Here There Be Monsters

I (and many others) have been accused of "politicizing" the recent murders of 26 people in Newtown, CT.  I have been berated for not showing sufficient deference to the victims and their families by not talking about the "gun issue."  I am told that I should set this aside in favor of simply feeling badly for them, of offering thoughts and prayers and sympathies to them, that "now is not the time" to discuss the reasons for this bloodbath.  What kind of person am I that I could put my own feelings above those of the people most directly affected?  Have I no shame? 

First of all, I do feel badly.  I feel incredibly badly.  As a woman, a mother, a grandmother, hell, as a human being, my heart absoutley breaks for each and every one of those gunned down, for their parents, their grandparents, their husbands and wives, their families, friends and neighbors.  I simply cannot conceive of the level of pain and suffering that comes with such a thing.  How will they ever mourn?  Will they ever stop mourning?  But how can my offers of sympathy, my empty prayers, ever offer any consolation?  What good will they do?  The bile rises as I think of those 26 coffins, 20 of them far too small, being rolled down the aisles of places of worship and placed in cold December graves.  I look at the bright faces of those children, the obvious love and dedication to them on the faces of their teachers, those who died trying to protect them, and the tears well up in my eyes.  What good are my tears?  Will they comfort the survivors?  Will they bring back the dead?

Secondly, this issue was politicized long before the rampage at Sandy Hook Elementary.  It has been politicized for decades by people like Wayne LaPierre, and the organization he heads.  Under their influence, millions of people have been convinced that their absolute right to own any sort of weapon, with no regulation whatsoever, outweighs the right of children and their teachers to be safe in schools, of people to go see a movie and come out alive, of Christmas shoppers to buy gifts for their loved ones without being gunned down where they stand.  When I see that Merchant of Death give a speech, even before the latest bodies have been buried, encouraging, no, demanding, that the only solution to such mayhem is more mayhem, in the form of yet more weapons in the hands of yet more people, under the guise of "security," the bile that had been rising reaches its destination, and I retch.   When he stands in front of the nation and dares to put the blame on movies, or music, or video games, instead of where it belongs, on him and people like him, who peddle fear to the masses, offering the comfort only of weapons of mass destruction against it, I scream in my head, and sometimes aloud. It makes me physically ill that monsters like this are taken seriously and given a place in our discourse.  The only place for men like this is in  a locked ward where they can't do any more damage.

 I think to myself how different peoples' reactions might be if, instead of being shown the smiling faces of the victims, before their young lives were snuffed out, they were shown the results of decades of fear-mongering and lobbying for the gun industry.  What would gutless politicians and babbling talking heads say if they had to see the bullet-ridden bodies, the blood-stained party dresses, the brains of their precious children splattered on walls and floors?  These are the things we ask people like those police and rescue crews to look at.  They had to see that.  Why are we spared?  How different would our discourse be if people were forced to face the bloody, violent ends of their pontifications about "rights?"

You're damned right I'm going to talk about this, and I will do it in the strongest terms I can muster.  Because this never should have happened.  It could have been prevented.  And I don't want it to happen again.

Sunday Funnies

Fun joke going around... Cannot find the original origin.

Snow White, Superman and Pinocchio are walking along.
They see a sign: "Contest for World's Most Beautiful Woman." Snow White goes in, later comes out smiling, wearing a crown.

They walk along and see another sign: "Contest for World's Strongest Man." Superman goes in, later comes out smiling, wearing the belt.

They walk along and see a sign: "Contest for World's Greatest Liar." Pinocchio goes in, later comes out with his head down crying.

"Who the hell is Mitt Romney?" Pinocchio sobs.

My Time of Year

Here, have a tree.  My pretty little maple.  I love Fall.

 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

(William Shakespeare)

The Fat Lady Sings

News Anchor Calls Out Asshole

Very nice. Speaking as a "fat" woman, I can tell you, I'm probably healthier than many of my "slim" peers. I don't eat processed foods.   My blood sugar, blood pressure and cholesterol are enviable. I exercise. I'm beautiful. Fuck you.

I'm sick to fucking death of people thinking that fatness is the last refuge of discrimination.  It's none of your motherfucking business how I look, what my habits might be, or what my relationship status is.  I don't drink soda or eat or drink any foods or beverages that contain high fructose corn syrup. I can't tell you the last time that I ate at McDonald's or Burger King or Wendy's. Sure, I eat a cookie now and then. I like ice cream. I enjoy my food damned near as much as I enjoy my sex life, which, I assure you, is goddamned fucking fabulous.  I don't buy into this Puritan notion that one shouldn't take too much pleasure at the table, as this might lead to taking too much pleasure in other areas.  And I'm sick to death of feeling like I have to justify my life and my "fatness" to assholes who wouldn't know a frozen chicken nugget from a splendid coq au vin, because they never fucking learned to cook for themselves.

I'm also sick to fucking death of the "obesity epidemic" being blamed on individuals.  Our food system, like our "health care" system, is sick.  Americans are constantly being marketed to and fed a constant diet of food that, literally, makes them sick.  Even if you weigh 120 pounds, if you eat the Average American Diet, I can pretty much assure you that you will die ten years before I will.  I can guarantee you that your fat, sodium, and sugar intake is ten times mine.  We need to make it easier, not harder, for people to have access to fresh, healthy food.  We need to encourage folks to grow their own gardens, which has the benefit of exercise as well as fresh food.  We need to stop telling young girls and boys that "skinny is pretty," because, it isn't, always.  And it isn't always possible.  And it isn't always healthy.  I was once a Size 8, but I got there through taking dangerous drugs and starving myself.  I passed out often.  I had hypoglycemia.  I was malnutrioned to the point of being almost fatal.  Is that healthier than being a Size 16 and perfect by the numbers? I don't fucking think so.  If you do, if you prefer skinny girls with cancer to healthy girls with fat thighs, well, then, and I repeat myself, fuck you.

A Poem

I am getting old
I have my Mother's hands
Weary from work
Scarred by life
Tired and sore
Chapped and red
From washing dishes and floors
Scrubbing sinks and toilets
Typing all day
Carrying bags
Tending to wounds
Cleaning up messes
Burned and blistered
From cooking the meals
Wrinkled and dry
From too many years of neglect
Too busy to tend to their needs
Too many other important things
It can wait
Why put on lotion
When in five minutes
My hands will be wet again
I am getting old
But I do not mind
I have my Mother's hands

(Photo credit:  Aging Hands )

Feeling Down in the Dumps?

So, you're sitting around, doing not much of anything, really, and you decide that you've gotten a raw deal, that Life hasn't treated you kindly.  You sort of think that you're in a unique situation; no one likes you, you have no life, you're broke, no one cares, you're struggling with life issues, and you feel like you don't matter at all and wouldn't the world be better off without you, really.  Well, I'm here to tell you to get off your ass and Do Something about it.  Here are some things, in no particular order, that you can do that will make you feel better about Life, in general, and Your Life, in particular.

1.  Do something nice for someone, without being asked, and without expecting anything in return.  Do a Good Deed.  Be a Good Deed Doer.  You won't become rich or famous, but you may make someone smile or make their heart skip a beat or turn a shitty day into a good one.

2.  Go for a walk around your neighborhood.  Look at every house you pass, and realize that there are people inside who have problems, just like you.  Maybe some of those problems are worse, maybe some not as bad, but, rest assured, every house has people in it who are struggling with something.  You are not alone.  Recognizing this fact helps you to put your own  problems into perspective, sometimes.

3.  Spend some time with little kids.  Spend some time with elders.  Spend some time with animals. 

4.  Spend a little time, even just a couple hours a week, volunteering.  There are loads of people out there who are way worse off than you are, and with the economy the way it is, charities are strapped for funds and help. Find a soup kitchen, a food bank, a homeless shelter, a literacy program, a shelter for victims of domestic violence, a hospital, a prison, whatever.  Not only does this go into the Good Deeds category, it will help you to appreciate how good you've really got it.

5.  Do something creative, even if you think you suck at it.  Draw a picture.  Write a poem or short story. Take up a musical instrument. You don't have to ever share it with anyone; just do it.

6.  Stop spending so much time in your own head.  Introspection is a good and necessary thing, but too much of it and pretty soon the only voice you hear is your own, and you may not be giving yourself the best advice if you're depressed.   Get out and talk to other human beings.

On Labor Day

My mother, the daughter of a farmer (later to become auto worker) and a housewife, both Lithuanian immigrants, was born on Labor Day, 1929.  As she tells it, her parents were to attend a Labor Day picnic that day, but had to cancel due to "unexpected company."   My family growing up was always working class.  Dad worked as a Union stagehand/lighting technician, and Mom worked as a librarian, and later, as a police dispatcher.  My Dad died when I was 8, and his Social Security Survivor's Benefits meant the difference between hunger and starvation, between housing and homelessness.  Paul Ryan and Eric Cantor and anyone else who means to disparage the worth of either Unions or essential social programs are cordially invited to kiss my big, white, working class ass.