This is yet another example of me wanting to ask, "Seriously?"
So a divorced woman in California has six children, the oldest is seven. (Seriously? Who has six children? What single mother has the resources for six children under age seven?) She and her children live with her parents. (Seriously? Adult moves back in with parents? Ok, I have to give her that one but I didn't bring six kids along.)
She decides she must have another child, hoping for another girl. (Seriously?) Alas, she is unmarried so she decides to undergo in vitro fertilization. (Seriously? Who is paying for that? What doctor would do that knowing her circumstances?) The quack doctor inserts multiple embryos and apparently most, if not all, take up camp. Once the multitude of future babies is discovered, the mother is offered "selective reduction" or some other glossy-phrased procedure to rid her body of too many babies. She checks the box that says, "No thank you very much." (Seriously?)
A team of 40-plus medical people delivered the babies. They thought there were seven, but surprise! there's an extra one. The mother is still recovering and the babies will be in the hospital for weeks or months. (Who is paying for this? Who will pay for the special needs that are almost certain to arise?)
In the paper the other day, the grandfather to these 14 children said something like this, "We're talking to the media now but we have a big house somewhere else and once we move there, no one will be able to find us." (Seriously? A woman with her parents AND her fourteen children will somehow become AWOL from the media?)
Her mother had the best comment (and I am paraphrasing,) "I wish she had just been a kindergarten teacher."
To top if all off, the mother filed for bankrupcy in 2008. Seriously.
Showing posts with label media. Show all posts
Showing posts with label media. Show all posts
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
No Privacy
I'm watching two news people discuss the Caylee Anthony case, which continues to get more bizarre. Now they've discovered a heart sticker on the child's remains. The reporter is discussing the dream team of attorneys and forensic experts assembled for the defense and throws into the mix, " ... the Anthonys are deeply in debt." Probably the death of their granddaughter and the charges facing their daughter are top of mind. When the dust settles, will it really be necessary for the general public to know this factoid about their finances?
If you've ever made a late payment or missed a debt, you know what it's like to be tracked down like a dog. If you've been married before, creditors call anyone and everyone remotely associated with you, your exes, their exes, parents, etc. I recently received some junk mail for -- get this -- my husband's exwife's exhusband. This was just a stupid leaflet but I'm sure we've all received calls and mail for each other. Once a name or address changes on a document, anyone with access to your credit report can look up all kinds of information.
Remember the childhood threat of "Don't do that -- it will go on your permanent record." It's true; it just wasn't explained very well.
Facebook and other social networking sites allow us to connect but they also steal a bit of our privacy. I belong to some but I'm leery. I cringe at some of the things I see while browsing these sites. I'm a little "out there" with this blog but it's nothing incriminating to me or others. So what if you learn that I've lived my entire 40s with oldies. It's true and it's part of my permanent record.
Speaking of privacy, there is none for my oldies either. I know who's up in the middle of the night. I know all medical issues and medications partly because I"m nosy and partly because we discuss everything incessantly. I know when it's naptime because I walk around by myself, look at the clock and think, "Seriously?" (It's kind of like kindergarten when you could be happily coloring or playing a game and the teacher would announce, "Get your sleepy mat -- it's time to lie down." That always annoyed me.) Now I get frustrated because I never learned to nap. I can barely sleep at night.
Of course, my oldies know far more about me than they would like.
If you've ever made a late payment or missed a debt, you know what it's like to be tracked down like a dog. If you've been married before, creditors call anyone and everyone remotely associated with you, your exes, their exes, parents, etc. I recently received some junk mail for -- get this -- my husband's exwife's exhusband. This was just a stupid leaflet but I'm sure we've all received calls and mail for each other. Once a name or address changes on a document, anyone with access to your credit report can look up all kinds of information.
Remember the childhood threat of "Don't do that -- it will go on your permanent record." It's true; it just wasn't explained very well.
Facebook and other social networking sites allow us to connect but they also steal a bit of our privacy. I belong to some but I'm leery. I cringe at some of the things I see while browsing these sites. I'm a little "out there" with this blog but it's nothing incriminating to me or others. So what if you learn that I've lived my entire 40s with oldies. It's true and it's part of my permanent record.
Speaking of privacy, there is none for my oldies either. I know who's up in the middle of the night. I know all medical issues and medications partly because I"m nosy and partly because we discuss everything incessantly. I know when it's naptime because I walk around by myself, look at the clock and think, "Seriously?" (It's kind of like kindergarten when you could be happily coloring or playing a game and the teacher would announce, "Get your sleepy mat -- it's time to lie down." That always annoyed me.) Now I get frustrated because I never learned to nap. I can barely sleep at night.
Of course, my oldies know far more about me than they would like.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Homeless
We've had a cold winter. (Redundant, I know.) Our local newspaper, along with the TV stations, likes to highlight the homeless problem in our city. The weather adds an extra level of cruelty to a harsh situation.
If I had the answer, I'd be running for office or organizing a crusade. Here's what I believe:
In my early days of corporate life I parked about 5 blocks from my office. Like a postman, I walked through rain, sleet and snow. There was a homeless man who lived under an overpass that I greeted every single time I saw him. He was a little creepy but I never felt afraid -- although he did have this bizarre need to touch my hair. I wouldn't exactly define it as a friendship but I did get concerned if he wasn't there.
The Belle used to tell me that I am too kind. I don't think it's true and I don't think that's a possibility for anyone. Kindness is a good thing; there's no such thing as too much. On counterpoint, the husband will tell you that I am the meanest woman on the planet. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle.
If I had the answer, I'd be running for office or organizing a crusade. Here's what I believe:
The numbers and statistics you read about the homeless are seriously under reported.
Homeless people are not necessarily drug addicts, alcoholics or mentally ill.
The homeless cycle is a whirlwind that continues to spiral downward whether it's no car, no job, no money, no food, no hope.
Most government programs are a band-aid, not a cure.
In my early days of corporate life I parked about 5 blocks from my office. Like a postman, I walked through rain, sleet and snow. There was a homeless man who lived under an overpass that I greeted every single time I saw him. He was a little creepy but I never felt afraid -- although he did have this bizarre need to touch my hair. I wouldn't exactly define it as a friendship but I did get concerned if he wasn't there.
The Belle used to tell me that I am too kind. I don't think it's true and I don't think that's a possibility for anyone. Kindness is a good thing; there's no such thing as too much. On counterpoint, the husband will tell you that I am the meanest woman on the planet. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle.
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