What is going on in this country?

A monster goes into a movie theater in a quiet Colorado suburb and starts shooting. Twelve people are killed and 70 others are injured while viewing the midnight showing of the new Batman movie.

A deranged individual walks into a quiet elementary school in Sandy Hook, N.J. and, in cold blood and with no known motive or warning, kills 20 beautiful young children and six brave adults.

And now a troubled man opens fire on a U.S. Naval yard in Washington D.C., killing 13 innocents and injuring eight more, people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There’s something terribly wrong going on in this country.

A History of Bloodshed

In the past, we were sickened and horrified when people were murdered. The 1892 case of Lizzie Borden became a media circus when Borden was accused of killing her father and step-mother with a hatchet. For decades, the Lizzie Borden murder case was considered one of the most gruesome on record.

Then came the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Seven people were killed that cold day in 1920 and sent the entire country into shock.

Forty years later, Charles Manson oversaw the killing of actress Sharon Tate and the LaBiancas, and the country was more fascinated with Manson’s diabolical hold over his commune members than the fact that innocent people, including a pregnant Tate, had been viciously tortured and murdered.

 The 1994 O.J. Simpson murder trial captivated an entire nation, but not because we grieved for the victims who were slashed and stabbed. We wanted to see if ex-football and TV star OJ was going to get away with it.

This week, I was in a restaurant when the news came on about the Naval Yard shootings. Most people glanced at the television and then went right back to their beer and nachos.

What in the world is going on when the cold-blooded murder of 13 innocent people in broad daylight registers nothing more than a glance at the television?

Perhaps the never-ending wars around the world and 24/7 coverage of every atrocity on the planet have taken their toll. Perhaps we’ve become anesthetized to violence, especially after Sept. 11, 2001. When those two airliners smashed into the World Trade towers in New York City, the safety bubble we thought reached from “sea to shining sea” was snuffed out.

We blamed that cowardly and vicious attack on terrorists from another country. With Sandy Hook, Aurora and the Naval Ship Yard, the blame lies solely on American monsters masquerading as human beings.

There has to be an answer, we cry. Some say outlaw guns. The retaliation to that is that only outlaws would have guns.

Some say we need better mental health care. I’m not sure there’s a psychiatrist out there who could’ve known these individuals would crack in such a deadly, callous and cruel manner.

As the police continue their investigations, we’ll all play the blame game, trying to figure out what triggered these devastating psychotic behaviors.

A bad home life. Illegal drugs. Unhappiness in the work place. A deep-seated psychotic problem we didn’t see coming or, if we did see that approaching train, we did nothing to stop it out of fear of hurting someone’s feelings or putting our noses into someone else’s business.

When the tears have abated and we start looking for closure, there’s still one simple question that has no answer in sight – what in the world is going on in this country.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As I was sitting at the railroad crossing, waiting for a slow-crawling train to pass, I found myself slipping into a Walter Mitty mode of thinking.

For those not familiar with James Thurber’s fictitious character, Walter Mitty was a brow-beaten man who daydreamed of daredevil careers – surgeon, pilot and submarine captain.

Mitty came to mind as I listened to the escapades of Israeli super-spy Gabriel Allon, a character in a series of books on tape by Daniel Silva. Listening to Gabriel’s adventures, I found myself wondering what I’d do if I was a secret agent.

At this point, dear reader, you’re probably rolling your eyes, wondering how a middle-aged woman could ever picture herself as an international spy.

It’s easy. In your imagination, you can be anything you want to be.

In the quiet of my car, I’m not worrying about that slowly melting gallon of ice cream in the trunk. Nor am I worried about sideways glances from the truck driver next to me as I pluck my eyebrows.

I’m on a secret mission to Paris, the fate of the free world riding on my shoulders. I’m witty and urbane and thin, and as long as I’m going down this imaginary path, beautiful.

Hey, this is my daydream – get your own if you can’t suspend reality for the next few minutes.

I picture myself carrying super-secret documents in a pocket sewn into the jacket of my designer jacket. No heart-pounding nervousness for me. I am as calm as the sea on a windless day as I wrap my hand around a wad of cash in my pocket, payola for the French border patrol.

Reality hit me about this point as I looked down and realized the grocery list, not a spy document, was in the pocket of my 10-year-old shorts. There wasn’t a designer jacket in sight because it’s 101 outside and I’m sweating like a boxer in the 10th round.

And that wad of cash? Wadded-up Kleenex tissues as my allergies are horrible in the summer.

Sneezing, I return to my daydream where I’m stopping the bad guys, giving deadly karate chops and vicious body slams as I make my way through a gauntlet of thugs. I bribe the French guards, slip down an alleyway and give Gabriel my secret documents.  

Later, Gabriel and I will toast our victory over a late-night dinner of Chateau Briand and bubbling champagne. We’ll talk of past adventures and plan our next move through international espionage.

I’m brought back to reality when the train finally moves through the intersection. I realize there’ll be no champagne that night – left-over Hamburger Helper and falling asleep on the couch in my faded pajamas will have to suffice.

Coming through downtown, I find myself engaging in yet another adventure with one of my all-time favorite detectives, Aloysius Pendergast from the Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child novels.

I’m driving as efficiently and quietly as Special Agent Pendergast. Sure, he’s seamlessly moving in and out of traffic in his 1959 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith while I’m trying to get around a lumbering red-and-white garbage truck.

While waiting for an opening, an ivory, brand-new Escalade passes me, the driver wearing expensive sunglasses and flawless make-up while talking on her iPhone 5.

I thought how unfair until I realized that, like Walter Mitty, I could be anything I wanted in the confines of my car.

Spy. Femme Fatale. Surgeon.

The sky’s the limit. All it takes is a little bit of imagination.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.