Happy 2009!

Doesn't it seem like yesterday that everyone was bracing for the Y2K "disaster" that never came?

And here we are -- another New Year in its infancy. I'm not one for resolutions, but you're reading one of them. I resolve to get out my feelings more this year. They're disjointed, with no connection whatsoever, but here they are.

By this time next year I'll be the mother of an official driver-license-holding teenager, on her way to spreading her wings for independence. I've devoted so much of my being to this child that I'm not sure I'm ready for the empty nest.

She's beautiful, brilliant and sensitive -- exactly what this world needs for its future. Can I let her go? I don't know. She needs to be let go, and I hope and pray I'm not so selfish I can't let that happen. I love her fiercely. She's my life's joy.

I'm recovering from some funky stomach malady, so the first nibble of the day wasn't black-eyed peas and greens. I hope the New Year's gods can forgive this indiscretion and bless me with luck. It would be nice to win the lottery, but you have to play to win. If I can't swoop up on Powerball winnings, I hope I can at least keep my head above water this year.

My little dog isn't getting any younger. He's had eye and back problems this year. I wish him an easy, healthy year as we grow older together.

It's my fervent prayer that the economy pull out of this dismal slump. Uppermost in my mind, of course, is the fate of newspapers. So many good people have devoted their lives to the truth with very few monetary rewards. Please, for their sake -- for my sake, even -- don't let newspapers die. We're not perfect, but we're out there trying our damnedest to give the public an unbiased look at the events coloring their world. The same cannot be said of so many bloggers and citizen journalists, many of whom color themselves as objective but reveal their bent. Kind of like Faux News with a keyboard.

(And yes, I do realize I'm using a blog as my podium. I, however, make no claim to be a journalist here. This is where I blow off steam -- it's subjective, and I have no plans to change that.)

I have high hopes for our new POTUS. Barack Obama is no messiah, but he gives me optimism. New ideas are needed. The status quo is not working. I now count down the days to the end of the error -- a man neither elected by the people nor for the people.

Reading about the possibility of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner having a New Year's baby makes me smile. It's irrelevant to my daily life, but I think they're absolutely darling. So many times I've latched my hopes onto a Hollywood couple -- Brad and Jennifer, Reese and Ryan -- only to see it end in divorce. (I still haven't forgiven Brad for cheating with Angelina Whorlie.) I have faith in the Afflecks. They seem ... almost normal.

Why was Friends the last great sitcom? I love The Office, but there is still a void left by the six people who gathered in my living room every Thursday to make me laugh .. and cry. Though I've always loved Friends, I still mourn for the pre-Monica Chandler and the Joey who was dumb and lovable, not brain dead.

Of course, Jim Halpert does help ease the pain somewhat ... (Is he gorgeous or what?!?)

And speaking of guys who make you drool, I'd gladly be Rob Pattinson's cougar. Long or short hair, bald ... I don't care. Just in case anyone out there knows him and wants to pass the word ...

Happy New Year, everyone! Both of you.

I am heartbroken

My first foray onto the Internet today, and this is the first thing I see.

I loved Tim Russert. His was the rare voice of reason in broadcast journalism. He loved his job and politics, and it mattered to him that people knew what was going on.

My heart, though heavy, goes out to his family and co-workers.

God bless you, Tim Russert. And thank you for the insight and raising the bar.

*Real* journalists? Pffft!

OK, I'm pissed.

I just read a blog from a guy who was touting that he was a "real" journalist because his blog "broke a story." Then he chided an actual newspaper for "claiming to break the story.

Puhleeze.

The "story" that was broken was a link. No details -- just here it is, folks.

The newspaper, on the other hand, had a reporter who actually made phone calls and dug for facts. Furthermore, the reporter's name -- his REAL name -- was at the top of the story. Not some pseudonym or cutesy screen name to hide behind and to abandon when the heat's too hot in the kitchen.

I like blogs. Hell, here I am spouting off on one. And I won't deny for a minute that I'm using my own cutesy screen name.

Is this a news source? HELL NO. I'm not even going to pretend it is. It's my forum for letting it all out. Sometimes, I use it as a sounding board about current events. But breaking news on it? Hardly.

I've broken a few stories in my day -- using my name. My real name. Have I received criticism? Sure. If I put it on the line, I should take my licks like a big girl. In my real name.

There are some good blogging news sources. But there are more (and they're breeding like bunnies, folks) bad ones who want to play "journalist" without getting their hands dirty.

To give the devil his due, there are some bad journalists out there, too. (Jayson Blair or Jean Cooke, anyone?) But, believe it or not, they're a rarity.

Most journalists are underpaid and overworked. They care about getting the most accurate facts to you. They confront politicians on behalf of you.

Sometimes, what looks like a good news story just doesn't have the facts behind it to come together. The reputable journalist will recognize that. His real name and reputation are on the line, after all.

OK, this is disjointed and in all likelihood, not my best work. But there it is. And even without my real name on it, I'll take my licks.

After all, I'm on both sides.

"Succeeding is the most important thing"

The above quote was uttered just minutes ago by Dubya mouthpiece Tony Snow in an interview with Matt Lauer on "Today."

Think about it: Succeeding is the most important thing. (Emphasis mine.)

That's why I could never be in PR. There is no way in good consciousness, no matter how much the White House was paying me, I could stand up on national television and tell people who have lost children, parents, spouses, siblings and other loved ones in this insipid war that succeeding is the most important thing.

Snow, with his blinders snug in place, assured Lauer that troop withdrawal is not an option. Of course it isn't -- his boss and the Veep, better known as Bush's boss -- refuse to acknowledge that they, in simple layman's terms, fucked up. We have no business in Iraq. Saddam was crazy -- there's no doubt about that -- but those WMD and ties to bin Laden? Nonexistent.

(Remember bin Laden, the real bad guy? The asshole who ordered jets flown into American landmarks, killing American people? I remember him -- but I don't think the POTUS does. The Veep doesn't remember, either -- after all, how could Halliburton profit if they go after him?)

Cindy Sheehan has the right idea: Impeach the motherfuckers. It's high time we showed them whose government is -- and whose interest it was put in place to serve.

Smells like Kurt's spirit

Courtney Love says she's going to sell Kurt Cobain's things.

"My daughter doesn't need to inherit a giant ... bag full of flannel ... shirts," says Love, former frontwoman of the rock band Hole. "A sweater, a guitar and the lyrics to '(Smells Like) Teen Spirit' -- that's what my daughter gets. And the rest of it we'll just ... sell." (Insert the f-bomb where the ellipses are.)

I missed the whole Nirvana craze, but I'm living it now. My 14-year-old has decided that Kurt's da bomb, and I have yet to break it to her that his widow is selling off his belongings.

I must admit, my first thought was How could she? Then, I paused.

I thought back to going through my mother's things. The dolls she loved ... the angels she collected. Without Mom, they were just stuff. The love my mother had for them -- that's what made them special.

I have found myself decluttering after spending a year sorting through Mom's receipts, photos, Bibles and the like. In the back of my mind, I keep telling myself that I'm doing it for The Girl -- so she won't face such a daunting task of "Should I keep this? Or should I let it go?"

I imagine things are the same for Courtney. Of course there are things she'll keep. But without Kurt, most of his belongings have lost their magic.

Break out the tags and Sharpies, Courtney. We're having a sale!

Sophomoric potpourri

... because we need a little levity after a sad week.

***
Here's my advice to Ireland Baldwin:

The next time your daddy calls you, tell him this:

I'm rubber; you're glue
What you say bounces off me and sticks to you.

I say this because that insipid phone call Alec Baldwin made to his daughter conjures up descriptives for him that he used for his 11-year-old daughter.

Namely pig, idiot, ass.

I never liked Baldwin, but he's officially off my list. He joins Tom Cruise, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in the Hall of Shame; i.e., works banned from my house because they're complete idiots.

Dammit. I really like "30 Rock."

***
So Larry Birkhead has evoked the masses by accepting cash from OK! magazine for an article and photos of him and daughter Dannielynn.

My take? Good for him!

Raising kids is damned expensive. So are legal fees to fight grandmother-cum-sow Virgie Arthur for custody of his child.

And, not to diss Larry's profession, but when have you ever seen his name in a photo credit?

My fervent wish is for Larry to be able to raise Dannielynn away from the bright lights of Hollywood and the vultures circling for a piece of what she could inherit from her mother, Anna Nicole Smith.

I still kind of feel sorry for Howard, though. He's kind of grown on me. You know, like a pet rat. You're disgusted at first, then it sort of starts to look cute.

***
Mary Winkler did it, but she's off with a manslaughter charge and could face no more time incarcerated.

I've always believed there was more to the Winkler story, and I still do. I believe she was abused, and that he was a difficult man to live with.

I also believe, contrary to what others are posting, that she could have fired the gun without meaning to. I know nothing about guns, nor do I want to. I wouldn't know how to load one, or how to check if it was. Consequently, I also wouldn't know if the safety was on or even where the safety is.

I've only held a gun maybe twice. (C'mon, this is The South -- most men, including my daddy, grandpa and the one I used to live with, pack heat.) It only seems natural, in my opinion only, to rest your finger near the trigger while you hold it.

As for the phone cord being yanked out? Isn't it possible that he yanked it out to keep her from calling for help?

I wish Mary Winkler godspeed and a way to deal with the rest of her life. Good luck.

Outrage

Meredith Vieira is outraged.

She's not alone. Talking heads are filling the airwaves with their perplexities, wondering why on earth nothing was done to treat a disturbed young man before he went on a rampage that left 33 dead, including himself.

This is no surprise to those of us who have dealt with mental illness personally. Nobody takes it seriously -- except those living with it.

Insurance companies -- including Medicare and TennCare -- will only pay for so many days. I literally counted the days until the end of a six-month period, when Medicare would again pay for my mother's stay at a mental hospital.

Even those trained to deal with mental illness don't recognize it. Time and again, I would beg them to keep Mom for further evaluation and treatment.

"She's OK," they'd tell me, practically pushing the poor soul on me to take home to wallow in her personal hell.

Except she wasn't. My sweet mother, who only completed the seventh grade and spent her life doing menial jobs to support first her aging parents and then my sister and me, could give an Academy Award-worthy performance in front of others. My aunt and I, however, could look into her eyes and see the troubled soul that lurked underneath. And no matter how much we protested, they continued to tell us she was OK.

We begged her to take her medicines. She wouldn't. We'd rat her out to her doctors. They'd rail. She'd promise to do better. She wouldn't.

That's the roller coaster of mental illness, folks.

And HIPAA -- what a joke. There were times I couldn't talk one-on-one with my mother's caregivers because -- SURPRISE! -- I wasn't listed as one of the people they could talk to. THE WOMAN WAS MENTALLY ILL!!! Putting my name on a form wasn't uppermost on her mind in the river of misery that led her to treatment.

I called health officials and said, "Look -- you can't talk to me; but I can talk to you." And talk I did.

"Please don't let her out."

"Please. I found a noose in her apartment. I'm afraid she'll kill herself."

"She's not taking her medicine."

"She's conning you."

They listened, all right -- they signed release forms and sent her back to continue her path of destruction.

I wrote my congressman and begged him to re-examine the HIPAA law in relation to the mentally ill. He didn't even bother to respond with a form letter thanking me for my interest. Bastard.

The demons that haunted my mother were quieted just over two years ago. It was no thanks to the society that was meant to protect her or any physician or health-care worker who finally saw the light.

My mother took matters into her own hands. One sunny Sunday morning, she pointed a handgun between her breasts and squeezed the trigger.

The woman who gave me life silenced her demons by taking her own. A victim of a system that didn't take her illness seriously.

Now 33 are lost for the same reason. Meredith is outraged -- and so are many others.

Maybe a national outrage will force people to listen. Maybe it will lead to better care for the mentally ill.

It's the prayer I lift while asking for strength for the families of the victims -- including the parents of the gunman.

Unfreakingbelievable

Thirty-two people dead. Fifteen injured.

Young people on the cusp of their lives who simply woke up/reported for class on campus.

God, what a tragedy.

I personally have never been on the Virginia Tech campus. But one of my best friends and his wife are alums, and they're Hokie faithful. An intern at work completed her schooling there. And its name is displayed prominently in one of the supervisor's office at work -- a supervisor whose child plans to be a second-generation VT grad in the family.

It's sad. Senseless.

My prayers are with the families and friends of those lost. May God give you strength at this difficult time.