Is there no journalistic integrity anymore?

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No, not that much, kinda proportionately not ever, but especially less now with the younger crowd.

Like many women, I've been following stories in the media exposing abuses against women. The most harrowing accounts are about women abusing other women—sometimes girls—such as Jeffery Epstein's "madam" Ghislaine Maxwell procuring their victims, many of them, tragically, underage.

Today I came across a female journalist who had a choice while publishing a story: she could protect the victim and her privacy, or she could out her against her will, exposing the victim to further trauma in a societal context.

The reporter subjugated the victim's privacy in the name of "serving the truth and her readers."

Just when you hope a female journalist will protect a victim—a fellow woman—it all implodes.

I'm beyond disappointed, but hardly surprised. This happens every day.

A journalist's job is to sell a story. I get it. It is their way of life, and I respect that.

I have no respect for journalists who are willing to throw their sources under the bus just to sell a story—especially the sources and victims they seemingly attempt to protect.

No journalistic integrity there.

None whatsoever.

Foot for thought

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The timing of events can be eerie sometimes. I was having a conversation with a couple of friends earlier today on being right. We weren't talking about your regular, run-of-the-mill rightness; no, this was the wrong type of right—I'm talking stealth, ninja, smokescreen, the works. When you're on the receiving end, you feel something is terribly wrong, but it's hard to put your finger on it because what the person says is seemingly reasonable. And when you're the giver, even if you're aware you've just put your entire foot in your mouth, you go right ahead and reach for the other one.

A few hours later this little gem arrived from my friend, Sean. (I wasn't able to find the author of this image, so if you know the source, please let me know.) Aaah timing!

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Tools to remember

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Tools to remember

I’ve been thinking a lot about tools. Every once in a while, I look back and notice how much my relationship to them has changed. 

As a child, the only family outings I remember dreading were visits to the hardware store. To a seven- or eight-year-old girl, a warehouse full of tools didn’t just pale in comparison to the toy store or the candy store; for some odd reason, I found them painfully boring. (Never mind that practically everything around me—including toy and candy stores—existed in part because of tools!) The closest I ever came to enjoying these visits was the day I discovered an isle packed with rolls of pink fiberglass insulation. Maybe it was the Pink Panther on the label, or layer upon layer of fluffy goodness inviting me to dive right in; whatever it was, my delight was but momentary: I learned the hard, itchy way that fiberglass insulation is not cotton candy.

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