Okay, I know how that sounds. Hear me out.
Or, er, read me out. (Why does that sound dirty?)
Lemme try again.
Please withhold judgment.
Whew, correct verbiage and yet not lending itself to sexual innuendo. Finally, let’s move on.
If he is gay, then there are only two reasons of which I can think that he’d not have just said so by now.
1) The American Idol people have forbidden him to do so. In which case, I’d still have to wish he’d do it anyway and then just sue them if they try to punish him for doing so.
2) The saddest reason of all: He doesn’t want to turn away potential votes by confirming the rumor.
That would indeed be sad. I could definitely understand either of those reasons but it wouldn’t inspire me.
On the other hand, if he’s straight, he could unfortunately (due to the intolerance and hate mongering of many) ensure more votes by dispelling any ambiguity and flat out saying, “I’m not gay.”
Why wouldn’t he do that? Maybe because Adam Lambert is a really cool guy who doesn’t want to justify the boxes in which people place each other. Maybe Adam Lambert finds this need to go absolutely nuts over sexual preference as infuriating as I do and flat out refuses to play that game.
If he’s gay, fine. He’s a great singer and performer and I wish him the best.
If he’s not gay, my opinion is he’s a great person who is standing up to the insanity that is gripping our world and saying, “Nope, not gonna play. You can think what you wanna think.”
That’s something I can respect and, dare I say, idolize? =)
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Why I Will Never Watch American Idol Again
I know, I know.
What? You did what? Are you stupid?
You don’t have to tell me. Read the title! I’ve learned my lesson.
Before this season, I’d never watched American Idol. I’d tuned it out as a glorified karaoke contest, ignored it and gone along my merry way.
I did buy a Kelly Clarkson album and consider myself a fan of hers. I also like Daughtry. However, two palatable artists in seven seasons of artists is not a good record.
This year was different. This year had Kris Allen. I’m from Central Arkansas and work for the same company as Kris’ Mom. I absolutely could not escape Kris Allen. His picture was posted in our elevators every Tuesday on a flyer encouraging us to watch the show and, of course, vote for Kris.
Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I watched the results show last Wednesday. Then I was hooked. I DVR’d the show last night and flipped my way through it, sparing myself the last song which was absolutely atrocious. I think both contestants are so adorable, really are good singers and seem like two very nice people.
So, why am I never watching again? Two words: The Internet.
I like reading. So, I started reading articles about the competition and, boy howdy, did it harsh my mellow. People hating on Kris because he’s a “Christian Hick” people hating on Adam because he’s a “godless gay”. Ugh.
I read through several so-called articles in which the writers said little to nothing about the singer’s abilities and focused almost entirely on politics. One even went so far as to describe the race entirely in political terms.
If you read this blog, you know I live in Central Arkansas and you know that I’m a Christian. I adore Adam Lambert. I can’t help it, he’s adorable. I work in theater as an amateur but can recognize stage presence and theatricality. He’s an amazing showman.
Kris is very different. Kris is a musician. His focus always seems to be on bringing out the melody, not on theatrics. He comes across as very sincere and has the ability to connect with an audience in a more subtle and moving way more often than Adam.
At the same time, Adam’s exciting theatrics are off putting to some people who find him fake and Kris’ quiet sincerity come across to many people as just plain dull. They tend to appeal in very different ways to very different people.
However, this doesn’t matter to anyone. All they want to talk about is if Adam is gay and why, if he loses, it won’t be because Kris is a better performer but only because of homophobia.
That really gets me hot under the collar.
I want to think that, if Kris wins, it was because his quiet sincerity and musicality appealed to slightly more people than Adam’s exciting energy and theatrics. Or, if Adam wins, it was because people accepted that he was putting on a show and didn’t find him “fake” and were inclined to go get a sandwich or take a quick nap during Kris’ performances.
The comments of the authors of articles and the comments made regarding those articles lead me to believe that there are people out there not voting for Kris or Adam but against one or the other. There are people out there who voted for Kris because they’re spiteful hateful little minds who can’t stand the idea of Adam being gay. There are people out there who voted for Adam because they’re spiteful hateful little minds who can’t stand the idea of Kris being a Christian.
The fact that people are voting against a contestant, instead of for a contestant, has truly made this a political event and I’ve had enough of politics.
And that is why I’ll never, ever watch American Idol again.
What? You did what? Are you stupid?
You don’t have to tell me. Read the title! I’ve learned my lesson.
Before this season, I’d never watched American Idol. I’d tuned it out as a glorified karaoke contest, ignored it and gone along my merry way.
I did buy a Kelly Clarkson album and consider myself a fan of hers. I also like Daughtry. However, two palatable artists in seven seasons of artists is not a good record.
This year was different. This year had Kris Allen. I’m from Central Arkansas and work for the same company as Kris’ Mom. I absolutely could not escape Kris Allen. His picture was posted in our elevators every Tuesday on a flyer encouraging us to watch the show and, of course, vote for Kris.
Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I watched the results show last Wednesday. Then I was hooked. I DVR’d the show last night and flipped my way through it, sparing myself the last song which was absolutely atrocious. I think both contestants are so adorable, really are good singers and seem like two very nice people.
So, why am I never watching again? Two words: The Internet.
I like reading. So, I started reading articles about the competition and, boy howdy, did it harsh my mellow. People hating on Kris because he’s a “Christian Hick” people hating on Adam because he’s a “godless gay”. Ugh.
I read through several so-called articles in which the writers said little to nothing about the singer’s abilities and focused almost entirely on politics. One even went so far as to describe the race entirely in political terms.
If you read this blog, you know I live in Central Arkansas and you know that I’m a Christian. I adore Adam Lambert. I can’t help it, he’s adorable. I work in theater as an amateur but can recognize stage presence and theatricality. He’s an amazing showman.
Kris is very different. Kris is a musician. His focus always seems to be on bringing out the melody, not on theatrics. He comes across as very sincere and has the ability to connect with an audience in a more subtle and moving way more often than Adam.
At the same time, Adam’s exciting theatrics are off putting to some people who find him fake and Kris’ quiet sincerity come across to many people as just plain dull. They tend to appeal in very different ways to very different people.
However, this doesn’t matter to anyone. All they want to talk about is if Adam is gay and why, if he loses, it won’t be because Kris is a better performer but only because of homophobia.
That really gets me hot under the collar.
I want to think that, if Kris wins, it was because his quiet sincerity and musicality appealed to slightly more people than Adam’s exciting energy and theatrics. Or, if Adam wins, it was because people accepted that he was putting on a show and didn’t find him “fake” and were inclined to go get a sandwich or take a quick nap during Kris’ performances.
The comments of the authors of articles and the comments made regarding those articles lead me to believe that there are people out there not voting for Kris or Adam but against one or the other. There are people out there who voted for Kris because they’re spiteful hateful little minds who can’t stand the idea of Adam being gay. There are people out there who voted for Adam because they’re spiteful hateful little minds who can’t stand the idea of Kris being a Christian.
The fact that people are voting against a contestant, instead of for a contestant, has truly made this a political event and I’ve had enough of politics.
And that is why I’ll never, ever watch American Idol again.
Friday, May 15, 2009
I found some old poems today and am consequently feeling poetic. I'm also really frustrated and felt like screaming at the wind. Then it occurred to me that the wind gets lots of really hard to answer questions thrown at it. The combination of that thought and my poetic state of mind produced the following poem.
Be nice.
Unanswered
Shapeless
Unseen
They shared what had been
The South spoke of rain
It turned into storms
The North spoke of snow
It gathered and swept
The East spoke of sand
It turned into death
The West spoke of fires
It shepherded, kept
This was their custom
This was their way
To crash and roar
To have their say
Again, the four great movers met
Had they found the answers yet?
They asked,
Their own question
The only reply
To the questions we scream
And laugh
And cry
Out to the four winds
The powers who sigh
Bowing trees low
Turning waves into spray
Their sighs moved the heavens
As they went on their way
For again they had no answers
Be nice.
Unanswered
Shapeless
Unseen
They shared what had been
The South spoke of rain
It turned into storms
The North spoke of snow
It gathered and swept
The East spoke of sand
It turned into death
The West spoke of fires
It shepherded, kept
This was their custom
This was their way
To crash and roar
To have their say
Again, the four great movers met
Had they found the answers yet?
They asked,
Their own question
The only reply
To the questions we scream
And laugh
And cry
Out to the four winds
The powers who sigh
Bowing trees low
Turning waves into spray
Their sighs moved the heavens
As they went on their way
For again they had no answers
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Adoption Class
I started tweeting like mad earlier today and realized that I didn’t want to microblog about a certain subject. I wanted to blog about it.
Foster Care, Adoption & Me:
First of all, background check. (Little inside-the-system joke. Okay, it wasn't funny. Moving on.)
Hi! My name is Annie and my parents were foster/adoptive parents. However, I was not a foster/adopted child. That’s a relatively important distinction.
It means: I had the benefit of a stable, loving home but, at the same time, have been aware of the nasty ickiness in the world from a very early age. You’ll note (I hope) that I am still a nice, well-adjusted person and was not horribly scarred or mentally anguished by having been raised with foster/adopted siblings.
For the record: I love my siblings and think they are amazing: Even my sister who is struggling right now and whose daughter I am adopting.
What? You may ask that question. Go ahead.
I can’t tell people how bad Rita’s childhood was. Really. I know things my parents don’t know and I won’t tell them because they’re awful, terrible, disturbing things. The fact that my sister is alive and functioning in any capacity is a freaking miracle.
Rita is still messed up right now but she’s alive and, on some levels, functional. Yes, Rita didn’t straighten up and fly right in order to get her daughter back. That hurts: Especially after seeing all these testimonies of people who have done that very thing. But here is something GOOD about Rita.
Rita quit using drugs when she was pregnant, EVERY SINGLE TIME. You think that’s easy? You think most mothers automatically do that? No. They don’t. Rita is on a long road but there is definitely hope for her because of every member of my family and, most especially, because of my parents.
I’ve mentioned in the past that my parents are saints. Overall some of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet. They’re getting older and starting to do that thing where they take politics way too seriously…or maybe they’re finally taking it seriously enough. Who knows? I’m not there yet. But still, they are some of the most wonderful people you will EVER meet.
Back to point!
The point is, my parents were watching the news one night and saw a problem. Children in a state system being shuffled like the jokers in a deck of cards.
“Ooops! I got the Joker! How’d that happen? Someone take this back and give me a real card.”
Rather than cluck their tongues and say, “Aw, that’s a shame; those poor kids.” Like 99% of us would do, my parents actually got up and did something about it. Going through the process of becoming a foster/adoptive parent has made my admiration of them skyrocket.
I know now that they didn’t walk down to an office and say, “Hey, you know all those kids who desperately need homes? I’ve got one!”
And have the office say, “Oh! You saint! Thank you SO MUCH! We really, desperately NEED you! Here fill out some forms, we’ll send someone to check out your house right away and do a background check that will take, at most, a month. In two weeks, be back here for a weekend of training. Don’t worry about your kids. We’ll provide child care with professionals that will use age appropriate methods to explain the situation to them because, after all, your kids are a part of this process as well, right? Assuming no red flags go up, we’ll have you ready to go in six weeks tops.”
That is precisely, exactly what did NOT happen. It was pretty much the opposite. It’s like the information, even the first phone number, you need is top secret. It’s locked in a suitcase that, I swear, is hiding up the butt of one of these tight cheeked bureaucrats. (BTW, isn’t bureaucrat the most PERFECTLY spelled word? It’s needlessly complicated.)
There is a serious problem here! Good homes taking in kids, is the solution. So, of course, the system seems to be centered around discouraging as many of these people as possible. The dastardly method? Red freaking TAPE!
There are just so many flaming hoops through which your average person is willing to jump before they say, “You know what? I’m trying to help you out here! I’m leaving.”
Now, there is a Christian organization in Arkansas that tries to recruit foster/adoptive parents and cut through as much red tape as possible. My hubby and I are actually going through this process with them and it’s still discouraging.
Instead of 10 weeks of 3 hour classes, it’s two weekends. Two 9 hour days and two 6 hour days of sorting through depressing stories and statistics that make you want to grab the nearest politician by his overpriced lapels and scream, “WAKE UP!!!” in his face repeatedly…and I mean repeatedly.
You know when you’re watching Family Guy, and they have those quirky asides that last too long? THAT repeatedly.
(Incidentally, how awkward is it that I had to type the numbers two and nine, and also, two and six consecutively in a sentence and yet still give the impression that they were not the mistyped numbers 29 or 26? Come to think of it, that incidental sentence commenting on the awkward sentence was also awkward. Fittingly, awkward is a very awkwardly spelled word. Ye gad! Okay! I’m stopping now!)
Doot. Doot. Doot. Ah!
Sorry, I’d forgotten what I was writing about. Back on point! Bureaucracy!
Part of adoption class is looking at really depressing statistics and stories. The fact is that the number of kids being abused and neglected keeps going up every year. What I was told yesterday is that currently in the US, one in five children will be sexually abused before reaching age 18. The number is one in four girls and one in ten boys.
So, naturally, the good Christian folks in my class asked if Christianity being taken out of schools etc. was the reason for the increase in these issues.
My answer? Nope.
Hmm, this IS a blog. Maybe I should expand on that.
My expanded answer is; bureaucracy is the problem. Americans stopped taking care of each other at some point. They stopped caring for the widows and orphans. Instead, they told the government to do it for them.
“Here, I’ll give you tax money. You hire someone to do it and then I don’t have to feel bad OR do anything! Win-Win!”
The problem is the government isn’t well suited for this type of thing and it’s all gone to hell. Yes, Mom. (If you’re reading this.) I said, hell. Maybe I should capitalize it? Nah, I’ll write it in all caps.
H-E-L-L. My definition of Hell is a place without God. Since God is love and all love and goodness and love come from him, Hell is a place in which love and caring do not exist.
This situation is my definition of HELL on Earth for so many of these kids.
Adoption class points out the primary focus for the foster care system: Get the kids back with their parents.
Train a parent up in the way he should go and when he gets his kids back he won’t neglect/sexually abuse/physically abuse them. That’s their motto!
The idea is that these parents haven’t been taught through example how to be parents. They don’t have any kind of support system in the community. They don’t have anyone helping them or teaching them how to help and teach their kids. They have emotional problems or addiction problems that cause them to act toward their kids in a way they wouldn’t otherwise act.
If you can treat the emotional or addiction problems and give the parents the support they need, they can be the parents the kids need. The kids have attachments, which is GOOD!!!
So, treat the kids. Treat the parents. Make happy productive families.
The problem is you have people like my sister. I love my sister, but this training has shown me one thing definitively: my sister doesn’t really want her daughter back. She’s going through the motions.
I’ve watched these videos and listened to all of these birth mothers and fathers talk about how devastated they were when their kids were taken from them. How hard they worked to get them back.
I’ve listened to my sister make excuses for the live in boyfriend whose arrest cost her the decision of her custody hearing. Your kid comes first.
If someone took my son, I’d crawl up a net of barbed wire to get him back. I would do anything asked. I would visit my son absolutely every opportunity I got for as long as I could.
My sister makes excuses and throws around blame like it’s confetti. She’s not alone. There are definitely parents out there that feel they have to put up a fight, society demands they do, but when push comes to shove, they don’t actually do anything they’re required to do in order to get their kids back.
So, what do you do with those kids?
Find them families. That sounds simple but people have been trained by the media to see these kids as damaged goods. They’ve been neglected and abused and they’ll never be right again. There is no way to fix them. They’re the jokers in the deck. There’s no value assigned to them. At the very best, they’re wild cards and at the end of the day, no one wants them in their hand.
Bullshit!
(My Mom’s going to kill me…I guess I could say crap but that’s semantics really and I’m kind of going for the reaction here so…)
BULLSHIT!
There are great kids in the system that have problems that will take years and years and years for them to even be able to properly grasp. But these problems are not insurmountable if someone cares enough to reach out and help them; really help them.
Will they magically overcome their problems by age 18? Maybe. Probably not.
Will they stop needing you at age 18? Definitely not.
Will they think they don’t need you at age 18? Probably.
Will taking care of a child who has been abused be hard? Yes.
Will it be harder than raising a baby or biological child that was always loved and was raised in a predictable and loving environment? Yes.
But, in general, do the things worth doing in life tend to be easy?
Foster Care, Adoption & Me:
First of all, background check. (Little inside-the-system joke. Okay, it wasn't funny. Moving on.)
Hi! My name is Annie and my parents were foster/adoptive parents. However, I was not a foster/adopted child. That’s a relatively important distinction.
It means: I had the benefit of a stable, loving home but, at the same time, have been aware of the nasty ickiness in the world from a very early age. You’ll note (I hope) that I am still a nice, well-adjusted person and was not horribly scarred or mentally anguished by having been raised with foster/adopted siblings.
For the record: I love my siblings and think they are amazing: Even my sister who is struggling right now and whose daughter I am adopting.
What? You may ask that question. Go ahead.
I can’t tell people how bad Rita’s childhood was. Really. I know things my parents don’t know and I won’t tell them because they’re awful, terrible, disturbing things. The fact that my sister is alive and functioning in any capacity is a freaking miracle.
Rita is still messed up right now but she’s alive and, on some levels, functional. Yes, Rita didn’t straighten up and fly right in order to get her daughter back. That hurts: Especially after seeing all these testimonies of people who have done that very thing. But here is something GOOD about Rita.
Rita quit using drugs when she was pregnant, EVERY SINGLE TIME. You think that’s easy? You think most mothers automatically do that? No. They don’t. Rita is on a long road but there is definitely hope for her because of every member of my family and, most especially, because of my parents.
I’ve mentioned in the past that my parents are saints. Overall some of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet. They’re getting older and starting to do that thing where they take politics way too seriously…or maybe they’re finally taking it seriously enough. Who knows? I’m not there yet. But still, they are some of the most wonderful people you will EVER meet.
Back to point!
The point is, my parents were watching the news one night and saw a problem. Children in a state system being shuffled like the jokers in a deck of cards.
“Ooops! I got the Joker! How’d that happen? Someone take this back and give me a real card.”
Rather than cluck their tongues and say, “Aw, that’s a shame; those poor kids.” Like 99% of us would do, my parents actually got up and did something about it. Going through the process of becoming a foster/adoptive parent has made my admiration of them skyrocket.
I know now that they didn’t walk down to an office and say, “Hey, you know all those kids who desperately need homes? I’ve got one!”
And have the office say, “Oh! You saint! Thank you SO MUCH! We really, desperately NEED you! Here fill out some forms, we’ll send someone to check out your house right away and do a background check that will take, at most, a month. In two weeks, be back here for a weekend of training. Don’t worry about your kids. We’ll provide child care with professionals that will use age appropriate methods to explain the situation to them because, after all, your kids are a part of this process as well, right? Assuming no red flags go up, we’ll have you ready to go in six weeks tops.”
That is precisely, exactly what did NOT happen. It was pretty much the opposite. It’s like the information, even the first phone number, you need is top secret. It’s locked in a suitcase that, I swear, is hiding up the butt of one of these tight cheeked bureaucrats. (BTW, isn’t bureaucrat the most PERFECTLY spelled word? It’s needlessly complicated.)
There is a serious problem here! Good homes taking in kids, is the solution. So, of course, the system seems to be centered around discouraging as many of these people as possible. The dastardly method? Red freaking TAPE!
There are just so many flaming hoops through which your average person is willing to jump before they say, “You know what? I’m trying to help you out here! I’m leaving.”
Now, there is a Christian organization in Arkansas that tries to recruit foster/adoptive parents and cut through as much red tape as possible. My hubby and I are actually going through this process with them and it’s still discouraging.
Instead of 10 weeks of 3 hour classes, it’s two weekends. Two 9 hour days and two 6 hour days of sorting through depressing stories and statistics that make you want to grab the nearest politician by his overpriced lapels and scream, “WAKE UP!!!” in his face repeatedly…and I mean repeatedly.
You know when you’re watching Family Guy, and they have those quirky asides that last too long? THAT repeatedly.
(Incidentally, how awkward is it that I had to type the numbers two and nine, and also, two and six consecutively in a sentence and yet still give the impression that they were not the mistyped numbers 29 or 26? Come to think of it, that incidental sentence commenting on the awkward sentence was also awkward. Fittingly, awkward is a very awkwardly spelled word. Ye gad! Okay! I’m stopping now!)
Doot. Doot. Doot. Ah!
Sorry, I’d forgotten what I was writing about. Back on point! Bureaucracy!
Part of adoption class is looking at really depressing statistics and stories. The fact is that the number of kids being abused and neglected keeps going up every year. What I was told yesterday is that currently in the US, one in five children will be sexually abused before reaching age 18. The number is one in four girls and one in ten boys.
So, naturally, the good Christian folks in my class asked if Christianity being taken out of schools etc. was the reason for the increase in these issues.
My answer? Nope.
Hmm, this IS a blog. Maybe I should expand on that.
My expanded answer is; bureaucracy is the problem. Americans stopped taking care of each other at some point. They stopped caring for the widows and orphans. Instead, they told the government to do it for them.
“Here, I’ll give you tax money. You hire someone to do it and then I don’t have to feel bad OR do anything! Win-Win!”
The problem is the government isn’t well suited for this type of thing and it’s all gone to hell. Yes, Mom. (If you’re reading this.) I said, hell. Maybe I should capitalize it? Nah, I’ll write it in all caps.
H-E-L-L. My definition of Hell is a place without God. Since God is love and all love and goodness and love come from him, Hell is a place in which love and caring do not exist.
This situation is my definition of HELL on Earth for so many of these kids.
Adoption class points out the primary focus for the foster care system: Get the kids back with their parents.
Train a parent up in the way he should go and when he gets his kids back he won’t neglect/sexually abuse/physically abuse them. That’s their motto!
The idea is that these parents haven’t been taught through example how to be parents. They don’t have any kind of support system in the community. They don’t have anyone helping them or teaching them how to help and teach their kids. They have emotional problems or addiction problems that cause them to act toward their kids in a way they wouldn’t otherwise act.
If you can treat the emotional or addiction problems and give the parents the support they need, they can be the parents the kids need. The kids have attachments, which is GOOD!!!
So, treat the kids. Treat the parents. Make happy productive families.
The problem is you have people like my sister. I love my sister, but this training has shown me one thing definitively: my sister doesn’t really want her daughter back. She’s going through the motions.
I’ve watched these videos and listened to all of these birth mothers and fathers talk about how devastated they were when their kids were taken from them. How hard they worked to get them back.
I’ve listened to my sister make excuses for the live in boyfriend whose arrest cost her the decision of her custody hearing. Your kid comes first.
If someone took my son, I’d crawl up a net of barbed wire to get him back. I would do anything asked. I would visit my son absolutely every opportunity I got for as long as I could.
My sister makes excuses and throws around blame like it’s confetti. She’s not alone. There are definitely parents out there that feel they have to put up a fight, society demands they do, but when push comes to shove, they don’t actually do anything they’re required to do in order to get their kids back.
So, what do you do with those kids?
Find them families. That sounds simple but people have been trained by the media to see these kids as damaged goods. They’ve been neglected and abused and they’ll never be right again. There is no way to fix them. They’re the jokers in the deck. There’s no value assigned to them. At the very best, they’re wild cards and at the end of the day, no one wants them in their hand.
Bullshit!
(My Mom’s going to kill me…I guess I could say crap but that’s semantics really and I’m kind of going for the reaction here so…)
BULLSHIT!
There are great kids in the system that have problems that will take years and years and years for them to even be able to properly grasp. But these problems are not insurmountable if someone cares enough to reach out and help them; really help them.
Will they magically overcome their problems by age 18? Maybe. Probably not.
Will they stop needing you at age 18? Definitely not.
Will they think they don’t need you at age 18? Probably.
Will taking care of a child who has been abused be hard? Yes.
Will it be harder than raising a baby or biological child that was always loved and was raised in a predictable and loving environment? Yes.
But, in general, do the things worth doing in life tend to be easy?
Friday, February 27, 2009
Lost.
One of my twitter friends sent out a suggestion that we write a blog post centered on the word "lost" and what it evokes in us. So, I reflected and tried to think of the moment in my life when I felt the most lost.
My mind took me back to when I was two years old. It’s odd but I do actually remember being two fairly well. My parents were moving us from the Dallas, TX area to New Iberia, LA. Because of this, I and my older sister were staying in Fayetteville, AR with my Grandparents.
My Grandmother took care of the older widows in her neighborhood. She would mow their lawns for them, help them with chores around the house or take them to the grocery store. While we were visiting her, she took us around to all their houses to say, “Hi.” And brighten their days.
I don’t remember what day of the week it was but it was early in the afternoon when the event I’m rambling toward took place. My Grandmother loaded us into her boat of a car, this was 1981 after all, and took us to Aunt Thelma’s house. Of course, Aunt Thelma was no relation to us but that didn’t seem to matter. Our mission was to take her to a department store to help her get some needed shopping done.
We arrived and bought the needed items without incident. However, when it was time to go, Grandma noticed that Aunt Thelma had been worn out by traipsing around the large store. She decided to have us wait by the entrance and bring the car around.
Once Aunt Thelma was situated in the front seat, my older sister and I tried to climb in. I do mean “climb” in. That car was huge to my little two year old self. I was struggling and my sister, unfortunately, wasn’t helping. She was pushing me but against the car instead of up into the back seat.
My Grandmother leaned over the front seat to offer me a hand and I’m not sure what she did to make what followed happen but the car suddenly surged backward. The open car door hit me with a great deal of force and I fell. Almost instantly the front wheel was up and over me and I was left lying on the ground.
My Grandmother panicked and didn’t apply the brakes for a few very long seconds which allowed the car to travel some distance from where I had fallen. My older sister had been grasping the inside handle of the car door and was knocked off her feet but not under the car as I had been. She was, however, dragged quite a long distance across the rough asphalt and had severe abrasions. Also, when my Grandmother applied the brakes she did so very suddenly and the car door tried to slam shut over my sister, causing some very painful bruising.
While my older sister’s injuries were basically superficial, they were very painful and the situation so sudden that she went into shock. I remember hearing her screaming and turning my head. For some reason, I didn’t even try to get up or move. I didn’t feel any pain. I just felt strange. I watched my sister get up and start a limping pace; back and forth. Someone rushed over and picked her up and I remember her sobs turning into an intense screaming. Then she went quiet and there were a lot of people between her and me. Then I saw her being carried over to a car. She was now wrapped in a blanket and they put her on the hood of the car.
No one seemed to notice me. My sister had started crying again and I realized she was crying out my name. I don’t know why, but I didn’t answer. Everything seemed to be telling me to be very still. I noticed my Grandmother talking to my sister and then yelling and looking around.
She saw me and ran over. She asked me questions in a very soft voice. I don’t remember exactly what they were and I don’t remember answering her. She picked me up very gently and I was relieved that there was no pain, though I frightened that I expected it.
An ambulance arrived and they started to load my sister onto a board and into the ambulance. She started screaming my name at that point and asking where I was. I still didn’t say anything.
My Grandmother walked over to one of the ambulance drivers and told him she thought she had run over me. He argued with her but she was adamant. I remember her saying she knew she had run over something and my sister had claimed it was me. I remember the ambulance driver being very annoyed and telling my Grandmother that I looked fine and to take me home. If I was still acting strangely in an hour, bring me to the hospital.
Then my Grandmother started yelling and I don’t remember the exact words, just that the yelling scared me. I, at this point, was terrified of the ambulance driver.
He reached out and grabbed me roughly out of my Grandmother’s arms and I finally felt the pain. It was like someone had spilt something very hot on my abdomen. It really did feel wet and spread outward. I heard screaming and it took me a moment to realize it was me. I felt like I was being peeled apart, it was absolutely terrible awful pain.
The ambulance driver moved me quickly over to the ambulance at that point. I could hear my sister and was actually comforted to know that she was closer but I couldn’t stop screaming. I wanted to stop because my throat was already hurting from it but it was completely out of my control.
They tied me to a board which made the pain much worse. I saw my sister, but then they put a brace on my neck and I couldn’t see her anymore. I started crying out her name and could hear her, so close to me, crying mine.
I have never in my life felt so lost and alone as I did for those few minutes in that ambulance when I was tied to a board in mind numbing pain, unable to move or look at anything but the ceiling above me.
I knew my parents were very far away. My Grandmother had left me and though my big sister seemed to be right there, all I could do was listen to her scream.
Then I felt someone fiddling with the straps and my right arm came free. A large hand moved mine and suddenly I was grasping a very familiar small hand, my sister’s. Someone had freed our arms and put our hands together.
I squeezed my sister’s hand and felt connected again. My sister stopped crying. She squeezed my hand back and told me I was okay. Hearing her voice made me feel safe and somehow oriented in the world again. I managed to stop crying and we rode the rest of the way to the hospital in almost complete silence.
When we arrived, I was removed first. The very last thing I remember on that day is someone forcefully removing my hand from my sisters. I think that was the point I lost consciousness.
The rest of the story is that I had broken my pelvis and done some damage to various abdominal organs but made an almost 100% complete recovery.
I spent some time in the hospital. The feeling that my stay there would never end wasn’t helped by the fact that I actually had my third birthday there. All in all it was probably only two weeks to a month. I’m really not sure.
The entire time I was away from home, my sister would sleep walk at night. In her sleep she would wander around my Grandparents house calling my name and looking for me.
In the hospital I would call her name in my sleep. When she was visiting, no one else was allowed to push my wheel chair and for quite some time after the accident, she had a hard time letting me out of her sight.
I don’t think I will ever forget that on the day and moment in my life when I was the most lost; the person who found me and made me feel safe was my big sister.
I’m not sure now if it’s because of that or just because she is my big sister, but nothing in my life seems real until I’ve told her. It’s like I orient myself around her. Whenever I am hurt or lonely or lost, the person to whom I turn for direction has always been and will always be my big sister.
My mind took me back to when I was two years old. It’s odd but I do actually remember being two fairly well. My parents were moving us from the Dallas, TX area to New Iberia, LA. Because of this, I and my older sister were staying in Fayetteville, AR with my Grandparents.
My Grandmother took care of the older widows in her neighborhood. She would mow their lawns for them, help them with chores around the house or take them to the grocery store. While we were visiting her, she took us around to all their houses to say, “Hi.” And brighten their days.
I don’t remember what day of the week it was but it was early in the afternoon when the event I’m rambling toward took place. My Grandmother loaded us into her boat of a car, this was 1981 after all, and took us to Aunt Thelma’s house. Of course, Aunt Thelma was no relation to us but that didn’t seem to matter. Our mission was to take her to a department store to help her get some needed shopping done.
We arrived and bought the needed items without incident. However, when it was time to go, Grandma noticed that Aunt Thelma had been worn out by traipsing around the large store. She decided to have us wait by the entrance and bring the car around.
Once Aunt Thelma was situated in the front seat, my older sister and I tried to climb in. I do mean “climb” in. That car was huge to my little two year old self. I was struggling and my sister, unfortunately, wasn’t helping. She was pushing me but against the car instead of up into the back seat.
My Grandmother leaned over the front seat to offer me a hand and I’m not sure what she did to make what followed happen but the car suddenly surged backward. The open car door hit me with a great deal of force and I fell. Almost instantly the front wheel was up and over me and I was left lying on the ground.
My Grandmother panicked and didn’t apply the brakes for a few very long seconds which allowed the car to travel some distance from where I had fallen. My older sister had been grasping the inside handle of the car door and was knocked off her feet but not under the car as I had been. She was, however, dragged quite a long distance across the rough asphalt and had severe abrasions. Also, when my Grandmother applied the brakes she did so very suddenly and the car door tried to slam shut over my sister, causing some very painful bruising.
While my older sister’s injuries were basically superficial, they were very painful and the situation so sudden that she went into shock. I remember hearing her screaming and turning my head. For some reason, I didn’t even try to get up or move. I didn’t feel any pain. I just felt strange. I watched my sister get up and start a limping pace; back and forth. Someone rushed over and picked her up and I remember her sobs turning into an intense screaming. Then she went quiet and there were a lot of people between her and me. Then I saw her being carried over to a car. She was now wrapped in a blanket and they put her on the hood of the car.
No one seemed to notice me. My sister had started crying again and I realized she was crying out my name. I don’t know why, but I didn’t answer. Everything seemed to be telling me to be very still. I noticed my Grandmother talking to my sister and then yelling and looking around.
She saw me and ran over. She asked me questions in a very soft voice. I don’t remember exactly what they were and I don’t remember answering her. She picked me up very gently and I was relieved that there was no pain, though I frightened that I expected it.
An ambulance arrived and they started to load my sister onto a board and into the ambulance. She started screaming my name at that point and asking where I was. I still didn’t say anything.
My Grandmother walked over to one of the ambulance drivers and told him she thought she had run over me. He argued with her but she was adamant. I remember her saying she knew she had run over something and my sister had claimed it was me. I remember the ambulance driver being very annoyed and telling my Grandmother that I looked fine and to take me home. If I was still acting strangely in an hour, bring me to the hospital.
Then my Grandmother started yelling and I don’t remember the exact words, just that the yelling scared me. I, at this point, was terrified of the ambulance driver.
He reached out and grabbed me roughly out of my Grandmother’s arms and I finally felt the pain. It was like someone had spilt something very hot on my abdomen. It really did feel wet and spread outward. I heard screaming and it took me a moment to realize it was me. I felt like I was being peeled apart, it was absolutely terrible awful pain.
The ambulance driver moved me quickly over to the ambulance at that point. I could hear my sister and was actually comforted to know that she was closer but I couldn’t stop screaming. I wanted to stop because my throat was already hurting from it but it was completely out of my control.
They tied me to a board which made the pain much worse. I saw my sister, but then they put a brace on my neck and I couldn’t see her anymore. I started crying out her name and could hear her, so close to me, crying mine.
I have never in my life felt so lost and alone as I did for those few minutes in that ambulance when I was tied to a board in mind numbing pain, unable to move or look at anything but the ceiling above me.
I knew my parents were very far away. My Grandmother had left me and though my big sister seemed to be right there, all I could do was listen to her scream.
Then I felt someone fiddling with the straps and my right arm came free. A large hand moved mine and suddenly I was grasping a very familiar small hand, my sister’s. Someone had freed our arms and put our hands together.
I squeezed my sister’s hand and felt connected again. My sister stopped crying. She squeezed my hand back and told me I was okay. Hearing her voice made me feel safe and somehow oriented in the world again. I managed to stop crying and we rode the rest of the way to the hospital in almost complete silence.
When we arrived, I was removed first. The very last thing I remember on that day is someone forcefully removing my hand from my sisters. I think that was the point I lost consciousness.
The rest of the story is that I had broken my pelvis and done some damage to various abdominal organs but made an almost 100% complete recovery.
I spent some time in the hospital. The feeling that my stay there would never end wasn’t helped by the fact that I actually had my third birthday there. All in all it was probably only two weeks to a month. I’m really not sure.
The entire time I was away from home, my sister would sleep walk at night. In her sleep she would wander around my Grandparents house calling my name and looking for me.
In the hospital I would call her name in my sleep. When she was visiting, no one else was allowed to push my wheel chair and for quite some time after the accident, she had a hard time letting me out of her sight.
I don’t think I will ever forget that on the day and moment in my life when I was the most lost; the person who found me and made me feel safe was my big sister.
I’m not sure now if it’s because of that or just because she is my big sister, but nothing in my life seems real until I’ve told her. It’s like I orient myself around her. Whenever I am hurt or lonely or lost, the person to whom I turn for direction has always been and will always be my big sister.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Life Changing Leaves
Not THOSE leaves.
Okay, so I had a salad today that may have changed my life. Yes, it was that good. Very good…Matrix-Reloaded-Cake-Scene-Good.
However, that’s not why it may have changed my life.
I’m getting there, don’t rush me.
The sandwich guy has been selling out of my favorite, cucumber and cream cheese with romaine and tomato, before I get to him lately. Instead, I’ve been getting a romaine salad and a fresh fruit cup. Today, he actually had the cucumber sandwich but suggested I try a new salad. It was fruit, nuts and romaine with a creamy sweet dressing.
I debated for a moment…a long moment. I mean, I haven’t been able to have my regular cucumber sandwich for almost a week but that salad really did look good. Hmm. Should I stick with tried and true or take a chance on something new?
Yes, I know that rhymes. Let’s move on.
I got the salad and, as you’ve already read, it was AMAZING. Completely worth it.
Here’s how this situation may have changed my life:
I recently applied for another job. It’s in a department in which I used to work. It’s more pay and promises an interesting and varied work environment. However, that potentially interesting work environment could also potentially be hostile or otherwise miserable.
I don’t know. The supervisor could be mean or my coworkers could be mean, there could be an overall overabundance of meanness. I kept thinking about it and worrying about it.
Today, I was very close to emailing HR to withdraw my application. I was thinking, “I’m fine where I am. Why would I risk that for an unknown?”
Then I had the salad. Yeah, it was a tiny risk but it totally paid off. This is, without doubt, one of the best salads I’ve ever eaten. If I hadn’t taken a chance, I’d never know that.
So, no, Scaredy-Cat me! I’m not withdrawing my application. I’m going through with it because if I don’t try new things, I’ll miss out on the near orgasmic salads of awesomeness the world is holding onto for me.
Okay, so I had a salad today that may have changed my life. Yes, it was that good. Very good…Matrix-Reloaded-Cake-Scene-Good.
However, that’s not why it may have changed my life.
I’m getting there, don’t rush me.
The sandwich guy has been selling out of my favorite, cucumber and cream cheese with romaine and tomato, before I get to him lately. Instead, I’ve been getting a romaine salad and a fresh fruit cup. Today, he actually had the cucumber sandwich but suggested I try a new salad. It was fruit, nuts and romaine with a creamy sweet dressing.
I debated for a moment…a long moment. I mean, I haven’t been able to have my regular cucumber sandwich for almost a week but that salad really did look good. Hmm. Should I stick with tried and true or take a chance on something new?
Yes, I know that rhymes. Let’s move on.
I got the salad and, as you’ve already read, it was AMAZING. Completely worth it.
Here’s how this situation may have changed my life:
I recently applied for another job. It’s in a department in which I used to work. It’s more pay and promises an interesting and varied work environment. However, that potentially interesting work environment could also potentially be hostile or otherwise miserable.
I don’t know. The supervisor could be mean or my coworkers could be mean, there could be an overall overabundance of meanness. I kept thinking about it and worrying about it.
Today, I was very close to emailing HR to withdraw my application. I was thinking, “I’m fine where I am. Why would I risk that for an unknown?”
Then I had the salad. Yeah, it was a tiny risk but it totally paid off. This is, without doubt, one of the best salads I’ve ever eaten. If I hadn’t taken a chance, I’d never know that.
So, no, Scaredy-Cat me! I’m not withdrawing my application. I’m going through with it because if I don’t try new things, I’ll miss out on the near orgasmic salads of awesomeness the world is holding onto for me.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
So, You Had A Bad Day
Good Golly Miss Molly was yesterday a bad day.
I don't want to give you a downer so I'll only tell you the funny parts.
Okay, first of all: Bad Hair Day. Believe me, it was funny.
Then it seemed the wind was trying to be helpful by giving me that wind-blown-helmet-hair look. Sadly, and hilariously, this seemed to actually be an improvement.
Have you ever started pedaling your way down the street and noticed something was off? You start trying to check various mechanisms on your bike while you ride, to figure out what's making the ride so strange, and then you realize you left your helmet on the couch.
You know that if you go back, you might miss your bus so you consider forgetting about it just this once. Then you remember Murphy's Law and the fact that you have a 2 year old and you go back.
You grab the helmet and start pedaling like Chef Gordon Ramsey is chasing you with a cleaver and wearing his "mean face". Your lungs are about to explode out of your chest but you see the intersection and start to relax.
Then you see the bus. But the light! The light turns green and the bus stops because its light has turned RED. You get a second wind and start screaming, "Stay Green! Stay Green!" You realize that the people staring at you now definitely think you’re a militant environmentalist but YOU DON'T CARE!!! Because you're almost there!
Then your light turns red, the bus' light turns green and you watch it pass you by. You wait 30 minutes and catch the next one.
You may find yourself in a strangely brighter world. You may find yourself in a strangely empty bus. You may tell yourself; this is not my beautiful bus. You may ask yourself, How did I get here?
Okay, I'll stop that now.
Anyway, the rest of the story involves militant car drivers, a mud puddle and riding the elevator with my VP in what can only be described as a disreputable state (me, not her).
Sigh.
Well, I did get to take in a beautiful sunrise that morning, and it wasn't cold and/or rainy. Also, I had the most wonderful evening with the Monkey the night before.
The Hubby didn't get home until past ten, so the Monkey and I had a little adventure. We went to the park. Then we went to a pizza place and ordered a vegetarian pizza. The Hubby hates it but the Monkey prefers veggie pizza too.
While the pizza was being cooked, we went to the book store next door. I told the Monkey he could pick out one new book and he brought me six.
I said, "That's six, Monkey. Not one."
He said, "No, Mommy. This is one. And this is one. And this is one...etc."
Okay, he didn't say etc. That was just so I wouldn't have to write 'and this is one' five times.
Anyway, we solved the problem by sitting in the aisle and reading all six. Then he picked his favorite: Bunny Trouble.
BTW, it's about time someone wrote a book about the trouble with bunnies. I watched Rabbit Proof Fence and I don't remember seeing a single bunny. I thought, "Finally, someone is pointing out the trouble with bunnies." But no.
OMG, this blog post is ridiculously silly. I guess my natural reaction to bad days is to get ridiculously silly. It's my meager attempt to cheer myself up. It usually works pretty well.
Well, here’s hoping you have a good day…or at least a funny bad one.
I don't want to give you a downer so I'll only tell you the funny parts.
Okay, first of all: Bad Hair Day. Believe me, it was funny.
Then it seemed the wind was trying to be helpful by giving me that wind-blown-helmet-hair look. Sadly, and hilariously, this seemed to actually be an improvement.
Have you ever started pedaling your way down the street and noticed something was off? You start trying to check various mechanisms on your bike while you ride, to figure out what's making the ride so strange, and then you realize you left your helmet on the couch.
You know that if you go back, you might miss your bus so you consider forgetting about it just this once. Then you remember Murphy's Law and the fact that you have a 2 year old and you go back.
You grab the helmet and start pedaling like Chef Gordon Ramsey is chasing you with a cleaver and wearing his "mean face". Your lungs are about to explode out of your chest but you see the intersection and start to relax.
Then you see the bus. But the light! The light turns green and the bus stops because its light has turned RED. You get a second wind and start screaming, "Stay Green! Stay Green!" You realize that the people staring at you now definitely think you’re a militant environmentalist but YOU DON'T CARE!!! Because you're almost there!
Then your light turns red, the bus' light turns green and you watch it pass you by. You wait 30 minutes and catch the next one.
You may find yourself in a strangely brighter world. You may find yourself in a strangely empty bus. You may tell yourself; this is not my beautiful bus. You may ask yourself, How did I get here?
Okay, I'll stop that now.
Anyway, the rest of the story involves militant car drivers, a mud puddle and riding the elevator with my VP in what can only be described as a disreputable state (me, not her).
Sigh.
Well, I did get to take in a beautiful sunrise that morning, and it wasn't cold and/or rainy. Also, I had the most wonderful evening with the Monkey the night before.
The Hubby didn't get home until past ten, so the Monkey and I had a little adventure. We went to the park. Then we went to a pizza place and ordered a vegetarian pizza. The Hubby hates it but the Monkey prefers veggie pizza too.
While the pizza was being cooked, we went to the book store next door. I told the Monkey he could pick out one new book and he brought me six.
I said, "That's six, Monkey. Not one."
He said, "No, Mommy. This is one. And this is one. And this is one...etc."
Okay, he didn't say etc. That was just so I wouldn't have to write 'and this is one' five times.
Anyway, we solved the problem by sitting in the aisle and reading all six. Then he picked his favorite: Bunny Trouble.
BTW, it's about time someone wrote a book about the trouble with bunnies. I watched Rabbit Proof Fence and I don't remember seeing a single bunny. I thought, "Finally, someone is pointing out the trouble with bunnies." But no.
OMG, this blog post is ridiculously silly. I guess my natural reaction to bad days is to get ridiculously silly. It's my meager attempt to cheer myself up. It usually works pretty well.
Well, here’s hoping you have a good day…or at least a funny bad one.
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