Blaming Victims

No picture today.

I didn't want to jump on the bandwagon of people commenting/editorializing about the tragic shooting in Colorado, but then someone said something that just ticked me off.

I haven't watched any of the news coverage. I've seen headlines and photos, but that's it. I've purposely avoided it. But I can't really keep my head in the sand; it was, naturally, the top water cooler topic at work today -- just not in the way I expected.

A co-worker said that there was a discussion on one of the news stations about whether or not parents should have even taken their children to a midnight showing (issue #1) of Dark Knight (issue #2). What did I think?

What did I think? I thought that question was akin to asking what a rape victim was doing out walking alone at midnight. It's the same as asking a rape victim what she was wearing or what she had to drink. It's ridiculous, is what I think, and TOTALLY IRRELEVANT.

How dare the news media find some way to make these parents seem in any way at fault for "putting their children in jeopardy." This is not about good parenting. This is about a man committing a horrendous crime against innocent people. Parents who took their children to a midnight showing are in no way complicit.

This is exactly why I didn't tune in to the news in the first place. I knew they'd find some way to either exonerate the criminal or blame the victims. It makes me sick to my stomach. I can't handle the news of the actual crime on top of that.

Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie and Chevrolet

Remember this singsong jingle?
America is ... baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet?
Add lawsuits to the mix. Lawsuits about baseball, no less.

I swear, sometimes I hate being an American. I read a story in the newspaper this morning about a woman in New Jersey suing a baseball player because while warming up in the bullpen, his ball went out of control and hit her as she sat nearby. She's suing the catcher for $150,000 in medical bills and emotional pain and suffering. Her husband is suing the ball player, too, for lost wages and his own pain and suffering caused by the accident. (Dare I call it an accident??? They're claiming it was intentional.)

Oh, did I mention that the baseball player is 11-years-old and plays Little League?

It makes me sick, physically sick, to think that there are malicious people like these schemers in the world and that a lawyer is representing them and that this is actually going to court.

Not only is this boy facing court and fines; he's also received threatening letters.

I'm not going to go on with the rest of the details. I've thrown up my hands and groaned in disgust. I can't stand the world we live in today and these plaintiffs are the reason why. They've probably drafted their lawsuit against Sara Lee for baking apple pies that make them fat. And then they can join the class action suit against kosher hot dogs that aren't kosher.

Enough Reality!

I don't know whether Isaiah Mustafa
has his own reality series or not,
but it wouldn't surprise me.

Am I the only person in the world who is sick-to-death of reality shows? I mean, really. Swamp People? Mob Wives? "Real" Housewives of any city in America, and Moonshiners? Apparently, as soon as you manage to get your fifteen minutes of fame, cable networks will coming running to your door, offering you a platform for your own reality TV show. I can't take it any more.

I ignore most of them, since I can choose not to flip to those stations and give those shows my ratings. I can usually adopt my live-and-let-live attitude toward them. But this morning, when I saw that crass, bullying, despicable Russell from Survivor now has his own show on A&E, I thought I might throw a chair against the wall. I can't stand it anymore.

What has our society come to when skanks, bullies, and moronic people suddenly get rewarded with riches and fame for being crass, skanky, and mean? Do we really find this entertaining?

I, for one, am on strike. I refuse to watch any more "reality" TV and will not give these shows my ratings. I'd like to boycott the stations that air them, too, but that means I'd never turn on my TV again. Maybe that's not a bad idea...

Enough reality, already. I'm done.

Winter Harvest

A newspaper report announced that 220,000 deer were 'harvested' during Ohio's 2011-12 hunting season. Harvested. They actually used that word, as though killing deer was akin to reaping a crop. As though these beautiful creatures were simply born to be picked and gathered by men in camoflauge jackets who bag their kill, load the carcasses into the beds of their pick-up trucks and then stop off for a beer on the way home.

220,000 of them.

Harvested.

Funeral Flowers

Arlington National Cemetery



Two weeks ago, my co-worker's father died. He flew down to Tennessee to be with his family and my department immediately began collecting money to send flowers. Two days before the funeral, we got the name of the funeral home and the funeral arrangements. Of course, we couldn't be there, but we'd all chipped in for a huge bouquet to be sent.

The day after the funeral, the administrative assistant in our group said that the senior manager didn't think we'd have enough time to send flowers to the funeral home (wrong!), so instead, we'd just send them to our colleague's house once he and his family got home.

I was flabbergasted. Am I alone in thinking that idea was totally absurd?

I donated money for flowers to be sent to the funeral home in lieu of us actually being there. To me, the flowers were a show of respect; an acknowledgement that our company and our department specifically were trying to represent ourselves and show respect to the family since we couldn't be there in person. Why in the world would our co-worker want flowers delivered to his home a week after the funeral?

I know when my step-father died, it meant a lot to me that my department sent flowers. It showed me that they cared and were thinking of me and my family and what we were going through on that sad and difficult day. I voiced my opinion to the administrative assistant that I was very disappointed. She relayed the sentiment to the senior manager who then decided that instead of sending flowers to our co-worker's home, we'd send an edible arrangement. Somehow, to me, that's even more crass. Edible cookie or fruit arrangements seem more suited to celebratory occasions.

She missed my point entirely. I am very disappointed in how this was handled, but maybe I'm over-reacting. Am I wrong in thinking that flowers should have been sent to the funeral home as a sign of respect?

The Day After

A classroom in Haiti, where I doubt they take education for granted. (I am in a really foul mood.)


The election results were a disappointment in our house. Our school levy failed. Again. My first reaction on mornings like this is to think about moving. Where can we go where the residents understand and appreciate how valuable our schools are? Why don't the people in our community who don't support our schools just leave? We're a bedroom community with excellent schools. That's the main attraction in living here.

But then I just sigh, slump my shoulders, and shake my head. I live in a community where people live well beyond their means. Now, with our economy in turmoil, they can't afford the increased property taxes. Or so they claim. Let's just cut to the chase: they can't afford the houses they live in. The property taxes are just the icing on the cake.

So, it's a typical 'Day After' for me. I vacillate between wanting my nay-sayer neighbors to move, or wanting to move myself, leaving them to the scraps of education they've reduced our schools to.

I hate the day after Election Day. Someone always ends up feeling defeated, and for the past few years it's been me.

(Okay, the pity party and ranting are over.)

Guest Post: All I Could Take in the First Half Hour

by Joann Storck



7:45am

The cars are already pulling up and people are wandering up the driveway. We haven’t even put our stuff out! Doesn’t anybody care that we don’t open til 8:00??

8:00am

I was answering a woman’s question about how you fold up a Pack and Play when my eyes fell on the old gentleman gingerly walking up the driveway with his dutiful, round wife following closely behind him.  His “kind” always came to Yard Sales, but not because they wanted to find a bargain to buy, but rather an audience for their worn-out humor. 

8:05am

The woman I was helping with the barely-used 21st century model of a good old playpen from my day was turning her head this way and that as she considered making the purchase.  “Will you take less?” she asked me as I knew she would.  “Suuurrrre,” I answered with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.  After all, if I had only been asking for 50 cents, someone would have asked if they could have it for $0.49  

8:15am

Every single person has asked “Will you take less?” Maybe, if Hell froze over, and the Mississippi ran backwards, we would have another Yard Sale and at that fingernails-on-blackboard event we could put price tags on everything that said  “WHAT I WANT” and under it “THE ‘LESS’ PRICE THAT I WILL TAKE”.  Not a bad idea!

8:23am

A skeleton of a woman, dripping cheap jewelry, wearing skin-tight jeans and two tank tops with her black bra straps hanging out, stopped to ask me if we had any jewelry.  Her over-tanned skin was like a leather purse.  Whether fake or wadded up bobby socks, her boobs stuck out of her size 0 body like huge water balloons.  It was windy out, so maybe she wore them to stay grounded?  She brushed back the bangs of her bad, ginger-colored wig and I saw that she wore “diamond” rings on every finger.  My friend had put good, expensive jewelry in the yard sale and I was fairly sure this was not the right buyer for her things, but the skeleton tried them all on anyway. I just knew she was going to ask, “Will you take less?” No. I won’t.

8:25am

The old gentleman I had seen earlier, walking at a snail’s pace, was now in front of us.  He appeared to be bewildered, or mute, or confused about where he was and who we were.  My friend asked him, “Is there something we can help you find?”  He steadied himself in his thick-soled shoes and answered, “Yes.  Find me a blonde 49-year old with 19-year old legs!” he chewed the words like a cud.  “You can keep her!” he swung his flabby arm to indicate his long-suffering (my supposition) wife who was standing behind him.  He waited for appreciative laughter, and against my will I chuckled for him so he would move on, if he could.  His wife shook her head of white curls as if to say, “Isn’t he something?”  Yes.  He WAS something:  One of the leftovers from an era where women were put down and subservient to self-righteous men. 

8:30am

The old guy wasn’t moving from his spot -- his stage, as it were -- so I got up and made myself available for those wanting to know the least I would take.  Funny.  A half hour in and these customers had been the most I could take.  

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year



This is not our house, but our fireplace mantel looks as busy as this.


I've decided there are two types of people in this world: the ones who get excited on the day after Thanksgiving and pull out all the Christmas decorations, flip to the all-Christmas song radio station and start trimming the tree, and those who look forward to December 31st when the Christmas season (in our house, anyway) is officially over and all the Christmas decorations and disorder can be put back away. I think you can tell which group I fall into.

My husband loves Christmas. He loves everything about it. I almost have to police him so that we don't start Christmas before November. He loves the carols, the decorations, shopping, baking, and everything that goes with Christmas. My mother feeds into this mania and gives him all her old Christmas decorations. He puts EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM OUT. It looks like a yard sale exploded in our house.

I, on the other hand, start clenching my teeth and grumbling the minute I see the boxes of decorations come down from the attic. It's not that I don't like Christmas. I do. It's just that all the frenzy and chaos of it wears me out before the season has even begun. All of a sudden, every surface in our house is covered with as many decorations as will fit. Everyone I meet starts asking me whether I've gotten my shopping done, baked cookies, wrapped presents, sent out Christmas cards, etc., etc. Joyousness is forced down my throat and presents are piled so high that half of our family room is suddenly inaccessible. I look at it all and want to swipe my arm and knock everything into a gigantic garbage bag and call up the Grinch to take it away.

Whew! Got that off my chest.

Luckily, we are a superstitious lot in my house and believe that everything has to be put away by January 1st because it's bad luck to bring the old year in with the new. So on December 31st, I eagerly pack up all the red and green goodies, take down the tree, put away all the gifts, unclench my teeth and breathe because my house is finally back to normal for the next eleven months.

Voodoo Offering

One small section of a voodoo temple in New Orleans

On bad days at work (which have become too frequent) I think I'd like to revisit this voodoo temple in New Orleans and make an offering. Now, before anyone thinks I'm trying to shrink my boss' head or stick pins in places that would make her uncomfortable, voodoo wishes can be for other things, too. Like health, prosperity, love, or luck. People leave folded up dollar bills, cigarettes, gold tokens, and other small offerings in the temple. It's fun to look around and search for them tucked away in odd places. But I'll be honest: a voodoo doll and pins sounds pretty good right now. Call me old-fashioned.