Amanda Greever

I’m beginning to think I’m having an early-life crisis.

I’ve heard about mid-life crises before, but who says crises have to be age specific? After all, isn’t age really just a number?

The more I pondered my life the last few weeks, the more I began to think I might really be in an official “crisis.” I even Googled mid-life crisis and sure enough, there are signs that could be indicators. The following are all courtesy of www.personaltao.com.

No. 1: Hair changes. OK, so last weekend I spent five hours in a salon with a fabulous hair dresser named Chris in order to turn my red locks a golden blonde. No, five hours in a salon on a Saturday is not my idea of a good time, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I’ll consider it a case study. Do blondes really have more fun? Or do “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?” Will I unknowingly tweak my personality to fit my brighter hair? We shall see.

I’d been itching to change my color for a while, and thanks to some OT at work, I finally took the plunge. No, the coppery red hue of my hair wasn’t natural either. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve seen my natural color in a long time.

I’ve had it various lengths and colors. Of course, the most drastic changes have generally come after a broken heart or other drastic change. For example, when The Times originally laid me off, I dyed my hair a dark brown — almost black, even. Unfortunately, my pale skin left me looking deceased and subjected me to the nickname of “Snow White.”

But isn’t hair meant to be experimented with? After all, a person can go from red to blonde to brunette, etc. Or maybe add a pink stripe. Or a new cut. However, if I ever pull a Britney and shave my head, go ahead and get me measured for the straight jacket.

No. 2: A desire to get into physical shape. I’ll go ahead and throw in the extreme changes in eating habits one, too. I think I’m a little disturbed by the fact that wanting to get healthier can be seen as a sign of a crisis. If that’s the case, then yep, I’m definitely in trouble.

I’ve written before about how I’ve begun to count my calories. I’ll admit I’ve gotten a little obsessive with it. It doesn’t help that the Web site tracker I use makes my final tallies for the day — calories, fat, sodium, protein, etc, — either green or red depending on how well I’ve eaten. I’ve gotten to be a bit of a pro though at getting green numbers.

And I suppose my eating habits could be seen as extreme, when you consider that I’ve cut out the french fries, cheeseburgers, nachos, etc. and switched to chicken, fish, salads and other foods that don’t make me feel like I just clogged every artery in my body. I’ve found healthier snacks and still have a cheat day once a week where I can eat and drink what I want.

And then last week I wrote about my endeavors to become a mean, lean bike riding machine. Biking was an activity I enjoyed when I was younger and is a good way to get physically active. Of course, I’m not sure that buying a bicycle is comparable to say, a man in his 50s buying a motorcycle to feel young again. Then again, if I had the fundage to buy a motorcycle, I’d probably be splurging on other things as well.

No. 3 and one I think is kind of silly: Exploring new musical tastes. I’ve always had an eclectic taste in music. On my iTunes, you can find everything from Jimmy Buffett to Metallica to Elvis Presley to Justin Timberlake. I’ll try most anything out at least once. However, lately, I’ve been listening to a lot more music from my youth. New Kids on the Block, Madonna, Michael Jackson and even Salt -n- Pepa have all been on my playlist as of late. Last night I even broke out the Ricky Martin on YouTube and watched him shake his bon bon. (OK, watching Ricky was probably addressing some other urges all together.) With the others, though, am I trying to rediscover lost youth or am I simply playing music that I once loved and still do?

The Web site urges its readers to look at all these changes as a type of transformation and embracing the changes on the way to a better life. I like that mentality.

I’ll admit I’ve been doing a lot of looking at the last few years of my life lately. Even time spent with men who broke my heart has popped into my mind from time to time. I’ve examined my relationships with each and realized why both were bad for me. And I’ve looked at my current relationships, delving beyond solely the romantic and into friendships, both new and old.

So maybe I’m really having an early-life crisis. Or maybe I’m just really starting to move toward a healthier, happier me. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Whatever comes next, though, I think I might just be ready for it.

“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.”

We’ve all heard that old maxim. It’s something that’s said when someone needs that extra shot of encouragement.

Just had your heart broken and will never fall in love again? Well, it’s just like riding a bike …

Going back to work after a long absence? Just like riding a bike …

The list could go on but the principle remains the same. It’s an idea that so fascinates me that I Googled it to see what I could find out. And I discovered there is a Yahoo Answer for everything.

For those not familiar with Yahoo Answers, a user can post a question on any topic, i.e., “Why is the sky blue?” Other Yahoo users will chime in with their two cents, whether they are close to the mark or not.

Sure enough, someone had asked why we never forget to learn how to ride a bike? The answers ranged from comments about genetics to motor skills to learned skills that are stored in your brain. However, the long and short was that no matter the explanation, you can’t forget how once you’ve learned.

What a load of crap. No, really.

I recently bought a bike off Craigslist for 20 bucks. I loved riding bikes when I was younger and decided it would be a great thing to help get me more active. Plus, a guy I know is fanatical about his bike riding, so I figured it would give us a nice common topic to chat about. Hey, as far as ulterior motives go, a boy is always one of my favorites.

My first venture out on the bike proved to be completely unfruitful. I couldn’t keep it upright nor could I steer it when I did. Attempt after attempt left me frustrated. Finally I was sweaty and dirty enough that I crammed the bike in the trunk of my car, said a couple of words I won’t repeat and went home to lament my lack of motor skills.

It was completely disheartening. What kind of freak of nature am I that I could prove an adage older than I am to be incorrect? You really can forget how to ride a bike?

I talked it over with our graphics editor Anja Smith, one of the most optimistic and encouraging people I know. Really, she can be a little nauseating, she’s so positive and chipper at times.

She suggested a bike trade. She would take the metal demon sculpted by the devil himself from me and let me use a bike that belonged to her grandfather. He rode it to work and back. Surely, if her grandpa could ride it, I could do the same, right?

Wrong.

My attempt on the second bike was as miserable as the first one. And here’s the thing. It’s a beach cruiser. The seat is wider as are the tires, a far cry from the street racing bike I had originally acquired in my ignorant attempt at getting a bike. As Anja put it, if I couldn’t ride this one, there was no hope for me. And yet as I took Grandpa’s bike out, I still couldn’t keep it upright or moving along.

Again, I shoved said bike in my trunk, muttered a few more curse words and went home to lament my loserdom.

It’s been a great source of jokes for my friends. A coworker offered to attach training wheels.

Anja isn’t so easily deterred, though, and told me that we were going to go ride our bikes after work one day. So Tuesday had a sense of dread hanging over it like a cloud dark enough to take Dorothy and Toto to Oz. I even wore pigtails for the occasion.

Finally 5:30 arrived and we headed out. I wore jeans to help protect my legs from the scrapes and bruises that would undoubtedly be coming. Anja let me wear her helmet to at least protect the remaining brain cells I have. She’d brought the metal hell-spawn to ride to help level the playing field for me.

Amazingly enough, I managed to keep the bike upright in the parking lot I was practicing in. Steering was still rough but I managed to pedal forward, without falling once. Even though I was still shaky and almost toppled over a few times, I even went on the Greenway for a couple of minutes before the dark cloud that had been hanging over my head all day materialized in the form of a nasty storm, complete with lightning.

So can you forget how to ride a bike? Maybe. Or maybe all I needed was practice. All I know is I accomplished something major this week. I’d knocked myself down and kicked myself so many times, declaring myself a loser, that it didn’t seem possible that I would finally figure it out. Maybe there’s something to be said for a positive attitude, after all.

There’s a war going on in this country, and it’s not on terror. Society is pitting fat girls against skinny girls.

It’s a theme you can find most anywhere. In the movie/play “Hairspray” Tracy Turnblad is shunned once she becomes part of the cast on “The Corny Collins Show.” Her weight is at the center of the storyline, as she falls for the leading man. Unfortunately, the fact that Tracy is twice his size hints that her heart might end up broken.

Yes, there are men out there who won’t look twice at a woman that isn’t a size two. At the same time, there are men that are all about the big, beautiful women and are turned off by a woman that is the size of a stick. Then there is my favorite type of guy: the one that likes ‘em all. It’s not exactly like he sees him them as a smorgasbord as an old Elvis song suggests but he likes his women of any shape or size, but how can you really argue with a guy that doesn’t care if you’re short or tall?

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve helped the fat vs. thin fight when I’ve looked at a woman half my size and thought that I could snap her like a twig if I really wanted to. And then I’ve looked at women that were bigger than me and thanked my lucky stars that I wasn’t that size. It’s not something I’m proud of but it’s an ugly cycle that’s hard to break.

And now as if there weren’t enough problems already, we have reality shows cultivating the size differences of the women in this country. The new FOX show “More to Love” follows “one regular guy” in his search for love. Luke Conley, who according to FOX’s web site stands 6’3 and over 300 pounds, is looking for Miss Right. It’s a show in the style of “The Bachelor” but his choices are all what the Web site calls “curvy” or “voluptuous”.

The commercial noted that most reality TV stars are a size two while the average woman is a size 14 or above. So this show is all about letting the average woman find love, according to the commercial. I agree that a size two is not exactly your girl next door. But she’s not exactly a size 20 either. You guy next door is exactly a svelte toned hunk of burning love but he isn’t necessarily over 300 pounds either.

Reality shows have long fostered the notion of the hot, thin girls trying to capture a guy’s heart. Think about it: could you really picture Bret Michaels looking twice at a size 14? Of course not. The only thing that should be big on Bret’s girls are their cup size. So yes, he likes the skinny girls with a lot of silicone. In fact, most of the girls on the reality TV shows that involve Mr. Right looking for love could probably be broken over my knee.

Does that mean that we have to have to have a show that features a man with a pot belly looking for love with women that won’t be flattened by him? Do we really need another show that emphasizes women that aren’t skinny? Don’t “The Biggest Loser” and “Dance Your Ass Off” do that enough for us already?

What ever happened to the days of Jack Spratt and his wife? Since when is love based on size? So what if “The Bachoelor” is nice and toned and looking for love among women who are pretty nicely shaped themselves? Is the alternative really to make a show featuring a bachelor who could stand to lose a few pounds looking for love that FOX chooses to call curvy? Couldn’t there be a skinny girl in there, too? Or maybe a “curvy” girl in the mix on “The Bachelor” show?

Maybe I’m naive, but I thought the shows were about finding love. I didn’t realize that love came down to a tape measure and a scale. Oh well, I’ve been wrong before.

Where were you when Michael Jackson died? It’s a question people will be asking in the future. They might change it around and use the title “King of Pop” instead.

My answer will be simple. I was at work. I was working on a special project while the universal desk (the folks who design and lay out the pages you hold in your hands every day) was working on Friday’s paper. The entertainment world had already had a blow from the news that actress Farrah Fawcett had died earlier, a fact they were making sure to get in.

A coworker mentioned she had just gotten a message that Michael Jackson had died. We started a search on the Internet and discovered that celebrity-news outlet TMZ was the only source citing his death. Despite what some might say about The Daily Times, that’s not credible enough for us to run with the story.

However, as time passed, Jackson’s death gained more validity and was finally proven to be true. Thus, the media circus began.

My Facebook was swarmed with status updates proclaiming shock and dismay. Flipping through TV channels only provided more glimpses at the artist. I heard Jackson compared to Jerry Garcia, John Lennon and Elvis Presley, although some comparisons weren’t received very well. Fawcett’s death was brushed to the side as frenzy of Jackson news bombarded anyone with ears and eyes.

I’ll be honest: I got tired of hearing about it. Every aspect of Jackson’s life was being replayed for us over and over. There was his marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, the countless cosmetic surgeries, the allegations of abuse of little boys, his musical highlights, etc.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still a fan. I enjoy his music as much as the next gal. I even tried doing the moonwalk in the privacy of my own home.

And I’ll admit that the day of Jackson’s memorial had me glued to my screen, both on my computer at work and at home. I was as curious as anyone else to see Jackson’s gold coffin and what some of the biggest names in the industry had to say. I even got a little misty-eyed as Brooke Shields recalled moments with Jackson and read a poem about “the little prince.” I even watched a marathon of his videos on BET. The man had talent. Of that, there is no doubt.

But is he worthy of the deifying that his death has brought about? MJ, no matter how talented or popular, was still just a man. He had his demons and problems, just like the rest of us. He wasn’t perfect, just like no one is.

When I was in high school, we had grief groups if a student died. Yes, it was tragic that someone so young had their life ripped away from them. However, the members of the grief groups didn’t necessarily know the student who had died that well, if at all. In fact, the death of a fellow student was nothing more than a reason to gain attention and get out of class due to the overwhelming “grief” they were feeling.

Jackson was 50. He’d lived a life full of mystery and wonders of which most of us can only imagine and dream. He still had more on the way, though. He was working on a new world tour, and I’m sure that new albums would have been produced at some point. So yes, Jackson died with a lot of living left to do.

The fate of Jackson’s estate, his children, etc. are still hot buzz in the media. Debbie Rowe was offered $4 million to give up the kids, a fact she denies … Jackson did this … Jackson did that … etc.

Yes, he made a mark on the music industry and pop culture. Yes, I would even call him an icon, but he’s no deity. There’s talk of proclaiming a Michael Jackson Day, an honor I find a little bit too lofty … unless it’s going to result in a day off from work.

Jackson left a family (and world apparently) in mourning. Remember his legacy and the impact he made as the “King of Pop.” Mourn him if you will. But it’s time to let the man rest in peace.

“I am not a quitter. I am a fighter.”

Those are words Sarah Palin used to defend her decision to resign her position as governor of Alaska. The decision comes a year and a half before her first term ends. In the interview she granted with CNN, she noted that she had taken the tougher path in making this decision.

She blamed the “political bloodsport” that had sprung up since she was picked to be a vice presidential candidate, the yin to John McCain’s yang. She said her decision was spurred on by the various ethics complaints that had been filed against her. She said that the complaints were frivolous and took away from what the great state of Alaska deserved.

CNN also quoted her personal lawyer, Thomas Van Flein, in saying she needed a break after being “on duty for two and a half years solid.” He also said that jokes made by late-night host David Letterman had helped to contribute to her decision. Apparently Palin feels that she and her family were being attacked and was just tired of it all. Darn tootin’!

I’ll admit that the media has had a field day with this former beauty queen and her incessant manner of making those who listen to her feel a little bit brighter. Or dumber for having actually listened to the woman try to come out with a coherent thought.

Her interviews with Katie Couric were great entertainment. I honestly looked at them on YouTube when I needed a laugh. The characterization presented by Saturday Night Live’s Tina Fey was really more on the mark than many were willing to admit. You betcha they were!

And now Palin is under fire again, a fire of her own making. She claims she is a fighter yet the pressure of being in the spotlight and critiques have caused her to retreat. She doesn’t like the word “retreat” and instead says she’s making a progress of sorts. The problem is the fact that it’s not simply her critics that are blown away and bothered by her decision to resign. It’s her constituents, as well.

Palin signed a contract of sorts with the voters of Alaska. When they elected her, it was with the understanding that she would serve a four-year term and do what is in their best interests. Instead, she resigns and calls the days after that announcement “exhilarating.” She planned the announcement for the eve of Independence Day as she called this her moment of freedom.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not heartbroken by the fact that Sarah Palin resigned. I’ve found some amusement in the hubbub that’s been created. What makes it even more amusing is the fact that she is not ruling out the possibility that she will run for the 2012 presidency or any other public office. She says that right now she doesn’t need a title to serve the people of the great state of Alaska or Joe Six-Pack.

This lady has got some gumption for thinking it’s OK to resign an elected post because the pressure was too much and yet still be able to hope the voters of this country will trust her in one of the most powerful positions in the world. Lady, if you thought the pressure and criticism of being Alaska’s governor was bad, what do you think about the big job. The president doesn’t simply worry about one state, he or she worries about 50. Then there’s international relations because really, we don’t want another country’s nukes aimed at our heads.

Once you step into the spotlight, whether in public office or simply as a well-known figure, you accept the fact that not everyone will like you. You will be heckled, criticized and insulted. No one is popular with everyone, not even yours truly. A danger of being a public figure is the very knowledge that someone, somewhere would love to see you crash and burn. Don’t get me wrong. The limelight is not all bad but the higher you go, the more pressure there will be.

I’d love to see a woman in the highest position in the land. When I was in high school, I was determined I would be the first female to earn that office. Well, my chances are growing slimmer but the thought of Sarah Palin as president makes me throw up a little bit.

I’m both shocked and amused by those still hoping she’ll make a run for it in 2012. But I have to ask, do we really want a president that might wake up one day and decide she needs a break?

“I feel pretty, Oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay. And I pity any girl who isn’t me today.” — Maria, “West Side Story”

It’s taken me 27 years, but I’ve finally turned into one of those women I used to dislike. It can be broken into three parts.

I’ve begun counting calories — seriously.

When I was growing up, I learned, with my family, to enjoy food. We had sit-down dinners every night, something I miss, honestly. And we had good food: Granny and Mom are both great cooks. So food wasn’t the enemy.

Even as I grew older and wasn’t the skinniest girl in class, I still loved food. It wasn’t until senior year of high school that I decided to shed a pound or 10 for prom. It was then I switched to Diet Coke, a change I’ve stuck with for the last 10 years.

When I was in college, I went into the bodybuilder mentality of lifting weights, cardio and eating lots of tuna. No, I wasn’t achieving that type of outcome but was involved with a guy who was, thus I decided it had to be a good plan. Hey, it was a stretch but I was looking for commonalities between us.

After I moved down to Blount County, I stopped worrying so much about my weight. I didn’t want to balloon up but I was more focused on enjoying my new life … and all the perks of being completely on my own. I didn’t even own a scale.

In the last few months, my age and weight finally caught up with me. There are pounds that are not welcome and I realize that the older I get, the harder it will be to make them vacate the premises. Thanks to a friend’s suggestion, I’ve started using a Web site that helps me calculate my goals and calorie intake. It can log my exercise, too. And the best part? It’s free.

I may have become a bit obsessed with the calorie counting, but I’ve got it down to a science. And I do have a cheat day on the weekend to maintain both mental and physical balance. I’m still eating foods I enjoy and love, I’m simply limiting portions and making healthy choices.

And this morning as I stepped on my scale (yes, I have one now), I discovered I had lost four pounds. Being a calorie counter is paying off. And if it results in a healthier me, I can handle being a little obsessed.

I actually bought a flat iron on credit. I’ve watched the infomercial for the InStyler for what seems like months and longed to have my hair look like the models’ on TV. The iron made even the unruliest hair look smooth and shiny. However, it had a price tag that I wasn’t willing to pay: $140ish. Even receiving two for the price of one didn’t sweeten the deal enough for me to grab my phone and dial.

I’ve always had really thick, coarse hair. A guy in middle school even called me “Horse Hair” for a while. Yes, it was painful but I learned to deal with it and wore my hair pulled back more often than not. I finally started letting it down, but I generally kept it short. It was easier to deal with and still managed to look cute, at least part of the time.

But I caved a few weeks ago when the best gal pal mentioned the InStyler to me and noted that we could split the costs since there are two. And it can be paid in monthly installments, rather than one lump sum. It was a move that changed the life of my hair forever.

I was prepared for the product to stink — I’m a sucker when it comes to informercials but realizing I’m a sucker means that I realize advertisements lie. This one didn’t. I’ve had the best hair of my life and actually feel like I should be in a shampoo commercial, flinging my hair over my shoulder while pouting my lips and giving sultry stares into the camera. Hey, it works great in my mirror at home.

But yes, I’ve paid entirely too much for a beauty product. It’s not something I’m proud of — but I like my pretty hair and the only way I’m giving up my InStyler is for it to be pried from my cold, dead hands.

Finally, I’ve started spending more time on my makeup. I’ve always been the natural kind of girl, except when going out or someone else does my make up for me. However, best gal pal and now my mother have told me I need to wear blush. Apparently, I looked dead or something since I’m so pale. When my hair was dyed dark brown, I really did look dead. One friend called me Snow White.

But I digress. My mother actually bought me blush and a blush brush, and so I have started using it. How I got along for 27 years without it, I’ll never know. Note the sarcasm, please. But when you combined the blush with the fabulous hair and the slowly shrinking me, I realized that perhaps I SHOULD spend more time on my appearance, and now I can no longer get ready in a mere 15 minutes.

I’m fairly certain my world is starting to spin sideways as my girly-girl and tomboy poles are flipping around on my priority scale.

Apparently I’m still growing up at 27. I’m seeing that it’s OK to be more than just comfortable, and I’m happy in shaping my outside to show how I feel on the inside.

After all, even Lois Lane looked good getting rescued by Superman.

I’ve always been a bit of a geek when it comes to celebrities. OK, I’m a geek in every sense of the word, if we really want to be honest. But I babble like an idiot sometimes when I come face to face with the famous.

Take the time I spoke with former Poison frontman Bret Michaels. I told the man I would rock his world. Last year at Dragon*Con when I met “Ghost Hunters” lead investigator Grant Wilson, I managed to embarrass myself as well. In my head, I was creating a sense of camaraderie but really all I was doing was making myself look like a lunatic.

I told Grant about my own ghost hunting experience. No, he didn’t really want to know but I’m sure he is accustomed to fans telling their tales. Of course, not many involve them getting vibrated like in my story. Yeah, I really told him that. Yeah, it really WAS embarrassing, and Grant told Best Gal Pal that I was nuts. No, I didn’t realize what I had said until I was walking away.

But I’ve not always humiliated myself. When I interviewed Zac Hanson of the band Hanson, I was completely well-behaved. And when I met former UT star Dane Bradshaw for a quick interview at his book signing (Thanks, John Brice!), I didn’t drool on him nor did I try to hit on him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.

Last weekend presented a new challenge: Margot Kidder was coming to Knoxville as a guest to AdventureCon. THE Margot Kidder. She portrayed Lois Lane in four “Superman” movies opposite the late Christopher Reeve.

Lois Lane has been one of my heroes for years. She’s a kick-butt, strong woman who laughs in the face of danger. She was determined that anything a man could do, she could do just as well. Now yes, Lois does end up in scrapes that require Superman to come to her rescue, but that’s besides the point.

Lois is a strong, sassy character who doesn’t take bull from anyone. But at the same time, she isn’t hard-as-nails in the fact that she does have a soft side. She shows that a woman can be strong and assertive while still having a soft side, which she showed most when she went all melty around Superman.

(Then again, he’s a handsome, muscly man in tights that show everything … who wouldn’t go all melty?)

So the first lady I can remember to portray one of my heroes, Lois Lane, was coming to Knoxville and nothing was going to stop me from meeting her. The when and where were taken care of, so my only concern was what would come out of my mouth.

When I got there, I headed to her booth first, prepared to pay most anything for the chance to meet her. I held a moment of silence for my geekery and headed in. One word will describe all that follows: FABULOUS!

Kidder was everything I was hoping for: quirky, fun, nice, etc. She thought my babbling was endearing. (Wish I could get everyone else to think that way.) I told her I was a reporter, which is technically a lie since I’m really an editor, but I write!  Kind of!

The crowning moment, however, was when I told her that between Lois Lane and (Bob) Woodward and (Carl) Bernstein I was destined to be a reporter. Yes, I put a fictional character in the leagues of the two reporters who uncovered one of the biggest political conspiracies in history and brought down a presidency. Kidder just thought my comment was kind of fun … I think.

My Wonder Woman shirt gave her an idea for a script she’s working on, and we talked about that a bit. She tried to find the perfect reporteresque photo for her to sign for me. And she hugged me and posed for a picture with me.

The experience was all I could have hoped for. Yes, I babbled a bit, but she didn’t seem to mind. After all, I think she’s the type guilty of it as well, sometimes. She was friendly and genuinely seemed pleased with the fact that she made my day. Sure, she might have been faking it and really wanted me to leave but in my head, it was the perfect moment in a fantastic weekend, and it’s a memory I’ll carry for a long time.

Fingers have been pointing and accusations have been flying like mad the last few days. On May 31, Dr. George Tiller was gunned down at his church in Wichita, Kan. Tiller wasn’t the doctor patients went to for bunions or backaches. No, he was an abortion doctor who specialized in late-term procedures.

For those who don’t know, late-term abortions are performed after the 20th or so week when the fetus is more developed and viable, or has a higher rate of survival. You can distinguish features, fingers, toes, etc. For some, late-term could apply to anytime after 12 weeks. It’s a procedure that is banned in several states and scorned by many.

It wasn’t the first attempt on Tiller’s life. In 1993, a woman went to his Wichita clinic and shot him in both arms. She was tried and found guilty of attempted murder. That woman only managed an attempt. Last weekend a man finished the job — while Tiller was passing out church bulletins as he performed his duties as an usher at his church.

I first learned of Tiller’s murder Monday evening as I was watching “The Ed Show” on MSNBC — hosted by talk radio host Ed Schultz. The words across the bottom of the screen read “Words Can Kill.” Those words paused my remote clicking and I decided to see what Schultz had to say. The segment blasted Bill O’Reilly — host of “The O’Reilly Factor” on rival news network FOX News — because he had been an outspoken opponent of Tiller, often dubbing him “Tiller the baby killer” and noting that the doctor would kill a baby for $5,000. Schultz called O’Reilly’s language “dangerous” and noted that “… freedom of speech doesn’t mean you can just go out there and say whatever the heck you want. …” Really? I thought that is what freedom of speech means, almost exactly.

Schultz brought on Kate Michelman, former president of NARAL Pro-Choice America, who said that inflammatory words like O’Reilly’s encourage people to take the law into their own hands.

Schultz also showed a clip of Randall Terry of the Web site, www.overturnroe.com, reminding all pro-life supporters that Tiller was a mass murderer and that they shouldn’t let his death deter them from their goal and surrender their “best weapons of rhetoric.” In other words, their words, actions, protests and of course, the pictures of the dead babies.

I’ve done a lot of reading on George Tiller the last few days. I’ve read about abortions, including the late-term variety Tiller practiced. I’ve looked at the pictures of dead babies that opponents say Tiller aborted. I’ve read forums and comments of people heartbroken that this man is dead.

This isn’t about abortion. It’s not about whether it’s OK to kill a baby, whether it be four weeks or 24. It’s not about whether Tiller was trying to save lives as many have claimed. It’s not about Tiller earning the moniker of mass murderer, as others have said. It’s about murder, plain and simple.

Tiller was gunned down in his church, among his peers where he went to worship. This was a hate crime in every sense of the term. This wasn’t restitution for any lives he’d taken. This was murder. Tiller was a hated man in this country, even by some who had never met him. His death brings up an interesting point, though. Was his life less valuable than those of the babies that never had a chance to have lives of their own? Tiller left behind a wife, four children and 10 grandchildren. Is his death not murder, just as pro-life advocates claim abortion is?

I grew up in a black-and-white world. Things were either right or wrong. There was no gray. However, the older I get, the more I realize that this entire world is shades of gray, some darker while others are bright. Unfortunately, the older I get the more I see the ugliness of this world.

We call ourselves the greatest country in the world, and I believe that we are. However, we’re by no means perfect because all Americans are not created equally. We are still a nation of intolerance, although we’ve grown leaps and bounds.

The civil rights movements is in the past, but the “N” word is still used by some as an ugly name for black people. Stereotypical attitudes still run rampant, and interracial couples are still not completely accepted. Gay couples are not allowed to marry in most states because their chromosomes match. Instead, they are called sinners, and Bible verses are quoted.

And now some murders are more justified than others. I won’t say that Tiller was a martyr or a saint. No, I won’t try to tell you or anyone else that what he was doing was right. What I will say is he didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a gunman. It wasn’t up to you or me or that shooter to judge Tiller and decide his fate.

As far as we have progressed in our technology and ideology, we’re still sometimes as backward as we were the day Adam and Eve were kicked out of Eden. I was taught that we are “One Nation Under God.” When are we going to start acting like it? When do the senseless murders stop? When do the hate crimes stop? When does the hate itself stop?

I was flipping through the TV channels this week on my quest to find something to kill a few brain cells with and I stumbled across a new reality show “Hitched or Ditched.”

With a name like that, the main premise behind the show isn’t hard to figure out, but I’ll elaborate further. The producers of this crap show find a longtime couple and give them a week to plan the wedding of their dreams. Here’s the catch, though: the couple is already on rocky ground and the wedding might not actually happen. That decision isn’t made until they’re up in front of their friends and family and it’s time to say “I do.”

I just caught the tail end of the episode, thankfully. It centered around a couple that had been together for a while but hadn’t taken the plunge. She wanted to be able to go out and have a good time at the bars with her friends, and he’d rather she stay at home, even going so far as to try to take her home from her bachelorette party. (She said no, by the way.) Seems another drink or three was her downfall as our groom told her how beautiful she was and how he loved her with all his heart but he just couldn’t marry her. Really, guys, don’t butter us up with flattery when you’re going to rip out our hearts and grind them up. Thanks in advance.

Another episode apparently features an interracial couple that is fighting to get the approval of their families because they’re from the South and that sort of thing is “really not acceptable.” The review I found said, his mother even called the bride-to-be “the white devil.” I wonder if she has separate water fountains and bathrooms for them to use, too.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that heartbreak and tears on national TV is something that can pull viewers in. After all, we watch men get involved with 15+ women and dwindle the number down to one, after he’s tested all of them out. But relationships are hard enough without complicating them even further.

I’m horrible in relationships. I’ll be the first to admit it. I’m terrified of commitment and really have to stop myself from destroying relationships on purpose. Shows that capitalize on heartbreak and ruin don’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy.

There are couples in California fighting for the right to be married, an opportunity that got pushed further away as the California Supreme Court voted to uphold Proposition 8, an initiative first passed in November that would ban same-sex marriages. Of course, the divorce rate between heterosexual couples is 50 percent and probably going to rise. Marriage is becoming something to fear and avoid.

Weddings are supposed to be joyous, happy occasions. They’re supposed to be something that couples look forward to as they ponder their vows, who to invite, etc. They’re something little girls dream about. But the older the little girl gets and the more society progresses, the more marriage doesn’t seem all it’s cracked up to be.

Aren’t there enough problems in the world without TV producers trying to capitalize on the pain and suffering caused as a couple gives up its fight to find happiness? What’s next — we’ll have cameras in the divorce proceedings of Jon and Kate? Think we’ll have their eight kids in the room so that we can see their tears as Mommy and Daddy split up?

I like my reality TV as much as the next person, but I think that this show dishes it up a bit too cold for me.

In a couple of months, I will have been at The Daily Times for five years.  While part of me is completely disturbed by that notion, it gives me an opportunity to look back at the years and realize there has been some fun within these walls. Most of my old crew doesn’t work here anymore as it seems that newspapers are revolving doors these days. But even working long hours (or even crummy ones), we still managed to find frivolity in our jobs. I’ve spoken with a couple of folks who used to work here and we rehashed some of the lighter moments. These days, light moments are hard to find at most any job, I think.

So apparently my subconscious mind decided I needed to add some fun to my job and I had an interesting dream last night. The Daily Times had become a night club. Overnight. Seriously, I came into work and bam!, there was a nightclub. There was even a dance floor with flashing lights. The bottom floor was an actual dance club/restaurant. Customers could come shake their groove thing while chowing down on something scrumptious. And presumably placing those ever-important ads and buying subscriptions.

The top floor was our revamped newsroom. I had a bigger desk and a typewriter. I’m not sure how revamping equated giving me an antiquated piece of machinery. Don’t get me wrong though, I’d love to have a typewriter — as long as I could keep my Mac, too. Now here’s the bad part of giving me a revamped newsroom and bigger desk. It wasn’t the fact that I still don’t have my own office. No, it was the fact that they switched my chairs out! I’m pretty attached to the chair that I have now although it’s a little slanty and possibly a little broken. I’m still happy with it, but in my dream, they had replaced it. Luckily they told me that it hadn’t been thrown out and I could get it if I wanted. The problem is my chair was in a room with what seemed like 5,000 other chairs so my search wasn’t easy. I woke up before I found it.  I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I actually thought TDT could be a night club or the fact that I was distraught over losing my chair.  Both are probably equally laughable.