It’s not often that the show Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy gives me much reason to engage in critical thought. However, an episode shown earlier this week on CMT has struck a nerve.

A Christian mom moves in with an agnostic family and she quickly begins to share her views. Meanwhile, the agnostic mom moves in with the Christian family and gets an earful from Granny. Some comments include,

“Being a good person isn’t enough. You are going to hell.”

“There is only one true faith. Can I read to you from The Bible so that you can know the truth?”

“You are damaging your child by not having religion in this house.”

Yep … that will work every time! Make sure you insult and scare people while implying that they are ignorant and abusive towards children. Who wouldn’t be drawn to learn more about your faith?!

I didn’t become a Christian until I was twenty-nine. When I was in high school, an ex-boyfriend offered to show me how to walk with Jesus. I wrote him a five-page letter explaining all the problems that organized religion had caused in the world. Another friend told me, “If you would just understand the story of Christ and his resurrection.” I’m not oblivious … I grew up knowing the meaning of Easter (even if my focus was on Cadbury eggs).

I distinctly recall watching some news coverage of gay marriages in San Francisco. My fellow viewer said, “I should go out there and read to them from The Bible. I’m sure if they heard those words, they wouldn’t be doing this.”

Yes, they would! I’m sure the dudes getting married had heard of that obscure book known as the Holy Bible. And, if you want to starting reading from the Good Book to sinners, why don’t you start with the 400-pound guy eating McDonald’s (not exactly treating the body like a temple) or the middle-aged guy who refuses to care for his elderly parents (a far cry from honoring his mother and father)? I’m sure you wouldn’t have to hop a plane to the West Coast to find some offenders.

I get frustrated with my fellow Christians who take a condescending approach towards unbelievers. I don’t believe you bring people to Christ by telling them they are sinful people who need to be shown the light. I believe being a good person who treats others with kindness and generosity is the best way to open doors.

I certainly believe that Christians should share their faith and testimony, but not in a confrontational and berating manner. I know that such an approach never worked in attempts on me. In fact, it drove me further away from any interest in Christianity and church. And, I think that shows showing characters like those on Trading Spouses this week have a negative effect as well. Maybe that was the plan.

Fortunately, I have not had the need to call the police very often in my life. I have, however, had three instances within the last month.

I am happy to say that 911 answered and police units quickly responded several weeks ago when I called from I-40 in Hermitage to let them know a guy was hitting a woman outside of their shared car on the shoulder of the road. After some quality time watching cars whiz by on the interstate as statements were taken, I am now awaiting my opportunity to take the stand as a witness.

My experiences with police response has not been so great with my non-emergency attempts at communication. I’m sure all of the locals reading this know the jingle for 862-8600. If it’s an “urgent, non-emergency”, give the Metro police a call using that number. OK … no one is on fire and there wasn’t just a fatal shooting, but the word “urgent” still implies that some level of quick response is needed.

I first dialed the number earlier this month, when I saw a woman zoom around our cul de sac holding a baby, who looked to be about six months old, in her lap. I wasn’t about to let anyone “pull a Britney” in my neighborhood! She deposited the child at at a neighbor’s home and sped off. Since the emergency aspect was gone, I wrote down her license plate and called 862-8600. Well, a recorded message let me know that I was calling at a busy time (1:45pm). I could hold or call back later. I stayed on the line for close to ten minutes and, after hearing the same taped voice offering me the numbers for the fire department and other such services multiple times, I hung up. Repeated attempts throughout the afternoon brought the same result. I eventually called the Hermitage Police Precinct, only to be told that they don’t handle dispatches and I should try that handy 862-8600 number again.

I called the number again yesterday when I drove up to a brand-new accident near my house. I missed the actual collision, but the participants were just getting out of their cars. Everyone seemed fine, but the left lane was blocked. Seemed like an “urgent, non-emergency” to me. Guess what? As it turns out, 4:15pm is a really busy time as well. I never reached anyone.

What is the purpose of the 862-8600 if it is next to impossible to reach someone? Perhaps the jingle should be redone with new lyrics to encourage people to call for matters such as pesky squirrels who keep eating your bird food or a stop sign that tilted just so slightly to the right. That would be more appropriate considering the speed (and “urgency”!) with which calls are addressed.

Since the L.A. City Council debated an ill-fated resolution on a “40-hour homicide moratorium” earlier this week, I decided to put together my list of practices that I would like to ban for a day or two. Since I want government involved in my life as little as possible, I would never actually work to enact any of the items on my list. But, it is still nice to dream.

I propose a 40-hour moratorium on …

1. Cell Phone Use — I am so tired of seeing drivers who can’t be bothered to use a turn signal or stay within their lane because they are engrossed in a phone conversation. I want to once again be able to assume that someone is crazy when they are talking to themselves, and not that they have one of those ridiculous-looking Bluetooth (?) devices in their ear. Come on, fellow stay-at-home moms, do you really need the hands-free phone to discuss the upcoming soccer practice while walking down the frozen foods aisle by yourself? And, to that woman who yaps on her pink phone every afternoon at the Y while doing her cardio … you are a thorn in my treadmill-loving side. Hang up, people! Enjoy hearing the sounds of the world around you. Carry on a conversation with the person sitting next to you. Urinate in a public restroom without yelling into the phone over the sounds of others flushing.

2. Baggy Pants — This absurd fashion has been around since the mid-1990s and it is time for it to go the way of the Nehru jackets, stirrup pants and jams (remember those loud shorts … I had homemade ones!). The belt industry must be hurting for cash by this point. Let’s take a day, young men, to remember what it feels like to have fabric tightly hugging your waist. Won’t it be great to run without having to use one hand to hold up your pants? Imagine the pressure of picking out just the right pair of boxers being removed from your daily routine. My daughter has actually pointed at your backside and said, “Poopie!” when seeing your sagging pants. Let’s not have the two-year-olds of the world continuing to think that you are incontinent.

3. The Use of the Word “Like” as a Way to Approximate, Paraphrase or Stall — Examples include “There were, like, only twenty people there” or “She was like, ‘There is no way I am going out with him again’” or “It was, like, so cold outside and we, like, didn’t have our coats.” The repeated use of the word “like”, especially when combined with “you know” projects a lack of intelligence and actually kills the brain cells of people who have to listen to you.

4. Child-Related Cling On Items for Cars, Particularly When Affixed to Minivans — I’m really glad that your kid plays soccer and wears #41, or that he is an honor student at the local elementary school or that he is a stick figure with a stick figure sister and a stick figure dog. However, isn’t our country already child-centric enough? What is the point of these decorations? “See, Billy, you can tell I really love you and desire to pump up your self-esteem because I put a huge soccer ball with your name on it on the back of my car. My only identity is achieved through you. Therefore, your accomplishments must be displayed on my primary mode of transportation.”

There are other actions/objects/words worthy of this list, but I believe a temporary halt to the items posted above would be a great start for the betterment of our society.

I am sure everyone has heard about the upcoming reunion that is sure to rock the music world to its core. New Kids on the Block are back! Oh, man! I feel like a 13-year-old girl again … I can feel the love for Joey Joe returning as we speak.

Nathan has promised me that if the New Kids perform in Nashville, he is getting me tickets and he will go with me. Even if I wasn’t a former fan, I would want to go just to see Nathan at a NKOTB concert. Of course, my husband still brags about front row seats at a Spice Girls concert in 1998, so his music cred has already been completely destroyed.

I was obsessed with the New Kids on the Block from 1988 to 1990. I kept HUNDREDS of pinups organized in a three-ring binder. The individual photos were first, placed in the order in which I liked that member (Joe, Jordan, Jon, Donnie, Danny was my personal pecking order). The group photos were arranged based on how much I liked the particular pose/photo quality. So, each new issue of Teen Beat or Bop brought with it hours of consideration over where to place each photo. When the hole punches I carefully made to insert each page started to wear thin from hours of pouring over their beautiful faces, I affixed gummy reinforcements.

I had all of their birthdays memorized and sent them presents. I remember that Donnie listed his favorite TV show as Sesame Street (I know your fan base was young, but come on now), so I bought him a Bert and Ernie figurine one year. What twenty-year-old dude wouldn’t love that? All I ever got back was an offer to join the fan club. (I spent countless dollars on posters and t-shirts, but could never fork over the $25 to become a member)

I requested admissions catalogs from Boston College so that I could set my sights on the GPA and SAT standards needed to enroll there. I figured that once I got to the city, I could find Joe and convince him to marry me.

I found a letter I wrote to a friend my freshman year in high school. In it, I questioned whether I would break up with my current boyfriend if I met Joe and he wanted me to be his girlfriend. I decided that I would. Sorry, Glenn (names have not been changed to protect anyone because this was nearly twenty years ago and laughable at this point).

I knew that eventually all of the girls who claimed to love NKOTB would move on and stop being real fans. That would never happen to me. I was going to be the last fan standing and I would be rewarded for my unending devotion. The emotions of adolescents can be fleeting, however. My focus changed by the end of 9th grade, when I switched my passionate allegiance to The B-52s and Depeche Mode. I could no longer be bothered by such a childish boy band like the New Kids.

Today, in 2008, nostalgia has gotten the better of me and I would love to see the New Kids on the Block in concert one more time (bringing the total to four). Let’s bring out the Aqua Net, the curling iron and the stonewashed jeans … I’ve got some awkward early teen years to relive!

I’m perplexed by a dream I had last night. Perhaps you can help me determine the significance of the events that unfolded:

I answered my front door wearing nothing but a large blue towel and found Mike Huckabee smiling on my doorstep. I welcomed him inside and we had a couple of beers. Then, he said, “I have a surprise for you!” We got in his car and he took me to a Hannah Montana concert. We had seats in the third row! I wore the blue towel the entire time.

My husband believes that dreams are nothing more than a random firing of neutrons, but I choose to think that dreams send us important messages.

First, why the large blue towel? Perhaps I’m attracted to Huckabee and I like the idea of being separated from him by only a layer of Egyptian cotton. Well, that and the three-piece suit he was wearing. Or, maybe I can’t fully trust his policy positions and I must keep part of me wrapped up and protected from his charming deception.

The color blue? Could it be that I was sending a signal to the governor — “I know you are really an economic liberal at heart, aren’t you? You like the color blue, yes? Feeling ‘blue state’ when it comes to your position on entitlement programs?” Or, maybe I was feeling blue because he is such a great communicator and I wished I could have embraced the message he was spreading with his fancy talking! I guess it could be nothing more than a hint as to the color in which I should redo my bathroom. Guess I should keep my eyes open for the next white sale at Kohls!

I don’t know whether or not Huckabee enjoys an adult beverage every now and again. That might be frowned upon given his position as a Southern Baptist minister. But, let me tell you something … he becomes even more of a hoot when you get some Miller Lite in him! At least some points remain consistent in my dream and waking states. In both instances, I feel the need to drink heavily when presidential candidates are in my kitchen. You should have seen the liquor bottles that Ted Kennedy and I left scattered across my breakfast bar back in 1980!

What about Hannah Montana? Well, Mike Huckabee has the same initials … just flipped! Maybe he fancies himself as Hannah Montana when he looks in the mirror. He has a secret identity that he hides from the world. What alternate personality does Huckabee keep locked inside? Club kid freaked out on E? Superhero who drives around in the night protecting the righteous from threats of evolution education … a Caped Crusader for Creationism, perhaps? Game show host on obscure Panamanian cable channel?

It could be that he saw how the youth vote is working for Obama and he is laying the groundwork for 2016. At least some of the kids at that concert will be old enough to vote by then. In my dream, I did enjoy being at a show at which I could see over the heads of everyone else in the audience. Must have been how my mom felt when she took me to see Debbie Gibson.

Or, maybe I’m just avoiding the obvious answer. My subconscious was mocking me. You may not believe me, but I pitched the idea for a brilliant character named “Elaine Maine” (I also offered “Gertie Missouri” … I wasn’t picky about the name) to Disney two decades ago. I got laughed out of the executive suite. Laugh, indeed. Miley Cyrus has the entertainment empire that should be mine! These dreams at 2:00am just remind me of what should have been …

As I was walking to an appointment at another law office today, I came across an interesting crime scene.

Walking east along Union Street, between 3rd and 2nd Avenue, I spotted what had to be a horrifying scene. In the looming shadow of the now-Regents Bank Building, there were two piles of feathers.

Being a regular downtown denizen, the occasional unlucky pigeon is not an uncommon sight. This however, had a different flair to it. The nearer batch of feathers was larger than the average pigeon, and as I approached, appeared to have a dusty brown hue. Just then a stiff breeze swirled between the buildings, lifting the still plumage, and providing me with a better look - this was no pigeon.

As I passed closer, I was surprised to see a much larger bird, and upon closer examination, concluded that what I was looking at was a hawk. I suppose there are hawks downtown - I just haven’t seen one. Keeping apace, about ten feet closer to the intersection of Second Avenue, there was the much smaller yet much more familiar unmistakable gray feathering of the common pigeon.

My first close experience with a hawk was about four years ago. I was sitting at my desk in my upstairs home office, and happened to glance out the window. There on a branch maybe three feet from me, and on it was a large mocking bird. Cool, I thought. I like mocking birds. As far as song birds go, they’re pretty tough. No one messes with a mocking bird.

Then in an instant, there was a flash of darkness, and a poofy cloud of grayish white feathers lie suspended in the air, hovering where the mocking bird used to be. Amazed at the turn of events, I got up from my chair, looked, and down on the front yard I witnessed the culprit. A hawk had gotten the mocking bird, and had him pinned to the lawn. Ouch.

I could only deduce what had happened this time. My theory is that the pigeon got spotted. Lucky on the front end even to realize he was in the hawk’s sights, he fled. The hawk zeroed in on his prey, and in his focus, lost track of everything else around him. With the hawk gaining every aerial foot, both predator and prey pumping full of adrenaline, the pigeon took evasive maneuvers, twisting into the street, as fate and necessity would have it, without looking both ways (sadly, Union is a one way street at this point - one direction would have sufficed). The hawk, myopically focused on the ever nearing pigeon, stayed precisely on course and made the same error.

There may be two piles of feathers, but there can be only one story.

On sports radio …

“That’s why they call it football.  You never know what is going to happen!” – Mike Ditka

Huh?  When I hear the word “football”, I don’t automatically think “surprise” or “unanticipated activity”.

At the gym …

“I used to weigh 98 pounds.  But, then I realized I was, like, really fat.  So, I lost seven pounds and now I weigh 91 pounds.” — a girl who appeared to be about fourteen years old

Thank you, Paris Hilton and MTV!

On NPR …

“I realized that some of the others voted for him, so our people might as well support him, too!” – black female voter analyzing the support that Barack Obama has found among white voters

Speaking as one of “the others”, did you know that when we peel back our skin you will see green scales?  We answer to a warlock named Garthon.  I know “the others” can seem mysterious and secretive, but do not be afraid.  I am hear to answer all of your questions about our kind.

At the gym, part two …

“The gym always seems to be so crowded at the beginning of the year, and I can never figure out why.” – clueless YMCA patron

She wasn’t kidding.

I have used this blog several times in the past to vent about various instances of poor behavior at the gym. The more I perform my obversational research, the more I realize that the local YMCA is a microcosm of interpersonal relationships that can be amplified to generate larger sociological conclusions (Hey … I didn’t go to a science and tech magnet high school and write an honors thesis in college for nothing. I can string big words together).

To recap, here are the points I have made in previous posts:

1.Middle-aged men lying down RIGHT next to me on a mat and thrusting their hips upwards repeatedly while smiling at me — BAD

2. Singing along loudly and poorly to every video that comes on CMT all along oblivious to your volume due to your use of headphones — BAD

3. Talking on your cell phone about who is handling carpool tomorrow (or any other topic for that matter) while I am trying to focus on burning calories three feet from you — BAD

Now, before I share the newest frustration I have with my fellow sweaters at the gym, I do have to pass along a happy tidbit. While doing weights, the sweet harmonies of The Jets came floating from the gym speakers. No matter what had irritated me earlier in my workout session, my heart was lightened by singing along (in my head) to “Crush on You”. Take me back to middle school … “How did you know, ’cause I never told? But, you found out. I got a crush on you!” That was one talented group of siblings that could give the Osmonds and Jacksons a run for their money anytime.

Anyway, my newest gym issue is a particularly interesting reflection on human nature. To accommodate the swell of those wanting to get on cardio machines to fulfill New Year’s resolutions (I’m memorizing faces and watching to see who lasts until February), the staff has limited time on such equipment to 30 minutes. Notices have been posted on each machine with a reminder about the time limit and a note to respect other members.

I have been to the Y three times since 2008 began, and each time more than half of the people on the cardio machines stayed on for more than 30 minutes (I have excellent peripheral vision to scan all machines in my row … also comes in handy to see what the woman next to me enters as her weight). I saw one woman remove the sign from her view when her time was about to expire, I guess so she could claim ignorance later. Someone else got to her 30 minutes, looked around and then started over again. Others just chug along for up to an hour without any attempts to cover their selfishness. And, as more people ignore the rules, others decide they should not have to abide either.

Perhaps this is a stretch (stretch … the gym … oh, that’s good), but I think people’s lack of consideration for the other gym members who are waiting to exercise is indicative of the “me” attitude that is becoming more prevalent everywhere. I have had to shorten my normal run, but I understand the reasons behind the Y making such restrictions. I’m sure others would say, “I paid for my membership here. I’m entitled to stay on this elliptical machine as long as I like!” Ah, entitlement. Along with “disrespecting” and “like” (when used as every other word in a sentence), “entitlement” and its various forms is one of my least favorite words in the English language. For those interested, my favorite word is “usurp”.

Selfish behavior gets me like nothing else. I can feel my temperature rise and my fists clench when I see my fellow runners show complete disregard for anyone else. Maybe I need to buy an IPod and download The Jets’ Greatest Hits to keep me calm.

I was browsing the front section of The New York Times earlier this afternoon and came across an article entitled, “A Place Just Like Every Other Place.  Only Not.”  To my surprise and glee, the article was about my hometown of Laurel, Maryland!  Apparently, the place in which I spent my formative years typifies the ugly landscape that exists along Route 1 (which stretches from Florida to Maine).

I spent many hours at the strip mall (and the subsequently built enclosed mall next door) that is described in the article as follows:

Sitting here, suppressing the urge to flee, you begin to notice how the shopping center’s off-white walls and copper-colored top recall a minimum-security prison.

Awesome!  I am swelling with hometown pride!

The author also mentions the shooting of Democratic (yes, I know the party is different now, but you still get to claim him) presidential candidate George Wallace in the parking lot of the strip mall described above.  Perhaps a violent attack that results in paralysis is not the greatest association for a city, but it’s what we’ve got.

If you read the story on the internet, you can be treated to an accompanying audio slideshow of the “visual pollution” that dominates this main road through Laurel.

I loved growing up in Laurel, if only for the stories I can now tell.

We had Delaney’s Irish Pizza Pub, with a father and son who dressed as leprechauns and made balloon animals and a minister who dressed in Scottish regalia and walked down the center of the restaurant playing bagpipes every night at 7:00pm.  (This restaurant burned to the ground several years ago … apparently a plot by the owners to get insurance money)

Laurel is home to the Montpelier Mansion.  George Washington spent the night here and, perhaps of slightly lesser national significance, Nathan and I exchanged our vows on its grounds.

I would be remiss if I did not mention the Laurel Race Track, which is surrounded by seedy bars and cheap hourly hotels.  I spent the first part of my bachelorette party at The Starting Gate Lounge (before my friends and I got all snotty and headed to D.C.), and the staff there knows how to treat a bride-to-be with class!

Finally, my neighborhood has a great sewer system through which you could take a walking tour!  My friends and I often dared one another to walk further into the damp cement tunnel.  Once you stopped seeing the graffiti along the sewer walls, you knew that you had travelled further than most teenagers and that was a feeling of unparalleled pride.

So, Mr. New York Times Writer, you might have assumed that you could judge Laurel just by sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall.  My hometown, though, has so much more to offer.  The beauty that I mentioned in the paragraphs above only scratches the surface of Laurel, Maryland.  Our (sewer) waters run deep with culture, diversity and pride!

I am only thirty-two years old, so perhaps I am too young to begin a “back in my day” or “these young whippersnappers” routine. However, I have been quite irritated with the behavior of some youth in my neighborhood this week and I’m wondering if my frustrations are off-base.

A couple of days, a group of three teenaged boys (perhaps around fourteen years old) was skateboarding down my street. Every other word out of their mouths was “f***in’” or “f***ed”. I find it so disturbing that this type of language is so casually included as an integral part of communication. (They also spoke the sign language version of the word to an innocent SUV that drove by)

I NEVER used that kind of language when I was in high school, and rarely find that word exit my lips today. I think it only happens when I get caught behind a minivan driver going ten miles under the speed limit with no knowledge of how to use a turn signal (and then I feel quite bad about using such language). I remember spending the night at my friend Suzanne’s house when I was around eleven. We decided we were going to say cuss words out loud. We had to do it at the same time, because we were too scared to perform such a feat solo. So, I would say, “Let’s say the ’s’ one.” Then, we would count to three and quietly whisper that particular four-letter word. I felt so guilty that I told my mom about it when I went home in the morning. Now, these words just seem to be another part of a kid’s vocabulary.

I wasn’t just bothered because the boys were using such an offensive word. It’s also the people around whom they decided to say it. An elderly gentleman who was sitting on his front porch just shook his head in disgust as the kids screamed and skated past his house. And, they continued the tirade of “f” bombs as they went past Catherine, who was playing in the front yard.  I threw them a dirty look and said, “Nice language”, to which they responded by laughing and pointing at Catherine.

I understand that when you get more than one teenager in the same place, the need to impress is automatic.   I’ve heard kids using bad language walking out of the Y, hanging out in the library, waiting for the school bus and so on.  I guess these offensive words sound cool or grown-up to them.  Every time I hear that garbage coming out of their mouths, though, I am saddened by the coarseness and poor behavior that appears to be so commonplace now.

I am always up for some high school marching band music and elderly man driving around in ridiculously small cars. So, Catherine and I took a quick trip down the street from our home this afternoon to check out the Donelson-Hermitage Christmas Parade. My guilt over forgetting my girl’s mittens in this frigid weather was lessened only slightly by the fact that her coat sleeves were too long and therefore provided some hand warmth. But, you hardly noticed the cold during this event of neighborhood frivolity.

Like any parade of merit, there was hard candy being hurled at bystanders from every other float and pick-up truck. If anyone needs some butterscotch or mints for the bottom of her purse, please stop by my house and I’ll scoop some up for you from the bottom of Catherine’s stroller.

Congressman Jim Cooper was near the front of the parade. He walked near the sidewalk with a couple of other men giving no indication of his position. I am certain that most people gathered for the parade had no idea that their congressman was walking by. Why not use the moment for some positive name cred? Perhaps Cooper forgot to bring his posterboard adorned with his name in glitter … an accessory found on the side of many flatbeds that cruised down the route.

Cooper was carrying a plastic grocery bag (what would Gore say, sir?) filled with candy. He quickly walked by with minimal eye contact and tossed sugary treats in the general direction of the curb. I got a couple of Cooper Candies slammed right against my forearm. Catherine had a lollipop tossed at her head. I do not mean to imply that my congressman meant any harm with his haphazard candy-tossing techniques. I just don’t think he was properly trained before being handed a bag of small projectiles. You can’t casually hand a man a sack of hard candy and expect successful tossing! I blame the organizers for taking such a risk with apparently no concern for the revelers who stood in the direct line of Cooper’s fire.

Mayor Dean walked by a bit later and shook hands with every person standing along the parade route. No candy, though. Councilman Gotto drove by in his car with friendly smiles and waves for the “crowd”, but still no candy. Judge Dianne Turner, Rep. Ben West, Sen. Joe Haynes … no candy. Did these elected officials see Congressman Cooper ahead of them on the parade route and cringe knowing the same awkward fate could befall them? Did they realize that the dozens of pee wee football teams, Girl Scout troops and church organizations had already strewn enough candy along Lebanon Road? Either option is possible.

Congressman Cooper, though your political kin did not follow your example with their own bags of candy, I commend your bravery for warming up that throwing arm and giving it your best. Despite your attempts at anonymity, I knew it was you. And, I shall sing of your efforts from the rooftops. My daughter may have a mark on her left cheek where she was zinged by the razor-sharp plastic wrapper on that lime lollipop, but she will always know that scar came from a member of Congress. Now that’s pretty cool.

I was listening to Mike McConnell yesterday on WLAC.  A caller decided it was worth picking up the phone receiver to share the following (paraphrased) tidbit:

“I drive through a lot of small towns for my work.  I’ve noticed in recent years that a lot of places have replaced the colored lights with white lights along Main Street.  They’re trying any way they can to take Christmas out of the season.”

I agree, sir.  When I see the multi-colored strands of lights wrapped around lampposts and rafters, I think of that swaddled babe in the manger.  Especially if the lights blink on and off in random patterns.  I marvel at the reds, blues and greens and I think, “People who choose these lights really want to celebrate the birth of Christ.”

Now, those white lights on the other hand.  I stare at the bitter coldness that emanates from the clear bulbs and I know the atheists and anti-Jesus bigots are one step closer to domination over our already damaged culture.

Come on now, people.  There are real issues to worry about in this world, and even accurate examples of Christmas being ridiculously banned from public space (no Santas allowed in holiday parades, the words “Merry Christmas” banned from print and lips in schools, etc.).  The selected colors for a town’s light display is not a reason for concern.

I recently heard the new Billy Ray Cyrus song, “Ready, Set, Don’t Go”. (Please have it noted that this is the first time I have dedicated a single written word to the music of Mr. Cyrus.) The song is about his teenaged daughter’s desire to spread her wings and head off on her own. Some of the lyrics include:

She’s gotta do what she’s gotta do
And I’ve gotta like it or not

Looks like she’s all ready to leave
Nothing left to pack
There ain’t no room for me in that car

This is where I don’t say what I want so bad to say
This is where I want to but I won’t get in the way

I decided to do a little bit of research on young Miley Cyrus (full name is Destiny Hope “Miley” Cyrus, in case you are interested). She was born on November 23, 1992. I consider myself fairly decent at math, so I feel confident in my assertion that Miley’s birthdate puts her at a spry fourteen years old. With that information known, I don’t understand Billy Ray’s sentiments in this song. She certainly does not “gotta do what she’s gotta do”! I believe parents still get the veto at this stage in her life. What do you mean, Mr. Cyrus, when you sing that you “don’t say what [you] want so bad to say”? I certainly don’t plan to keep my mouth shut when Catherine is in the early stages of being a teenager.

You want to go out to a party until 2:00am and drive home with that boy who has empty bottles of gin rolling around in the bed of his pickup truck? Sure, dear. Who am I to stop you? What’s that you say? You want to move to California and share an apartment with four other girls instead of finishing high school? Well, you did start wearing a bra yesterday. Guess you get to make your own decisions now!

I understand a parent’s desires to support the dreams of their children. I want to help Catherine be anything she wants to be. But, the sentiment of this song seems a bit premature to me.

It was time for me to take a break in my exciting afternoon schedule of folding laundry and scrubbing the kitchen floor.  So, I settled down in front of the TV with a bean burrito.  I happened upon a show called Platinum Weddings on the “WE” network.  I quickly realized that brain matter was starting to seep out of my ear and that I had broken my personal vow to erase entertainment television from my viewing plans.  So, I changed the channel to C-Span.

Before averting my eyes from the ridiculous waste of disposable income, I did get to see the total cost for the flowers being used at the wedding and reception.  Total bill … just for flowers?  $56,000!!   This includes a $75 orchid to be placed on the dinner plate of each of the more than 300 guests!

This couple’s floral budget blows the entire cost of my wedding out of the water, and I think Nathan and I had a lovely wedding!  I’ve had many friends say they would have a simpler wedding, or even elope, if they had it to do all over again.  I’ve never had one tell me, “Gosh.  I wish I would have spent a lot more money on that one single day.”

I understand wanting to have a special day to celebrate the start of your marriage. Nathan and I had a sit-down dinner, jazz trio (students from the high school where I taught … teenagers come cheap!) and plenty of top-shelf alcohol (I think it was top shelf … I was satisfied drinking Iron City from the can … classy bride, I know) for around eighty of our family members and closest friends.  However, I cannot see how you can justify spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on a single event, even if money is no object.  Maybe it’s because I wasn’t the type of girl who grew up dreaming about her perfect wedding, or maybe I’m just a cheapskate.  But, $56,000 on a bunch of flowers that are going to get thrown away at the end of the evening or at least after a week in someone’s home?  You could probably feed an entire Third World country for a year with that money.

Far be it from me and my libertarian leanings to tell someone how to spend their money, but the entire concept of a “platinum wedding” seems crazy to me.

My favorite saying the past few days has been, “For the love of Pete!”  I don’t know what prompted me to begin uttering this particular phrase, although I can tell you that it’s usually in response to Catherine sticking a marker in her mouth or my dog barking incessantly at a thoroughly apathetic neighbhorhood cat.  Last night, I paused for a moment and thought, “Who exactly is this Pete?”

Personally, I have loved two Petes in my life.  I remember both of their last names, but I’m afraid they might decide to Google themselves, find my writings and wonder why this pathetic woman still remembers such ridiculous details twenty years later.  So, I will stick to their shared “Pete” moniker.

The first Pete entered my life in 1982, when I was in the second grade.  He drew the best Twisted Sister symbols on his three-ring notebook and was even commissioned by others to perform his artistic talents on their belongings.  We used to sit on the roof of my house, eat peanut butter sandwiches and have long talks about He-Man.

My second Pete was a classmate in 9th grade Biology.  He had a skater floppy cut and spoke with a slight lisp.  And, he played lacrosse. I’ve always loved me a good lacrosse player.  You can only imagine how giddy I was when we got placed in the same group for the fetal pig dissection!
While I assume that the phrase “for the love of Pete” did not find its genesis in either of these two boys, I will now picture them every time Catherine stacks all of my canned goods on top of the toilet.

I sure am glad that we don’t buy many toys for Catherine.  Since her birthday in January, I have only purchased a clearance toy that makes animal sounds and a $2.00 set of wooden blocks from Goodwill.  I don’t really understand the point of buying a lot of stuff for a toddler.  I’ve noticed that much of the plastic, flashy items I see in some other homes gets used for two days and then ignored.  Also, if I don’t buy toys I don’t have to worry about all of these recalls.

Right now, Catherine’s favorite items for play are two big empty coffee cans, some pots and pans, plastic cups, poker chips (you should see her bluff … awesome!), and stacked cans of tomato sauce and beans that I haven’t gotten around to using yet.   Even more than those playthings, she likes the potted dirt that has desperately tried to sustain life in my dying flowers, sticks, leaves and rain puddles (remember rain?).  She gets to use her imagination, get dirty, work on hand-eye coordination and motor skills … and it doesn’t cost a thing!

My choice of reading material right now is the book Is Bill Cosby Right? by Michael Eric Dyson.  The author decides that the answer to the question posed in his title is “NO”.  It is an interesting read.  Some of Dyson’s points are well-taken, as I do believe Cosby oversimplifies several major issues.  However, many arguments made by the author are less than convincing.  Take this reasoning behind the baggy dropped-a-load pants that unfortunately have been the trend for over a decade now:

The baggy pants style may represent, consciously or not, their restricted mobility in the culture.  Baggy pants, and oversize clothing in general, may also cover black bodies subject to unhealthy surveillance.  Maybe black youth who can’t hide in their skin are forced to hide in their clothes.  The more they are swallowed up in a sea of denim or cotton, the less likely they are to drown in naked scrutiny of vulnerable limbs. 

Oh, please … come now.  I really don’t think there is such deep psychology behind the decision to hang jeans around your thighs and show off a snazzy pair of boxers.  Perhaps I should head out to the local mall this weekend and complete a quick survey with the teenagers who pass me in the food court.  My questions will be as follows –

1. Are you wearing those jeans at mid-thigh and four sizes too big because of your need to cover from the unjust surveillance that is brought on by society?

2. Do you believe that those baggy pants help you to hide from the more unpleasant aspects of our cruel world?

3. Don’t you realize that your mobility would be less restricted if you threw a belt around those suckers and didn’t have to use one hand to hold them up when you choose to walk with any sort of purposeful gait?

4. As a white kid in the suburbs who just got dropped off by your mom in her Volvo, do you understand how ridiculous you look?

When I was in middle school, I wore stirrup pants with three layers of oversized socks from The Gap and ridiculously teased hair.  Perhaps the stirrups represented the confinement I felt as a woman who was already aware of the glass ceiling that loomed over me.  I needed all of those socks because I wished to masculinize myself by creating the illusion of trunk-like legs and therefore pass off as acceptable in a man’s world.  The hairsprayed stiffness of my bangs symbolized the strong facade I wished to present even as my self-esteem was suffering.

Or, maybe I just fell victim to the horrible fashion trends of the time … kind of like those ridiculous baggy pants.

I am closing my eyes and taking some deep breaths.  Oohhmmmm.  Oohhmmmm.  My mind takes me to a happier place.  I almost feel like I’m actually there right  now …

I’m wearing my well-worn Maryland Alumni sweatshirt and my favorite pair of jeans.  There is a roaring fire going in the living room (safely confined to a fireplace, of course).  It’s five minutes until kickoff in the AFC Championship game featuring the Steelers and the Titans.  Nathan and I have placed a friendly wager, and I can already see him cooking dinner and doing the dishes for a week.  The pot of chili has been cooking in the crockpot all day.  It’s hot, spicy and ready for consumption with a cold beer.  Catherine is sleeping peacefully upstairs after a busy afternoon making snow angels and sledding down the hill in our backyard.  Light snow continues to fall now and it looks beautiful when highlighted by the light from our front porch.  What a perfect day!

… I’m roused from my daydream by the voice of the weatherman on TV, “Looks like another 100 degree day, everyone.  Be careful!”  No, I want to go back!  Oohhmmmm.  Oohhmmmm.

Even though I have not taught high school in four years, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night terrified that I forgot to prepare lesson plans for the day that would soon be arriving. I lie in bed in a state of half-slumber mentally developing a ninety-minute plan to excite high school seniors about the electoral college. The gnawing pain in my stomach is eventually enough to wake me up fully. I take a deep sigh of relief and realize that I am no longer a public school teacher. I used to have the same 3:00am problem when waiting tables at Chilis. I would actually put on my fabulous burgandy polo and navy blue apron before coming to my senses and reminding myself that I did not leave a customer there without his turkey sandwich.

Anyway, my latest night sweats over teaching led me to think about a specific incident that caused quite the stir. When I began my employment with the school system that hired me, we were told that our email accounts were to be used for professional reasons only (correspondence with parents, planning with other teachers, subscribing to daily updates from E! Online, etc). I used my school email account for its intended purpose and maintained great communication with parents about upcoming exams, the distribution of grades and other tidbits that the students did not want mom and dad to know. However, there were many other teachers in the system who I believed were abusing the email access. Not a day went by that I did not receive several forwards with cute teddy bears, enlightening stories about how the gruff businessman learned his job wasn’t nearly as hard as that of a teacher or advertisements for used trucks. I even got quite a few prayer chains with pictures of Jesus.

If these teachers wanted to share a favorite forward of a dancing penguin with other friends on the faculty who would be receptive, then I would support their desire to email to their heart’s content. But, these people were sending nonsense to every teacher in the county!

After a particularly bad afternoon of deleting annoying emails, I decided to take action. I sent my own email to the entire county, and I included the administration in the recipient list. I wrote that our email should be used for professional purposes only and that I did not want to receive an email with “Jingle Bells” rewritten about the harried life of teachers. We are fighting to be taken seriously as a profession on par with others that require certification (such as medicine and law), but I can’t imagine a doctor sending out an email letting every other doctor in a hospital know what her favorite color says about her personality.

The responses were about three to one against me. One woman wrote to me to let me know she would be praying for me because I was obvious unhappy and bitter. Another teacher told me that she couldn’t get through her crazy day without funny forwards to cheer her up (which I found quite unfortunate). Others were happy that someone finally spoke up and assured me that I had plenty of support.

There were parts of being a teacher that I loved, and I took the education of my students seriously. I tried to share my passion for government with them every day. I spent hours grading and commenting on papers (I made them write A LOT) and planning creative ways to teach new concepts. Occasionally, through email, I would pass along an amusing story to my friends on the staff. However, I did not impose spinning smiley faces on several hundred teachers who I assumed were as busy as me. That is just plain unprofessional.