Lawyer Mama

The Emperor's New Clothes

My blog is my little narcissistic home away from home. In my corporeal life, my friends and family tend to get annoyed if I spend too much time naval gazing, talking about myself, or whining about my real (or imagined) problems. In the blog world, people seem to enjoy reading about my foibles and frequently come back for more.

Of course, part of that return readership is no doubt related to the dialogue and rapport we establish on our blogs. But let's face it, part of the appeal of blog reading is the glimpse we get into someone else's life. That life may be one you envy, one you relate to, or one that makes you feel superior and relieved to be you. Sometimes it's all of those. Frequently it's all of those.

I know that I personally enjoy reading about politics, social issues, and things we can do to make a difference. But the blogs posts that haunt me are personal. They incorporate real experiences, real relationships, and real problems into hauntingly beautiful writing. It's like a never ending novel with my favorite characters. But I get to keep reading about Lizzie and Mr. Darcy's life after their marriage. I read about their restrained arguments, fertility problems, and intolerable in-laws.

Sometimes, I get to meet my favorite characters in person.

When I think about the things I leave off of my blog and cloak in "privacy," I frequently try to compare it to writing a novel. I ask myself "if I put this fight with my husband in a book with different names, would he be angry?" The answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no. But a blog is different. There is no line stating "any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental" to hide behind. We aren't characters in a novel. This is my life out there for all the world to Google, read, and judge.

So how do I maintain that thin, but important, veil of privacy around those I love?

I do have certain rules. I don't blog about my sex life or my personal relationship with my husband. This has left some readers with the impression that T is annoyingly perfect. Trust me when I say he is anything but perfect. He's a hell of a lot closer to it than I am, but no one is perfect. But our marriage and the trust we have to share our innermost feelings is far more important than a blog post. T's issues are not mine to share. They belong to him. My issues with T are not mine to share. They belong to us.

I also refrain from blogging about family problems. As with my relationship with my husband, trust is more important than airing my parents' dirty laundry. That's why I have a therapist!

I don't blog about work. I have no desire to be Dooced, destroy my relationships with opposing counsel and co-workers, or be disbarred.

Those are the easy rules.

The hardest rules are those with my children. That's a post for another day because I don't have 5 hours to share my thoughts (and guilt) about their privacy.

What about other people I interact with or people from my past? They fall into a gray area. I can't avoid blogging about any of my personal relationships or this would be a pretty boring blog. But I do have to think about how I would feel if that person found my blog. Or how I would feel if anyone from my past found my blog.

I've written about a painful relationship and break up I had in my early twenties and my still, somewhat, unresolved feelings about the whole matter. How would I feel if my ex-boyfriend read my post about him? How would he feel? I don't think I would be upset. In fact, I know I wouldn't. I would never post something about someone I know that I wouldn't tell them in person if they asked.

But the ex? I have a feeling he might be a bit upset about my revelations about his more recent past. I would apologize for hurting him, but I don't think I would remove the post. If he had confidentially shared the information about his past, I would never have written the post in the first place. But he didn't and ultimately the post is more about me than anyone else.

I was forced to think about my invisible cloak of privacy because two people I knew in high school are now occasionally reading my blog (Hi, K! Hi, B!) one of whom I suspect had a crush on me once upon a time.... (Or maybe I'm projecting.) Somehow it's easier to think of strangers reading my intimate thoughts about a deeply personal topic than it is to think of friends who knew me and my ex-boyfriend, who knew the people we were then.

Happily Ever After was one of the most personal posts I've ever written. It says a lot about me and who I am now. And so, ultimately, I guess I'm happy to have anyone who knew me then, know me now.

When you're looking at me on display in all my naked glory? Just try to ignore the stretch marks.

This post is for Julie's weekly Hump Day Hmmm.

The Emperor's New Clothes

My blog is my little narcissistic home away from home. In my corporeal life, my friends and family tend to get annoyed if I spend too much time naval gazing, talking about myself, or whining about my real (or imagined) problems. In the blog world, people seem to enjoy reading about my foibles and frequently come back for more.

Of course, part of that return readership is no doubt related to the dialogue and rapport we establish on our blogs. But let's face it, part of the appeal of blog reading is the glimpse we get into someone else's life. That life may be one you envy, one you relate to, or one that makes you feel superior and relieved to be you. Sometimes it's all of those. Frequently it's all of those.

I know that I personally enjoy reading about politics, social issues, and things we can do to make a difference. But the blogs posts that haunt me are personal. They incorporate real experiences, real relationships, and real problems into hauntingly beautiful writing. It's like a never ending novel with my favorite characters. But I get to keep reading about Lizzie and Mr. Darcy's life after their marriage. I read about their restrained arguments, fertility problems, and intolerable in-laws.

Sometimes, I get to meet my favorite characters in person.

When I think about the things I leave off of my blog and cloak in "privacy," I frequently try to compare it to writing a novel. I ask myself "if I put this fight with my husband in a book with different names, would he be angry?" The answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no. But a blog is different. There is no line stating "any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental" to hide behind. We aren't characters in a novel. This is my life out there for all the world to Google, read, and judge.

So how do I maintain that thin, but important, veil of privacy around those I love?

I do have certain rules. I don't blog about my sex life or my personal relationship with my husband. This has left some readers with the impression that T is annoyingly perfect. Trust me when I say he is anything but perfect. He's a hell of a lot closer to it than I am, but no one is perfect. But our marriage and the trust we have to share our innermost feelings is far more important than a blog post. T's issues are not mine to share. They belong to him. My issues with T are not mine to share. They belong to us.

I also refrain from blogging about family problems. As with my relationship with my husband, trust is more important than airing my parents' dirty laundry. That's why I have a therapist!

I don't blog about work. I have no desire to be Dooced, destroy my relationships with opposing counsel and co-workers, or be disbarred.

Those are the easy rules.

The hardest rules are those with my children. That's a post for another day because I don't have 5 hours to share my thoughts (and guilt) about their privacy.

What about other people I interact with or people from my past? They fall into a gray area. I can't avoid blogging about any of my personal relationships or this would be a pretty boring blog. But I do have to think about how I would feel if that person found my blog. Or how I would feel if anyone from my past found my blog.

I've written about a painful relationship and break up I had in my early twenties and my still, somewhat, unresolved feelings about the whole matter. How would I feel if my ex-boyfriend read my post about him? How would he feel? I don't think I would be upset. In fact, I know I wouldn't. I would never post something about someone I know that I wouldn't tell them in person if they asked.

But the ex? I have a feeling he might be a bit upset about my revelations about his more recent past. I would apologize for hurting him, but I don't think I would remove the post. If he had confidentially shared the information about his past, I would never have written the post in the first place. But he didn't and ultimately the post is more about me than anyone else.

I was forced to think about my invisible cloak of privacy because two people I knew in high school are now occasionally reading my blog (Hi, K! Hi, B!) one of whom I suspect had a crush on me once upon a time.... (Or maybe I'm projecting.) Somehow it's easier to think of strangers reading my intimate thoughts about a deeply personal topic than it is to think of friends who knew me and my ex-boyfriend, who knew the people we were then.

Happily Ever After was one of the most personal posts I've ever written. It says a lot about me and who I am now. And so, ultimately, I guess I'm happy to have anyone who knew me then, know me now.

When you're looking at me on display in all my naked glory? Just try to ignore the stretch marks.

This post is for Julie's weekly Hump Day Hmmm.

Musical Memories

In memory, everything seems to happen to music.

- Tennessee Williams

My parents sent me to a preschool attached to a Lutheran church. We knew the teacher, although I can't recall her name now. She babysat me at times, drove me home from preschool on occasion and taught my Sunday school class. From what I recall, she was a nice, grandmotherly sort of person. (Although I now suspect she wasn't that much older than my parents. At the age of 4, everyone seems old.) For some reason, several of my most memorable, and undoubtedly character shaping, early childhood memories involved her.

Memory 1:

One day, my preschool teacher was bringing me home and we stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things she needed. I, always the obedient child, followed her around the store and smiled shyly at all the people who told her how cute I was or tried to talk to me. I remember the muzak playing in the store, tinny and sweet. Very different from the music my father listened to.

When we were standing in the check out aisle it happened. While my teacher chatted with the cashier, I looked at all the gum and candy. And I picked one up, turned it over in my hand, and put it in my pocket. Not to keep, just to have for a minute. It made sense in my 4 year old mind. As we left the store, the cashier smiled at me and told me to have a good day. I smiled shyly back and was led away by the hand, the candy in my pocket forgotten.

I climbed into the car and put my hand in my pocket. What was this? As I pulled out the candy with some surprise, my teacher noticed. She asked me where I'd gotten the candy. I didn't answer. She knew anyway. She asked me if I'd taken it from the store. I didn't answer. She knew anyway.

She brought me back to the store, made me give the candy back to the cashier who'd beamed at me earlier, and apologize. I did. Mortified and in tears.

In the car, I quietly sobbed on the way home, listening to a lecture about stealing. I'm sure it was nothing more than a quick and serious conversation about why we don't take things without paying for them, but in my 4 year old mind it was so much more than that.

Clearly, it made quite an impression.

When I got home, my teacher didn't tell my mother. Neither did I. I knew my mother would be disappointed in me. If my teacher had been, I knew my mother would be. Even as a toddler I was already desperate to please. When my mother asked me what was wrong, I don't remember what I said. Perhaps I said I didn't feel well. But I know I didn't tell her the truth. That would have been impossible.

Memory 2:

My teacher had come to pick me up for Sunday School. I'm not sure why my parents weren't coming. Perhaps my brother, an infant, was sick. It seemed to my young mind that my father was always gone. (He was in the Air Force.) I was wearing a nice dress and shoes, my hair in carefully blow dried waves. In my memory it was my yellow dress with the white patent leather shoes, but that could be just because I've seen pictures of myself wearing that dress at about the age of 4.

We were in the driveway but I wouldn't get in the car. I was screaming and kicking and crying. I remember that they tried to physically put me in the car but I braced myself on the outside of the car and refused.

You don't understand what an event this was for me. I was an unusually well behaved and compliant infant and toddler. I didn't do public tantrums like that. Perhaps that's why my mother gave in. Faced with such a strangely violent reaction from me, it probably seemed best that I stay home.

I don't remember ever attending Sunday School again.

I don't remember much from immediately after the event. All I know is that I think of my Sunday School tantrum whenever I hear the song, "Jesus loves me." Perhaps I learned it for the first time from my preschool teacher. Maybe I did attend Sunday School again after that day, but in my memory tantrum day ended my formal relationship with "church," leaving a faint imprint of cardboard doves, the smell of thick school paste, and the faded sounds of children's songs on my mind.

The pain and recrimination of disappointing people. The triumph at having my voice heard. Both of these memories are quite vivid.

What do I take from these memories now? I'll leave that to you to speculate. I'm sure that those of you who know me well, or even read my blog regularly, can guess.

I still can't stand Seventies muzak.

This was part of Julie's Hump Day Hmmm. Our task for the week was to write about key childhood memories and how and why we still carry them.

************
If you want to know the MOMocrats thoughts on John Edwards' recent departure from the race for the Democratic presidential nomination, head on over today or tomorrow. We're not going away. We're going to be reminding Senators Obama and Clinton about the promises they've made and, hopefully, asking some tough questions. They're going to need to earn our votes.

Musical Memories

In memory, everything seems to happen to music.

- Tennessee Williams

My parents sent me to a preschool attached to a Lutheran church. We knew the teacher, although I can't recall her name now. She babysat me at times, drove me home from preschool on occasion and taught my Sunday school class. From what I recall, she was a nice, grandmotherly sort of person. (Although I now suspect she wasn't that much older than my parents. At the age of 4, everyone seems old.) For some reason, several of my most memorable, and undoubtedly character shaping, early childhood memories involved her.

Memory 1:

One day, my preschool teacher was bringing me home and we stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things she needed. I, always the obedient child, followed her around the store and smiled shyly at all the people who told her how cute I was or tried to talk to me. I remember the muzak playing in the store, tinny and sweet. Very different from the music my father listened to.

When we were standing in the check out aisle it happened. While my teacher chatted with the cashier, I looked at all the gum and candy. And I picked one up, turned it over in my hand, and put it in my pocket. Not to keep, just to have for a minute. It made sense in my 4 year old mind. As we left the store, the cashier smiled at me and told me to have a good day. I smiled shyly back and was led away by the hand, the candy in my pocket forgotten.

I climbed into the car and put my hand in my pocket. What was this? As I pulled out the candy with some surprise, my teacher noticed. She asked me where I'd gotten the candy. I didn't answer. She knew anyway. She asked me if I'd taken it from the store. I didn't answer. She knew anyway.

She brought me back to the store, made me give the candy back to the cashier who'd beamed at me earlier, and apologize. I did. Mortified and in tears.

In the car, I quietly sobbed on the way home, listening to a lecture about stealing. I'm sure it was nothing more than a quick and serious conversation about why we don't take things without paying for them, but in my 4 year old mind it was so much more than that.

Clearly, it made quite an impression.

When I got home, my teacher didn't tell my mother. Neither did I. I knew my mother would be disappointed in me. If my teacher had been, I knew my mother would be. Even as a toddler I was already desperate to please. When my mother asked me what was wrong, I don't remember what I said. Perhaps I said I didn't feel well. But I know I didn't tell her the truth. That would have been impossible.

Memory 2:

My teacher had come to pick me up for Sunday School. I'm not sure why my parents weren't coming. Perhaps my brother, an infant, was sick. It seemed to my young mind that my father was always gone. (He was in the Air Force.) I was wearing a nice dress and shoes, my hair in carefully blow dried waves. In my memory it was my yellow dress with the white patent leather shoes, but that could be just because I've seen pictures of myself wearing that dress at about the age of 4.

We were in the driveway but I wouldn't get in the car. I was screaming and kicking and crying. I remember that they tried to physically put me in the car but I braced myself on the outside of the car and refused.

You don't understand what an event this was for me. I was an unusually well behaved and compliant infant and toddler. I didn't do public tantrums like that. Perhaps that's why my mother gave in. Faced with such a strangely violent reaction from me, it probably seemed best that I stay home.

I don't remember ever attending Sunday School again.

I don't remember much from immediately after the event. All I know is that I think of my Sunday School tantrum whenever I hear the song, "Jesus loves me." Perhaps I learned it for the first time from my preschool teacher. Maybe I did attend Sunday School again after that day, but in my memory tantrum day ended my formal relationship with "church," leaving a faint imprint of cardboard doves, the smell of thick school paste, and the faded sounds of children's songs on my mind.

The pain and recrimination of disappointing people. The triumph at having my voice heard. Both of these memories are quite vivid.

What do I take from these memories now? I'll leave that to you to speculate. I'm sure that those of you who know me well, or even read my blog regularly, can guess.

I still can't stand Seventies muzak.

This was part of Julie's Hump Day Hmmm. Our task for the week was to write about key childhood memories and how and why we still carry them.

************
If you want to know the MOMocrats thoughts on John Edwards' recent departure from the race for the Democratic presidential nomination, head on over today or tomorrow. We're not going away. We're going to be reminding Senators Obama and Clinton about the promises they've made and, hopefully, asking some tough questions. They're going to need to earn our votes.

Christmas in Omaha

I've been strangely silent about what happened in an Omaha mall last week. Some of you know that I lived in Omaha for 10 years and that my parents still live there. It's where I met and married T. We moved from Omaha to D.C. for law school at GWU.

But what you don't know is that I worked at Westroads Mall during college. I'm intimately familiar with the mall. In fact, I remember when the Von Maur department store opened and how excited we all were. I would go sit in the atrium and listen to the piano player in the store, which, at the age of 20, I thought was the height of elegance. Yes, the atrium where people died.

You also don't know that my husband's family knew one of the victims. A man originally from their small corner of Southwest Nebraska, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time doing some Christmas shopping at the end of a business trip. His funeral was earlier this week.

Honestly, I've been struggling with what to say.

The fabulously honest DD wrote about the Omaha shootings earlier this week and she said many of the things I want to say. This kind of random violence can happen anywhere. The Omaha metropolitan area has more than 1 million people. There are drugs, and gangs, and poverty, and social problems that would curl your toes in Omaha. Just like there are in every city and town in America. Midwestern town does not equal problem free town. People of America, particularly those of you who are in the media, please stop acting so damn surprised.

There are many more things about the media coverage of the shooting in Omaha that anger me. Just as there are many things about sensationalist media coverage of any tragedy that anger me. But what has been unexpected to me is how frustrated I am at the attempt of every community, national and local, to "own" this tragedy.

Now in some ways, feeling personally touched by a horrible event half way across the country or half way around the world is wonderful. Americans follow the news anxiously if a child falls down a well or a country is overwhelmed by a tidal wave. This support can be wonderful for parents, communities, and countries. It can motivate politicians, presidents, and policy.

But this support has a dark side.

The night of the Omaha shooting, our local news channel ran a lead story about the shooting, followed by a segment on protecting yourself at the mall. I have no doubt that news stations across the country ran similar stories. Of course local stations and the broadcast networks are going to cover the shooting. Of course, they are going to address issues that come up peripherally. But they don't have to make it sensationalist. They don't have to put the fear of God in every viewer. They don't have to lead with "Can it happen here? We ask local experts." We shouldn't have to experience 5 straight hours of CNN coverage that makes us think, "Oh. My. God. I will never enter a mall again without an Uzi to protect myself and my children!"

I call this the Fox News Effect.

I know that media outlets are responding to interest in a tragedy when they run segments like this, but these stories do two things: (1) they make us more fearful than is necessary; and (2) they trivialize the tragedies themselves.

Can it happen to you? Or you, or you, or you? Yes, of course it can. Is it likely? Um, no. Instead of focusing on the fear, why can't we have a rational discussion about mental illness? Even better, why can't we talk about how yellow journalism can drive people to do things like this in an attempt to become "famous?"

This focus on fear also moves the focus of the story (and the support of the viewing public) from where it should be - support of the victims, their families, their communities, and the underlying social problems that cause this sort of violence - to us, the viewing public, and what we can do to protect ourselves.

I know that if we stopped watching and voiced our displeasure, news outlets would stop. They run these stories because we watch them. But these stories play into our personal fears. Fears newly awakened by watching frightened and crying customers shivering in the parking lot in the aftermath. We start to think about ourselves instead of others.

In some ways, I felt the same after 9/11. I lived in D.C. I worked at the Pentagon during law school. My friends and colleagues were in that building. So were some of T's. We, and pretty much everyone we knew, were touched by death and despair. We knew the families, the wives, husbands, and children left behind. We drove past the gaping hole in the side of that imposing building every day. We saw the smoke. We felt the impact. We lived with the aftermath. We picked up the pieces and struggled to get on the Metro every day without fear. We boarded planes and pretended to be nonchalant as we prepared for take off.

Meanwhile, every small town in America started fighting over Homeland Security funds and freaking out about guarding the local water supply for a town of 500.

I'm not entirely sure why this made me so angry. But whenever I heard stories about things like that I just wanted to scream. It made me feel as if what had happened to my world was not important. As if what had happened in New York and D.C. was not as important as some hypothetical attack on Kansas City.

This is not to say that the rest of the country had no right to be scared or that no support was rallied. I think we all know how wonderful it was to live in the United States in the wake of 9/11, despite the fear. Americans pulled together in a way we rarely do. I also don't think everyone should act as if another 9/11 scale attack couldn't happen again and do nothing. But for God's sake, when I hear someone from a tiny town in the Northwest talking about the possibility of a terrorist attack at their local Piggly Wiggly, I just want to shake them. I want to shake them until they see the world beyond their personal space.

I know that the people of Omaha will pick up the pieces and move on. But I also know that they'll remember the victims this Christmas while they're in church and while they're gathered with their families, despite the lingering stories.

I know that many people in Omaha will be thinking of those families that are now missing a loved one. They'll be pulling together in support, true support, of those families. That is a facet of the Midwest that I know will always be the same, no matter how many journalists descend on the area.

What also gives me comfort is the knowledge that, despite what happened, the next time I go into Von Maur, or any store in Westroads Mall, I'll be greeted again with a sunny smile and a warm welcome. Because that's just how the people of Omaha roll.

This is for Julie's Hump Day Hmmm for the week. She tasked us with writing about our unique pet peeves.

*************
I have a new review up of the Autolite Flareglo on my review blog. If you're safety conscious, you'll want this for your emergency car kit.

Christmas in Omaha

I've been strangely silent about what happened in an Omaha mall last week. Some of you know that I lived in Omaha for 10 years and that my parents still live there. It's where I met and married T. We moved from Omaha to D.C. for law school at GWU.

But what you don't know is that I worked at Westroads Mall during college. I'm intimately familiar with the mall. In fact, I remember when the Von Maur department store opened and how excited we all were. I would go sit in the atrium and listen to the piano player in the store, which, at the age of 20, I thought was the height of elegance. Yes, the atrium where people died.

You also don't know that my husband's family knew one of the victims. A man originally from their small corner of Southwest Nebraska, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time doing some Christmas shopping at the end of a business trip. His funeral was earlier this week.

Honestly, I've been struggling with what to say.

The fabulously honest DD wrote about the Omaha shootings earlier this week and she said many of the things I want to say. This kind of random violence can happen anywhere. The Omaha metropolitan area has more than 1 million people. There are drugs, and gangs, and poverty, and social problems that would curl your toes in Omaha. Just like there are in every city and town in America. Midwestern town does not equal problem free town. People of America, particularly those of you who are in the media, please stop acting so damn surprised.

There are many more things about the media coverage of the shooting in Omaha that anger me. Just as there are many things about sensationalist media coverage of any tragedy that anger me. But what has been unexpected to me is how frustrated I am at the attempt of every community, national and local, to "own" this tragedy.

Now in some ways, feeling personally touched by a horrible event half way across the country or half way around the world is wonderful. Americans follow the news anxiously if a child falls down a well or a country is overwhelmed by a tidal wave. This support can be wonderful for parents, communities, and countries. It can motivate politicians, presidents, and policy.

But this support has a dark side.

The night of the Omaha shooting, our local news channel ran a lead story about the shooting, followed by a segment on protecting yourself at the mall. I have no doubt that news stations across the country ran similar stories. Of course local stations and the broadcast networks are going to cover the shooting. Of course, they are going to address issues that come up peripherally. But they don't have to make it sensationalist. They don't have to put the fear of God in every viewer. They don't have to lead with "Can it happen here? We ask local experts." We shouldn't have to experience 5 straight hours of CNN coverage that makes us think, "Oh. My. God. I will never enter a mall again without an Uzi to protect myself and my children!"

I call this the Fox News Effect.

I know that media outlets are responding to interest in a tragedy when they run segments like this, but these stories do two things: (1) they make us more fearful than is necessary; and (2) they trivialize the tragedies themselves.

Can it happen to you? Or you, or you, or you? Yes, of course it can. Is it likely? Um, no. Instead of focusing on the fear, why can't we have a rational discussion about mental illness? Even better, why can't we talk about how yellow journalism can drive people to do things like this in an attempt to become "famous?"

This focus on fear also moves the focus of the story (and the support of the viewing public) from where it should be - support of the victims, their families, their communities, and the underlying social problems that cause this sort of violence - to us, the viewing public, and what we can do to protect ourselves.

I know that if we stopped watching and voiced our displeasure, news outlets would stop. They run these stories because we watch them. But these stories play into our personal fears. Fears newly awakened by watching frightened and crying customers shivering in the parking lot in the aftermath. We start to think about ourselves instead of others.

In some ways, I felt the same after 9/11. I lived in D.C. I worked at the Pentagon during law school. My friends and colleagues were in that building. So were some of T's. We, and pretty much everyone we knew, were touched by death and despair. We knew the families, the wives, husbands, and children left behind. We drove past the gaping hole in the side of that imposing building every day. We saw the smoke. We felt the impact. We lived with the aftermath. We picked up the pieces and struggled to get on the Metro every day without fear. We boarded planes and pretended to be nonchalant as we prepared for take off.

Meanwhile, every small town in America started fighting over Homeland Security funds and freaking out about guarding the local water supply for a town of 500.

I'm not entirely sure why this made me so angry. But whenever I heard stories about things like that I just wanted to scream. It made me feel as if what had happened to my world was not important. As if what had happened in New York and D.C. was not as important as some hypothetical attack on Kansas City.

This is not to say that the rest of the country had no right to be scared or that no support was rallied. I think we all know how wonderful it was to live in the United States in the wake of 9/11, despite the fear. Americans pulled together in a way we rarely do. I also don't think everyone should act as if another 9/11 scale attack couldn't happen again and do nothing. But for God's sake, when I hear someone from a tiny town in the Northwest talking about the possibility of a terrorist attack at their local Piggly Wiggly, I just want to shake them. I want to shake them until they see the world beyond their personal space.

I know that the people of Omaha will pick up the pieces and move on. But I also know that they'll remember the victims this Christmas while they're in church and while they're gathered with their families, despite the lingering stories.

I know that many people in Omaha will be thinking of those families that are now missing a loved one. They'll be pulling together in support, true support, of those families. That is a facet of the Midwest that I know will always be the same, no matter how many journalists descend on the area.

What also gives me comfort is the knowledge that, despite what happened, the next time I go into Von Maur, or any store in Westroads Mall, I'll be greeted again with a sunny smile and a warm welcome. Because that's just how the people of Omaha roll.

This is for Julie's Hump Day Hmmm for the week. She tasked us with writing about our unique pet peeves.

*************
I have a new review up of the Autolite Flareglo on my review blog. If you're safety conscious, you'll want this for your emergency car kit.

Soundtrack of My Life

Julie's Hump Day Hmmm topic for this week is music. Egads! This is really a hard one for me. I love music. In fact, I hear music in my head almost constantly. (Not in an "I really need some anti-psychotics" kind of way, I swear!) But music is part of my inner monologue. You know, the stuff I don't let people know about?

My dad is a huge music lover and he passed his music down to my brother and me when we were small. I remember my dad sitting my brother and me down when I was maybe 6 and my brother was 2 or 3. He had us listen to In-a-gadda-da-vida by Iron Butterfly, paying careful attention to the drum solo. Yeah, the song is 20 minutes long. Seriously. Now, I find it a little amusing to know that my dad thought it so important to play us a song where the name came about because the band was too drunk and/or high to actually get the words "in the garden of Eden" out coherently. But that's just the way my family rolls.

When I was 8 years old, I desperately wanted a Blondie album from Santa Clause. (Let's not talk about what a geek I was. I believed in Santa until I was 9, being the oldest child and all that.) I was a little upset that Santa brought me Puff the Magic Dragon and the Sesame Street Disco Fever album. (Both of which, in hindsight, were pretty damn cool for an 8 year old and I secretly listened to them for years.) But my dad knew I was upset, so he gave me my first cassette tape. It was AC/DC's Back in Black. My dad was the coolest dad evah. Seriously, half of the concerts I've ever been to were with my dad. He rocks.

Music is deeply personal to me, but I don't often share it. I'm a car listener. I can't work while listening to music and we don't even have a stereo system in our home. But in the car, I sing at the top of my lungs and dance around. My kids love it. My husband thinks it's hilarious, particularly since I can't carry a tune. But no one else really ever sees that part of me.

In the car though... well, I'm more me. I'm me and everyone I've ever been in the past. I hear a certain song on the radio and am instantly 7 years old, riding in the car with my dad with the stereo cranked. I'm 11 years old and playing softball in the backyard. I'm 14 and I've just had my first real kiss. I'm 20 and my heart has been stomped and mangled for the first time. I'm 22 and I've just married the love of my life. I'm 32 and I'm driving my newborn around to get him to sleep.

I pull my car to a stop, turn off the ignition and open the door. The music ends and I'm 35 again.

Music is still very important to me and H&H show every sign of following in Mommy's footsteps. Hell, Hollis already has his own ipod with a more extensive play list than I have in my Treo. The Backyardigans feature very prominently, but his favorites also include "One Little Slip" by the Bare Naked Ladies, "Kaboom" by Ursula 1000, "Fly Away" by Tim McGraw, and "Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes.

I've never done any of the music memes that have floated around BlogLand for the simple reason that it would be insanely long. I listen to anything and everything, although I'm not all that fond of country music. But even then, I make exceptions for songs I really like. So, I've created a soundtrack for each of my decades on planet Earth. These aren't necessarily my favorites from each decade, nor are they necessarily from the decade where I've listed them. But these songs would all be on the soundtrack of my life if it became Lawyer Mama, The Movie. (And why does that last line make me think of Spaceballs, The Toilet Paper?)

To start it off, I have some background music for you and it's one of my all time favorites. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.




The Seventies:

• Styx: Come Sail Away and Paradise Theater
• Harry Chapin: Cat's in the Cradle
• The Doors: People Are Strange
• Don McLean: American Pie
• Queen: Bohemian Rhapsody
• Abba: Dancing Queen
• John Lennon: Imagine
• Carly Simon: You're So Vain
• Jefferson Airplane: White Rabbit
• Van Morrison: Brown Eyed Girl
• Pink Floyd: Comfortably Numb

Damn! There are a lot of songs about drugs in there. Maybe I shouldn't feel so bad that my 3 year old can sing the lyrics to Blister In The Sun.

The Eighties:

• Bryan Adams: Summer of '69
• John Cougar Mellencamp: Paper in Fire
  
• Violent Femmes: Blister in the Sun
• The Smiths: How Soon is Now, Stop Me, Frankly Mr. Shankly (OK, pretty much anything by The Smiths)
• Erasure: Who Needs Love Like That (I'd like to clarify - I started listening to Erasure in the 80's, long before they became a hit in the U.S. with Ship of Fools)
• Psychedlic Furs: Pretty in Pink
• Beastie Boys: Pretty much anything. (Yeah, I know.)
• The Clash: Should I Stay or Should I Go
• INXS: Mediate
• Peter Gabriel: In Your Eyes

I'm just going to stop now, because I could keep doing the 80's for a few hours.

The Nineties:

• Wil Smith: Wild, Wild West (C'mon, I went to B_______ West High School and graduated in 1990. It was obligatory.)
• Garth Brooks: Friend in Low Places
• Tori Amos: Crucify, Silent All These Years, Winter (OK. Anything by Tori Amos. Still love her.)
• Eric Clapton: Wonderful Tonight
• Tracy Byrd: Keeper of the Stars (My first dance with my husband as a married woman.)
• Dave Matthews Band: Crash
• Barenaked Ladies: The Old Apartment, Alcohol, Who Needs Sleep? (The law school years. Go figure.)
• Meredith Brooks: Bitch (My personal theme song.)
• R.E.M.: Losing My Religion
• Indigo Girls: Shame on You, Closer I am to Fine

The Next Eight Years:

• Black Eyed Peas: Pump It
• KT Tunstall: Suddenly I see
• Fiona Apple: Paper Bag
• Eminem: Yellow Brick Road, Lose Yourself
• Five For Fighting: 100 Years, The Riddle (Yes, I know these are schmaltzy but I'm all hormonal since giving birth.)
• Eric Clapton: Tears in Heaven (Now that I'm a mother I cannot listen to this song without crying.)
• Scissor Sisters: I Don't Feel Like Dancing
• Anna Nalick: Breathe
• Badly Drawn Boy: The Shining

This post has taken me down memory lane. I think I downloaded about 50 songs while I was writing it.

Now I'm off to go listen to my life.

*************
Welcome to Day 4 of my campaign to get Wil Wheaton to comment. Now, even Jenny said that I must be patient.

I can understand why you commented for Jenny, Wil. She's funny, she's smart, yadda yadda yadda. I've met Jenny, she's also HAWT! But me? I may not be hot, but I am persistent.

Soundtrack of My Life

Julie's Hump Day Hmmm topic for this week is music. Egads! This is really a hard one for me. I love music. In fact, I hear music in my head almost constantly. (Not in an "I really need some anti-psychotics" kind of way, I swear!) But music is part of my inner monologue. You know, the stuff I don't let people know about?

My dad is a huge music lover and he passed his music down to my brother and me when we were small. I remember my dad sitting my brother and me down when I was maybe 6 and my brother was 2 or 3. He had us listen to In-a-gadda-da-vida by Iron Butterfly, paying careful attention to the drum solo. Yeah, the song is 20 minutes long. Seriously. Now, I find it a little amusing to know that my dad thought it so important to play us a song where the name came about because the band was too drunk and/or high to actually get the words "in the garden of Eden" out coherently. But that's just the way my family rolls.

When I was 8 years old, I desperately wanted a Blondie album from Santa Clause. (Let's not talk about what a geek I was. I believed in Santa until I was 9, being the oldest child and all that.) I was a little upset that Santa brought me Puff the Magic Dragon and the Sesame Street Disco Fever album. (Both of which, in hindsight, were pretty damn cool for an 8 year old and I secretly listened to them for years.) But my dad knew I was upset, so he gave me my first cassette tape. It was AC/DC's Back in Black. My dad was the coolest dad evah. Seriously, half of the concerts I've ever been to were with my dad. He rocks.

Music is deeply personal to me, but I don't often share it. I'm a car listener. I can't work while listening to music and we don't even have a stereo system in our home. But in the car, I sing at the top of my lungs and dance around. My kids love it. My husband thinks it's hilarious, particularly since I can't carry a tune. But no one else really ever sees that part of me.

In the car though... well, I'm more me. I'm me and everyone I've ever been in the past. I hear a certain song on the radio and am instantly 7 years old, riding in the car with my dad with the stereo cranked. I'm 11 years old and playing softball in the backyard. I'm 14 and I've just had my first real kiss. I'm 20 and my heart has been stomped and mangled for the first time. I'm 22 and I've just married the love of my life. I'm 32 and I'm driving my newborn around to get him to sleep.

I pull my car to a stop, turn off the ignition and open the door. The music ends and I'm 35 again.

Music is still very important to me and H&H show every sign of following in Mommy's footsteps. Hell, Hollis already has his own ipod with a more extensive play list than I have in my Treo. The Backyardigans feature very prominently, but his favorites also include "One Little Slip" by the Bare Naked Ladies, "Kaboom" by Ursula 1000, "Fly Away" by Tim McGraw, and "Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes.

I've never done any of the music memes that have floated around BlogLand for the simple reason that it would be insanely long. I listen to anything and everything, although I'm not all that fond of country music. But even then, I make exceptions for songs I really like. So, I've created a soundtrack for each of my decades on planet Earth. These aren't necessarily my favorites from each decade, nor are they necessarily from the decade where I've listed them. But these songs would all be on the soundtrack of my life if it became Lawyer Mama, The Movie. (And why does that last line make me think of Spaceballs, The Toilet Paper?)

To start it off, I have some background music for you and it's one of my all time favorites. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.




The Seventies:

• Styx: Come Sail Away and Paradise Theater
• Harry Chapin: Cat's in the Cradle
• The Doors: People Are Strange
• Don McLean: American Pie
• Queen: Bohemian Rhapsody
• Abba: Dancing Queen
• John Lennon: Imagine
• Carly Simon: You're So Vain
• Jefferson Airplane: White Rabbit
• Van Morrison: Brown Eyed Girl
• Pink Floyd: Comfortably Numb

Damn! There are a lot of songs about drugs in there. Maybe I shouldn't feel so bad that my 3 year old can sing the lyrics to Blister In The Sun.

The Eighties:

• Bryan Adams: Summer of '69
• John Cougar Mellencamp: Paper in Fire
  
• Violent Femmes: Blister in the Sun
• The Smiths: How Soon is Now, Stop Me, Frankly Mr. Shankly (OK, pretty much anything by The Smiths)
• Erasure: Who Needs Love Like That (I'd like to clarify - I started listening to Erasure in the 80's, long before they became a hit in the U.S. with Ship of Fools)
• Psychedlic Furs: Pretty in Pink
• Beastie Boys: Pretty much anything. (Yeah, I know.)
• The Clash: Should I Stay or Should I Go
• INXS: Mediate
• Peter Gabriel: In Your Eyes

I'm just going to stop now, because I could keep doing the 80's for a few hours.

The Nineties:

• Wil Smith: Wild, Wild West (C'mon, I went to B_______ West High School and graduated in 1990. It was obligatory.)
• Garth Brooks: Friend in Low Places
• Tori Amos: Crucify, Silent All These Years, Winter (OK. Anything by Tori Amos. Still love her.)
• Eric Clapton: Wonderful Tonight
• Tracy Byrd: Keeper of the Stars (My first dance with my husband as a married woman.)
• Dave Matthews Band: Crash
• Barenaked Ladies: The Old Apartment, Alcohol, Who Needs Sleep? (The law school years. Go figure.)
• Meredith Brooks: Bitch (My personal theme song.)
• R.E.M.: Losing My Religion
• Indigo Girls: Shame on You, Closer I am to Fine

The Next Eight Years:

• Black Eyed Peas: Pump It
• KT Tunstall: Suddenly I see
• Fiona Apple: Paper Bag
• Eminem: Yellow Brick Road, Lose Yourself
• Five For Fighting: 100 Years, The Riddle (Yes, I know these are schmaltzy but I'm all hormonal since giving birth.)
• Eric Clapton: Tears in Heaven (Now that I'm a mother I cannot listen to this song without crying.)
• Scissor Sisters: I Don't Feel Like Dancing
• Anna Nalick: Breathe
• Badly Drawn Boy: The Shining

This post has taken me down memory lane. I think I downloaded about 50 songs while I was writing it.

Now I'm off to go listen to my life.

*************
Welcome to Day 4 of my campaign to get Wil Wheaton to comment. Now, even Jenny said that I must be patient.

I can understand why you commented for Jenny, Wil. She's funny, she's smart, yadda yadda yadda. I've met Jenny, she's also HAWT! But me? I may not be hot, but I am persistent.

Next of Kin: Dona Nobis Pacem

Julie's Hump Day Hmmm for this week is participation in the Blog Blast for Peace. Until this evening, I honestly had no idea what I would write, aside from the obvious, "End the war in Iraq."

Then, I got some mail.

It was a postcard addressed to "All Family Members of Company G" from the Family Support Group in Medina, Ohio. This is my brother's National Guard Reserve Unit that's being mobilized soon. We had some good news recently. His unit won't be mobilized for training at Ft. Hood, Texas until after the first of the year. My brother had expected to be in Ft. Hood over Christmas, with a few days off for the actual holiday break. Everything has been pushed back a few months, but the end result is the same. They'll be in the Middle East next year.

The postcard itself was innocuous. It was about a holiday party for the reserve unit and their families. No, what stopped me in my tracks was what this post card meant. I've never received anything like this with regards to my brother before. But tonight, holding that piece of cardboard, my heart skipped a beat and my stomach did a slow flip. I came to a sickening realization.

I am my brother's next of kin.

If something happens to B., mine is the number they'll call. A car will pull up in front of my house, an officer in Army green will step out and walk up my driveway and ring my doorbell. My world is the one that will tip on its axis first.

I will have to call B's girlfriend, his aunts and uncles. His grandparents.

Our parents.

It's easy to talk about war and peace in the abstract. It's easy to debate whether military action is necessary, or "right," or just. It's easy to talk about troop movements and IED's and snipers. It's easy to declare that fighting terrorism, or championing democracy, or even stopping the war is the most important issue facing our generation.

It's much harder to talk about real solutions. It's much harder to look at the photos of soldiers killed in Iraq. It's much harder to think about their wives, husbands, parents, and children. It's much harder to look at your own family photos and picture someone missing.

I don't want one more doorbell rung, one more family crushed, one more photo framed in remembrance. Peace is really the only option. The bigger question is - how do we get there?


Cross posted, with changes, at MOMocrats.

Next of Kin: Dona Nobis Pacem

Julie's Hump Day Hmmm for this week is participation in the Blog Blast for Peace. Until this evening, I honestly had no idea what I would write, aside from the obvious, "End the war in Iraq."

Then, I got some mail.

It was a postcard addressed to "All Family Members of Company G" from the Family Support Group in Medina, Ohio. This is my brother's National Guard Reserve Unit that's being mobilized soon. We had some good news recently. His unit won't be mobilized for training at Ft. Hood, Texas until after the first of the year. My brother had expected to be in Ft. Hood over Christmas, with a few days off for the actual holiday break. Everything has been pushed back a few months, but the end result is the same. They'll be in the Middle East next year.

The postcard itself was innocuous. It was about a holiday party for the reserve unit and their families. No, what stopped me in my tracks was what this post card meant. I've never received anything like this with regards to my brother before. But tonight, holding that piece of cardboard, my heart skipped a beat and my stomach did a slow flip. I came to a sickening realization.

I am my brother's next of kin.

If something happens to B., mine is the number they'll call. A car will pull up in front of my house, an officer in Army green will step out and walk up my driveway and ring my doorbell. My world is the one that will tip on its axis first.

I will have to call B's girlfriend, his aunts and uncles. His grandparents.

Our parents.

It's easy to talk about war and peace in the abstract. It's easy to debate whether military action is necessary, or "right," or just. It's easy to talk about troop movements and IED's and snipers. It's easy to declare that fighting terrorism, or championing democracy, or even stopping the war is the most important issue facing our generation.

It's much harder to talk about real solutions. It's much harder to look at the photos of soldiers killed in Iraq. It's much harder to think about their wives, husbands, parents, and children. It's much harder to look at your own family photos and picture someone missing.

I don't want one more doorbell rung, one more family crushed, one more photo framed in remembrance. Peace is really the only option. The bigger question is - how do we get there?