Actually, you’re *not* special

This is something I try to teach my children. Sounds terrible, right? But I think you should teach it to your kids, too. Looking around our society, I see plenty of adults who were never taught that lesson, and the results? They’re not good.

Case in point – traffic. Oh my goodness do the drivers of the world need to hear this. You are not special, people! We all have places to go and schedules to keep, and unless you’ve got freshly harvested organs in your car and you’re rushing to a children’s hospital, you’re not special. You need to sit and wait your turn, just like everyone else. Don’t drive down to the end of a lane you know is merging, then swerve in at the last second, cutting everyone else off. You are no more important than the rest of us.

About to miss your turn? Then you need to drive down to the next light and turn around and go back. You, know, since you are the one that screwed up and all. You don’t need to sit there blocking traffic, waiting for 2 lanes to clear so you can illegally turn from the middle lane just to save yourself 90 seconds of turning around and going back.

In parking lots where there’s lots of traffic – think just after church, or during school pick-ups – you need to wait in line. Patiently. Stop looking for empty parking spaces to cut through and work your way up 3 cars. Especially after church, this is a real jackleg move. Just wait your turn.

This mindset is what my dad calls ‘Hooray for me and the heck with you’.

And traffic isn’t the only place you’ll encounter it, either. Hooray for the lady in the grocery store with a cart full of stuff, and the heck with the man behind her who has to wait 10 minutes to buy his loaf of bread. She was there first!

I use this as an example because I think we, my fellow women of the world, are the worst offenders. Women act so entitled these days it’s sickening. No wonder chivalry is dead – we killed it with our own attitude of entitlement. No one wants to hold the door for someone who walks right through without a thank you - just ask my friend Darcie.

So I try to teach my kids that they aren’t special.

God made us all unique, there’s only one irreplaceable you, you’re amazing, yada, yada, yada. Sure. I’m down with that.

But special as in ‘the rules don’t apply to you’? No way.

I apply this rule to things like prayer at graduation.  You don’t believe in God? Fine. But it’s not going to hurt you to sit down and shut up and let someone else believe out loud. You can even think how silly it is the whole time in your head – no need to call the ACLU for your imagined slight.

Somewhere along the way – and I dare say it was when The Greatest Generation raised The Baby Boomers – we came to believe that individual rights can trump those of a group. That every thought and feeling we have is so profoundly important, we have the right – nay, the obligation – to shout it from the rooftops. And we’re hypersensitive to boot. We believe we’re special.

While discussing the new ‘debt deal’ (tongue. biting.) someone recently commented that everyone wants to make cuts, but no one wants the cuts to affect them. It’s true, in all aspects of our lives. We all think that a vague ‘something’ should be done somewhere, but few people feel the obligation to start with themselves. (When’s the last time you sent in a little extra with your taxes, just to help out?)

So this is me, at home, doing my part. Following the rules of common courtesy and basic respect. Teaching my kids that we’re just like everyone else.

Except better drivers.

I’m definitely a better driver.

On school and illness…and gratitude

The last time I posted was a normal day. The day after? Notsomuch. They day after began a whirlwind of doctors, hospitals, tests, medicines, therapies, and half-tank fill-ups, since I refuse to let my gauge get below half a tank, since even half costs me $40ish dollars and I know I’d cry if I saw the bll for a complete fill-up.

Sidebar – who doesn’t love a good run-on sentence?

So for the past few weeks, it’s been hectic. Stressful. I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees, praying for my sweet daughter. And I’ve spent a lot of time wishing I could carry her burdens myself. I’m experienced.

When I was an adolescent, I was sick. Very, very sick. In fact, between 7th & 11th grades, I missed more of each school year than I attended. You name the symptom, I had it. Hospitals were my second home. I learned how to reset my own IV alarm, since it went off so frequently. I knew exactly how many steps it was from the front door to the ER bed. And I knew that one day, I would die of this mysterious illness that no one could diagnose.

I believed this wholeheartedly, and I even wrote a will. You know, for all of my 15 year old possessions. In truth the will was more confessional, telling the secrets that seemed too big to reveal in the real life of a teenager. It was all very tragic and Molly Ringwald would most definitely have played me in the movie. This gave me an odd satisfaction.

At the time I felt bad for what I was putting my parents through. Not that I could help it exactly, but still, I’m a person with guilt. I hated that I cost them so much money. I hated that I messed up their work schedules. I hated that they worried so much about me.

After tens of thousands of dollars spent, countless specialists visited, and more invasive testing that anyone should ever have to go through, there was still no answer. Doctors began telling my parents to take me to therapy because I must be crazy. Which certainly is true, but thankfully my parents believed in me enough to know that my insanity wasn’t of the hypochondriac variety. And then one day, literally almost overnight, my problems vanished. I was healthy again. Whole again. Normal for the first time in 5 years.

We moved.

We still have no definitive answer for what caused my problems. My parents didn’t move to cure me – we had no idea that was even possible – it was just a blessed coincidence. We moved to a new state and realized that my problem must have been an environmental allergy. The school building that I was in was making me sick, quite literally. I was never ill before or after I left that building, and I wasn’t the only one affected.

At the time, though, my principal was, um, less than understanding. That’s the kindest way to phrase it. At one point he told my mom that if I didn’t return to school for the half day before Christmas break, I would have to repeat my sophomore year. It was an in-school dance, and I spent the entire time laying down on the bleachers with a 105 degree fever. I was taken to the hospital via ambulance later that day, and admitted for 1 week.

You might think an apology was in order, and certainly you would be right, but none came. Because he was, as my sister once put it, ‘a gigantic waste of flesh’. And I know it’s very petty of me, but even now (with high school just a couple of decades years behind me), I feel angry with him when I remember this. I’d like to smack him for his jerkish insensitivity. And I’d like to have screamed when he sent me a friend request on Facebook. Decline!

Why am I telling you all of this? Because over the past couple of weeks, I have experienced exactly the opposite of Mr. Buttface. [Sorry for the language, mom] My daughter’s teachers and principals have shown us an outpouring of love that makes me all the more grateful to be right where we are. To be in a school that nurtures my child both academically and emotionally. That meets her mental and her physical needs. And one that is ready and willing and even happy to help us.

Catie collapsed at school, and the phone call I got said that she’d either fainted or had a seizure. When I went to collect her, Lilly in tow, I found that the principal had carried her down the long hallway to the nurse (and Catie is solid so this is no easy task). She sat with her and held her as the nurse examined her. And she waited by her side until I got to the school. She walked us out to our car. She even offered to keep Lilly at the school while I took Catie to the hospital. Think about that for a minute. Over 700 students in her charge, and she was willing to take on one more, just to be kind. Just to help her student who needed it. Just to make an awful day for us a little bit easier.

Above and beyond. It’s like our school motto. Every teacher, every assistant, every secretary, every janitor. Above and beyond. And I am so very thankful for each and every one of them.

I know firsthand what it is like to be in the opposite situation, which makes this experience even sweeter.

I still don’t have an answer for what is causing Catie’s problems, and there are many more tests to come. I’m still not comfortable letting her out of my sight, since I continue to get phone calls. But I am very, very thankful to know that if she can’t be with me, she is definitely in the next best place.  She has a large family of people who love her, and it includes the staff at Bardstown Primary.

Thank God for that.

Dear bra industry,

First, I should start by issuing an apology to my male readers.  There are only a handful of you and obviously, today this isn’t about you.  Sorry for the awkwardness.  Shield your eyes, come back tomorrow and we’ll talk football.  Deal?

For the rest of you, this might also be TMI.  But I have a real problem here, and I’m hoping for either

A) one of you to have a great solution for me, or

B) someone in the bra industry to read this and help a girl out.

Because girlfriend is in serious need of help.

Once upon a time, I weighed about 80 pounds soaking wet and I was flat chested and I wished I wasn’t so boyish looking.  I am paying the price for that wish now, being forced to carry around breast enough for 2 (or 3) women.  It’s not what I thought it would be.  It’s quite disappointing, actually.

They’re heavy, they hurt when I run, and it’s downright impossible to dance with House of Pain these days.

They make me look like a whale.

I mean, if you’re a busty girl then your options are to buy something big enough for your chest which then is way too big everywhere else, giving you that super-sought-after tent look, or to buy something that fits elsewhere but is then stretched to obscenity over your chest.  The obscenity pretty much speaks for itself, and it doesn’t say what I want to be saying at my kids’ soccer games, if you know what I mean.

Bathing suit options?  Ouch.

And bras?  They are the absolute stupid worst of it all.

I live in a small town and I am not classy.  I have no interest in Victoria’s Secret since the last time I was in there Catie squealed with delight over all of the little dresses that were ‘just her size’, and burst into tears when I wouldn’t let her try one on.

That was fun.

I’d like to be able to walk into Wal-Mart and buy a bra.  But when I tried that, I found this:

Ironically, it is called ‘stylish support’. 

Are we even seeing the same thing?

Stylish how, exactly?  It’s a tank!  It’s full body armor, and no scrap of lace can make that any more attractive.  I am aware that it is an undergarment and it shouldn’t matter what it looks like, but yeah… it kinda does to me.  If I have to carry these babies around all the time, I need a little something to take the sting out of it.  The granny bra just ain’t cutting it.  And also, if you need more than one D it starts in size 38, which is not what I need.

You hear a lot about how most women are wearing the wrong size bra to begin with, so I went to a fancy-schmancy specialty store to be fitted properly.  Turned out I needed smaller around and bigger cups, making my already challenging fit darn near impossible.  They recommended a few styles that were even pretty cute.  But at $150 a pop, they ought to be.  I’m continuing to live with spillage for now.

Dear bra industry,

Do you understand that I have to wear these things every. day.? Because it doesn’t seem like you do.  I know that isn’t a lot of money to the Playboy bunnies, but for the rest of us unfortunately proportioned middle-American housewives, that stings. It stings like salt rubbed into an already gaping ‘I can’t afford breast reduction surgery’ wound.  I mean, I wear underwear every day too, and I pay about3 bucks a pair for that.  Could you make me something approaching that price range?

A friend recommended a site to me with better prices (though still just under $100 each) but the dumb thing is called ‘Big Girls Bras’.  Are you kidding me with that crap?  Did you name your store while intoxicated? I refuse to shop there on principle.

SO, my well-endowed readers…where do you shop?  Do you suck it up and pay the insane prices?  (And if so, do you do laundry every night, or do you actually pay that multiple times over?)  Has anyone ever found a circumference less than 38 with a cup size larger than D in a regular store?  And where do you buy a sports bra that fits and stays down where it belongs?

And most importantly, will any of you ever be able to think of me in the same way again, or have I crossed the crazy line and now your mental eyes will always be picturing boobs instead of reading what I type?

I have no idea why I laid it all out here so uncharacteristically, but I’m blaming it on desperation and lack of sleep.  Hopefully I won’t regret this in the morning.

Why I hate the Black Eyed Peas (and you should too!)

I pick Annie up from school every day. When walking out of the building today, I heard the Black Eyed Peas blaring from one of the 2nd grade classrooms. And I cringed.

I was actually so irritated that I briefly considered stopping in the room to tell the teacher why I was bothered. But considering that we have a fabulous school that allows us to request teachers, and considering that this particular teacher came highly recommended to me, and considering that I haven’t formally met her yet, and considering that she is #2 on my request list, I refrained.  Something tells me that I wouldn’t make the best impression with that.

Hey lady!  The BEPs are scumbags and I’m shocked and appalled that you would have them anywhere near impressionable young children.  You should turn that off immediately and oh by the way I think my child might be in your class next year nice to meet you.

Not so much.

But then later I thought hey, maybe I really should have told her.  Because chances are, she doesn’t know why I loathe them so.  And chances are, you don’t either.

The song that really put the BEPs on the map is a little ditty called ‘Let’s Get it Started.’  Familiar?  I’m sure, since it was EveryWhere for quite a while.  Commercials for the NBA, Apple, various television programs, in multiple video games, and – oh yeah – on the airwaves.  About 5 years ago, ‘Let’s Get it Started’ had us surrounded.   Nominated for Record of the Year and Rap Song of the Year, and Grammy award winner of Best Rap Performance by a Duo or Group in 2005.  By all accounts, a huge commercial success.

But what most of you don’t know was that the song wasn’t actually released in 2005.  Not the first time, anyway.  The first time it came out was in 2003, on the album Elephunk.  And it had a different name.

“Let’s Get Retarded”

Seriously. 

The lyrics weren’t marketable, for obvious reasons.  So they changed them, and poof!  Commercial success.  But no one seems to know or care about what came before that. 

Except me.  I still care.  And I think you should, too.

The R-word is beyond insensitive.  It is beyond distasteful.  It’s cruel.  It’s demeaning.

It degrades and devalues a large group of the population, simply for their existence.

As my friend Darcie said, there are other words that were once used to belittle, based solely on the color of one’s skin.  And we are quick to notice and shun those who would use such offensive language.  So why is this word any different?

Don’t tell me I’m overly sensitive.  Don’t tell me it’s meant to describe a way of dancing.  Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

I’m a Pittsburgh girl, and a die-hard Steelers fan.  You may have heard that we have a bit of a crap-storm swirling right now, in the form of Ben Roethlisberger.  He’s accused of assaulting several women (among other indecent behavior) and his jerseys are now worthless.  Why?  Because no one wants to appear supportive of such scum.

I was once a die-hard Michael Jordan fan, with an extensive collection of memorabilia.  All virtually worthless now, thanks to his less-than-impressive personal life.

Tiger Woods.  Need I say more?

Don’t tell me we don’t care about nasty behavior, because clearly, we do.  We care when it affects women or children or wives or blacks.  We just don’t seem to care when it affects the disabled.

But I care. 

My daughter is in a collaborative classroom because I requested it.  She spends her day with children struggling simply to speak, and she learns side by side with children that are still working on basic reading.  She does this because I care.  Because these children matter to me.  Because I believe that these children are her equals, and I want her to know that, too.  I am committed to collaborative education, and Lord willing we will continue to be a part of it.

And because of that, I am personally offended by the Black Eyed Peas.  Their song isn’t funny.  It isn’t cute.  And it isn’t excusable.

If they apologize, I may reconsider.  (Though hey, how are we faring on accepting Michael Richards’ apology? hmmm, not so good, huh?)  But then again, I’m not holding my breath.  It’s been due for 7 years, and there’s so sign of it yet.

So yeah, I guess I do wish I’d stopped in that classroom.  Maybe the teacher doesn’t know.  Certainly I hope that is the case.  But she should know, and so should you.

We make statements with our money.  Our dollar is often the most powerful way we can make our voices heard.  And I, for one, will not allow my dollar to say that I support lyrics like these. 

Please, don’t you support them either.

(If you don’t click the link, let me fill you in – they also replace ‘retarded’ with ‘dumb’, ‘cuckoo’, ‘[ignorant]‘, and ‘stupid’.  And they urge you to ‘bob your head like epilepsy’.  But of course ‘in this context there’s no disrespect.’  Sure.)

I’m a woman who has boycotted Rally’s for 14 years because of their oral-sex simulating Big Buford commercials, so yeah, I can totally skip your skanky music.

Black Eyed Peas, you suck.

The one where I go all Mom-crazy

There comes a time in every child’s life when they have to deal with a meanie. A bully. An unpleasant, difficult peer.

An 8-year-old jerkface, if you will.

Apparently for Annie, that time is now.

I. am. not. happy.

I’m kind of a warrior when it comes to my kids.  I can’t help it – I come by this naturally. In high school, our principal referred to my mom as ‘The Big Guns’ on more than one occasion.  Because if anyone so much as looked at one of her babies sideways, she’d have their head on a platter.

You might think that this would be embarrassing to a teenager.  I, however, was not embarrassed.  It felt fantastic to know that my mom had my back.  Also, I had more than one teacher with documented mental illness that seriously needed to find a new career path, so if my mom had to be the one to point that out, so be it.

[I hope that my daughters will appreciate this about me as well, since there's not a chance I'll stop any time soon.]

So enter the little punk that needs a good spanking girl who does not have nice manners. 

Honestly, Annie is a Pollyanna.  And overly dramatic. And often sensitive.

I take full responsibility for the Pollyanna thing. The melodrama comes from her father. Sensitivity? Not a clue.

So she’s never had to deal with a  mean girl before, and she’s ill-equipped.  She’s probably also more easily hurt than your average 7 year old who hasn’t been kicked in the gut before.

<sigh>

It doesn’t help that Annie is off-the-charts small for her age.  And this girl is more than a head taller, and bigger, and intimidating.  And when Annie tries to talk to her, the girl tells her she’s stupid.  She tells her to shut up.  She tells her she doesn’t care about her loose tooth. 

She tells her she doesn’t like her.

I’d like to tell the little girl exactly how I feel about her.  But that would be wrong.  And I’m supposed to be an adult.  And in theory, I should be ‘mature’ and ‘above that kind of behavior.’

I’m working on it.

In the meantime, I have no idea how to deal with this.  I’m torn between:

1. Helping Annie understand that you encounter mean people in life and you have to pray for them and find a way to toughen up and work through it
2. Leaving the extra-curricular activity where we encounter said girl, because Annie shouldn’t have to be anyone’s verbal punching bag in a supposedly fun activity
3. Telling the girl’s parents that they suck and their child is a mean, mean, mean little brat

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t even need to tell me.

But I still want to.

And frankly, if I don’t get a favorable response from them when I address my concerns, I might just stoop that low.

Hopelessly Flawed – I warned you up front.

Mr. Census, you owe me. Big.

I try very hard to bite my tongue restrain my fingers here.  Of course it’s my blog and I’ll say what I want to, but generally speaking, I’m a peaceful person.  I don’t want to argue with you in real life, and I especially don’t want to argue with you in cyberspace.  Occasionally I can’t help myself, but for the most part I think I show a great deal of restraint.

Besides, I’ve found that my political beliefs are not well understood or widely held, and I grow weary of endless explanations and defenses. 

{I would like to reiterate, in case you haven’t heard this from me two dozen times already, that liberal and Democrat are not necessarily synonymous, nor are conservative and Republican.  Four entirely different words.  Different meanings.  Despite whatever Fox News, CNN, Jon Stewart, and Glenn Beck would lead you to believe. Not. The. Same.}

Anyway.

This is one of those moments where I don’t stop myself.  Because I am seriously ticked.

Have you heard about the Census?

[If you say no, this might be where I go all crazy on you and tell you to get out of the country]

Have you heard about it because it is in our constitution? 

Or have you heard about it because you, too, have gotten approximately 37 mailings, notes from school, and a seemingly endless barrage of television and radio advertisements?

Actually, come to think of it, I bet most Americans have read the stupid reminder postcards (this month alone) more often than they have read the actual constitution in their entire lifetime. 

<sigh>

But national ignorance aside, come on.  Seriously.  The census is pretty darn basic.  And self-explanatory.  What do you think it says about our average intelligence that the government felt the need to spend $423 million dollars telling us to fill out the form?

NOT A TYPO.

$423 million dollars spent on census communications, which includes $85 million for printing and mailing the reminders alone. 

If I were a swearing kind of gal, this is the spot where you’d find the profanity. 

I’m not a mathematical type of gal, either, but I decided to stretch myself a bit here, just in case you are on my wavelength. 

Leaving the rest of the mind-boggling communications budget out of the equation, let’s tackle that $85 million.  Our home received 4 letters from school in my children’s backpacks, 2 letters telling us that ‘the census is coming!’, and 1 follow-up reminder to fill out the census (after I’d already mailed it in, thankyouverymuch.)  I pretty much found the ‘answer these questions’ blurb at the top of the census form itself to be sufficient instruction.  I could have done without all the other crap superfluous paperwork.  So for my part, I’d like you to keep your stupid mailings, Mr. Big Government, and give me $3.63 additional back on my taxes.

Thanks.

Of course that $3.63 is an exceptionally watered down number, since it takes into consideration our entire population, whereas the census mailings are per household rather than per person.  And it also overlooks the bulk of the communications budget which frankly, I also did not need.

This chart estimates the 2010 census as a whole is costing us nearly $47 per person.  Worth noting is that our last census, in 2000, cost less than $16 per person.  Holy Inflation Batman.

How many trees died so that the government could ask me an overly intrusive, offensive, and frankly irrelevant question like ”Are your children biological or adopted?”

My children are my children.  DNA’s got nothing to do with it.

Grrrr.

I’m not a crazy fringe person.  I’m not angry about the census per se.  I know it is useful, and I know it is constitutional.  I have no quarrel there.  But I take serious issue with the enormous amount of money being spent on it.  Or more accurately, being wasted on it.

I demand a government that is more respectful of my tax dollar.  I know there is a more efficient way to do this.  But ‘efficient’ and ‘government’ don’t exactly go hand-in-hand now, do they?

Can’t wait to see how ‘health care’ pans out.

Tongue. Biting.

Thumbs up, thumbs down

There’s a reason that Mommy Bloggers are all the rage right now.  Besides the fact that we’re fabulous, we’re also smart, savvy consumers.  Companies know that word-of-mouth can make or break them in many instances, and they are increasingly reaching to the social media world to get their message across.

I both love and hate that.  It’s great because I’m more likely to buy and use a product that a friend (virtual or otherwise) recommends.  It’s also bad because now the lines are blurry as to what is a legitimate recommendation and what is smoke and mirrors designed to net the writer some swag.  But overall, in a time when many of us are short on both time and money, peer reviews can help save some of both.

These are a few items that I have bought and paid for with my own money, and my un-sponsored, un-censored opinions of them.

Thumbs up:

Heeltastic cream – works as promised, as fast as promised.  I’m impressed.

Glee CD - Love. It.  So do my girls – we play this one non-stop.  Get the Target version if you can – it has 3 bonus tracks.

Handy Manny Repair Shop -  Oh my goodness is this cute!  Lilly got it for her birthday, but even I my 7-year-old enjoys the projects.  It comes with build-your-own plastic parts that are like 3-D puzzles.  Most are too complex for my 3-year-old to do on her own, but her big sisters are happy to help.  And since she loves all things Manny, this is right up her alley.

Henry’s Crab Cakes - These are sold in my local Kroger store.  They aren’t pre-packaged as the website indicates; rather, they are delivered in cases and the stores packages themselves on those little styrofoam trays.  They are $1 each (here) for a 2.5 ounce crab cake.  Besides being insanely delicious, they are also pre-cooked, so no need to fry in oil.  They bake to crispy, delicious, low-fat perfection in about 15 minutes.  Serve with this yummy sauce and dig in.

Combine 1 clove minced garlic, 1/2 cup mayo, 1/2 cup sour cream, 1 teaspoon cilantro, and lime juice to taste. Yum!

Thumbs down:

Dreamgear Stylus - replacement pens for the Nintendo DS – you were such a disappointment.  All 3 broke in less than a month.

The Princess and the Frog – You know I love Disney, but this movie was a huge letdown.  As a Christian, I didn’t appreciate the voodoo-centric storyline.  Especially since there is ‘good’ voodoo portrayed as well.  It was not appropriate viewing for my daughters, and I’m disappointed in myself for allowing them to see it on a school field trip before I had properly researched the plot.

Julie & Julia - Do you see the ratings on this page?  A-, B-.  Critics and viewers, you lie.  Darcie tried to warn me, and as much as I value her opinion, I didn’t listen.  That’ll teach me.  Yawn-fest is an understatement.  I kept watching, even when I wanted to stop.  Everyone I know liked it, so I kept thinking Darcie must have turned it off too soon.  It must have gotten good at some point.  FYI – It didn’t.  Don’t bother.

There you have it – a few of my recent picks & pans.  If you have any of your own to share, I’d love to hear them!

As it turns out, doing laundry does not suck

You just have to have the right stuff.  Who knew?

As a few of you have already heard, I got a new washer and dryer last week. It was unexpected and quite thrilling, as these are lovely, swanky, drop-dead-gorgeous front loaders that I’ve drooled over for quite some time.  (When you use a word like ‘thrilling’ to describe a new washing machine, that’s how you know you’re old)  They’re Samsung, in case you’re wondering.  And they’re HUGE.  Reportedly the washer can handle 25 bath towels or a king-sized down comforter, though I’ve not tested that assertion.

Sadly, our laundry room is hideous, so I won’t be posting cute pictures.

Our house is barely 3 years old so we should have much better, but sadly, no. The builder designed this laundry room as a total afterthought and it has 2 walls that are unfinished, pipes from the sump pump running several feet out into the room, and is just generally unsightly. Quite a disappointment for a brand new house, actually, and the only thing I truly dislike about this place. But alas, 4 bedroom homes were hard to come by when we needed to move, so I deal with the inconvenient and unattractive laundry. And it’s never even been important – until now.

Now my pretty appliances deserve better. They deserve a room as pretty as they are…but that ain’t happening anytime soon.

So here ya go – a little peek:

I know, I know, I’m not showing you the good stuff.  (Steam dryer is priceless, by the way)  But what I’m showing you is pretty darn good too.  I wanted them to be elevated but really didn’t want to pay the $400 for 2 pedestals.  We also needed a different height to accommodate my husband’s bad back, so these are 18 inch platforms instead of the 14 inchers you can buy.  And the best part was that they were made easily in one afternoon, for around $40 for the set.  Score!

They’re not perfect, but I think Ana would be proud of my gumption – even if they can’t hold a candle to her bed.

O shame, where is thy blush?

Unlike the rest of the country, I never jumped on the American Idol bandwagon.  It’s my personality – I eschew all things popular.  If everyone else is doing it, you’re generally safe to assume that I am not.  Two glaring exceptions are Disney (of course) and Glee (and I’m genuinely surprised that this offbeat show is so popular).

So American Idol – clearly not for me.

Also, I loathe ‘reality’ tv.

Yes, actually I can feel you cringe.  Sorry.

But last year, worlds collided when Disney World built an American Idol attraction.  I had the opportunity to tour the set and get the behind-the-scenes scoop on the whole attraction, and it was interesting enough to make me tune in to the 2009 Idol season.

Mostly unremarkable for me.

None of the artists really grabbed me, and the overall show was just moderately entertaining.  But dutifully, I DVR’d the new episodes last week, which I just finished watching.

Appalling.

And unlike the rest of the country, I’m not talking about Pants on the Ground or any number of other not-good singers who auditioned.  Largely I’m not even referring to Simon Cowell, who has been remarkably subdued in his criticism this season.  (A most welcome change, I might add)

No, I’m talking about Mary J. Blige.  To a lesser extent, Randy Jackson and Kara DioGuardi.  To the fullest and utmost, the viewing audience of this show.

Shame on all of you.

I really can’t believe I am about to say this, but I agree with Rosie O’Donnell wholeheartedly.  Almost two years ago she said “Is that what America thinks is entertainment?  To make fun of someone’s physical appearance and then when they leave the room laugh hysterically at them?  The whole thing, it’s terribly sad to me.”

To me too, Rosie.

In case you didn’t see it, meet Jesse.

Mary J. Blige, your stock dropped through the floor in my eyes.

Shame on you for laughing in this kid’s face.  Shame on you for being even more cold and heartless than Simon Cowell, whom everyone expects to have the compassion of a serial killer.  Kara tried to cover for you, to give you an excuse for your bad behavior.  It was the best she could manage and it was quick thinking on her part, but still a thinly veiled disguise.

And shame on all of you, too, that tune in every week to laugh at people like this.

What kind of people do that? 

I know that some people who go on this show are ‘asking’ for it.  They dress in crazy costumes, they behave bizarrely, they are very obviously trying to grab their 15 minutes of fame a la William Hung.  While I don’t condone mocking people, I don’t get overly undone about a chuckle at the expense of those who intentionally put themselves out there for a laugh.

Does Jesse seem like one of those people to you? 

He strikes me as an unsuspecting victim of a mean-spirited producer, condescending judges, and a cruel viewing audience, all getting their jollies out of belittling someone who did not ‘ask’ for it.  Jesse was manipulated and blindsided.  And shame on everyone who found that amusing.

This isn’t about hand-holding and sweetness.  I don’t expect the show to be all sunshine and roses.  Some of the auditioners do need to hear that they shouldn’t plan on a career in music, and sometimes the truth hurts.  But no one deserves to be belittled.  Laughing in someone’s face isn’t entertaining, it’s cruel.  I am raising 3 children and if one of them ever behaved that way, they would face an immediate and harsh reprimand.  I’d be willing to bet that most of you wouldn’t allow your children to make fun of a classmate in that manner either. 

So consider, don’t your actions speak louder than your words?  If you spend your evening curled up on the sofa laughing at people like Jesse, then you’re sending the message to your kids that making fun of someone is ok – cool, even. 

So yes, I agree with Rosie.  It makes me terribly sad as well.

We’re really a nation full of jerks sometimes.  And worse, too stupid to be ashamed of ourselves.

The one where I alienate all of my readers

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve probably heard about Pat Robertson’s recent comments regarding the earthquake in Haiti.  If not, catch up with this clip:

With me now?  Great.

So not surprisingly, there has been a huge backlash.  The airwaves and Internet are abuzz with talk of how Robertson is crazy, stupid, senile – some have even called him Satan himself.  And don’t forget he’s evangelical.  ‘Evangelical Christian’ is the ultimate insult, isn’t it?  As soon as a member of the media uses the phrase ‘Evangelical Christian’, you know they’re gearing up to talk about a serious nutcase.  One of ‘those’ people.

I don’t know the history of Haiti and how the country was founded.  Quite honestly, this controversy has not really sparked my interest enough to research and study the foundations of the nation.  I have a lot on my plate already, and I just can’t squeeze that project in.  I’m not here to comment on whether he is right or wrong in his belief about the pact with the devil.

Certainly I hope that isn’t the case, but his observation about the island of Hispanola is not without merit.  Haiti and the Dominican Republic are night and day in terms of prosperity.  Again, not being an expert here, I did some cursory research and found this excellent article about the disaster history of Haiti.  (Worth noting is that the article comes from New Zealand – I’ve found NZ and Australia both to be better sources for actual news and unbiased information than we can find in the US)   So bad things happen in Haiti.  A lot.  Do they happen there more than in the Dominican Republic, or are they more devastating there because the country is so poor to begin with?  Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  I can’t answer that question. 

What I can say is that Robertson’s comment was probably poorly timed.  I’m an optimist to the enth degree, but even I find it hard to imagine saying that this was somehow a ‘blessing in disguise’.  Perhaps better to say that if anything good could come of this tragedy, hopefully better construction practices would be one of them.  So worded badly?  Sure, I’ll give you that.

Inaccurate assertion about the founding of the country?  Possibly.  Again, not my area of expertise.  I will say, though, that Robertson is far from the first person to believe or state something similar.  In fact, here is an article, written in 2005, that addresses that very issue.  The author is a native Haitian who attempts to dispel that rumor and acknowledges that the belief is widely held.  So again, right or wrong, I’d say Pat Robertson’s timing wasn’t the most sensitive.

What troubles me the most about all of this, though, is that there is such harsh condemnation for a man who has spent the last 54 years trying to do God’s work.  Has he made mistakes along the way?  Without a doubt.  Haven’t you?  Haven’t we all?  Everyone has a foot-in-mouth moment, and these are especially likely when you are in a high-profile position.  Apparently they are even more likely if you are a religious leader or a member of the Republican party.

When President Obama mocked his own bowling ability and said that he was suited for the Special Olympics, his apology was immediately accepted.  In fact, even those renouncing his statement felt compelled to soften their criticism.  Maria Shriver began with “While I am confident that President Obama never intended to offend anyone…” 

When Harry Reid made his remarks about black skin color and used the term ‘Negroes’  [cringe!] CNN was tripping all over themselves to say that he wasn’t racist, just socially awkward.  His apology was welcomed with open arms, and Democrats hit the airwaves telling us there was nothing to see here, case closed.

But when you are Pat Robertson, ‘Evangelical Christian’ and ‘Republican’ (because let’s face it, ‘Republican’ is uttered with the same disdain as ‘Evangelical’, isn’t it?), the only understanding you’ll find is from Eric Metaxas at Fox News.

Despite how this sounds, I don’t want it to be a political issue.  It’s a fairness issue, and fairness is hard to find these days.  If you  want fair, balanced, unbiased reporting, good luck finding it.  Fox News, MSNBC, CNN, The New York Times, NPR…nope.  Heck, even the major networks are clearly biased.  My little small town newspaper leans so far to one side it’s amazing it can still be called a ‘news’ paper without a snicker.  Objective reporting seems to be a thing of the past, and we’re left with choosing a trough that suits you and feeding directly from it.  (This has proven extremely profitable for Fox News, since they pretty much stand alone on the conservative front)

My point here is that somewhere in the middle, the possibility lies that Pat Robertson is neither Satan nor Saint, but a regular man who said something stupid.  Pretty much just like President Obama, Harry Reid, and a million other people.  His big sin here is being from the wrong side of the tracks.  The ‘right’ side.

And because of that, the fact that his Operation Blessing has spent millions of dollars on worldwide charitable projects, and has been in Haiti for years (many disasters prior to this week’s earthquake) will mean nothing.  No one will be reporting on the good he’s done, only his mistakes.  That’s just sad.

Instead of looking at him with animosity, I suggest that our energies would be better directed toward how we can help Haiti right now.  I’m not a fan or a follower of Pat Robertson.  I’ve never seen the 700 Club, I don’t buy his books, and I probably wouldn’t vote for him for President.  What I am is a fan of fairness, forgiveness, and understanding – none of which he is being shown this week. 

I hope I haven’t lost you, dear readers, but if that’s the case then so be it.  I can’t always bite my tongue, and I feel strongly about compassion and second chances.  I think Haiti and Mr. Robertson both deserve them right now.