When Murder Hits Home: UWF Manhunt

When I heard the sirens in early July, I didn't think much of it. Just some trouble makers out on another steamy night in Northwest Florida. The next day, I read in the papers there was a double homicide three miles from my house. The Billings murders gave me a glimpse of the cruel mortality brought on good people for money. I couldn't believe it. There were two weeks in the summer where there were a total of two consistent headlines: Michael Jackson's death and the Billings murders in Beulah, a small community on the Flora-Bama border where I live. News vans scooted about the streets looking for a willing interviewee, suckling on the southern charm of the area.

After a few weeks had passed, the trickle of the media frenzy dissipated and our lives began to move on far from the media's eye. I did not take the murders to heart too much, I'm sorry to say. The Billings lived in a more affluent area and our social circles never crossed.

Today our little area was hit once again with fear. After deciding not to stay after class in the library, I left the UWF campus just north of Pensacola only to receive a text message from the school while en route home:Bruce Day- at large "Police are pursuing a murder suspect in woods near campus: W/M 42yo DK GRN shirt jeans5-8 160. If seen call 9-1-1.

Unfortunately, this news wasn't all too shocking. Being on a border town, convicts cross the state lines to Alabama and we have experienced escape prisoner alerts four times in the last year. My daughter is well aware of proper procedure on what to do should a lock down at school occur; she has been through two.

About an hour later, I received a second text message from the school: "Suspect seen in woods on campus property. Stay inside buildings, lock doors. Night classes are canceled. "

Then came the solemn hush. I started getting messages from friends saying they were off campus and all right. Even though my close friends were all right, it was unsettling going into stores. I heard a young man talking to a friend on his phone, "Please pray for her, yeah. She's in the library and being moved into an internal room and locked in with the rest of the kids. I can't even a text from her."

A mother in Blockbuster wanted to know if I had anymore information because her son was stuck in a building as well. I told her what I could, wishing I knew more.

At 5:21 the last message was issued: "Lock down is lifted. Campus community is free to leave. Classes canceled tonight." They have yet to apprehend the suspect, but are allowing commuting students and teachers to leave, keeping those who live in campus housing to remain on lock down for the time being.

Alerts like these make me wonder about safety, real safety. I have to admit, I'm going to be double checking the locks on my doors. This is coming all too close to home.

And yet I feel lucky. If this is all of the problems we are facing, it's not that bad. Situations like these give me a better perspective on the atrocities that are going on around the world in places where people truly feel the anxiety of mortality everyday. It provides an empathy for others in harder situations and places where murderers don't hide in the woods on a college campus, but walk around daily slinging weapons over their arms, ready to kill at the mere glimmer of a threat. In that respect we are fortunate. Even though these situations have occurred recently, it is rare and will hopefully become less frequent. I only hope the police get him off of my campus safely, and soon.

Mental Tchotchkes: The Malaprop of the Day

I'm adding a new page! My mother and father have both flipped me enough shit about my improper word usage to finally do something about it. So in their honor, I have started a new addition to the riotmama family. Please feel free to bash my words, use my words (both in print and conversation) but know that unless you have the time to offer an explanation folks will think you are either esoteric, or just plain nuts.
So without further adieu; The Malaprop of the Day.

Oh GOD! (faking it at preschool) Part 1

Recently Jules has been a victim of poor judgment, my own proclivities towards atheism and plain old desperation. The morning after we arrived home from our trip up to Washington state, I was struck down by epiphany: I have got to graduate college. I felt a great sense of determination welling up inside. The only problem was that the fall semester was starting in less than a week and a half.
No problem. I had already been accepted and financial aid was all lined up. But over the last few years, college seemed to be , as Langston Hughes said, "the dream deferred" for so long I had dismissed the idea due to small obstacles for yet another semester. But that morning, I thought,"To hell obstacles, I'm going to do it!"
Daily trips were made to the campus, but not before making brief stops to random daycares en route. Quite a few were filthy, some were just too big and the kids seemed like zombies. By the time First day came around, I was strapped for time and needed a place stat. Finally I fell on a little school and it seemed to be right.It wasn't religious and had a big playground. I thought it would work perfectly. Oh how I was wrong.
The first week went fine, no problems were to be had. I was in school, the kids were in school, everything was great! On Friday, the owner of the school came up to me and said that Julian had poked a kid when in line for recess but didn't think it would be a problem. I didn't think much of it and we talked a bit that night.
"Mom, I don't like my teacher. Can you kill her?" Jules said casually.
Walter tango foxtrot?
"Honey, we don't kill people! We love people and are nice to them always. What's going on?" I asked.
"Oh nothing." He said. I really didn't know what to think of his little remark. Panic wasn't the answer. Maybe turning off Family Guy when he walks in might help. More sleep, better food and less sugar were all options I considered.
When Monday rolled around, I went to drop him off like usual. But instead of him grudgingly letting go, he screamed and cried when I left. His teacher said it was "just a show for mama" and not to worry about it. Less that ten minutes later, I received a call from the owner. "Rose, you need to come pick your child up. He is kicking and screaming and being completely non responsive. I don't know what to do."
Needless to say, I made a 180 and went to pick him up. When I got to the school he was still crying and the teacher told me that my little angel had hit her and scratched her. I couldn't believe it! They told me that I needed to take him home and punish him and if he changed his attitude, he could come back for the remainder of the day. From what they had told me, Jules was unruly and completely evil and needed a better home structure. I wanted to grab the owner by her jowls and send her flying through the door. But I was desperate. So I took my beastly little angel home to work it out. We talked-well I talked. He was wild and not listening to a word I was saying. He was angry. He was kicking. He was not my child.
Finally I calmed him down and took him back to the school just in time to catch my class. His teacher didn't like him already and wouldn't allow him into her class until he apologized and told her how wrong he was. I swallowed hard and took it. Oh Jules, I though, what's wrong with you?
I went to my class, within the depths of a building in no cell phone land. 75 minutes later, I checked my phone to see that I had received three phone calls from the owner of the school. "Rose, we can't have your son here, he is unruly and violent."
Arriving at the school, I found Jules in a storage room screaming and crying. I held him, feeling so sorry for his little psyche. I held his little weak body in my arms while I talked to the owner and her eventually went to sleep. "Your son is unresponsive and a liability in our classrooms. He hit me! He scratched! He hissed!I think that this is a direct product of a dysfunctional home life. He scratched me! Like this!" The owner, with a six month old baby tucked under one arm reached out and began to hiss and scratch me.I was mortified by this attack. Her arm skin jiggled with each vicious swipe. This is one messed up old broad, I thought. Not that it was really hurting, but holy shit! I was being scratched by a lady with an infant in her arms! Seeing this side of this woman made my wonder if her own children had ever been on Jerry Springer.
Did I have a bad home? Was I going to tell and corrupting my children? I called my husband in hysterics (I'm not too proud to tell the truth) telling him the horrible ordeal and I didn't know what the hell to do. I had to figure out what was going on, find a different daycare or a shrink for my little manimal. The little obstacles that prevented me from getting into college before were nothing like this.

A dirty mind is wasted on the youth. (or Caveat Emptor)

*****Warning! The views in this blog may be anti-religious! Pro-choice! Pro-gay marriage! Leftist! Sexual in nature! Making drug references! Buckets of swear words!*****

- Okay, there isn't very much of that going on today, but I would like to make it perfectly clear that if you are a child, you need to go tell your parents that you are doing something you shouldn't. Go to your room. Read no further. -

Today was a joyous occasion.The sheets were scratchier, the coffee burned a little more, the jeans were tighter, the cycles came quicker, and the inevitable first cold of the season hit my sinuses like a Mack truck. And this was all before 5:30 am. I managed to screw up a quiz about a book I have read four times over the last two weeks. I missed the gym and then canceled the shrink appt. till after payday. I wanted my mommy. There was a lyrical thought dancing through my head how this water bottle, made out of aluminum and plastic, was the symbol of my mother and every time I took a sip from it I was receiving a big hug.I took my water bottle and turned on the computer. I nuzzled up to my social teat,to nurse upon some mental sustenance; I love my virtual cocoon. Then it happened.

Okay. Allow me, if you will have it so, to set the stage for the fertilizer that is this stink cabbage:

A friend of mine had wondered what I had done in the past ten or so years. I must admit she was making me feel like Jesus or something; having a great childhood, only to disappear until I was- umm, near thirty. So I gave her a brief fill in, that went a little something like this,
"went to college for performing arts. Took time off and did some drugs. Took Some time off that to make a baby (though I doubt a comeback tour is in the near future, the drugs I mean).Went back to school for pre-med. I gagged a lot. Went to architecture school. Took time off to move to Alaska and make a mountain man (somewhere in there, I got married). Now I'm an English student. The end.

It was a truthful observation of what my history had been. Now, back to mid-nuzzle.
I received a notice from a family member that they had commented on my status. Elated to be getting some kind of 'huloo' from them, I quickly logged onto FB and read...in... horror...

"Wow....your cousin [omitted] is 13 years old, she is a 'facebook friend' of yours, and she gets to see you write about your drug use. And after having a child that you are totally responsible for, you write that you *doubt* the drug comeback tour is soon??? How about ruling out ever using drugs while you are a parent raising a child?

Rose, I know you are responding to other adults here in Facebook, but you have to know that you have accepted as friends family members who are minors, and it is wrong to put out the message that drug use is OK. My children have a natural propensity to look up to older family members. Please don't disappoint them.

In the future, please keep your drug references to private messages between you and your friends."

This really turned the day around. I have now found bottom. The 13 y.o. is not, in fact a FB friend for that reason. Never has been (at least I don't think).It is disheartening to know that my candid truth about my past can disappoint people, especially those who take my humor and candor out of context.

What hurt even more is the fact that (I hate to say it, I really do) social networking is my only link to friends and family. I am much too far away to have coffee, and most are much too busy to call. That is not to say that I don't have support. My husband calls when he can and comes home from work for weeks to help with the kids and be my rock.

I guess what I'm saying is that my shores have been breached and FB is no longer a sacred place of candor. And by accepting children's request's for friendship online,I should first consult their parent's as to what is appropriate for me to express on my open forum. So goodbye Facebook, you will hear not a guffaw or gigglesnort for quite a while. I lament the loss of it. As Kurt Vonnegut says,"so it goes."
If you want to see what I have been up to, you know where to find me. Just don't be surprised with what you read. Caveat emptor; buyer beware.

The Seven Year Old And The Cycle

I know! Two posts in one week! Let alone one day! What's this crazy Mama doing?

You know the least when you know nothing at all

School has started once more! It's a time of silent rejoice for the stay at home mom. But whats this? Rose has moved on? She is no longer a SAHM?
Okay, I'm still living la vida mama. My rock star/deep sea diver husband is still on another long Gulf of Mexico 'tour' but something has changed. I'm in college! Remember that place where you graduated from long ago? Or that place that gave you those skills for that job you quit long ago? Or that place that I dropped out of three times before, still long ago? Yup. There. Though I had to travel thousands of miles and wait through residency hooey (oh God, I just said hooey, I really am turning into a mom, eh?)finally I am there. I have survived the humiliation of a hellish first class of a superfluous class, I'm still in school.
I did, however drop that class. I know I'm a yeller-bellied, chicken-livered excuse for a ballsy writer, but I'm trying to be gentle on myself and resist the temptation to take unnecessary classes and putting myself through emotional torture. I'll leave the thumbscrews for the folk's that want them. Excessive emotional trauma in the classroom is only good for writers without children. They have yet to experience the sympathy pain of a child stung by a bee, or one that lost a friend because of her own strong beliefs. Writers without kids don't know the short-lived victory over the mopping, only to find a child has played the 'wedding game' by throwing rice all over the living room.
On the other hand, they'll never know the feeling of birthing a baby for 19 hours only to realize that you'll never want to sleep again so you can bask in the love of your baby forever.
With that love, I have gained a new sense of purpose. I'm not just going to school for me, I'm in it for the kiddos! I have to learn to write (which day by day I'm feeling like I'm knowing less and less) so that I can finish that mystery novel that Magnolia has been hounding me for.
So, as a warning, my posts might be less and less frequent for a while and they might be dreck such as this. I'll tell you a story soon!

Color me humiliated.

So I went to my first day of class and within the first class I had managed to completely and utterly humiliate myself. During free write, our creative writing professor wanted to focus on non-fiction and the prompt was, "what are you doing here?" Where everyone wrote about how much they wanted to be there to begin to write and told a little bit about themselves, I wrote a fiction free write. And then I read it aloud and everyone was completely freaked out. NON-FICTION!!! I just wrote what came to me, I didn't even consider the parameters, I just wrote. Everyone stared, wide-eyed in disbelief. I could hear people blushing for me. Was I in fact married to a Tupperware salesman with sclerosis of the liver? Were we a broke family trying to keep it together?
Only after coming home did I realize why people were acting so awkward. If it were a true story, it would have been really uncomfortable, which is what they believed. I doubt that I'll ever read aloud in class again. Right now, I just want to drop the class.
Isn't a free write a 'free' write? Why can't we write whatever pops into our little heads? I know what I did was wrong,(given that free write is only as free as the boundaries set upon it) and only now do I realize it. I am counting down the minutes until my 5 o'clock glass of wine.
I know that I'm being a bit histrionic. Okay, really histrionic. But there I was making a first impression to my peers and they think I'm an absolute nut.
So, while I'm writing this I'm needing a bit of advice. What do I do? Do I run away from the embarrassment? Or like Scarlett O'Hara, dance with Rhett in the low cut antithesis-of-a-mourning dress of shame across the floor, trying to maintain the scraps of dignity I have left with grace and poise?
Or maybe I'll just dye my hair, or sit uni-bomber style in the back row.
Suggestions? Help a mama out.