SOPA and PIPA=No More America

I’m not going to get into a political rant because I don’t like sounding uneducated. Politics makes me sound like a moron.

I am going to say that, as a blogger who uses the Internet to speak her mind and as an American who was born with the 1st Amendment as a human right, I’m VERY, STRONGLY, VEHEMENTLY OPPOSED to the anti-piracy bills that our leaders are considering putting into law.

In my strong opinion, it seems that if SOPA and PIPA go into effect, it sets precedence for the government to be able to take away whichever rights we have. Which means eventually, we will have no rights.

Imagine being arrested for no apparent reason, just because of something you said, did, wore, believed in…that up until 2012 was legal.

Our freedom is in danger of being taken away. The masses are being punished for the crooked few, who probably aren’t even living in the U.S.

It is our obligation as citizen of this GREAT COUNTRY to make sure that SOPA and PIPA DO NOT HAPPEN.

In protest, on January 18th, I will be participating in the blackout that will be widespread throughout the internet. Rock and Drool, despite the fact that only 3 people read me, will be offline.

Below, I have listed links to various anti-SOPA and PIPA resources.
Please, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, google SOPA and PIPA and educated yourself. These bills, if passed into laws, WILL CHANGE AMERICA AS WE KNOW IT.

Various articles linked on Craigslist, another site that is opposed to SOPA and PIPA.

Change.org petition

Place a banner on your FB and Twitter avatars in protest.

If you blog and are self hosted, here are instructions on how to black out your site.

Add your website and join the blackout in protest of SOPA and PIPA here.

To get in touch with your local Representatives here.

We can’t sit around idle, hoping these go away. Tebow, Kardashian, Beyonce…WHO THE HECK CARES about them? Let’s focus on what really matters…our rights as Americans.

America, let’s stand together and use our voices.

While we still have the right to.

Seasons Change

Being a Mommy was something I had dreamed about as far back as I can remember.

My favorite thing to do as a child was to play with my dolls. They were my first babies. I dressed them, fed them and loved them for many years, just like any good mommy would do.

Dolls decorated my bedroom probably far longer than what would be considered socially acceptable.

Toy highchairs, cribs and strollers mixed with posters of my pre-teen and teen crushes bombarded anyone walking into my private quarters. My bedroom screamed confusion; wanting to grow up yet wanting to stay young.

By the time I reached 6th or 7th grade, my friends no longer wanted to play, they wanted to gossip and talk about boys. My dolls sat, eavesdropping, taking it all in. Completely ignored by the world around them.

I think that I was in 8th grade when I realized that my dolls had been sitting, lonely for human touch, for quite awhile. So, instead of having them napping, eating and waiting for walks, I put them on my dresser for display and removed the rest of the toys from my room.

I was now a teenager. My love was transferred from dolls to Duran Duran. My room redecorated into a typical teenage hangout with adolescence tucked into storage bins or locked away in closets.

But always, I knew that I wanted to have living versions of the toys I played so longingly and lovingly with.

When I was 27, my first living and breathing doll was placed in my arms. I was now, officially and forever, a Mommy.

All my dreams had come true and was lying tightly bundled in my arms, looking into my eyes.

I became a mom to 3 children, my dolls. Real replaced play.

Then, these babies got bigger and just like I did with my dolls, I had to remove some of the clutter. Although, with my real babies, I didn’t put them on display on a shelf.

Here I am, almost 16 years after giving birth for the first time. Middle age is here, smacking me upside the head. Dolls and babies both a distant yet vivid memory that I take out and revisit, remembering the smells and sounds of childhood play and early motherhood.

Today, I went to my gynecologist. I’ve been having some girl bit issues that took me by surprise. I won’t get into those just yet, that’s another post, another subject matter for another time.

During our discussion, she asked me what contraception my husband and I have been using. I shared that information with her. She asked if we used it religiously and I said…um, pretty much, yeah.

She looked at me and asked me if I was done having babies. DONE. As in, never again would I feel a baby move inside me. Never again would I give birth. Never again would I be awakened in the middle of the night, numerous times, to nurse.

I said…Hell yeah I’m done.

And I meant it. Despite the lurch in my heart and the lump that formed in my throat when the reality hit me that I am now way past the age of having babies. My children are getting older, some of them will be going off to college in a couple years. My youngest is growing quickly and steadily. They all are. And my dolls remain, forever babies, on a shelf in my closet.

All those years of hoping, wishing and longing for babies has come to an end.

Instead of talking to my Ob/Gyn, she is now just my gynecologist. There will be no OB.

Instead of discussing Lamaze, hospital visits and pediatricians, I am discussing getting my tubes tied to prevent any unwanted pregnancies.

Because I don’t want any more pregnancies.

At least, not my own.

I now have to wait until my children are at that stage in their lives, the one I waited patiently for years to be at, to be able to hold my own flesh and blood babies once again.

It’s such a strange feeling. To realize that life has so rapidly come and is so rapidly zipping by. While I’ve been watching my children hit their milestones and stages, mine have been passing, virtually unnoticed.

Until today. When I really paid attention to where I am in my life. When I was really honest with myself. Having a baby, at my age, isn’t where I want to be. I am beyond that in so many ways. My life is starting to be my own. I’m becoming the person that I want to be.

So, after my next doctors appointment, which is next week, I will be making an appointment that I never foresaw myself making.

Permanent sterilization.

I will never again have a baby.

As bittersweet and momentous this is, it’s what I want.

It’s just shocking that this is where I am when I feel like I should still be where I was.

Thoughtful Thursday: The New Year Is Underway

Thoughtful Thursday blog hop is brought to you every week by Jessica and Sweaty and of course, little old me.



My Son and His Beast

My son has been living with chronic pain. He’s been battling a horrendous beast.

When he was in 2nd grade, the doctor told us that, at some point, medication WILL be necessary.

The last 8 years, I’ve let him deal with this pain in his own way, allowing him to slap away my helping hand. There is, after all, only so much a mother can do.

These last 8 years, I’ve watched him struggle with this pain, this beast. There have been days where he has been able to force it away briefly but, lately and more often than not, the beast, so strong, is winning.

That beast, the one I’ve had to let my son struggle with…is depression.

Yesterday, it came to a head. He was so miserable and sad. I ached for him. I wanted to hug him and transfer this horrible beast onto me. Let ME deal with it. I’M the MOM. Leave him alone!

This time though, he came to me. My son lead his beast to me and asked me to help him so that he’d be able to lock it in a cage.

He told me that he doesn’t remember a time where he ever felt any true emotion other than sadness. The other ones, he learned to fake. He knows how to pretend to be happy but his incredibly beautiful smile never really reaches his eyes. Any positive emotion that many of us take for granted, he doesn’t. Because they rarely touch him.

It was something the rest of us already knew. We were just waiting for him to come to us, hoping that it wouldn’t be already too late.

I’m so thankful that my son was brave enough and strong enough to admit, through his intense stubborn side, that he is depressed and needs me to help him. So many children never come forward and where they end up is somewhere I don’t want to think about. Especially when it comes to children.

I don’t know what chemical depression feels like. But I know what it looks like. I’ve watched it grow for 15 years. I’ve opened its bedroom door in the middle of the night, held my breath, and made sure it was still breathing. I’ve monitored how long it goes into the bathroom, or how long its shower is only to feel relief when he reemerges in one piece.

For so many years he has refused any help. Constantly swatting away ANY hand that wants to help. Trying to find blame in other people instead of really looking to the real root of the problem.

Until last night.

The depression was too much for him. He told me that he kept waiting for it to pass, to subside, to release its grip. It was too tight and it hurt.

His pain was all over him. I saw it. I watched it.

I promised him that he was done dealing with this himself. I wouldn’t allow it anymore.

He is finally allowing me to take on that beast. Mommy style.

I called the doctor this morning.

My son WILL be going on meds, just as was predicted by our psychologist 8 years ago.

Beast be warned, my son will be armed and dangerous. A war has just been waged.

And I’ll make damn sure that my son comes out the victor.

Mind Purge Monday: A Little Lost

I ask myself what I’m doing. Often.

I run around, chasing after something that doesn’t have a shape or name, I just know I need to catch up to it. To grab onto it. Maybe then, I’ll know what this elusive something or other is.

That encompasses so much of my life; career, family…you name it. Knowing I want something more yet not knowing exactly what it is or how to get there. It’s quite frustrating.

When I sit down at the kitchen table, my desk, in order to “work”, I spend much of my time staring out the huge kitchen window. I’m not really seeing anything, I’m simply staring. It’s funny because, when I was in 7th grade English, we had to write a paragraph about a person in our class. The girl who wrote about me, Debbie, mentioned how I sit and stare as though I’m deep in thought.

I’m not. There is no deep. Just thought. And I have no clue half the time what I’m even thinking about. Daydreams, maybe?

Sometimes I play a scenario in my mind. I was “discovered” via my blog because of my writing. And I was invited to be on a talk show to discuss my success and how I achieved it. Ha.

I think about all the stories I have written. And unwritten. All of them have beginnings and they are waiting, somewhat impatiently, for a middle and an end. Yet, I don’t know what keeps me from finishing them…or anything else…other than myself. Fear? Of failure? Gah, who knows.

I seem to do that a lot. Throw up my hands, shrug my shoulders and walk away. Especially when I don’t know what to do or what to say. So, I give up.

It’s an annoying trait that I have. It’s been with me for so long that it’s interwoven within my DNA structure.

Right now, I’m in the process of the whole giving up thing with my oldest son. I don’t want to. But I don’t know what else to do. It’s the whole “horse to water” thing. I can only nudge him so much but I can’t make him care. I wish I could. I wish I could make him really understand that his not caring will dictate how the rest of his life goes. I’m met with very familiar shoulder shrugs, eye rolls and whispered “whatever”‘s.

My lack of control over my children has me doubting my parenting. I thought I was a good mom. By showering my children with love, letting them know how wonderful I think they are and all the other things my heart tells me to do, I figured they would thrive. I assumed that they would have the confidence to know that they were amazing and therefore, they’d want to DO amazingly at whatever they chose to do.

I was so wrong.

My children, my dreams, my goals…they are all interwoven. And I feel like if I am not successful at one, how can I be successful at any other?

I’ve never been THAT parent, the one that lives vicariously through their own children. I mean, yes, I had high hopes that one of my daughters would grow up to be a Prima Ballerina…or at the very least, love ballet the way that I did.

Now I’m just hoping that they get through high school with good enough grades to get into a decent college. My fingers hurt from keeping them crossed so tightly.

When my parents always told me that life would be hard, I really wish that they had prepared me for how hard it really is. I mean…EVERYTHING about life gets hard. Especially once you move out of your parents house and are set free to make it on your own.

Then, I watch all these horrible tragedies unfolding. Family friends losing spouses at young ages. Parents dying too young. The worlds economy crashing. Life stories that actually read more like horror novels than chick lit. I wonder why.

So maybe, in the recesses of my mind, as I’m staring out the window and daydreaming from my kitchen table, I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m trying to figure out how to guide ALL OF US from point A to point B successfully…without any road map. But goddamnit, it’s hard. I get turned around when I’m walking out of an elevator at a hotel, how can I be expected to guide people on this crazy life’s journey?

I really wish that life came with a road map and a handbook. Because I could really, really, really use one right now.

Battling the Banks: Flagstar Part Deux

My friend and fellow blogger @Fashorganized’s saga continues. She first posted on Battling the Banks a couple weeks ago but it didn’t end there. And it’s not going to end here, either!! Please, help her get her word out. Flagstar is just as awful as the rest of those banks!

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Since my last post Abandoned By Flagstar, things have gone from bad to worse.

The day of my post Flagstar Bank came back with a modification number $200 less than our mortgage payment before Rob lost his job. They call it a temporary 3 mo modification. Of course, we would revisit the numbers in 3 months. If they had looked at our last 16 mo of bank statements, they were sent, they would see that 1 paycheck I receive is ⅔ of that payment. Are they expecting me to live in the dark with no food and water for my 3 children? How about I just get a refrigerator box, and live in that in the backyard?
I’m working my a$$ off taking on overtime at my day job, and trying to build my Social Media business to make any extra money I can. No matter what I do, on top of my husband taking on any contract work, we aren’t making up for what we lost when Rob lost his job.

My parents graciously offered to lend us the money from their retirement funds so that we could keep our house for 3 more months.

The paperwork was sent to us Wednesday, we sent the paperwork back signed with a cashiers check Thursday overnight. We checked on Friday, and it had arrived and been signed for. Phew, we get to keep our house for 3 more months, while they live with the fact that they just had us wait 16 months to lower our payment $200.

Yesterday, at 5 PM PST a man walked up to our front door introduced himself to Rob as the broker for the new owner’s of our house…

I’m sorry what?

Yes, our house was in fact auctioned off on January 3rd, and purchased.

Rob and my dad, who happened to be at our house, told the broker that we had modified. He said, “it happens”, and asked for copies of the paperwork. Rob said he’d e-mail to him right away.
We were told that by signing Flagstar Bank’s contract, we would be keeping the house, and it would be removed from the auction listing. They breached their own contract. They didn’t inform us that we were going to lose our house. We sent them the money they asked for.

Rob sent a fax to Andrea with copies of everything we sent, including proof of delivery last night. He sent an e-mail to the broker for the “new owners” with all of the paperwork, and cc’ed CEO of Flagstar Bank Joseph Campanelli. In addition, he sent an e-mail with the contents of the paperwork faxed to Andrea to Mr. Campanelli.

It is now 10:05 AM PST on January 5th, which means that it’s 1:05 PM in Andrea’s office, and we have heard NOTHING!!!!!!!
We did everything as instructed for the last 16 months. I just don’t understand how a bank doesn’t honor their own paperwork.

The saga continues…
If you feel so inclined please e-mail Joseph Campanelli, CEO of Flagstar Bank at Joseph.Campanelli@flagstar.com. Maybe, he’ll hear me now!
Thank you everyone for your support, and continuing to support us, as we traverse this indecency.

Indie Ink Challenge: Part 3, The Inheritance

I used the Indie Ink Challenge to write another part to the story you can find here and here. I’m not sure I love how this came out and I can’t believe how long it took me to write it. I’d love to hear opinions, just don’t be mean!

p.s…I edited it a bit. Because I hated that I wasn’t happy with it before. Now, I’m good. I think it’s ok!!
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The wind screeched as it angrily threw itself against the windows of the house like little suicide bombers, making the old glass rattle helplessly against their explosion. Creating an ominous fireworks display, the bolts of lightening sent small bursts of brightness, the only contrast to the dark, stormy sky.

It was the perfect night for everything that was occurring. The appropriate backdrop to the drama unfolding.

Sophia stood shaking before the door that, until now, was completely off limits her entire life. Some of the mysteries were about to be revealed, most importantly, her sister who had disappeared 10 years ago. She was there, standing, staring breathlessly at the door from which behind it, Sophia could hear Amelia’s possessed screams.

The whispering started as she fingered the pendant. A familiar voice at the forefront, a voice so recognizable, one she had just heard a few hours earlier. Her mother.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, sure she was having auditory hallucinations or she was losing her mind. After all, who heard a chorus of voices in their mind except people who were losing it.

“It is us.” All the voices spoke in unison.

“US?” Sophia cried loudly. “Who is “us”?” Oh great, she thought, now I’m talking to myself.

“This is a dream. A horrible dream. OK Soph, you can snap out of it at any time now.” She was starting to get a little freaked out, bile was beginning to rise.

“No my darling. This is real. We are here, as one. Just like it’s supposed to be” It was her mothers voice mixed with the others and it was overwhelming Sophia.

“I don’t understand. I don’t. UNDERSTAND. What is happening to me?”

Between the noises coming from beyond the door and all those new voices in her head, Sophia could feel the panic, an emotion that was foreign to her. She slid down the door and covered her ears, trying to block out the fear, just like she used to do when she was a little girl. “Breathe Soph. Breathe. Now isn’t the time for this.” Trying to talk herself out of the panic attack that was beginning to take over her and cursing herself for being so weak when she was typically the strong one; she began rocking and softly banging the back of her head against the hard mahogany door, softly singing her favorite song of the moment “Move Like Jagger” to try to calm her nerves. It wasn’t really working so well.

Sophia knew she had to pull herself together; she had to open that door and find out what was beyond it. Once and for all. She also had to see for herself what had become of Amelia, her beloved sister. After 10 years, she still missed her as much as the day she went missing. Her heart lurched and tears began threatening to emerge.

She tried to stand back up, sliding herself up the door in the opposite fashion of how she got down. The screeching halted her progress, stopping her in her tracks. Any progress she made of getting herself somewhat calmed had been reversed.

“I. Can’t. Do. This.” she cried, pounding on the door in frustration. She suddenly felt small, trapped. She was finding it hard to breathe, her heart felt like it was going to explode. No way was she going to have a panic attack. NO. WAY. She was too strong for that. It was something she considered to be a weakness and Sophia had no tolerance for weakness. It was a little trait her mother passed onto her. Her mom used to tell her that she felt sorry for any man she ended up with because men were weaker creatures than the Bradley women. The Bradley women came from a long line of superior strength. This was the first time that Sophia realized exactly what her mom was talking about. We Bradley women were witches. There was nothing on this planet we had to fear, except the dark magic and probably, the Devil himself.

Or herself.

Tucked away, for the past decade, held in a cage locked with special witchcraft and metals was Amelia. A demon. A natural enemy of the Order of the White Witches. How Sophia suddenly had all this knowledge about her kind was beyond her. She felt like she was in that scene from the Matrix where Keanu Reeves learned Martial Arts in seconds from CD’s linked to her brain. Apparently, these women that had taken over her mind were her CD’s that linked her to a plethora of Witchcraft trivia and knowledge.

Her breathing was ragged and her heart was still pounding, despite the ongoing stand up comedy session she had going on within herself. She was about to lose it again and go into full on panic mode.

“Sophia, calm yourself.” It was only her mother speaking to her this time, the other voices remained silent. “We are here. With all of us together, your powers are so great. We will guide you until you are able to do it on your own. There is no reason to be afraid. Let us help you. But you must relax. You must calm down. For your sister, for Amelia.”

The voices, different octaves from different females, all began chanting and to Sophia’s surprise, so did she. Somehow, she knew the words and their meanings. They were doing a calming spell on her and thankfully, it was working. Her breath started regulating and her heart stopped exploding.

“Thank you Mom.” she smiled in the dark. At absolutely no one.

“Sophia, it’s time. You must open the door. We are here with you. But you mustn’t panic by what you are about to see.”

“Mom, it’s not very reassuring when you say you are with me. In fact, it’s sort of freaky. So please, while I’m in a complete state of terror, maybe all of you who are congregated in my head should sort of shush now. You know, until I ask for help.”

Sophia took the pendant and held it up to the door. It took on a life of its own and began levitating away from her hand toward the door. Multi- color lights flashed, emanating from it, touching the door, beckoning it to open.

The noise coming from beyond the door was reaching a manic crescendo. It was as if whatever Amelia had become knew that Sophia was about to enter.

The door obliged the pendants request and opened slowly; loudly, unseen hinges squeaking, begging to be oiled.

In front of Sophia was a staircase made of the most beautiful wood, the likes of which she had never seen. The stairs, themselves, dark marble with a rich, ornate velvet runner and the bannister; more beautiful and intricately carved than the door which hid it. The whole thing was museum quality, something you’d see in the Louve. Sophia briefly wondered where it had come from, it looked older than the rest of the house. Just another mystery, she supposed.

She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air and mock courage. Summoning all the wives tales for protection she could think of. “Let’s do this.”

With the glowing pendant leading the way, Sophia began climbing the stairs, anxious and terrified of what was waiting for her at the top. Up close, she notices the carvings on the bannister depicting violent and horrific scenes: flogging, hangings, beheadings, burnings at the stake. Obviously this bannister told the story of her ancestors and she was fascinated. She made a mental note to come back and inspect it more closely only, next time, when the sun was out and the house was quiet. Maybe she’d bring a friend or two, for support. She rolled her eyes at herself. “Be brave, you can do this!”

There were exactly 32 winding, marble steps. She counted out loud; right foot, left foot, one, right foot, left foot, two. Each step she took was one step closer to an answer, she hoped. Although, right now, at this very moment, she wasn’t positive she wanted to know anything. The only thing she REALLY wanted was for this night to be over and also, she really wanted to go to bed and sleep for a few days. Being emotionally exhausted didn’t help her state of mind.

First she finds out she’s a witch, then she finds out her sister was turned into a demon, then her mom dies and now…she’s alive in her head. Who wouldn’t be emotionally exhausted?

The shrieking from the area above grew to epic proportions, taking over all the air space. Her sisters noises were not only deafening, they were suffocating. Sophia heard clawing against a hard surface, sounding like it was coming from directly above her and it threw her back a bit, almost causing her to trip and fall backwards down the stairs. She regained her footing and stood there for a moment to regroup and gather up a little courage, which was proving to be increasingly more difficult as the minutes passed.

At the 32nd step, she was greeted by an anti-climactic, white, 6 paneled door. It looked like it had been thrown there as an afterthought, like whoever built this elaborate staircase ran out of funds at step 32, looked at the empty doorway, shrugged and was forced to finish it off by buying a door on sale at the local Lowes.

Like the door below, there was no doorknob and no apparent way to enter. The pendant seemed to anticipate this and worked its magic, literally.

The door opened inward with a pop and a groan. The stale air hit Sophia in the face, causing her to choke and cough. The smell coming from the area, it was what Sophia assumed death smelled like. Only, worse. It was obvious that no one had been up here in years. The sparse spacing of windows didn’t help much with the ambience.

It was dirty, gross and scary. Three things that Sophia decided she was vehemently opposed to. Especially the scary.

She swore she could hear her mother telling her to stop it.

As the fog cleared and the dust settled, Sophia hesitantly poked her face in first. Scared and anxious about what would be waiting to greet her, she closed her eyes, covered her ears tightly with her hands and stepped inside.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Lance challenged me with “write something where a character and a panic attack or anxiety” and I challenged Michael with “your wish becomes somebody elses command”.

I’m also sharing my awesome over on Momma Made It Look Easy!

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