Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

The Human Need For Connection

I wrote yesterday of Elliott Rodger, the killer who blamed the world, especially all females, for his problems, exacting his "retribution" in the form of stabbings, gunshots, and vehicular assaults.

While his final video has been widely viewed, far fewer have seen or read his 137 page document entitled My Twisted World. 

 

I took several hours this morning and read it in its entirety.  I did not expect answers, but hoped to gain a little insight.

While absolutely nothing he wrote, detailed, described serves as justification for his acts of murder, the aptly titled document gives a stark view into his world, and the world around him, as he perceived it.

He scripts out his life from birth to 22, remembering his very young years with fondness, and yes, a little frustration thrown in - a seminal moment apparently being his denied access to The Jurassic Park ride at an amusement park when he was 6 due to his height.

As he chronicles the passing years - his parents' divorce and constant shuttling between an ever changing number of residences; multiple schools; summer camps; a "wicked" stepmother figure; an absentee father, etc - one thing becomes very clear.

This is someone who desperately wanted to connect, but never knew how.

That is not an excuse or even an explanation that in any way acquits murdering innocent people.  It is simply an observation on the human race in general.

We all need to feel connected.  We all want to feel we belong, are accepted, matter.

Babies need to feel nurtured.  Toddlers, protected, loved.  While we cannot define that longing in those early years, it absolutely exists.  Our first truly conscious taste of this yearning hits when we enter school and humans do what we do - we group, we separate, clique. 

If lucky, we experience inclusion, the feeling that we have a peer group in which we are accepted, safe.  But what of those who hover on the margins?  Those whom are viewed as "different" "odd" "weird"?

Exclusion is painful.  Loneliness can be debilitating because we are hardwired to seek the company, the security of others.

As years of exclusion go by, heightened by the ever present cruelness of other teens, the feelings of isolation, longing to belong become a hyperfocus.  And in the face of crippling social awkwardness, blame and anger soon take hold.

In the case of Elliott, he blamed everyone for his lack of connection - his parents, his siblings, bigger guys, blonde girls.  Even when he did have "friends," other boys he connected with via a love of video games, he ultimately grew to blame and hate them, too, as they made connections of their own.

The reality is though, Elliott was largely to blame for his position.

Reading his musings, it is clear he never reached out, simply assumed girls should fall into his lap.  When they did not, they were "denying" him what he "deserved."  He routinely enrolled and then dropped out of college classes because no girls would pay attention to him or he could not stand to see other guys talking to girls while they ignored him.

I'm sorry, but to every man, woman, and child out there who thinks the world should beat a path to your door because you perceive yourself to be so worthy?  Get over yourselves.  Breathing is not a reason to be loved.  Simply sitting somewhere does not mean the populace will intuit what a spectacular human being you are and rush to your side.  And guys?  If you want attention from a girl, you need to open your mouth and have something of value or interest come out of it.  Girls, the same thing goes.  Yes, I realize that tits and ass can do a lot of the talking for you in a bar setting, but have a little more self worth than that.

Other people want to connect, but if all you exude is silence, they will move on to the next human who shows an openness to interaction.

Nothing in Elliott's writing shows he ever did that.  He would go on walks in the hopes he would meet a girl, yet he would not talk to any.  He would show up at parties and stew, hating the couplings taking place around him, yet he would never approach anyone.  He would yearn for connection, but took not one step forward to connect.

In his anger and loneliness, he focused on the one thing he truly felt he was being denied:  female affection.  Or, let's be real honest here:  female affuckion.

"I was giving the female gender one last chance to provide me the pleasures I deserved from them."

That line was written as he was about to turn 22, still a virgin, and had decided to go out and find a party with which to grace everyone with his "supreme" presence.  The result?  His scowling, fuming, drunkedness, and attempt to physically hurt others earned him a connection all right.  An ass kicking that left him bruised, and a broken leg from trying to push others off a ledge only to be the one to fall.

Again, in his worldview, he was a victim, beaten by "brutes" and spurned by "blond sluts."

While a reading of his victimy screed does little more than point fingers every direction but his own, sadly, if even a small percentage of his parents' portrayed behavior is accurate, they knew he was struggling badly, but simply wanted him out of their hair.  Yes, they provided therapists, but they also provided a car (and a newer, better car when he whined about "car hierarchy"), an apartment (and a bigger, better apartment when he whined about roommates), money - and they went about their lives, one could say, in the hope that out of sight meant out of mind and trouble.  I have a 22 year old.  Is she an adult?  Yes.  But I am still extensively involved in her well being and $upport, and there is a ton of control I can exert if the situation arises.

No parent wants to believe their child is a danger to themselves or anyone else.  But when flag after flag pops up, more needs done than simply providing what is being whined for.

That being said, Elliott was not stupid.  A reading of his writing shows someone with a command of the language, expression, creativity, extensive thought.  These are not ramblings.  These are coherent pages of his emotions.  Socially stilted and awkward?  YES.  Had a psychiatrist recently prescribed a medication (which he refused to take after researching it)?  YES.  Was he completely wrongheaded in his views?  YES.  Did he write of how frequently he would break down in tears, both privately and to his mother?  YES.

That last part would be a huge red flag for me as a parent.  If even the most trivial of slights (perceived, or real) were chronically pushing my child to emotional tantrums, I would not just provide them with more and assume all will be ok.

Am I laying it all at his parents' feet?  Of course not.  Elliott was, if nothing else, a great actor.

As his manifesto winds down to the Day of Retribution, the only thing that ramps up is his belief that his life has been wasted because he has never had a girlfriend.  He was convinced that if even one girl had been attracted to him, his whole life would have been different.  He comes to the conclusion that since not one girl wanted the "magnificent gentleman" that he was, the entire femlae populace was mentally defective, unable to be trusted to make good decisions in choosing mates.  We, in his words, are "cruel by nature."

While reading, I lost track of the number of times I wanted to reach through the manuscript, smack him upside the head, and tell him, "You're an attractive kid.  But that's not enough!  Your car, sunglasses, designer labels mean NOTHING.  You have to show people some personality.  You have to open yourself up and risk rejection if you ever want to connect ... with anyone."

Parents, I cannot stress enough the importance of staying connected to your children, paying attention to their world.  Have the tough talks about life, love, sex.  Be brutal in the truth - no one owes them anything.  That their behavior will have the lion's share to do with people wanting to come into their life.  That they cannot expect a full life if they do nothing to immerse, engage.  Teach them that no matter what they think they see, other people have their own insecurities, suffering, doubts, too.  That the grass is rarely greener on the other side of the fence.

And if you have sons, I beg you - teach them to respect girls, from a very young age.  Girls are not whores.  They are not bitches.  They are not simply things to look at, lust after.  And they are not cum depositories.  Teach them that a short skirt on a girl does not absolve them from bad behavior towards her. 

How dare those girls give their love and sex to those other men and not me.

So much was wrong with how he viewed women.  So very much from the very beginning when his body began to change and he began to notice the opposite sex.

Puberty is brutal.  For both sexes.  Hormones erupt, bodies change rapidly, and desire to pair up is strong.  It is also natural.  But what it is not is deserved.  No girl owes a boy sex.  And no girl deserves to be treated like an object.

Yes, yes, yes - there are going to be girls your sons encounter that are bereft of actual intellect, choosing to rely solely on their physical assets.  Girls who have been taught no better than the boys who behave equally bad.

But in the realm of truly connecting with another human being, sex is icing, not the cake.

No one ever explained that to Elliott. 

In his final words, he writes Humanity has rejected me.

No, no it hadn't.  Elliott simply was never taught that if you want someone to come in, you have to be willing to reach out. 

Sadly, when he finally did decide to reach out, it was with knife and gun in hand.

Missed-ogyny

This face.  Take a good look at it.

Knowing nothing of what we have learned the past 24 hours, all one sees is a decent looking young man.  Soft smile in the golden sunlight.  Could be smart, could be stupid.  Could be tall, could be short.  Could be nice, could be mean.  Could be straight, could be gay.  Could be single, could be attached.  Could be ANYTHING.

Now, let the image speak.

All the promise of youth vanishes.  All the passably attractive turns ugly.  All the potential for intelligence fades into the narcissistic ignorance of entitlement.  And that soft smile is revealed to be the home of misplaced rage, impotence, and blame.

Elliott Rodger, only 22, recorded this diatribe detailing his grievances, and then 24 hours after uploading it to Youtube, carried out the sentence he deemed appropriate:  Death.

The first three, his roommates, died violently by stabbing.  Two young women died of gunshots on the lawn outside a sorority.  Another, shot with them, survived and is in the hospital.

The carnage continued as Rodger raced down the streets of Isla Vista, shooting indiscriminately, running into pedestrians, and finally crashing his BMW and shooting himself in the head.  In all, police note nine separate crime scenes.

Now, seven people lie in a California morgue - six innocent, 1 - Rodgers - all dead at his hands.   Still more remain in hospitals in the area recovering from wounds received in this spree.

While oftentimes a killer takes their reasons with them to the grave, in the case of Elliott, his string of videos and manifesto of sorts paint a pretty clear picture of his "reasoning."  That word is in quotes because there are no justifiable reasons for what he did, save in the confines of his own little world.

As he details in his video the perceived transgressions against him, any normal rational person's reaction is that they are trite, ridiculous, stupid even.  He was 22 and a virgin, never having even kissed a girl.  Horrors! Girls never gave him his due, never paid attention to him, "the superior one," "a true alpha male."  Oh boo hoo.

He railed against his “loneliness, rejection, and unfulfilled desires,” all, in his opinion, purposefully meted out by "stuck up blonde sluts."

He attempts to sound evil as he punctuates his blathering with pathetic laughter, all the while promising to "slaughter" all those whom he holds accountable:  girls.

Let me first state, unequivocally, I am glad he is dead.  Good riddance to a pathetic little boy whose self entitlement drips off him in his video.  I reserve my thoughts and sympathy for the friends and families of those whose only guilt was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

This man-boy, who yes, could very well have suffered from some mental issues, suffered from something else very plain to see:  the belief that girls, women owe him their attentions, their affections, their bodies.

To him and every lonely boy or man out there, let me make this clear:  WE OWE YOU NOTHING.

Not attention.  Not the time of day.  Not affection, not love, and most definitely, not the pussy to which you think you are so entitled.

One of the websites to which this person belonged is PUAHate.com - the squalid home of internet losers who believe women are "game" and that getting "laid" is their right - a right being denied them by "bitches" "hos" and "whores."

They believe there are tricks to be employed to get laid - because make no mistake - even a cursory glance at their message boards reveals that is all on which they focus.  They believe that better bone structure, a bigger physique, or a sturdier brow ridge would turn them into panty droppers.

It couldn't possibly be that they are just creeps, could it?  That they give off the stench of what's to be avoided in this world.  Danger.

Like the murderous little shithead in the BMW, they have zero understanding of what any woman - hell, any decent HUMAN - truly wants in a mate.

They do not understand intelligence, the ability to converse, sense of humor, compassion, dignity, honor, all the things that are left standing when good looks wear thin, as they eventually do.

We are visual creatures, we just are.  That is what first attracts us to one another, but again, looks may turn a head, but personality is what reels you in, makes you stay.

Given the culture in which we find ourselves these days - politicians hellbent on reducing women down to their sexual organs; religious leaders placing the blame for rape at our feet, not our attackers, and a generation which seems to believe they are owed what they want when they want it - it is no surprise that someone like Rodger strikes out, instead of looking in.

Surely women are to blame because there is absolutely nothing missing in his make up.

If you have a son or daughter in, approaching, or even past puberty, watch this video with them.  And then talk about the dangerously warped views therein.  They need taught that they will be on the receiving end of rejection at some point in life - personal, professional - it will happen.  They need taught that they will likely be the one doing the rejecting at some point.  Sons need told that just because someone spurns their advances, that person is not automatically a bitch or a ho.  Not everyone likes everyone.  They don't like every girl or every boy, do they?  And please, reinforce that being a virgin is not a crime.  Virginity is not some stain that needs eradicated.  Losing it doesn't make you a man, it doesn't make you a woman.  It just makes you someone who had sex.  Sex, when it finally comes into the offing, is their decision as much as the other person involved.  It should be fulfilling for both.  It should carry wonderful emotions, not violence, objectification, or some sense of possession.  And teach them that loneliness is a choice.  Sure, there may be romantic relationship dry spells in their lives, but being lonely doesn't have to exist.  The world is full of people to talk to, do things with, share interests.  Most of all, teach them respect.  Respect for themselves, respect for those around them.

In the days ahead we will learn more about Elliott and his personal history.  Already we know his family worried about past videos he had posted.  So much so that they had the police pay him a visit, a visit he smoothly talked his way through, allaying authority concerns. 

In his 140 page manifesto, delivered via email to his parents and at least one therapist prior to his rampage (reports state he had been seeing therapists on and off since he was 8), he wrote of that visit, "I had the striking and devastating fear that someone had somehow discovered what I was planning to do, and reported me for it  If that was the case, the police would have searched my room, found all of my guns and weapons, along with my writings about what I plan to do with them. I would have been thrown in jail, denied of the chance to exact revenge on my enemies. I can't imagine a hell darker than that."

His sister worried about his loner status, inability to connect.  Perhaps there was something at play that could have been diagnosed. Knowing he was under the care of multiple heathcare professionals, something probably had been diagnosed.   Perhaps he was overindulged and undersupervised in his youth.  But the biggest thing that went overlooked was this: his misogyny.

Because make no mistake, Elliott was not just sad that he could not find love, he was angry at those he did not respect to begin with because he, too, reduced women to the sum of their parts.

Guys, are there girls out there who lead with their assets, knowing their bra size is bigger than their IQ?  Of course.  Just as there are bohunk meatheads who believe the size of their biceps make them autoqualified for closing time hook-ups.  May these two types find one another and live happily in their ignorance.

But just as there are lonely guys, there are equal numbers of lonely girls.  Shy, a little awkward, unsure how to meet someone, let alone strike up a conversation and connect.

The sick lot at PUAHate are not lonely, they are angry.  They are not shy, they are trolls who have watched too much porn and too little real life.  They are not unsure how to meet someone, they are vengeful because no woman has magically dropped her pants and worshipped at the altars of their manhood.  

Women are not their problem.  Women were not Elliott's problem.  But in their minds we are what we have been throughout history, a convenient excuse, a scapegoat, a pile of parts put here solely for their pleasure.

Advice to those guys:  Buy a blow-up doll, because that's really all you want, or could handle, anyway.

The End Of An Era

Deep breath...

It's over. 

Carson donned her Lonestar uniform for the last time this morning.  It was the black one as they were the Home team, but that was perfect, as it is her favorite of the two.  She feels they look more fierce.

This has been an amazing final season for Carson, for the other seniors on the team, for the whole team.  Doing what they do so well - play FOR each other - they dominated their season, winning every game and only allowing two goals.

This set them up for a run at the State title against the second place team from Western District and the top two teams from Eastern District.

Yesterday they took on both Eastern District teams and the games were what they should be at this level - HARD - but good, cleanly played, well reffed games.  In both, they managed to find the goal and come away with the win.

That set them up for their final match against their Western District opponent.  It was a must win.  But even with that pressure in the air, these were my girls before their warm-up.

As beautiful and goofy as they are skilled.

The game kicked off and it wasn't long before most of us were standing.  It simply was not a game that could be watched in our chairs.  The girls fought brilliantly against a truly solid team.

Unfortunately, relying on skills was not all the other team did.  It turned ugly very quickly.  And sadly we had been given a young ref crew, either ill equipped or unwilling to call a game to protect all the players.

For 90 minutes they battled against injury, calls that made little sense if any, and a clock that just did not have enough minutes left.

They went down 1-0.

Now, I have watched these girls for years.  I know when they are playing well, cohesively, with purpose.  And I have seen the times they show up and I don't even recognize their performance.  Such is the game of soccer.

But this weekend I can say my girls left everything on the field.  Their hearts, souls, and literal blood, sweat, and tears.  That is all you can ask of them, all they can ask of each other.

I am incredibly proud of them.  I have always said I would rather them walk away with a clean loss rather than a dirty win, and that is what they did this morning.

There were many tears on their sideline as Ciaran gave a post game talk.  Especially from our three seniors as the reality set in that they had heard their final whistle with this team.  They would have loved to extend their season just a little longer with a run to Regionals.  But he stressed he was proud of them also.  They had played brilliant soccer, and they played THEIR game.

(The walk to the awards area took a tad longer than usual for me as one of our players had gone down hard in the game and - Murphy's Law of player injuries - her mom was not at this game.  After awards I ended up taking her to the Urgent Care that saw Carson last Sunday - badly fractured wrist.)

By the time we got to the awards area with the other 3 teams (I had Christina carted there so she could be with them) - they had dried their tears, and as coaches awarded 4th and 3rd place medals to their teams, they cheered for those who had been their opponents yesterday.

And then it was Ciaran's turn.  He called each girl up to place a medal around their neck.  Saving the three seniors for last, he lauded Ophelie, our goalie, for the calm phenom that she is.  Sarah, one of the best defenders around, he brought up with the words, "She puts her head where I wouldn't even put a shovel."  And it's true - she is home right now with a concussion.

Finally he called up Carson, calling her his "protege'."  My tears came.

These two have had four years together and are bonded for life.  Four years of ups and downs, laughter, frustration, and times when I think they both wanted to kill one another.  She would turn herself inside out for this man, and has, and I can't think of much he wouldn't do for her.

The girls then sat down and cheered for the team that they had just played against.  I was very proud of them.  A class act to the end.

After, they assembled one more time as a team for pictures.

Through more tears I managed to click the shutter.

These are four of the most beautiful ladies who TEAR. IT. UP. on the field. Talia, Carson, O, and Sarah.

Carson, Ophelie, and Sarah - they have been together for four years - through every up and down, every injury, every frustration, every win, every loss, experiencing it all together here at home, on the road, on the other side of the world.  They have had one another's back on the field and off and I will miss seeing them together.  They head off to UT Dallas, SMU, and St. Mary's.

I will miss them all.  These girls are more than just players I have managed for years.  They are my daughters.  They are my heart.  They accept my presence and honor me with the greatest compliment an adult can receive from a teen - they are themselves.  Their trust has meant the world to me.  Sheparding them from game to game, across the state, out of the state, out of the country has been my honor.  I love them all.

Ciaran entered our lives at a tournament in Dallas years ago and I hope he never leaves.  We have known him for four years, he has coached her for three, I have managed for him for three.  Like Carson, we have ridden the highs and lows, frustrations, laughs, shared alcohol while floating down a river in Europe past castles (OK, Carson didn't share THAT with him), and yes, at times wanted to kill one another, but I truly love the man and will miss him so much.

And Carson, who has poured herself into this game, this team, this club - I thank her for her patience, her acceptance.  Other players get a break from their parents.  She never does.  Training, I'm there.  Games, I'm there.  We travel, I'm there (often times half the team ends up in our room between games because I tend to be like the Pied Piper).  Pregame, I'm there on her sideline setting up.  Post game, I'm there on her sideline breaking things down.  I know it has been hard at times to constantly have her mom right there, but she has been amazing. 

Endings are hard.  They just are.  Tears fell from Carson's eyes on the ride home.  These girls, their parents, Ciaran - they have given us such an incredible ride.  They have been my family, Carson's family.   My heart is full as I type this, but so are my eyes.

I know one era is ending and another is about to begin.  I know I have the excitement of watching Carson don a new uniform at UT Dallas in the fall, but I will miss washing the stink out of the Lonestar ones.  She has worn them hard, she has worn them well.  And I know I will watch from afar as the juniors come back in the fall to kick off their final seasons, and Carson, O, and Sarah head off to their colleges to begin their next chapters.

But I will miss them.  So very much.  And this is why...

Remember that first picture up above?  The one of the beautiful goofs?  Well, even in the face of a heartbreaking loss (although 2nd in State in nothing to sneeze at), this is how they left the fields.  My girls.  My goofs. 

97G Red North - thank you so much for years of amazing memories - I love you all.

Schooled By A Homeschooler

Read this.  <Click on link

This young lady is spot on in her assessment of what happened to her.  Not simply that she was singled out because her legs are long.  She nails the fact that girls and women are NOT responsible for the bullshit, "impure thoughts," boners, and lust of boys and men. 

It is not up to us to manage their testosterone. 

This whole culture that lays the blame at the feet of the woman is wrong.  Flat out wrong.

Boys and men ARE capable of controlling their urges, but this culture would decree that they aren't.  This culture believes that rape is our fault, beyond the control of the perpetrator.  This culture is convinced that a short skirt, some cleavage, or make-up acquits a man from all responsibility for his actions.  This culture would have us in burkas if they could.

News flash:  Your dick is not our problem. 

But if you continue to try to tell us it is, we will happily take measures to insure it is not a problem anymore.  Would you prefer a stiletto to the ballsac, or simply the removal of your shaft with a rusty knife?  We're cool either way.

Truth or Scare

We live in a country filled with different people.  Colors, shapes, religions, sexual orientations, likes, dislikes, languages, accents, outlooks.

This is traditionally what has made this country so unique.  America - the Melting Pot.  The place where all can come, dive in, and have their shot at a life of freedoms and privileges unlike any found in the majority of countries on this globe.

Sounds nice, a great marketing tool - at least on the surface. 

The reality is much different.

Yes, we are a country where a simple trip to the local Starbucks could find you in line with three different ethnicities, five religions, and at least one vegan.  (Had to throw that in there since so many still think of us as something not quite human.)  Customer Service lines offer options for at least two languages.  And just about every town has, at least,  churches, temples, and mosques.

Sadly, instead of embracing the beautiful differences around us, we tend to circle the wagons and hang with those who are just like us, peeking outside our comfort zones just long enough to cast a glance, a glare, an aspersion.

Missed opportunities all around.

You won't "catch the gay" by getting to know someone who is gay.  You won't be insta-converted by saying Hello to the missionary on your doorstep.  And no one will require you to eat tofu just because they do.

People are actually pretty great, on the whole.  And your world will only get larger and more vibrant by letting them in.

But.

Yes, you knew there was a but coming.

There is, in my opinion, a type of people who are deserving of shame, ridicule, ostracization.  They are the people for whom other's hardships are funny.  Who like to belittle those who struggle.  Who trade in lies, half truths, and hate.

I do realize that pretty much encompasses all the folks on AM Radio, FOX "news", the Koch brothers, Karl Rove, Anne Coulter, Alex Jones, etc.  Their favorite theme this week is to make fun of the #bringbackourgirls hashtag being seen across Twitter and in memes on Facebook. The hashtag went viral as it did what it was meant to do - draw attention to the heinous kidnapping of hundreds of girls in Nigeria.  Can it alone bring them back?  Of course not.  But since it started, this ignorant country of ours, addicted to reality TV has learned about true reality. 

And if a simple hashtag can open some eyes and pry them away from Miley Cyrus's tongue and the obscene display of ME ME ME as Kim Kardashian attempts yet another marriage - then GOOD.  To those who have openly mocked it on your radio shows and TV couches?  We already knew you were worthless sacks of shit, but thank you for reminding us lest we start to forget from whence that ever pervasive stench emanates.

The other group for whom I have zero tolerance are the Truthers.  Those for whom every incident is a grassy knoll.  And just like their cousins, the equally doltish Birthers, no amount of proof will ever convince them that the homemade video they saw on Youtube by some Bubba in a bunker is just that - BUNK.

They came out of their NUTshells again after Sandy Hook, when this entire nation - at least the decent people in it - was brought to its knees as the reports came in.  26 dead.  TWENTY of them little children, ages 6 and 7.  

Still, I sit here and cannot comprehend the soul crushing agony of those parents.  You simply do not send your first grader off to school with their PB&J and envision them never coming back.  You just don't.  Hell, none of us with kids in high school want to envision that, but we have seen enough to know that there is always a risk.

But first graders?  No, just no.

Their bodies were not even recovered, the blood in the classroom not even dry, before the assholes of this nation began holding court.  It was a set up.  All staged.  Those crying parents?  Actors.  All of them. 

And why?  Because there are enough wetbrains in this land of ours who cannot accept any facts than mess with their inner narrative of "hate the government," "hate the libruls," "gonna take our guns," and that black man is still in our White House."

Their rantings are deplorable, their rhetoric unforgiveable.  They are lower than pondscum.  They deserve only derision.

Yet they continue to do what they do - harrass those whose lives were torn asunder.  Pouring their verbal salt into wounds that will never truly heal, and recruiting equally ignorant minds into their ranks.

Yet just when you think they can go no lower, they find a bigger backhoe and dig deeper.

This is Grace McDonnell.  She was only 7 years old when Adam Lanza entered her classroom and ended her life.

This was the sign at the memorial playground named after Grace.  A simple, beautiful, appropriate place built to remember a child.  It is 1 of 26 being built as memorials to those lost that day.

This sign was stolen from the playground last Tuesday.

Fine.  Vandals exist, they do. 

But this theft owes not to some prank playing, insensitive teenager, but to a Truther.  A Truther who not only stole the sign but then called Grace's parents to taunt them, telling them again that Sandy Hook never happened, and worse, that Grace never even existed.

Put yourself on the end of that phone call.  Bad enough that your soul will never heal from losing your child.  That your sleep will never come easy; that your dreams and nightmares won't forever replay what you know of your child's last moments on this earth.  But then to have a stranger harass you, bragging about their theft and spitting on your lost child's memory.

These people need exterminated.  They just do.  And if you think that is harsh, so be it.  But anyone who seeks to bring more pain to something like this?  NOT NEEDED.

To all the truther nuts out there - no one is coming for your guns.  But frankly, if you are this mentally addled, this paranoid, this trigger happy - someone should.

Sandy Hook happened.  20 beautiful children and 6 caring adults were struck down, their school turned into a place of carnage.  If you refuse to accept the facts that have thoroughly debunked your BUNK, that is your problem.

But when you crawl from your holes and spread your poison, you have made it our problem and society needs to stand up and deal with you.

I know we're all different.  I like that.  But this is one difference I simply cannot tolerate.

#BringBackOurDecency

Don't They Go By In A Blink

Those words are spoken by Anthony Hopkins' character in Meet Joe Black as he ponders his 65th birthday and Death stands at the ready.

Today I sit here pondering the years as well.  And my conclusion is the same.

Don't they go by in a blink.

For years you have all indulged me as I have shared stories from the Sharp household.  You have gotten to know our daughters, cheered their triumphs, offered support when challenges have done what challenges do - altered courses, created tears, and ultimately built character.

Three amazing girls who have grown into three amazing women.

In less than a month's time, Carson will walk across the stage to cheers as she leaves high school behind and moves into her future as a collegiate student-athlete.  An exciting future.  A future she has worked so hard to insure.

Culley is hard at work regaining what was stolen from her 18 months ago when her life was so dramatically knocked off course.  But oh, what a difference 18 months make.  In that time she has found herself again, reignited the light that has always burned so bright inside her.  Purpose, drive, focus, and happiness - all hers.  And an equally amazing young man by her side.

As her mother, I wish I could erase the damage that the one before inflicted.  Take back the pain, humiliation, the sense of being lost.  But I also sit here knowing that like so much in life that knocks us down and takes our breath away - were it not for what happened, none of what has happened since could have.

Today, Kendall heads into an adventure unlike any she has known before.  She will embark on a study abroad to Beijing.  I know I have driven her crazy with reminders, questions, and more reminders in the run up, but like any parent, we keep a portion of our child frozen in our minds as a child.  The reality is Kendall is an adult.  20 years old, responsible, focused, driven, and prepared.

I guess all of this goes to say that the reality also is, I'm not.

These years that have gone by in a blink have been amazing, fulfilling, stressful, sometimes charmed, sometimes brutal.  But dammit, they have gone by too fast.  Perhaps it is just a mother's heart breaking a little as all her children leave the nest.  Perhaps it is this mother's acknowledgement that my life is changing as fast as is theirs.  After all, come August, I am out of business. 

I will have to repurpose myself.  Redefine, rediscover who I am when not parenting fulltime.  No need to lecture on future grandbabies, etc.  I'm not fragile or frightened - just observing.

My house will be empty, but my heart will be full. I know I have done a good job.  Not perfect, but as I wrote yesterday, there is no "perfect" in this parenting business.  I just know that I can look at these girls and see they are ready.

Even if I'm not.

Don't they go by in a blink.

A Tale Of Two Titties

She was the best of moms, she was the worst of moms...

I have watched this morning as my Facebook feed overfloweth with glowing prose, flowery gifs, and memories a plenty - all announcing to the world that "I have the best mom ever, ever, everever."

Pardon my need to inject a tad of reality here, but no, no you don't.

And that is not me jumping in to plant my own hyperbolic flag decreeing that it is MY mom who is the World's Best.

She isn't.  Yours isn't.  Hers isn't.  His isn't.  I'm not.  You're not.  She's not.  And he's not.

Mothering is a complicated, messy, make-it-up-as-you-go-along affair.  It is rife with trial and error - usually at the expense of the eldest child.  It is exhausting, stressful, joyous, fulfilling, draining, boring, exciting.

Frankly, motherhood should be classified as bi-polar.  The extreme highs always sure to be countered by an equally depressing low.   Our infinite love only matched by our infinite fear of something happening to our children.

We laugh, we cry, we tear our hair out, we worry, we scream, we feel remorse, we feel depressed, we feel grateful, we feel trapped.  All honest, normal, expected reactions and feelings to being a mother.

You feel this way as a mother.  And yes, your "best" mother felt this way about you and her life mothering you.

None of us is the best mom.  All of us are the best mom.  All of us are also the worst mom.  It depends on the day, the circumstances, the child involved.

Was my own mom stellar, stupendous, without peer?  Of course not.  She was young with four children.  She did her best.  Did she always get it right?  Of course not.  And it is because of her stumbles, falls, and sometimes failures that I am a better mom. 

That is actually the best way to honor a mother.  Not by throwing some one day a year ticker tape Hallmark parade, but by letting her know you learned from her.  Not just how to wipe a tear, but how to work against causing the tear in the first place.  Not just how roll a pie crust, but how to roll with the unexpected.  That you learned from the eff ups she's had while parenting you and work hard to not replicate them with your own kids.

Because we ALL screw up.  Every single one of us.  Every mother looks back over the landscape of her parenting and fervently wishes she could change moments, reactions, stupid rules, time allottment.  We wish we could reshoot scenes in which we reacted horribly because of something frustrating us, not because of something our child did.  We wish we could rewind to key moments when we dropped the ball because we weren't paying close enough attention to realize they were key moments.

We are in one moment the super hero, in the next the villian.  Thought to be amazingly brilliant, then dumber than a rock.  Someone to be proud of, the next season of life to be embarrassed by.  The Rock of Gibralter when needed, a mass of quicksand when not.

My mom was wonderful, is wonderful.  But she and I both acknowledge how very much she would change if she could.  Moments she knows she let one of us down because in that moment she knows she was also letting herself down.  Moments she wishes she could have broken free from the generational ties that mentally bound her and relegated her to a particular status.  She knows that now because with every year I have have grown, she has grown.

If she could do it all over again, armed with the knowledge, strength, wisdom she has gained?  Would she be a better mom?  Sure, we all would be.  But this life is learned on-the-job.

My siblings and I never wanted for her love.  Never.  And I actually grew up in a privileged position of meaning it when I called her my best friend as a teenager.  She still is one of my best friends to this day. 

But to call her the world's best mom would be a disservice.  A lie.

She is MY mom.  And like me, is still as much a teacher as a student in this life in which motherhood has been her vocation.  As a mother who flounders, falls, triumphs and fails - I see very clearly back over my own landscape to the potholes I wish I could have avoided or filled, the wounds I caused that were beyond the reach of an emotional Band-aid.  The times I wished I could have shut my mouth but my own frustrations opened it.  I also now understand, because of my mom, that sometimes accepting status as "the worst" in our child's eyes is us actually doing the best for them.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.

Dickens may just as well have written that about being a mom.

Happy Mother's Day to every mother out there, every mother who has gone before.  We may not ever be the best, but that's ok.  After all, mothering is not about gold medals.  It's about being brave enough to step into the unknown and do your best with what comes at you.

The End Of Wasted Make-up?

We all have it.  The drawer full of dead make-up.  Lipstick we loved under the fluorescent lights in Target, but despise when on our lips in the light of a GE 75 watt bulb.  Blush that seemed perfect in the package, but garish on the cheek.  And eye shadows.  Oy.  I have a graveyard of eye shadows that should be renamed What Was I Thinking?

Whether you frequent Walmart for your make-up or pay the premiums found in the land of Sephora, we have all wa$ted countle$$ dollar$ since we began playing with our faces as young girls.

Enter MINK.  Combine the technology of 3D printing with the ability to literally see a color and instantly print the product to match?  Mind blown.  Click to watch the video (her presentation skills are a tad dry, but the end result is awesome.)

 

Print Your Own Makeup With Mink

We Are Women, Hear Us Roar

Back in 1972, Helen Reddy sang the words, "I am woman, hear me roar."  It became an anthem, a touchstone, a rallying cry to females that we are strong, we are capable, we do not need a man in order to survive in this world.  In 1975 the United Nations even embraced it as the theme song for the International Women's Year.

One stanza has been echoing through my head: 

I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin' arms across the land
But I'm still an embryo
With a long, long way to go
Until I make my brother understand

Until I make my brother understand.

I wrote yesterday of the innocent schoolgirls kidnapped at gunpoint by extremists in Nigeria.  The heartbreak of the parents, the unimaginable fear of the girls.  It is based in religious, cultural, and dangerous precepts.

From our perch way over here in the states it is easy to sit in judgment, lament the backwards thinking that brings something like this about, bemoan the plight of women in far flung countries.

But the reality is we are no better here in the good ol' US of A. 

Women are still regarded as lesser.  Less deserving of regard.  Less deserving of equal pay for equal work.  Less able to lead, make decisions.  Less deserving of dominion over our own bodies. 

Many religions with massive followings here in our borders require women be subserviant to their men.  Treat women as chattle, broodmares.  Daughters as property of their fathers.

We have politicians pushing into our bodies further and further each day, legislating what we can and cannot do with them, signaling that we cannot be trusted to understand our deeply personal circumstances, so surely MEN must step in and dictate.  They hold hearings in which not a single woman sits on the committees, only Y chromosomes are allowed to speak.

Religious leaders place the responsibility for rape not at the feet of the aggressor, but at the short skirt or yoga pants of the victim.  Surely we are "asking for it" and "deserve" to be raped. (Arizona pastor Dean Saxon)  Just last week a Texas judge, female no less, gave an admitted rapist probation - working in a rape crisis center - because the victim was not a virgin and did not cry during the assault.

I have two daughters and the onslaught against their liberties, their freedoms, their bodies, their safety is sickening to me.  I have not raised them to be docile little lambs.  I have not instilled in them some sense of "lesser than" to a man.  I have not withheld the importance of education, self fulfillment, chasing their dreams.

Yet even with a lifetime growing up in a pro-woman environment, one of my own daughters found herself trapped in a relationship in which the male believed it was his right to dominate, dictate, punish.  He found out how wrong he was when this FEMALE kicked his sorry ass to the curb.

This male belief (and I stress that NO, it is not EVERY male) that men are stronger, smarter, meant to be in charge is bullshit.  It is a learned mindset, a brainwashed-from-youth set of marching orders.  Whether handed down by an equally doltish father, steeped in a patriarchal culture from birth, or sanctioned by the religious teachings in a church - boys still grow into men around the world believing it is not only permissible, but ordained, to have dominion over women.

The Reverend Jesse Lee Peterson has actually said, from the pulpit, "I think that one of the greatest mistakes America made was to allow women the opportunity to vote. We should’ve never turned this over to women. It was a big mistake... And these women are voting in the wrong people. They’re voting in people who are evil who agrees (sic) with them who’re gonna take us down this pathway of destruction."

And why, pray tell?  "You walk up to them with a issue, they freak out right away. They go nuts. They get mad. They get upset, just like that. They have no patience because it’s not in their nature. They don’t have love. They don’t have love."

He has also advocated men hitting their women.  That it is proper, right. 

The only person needing hit here is this charlatan.  Punched.  In the throat, that he is never able to utter another hateful, misogynistic word ever again.

Newsflash, Jesse Lee:  When presented with a problem, I analyze it, review my options, formulate a plan, and then proceed.  Thoughtfully.  Am I given to anger, emotion?  Yes, just as much as any man I have ever known who clinches their fist, shouts a profanity.  That has to do with being human, not female.

I do not need a man's permission to make a purchase.  I do not need guidance before I open my mouth.  I do not need male input before I take a step forward.  Seriously, ask Rudy how effective it is to tell me what to do.  You may as well quietly pick up the shovel and dig the hole in which your decimated body will be decomposing.

I am not a doormat.  I am not docile.  I am not cowed in the face of a man.  I am not stupid.  And woe betide any who dares to think I am. 

This notion of dominance is laughable.  The dictate that women are put here to serve and be submissive?  Give me a break.

When girls are stolen from their schools, when they are shot in the face (Malala), when they are subjegated and relegated to lesser status - it is for one reason only.

These men are scared.  Scared at the mere thought of losing power.

Scared that an educated girl will not be stupid enough to marry them.  Scared that an independent woman will not take their orders.  Frightened that a woman will rise in power over them by being smarter, better.  And scared shitless that the playing field will draw level and women will expose them for the pathetic, weak, ignorant lot they are. 

Just this week FOX news host Clayton Morris blathered on that women making more money than their husbands leads to marital discord.  Sorry, Clayton, but if a man has a problem with his wife making more money, then the problem lies within THE MAN.  A man with huge insecurity issues.  His equally dim cohort, Tucker Carlson, opined that men who allow women to pay for dinner are "disgusting."  That they are somehow weaker than a man who automatically pulls out the wallet.  Uh, Tucker, some of we women don't believe the full price tag for dating should always fall on the man, and we are ok with that.  Only an insecure little boy in a bow tie (ahem, Tucker) thinks his manhood is threatened by a woman buying his steak.

Women have fought a long and hard and sometimes bloody battle to come out of the parlors and into the boardrooms. 

Women are not property.  Women are not here to serve.  Women are not here to be raped or simply provide pleasure at the snap of a man's fingers. 

And until the world - women and secure, thoughtful, intelligent men - stands up against this abhorrent behavior against women - in EVERY country - it will continue.

So while we self righteously pick up another rock to cast at the situation in Nigeria, it may be best to remind ourselves that people in glass houses shouldn't be throwing them.

Sing it, Helen.

Pay Attention

April 14th, roughly one month ago, over 200 young girls were kidnapped at gunpoint from their school in Nigeria.

And the people of the United States barely batted an eye.

The weeks have dragged by, parental hearts breaking in half as those children still go missing.

And we the people yawn.

Today comes news that an additional 8 young girls were stolen in the night from their village.

And us?  Well, if we didn't care about 200, I hardly think a neck will turn to pay attention to this.

Which is shameful and heartbreaking.  When CNN can turn into the MH370 channel, and FOX continues to screech "Benghazi!  Benghazi!" like Rainman mumbling "Wapner" and "I'm an excellent driver" on a loop, there is something wrong.

Sure, some celebrities have taken to Twitter hashtagging to their fanbase, and yes, our government is keeping tabs, but what about us, the normal, everyday citizen?

Yes, it happened thousands of miles away.  Yes, it happened to people we will never know in a culture that is not ours.

But it doesn't make it less tragic or horrific; those children less important or loved by their parents, friends, relatives.  Less worthy of our notice, our thoughts, our prayers.

Yet if you say Bokum Haram to the average person on our streets, they are more likely to think it is a new reggae band than a dangerous group of Islamic extremists. 

When one child goes missing in this country, they become an Amber Alert, often turning into a front page story, a People exclusive.  Yet over 200 are abducted and the sad reality is that most in this country could not speak intelligently about the wheres, whys, whos.

I have said before there is a sad, human factor at play in times of tragedy:  the amount a person cares is typically in indirect proportion to their proximity to the incident.  School shooting in your town's high school, two miles from your home?  MASSIVE attention paid.  It encompasses your thoughts, emotions, efforts.  School abductions half a world away?  Meh.

We owe one another better than this.  Like it or not, we are a global community.  Our humanity, our survival on this planet depends on us being more like the Lorax and caring a whole awful lot about what happens.  Everywhere.  Not just in our own backyards.

The children who have been abducted, allegedly by Abubakar Shekau, the head of the Nigerian Islamist militant group, are no different than your children.  They laugh, they cry, they know fear, joy, pain.  And the parents involved?  Well, look in the mirror - HARD - and imagine for a moment that someone had stormed your daughter's middle school and she was taken by force.  Gone.  Poof.  That feeling?  Like ice cold fingers tearing at your guts?  That's what their parents are feeling.

If you are a decent parent, a loving parent, the kind every child deserves, then your worst possible nightmare is the thought of not knowing where your child is.

These beautiful young girls, ages 12-16, are now reportedly being sold for as little as $12 and forced to marry their kidnappers and other extremists.  In a video released by Abubakar Shekau, he states, "I abducted your girls. I will sell them in the market, by Allah,"

And their parents stand helpless, begging for something to be done, for a rescue to be mounted.  In a country rife with turmoil, extremist activity, and daily danger, their government is not exactly moving heaven and earth in show of force.

Look, I know that we, as individuals half a world away, can do nothing to save them.  We cannot storm the jungles, compounds, hidey holes of those who hold these children.

But what we can do is pay attention.  These people may not look like you or me, but they ARE you and me.  No child deserves this horror, and no parent should ever wake to find themselves in this nightmare.

And they all deserve our emotion far more than some old fart of a "rancher" in Nevada who disavows the United States goverment, yet wraps his ignorant ass in a flag; they deserve our interest far more than Kim and Kanye and their wedding plans.

They deserve a world that stands with them, face forward, fully informed.  After all, that's exactly what we would expect if it happened here.