Apparently, this PSA has been out since 2008, but I saw it for the first time yesterday:
This post is not meant to be a moral debate about homosexuality. I’m young enough to understand that the word “gay” bears no resemblance to its original definition: Showing or characterized by cheerfulness and lighthearted excitement; merry; bright or lively, especially in color: a gay, sunny room. I’m okay with that.
I’m also okay (mostly) with the fact that the favorite drawing subject of almost every young child with a new box of crayons–a rainbow–is now the symbol for an entire movement of alternative lifestyle. A rainbow is still a rainbow, even though now a new meaning has been attached to it.
I agree with what Wanda Sykes says at the beginning of the ad. The word “gay” should not be used as a derogatory term meant to insult an entire group of people.
But she loses me at the end with the line: “It’s like if I thought this pepper shaker was stupid and I said, ‘Man, this pepper shaker is so 16-year old boy with a cheesy moustache’”.
With that 30 second ad, she manages to sum up my disdain for the entire political correctness movement. If you question or disagree with a political or moral opinion, you’re a hate monger and therefore free game for vicious personal attack.
There’s no such thing as tolerance unless you agree with what they stand for.
Which is pretty much the definition of intolerance.
We’re never going to get anywhere but further apart if we continue to view people with different views as somehow less human than we are–and I’m talking to both sides of any controversial topic.
As Wanda Sykes is fond of saying, “It’s a crazy world.”
Citius, Altius, Fortius, which is Latin for “Faster, Higher, Stronger”
This is the official motto for the Olympic Games. The 2012 London Games are historic. London is the first city to host a modern day Olympic competition three times. These games also hold the distinction of being the first in which every country has a female athlete competing in the games. The United States contingent actually has more women than men for the first time.
And I think that’s awesome.
I love the back stories for some of these athletes. Stories of great sacrifice and determination, physical, emotional and financial for the athletes and their families. Thousands of hours spent training, thousands of dollars spent on trainers and equipment, in some cases, money these athletes can’t afford to spend, but their families find a way. All in pursuit of their Olympic dreams. Some dream of gold, others simply dream of being good enough to qualify. For every one that does qualify, there are hundreds who try and fail. Which is why I hold each and every one of these athletes–whether they medal or not–in the highest regard. Because just to qualify is a victory in and of itself.
And then there’s Wojdan Ali Seraj Abdulrahim Shahrkhani.
At first glance her story is an inspirational one. One of two women allowed to compete from Saudi Arabia. This is a milestone for a country where women are considered little more than property. Shahrkhani would represent her country in Women’s Judo.
Her dream seemed to be coming to an end before it started when the IOC informed her that she would not be allowed to participate in the games wearing a head covering, as it might pose a danger to herself and her opponents. She was only able to compete in judo after a compromise between Olympic organizers, the international judo federation and Saudi officials that cleared the way for her to wear a modified hijab. The following story from ABC paints a pretty picture of boundaries being overcome, milestones being made:
What the story doesn’t mention is that, unlike most athletes who have devoted the entire lives just for the Olympics, Shahrkhani wasn’t even required to qualify for the games. So enamored with the idea that Saudi would allow women to compete at all, she was given a free pass to an event hundreds of athletes tried and failed to qualify for.
That bothered me. A lot. But I was willing to give her a pass because what she would do was historical, and I actually began to feel sympathy towards her because she seemed to be a pawn in a game of international political correctness run amok. Until I learned of her Judo ranking. With the exception of Shahrkhani, all competitors in Olympic Judo hold advanced black belts.
Shahrkhani? She’s a blue belt.
judo belts
If you’ll notice, a blue belt is an entire belt color away from a black belt–let alone an advanced black belt. I have a friend who’s son just earned his orange belt in Karate. He’s the same distance away from her blue belt as she is from the other competitor’s black belts. He’s 8. He still wears Sponge Bob pajamas.
Now, you may be saying to yourselves, “But katdish! I watched the video! She is clearly wearing a black belt!” Yes, she is. But only because she and her father were whining because it was unfair that everyone else was wearing a black belt and she had to wear a blue one.
And once again, people who should ensure the highest standards in Olympic competition caved to political correctness and allowed her to wear a belt she didn’t earn while competing in an event she never should have been in in the first place.
You can call Shahrkhani’s story historic and ground breaking.
Me? I calls them likes I sees them.
A slap in the face to every athlete that actually earned the right to represent their country.
Despite this black eye to the integrity of the games, I’m still loving me some Olympics, though…
The first week of August around here is referred to as Birthday Palooza. My son’s birthday is July 31, my dad’s is August 1, my daughter and my sister share an August 2 birthday and mine is August 5. And that’s just my immediate family. I also have a brother-in-law, sister-in-law and niece with birthdays in either late July or early August.
My birthday always has and most probably always will be shared with family, and I’m okay with that. What better way to celebrate your birthday than your family? My sister found a birthday card which sums up this sentiment rather nicely:
inside card
It’s funny because it’s true. We put the fun in dysfunctional.
Anyway, this year I turned 47, which is weird, because for the life of me I thought I turned 47 LAST year. As a matter of fact, if you were to search blog posts I’ve written over the past year, you will find that I’ve often referred to myself as being 47. When I was 46. Weird, huh?
Many of you may be thinking to yourselves, “How can a person not know how old they are? Was she born under mysterious circumstances? Was she left on her parents’ doorstep as a baby and her actual age is merely a educated guess?”
No. I know the day I was born. August 5, 1965. I have my birth certificate as proof. My only defense is that I honestly don’t think much about my age. Also, I suck at math.
How did I come to the realization that I was turning 47 and not 48?
Because a couple of weeks ago, my husband asked me what I wanted for my birthday. This question lead to the next:
“How old are you, again?”
“I’m 47…I think. I’m pretty sure I’m 47,” I said.
“What year were you born?”
“1965.”
“It’s 2012. If you were born in 1965, how old does that make you?” he asked.
Me: “You know I suck at math.”
Him: “You’re 46. You’ll be 47 on your birthday.”
Me: “Okay then. Good to know.”
So, Happy 47th birthday to me again! I’m not sure whether to be glad not to be 48 yet or sad that I never enjoyed being 46.
No matter. I’m just grateful to have celebrated another birthday. Whichever one it happens to be.
Thanks to you all for the birthday greetings via Facebook and Twitter. You made my 40-somethingth birthday that much more special.
I’m partial to swimming. I suppose when you’ve participated in a sport you’re able to more deeply appreciate just how much better those athletes are than you ever hoped to be and what kind of sacrifice and dedication contributed to their success.
The news has been downright depressing lately. And while all that bad will still be there after the closing ceremonies, for now I’m content to cheer people on rather than shake my head and mourn for what they’ve become.
In past years my focus has been on the gold medal winners, but as I watched the parade of athletes during the opening ceremonies, I decided that while winning gold is a worthy goal, just getting there is a huge accomplishment in and of itself.
Take Irish gymnast Kieran Behan for example. From the New York Times:
As a boy, Behan, now 23, had a series of injuries, two so severe that doctors told him he would never walk again. Nerve damage from a botched leg operation left his foot numb and causes excruciating pain even if his leg is touched ever so gently. Brain damage caused by his head hitting the high bar in training left him struggling to do simple tasks such as moving his head or eating.
Yet he fought back to become an Olympian, a goal he has had since he was 6.
On Saturday, though, the plucky Behan lost focus. On the floor exercise, his best event, he stumbled on two of his landings for a disappointing score of 13.966 points. He also competed on vault and scored 13.933 points.
Behan, the first Irish gymnast to qualify for the Olympics, did not make the final in either event.
When asked about not qualifying for the final event however, Behan was overcome with emotion. Not out of disappointment, but out of gratitude for the sacrifices so many had made to get him to London in the first place.
“It doesn’t matter what I’ve done in there,” he said, gesturing to the arena floor. “It’s how I’ve got to where I am now. But that isn’t the last people are going to see of me. I’ll be back because I’m a fighter.”
There are hundred of stories of sacrifice and triumph in the Olympic games. Most of them we’ll probably never hear about. I’m grateful I was able share just one with you.
Many of us spend so much of our lives focusing and striving for the destination that we forget to appreciate the journey.
As I watch the games over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be cheering the athletes towards their destination, but I’ll also be celebrating the journey they’ve endured to get there. Bravo.
This feeling of almost overwhelming funk. Watching the news certainly hasn’t helped: tragedy both here and abroad and the constant political back biting. It’s exhausting. Plus, I didn’t go to my happy place this year: the beach. Oh, how I love the beach. But alas, our schedules did not permit such a getaway this year. It’s all left me feeling unrested and restless.
I thought it was just me. But it’s not. I’ve talked to several people who seem to be stuck in a similar funk. Just knowing I’m not alone helped lighten the weight a little.
There are plenty of folks much smarter and wiser than I whom you can turn to for advice. Many will tell you to pray and read scripture, and I’d be the first to agree that those two actions may do you a world of good.
But sometimes you need an immediate anti-funk injection.
And I discovered one quite by accident this afternoon. It worked for me, and I’m hoping it may work for you, too:
Think of a song from your youth.
A song that the 13-year old you would sing loudly and with absolute abandon.
Download it to your iPod or find the CD or whatever.
Get in your car, put on your sunglasses (even at night).
Play that song loudly.
Sing it ever louder. I mean, belt that sucker OUT!
When you get to a stop light, play air guitar. If you draw attention to yourself, all the better.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Will this little mini concert make the world a little less ugly? Probably not.
Is it a long term solution to your heavy heart? Most probably not.
But maybe, just maybe.
It will help you realize what I did.
That buried beneath all that heaviness we all tend to carry all too often,
there is joy.
We just need a little help finding it sometimes.
*Editor’s Note: The above video is the medley I stumbled upon this afternoon. And while I’ll admit that the 13-year old me was a big Journey fan, it could have been any number of belt-worthy songs.
July is the middle of the year. Specifically, July 2 (in a non-leap year) is the exact middle of the year. And it feels like the middle, doesn’t it?
For me, June seems like a recovery month. Time to take a breath, throw away or file the piles of school papers the kids have accumulated over the past several months, sleep in a bit and be a little lazy. Or a lot lazy. But June didn’t fall into its usual rhythm this year. My son attended summer school for the first time. That, in addition to something called SAC camp (Strength and Conditioning Camp) four afternoons a week has put a wrench in the laziness of summer.
And now I find myself in the waining days of July wondering where my summer went. No beach getaway, no long drives to visit family. Just days on end having to be somewhere at a certain time. Dropping off or picking up. There’s been plenty of laziness in between, but not the kind that makes you feel rested. Just the kind that makes you feel…well, lazy.
August is just around the corner, and while the kids don’t officially go back to school until the 27th, marching band and football practice starts August 1.
I’ve felt like I’ve been in a holding pattern this summer–waiting for one thing to end and another to begin. Filling my time rather than investing it in something bigger, and generally feeling a bit useless. But as I look back on the days where it seems nothing of great importance happened, I remember the two day Psych watching marathon with my daughter. Two days filled with laughter and repeating silly lines from Shaun and Gus. I remember teaching my son how to make grilled cheese sandwiches on the griddle, and how obtaining that knowledge empowered him–even if it was only the power to make himself a hot meal. And a dozen other little things millions of moms or dads never think twice about. And I realize the little things do matter. Or maybe not so much the little things, but the little moments.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, may I present a gratuitous cat video:
This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: July hosted by Peter Pollock. For more summerly posts, please visit him at PeterPollock.com
So much has already been said about what happened at the midnight premiere of the new Batman movie in Aurora, Colorado last Friday. There’s not much I can say that hasn’t already been said.
One of the dangers of the 24 hour news cycle is that in the absence of new information, media outlets often substitute “expert” opinion, conjecture and innuendo. Just hours after the name of the alleged gunman had been released, the following exchange between Good Morning America’s George Stephanopoulos and Brian Ross took place:
“There is a Jim Holmes of Aurora, Colorado page on the Colorado Tea Party site… talking about him joining the Tea Party last year,” Ross said. “Now, we don’t know if this is the same Jim Holmes, but it’s Jim Holmes of Aurora, Colorado.”
ABC later issued an apology:
An earlier ABC News broadcast report suggested that a Jim Holmes of a Colorado Tea Party organization might be the suspect, but that report was incorrect. ABC News and Brian Ross apologize for the mistake, and for disseminating that information before it was properly vetted.
I fully and correctly predicted that the tragedy in Aurora would be used as a platform for gun control, but what Brian Ross did was so blatantly, shockingly irresponsible. He seemed almost giddy at the prospect of connecting a political movement he opposes to a homicidal maniac. The Jim Holmes Ross incorrectly connected with the shooting is a 52-year old Hispanic man who looks nothing like the suspect in custody.
There have been calls for boycotts of ABC and their affiliates, but I will not be participating in any such boycotts. They are just one more distraction which divide a nation who should be coming together in support of the people of Aurora, Colorado. We need to set aside our personal and political agendas and try and remember what it’s like to act like decent human beings again.
People die violent and senseless deaths every single day and each one is a tragedy. I think what’s especially frightening about the Aurora shootings is the familiarity of the venue. The chilling realization that it could have been any one of us sitting in that movie theater–or worse–one of our children.
Twelve people were brutally murdered and many more will sustain life altering injuries–both physical and emotional.We should all be outraged by this senseless violence, but the ultimate blame sits squarely on the shoulders of one man: James Eagan Holmes. May God have mercy on his soul.
Two Wolves is a Cherokee legend. It goes as follows:
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.
He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.
One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”
The grand son thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
“Not all children of divorce live their lives as victims. Some of us are stronger for it, because we had a parent who didn’t allow their circumstances to dictate whether or not they did the right thing. They did right thing despite their circumstances.”
When we’re going through the dark places, it’s so difficult to see the clarity of light they may someday bring to us.
A few months ago, my daughter told me that the parents of one of her best friends were getting a divorce. While I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given the divorce rate in this country, I was. I know them to be a close family who love their three children very much. When my daughter told me of the divorce, she told me she didn’t know why her parents were getting a divorce and that she didn’t feel right asking. I told her that was okay, that if her friend wanted to talk about it she would. But her most important role as a friend right now is just to be there, to show her friend that even if her immediate future may be filled with inconsistencies and unknowns, her friendship remains a constant.
There have been many times over the past few months when her friend will call and ask to come over, and each time we pick her up. Sometimes for a sleepover, sometimes just for a few hours. I don’t think she’s escaping anything more dubious than the sadness that comes from knowing the house she’s grown up in will soon belong to another family. I think she just wants to be free of the big, heavy, grown-up worries that 10 year old girls shouldn’t have to carry. Even if it’s just for a little while. Without fail, when we drop her back off at home we tell her she is always welcome at our house.
The greatest gift of my own personal experience with divorce is the ability to pass on my empathy and compassion to my daughter without her having to go through that particular dark place herself.
And I would never know the beautiful clarity of that particular light had I not gone through my own darkness.
If this dog could talk, it would be saying, "I hate you."
I think I’ve mentioned how much I like the book Watership Down. So much so, that I’m rereading the Richard Adams classic. For those of you who don’t know, Watership Down is a tale of a group of rabbits who leave their warren at the pleading of a little rabbit named Fiver. Fiver has a vision that their home will be destroyed. The book follows their many adventures on their journey to find a new home.
Obviously, Adams anthropomorphizes the rabbits–that is–he gives them certain human characteristics like the ability to talk, otherwise it would be a pretty lame book. But I knew going in that rabbits can’t actually talk because I’m smart like that. Besides, it’s a story of very real human struggles told effectively through the eyes of rabbits. It works.
But here’s what doesn’t work for me.
People who think their pets are their children and the advertisers and pet industry executives who take advantage of their stupidity.
I’ll skip the not-so-subtle message of this commercial which says your cat’s well being takes precedent over your significant other’s. But since when do cats give a crap about breakfast? Are you telling me that the creature who just laid a bloody lizard on your chest while you were napping on the couch has a preference for eggs in the morning? Breakfast food for cats? Seriously?
And then there’s this:
Let’s ignore the fact that the woman is laughing while that big, filthy dog is shaking flour all over her kitchen and then chases him around the island in slow motion and get to the heart of the matter: Dog cookies. I don’t know about your dog, but mine has been known to eat cat feces right out of the litter box, and I never once recall him asking me to chop it up and bake it into a cookie before doing so.
I’m not a pet hater. I’ve had pets my entire life. I know they provide unconditional love (well, dogs anyway) and companionship. Our cat Rudy and our dog Buddy Love are both a part of the family. But they’re animals, not people.
Paul McCartney is quoted as saying, “You can judge a man’s true character by the way he treats his fellow animals.”
And I would agree with that to a certain extent, but when you begin to give the lives of animals precedent over the lives of fellow human beings, the world’s been turned upside down.
