Child Murders

When I saw the news day before yesterday about the murder-suicide, I thought, as I do whenever I read of something awful happening back in my old stomping grounds, "Oh, how terrible!  I hope it was no one I know."  When I heard later that it was a case of a mother killing her children, I knew it wasn't anyone I might know, because nobody I know would do something that horrible.

When I was on the LOO yesterday, reading the news on my iPad, and saw the name, I cried out.  I shouted "Oh, no.  Oh, NO!" and then did a quickie wipe and dashed for the phone to call my husband at work.

Because I did know the murderer in this case.  Or I knew of her.  She was a friend of my husband's.  They traveled in the same circles, were Facebook pals for years.

*I* didn't know her well, and I'm certainly glad of that at this point.  She'd always struck me as flaky, silly, and maybe a bit gullible and "ooh, shiny," though my impressions were forged solely through my exposure to her on Facebook and stories from the various events she and my husband both attended (separately, of course).  She seemed the kind of woman who spends entirely too much time trying to convince people of the "scientific proof of near-death experiences" and other ridiculous, magical things.  Not a dull-wit, but someone who bought into most of the artsy-fartsy, woo crap that's so popular with a certain contingent.

She seemed, maybe, a bit immature.

A couple of years back, before we moved away, we headed over to her place to give her my old aquarium.  For her girls, I guess.

The girls she murdered.

I'm seeing a lot of "I know you're watching from heaven!" garbage from folks, but you know, that's almost certainly not the case.  Because there is no heaven.  No afterlife.  And if, by some astounding stretch, I'm wrong about that?

Pretty sure child killers wouldn't go there.

I'm trying to go beyond what I know of her and convince myself that she must have been psychotic.  Delusional, suffering a break from reality that was beyond her control.  It flies in the face of what I know of her personality, but it's the only way I can find pity in my heart for her.  I know people will think I'm awful, I'm hard-hearted and cold, but here's where I am:

If she had LIVED, most of the same people who are proclaiming her some sort of saint would be waving those torches and pitchforks.  Nobody likes a child-murderer.

If she had been a MAN, this postmortem coddling and cossetting wouldn't be happening.  S/He'd be condemned roundly, excoriated posthumously as a coward, a murderer, a monster.

If she had been a MAN who LIVED, the masses would be screaming for a heaping dose of Old Testament justice.  No mercy, no forgiveness for a man who murders his own children.

This is hard for me.  She was a beautiful woman, to be sure.  That she had a circle of friends and surely must have had good traits and things about her that made folks love her isn't in doubt.

It just doesn't matter.  Taking a gun and slaughtering your children trumps anything that might have made you fun at parties.  Those beautiful, adorable, fabulous girls will never have the lives they should have had.  They will never dance again, they will never go to college, get married, or have beautiful babes of their own.  And to hear these people talk, it's like it was some mysterious act of GAWD that killed them.  But it WASN'T.  It wasn't a bolt of lightning or a yawning, earthquake-inspired chasm or a racing flow of lava from Mt. Doom.

It was her.  Their mother.  No accident, no divine hand.  Just the hand of someone who never should have, grasping a weapon she never should have had.

My heart is broken over those girls.  I cried today for them again today.  I cried for their grandparents, who lost so much in one selfish, stupid act.

They say her (recent) ex-fiance was pacing the drive in horror after finding the bodies.  Saying over and over, "Why do that?"

Why, indeed?

And just a couple of days later?  Another child murder, this one the father murdering his wife and children just a short distance away.  Another case of a parent who murders the children when relationship matters take a turn.  This one?

A cop.

I ask again--who does that?  How small, stupid, mean, selfish, and completely egocentric do you have to be to do that?  I'm not going to say that I've never considered suicide--that would be a lie. I won't even say I haven't considered it as a result of a damaged (and damaging) relationship.  I have.  But the very idea of harming my child is so foreign, so repulsive, so absolutely horrifying to me that I literally physically recoil from the thought.  Barring flat-out psychosis, how does one embrace that thought and decide it's a good idea?  "Hey, the relationship with my husband/wife/fiance/boyfriend isn't going so well, think I'll murder-suicide the kids!"

I remember when I was a pre-teen and teen, I used to imagine how sad everyone would be at my funeral.  All the people who'd hurt me, boy wouldn't they be sorry?  Is THAT what this is?  Some immature, ultimate "get even?"

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And I'm just going to assume you already know that people who have guns in the home for "self-defense" are drastically more likely to either die at the wrong end or kill those they love with them than to ever have to face down a criminal or otherwise defend themselves.  No need to belabor the point, because we all know it's true.

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My dad is improving.  He's STILL in hospital, but the past few days has seen him off the ventilator for hours at a time, and even sitting up in a chair a few times.  His hospitalization insurance is about maxed, so it's a bit of a race against the clock now.  Hoping he's home before the insurance kills and their entire world is thrown into that bankrupt-due-to-bills abyss.  They do have long-term insurance that should kick in to help with home-care, so let's hope.  His heart is still functioning well below normal, but he hasn't had a smoke for almost a month-and-a-half, so that's good, right?

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Had yet another sad, stupid online social experience yesterday.  You'd think I'd learn.  You know how it is.  We all like to assume that the groups WE hang out with are smarter, kinder, and in a way stand out.  In a good way.  Well, last night, I was once again reminded that, no matter how terrific a group seems, the sad fact is they only like me because I'm a name on a screen, someone funny and smart (and, of course, by definition, not fat.  Because fat people can't be those things). If they could actually SEE me, they'd walk away.

Snickering.  Probably taking pictures for some crappy fat-shaming meme.

Imagine, just for a moment, having someone say (about a picture that looks a lot more like you than you'd like) "If I ever looked like that (and I never would), I'd want someone to take me out back the shed Ol' Yeller style."

Think about those words.  About what they mean.  In a nutshell?  "If I were you, I'd want someone to kill me because you're just that horrible."  And even the "kind" responses were "Sure, it's genetic, but I make lifestyle choices that make it a non-issue." and "Oh, gosh, that poor woman--imagine how horrible it must be to be her, trapped in that awful body 25/7/365!" 

Yeah, imagine.  And if you think THAT'S bad, imagine that's how people look at you.  How they talk to you.

My husband tries to be understanding.  He fails miserably, but, hey, at least he tries.  One memorable time, he compared how people have treated me over my weight with not having nice clothes growing up.  And then got pretty upset when I told him that's like comparing apples to anvils. He doesn't get it because he has never, ever, in all his life, faced broad, popular, socially acceptable disdain and horror.  He has never had something about him so horrible and INDELIBLE that it can't help but define him because it's how society defines him.  He will never understand, and I don't think he's ever going to be willing to admit that, because don't we all want to be the person who "gets" it?  

I left the group.  Not in a big, huffy bang, but just walked away.  My husband tells me I screwed up, that, hey, they pulled the post, and besides, a lot of people later came in on "my side."

He doesn't get it.  He won't ever get it.  Because he's never been followed through a grocery store by teenage boys snorting and grunting like pigs.  He's never had people marvel that he can ride a bike, like he's a circus elephant.  

He's never had teenage girls saunter past, loudly proclaiming that, if they ever looked like him, they'd expect their friends to put them out of their misery.

Once you see how people see you, it's impossible to UNsee it.  It was a private group, dedicated to giving folks like us (atheists) a safe, friendly, supportive place to hang out and interact without the outside attacks we so often experience.  And knowing now how many of them think I'm horrifying?  

Well, I just didn't feel very safe and supported.  You'd think I'd be used to that by now, but I'm not.  I don't think I ever will be. 

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And that's about it.  Really caught up in the family history gig, finding things I'd never known, including second spouses for relatives, kids who were from other partners, etc.  It's great fun, but becoming a bit of an obsession.  A good one, though.  Give my boy a real sense of who we are and where we come from.

My Cancer Story's Better than Your Cancer Story

I was thinking this morning, as I was out painstakingly MISTING the fancy "all the way from England" low-spreading thyme seeds I've planted between the stones on the porch.  I was thinking about how much, as kids, we hate those adults who don't want you on the grass, who are forever admonishing you to not pick that or step over there or sit on that.

I was the kid who broke branches off pussy willows and pinched shoots off chives on my way to school.  I was the girl who got shouted at by the guy with the apple trees.  You know, the ground is littered with rotten, unused apples, yet the guy comes out with a shotgun (seriously) and shouts at us to stay off his apples?

While I haven't made the leap to shotgun-toting apple tree owner, fact is there's been a sea change somewhere along the line.  I think it came right around the time I started putting my own flowers and plants in.  I remember the first time I found myself going completely nutty over a kid in my yard.  We had a family that used to come and do the yard work every week.  I worked full time, my husband worked full time, we were both full-time university students, and there just wasn't time.  One day, they showed up with their three year old girl.  Adorable, lovely child who, while her parents mowed the grass, tore up my pansies and marigolds one by one.  By the time I got home and found this, she was sitting in the middle of my garden, surrounded by a few dozen broken, torn up, desiccating plants.

I lost it.  We were poor, we didn't have a lot of money, and those flowers had been my birthday gift.  We couldn't afford to replace them, and my heart was broken.

I refused to pay them for the yard work that week.  The next week, they weed-whacked my rose bushes out back (girdled and killed them), and that was it.  We found someone else.

The next time I got freaky on a kid (well, I didn't get freaky on the toddler, but you know what I mean) for yard damage?  After my wonderful neighbor/mentor/surrogate father Frank died, the local kids took to playing in his back yard.  These kids' parents were somewhat close to Frank's daughter, so I didn't step in.  But then, one day, they came running out of the back yard with huge, snapped off branches/limbs from Frank's blooming snowball bush.  I went in the back yard, and they had destroyed this large, beautiful bush Frank had planted and nurtured.  Broken it right down to the ground.  I was devastated, I was SO upset, and I shouted at the kids over it.  Spoke to their parents, who spoke to them, and the kids stopped playing in Frank's yard.  I'm sure those kids hated me, and it was the first time I realized I was becoming the garden shouter.

And since we've moved away from the west?  Well, we moved into a place with a torn up, sparse, weed-infested lawn that's taken a LOT of work (and money) to bring into some sort of shape.  We had just done the first raking and reseeding of the back yard when those scary-freak rat children from across the street came over.  They went out in our back yard, and I looked out to see them kicking up the soil and seed mixture, like that's something fun or something.  I didn't yell, but I did come out back and say, "Hey, guys, I can't have you playing out here, we're trying to get the grass to come back so we've put down seed."

They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.  Seeing their back yard later, I understand why--it's all weeds and dust.

A couple of months later, those same kids came to our front lawn (now on its second reseeding) and were jumping up and down and peeking in our windows while we were eating.  They tore the new grass to bits, killed it.  And this time I did yell.

Front yard when we moved in

Front yard now

So, am I that crazy lady who freaks out on the kids who get in her yard?  Or am I just a woman who wants her yard to look nice and only objects when kids (or adults, to be fair to myself) tear up my stuff?

And to a kid, is there a difference?

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So, someone on my Facebook friends list posted some snide, mean little meme about fat folks.  And, unbidden, the thought came into my mind, "I will never meet you.  If you come into town, I will have an excuse for why I can't meet you."  

I'm fat, you see.  I've been fighting it my whole life, since I was seven.  I've been terrifically thin (think a loose size one), and I've been incredibly large (can barely jam into an airplane seat large).  I've been each of these things more than once.  But being thin never scarred me, it never set me up for ridicule, it never broke my heart.  And so, in that broken heart, I am fat.  Regardless of my weight at the moment, I am forever fat, because being fat, and being mistreated because of my weight, are the things that made me who I am.  And if you post nasty memes, rotten pictures, cruel jokes, or otherwise use people who are heavy as humor points, you've lost me, because you've shown me what you think of me.

Yes.  ME.  That heavy woman in the stretch pants at Walmart?  She's ME.  That poor, sad woman on the park bench with her panniculus showing from under her skirt?  She's ME.  The NASCAR guy in the back of the truck with his belly hanging out?  He's ME.  The obese women in the bikinis being shared around Facebook because, ewww, isn't that awful?  All three of those women are ME.

In other words, when you share a photo of a heavy person for a laugh, when you point, stare, and say cruel or ugly things, you're doing those things to ME.  Which means there's no way I could ever be around you without knowing that I disgust you, I horrify you, you think I'm worthy of ridicule and abuse.  

Why would I want you in my house?  In my presence?  

Obviously, I wouldn't.  

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It turns out there are "obese meme makers."  You know, they provide the pictures of the fat people, you provide the mean-spirited caption.  I was going to post a screen shot of one page (one page of many), but I just can't.  It's that awful.  

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Still no word from the landlord.  It's been a week.  Turns out his daugher is local, which adds to the fear--what if he's promised the place to her?  He has until July 8th to let us know he wants to end the lease.  And if he does that?

We are SO screwed.  We have NO place to go, NO way of scraping together 1st and last plus deposit, and a sadly awful credit score right now.  Yes, we pay our bills on time, but our "credit to debt ratio" is awful, and we've got a bunch of inquiries on our record because of the car.  

What a scary thing.  I can't even adequately describe how afraid I am right now.  It's almost my birthday, and all I can think about is the lease, the landlord, and how we can't possibly bail this if he tosses us.

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One last thing.  Melissa?  Ms. Etheridge?  Are you listening?

STFU. Seriously.  If you can't be empathetic, if you can't be supportive, if you can't be intelligent and reasonable and conversant in the science behind the BRCA gene mutations, if you can't be sympathetic to another woman facing cancer, a woman who lost her mother to this gene mutation, the least you can do is shut your woo-spewing, "Secret" spraying, "it comes from the INSIDE, not from genes" face and respect another human being's suffering.  Even if you don't like the devastating choice Ms. Jolie made, the very LEAST you can do is feel the pain and fear that went into it instead of barfing up your "that didn't take courage" crap.  You loud-mouthed, unkind person. Hush your face and spare us the "I'm a REAL survivor, she took the EASY way out" garbage. 

Just Plain Mean

So, I was reading through news stories on AOL (no, not my sole--or even predominant--news source, but I like to flip through on my way to my email) and came across an "Athletes who've let themselves go," story.  Normally, I'd skip that, but the photo was, I was pretty sure, Tonya Harding.  Curious to see if I was right, I opened the page.

To a pile of puke.

You know, what IS it about us that makes holding people up to public ridicule, especially about their weight and appearance, seem like a fine, fun idea?  Why is that okay? Cool, even?  This was particularly mean, because it had a "ha, ha, ha, see how the mighty have fallen" quality, with snide little zingers accompanying each photo.  I'm not glad that Shaq has gained weight, I don't gloat because Tonya Harding is heavier than she was when she was a YOUNG PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE.  If you are glad, if you do gloat? 

Well, you're maybe not very nice.  In fact, you seem to kinda suck.

We were going to head to Ketchup again tonight, see the fireworks from a better vantage and give the fries and shakes a whirl, but it may be too cold and miserable.  We've got rain, and, worse, we've got high wind warnings out--60 mph gusts, they're saying.  My money's on no fireworks with winds like that, and even if there are fireworks, I can't have the camera out in the rain (and I'm not going to try to rubber-band-and-ziploc the camera) and I'm not about to get soaking wet in a frigid windstorm.

So tonight's probaby off.

Just got done watching the NRA's ridiculous, sickening response to Sandy Hook.  More guns.  Oh, gosh, didn't see that coming.  They suggest armed guards in schools.  Okay, let's do that--never mind that there were armed guards at Columbine and it didn't help a bit.  Let's run with it anyway.  Now, remember, that's not just paycheck.  That's rigorous, ongoing training--ask any cop or soldier if you can train for a few hours and then be "trained" and ready to roll indefinitely.  Of course not, it takes ongoing training.  That's wowser-pricy.  Thankfully, I have NO doubt that the NRA will step up and pay for every one of these guards at every public school in the nation.   They can foot the bill with membership dues!  That said, an armed guard in every school won't stop this.  The shooter in Newtown had done his damage in minutes.  Barring the spectacularly unlikely luck of the shooter and guard being in the same part of the school AND the guard just happening to have his weapon at the ready when it starts, that guard isn't going to prevent a thing.  He's either going to get shot before he clears holster or the murder's going to be done before he can even reach that part of the school.  Look at Ft. Hood, for goodness' sake!  Even the Army Police who finally took that shooter down (after he'd shot 45 people, 13 fatally)?  One of them was shot and disarmed before the partner was able to get the shot and put a stop to things.  And those are active duty American soldiers.

Enough of that garbage.  It's disappointing, but not at all surprising.  It's who we are, apparently--20 children shot down, and not only did we rush the shops to buy MORE guns and MORE ammo, we didn't even pause in our killing of each other.  Think about that--we didn't even pause for one day in our murdering each other.  I weep for my country.

Hit the liquor store tonight, grabbed a bottle of "Shambord."  That's an American-made imitation Chambord. Less than half the price, and since we're just using it for cooking anyway, it seems stupid to blow that much cash.  Tastes very similar, same alcohol content, so we'll see.  Hubby grabbed a bottle of Basil Hayden's.  If it's good enough for Francis Wolcott, it's good enough for him, right?

Dropped way too much cash shopping these past two days.  I'm feeling myself nearing the panic-attack stage.  Hubby got an award from work, and he says we're fine, but it's in my nature to worry.

All my crying about my Mom in the past few days, and I chewed her out on the phone today.  She called, let it ring five times, then hung up.  No message.  Called back, let it ring five time, then hung up.  Again, no message.  Then called back AGAIN.  This is something she has been doing for decades, and the only way to slow her down for a while is to yell.  Anything less and she just ramps up until she's doing it two or three times a day.  So I yelled at her. 

It's okay, I told her I'd call her back after I woke up (she was doing this as I was trying to nap).  I did that, and it was a good call.

Grabbed a bunch of cheeses for crackers--Butterkase, Muenster, smoked gouda, and cave-aged gruyere.  We really like cheese. 

Our Christmas tree is STILL devouring water like there's no tomorrow.  Never had a tree that kept drinking for weeks. 


Oh, and hey, the world didn't end, so have some paneling!

Nowhere near the worst paneling out there, but a pretty intense pattern, no?

Thunderstorms and Rude

So, we were headed to Wegmans last night, the every pay-period shopping disaster (though it was far less disastrous last night than usual--maybe we can stop dropping a grand a month on groceries, huh?).  As we were leaving the house, we noticed that the lightning was pretty wonderful.  As we got out onto Sudley and headed toward Wegmans (a 20 mile drive), the weather really ticked up.  The lightning was everywhere--no one direction, but rather the entire bowl of the sky lighting up from all directions, with each flash coming directly on the heels of the last, no break. 

And, strangely, no thunder.

Many of the strikes were quite vehement and angry--three, four, sometimes five strikes straight to the ground in the same general area.  Think Tom Cruise's take on War of the Worlds.  It was amazing.  And then the rain started!

The wind picked up first, buffeted us about, and then the clouds burst.  More rain than I have ever seen.  Truly.  It wasn't like drops anymore, it was like water being poured from a bucket.  It hit the road so hard that it bounced back up and made a mist so thick we couldn't see the ground.  The water fell so heavily that each lightning flash reflected back and made it seem we were in a blue cloud.  We think we may have been hit--there was a loud BANG on the top of the car, and a simultaneous blinding flash.  Could have been a branch falling, but no scratches or dents on the roof, and no sound of anything rolling off the back.  Who knows?  Either way, it was exciting.

After shopping (I made some poor choices, diet-wise--what else is new?  I'm down 180, back up 35 of that), we came home and I hopped on Facebook while Tommy made his and Sean's pizza.  Made the mistake of visiting a thread posted by a rather intense vegan on my list--this one going after folks who are overweight with heavy kids.  She, of course, prefaced the thread with "Now, I'm not one to engage in fat-shaming . . ."  Right.  One of her friends posted something like, "Who would ever want to look like that or even LIVE like that?" 

I've struggled with my weight all my life.  I've lost and regained an entire (U-12, of of course) AYSO soccer team's-worth of weight.  Thanks for, once again, letting me know that being heavy is so awful, so disgusting, so sickening that you can't even imagine WANTING to live like me. 

That was good for a half-hour's cry.  Thanks, lady.

Still waiting for a call back from the PCP's office about those x-rays.  No news is good news?  Or no?

Hubby's working overtime in the city tomorrow.  Thank you, Tom.  Love.