A Conflicted Reaction

I woke yesterday to find a heightened security watch over the home I live in.

It's a perk to living on a military base, you see.

When something internationally significant happens, they put up their guard on all our American bases, posts, and stations around the world.

So, thanks to the death of Osama Bin Laden, there were a few extra measures put in place around my home, my neighborhood, and my community yesterday.

Honestly, it didn't bother me much. I appreciate every measure taken to keep my family and me safe.

And, also, I understand why there was concern. History shows us that, in cases such as these, when dealing with extremists and terrorists, retaliation is almost imminent.

Still, I was pretty peaceful about the whole thing. I wasn't concerned for my safety. And I was happy that the world was rid of one more extremely evil, corrupt, murderous, violent man.

Then, I turned on the news.

I saw video and audio and photo after photo after photo of people celebrating Bin Laden's death in American streets.

And, honestly, instead of laughing and smiling right along with them, much like I do when I see a town celebrate a Super-Bowl win, I sat there, generally disturbed.

Not because I cared about Bin Laden. Because trust me, I don't.

The man needed to die. He's caused harm and death to thousands of people. He's funded and supported one of the world's craziest terrorist organizations. There is no question in my mind that he is, or was, evil.

Furthermore, I feel grateful that the Navy Seals who shot him were well-trained enough to serve their country and complete a mission that will bring peace to the thousands of family members who've lost someone in the September-11 attacks and millions of others who have died across the world thanks to the hate incited by the infamous terrorist backer.

So, trust me, it wasn't that I was perturbed by what we Americans were celebrating. It was the fact that they were celebrating at all that bothered me.

That really got me: Seeing jubilation in the face of death.

Granted, it was the death of a murderer. But it was still death.

And it was the exact same way many Middle Easterners reacted 10 years ago when thousands of Americans died at the hands of Taliban terrorists in the Twin Towers and the Pentagon.

We were horrified watching their jubilation. I remember that.

I remember watching them on CNN, celebrating in their streets on Sept. 11, and thinking, "How barbaric! How horrific! Who celebrates death? What kind of people are they?"

I was sickened by their reaction.

Frankly, I thought lesser of them. Their apparent joy at that horrible date in our history skewed my view of them forever.

They, it seemed, were evil. Anyone who celebrates death, in my mind, would have to be.

Which is why now - today - I wonder what they're thinking of us.

Granted, it's just the death of one man. One horrible man. One evil man who took innocent American lives.

He didn't deserve to live, and he's a far cry from the men and women who died during 9/11.

But for a culture that prides itself on being founded on Judeo-Christian values, and for a country that's spent the last 10 years pointing fingers at Middle-Eastern morals and religion, and point-blank saying, "We're better then them," I'm concerned.

After all, I thought better of us. I, too, see our country - our faith, our democracy, our morals and values - as better than theirs. I am forever grateful I was born into a country that values what we value.

After all, we don't wrap women in burkas. Our government doesn't kill those of other faiths. We don't pump boy-soldiers and money into terrorist organizations whose sole purpose is to kill, kill, kill.

So, yesterday, I thought I'd see a juxtaposition. I expected to see us rise above the obviously human urge to celebrate suffering and death. I hoped to see us smile a little; congratulate our troops, who have fought so hard for this; acknowledge that we're happy about it, maybe; but then move on.

I wanted to see us show a little class.

I wanted to see us espouse those Judeo-Christian values we hold so dear.

I wanted to see us represent America the best way we know how.

Without the street riots. Without the publicly spewed hate words. Without the violence-inciting parties.

After all, that's what they did. And I think we're better than that.

Sure, we can be glad that a bad man is dead. We can applaud justice. And then we can hold our heads up high and show what it means to be an American.

An American who's not barbaric, but proud. An American who's not out-of-control, but restrained. An American who's not vengeful, but fair.

Except, yesterday, I didn't see that. At least not in the audio and video and photo after photo after photo peppering the news. If we think we're superior, we sure didn't show it.

In fact, yesterday, we weren't any better than they were. Other than a few subtle, cultural schema, we could have been them yesterday. What with our hate speech and riots and parties celebrating death.

Truth is, we don't seem so different anymore. And as a proud American, I'm not so happy about that.

***

From a tactical standpoint, I also fear our jubilant celebrations in these coming days could incite even worse retaliations than we're already fearing. Just as we could see Middle-Easterners celebrating 10 years ago, they can see us cheering now.

Our actions are the perfect propaganda for terrorist organizations constantly waiting to fan the flames of hate they've already lit.

We don't need to be the oxygen for their fire. After all, we (and our troops) will be the ones who receive the brunt of the next blow they deal.

***

I'll come back tomorrow with happier stuff to discuss, like our vacation last week. But this was on my mind for now, and I wanted to discuss it while it was fresh.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Are We Breeders?

I spent most of Friday afternoon in tears.

I got home from work, turned on the news, sat down, and couldn't tear myself away for about four hours.

I was riveted. It was like watching a train wreck.

And I just sat there and watched and cried and cried and cried.

I could not believe that grown men and women - elected, highly educated public officials - were bickering over the fate of millions.

Civic employees. Active-duty military. Women. Government workers.

It was shameful.

Granted, I was personally invested. My husband is a sailor in the U.S. Navy. I am a civilian who works part-time for the United States Armed Services. Thus, I was faced with the fact that, if the government had shutdown at midnight Friday, I was going to be pinching pennies and walking to work for quite some time. We weren't going to be receiving a full paycheck (or any paycheck at all, if it had gone on too long) and I was going to have to budget the heck out of our savings account.

Still, we do have a savings account. That's more than I can say for some people. And though it's small, I don't think we'd starve. Worst-case scenario, we could live on peanut butter and jelly and still pay our bills for a while.

The money concerns were stressful.

But that's not really why I was crying.

I was crying because I couldn't believe the world we lived in. I was crying because I was worried about others worse off than myself. And I was crying because I chose, along with several other close friends of mine, to bring a child into this world at a time that could not be more uncertain.

I am, quite honestly, the cheery optimist most of the time when it comes to these kinds of situations.

Up until last Friday, I was the woman saying, "It will work out. No politician is evil enough to leave more than 800,000 government employees without a paycheck. They aren't stupid enough to vote in their own salaries and then leave more than 2 million active-duty troops without pay, reporting to work, anyway."

I believe in the good in people. I really, truly do.

I couldn't fathom that career politicians - Republican, Democrat, Independent - who desperately want to be re-elected, and would do something so mind-numbingly amoral.

Then, I watched our country get thisclose to that very thing occurring.

I am not a highly political person myself. If you know me, you know I don't trust Republicans. Or Democrats. Or anyone, in fact, who stands up on Capitol Hill and espouses they are doing what their constituents want.

I don't vote along party lines. I think people who cling soundly to one party's espoused ideology are taking the easy way out. And as long as I've been able to vote, I have done so with a heavy heart, always feeling like I'm picking the lesser of two evils, always compromising one principle for another, always dreading what our country will look like the next day.

I don't believe in the Obama administration. But I didn't believe in the Bush one, either.

There is no "better than" in my mind. And, frankly, after watching the events unravel last Friday, I don't even think there's been a "good enough" in the White House in quite some time.

Still, I am an American. My husband and brothers are servicemen. We are patriotic. I revel in the beauty that is the variety this country has to offer, and I rejoice in the fact that I don't have to agree with any party but can still find a place at the figurative table.

Still, what had me so off my rocker on Friday was not the ridiculous arbitration going on about funding for Planned Parenthood or paychecks for the military in Washington, D.C., but the fact that in a little more than two months time, I was bringing a child into a world that is so far lost, it is shameful.

The bickering going on between the pundits was echoed by the bickering I saw on Twitter and Facebook.

People calling military wives "selfish" for sacrificing Title X funding for a paycheck. Politicians using women's health and military death gratuities as pawns in their efforts to win public support. Women telling other women to "calm down already" about the fact that they may not be able to afford food next week or may not be able to receive a necessary mammogram for free.

I was baffled at the extremism of it all. And, for the first time, I really began to worry about this baby in my belly.

She's coming into a world where the educated are arm-wrestling. Where grown professionals act out of spite. Where we lack respect for each others' positions, religions, livelihoods, and life choices.

She's coming into a time where everyone takes a side. Where no one reaches across the aisle and tries to see where the other side is coming from. Where morality and patriotism and sacrifice are not valued.

She's coming into a country where she'll be harassed for every hard choice she has to make. Where she'll be viewed through a host of untrue stereotypes. Where she can never be 100-percent certain that who is she and what she values will be protected by those that hold the reins.

And, sure, she doesn't know that now. She won't know it for a while.

She'll be a perfectly content infant then toddler then little girl, especially if I have anything to say about it.

But she does face a world where her daddy goes away to serve for long periods of time. Where people fight wars that don't make any sense. And where her health, education, and religion are tools to be used for politicians' power plays.

How do I explain all that to her? How do I tell her she's safe and respected and loved, when, in reality, not everyone will see her fragile little soul that way?

How do I protect her while letting her grow? How do I pray she'll make the right choices without clipping her wings?

How could I do this to her?

It was enough to render me teary-eyed on Friday. I was gasping for air and infuriated at our world.

So, on the phone, I asked my mom the same question. After all, she must have had the same fears.

And then, she told me about her own mother's - my grandmother's - philosophy.

My grandmother believed that her only hope for reversing what damage happened in the world was to have children, raise them right, and hope they'd go out into the world do the very same thing.

In essence, it almost sounds like a numbers game - a system where, if the good can overpopulate the bad, we'll win.

Our world will be peaceful and respectful and kind, simply because, if the majority rules, that's what we'll have reared up.

It makes sense. In theory.

But then, on the other hand, it sounds like we're all set out to be the Duggars. And as much as I respect their family choices, I do not think every set of parents is destined and suitable to raise 20+ children.

I don't believe we're simply meant to be a bunch of breeders. Responsible parenting alludes to the fact that just birthing a child does not inherently make them good.

Families have to make their own choices on how their family will be reared up.

Plus, the idea of, quite literally, birthing "an army" has been espoused in history before. By Hitler. And Muslim extremists. And other heretics that condoned a host of evils that centered around race and religion and outdated scientific and political principles.

That sounds like dangerous sword-play. And I frankly don't believe my husband and I could re-populate the world with kids raised only in our ideology. We're not fertile enough for that.

So, then, why have kids? Why have a big family? (And we do want a moderately big family, if we can have it.)

Are we doing it for selfish purposes? Do we simply want to be mothers and fathers and hold those babies in our arms?

Or do we believe in having children for a higher purpose? Do we believe that, by birthing, raising, and setting our children upon a broken world, we are doing good?

Or, better yet, we're doing our part to fight the bad?

True, every future president has to be birthed by someone. Every soldier needs parents. Today, the world's next great orator could be born.

But is that why we have kids?

***

I honestly don't know how I feel about all this. I do see the logic in it, after all.

At 30 weeks pregnant, I spend every day hoping and praying that not only will my child be loved and respected in our world, but that she'll do her best to go out and change it for the better. I'll hope and pray for the very same thing for every one of her younger siblings we birth or adopt after her.

Does that make me a breeder? I'm not sure.

The term is degrading, after all. But I've been called worse things.

Still, does that make women who choose not to have children evil? Or unwilling to "do their part?"

Hardly. I believe not having children can be calling, too. It's a vocation just as much as the family life is.

So what are to gather from all this? Why do we have kids? Or who do we choose not to? How do we justify bringing up a child in a fallen, scary world? Why do we do it? And, for the vast majority of us, why do we do it more than once? (Or twice? Or three times? Etc.)

I'd love to have your input below. (But, please, remain respectful of other commenters. We can have differing opinions on this. Unlike Congress, we can attempt to see both sides of the issue and at the very least acknowledge where others are coming from. I know we have that in us.)

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Inappropriate Hibachi

On Saturday night, the hubs and I ventured out to dinner with another Navy couple here in South Carolina.

Despite the monsoon-like weather we'd had all weekend, it was fixing to be a lovely evening.

We chose a local hibachi grill, and we sat down quickly, ordered beverages, placed our entree choices, and chatted for a little while.

Then, the hibachi chef showed up, pushing a cart full of yummy things and greeting us with "Good evening!"

He got right to work, slicing and dicing and lighting things on fire. He grilled up tasty portions of veggies and handed them out.

Then, he moved onto the rice.

He slapped a bowl of rice big enough to feed a small army on the grill.

Wasting no time at all, he proceeded to fashion the tightly packed rice into what seemed to be a familiar shape.

Then, without a moment's hesitation, he raised up his huge grill tool and brought it down with a resounding smack on the compact rice, bellowing, "Who's your daddy?"

The rice's familiar shape? A big, old booty.

Of course it looked familiar to me.

Still, all self-conscious fears of my rear aside, he kept "spanking" the rice and yelling "Who's your daddy?" for the next minute or so.

We all laughed loudly - and nervously. It was, as they say, a little awkward.

Not phased a bit by our nervous laughter, he offered us all the spatula, giving us a turn at rice-punishing, I suppose, but we declined. (Though don't think I didn't notice my husband considering it.)

I was a little shocked. A little awed.

But not all that perplexed. We were a table full of adults, after all. Perhaps it was a little off-color, but it was all in good fun.

In fact, I hardly considered it blog-worthy, and I only tell it here to warm you up for his next "rice bit," which, in my opinion, is far more egregious. Or, at least, I think so.

You see, after he finished smacking the rice butt around, he then fashioned the rice into the shape of a face, giving it sesame-seed eyes, nose and mouth.

He then asked around the table if we all remembered "George W. Bush."

We all nodded and smiled.

Happy we were on track, he then proceeded to take a bottle of soy sauce and drench the entire white rice face in it, turning the color of the rice from white to a dark tan brown, yelling "Before....and after!"

The table sat quietly, unsure of what to do.

Finally, the rest of the guests chuckled nervously, as if to satisfy the grill master's expectant smile.

I, however, did not laugh.

Mostly because I didn't get it.

I finally had to look at my husband, who explained to me in hushed tones, "The white rice was President Bush, and the dark rice made from soy sauce is President Obama. You know, before and after."

I've always been a little slow.

But, finally, my eyes widened, and I looked at the grill master. I giggled nervously and muttered, "Oh yeah. Now I get it."

He jokingly told me that I'd already had too much sake, though I'd only drank un-sweet tea the whole night. And I joked back with "No, I've just not always with it."

But, once we started eating our "Before and After" rice, I began to wonder, was the grill master's shtick inappropriate?

Was his rice joke a race joke?

Or was he simply noting a fact - that the presidency was held by a Caucasian person before and now is held by an African-American person after?

Granted, I can be a little sensitive toward these things. Regardless of my political preferences, I don't ever think racial humor is funny, whether the butt of the joke happens to be the president or not.

You can say what you want about presidents Bush and Obama, but neither one of their skin colors has ever been an issue for me, though I've had grievances against both men for certain policies and executive practices.

Still confused after dinner, I asked my husband - the Man Who Laughs at All Things Inappropriate - and he agreed that, though it wasn't overt, he felt uncomfortable with the joke, hence his nervous laughter.

We both wondered if it was just the controversial issue - the presidency - that was setting off our warning buzzers, or whether the joke really was in poor taste.

It was all so confusing.

So, I figured, you all could be the judge: Was the joke in the inappropriate? Was the joke downright racist? Or are the hubs and I just being overly concerned about a non-issue?

Help. Please. Before I'm once again become haunted with images of that grill master spanking our rice.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Workout Wednesday: Post This

When I was in New York City last year, I went to Starbucks for a cup of coffee.

And while standing in line, waiting for my skinny vanilla latte, I noticed a stack of bananas for sale at the 'Bucks stand. They were topped by a tooth-picked sign that read "Banana: 155 calories."

I laughed. Out right.

Because, while I knew restaurants were required to publish calorie counts in New York, I just didn't expect them to be, well, that nit-picky about their 'nanners.

But they are. They have been for years. Anything ingest-able, sold in city limits, is listed with a calorie count next to it. It's the law.

And now, according to our country's new federal health-care reforms, restaurants with more than 20 outlets nationwide will be required to publish their calorie counts front and center on their menus and ordering boards just like the Big Apple's been doing.

The idea? To make sure we, as Americans, know exactly what we're eating.

The hope? That the sheer caloric count of some of America's favorite fast-food treats horrifies the pants off our citizens so much that they won't eat those very treats anymore, thus reducing our national obesity rate, which - in short - would help cut down on our national health care costs.

Sounds perfect, right?

People get thinner, and American citizens (and our government) spend far less on health care.

Studies have shown that, under the similar law previously enacted in New York, consumers did purchase calorie-laden foods slightly less. Starbucks, for instance, saw a slight dip in their sale of buttery coffee cakes and cookies. (Although, overall, Starbucks wasn't hurt by the law within New York, simply because their coffee sales - their primary product - maintained their sales rate. Even those coffee drinks known for being calorie bombs themselves still sold.)

So, why are so many restaurant associations jumping on board this new federal regulation? It sounds as if thinner Americans means thinner wallets for the McDonald's of our country.

Too bad that's not the case.

Several chain restaurants - Arby's, Hardee's, and Outback Steakhouse, for instance - have been the public target of nutritional watch groups for years. These groups of obesity-awareness activists have lambasted them publicly and published foodie black-lists, screaming out about how many of their tasty meals contain, literally, more than 3,000 calories and 58 grams of fat each.

They've called these chains food pornographers; they've called these restaurants killers.

And they've only stirred up more business for them.

Hardee's restaurants, for instance, almost take pride in their "manly," big sandwiches. They still sell their "heart-attack on a bun" burgers.

Outback Steakhouses are still infamous for their deep-fried, calorie-laden Bloomin' Onions. It's still, by far, their most popular appetizer.

And the list doesn't stop there: People buy milkshakes, fried chicken sandwiches, and super-sized French fries, even after knowing that what they're eating has enough calories and fat in it to last them for three whole days.

Personally, I think that's terrifying. How does one eat a sandwich with 60 grams of fat in it? Especially if you know it has 60 grams of fat in it?

However, my husband would disagree with me. He's knowledgeable about calorie counts (because I'm yelling about them all the time), and he'd still eat that Hardee's sandwich.

Because it tastes good. Because it's everything he likes in a burger. Because he wants to.

My husband has a personal choice to eat that sandwich. As do I, when I blatantly turn up my nose and gag outright at the thought of so much as stepping foot in a Hardee's.

And I just can't get behind a law that takes that personal choice away.

Because, yes, I think our country is overweight. I think our nutritional choices are poor. And I think people need to take a much more preventative approach to diet and exercise in order to keep they and their family's health in check and less costly overall.

But federal mandates about calorie counts are not the way to achieve that.

People who exercise regularly want to: They see it as a blessing, an opportunity, a form of therapy, a preventative measure.

People who eat natural, whole-food diets want to: They see the benefits for themselves, for their children, for the Earth around us.

And yet, people who are diabetic, on the verge of hospitalization, often quit doctor's orders to exercise regularly. They will chose a life of insulin and medical intervention over exercise and a restricted diet all too easily.

And while it breaks my heart, that was their choice. Even as a trainer, I can't drag them kicking and screaming back into the gym. Just like their fired dietitian can't manhandle a milkshake away from their mouth.

People have a right to do what they want with their own bodies. And, in spite of knowing better, in spite of being aware of the consequences of eating this or doing that, overwhelmingly, the population will still make the choice to do it.

Do I think Whoppers and Big Macs and Kentucky Fried Chicken are hurting our society's health? Yes.

I'd even go as far as to call them a food addict's dealer.

But like any dealer, government mandates that the "drugs" they're pushing are illegal - because they are personally and socially harmful - do nothing to help a true addict.

It does nothing to treat them; it does nothing to comfort them; it does nothing but make their actions and problems more shameful and covert.

Jail time does not cure drug addicts. Just like big, bold calorie counts won't cure food addicts.

Obesity is a huge, genetically entwined problem in our country.

But it has nothing to do with a lack of awareness about calories.

Ask any overweight person, and they can tell you what they eat and why they shouldn't be eating it.

But the fact is, they still do.

What's the government going to do to help that?

***

I know a lot of people disagree with me on this issue, especially in the health and fitness world. But the problem is, I've yet to see a person truly lose weight and improve their health without making a personal commitment and choice to do so. Outside influences - most of which can be embarrassing and shameful - don't work for the obese population. The change has to come from within, and only when that happens, do they see changes in their bodies and in their health.

That being said, this is a topic that is always open for discussion. And while I see nothing necessarily wrong with posting calorie counts (it does help some populations with certain dietary restrictions, and it's definitely not harmful - although all restaurants are already required to keep nutritional information on hand, in case a customer inquires), I simply don't think doing so is going to help the slay the problem the government hopes it will.

But I'm always looking to be persuaded otherwise. So don't be shy if you disagree with me. I'd still love to hear your opinion, whether you're yay or nay on posting calorie counts!

And, thanks, b.e.g., for the inspiration to write this post.

Until next time, Happy Exercising!

Me, My Family, and Some Famous People: Part 2

Find Part 1 here.

***

So while I was en route to a fun and fabulous John Mayer concert, I took a call from my brother.

Who was in Washington, D.C., being all high-end and impressive.

Because my baby bro had been invited to the President's National Prayer Breakfast.

Apparently, he's just that important.

So while his big sis is just a teacher who's lucky enough to sing along with John Mayer one weekend, my brother - a plain, old military officer - gets to represent the state of Florida at the President's National Shindig for All Things Prayerful and Sacred.

Yes, my little brother prayed with President Barack Obama.

And Vice President Joe Biden.

And several other senators and congressional representatives, who - when not praying - were all too eager to shake his hand, buy him drinks, and talk to him about his life for the day-and-half event.

He even ate dinner with William P. Young, the author of the hit novel The Shack.

But besides rubbing elbows with the Obamas and other D.C. elite, he made a friend - a friend who, where I come from, pretty much trumps meeting the President of the United States.

It all started when my brother took his seat for dinner the first night.

Being young and nervous, and desperately trying to hang on in a conversation with U.S. senator Bill Nelson, my brother felt relieved when a younger guy about his age sat down next to him.

My brother said he recognized the guy, but barely. It was the classic, "I think I know you from somewhere. But where?" scenario.

Nervously, my brother gave his new table-mate a smile. The young guy smiles back, extends his hand, and says, "Hi there. I'm Tim."

My brother nods, smiles, introduces himself, all while wondering, "Who's Tim, and how do I know him?"

Tim, it turned out, was very interested in my brother, his military career, his relationship with God, and his general outlook on life.

My brother said they were having a genuinely nice, fraternal conversation when Tim haphazardly mentioned something about "being nervous with the draft coming up."

And by "draft," he totally meant the NFL Draft.

As in, the place all big-time college football players go to be farmed out according to their rank and talent level.

It's enough to make a grown man quake with fear.

Even if that grown man happens to be the one and only Tim Tebow.

Or, in other words, my brother's new best friend.

Yes, my brother had befriended - unknowingly, mind you - University of Florida former quarterback, Heisman Trophy-winner, controversial Super Bowl commercial star, and Christian powerhouse Tim Tebow.

source

At this point, my brother did the obligatory tie-in and managed to mention that his dear big sister was also a fellow Florida Gator - a proud University of Florida alumni.

He also may or may not have mentioned the fact that his sister makes a mean pot roast and still lives in the UF vicinity should Tim ever need a home-cooked meal while he's finishing up his bachelor's degree this year.

Or I may have imagined that part.

But whatever.

My brother ate dinner with the President and chatted up Tim Tebow.

In some weird six degrees of separation, I am now a de-facto politico who wines and dines infamous college football players.

Or I'm just a high-school teacher with a wild imagination who enjoys living vicariously through my little brother.

My life is uber-exciting, people. Uber.

But still! Tim Tebow and my brother. Just a bunch of old chums. Laughing and talking and praying and sharing war stories from the football field and the pool. (My brother - who is actually Tim's age - was a college water polo player.)

All while President Barack and First Lady Michelle look on beneficently. (Or at least that's how I imagined it going down.)

What a weekend.

For my brother.

I'm just the sister he told about it.

But still, a girl can dream.

So here's hoping one day my brother brings his new friend Tim over for dinner.

And hey, the President can totally come, too.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! And if you haven't done so yet, don't forget to enter my Bloggy Birthday Giveaway!