And so it begins…

29 Oct

Hey guys!

I’ve been quiet the last few months, the reason being… I’m attempting to write a book. No, I’m not trying to be the next Pulitzer prize winning novelist. I hope to just make people laugh a little.

Anyway, below I’ve included the first attempted chapter of the book I’m writing entitled “Perils of a PTA Princess”. I’d love to have some feedback. Since this is my first time switching to fiction, any tips are welcome! Let me know what you think, and what needs work. I appreciate your help!

So without further ado…

 

PERILS OF A PTA PRINCESS

CHAPTER 1

I thought I was out.

But no, that stupid, tube-top wearing twit Stacey Lancaster and her miscreant children decided to move to the other side of the river three weeks back so she could shack up with her new boyfriend. She met him on that good ‘ol boy dating website called bootstraplovin.com. He wears flannel in summer, for God sakes. FLANNEL. Pearl Jam doesn’t even wear flannel any more. No wonder he’s on disability. He overheats constantly just wearing those damn fuzzy shirts.

Last year, Stacey promised to take over as president of the Franklinville PTA. Yes, she would have been a horrible leader, but after three years at the helm, I really didn’t care. Sure, everyone knows she’s been selling drugs since her six-year-old brought that glass “bubble blower” in for show and tell. But really, who better to push your product on than to overworked mothers looking for some relief?  It was a win-win situation, until Eddie Vedder’s grandpa stepped into the picture.

And now I’m reduced, again, to this hell. I watch as hundreds of kids run amuck. Their parents plead and curse like savages as they stand in long lines, waiting to fill out paperwork and meet the people who will spend six hours a day babysitting their offspring.

Nothing screams perdition like elementary school registration.

“Would you like a Franklinville Elementary car decal? Or how about a popsicle for the little one? Courtesy of PTA. Welcome back to another fun-filled year of school,” I say with fake sincerity to a lady in the new student line. My sweetness is noxious. But the mother I am talking to is either too stupid or too much of a bitch herself to notice.

“You got purple? Emma only eats purple,” she barks back, her overstuffed purse slipping off her shoulder. It slams into my knee like a battering ram.

I continue to grin despite the thump, like one of those circus monkeys with cymbals that you wind up and let loose on the coffee table. I dream of that monkey turning rabid and insane and clashing the metal circles together against this vulgar woman’s huge head.

I want to say to this disastrous duo, just take a damn popsicle before I shove one down your insanely-too-low-for-school-not-to-mention-your-weight t-shirt. I have a premonition that this very act has happened to this wench before, and that she quite enjoyed it.

And then, it all becomes clear. She’s a Kindergarten mom. Kindergarten moms dress like this, especially the ones who birthed their kids while still in high school. Thirty-six year olds, particularly those like me whose bodies resemble a prepubescent boy, cringe when we encounter these teen moms who didn’t make the cut to form their own reality TV show.

The woman must feel my contempt. She clears her throat. A slight wiff of smoke catches my attention. I wonder if her hacking was really an attempt to be noticed or the beginnings of emphysema.

“Sorry, they’re all wrapped. I can’t make out the colors,” I reply, remembering the appearance of proper manners.

The girl’s chubby cheeks tense up; I know this look. I have three little devils of my own, not even counting my husband. Experience has taught me that she’s going to scream.

“Mama, I wanna a purple,” she screeches. If her face were a popsicle it would be cherry.

This is exactly why I never bring my kids to any PTA events.

“Can’t she just have a purple one? Let ‘er open that one. If it’s not a purple, I’ll eat it and she can try again,” snarls the woman in a condescending tone. She obviously doesn’t know who I am, who my family is, and that I don’t tolerate condescending. Well, outwardly I might. But inside, I’m already plotting my revenge.

Like Kenny Rogers, I know when to hold them and know when to fold them. I choose to give the kid five frozen treats and walk away, not run. No thank you. No appreciation. No problem. Welcome to my world.

Defeated by a kindergartener, I rejoin the rest of our PTA contingency behind a long table decked out with green plastic grass borders and palm trees. We’re wearing neon leis and hula skirts to “celebrate” our school theme this year, “Riding the Wave to Success”. I cringe.

Someone with a sense of humor has placed us alongside the back wall with the other school extra-curricular rejects. Directly to the right of us, the Cub Scouts have erected a tent with a fake fire pit, their yellow kerchiefs knot awkwardly at their necks. I can imagine why a boy, or their 42-year-old leader, would want to wear a chintzy version of a fine British ascot, but then again, I look like I’m attending a pig roast in the Pacific, so who am I to judge.

With registration in the cafetorium, the platypusary of all combo rooms that merges the lunch area with a stage, we are allowed to hand out Dixie cups filled with fruit punch and cocktail umbrellas to potential members. A better incentive would be to add rum to the mixture, but I’ve been warned one too many times about the legality of having alcohol on school grounds.

“Does anyone know the name of that woman over there in line? The one with the kid who looks like she has tentacles made of multicolor popsicles?” I inquire, swooshing my high ponytail in the direction of the offenders.

Son of a gun. The kids eating four at once including the pink, blue and orange ones. Game on, little girl. Game on.

“Now, Whitney, you should know that face. That’s Lanie Fry’s cousin? Rumor has it that she’s still on pain pills from that back surgery she had last year. I’m surprised she’s off the couch,” says Beth Ann Bilbright in a loud whisper. We don’t hide our badmouthing in these parts.

If you need an answer to any town related question, ask Beth Ann. Her ancestors settled Franklinville back in the early 1800’s. She’s related to roughly a quarter of its 10,000 inhabitants. Good for gossip. Bad for dating. She actually married her third cousin twice removed without even knowing it. Of course, most people wouldn’t know it. But small town folks seem to keep track of human pedigrees better than the lineages of their championship bulls.

“Well, she’s on my list. I’m penciling in her name right now. Maybe if she signs up to do the Veteran’s Day reception, we’ll talk. But until then, she’s number seven.” The air from my proclamation sends a gentle wave through Beth Ann’s towering blonde bouffant. She crinkles her eyes, afraid I messed up her do, and I swear I see a snowfall of silver eye shadow cascade over her lashes. Few people realize how south Southern Indiana really is, but we have the hair and drawl, to prove it.

“You and your list. It’s not right. You need to learn to let go and forgive,” chides our savior Connie Flattery, her short cropped brown hair shaking in disapproval. She’s about as tall as my ribcage, medium build and sweet as the honeysuckles in June. Lord bless her, Connie never talks bad about anybody. But somehow she still manages to make you feel like shit without uttering a single sinful word. It’s really a useful gift to have, and one I greatly admire.

“My list serves me well. Every name deserves to be on there. Especially number one. I had a run in with that El Numero Uno Ms. Hilzger earlier today. That old hag called me President Priss again and told me to go to hell, all for asking if we could store our ice pops in the schools walk-in freezer. How they allow her around kids, I’ll never know,” I say. Connie smiles a little, no doubt in agreement with the nickname. It’s a good thing she makes such awesome cupcakes or she’d be on the list too.

Our head lunch lady hates me. She’s holding a grudge against something I’ve done. Trust me; I know a thing or twelve about grudges. Here’s the thing. I can’t recall doing one bad thing to her. Well, not to her face. I always have invited her to all the staff dinners that I have organized and have been extra kind with gifts during the holidays. For some reason, the mean old gal reminds me of home. Down where I’m from by Louisville, my own mama use to have to wait tables to make ends meet. People would sometimes treat her just like she was the dirty crumbs she vacuumed up at the end of her shift. I might be a prissy at times now, but I’ll never forget where, and who, I came from.

Regardless, Ms. Hilzger still’s on the list.

“So how’d you get them back in the freezer? What’d you have to promise the old bird?” asked Beth Ann.

“Not a damn thing. I have other ways of getting around her majesty. It pays to know the right people, or should I say person.” I pause and raise the corner of my mouth, just to let that statement settle. “In fact, I stapled the note that granted me permission right on the popsicle box. It even has ‘Attn: Ms. Hilzger’ in black sharpie. This one will eat her alive. I expect her any minute to come out here in a tizzy. Hopefully she’ll be carrying the popsicles with her. We could use a refill.”

“Whitney Wilkes, you are something. Why I…”

Beth Ann begins to speak, but suddenly stops and stares over my shoulder. Her body transforms from her women-talking pose to her I-need-a-man position. She stands more erect and her fake boobs shove out. Thank goodness no children were around, or I fear an eye could have been lost. She fixes her grass skirt and runs her tongue over her teeth, checking to make sure that terrible fire engine red lipstick didn’t stain her pearly whites.

Throughout the cafetorium, half the women are making similar adjustments, their eyes bright with lust. This could only mean one thing. I turn slowly.

“Hey there, Mr. Murphy.” Beth Ann’s voice rings out in joy, a slight longing to her tone.

Standing behind me is one of the prettiest men I have ever laid eyes on. He’s 6’3”, green eyes and gelled, golden brown hair that forms a widow’s peak perfectly atop his bronzed forehead. And don’t get me started talking about his body. His ID pokes out of his light blue shirt pocket, the top driven up by the most exquisite pecks you’ve ever seen, or most likely felt, for that matter. Throw in a perfect smile and we have ourselves a winner, although some of the ladies most likely wish they could have his wiener as well.

Meet our Principal, Travis Murphy, one of my very best friends. Did I mention he’s gay? I probably shouldn’t. Due to his position, no one around here knows except me. For some reason, people like to tell me their secrets. It doesn’t seem to matter that I spill half of them. Guess I have a trusting look. Or maybe people mistake my friendliness for compassion. They’d be wrong on both accounts.

When you’re a merchant of gossip, sometimes you unknowingly become the news. Supposedly, tongues are a waggin’ that Travis and I are engaged in a secret and scandalous affair. If anything, this talk makes him look straight while I appear pretty desirable, especially after my asshole of a husband cheated on me with the high school cheerleading sponsor. As the boys’ head varsity basketball coach and a local legend, everybody loves my husband, everybody that is except me. I’m sorry to say we’re still together. It drives me crazy how most people don’t believe the truth about that bastard but are more than willing to trust the negative lies about me. Positive lies, though, are just fine, but the negative?

As the good book says, judge not lest thee be judged. I’ve had my fair share of being judged. Now it’s high time I return the favor.

“Leis and tropical drinks? Nice touch, ladies. I feel the trade winds calling,” Travis says as he gives me a sharp nudge. The other mothers look on, jealously wishing he would touch them in some similarly frivolous way.

“Best lay of any kind I’ve had in a while,” Beth Ann predictably shouts, unaware of the virgin ears listening around her. Not that virgin ears matter much to Beth Ann. She’s been known to wear skimpy bikinis and shamelessly flirt with her son’s 16-year-old guy friends on more than one occasion. I expect her to debut on “To Catch a Predator” any day now.

Travis changes the subject, ignoring the pathetic attempt at middle school humor. “Did you get that request from Mrs. Borgin about the Skool is Kewl Drug program? They could really use the funding from you guys.”

“Yeah, although I hesitate to pay for any presentation that misspells school AND cool.”

“So, you’re doing it though, right?”

“Of course. But it will cost you. I get to bring my kids in late four times this month without being counted as tardy.”

“Two.”

“Three and we have a deal.”  He nods in approval. I hate carrying on conversations with Travis in front of all these people. He’s always putting on a show, frightened that the parents would revolt if they found out he liked men. I don’t blame him. Although I wish he’d have a little more faith though. He grew up in Franklinville. The people know him as one of their own. Despite my disdain for a few, a whole lot of good folks still live and work in this town. Maybe soon he’ll be able to trust them enough to stop the charade.

A Cub Scout from next door prances over and slyly tries to pilfer another ice pop. I ask what he has to trade. He shrugs. I hand over one and tell him to get his mom to join the other cool chicks on PTA. As long as you speak in a sweet voice, you can basically say anything to a kid. Except maybe “Your mother is a whore”. I’ve thought about saying that to a few little bastards, but haven’t managed to work it into a conversation quite yet.

“We’re down to the last few popsicles,” whines Beth Ann as she flips open her cooler. Normally, it stores cans of cheap beer rather than icepops. “Can you go in the back and grab some more?”

She’s trying to get rid of me so she can have Travis all to herself. I shoot him a look of distress, hoping he might offer to come with me, but his eyes remain unchanged. He’s in principal mode now. And even though he’ll never admit it, I think he enjoys all this attention. He is a man after all.

“Fine, if I run into Mrs. Hilzger, it’s both your asses. We’re going to turn the moveable chalk board to a vertical, table top position, and I’ll water board you with hand sanitizer. I witnessed it being performed in First Grade once. Not. Pretty.”

“Go on now, little Miss Smarty Pants,” she teases, keeping her eye on the proverbial prize.

I grab Travis’ keys and head back to a door hidden in the corner of the cafetorium. One of the staff members has decorated the window with pink butcher’s paper. It’s blocking my view. Mrs. Hilzger might be lurking about, and I can’t see a dang thing. Perfect.

I turn the key and peek inside. A cool silence permeates the industrial looking kitchen. I tip toe toward the walk-in freezer, the stainless steel counter tops glistening in their cleanliness. I notice Mrs. Hilzger’s cap strewn haphazardly on the floor. A clump of grey hairs are still attached to the fastener in the back. Thank goodness I’m not that gray, I think to myself, but how odd? The cafeteria ladies usually keep this place immaculate. Do I finally have something on the old girl?

I hustle a little faster. An unnatural chill hits my bones, not unlike the feeling I get when my husband touches me. This breeze comes from a one inch opening that leads into the walk-in. Oh, crap. Connie forgot to shut the freezer door. I’ll hear about this in the morning.

I grasp the silver handle and pull the door open farther. Every time I do this, this irrational fear of being locked in the cooler returns. I prepare to grab the box of popsicles and run. As the door creaks open, I notice a small pool of red mush gathering by the case of frozen chicken. Surely Connie didn’t tump over some grape juice too? A weird, metallic odor hits my nostrils. It reminds me of paper cut fingers and scraped knees.

And then I notice her. She’s resting sideways against a huge crate of chocolate milk, dark brown eyes stare frozen down at the floor. Her throat has been hacked, the exposed tendons underneath look almost crystallized. A long knife still protrudes from her left side. Blood splotches have frozen on its silver dotted handle.

I stare for a moment, thinking the scene before me might be some elaborate joke, before I sprint and find Travis. I grab him from behind.

“Holy Mother,” I stammer, not giving a rat’s ass if the kids can hear me. “Someone just killed the lunch lady.”

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The dinosaur days of summer

8 Jun

In the 14 days since the school year officially ended, vast modifications have already taken place in the Beam household to combat the restlessness of summer break. Some of which have been good, some bad, and some downright ugly. But, like the Uruguay rugby team stranded after their plane crashed in the Andes, we do what we must to survive.

Already, the kids have switched to their summer sleep schedule. The aforementioned schedule being that there really isn’t a schedule, more of a window of bedtime opportunities as varied as their never ending excuses to stay up late. But since we’d rather watch the NBA playoffs than the early morning Today Show, my husband and I submit.

Each night, we pray the late night hours will erase the kids’ learned routine of waking at 6:30 A.M. during the school year, when they’d grumble and cry about getting out of bed so early. In the winter, a promise of perennial presents underneath the evergreens couldn’t arouse these hibernating cubs. But now, like a rooster or a guy who makes donuts, they wake at the crack of dawn; eager for a day where we have nowhere to go and nothing to do. How to reverse this seasonal situation is one of the great mysteries of the parenting world.

Likewise, the boys already have been sent to their respective timeout corners on numerous occasions, their brawls quite reminiscent of the “Thrilla in Manila” except I’m the one throwing in a chlorinated beach towel after round 14. At least 500 sentences have been written ranging from “I will not eat hand sanitizer when someone dares me” to “I’ll never again get my brother in a submission hold called The Walls of Jericho. “War and Peace” will have fewer pages than the collected summer sentence archives of the brothers Beam.

In an effort to stop this rough housing, I’ve tried introducing my two oldest to stories of siblings throughout history who have worked together and achieved great things, like Orville and Wilber Wright or the Kennedy brothers without the girlfriend sharing. Somehow, the kids have decided the Marx brothers should be their role models. I obviously play the straight man to their vaudeville-like behavior. So long as they don’t discover the story of Romulus and Remus, I think we’ll endure until August.

Giving them some much needed time apart from each other, and from me, I’ve enrolled all three in summer camps. The amount and types of programs amaze me. Parents may pick from camps specializing in nature, Taekwondo, ballet, science, Legos, music, drama, art and every sport imaginable. We’ve stayed away from fencing, archery and certain science labs for obvious reasons, as if my children need any incentive to turn our backyard into the fourth installment of The Hunger Games. These skills could tip the odds forever in their sibling rivalry favor, a chance I’m not willing to take.

Survival of the fittest has been proven this summer. Now if Darwin could have advocated a theory of poolside parenting, my world would be a much more relaxing place.

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A requiem for a waiting room

3 May

Sitting in a doctor’s waiting room sometimes hurts more than the injury that brought you to the dreaded hell hole in the first place.

Currently, I’m in such painful doldrums. My left knee decided to go out while I was in the middle of running a half marathon last Saturday. Despite my constant prodding and pushing, it refuses to track back in and answers back to my remedy with a POP POP POP. Obviously, it holds grudges when provoked. Now, I’ve been forced by this uncooperative joint to hobble on over to my orthopedist and get it checked out.

Which is why I’m in this God-forsaken waiting room with nothing to do. I can’t get enough reception to play with my iPhone. I forgot a book. And I don’t feel like talking to the gaggle of ladies in wheelchairs encircling me.

Why exactly are they surrounding me? I look to the nurses, who have the protection of a sliding glass window, bullet proof no doubt. How long have these ladies been waiting here? The look in their bifocal covered eyes tells me they’ve grown tired as well. They, too, are aware of the lawless situation.  I feel slightly like a “Lord of the Flies” scenario may shortly occur. They have canes and steel wheels. I have a bum knee and a sharp mouth. Thank goodness I have little meat on my bones to eat, and hopefully will be spared. I slather on some Vick’s vapor rub and hope the smell of death wards them off for a few seconds longer.

A voice disturbs my anarchical delusions. A nurse sweetly calls out a name. Not mine, of course. She calls again, and this time a man jolts awake mid snore. His hips creak, stiff from remaining in the same chair from a two hour wait as he enters through another door. The exit is elsewhere, which worries me since you never see people leave. All we need is Wes Craven to roll some film, and I’m sure something sinister would occur. Is that a saw I hear? Hopefully to split open a cast and not that gentleman’s balding head.

After a half an hour, my mind starts to create its own games. It produces elaborate stories for each of the patients waiting with me. The frat boy with the neck brace obviously drank a little too much Jungle Juice, tried to make the moves on a blonde leaning on a balcony and took a header off a second floor. He catches me staring at him and gives me a WTF glare.

A young child with a broken arm smiles tenderly at me. She really didn’t break her wrist. She fibbed and said she fell of the bed to get sympathy after a fight with her brother. Hairline fracture, my butt.

And, the middle-aged woman gimping around with the screwed up looking knee cap obviously ran without training. Ok, this one I know is true. But I’ll tell the doc I received the injury from chasing a bank robber down a flight of steps. He shot at me, like all country thieves do, and while dodging bullets like Neo, my knee popped and I went down. I’ll be presented with a police medal next week.

Finally, I win the lottery. The nurse calls my name. I’m not sure if Saint Peter’s voice will sound just as sweet. I might not ever get the chance to find out, so I relish in this moment a while longer. As I flop toward the bright light behind the door, I feel the piercing stares of those who arrived after me, and two that appeared before. Their minds click away like an old fashioned calculator, trying to determine how many more people will be summoned before it’s their turn.

I smile to myself. Until I realize that all the doors throughout the hallway remain closed, excluding one. My wait is not over. It’s only just begun. And I don’t even have a fellow survivors of the ordeal to help me bide my time. Wait, are those plastic gloves in that box?

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Coked-out cookies and the Rise of the Girl Scouts

15 Mar

Several weeks back, Indiana State Representative Bob Morris faced ridicule from around the nation for inflammatory statements he made regarding the Girl Scouts of America. According to news sources, such as MSNBC, Morris stated in a letter that he believes the organization aids in “the destruction of traditional American family values.”

Finally, someone has had the courage to stand up to those pesky cookie-selling criminals! But Morris still doesn’t see the whole picture. Rotting away the moral fabric of America is only the beginning to what these heartless little hoodlums have planned. If you examine their rituals and training closely, you will see that, like North Korea and the Kardashian sisters, their ultimate goal is to take over the known universe.

Yes. All the conspiracy theorists that have blamed secret organizations, such as The Bilderberg Group and The Illuminati, for wanting to control all of mankind have been wrong. Do those secret groups teach young women how to shoot a bow or live off the land? No. Do they educate and empower half of our civilization? Negative. Do they dress in paramilitary colors of brown and green, wear membership stars, and don Army Ranger berets? Nah. Do they control most of the world currency and capital? Well, yes, but not for long. Not if the Brownie Brigade and their minions have their way.

How can an organization of sweet, innocent little girls ever hope to achieve world domination? Why, one small badge at a time, of course. Let’s review some of the titles of these insane insignia.

*Power of Team Award.

(Indoctrination into a group-think setting, more like it.)

*Reach Out.

(And conquer Canada.)

*Citizen- Inside Government.

(How many subversives have already infiltrated the upper echelon of the military, judiciary and executive branches? Being only 16.8 percent female, at least we know the legislature is safe.)

*Camper.

(How was the American Revolution won? Guerilla warfare, or as I like to say, naturalists that wear combat boots instead of Birkenstocks.)

*Medal of Honor.

(Grandpa Joe received one of these for fighting in WW II. Enough said.)

*World Thinking Day.

(Learning is half the battle, according to GI Joe. For Girl Scouts, it’s thinking about how to take over foreign lands.)

Not enough proof? Let’s look at the most condemning piece of evidence… those delectable cookies. Most people find it hard to resist the yummy morsels. News flash. It’s the trace amounts of cocaine baked inside. Yes, the Girl Scouts also have a working relationship with South American drug cartels. Remember Evita? Immoral women have no allegiances.

Through a growing dependence on the coked-out cookies, the organization hopes to enslave the American public. If for some reason the addiction doesn’t weaken our citizenry, the increased caloric intake into our daily diet will. Dastardly.

So thank you, Representative Morris. Like the cat bearing your name, you’ve represented America well. Through your Internet research, you’ve exposed the inner workings of the foremost all-female secret society. Some might call you crazy, idiotic or even an extremist male chauvinist pig. But I call you a hero. Oh wait, they also called you an uneducated nut job with too much time on your hands. Forgot that one. Anyway, so onward toward the renunciation of other brazenly belligerent female militias like the League of Women Voters, the Daughters of the American Revolution and the collective castoffs of the “The Bachelor” series. As the Girl Scouts say, be prepared. Indeed. 

All we need is love

6 Mar

Below you’ll find my column this week from newsandtribune.com. With the devastating tornados that ripped through Southern Indiana last Friday, I wanted to share so of their stories. Please, if you could, give to our local Clark County Chapter of the American Red Cross.

 

Sometimes, life isn’t fair. In fact, at times, it’s downright horrific. That’s the only answer I had for the horrendous damage caused by the tornados that rumbled across rural communities in Southern Indiana last week.

On Sunday, I drove into Henryville to cover the devastation of the twisters and tell the stories of the families affected by their haphazard path. The photos do not convey the destruction. Debris fields everywhere you turn. Children’s dolls maimed, covered in mud. Random pieces of indiscernible cloth billowing like a flag in the breeze. Old photos of loved ones encrusted in a dirt frame. And then, there was all the rubble where sturdy houses and barns and buildings once stood. So much rubble that only a short time a go was another Hoosier’s life.

These were only the material things. But their broken images stung. The stories of the survivor’s heartbreak stung more.

How many people lost everything they owned? Tales of sacrifice and pain and destruction filled the Internet. When I interviewed people for the stories, my eyes watered. I’m no grand journalist. Most reporters don’t choke up on the news when they talk to the victims. I did.

Yet somehow, throughout all the stories, a sense of awe arose. Not of the damage caused by the cyclone, but of the resilience and kindness of all those affected. In almost interview, the disaster survivors and their families smiled. Most even laughed. One man searching through the rubble of his cousin’s farm told me how his wife had found some old Maxim magazines. When he thought about saving them for resale, she responded that the paper would make better use as kindle for the fire burning outside their tent at night. Especially the issue with the saucy cover photo of Danica Patrick. He chuckled.

Another young boy helping with a different search in a leveled house shouted up to the homeowner that a piano mostly under debris still played amongst the ruin. The man smiled and asked him to play him a tune. Shortly thereafter, a friend handed the man an intact beer that came from a buried fridge. Even with many of his possessions gone, his lips managed to curl upwards once more.

On more than one occasion, family members offered me a drink, even a bite to eat. One sweet woman tried to insist that I take one of their warm hats. The pastor of Mount Moriah, his church crumbled before us, worried about my thin jacket. He tried to give me hand warmers as we talked. After all the devastation, amazing generosity still prevailed.

Time after time, I started to see a pattern. Something connected each story that emerged from those debris fields. Something that almost every human shares. Love. A mother sacrificing her own body to protect her beloved children. A neighbor risking his life to bring the family next door into his better protected home. A husband holding his wife as their home swirls around them during the wind and hail. A community who reaches out with food and money and time to help people they do not know.

To me, all these things are based on love. Call me naïve, but if anything, that’s what this disaster has taught me. Yes, sometimes life isn’t fair. Sometimes it’s even horrific. But in the end, if you look hard enough underneath the rubble, you can discover love in almost everything. And if you find that love, you can find that life, even in a terrible tragedy, might not always be so horrific after all.

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In defense of the nightmare sports parent, aka me.

23 Feb

Having kids in sports is rough. So harsh apparently, a guy named Steve Henson wrote an article for thepostgame.com that educates moms and dads on how to become a great sports parent. Although I disagree with some of his assumptions, most of the article addresses some pretty basic, common sense rules for dealing with athletic kids.

Until I saw it. The it being a statement that made the back of my neck burn yeast infection red. In the piece, Henson mentions that most parents aren’t “stereotypical horrendous sports parents, (like) the ones who scream at referees.” Holy cow. To this guy, I’m beyond a nightmare sports parent. I’m a stereotype.

Let me set the record straight. Generally speaking, I’m quite well behaved at my kids’ games. I don’t know enough about soccer to garner an opinion. And normally I could care less about gymnastics or dance. As long as my daughter doesn’t use any of the skills learned on a floor-to-ceiling pole, or worse yet, on a teenage boy, we’re cool.

Now basketball tends to get me in trouble. I know enough about hoops to see right and wrong. So when I witness a foul or other infraction that the other team commits, I tend to blurt it out. Loud. So loud the ref can hear me. Ok, sometimes you could say I shout at the refs. But really? If you witnessed a bank robbery and observed a masked culprit escaping with a sizable stash, wouldn’t you holler for the police to get involved too?

Anyway, I’m bad. I know it. I didn’t go against any of Henson’s other little litmus test rules. But it doesn’t matter. Due to my harassment of those supposed humans in stripes, I must be the ultra nightmare sports parent. I always pictured myself as a bad-dream-after-Chinese-food type of villain instead.

Rather than be a hypocrite and act pristine and pure and deny my true ruthless nature, I’ve decided to embrace my new title. So therefore, I’ve listed several of my own Dos and Don’ts for crazed moms and dads like me who have little room- or hope- in the traditional framework of strong moral athletic role models such as Tiger Woods, Michael Vick and Ben Roethlisberger. Oh, our heroes.

FIVE WAYS TO BECOME THE MOST HELLISH SPORTS PARENT EVER

*Learn all the officials’ names, addresses, family information and car makes and types. Then, bring that Sicilian exchange student named Vinnie to all your games and gently remind the refs you have this material, along with several interesting photos involving fishnet stockings and bats from the changing room. Calls will magically start going your way 90 percent of the time. Rarely are broken kneecaps required.

*Teach your kids about the 1919 World Series, and how sometimes balls shouldn’t be caught if your mom has a Benjamin on a five-run spread.

*Locate all the dealers of human growth hormone and anabolic steroids in your city. You never know if your child may need to kick-start a growth spurt. Normally, the best place to find these people is around major league ballparks, but somehow business has dropped off recently. Congress and their inquisitions, hmph. Until then, prick your son with a toothpick daily to toughen up the skin around the future injection site. Also, give him or her hourly doses of Five-Hour energy and send him to the neighbors to practice his mad endurance skills.

*Make friends with all the other players on the team. Then, when tournament time rolls around, feed several of the better players Ex-lax-infused brownies. Playing time is playing time no matter how you may get it.

*Drink, curse and yell around your children. Many great athletes had horrible parents. Ever heard of a guy named Babe Ruth? Do you think his greatness was incidental? No. Obviously, his bad father drove him to do better. Or maybe he had so much all-consuming rage, the only way to cope was to take a bat to something. Either way, it works. Trust me, your kids will be thanking you later after they make it big, write a tell-all best seller and sue you for those well deserved extra percentages you took while you were their agent.

So, go forth, my minions. May we conquer the stands with our newfound power. And remember, no matter how terrible we become, we still have one thing going for us. We’re not parents of kids in the arts. Costumes? Solos? Marching in unison? Now talk about some nightmare issues…

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The case of the love struck school board

14 Feb

Cupid’s arrows struck early yesterday at the New Albany Floyd County School Board Meeting. That little naked cherub is good. The sharp projectiles incapacitated five of the seven board members and made them fall undyingly in love with our superintendent, Dr. Bruce Hibbard. In their adoration, the members voted to give Hibbard a $28,500 raise in his new contract as well as a one time $10,000 bonus. That brings Hibbard total salary to $170,500 effective immediately. Happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

Not all of us are love struck. Our school corp currently is projecting a deficit of $2.8 million dollars for the 2012-13 school year. Many hard decisions have been made including a pay freeze for all support staff and other administrative positions, school closures, teacher layoffs and benefit reductions. Ends had to meet. And so tough choices were made.

Until now.

I’m not here to argue the effectiveness of Hibbard’s reign as head honcho. He’s done a good job and his accomplishments should be applauded. I like the guy.

However, the hypocrisy of a raise when so many others have sacrificed for the good of our school community is unreal. More cuts need to be made. And now his raise will be prioritized before our children’s other needs. Although $28,500 to some is small money, to our schools it could mean a full-time assistant principal, or several new aides, not to mention that the teachers’ contracts expire this summer. During the new negotiations, things will become a whole lot harder when teachers use this raise as justification for not wanting benefit cuts of their own. And I can’t say I’ll blame them.

My biggest question is how did common sense fail in this situation? All of us know that when you don’t have money in your wallet, you can’t afford certain things.

But the school board decided to take out a line of credit in our children’s names and support this salary increase. School board member Mark Boone and others have said in newspapers that they were afraid Hibbard would leave. In the News and Tribune article, Hibbard even hints that if he didn’t receive the raise, his departure was a distinct possibility. Last year alone, he applied to several open superintendent positions at schools throughout the country.

Seeing this tactic work so wonderfully for the school board, I decided to try it on my husband. I told him that I demanded a yearly increase of $25,000. Obviously our children have improved their reading and math skills under my tenure as their mother. Yes, they go to school six hours a day, but my leadership of getting them to that school daily is the deciding factor in their success.

I also told him that getting rid of me and hiring a new wife would be less cost effective then just giving me the raise. Half of his property is more than $25,000. He needed to act quick, too, because I had numerous other men already making offers as having me for their own. So do we have an agreement?

My back still aches from sleeping on the bumpy old leather couch.

Our school community is much like a marriage. You must give and take and share in the good times and the bad. You also must have trust, honesty and good communication. Somehow I think the school board and our community needs marriage counseling. The fundamentals are just not there.

As for Dr. Hibbard, I do hope he sends flowers on this Valentine’s Day to his love struck friends on the school board. Whaley, Anderson, Boone, Smith and Hines need wine, chocolates and roses, because the community will hold them accountable to this vote. And I’m pretty sure cupid doesn’t have enough arrows in his quiver to hit all those disgruntled voters.

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The rise of the modern day snob

7 Feb

Let’s face it. The world is full of snobs. Rich snobs. Intellectual snobs. Religious snobs. Moral snobs. Unconventional snobs. Beautiful snobs. Even I’m-weirder-than-you snobs. For one reason or the other, most humans in their lifetimes have felt superior to a fellow earth dweller. It’s a condition of humanity itself. I think; therefore, I know I’m better than you.

And with social networks parading our peers and every detail of their lives in front of us 24-7, the trend of silent self-importance seems to be growing. Just look at all the candid shots of teenage girls pouting in short shorts in front of their bathroom mirrors. Proof enough, don’t you say?

Science actually has a nice name for misplaced snobbery: illusory superiority. According to Wikipedia, this bias “causes people to overestimate their positive qualities and abilities and to underestimate their negative qualities, relative to others.” In other words, most people think they are better than what they really are. American Idol contestants are one of the first examples to come to mind.

Making matters worse, studies show the more removed people are from live subjects, the greater the effect of illusory superiority. It’s difficult to think you’re better than someone that you have live contact with everyday. It’s much easier to have disdain toward someone on television or in the news that you’ll never meet. Now you know why all those Bachelorettes have so many haters.

Sometimes snootiness is justified. It’s evident that Einstein had a higher I.Q. than Jessica Simpson. So if he stuck his nose high in the air and shunned her at a hypothetical dinner party, no one would mind. It’s good to have a little swag.

The problem occurs when the aloofness isn’t warranted. We’ve all seen people acting better than their true station in life. Of course, one could argue that I’m being a snob for judging what I perceive their true station in life to be. Am I myself using illusory superiority? Or am I a realist with a healthy level of self-esteem who knows my place in society?

Enough of this. My mind hurts. I need to feel better about myself. The T.V. downstairs is blaring The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills Reunion Show throughout my house. It summons me. At least I know that I’m smarter than half the chicks on there. See, we all can be snobs. I just like to call it positive self-worth.

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Lego-ing of gender stereotypes

24 Jan

Sexism comes in many forms. I hadn’t realized tiny pieces of plastic that hurt like unanesthetized bone grafts when you step on them might be one. According to an article in the Los Angeles Times, critics have been blasting the Lego’s Friends line for girls as being sexist and reinforcing gender stereotypes.  One opponent even goes so far to say that the slim shape of the figurines will promote “body dissatisfaction” in our young ladies.

Would someone please tell me why no one complains about traditional toys for boys doing the same?

Take for instance, the male Lego figurines. Each little nugget has a block chest with a monotonous, unchanging expression. Must our boys mimic those little characters in their emotional impassiveness? Society does force men to be stoic. Plus, have you ever seen a fat Lego? Our boys must be suffering from inner turmoil when they piece together the chesty hunk that looks nothing like their beer drinking, couch potato daddy. Perhaps Lego should construct, sell and interpret a Rorschach test building set to verify the harm they’ve inflicted on our youth. I’m sure most every building would either look like a giant penis or their mother’s barren womb.

Likewise, other action figures promote male body discontent. All GI Joes are hot and hunky. Except maybe Snake Eyes and Cobra, but only because you can’t see their faces due to the masks. But still, every last one has big bulging muscles hugged by tight military fatigues. After raiding Destro’s command center, my boys stopped playing and also attacked the food pantry. Those toys must be sending out subliminal messages that force them to crave protein and steroids. My seven-year-old was dead lifting a case of Coke cans the other day. Obviously, he wasn’t trying to hide them upstairs under his bed for a late night caffeine binge. He needed to bulk up. If knowing is half the battle, we’ve already conquered your sinister plan of body stereotyping, Mattel. Yo Joe, indeed.

Et tu, Star Wars? Sure, the franchise enlists numerous not-so-attractive characters. But does Yoda or any of the other strange creatures get the girl? Go there, they do not. A hot Jedi brother gets more action with his princess sister than poor Jabba receives from his entire slave harem. I bet if the Hutt had been 6’5”, blonde and built, Leah might have used those chains around his neck in a different manner.

Even Disney characters add to the gender conundrum. Look at the Toy Story character Woody. First, his name is Woody. What is that teaching our impressionable youth? The only other Woody I know ended up yippie ki yaying his own adopted daughter. Ride ‘em cowboy takes on a whole new meaning. Sexualization at its finest, Mr. Mouse! Also, check our Woody’s skinny arms and sinewy legs. I’m not throwing stones at porcelain toilet bowls, but I think he might have a problem. Thank goodness that Mr. Potato Head and Hamm the Piggy Bank have supporting leads in the film. Otherwise, our boys would be headed toward a place only wrestlers trying to reach a lower weight class have dared tread before.

Finally, I saved the worst offender for last. Video game characters raise the standard to high for our sons. Look at Mario. Sure, he’s short and pudgy. But have you seen his moustache. Only porn stars and convicted sex offenders have facial hair like that. Our nation is one step away from having a gaggle of sex-crazed teens on the loose. And all because John “Mario” Holmes and his younger brother Luigi have to “rescue” the juicy Princess Peach. I’ll let you determine the significance of that royal name for yourselves.

So critics, I hope you turn your attention to all the negative stereotypes surrounding boys in our society today as well. Let this be a lesson to you that not only girls face body image concerns. Boys do as well. Now, I’m off to watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills with my daughter. If Lego can’t portray women in a realistic fashion, certainly popular media will.

 

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Drowning in the pool of pre-presidents

18 Jan

Is anyone else completely baffled with the field of presidential candidates that Americans must choose from this year? I truly do not know which politician I’ll vote for in the Republican primary, let alone in the general. At present, I don’t have a donkey or an elephant in the fight. Why must I vote for the candidate rather than the party? Blind indoctrination and voting straight ticket certainly have their benefits, as does living under a despotic tyrant. Double drats that I can do neither.

Now I’ve thought about ways to pick my candidate, at least among the Republicans. My husband pooh-poohed the idea of pasting all of the contenders’ photos on a corkboard and tossing needle sharp darts at them blindfolded until I punctured one, preferably in the mouth. He feared that might attract unwanted attention from the Secret Service. Likewise on taking a blank ballot to the local gun range for a one shot voter’s volley with the old Glock. No worrying about hanging chads with that one.

Since deadly weapons are out of the question, I decided to pray to God for an answer. The Man Upstairs informed evangelist Pat Robertson who will prevail, but then instructed him not to release the info. Witnessing how the Almighty turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt just for wanting to catch a glimpse of the coolest firework show ever, I wouldn’t mess around with his instructions either. If it worked for Robertson, certainly it would work for me. So I knelt down before my inaugural portrait of Ronald Reagan and asked God which unheavenly host should receive my vote. Nothing. You could hear an angel wing beating in the wind. I guess J.C. knew I’d open my big mouth and repeat every word he told me. Due to my bitterness, I wouldn’t taste very good on the side of a margarita glass.

Ok. The days tick by and I still do not have a clear favorite. I liked Huntsman but he did the honorable thing and just bowed out of the race after receiving less votes than Alex P. Keaton would have amassed. I suppose now I’ll have to commit the most un-American act known to a voter. No, I’m not talking about blatant fraud or taking money from foreign entities for my vote. Well, not unless they pay over 6,316 Yuan. I’m talking about researching candidates. It’s simply not the American way.

So what have I learned in my studies?

Newt has lied to his wives more times than I’ve fibbed about my weight. (No really, I weigh 110 pounds.)

Paul’s supporters scare me in their dedication as much as Ron’s foreign policy positions frighten me for its insanity. (Isolationism worked great during the post WW I years. Just ask Germany.)

Romney looks like a Ken doll. Likewise, it seems his plastic life also mimics that of Ken as well. (Just one bad word and my vote will belong to you, Mitt. FYI, flip-flopper isn’t considered a swear to me.)

Perry reminds me so much of George W. Bush. (And there lies the problem.)

Santorum I did not research. Every time I pulled up his name on Google I was sent to a sight that spoke of things I’ve only heard of through whispers… and perhaps beheld for a dollar in Bangkok. I gave up on finding out anything more for fear my husband would view the previous history on this computer.

All kidding aside, I am informed on the political positions and social ideology of each of these guys. Yet none of the candidates, including President Obama, have wet my whistle. Which presidential hopeful can get the skyrocketing debt under control while producing jobs and a more educated workforce? Who is willing to address major issues like the growing insolvency of Medicare and Social Security without abandoning the most vulnerable members of our society? Which contender will reach out across party lines and work with one another towards a better tomorrow with integrity and respect to all? And who will ultimately give my sons and daughter and the rest of our nation’s children the best chance of success and upward mobility throughout their lives? I truly do not know these answers.

So I beseech you, good readers, to give me rationale and suggestions on which candidate you are voting for in the upcoming elections? Otherwise, I’ll be forced to cast a protest vote. Although I do think Snookie would make a fine President, don’t you?

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