A few nights ago I overheard one friend questioning another’s obsession with American Idol. There was no judgement being passed, just a simple inquiry into a phenomenon she has yet to discover. Had I not been exhausted and trying to pay attention to the unfolding plot of the four hour movie we were watching, I may have joined the conversation. As it was, the explanation my friend offered was brief and the conversation ended without too much discussion. However, once the movie had come to an end and I was lying sleepless in the comfort of my own bed that night, I couldn't’t help but ponder the question that had been posed earlier that evening. Just what exactly is it that I and so many other viewers love about American Idol?
After all, I am a grown woman (yes, that’s a euphemism for “almost-middle-aged,” but I couldn’t bring myself to use it here). I grew up watching Gilligan’s Island, The Price is Right, and never missed an episode of The Love Boat. Until now, no reality series has even come close to luring me into its time-sucking trap, but every Tuesday night for the past I don’t know how many years I have found myself in front of the TV, tuning in to see the performances of America’s latest wannabe's.
Perhaps therein lies the draw. A show of wannabe's. Certainly, we all can relate to a group of people striving for a fast-track to success in what they deem their profession of choice, and the entertainment industry provides the perfect forum for such a spectacle. Let’s face it, who would want to tune in every week to see a group of tomorrow’s hopeful teachers battle it out in the classroom, wielding nothing less than their best anticipatory sets and most clever uses of the latest graphic organizers, all in an attempt to win a salary which often pales in comparison to that of any local plumber found in the Yellow Pages?
I have always been a fan of documentaries which highlight the ups and downs of various artists’ careers and the roads that led them to their fame, or in some cases, notoriety. I suppose American Idol provides me the opportunity to ride along and view the documentary of success as it unfolds. Better yet, I can even feel a part of the journey by casting my vote when I feel so inclined. But somehow, I don’t think the power of the vote is what attracts me to the show so much as the vulnerability of the contestants themselves.
We live in a culture that professes equality and often frowns upon openly putting one person above another. Judgement and criticism connote negativity–so much so that both have nearly been eliminated from the public school system. As a teacher, I am often counseled to use a positive approach to discipline, ask open-ended questions, avoid the use of the ever-critical red pen, and never question a child’s behavior openly in front of his peers. All of this is done in an effort to protect “Johnny” and his ever-increasing false sense of self esteem–-a term foreign to generations prior to baby boomers. In some cases, even parents have gone from being authoritative advisors for their children to becoming neutral consultants as they allow their children to self-navigate the world in a way they think best suits them. In our attempt to become judgement-free we have, in many ways, become a society without judgement. Rules are bent, exceptions are made, and limits seem to know no bounds in much of our current culture. In contrast, many of us almost-middle-agers (there, I said it) remember a time when not every hardworking student got As, parents told their children no more than yes, and not every girl who tried out expected to make the cheerleading squad.
I think this is what draws me to American Idol. Amidst a culture that promotes equality, and sometimes mediocrity, contestants take the stage every week knowing they will be openly criticized, even scrutinized, in front of the entire nation and eventually eliminated in a contest where there can be only one winner.
Assuming that this demotic talent show appeals to others for the same reasons it appeals to me, gives me hope. Hope that we haven’t forgotten the value of fierce competition. Hope that we can still appreciate the necessity for criticism. Hope that we can recognize that as we are watching others strive for their dreams under stressful circumstances, we understand that the fruition of the dream is only part of what delivers happiness. And yet, while it is true that the journey itself can bring much fulfillment and joy, being deemed the best at what you do whether you are the plumber, the teacher, or the next American Idol, is enough to make anyone’s heart sing.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Mommy Monster: Chapter One...of Many
Something happened the day I gave birth to my son Kyle. Well, duh, of course something happened. I squeezed a nine pound baby from my loins without the help of any modern medicinal agents that are so commonly used today. Well, okay, I suppose I un-willingly received help from the medical world in some fashion. It came in the form a nurse, I'll call Helga, who leveraged herself against the rails of my bedside and barbarically pushed on my ribcage in true WWF fashion, hoping to help in the delivery my already half grown child. But aside from the trauma caused by my son's harried birth, (and despite the fact that immediately afterward, I was trying not to think he looked like a squinty, one-eyed Mickey Goldmill who at any moment could've sat up and declared, “You're the champ, Rock,” in gravely tones), the day I had Kyle changed me. Yes, I morphed into something of which Parents magazine would never write—something more awful than the pain of natural childbirth itself. I became...a mommy monster.
Mommy monsters think they are the only ones who can do something right, but then get (how shall I say it?) pissy when others try to do things that only they are qualified to do. They ask things like, “Who folded these burp cloths like this?” in tones so snippy that no one dares fess up to the alleged crime. They say things like, “I just put the baby down. Don't even think about picking him up.” They do things like repeatedly check on a the slumbering tot and change him incessantly before anyone else can interfere with her master plan of parenting. And while it may seem that the mommy monster is in complete control of her newly created reality, it becomes very evident that she is not exactly 'wrapped tight' when something so simple as her spouse suggesting that she go take a bath while he watches the baby, sets her off on a tirade, screaming, “No one ever helps me around here. I have too much to do to bathe. Now,get out of my way!”
to be continued...perhaps at novel lengths.
Mommy monsters think they are the only ones who can do something right, but then get (how shall I say it?) pissy when others try to do things that only they are qualified to do. They ask things like, “Who folded these burp cloths like this?” in tones so snippy that no one dares fess up to the alleged crime. They say things like, “I just put the baby down. Don't even think about picking him up.” They do things like repeatedly check on a the slumbering tot and change him incessantly before anyone else can interfere with her master plan of parenting. And while it may seem that the mommy monster is in complete control of her newly created reality, it becomes very evident that she is not exactly 'wrapped tight' when something so simple as her spouse suggesting that she go take a bath while he watches the baby, sets her off on a tirade, screaming, “No one ever helps me around here. I have too much to do to bathe. Now,get out of my way!”
to be continued...perhaps at novel lengths.
Bode to Tiger-
Oh to be there the night thou fell from grace,
Thy true character exposed.
What aficionado might not have paid to see such a spectacle?
Like an angel of vengeance
Her crashing through thine darkened windows of deceit.
In flowing robes of white, attacking thy chariot as thou scrambled to flee--
Her only weapon, the clubs once used to build thy kingdom.
Then, in the wee hours, before the dark turned to dawn,
Light shedding on thy reputation, once impeccably clean,
Thou wast forever dented and tarnished, never to be repaired.
Yes, for one so adept at reading the greens and fairways of life,
It became evident that this time,
Thy errant play would be thine end.
And so it is with nary an ounce of pity in my voice
I proclaim...
May thou shootest twenty over,
Never to wear the coveted green jacket again.
Thy true character exposed.
What aficionado might not have paid to see such a spectacle?
Like an angel of vengeance
Her crashing through thine darkened windows of deceit.
In flowing robes of white, attacking thy chariot as thou scrambled to flee--
Her only weapon, the clubs once used to build thy kingdom.
Then, in the wee hours, before the dark turned to dawn,
Light shedding on thy reputation, once impeccably clean,
Thou wast forever dented and tarnished, never to be repaired.
Yes, for one so adept at reading the greens and fairways of life,
It became evident that this time,
Thy errant play would be thine end.
And so it is with nary an ounce of pity in my voice
I proclaim...
May thou shootest twenty over,
Never to wear the coveted green jacket again.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Gift
Reading poetry is like unwrapping a gift.
It can be obnoxiously wrapped in newspaper, taking hours to peel back each layer
Or it can be so beautiful that you just want to sit and stare at its creative covering—going no deeper than the surface.
The gift can be full of thought, making the receiver its true beneficiary
Or it can be more an expression of the giver—never intended to elicit a response from others.
It can be something you keep for generations, passing down its wisdom to those you love,
And it can be something you pass on as an inside joke, bringing with it knowing laughter and meaningful connections.
It can also be a gift that is readily discarded, its purpose never understood.
It can be popular with the masses
Or like, Steve Urkel fashion plates, it can be 'all wrong' on a multitude of levels.
Poetry is not one-size-fits-all
Because what many love, some may abhor.
Nevertheless, it is still a gift.
It can be obnoxiously wrapped in newspaper, taking hours to peel back each layer
Or it can be so beautiful that you just want to sit and stare at its creative covering—going no deeper than the surface.
The gift can be full of thought, making the receiver its true beneficiary
Or it can be more an expression of the giver—never intended to elicit a response from others.
It can be something you keep for generations, passing down its wisdom to those you love,
And it can be something you pass on as an inside joke, bringing with it knowing laughter and meaningful connections.
It can also be a gift that is readily discarded, its purpose never understood.
It can be popular with the masses
Or like, Steve Urkel fashion plates, it can be 'all wrong' on a multitude of levels.
Poetry is not one-size-fits-all
Because what many love, some may abhor.
Nevertheless, it is still a gift.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A Wonder to Behold
Many of my students giggle when I use the word 'television.' Some even look lost because they don't know I am referring to a TV, their lifeblood. I get a similar reaction when I say the word 'telephone.' Inevitably, a student will repeat the word with a snicker “telephone...” Yes,they love to point out how antiquated I am when I spew references to old trends they know nothing about, or use seemingly old fashioned words like 'folks' and 'hoity-toity.' I'm sure you can imagine my pupil's shock and awe the day I produced a gadget in my classroom that most of them had never seen before. ('Pupil' is yet another giggle inducer, in case you were wondering...).
No, the gadget I showed them was not a cotton gin...and no, it wasn't a Ouija board. It was an electric typewriter! There was a palpable energy in the room as I set the margins and scrolled a sheet of computer paper through its roller. By then the crazed crowd was chanting, “Plug-it-in. Plug-it-in.” Cheers erupted as the plug met the outlet and a beeping sound indicated that it had been turned on. I then proceeded to do my best Lucille Ball imitation of a secretary, typing away for about twenty seconds. The energy in the room reached an all-time high when I ripped the paper from the machine and held up a sheet full of gibberish that was then passed around the room so each student could ooh and ah over the relic they now held in their hands. Oh, the things that impress twelve and thirteen-year-olds. Then again, isn't anything that distracts the teacher and wastes a few minutes of class time usually considered a worthwhile wonder?
Lucille Ball (August 6, 1911– April 26, 1989) was an influential American comedian who starred in popular self-named sitcoms of the 1950s.
Ouija boards have been around since 1890, scaring the crap out of young girls attending slumber parties by spelling out messages from the devil himself.
Thirteen-year-olds are small humans whose brains have been pruned to the point where they (seemingly) no longer have one.
No, the gadget I showed them was not a cotton gin...and no, it wasn't a Ouija board. It was an electric typewriter! There was a palpable energy in the room as I set the margins and scrolled a sheet of computer paper through its roller. By then the crazed crowd was chanting, “Plug-it-in. Plug-it-in.” Cheers erupted as the plug met the outlet and a beeping sound indicated that it had been turned on. I then proceeded to do my best Lucille Ball imitation of a secretary, typing away for about twenty seconds. The energy in the room reached an all-time high when I ripped the paper from the machine and held up a sheet full of gibberish that was then passed around the room so each student could ooh and ah over the relic they now held in their hands. Oh, the things that impress twelve and thirteen-year-olds. Then again, isn't anything that distracts the teacher and wastes a few minutes of class time usually considered a worthwhile wonder?
Lucille Ball (August 6, 1911– April 26, 1989) was an influential American comedian who starred in popular self-named sitcoms of the 1950s.
Ouija boards have been around since 1890, scaring the crap out of young girls attending slumber parties by spelling out messages from the devil himself.
Thirteen-year-olds are small humans whose brains have been pruned to the point where they (seemingly) no longer have one.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Determifaction n. The immeasurable sense of satisfaction a head-strong child feels upon proving a parent wrong.
Faulty Rims…Faulty Backboards…Faulty Logic?
Scents of sweet cotton candy and salty popcorn wafted through the thick summer air, mixing perfectly with the excitement that could be generated by one event, and one event only--our annual trip to Dairy Days at Lagoon. The only thing more palpable than the salt and saccharine-infested atmosphere, was my eager anticipation. Yes, for the first time my parents were allowing me and my younger brother, Todd, to tag along with our older siblings--without adult supervision. In our young minds, it was a rite of passage that meant we had officially arrived.
My sister Julie, five years my senior, was kind enough to share her food purchases with me and more than happy to instruct me on the finer points of scary rides and carnival games. I remember watching with admiration as she made a series of baskets at the Hoop Shoot, coming up just one shot short of a prize when her ball took a lazy stroll around the rim and lipped out into the dirty hands of an unsympathetic carnival worker. “Sorry, Ladies. Come again,” his gruff voice growled as we turned away.
“Do you think I could try?” I asked my sister, hope rising in my voice.
“Sure,” she said, “if you think you’re tall enough to shoot over the counter, and if you can talk Mom or Dad into giving you a couple of bucks.”
A wise mentor, Julie had brought up two valid obstacles that would have to be considered: my small stature and, even more challenging, our parents' tight wallets. Feeling optimistic, we set out on our monetary quest. It wasn’t too long before we spotted Mom and Dad sitting on a bench in the fairway, holding hands, contentedly observing the menagerie of blinking lights, pipe organ sounds, and the throngs of people passing by.
Acknowledging the hint my sister had given me just moments before, I headed straight to the parent who would most likely fork out the cash. "Dad, can I have two dollars?"
"What for?" he inquired suspiciously.
"I wanna win a teddy bear at the Hoop Shoot. It’s a basketball game and I think I can win. Please?"
He thought for a moment, giving me hope. "Look," he said. "There is something you need to understand about carnival games..." He then settled in to deliver what would become one of the most memorable 'Dad lectures' I have ever received.
He went on for what seemed like an hour to my fifth grade brain. I'm sure I pretended to listen intently, nodding knowingly, as he blabbed on about how carnival games were a farce: the hoops were always smaller than the balls, the rims were bent to make success more difficult, faulty backboards made the ball's bounce unpredictable--then there were percentages and odds working against me! Finally, he paused and stared at me inquisitively, lips pursed, eyebrows raised as if to ask, You get it don't you? I'm sure he was waiting for a look of understanding to wash over me, but instead, my father got the response of a typical ten-year-old girl. “So...can I have the money...or not?”
With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, my father turned to my mother who was now stifling inexplicable laughter. He shot her a dramatic look as if to ask, Can you believe this girl? as he slowly reached into his wallet, handed over the two dollars, and jokingly asked me to return his change. I wholeheartedly agreed and took off on a full jubilant trot toward victory, leaving my mother giggling and my father shaking his head.
My excitement must have gotten the best of me because to date, I cannot recall if I used all of the money that my dad reluctantly gave me that day. I couldn't tell you if the balls I shot were the traditional bright orange or if they were Globe-Trotter red, white, and blue. I can’t even remember how many shots I made or how many I missed on that summer eve back in 1981. But, the one thing that will forever remain with me is the image of my parents erupting into a full-blown fit of hand-clapping, head-tossing, Bert-and-Ernie laughter when I rounded the corner just ten minutes later, carrying one of the world’s ugliest teddy bears tucked proudly beneath my arm. Never had my dad been so genuinely shocked. Never had he been so genuinely proud. Never had he been so genuinely wrong.
Scents of sweet cotton candy and salty popcorn wafted through the thick summer air, mixing perfectly with the excitement that could be generated by one event, and one event only--our annual trip to Dairy Days at Lagoon. The only thing more palpable than the salt and saccharine-infested atmosphere, was my eager anticipation. Yes, for the first time my parents were allowing me and my younger brother, Todd, to tag along with our older siblings--without adult supervision. In our young minds, it was a rite of passage that meant we had officially arrived.
My sister Julie, five years my senior, was kind enough to share her food purchases with me and more than happy to instruct me on the finer points of scary rides and carnival games. I remember watching with admiration as she made a series of baskets at the Hoop Shoot, coming up just one shot short of a prize when her ball took a lazy stroll around the rim and lipped out into the dirty hands of an unsympathetic carnival worker. “Sorry, Ladies. Come again,” his gruff voice growled as we turned away.
“Do you think I could try?” I asked my sister, hope rising in my voice.
“Sure,” she said, “if you think you’re tall enough to shoot over the counter, and if you can talk Mom or Dad into giving you a couple of bucks.”
A wise mentor, Julie had brought up two valid obstacles that would have to be considered: my small stature and, even more challenging, our parents' tight wallets. Feeling optimistic, we set out on our monetary quest. It wasn’t too long before we spotted Mom and Dad sitting on a bench in the fairway, holding hands, contentedly observing the menagerie of blinking lights, pipe organ sounds, and the throngs of people passing by.
Acknowledging the hint my sister had given me just moments before, I headed straight to the parent who would most likely fork out the cash. "Dad, can I have two dollars?"
"What for?" he inquired suspiciously.
"I wanna win a teddy bear at the Hoop Shoot. It’s a basketball game and I think I can win. Please?"
He thought for a moment, giving me hope. "Look," he said. "There is something you need to understand about carnival games..." He then settled in to deliver what would become one of the most memorable 'Dad lectures' I have ever received.
He went on for what seemed like an hour to my fifth grade brain. I'm sure I pretended to listen intently, nodding knowingly, as he blabbed on about how carnival games were a farce: the hoops were always smaller than the balls, the rims were bent to make success more difficult, faulty backboards made the ball's bounce unpredictable--then there were percentages and odds working against me! Finally, he paused and stared at me inquisitively, lips pursed, eyebrows raised as if to ask, You get it don't you? I'm sure he was waiting for a look of understanding to wash over me, but instead, my father got the response of a typical ten-year-old girl. “So...can I have the money...or not?”
With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, my father turned to my mother who was now stifling inexplicable laughter. He shot her a dramatic look as if to ask, Can you believe this girl? as he slowly reached into his wallet, handed over the two dollars, and jokingly asked me to return his change. I wholeheartedly agreed and took off on a full jubilant trot toward victory, leaving my mother giggling and my father shaking his head.
My excitement must have gotten the best of me because to date, I cannot recall if I used all of the money that my dad reluctantly gave me that day. I couldn't tell you if the balls I shot were the traditional bright orange or if they were Globe-Trotter red, white, and blue. I can’t even remember how many shots I made or how many I missed on that summer eve back in 1981. But, the one thing that will forever remain with me is the image of my parents erupting into a full-blown fit of hand-clapping, head-tossing, Bert-and-Ernie laughter when I rounded the corner just ten minutes later, carrying one of the world’s ugliest teddy bears tucked proudly beneath my arm. Never had my dad been so genuinely shocked. Never had he been so genuinely proud. Never had he been so genuinely wrong.
Friday, June 24, 2011
PRX: Valium
I don't travel well.
I am the woman who sits down on an airplane and immediately starts rummaging through the seat in front of her for the handy white disposal system, more commonly known as the barf bag. I've even been known to ask the people sitting across the aisle if I can take their bags...just in case. Needless to say, plane rides for me are usually filled with awkward silence. That is, until I start tossing my complimentary cookies and Coke.
Even when I drive, the traveling gods do not smile upon me. My brother, a friend, and I were stopped and interrogated for hours at, of all places, the Canadian border back in 1990. It must have been a slow night for border patrol because they even went so far as to search our car--a 1980 Pontiac Phoenix LJ, belonging to my mother--a highly suspicious car in its day... NOT! After an hour of detainment and separate interviews, it was finally insinuated that our story--which consisted of a weekend trip to Cardsten, Alberta for our brother's wedding celebration--"Didn't add up." Apparently, the thought of two siblings meeting their family for a reception taking place one week after the wedding reeked of suspicion. Our looks of dismay when we were told the border patrolman had "no reason" to believe us seemingly worked against us, and the fact that my younger brother (being the eighteen year-old smart ass he was) told the interrogating guard "We'll send you pictures" probably didn't help either. Luckily, we were eventually released and made it to the reception, both of us vowing to never grace Canada with our presence again.
Years later during our first (and what will more than likely be our last) cruise, I had Vertigo the entire week. Then again, maybe my nausea was due to the fact that while standing in line at Customs, we were informed that our stop in Cancun had been canceled due to hurricane damage. Or maybe it was caused by the news that our children's dog, Hondo, had been hit and killed by a car the night before we set sail... We were affectionately known as "the dead dog people" by our fellow "sailmates." It was a rough week.
Finally, upon arriving at the Atlanta airport, Christmas 2008, my family and I made our way to Concourse X-Y-triple Z, only to find that my bag was presumably missing. Presumably missing, you ask? Why yes, we eventually discovered that my bag was indeed on the luggage turnstile, and probably had been the entire time. It was just difficult to recognize because it had been shredded on the conveyor belt and then plastic wrapped into suitcase oblivion. This, only after the nice baggage claim clerks gathered what they could of my obliterated belongings and mushed them all together into one soupy vacation clothes-and-lotion surprise. True story.
I think it is safe to assume that whether by land, air, or by sea, if there are grouchy people to encounter or unfortunate mishaps to be had, I am sure to find them.
So, if you happen to see me anywhere in the world and I appear to be traveling, please say hello. Then, hurry and run the other way. It's okay, I'll understand.
I am the woman who sits down on an airplane and immediately starts rummaging through the seat in front of her for the handy white disposal system, more commonly known as the barf bag. I've even been known to ask the people sitting across the aisle if I can take their bags...just in case. Needless to say, plane rides for me are usually filled with awkward silence. That is, until I start tossing my complimentary cookies and Coke.
Even when I drive, the traveling gods do not smile upon me. My brother, a friend, and I were stopped and interrogated for hours at, of all places, the Canadian border back in 1990. It must have been a slow night for border patrol because they even went so far as to search our car--a 1980 Pontiac Phoenix LJ, belonging to my mother--a highly suspicious car in its day... NOT! After an hour of detainment and separate interviews, it was finally insinuated that our story--which consisted of a weekend trip to Cardsten, Alberta for our brother's wedding celebration--"Didn't add up." Apparently, the thought of two siblings meeting their family for a reception taking place one week after the wedding reeked of suspicion. Our looks of dismay when we were told the border patrolman had "no reason" to believe us seemingly worked against us, and the fact that my younger brother (being the eighteen year-old smart ass he was) told the interrogating guard "We'll send you pictures" probably didn't help either. Luckily, we were eventually released and made it to the reception, both of us vowing to never grace Canada with our presence again.
Years later during our first (and what will more than likely be our last) cruise, I had Vertigo the entire week. Then again, maybe my nausea was due to the fact that while standing in line at Customs, we were informed that our stop in Cancun had been canceled due to hurricane damage. Or maybe it was caused by the news that our children's dog, Hondo, had been hit and killed by a car the night before we set sail... We were affectionately known as "the dead dog people" by our fellow "sailmates." It was a rough week.
Finally, upon arriving at the Atlanta airport, Christmas 2008, my family and I made our way to Concourse X-Y-triple Z, only to find that my bag was presumably missing. Presumably missing, you ask? Why yes, we eventually discovered that my bag was indeed on the luggage turnstile, and probably had been the entire time. It was just difficult to recognize because it had been shredded on the conveyor belt and then plastic wrapped into suitcase oblivion. This, only after the nice baggage claim clerks gathered what they could of my obliterated belongings and mushed them all together into one soupy vacation clothes-and-lotion surprise. True story.
I think it is safe to assume that whether by land, air, or by sea, if there are grouchy people to encounter or unfortunate mishaps to be had, I am sure to find them.
So, if you happen to see me anywhere in the world and I appear to be traveling, please say hello. Then, hurry and run the other way. It's okay, I'll understand.
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