, including 17 juniors who'd managed to build enough credits to bail early), I did know enough to take a shower and get a haircut prior to the interview (which was a walk-in process.) And I was, if nothing else, confident that if anyone could walk in and take the prize, it would be me. Reference my earlier observation about ignorance.
The haircut should have been an indication of things to come, but I didn't yet possess the social literacy skills necessary to read the clues. I made an appointment at one of upscale department stores on Canal Street. Woe. The salon! I had never been in such an environment in all my life. An Asian woman (another first!) in a silky blouse (boy, she sure did dress well for work) shampooed my hair (holy cow! This was much better than the cold spray bottles that were part of the three or four paid haircuts I'd had growing up). I didn't want color, I didn't want curls, I didn't want a shag, I didn't want a bob (bob? what was that, anyway?). I wanted beautiful, sexy, and no maintenance. I wanted to walk out of that salon a new woman. A woman. Complete, sexy, curvaceous, confident, experienced, and knowing. And tall. And sexy. And tall and sexy. And curvaceous. And knowing. Did I mention sexy? Undeniably, head-turning sexy. My Key To The World.
What an unnerving experience. The hairdresser had no sense of personal space, and at first, I didn't understand the implication. I loved having my scalp massaged, loved the drape of her hand across my shoulders, the sensuous caress of her fingers as they trailed across my forehead, fondled my ears, tracked lightly across my skin. Then she got down to business. Now it wasn't just her hands, it was her entire body. Brushing up against mine. Leaning into me as she picked up a few strands of hair, snip. Move, lean, touch. Snip, snip. Move in closer. I could feel the heat of her body warming mine. Snip. Snip. Getting a little uncomfortable, here.
Reach across the top of my head. Lean in closer. Warmer. Oh. My. Her silky blouse rubbing softly across my cheek. Oh man, I've heard of women liking women...is this woman like, uh, one of those kind? My breath quickens. I am conscious of only one thing in the entire world, and that is the realization that her breast is now resting on my face. There is nothing more than a thin, filmy fabric between one of her parts-to-be-covered-by-a-swimming-suit and me. If I so much as take a deep breath, my mouth will move against her nipple.
I froze like a deer in the woods at the sound of a branch snapping under a hunter's footstep. I froze like the ice covering one of the Finger Lakes in February. I froze like a non-dairy treat in the freezer section of your favorite grocery chain. And stayed frozen for the rest of the haircut. And walked out looking like: Myself. Not tall, not sexy, not curvaceous, not knowing, and quite confused. What had just happened in there? Was that the way of all haircuts? Did I misunderstand her behavior? And if I did, did that mean I was queer? And if I was queer, how come it was news to me?
I wore my nicest dress-up outfit to the interview: A pair of soft lime-green slacks two sizes too big (I wore baggy back then) and a stylish, billowy, multi-colored blouse. (This was, afterall, the 70's). I found the address a few blocks off Canal St. and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened onto a plain corridor covered with a barely-not-avocado green, plush, carpet. The corridor was lined with plain doors, trails of crushed and dirty carpet leading faintly to each one.
Where was the frosted glass double entryway? The polished granite? The ostentatious display of real estate and over-sized furniture? The cool, clean, crisp smell of wealth and sophistication? Must be behind Door Number 402.
Behind Door Number 402 was more that same carpet and a sad rendition of a small-office desk squeezed into a reception room the size of three janitor closets. The woman behind the desk took a drag off her cigarette and appraised me in one dismissive glance.
She said, "You model nude?"
I thought about the answer. I pictured myself as a tall, confident, curvaceous, knowing, sexy, complete, tall-and-sexy-and-curvaceous-and-knowing woman standing naked in a doorway welcoming guests to an upscale, high-society event.
I pictured myself as a short, skinny, un-curved, unknowing, incomplete, barely-more-than-a-kid person standing in that same doorway fully conscious of her nudity and completely unwilling to fill whatever roles that naked ladies might be expected to fill under such conditions.
I said, "Uh, no."
A week later I joined the Marine Corps. A place where men were men, women were women, tan lines appreciated, and where "model" referred to how well you wore your uniform, laid out your gear, and performed on the drill field. No nudity required.
Friday, October 03, 2008
this isn't news
Quiet news from the Washington Times. It goes back to honesty, and the practice of supporting of a bill that you know doesn't make sense in exchange for some good publicity is political posturing. And I know these folks are floating on an entirely different plane, (plain?)—but bottom line is that political posturing is a form of ethics that values the end goal above personal integrity. There are not too many real-world scenarios where the trade off is justified.
EXCLUSIVE: Pelosi paid husband with PAC funds
$99,000 for rent, utilities, accounting fees
Jennifer Haberkorn (Contact)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
EXCLUSIVE:
House Speaker Nancy Pelosi has directed nearly $100,000 from her political action committee to her husband's real estate and investment firm over the past decade, a practice of paying a spouse with political donations that she supported banning last year.
Financial Leasing Services Inc. (FLS), owned by Paul F. Pelosi, has received $99,000 in rent, utilities and accounting fees from the speaker's "PAC to the Future" over the PAC's nine-year history.
The payments have quadrupled since Mr. Pelosi took over as treasurer of his wife's committee in 2007, Federal Election Commission records show. FLS is on track to take in $48,000 in payments this year alone - eight times as much as it received annually from 2000 to 2005, when the committee was run by another treasurer.
Lawmakers' frequent use of campaign donations to pay relatives emerged as an issue in the 2006 election campaigns, when the Jack Abramoff lobbying scandal gave Democrats fodder to criticize Republicans such as former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay of Texas and Rep. John T. Doolittle of California for putting their wives on their campaign and PAC payrolls for fundraising work.
EXCLUSIVE: Pelosi paid husband with PAC funds
$99,000 for rent, utilities, accounting fees
Jennifer Haberkorn (Contact)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
EXCLUSIVE:
House Speaker Nancy Pelosi has directed nearly $100,000 from her political action committee to her husband's real estate and investment firm over the past decade, a practice of paying a spouse with political donations that she supported banning last year.
Financial Leasing Services Inc. (FLS), owned by Paul F. Pelosi, has received $99,000 in rent, utilities and accounting fees from the speaker's "PAC to the Future" over the PAC's nine-year history.
The payments have quadrupled since Mr. Pelosi took over as treasurer of his wife's committee in 2007, Federal Election Commission records show. FLS is on track to take in $48,000 in payments this year alone - eight times as much as it received annually from 2000 to 2005, when the committee was run by another treasurer.
Lawmakers' frequent use of campaign donations to pay relatives emerged as an issue in the 2006 election campaigns, when the Jack Abramoff lobbying scandal gave Democrats fodder to criticize Republicans such as former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay of Texas and Rep. John T. Doolittle of California for putting their wives on their campaign and PAC payrolls for fundraising work.
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