Blisters

I have blisters the diameter of tangerines on both of my heels from wearing worn out socks to the gym and convincing myself that it was a good idea to work through the pain. I wonder what people were thinking when they saw me gingerly yet ungracefully waddle through the grocery store buying only mozzerlla cheese. Even as I set here, my heels are throbbing, the liquid moving and settling into the pouches. Ah, well...Happy 2006!

Instant Life Changes

I just finished reading The Ice Queen by Alice Hoffman. It was a quick read that began with the narrator's mother dying when the narrator was a child and her mother was exactly 30. The rest of the narrator's story is colored by this experience--a moment that changed the course of her life and forever changed her as well. Towards the end of the novel, the narrator is watching monarch butterflies migrate and she thinks, "You wouldn't think there could be so many butterflies in the world. You wouldn't think everything could change in an instant. But there are, and it does."

The holiday seasons have been bittersweet for me since I lost my own father in an instant in 2002. I still don't know exactly what happened that day. I know that he was there when I went to work and gone when I came home. What happened in between will forever be a mystery. I know firsthand how a single moment can change a life. The most dramatic of life changes occur in the small moments that refuse to be ignored. I wonder if my father knew about such change that morning when he told me to "be good" on my way out the door.

The narrator in The Ice Queen believes that she ended her mother's life with an idle and selfish childhood wish. I do not believe I wished my father's life away, but I do wish that I had loved him better and appreciated him more while he was here. The narrator wondered if her mother's last thoughts had been of her and her brother. She notes that her mother "probably didn't even consider the way we would miss her. Each and every minute of each and every day." I wonder, too, if my father would have known if he thought about it or if I was always too caught up in myself to give him any indication of how badly my heart would break if he ever left. And it is that kind of miss that I carry with me at all times--the eternally deep emptiness that comes from losing something that you didn't know was so valuable until it was gone.

Maybe if I let it, time would close my wound, but I honestly don't want to heal fully from my loss. I want to carry that pain with me because it reminds of how fragile life is, how precious each breath we take and each sunrise we see. I also want to carry the pain with me because other than pictures, it is all I have left of him. The narrator's pain and guilt froze her, my hope is that my pain has melted me some and will continue to melt me as long as I hold onto it.

Haircut

Well, on Tuesday, I ventured out into a new salon and let a woman much younger than me have at my hair. She convinced me to get highlights, which turned out quite blond. John loves them, but I'm still not sure how I feel about the look. My mom laughed when I told her that this fake hair look might be a little too young for me. I realize I'm only 27, but I don't want to have hair that looks like my students. I like that cut, though. It's layered, but I can still pull it back when I go to the gym. Here is what I look like now, although the lighting in this picture does not capture the true blondness of my highlights which are close to white in some places:

Drunk Toddlers

Here's a good way to ensure you never work with children again: get them drunk. That's the approach that a 37-year old New York man took when he was left alone with a 2- and a 3-year old. Authorities found him passed out and learned that the 2-year old was stumbling around with a .094 blood alcohol level. In New York, a .08 is considered drunk, so this toddler was basically wasted. Even better, the parents of these two youngsters were at the hospital giving birth. Hopefully this will be a lesson to choose their babysitters more carefully. Or to get thicker shades. I find it more than a little creepy that authorities discovered this problem by peeking into the windows of the house. They may have been investigating a court case, but that's still a little bit too big brother-y for my taste. Get a search warrant, please. Then you can feel free to legitimately do breathilizers on toddlers without invading anyone's privacy.

Sex Appeal

Last night when I was home by myself, I turned on CMT (country music television) for some background noise. The show I picked up near the beginning was the 20 Sexiest Videos of 2005. I watched for about half an hour and I found myself somewhat disgusted and somewhat perplexed at the videos that made the cut. Some of these words and images were so un-subtle that to me they appeared trashy rather than sexy. But apparently my definition of sexy does not fit music television's model. To me, it's sexier to be subtle than glaringly obvious. I'd rather see a hint of something than all of it. Singing about having sex in the hay is not titillating, it's raunchy. Maybe this is why I prefer the love in classic movies and classic stories to that described in more modern tales. I like stuff to be left to my imagination rather than spelled out for me. Sexy, to me, is in the undertones rather than the obvious. Somehow that is lost on the new generation. I see it in the way that some of the female students at my high school dress; I saw it in the bars and clubs I hit when I was in college; I see it every time I see an advertisement for Girls Gone Wild. The new sexy is the old trashy. I don't know if we can blame Brittney and Christina or if this trashy trend began even before their time. Maybe I'm too old fashioned at the young age of 27, but I don't see dressing like a whore being a statement of feminism like Lil' Kim and Christina would like us to believe. I see it as a statement of the short attention span and low imagination level of a digital cable, internet, and graphic video game world where the art of seduction has become the act of not putting enough on to make someone wonder what it would be like if it was off. Trashiness, Christina, cannot be retermed into "exploring your sexuality," it's just trashy. Sexy is about romance and mystery; trashy is about one night stands where there is no mystery, only a quick physical fix. Many of the videos they were pushing as sexy on CMT were of the trashy kind rather than the sexy kind. And I guess that show was a statement of the redefinition of sexy in our society. A statement that speaks to me of modern loss rather than modern advancement.

Merry Christmas

Yesterday at the end of the school day, my principal made an announcement to the students. She said, "If you celebrate Hannukah, have a happy Hannukah. If you celebrate Kwanza, have a joyful Kwanza. And, if you are celebrating the birth of the Prince of Peace, merry Christmas!" I work in a public high school, and I don't know if you're really allowed to say "Prince of Peace" in such a place in this day and age. But my principal does a lot of things she maybe shouldn't becuase of what she believes, and usually no one argues with her. So today on Christmas Eve, with far less courage than she has to say such words in a publically funded forum, I wish those of you celebrating the birth of the Prince of Peace a very merry Christmas.

Raggedy Ann

She sat in a field of crab grass and buttercups. Six years old but as wise as a girl three times her age. She put her head down between her scraped knees and stared at the little yellow flowers underneath her legs. Pale yellow reflections on her pale white skin, shadowed by her bruised cheek and unwashed brown hair. Tears no longer came, even when she wished they would. They would be a welcome release to the weight inside of her. On her left side, a Raggedy Ann doll, stained and worn with grass blades framing her body. This doll that shared her name was her most prized possession. In fact, it's her only possession to speak of. The last and only gift she received from her grandmother before the old woman passed away; the last and only gift she received before her father left and her mother started drinking too much. She missed her friend Jesse. His mother won't let him come out and play anymore. They used to go in the woods and pretend it was their kingdom. She was the queen and he was the king. They had charge over all the plants and insects and birds and squirrels and even over the elusive chipmunks that ran in the underbrush between the trees and rocks. But then her mommy said some words that little girls and boys shouldn't hear, and his mommy wouldn't let him around anyone in that brown house next door anymore. She plucked a buttercup and twirled it by her knee. Her eyes squinted as she raised her head towards the sun. She turned her head slighty and saw her house in the periphery. An ominous cloud seemed to always hover there, even when the sky was clear blue. She sighed, put the buttercup down, and laid back in the grass next to Raggedy Ann. She picked up her doll and looked into her expressionless eyes. Sometimes she wished she was Raggedy Ann. Quiet and aloof. Unable to be hurt or lonely or left empty-handed by life. She pulled the doll close to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. The earth cooled her back and absorbed her sighs. She wished it would observe her breath. She could not yet see all that she was going to be and all the lives she would touch. She could only see the darkness that lurked even in the windows of her house. She slowly pushed herself up and walked towards her back door, Raggedy Ann dangling by an arm at her side. She would spend some more time in the fire before she was strong enough to find her own way out.

Sick Day

I've been nursing a sinus infection since last Sunday. Until yesterday, it was getting worse rather than better. Yesterday, I could neither breathe nor talk. When I went with a teacher to sweep the halls for a truant student, I actually started to feel light-headed because I could not get any oxygen in through my nose. My whole head felt like an explosion was imminent. I took this as a sign along with my ever-worsening condition that I may need to call the doctor. Medicine is not necessarily a sign of weakness; it could even be a sign of maturity. I didn't mind going to the doctor, but I did mind when my husband insisted that I take today off from work. I like being busy. It keeps me from thinking so much that I get depressed and it gives me some kind of sick American satisfaction. It's as if I think that the more stuff I can cram into each day, the more accomplished I've become. I almost think that I'm somehow leaving a mark on the world from the sheer amount of what I do rather than from the impact of doing less but doing it very well. Like mass quantities of mediocrity somehow equal out to one act of excellence.

Finally, I did reluctantly agree to take today off. I didn't sleep any longer. In fact, I woke up before my husband's alarm even went off and I sat there in panic about all the stuff that would not get done if I did not go to work. I had promised John I would rest, and I like ot be a woman of my word, but I was at the computer at 6am emailing the secretary with details about daily student issues that I would not be there to handle. I probably ended up biting my nails more by staying home than if I had just gone into work. As I laid in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering how I was supposed to get through an entire day of rest, it occurred to me that maybe all my busyness is really not so great. I mean, the school will not fall apart if I am not there one day. Maybe I should enjoy peace and quiet rather than panicking that I'm not where I should be and stuff that needs to get done won't get done. Maybe John is right--my illness is my body telling me I need a break.

Truth be told, however, I checked my work email several times and sitting here now, I do feel guilty for missing one important meeting and having to reschedule another one. I feel like I let people down who needed my help. I feel like a slacker for laying on my coach coughing and choking on the drainage from my nose instead of spreading disease--but at least getting stuff done--at work. It's one thing when work stops for everyone (such as on a glorious snow day); it's another thing when work keeps going and I'm not there to keep up. I realize that I entrench myself in my busy-ness in order to hide from my own emotions, which seem to have been negative most of my life, biology or environment, it doesn't even matter. And this is why free time depresses me--I'd rather be too busy to think about myself than to have a day where I have nothing else to focus on. And I certainly cannot escape into the other people's problems via the news today. I'm actually avoiding the news at all costs at the moment, because that penguin story is too heart-wrenching for me to stomach.

Drunk Santa?

My friend Erin emailed me a link to the Drunk Santa Game. The object of the game is to use the arrows on your keyboard to guide Santa to his liquor and the occasional cupcake without electrocuting him on the train tracks. While the game is a nice distraction from the work I should be doing, I don't really understand the point. Why would I want to make Santa drunker? Won't it make it more difficult for him to find my house? If he's too drunk, he may sleep through Christmas Eve altogether, or he may mess up everyone's presents. That would be a national disaster. Plus, he probably shouldn't be drinking and flying his sleigh through the air. I'm thinking that this game is probably not such a good idea. He should get some rest and drink some coffee so that he's ready for Christmas Eve.

***Update***My friend Marie sent me a link to another crazy holiday game, Elf snowball fight. There are only three rounds, but it's harder than you may think to avoid whacking Santa. He pops up unpredictably. If you successfully get through all three rounds, you do get a nice certificate that you can print and hang up in your office. Although, all it really amounts to is a paper trail of what you're really doing at work.

Give Kim a New Haircut

I haven't gotten a haircut since the mullet disaster last April. It's so hard to find someone who can cut my naturally curly hair. But now my hair is starting to look shaggy, so almost 9 months later, I am thinking that I need to venture out to find a new stylist. I've actually been thinking this for a few weeks, but my last haircut was such a disaster that I've been too nervous to call some place new and try again. John suggested that I may have some good luck at an uppity salon in nearby Columbia. After all, the rich women of that area will not settle for mediocrity in haircuts. I figured he had a point, but I still procrastinated on making an appointment. John got tired of my whining, so he found a place and called to make an appointment for me for next Tuesday. I'm jittery already. Now I need to figure out what I want to do with my hair. So, I am seeking counsel from anyone who wants to give me their opinion. Here is my face (with my hair up):

Now, below are ten links in no particular order to some hairstyles I've found that don't look like too much work for me. Please try to envision the hairstyle on my face (above) and tell me which way I should go. I am also open to other suggestions if you happen to find a look that might suit me better and you want to share it with me.

One
Two
Three
Four (the picture on the left)
Five
Six
Seven
Eight (the picture on the left)
Nine
Ten

A lot of these pictures are very similar and similar to my past hairdos, so I'm not really being too adventurous. And I'm not plannig to color my hair, so I'm just looking at style. If you notice a difference between the pictures and you have an opinion or a better suggestion than what I've found, then let me know what you think. I have a week to decide, and I'm going to need all of that time just to get my courage up since I am still scissor-shy.

Have a Nice Day

Yesterday, my darling husband told me that we were going to DC to look at the National Christmas tree. I had no reason not to believe him. We went last year. We took the metro to Chinatown to eat dinner before we were going to see the tree. After dinner, we started walking. I suspected something was up when we came to Ann Taylor Loft and John suggested that we go inside. He has never before volunteered to go into the store that I love so much. But I didn't question him since I was afraid doing so would cause him to come to his senses. After we left the store, we came to the MCI center. John then looked at me and said, "I lied to you, we're going to a basketball game." He later laughed about the look of disappointment on my face. I may be many things, but a fan of professional basketball is not one of them. He handed me my ticket. I looked at it only to see the magical name that makes all the bad things in the world disappear--Bon Jovi. I had forgotten they were in DC this weekend for their Have a Nice Day tour since a couple months ago when tickets first went on sale and John said that we would not be going because of finances. Apparently, John decided finances were not as important as my happiness. He's so good to me!

The show was sponsored by in part by Sprint, and before Bon Jovi came out, they had a big screen up where audience members could text message to a 5 digit number and have their messages displayed on the screen. Because I am a dork, I got very excited at the possibility of having a message on the screen for me. So I dictated a message to John since my cell phone was sitting on our dining room table at home. I told him it would be nice for him to tex, "Kim, you were born to be my baby," since that would incorporate a famous Bon Jovi lyric into the message. He did so, and when our message scrolled across the screen, I giggled like a middle school girl. John just smiled to himself thinking how easy I am to please.

Apparently, on this tour Bon Jovi will be having all local acts opening up the show. Last night, it was DC band Honor By August. I have to say, I was very impressed with them. I may even have to pick up a copy of their EP as a Christmas present to myself. They reminded me somewhat of Nickelback in terms of their sound. Almost like a cross between Nickelback and Yellow Card. Definitely my style. I always like going to a concert when the opening act does not suck. It's like an added bonus, especially on a night like last night when we didn't even know who would be opening until we got there.

I've seen Bon Jovi in concert once before, and I think they are amazing. I think the last time I saw them, I wrote on this site that Jon Bon Jovi is sex personified. Two years later, I stand by that claim. While I was disappointed that he was wearing baggy cargo pants this time (last time, he was in tight velvety pants), he is still quite the hottie for an old guy. He has aged quite gracefully, and I still do not undersatnd how People magazine ever picks someone other than Jon Bon Jovi for the sexiest man alive. He's far more attractive than the effeminate Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt. For old men, the whole band exhibits great amounts of energy. Jon moves all over the stage, Ritchie sweated through three shirts, and Tico pounded on the drums, even with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth by the end of the show. They even threw in their rendition of Run Run Rudolph to get us in the holiday mood. They all seem to have so much fun up there, which could be part of why they've lasted over twenty years. They were one of the only hair bands of the 80's who survived haircuts and kept chugging along. They sold out last night's show so fast that they added another DC date for February. Last I checked, there were still tickets available. By the time we left last ight, my ears were ringing and my voice was half-gone after all of my singing along and screaming with glee. Definitely worth the price of the tickets. And I've even forgiven John for lying to me.

Maturity

Scar tissue bulges out where the fissures in my heart used to be. Feeling only pushes at the untouched sections, which are fewer and smaller as the breakage continues to spread. I think that soon those rare sections shall be gone altogether. Even now, I call out, but no answer. I harden myself so that I am not hurt any further by the continued unresponsiveness to my plight. I drown myself in books, getting lost in the lives of fictional characters whose daily existences somehow seem more exciting than my own. Stories with happy endings. As I sit here on my couch with my tiny dog laying hammocked on the blanket over my legs, I wonder if we each have to be our own knights in shining armor. We are all broken people, and we cannot count on another human being to save us from ourselves. We have to step out with the measure of faith and strength that God has allotted to us and become our own heroes. We have to rescue ourselves and use whatever we have left over to show others the way. But they, too, will need to walk with their own allotment of strength and faith, not with ours. Life, in the beginning and the end, is a solitary battle. We pass through each other's lives and touch each other in ways ranging from the minute to the profound as we allow God to lead us or as we chose to lead ourselves. But in the end, it comes down to the truth in the words that Mother Teresa wrote, "in the final analysis, it is between you and God: It was never between you and them anyway." We must--I must--step out and take responsibility for who I am without waiting for someone else to make it better. Maturity is not about age, it's about the recognition of the nature of human power, and, in the spiritual sense, it's about the trust in and reliance on a Higher power where human power has failed.

Abandonment

I see the bitterness in her eyes. So pungent that I can taste it on the tip of my tongue. I don't want to swallow and take it inside myself, but I can't help it; swallowing is in my nature. I feel her hurt burning me all the way down my throat, but I'm sure it is merely secondhand smoke compared to what eats at her gut when she sees me. Her lips can't form the words to express her disappointment, but I feel it in my depths nonetheless. I got caught up in a tropical storm and left too soon without really saying goodbye. And truth be told, I didn't put up much of a fight when the storm came. I did not cover my windows with wood or secure any part of me with chains. For what did I ride on the edge of the wind but to chase what I thought would warm my toes at night? A fun ride, but more costly than what I had first counted. And my toes are still cold, warmed only by the extra blankets on my side of the bed. And after all that we spent, neither of us yet believes in "the one."

M.I.A.

At the beginning of November, I registered a new student for classes. He seemed like a good kid, but then in the middle of the month, he disappeared. After three weeks of not seeing him, teachers started to report his absences to me. I called home. I called all the work numbers and all the cell phone numbers that we have on file for this child. I left messages on every phone and waited. And waited and waited...the return phone call never came. Yesterday, after he had been gone a full month, I filed a report with the school social worker after my supervisor suggested foul play. This morning, he showed up in my office, a mysterious apparition back from a watery grave. Only he was never dead. I am sure my mouth was slightly agape as he stood framed by the doorjamb. I asked him where he has been the past month. He responded without smiling, "In my country." I told him that he is supposed to get those absences approved in advance by the principal. "You can't just leave for a month and not tell anyone where you're going!" He stared blankly ahead, not comprehending at all that in this day and age, a school will notice when someone hasn't shown up for a month and his parents are suddenly unavailable. In retrospect, I suppose his parents didn't return my calls because they were with him in his "country," too. And I guess that country is not the U.S., since if he had been here, he wouldn't have missed a month of school work and he may even be able to pass his classes for the semester. Too late for that. But at least he's alive.

Remnants of Before

I drove around tonight. I drove through back roads that no one knew I used to take to visit Allison from where I used to live. I even cracked my window down so that I could smell the piney air--the scent that made me feel like I was coming home the first time I took the windy road to get to my former church. I sometimes miss the "old" days. I adore my husband and I enjoy my new life, but I would be lying if I said I don't miss certain aspects from my past, too. I miss the friendships. I see my old friends from time to time, but we aren't the same family that we were before. We now spend our meetings catching up because we didn't just see each other yesterday. I miss that closeness. I miss the freedom of living near my friends. I sometimes wonder if I would be happier if John and I just picked up and moved closer to them. But we realistically cannot afford that and, even more, I realistically don't think it would make me any happier. Even before I met John, things had changed. And somehow the changes just seem to make life more complicated. But perhpas the complication is in the fact that a part of my heart desperately wants to cling to what has gone. It gets complicated to try to recreate the past in an entirely different present. A present, I might add, that I can't even get a handle on by itself without longing for days of yore. I value what my friendships have become, but part of me still misses what they were. I wouldn't change my current situation, but I would like to at least briefly taste again what I had. The essence of life, however, prohibits such indulgence. I can reminisce with the sights, sounds, and smells, but I can transport myself back only in mind and not in body. Moving ever forward into deeper realms of complication as I try to integrate who I was with who I am.

New Story, Same Old Tears

I just read a brillant, albeit irreverant, novel, The Mercy of Thin Air by Ronlyn Domingue. This is her debut novel, and I picked it up at the bookstore because the title intrigued me. The book is narrated by a ghost, but it is not so much a ghost story as it is a love story. Unlike the last book I read, this book was eloquently written enough that it jolted me back to the reality that my own talent is far too meager to ever produce a work of literary merit. I'd be more likely to write a story like the last one I read rather than one like The Mercy of Thin Air. I lack both the imagination and the mastery of the English language, not to mention the mastery of the human heart or soul. Also unlike the last book that I read, this story was more emotionally tense for me and left my in tears in my husband's arms with him asking if someone got engaged in the book since that seems to make me cry more than death. I told him not exactly, but that the book was about love. I don't know why reading about or watching other people in love breaks my heart so much. I am sure there are many ways to psychoanalyze my tears, but these tears over love were not there before I got married myself. In Domingue's story, love transcends human form. In her world, love is more powerful than life and more powerful than death. The transcendent power of love that Domingue captures in her unique way is what moved me to tears after reading this book. What moved me to tears when I watched the Friends rerun of Monica and Chandler getting engaged was something less brilliantly composed but similarly addressing the kind of love that binds people together, at least for life. Love that even if I have experienced, I will never fully grasp because love, I believe, is beyond our grasp. It is a force that simply is; it can be explored but not understood, touched but not contained. And, in simplest terms, that overwhelming love is what this book is about, and the exploration of that love is what makes this novel a worthwhile read. Which is another way this book is different from the last one I read, I am not ashamed to recommend it or say that I read it myself.

Mystery of Oneness

two bodies
but our veins run the same course
the blood that flows through me
flows also through him
and his blood
likewise through me
marital ties
that transcend
our physiologies
one by law
one by spirit
one by body
completely together
complete together

First Holiday Season

Around Thanksgiving time, people started gushing to me and John about how this is our first Thanksgiving together as a married couple. We both usually reacted with questioning glances. What's the big deal? We spent last Thanksgiving together as a couple, too, and nobody gushed over us then. We didn't host Thanksgiving this year, so it was actually quite similar to last year's holiday in that we had to work in both of our families. The only difference this year is that we went to the same house together after the festivities were over. Certainly that in and of itself is not gush-worthy.

But now as Christmas rolls around, I'm starting to understand. I am now finally excited about sharing our first holiday season together as a married couple. I think what makes the difference between now and two weeks ago is that we have decorated the house together. Even though I helped John decorate his tree last year, this year, the tree is mine, too. Thanks to Allison and her mom, we have stockings hanging up as well. And last night we went shopping for a wreath for the door and garland for the banister. We are doing Christmas cards together and we are receiving Christmas cards addressed to both of us. Even though we will still be running from house to house on Christmas Eve and Christmas day just like we did last year, we have now formed our own family unit and we have the decked out house that we both now live in to prove it. Now, I'm gushing over with the excitement that I didn't even understand two weeks ago.

Entitlement

Well, we didn't get the snow day that I was hoping for, but we did manage to snag a two-hour delay so that I got to sleep a little more. Woohoo! Even with school starting at 9:30 for the students, by 10:15, I already had a lawsuit threat because of a 504 plan that is not being followed and a parent who claims I "brainwashed" his daughter into taking an honors-level science class. We're supposed to encourage our students to challenge themselves, but apparently to some parents, this is brainwashing. Not only that, but his daugther has an A- in the class. Apparently this means that she is not qualified to take it. I'm sure Russ will be back on here telling me how easy I have it dealing with these families with a sense of entitlement, and maybe it is easier than what he deals with on a daily basis, but these issues make me nauseaus when I have other kids on my caseload who are homeless, suicidal, or homicidal. While I work in one of the wealthiest and most respected school systems in the state, I work in the "black sheep" area of the county that is home to the lower class and lower test score population. Yet the fact that their kids attend this school system gives the families the same sense of entitlement as the families who live in the wealthiest parts of the county. So I have the combination of all of the poverty issues to deal with on top of all of the sense of entitlement BS that I can't even stomach. Russ, I am quite sure that you have more craziness to deal with than me. But I think any job anywhere that involves teenagers also involves a fair amount of insanity. Anyway, I'm not asking for pity. Just griping. I like that my job isn't boring and to some extent, I thrive on the craziness. I don't think this is a job I'll necessarily be doing in 5 years, but it's interesting right now.

Dance of Desperation

It's Monday morning. I will be doing a snow dance tonight with hopes that a pretty thick blanket will be covering the roads tomorrow so that I can have a day off. I know I'm just coming off of the weekend, but I'm ready for a break already. It's cold outside and it's cold in my office. I am actually going to put my coat back on after I finish typing this. I've been here for 2 1/2 hours, and I've already busted into the chocolate. It looks like it's going to be a high-chocolate month for me with all these crazy kids hovering and fighting and haunting my nightmares. I'm actually hoping that the local meteorologists are underestimating the amount of snow that we will get. I'm wondering if holidays off and finishing work by 3 are worth all this....

Too Gentle

Joseph Smith, the man who raped, brutalized, and strangled an 11-year old girl in Florida will likely be sentenced to death with the jury's recommendation. The deceased girl's mother is happy with the jury's decision because she wants this man to die. I cannot imagine her pain, but I have to agree with the defense attorney (as I do in most death penalty cases) that killing off Joseph Smith is not going to make her feel better. The man is more than disgusting and deserves punishment for his nauseating acts, but lethal injection is more like a relief than a punishment. If I were in his shoes, I would prefer the death penalty to life in prison because inmates do not take kindly to men who harm children. He would suffer more and be brutalized longer himself if had to spend his life without parole in prison. While I know many people are pro-death penalty because they say it saves tax-payer money and it is fitting for certain crimes, I tend to fall on the side of pro-life for all forms of life, even the scummy ones. This man is going to die a gentle and humane death. If the mother really wants an eye for an eye, then the death penalty is not what this man deserves. An eye for an eye would be brutalization and a violent death, like the kind of death that his victim endured. Of course, even if she herself inflicted pain on this man, nothing would make her own emptiness and pain go away. Her daughter is gone. What happened to her daughter will not change. She wants to avenge her daughter's death by making sure that her killer dies, but no punishment on this earth will satisfy the mother's anger and aching. It's human nature to want vengeance, but we are left even emptier when we realize that vengeance is futile in relieving us because vengeance will never restore what was lost. The man deserves punishment, I am not arguing that, and he deserves his punishment to be severe. What I am arguing is that the death penalty is not severe enough.

Hellfire

In the midst of all the chaos, the senseless violence, the ceaseless crimes, our country pulls further and further away from the faith of the founding fathers. Indiana says no to Christian prayer, which is very politically correct and even constitutional under the idea of separation of church and state. But as a Christian, I think we need prayer now more than ever. That's not me trying to force my beliefs upon others, it's just me saying that I don't like to watch our country heap burning coals upon our heads anymore than necessary. We do a good enough job of heaping coals upon ourselves individually; it breaks my heart to see us do it en masse as a nation as well.

A Day in the Life...

I am a school counselor, formerly known as a guidance counselor. I work in the wealthiest school system in the state of Maryland, and one that is highly recognized throughout the country. Nevertheless, sometimes it feels like the 'hood. Working with teenagers, there is never a dull moment. Just this week I've had to deal with minor squabbles, fighting, gang involvement, suicide threats, blackmail, drug purchasing, child abuse, substance abuse, self-mutilation, sexual harrassment, sexual promiscuity, truancy, dysfunctional families, poverty, lying, and child neglect. And that's not to mention the academic issues. Earlier this week, a student wrote a suicide letter because one of my male students told her that if she didn't want him to break up with her, she would have to agree to a threesome. Just yesterday, one of my students was punched in the face in the middle of class in front of both a teacher and a paraeducator. Another one of my students was suspended for trying to buy drugs and then she attempted to blackmail her mother by fabricating a child abuse story. This morning, a huge melee broke out in the hallway when two rival gangs met up. One of the gang members is the student whose family my office donated a Thanksgiving food basket to. A more experienced counselor here told me this always happens between Thanksgiving and Christmas because of the added stress that the holidays bring on broken families and families that are struggling financially. The kids bring their anger and frustration into school where it bubbles over and combusts into fights that leave teachers injured and my office into a tumultuous mess. I am already in need of Christmas break and Thanksgiving was just last week....