Armchair Quarterback

I hope my loyal readers will forgive me for taking a brief departure this week from my usual blog to acknowledge the shock and sadness our community has experienced this week in the wake of Steve McNair’s murder.  I felt a little awkward posting one of my regular light hearted pieces after everything that’s happened.

I’m sure everyone remembers exactly where they were last Saturday when they heard about McNair’s death.  I was in Indianapolis visiting family.  Late that afternoon, someone posted a note on my facebook page applauding Rudy Kalis’ coverage of the Steve McNair murder.  I was stunned, to say the least.  All I could think was… “What?  What murder?  Steve McNair… as in… the football player… Steve McNair?  Impossible!  He was just on the show a couple of days ago touting his new restaurant.”

I scrambled to get to our website, and sure enough, there it was in big bold letters: Breaking News “Steve McNair found dead in downtown condo.” It was surreal.  Obviously the two situations are vastly different, but I got the same pit in my stomach that I did the day someone called and asked me if Dan Miller had died.  No one had told me yet, so I immediately said, “Of course not.  He’s in Augusta.”  Unfortunately, my instincts were wrong both times.   Some people are so much larger than life you never expect them to die.  I guess that’s how I saw Steve McNair.

Over the past ten years, McNair and his family have become one of us.  They didn’t hole up in their mansion like big time celebrities.  Their kids played ball along side ours.  They ate dinner in restaurants that didn’t have a VIP section, and they gave underprivileged kids a chance to spend their summers doing something productive rather than roaming the streets.  Regardless of how you feel about McNair’s double life, it’s impossible not to feel an overwhelming sense of sadness for his four children, his wife, and his legacy.  We’ll never fully be able to remember “Air McNair” the way we would have, had his death not happened the way it did.

As a news station, it’s our job to get information and share it with the public, particularly when it involves a case this big.  Our viewers would never forgive us if we didn’t.  Still… I couldn’t help but feel sick for Mechelle McNair and her children this week every time another bizarre detail came to light.  Finding out your husband was murdered by his mystery lover is hard enough to deal with when you’re a private citizen.  Imagine having the entire sports world waiting to see your public reaction to it all.  Who could blame Mechelle for hunkering down and refusing to comment?

As I wife, I’d be angry, sad, scared, confused, and overwhelmed.  I’d want to keep it together for the sake of my kids, but deep down I’d be wondering how in the world I was going to raise my boys all by myself.  In the past several days I’ve heard a lot of people say, “Well, she’s got plenty of money.  She’ll be fine.”  Sadly, they don’t make enough money to replace a father… or a mother for that matter.

At the end of the day, Steve McNair made a mistake, and he paid dearly for it.  We can play armchair quarterback and talk about what a horrible person he was, or we could do something positive like use this as a launching point for self examination.  Unless you’re perfect, there’s probably something in your life that needs tweaking.  Now might be an excellent time to do that.

This week, we’ve been slapped in the face with yet another reminder that life is short.  We do not have an unlimited amount of time to get it right.  We come into this world with a void in our lives, and if we don’t fill it with something positive, it gets filled with something negative.  I know a lot of you are disappointed in McNair’s behavior, but frankly a little bit of that is our own fault.  The world is inherently flawed.  We placed Steve McNair on a pedestal no man on this Earth truly deserves, and now we’re upset that he didn’t measure up.  Maybe we were setting ourselves up for disappointment all along.

As Seen on T.V.

Several years ago my family and I went to Gatlinburg.  We couldn’t help but notice these stores on every block with a huge sign that said “As Seen on T.V.”  I’m a sucker for a gimmick, so we decided to check it out.  No joke… anything you’ve EVER seen advertised on late night cable was in that store.  Every time I picked something up I could imagine the guy on the Ginzu knife commercial saying “Now… how much would you pay?”  God bless Billy Mays.  We lost one of the greats this week, didn’t we?  He was always so enthusiastic about his products… and loud.

When it was said and done, my husband walked out of the store with one of those shirt folding contraptions.  I bought a bacon wave (a.k.a. microwave bacon rack), and my mom threatened to buy a bedazzler for her next dirty Santa exchange, but decided just to heckle us instead.  If you ever get a chance to check out one of these stores you should… even if it’s just for entertainment purposes.

Of course they have your obvious items like the salad shooter and the clapper, but you’d be amazed by all of the things in there you HAVEN’T seen before.  For example, have you ever heard of the furminator?  It’s this mini vacuum designed to seamlessly remove your pet’s loose hairs in just minutes.  I doubt it works, but the golden retriever on the box looked pretty happy sitting next to a pile of his nappy dead ends.  Then there’s the shoe organizing bed skirt.  Who knew?  I bet you can’t get one of those at Pottery Barn!  I don’t know about you, but my shoes aren’t much to look at.  I definitely wouldn’t display them around the sides of my bed as decorative items.  They don’t have quite the ambiance of say, a candle.

The one thing I should warn you NOT to blow your money on is the Bark Stop Professional.  I can assure you, this product doesn’t work.  We got one about six years ago when the neighbor’s dog kept waking up our newborn.  Of course, the simple solution would have been to knock on their door and ask them to put their dog up at night, but my husband and I are too passive aggressive for that.  Instead, we invested 70-bucks in the Bark Stop.  The idea is that every time the dog barks, this device is supposed to send out an ear piercing noise that can only be heard by dogs.  Obviously the beauty of the device is that the owners don’t know you’re torturing their pet.  No need to call the Humane Society.  Either Gabe was deaf, or the thing didn’t work because his incessant barking never stopped the three years they lived there.

As I started writing this blog, I began thinking of what kinds of things I’d like to see in the “As Seen on TV” store.  I promise, if you go out and invent one of these products, there’s no need to give me credit.  Just send me a few freebies, and we’ll call it even.

1) An all purpose re-charger

Am I the only person who’s sick to death of having a different cord/charger for every single electronic device I own?  If I get any more, I’m going to need a suitcase to haul them around in.  I did an inventory just for this blog.  I currently have eleven:  a charger for my I-pod, another cord to download from I-tunes TO my I-pod, a wall charger for both my work and my cell phone, a separate CAR charger for each said phone, a wall charger for my laptop, another for my daughter’s DVD player, a car charger for her DVD player, a separate charger for her Nintendo DS, and a third I-pod charger for hers because it’s newer than mine.  This doesn’t even include all of my husband’s junk.  Can someone help me out here?

What gives? The plug in my wall is universal. There’s nothing special about my cigarette lighter.  Why do the other ends of these cords have to come in a thousand different shapes and sizes?  What am I missing here?  Is it illegal to make a charger that fits more than one thing?

2) I need something that will cause the cordless phones in my house to repel one another.

We have three cordless phones in our house.  At any given moment a phone should only be a stone’s throw away.  So why is it that when I need one… they’re all hanging out in a pile next to each other?  I don’t know if they huddle up and prank call people when we’re not around or what, but it never fails!  And if they stay there long enough without someone calling, they all go dead simultaneously.

3) A sunscreen detector

Somehow I need to figure out which parts of my body have escaped sunscreen BEFORE I get a quarter sized third degree burn somewhere on my body.  No matter how diligent I am about spreading the stuff around, there’s always one little area of skin that gets overlooked.  Sometimes it hurts, but more often than not, it’s just an unsightly situation.  Looking like Rudolph the red nosed reindeer is cute in December, but not necessarily conducive to being on television five nights a week.

And on that note, I think there should be some chemical you could put in a pool to immediately alert you when a child (or adult, for that matter) has peed in the pool.  I’m sorry to be gross, but we all know it’s going on so let’s just get it out there.  Can you imagine how much it would cut down on the problem if kids knew they were going to be exposed and embarrassed for doing it?  Let’s get some chemists together with some food coloring, chlorine, water, and you know what… and see how far we can take this thing. 

I’m sure I’ll think of some other ideas, but I need to get ready for our five o’clock show.  Send me your ideas. What do you need someone to invent?

Mixed Bag

You know you’re too busy when you get out of the shower and realize you’ve shaved the same leg… twice.  I apologize for the delay in posting this week’s blog, but it’s been nuts at work.  Unless you thought the digital transition had some really bizarre effect on your television set, you’ve probably noticed that I’m filling in for Demetria this week.  Don’t worry!  It’s not permanent.  She’ll be back on July 6th, and I’ll go back to providing the inane fodder on our website you’ve grown so accustomed to.

In the way of updates, I’m happy to report that I survived the week my niece was in town.  It’s not that I was scared, but having only one child myself, I was a little intimidated by the prospect of managing two for an entire week.  It was sort of like asking a player from the farm team to step up to the majors.  You think you can handle the pressure, but you’re never totally sure unless given the chance.  All in all, I thought it was a huge success… no trips to the E.R., lots of laughs, and no Joan Crawford moments on my part.  I guess I could have set the bar a little higher, but I was trying to shoot for something achievable.  No sense blowing my confidence.

My sister-in-law had already put me in an insurmountable hole.  When Dalton spent the week there, she took them to every museum in Indianapolis, a former President’s home, a minor league baseball game, and the pool every single afternoon.  How could I possibly compete with all that?  I thought about asking the Carnival Kia guy if he’d relocate his Ferris wheel to my front yard for the week, but I thought the neighbors might complain.  Plus, I figure when he says “don’t you leave… until you see me” he’s probably talking to customers… not newscasters trying to hijack carnival rides.

I have to say, I actually learned a lot the week my niece was here.  As it turns out a 7 year old is, in fact, capable of transporting a bowl of milk to the sink when finished with their cereal.  I nearly fell out in the floor when my niece did it… unprompted!  My own daughter had me convinced this was some rite of passage that should only occur after the age of say… 13.  I also noticed that not all children my daughter’s age are attached to you like an appendage.  Hannah entertained herself for hours on end without my help.  Sometimes I would go frantically searching for her throughout the house because she had been quiet for so long.  As for my own precious angel, she never got more than 20 feet away from my side.  I’m convinced she’ll be crawling into bed with us… woobie in hand… until the day she leaves for college.

On a totally separate note, I got another hate e-mail last week.  No condolences please.  I’m not looking for sympathy.  I share these strictly for your own personal entertainment and to give you some insight into the kind of people who may be standing next to you in the grocery.  This particular e-mail comes courtesy of one of my “concerned fans.”

Is it really healthy to put all of that hair color or proxide on your hair? We are wondering if you will loose your hair later in life. Don’t mean to be critical, just concerned.

Sincerely,
Your fans

Again, I’ve left the typos in for effect.  I thought about telling her I’m already bald, and these are just wigs in various lengths that I rotate.  About once a month, I’ll put on one with dark roots… just to make it look realistic.  Seriously though, what are people thinking?  Am I supposed to go to Vanderbilt and commission a study?  Does he or she want me to stop coloring my hair, shave my head… what?  

I’ve decided one day I’m just going to sing that India Arie song, “I am not my Hair”… on-air.  That’ll give viewers something legitimate to e-mail about.  I’m a terrible singer!  I became aware of this a couple of years ago when my husband gave me a karaoke machine for Christmas.  It’s amazing what a microphone does to highlight a bad singing voice. 

Lastly, I want to make a public apology to all of the people I nearly run over in the grocery store on a weekly basis.  I’m usually so pressed for time that I look like one of those people on a 70’s game show trying to load up their cart with free items on the clock.  As a result of this rash behavior I generally forget at least two items, forcing me to be in the grocery a minimum of four times a week.    

Last week I nearly slammed into this twenty something year old guy with my cart.  I thought at the rate of speed I was traveling, I was probably nothing more than a blur.  The guy probably doesn’t even watch the news, right?  No such luck.  He back tracked three aisles to ask if I was the “news lady”.  I reluctantly fessed up and admitted, this was as awkward for me as it was for him.  Honestly, I can’t believe I’m on t.v. either!  He said it was cool.  He just wanted to make sure because this was going to make for a great ”bar” story.  

I guess I should have been insulted, but I couldn’t help but laugh at the prospect.   Two years ago, I was minding my own business working for the state.  Today, I’m a “bar” story.  Life is a wild ride… is it not?  I hope you’re enjoying yours as much as I’m enjoying mine.

Say What?

When my husband and I were young parents we couldn’t wait for our daughter to utter her first words.  Mommy, daddy, hi, bye… we didn’t care what it was as long as she was communicating!  Now that she’s 7 we spend a lot of days wondering how long it would take DCS to show up on our doorstep if we taped her mouth shut.

In the last year alone, she’s alienated the mother of a fellow carpooler… shocked her dentist into therapy… mortified me… and revealed so many personal secrets we’re probably starting to seem like the Addam’s Family of our neighborhood.  This is my official warning to those of you with small children at home.  Watch what you say!

It makes no sense.  I can tell her to put her shoes on 18 times in a row, and her gaze never leaves the television set.  Yet when I try to have a discreet ADULT conversation about something… she turns into a CIA agent.  The other day I was talking to a friend on the phone in another room.  When we got in the car to go somewhere she said, “Oh, by the way… who had a stroke?”  I was whispering more than 100 feet away!  How did she hear that?  Is the house bugged?

Anyway, back to why we’re thinking about buying some duct tape.  Let’s start with our trip to the children’s dentist a year and a half ago.  I’m going to leave out the names to protect the innocent, but suffice to say… this story has made the rounds at various dinner parties around town.

My daughter had just walked out to the lobby following her cleaning.  We were playing checkers while waiting for the dentist to come give us the bad news.  (It’s never good.)  For the sake of the story, it’s important to note, that this man is a modern day Mr. Rogers.  He’s the nicest, kindest, most naive person you could ever want to meet.  As he’s telling me about her tooth “crowding” she looks up at him from the checker board, completely stone faced, and said, “My daddy wears women’s underwear to work.”  Huh! 

Where do I even begin to dig my way out of a crater this size?  I don’t know which was worse, my desire to choke her, or my insatiable need to run out to the car, call my husband, and find out what in the heck he’s been doing in my underwear drawer.  Of course instead, I made a lame attempt to smooth things over with the dentist.  “Obviously… she’s joking”, I said.  Would you buy that?  I wouldn’t.  What seven year-old makes up something that outlandish?

When we got in the car, I phoned my husband and tried to remain calm while asking him if there was anything he needed to get off his chest.  (or his rear end, for that matter) Once he told me the story it all made sense.  Apparently, he had picked up a pile of laundry in our bedroom floor that morning.  Dalton asked him what he was doing with my underwear, and he said, “Oh, sometimes I wear it to work.”  I’m sure it was hysterical when he said it, but in the middle of our dentist office… not so much.  For the record, we no longer go to that dentist. 

Another one of my other favorites involved our neighbor down the street who we happen to be in a carpool with.  One Saturday afternoon my daughter asked if she could invite her friend over to play, and I told her no because every time she has a friend over they tear the house all to pieces.  The next day, the same girl invited my daughter down to play.  Apparently while she was there she felt the need to tell the child’s mother, and I quote, “My mom said your daughter can’t come to our house anymore because she always tears the house up.  WHAT?!

Again, do they make a big enough shovel for something like that?  Do I just pretend it never happened?  Do I explain the next day that I was, in fact, referring to my own daughter’s inability to pick up after herself and not their child?  Frankly, it wouldn’t matter if we invited “thing one” and “thing two” over, our house would still look like Hiroshima at the end of every play date.  I called my brother in law, who’s the only sensible one in the family, and he said to just confront the issue head on… so I did.  We’re still carpooling.

Since I’m sharing stories, I guess I might at well tell at least one cute one.  In 2004 the two of us were on our way to daycare in our brand new car.  It was snowing out, and the traffic was horrible.  For whatever reason, I decided to take a back road that had roughly the same incline as that first drop off on the Wabash Cannonball.  Add a sheet of ice to the mix, and you can imagine how much fun I was having. 

I remember my daughter, who was about three at the time, wouldn’t stop yammering in the back seat.  I couldn’t help but think of something my grandmother always used to say, “Jennifer, turn down that radio.  I can’t see to drive.”  I calmly told her mommy was in a bit of a bind, and asked her to please stop talking.  In fact, I told her what she needed to do was be praying that we don’t have a wreck.  She thought for about ten seconds and said, “Ok, which one do you want, the eating prayer or the sleeping prayer?”  They can be precious when they want to be.    I guess I’ll cancel the tape order. 

If you have any funny stories about something your child has said… please  share.

Mommy-cation

     As a parent… have you ever just thought to yourself, “man I could use a break!”  I’m not talking about a date night or a one hour massage or a weekend getaway. To me… those are just teasers.  That’s like having an appetizer only to find out there’s no dinner to follow.  Sometimes I actually want to slap people who suggest these activities as so-called “stress busters”.

     Let’s think about this.  Who’s going to find the babysitter while I go “relax”?  Me.  Who’s going to pay for the sitter? Me.  I don’t know about you, but those two activities alone tend to induce stress, not relieve it.  Clearly, the people coming up with these ideas have no children.  In fact, I seriously question whether they even KNOW anyone with kids.  If so, they’d have to realize how implausible it is to spend $20 on a sitter to get a $60 massage.  I, on the other hand, feel your pain, and I’m about to share a secret that is guaranteed to restore mental and emotional stability in exactly five days! I feel like Tony Robbins!

     Two weekends ago, as a part of our annual quest to make each summer bigger and better than the last, we took our 7 year-old to King’s Island and spent the night at the neighboring Great Wolfe Lodge.  That place is nuts!  They have an entire water park INSIDE!  My husband’s sister and her family drove over and met us for the weekend.  Other than the minor inconvenience of having a tornado touch down next to our hotel (while we were inside the glass encased water park) it was a flawless trip!  Predictably, on Sunday my daughter and her cousin began suffering from separation anxiety.  That’s when the two of them hatched a plan for my daughter to go home to Indianapolis with them for an ENTIRE week.

     Initially my response was, “Absolutely not!”  I don’t even really know why I said that.  I think it’s a reflex.  Any time my daughter blindsides me with that kind of question with other people around, I automatically say no until convinced otherwise.  Call it maternal instinct, but the more we talked about their idea, the better it sounded.  My sister-in-law and her husband were on vacation all week.  They already have two kids.  What’s one more in the mix? (Famous last words) In exchange for their gracious offer, we agreed to take my niece off their hands the following week.

     Though a part of me was ecstatic, I have to admit, I was also a little nervous.  Our daughter’s never spent more than four days away from us, and even then… she was with her grandparents.  I couldn’t help but envision her getting homesick and demanding that we come pick her up at some truck stop between here and Indy at two a.m.  In the end… we decided it was worth the risk.  As we pulled out of the parking lot I had what I would describe as an equal combination of fear and elation.  With each passing mile that fear started to melt away, and it began to dawn on me that… we were free to live like humans again for A WEEK.

     Don’t get me wrong.  There’s nothing in the world more fulfilling than raising my child.  She’s an absolute joy to be around, and I can’t imagine my world without her in it.  That said, I cannot tell you the last time I had an uninterrupted conversation with my husband, or the last time I went to the restroom… alone, or the last time I went to bed because I WANTED to and not because someone was dragging me up the stairs at nine o’clock begging me to lay down for “just one minute”.  Anyone taking sleep aids should just come to our house and lay down in my daughter’s bed for a night.  Narcolepsy is induced almost immediately.

     It’s fair to say that I haven’t come home from work and “kicked back” since 2001.  What can I say?  I’m a mother! This is how we roll.  If there were a hidden camera in our house you’d catch me drinking from a sippy cup more often than not.  I’m proud to say that in our one week off… we partied like Rock Stars!  We stayed up past our bedtime, ate Cheetos for dinner, watched a boatload of mindless reality television, slept in, and even said the word STUPID over and over again without being reprimanded.  Is that living or what?  Even as I read this, it sounds “stupid”.

     That week was good for me for a lot of different reasons.  Obviously it was nice to decompress and regain a little control over my own life, but it also reminded me of how much time I used to waste on activities that meant almost nothing in the big scheme of things.  It was like running in place.  I stayed really busy, but never got anywhere.  For years, my husband and I have jokingly asked each other, “What did we spend our time on before we had kids?”  Now I know… a whole lot of nothing.  

     I can’t tell you how excited I was to see her come home last Friday.  All the things that used to get under my skin were suddenly gone.  It no longer bothers me that she screams “mom” a hundred times a day despite the fact that I’m ten feet away.  I can’t wait to get home at night to find out what she’s gotten into that day.  Call it a light bulb moment if you want, but it finally dawned on me that most of the stress is self inflicted.  I want to do well at work.  I want the house to be spotless.  I want everything in my life to run like a well oiled machine, and it ain’t gonna happen!  I’m going to try to just get over it.

     When it’s all said and done… no one is really going to care that there’s a relentless stain in my hallway that won’t come up.  They won’t care that I didn’t throw dinner parties that would rival Martha Stewart.  It won’t impress them that I won a couple Emmys or that we were number one at 6:30 42 straight weeks.  If my hair is a little frazzled because I couldn’t get to the salon that week, people are probably going to let it slide.  None of that stuff  really matters!

    Let’s face it, the only real legacy most of leave is our children.  What will they become?  How will they treat other people?  What will they do to change the world?  Those are the things that really matter.  If you get a chance to unload your kids on someone for a week this summer, I would highly encourage it.  Send them to a church camp.  It will be good for them, and if you don’t know of one… e-mail me.  I’ll send you all the information.  I promise, you will never see life the same way again.  In fact, if it’s not one of the most enlightening experiences of your life, call me… I’ll babysit your kids while you get a massage. 

Saving Disgrace

I consider myself a frugal person.  Others might even go so far as to label me “cheap”, which is completely fine.  I consider it a compliment, but there’s one savings arena I don’t mind telling you, I’m pretty lousy at.  I’m hoping some of you might be able to help me out or at least calm me down.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I went to the grocery store… together.  Let me assure you, this is something that’s happened maybe eleven times in our entire marriage.  We’ve always operated on the assumption that the yard is his problem, and the pantry’s mine.  Unless snakes are breeding in the tall grass or we’re living on ramen noodles… nobody’s complaining.  At least no one WAS complaining until our field trip to Kroger.

When we had finished our shopping, we migrated to the line that looked the shortest… something that almost never pans out.  The conveyor belt was finally within reach, when we noticed the woman in front of us had a fist full of coupons that were as thick as a Danielle Steele novel.  Needless to say, we were annoyed.  Though it only took five minutes to ring up her groceries, it took another half hour to calculate the discounts.

After a while, it became pretty mind blowing how much money she was shaving off her bill right before our eyes.  At one point, I thought they were going to have to cut her a check just to leave.  To pass the time, we started taking bets on how much she was about to save.  It was like an episode of the Price is Right.  My husband guessed $20.  I upped the ante to $35, and the guy behind us was that obnoxious audience member who was giving a thumbs up while shouting, “You go girl!”

Let’s just say none of us would have made it to the grand showcase.  She saved a whopping $125 dollars… HALF her bill! I knew immediately I’d made a huge mistake allowing my husband to witness this.  As we loaded $200 worth of nothing into the trunk of our car he casually asked, “So… why don’t we ever use coupons?”  There it was! I knew it!  From here on out I would be seen as “fiscally irresponsible” just because I don’t clip coupons.

It’s not that I’m against it.  Before I had two needy pets and a daughter meowing, barking and whining at me simultaneously I used to be one of those people who scoured the Sunday paper in search of discounts.  These days… we’re lucky if we have a gallon of milk in the fridge that isn’t two weeks out of date.  I recently tossed out a bottle of salad dressing that expired in 2006. Just minutes after that gruesome discovery, my daughter and I filled up a glass of water and dropped an egg inside to see if it was still safe to eat.  It’s a little trick I learned on the internet.  If the egg sinks, it’s still good.  See… I’m frugal!  Few people have the fortitude (or desire) to choke down out of date food.

As pathetic as it sounds, I’m starting to think I simply lack the organizational skills required to save money via a coupon.  This woman was a professional.  I’m not joking when I say that she had them secured in a photo album, and as if that weren’t enough… they were organized by aisle AND expiration date.  If coupon clipping were a competitive sport, this chick would be Tiger Woods.  I’m pretty sure I’d have to quit my job to compete at this level, and even then… I’d probably get my butt kicked.  The more I thought about it, the madder I got.  Who has this kind of time on their hands?  I haven’t even painted my nails in eight years!

It never fails.  Every time I try to use a coupon, something goes awry.  It’s either out of date, or I’m at the wrong store.  Half of the time I get so swept up in reading the gossip magazines in the check out aisle I forget to even USE the darn thing.  Then it rides around in the bottom of my purse for the next six months collecting lint.

The thing that really bugs me about coupons is all the strings that are attached.  Why can’t the manufacturers just give you the stinking discount?  Must I really be required to buy enough food to feed the Octomom’s family just to get a buck off?  Last week I actually fell for this one.  I bought three boxes of frozen sausage balls to meet the coupon criteria.  When I got home and opened the freezer, I realized I must have done the same thing the last time they were on sale because I’m now the proud owner of a half a dozen boxes… AKA: 144 sausage balls.  To bad there aren’t any Christmas parties coming up!  I think we’re single handedly keeping Tennessee Pride in business.  I jokingly asked my husband if he would mind helping our daughter set up a sausage ball stand at the end of the drive-way.  It’s our only hope of recouping our money.

The devil is ALWAYS in the details.  About six months ago I bought what seemed like a 40 lb. bottle of Tide Mountain Scent.  It took two grown men to help me load it into the cart.  When I got to the front, the Gestapo notified me that unfortunately, my coupon was for the Tide “with Febreeze”.  Frankly, they don’t make enough Xanax for moments like this.  And the absolute worst has to be the dreaded Macy’s coupon.  If you get one of their circulars in your mailbox… burn it.

Don’t get me wrong.  I LOVE that store, but have you ever tried to use one of their coupons?  If not… let this be your warning.  You have a better chance of winning the Powerball jackpot than finding something in that store that the coupon actually applies to.  In their defense, there’s a five paragraph disclaimer on the bottom of the coupon that identifies all of the things you CAN’T buy with it.  No jewelry, no make up, no furniture, no house wares, no Ralph Lauren (or for that matter, any designer you’ve ever heard of).  Please! Next time save some ink, and just tell me what I CAN use it on.

I’ll never forget the exact day I swore off coupons.  It was in 2003, when my daughter was just 18 months old.  I still have post traumatic stress every time I think about it.  I spent four hours on a Sunday afternoon clipping coupons, pruning expired ones and organizing for my trip to the store.  For once, I felt like I had the situation under control.

I walked in with an envelope that, not only contained the coupons, but also had my grocery list written on the outside with detailed instructions on what I was required to do to achieve the discount.  I was in the best mood.  Dalton and I were practically skipping down the aisles.  I guess I was prematurely basking in the glory of finally getting one over on the man.  All was right in the world… until I got to the ice cream aisle and started looking for my list.  Was it the Breyers or Flav-O-rich I had the coupon for?  The envelope… where’s the envelope?  It was gone.

I turned the cart upside down trying to find it.  The aisle looked like a tornado had touched down.  The contents of my cart were spread out all over the floor as I searched for the magic envelope.  When I realized it was gone, I began thinking back to when I had last seen it.  I went back six aisles to where I remembered my daughter playing with it.  Much to my dismay… it was nowhere to be found. Feeling helpless and out of control… I got down on all fours and began crawling around to see if I could find it.  Unfortunately, I’ll never know because just a few minutes into my search, I bumped my head into the store manager who said, “Ma’am, are you alright?”  No I was not alright!!!!  I just lost a ridiculously insignificant amount of money!  I thought it was best to just pay up and get out of the store before they called the men with the pretty white jacket to haul me off to the looney bin.

And that was it!  I vowed that day that I would never clip another coupon as long as I live, and I never have… until now.  I’m inspired.  If you have any tips, send them my way.

Anger Management

Why is everyone so angry?  My husband and I were just talking about it yesterday on the way home from church.  We drove past this couple out walking with big scowls on their faces.  Have you ever been to a restaurant and seen one of those couples who don’t even make eye contact with each other, let alone speak?  I guarantee you this was the same couple in exercise mode.  It was a beautiful day outside!  Turn that frown upside down.

This morning, while driving my daughter to school, I was greeted once again by one of these hate mongers. I’ll admit. I was doing something really stupid.  I entered the “exit” side of McDonalds.  Don’t act like you’ve never done it.  I had been sitting in bumper to bumper traffic for a half hour thanks to an interstate shutdown.  I’m pleading temporary insanity.

Anyway, this lady who was going the right way rolls down her window and starts flailing her arms at me, while shouting obscenities.  My daughter, the astute passenger that she is, said, “Mommy, she’s saying a bunch of bad words at you.”  I tilted my rearview mirror down so I could see her and said, with a big broad smile, “Yes, and do you see how much I care?  Zero. ” She threw her head back and started howling from the back seat.  I love that big belly laugh.  I didn’t want her to think these people were stealing my joy, but the truth is… they kind of were.  I probably deserved a head shake, maybe even a horn honk, but can we please get a hold of ourselves people?

It’s not just the roads either.  My e-mail account gets quite a workout too.  I have taken the liberty of cutting and pasting some of my “fan” mail below for your reading pleasure.  These are some of my favorites in order.  I’ve left the typos in tact for effect.

“I have felt compelled many times to send an email to you, but none so much as after viewing your story regarding the girl who won the duck calling contest. And i am not an uneducated and opinionated viewer. My father has worked for an NBC affiliate in Huntington WV for 30 years. You would not be allowed the priviledge to use the restroom in their station. Many times you have voiced a personal opinion on a story reported. My understanding is that as a news anchorwoman, you are to report the news and keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself. Although it may seem simple and stupid to you, there is a reason why many cities around the country hold contests to judge the talents of wild game callers. Grab a “kazoo” and pit yourself against them. Id love to see it. Your station has a few talented and professional anchorpersons; you, unfortunately, are not one of them. I will consistently turn to any other channel than WSMV anytime your face and name appears on my television.”

“Do you not know how to read the TelePrompTer or is the writing staff lazy, uneducated or ignorant? I only seem to catch mistakes that you make and while you may not be to blame you come across as less then intelligent. You seems to make these mistakes daily.”

I feel like I was sort of baited on these next two.  They start out nice enough, but things go south rather quickly.  

“I love that fact that you are back on the news and know it must be a real change from you police department gig. (I am making you feel good about yourself before the your fired part) Actually, you know you are very attactive, but please the lip liner has to go. Particularly in HD. Oh my god girl it makes you look like a guppy.”

“Jennifer… I enjoy watching enjoy watching you on the news. Just wanted to let you know that your dark roots are really showing. It really takes away from your looks. You should really pay attention to them as I believe the camera enhances them.”

Now, I’m all for constructive criticism.  I actually appreciate it, but something along the lines of “tone down the lip liner” would have sufficed.  He didn’t have to go overboard with the fish analogy.  The next day I got an e-mail from a plastic surgeon running a special, and I started to wonder if the two were somehow connected.  I had myself convinced that every Nip/Tuck Dr. in town must see my hideous lips and want to fix it.  Maybe I DO belong next to Katie Couric in the move “Shark Tale”.

The first one is probably the most disturbing of the four.  It was sent at 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night, two days after the fact.  We did a story on a duck calling contest, and I think I jokingly said something to the effect of, “Oh… that’s nothing.  Give me a kazoo.  I could do that!”  After reading her e-mail I started wondering if I should take Tae Kwan Do lessons or something so I can protect myself.  She obviously wants to choke the living daylights out of me.

Then there are the phone calls.  There are some people who want the instant gratification of hearing your response to the insult immediately after it’s delivered.  A man who sounded about 65 called my desk two months ago and offered to pay my salon bill if I’d go get something done with my hair.  I have no idea why I didn’t trace his number, track down his address, and bill him.

On the bright side, this stuff provides lots of entertainment for my girlfriends.  I’m like a stand-up comedian at our monthly get-togethers.  We can hardly get through the appetizers before they’re asking me what kinds of nasty things have been electronically hurled at me this month.  I keep saying I’m going to compile them into a coffee table book some day.

Every anchor I’ve ever known gets these, so I try not to take it too personally.  My sister-in-law works for a station in Indianapolis.  Her favorite is this one, “You look so much skinnier in person!”  As the receiver of that compliment, you always wonder just how fat you must look on their t.v. screen for them to even bring it up.  By the same token, what if they said you look much fatter in person?  Wouldn’t that be worse?  It’s almost like asking someone when their baby is due only to find out… they’re not pregnant.  It’s best just to leave it alone.  

I know there are some of you out there who can related to all of this.  You may not get viewer e-mails, but I’m willing to bet that within the past week, maybe at your work, your home, the grocery, or even gymnastics… someone has done something to you that was really mean spirited.  Do you know how much you should worry about that?  Zero

Happy Mother’s Day… Not!

Everyone warned me this would happen.  One day, when I least expected it, my precious little clone would lose interest in me and become more enamored with her father.  This Mother’s Day…  it happened.  Who knew her timing would be so impeccable?

I knew we were in trouble during our annual Mother’s Day photo shoot when she insisted on holding big carnations over my mom and I, making us look like bad versions of the Dr. Seuss character, Daisy head Maisy.  It was cute the first 45 snapshots, but when she refused to stop OR smile, things got ugly.  Right there in the middle of the Country Club parking lot she and I began wrestling over the two flowers like we were both seven.  The skirmish lasted less than a minute, when the unthinkable happened.  The heads of both flowers popped off in my hand.  Those things aren’t as durable as they look!

All the way home she fake cried, while peppering me with blame and insults over the floral casualties.  It’s pretty ironic given the fact that… THEY WERE MY FLOWERS TO BEGIN WITH.  Happy Mother’s day!  I guess it’s what we all sign up for when we agree to haul a human being around in our belly for nine months.  All humans are flawed by definition.  Did we expect it to get easier once they were on the outside?  Sunday afternoon, I decided to cut my losses and take my mom to a movie.

Looking back… the shift from my BFF to his has probably been percolating for a while now.  Starting out, it was like a game of two on one.  My husband and I were on the same team, and we didn’t quite know what to make of her.  As the years passed, she slowly began to realize that she and I were both girls, and he wasn’t.  It seemed like a novel concept to her at the time.  She’d dress up in my clothes, stumble around in my oversized heels, and dump my make-up all over the floor.  Despite the stains that are still embedded in my carpet, there was something endearing about the whole thing.

Lately, however, I’ve started to notice that old mom’s not quite cool enough to hang out with anymore.  Dad’s a better Nintendo player, a better grill cheese maker, even a better dresser.  Read between the lines.  This means he lets her walk out of the house in whatever she wants, regardless of how ill matched it may be, and for the record… there’s NEVER a hair accessory involved.  This is a huge plus for her since she prefers to brush her hair about once a week.

I’m just going to give it to you straight.  If a masked gunman breaks into our house tonight and she can only save one of us… I’m taking a bullet.  It kills me too because the day of the ultrasound, I nearly jumped off the examining table, jelly and all, when the technician told us we were having a girl.  I’m an only child, so my parents were equally ecstatic about the idea of helping raise another girl.

My husband, on the other hand, looked like he’d just been fired on national television by Donald Trump.  I kept waving my hand in front of his face, begging him to snap out of it, but his mind was made up.  For months, people would ask… “So what are you having?”  To which he would throw up his hands and reply, “Jennifer got her wish!  We’re having a girl.”  It was like he thought I’d somehow engineered the whole thing to mess up his life.

Fast forward seven years… and I’m suddenly the enemy!  I guess I should say “frenemy”.  Sometimes she loves me.  Other times I think she wants me to move back in with my parents so she and her dad can have the house to themselves.  It’s actually an idea I’ve toyed with from time to time.  I’d love to see that joint after a couple of weeks.  The yard would look fantastic, but they’d be up to their ears in cat poop.  Plus, the cupboards would be void of everything but a sleeve of saltines and a jar of Peter Pan… which the dog and cat would have to survive on as well.

I’ve also started to resent the disparaging way she describes my job to people.  On the way to school last week, she informed the carpooler that I “act stupid on television for a living”.  Excuse me? I can check my e-mails if I need that kind of insult.  Now, I will agree that OCCASIONALLY I might say something on-air that might somehow be misconstrued by some as stupid.  It happens, but there IS some news sandwiched in there between the dumb remarks.

After she said it, she must have felt a tinge of guilt, or at least concerned about her reputation.  She quickly followed up by saying, “But my daddy has a REAL job.”  The guy sells WHEEL WEIGHTS for a living!  I’m not knocking it. It puts food on the table, but come on!  She’s probably one of only a handful of females on the planet who even know what those are!

Every Mother’s Day our church does an annual baby dedication.  It’s truly adorable.  When the group paraded out on stage this year, I couldn’t help but remember that just seven years ago, our own family was standing up there, proudly introducing our bundle of joy to the world.  In the middle of my trip down memory lane, Dalton kicked me in the shin and asked for a Tic Tac.  When I looked back at those women smiling sweetly down at their daughters, I had to resist the urge to stand up and scream “Watch your back! She’s going to turn on you.”

When Pigs Fly

I hate to admit this, but for the past five days I’ve been periodically surfing the internet… wondering if I might have a “possible”, “probable”, or even a “confirmed” case of the swine flu.  It started around Wednesday when our swine flu coverage kicked into high gear.  By Friday, it was a full blown crisis.  Clinically speaking, I don’t think I meet the criteria to be considered a card carrying hypochondriac, (at least that’s what the on-line quiz said) but if there was a label out there for people who self diagnose themselves with illnesses via the internet, I’d be the poster child.  At times, I’ve spent so much time on WebMD I feel like I should qualify for some sort of on-line degree.

In a way it’s cruel having so much information so readily available.  The fact that I made a C in Health Education and have no medical expertise whatsoever… even as a candy striper… have yet to deter me from diagnosing myself with some of the world’s most dreaded diseases.  A couple of summers ago I found a deer tick on my arm.  Most people would simply twist the thing off counter clockwise and forget about it.  I, on the other hand, developed a fever several days later and became utterly convinced that I had a raging case of Lyme disease, hallucinations and all.

Two weeks ago I was leaning over the tub running my daughter’s bath when I noticed these white spots appearing on both arms.   I figured it had something to do with my circulation, so I walked down to the bonus room with my arms dragging the ground to demonstrate the problem to my husband.  He looked up from my daughter’s Nintendo game just long enough to roll his eyes and shake his head.  Low and behold, I googled the words “arm” and “white spots”, and what did I find?  Debbi226 had the SAME thing happen back in February.  I haven’t been to the doctor yet, but I think it may be the onset of Vitiligo.  Remember that skin disease Michael Jackson had? Don’t laugh!  My mother has it.  She hasn’t worn a sleeveless shirt in years.

As I was writing this blog, a friend also reminded me of the time I thought I had Lupus.  Don’t ask me why these people continue to hang out with me.  I can’t figure it out either.  Anyway, one day my thumb just started aching uncontrollably.  It was so bad I could barely hold a diet coke.  I started sweating as I discovered (with my good hand) that 9 out of 10 people who get it are WOMEN.  To make matters worse, it usually strikes between the ages of 15 and 45.  Guess who’s between those ages.  ME!  I walked around telling people I had Lupus for days before I realized it was just a case of “blackberry thumb”.  Apparently I’d gotten carried away with the new e-mail feature on my phone and induced a minor case of tendonitis.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that sometimes being this neurotic can backfire on you.  A year and a half ago I broke out in hives from head to toe the day of the Rick Springfield concert.   Despite the golf ball sized tumor on the side of my face, my husband just kept sipping his Starbucks insisting it was all in my head.  I had scratched off the top layer of epidermis on most of my body before he finally agreed to drive me to the hospital, and even as the ER Doctor administered a shot of epinephrine, my husband was making the cuckoo sign to his head.  Come to think of it, maybe this was some kind of payback for dragging him to the Rick Springfield concert.

Who knows… maybe it IS all in my head, but if I was trying to get a day off from work, my plan failed miserably.  When I stumbled into my boss’ office on Friday to explain my plight he never even looked up from his computer and said, “We’re in ratings.  You’re not going home unless we do a live shot from your bedside.”  He was joking.  (I think)  After shooing me out the door, he e-mailed me a link to what are quite possibly the funniest public service announcements I’ve ever seen in my life.  These actually AIRED!  They were released by the federal government after the last swine flu epidemic in 1976.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASibLqwVbsk

I sent these to my parents, thinking they would get a kick out of them.  My mom called me later and said “That’s not funny! I had it”.  Pardon moa?  Could it be possible that this whole self diagnosis thing pre-dates the internet?  Just when I started thinking the whole thing was hereditary she reminded me that she did, in fact, have the swine flu when I was five.  I actually remember it now!  All my dad knew how to cook was a fried egg.  I gagged my way through them for two days before my grandparents showed up to rescue me.

Anyway, I say all of this to say, my swine flu turned out to be a case of allergies.  Unless you have a golf ball sized tumor on your face, you should probably keep your mouth shut.

My Latest Obsession

Ok… I’ve admitted to a lot of embarrassing things via this blog.  You know that I’m a tight wad, shopping almost exclusively at Target.  I’ve made it perfectly clear that, despite my on-air demeanor, I do not… in any way… have my act together in real life.  The only thing worse than my organizational skills are perhaps, my eating habits.  Let’s face it.  I’m a train wreck… just like most of my other friends who are working moms.  I’ve recapped all of these personal deficiencies in an effort to soften the blow when I tell you about my latest obsession.  I am addicted… to “Twilight”.  My head is spinning faster than a vampire’s.  I don’t even know how this happened.

When the movie came out last year, I watched the entertainment networks doing wall to wall coverage.  Teenage girls were camping out for days to be the first to see the flick on opening night.  I found it all rather amusing because a) I’d never even heard of “Twilight” and b) The guy playing the main vampire, Edward Cullen, looked like he had just pulled his finger out of an electrical socket.  I didn’t understand what all of the hubbub was about.

I really never gave the movie a second thought until about four weeks ago, when my brother-in-law brought in a copy along with a stack of other DVD’s. I hate vampires and frankly, any kind of “magical wizardry”.  I actually used to tease people for reading/watching such trash, but whatever, it was Sunday afternoon.  We were bored, and decided to watch it for a good laugh.  The next thing I knew, I had been sucked into this crazy “Twilight” vortex.  I literally could NOT stop thinking about this ridiculous movie, more specifically Edward (crazy hair) Cullen.  What gives?  The movie is geared for twelve year olds!!!!!

On Monday, I decided to wander into the book section of Target just for fun. It wasn’t like I was going to BUY a copy of “New Moon” (the next installment of the vampire saga).  I just wanted to… you know… skim a few pages and then move on to some of my more pressing shopping.  Twenty minutes and a half a dozen ugly stares from employees later, I found myself wandering to the checkout line with my tail between my legs and a copy of the book under my arm.  I reasoned with myself that I pretty much HAD to buy it at this point.  After all… I’d already read three chapters in the middle of the store. By Friday, the 500 page book was history, and I started calling my husband “Edward” for fun.  He was not entertained, especially when I got out the blow dryer and a bottle of gel to try and give his hair that “messed up” look.  I saw an intervention of some sort on the horizon, but I couldn’t help myself.

Week 2: I put on sunglasses and a scarf and went to a different Target for book three, “Eclipse”.  I figured if I was going to continue buying these teeny bopper books without damaging my credibility, I should probably move around to different stores.  This was starting to feel really wrong but a little fun at the same time.  I nervously made up some excuse to the clerk about how my niece just “loves” these books.  She gave me a knowing look and said, “uh… huh.”  Why did I have to go there?  Just buy the stinking book and move on!  It seemed like, moving forward, I should remove the book cover so it wouldn’t be so obvious what I was spending all of my time on.  Don’t all books look alike underneath the fancy covers?  That night, I had to pick my daughter up from gymnastics.  Perfect!  I thought.  I’ll read for a half hour while I’m in there.

I sat down on the bleachers and opened up the book, careful to make sure no one could see the title.  I couldn’t help but notice that another mother two seats down was also reading a black book that was mysteriously missing its front cover.  Could I just leave it alone?  Of course not.  I said, “What are you reading?”  A wave of what appeared to be shock and embarassment crossed her face before she said, “Eclipse”.  I couldn’t contain myself.  I squealed, “Me too!”  We spent the next fifteen minutes comparing notes about Edward and Jacob.  Would you prefer a vampire or would you go for the werewolf?  What’s so special about Bella? She’s such a whiney baby.  Have you gotten to the part where the Volturi shows up?  I felt my mouth moving, and I heard words coming out, but I was also pretty convinced that someone had hijacked my brain.  This conversation was PROPOSTEROUS!!!  Five days later, I had finished “Eclipse”.

By this point, I wasn’t even bothering with false pretenses.  I nearly broke a heel off one of my shoes running to the book aisle last Friday morning.  Then… something horrifying happened, something even more horrifying than the fact that this book series almost cost me a pair of expensive pumps.  There were NO copies of the fourth and final installment, “Breaking Dawn”.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  There were THREE entire displays dedicated to “Twilight”.  I pilfered through all of them, book by book, but couldn’t find a SINGLE copy of “Breaking Dawn”.  I accidentally flagged down a customer wearing a red shirt before I finally found someone who actually worked at Target to see if they would check the back room.  Ten minutes later, he produced one tattered, dog eared copy.  I didn’t care.  I snatched it out of his hand like it was a 100-dollar bill and grabbed a copy of “Twilight” on the way out for good measure.  Remember… I had only seen the movie up to this point!  I might as well go back and read the first book, right?

When reflecting on this whole situation I couldn’t help but think… It’s utterly amazing how many dirty dishes and clothes can pile up in two weeks.  I haven’t been paying much attention to those lately.  I also thought that we must be very desperate as a society for romance.  When you strip “Twilight” down to its simplest form, it’s really just a modern day fairy tale that happens to mix in some vampires, werewolves and devil babies.

Girls, (especially those of you under the age of 20) pay very close attention to me.  Only in a Fairy Tale does your boyfriend look like a Calvin Klein model, drive a $250,000 car, own an exotic island, and give you a black card for wild shopping sprees.  Only in a Fairy Tale does that same guy give you permission to be in love with some other hot guy who’s equally appealing because “you’re too good for him”.  Only in a Fairy Tale does your boyfriend sneak into your bedroom every night and not get caught by your dad.  Do you see where I’m going with this?

There is one good thing that has come out of all this.  I overheard a girl the other day say, “I just told my boyfriend he needed to open my door like Edward.”  Guys… you may not be running your own Fortune 500 Company, but you might want to borrow your girlfriend’s copy of “Twilight”.  Some of Eddie’s moves are worth stealing.