I Never Had Your Class Ring, David.

Back in high school, I dated a boy named David.  Very tall, very handsome, very broken.  David was something of an orphan--he lived on his own (whether or not he was an officially "Emancipated Minor," I don't know).

Our relationship didn't go so well--two teenagers, one unwilling to have sex (that'd be me), both indulging in drugs and alcohol at wild parties at the orphan's horrid little dive of a home in a crappy part of town?  No surprise things didn't go well.  When Christmas came along, and David gave me the saddest, smallest of little "can barely see the chip" diamond rings?  I panicked.  Within a month, I'd broken up with him--not because of the ring, but because he came home one night, bloodied, laughing about how he and a friend had gone "queer bashing."

That was the end of that.

I stumbled across David years later, on Facebook, of course.  He'd cleaned up (like me), gotten fat (like me), and had found ol' Joseph Smith in a BIG way (totally unlike me).  Married, lovely wife, beautiful kids.  It was nice to see that he hadn't sunk and ceased like I'd expected.

When David "friended" me, I thought it a bit odd--we hadn't really parted on great terms.  But then, it had been 28 years, so hey, you know?  It wasn't long, though, before it became clear why he'd wanted the contact.  You see, he sent me a message, asking if I still had his class ring and senior year book.

Problem is, I never had those things.  In fact, we broke up four months before the yearbooks were even issued.  Who knows how long before he got his class ring?  I don't recall him ever having a class ring.  Sadly, that didn't occur to me at that moment.  All that occurred (and all I said) was, "I'm sorry, David--I never had them."  And his response?  Polite, but clearly skeptical.  And then he dropped me from his friends list.

Well, if you're reading this, David, I never had your class ring, and I never had your yearbook.  We broke up in January.  Yearbooks came out last week of May/first week of June.  The ring you gave me was a sad, small little diamond chip in 14 karat, and I still have it.  No slight intended, but you were powerfully wasted back then most of the time.  It's not surprising that you've lost track of who and when.  I hope you figure it out and get your stuff back.

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So, remember the awful rat child across the street?  The scary, violent, stupid one who, along with his friends, kills small animals and terrorizes the kids in the neighborhood?  He beat the living daylights out of another kid two days ago--punched and strangled him.  We didn't see it happen, but we saw the aftermath--a little girl crying, a vehicle with two women in it racing up and coming to a halt in front of the rat and the crying girl, then rat-child leaping on his bike and flying off toward home.  When he saw his Dad was home, he raced off around the side of the row--we saw him skulking off across the grass with his bike, hiding.  

Don't know why he bothered.  Bobby (his dad) is an utterly ineffectual, passive-aggressive git who chews his kids out when there's an audience, and then let's it all slide once the show is over.   Rat-boy still had friends sleep over that night, and the next day he was out and about on his bike like nothing had happened.  One of those reaffirming, vindicating things for us (though we feel bad for the boy he hurt--that kid's social life in this neighborhood is over).  Really reinforces why we barred that feral little rat-freak from our home.

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It's spring-time--that wonderful time when all the idiotic "how to remove a tick" memes start making the Facebook rounds.  Let's just clear it all up now, okay?

Matches, other hot objects, Vaseline, baby oil, Ben-Gay, turpentine, dish soap, nail polish, or whatever other wives-tale-y thing you've been told?

Lies.

Sorry, but that's the truth of it.  See, the problem with anything meant to "irritate" or "suffocate" a tick out of you?  It can also inspire the tick to regurgitate into you.  And that, my friends, is how they make you sick.  That is how they transmit Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, Anaplasmosis, Babesiosis, Lyme Disease, Ehrlichiosis, Rickettsiosis (that's the Gulf Coast Tick), STARI, Tickborne Relapsing Fever, Tularemia, and the brand spanking new 364D Rickettsia, which has started popping up in California, transmitted by the Pacific Coast Tick.  

There is ONE appropriate way to safely remove a tick that has embedded in your body (or your pet's, or your kid's).  Get a pair of fine tipped tweezers, grasp the tick firmly right behind the head where it's attached (get as close to the skin as possible so you're not squeezing the abdomen), and pull firmly (but not jerkily) straight away from the body.  Firm, even pull, don't twist.  It'll take some force, but I've had to do it repeatedly now.  After your remove the offending beast, drop it in a ziplock bag with a scrap of damp cotton, and mark the bag with the date and place you think you picked the guy up.  Put it in the fridge.  Wash your hands and the site of the bite (and your tweezers, which should be tick-dedicated).  Watch for rash.  If you show symptoms (rash, fever, chills, aches and pains, ulceration, or paralysis), get to your doctor with your preserved tick.

Here, check it out:  

Also, from the CDC.

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Oh, something funny I realized the other day.  Remember how I said I have a hard time getting to the word "Hammock?"  How, since my accident, I have to come at it sideways?  It hit me the other day, as I struggled to come up with the word "hamper" (another word that thwarts me most times), that I have a lot of trouble with a number of words that start with "ham."

Of course, I can't come up with "linen closet" most times, either, and I call the vacuum the lawn mower and vice-versa, so maybe it means nothing.

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And that's that.  Having tuna tonight--first meat in almost a week.  No, I don't feel miraculously better (in fact, I haven't, to be completely indelicate, had a "movement" in almost four days, and yes, my fiber intake is out of this world), but I do find I can eat a LOT more because non-meat items aren't nearly so calorie dense.  Last night's Catalan (sans chicken for me) was spectacularly good, and I had all sorts of spare calories for being bad.  It rocked.

Here, have something ugly:

The Mostest and Funnest Thing about Arthritis?

Is the unpredictability of it.  You know, the, "Ha-Ha, GOTCHA!" thing.  Two days ago, my back, shoulder, and neck were fine.  Last night?  So bad the pain was running down my arm and I had to think really hard--am I having a heart attack?  Or is my spine screwing up again?

I went with spine, but took aspirin instead of ibuprofen.  Just in case.

But it's not just the spine. That wouldn't be exciting if it were just the same thing over and over.  No, this, in fact, is a whole new way for my back/shoulder/arm/neck to hurt--not at all like that other way.  Plus, there's my thumb.  And my knee.  The knee hurt for three days, viciously, and then just . . . stopped.  I woke up this morning, and my thumb hurt.  Just the left thumb.  Only when I extend it back.

This is thrilling stuff.  Who needs skydiving?

Just reviewed Seventh Generation Natural Dish Liquid in Lemongrass and Clementine Zest.  It's pretty good stuff, though the price may take you aback if you're looking to save money.

I just wrote a gigantic bit on violence, bloody entertainment, guns, and kids.  And realized I didn't want to clog up this entry.  I'll post it on another, clearly marked so folks can just run if they don't want to get caught in a ten-pager.  Or I would have posted it, had I not forgotten to PASTE after I CUT.  Yeah, I think "mind of a toy" is the term you're looking for.  Hopefully, I'll remember to rewrite it.  At least the part about ROTC and the shooting range on my high school campus.  There--I've said it here, now I'll remember.

Speaking of gory, awful entertainment, hubby and I watched "Cabin in the Woods" last night.

Eh.

Sorry, I don't really have much else to say about it.  It wasn't all that.

Huge storm hitting New England today.  Massachusetts' Governor just announced that all non-emergency vehicles must be off the road by 4 pm.  Might bring us a bit of rain, but I gotta tell you, I wish we'd get just one decent snow storm.  I knew I'd miss the snow, but I thought we'd get just a little more here.

I need a new scale.  This one's pretty to look at, but I just stepped on it six times, and got six different numbers, with a five pound range.  That's no good.

That boy failed to get up with his alarm.  I may feel too crappy to get on him much for it.  I dunno.

No word on the at-large ex-LAPD shooter today.  Don't tell me that one won't become a movie.  Well, a movie other than "The Negotiator."

I guess it's time to wake that boy up.  I wish I had popsicles.  Only a hundred calories, and they are so satisfying.  Oh, well.  I guess an apple will have to do.  Because that's almost exactly the same thing.

Not.

So, for the record, this:  

Isn't this:

Though it is a Maccoun apple, which I've never had before and is supposed to be really good.  Probably doesn't taste like chocolate, though.

But what if, huh?

And yes, that is a Weight Watchers fudge bar.  I don't usually go for the "dedicated diet foods" stuff, but those bars are super-good and really low in calories.

Oh, and a fun little note?  In the time it took me to type this up, my thumb stopped hurting.  Wish I could say the same about my back/neck/shoulder/arm.  But I can't.

Music, Murder, and Modern Parenting

I love music.  I'm not a particularly skilled musician (used to play a little guitar a long time ago), but I have a wickedly good ear and a special skill for keeping on key, vocally, and knowing (via an odd buzzing sensation at the base of my skull) when someone else isn't on key. 

My real talent?

Linking specific music to specific memories or events in my life.  When I hear, say, Bad Company or Billy Squier, I'm transported back to my teenage boulevard days.  When I hear John Denver, I'm lying in the grass next to a bubbling spring in the Wasatch Range, bees trundling lazily about, a horse snuffling my neck while I giggle.  Beatles?  I'm flat on my back on the living room floor, headphones on, listening to my Dad's LPs.

Don't ask me where I am when John Mayer, Avril Lavigne, or certain Maroon 5 songs play.  Just know it's a bad, sad, devastating place to be.  Made worse because I always assume that others have this same "talent."  So when John Mayer or Avril are meandering through the speakers, I assume everyone else is taking a stroll down memory lane, too.  And it tears my heart out.

This past two weeks I've been listening to a lot of My Chemical Romance.  Specifically, "The Black Parade."  One song in particular has been on me for these two weeks--it's called "Teenagers," and it strikes me as a cautionary/Columbine-type song.  It definitely strikes a chord with me, with its chorus:

They say that
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less, so long as someone'll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me

The second verse, already dark in its Columbine-esque tone, hit me especially hard yesterday.  I was sitting in the car outside our boy's Hapkido studio, watching the Mockingbirds school the Blue Jays in the towering oak near the fence, when it came on the stereo:

The boys and girls in the clique
The awful names that they stick
You're never gonna fit in much, kid
But if you're troubled and hurt
What you got under your shirt
Will make them pay for the things that they did

We're probably not ever going to know what was going on in Adam Lanza's whirling, screwed-up head.  And no, he wasn't, officially, a teenager any more, but close enough.  Maybe he wasn't bullied or ostracized.  Maybe he didn't feel abused or outside the crowd. 

Maybe.

But that doesn't change just how screwed up our kids are today. Not individually--no, as individuals, they seem about as well-or-maladjusted as ever.  But in groups?

Packs?

I've been thinking a lot about this.  What happened?  What changed, aside from the pervasive, astounding violence thrown at kids from all angles and packaged as good, American fun?

I think we did.  The parents.

See, somehow, in some pretty important ways, we failed to grow up.  Instead of being the gatekeepers and authority figures, we've become the playmates, the competition.  Instead of punishing rudeness, we're encouraging it, laughing at it, even giving lessons on how to better deliver it.  Parents used to step in and discipline when their child was mean, rude, or destructive.  Now they step in and defend their child's actions and level their anger at the victims or accusers.  I remember when I was a kid, I dreaded bringing home a bad grade because I knew my father would look at ME and ask what the hell was wrong with ME.  Now?  Now the parent marches into the classroom, corners the TEACHER, and wags a righteous finger in her face, demanding to know what the hell is wrong with HER.  I remember always knowing that, if I screwed up, my parents didn't HAVE to see it happen--ANY adult in the neighborhood would step in, stop me, then drag me home to my parents.  Who would dare do that now?  Who wouldn't fear being met at the door by an angry, potentially violent parent? 

Obviously, I'm speaking in generalities--we're not ALL like this, but I believe enough of us are that we've created a childhood culture where rudeness, mob action, and even gun violence are valued.  If not always valued by adults, these things are definitely held in high esteem by other kids as often as not. 

I don't have a solution.  Ditching my entire generation AND the children we've produced and starting again from scratch isn't possible.  Apparently, intelligent, reasoned gun laws that reflect the realities of 2012 (rather than 1789) are also impossible.  Obviously--how else to explain  61 mass murders perpetrated with firearms since 1982 and THIRTY-ONE school shootings since Columbine, yet our gun laws remain stubbornly unchanged? 

I'm not sure where I'm going with this.  It's a sort of blue-skying, wandering journey.  A free-association fest.  Did I mention that the parents of one of those poor, beautiful children in Sandy Hook went to my high school?  That their older siblings and cousins were my classmates?  That their sweetheart was born in the town we just moved from?  That, in fact, they, too just recently moved to the east coast? 

Something has GOT to change.  We have GOT to get some sort of grip and stop letting the gun lobby subvert our political process with mega-cash and BS claims.  I'm not talking about banning guns--rarely is anyone saying that.  I'm talking about better, more thorough background checks, meaningful, in-depth sharing of information about psychiatric ailments (not just hospitals, but individual practitioners sharing pertinent information with state agencies), more attention paid to others living in the home of gun owners, and periodic re-registration of firearms with new background/psych checks.  And people can squeal that, no, it's not the guns, it's the mental illness, but that's a tub of garbage.  Mental illness can't take me out at 50 feet.  Mental illness can't perch on a clock tower and pick off terrified students.  Mental illness can't speed down a residential street killing innocent children in a burst of gang-related vengeance.  Mental illness can't storm through the halls of an elementary school and end 20 perfect hearts (and their brave defenders). 

Not without a firearm, anyway. 

We live in a country where it is easier to buy ammunition than it is to buy decongestants.  Don't believe me?  Head over to Walmart and buy a box of ammo for a .22.  And then buy five bottles of Robitussin.  See which one presents a greater challenge. 

And today?  Today Santa came through the neighborhood, tossing candy from atop a wailing fire engine.  And the rats across the street and the creepy child of drug addicts behind us ran along, scooping up all the candy before the other, younger neighborhood kids had a chance.  They did this as the rat children's mother looked on. 

And I didn't do a damned thing.  I didn't, the woman next door didn't, the folks who live next door to the rats didn't.  We just shook our heads, looked on in disgust.  And that, my friends, makes me and my neighbors part of the problem.