Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Thinking about the kids and telling myself that I would move Heaven and Earth to hunt down and castrate anyone who so much as touched so much as a hair on each of my children's precious heads, I bomb toward home, anxious to give them each a squeeze and pile into the car with our stuff and the cat and begin our vacation.

About fifteen minutes from home, I call Pat to tell them my arrive time. He is excited to be going but asks if I can come a little bit later. Liza is turning 50 next week while we are away (Just 50?  Somebody has been whacked with the Ugly Stick one too many times!) and they are going to celebrate early with cake.

Cake...who can resist cake?  I tell him that before I come I will pack most of the car, then bring them back so they can do one last run down of what they are bringing, and then pile in with kitty, and be on the road.

It's a plan.

And it works beautifully. When all is said and done, I can not wedge a pack of matches into the car among the stuff and Trinket is jammed between the kids in the backseat in her carrier, meowing her pants off.

It is late afternoon and the sun is still out. Traffic is going in the other direction.  I am pretty sure I've not left anything undone or unpacked. The kids are joking with each other and yammering about Hil's sleepover planned for next week and the mystery gift Charlotte has gotten for Pat's birthday.  And then Hil is suddenly doubled over laughing recalling Pat's reaction to something that happened that day.

"You should have seen your face, Pat!  You pushed yourself away from the table so fast.  'Jesus H Christ, Liza!' Sorry, Mom!"

I look in the rearview mirror at her, smiling. "That's okay...but what are we Jesus H Christ-ing about, however inappropriately?  Do tell."

They are both giggling now.

Pat starts. He can barely speak for the laughing. It is making Hil laugh. And me, too. 

"We were having cake for Liza's birthday. And when she blew out the candles...."  He can't continue. Tears have begun to roll down his face.

Hil, only slightly more composed, picks up from there. "She leaned over to blow out the candles, and accidently lit her hair on fire!"  She is barely able to continue with her demonstration of how each person at the table reacted. It is priceless. Even in the rearview mirror.

I try to act like I am laughing at what they are laughing at, which is each other, and not the torching of the hair specifically.  It is not as easy at it would seem.

"So Hil, is she OK?"  I ask. "Did she have to call the salon and get an emergency hair cut?" Poor baby, and she's been growing it for the wedding that will never happen. Poor thing.

I can't imagine what it looked like. When I think of Liza's hair, I also think "tumbleweed."  I am picturing a flamethrower. Something cartoonish. One side a charred pile of ash and the other side the usual mousey brown bad home perm frizzies. 

Oh and I imagine the smell didn't exactly leave everyone's mouth watering for cake.

Hil has composed herself and has regained the ability to form sentences.

"It wasn't too bad." And with her big lisp adds, "You know, it just singed one of her braidzth."

Braids?  She's fifty and is now sporting braids? 

I am sure they are not dreds and I am sure they are not cornrows. I am sure they are cowpoke, Swiss Miss Instant Cocoa, Heidi of children's lit fame dorky braids. I can hardly wait to text Charlotte.

And soon enough I will get my chance. As while the story has unfolded, the miles have passed and I am pulling off of the turnpike into paradise. Just a few more miles.

As I drive over the mountain and am greeted by twinkling porch lights and the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs, I can feel my soul begin to breathe again.

Crime and Punishment

And for these and many other reasons, I am thrilled to say that I am headed out on vacation.  Going to that darling little hamlet that time forgot where Charlotte and Jack have a cottage and a lot of family history. We are staying in their cottage while they go to the beach. One of these days we are going to have to figure out a way to be there together. Playing games on the porch, telling idiot brother stories, pouring fabulous cocktails and noshing on all manner of grilled things.

I can hardly wait to pick up the kids from Lars. They are so excited to be there. Hil has been packed for weeks. She already plans to own a cottage of her own. Wants to know if Auntie Charlotte will let her bring her husband to her cottage if they need to come up and look around. Girlfriend has some plans!  Pat can't wait to start the 1000 piece puzzle that glows in the dark. For all the madness they are exposed to with Disneyland Dad, the appeal of the phoneless, TV-free, no cell tower in sight, don't even think about the internet, Yes, We Have No Cable, completely removed from social media, and in fact media of all forms, totally unplugged place is magnetic to them.  They are drawn to it like ducks to water. It's almost as though they get to tune out and tune in to us. As a parent, this is a dream.

But as I drive toward home, anxious to pick them up from the home of the Weirdest Man on Earth, I think about the parents of the Sandusky victims. Sandusky is set to be sentenced soon and is hopefully rotting in jail for decades before making his express lane trip to Hell. If only he'd been taken to task sooner. There are so many cooks in that kitchen it makes my head swim.

But what rattles me more is this:  We are finding fault with Sandusky (let's hope so) and McQueery, (I'm sorry, you didn't know what to do and you called your Dad? How about 911?) and the administrators and coaching staff, and Paterno in particular for their failures to act. But where were the kids' parents? 

Were they so caught up in their own bullshit that they could not tell something sinister was going on in their boys lives?  Were they so asleep at the wheel that they could not see the changes, the fears, the symptoms that must have presented as their lives spiraled into Hell? 

I know when my kid gets torched in a pop quiz, or gets razzed for missing an easy fly ball in gym. How do you not know he's been raped by an man?

Or is it worse than that?  Did they trade? Did they ignore the subtle signs and the complaints? Did they force their kids to accept the VCR and the Gameboy and the golf clubs because they themselves were reaping the rewards of the relationship?

Or were they so depressed by their stations in their lives - the Second Mile kids were all underprivileged, and we can only guess at what their parents were suffering with - that the warning signs were missed for all the bright lights and shininess of the gifts and trips and privileges that their kids were being offered that they could not provide. Did they fail to see what lie right before them, blinded by their desire to provide something, anything, special for their kids?

I am not sure how to feel about the parents.  They failed their kids. How much blame they can be saddled with is probably an individual matter. Case by case.

But know this: I understand how a parent can get caught up in their own losses, and their own desires for their kids, and their guilt about not providing. I know how life's problems can consume a person. But what I don't understand is how you can look into your child's eyes each night as you kiss them goodnight and not have some flicker of recognition that something is wrong. And no matter what your pain, how do you not at least ask what the matter might be? 

Monsignor Lynn has gone to jail for not taking steps that could have prevented further attacks and abuse of children by priests.

Jail.

And this seems fitting.

To be truthful, there are a whole lot more people at fault in the PSU abuse scandal than those being talked about. Everyone who failed to act, who didn't do enough, who did not act to the very limit of their power, who put his head on the pillow each night not having done something to prevent even one more singular act of violence and sexual abuse against a child is culpable.
I guess the punishments will fit the crimes. Jobs will be lost. Freedoms stripped. Honors revoked. Statues torn down. Reputations ruined. Heads hung in shame.

But what of the parents? The ones on the sidelines? I wonder if their personal losses are fitting enough? I guess we'll let their children decide the verdict. Children always do. And that will be fitting enough.

Off On A Rant

But the beat goes on. My pro-gun ownership friends and my marriage-means-a-man-and-a-woman friends and my Joe Pa-didn't-do-anything-wrong-for-sure friends go on ranting on the Facebook stage and so do I.

I'll summarize, and then I won't rant anymore. At least not today.

More guns means more gun acts, and by the numbers, this means more accidents, more children shot, more loss an injury at one's own hand, more problems attempted to be resolved by guns and more criminal shootings. Period. People who naively (and frankly, really stupidly) claim that guns don't kill people, people kill people, can kiss my self righteous ass in Cabella's window.  Exactly, people kill people. With guns. Because they are going to find a way to kill people and so long as they can get guns, that is what they'll use. If we could reliably trust people not to use guns for the wrong things, then we could probably trust them not to steal, or commit fraud, or anything else we need laws for. But, silly NRA-ers, we can't trust our fellow man, so we need laws. And that includes laws about guns. Grow up and face facts. Your toy is another man's murder weapon.

I don't think we need more guns, or even more gun laws. I think we need better enforcement of more effective gun laws. Maybe Chris Rock was right. If bullets were $5000 a piece, maybe people wouldn't be so willing to spray them into a crowd. Just ask Gabby Giffords what she thinks.

And to my marriage equality debaters, I say marriage is a commitment. For some it is a religious sacrament, and for some it is a legally binding agreement. But for most, it is one born of love; a commitment to hold another's heart and hand through the betters and the worses. It has lots of benefits. It has lots of bummers. And if two people with matching sex parts want in on the game, I say let 'em play.  Frankly, I'd rather se two men holding hands than two men holding AK47s any freakin' day of the week.  And I don't see anything hideous coming out of more people getting married. Just more married people. And maybe a boost in the economy from all the wedding showers and catered affairs.

And Joe Pa?  Sure it sucks to not have him to look up to anymore. But I think we'd stop putting blow up Santas on our lawns if his image were even remotely associated on the most minimal level with the kind of heinous crimes, horrific suffering and systematic hush-hushing that went on at Penn State. Some very powerful people put football first and now they get to pay a price that can't begin to undo the hurt endured by these children at the heart of the matter.  What was collectively swept under the rug of Big College Football and booster money has crept into living rooms and classrooms and locker rooms and into the hearts and minds of people all across America. Erase a few wins from the record?  If only erasing those kids' history were so simple.

And I am not going to Chick-fil-A(holes) anymore, but I don't need to rant about that. I just need to not go. I will not be buying a gun or learning to use it. I am not going to root against Penn State. I am going to stand by my beliefs quietly and with conviction and live my  life in a way that makes me proud, demonstrates values I want my children to learn, and sets an example I'd hope others will follow.

And as a human, and a citizen and a parent, that is all I can do. If others choose other paths, I will tolerate them, not hate them. But I may de-friend a few of the more vocal ones on Facebook, because I don't have to "like" them either.

Hell, Joe, You Must Go!

I am similarly baffled by the people who are outraged by the removal of Joe Paterno's statue from its place of prominence on the PSU campus.

I am sure that this is not the last removal of his likeness or his name from something  to which it was intended to lend a certain credibility and superstar quality shininess to.

But alas - Happy Valley reminds us all of that scene in The Ten Commandments when Pharaoh has Moses' name stricken from every tablet, column, blah, blah blah. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Scholarships, trophies, child care centers - all changing names. Nike, the students of the former Paternoville, countless other groups, all disavowing him.

And why the hell not?

I am not insensitive. I completely appreciate his family's pain and conflict and outrage. They knew the man, not just the coach and the legend. And they have reaped the rewards of his success, suffered the sacrifices of his devotion to the game, and have lived in the warmth of his glow for decades.

But please, let's not say that we should just focus on the good that the man did - and I am not disputing that he did many, many a good deed.

Let's not say the the Freeh report is just a bunch of speculation, though that would be convenient and easier to believe.

Whatever the factoids and nuances and conclusions of the Freeh report may be - and whether Joe Paterno is crucified in the court of public opinion only or is found legally culpable (and we may never know for sure as he has inconveniently died) the plain and simple truth is that his name has been sullied. Really, and truly, and heinously, and irretrievably sullied. And no one wants their thing - their trophy, track shoe, day care, sunglasses - associated with that image.

And if there is the slightest chance that the image of Joe Pa's victorious pointing finger signifying the number one spot brings someone pain and suffering or horrific images or memories, it is right to tear the statue down. (I am sure there are not hospital wings or libraries or stadiums in Europe bearing Hitler's image because he gave them a little cashola.)

In some way, so many of us believe that whatever the complicated political landscape or delicate PR dilemma at the time, on some level, Joe Pa failed a bunch of defenseless kids.  He knew something about a heinous crime against a child, and in his own sandbox, and the most powerful, influential man in town did nothing of substance to stop it. Made no demands. Drew no lines in the sand. Threw up no ultimatums.

Joe Paterno may have once been the most powerful man in a very prestigious place. But he made at least one desperate child feel even more powerless when he could have rescued him. Shame on him.

Men like that don't get to be remembered for their greatness. 

Guns and Roses

But there is an alarming number of people who truly, naively believe that what the horrors of the Aurora shooting should teach us is that what this country needs is less restrictive gun control.

Sure. Let's all have a gun. Let's all take them everywhere. Family parties. Church. Work. Concerts. The beach. School. Amusement parks, Chuck E. Cheeses, weddings, funerals, graduation parties, bars. Yes, most especially bars.

I read a comment that insists that if just one person in that theater audience had been armed, the outcome would have been very different.

Hello, it's Colorado. I am sure lots of people were armed.

So the assumed assertion of this naive and very misguided comment is that if one of those movie patrons had been packing that night, then, in the midst of the confusion about whether it was a special effects stunt, and while the gas cannisters were filling the theater with blinding, choking smoke, and perhaps the armed attendee's child/children/date/friend/spouse was shrieking in terror or even lay wounded, and while people were panicking and running in all directions in the darkened theater, that this coincidentally armed person would have had the presence of mind and the skills to get off a precise shot that would have taken down the lunatic attacker and stopped the mayhem in its tracks.

Puh-lease. Sure. And Clinton didn't inhale. Give me a break. 

I shared my alarm about this type of thinking with Scott, who is a responsible gun owner with a gun safe and a permit. 

As I spoke the words I had this thought: This is a philosophy have unwavering opinions about. If Scott does not share them, I am not sure we can share a life together.

It was as much a lesson I learned about me as it was a lesson I learned about Scott. Thankfully, he agrees with me. He is a sportsman. He has guns with purposes. He does not walk around armed and does not want to live anywhere where everyone does. Having guns means a willingness to use them. And having them under the wrong circumstances means opportunity to use them under the wrong circumstances.  And what would have been the right circumstances to have been carrying a military assault rifle?

As my friend pays last respects to her family member, I am wondering if she thinks the answer is more guns. Because if no one had thought to bring a gun to the party, someone she loves might be here today.  I think from the safety of distance and inexperience the Facebookers touting looser gun control naively imagine something like Utopian cooperation.

It is all so simple to say what you'd do.  Until it happens to you. I am sure my friend is not wishing she'd thought to bring a gun herself.  I doubt my other friend would hold her beliefs so firmly in the same situation.

Second Amendment Wrongs

Facebook is full of opinions this week. Most notably, people commenting on the idiot musings of Chick-fil-A president Dan Cathy who hello, runs a fast food chain. 

He seems to think he is qualified to pass judgement on those of us who support gay and lesbian marriage and those who would like to engage in gay or lesbian marriage but have limited opportunity because Small Minded America thinks it can have an opinion.

Let me remind you: He runs a fast food chain.

Someone (someone probably named Rush Limbaugh) thought it would be hilarious to give him radio air time so that his lunatic ramblings could reach a wider audience.

I hope he is successful as a radio talk show personality. Because his food chain is going right into the crapper. Celebrities, gays and lesbians, supporters of gay and lesbian marriage, anyone who knows someone gay or lesbian, and anyone with half a brain cell pinging around in his head, will refuse to cross the threshold of Chick-fil-A so long as he is on the payroll or sits on the Board.

I would sooner eat the stuffing out of the chair I rest my ass on at this moment than patronize that bigoted blow hard's restaurant. Waffle fries craving or not. Not. Going. To. Eat. There. Chick-fil-Lame.

But he is finding supporters in pockets of the social media world and oddly, those same supporters, in large part, have another thing in common.

Many of them have had a visceral reaction to those people commenting on Facebook that implore our states and our Federal government to pass stricter gun control laws.

They support just the opposite. They are rallying in support of looser gun restrictions.

And by this, I am truly baffled. In my opinion, and I come by it honestly, having recently born witness to what can happen when two people come to a family party with guns in their pockets (instead of perhaps, a spinach dip or a wedge of Brie) and wind up in an argument, (no, I am not talking about my family, or J.'s funeral...surely we'd have covered that!) more guns doesn't solve anything. More guns just means more violence. Guarantees it.

More married people means....what? I can't think of anything troubling to come about by having more married people.

And this, friends, is the basis for my argument.

Pop Goes the Weasel

And just when I thought I could enjoy a little boredom, doesn't Fate come rattling its chains, making me think about things again.

And by "things" I do not mean J. Not at all. Things of import. Of substance. Things, as they say, that make you go "hhmmm."

In Aurora, CO, a town of little notoriety and barely a newsworthy peep from its corner of the universe, has suddenly been placed on the map, against its will and for nothing good.

It is not the hometown of the Nobel Peace Prize Winner.

It is not the site of the next Olympics.

It is not the town selected by the newly divorced Katie Holmes as the new home in which to raise uber-child, Suri.

No, sadly, it is thrust into the harsh and unforgiving limelight by a dangerously imbalanced and homicidal lunatic who calculated a plan of mass destruction and high body count by taking military-grade assault weapons into a movie theatre at a premier showing of a highly anticipated film and opening fire on its innocent patrons.

We have learned lots about the attack itself.

We have heard from lots of those lucky enough to have survived. We have heard from the heroic injured and the tragic survivors. We have listened tearfully to those who narrowly escaped and those who lost friends and family members, spouses and children, parents and love interests.

We have not heard from the attacker, who remains silent, even as baffled police officers and bomb squadders try to unravel the booby traps he set up in his home and perhaps his school to ensure further mayhem and destruction after he carried out his initial plan.

And we've heard from Facebook.

Not Facebook the company, no. Though I am sure they have their opinions.

No, scores of Facebookers all over have begun to opine about 2nd Amendment Rights and what might have been.

And some of what I read is refreshing. Some of what I read is disturbing and alarming. Some of what I read makes me think I had better rethink some of my friends.

I want to add my opinion to the fray, but I don't. I don't want to be alerted to others commenting for or against my opinion or that of another. But I'll add it here. Stay tuned.