They say tornadoes sound like a giant freight train. Or a massive swarm of bees. A loud, vocal warning of highly destructive power. Hurricanes lash out, pulverize towns like a garbage disposal, washing lives down the drain with a flood of water. A funnel drops from an ominous, boiling cloud, but there are signs before it carves its deadly path into the earth; the uptake of vapor into the greedy storm cell, the unease in the atmosphere. We can study the sky, watch for the hints that earth has decided to declare war on humanity once again, and then, marshal our forces against nature...or retreat.
We are given a choice in our destiny.
I didn't get that choice. My son, my newborn daughter, they didn't get a choice. The hundreds of thousands of Japanese who now are missing their lives, children, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, villages, they didn't get a choice. The earth buckled under our feet and there was nowhere to run to.
It's a funny thing, an earthquake. Certain things, things like a blue sky and snow in winter and gravity, aren't certain anymore. The universe laughs at our assumptions. Solids stay solid, liquids stay in oceans and we move the earth. The earth does not move us. The earthquake, an earthquake, leaves us shaken, cracked, battered. Faced with the truth of our flawed world, exposed and raw.
Truth is ugly. There is nothing uglier than the truth that you are alive, and someone else is dead. Your beautiful daughter will grow up and change the world, but someone else's beautiful daughter will not, and somehow, the world spins on and on and on.
I know much of Japan's story is written with shock, horror, and fear. But the beginning of this tale does not have to end the way it began. We can still reach out and take back some of the certainty, the control the earth stole from us that day. You can change the ending of this story, erase the words that the cruel winter weather has already begun to etch in the frost blanketing northern Japan. Please take the time to donate to the Red Cross. We cannot just sit back and let earth collect more casualties. Help save the children who survived.
It's true! By donating two photos to the innovative Boobiethon project, I've supported breast cancer research. It's simple, it's controversial, and it's effective. I love pushing the envelope for a good cause. :) You can join this cause by contributing photos (like I did), donating money, or both.
For more on Boobiethon and passionate activism, read the rest of this post-->>
I almost needed a straitjacket today. It was one of my husband's eight hour days that morph into a ten, eleven, twelve hour deal--"But, hunny, my right pinky finger is actually that axis-thingy the world spins on! I can't leave yet."--and my rambunctious toddler decided to spend all ten, eleven, twelve hours of said day alternating between tantrums and great wails of despair. I love teething.
"Something happened. Something has gone into the World Trade Center. Oh my god!" the newswoman sobbed, her rational monotone cracking into the foreign squeak of a terrified little girl.
I blank after that, a gray fuzz of pain and fury cloaking my brave new world.
And AJae's first ever "UnFollow" Friday Award goes to:
@barkway --for a remarkable inability to comprehend linguistic subtleties like humor, irony, or hyperbole, and your unreasonable hatred of conservative women. Ah, barkway, you sad little man:
[This series of screenshots is actually organized in order from first tweet to last. The red lines indicate my tweets, taken from my profile page (which is why they're sans picture)]
His best tweet of the week: RT @TimothyCarter: 10 Basic Rules Of #Twitter (And How To Avoid Being A Twanker) http://ow.ly/koIB5:43 PM Aug 18th from TweetDeck
Her best tweet of the week: RT @foxnews: POLITICS:4 American Soldiers in Iraq Charged With Cruelty, Maltreatment. http://tinyurl.com/n4bay2 ||some of this raises questions #tcotabout 13 hours ago from TweetDeck
Regardless of the specifics, no matter how beautifully it begins, it is. Every military wife reaches this conclusion, this moment, when she realizes just exactly she's gotten herself into. It starts insidiously -- a nagging feeling in your gut, a seemingly inane fight, or that one bad weekend. Then the little things implode. You start hearing a desolate, self-doubting voice in your head mouthing Dr. Phil's or Oprah's gag-worthy "signs of a cheating man," as your in-brain Lucifer points out your problems (and the stagnating stench of a rubbery dinner in the microwave) while you sit alone, waiting, again. The story of a U.S. Army mistress, continued-->>
When I was five, a giant mongrel of a dog bit me in the ass and revolutionized my idealistic views on the treatment and petting of cuddly-looking animals: shoot first, ask questions later. (I'm no Steve Irwin.) In all seriousness, though, I freely admit that I'm a huge sissy when it comes to dealing with dangerous animals. I'm terrified that something will get all munch-happy on my poor behind again, or, worse, try to sample to my son.
While the mainstream media ratchets up the pressure on anyone who dares to suggest that President Obama should put rumors to rest by releasing some form of his records to the judges in the various cases against him (depicting said dissidents-"Birthers"- as deranged lunatics), Orly Taitz's claims of a genuine (?) birth certificate from Kenya are largely being ignored. And, although Major Stefan Cook won his original case against the administration, there has been a virtual media blackout about the progress of this or any current cases involving this controversy.
What's your vote on the latest Kenyan Crisis of the Obama Presidency? Would you follow Major Stefan Fredrick Cook's example and give Barack Hussien Obama the finger?
Maybe you would, but unless you're risking your life and livelihood by doing so, you cannot possibly understand the sacrifice it takes for an Army Major to disobey an order, lawful or otherwise. The Army runs on status quo. It's not democracy-you have to follow orders regardless of their sensibility (even if you are a Major)- unless you intend on living the rest of your life with a black mark on your record that makes a convicted druglord look cuddly next to you. If some bigwig decides that your weekend is no longer your requisite off-duty break and should be spent painting the floor of an office building, you will be spending said weekend painting said floor, so on and so forth, ad nauseum.
and a drive-by tweeter. I would apologize to my lovely tweeps and blog readers about my wayward propensities, and promise to never stray again, but we all know that I'm dirty, low-down, no-good, procrastinator.
Once, long, long ago, there was a silly little soldier who liked to argue about politics, her hair, and whatever else lit the fire under her own personal hot air balloon. She annoyed the piss out of her co-workers, her family, her friends, and even the occasional boyfriend (when she wasn't busy finding a new one). One day, she was bumming around on Google, and stumbled across this novel idea known as the Blog.
"You are one incredibly intelligent woman..looked through some of your stuff..sharp edge to your wit.. :) very interesting"-@davidoberry
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This is a hard life. 
