Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Not Kidding Around

Sex.

Like art in the first article today, sex is subjective, it is personal, its translation is unique to the individual in question.  Different people are turned on by different things, and it seems there are just about as many kinks in this world as there are sexually active human beings.

I don't understand most of them, but that's ok, I don't have to. 

I'm not a prude by any means, and I'm sure I enjoy some things that would make June Cleaver turn three shades of red.  But I also don't think I'm particularly off-the-charts in the sexual adventure arena.  And what goes on behind my closed door is frankly no one else's business.

So if shoes, foot odor, trapezes, costumes, feathers, Ravel's Bolero, or hot wax do it for you - indulge and enjoy.  It's between you and your consenting partner.

There are, however, some kinks I have zero tolerance for.

Don't flash me on the streetcorner - chances are if you are out in a trenchcoat in the 90 degree heat, the only things you're packing are shriveled and pruned up with prickly heat.

Don't invite me to your Eyes Wide Shut party.  I prefer my sex one-on-one, not as performance art with some random, masked stranger.

And stop sending me emails for porn sites, ok?  I'm insanely creative on my own and, quite frankly, the porn I have seen in my lifetime has only made me laugh out loud.  That boom-chicka-wow-wow music and lack of plot just make me giggle.  And guys?  Real women do not answer the door in a teddy and four inch Lucite heels at 2pm.  We're busy scrubbing toilets and Shouting out the skidmarks in the laundry.

Finally, the kinky folk I have no understanding of, tolerance for, or feel the need to share oxygen with are those people who get excited by the thought, sight, or personal exploitation of children.

Frankly, anyone who looks at a child with lust needs a bullet through their sorry head.  We don't need you here.  We don't want you here.

Which brings me to yet another waste of flesh arrested in Florida last evening on charges of trafficking in child and BABY pornography.

Yes, BABY.

The thought is enough to make me put a bullet in my own head.

21 year old Tony Guerra was arrested Thursday night at his job - at Disneyland. 

Undercover investigators, posing as a mother,  had been approached in a Google Chat room by Guerra who stated, "I love babies." then asked if the mother had ever molested her kids.  He then sent "her" 63 photos and four videos of child and baby pornography.

I'll pause while you throw up a little in your mouth too.

My heart absolutely breaks in two for the children in this world who are caught in the illicit, horrendous, useless, exploitative world of the adults in their lives.  No child, of any age, should ever know anything but love, acceptance, safety, and the overwhelming sense of being cherished.

That there are children, right now as I type, being raped in front of a video camera for profit, sickens me.  And the animals who do the deeds deserve no trial, no jury, no judge, no due process.  They deserve a slow, painful, bloody death.  And it needs to be public.  If ever there was a need for the town square, this is it.

A few public removals of testicles and penises, followed by a thorough and complete sodomization with a broom handle, and then a bullet to the temple - that ought to make some people like Tony Guerra rethink what they find exciting in life.

Think I'm being a tad harsh?  Sorry, but when it comes to the protection of children, I'm not kidding around.

Blasphemy or Artistry?

When it comes to art, the saying that "One person's candy is another person's poison" is never more apropos.

And given the wide ranging spectrum of that which is labeled art, it is not a stretch to paraphrase that axiom to "One person's plexiglass enclosed commentary on the state of man is, well, just another person's pile o' poo in a box."

Art is subjective.  It's personal.  And each person who views a sculpture, painting, collage, or pile o' poo takes it in differently, processes it differently, and reaches their own unique, personal conclusion on its worth.

Take me, for instance.  I'm a huge fan of Jackson Pollack's famed splatter artwork, the pieces which he created by literally throwing, streaking, flicking, and dumping paint onto canvasses. 

Am I drawn to the "power" of the work?  Do they spark in me some social commentary, reveal some inner truths about the man and his mental state at the time?

No.

I just think they're cool.

Sure, they are vibrant, explosive, BIG, but mostly, given all the colors used in them, they go with all my furniture.

I like sculpture, especially the kind made out of garbage, nuts, bolts, vacuum cleaner parts - to me, it's creative and fun to see what one can do with a pile of thumbtacks, old wiring, and dryer lint.

When it comes to straightforward painting, however, I am often left "Eh".  Of course I think the Mona Lisa is a tad compelling - songs, books, poetry have been created in her honor - but at the end of the day, it is just a portrait.  Picasso painted many as well, and while his tend to make me laugh - seriously, how can you not smirk at a picture of someone whose face has been subdivided, warped, and distended - they, too, are simply snapshots in paint.

But while some artwork does bring a yawn, grin, or out loud laugh, sometimes an artist does something that provokes an entirely different reaction.

Which brings me to today's award winner for Poking The Societal Snake With A Stick:  "Bearded Orientals: Making the Empire Cross" by Priscilla Bracks; a "double vision" print that depicts both Jesus and bin Laden.

The piece was an entry - one of 500+ - in the Blake Prize for Religious Art.  They have been included in an exhibition at the National Art School in Sydney. Other controversial pieces include a sculpture of the Virgin Mary, her head and torso concealed by a blue burqa.

The bin Laden piece is obviously blasphemic in nature to millions of Christians around the world.  After all, superimposing the new Millennium's poster boy for terrorist horror with the Christian icon of all that is good, Holy, and redeemable is not exactly tasteful.

Personally, while I do find it disturbing, it's not for the reason you might think.  I'm not threatened by the depiction, and I'm certainly strong enough in my own convictions to not be shaken by this in the least. 

Rather, what I find most unsettling is the complete double standard it points up between the two religious thought processes represented.

Christianity vs Islam.

God vs Allah.

And everyone knows what happens when you depict Allah's messenger and prophet, Muhammad, at all, not just in a bad light.  Danish cartoons, anyone?  Muslims the world over were looking for blood atonement when those pen and ink funnies were published showing him with a bomb in his turban, etc.

They were, and still are, of the belief that death becomes anyone who dares dis the Big Guy.

But on the Christian side of the religious coin, God and Jesus take it up the "A" every single day.  Whether it's in names being taken in vain, flat out abuse of religious artifacts, cathedrals, Biblical text, or a blanket condemnation of anyone who worships Them - Christians bear much in the way of intolerance.

Should we be out for the blood of Priscilla Bracks?  Should we declare a jihad against all who do not believe as we believe?

No.  We've tried that before - Crusades ring a bell?  Spanish Inquisition?  Torquemada?  It doesn't work.

I think the best course is to take the portrait for what it is - one person's interpretation of something they think, feel, believe. And then move on.

But I also believes it bears saying out loud to all Muslims who would want me dead were I to disparage Allah, Muhammad, et al - THIS is what faith is about.  Sticks and stones may indeed break my bones, but a stupid painting will never hurt me or my beliefs.

Thank God It Was A "Spare"

Close your eyes and imagine...

You are driving down the interstate.  (No, no, no - you do not have your eyes closed in this scenario - work with me, people.)

Tooling along, singing to whatever Toby Keith - Kanye Waste - Timbabland - High School Musical 2 tune that happens to be on the station of your choice.  The pedal is to the metal, you're going about 70mph along Interstate 90, the longest stretch of highway in the nation, spanning nearly 3100 miles.

You are on the portion running through Minnesota.

Eyes still closed?

Good.

Now, imagine, there you are, minding your own freeway business, thinking about the next fast food drive thru you'll frequent, channeling your inner Troy Bolton with a rousing rendition of Bet On It (HSM reference, catch up, please), when BAM!

Yes, BAM!  And I don't mean you just struck Emeril Lagasse sauteeing some strip steak in the median.

Rather, your mile marker meditations have just been rudely interrupted by a bowling ball crashing through yuor windshield and scoring a strike on your face.

You can open your eyes now (although in this dream, they would probably be really puffy and swelled shut...).

This is exactly what happened to tractor trailer drive Ted Maki of Montana this past Sunday morning as he traveled through Minnesota.

While Maki miraculously did not suffer any life threatening injuries, the bigger miracle is that he did not kill anyone after he was struck.

You see, after his windshield was shattered and his face squashed by the ball, Maki's truck not only crossed into the fast lane, but it went over the median and passed through oncoming traffic, finally hitting a cornfield and coming to a stop.

Maki was treated at a local hospital and released Monday.  Police still have no leads as to who threw the ball from the overpass, or to whom it belongs.

One thing is certain.  Mr. Maki is lucky the owner didn't have a second ball on hand to go for the spare.

When "There" Becomes "Here"

Yesterday, pre-dawn, found me following my fairly typical early morning routine.

In the hour before having to get the kids up for school, I was already at the keyboard, clearing my inbox, mentally assessing the deadlines of the day, and checking in at CNN.com to, as I often joke to my family, "make sure the world is still out there."

The top headline at the time read, Suspect in Texas murder spree arrested in New York.

Hmmm. I live in Texas.  Hadn't heard about a "spree".  So I clicked on the headline.

I admit, I gave it a very cursory reading.  Six dead.  Austin area - that's interesting, I thought.  I live in the Austin area. House between Jonestown and Lago Vista.  Wow.  That's close.  I drive that stretch every time I go to visit Rudy at work.  Suspect fled to New York, caught there.  Whew.  Glad to know they caught him.  Victims.  A mom, some friends, a bartender, a 15 year old girl, an 81 year old woman in NY.  Man, that's sad.  My daughter is 15. 

And then I went on to the next story, and then about my day.

It would be many hours later that I would find out the truth, and in turn realize something about myself.

For all I preach about never thinking it can't happen to you, near you, to someone you know, in your town; and as much as I constantly beat the "no-place-is-completely-safe" drum to my daughters, it turns out I am just as guilty of thinking these things happen "there", not "here".

You see, yesterday, while in the carpool line, Rudy called.  Did you hear about the murders in Jonestown?

Yes, I read about them, but just briefly.

The girl went to high school with Culley.

My stomach knotted in a way I can't really describe.  It was like someone was doing emotional origami with my intestines.

Minutes later, Culley was in the car telling me about the announcement made in the school, and showing me the letter they had issued regarding the murder of Haylie Faulkner, the 15 year old who should have been a member of Culley's graduating class in 2010.

As I read the information about permission to attend the services when they are finally arranged, the condolences of the staff, the counseling available for the students, I could actually hear my blood flowing in my veins.

This kind of thing doesn't happen here.  Yet somehow, in the blast of a handgun, my town's named has been changed from Leander to Here, Texas.  And my daughter now attends a high school where one of her classmates was brutally murdered in a killing spree which included five other people in two states.

You know, in the great balance sheet of high school life, over the course of the four years, it is the rare school that does not lose a student.  Whether it's the law of averages catching up and killing a wreckless teenage driver, a student with cancer, or an athlete with a heart condition that was not caught until they passed out and died on the football field - these type of deaths, while absolutely tragic, are much more - I do not use this word to be callous - common.

That doesn't make the loss to family and friends any less acute, but somehow, attaching the word murder to a death, makes it that much more of an emotional violation to the psyche.

Murders take place in Iraq.  Murders are those scenes with all the cool moulage (wound make-up), and easily solved in an hour on CSI type dramas.  Murders involve rappers, heads of state, homeless people under bridges.

They don't involve a 15 year old girl in your child's class in high school.

Did Culley personally know Haylie yet?  No, she did not.  But in a school with 2,000+ students, and a plethora of class options and course levels, some paths might not cross until several years in, if at all.

But as Culley observed, I'm sure we shared a lunch period or hallway last year - most freshman do.

She will be attending Haylie's service.  Culley is going to talk to her friends today about going together.  Because as she said to me, Not knowing her doesn't make her less of a person.  And she was a member of MY class.  We need to go.

I will drive Culley and her friends. And I will stand beside them as they bid farewell to a classmate who they did not know, but who leaves their entire class with a heavy heart and the sobering lesson that it can happen here.

Rest in peace, Haylie.  LHS will miss you.   

Giving New Meaning To An Airport Layover

I'm well traveled, have visited many places, seen many things, met many people, and have spent more time than I care to add up in the many airports of this land and abroad.

But as cultured, open minded, wide ranging, and curious as I like to think I am, I am apparently lacking in some areas of knowledge, like, ohhhhhh, I dunno.........how to get some in the bathroom?

And by some, I do not mean toilet tissue off that big cheese wheel hanging on the wall.

No, apparently, I lead a sheltered life.  Because until today, I did not know there was a protocol, dance steps, hand signals even - to getting me some action in the john.

For expanding my personal data banks, I would like to thank Senator Larry Craig of the embarrassed state of Idaho.

Were it not for his June arrest on charges of lewd conduct in the Minneapolis International Airport, I would have gone to sleep tonight just as dumb as I was when I woke up.

You see, on June 11th, old Larry entered one of the airport's restroom facilities and proceeded to do a dirty version of Dancing With The Stars.  Wiggling of the fingers, seductive lowering of the eyelids, right foot sliding under the door and back, under the door and back, and finally a slow pass of the hand under the stall three times.  You can almost hear the tango music, can't you?

While these intricate gestures and steps may work for Mario Lopez, Larry wasn't so lucky.  The gent on the other side of the partition was a plainclothes cop, specifically assigned to monitor the restrooms because of so many complaints about sexual advances being made, and encounters being had, in them.  And ALL of Larry's hand signals and footwork are apparently widely accepted gestures for those seeking a sexual "layover" in the airport.

Larry was essentially "caught with his pants down", but not in the way he had hoped for, and was arrested.

On August 8th, he pled guilty and paid a $500 fine.

But now that the case has roused the ire of the Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington, who are demanding his actions be reviewed and consequences be handed down, the media waters have been chummed and the sharks are circling.

How embarrassing for Larry.

How embarrassing for Larry's wife, three grown children, and nine grandchildren.

All of whom should line up from smallest to tallest and kick him squarely in his errant, lewd ass.

And although he did enter a guilty plea, all this intense media focus has him spinning a yarn faster than the damsel in Rumpelstiltskin.

No, no, no, he says!  The whole "touching the guy with his foot" has been miscontrued!  Larry simply has a "wide stance" when he pees.

Sorry Larry, even Sumo wrestlers who haven't seen their dicks in ten years don't have a stance that wide when they wizz.

And that whole hand under the stall thing?  He was simply picking up a piece of paper.

Funny.  The police officer's official report says there was NO paper on the floor at all.

The entire exchange lasted, according to the official report, approximately 6 minutes - SIX MINUTES of peeking through the crack, fondling the stall, and playing footsy. 

The officer finally had enough and flashed his badge under the stall in reply.  I guess this was not the response Larry had hoped for, because he said "No!" several times.  The officer then exited his stall and accompanied Larry to the police headquarters in the airport.

Oh, and at no time was the sound of potty business heard by the cop, nor did Larry flush the facilities when he exited.

Soooooo, who should we believe? 

A plainclothes police officer, specially trained for the job, who had no idea who was soliciting him.  Or yet another Republican who follows one agenda by day, and another by night?

Yes, Larry is one of the guard responsible for keeping gay marriage banned, and The Defense of Marriage Act alive and well - "denying federal recognition to same-sex marriages and preventing states from being forced to recognize the marriages of gay and lesbian couples legally performed in other states."

Oh yeah, he has also been accused of being gay - and was mixed up in a big senators and pages bootyhaha in 1982.

Look, you people know where I stand on all this.  If you are gay, more power to you.  I couldn't care less because I can no more explain why I like men, than my gay males friends can.  It just is.

What I can't stand is hypocrisy, subterfuge, holier-than-thou-ness, and spin.

Craig admitted guilt when he was caught and thought he could "make it go away quickly".  In fact, he did not share his arrest with his wife, advisors, or even an attorney.

Now that the cat is out of the Samsonite, he is simply trying to deflect guilt and save his own droopy ass.

He is publicly accusing the Idaho Statesman newspaper of a protracted "witch hunt" - they have been actively investigating many leads suggesting various improprieties for many months. 

In his statement earlier today, he says, "In pleading guilty, I overreacted in Minneapolis, because of the stress of the Idaho Statesman's investigation and the rumors it has fueled around Idaho.. Again, that overreaction was a mistake, and I apologize for my misjudgment."

I see.

So, the newspaper has been investigating allegations of a same sex sexual nature, so you plead guilty to soliciting gay sex with a stranger?

Is this some kind of new math?  Because it makes as much sense to me as the metric system in 6th grade.  And that didn't stick either.

Here's a thought, Larry.  Gay, not gay, your door swings both directions - Just keep it in your pants.  Own your screw ups, look in the mirror and admit your true leanings, have an honest talk with your spouse, and stop blaming everyone else.  Because if the Idaho Statesman smelled smoke before, you certainly led them to the actual fire.

And as far as your future time in airports?  None of us like having to cool our jets between flights, but the majority of us read, play Sudoku, hell, watch porn on our laptops.  (Tom Hanks was trapped in that airport for YEARS and never got any, for goodness sake.)

The word Layover is just a figure of speech. 

We all know that the Mile High Club is where the real action is.

(Pssst....Larry?  Remember when you have your next press conference - work in the words "rehab", "sorry", and "Jesus"...Oh, and talk in the third person a lot...we unwashed masses are suckers for that...)

Taking The Name of the Lord In Gain

There are three words - any, or all, of which can inevitably be expected when a celeb is caught in a bad PR nightmare due to their own spoiled, better-than-you, I'm-above-the-law choices:

1. Rehab. 

Whether you use a racial epithet in a comedy club (Michael Richards), call a co-worker a fag (Isaiah Washington), drive drunk (Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, et al), or mix your Ambien with your Gin & Tonic (Patrick Kennedy), rehab is the first step in regaining one's public persona.  It somehow makes you seem repentant, that you know you've hit bottom, that you want to get better.

Care to comment on that one, Lindsay?  Never mind.

2.  Sorry.

Repent, repent, repent.  They all say how sorry they are.  But the fact is, had they not got caught, they would still be driving while intoxicated and/or high, flinging the "N" word at all passersby, and behaving badly.  So, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, but I don't believe, believe, believe you.

3.  Jesus.

I woud like to personally apologize to God and Jesus for how they are so totally used.  Whether it's the President justifying his actions by saying "God talks to me.", or Paris Hilton finding Them after two hours in an orange jumpsuit, this heavenly duo is constantly being trotted out and hid behind.

Perfect example:  In his public apology this morning after pleading guilty to federal charges of dogfighting conspiracy (sounds so much nicer than breeding-dogs-to-eat-one-another-to-death-then-drowning-and-electrocuting-the-nonperformers, doesn't it?), Michael Vick declared, ""Through this situation I've found Jesus."

Here's a thought - He's never hiding, so how about "finding" Him before you get in trouble with the public.  It just might keep you out of trouble to begin with.

You know, Mike.  I found Him this morning too.  Right after watching your carefully crafted speech, I found Him slipping off my tongue as I shook my head, yet again, and said, "Jeeeesuuussssssssss...."

Oh The Hupageantry!

This past Friday night saw the crowning of the new Miss Teen USA on NBC.

While televised pageants have certainly fallen in the ratings since I was a little girl glued to the set marveling at how they managed to bring Barbie dolls to life, my daughter and I did keep tabs on the outcome of this one.

You see, Culley will be competing in the Miss Texas Teen USA pageant in Houston in November.  This will be her second pageant, having placed highly, and done so well in the Austin pageant, that she was invited to compete in Houston.

Quite frankly, I am still a tad stymied as to why our daughter decided to pursue this avenue at all.

It's not that she's not beautiful.  She is, and then some.  Long, lithe, captivating, has that indefinable "it" thing - quite frankly, had she not come from my vagina, I would probably hate her on sight.

My befuddlement stems from the fact that she is so smart and, despite her obvious aesthetics, has always avoided things like this.

But then, that brains factor played a huge part in her placing so well in her first pageant.

For the uneducated (and for those who truly don't give a cubic zirconia), the USA pageants consist of three portions, all weighted evenly in the judging: 

1.  Bathing suit.  They are looking for someone who is not just "hot", but fit.  (OK, ok, mostly hot.)

2.  Evening gown.  Some girls shell out more for a pageant gown than they will for a wedding dress later in life.  Culley's cost all of $50 + some alterations, while some girls' cost upwards of $3000, and they didn't even make the semifinal cut.

I guess it's true - you can put whipped cream and chocolate sauce on a turd, but that doesn't make it an ice cream sundae. 

Actually, what killed those girls chances had more to do with incredibly bad posture, and borderline Posh-face (an inability to smile).

3.  Personal Interview.

Each girl must go before a panel of judges during the second day of the pageant (this takes places away from any audience, and in business attire) and field a series of questions.

This is where the biggest missteps occur.

Looking good, wearing fake hair and a push-up bra, and flashing Zoom whitened teeth comes easily.  You can buy "pretty" these days. (For the record, Culley did not trowel on make-up, used only her own hair, and as she informed a snotty contestant who cattily asked why she wasn't wearing a padded bra: "I don't need one.") But you cannot buy class, composure, coherence, and the ability to construct an intelligent, thoughtful, extemporaneous response.

This is where Culley soars.  Adults are not intimidating to her, and she can talk intelligently about anything - from nanotechnology to Da Vinci to High School Musical.  AND she manages to be funny in the process.  (CanNOT imagine where she gets that...)

Culley made the semifinals, and all the way to 6th place - a great placing for her first time out, not to mention being the youngest (14 at the time) contestant.  Had she made it to the Top 5, she would have had the opportunity to stand before the audience and judges and be asked a final question.

I just know she would have knocked it out of the park.  And with each of the top 5 answering their questions, it became more and more apparent I was right.  IT. WAS. PAINFUL.

Yes, I factor in a slight bit of nervous energy, but the inability these girls displayed to even keep an answer on topic and in the proper tense was uncomfortable, at best.

Friday night's Miss Teen USA had a glaring example of this very point.  And while I would like to stress that not every contestant in these things is lighter than a helium balloon when it comes to intelligence (there are a great many who really are well spoken, smart, and headed for great things), young Miss South Carolina certainly did not do the pageant girl image any good at all (and resembled the many, MANY girls we encountered who are as shallow as a toddler's wading pool, have no manners, no range of knowledge outside which mascara is best and how to glue their bathing suit to their ass, and think the world should line up to kiss their freshly pedicured feet just because they are pretty.)

This girl's mental train didn't just jump the tracks, it crashed into the Hindenburg as it was landing in flames on the Titanic in Pearl Harbor.

And no, she did not win.

(If you can't keep up, or are laughing too hard and drown out the sound - this is the transcript: 

"I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so because some people out there in our nation don't have maps and that I believe that our education like such as South Africa and The Iraq everywhere like such as and I believe that they should our education over here in the US should help the US or should help South Africa and should help The Iraq and Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future for us." )

Class Act

This morning marked another of life's little milestones.

School started.

And while that, in itself, is not momentous - wait, scratch that - it IS momentous to a parent like me who has spent the past couple weeks salivating as I marked each day off the calendar, desperate to reclaim a tad of my sanity and restore some semblance of routine to my waking hours.

OK, fine.  I admit it.  After dropping off the last child, I damn near resembled a Senekot ad - jumping into the air, pumping my fist with 'I feel good" glory - the central block of my day is no longer constipated with kids fighting over the last popsicle or slice of pizza, wanting to go to the mall/pool/movie, hosting the zillion friends they seem to attract like lint, and buying more popsicles and pizza. 

But back to the "momentous" portion...

This school year finds that I now have TWO daughters in high school, and my baby - no longer my baby, I suppose - is in middle school. 

And while one could marvel at the whole David Blaineness of this feat - after all, I have not gotten any older, they have - I am basking in the glow of "I-think-we're-doing-a-good-job-at-raising-them".

I present the following evidence:

1. Twas the night before a new school year, and all through my house, not a creature was nervous, not even my spouse (who HATES that he now has TWO daughters attending school with SENIOR boys)

The girls spent the evening showering, Nairing, assembling the perfect first-day-o'-school outfits (even the youngest whose biggest fashion consideration is usually which T-shirt to wear each day), and excitedly chatting to friends on their phones.

This morning, not a nerve to be seen.  If anything, they paced, wishing the clock would move forward faster so they could get to the schools.

As a parent, these are satisfying signs indeed.  It reflects self assuredness, confidence, inner strength.

(Fine - it also reflects a desire to get to school and check out the new crop of boys and the longer hair they will be sporting thanks to Zac Efron and that damned High School Musical 2.)

2.  Sibling chivalry NOT rivalry.

Culley is now a sophomore - familiar with her school which truly resembles a mutant sea creature - tentacles and tumors sprouting here and there, appendaged hallways that all look alike, a numbering process that somehow puts the 400s right next to the 700s - and while 10th graders don't yet 'rule the school', they are no longer Fish either. 

Kendall is the incoming Freshman.  To new eyes, that building is daunting.  And the hallways between classes resemble a sardine can - there are over 2,000 students commuting from one class to the next.

Culley has not only been coaching Kendall about what to expect, she took her to the high school last Friday and walked her schedule with her so she has a better grasp of where rooms are, and most importantly, Culley showed her little known shortcuts she discovered during her own first year.

This morning they walked in together, and even though they can sibling catfight with the best of them, I have no doubt Culley will be watching out for her kid sister daily.

As for Kendall?  She may front bravado all she wants, but inside I know she knows exactly how lucky she is to have Culley as her sister.  In one year, Culley has paved quite an in-road and there are far worse things than being related to one of the nicest, hottest (I'm quoting male sources here), teacher-liked kids in school.

And as for our youngest?  Well, she and Kendall don't exactly spare one another's feelings under this roof.  They are fierce rivals - they both play soccer, so oneupmanship rules - but in all other ways, could not be more different if they tried.

They do love each other just as fiercely, however, and Kendall has had Carson's back in the weeks leading up to this day - giving her the lowdown on the teachers, school layout, principal, etc, as she passes the torch for the school she is leaving down to her little sister.

3.  Not a backward glance.

For me, this has always been the biggest indicator that Rudy and I are doing something right.  From the day Culley first entered preschool when she was two, independence has been the watchword.  As dramatic, weepy scenes played out all around us, Culley walked bravely into her future and her new classroom with barely a wave over her shoulder.

Sorry Mom, Dad - frontiers to cover, you can leave now.

That is how they all left me this morning.  And it again made me realize that the stupid platitude I made up years ago, and spout regularly, must not only have taken root in their minds, but is flowering in their souls:

The horizon is a wonderful place - that is where all things are possible.

And as much as I am enjoying this newly reclaimed peace - the only sound in the house is the tinkle of Lola's collar bell, and my fingers on the keyboard (ok, yes, CNN is on in the background too - shut up, I'm addicted and you know this) - a part of me cannot wait to see them this afternoon and hear all about what they have found on their new horizons.

Unsharpened #2 pencils and the excitement of new possibilities.  Does it really get much better than this?

Jessica Received A Death Sentence, Couey Receives A Longer Life

Nine years old when she was abducted, raped, and buried alive - Jessica Lunsford died under such sickening circumstances, that any decent person, especially a parent, is easily moved to thoughts of murder themselves.

Personally, a twelve cent bullet is too good for rapist and murderer John Couey.  Rope for a gallows deserves better than his worthless neck.

The man deserves nothing more than what he did to her.  Brutal rape, blood curdling fear, force him into a couple plastic garbage bags, and then unceremoniously dump him into a dirt coffin - while still conscious, still breathing - from which he will never escape alive.

That his defense team argued he should receive life, not death, because - and I'm not kidding - he has no significant criminal history, and he was born with a birth defect - BIG, MISSHAPENED EARS - that affected him throughout his life? 

I don't care if he was Mother Teresa right up to the point of the abduction.  He raped a nine year old girl, and methodically planned how he would conceal her while alive, and rid himself of her when he was done with her.  As for his ears?  What in THE hell does that have to do with anything, Dumbo?  When I heard that portion read by the judge, I done heard about everything...

Further arguments that he is mentally deficient, or retarded? 

Sorry, but there was far too much forethought, plotting, planning, and subterfuge on his part.

The judge went on to read defense arguments that his mother allowed his head to flop around as an infant and fed him sugar water.

Bad on Mom.  But Mom didn't RAPE AND MURDER A NINE YEAR OLD CHILD.

What he will receive for his HAC - judicial initials for Heinous, Atrocious & Cruel - actions, is much more lenient.  He will now languish on death row, at taxpayer expense, luxuriating in an appeals process which is a personal affront to every member of Jessica's family.  And someday, he may finally meet his end at the hands of the state, but certainly not under the horrific circumstances he inflicted upon a little girl..

We all know how slowly turn the wheels of our justice system.  So honestly? Jessica received the death sentence.  Couey just received a longer life.

Burns Me Up

Lest anyone think I was exaggerating yesterday in speculating a nearly 1 : 1 ratio of dog maulings to children left in hot cars, think again.

I'm really not one for hyperbole.

Two more children died yesterday in separate incidents:

1. A 2 month old baby in St. Louis, apparently the victim of crossed wires (I'm being kind here), when Mom put the baby in Dad's car, but Dad thought Mom had taken the child to daycare.

2.  A 2 year old Ohio toddler left behind by her absentminded mother, a school assistant principal, on a day when temps reached 100 degrees.

Is it redundant to ask the question, What the F*CK?!?

This makes the summer death toll of children forgotten, or intentionally left behind in vehicles, by parents - 22.

OK, I'm done being kind.

As to the 2 month old child.  Are people really THIS busy and self involved that a two month old child can be so overlooked, treated like nothing more than an object to be placed in a car, so one can get on with their day?  And is it not worth stating to your spouse, "Honey, I put the baby in your car?"

And while we're at it, why is the baby just being strapped in and left in the driveway or garage without supervision? 

And the 2 year old?  I'm sorry, but NEVER, not on my busiest, most sleep deprived of days, did I even come close to forgetting I had a baby or toddler in a seat behind me.

NEVER.

The word is PRIORITY, and it is a very simple concept, people.  If you have a child, the onus is on YOU to check and recheck - hell, simply REMEMBER, where he/she is AT ALL TIMES.  Nothing - no job, no schedule, no meeting - NOTHING, is more important than the child.

I have no doubt that these parents are racked with grief at the deaths of their children.  But they also need to be racked with grief, their souls ripped to shreds, over how miserably, how tragically, how completely, they failed these children as parents.

Am I judging?  You're goddamned right I am.  These children, and 20 others, were baked to death.  And for no reason other than they were not important enough to be remembered, or too inconvenient to deal with.

May their tiny souls rest easy in peace.  And may their parents never rest easy again.