Just an FYI...

All the blog entries under August 18th date, were actually entries from an earlier blog that I moved here. The original entries were written sometime between April and now, so if the timing doesn't make sense...that would be why.

You Made Me Who I Am...

Today at church, in recognition of Mother's Day, during the time that our pastor usually has us turn to greet each other, he asked us to do as we normally would when we greet one another but to add...in 60 seconds or less...the most important thing that our mothers have taught us. In essence, he explained, he wanted us to introduce ourselves to our neighbors..."Good morning. I'm Kristen."...and add..."My mom taught me ".

Ack! Anyone who knows me, knows this about me: I cannot say anything in 60 seconds or less. Besides, how is a woman like me, who has been blessed by a mother like mine, supposed to pick only one important characteristic given me by her? That's like placing a child in the middle of Toys R Use and saying..."You've got one minute to choose any toy you'd like. Go." And you end up with nothing because that minute is wasted as you stand there stuttering, while all the millions of possibilities flash through your brain.

So, you know what I said as I shook the hand of the gentleman seated behind me? I said, "Hi. My name is Kristen. That's my mom right there." And I pointed to my mom standing next to me. Yep. That's what I said. And, then I quickly dropped his hand and pretended to be engrossed in the button on my daughter's dress until greeting time was over.

It's funny. Because the same people who would tell you that I don't know how to tell a quick story, would also, I think, tell you that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am an extremely emotional person. Somet people think that's a hinderance. But, I think it's a blessing. I feel, deeply, other people's pain and suffering and sometimes I take it as my own. I am compassionate and sympathetic, devoted and dedicated, faithful and true, not only to those whom I love and who love me but to those who I only know a little bit...or sometimes...not at all.

But what makes that funny is that as naturally as it comes to me to help an elderly woman to the car with her groceries or as easy as it is for me to buy a stranger lunch, it's sometimes difficult for me to verbalize to those that are closest to me how much I care. Invariably, I end up writing it rather than saying it. Just as I'm doing today.

I've often wondered why it's sometimes easier for me to cry for a stranger than it is to wrap my arms around my own mother, or tell my brother how much I love him, or my sister how beautiful she is or my children how incredibly sacred they are to me. I feel it, and I can bring the words from my heart to my paper but I just can't get them to go from my heart to my mouth and then into the ears of those I love.

So, in honor of Mother's Day 2008, I'm going to tell you about my mom, but there's no way I could do it in 60 seconds or less. She's too much woman, too much hero, too much friend for only 60 seconds.

This is my mom....
She was never very good at teaching me how to save money or do my hair. She didn't teach me how to bake or sew. She never showed me how to bleach my whites or iron my wrinkled clothes. And there wasn't much time for gymnastics or dance lessons.

But, what she gave me turned out to be so much more than a good hairstyle or a homemade pie or darned socks. What I learned from her went well beyond sparkling white clothes and I might not be able to do a back-spring or tap dance, but I can do a cartwheel and I can rock with it when I really want to.

My mom taught me that there are only two types of people in this world. Good and bad. And better still, that even the bad people are worthy of love. She taught me that I am the best but that I am not better than anyone...that there is something to be learned from every person that crosses your path...so I'd be better served to pay attention and take note because it might not be the educated, wealthy neighbor who shares the most gratifying lesson, but the poor, homeless man on the street. She taught me that it takes a village to raise a child and that we all should share responsibility for each other and that anything that can be done alone is done better when it's done together. She taught me the importance of family and the freedom of forgiveness. She showed me how to love when it was easier to hate. She taught me that respect is earned, not demanded and that sometimes being happy is way more important than being right.

When I was little, she loved me, cared for me and taught me who to be. She caught me when I fell, kissed me when I hurt, encouraged me when I stumbled and showed pride in me...even when I failed. Now that I'm grown, she's still supports me when I need it, yet allows me the
freedom and opportunity to live my life as I choose and when I make mistakes, she corrects and then moves on, she never wallows in them. She is my best friend, my confidant and the one person in all my life who truly loves unconditionally. Without expectation. And sometimes with little reward.

She is the woman who made me who I am today. And who I am is compassionate and sympathetic, devoted and dedicated, faithful and true, loving and honest. I am a good wife, a good friend and a good mother. I am her. And I owe it all to her. I hope I've made her as proud as she's made me.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Angry White Man: A Message from Me

Let me preface my message with a brief statement. I actually wrote this back in February, when I first read the article described below. I'd posted it to another blog that I have since shut down and have reposted it here...which accounts for the seemingly late response. I'm sure Gary's 15 minutes of fame have come and gone by now.

So, my husband just brought home a copy of Gary Hubbell'sopinion piece from the Aspen Times entitled Angry White Man (I'm notgoing to cheapen my blog space by posting his article here...but you can Google "Angry White Man" and read it yourself, if you'd like-- just have a
trash can handy nearby for when you're ready to hurl. Or a confederate flag for when you're ready to wave it -- depending on your stance).

Anyway, my husband asked if I might read it out loud...I'm guessing so he could actually hear the hitch in my voice as I gradually discovered that what I thought initially was a joke, was actually anything but. And, maybe, (probably would be more like it) because my husband knows just how riled I can get when I read crap like this...and I think part of him enjoys watching the fireworks.

I won't claim to be an expert in the political arena, but living in the middle of the Bible Belt, raised in a predominantly right-wing, Christian community of citizens who, even in the 21^st century, still work adamantly and fervently to keep copies of Catcher in the Rye off the shelves of our high school libraries, I'm plenty versed on the workings of the "Angry White Man"…and the fear and apathy that drive them.

And, as much as I hate to give him any recognition whatsoever, Mr. Hubbell was right about one aspect of his thinly veiled racist opinion. There is, absolutely, a huge amount of interest in this year's presidential elections. The fact that both a black man and a woman are not only in the running for the presidency, but also have a colossal chance of winning it, is history in the making…and people are interested. And the fact that both a black man and a woman are not only in the running for the presidency, but also have a colossal chance of winning
it, scares the shit out of the Angry White Man…doesn't it, Gary?

But, I'm confused… which candidate, exactly, has been pandering to transgenders and illegal immigrants, Gary? I mean, I'm not at every political rally so I can't confirm that it's not happening, but I haven't seen much media coverage surrounding this so called brown-nosing
to "smorgasboards of special interest groups". You might try asking a member of the gay community or a couple of children of illegal immigrants which candidate is favoring and promoting issues favoring their groups. I mean, I've seen a few touch and runs...but mostly what I see, when it comes to granting rights to gay Americans or lending aid to children of immigrants is a bunch of dodging and weaving....from all the candidates. No one wants to commit when it comes to those "special interest" groups.

And, Gary…I gotta tell you…you sound every bit as whiny as my toddler during the midst of a full out tantrum when you complain that no one recognizes the Angry White Man. The Angry White Man has been stomping his feet and screaming at the top of his lungs ever since blacks were granted the right to vote and women left their bare feet behind for sturdy shoes and business suits. People hear you. Trust me. They're just trying desperately to ignore you.

And, it's funny that the Angry White Man claims that he isn't looking for anything more than a "level playing field". As long as the quarterback isn't female, the point guard isn't gay and the pitcher isn't black… right? Because we all know that only the Angry White Man pays taxes, picks up the tab, buys three sets of braces and pays for college educations. No one else. Right, Gary?

You call words like disenfranchisement and marginalization "buzzwords of victimhood". I like that. Buzzwords. Victimhood. They sound "marginally" intelligent...even for an Angry White Man.

Might I ask, Gary…err..I mean, Angry White Man, how many generations of your family were deprived the right to vote? And, as far as marginalization goes, I don't know, a little like a school yard bully, I get the feeling that the Angry White Man comes out swinging because he was long ago marginalized – put in a corner, confined to an outer edge of social standing - by others. Perhaps it might behoove him to ask himself if his narcisistic, superior attitude and his racist, bigotry filled remarks might have anything to do with that marginilzation?

It makes sense, though, that the Angry White Man would wish the Constitution to be interpreted literally, rather than allowing it to evolve and progress as society does. Especially since he, himself seems to have issue with evolving and progressing. So, I'm sure the Angry White Male is
dismayed at the thought of sharing a polling booth with his black neighbor or, even worse, his black neighbor's daughter.

Heck, even the Founding Fathers had the foresight to understand that the Constitution may need to change from time to time…unless I've misunderstood Article 5 of the Constitution…which is possible. After all, I'm a woman, more prone to emotion than rational thought.

Believe it or not, I'm an adamant defender of the 2^nd Amendment and I applaud all men and women, black and white, who are willing to put their lives on hold, (and many times on the line) to pick up a gun and defend our freedom and our safety and our country. But only the Angriest White Man (and in my experience, generally one who has never been brave enough or dedicated enough to serve his country) would find no bother in killing…even when it's "someone who needs to be killed". I dunno. I'm one to think if you lose the "bother" of killing, you probably aren't a whole good better than the people you've determined deserved to die. But there's that emotion
talking again.

h, and my favorite claim of all…"The Angry White Man is not meterosexual, homosexual or a victim." Well, he's most assuredly not a Metrosexual (his wife beater t-shirt and Confederate Flag tractor cap prevent that) although a disposable income and a good manicure might make him far less angry. Nor is he a homosexual, though many times I get that "thy doth protest too much" feeling about him. But he *is*, categorically, The. Biggest. Victim. Of.

Them. All. Everyone knows someone who is angry. And white. And a man.

The Angry White Men are the men whose neighborhoods have gone "downhill" since the minorities and foreigners moved next door. They're the men who find politically correct terms to be an inconvenience and an assassination of their God-given rights, rather than a
recognition and acceptance of the God-given rights of others. They're always put upon, left out and thrown away. Ever the victim.

And, let me ask you, Gary…how many times have you been in a situation where you were forced to leave the only home you've everknown, the only job you've ever had and a head to a place you've never lived with little resources, no family to rely on and no place to go once you got
there? And, if you ever have had an occasion to make a judgment call like that, God bless you. But, you'll have a hard time convincing me that people like you (smart enough to know when to leave) are brave enough to go back and rescue. And if you did, it certainly wouldn't be for the humanity of it anyway. Only for the fame, notoriety and bragging rights. The Angry White Man plays armchair quarterback by sitting back, pointing fingers and telling everyone else how it's done. The Angry White Man doesn't help people he deems stupid or helpless…because the Angry White Man is too stupid and self centered to understand and empathize with those who may not have been as lucky in their draw in life.

The Angry White Man is barely a man…let alone a man's man. The most important men in my life, Mr. Hubbell, my fathers (and yes, I'm lucky enough to have two) and my husband are the real men's men…they play poker and watch football and hunt. They build things and change their own oil and love their family and friends. Absolutely. They've served in Vietnam and fought for justice and molded young minds. And all of them would be greatly bothered by taking the life of another human being…whether they thought it deserved to be done or not. Something I doubt the Angry White Man has much familiarity with. Because unlike the Angry White Man, a real man is able to balance his machismo with his respect for the opposite gender.
He isn't threatened if his wife makes more money than him and his wife doesn't mind when he opens the door for her. And…just a little fyi…a real man would never disrespect his wife's honor by stuffing dollar bills into a the g-string of a stranger at his local strip club, even if only "once in a blue moon". Does your wife really buy that bull?

The Angry White Man may be male by gender, but he's no man. He's scared and he's a bully and, he's full of misdirected rage and self loathing. And, contrary to the Angry White Man's beliefs, a man who believes a woman his equal does not a dishrag make. Most women, should you ever
have balls enough to actually ask, would tell you they don't want to run the show but they don't want to live with a dictator either. "Partner" is a word that real men embrace and respect and from which the Angry White Man flees.

And, again, I agree with you Gary, when you say that the Angry White Man might be a Republican, a Democrat, a Libertarian or a Green…but there's one thing you left out...he's always a caveman…and one with a serious inferiority complex and probably an incredibly small penis to boot. So, quit whining, Mr. Hubbell and tell all your Angry White Friends to put on their
big boy underwear and deal with it…because there's not a race or a gender who hasn't experienced ten-fold everything you complain about. What you speak of Mr. Hubbell, well that's just life. Deal with it.

But please don't patronize your more intelligent counterparts by claiming that you're not a racist. In my experience it's usually statements just like yours…"I'm not racist, but…" "I'm not homophobic, but.." "I'm not sexist, but…" that imply exactly the opposite to be true. Face it,
Gary you're only willing to give everyone a fair chance to play by the rules as long as you get to define fair and you get to set the rules. And, I wonder, do you and all the rest of the Angry White Men realize that your soon to be Angry White Children are some of the only children world wide who only learn one language…making them educationally inferior and at an occupational disadvantage to many of their peers worldwide? Maybe pressing 2 for Spanish shouldn't be such a curse word after all.

And, guess what, Gary? I'm pissed off too. I'm tired of people like you popping out of the woodwork every election year crying about discriminations and inequities and injustices, when in fact, the Angry White Man happens to be the least discriminated-against group of people in the
world. And, as much as it pains you to admit, you know who else votes, Gary? Educated white women, black female CEO's, politically informed lesbians, intelligent black men and hard working members of the gay community. Be careful, though… if you keep up your screaming and your crying, you may well end up with the exact opposite result you intended, as you'll drive us to the polls in droves, and we'll all vote for Hillary just to piss you off.

But, don't let the likes of Hillary Clinton or Al Sharpton, or heck, even me… make you feel guilty for being a white male. Not at all. Let us make you feel guilty for being an angry, ignorant white male. And, in the meantime, take some advice from an Angry White Female…take a Viagra, and a chill pill, man up and quitcho' cryin'.

Sometimes I Really Do Scream Like a Girl

THIS WAS ME....

THIS WAS WHY....

So, a week ago last Thursday I'm sitting on the sofa, alone, watching an old episode of Friends while enjoying a hot, greasy, thick slice of pepperoni pizza. I started working out in January and I had my first child 19 years ago...so it'd been a while since I had either a piece of pizza or a room to myself and I was in heaven. Heaven, I tell you.

Oh, I should also mention that my house is haunted, but that's another story for another day. I just mention it at all because it's probably the reason I failed to immediately run from the room when I noticed a black blur rush by me out of the corner of my eye....I see a lot of black blurs around here. Or at least I think I do. Besides, I had a hot slice of greasy pepperoni cheesy crust pizza in my mouth. Even a ghost wasn't worth giving it up.

So, I continued to snarf and watch Friends and enjoy the quiet solitude that can only come from sending the children to their rooms to snarf their own hot, greasy pizza in front of their own boob tubes. Then I saw it again. And this time it couldn't be ignored.

A black mouse...running from behind my bookcase to behind my television. My eyes shifted, momentarily, to my piece of pizza, then back to the mouse, and to my pizza again. Shit. As much as I wanted that piece of pizza, and every single one of it's fat, artery-clogging calories, there was just no ignoring the fact that somewhere, behind the very television in front of me, sat a black, furry, beady-eyed rodent. And while he might have been small enough to fit in my pocket {{{{...shudder...}}}}, he was just big enough to send me leaping, feet never touching the floor, in an Olympic-worthy vault from the sofa to the top of the kitchen table ...screaming like preteen girl at a New Kids on the Block concert. Screaming and screaming and screaming.

Let me ask you this...What would happen at your house if you let out a terrifying girly scream, loud enough to wake the dead? Someone would check, right? Someone would come flying to make sure you're okay, right? Well, same here. Someone did. The 7 year old. I was only about 10 seconds into the scream, give or take, when Gabrielle came cautiously down the steps and peered into the kitchen. Without a word, she stepped onto a chair and shimmied her way to the top of the kitchen table, where she took stand with me, a silent show of loyalty and camaraderie. Particularly touching, considering she had no earthly idea why I might be standing on top of the kitchen table, screaming bloody murder. Or, perhaps, particularly disheartening...as I can't decide what her lack of surprise and question must say about me.

Eventually Dylan made his way down the stairs too. But only for more pizza. He's almost 12, though. Nothing shocks him...and if it does, he tries really, really hard to pretend that it doesn't. So it didn't surprise me much that he didn't even pause when he saw us standing on top of the table, but I thought he'd at least ask why I might be screaming like a stuck pig while his sister stood next to me, silent as a deer in headlights, trying desperately to pretend this was just another, ordinary day. He didn't. Like I said, he was just there for the pizza.

And Jeremiah? My heroic husband of 13 years? SEVEN minutes. SEVEN minutes is how long his wife and daughter stood on the kitchen table, helplessly watching Mickey run back and forth between the fireplace and the television...both of us screaming (Gabrielle finally figured out this wasn't some kind of Midwestern rain dance) every time he left one to go to the other.

Apparently, nothing comes between Jeremiah and a winning round of Call of Duty 4 -- not even a screaming wife and daughter. For all he knew it could have been a masked intruder, holding us at knife point, forcing us to watch back to back episodes of Dancing with the Stars. When this is all over, I think we're going to have to review the "comfort and protect" section of our wedding vows.

When Jeremiah finally did blow in to the rescue, things went from bad to worse. By this time, I had watched that hairy rat make his way, whiskers twitching, eyes beading, closer and closer to the kitchen table so that upon Jeremiah's arrival, I was about two shakes shy of complete hysteria.

"OhmyGod.OhmyGod.Didyouseeit?Didyou?Holycrapthere'samouse.

There'safreakingmouse!Getit!Getit.Aren'tyougoingtogetit?"

As I'm screaming and pointing, the mouse makes a dash from the television to the fireplace, where it slides in under the metal panel at the bottom. God bless him, brave as any mountain lion stalking its prey, my (better late than never) husband pulls the panel off the fireplace, lays on his stomach and (OHMYGOD) puts his HAND in the fireplace!

"God.Don'ttouchit.Don'ttouchit.Getback.Whatifitrunsrightoutatyou?

Ican'tbelieveyou'regettingyourfacethatclose.Don'tputyourHANDinthere.OhMyGod."

Just as I suspected, after a minute or two of fishing around in the fireplace, the mouse came darting out, bobbing and weaving, looking for another quick place to hide. Jeremiah pounced. And missed. Pounced again. And missed again. (I said brave like a mountain lion, not agile.) Meanwhile, Mickey continues to bob and weave, bob and weave. And now he's back behind the television.

"It'sbehindthetv.Behindthetv.OhmyGod,thereitgoes.It'sbehindthebookcase.Behindthebookcase."

Jeremiah, in all of his infinite wisdom and bravery, uses my sofa pillows (I briefly think to reprimand him for this but quickly decide that's probably not in my best interest) to block the mouse in behind the bookcase and with a look of conquest and determination on his face says....

"Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty"

(Again, here I have a brief thought, which I decide would be better left unshared).

Unfortunately, years of getting his giggles from teasing and playfully tormenting the kitty, doesn't make Kitty real receptive to his master's call. Besides, Kitty hasn't done anything more than eat, sleep and poop around this house in a good 10 years. She would have casually watched Mickey scramble by with barely a glance. Thankless animal. Again, another story for another day.

Anyway, that mouse, sneaky and clever as he is, makes it through Jeremiah's pillow blockade (if you can believe it) and heads back toward the television. Jeremiah leaps and LANDS....

"OhmyGod.Don'tkillit.Don'tkillit!"

Finally exasperated with my willy nilly screaming and borderline hysteria Jeremiah finally breaks his silence...

"Damn, Woman. What do you want? 'Catch it. Get it. Don't kill it.' Which is it? Catch it or Don't kill it? Because I can't do both."

...Silence...Pondering....Pondering.

Mickey takes off again..."KILL IT!"

Too late. Mickey has made his way under the basement door (beating the afghan barrier as easily as the pillow blockade) to the depths of the house. To safety.

The excitement seemingly over, the crowd dispersed. Dylan, in a typical demonstration of disinterest, had gone back upstairs before his dad ever arrived down them. Jeremiah gave up as soon as Mickey ran under the door and was back upstairs, rifle in hand, for another round of Call of Duty, before the mouse hit the first step toward the basement. Even Gabrielle abandoned ship...or table, as it were...the loyalist (and littlest) of allies seeing no more reason for concern.

And now, it's a week later.

I did, eventually, give up the safety of the kitchen table and have, somehow, found the courage to return to the living room. Unfortunately, Mickey still roams free amongst our family. Happily eating the crumbs left on the floor, popping in just long enough to let me know he's still watching. Waiting. Silently stalking. Lying low until it appears I may have dared to forget his existence. Buying his time until I carelessly sling open the pantry door or pull open a kitchen drawer to find his beady eyes staring back at me from the top of a jar of peanut butter...to once again, have me screaming like a girl.

Saying Goodbye to a Stranger

Last Sunday morning, I received a call from my oldest daughter, who is away at college. She calls almost every day, but rarely on the weekend...especially in the morning.

Sitting behind my computer, as I generally am, on a bright sunny morning (the last Sunday of March), the house alive with the jovial, rambunctious laughter of 6 little girls just arising from a Saturday night sleepover, I learned that the younger brother of one of my daughter's friends was killed earlier that morning in a one vehicle accident. And, despite the giggles and grins that surrounded me, my heart broke.

In my 39 years, I've experienced the deaths of many people... from family, friends and acquaintances to those I know merely through their celebrity status. Death touches all of us, I know. And, I think, because it touches everyone personally, we all have felt those feelings of deep sorrow or even distantly removed compassion and empathy in almost every instance when death is brought to our attention. But, something about this particular tragedy, given that I knew this young man merely by name, touched me in a manner I'm not accustomed to and wasn't prepared for.

I was actually shocked by my own reaction, and my reaction most definitely took my husband by surprise -- when I called to tell him about a boy he didn't know any better than those he reads about in the newspaper, yet proceeded to burst into tears while doing it. I didn't even know those tears were present, let alone so very close to the surface. And for the last three days, I've pondered my reaction and have been left with a feeling of guilt and a sense of overzealous emotional dramatics, akin to that of a hormonal teenager, for tearing up when I think of him...it seems sort of trite to be so sensitive to a boy I didn't even know and my own bleakness seems certainly a slap in the face to those that knew him well...most especially his mother and father...as I'm sure they'd give all that they have if they only had to endure "just" the amount of grief I'm feeling.

Of course, this tragedy has been a great topic of discussion within our small, cozy community, and some have mentioned that perhaps we're feeling this way because it is so easy, having children nearly the same age and with whom he was good friends, to visualize our own children in the same situation. And the guilt comes from being glad they aren't. That's probably true enough. But, I don't think that's it alone. Perhaps it is because this young man's older brother had been at our home many times, making him, by association, more familiar to me than others. Or maybe it was that my daughter and his older sister had shared a basketball court for the last three years and during that time his parents and I shared many a seat in the bleachers and shared many a banquet dinner. Could be, and most certainly plays a substantive role in my sadness for their loss. But, still, I don't think that's all.

I think, maybe, it's not knowing him, it's knowing his story...a handsome, vital, effervescent, 16 year old young man who woke up on a Saturday morning ready to take on the world, none of us, including him, having the slightest inclination that he wouldn't do the same again on Sunday morning. It's being able to visualize him hanging with his friends at that night's school dance and how probably he left afterward in anxious of anticipation of meeting up with his friends somewhere else. It's the fact that I can hear the laughter of a boy I've never met before and hear the easy flow of humor that must've been bantered back and forth at the after dance get together. I can see the high fives between his buddies and good natured ribbing as they teased each other jokingly and I can hear the discussions of upcoming summer plans, those who are graduating this year talking of where they will go, and those who aren't talking about how they would keep in touch.

It's understanding that when he left that night, he had plans... and no matter how immediate or insignificant, how remote or life altering, those plans did not include losing control of his vehicle and leaving behind a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a girlfriend and countless other friends and family members. It's understanding the notion that we can be here one second and gone the next and it's knowing that when you're 16 years old, you have little conscious recognition of just how quickly you can cross that divide and how that sense of immortality that only comes with being young, puts our children at a dangerous disadvantage. It's because every time I see a truck whizzing by on the street behind my home, I feel the spirit of a young man I never knew, wishing he could silently make the driver understand what he now knows. It's understanding, even though I didn't know him personally, that he'd give anything to turn back the hands of time just a few minutes, to alter his own course of destiny and it's knowing that he has no power to do so.

But, most of all, my grief comes from the complete and total empathy I feel for his mother. For understanding how even the smallest of tasks, like taking a shower or brushing her teeth, must be all consuming. It's because I can only imagine how much she must hate awakening from her dreams only to recall her reality. It's because this young man...a virtual stranger...has etched his way into my heart...through my compassion for a mother that has lost her child all too soon. It's because each time I take a bite of my lunch, I wonder when the next time will be that she feels like eating lunch. It's because every time I laugh with my kids, I wonder when again she'll be able to find laughter within herself. It's because I know what it means to look at your grown child, and realize he is old enough to put himself into a vehicle and drive away, but still only see the face of the baby who once depended on you for everything. I think it's because I can imagine just how much she must want to go to him now, hold his hand and caress his cheek, assuring that he's not lonely or afraid, as if he were five years old again and simply having a bad dream... yet knowing that, while her son has most assuredly found peace, her nightmare has just begun.

So, while I don't know you personally, Garrett, I hope it's okay for me to tell you goodbye. I hope it's okay if I mourn your passing and miss a person I never knew. I wanted you to know that no matter the decisions that led you to this outcome, you were a good guy, I'm sure of it. You were a good friend, a good brother and a much beloved son. Those qualities touch us, as a society, as human beings.. to know someone (or in my case, know of someone) who was so good, touched by something so bad. And, I may not have known you, but I'll remember you. I hope that's alright with you as well.

And in my struggles to find out why the death of a stranger has touched me more than most, I think I've come to an understanding. I mourn the loss of you, though you're a Stranger, because Death is not. I know the pain caused by its unexpectedness. The grief caused by its permanency. The abruptness and bewilderment caused by its all too early arrival. I know those things well, so I feel l know you well.

And though this is most assuredly a devastating time for your family and dear friends...as they're dealing with a pain that will only *ease* with time, but never fully heal, I wish I could tell them that along with the pain, grief, abruptness and bewilderment, also comes comfort and healing. But since I cannot tell them...because even if I could, my words would hold little power to their pain and it's something they will have to find out on their own...I'll tell you. Don't worry Garrett. You may rest peacefully knowing your family and friends will find the strength they need to go on. They will forever see your face in a crowd, but in time, instead of anguish when they see that face, will come joy. Joy at the memories they shared with you while you were together. Joy at knowing that you are in a better place. Joy in knowing that the Lord, who has bigger plans for all of us, welcomed you with Open Arms even though His plan for you began earlier than the rest of us were ready. And joy in knowing that someday they will be reunited with you, when the Lord chooses to receive them with those same Open Arms he did you. And, eventually, they will take comfort in those thoughts. There will be, someday, more laughter, joy, merriment, pride, good times and even some more tears and heartache for all those that loved you. They will move on. But, as long as the Earth is plenty with those that knew you and loved you, your footprints will remain...and they will not forget. Not ever. I just wanted you to know that. Godspeed, Stranger. Godspeed and Goodbye.

This Really is Me. But Not Really.

So, really. This is me. No lie. It's just not the everyday, ordinary me.

The everyday, ordinary me wears more Fruit of the Loom than Victoria's Secret. The everyday, ordinary me spends 30 minutes getting ready for the day, not three hours. The everyday, ordinary me wears more red spaghetti sauce on my shirt than red lipstick on my lips. The everyday, ordinary me spends more time cleaning toothpaste spatter off the bathroom mirror than taking self portraits in it.

So, I look like this. But, I don't.

This is me after taking an entire day off of work to plan a romantic Valentine's Day surprise for my husband. This is me after spending $200.00 at the salon for a sexy head of curls...

and taking an entire day off of work to plan a romantic Valentine's Day surprise for my husband.

This is me after spending $20.00 to stand 30 seconds in a tanning booth for a two day tan...

and $200.00 at the salon for a sexy head of curls...

and after taking an entire day off of work to plan a romantic Valentine's Day surprise for my husband.

This is me after spending $80.00 on a sexy red dress from Victoria's Secret...

and spending $20.00 to stand 30 seconds in a tanning booth for a two day tan...

and $200.00 at the salon for a sexy head of curls...

and after taking an entire day off of work to plan a romantic Valentine's Day surprise for my husband.

This is me after spending $65.00 on a pair of sexy red "stripper shoes" to go with the sexy red dress and the sexy head of curls with the two day tan...

and after taking an entire day off of work to plan a romantic Valentine's Day surprise for my husband.

So, in essence, this is me after forfeiting a day's salary and spending nearly $400.00 to become anything but the everyday, ordinary me. Not bad for a full day's work, I guess.

And, so no one can ever accuse me of falsely representing myself...

THIS is the everyday, ordinary me (note the Fruit of the Loom Sweatshirt and lack of sexy curls)...

$400.00 that was well spent, I'd say. But that's me...everyday and ordinary.

Missouri and its Sixth Amendment Sacrifice

A word to the world's wretched wrongdoer's: Don't do wrong in Missouri. Or if you do, have money. Because if you po', you SOL. Word has it, as of September 1st, the public defender's office in the beautiful Show Me state will begin refusing to accept cases for destitute defendants. Because they're overworked and underpaid. Gee, there's something no one else has experienced.

Now, I don't really know exactly what kind of cases the public defender's office typically defends, but I'm guessing most people aren't utilizing their services to fight their jaywalking tickets. I could be wrong. But, I doubt it. I mean, I never went to law school, hated every second of my high school government class (it came right after lunch with a teacher whose first language was Monotone and who owned major stock in transparencies and over head projectors...need I say more?) and it's been a while since I've reviewed all the amendments of our constitution in fine detail. But, it seems to me I do remember a little something about...let's see...what was that, again? Oh, yeah. The right to an attorney should you not be able to afford one. Especially if there's a possibility that you might be checking in to a federal penitentiary sometime in the near future.

Anyway, according to the article I read, full time public defender's average about 300 cases per year with an average starting salary of about $37k. I can empathize with the frustration. Heck, even Missouri social workers ' (a profession with a notoriously high case load and notoriously low pay) are paid about $10,000 more annually...on average. Doesn't seem fair, does it? But, then again, first year teachers in Missouri can only expect a meager $25k for spending 8 hours a day for 9 months of the year (in a confined space) with 30 screaming, "spirited" children (at least half of whom will probably be seeking a public defender at some point in their precarious futures). Yet, somehow, I feel like we'd be far less tolerant of a teacher who refused to accept a child into his classroom based on low pay and high case load.

Anyway, I guess this is nothing new to the State of Missouri., so they can hardly claim surprise. The public defender's office has been warning the State for some time that they're overloaded and understaffed, begging for some sort of relief.

Unfortunately, it seems relief never came so, hey, I know, I know. Let's deny our citizens their constitutional rights...that ought to fix the problem, don'tcha think?

I don't understand why the State is allowing this to happen. I realize that public defense and, thereby, public defenders are not a popular bunch, especially here in the conservative heart of America. But, this is a freakin' fundamental right ...a right that sets us apart from other countries. Countries who still stone women for infidelity and chop of hands for theft.

I'm not sure what the solution is, but it's certainly not in denying the indigent the right to a defense. And again, I'm just a simple woman with a couple of years of college under my belt, no juris doctorate degree or anything, but I don't know...seems like maybe an increase in salary might make the job more enticing from the get go, and eliminating half of the problem.

Then, perhaps, the courts might send the leftovers to private practice attorneys as part of their fulfillment of the Professional Rules of Conduct all lawyers are bound to:

All lawyers, therefore, should devote professional time and resources and use civic influence to ensure equal access to our system of justice for all those who because of economic or social barriers cannot afford or secure adequate legal counsel. A lawyer should aid the legal profession in pursuing these objectives and should help the bar regulate itself in the public interest. [7] Many of a lawyer's professional responsibilities are prescribed in the Rules of Professional Conduct...

helping to curb the remainder of the problem.

Something that has been a known complication for years has just become a crisis. I wonder why it always takes a crisis to form a solution? And I wonder why it's always the people...mainly the indigent and less educated...who must pay before the crisis is cured?

Dear Abby...Don't Count on Any Gifts from Me

So, I'm perusing my local paper this morning, carefully collecting the night's current events, making sure that I hit all the important sections...Comics, Horoscope, Cross Word, Remembrances and, of course, Ann Landers...or Abby, or whomever took over after the Great Ann.

At any rate, I find she usually gives pretty decent advice. Maybe that's because it's not hard to tell a crack head wondering if she should give up the rock before her baby is born that Yes, in fact, it is.

Anyway, today's question was from a grandmother writing in regarding her grown granddaughter's habit of opening gifts in the privacy of her own room. Apparently, she's been doing this since she was a little girl...taking her present and retreating to her room to open it and extending a thank you at a later time. Grandma is upset that she's still doing this now that she's no longer a little girl, but an "intelligent, attractive college student".

Understandably, Grandma is distressed by this behavior and feels cheated out of the joy she might derive from watching her loved one's face light up as she beholds the beautiful turquoise and yellow needlepoint tissue cover Grandma spent countless hours working on. When Granny asked her dear granddaughter why she did this, Sweet Pea's answer was simply, "I don't like to be watched while I open gifts." Huh. Slap. Say again?

Seems a little on the selfish side for someone on the receiving end of a gift, don'tcha think? Well, I thought. But, apparently Abby didn't.

This time Abby astounded me with her ever so delicate words of wisdom to Grandma:

"You are operating under the assumption that your granddaughter likes the gifts you have chosen. Has it occurred to you that she may take the gifts to open in private because she knows you are waiting for her reaction..."

Well, DUH, Abby. Isn't that what most of us are looking for when we give a gift? A reaction of some sort? I mean, beyond the selfless generosity behind gift giving, don'tcha think there would be far less of it if the giver never got anything in return? Like a REACTION.

I mean, I buy a gift because I want to put a smile on someone's face. And, while my giving is about them and their pleasure, it's also a little about me. Maybe I'm just particular, but I've got to say, when I stumbled upon the antique tea pot my best friend had spent years scouring flea market and antique stores to find, I would have been pretty perturbed with her if, when I excitedly gave it to her for her birthday, she'd excused herself to the other room to open it. I might not have acted on first instinct and smashed it into smithereens, but you can be damned sure it would have been the last time I would have given her more than a $20.00 gift card to Walmart.

See, in my house, the receiving of a gift is every bit as important...even more so, really...than the giving of one. From the time my children were old enough to tear the wrapping paper from birthday boxes on their own, they have been conditioned not only to say "thank you", but to do so with excitement and exaggerated appreciation.

I don't care if the gift turns out to be a brand new car or a roll of duct tape and a stick of chewing gum. After the party is over, you don't have to drive it, stick it or chew it if it's not your thing...but you'd better be thankful for it and you'd better damn well be gracious about it.

Never, in a million years would I allow my FIVE year old to wander to another room to open her gift and if my college aged daughter was doing it...well...she might find her gifts would start looking oddly familiar, like from her own room. Because, you know..."I don't like to be watched while I shop for gifts."

So, Abby...most of the time, even when your advice is a little dated and old fashioned, I'll give it to ya...but this time, I think you totally missed the boat.

And to Grandma: Next time a gift giving occasion comes up for little Miss Congeniality, send her off to her room with a gift wrapped box of Trident and shower the others with tickets to gay ol' Paree. When she asks why, just explain that you know how she feels about being the center of attention and Paris is *much* too sociable for a girl of her tastes.