All things truly innocent, start from something wicked

“Actions are the first tragedy in life, words are the second. Words are perhaps the worst. Words are merciless. . .”
― Oscar Wilde

    My title, as I must give credit, comes for Ernest Hemingway.  I felt it fitting.  I understand what it's most like referring to, but in this instance, it takes on a whole new meaning.  I can not go without commenting on the awful and quite surreal events that occurred in Connecticut just two short days ago. There have been other detestable and heartbreaking tragedies, but nothing to this magnitude save one-9/11.  Every mother, father, sister, brother, grandparent, aunt, uncle, and everyone else in between have felt a horror that strikes directly to their core with the depravity of this.  No one can wrap their minds around it all.
      I picked up my kids early from school that day and couldn't wait to hug them.  I know every other parent felt the same that day and everyday since.  However, I can't help but weep and feel my heart just crumble for those parents who can no longer do this.  So close to Christmas, and children so young, they still believe in the spirit of Christmas.  How do you go home and see those presents that they'll never get to open now?  You couldn't wait to see their expressions on Christmas morning when they tore open the paper and revealed that one thing they've been begging for.  I can't even begin to fathom the pain.  My heart aches for them all.
   
      I quoted Oscar Wilde above for the reason of that it relates directly to the point of the matter I wish to discuss regarding this horror.  I have a really big problem with the media's involvement in all this.  They turned one of the most tragic days into a sensational story that they could use in the advancement of their careers.  I wonder how many of them thought that this would get them a Pulitzer.  It makes me so sick to see how they hound people who's world has literally just been turned upside down and then proceed to shove it down the rest of the world's throat.  I don't want to see the monster's ugly despicable mug plastered across my tv screen or newspaper.  They make these soulless psychopaths into superstars in the blink of an eye.  His name should never have been released, let alone his picture.  Now those parents of whom he took their most precious of all things have to see his face on every channel, every network, every newspaper and they can't do anything about it.  They can't lash out against a picture, but that picture can haunt them for a lifetime.  HOW IS THAT FAIR?!
      Report the story, revere the victims, ignore the beast that committed it all.  He wants exactly what he got.  He's now infamous because our media made him such.  He does not deserve such recognition, he deserves to be forgotten forever and the only ones remembered are the ones who lost their lives.  I honestly can't help but be so appalled at how we have so distorted one of the key elements this nation was founded upon-Freedom of speech.  We wanted to escape the tyranny of not being able to voice our own opinions, but we have turned it around, flipped it, remade it, and packaged it in exceptions.  We are free to insult others, to spew our messages of hate, to revere those who don't belong in such positions, make Gods those who would be anything but if the world looked at who they really are.  All under the guise of the First Amendment rights.  So rarely do we use it as it was intended.  We have the choice in what we wish to say, why would abuse such a gift with spewing negativity and bilious perversions of life?  There are ways to sell your story with respect for all involved.  If you can't do that, then you don't belong in journalism.  Journalists have now become synonymous with rabid sharks rather than respected for informing us of world events or discussions of pertinent issues.  I no longer want to be a journalist, just a writer.  I know I would never make it in such a world where morality is considered a weakness.
      From something wicked, we are reminded so vividly of the innocence of youth.  We take this for granted so often these days.  Kids are pushed and pushed to grow up so very fast, never left to let them just breathe and play and linger in that innocence for very long.  This incident has reminded us to slow down, hug everyone, love everyone every chance you get, because the next chance may never come.  It has reminded us of that innocence and just how precious it truly is.  Maybe now we'll remember to slow down our lives and play that extra game of "Piggy Went to Market" or hide and seek, even if it makes you late for work.  We'll never say goodbye with saying I love you again.  That may be the sense behind this nonsensical incident.  We needed reminding of how much we need to let those we love know just how much they mean to us.  It's so sad and distressing that it took such an appalling thing to get our attention to this.  From something so wicked, we SEE the innocence again-something we never should have stopped looking for.

     I don't know who you are reading this, but I do know somewhere within me, I love you.  I love you for having a heart and for your compassion and for everything that makes you YOU.  I say this because I think so many people think that no else in this cold world cares or could care without proving themselves, but that's not true.  This is how we lost sight of what mattered-we demand proof before we believe in a person, rather than believing and if proof comes to validate that we made a good decision, great, if not, oh well.  I think this is why I cry every time I read or watch The Polar Express-it's innocence remembered and made real.  Believing for the sake of believing.  Remember your childhood and the silly things that used to occupy your time and the pure love you had in your heart.  You never questioned that you loved someone, you just knew you did.

     Hug your family, hug yourself, hug anyone within reach (though you may want to ask permission with strangers as you may be pepper sprayed if you don't).  Tell a complete stranger you love them because they're here with you on this planet.  You love them because they're another person with a heart and love within them.  Respect what we have to give each other without any expectation of receiving a single thing.

Silly girl-samurais don't drink coffee

     So....I know I said I was only addicted to coffee, but...I'm kinda addicted to Quentin Tarantino and kung fu movies....
      I mention this, because today as I am determined to do NOTHING at all (for once), I was channel surfing and came across Kill Bill Vol. 1.  Without a doubt among the top 10 favorite movies of mine.  Honestly, a kick ass blond who's alter ego is a super-samurai-assassin-gone-good-what's not to love?  Every time I watch this (or any other of Tarantino's films-except Hostel-I can't unsee that from the one and only time I watched it) I get completely amped up, and begin to  fantasize what it would be like to be a ninja....
     This brings me to my next point-
I drink waaaaaaaaaaay to much coffee.  Today, as I watched the movie, drinking my jug of espresso, I began to wonder what a ninja would be like if they drank coffee like I did.  Could you picture this?  Please try-it's really funny (or super scary, depending on if you see REAL samurai, as opposed to me picturing the Power Rangers Super Samurai running around all caffeinated to the gills).


     You got that mental image?  It's fantastic, isn't it?  I often wonder if things like this weren't what Tarantino was picturing when he came up with ideas like Ms. Black Mamba and some of his other characters.  Then I begin to wonder, does he drink coffee?  If he does, how does he take it?  He seems like a lots of sugar kind of guy.  I like lots of sugar, well fake sugar, I could TOTALLY be as bad ass as some of his characters.  I could TOTALLY be a samurai!  I just need to go to Japan, learn some cool techniques, wear yellow.  I don't look good in yellow.  Maybe I could be like a blue samurai, but then again, the Blue Ranger is a boy, and I don't want to be confused with being a guy.  Maybe I could be PINK! But then people would think I'm kicking ass for political reasons, and while fighting breast cancer IS a well-worthy cause, my only political agenda would be to punish the guilty....and then I realize I've lost complete track of what I thinking of in the first place and there's a faint buzzing sound, that I think may or may not be my heartbeat *slightly* elevated from the caffeine.

     I may have a problem.  Though what exactly it is, has yet to be defined.

   

Geronimo

      Ever have those days (weeks?) where you just feel like you NEED to do something, anything?  I've been feeling this way lately.  It's so oxymoronic, because I'm SO very tired and pulled in 15 different directions.  I think what I'm missing is that usually at this time of year, my daughter's All Star cheer competition season is finally starting and every week is spent preparing for the weekend.  Bows, bells, air horns, glittered signs, glittered makeup, glitter EVERYTHING. Costco runs for cases of energy drinks (for me), "Mom's Fierce-Aid bag" with all the extras that anyone might need, and of course, lots of hot tea with lemon and honey for soothing throats sore from yelling and screaming for hours.  She quit after last season.
     I'll be honest-I cried.

    You may look upon cheer leading as a bunch of boy-crazed morons that are so superficial they would think the word "introspective" was some new....."position".  All Star cheer is so very, very, different than this.  So much so that you could make the analogy that comparing "rah-rah" cheer leading to All Star cheer is like comparing Anna Nicole Smith to Einstein, respectively.  All Star cheer DEMANDS, and I seriously means DEMANDS, top physical shape, multi-tasking, graceful coordination, the utter defiance of gravity, and you must do all this with a smile on your face within two and a half minutes, inside the big white box.  Anyway, there has long been the debate 'Is cheer a sport?' and while I'm very much on the Pro side of this debate, this is not the point of this here post.  Here, is the point:

I miss being a cheer mom.

    There.  It's out.  I said it.  I MISS those crazy weekends and the 5 days a week at the gym, the other two at some cold (or sweltering) arena for 15 hrs a day, the glitter (oh the glitter!), the early morning rush, the tired sore aching arms/legs/voices/backs (and I mean mine, not my daughter's).  It was all honestly, so much fun.  I loved helping her get ready, seeing her all ready to compete, sitting with my other "cheer moms" and laughing and joking around.  I miss watching her out on that floor, a smile that could light up even the darkest of rooms, and talent-oh the talent she had!  She was tumbling at an elite level (which is part of the reason I cried when she quit).  My stomach in my throat, hoping they hit every stunt, tumbling pass, and jump.  Then when they did the rush of pride and excitement (imagine your favorite sports team winning the-Stanley Cup, Super Bowl, World Series, NBA Finals, World Cup, etc.-yeah it's THAT exciting), it felt like my heart would burst with joy!
     Having been doing since she was 5, and it being a year round sport-no break at all-she finally reached her limit where she just was no longer having fun.  I always told her that if she's not having fun, it's not worth doing.  She won't get a scholarship to college for cheer (she's too tall already), she's not going to be a "professional cheerleader", so this is all just for fun.  It's so very odd to be sitting here, Friday night, NOT preparing for a 5am wake up for and hour+ drive tomorrow morning.  I began to realize how 'itchy' I was tonight, when she was getting ready to go to the District Championship game for the high school's football team.  My hubby was taking her and a friend, so she quickly got ready by putting glitter streaks on her cheeks in the school's colors.  I looked at her and just thought (cue the little girl voice in my head) GLITTER!!!!ILOVEGLITTEROMGGLITTERGLITTERMORE!!YOUNEEDMOREGLITTER!!
I tried very hard to keep my mouth shut, but the stupid giddy smile I had on my face kinda gave me away.  She looks at me and says, "I know, isn't it awesome?!" and points to her cheeks.  She's still a cheerleader at heart (and she knows me OH so well).
       So, this got me thinking.  How do I squelch this itch for excitement?  Bungee jump?  Skydive?  Extreme spelunking?  Flash mobbing??  Ugh.  I could, but 1) I'm broke 2) I might want excitement, but the kind where I'm sure I'll still be alive at the end.  I've been toying with an idea for a while now, inspired by my very awesome sister.  She's a runner.  I have to overcome very similar issues that she had, and she worked her ass off to get there.  She's run 3 marathons this year, and I've lost count of her total run.
      I'm going to run a marathon next year.

     Ok.  It's in print.  I can't back out now.  I will start training, in multiple ways, and my hope is to run the Marine Corps Marathon with her next fall.  There's several other small runs (5k/15k's) that I want to run in the coming months also, but for fun mostly.  She'll kick my ass and be waiting for hours at the finish line for me, but we'll have so much fun-and that's the thrill of it all.  All the training, the sore legs, backs, arms, knees, all building up to reaching that finish line after 26.2 miles get pounded beneath my feet.

     So worth it.

     So, as I seem to be making my resolution a month early, I don't really have anything else to say but

GERONIMO.

$500 mil Doesn't impress Espresso baby

     To know me, you must know my one, true, deep addiction for which I unapologetically will continue the habit of until the day I die, and then, I hope to be buried with a carafe of it (you know-just in case).  Coffee, espresso, lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos, pretty much anything made with a coffee bean.  Chocolate covered espresso beans? Crack rock.  So, that being said, one thing my father and I have always shared (and that he's shared with all my siblings as well) was the love of a good cup o' joe.  So, as an early Christmas gift (or maybe birthday? eh, it's one in the same), he bought me the very same espresso maker that he has.  It's a LOVELY machine....(insert dreamy eyes here)!  We received the Wonder a few days ago and couldn't wait to start playing with it and brewing some of that brunette mistress that calls to me like a siren.
     In true-to-form fashion, I sit down to read the instruction manual first.  Oh-not because that's what most people with common sense would do, but because I'm terrified to break the damn thing (we have a plague upon our house-we break anything and everything OVER the value of $5).  Ok, I am OCD enough that I'd have to read the manual first, even if we DIDN'T break things, so my neuroses do come in handy.  There's your usual this-is-that-thingie picture/number matchup, yada yada.  Then I get to the page of no-no's and there was this one particular no-no that grabbed my attention.....

.......I'm sorry....I think I may have misunderstood....so you're NOT supposed to put your baby on the espresso machine?  Or are they making a statement against gratuitous child modeling of random products?  Espresso baby don't care.  Espresso baby just stylin', waitin' for mom to make some lattes.  The symbols above the picture just add to my curiosity.  Are they saying "Attention! Wait!"  Or possibly "Hey! High 5 for espresso baby!"  Maybe "Yo! Stop!"...collaborate and listen, or it's Hammer Time!  I don't believe it would be In the Name of Love in this instance.  Anyway, espresso baby confused the crap out of me whist making me laugh so hard, I'll be honest, I may have peed a little.  Is this REALLY such an occurrence that we need to not only have a warning about it, but a PICTORIAL one at that?   As if saying, 'Hey mastermind, letting your baby crawl onto this machine might not be the best idea you've ever had' was one that really needed to be stated, let alone demonstrated graphically.  The most depressing thought in this whole quandary is that there actually had to BE someone who not only allowed their young child to play ON THE MACHINE, but who probably sued the manufacturer of said machine for not putting a warning about this very situation.

     Today got me thinking about espresso baby as I watched so many people stand in line to buy a Powerball ticket in the hopes of winning a mere $500 million dollars (sorry, can't help but picture Dr.Evil as I typed that).  People of every shape, size, and background buy these lottery tickets.  Hell, I bought one myself (seriously, $500 MILLION-espresso baby could buy his own franchise with that), but what would these people REALLY do with that much money?  Sure, you fantasize about what you would do, but when it came down to the nuts and bolts of it all, what on earth would you need so desperately with all that money?  Do you deserve that much money?  By deserve, I mean to you feel you'd be responsible, smart, wise, whatever with the money?  Would you buy an espresso maker then (possibly) sue the company because you let your toddler play on it?  

     Here's my point-with all that money just a few numbers away, do YOU feel you could handle all that it brings to your table (I mean that metaphorically)?  Would you help others or would you simply help yourself?  I come from a lower middle-class point-of-view, so it's not like I have money at all to spare, but I still can't imagine keeping so much when so many have so much less.  

      I was once told, when I was younger, that I had an overinflated idea of what was fair.  I still don't understand why that was a bad thing. 

      I don't feel the world owes me anything, least of all money.  If I have the opportunity to help someone, why wouldn't I?  Because no one helped me?  On the contrary, that's my motivation, I believe.  I've had to make it through most of my life on my own, learning things the hard way and always starting from the ground up.  It's made me a very independent person (sometimes, to a fault), but if I could ease someone else's hard times, maybe give them a step stool to start a little higher than ground level, that would be the real jackpot.  It sucks always being so far down, never seeming to get any higher.  My life here at the bottom hasn't been a bad one, just difficult.  I don't regret my life at all.  If I turned around and made someone else's life a little less difficult, then all the lesson's I've learned through my struggles will have come to fruition.  

     The only value of learning a lesson is applying what that lesson taught you. 

    So, my hope is this-whoever wins that obscene amount of money tonight, may you be blessed with the wisdom to turn around and make the world better for all that it's provided to you.  Well, you and espresso baby.

Moving Sale

     If you've followed me from HubPages, I welcome you!  If not, come on in, pour yourself a good, strong drink (you're going to need it), sit down and enjoy yourself!  I decided to make the move form HubPages as I felt like I didn't really fit in with their style of blogging (like wow, OMG I totally wasn't a plastic).  While I enjoyed their breakdown of how your blog is viewed and the usual statistics (anyone of you who know me knows I'm a total whore for statistics-you should see what I'll do for a spreadsheet), looking around at other blogs, I felt my writing to be....different.  I'm in no way truly informative, or a resource to be used by other writers, I'm just me.  Plain, crazy, me.
     There's been a lot of....stuff...going on in my life lately.  I've made the decision that I'm actually going to write my book, though whether it will ever see the light of day, is the question.  I spent MONTHS agonizing over this decision.  When I say agonizing, I mean full on anxiety attack provoking, not sleeping for days, crying and shaking , so you know, your usual thought provoking decision making process.  I was (and am) terrified over the ramifications of what skeletons will come pouring out of my closet.  I asked my father a few months ago if I should pursue this.  His answer, "If this is what your heart tells you to do, then yes."  I've learned to take his advice over the last few years of my life (and consequently, his).  I thought on it for a long time (hence the period of panic attacks, etc.) and decided that if it was causing me this much stress and anxiety, that it just wasn't meant to be.  I put the idea out and began working on other things.
     Two weeks ago, I hear from my stepmother after repeated attempts to reach my father via text (we texted everyday) to no avail.  I was afraid he was pulling away from me as his disease progressed.  He has always been very open and honest with me, but I have always feared that as his physical body fell victim to the ravishes of this bloody disease, that he wouldn't want me to know by how much.  My step mom replied to me letting me know that he wasn't pulling away, but rather he physically could no longer type or easily read his text messages.  I asked if I should come out there, and she said yes.  My sisters and I all coordinated to catch a flight out there.  That night, knowing I wasn't going to sleep anyway, I stayed up, packed, cried, ran out for coffee, cried some more.  As I was out getting coffee, I looked up at the stars and saw them as I had when I was 6-outside on a frigid night with my father, learning what all the constellations were, shivering hands trying to hold on to too-big binoculars (we couldn't ever afford a telescope), and I loved every second of that time together.  I tried so hard not to cry because I was terrified that I'd never stop.  I wrote my father a letter then, unsure if I'd ever actually give it to him, but I poured everything I wanted him to know into that letter.
     After that, I couldn't seem to stop writing.  On the plane out, everyday I was out there, on the plane home.  When I came home, I felt compelled to finish writing about everything I experienced out in the desert, but I felt a million miles away from my real spirit.  It dawned on me then that my father had read my heart so well, he just neglected to realize that he was my inspiration.  His happiness and pure love opened my heart to accept all the possibilities that my writing my bring about, not just the negative ones.  I had become so focused on the bad, I had forgotten that my writing may inspire, help, or grab a giggle or two.  In the end, that's what really matters, not the skeletons themselves.  They've done their damage already, where I am now is the positive result of said occurrences.  It's not how my life began, but what I've done with it since.
    So, what does a moving sale mean?  You're clearing out the old and getting ready for the new-new possibilities, new memories, new chances to find more of yourself.  In the spirit of new things, I will post my one and only self-picture (I don't do pictures, unless I'm BEHIND the camera).

So let me be weighed, measured, and no longer found wanting.  Welcome to the new World.