Thursday, December 26, 2024

No Place Safe and No Safe Place

 I need a sign to let me know you're here

All of these lines are being crossed over the atmosphereI need to know that things are gonna look up'Cause I feel us drowning in a sea spilled from a cup
When there is no place safe and no safe place...
~ Train
It's been many years since I've written a blog post, but it used to be where I processed my thoughts and feelings - tossing it out into the interwebs like as message in bottle to float aimless in a sea of zeros and ones, never to be actually read by another soul because it is in the writing that the healing occurs.
So, why now? Well, as they say, it's cheaper than therapy. 
The last four years have been journey, one I would have preferred to skip and would not recommend to anyone. I'm still traveling and really don't know where I will be at its end. Honestly, it scares me. It's not a journey of faith, nor of losing faith, but it's also kind of a little bit of both. I have learned that I can trust no one and yet I need trustworthy people in my life. I learned that everyone I have ever looked up to and thought highly of has let me down in spectacular fashion. And I have learned that the places that ought to be the safest are where the greatest dangers lurk. Family is not safe. Church is not safe. And religious leaders are DEFINITELY NOT SAFE. 
So where does that leave me? Well, if it were just myself I was concerned about, this wouldn't really be that big of a deal, but I have children now and all I want is to keep them safe so they can live happy, healthy lives. Ok, that's not all I want. I want them to be Christians. I want to raise them in the church to love Jesus and to want to be like Jesus. I want us to all go to heaven someday. But those desires are at odds. Yes, I can keep them away from known sexual predators at home and church, but what about the unknown ones?  What about the guy who raped his own daughter and then sat next to MY daughter every Sunday (yes, the pastor and elders knew but didn't tell me). What about the pastor who was TOLD he had a pedophile in his midst and chose to make him a DEACON and YOUTH LEADER? What about the men who aren't sexual predators, but teach my daughters that they are second class citizens because they are female? Or teach my son that it's ok to bully the girls or subjugate his future wife? Or blame me when one of their sons physically restrains my daughter, holding her against her will? I don't know. Trying to live on high-alert all the time is exhausting. 
And then what exactly am I supposed to teach them. We start with the Bible. That part is easy. But the Bible has been so twisted and used for such ungodly ends... And by men I once respected! If I have been that far off the mark, can I even trust my own judgement?! When my children fight me on church attendance or Bible reading, do I just shove it down their throats? I mean, in the Reformed tradition, I can't drag my children into heaven kicking and screaming, so what is the right course of action?
My son, at 7 years old, told me he wished the big bang theory were true so he wouldn't have to worship God. He gets it. He understands that if the universe was created, then the Creator is a being deserving of worship. But he has had such traumatic experiences at church (even once locked in a dark closet, his abusers laughing as he cried to be let out), that he wants no part of it. How do I compete with that? 
I feel lost and alone and so very unsafe.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

The Unmournable Loss

Sunday would have been my Grandfather’s 95th birthday. If he were still alive, we would have celebrated with beef stroganoff and homemade apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top – the same birthday dinner he had every year for as far back as I can remember. Instead, it was a sad reminder that he has been gone for eight years. I was deployed to Iraq when my Grandfather, the man I most respected in all the world, died. I didn't even know about it until two days afterward (thanks to a combination of the time difference and spotty internet). It seemed so wrong that I didn't know - the world should have come to a standstill - the loss of this great man should have sent shockwaves around the world. It is true, my Grandfather had been losing strength for several years and we all knew we did not have a lot of time left with him, but I thought I would see him again (I was set to return to the States at the end of the month). The loss was sudden and heart-rending. Eight years later, the pain is still raw. I can't even write this without tears filling my eyes and a lump forming in my throat. When I read my Mom's email, I was devastated. I locked my computer and walked straight to my room, where I cried myself to sleep. The weather was bad in Ramadi, Iraq, which prevented me from leaving the base. Red air. That is what they called the condition when desert winds kicked up so much dust, helicopters were grounded due to lack of visibility. The chaplains on base were very supportive and tried to comfort me, but for the next few weeks I did most of my grieving in the quiet of the night, alone.
Fast-forward eight years to present day and once again, I’ve lost a grandparent - my last grandparent. It is so different, though. While I was not as close with Grandma as I was with Grandpa, she has been an extremely influential person in my life. She taught me to sew, to sift flour like Fannie Farmer, and make stained-glass cookies. She was always kind and gentle, loving even the unlovable and accepting everyone (even the boyfriends my sisters, cousins, and I brought home that no one else liked). She added "-kins" onto the ends of all our (the grandchildren’s') names, and read the same stories over and over again, doing all the voices like she was reading it to us for the first time. But the closeness or lack thereof is not the reason for the difference. The reason this loss is different is Grandma is still alive. She has advanced-stage Alzheimer’s. The difficult part – who am I kidding? Everything about Alzheimer’s is difficult! I guess the part I am having the hardest time wrapping my head around is just how incredibly quickly it developed. In November 2015, we noticed she was having a harder time coming up with words during normal conversation, and she would get confused if there were too many conversations going on at once (a normal occurrence when my family gets together). A month later, at Christmas dinner, she was confusing people (she was calling me by my mother’s name). Three months after that, March 2016, the grandmother I knew was gone. She was incapable of doing the most basic things for herself. The empty shell that remains behind wanders aimlessly throughout her house, picking up items and moving them from room to room, leaving messes in her wake. She doesn’t recognize any of her children or grandchildren. We are all strangers invading her home. I am not even sure she recognizes the house she resides in as her home, even though she has lived there since the 1960s.

I never had the chance to say good-bye. While she was still lucid, she refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong, so I couldn’t very well have that one last heart-to-heart with her. There were no last words of “remember I love you even when I can no longer recognize you.” Instead we played along with her “all is well” attitude until it was too late. I thought we would have more time with her. I had no way of knowing her mind would go so suddenly. I miss her, but it feels wrong to grieve when she is still walking, talking, and breathing. I may not be able to mourn her right now, but the loss is still very real.

Monday, December 07, 2015

All is Calm, All is Bright

Like many nights before, there have been no fires, accidents or medical emergencies. We are driving in the engine merely to fill up on fuel. And as I look out on the brightly lit town that has been my home for more than two years now, I feel like I belong. I can hear my fellow firefighters poking fun at one another through the headsets we all wear, as some vaguely familiar pop song plays on the radio. I've felt this sense of camaraderie before, but it was always short-lived and usually in a war zone. Little did I know the kind of brotherhood I would be joining when I filled out the volunteer application a little over a year ago. Despite never wanting to live in this location, I am surprisingly happy to be right here, right now.

Tuesday, December 01, 2015

A Rough Night

It was a night of firsts for me, but not in a good way. I experienced things I would have preferred to never experience. Now, I realize that by volunteering to be a firefighter, I signed up to take the bad with the good and to do my best to help the people in my community as they experience these tragedies. First #1: I performed chest compressions on a patient who had gone into cardiac arrest. It was not the feel of her lifeless body beneath my hands, nor the expressionless look on her face - it was not even the nearby paramedics suctioning vomit from her mouth that bothered me. It was the fact that it felt like abuse. Who am I to pound on her chest and demand that she live? It seemed like it would have been more merciful to allow her to pass onto the next life in peace, rather than surrounded by the controlled chaos present in her room that evening. Of course, it is up to the patient to have a DNR in place if they do not want to be revived, so I guess that was what she wanted. It was an eye-opener for me, though. I now know that I want to have a DNR when that time comes.

My second first that night was a suicide. I've known people who later committed suicide, but I had never seen the body after the attempt was made. I didn't feel particularly emotional, but I kept thinking "how does a person get to the point where killing themselves seems like best course of action? or the ONLY course of action left?" I didn't really feel much for the person lying there in front of me, still warm, despite the cold temperature that night, but not breathing. My heart went out to the parents, who found their child in that state. Many parents wonder if they failed - it is most parents' worst fear. These parents didn't have to wonder. There is no second chances. No do-overs. Just regrets that they will live with for the rest of their lives (regardless of who was to blame). 

Some days I get to be a hero to a group of girl scouts, getting my picture taken with them and high-fiving. Other days I get to deal with death, up close and personal. In this field, as in many others, there are highs and lows, and everything in between. I am learning to take it all in stride.

Monday, November 09, 2015

The Latest Challenge

I've always thought of myself as pretty strong. I used to work out pretty regularly and I have always been active, even without a work-out routine in place. As with most women, my weakest point is the upper body, particularly shoulders and forearms. This is quickly becoming a problem for me, especially since I do not have the time I need to increase strength in these areas. In fire school, we have gotten to the section on ladders - taking ladders off of the rig, raising ladders up against buildings, and putting ladders back up on the rig. Each one of those things looks so easy when I watch other people do it, but it feels nearly impossible when I am doing it myself.  Thankfully, the proctors were not judging us on stylistic points. A little huffing and puffing and some finagling eventually got the ladder in place. Needless to say, I will be working out my shoulders and triceps a bit harder before the next test.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Just Another Day at the Firehouse

We had just gotten back to the station after eating breakfast at our regular weekend breakfast spot when we saw a car get pulled over. Most of us didn't think anything of it (the cops love to hang out around the fire station), but one of the firefighters decide it was an opportunity he couldn't pass up. He pulled up something on his phone and held it up to a landline in the station. Suddenly, we all heard it coming from the loudspeakers outside of the firehouse: "bad boys, bad boys, uh, whatcha gonna do? whatcha gonna do when they're comin' for you?" We all busted out, laughing. I am sure whoever was in the middle of getting a ticket did not find it nearly as hilarious, but I am guessing the cop got a chuckle out of it. What can I say? Firefighters are natural pranksters.

Friday, October 09, 2015

Confessions of a Claustrophobe

This is a story of a little girl who would freak when her sister climbed in behind her into a snow igloo (which she and her sister had built), because there was only one opening and with her sister in the opening, she felt trapped (never mind that she could have stood up at any point and broken through the roof of said igloo). Fast-forward 30 years. That little girl, now a grown woman, has never overcome that fear of tight spaces, but she wants to be a firefighter.

Last week's fire school classes made me face these fears to a degree that I have never had to before. After completing (and I use completing in the loosest possible way) the air consumption test, we had a bit of a break, and then it was onto the maze. I knew I was dreading it, but really didn't know exactly what it was I was dreading. It turned out to be so much worse than I had imagined.

So, let me back-track for a minute. The week leading up to the air consumption test was very stressful for me because I had a track record of freaking out when "on air."  I don't enjoy breathing air that comes out of a cylinder (yes, I SCUBA dive, and I realize there is a disconnect here, but what can I say? It's a woman's prerogative to be inexplicable).  I was not sure I would be able to go through the test without hyperventilating and then tearing off my mask in a mad frenzy. For several nights that week, I woke up multiple times to heart-racing panic attacks. I knew what was causing them, but I could not get my unreasonable fears under control.

I did make it through the consumption test without hyperventilating (very thankful for that). Every claustrophobe has their own way of dealing with the discomfort - singing, humming, thinking of something pleasant. For me, it's focusing entirely on the task at hand. The more concentration a task takes, the easier it is for me to "forget" that I am on air. Climbing the stairs is the worst because it takes almost no concentration. Conversely, raising the fly on the extension ladder is great because it takes ever ounce of my concentration.

A little later, staring into the low, narrow hallway that begins the maze, I froze. My heart was racing, my breathing was far from under control, and the terror of being accidently locked in my dark bedroom closet as a child returned with more force than I could have imagined. I could NOT make myself go any farther into that shipping container. Thankfully, one of the instructors had mercy on me and allowed me to take the mask off and go through it like that. There were still moments when I felt irrationally scared (usually when I got stuck), but I was able to continue on until I made it to the end and back out into the sunlight. I will have to do it again at some point - on air - but that is a fear to face another day.

Since then, I have had nightmares every night, and every night it's the same two nightmares. One is where I am in a coffin, buried alive. The other is right out of a WWII movie... I am escaping a POW camp through a small tunnel.. there are guys in front of me and guys behind and I am stuck in this tiny little tunnel. The panic attack that ensues wakes me before the dream is able to come to a natural end, and I am left lying there in bed, shaking with adrenaline coursing through my body, trying to calm myself and go back to sleep.

Now, you may be wondering why I continue down this path when it seems that this is NOT the hobby for me. But the truth is, this confined space rescue stuff is such a small part of fire fighting, and I LOVE the fire service. I have been a probationary fire fighter for approximately 9 months and count down the days between duty crew assignments. As this point, not making it through fire school would be the most depressing thing that could happen to me. I am determined to face down my fears and finish what I've started!

Friday, October 02, 2015

The Making of a Female Firefighter Pt. II

Fire School
In my county, fire school is offered twice a year for the volunteers - one class in the Spring and one in the Fall. I just started the Fall class a couple of weeks ago. There are 24 of us in the class; 21 men and 3 women. The academic side seems pretty easy. A lot of it is self-explanatory and only requires some common sense (and a cursory reading of the text book). The physical side, however, is a whole other story. This is where being a female has its disadvantages. I am not saying women can't do it. We absolutely can, but we have to work at some things a bit harder than our male counterparts. Men naturally have more upper body strength than women, which means I have a LOT of working out to do to try to catch up.
We went through the physical agility test, which is the test career firefighters have to do to even be eligible to apply for a job. On paper, it sounded like a piece of cake, but actually going through it was much harder than I was expecting. The fact that I hadn't had time to eat breakfast that morning because I was coming straight from duty crew probably did not help. I passed (if anyone was wondering), but not with the time I was hoping for.

The Physical Agility Test
Time to pass: 12 minutes
The participant wears a 50 lbs. vest throughout the test, along with a helmet and utility gloves.
1. Walk up and down three flights of stairs three times (or the equivalent of a nine story building) with an additional 25 lbs. attached to the weight vest, which are removed when you get to the top of the stairs on the third time up.
2. Pull a section of coiled hose (I was told it weighed approx. 40 lbs.) up to the third story, hand-over-hand; let it down the same way (descend the stairs for the last time).
3. Drag an unrolled large diameter hose across the length of the bay (approx. 25 yds.); kneel down and pull the hose to yourself until you get to the first coupling.
4. Pick up a 16' ladder, carry it across the bay (approx. 25 yds.) and lay it down.
5. Swing a sledge hammer over your head and strike a plank covered in fire hose 20 times.
6. Crawl through the maze (it's dark - impossible to see anything in there)
7. Pick up a 22 lbs."pike pole," extending arms fully up and then down 20 times
8. Drag a 165 lbs. dummy from its straps approx. 15 yds., around a barrel and back again.
All of that must be completed in under 12 minutes.

Onto the next obstacle: the air consumption test. If I pass it, I'll tell you all about it.  ;-)

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

The Making of a Female Firefighter

This is not a single post, encapsulating the story in its entirety. Rather, this is the first of many such posts to come. Today I will give you a short history of my journey into the fire service. In the coming weeks, I will describe fire school and its adventures as I encounter them. If all goes well, this story - the one that ends with my becoming a full-fledged firefighter - will conclude in February 2016.



The Dream
At age three, I announced to my Mom that I was going to be a fireman when I grew up. She smiled and said "they are called fireMEN for a reason." I remember being disappointed by the response, but not dissuaded. While growing up, I dreamed up MANY careers I wanted to pursue, but whenever I went with Mom to vote at the nearby fire station or on Christmas Eve when "Santa" would ride all over town on one of the Engines, shouting ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!  I would look at the red gleaming apparatus and think, "I would love to be a firefighter."


The Reality
The years went by and I left for college. For the first time, I considered the viability of volunteering at the local fire dept. Overwhelmed with my studies and the responsibilities of being an RA on campus, I quickly dismissed the idea. After graduation, I moved to a new town and was preoccupied with the career I had chosen (or that had chosen me - that is a story for another day). Several years had passed by the time I heard an advertisement calling for volunteers to join the local fire dept. It got me thinking about it again, but I knew the timing wasn't right as I was planning for my second deployment. When I arrived back in the states, I heard another ad calling for volunteer firefighters, but I was living in a hotel and prepping for deployment number three. After that, I got married, moved a couple of times, and finally arrived at a stable point in my life (the most stable since I left home for college). My husband and I actually bought a house and I felt anchored to a place for the first time in my adult life. Within the week, I began googling volunteer fire departments in my county. I quickly learned there was one right down the street from our little townhouse. It took me several months to actually attend the information session they hold once a month, but when I did I went with completed paperwork in hand. I had decided I was going to do this.


The Process
I went to the County Sheriff's Office to get fingerprinted and then the waiting game began. I had no idea the process would be so slow (I realize it is different for every dept. and for each individual within those depts., but this was my experience). I waited from Halloween to New Year's before I heard anything back. I was accepted into the Company as a probationary member in January 2015. In February, I attended orientation classes. In March I took the required physical exam and was assigned to a crew. And that is when the fun started!


Now (The Probationary Period)
I have been with my crew for six months now. As a probationary firefighter, I play a supporting role, carrying tools, pulling hose, laying out traffic cones or flares - pretty much anything I can do to help the firefighters so that they can focus on the emergency at hand. I sleep at the firehouse one night per week, and wait for the calls to come in. Most nights are pretty quiet, but when the calls come in, the energy kicks into high gear. officers and the other firefighters have been teaching me everything I need to know to get through fire school.


Well, more on that at a future time. That is all for now. Till next time...

Friday, January 16, 2015

Je ne suis pas Charlie


Like many people, I didn't know anything of Charlie Hebdo prior to last week. I am sure I heard the name in passing, and probably saw some of their cartoon drawings at some point, but none of it was particularly memorable. After the terrorist attack on their office in Paris, I Googled their cartoons and was appalled by what I found. Anyone who knows me, can tell you that I am an incredibly sarcastic person. I like a good snarky comment, and have been known to enjoy an Onion or Duffle Blog article here and there. The Charlie Hebdo cartoons, however, were sacrilegious, offensive, and not at all amusing. Don't get me wrong - I am NOT condoning the terrorist attack. It is NEVER ok to kill someone because he is mocking you. And I do believe in freedom of speech. So, I do mourn with France in there loss - I mourn the deaths of their citizens. I mourn the loss of their innocence. Before now, they didn't know the enemy was within their borders, but now they do, and nothing can change that. September 11th did that to the US, allowing the average citizen to peek behind the curtain and see the darkness that some spend their lives hunting down. But unlike the millions of supporters with their Je suis Charlie signs, I am NOT Charlie. I do not agree with the things they publish, and hope to never treat the religion of another with such disrespect.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

My First Attempt at Soapmaking

Over the course of the past year, I have developed a Pintrest addiction. Maybe some of you understand what I am talking about. There are just SO MANY great ideas for DIY projects and the like! I have tried many. some have failed (e.g. cutting wine bottles for use as drinking glasses), while others worked fabulously (e.g. the self-watering pot made from an empty 2 liter soda bottle). Well, my recent Pintrest-fueled obsession has been soap-making. There are so many recipes. And they look so pretty! I have been DYING to try it. After 5 months of talking about, thinking about it, and obtaining the items I would need to actual pull it off, I made my very first batch this past weekend. 

I looked at several lye calculators before I found the one I wanted to use and plugged in the types of oil I had purchased: Coconut Oil, Olive Oil, Shea Butter, and Sunflower Oil (except for the Shea Butter which I bought on Amazon.com, I purchased all oils at Wal-Mart). 
I read that more than 35% coconut oil can be drying; and too much olive oil makes a soft bar, so I tried to use both to even one another out. Then I added the shea butter for conditioning and some sunflower oil 'cause I had it.  I decided to start small and only use 16 oz. of oil total. You can see what my recipe looked like when I plugged it in:

 And here is what it looked like once I clicked on the view/print recipe:
This was what I used to know exactly what to measure out for each oil, and then how much water and lye I would need.

***Just a note on buying lye. I didn't want to pay the hazmat shipping fee, but Lowes, Home Depot, etc. in this area have stopped carrying 100% lye because of its darker uses (thank you, Breaking Bad, for teaching us such things). If you live in NoVA, the only store I found that still sells it is the Ace Hardware in Centerville. For those outside VA, I have been told Ace and True Value hardware stores are usually your best bet.

I measured each oil, beginning with the shea butter (that was the only one that needed to melt) and poured them into a pot on the stove, which I kept on "low" until the shea butter was completely dissolved (the oil heated to approx 120 degrees on the candy thermometer).

I made several mistakes in this first batch, which I will not try to hide from you. Mistake #1 was in adding the water to the lye, instead of the other way around (despite reading the cautions multiple time over). My only saving grace was that I made a small batch and used a large bowl, so despite the sizzling and smoking, the water/lye mixture didn't come anywhere near overflowing. I placed the sizzling bowl in a cold water bath (in the kitchen sink), and stirred the mixture until all the lye was dissolved.

Mistake #2 was not getting the temperature of the lye water before adding the oil. I didn't have any major problems with it, but it did take a LONG time to get to trace and I didn't know if it was because the lye water was too cold or if it was just because I had used so much olive oil in the recipe.

On the issue of tracing... after using the electric beater for 20 minutes, I began to think something was wrong. I let the blended oils/water/lye mixture sit for about 5 minutes while I read soap-making FAQs online concerning my trace issue. One recommendation was to add honey. I added approx 1 Tbs. honey, along with the essential oil (for scent) and beat it for another 10 minutes. It was still thinner than I would have liked (only because I was using a wax-paper-lined cardboard box as my mold), but I went with it anyway.

I wrapped the box in a towel and left it on the kitchen counter. 24 hours later, it was in the perfect state of hardness for cutting!

I cut the block into 6 equal rectangles and put them down in the basement to cure for the next 4-6 weeks. I will let you know how well they work (or don't work) in about a month. In the meantime, I am planning my next soap recipe... I'm thinking oatmeal honey chamomile... 










Monday, January 20, 2014

Restless

If I had to choose one word to describe myself, that would be it. I have always been restless. As a child I was always looking for adventure. In my early teen years I took to redecorating my room... every 6 months. As an adult, I've never stayed in any given career path for more than four years. I'm not sure what it is I am looking for exactly... meaning, significance, job satisfaction... all... and... none of those things.

The pastor was speaking yesterday of how the world looks for rest in all the wrong places because we can only truly find our rest in Christ. I agree with him, but even as Christians, it is still possible to feel that sense of restlessness. I really appreciate Switchfoot's song, fittingly titled "Restless." Here is the first verse:
I am the sea on a moonless night
Calling falling, slipping tides
I am the leaky, dripping pipes
The endless, aching drops of light
I am the raindrop falling down
Always longing for the deeper ground
I am the broken, breaking seas
Even my blood finds ways to bleed
I remember the first time I heard this song. It came on the radio on my way in to work. That last line, "even my blood finds ways to bleed" stuck with me for the rest of the day (I went home and bought the whole album that night). I felt like I could relate. Not only was I restless, but I was weary of my restlessness. I wanted to stop wanting to wander. Two years later, I can say that some of that has settled down a bit (I can thank my very stable husband for that), but there is still a sense in which I am still very much restless. Once again, I go back to the lyrics of that song for answers...
Until the sea of glass we meet
At last completed and complete
Where tide and tears and pain subside
And laughter drinks them dry
And there it is. Even as Christians, we will remain restless on this side of glory. We were made in His image, to spend eternity with Him, and until we can united with Him forever, restlessness tugs on our hearts, giving us that desire to go home.

Monday, November 18, 2013

A Bundle of Staves is a Heavy Burden

The pastor of the church we visited on Sunday quoted a puritan writer (he didn't say which one). It was a quote I had not heard before, but it struck me as true and relevant (despite the use of the word "staves").
"One staff aids a traveler, but a bundle of staves is a heavy burden."
 My husband and I love to hike. If the weather is good, you can find us climbing some hill or trekking through some forest on most weekends. Often, we see serious hikers on these trails. How do we know they are serious? By their camelbacks, expensive boots, and titanium (or other light-weight metal) hiking poles. Some people use one, others use two, but I have never seen a hiker with more than two poles at a time (except for a father who was carying his little girl and her hiking poles). And that father is a perfect example of how even the original two hiking poles becames a burden (not to mention the ones his daughter had been using!).

In a day and age when we are told that if some is good then more is better, the above phrase tosses modern logic on its head. There are so many instances (outside of hiking poles) that I can remember where more did NOT turn out to be better. One that quickly comes to mind is a story I posted several years ago about baking with my friend's children (feel free to read it at your liesure).

What I really took from this, though, is the need to re-evaluate. I get easily caught up in what I want and sometimes forget what is needed. Here is a list of some things I need less of, and the "more" that needs to replace it:
1. Less talking (more listening)
2. Less complaining (more gratefulness AND patience!)
3. Less procrastination (more action)
4. Less anger (more kindness)
5. Less "things" (more contentment)

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Breaking Bad: Why I Hate It

When my brother-in-law began raving about this rather popular television show he was hooked on, I knew I had to check it out. After the pilot, I was disappointed and unsure what all the hype was about. By episode three, I was sure I never wanted to watch another minute of this supposedly spell-binding show. My husband didn't understand why I hated it so much, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I just couldn't take anymore darkness in my life. My work-life is steeped in the worst humanity has to offer. Every day I see images of death and destruction. I listen to evil men, praising their "god" for the successful destruction of their enemies (of whom, I am one). Watching a fake story of dark life, sinking into further darkness, with no hope of redemption is not something I find entertaining. Despite my lack of desire to watch the show, my curiosity about the grand finale (Felina), everyone was so eagerly anticipating, got the best of me. I had to read the cliff notes version of how the series ended. What I read did not surprise me in the least. It was the only possible ending for a man who had become addicted to a power-high. I can appreciate that the writers did not force the story, but rather let the characters they created mold the plot. The pilot is rather unlikely (most high-school chem teachers don't think of meth-making as their first course of action upon learning they have cancer), but once that decision is made, Walt makes all the expected bad choices and the rest of the story follows accordingly. There are several pivotal points in Walt's story, where it seems that he can undo the bad and prevent the breaking, but his wavering does not last for long and his bad choices compound on one another. The first one that I saw was when he killed Crazy-8 (the first killing I dismissed as self-defense). Had he let the dealer go, I as the viewer, could have forgiven his past sins and seen him as a generally good guy who went through a short, yet insane lapse of judgment (of course that would be the end of the series, three episodes in, and that would never happen). Once he kills Crazy-8 though, it is obvious (or at least it was to me) that he had crossed a line he could never come back from. Regardless of my husband's desire for Walt's redemption, I knew redemption was not going to be an option. Revenge and self-preservation could be the only plot-lines throughout the five seasons that made up Walt's "life." The second decision point was when Walt had made his first several million dollars. If he were really doing of it for his family, he could have taken the money, invested it for his wife and kids - or at the very least, hidden it somewhere for them, and then disappeared off into the sunset, never putting them through the torture of knowing what he had become. His decision to continue making meth makes it clear that he was in the drug-lord business for himself - not his family. It was no longer a means to an end, but had become an end in itself. I guess the real problem I have with the show is how the writers WANT you (the viewer) to sympathize with Walt and Jesse. Never mind the DEA agent (who was MY favorite character). They kill him off and we are supposed to watch and rejoice that a killer is safe from the big bad "Fed." I got tired of hearing my husband defend Walt's actions and portray him as the victim. He was the victim of his own sinful desires and nothing else. Walt was the BAD GUY. He hurt his family and everyone around him. That is NOT love. "Love is patient. Love is Kind. It is NOT proud..." The writers successfully made good look evil and evil look good... and that is what I hated about Breaking Bad. In the end, Walt does die alone, which, I suppose, is Gilligan's nod to justice, but it doesn't seem like enough to me. There is no silver lining to this story. It is a sad story. And the saddest part is that much of it is true. Every day families are torn apart because of drugs and drug-related crimes. The Walts and Jesses of this world are a scourge on society. The world would be a better place without them.

Friday, March 08, 2013

A Life Worth Sacrificing


This is the most honest pro-choice advocate I've ever heard. In the past, it seemed that they always tried to canvass the truth with euphamisms: pregnancy mass, fetus, D&C - and their cliches: so every child will be loved and wanted, to save the life of the mother, to protect the emotional well-being... and on and on. But not this lady. Mary Elizabeth Williams comes out and tells it like it is. "I believe that life starts at conception. And it's never stopped me from being pro-choice." I was shocked when I read that. I have had so many debates with pro-choicers about when life begins, so it was kind of refreshing to hear someone from that camp admit what we've known all along. That being said, her stance is even more shocking. It is hard and cold and somehow unbelievable to me. Her argument is "All life is not equal." She goes on to say:
A fetus can be a human life without having the same rights as the woman in whose body it resides. She’s the boss. Her life and what is right for her circumstances and her health should automatically trump the rights of the non-autonomous entity inside of her. Always. 

Wow. Ok. I can kind of understand when they try to use the whole saving-the-mother's life dilemma. That would be a hard choice to make and I could see how people would fall on either side of that one. But when we talk of "reproductive rights," we are talking of elective abortions, not emergency operations or terminations. Williams says herself, "If by some random fluke I learned today I was pregnant, you bet your ass I’d have an abortion. I’d have the World’s Greatest Abortion." So, what she is saying is a woman's desire to stay skinny so she can look good in her bikini (or any reason, really) trumps a child's right to live?! I am beyond shocked. I am horrified!

Without the starting point that man is made in the image of God, made to have dominion over the animals, and given an immortal soul - once you get rid of all that, man is just another animal. Life is cheap, and Darwinian theory of survival of the fittest rules the day. It's odd that we do not take this to it's logical conclusion though. There have been a number of incidences where mothers could not deal with being mothers and so they killed their kids (Susan Smith is one who comes to mind, and more recently, Caylee Anthony's mother, even if she was acquitted). Why should these women be put on trial if their lives are worth more and their children's live were worth sacrificing? Is it because their kids lives were autonomous by that point? I mean, kids are pretty dependant for a long time after birth. At what age does their worth become equal to that of their mothers? Are babies of equal value once they are no long inside womb? Are they merely parasites until they break free of the host? And what other lives are not equal? Society often refers to certain types of criminals as "low-lives." Are those lives worth less? Maybe we can unilaterally decide to kill them too. Williams tries to argue her case from a non-emotional, logical standpoint, but she fails all tests of logic and resorts to "feelings" in the end anyway when she discusses how women feel relieved about an abortion, but feel grieved about a miscarriage. The moment emotions are employed to prove logic, the argument is lost.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Women are not Women, and Men are not Men... Anymore

My husband sent this article to me, asking for my thoughts and feedback. It was such a thought provoking article, I decided to post that feedback, along with the article.

I would agree that feminism is pervasive in our society.  I was drawn into it myself for a while. You can blame it on "Daddy issues" or "a strong matriarchal figure" or some kind of childhood abuse, whether physical or mental, but I would offer that it is simply the pendulum swinging the other way (as pendulums are wont to do). There was a time when women had to fight to be seen as equal with men - to be afforded the same opportunities. That time has long since passed. Women are now on equal foot in politics, in the work place, and especially in academia. Women have a higher enrollment and graduation rate in both undergrad and graduate degrees. I too wanted to prove I could do anything a man could do, AND do it better. It wasn't until college that I realized my attitude was not helping my guy friends. I was not fostering a spirit of friendly competition. Some of the guys I knew were adopting a "why bother trying" mentality. At the same time, there was an increasing frustration among my girlfriends about a lack of chivalry in the male population. The common refrain was "where have all the gentleman gone?" It dawned on me that we were fighting a battle that had already been won, and in going overboard we lost more ground than we had ever gained.

The author of the below article quotes Suzanne Venker’s article, “The War on Men,” to corroborate her own observations. I would like to partially disagree with the statement “It’s the women who lose." When the social balance is skewed, everyone loses. Women now have to be both Mother and Father, breadwinner and housewife. Children grow up among their peers in after-school programs, or in the streets. Men who have no drive within themselves, have no external factors encouraging them to be better. Rather, they are told they are good for nothing, useless, and unneeded. With little to live up to, they are successfully hitting the bull's eye.

Now that feminism has had its heyday, many of us wish we could return to a simpler time - a time when men were respected as heads of households, not because of their maleness, but because it is the role God created them for. We long for wives who are cherished and adored, and children who obey authority and speak with even a semblance of respect.

For those who have no moral or religious basis for marriage, it doesn't make sense anymore. Weddings are expensive; divorces even more so. Children are a financial sink-hole. And commitment is something that is passing away with our grandparents' generation. My Mom (and, I'm sure many other moms) used to say "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Well, it seems today's young men have finally figured out the same line of reasoning.  There really is no longer a need for marriage (if you're ok with the what you see around you).


Young Men Giving up on Marriage: ‘Women Aren’t Women Anymore’
by Hilary White
January 10, 2013 (LifeSiteNews.com) – Fewer young men in the US want to get married than ever, while the desire for marriage is rising among young women, according to the Pew Research Center. Pew recently found that the number of women 18-34 saying that having a successful marriage is one of the most important things rose from 28 percent to 37 percent since 1997. The number of young adult men saying the same thing dropped from 35 percent to 29 percent in the same time. Pew’s findings have caught the attention of one US writer who maintains that feminism, deeply entrenched in every segment of the culture, has created an environment in which young men find it more beneficial to simply opt out of couple-dom entirely. Suzanne Venker’s article, “The War on Men,” which appeared on the website of Fox News in late November, has become a lodestone for feminist writers who have attacked her position that the institution of marriage is threatened, not enhanced, by the supposed gains of the feminist movement over the last 50 years. “Where have all the good (meaning marriageable) men gone?” is a question much talked about lately in the secular media, Venker says, but her answer, backed up by statistics, is not to the liking of mainstream commentators influenced by feminism. She points out that for the first time in US history, the number of women in the workforce has surpassed the number of men, while more women than men are acquiring university degrees. “The problem? This new phenomenon has changed the dance between men and women,” Venker wrote. With feminism pushing them out of their traditional role of breadwinner, protector and provider – and divorce laws increasingly creating a dangerously precarious financial prospect for the men cut loose from marriage – men are simply no longer finding any benefit in it. As a writer and researcher into the trends of marriage and relationships, Venker said, she has “accidentally stumbled upon a subculture” of men who say “in no uncertain terms, that they’re never getting married.” “When I ask them why, the answer is always the same: women aren't women anymore.” Feminism, which teaches women to think of men as the enemy, has made women “angry” and “defensive, though often unknowingly.” “Now the men have nowhere to go. It is precisely this dynamic – women good/men bad – that has destroyed the relationship between the sexes. Yet somehow, men are still to blame when love goes awry.” “Men are tired,” Venker wrote. “Tired of being told there’s something fundamentally wrong with them. Tired of being told that if women aren't happy, it’s men’s fault.” Feminism and the sexual revolution have simply made marriage “obsolete” for women as a social and economic refuge, but this is a situation that should not be celebrated by feminists, Venker says. “It’s the women who lose. Not only are they saddled with the consequences of sex, by dismissing male nature they’re forever seeking a balanced life. The fact is, women need men’s linear career goals – they need men to pick up the slack at the office – in order to live the balanced life they seek.” A cross section of research data from the Pew Research Center for the last months of 2012 shows the alarming trends for marriage and child-bearing in the US. One report published in mid-December said that the latest census data showed “barely half” of all adults in the United States are currently married, a “record low”. Since 1960, the number of married adults has decreased from 72 percent to 51 today and the number of new marriages in the U.S. declined by five percent between 2009 and 2010. Moreover, the median age at first marriage continues to rise with women getting married the first time at 26.5 years and men at 28.7. The declines in marriage are “most dramatic” among young adults. Just 20 percent of those aged 18 to 29 are married, compared with 59 percent in 1960. “If current trends continue, the share of adults who are currently married will drop to below half within a few years,” the report said. Moreover, the link between marriage and child rearing has become disconnected in the minds of the so-called Millennial generation, those between 18 and 29. While 52 percent of Millennials say being a good parent is “one of the most important things” in life, just 30 per cent say the same about having a successful marriage, an attitudinal survey found. The gap, of 22 percentage points, between the value Millennials place on parenthood over marriage, was just 7 points in 1997. The research found that Millennials, many of whom are the children of divorce and single-parenthood themselves, are also less likely than their elders to say that a child needs both a father and mother at home, that single parenthood and unmarried couple parenthood are bad for society.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Sigh...

Just when I thought I had an endless supply of subject matter for my blog, Punk goes back to school and Lazy Pants leaves (not sure if he moved out as he threatened the other day or if he is just staying away temporarily). In any case, all's quiet on the home front (for now, at least). Now that is what I call irony. I will not, however, complain. It is really quite pleasant. So I suppose I will enjoy whatever armistice is currently taking place above my cozy apartment, and get as much sleep as I can while it lasts.

Friday, January 04, 2013

Unanswered Prayers

I remember a friend of mine telling me that there are blessings in unanswered prayers - that is, prayers answered contrary to what we want at the time. It is amazing how often that is true. The job I begged for didn't come to fruition, but in its place I got more than I could have ever dreamed of. The guy I once thought I wanted turned out to be a loser, and instead, I now have an amazing husband. On the other hand, the apartment I wanted has turned out to be quite a challenge. But, really, that is not even what matters. The point is to content whatever one's lot in life - to be grateful for the blessings as well as the challenges. It is the single most difficult struggle of my life. I was listening to a song this morning on my ride to work... the lyrics are so beautifully put, I knew I had to post them. So here they are:

Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
Tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger's view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe You'll provide in other ways
And if that's the case...
We'll give thanks to You with gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after You
That a starry sky offers a better view
If no roof is overhead
And if we never taste that bread
~ Gratitude, Nicole Nordeman

Thursday, January 03, 2013

Landlady (pt 2)

Ok, so I finally met the landlady yesterday. She doesn't seem quite as much of a horror show as I had imagined. Actually, she was rather nice. It made me feel bad about giving her such a mean nickname. I shall henceforth refer to her as "landlady."

As a follow-up story to the last one, the much argued about bon fire took place in her own backyard. If she can't keep drugs and alcohol consumption from occuring on her own property, I doubt that she can control anything her children do. It's really quite sad.

Tuesday, January 01, 2013

The Landlady (pt 1)

I've not been very consistent in my blogging for a while now, and would like to remedy that in 2013. Part of the problem was a lack in subject matter. My focus was on my coming marriage and all that goes along with that. Most of you do not want to read about that. Inspiration arrived in an unlikely way. CJ has been living in an apartment with a horror of a landlady above him. Well, I now live in that same apartment. I could get mad, or just hate my living situation, but I thought better of it, and decided instead to write about the drama that goes on upstairs. Some of it is actually amusing. This will serve as the first of a series I plan to write.

Let me begin by laying out the cast of characters. First, there's the landlady herself. We'll call her Helga Beast. She is loud. Her regular conversational voice is loud, but she rarely uses that. She much prefers to yell... at everyone... for everything. When her kids aren't home, she talks on the phone (still yelling, most of the time). She can go from hysterical laughing to all-out crying in 2.7 seconds, and does so often. If it weren't so freaky, it would be impressive. Sometimes she sings along to the radio. Basically, the lady never shuts up.

Second is the son - a man of maybe 25 years with a couple of degrees, who seems to live home and works as a waiter at a nearby restaurant. We'll call him Lazy Pants. He's fairly quiet for the most part, except when he gets into fights with his Mom. Then he's a disrespectful brat (not that she commands respect in ANY way).

Lastly, and most obnoxiously, is the daughter. I suppose Punk will do as her pseudonym. She is probably around 19 years old, but she is such a spoiled child, one would assume she is MUCH younger. She fights with her Mom non-stop. Seriously. NON-STOP. If they are both home, we know it because they are at each other's throats. If I had a child like that. I'd disown her, or at least kick her out and send her to live with her father (a threat I hear often from Helga Beast). Once again, though, I blame the Mother. She has no idea how to get her kids under control and apparently never has.

Now that you have an idea of the players, let me relay a short story from last night - New Year's Eve.

Punk: [insert whining voice] I'm going to the bon fire.
H B: Nothing good happens at bon fires. All the kids will be drinking and smoking pot.
Punk: [indiscernible screaming and yelling]
H B: No. I don't want you going to the bon fire
Punk: [more screaming and whining]
H B: Well, you know that bon fires attract cops and you will get in trouble if you have pot or alcohol.
Punk: [intense screaming and fake crying]
[lots of screaming, laughing/crying, and yelling from Punk's friends]
Front door opens, Punk and her friends leave (presumably, to the bon fire).