Me:  “Will it make me cry?  Am I going to hate it?  How hard is it to listen to?”

My Friend:  “Just listen to it.”

In other words, “It’s your history.  It’s real.  Step up.”

Step up I did.  I’m not sure how many people pulled up to me over the next few weeks, only to see tears rolling down my cheeks… but I didn’t care.  The book was indeed incredibly hard to listen to.  But now I feel every American should listen to it.

I am ashamed to say I never knew there were two flag raisings on Iwo Jima.  And that there was a cover-up regarding the names of one of the flag raisers.  And that the Pima Native American Ira Hayes walked and hitchhiked 1,300 miles to tell the Block family that their son was one of the flag raisers – something that had been covered up by the military.

So much history.

Today, I watched the movie.  It was extremely hard to view, as I expected.  But the hardest part was looking at the actual Iwo Jima photos shown during the credits.  This brings me to the pictures below.

These Japanese dog tags are in my friend’s possession.  As you see from the note, his grandfather found them on a beach in the Pacific after a World War II battle.  And my friend let me hold them.  HOLD THEM.  Actual Japanese dog tags from what I assume were fallen Japanese soldiers.

I am not writing with any political views.  I am sharing these pictures as a piece of significant world history.  Holding these dog tags took my breath away, for many many reasons.  The history of what I held in my hands was truly overwhelming, to say the least.

A very special thanks to my friend and BB, for letting me share these pictures.

If you know anyone who can translate these tags or tell more about them, can you please post below?  I am particularly interested in what the circle tag was used for.  The history of these pieces leaves me speechless.

Have you ever seen or held something from the past that caused this type of feeling in you?

Perhaps this is where I made my fatal mistake.  By leaving the house.  Or perhaps not.  Maybe it was my stop at 7-11 on the way home from an amazing workout that was when it all went downhill.

Yes, I purchased some healthy items.  But then I eyed the champagne.  And bought it.  And made plans to have a glass after all my night “at home” work was done.  One should never make plans for oneself on one’s birthday.  This, I soon discovered.

Just as I pulled in to my driveway, my son called my cell.

“Mom, where are you?”

“In the driveway.  I’ll be right in.”

“OK.  I was thinking about dinner and… oh wait.  Why is there so much blood on the floor?”

“ ………..”

“What the?  Ummmm.  Oh wow, there is SO MUCH BLOOD.  I wonder… OHHHHH.  Ummm Mom?”

“………..”

“I accidently closed the door before the dog got completely in the house.  It hit her tail and I heard her yelp but… oh look at all that BLOOD!”

There is a moment in your life when you find you have to make a difficult choice.  Do you run like hell or do you throw yourself in to what will obviously be something very-very-bad?

Slowly, I reached for the keys and nearly turned the car back on.  But then I stopped.  Fate was staring me in the face and would still be waiting for me no matter where I tried to hide.

Indeed, it was time to face the music.

My son and dog greeted me at the door.  Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.  With tail ferociously wagging, the dog seemed none the worse for wear.

Then I felt something wet hit my leg.  And something else.  And then something liquid began to pour down my leg.  Looking further at the scene in front of me, the reality of the situation came slowly in to focus.

The dog?  The end of her tail was stripped off on one side and bleeding.  Funny things, dog’s tails.  They bleed just like human head wounds.  And apparently, the dog had been bleeding long enough to have run multiple times through every room of my house.  Wagging her tail.

Do you remember the Saturday Night Live commercial skit for Big Red?

THAT is what a dog’s tail does when it bleeds.  I am NOT KIDDING.  AT ALL.

First things first.  I had the kids take Emma in to the kitchen to minimize the blood spray around the house.  The kitchen was already covered from the floor to the cabinets to the appliances.  What’s a little more blood, right?  I had to race to the neighbor’s for gauze and tape.  Then I ran back, praying my night would not be spent in an emergency vet’s office.

My daughter stood in front of the dog with a huge spoonful of peanut butter.  My son straddled the dog in order to hold her.  Then I straddled the back of her, facing her business end.  Catching the tail was a job in itself.  Once secured, I wrapped, taped and wrapped some more.

About three minutes later the bandage flew across the room on another wave of blood.  FAIL.  The next flying bundle of gauze came a few minutes later.  By now the dog’s breath smelled like she had recently killed and devoured Mr. Peanut himself.

“That’s IT.  I’m using BAND-AIDS!”  After all, what else would stick?

Seven twisting and turning Band-Aids later, the dog’s tail was secured and the bleeding finally slowed.  With this blood-free opportunity, I hesitantly took a tour of the house.  The bloody, bloody bloody house.

Every single thing I saw was covered in sprays of blood.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  THING.

With a bowl of detergent and water, I began scrubbing things down with a towel.  The TV.  The laptop. The floors.  The walls.  The pictures.  The carpet.  The backpacks.  The shoes.  The furniture.  The lamps.  The vertical blinds.  Every surface of the kitchen.  EVEN PARTS OF THE CEILING.

And then I took a look at myself.  I even had blood down my legs and on my clothes.

Looking at the clock, I saw it was 11:00.  I had not eaten, done my nightly chores or fed the other animals.  Do I cry?  Or do I laugh.  It was my birthday.  And I had cleaned up blood for the last few hours.

Can you guess what I did?

I laughed.  And then I grabbed a piece of cheese, poured a glass of champagne, got in my bed, turned out the lights, raised my glass and spoke, “Happy birthday girl.  Happy bloody birthday.”

The dog?  She is perfectly fine.  No infection, no more bleeding, and she now sports a furless area on her tail that she can brag about to the neighborhood pack.  Now THAT is a good birthday gift, indeed.

Before you judge, hear me out.

Eighteen years ago, I was pregnant with my first child and my mother’s first grandchild.  At the same time, my mother began her personal battle against breast cancer.

When I was eight months along, she had one of her breasts removed.  The first words I heard her say coming out of the anesthesia were, “Is my daughter still pregnant?”  There she was, fighting for her life yet worrying about me.

Eighteen years later, my mother continues her role as a mother, grandmother and best friend.  EIGHTEEN YEARS LATER.

Was it really that long ago?

When I saw my first “Save the Ta-Tas” bumper sticker, I felt a knot in my stomach.  Did that say, “Save the TA-TAs?!  The TA-TAS?!!!”  I was stunned.

My mother had a BREAST removed.  She did not have a TA –TA removed.  When women are diagnosed, their physicians do not announce they have Ta-Ta cancer.  This is a highly personal, frightening and life changing illness.  The new breast cancer campaign sickened me.

And isn’t “Save the Ta-Tas” similar to “Save the Whales?”

Have you judged yet?  I hope not.  Because I have a little more to say.  If people become aware of breast cancer through this campaign, then I support it.  If proceeds from Ta-Ta t-shirts go towards breast cancer research, then I will nod in the campaign’s general direction.  I just won’t be wearing one myself.

What will I wear?  How about this neon pink stripe in my hair?  I never said I didn’t have a streak of tacky in me!

My pink hair serves as a daily reminder to me of my mother’s personal strength. It also reminds me of others I know who have fought breast cancer – some alive, some now deceased.  And of the possibility that one day I may be facing the same enemy my mother has faced herself.

I had to go to several stores to find the actual pink hair dye.  Every shelf of every store had an empty space where pink should have been.

Pink hair, pink football uniforms, and yes, even Ta-Ta shirts.  Breast cancer is personal.  There is no right or wrong way to think about it, raise awareness about it or even stay silent about it.

Your thoughts?

Have you ever felt vulnerable, unsafe or sickened by the actions of another?  Sadly, I faced just that yesterday afternoon, leading to not only disbelief but to seething anger as well.  Where do I start?

After work, I picked up my daughter and was on my way home when we stopped at a light.  I noticed some activity in the car next to me and turned to look.  Two young men were attempting to get my attention.

Not wanting to encourage, I looked forward.  It wasn’t until they honked the horn that I glanced back towards their car.

That was when the punk in the passenger seat arched his body and began to unzip his zipper.  As his hand reached for the pants button, he stared directly in to my eyes with a sickening grin on his face.

At that moment, my daughter leaned forward to see what I was looking at.  MY DAUGHTER.  My ten-year-old daughter.

When the idiot realized I had a child in the car he plopped back down and stared ahead.  The light turned green and everyone moved along.   Thank heavens my daughter has no idea what occurred in those brief yet significant moments.

I drove away in complete and utter disbelief.  At that point, the potential implications of this situation had not yet sunk in.  We met up with everyone at home; I changed my clothes and headed off to the gym.

As I started on the elliptical machine, everything began to sink in.  Feelings of rage, fear and resentment flowed through my body.  I increased the incline on the machine and pushed myself harder than ever before.

Indeed, between the weights and machines I carried out the best workout I have ever had in the gym.

As I prepared to head home I felt renewed.  Strong.  Capable.  Until I approached the door and saw I would be walking alone in the dark parking lot to my car.  Security guards were on duty, but this was the latest I had ever left the gym.

Now I just felt angry.  Those lowlifes had been in a car, for heaven’s sake.  I had not been in any immediate danger and there were people all around me.  But I wasn’t the only one in the van.  Those jerks not only made me feel vulnerable, but also placed my child in that very same position.

There are great benefits to being a woman, but there are unfortunate downsides as well.  We women are the weaker sex, no?  Generally, men are physically stronger than women are.

The key is for women to use not only their power right back in a situation like that, but to use what God has given them naturally as well.

These natural abilities women have?  Mental strength.  Strength to fiercely protect their own children.  Patience to wait until the right moment to strike.  And a great knowledge that can be used during even greater battles.

But how can one feel safe in a world where anything can happen at any time?

Have you, man or woman, been faced with a situation that led you to the feelings I recently experienced?  Or men, have you known a woman who encountered a similar situation?

I’ve gone and done it.  I put pen to paper and wrote myself a book.  For years and years I struggled with the words, the characters, the conflict, the resolution.  And now it’s done.  A complete 800 page novel.

OK.  So I’m lying just a wee bit.  I did write a book.  But it is a children’s book that fits on one single sheet of paper.  It took about an hour to complete.  And by gosh, it’s GOOD.

It all started on one of our drives to the beach house.  “David, I want to write a children’s book.  What do children like the best?”   At eighteen, my son still remembers what was the coolest of the cool from his childhood.  In answer to my question he immediately yelled, “_______ and ______!”

Ahhh but I can’t tell you what he said, because that is the name of the book.  A book that is most unusual, yet if published would become a favorite to many.  It is a page-turner; it makes young children anticipate and allows them to tell part of the story.

Funny thing is….?  You can’t just send your book to a publisher!  What thahhhh!?

Indeed, writers quite similar to both you and I must have a (please do finger quotes) “L-I-T-E-R-A-R-Y A-G-E-N-T.”  Really?!  Apparently, you need some hoighty-toighty book nerd to get your foot in a publisher’s door.

(Oh wait.  If you are a literary agent, I think you are the GREATEST and I CAN’T RESPECT YOU ENOUGH and … and…. I have this book, see?)

Yea, I blew that one, I’m sure.

But I did it.  I wrote a book.  I am proud of it, and it is GOOD.

Are you writing a book or are you published?  If not and you found you actually had time to write, what would your book be about?

Yea I know.  New mothers think they know e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

What I didn’t know at the time is that little boys don’t need toy guns.  In their world, everything is a gun.  Imagine my great surprise when I first saw my toddler pick up a stick, point it and call, “POW POW!”

You can take the gun away from the boy but you can’t take the gun out of the boy.

Since then, my boys have been trained in firearm safety and shooting during scout camp.  A friend has taken one of them to the firing range often.  Every child, including my daughter, has a BB gun. And as you may remember, my oldest now has a Remington shotgun.

But me?  Other than the BB guns, my hands have never been on these objects in question.  Until?

TODAY.

I can now say I have shot a gun. <breathe… breathe…>  As of TODAY.

The time was coming.  It was inevitable.  Therefore, when my neighbor and her Navy husband asked if I wanted to shoot today, I jumped right in.

AND SHOOT I DID.

I began at their house with a training session on hand placement, safety, aiming and firing.  They also explained I would have to read a sheet of paper at the firing range and then will have to answer a question or two about it before I get my “card.”

Did I get two questions?  OH NO, NOT ME!  I had a ton of questions.  Fortunately, my son and another person had to answer at the same time, allowing for a bit of fudging on a select few.

Fast forward to ear protection, eye protection and plenty of nerves.  It is one thing to see someone shoot on television, but to FEEL someone shoot… to HOLD a gun that can potentially KILL.  It is a completely different ball of wax.

They started me with a Barretta 22.  There was almost no kickback, making the gun FUN to shoot.  And how did I do?   As well as my amazing neighbor who owns it!  FIRST TIME!

But then came what I found to be my greatest challenge.  They let me try a Sig Saur 226 9 mm gun.  Navy Seals shoot this gun.  And at that moment, it was in my hands.  Loaded.

Did I mention guns are LOUD.  I mean loud as in your sinuses vibrate as people shoot around you.  Having that power in my hands was frightening, to say the least.

Think Katherine.  Think.  Hands correct?  Feet spaced?  Target in sight?  Here you go… squeeeeeezzzeee BAM!  My heart began to race.  BAM!  Was I going to pass out?  BAM!  I am hitting the target!  I am actually BAM! hitting the target!

I am happy to say the target’s large intestine will never be the same.  I didn’t hit in the middle, I hit low to the right.  But consistently, meaning I was anticipating the noise and lowering the gun just before I pulled the trigger.

My next try?  BOOYA.  Not bad for my first time!

How far I’ve come, from no toy guns to facing my own fears and shooting them myself.  TODAY, I WAS SHAKING IN MY BOOTS!

Do guns still scare me?  Yes. Absolutely.  You bet.  But I have turned part of that fear in to knowledge and respect.  What a scary, different and exciting day.  I am proud of myself.  “I done good.”

Do you shoot, and if so, what?  Or do you NOT shoot?  Why?

Many of you are aware I suffer from the silent chronic illness, gastroparesis.  Typically, I have good days and bad days because of my paralyzed stomach.

Over the last week, my pain and nausea have spun out of control.  I am still the master of disguise to all who interact with me on a day to day basis.  For many they see the smile, but when their backs are turned the pain is revealed on my face until someone looks again.  And tears?  Yes, I’ve had a few.

But damnit, I’m tough.  (Sometimes.)

Two days ago, however, I decided tough was done.  NO MORE EATING.  For seven days, I had been hungry, ate and then regretted every single bite.  The moment my decision was made, I stopped eating solid food.

On the first day I got through on water, but caved and ate some eggs at the end of the night.  Today I actually managed two protein drinks along with my water.  I felt like a dragon slayer, refusing to fuel the ugly beast inside of me.  You want to cause me pain?  You want to make me sick?  Well you can’t.  Because you have no ammunition.

So two days in to this, guess what I found out?  I discovered that when you work out after a near liquid diet, you begin to pass out.  And you know what else?  You get heart palpitations.

But I found out something else.  I am driven.  I refused to give in.  When I began to feel light headed, I simply stopped for a bit and then got right back to work.  When my heart started to flippy-floppy, I pushed just the tiniest bit more before taking a break.

Smart?  Nahhh.  But today, I fought the dragon.  And I kicked ass.

• Headaches from swamp fire smoke that has come and gone for months.
• Tremor Envy, because gosh darnit, I didn’t feel it!
• My server was hacked. AGAIN.  Sorry, everyone.
• The beginning of school, and the slow breaking of my summer loving heart.
• And of course, Irene.

Hurricane Irene was not quite as bad as some of the regular Nor’Easters we see.  The children and I stayed at my mother’s house, which doesn’t have old pine trees surrounding it like my own house does.

During the hurricane, we experienced typical rain and gusts of wind, all things we’ve seen before.  What I have not seen before that truly frightened me was the onslaught of tornado warnings blaring throughout  Saturday morning.

We just do not get tornadoes.  Not like some of you do.  Hearing warning signals from the television that were completely foreign to me caused sickening shivers to roll down my spine.  “This is a tornado warning.  If you are in the following areas, take cover immediately.”  This is the stuff of my nightmares.

Fortunately, we all made it through safely.

For those who did not experience Hurricane Irene, here is a quick video I made of a typical category one hurricane:

What did I learn from Hurricane Irene?

That a single tree can bring down the power of an entire neighborhood:

That our own local Andy Fox playing Superman can brighten even the scariest of days:

That my camping stove and coffee pot will always make things right:

That there is a bottom to my freezer, and to my refrigerator too.  Indeed, both are now completely empty.  <Note to self: Before the next hurricane, throw away your “already suspicious” food.  Because food that has warmed in a box for two days will ultimately make you wretch.  The older, the wretchier.  Today, I made that word truly happen.):

And that even the smallest of creatures need rescuing after a hurricane.

Did all of you East Coasties make it though OK?  And if you didn’t get to meet Irene, what natural disasters have you experienced in your life?

I will never forget sitting on the band bus on the way to Disney World, soon to hear quite a stir from the rear.  Whispering, giggling and snickering flowed like a wave from back to front.

The cause of this hushed excitement?  Katey and Char were apparently quite high on pot brownies.   I believe vomiting later ensued.

You may be asking, “Katherine, what is the cause of your recent band trip nostalgia?”  Behold.  The Kush Cake:

Where did I find these pot brownie imposters?  In my very favorite 7-11.  Yes my friends, in 7-11.  On the front counter, right next to the Reese’s and the children’s bracelets.

Of COURSE I googled these babies as soon as I got home.  What are Kush Cakes?

Kush cakes are brownies mixed with the “natural hormone supplement” Melatonin and with Valerian to “create a sense of relaxation.”  They are legal and can be eaten while drinking alcohol.  As a matter of fact, the company states, “Be careful, you may get REALLY relaxed. Oh no!”

Funny thing though.  The disclaimer at the bottom of the web page also states, “Do not mix with alcohol.”  Ummm…. Didn’t they just state they CAN be eaten with alcohol?

Now for my favorite line, and I quote:

“You will love the taste, they are just like your mom’s home baked brownies!”

Just like mother used to make.  I always wondered what her secret ingredient was.

Do you mind if I get on my soapbox for a minute?

Ahem.

Alright 7-11.  How could you?  Our love affair has been a good one, to say the least.  Dark Mountain Roast.  Strawberry Kefir.  And Slurpees that served as perfect treats after pediatrician visits, childhood shots and the flu.

But you have strayed.  You have placed Pot Brownie lookalikes right next to my daughter’s very favorite candy.  Directly in front of the cash register, causing quite a few questions as to why we can’t buy a pretty brownie.

If you are going to sell that stuff, keep it behind the counter with the cigarettes – out of site from little ones with slurpee’s in their hands and chocolate on their minds.

SHAME ON YOU, 7-11.  SHAME SHAME SHAME ON YOU!

I am neither a prude nor a hypocrite.  After all, I purchase the occasional Java monster.  I buy coffee to wake myself up.  But Kush Cakes?  At some point, family frequented stores need to draw a line.  Or at least keep that stuff behind the counter.

Am I just being a prude?