War (Re-published)

War
I'm not sure how to write about this.

Maybe it's none of my business. Maybe I ought not to air other people's dirty laundry. But, I'm going to because I am angry and I think this is worth being discussed.

The effects of this war are hitting closer to home: a young guy I know well is an Iraq vet. He spent time in Fallujah and saw things I can't even begin to wrap my head around. He's only 24 now and so, while there a few years ago, his brain was presumably still developing. Since his return, he's struggled with anger, depression, and alcohol abuse. While the VA is "available" to help with these things, there exists a dangerous combination of long wait lists to access services combined with young veterans who have been cultured to think they ought to just pull themselves up by the bootstraps and get on with their lives. Pushing the anger deeper down like vinegar in a model volcano. But add a touch of baking soda and they explode.

Two nights ago, this veteran's anger did just that. In an alcoholic and consuming blind rage, he beat his girlfriend up. It is absolutely awful. There is, of course, no excuse for his behavior. I am angry with him and cannot believe this boy I have known my whole life could behave in such a horrific way.

And, perhaps, that's the saddest part of this whole thing. I know him. Knew him. While he was by no means a perfect angel before Iraq, he was not violent. While our family has a strong propensity toward chemical addiction, before Iraq he did not fly into blind alcoholic rages.

While it does not excuse what he has done, he is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am angry with him for not demanding help as soon as he got home from the war. I am angry with the government for not requiring intensive extended therapy for combat veterans. I am angry with this administration for creating yet another generation of young people who have experienced the horrors of war and will spend the rest of their lives struggling to recover and unable to fully overcome what war does to the human psyche.

Troops in or troops out; 90 days or 90 years, we have only begun to see the devastation of this war on troops, their families, and our whole country.

I hope that the civilian judge who sentences him orders psych and chemical evaluations and counseling. Maybe the civilian courts can try to begin to mend what never should have been allowed to fall this far apart.

There Once Was A Post...

I had written some things over the weekend that I feel were more about my feelings about the war and the far-reaching effects of it, but that were a response to some things that have happened. It wouldn't have made much sense to write an abstract essay about PTSD without some context. So, if you read my blog Saturday or Sunday, you saw it.

But, I was more or less asked to remove it by an anonymous comment, so out of respect to whomever that was, I did.

At this very moment...

I am listening to Johan "self-soothe." This is code for letting him cry himself to sleep. It is very sad. He is 4.5 months and the pediatrician/evil monster says he needs to learn to fall asleep on his own, not in my arms. So we are trying. Now. She says to leave him cry for up to a half hour. She clearly has no soul. I say 5 minutes. Any longer than that, and he's not ready to sleep yet.

As I write this, the cries are tapering off. Listening, listening... It's now been quiet for 30 seconds. It sounds by the lack of sound that he is falling asleep.

I've been waiting. It's been a few minutes. The room is quiet. Success.

Johan's ability to self-soothe? check.
My ability to not pick him up the second he makes a peep? check.
We win.

Judging J. Lo.

The other day I was skimming the People magazine article and photo spread of J. Lo and the new babies. They aren't actually that cute. So far, they look much more like dad than mom. Bummer for them. Anyway, in response to a question about why she is not nursing, she says something like, "Everyone reads up and decides what's best for their baby."

Bullshit. There is no article ANYWHERE that says formula is better than breast milk. ANYWHERE. I think the federal government even requires formula companies to preface all their ads and materials with "breast milk is best." So, unless J. Lo. paid some folks to write some materials just for her about why formula is better, I call bullshit.

Of course to nurse or not to nurse is an intensely personal decision and the "better person" in me would live and let live. But, as someone who is away from my child for 50+ hours a week and still successfully nurses without pumping while I am away, I feel like I am in a place to judge J. Lo's lies.

She isn't choosing to not nurse them because it's better for them. She's chosen to bottle feed so her tits remain as perky as her ass. She's insured and has to make her moneymaker last. I can appreciate that, but at least tell the truth about it.

Kids who aren't breastfed tend to get sicker than those who are. They are far more likely to have food and environmental allergies. And they tend to be fatter kids. Wouldn't it be poetic justice if the J. Lo twins ended up continuing looking like their dad (FUG-ly), and were little fat sausages with perpetually runny noses and severe allergies to peanuts and shellfish. The nerdiest of all combinations possible. It would serve J. Lo right for putting perked boobs ahead of her children's well-being.

Now I will go back to my day, and I'd like to say the judging is over. But we all know it probably isn't.

It Really Is Scrabulous

I never liked Scrabble, but I could never really pin-point why. I love words and books and other word games, so Scrabble should have been a good match for me. Yet, it was never a game I would choose to play.

Now, I am addicted to Scrabble on Facebook.com, called "Scrabulous." And is it ever. I can't get enough. So, why now? Why at this time; why in this place?

The truth comes forth. It was not the Scrabble I didn't like as a child. It was those pesky tiles. A clumsy girl with below-average motor skills but also a perfectionist committed to order- I wanted the letters to be lined up perfectly in the little boxes; everything straight and in order. Yet, my awkwardness somehow always caused the tiles to be off-kilter and never quite right.

Computerized Scrabble, though, is, in no uncertain terms, Scrabulous. Point and click and make words. No muss, no fuss. No sideways tiles or an accidental kick of the board causing the whole game to go asunder. The tiles are in a perfectly straight line, each one fitting delicately into the custom-sized box on the board it was made for.

I am a Scrabble convert. Racking up points making words with the computerized tiles gives me the same satisfaction as checking items of a list or filling in a matrix. Which is a lot.

Girl Scout Cheese

I am hungry for something savory and the only thing at my desk are Girl Scout cookies. While delicious in their own right, I am really not in the mood for sweets. I'm in a mood for something you could get from a deli, but it's that time of day when it would be ridiculous to leave work and go to a deli and then come back to work for another, what, 15 minutes? So I stay at work. And eat a Girl Scout cookies. And curse those little girls for not selling Girl Scout cheese. They could even give it a cute little Girl Scout name. Swiss cheese could be Hole-y Rollers; cheddar could be Sunshine Blast; Dill Havarti could be Herby Freckles. Mmm....Girl Scout cheese...delicious...

Freaks of Nature

Today I cracked an egg into the frying pan for breakfast and was surprised to see two yolks. This is the first time I have ever had an egg with double yolks and I was actually pretty disgusted by this. Identical twin scrambled eggs? It seems unnatural for two yolks to be enclosed in one shell. I didn't realize I thought this was gross until I saw both yellow circles starting to cook in a disproportionately small amount of white. I have friends who are disgusted by dairy products touching their skin. Maybe this is similar?

The lawyer in me wonders if the egg container should contain a warning that if you get an egg with double yolks, that means double cholesterol. Are they exposing themselves to liability?

I quickly scooped one of the yolks directly into the garbage, less because of the cholesterol and more because I couldn't stand to look at it.

Whatever Happened to Baby Double Dare?

Last night, as I was waiting for the hit show "Medium" to start, I stumbled upon a disturbing new game show called "My Dad is Better than Your Dad." This is sort of like the old Nickelodeon show Family Double Dare, but with way less whipped cream and way more disturbing.

Apparently in 2008, the ways to show you are the best dad and better than other dads is demonstrating an ability to tie sailing knots while being stung by scorpions and by getting all worked up (testosterone is truly disturbing) and yelling at your kid "We have to win! We have to win!" Call me old fashioned but, to me, these are not actually things that are indicative of good parenting.

Most telling of all, at the end of the show the "best" dad who had tied more sailing knots than any other dad had to answer questions about his son. For each question dad answered right, he would win $10,000.00. Dad won money answering questions about his son's video game habits, but was defeated by this: "What book is your son reading in school right now?" Dad was provided with 4 possible answers, and he still had no idea. This is pretty telling, and to me, means that the dad should be stripped of his newly one title of "better than your dad."

See, I don't know if my dad would win a competition in tying knots or other physical challenges since the Lund family is pretty much universally clumsy and lacks physcial prowess. But I guarantee you that he always knew what book I was reading in school. Thus, I can conclusively say that my dad is better than the dads on the creepy new gameshow portraying a dynamic between fathers and children that is unfortunately probably a microcosm of too many American households.

Also, some Lachey brother is the host of this show, automatically making it an unworthy piece of garbage. Where is Mark Sommers when you need him?

Alive and Kicking

Old gender stereotypes, that is.

Last week, there was a guy doing some construction at my office, building a new conference room because we are getting too big for our britches, as it were. Construction guy is a former client, a generally decent blue collar dude, although spends a lot of time hanging around chatting rather than finishing the conference room. Anyway, I was finishing a meeting with a client and the client left happily. Then the following ensues:

Construction Guy: That guy seems so happy with his paralegal.

Me: I am an attorney.

Construction Guy: REALLY?! You're a lawyer?

Me: (silent fuming) Yes.


Ok, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a paralegal, if you ARE a paralegal. I wasn't mad that he thought I was a paralegal, but because he assumed I must be a paralegal and was shocked that I could be a lawyer. I was wearing a suit so it wasn't a casual v. formal distinction. And it wasn't an age thing. 3/5 of the lawyers in this office are under 35. It was a girl thing. Construction guy would never have presumed that I was a paralegal if I was a guy.

I know what he thinks doesn't matter. But sometimes I forget that people like this actually exist. I am surrounded mainly by folks who have largely abandoned such antiquated gender roles and stereotypes. My friends are successful women, many of whom have or are getting professional and post-graduate degrees. My family has always encouraged me to be and do whatever I wanted; no one ever suggested thinking smaller. As I am strategizing a client meeting or a court appearance, I am not thinking about how the fact that I am a woman is going to affect the outcome.

I know that I have talked to death the Democratic primary season, but I have to say something about it again. Somehow, this experience made me even angrier that Hillary is most likely not going to be the nominee. I know that my friends who are supporting Obama are not doing so because they have rejected having a woman president. Unfortunately, I am not so confident in the rest of America. My boss pointed out that a lot of America who would reject a woman president would also reject a black president. I digress.

Conclusion is this: No matter how many years we go to school and how hard we work to build our careers, it seems there is always going to be some asshole who can't see beyond the tits and thinks we are somebody's assistant.