An "Unseen War" for All to See

I've begun to get used to seeing my daughter's picture on the internet. It's strange seeing someone who lives under your very roof, someone you know inside and out, someone you are committed to protecting with everything that you have, on a site that is visible to anyone anywhere. She has a "social networking website." I am one of her "buddies" and I monitor her settings and posts, trying to keep an eye on who is watching her. But to see her on a site I don't control, in a picture I didn't take, can be a little unnerving.

When I see her there, in her dance class, independent of me, growing up so quickly, I can't help but think of the family of 21 year old Joshua Bernard. My daughter is there, front and center, her cheeks pink with life, her body strong and moving to the beat of the music she loves to hear. In the picture splayed on newspapers across the country, of a soldier dying for his country, I see a son, a young life abruptly brought to an end, the music quieted.

Parents, John and Sharon Bernard were shown the picture of their mortally wounded son during an interview, prior to publication; they requested the Associated Press not use the photo. Later, in a phone call, Joshua's father requested again, more strongly this time, that the AP refrain from causing the family undue grief and strain. The outcome is obvious.

Associated Press, in a statement, said the photo depicted "a story that people needed to see and be aware of." (Their grammar, not mine.)

The Wheeling WV Intelligencer defended their actions by stating that "some Americans see only the statistics... We believe it is important for us all to understand that behind the numbers are real men and women, sometimes making the ultimate sacrifice for us." I think the Intelligencer needs to read their own copy -- behind their "numbers" are real survivors of those men and women.

The Huffington Post made it front page news -- "Snapshot of an Unseen War." What is so "unseen?' Turn to any media outlet; it's everywhere! Maimed soldiers trying to rebuild their lives once back at home, stories of courage or cowardice, the names and faces of those who will never return.

In this day and age, when we can turn on CSI at 6PM and see all the gore we can handle, does the AP really think our desensitized society will flinch when presented with a photo such as this? Is there anyone who enjoys American freedom that thinks it was earned by cartoon characters being flattened by anvils and appearing without blemish in the next scene? Should we begin to publish pictures of electric chair executions to deter crime? or perhaps, burn victims can be included in a campaign to advocate the use of smoke detectors.

When a family is grieving -- newly grieving -- the death of their son who had barely earned his right to belly-up to the bar, shouldn't we cut them some slack? Does anyone think the Bernards love the war? Are they trying to cover up the fact that young men and women are dying? Are they seeking to have their son's heroism forgotten? There are entire volumes of Civil War black and whites that are not vague about the blood shed or lives lost for convictions, right here on our own soil. Those families grieved; those families were given the time and respect due parents that have offered the second-most selfless sacrifice for freedom. I don't know the Bernards and I don't pretend to know how they feel, but given the proper privacy and reprieve they may have wished their son's offering to one day be shared with the entire world.
Mr. and Mrs. Bernard, I am sorry for your loss and so sad that there are those who would dismiss your grief and ask you to, once again, sacrifice -- your pain, for their gain.

'Nuf Said

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0rQzUVQjd8

I Pledge...

I have been reading and listening to the backlash regarding Obama's proposed speech to public school children (to take place Tuesday) and the "I Pledge" star-studded spectacular that has already been shown at a school assembly or two. And, once again, I side with Penn Jillette and many others on this.

In the video, some of Hollywood's biggest and brightest (if that isn't a red flag right there...) pledge to be nicer to one another, buy hybrid vehicles and "smile more." Great. Annoying, but benign, until... Someone pledges to be "of service to Barak Obama." That's when I think, "Wait a minute. Isn't this about being an American? Aren't we supposed to be pledging service, hard work, efforts to our country?" Then it gets better! Another servile sycophant proudly pledges to be "a servant to our President." A servant to the guy America put in office? A servant to the man who is supposed to be serving us? A servant? Is that, like picking up his dry cleaning or pouring his coffee? Are you the one who stands by to light his cigarette, fan him with palms, or feed him grapes? Oh, girl, I hope you're going to feed him grapes.

Well, this "special assembly" coming to a socialist public school near you, comes complete with its own lesson plans. One for younger age children -- "Are we able to do what President Obama is asking of us?" (Anyone know a fourth grader who wants to be viewed as weak or unpatriotic?) And another one for older students -- "Is President Obama inspiring you to do anything?" (As my sophomore would say, "Um, yeah, get a new President.")

So, today this is my pledge...

"I pledge to watch less of Hollywood and more of the government -- 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?' -- and I encourage others to do the same."

Oh, yeah, and pray -- really, really pray!

Happy to Have Been Exposed!

My parents didn't know the meaning of the word "privacy." In our house, a door was merely something on which you hung a robe or a towel. The bathroom door was revolving, regardless of occupation. We slept with doors open until I discovered "the flashlight" and the devilish joy created when paired with the perfect book under crisp cotton sheets; I started asking my mom to shut my door at night.

As I reached my teen years, a door was my only valve -- shutting off issues I didn't wish to address, or bottling up emotions best kept to myself. I couldn't imagine allowing "their world" in mine, and I had no desire to be part of theirs.

When I married, modesty and secrecy were normal and comfortable to me. I would never think of sleeping unhidden, vulnerable, my door open to a lifeless house. My morning and nightly routine took place behind closed doors, as if brushing my teeth was some secret sin. My thoughts, my dreams and my feelings were just as carefully protected.

When my husband and I divorced, everything was laid bare. There it was -- the truth -- unmasked for all the world to see. I had trusted, I had opened my home, I had opened my heart -- I wound up exposed and unprotected.

As I write, Scott is shouting something to me from within the bathroom. When Olivia is tired of chewing her gum, I have been known to chew it myself until I can properly dispose of it. Just last weekend, someone was yelling about the owner of an unfinished water bottle; Joe replied, "Who cares? Just drink it -- we're all family!" Christine and I regularly assist one another in "zit blitz." Both Madison and Olivia are notorious for standing between the shower curtain and the transparent liner, talking to me as I shower.

Scott is my best friend; I love each and every one of my children. We are a family, and for once in my life, I've got nothing to hide.

What Happens to Frozen Pizza in the Back Seat of a Black Truck, in August, During a Heatwave in Pennsylvania

Grocery shopping can be an ordeal. I spend much time fighting the temptation to cater to every child's slightest whim, or working crowd control -- prohibiting folks from demonstrating their latest dance move in the open aisles of the store, or curtailing everything from batting practice with baguettes to wind surfing from the nether regions of the grocery cart. Solution: I make out my list when the weekly circulars arrive on Thursday, and shop Friday after work -- alone!

This week I grabbed a few frozen pizzas for the moments when everyone succumbs to the munchies, about fifteen minute into "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" on Saturday night. Unfortunately, discerning critics that they are, my family only likes one brand of pizza, and on Friday morning, that brand was stocked with multiple variations on the "meat pizza," but no "plain cheese" whatsoever. I pondered, selected, reconsidered and compromised, finally leaving with, I thought, three pizzas despite my desire to "stock up." As I was leaving the market parking lot, I encountered one of those nice folks who like to cut across rows of parking at break-neck speed to grab the spot closest the front door, thereby eliminating the need for physical exercise or shoe repair. I "locked 'em up," as they say, and heard my groceries slide past me. Well, not quite, but I was certain I'd be picking slices of bread from the air conditioning vents. When I got home, Christine helped me unload the car and stow my plunder. Something told me I should check for any stray cottage cheese that might have made its way under the seat during my abrupt stop, but I let it go.

Saturday night, after several days of 90-or-more degree temperatures, we decided to take a ride to Georgio's, a local ice cream/ water ice institution, to get a little relief. As we were climbing in to the car -- six people, one dog (Belle had been a bad girl when getting ready to leave, and had to stay home) and visions of sublime confections dancing in our heads -- someone barked at Olivia to "Move Over!" "I can't!" she responded, "There's a pizza here!" There was no surprise in her voice -- nothing unusual about a pizza in the car. Her oppressor's reply was, of course, "Well, move it!" Once again, no surprise, no disbelief. It was a very simple problem, and a very simple solution.

After I replayed Friday morning's events and decided on an answer to the question "Why is there a pizza in my car?" I considered going back inside the house with the wilted saucer of botulism. OK, turn off the ignition, shutting down the A/C, take the house keys, open the front door, turn off the alarm, take off my shoes, run to the kitchen trash - no, better make it straight out back to the garbage cans -- so carry my shoes with me to slip back on before I head out the back door... Plan B: toss it in the first dumpster we pass.
As Scott was lobbing eight dollars into the trash can at Burger King, I began to think about some of the speed bumps or even road blocks of life, that we encounter from time to time. Children only begin to ask "why?" as they age or are taught to ask such questions. When they are young they have an "It-Is-What-It-Is" attitude, and respond with a "Just-Do-It" solution. Sometimes that can be most frustrating for a parent who is trying to teach their child to think, ask questions about their environment, and make wise choices. But sometimes, we need a little more of that in all of us.

When faced with someone who has treated us unfairly, we gossip and rage. When "the impossible" is put upon us by spouses or bosses, we whine and worry what "the other guy" is doing. Our government is great at appointing special committees to decide "why" before we make any adjustments to "what," thereby delaying the approval of medications and burying bills that provide a succinct solution to what is wrong. And, me? I am great for developing, at least, a ten-step program to tackling my spiritual blight. By the time I get to step three, I've given up and decided to "cook some breakfast first."

So, today I am going to work on "getting the pizza out of the car" and worry less about how it got there. Chances are, I really don't need to think too long to know how it got there in the first place, I just didn't try too hard to prevent it.

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It

Two posts in one day? She must be down with the flu or suffering from some sort muscular atrophy in her lower extremities, you decide.

No, just one of those days when it seems to be coming at me from all directions -- when it's not a matter of what to write, but which to write. Some days I want to write until I am exhausted, so I do, but I am wise to not have you suffer through it; I journal a bit, save some for a rainy day, and post some for you to read. Interestingly enough, today I am compelled to post about posting.
Many artists have their muses -- some living and breathing, some merely places in time which inspire and impel. I have many sources of insight -- not that they are all up and running collectively, but I can usually find some groundwork for creativity. However, I recently asked the question "Just how far I would be willing to go?"

Some sports legends have refused to change their socks. I'll be honest, I can be as lazy and uncouth as any frat boy. I can eat like I've never seen pizza before; I can stay in my pajamas and forego shaving for days. Refusing to change my socks, though? Hmmm, what else ya got?

My mind goes to the Brady Bunch episode in which a consultant of some sort advises the family to engage in a ridiculous exaggeration of "method acting," in order to deliver some award-winning performance in a detergent commercial. Alice has time to go to the salon for an elaborate "updo" now that the detergent has done such a fabulous job on the laundry and freed her up for extracurriculars. So, should I don a clerical collar for divine inspiration, or slip into some winged tulle, rife with sparkles, for a little children's literature. I try to envision Eric Carle sitting at his desk, putting thought to paper while garbed in the fuzzy green vesture of his fictional ravenous caterpillar. Just not working for me...

Meditation? Well, if meditation involves sitting on a mat, coiling my legs into a half windsor, chanting some meaningless drivel or "auming" until I lull myself to sleep, uh -- no. But praying for God to direct me, make my words His words, and lead me according to His Will -- absolutely. Yep, that works for me!

A Thankless Job

"She looks a little frustrated. It looks like Marybeth is having trouble following our rules. Let's go give her a hand..." Stacey and Clinton dash to her aid, rushing in to pick the perfect wardrobe and save the day.
A favorite "guilty pleasure" of mine is TLC's "What Not to Wear". Truthfully, I have no idea what channel TLC is, or what time the show airs; I just know that from time to time, I catch it when someone is channel surfing, and it can, like any other addiction, lead to hours wasted and a desire for more. But, comfort comes in knowing I am not alone; Christine will watch it, Scott will watch it.

There is universal appeal in watching the transformation of a Plain Jane in PJ's to a fierce femme fatale, ready to conquer the world of business or intimidate the other moms at the school bus stop. It's an alluring concept that goes far beyond "what not to wear." It is the story of rescue. Stacey and Clinton ride in to town, single out some unsuspecting waif in need, and rescue her from the perils of mom jeans and mane clips. They hand over a credit card worth $5,000, stipulate the terms of her expenditures, and set her loose in New York to indulge her wildest dreams. After a "recoiffe" and some gentle reproach over eyeliner, the lesson is complete. At the end of the show, our damsel in distress faces her family and peers, some of whom could spend a thousand or two themselves, to "show off her new look." Rave reviews and a modeling-type photo shoot fade to black as we are left to imagine how much better her life is now that she has been pulled from the mire.

From time to time, I am not the cheery, optimistic little sprite that I appear to be. Even then, Stacey and Clinton smile their way into my doldrums and brighten my day or, and this is so much better -- become the objects of my odiousness. I disparage their every effort, and criminate their suggestions. I encourage Marybeth to "be comfortable -- wear sweats." Indignantly I cry, "Who died and put them in charge of skivvies? Who are they to tell anyone how to dress? Do they even know what life is like outside their Designer Row bubble" I scoff at the likelihood their Cinderella will abide by their rules for more than a week or two. "Oh, sure, she looks like that now, but when she goes back home to BillyBob who comes home from work smelling like something between auto paint and raw sewage, and she's been nuking chicken nuggets for the crumb snatchers all day, she'll slip right back into flip-flops and hair scrunchies. Nobody can look like that all the time! What happens at six in the morning when she stumbles to the kitchen in her cut-offs and robe for a quiet cup of coffee and a moment of escapism, only to find she's out of half & half? You really think she's going to don her Jimmy Choos and curl her lashes before she heads out to the Swiss Farm? Please, it's a drive-thru! You'll be lucky if she brushes her teeth!" And, "What about the morning after pizza night, when her size ten body feels like a fully-expanded size fourteen water balloon? You think she's going to put on dress slacks and 'the perfect blazer' to pack bagged lunches and clerk at the Walmart?"

Despite all this, Stacey and Clinton forge ahead, lurking behind racks of clothing and "tsk,tsking" at their pitiable, recalcitrant trainees who flounder in a sea of empire-waist blouses and embellished necklines. Conclusion: they are certifiable, altruistic, or making a fortune. I'd like to think they live with the belief that, if they can help just one person, it will have been worth all the effort. (Isn't that what philanthropists say when they are discouraged by public apathy?) Unfortunately, today I am feeling a bit "unsprite-like," and I am willing to bet they are renegotiating their contracts with every muffin-top they eradicate. Then again, bringing fashion to a population of wannabe strippers in belly-hugging spandex or moms who wear knee socks with granny skirts and Birkenstocks? There's not enough money in the world.