“Fair Play”

This is such a sad admission, but I think I may officially be getting too old for the county fair.  I know … “Say it ain’t so!”  I’m having a hard time coming to grips with it myself.  It’s been a family tradition for us as far back as I can remember.  When I was a small child, my grandmother always took me to the Putnam County Fair, and ever since then, we have happily passed the torch from generation to generation.  We started taking my daughter when she was barely big enough to toddle over the massive power cables that blanket the fairgrounds.  This year, she started asking about the Wilson County Fair sometime around June.

Since it was clear we weren’t getting out of it, my husband and I decided to take one of her friends along so we’d all have a partner to ride with.  I mean, if you’re going to risk your life on a high-flying death trap, it’s better to be next to someone you love instead of a sweaty, homemade muscle shirt wearing stranger with permanent grease stains under his fingernails.  Sorry.  That was a little graphic.  I just had a flashback from last year.  Anyway, as it turns out, I should have been more concerned about my churning stomach than the seating arrangements.

Let me be clear.  I will ride ANYTHING.  I once got a mild concussion at King’s Island because I insisted on riding every single wooden roller coaster on the premises.  I pride myself on being fearless when it comes to thrill rides.  That said, there’s something about the aging process that’s really starting to mess with my equilibrium.  I’ll just come out and say it: Anything that spins makes me feel like I’m back in my first trimester of pregnancy … only it’s not the morning.  The pain is no longer outweighing the gain.

I think I probably made matters even worse this year by eating my weight in junk food before hitting the midway, but what was I to do?  By the time we got through the gate at 11:30 a.m., we were all famished.  Rather than eating something reasonable like the chicken on a stick, I dragged the kids from booth to popcorn-filled booth trying to find my all-time fair favorite: the homemade potato chips.  These are, unequivocally, the greasiest food on the planet.  When we finished the mound of greatness, the paper plate was soaked in Trans fats.  Still … I felt like I needed just a little something extra and sent my husband back for a deep-fried corn dog — yet another food not traditionally recognized for its nutritional benefits.

As we sat there stuffing our faces, I couldn’t help but notice a set of grandparents manning two children at the other end of the table.  Each of the youngsters had a fistful of cotton candy that was so sticky their fingers look like they’d been crazy glued together.  I couldn’t help but wonder if mere soap and water would do the trick on this or whether they might need to head straight for the first aid tent.  My deep thoughts must have caused me to stare a little too hard because the next thing I knew, they looked over and said, “Glad to see you two are living up to your parental duties.”  Translation:  “We’d rather be gut-punched than be here right now, but our deadbeat kid won’t bring them … so here we are.”  God love grandparents.  Aren’t they the best?!

My parents didn’t have fair duty, but they still get their “fair” share of the undesirable side chores.  Our daughter goes to their house every afternoon after school.  I venture to say my dad is the only 72-year-old in town who can boast of knowing all the lyrics to Miley Cyrus’  “The Climb” or who can say they’ve seen every single episode of “I-Carley” … twice.  My mother is sort of just the gopher.  They watch TV and make bold demands while she runs around the house like a chicken with her head cut off trying to meet them.  It’s like she’s babysitting two kids instead of one.  Some afternoons I think she actually weeps tears of joy when my husband gets there to pick our daughter up.

Anyway, back to the fair.  So we get on our second roller coaster, and just as we get in the seated position for takeoff … the ride shuts down temporarily.  I was slightly concerned, but decided to remain calm for the kid’s sake.  After about 10 minutes, one of the girls asked him what was wrong, and he pointed up to the far corner of the coaster where someone was working feverishly with a wrench.  He explained that the two beams were “shaking” on the last ride.  I was praying for the conversation to end there, but, of course, it didn’t.  My daughter goes on to ask what will happen if they don’t fix it.  No joke, the man threw back his half-toothless head and cackled before saying, “You fall down.”  OK … isn’t that a little extreme?  Surely there must be something between a shaky beam and a life-threatening situation?  Either way, I didn’t feel good about it, particularly when I looked down and saw some of the beams being held up by a stack of not-so-gently-used 2 x 4’s.

All in all, I have to say we had a really good time.  We dropped $150 bucks in four hours, and came home empty handed.  Somehow … it was still worth it to see our daughter’s ear-to-ear smile as she mounted a live camel for the first (and possibly last) time.  It was $5 for one trip around the ring!  Some memories are worth more than money or possessions, and I’d have to say … this was one of them.

“Stuff” Love

Have you ever noticed how much junk you have lying around your house?  I’m not talking about actual trash.  I’m referring to all that stuff you’ve been collecting over the years that you can’t quite seem to part with.  It’s really kind of ludicrous how we humans cling onto our possessions.  I’m reminded of this every evening when I open my garage door to find our gi-normous 1999 big screen staring back at me.  You may recall it got ousted from the bonus room about two months ago when we decided to join the rest of the civilized world and purchase a flat screen.  The trouble is, it never quite made it out of the house.

I tried to convince my husband to push the thing down to the end of the driveway to see if it might “disappear” overnight, but he thought that was a little too Sanford and Son.  Plus, he’s not quite ready to let go.  I can’t make sense of it.  I’m pretty sure we’re not hosting any Titans viewing parties down by the lawn mower this season.  If anything, it’s exacerbating our hoarding situation because now we’re using it as a place to stack up other useless junk we no longer want.  As I pulled out this morning I noticed it’s now holding a couple of empty Coke bottles and a stack of junk mail.  I’m about 30 seconds away from calling 1-800-JUNK to see if they can squeeze us into their schedule.

The truth is, if you came over to our place and did a walk-through, you’d have no idea what all is lurking behind closed doors.  We are masters of disguise.  We have identified every viable nook and cranny in our house and packed it to the gills with stuff we really don’t want but won’t toss.  I could build a ladder to the moon and back with all of the koozies we have shoved in the cabinet beneath our stove.  We wouldn’t DARE let you roam around in our house unescorted, for fear you might stumble across our extensive cassette tape collection, the 45 vases left over from every flower arrangement my husband has ever sent me, or our matching Members Only jackets that are still crammed in the hall closet.  In our defense, we kept those in case we’re ever invited to an impromptu costume party.  There’s nothing like a brick phone, a Members Only jacket and a pair of old school Ray Bans to entertain your friends.  It’s sad when you get so old that your own belongings become costumes.

Before my daughter started school a couple of weeks ago I decided to tackle her room just to demonstrate that I am capable of actually removing something from the house every once in a while.  I figured it would be easier to start in a room containing things that aren’t technically mine.  Wrong!

When I finally had everything pulled out from underneath the bed and the back of her closet I could barely see the floor.  Stray dominoes, Barbie doll shoes, two playing cards from an unknown deck, one hand-knitted baby bootie, a hairball left behind by the cat… there’s no limit to the laundry list of bizarre items I discovered in my floor.  Of course, I was tempted to throw it all in the nearest trash can, but then I started worrying about what I would do if she came home and discovered something missing.  I got so nervous, I shoved everything but the hairball back where I found it and got the heck out of there.

The whole thing is so emotional.  How could I possibly get rid of the picture she drew of me at the age of 2?  Forget about the fact that I’m a stick person with hair that looks like one of the band members from Motley Crew.  It was her FIRST attempt!  I can’t just put that in the trash … or can I?  That’s the big conundrum.  What do you get rid of, and what do you keep?

What really baffles me is that when you finally DO decide to weed some things out, it never seems to make a difference.  I’ve taken countless loads of baby clothes, lamps, books, luggage, dishes, etc. to Goodwill, but the junk just seems to multiply.  It’s like one of those $12 salads you get at a fancy restaurant.  You can eat and eat and eat, and the pile of lettuce never goes anywhere.  What’s up with that?

Channel 4 is even worse than my house!  I took my family on a tour recently and made the mistake of taking them into this room underneath the newsroom that we commonly refer to as “the cage.”  It looks like something Hannibal Lector might have set up to house his victims in.  I’m convinced that every computer monitor that’s ever entered this building in the past two decades is still sitting down there in a big pile, and they’re the size of my microwave.  I can’t believe we used to have the desk space for those things.  With the exception of a roll of Christmas wrapping paper I found jutting out of a box, it was like a graveyard for old television equipment, none of which I’m assuming actually works.

I’ve decided that, even if it kills me, I’m going home tonight with a commitment to throw out at least three things a week.  At the moment, I have my sights set on a broken CD player that hasn’t been used since 2003.  Who knows … maybe my collection of malfunctioning cell phones will be next.  I’m pacing myself, but I challenge you to do the same.  Let it go!  It will be therapeutic, and if you know anyone who needs an out-of-date big-screen television… tell them to give me a buzz.

Mid-life Crisis

First, I want to say thanks to those of you who e-mailed me and sent Facebook messages this week on my birthday.  I was completely overwhelmed that so many people even remembered it.  Personally, I can’t remember the birthdays of my own relatives unless someone reminds me.  I would also be remiss if I didn’t give a very special shout out to the woman who sang the “Cha, cha, cha” birthday song on my voice mail.  I’m omitting your name to protect your dignity, but you know who you are.  All in all … I’d have to say it was one of my best birthdays yet.

I like to think of my birthdays as a month-long celebration.  In mid-July, when we were gearing up for it, my husband asked me what I wanted.  For some reason, I really couldn’t come up with anything this year, so I asked for a set of micro fiber sheets and a couple of mattress pads.  Pretty high maintenance, huh?

I know it sounds ridiculous, but our mattress pad was cheap when we bought it in 1998 and is now practically threadbare.  As for my daughter, she’s still using the plastic one we put on her bed five years ago when she was potty training!  I think once you make it more than 1,800 days without having an accident, you’ve probably “graduated” to something a little more sophisticated than a layer of Rubbermaid beneath your fitted sheet.

She doesn’t even notice it.  I’m the one getting anxiety attacks. Like most 7-year-olds, she still INSISTS that I lay down with her every night for “just one minute,” which invariably turns into half the night. Every time I try to make my big 007 exit from the bed, I get busted.  One eye pops open, and she says, “Where are you going?”  The darn thing is so LOUD! It’s impossible to escape undetected.  It’s not easy peeling your skin off that stuff!

As lame as the gifts may look on paper, I really did believe they would enhance the quality of my life.  Plus, they always say you should buy people things they wouldn’t normally buy for themselves. Clearly, those haven’t been high on my priority list, since we’ve been sleeping on them for 11 and 5 years, respectively.  When I gave my husband the list he just stared at me blankly and suggested that we go on a three-day houseboat trip with some friends instead.

Thankfully, my parents offered to keep our daughter so she could honor her commitment to recreate the role of a rabid bat in the last three performances of “Beauty and the Beast.” By the way, she was the most dramatic bat out there (imagine that), and the play ended up being a huge hit.  I take back all that nasty stuff I said about the drama camp being a sweat shop.  She loved it!

So last Friday afternoon, we left for Dale Hollow, which is in the middle of nowhere.  Just the drive alone was a nice break from the usual rat race.  Unfortunately, when we got there, I developed what can only be described as a premature mid-life crisis.  After we met up with the other three couples and got the houseboat settled into the cove, we decided to go get in a couple of good ski runs while the water was nice.  I’ve decided the Legislature should pass some kind of law prohibiting people from putting on a slalom ski past the age of 30.  Texting and driving is kids play compared to the death defying situation I found myself last Friday afternoon.

Honestly, you would have thought I was trying out for some kind of pro circuit.  I absolutely lost my mind.  The faster the boat went, the more confident I became.  Everyone was giving me the big thumbs-up, while cranking the radio up to “11” as you might recall from the movie “Spinal Tap.” Anyway, about five minutes in, while crossing the wake at 45 mph, I buried the front of my ski into the water, sending myself flying through the air into a full-out face plant followed by a series of somersaults that must have made me look like a full-blown cartoon character.  Who knew you could get lake water behind your eye balls?

After recovering from the daze and confusion of this massive fall, all I could think about was how I was going to fill in for Demetria on all the shows this week wearing a neck brace and eye patch.  I’m sure the gawk factor alone would have garnered us a lot of the other stations’ viewers, but I’m not sure looking like Johnny Depp in “Pirates of the Caribbean” is exactly what my boss had in mind.  At one point, I think I actually reached up to see if my eyelids were wrong-side out.  As they say, everything happens for a reason.  My lesson this birthday was: start acting your age.

On Saturday afternoon, I got another wake up call around 1 p.m.  Cell coverage is sketchy in those parts, which turned out to be a very bad thing for me.  I missed a call from my daughter, and she left a very distraught voice mail explaining the horror of her morning.  Apparently she and her “poppy” had been out turtle shopping and discovered that it is ILLEGAL in Tennessee to purchase a turtle.  I wonder how many days it took on the hill to push that one through.  It must have been like the big health care debate. What’s even more troubling is that before she hung up, she asked me if we had anywhere to house a baby elephant because that’s what my crazy father had offered to buy her to get her to stop crying. I really need to be more selective with who I leave her with.

On Sunday, we stopped in a marina on the other end of the lake to check out some possibilities for next year’s big houseboat extravaganza.  I couldn’t have been more mortified when a man hosing down a boat said, “Hey, ain’t you that TV lady?” Let me be clear. I was flattered beyond words that someone watches me. If I had time, I’d send every viewer a thank-you card every night just for tuning in.  Viewers are the reason I’m EMPLOYED.  The trouble is, I hadn’t put on make up, bathed or even bothered to brush my hair/teeth in more than 48 hours.  Thank goodness he didn’t have a camera.

As I was walking away waving with a mixture of elation and nausea, he said, and I quote, “Oh, one last thing.  When you get back to work tomorrow, tell Leland I said hi.  I love that guy.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.  It reminded me once again that local news anchors really are like B-level actors. Everyone recognizes you, but they have no idea which movie you starred in.

My best gift of the week wasn’t the trip, the mattress pads or the sheets (which I still got). It came this morning as I was driving my daughter to school.  I’ve been away a lot at night this week because I’ve been doing the 10 p.m. for Demetria.  (I hope this is not news to you, by the way; otherwise, that means you haven’t been watching!)  Anyway, out of nowhere this morning my daughter said, “Mom, it’s no fun at night when you’re not there.  I’m glad you’re back on your regular schedule next week.”  I didn’t even think she noticed!  What a pleasant surprise.  She truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

Happy Friday!

Smokin’ Hot Vacation

Well, I’m back from my mini-beach vacay, and as always, I learned a lot.  For example, be careful who you park your family next to in the crystal white sand.  There was a time and a day when my husband and I didn’t give a rip who we sat next to.  In fact, the more bizarre they were … the better.  It gave us something to talk about later or perhaps even in front of them, depending on how inebriated they were.  From now on, I’m going to personally interview everyone within eyesight and maybe even conduct a background check before selecting an umbrella to sit under.

Day one we got out there so late we didn’t have a choice.  All of the waterfront umbrella sets were taken, so the over-tanned guy in the tiki hut shoved us on the second row next to five families. .. who had all “chipped” in to get a three-bedroom condo together.  Counting the kids … there must have been 22 of them.  Under normal circumstances, I would find this a little radical, but since we’re in a recession, I decided to stop being such a judgmental Prima Donna and give them a break.  Everyone deserves a vacation … right?

Actually, I couldn’t help but have a flash back to my junior year in college when my best friend and I shared a “cot” for a couple of nights in Daytona Beach.  I think we had nine girls in the room altogether, bringing our total to $11 bucks a night.  Come to think of it, we were supposed to share the cot for a whole week, but the second day of our trip, a girl from another state was found dead in one of our hotel dumpsters.  We found out about it the next day when the news crews showed up to do a story on it, and would you BELIEVE … I refused to do an interview with them?  Shocking!

That afternoon we thought it would be prudent to call our parents and let them know we were still alive, you know, in case the story ended up on … the “Today Show.”  Actually, I couldn’t wait to tell them because the only reason we were staying in that cramped up rat hole was because my dad refused to pay for Spring Break.  He wanted to “teach me a lesson” by having me pay for the trip myself.  I was sure this would send him into cardiac arrest … and it did.

The next thing we knew, he had made a few phone calls to his boss, Ron Rice, (a.k.a.: Founder of Hawaiian Tropic) and we were whisked away to his 10,000-square-foot, beachfront mansion. Frankly, I don’t know why it took all that drama to get us a decent place to stay. In my opinion, we should have been hanging out in the lap of luxury in the first place!

Anyway, back to this year’s vacation.  We got along fine with the family of 22 … until about an hour in, when they started spewing curse words like it was their job.  I’ve never explained so many colorful words to my daughter in my life, and some of the conversations they had presented obstacles of their own.  For example, how exactly do you explain to a second grader how Debbie Row birthed Michael Jackson’s baby, but neither of them were the real mommy or daddy (maybe), or … maybe they were.  Either way, it was a mess.  Getting the concept of in vitro fertilization across to a 7-year-old is no small feat.  Finally, I just gave up and told her to get back to me when she’s 12.

If anyone in our family ever gets lung cancer, it’s because of the family we sat next to day two.  Look, I’m not one of those anti-smoking freaks.  I spent the first five years of my life in a mobile home with two chain smokers.  It’s an addiction.  I get it.  Smoke ‘em’ if you got ‘em!  To each his own … blah, blah, blah.

Just don’t blow the side stream smoke straight up my nostrils!  The woman next to us was one of those “around the back” smoke blowers.  I’m sure you’ve seen them before.  They’re the people who don’t want to offend anyone they’re talking to, so they blow the smoke over their shoulder, leaving the person behind them in a cloud of carcinogens.  What made it worse is that she turned her chair so that her back was directly facing me.  It couldn’t have been more pungent had she been blowing it at me through two straws.  I thought I was going to throw up.

I considered hiring a team of professional smokers armed with a pack each to go down there and let her have it, but then I found out cigarettes in Florida are $7 a pack!  Apparently we were sitting next to the Rockefellers.  I can’t afford that kind of revenge.  Instead, we decided to just go down to the ocean and hope she’d eventually run out.

Unfortunately, she didn’t, and I discovered that she and her husband were also armed with a boatload of Coors Light.  After about a dozen each, they decided to start arguing over politics.  Between big, groping handfuls of Cheetos, he tried to tell her what a mess the country was in, and she tried to defend the opposite side … though I could never quite figure out what that was.  Both were so nonsensical you couldn’t make out who was a Democrat and who was a Republican.

I guess it’s good to have your kids exposed to different things.  You can’t shelter them forever, but for the record, I’m buying a set of noise-canceling headphones and a gas mask for our next trip to the beach.

Baby Boom … Cha Ching

OK … I am officially getting on a soap box this week.  It’s perfectly OK for you to disagree with my analogy, but let’s have a healthy debate.  No hate mongers are allowed to leave a response.

Am I the only one sick of people getting knocked up with multiple kids as a career move?  I have to admit that initially, I was intrigued with the “Jon and Kate Plus 8″ drama as well as the so-called Octomom.  It was hard to ignore them when their faces were staring you down in every check out aisle.  I’m just as voyeuristic as the next shopper.  If there’s a wait, I’ll pick up a trash mag and see what’s going on out in Hollywood.  I guess I could go to one of the do-it-yourself registers, but I can never seem to get through one without causing a scene, so now I just wait my turn over with the other people who are either too inept or lazy to help themselves.

When all this started about six months ago, I didn’t even know who Jon and Kate Gosselin were.  Still, the stories were so salacious it was hard not to read them.  It’s kind of like rubber-necking at an accident on the interstate.  We all think it’s stupid, but end up doing it anyway.  My husband, daughter and I eventually had to start watching the show to make sense of the articles.  I was hooked for about a month, but the night of the on-air divorce announcement I decided … enough already!!!  This is ridiculous.

Here’s the situation as I see it.  Kate started out as an overwhelmed mom. Somewhere along the way, she turned into an aspiring author turned celebrity turned Prima Donna who forgot why they were doing the show in the first place.  As for Jon, he’s having some kind of mid-life crisis that, unfortunately for him, is being documented frame by frame.  Let’s just be frank.  The guy was a complete dork when the show started, and now he’s somehow trying to “cool” himself up with overpriced T-shirts, motorcycles, diamond earrings that are way to big for any straight man and a bevy of chicks who, just like Kate, are dying for the publicity.

Here’s my question: Who’s watching the kids? The show was on a hiatus for a time.  I can’t help but wonder if it was because Kate and Jon have left the kids back at the mansion to raise themselves, which … at this point … might actually be a healthier scenario.  If I had to guess, I’d say Kate’s somewhere tanning while simultaneously getting her acrylic nails filled, and Jon’s probably smoking weed in the hottest NYC club he can find with whoever decided they wanted to make their debut on Star magazine this week. I’m expecting him to pop up next to Sean (P.Diddy) Combs just any day now.

Today, we were going over the rundown for the 6:30 p.m. show, and I had to laugh out loud at one of the stories.  Apparently there’s a reverse mullet wig you can now buy online.  It’s being marketed to those wanting to go as Kate Gosselin this Halloween.  It’s actually pretty close to the real thing, minus the dark roots in the back which she insists on showcasing by using hair gel to stand the hair straight up.  The other benefit is that it’s cheap — just $15 bucks!

Not since Pippi Longstocking has such a bizarre haircut swept the nation … and I don’t really understand how this haircut happened to her.  Does her salon not have a mirror? Let’s face it, sometimes I run out of clean clothes and have to throw on an outfit I know is God awful.  People politely compliment me, but inside … I still know it’s hideous.  I do not start wearing it every day like a uniform! What she needs is a good girlfriend who will sit her down and say, “Kate, the haircut has to go.  It’s just plain weird, and you’re never going to find a man to help raise your half-a-dozen-plus children with that crazy hair.”

Obviously, I would be remiss if I didn’t also include the Octomom in this week’s blog.  Now there’s a real brain trust.  Have you ever watched one of her interviews?  It seems like she’s either drugged or has brain damage, neither of which is conducive to child rearing.  In fact, I know moms with just three kids and a loving husband who sometimes consider hopping a Greyhound bus headed for nowhere just to get out of the house.  How this woman thinks she can raise 14 alone is a mystery to me.  Mothering is not for amateurs, and it sure as heck isn’t for someone who’s also trying to nurse a budding career as a pseudo-celebrity.

When did this happen to us, anyway?  When did we send out the message that all you had to do to become famous was have a litter of kids?  Oh, and if you throw a set of twins into the mix … that’s doubly good.  (Pun intended)  I say we boycott!  Don’t watch this trash.  Let’s figuratively tell Jon Gosselin to get a J-O-B instead of fixating on his “New York Digs” and urge Kate to spend a little less time at the spa and a little more time raising her kids.

OK … I’m off my soap box, and I’m also off for a week starting Wednesday.  Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t think I got fired. 

Reunited and it feels… not so good.

It’s official!  My blog just turned one.  Anyone want to bring a cake by the station?    Actually, the only reason I remembered is because it coincided with my annual family reunion in Baxter, TN which, you may remember, provided the fodder for my first blog.  Don’t bother going through the archives.  I didn’t trash anyone.

In fact, I’m quite proud of my family tree.  Apparently one of my distant cousins was among the spies who flew over Cuba during the missile crisis and reported back to President Kennedy about it.  He just received some big award for that in Texas, and have I ever mentioned that my cousin, Gator Harrison, is a ridiculously popular country DJ who once won a CMA award for Best Country Personality?  I’m sure I have.  I tell everyone who’ll listen.   Somehow it validates me… like being related to a really popular on-air personality will somehow make me one too.

And for the record, I would say all of those nice things about him even if he WEREN’T trying to help my seven year-old score a meet and greet with Taylor Swift.  Speaking of which…Taylor if you’re reading this… would you PLEASE let me know the next time you decide to roam the Streets of Indian Lake with your hot famous boyfriend?  The last time she did that (with Joe Jonas no less) my daughter and I were swimming just a mile away.  Let me assure you, we would have both done the back stroke all the way there had we known they were that close.

Now that all of that shameless self promotion is out of the way, let me get on with the business of telling you about the nightmare that has become my life.  Here’s how it all started.  For the past two years I’ve been thinking “Wow, I can’t believe my 20 (uh… I mean 10) year high school reunion is just around the corner.”  I spent the whole summer rushing to the mailbox looking for an invitation that never came.

About two weeks ago it finally dawned on me that there WAS no such reunion in the works.  What I should have done is said, “Well darn, that’s too bad.  It would have been fun to see everyone.”  What I did instead is kick into Laura Croft Reunion Planner mode.  What was I thinking?!   Have you ever tried to pull one of these things off?  It’s miserable even for the most organized, stay-at-home, Martha Stewart-like control freak. It’s definitely no job for a train wreck like myself.

Ask ANYONE who knows me and they’ll tell you that I’m extremely unorganized and overbooked.  Most days, I’m barely keeping the lids on the boiling pots.  For example, this morning I had to race my daughter to the bowling alley for a field trip because I forgot the bus left at 10:00.  Embarrassing as this sounds, even our dog seems to recognize how much the situation has deteriorated. Every time I drop him off at the kennel I have to spend 10 minutes chasing him around the gravel parking lot in my high heels.  It’s like he knows there’s a chance I may forget to ever come back and pick him up.

Reunion planning/Week One: I spent the entire seven days stalking people like some kind of private detective.  I had a sketchy list that the school had given me, but I would say nine out of every 10 e-mail addresses were wrong.  I’m convinced that if people moved as much as they changed e-mail addresses, U-Haul’s stock would rival Microsoft.  Next, I hit the online White Pages for those I couldn’t find a good e-mail address for.  It’s amazing how many Mike Colemans there are in Tennessee.  I would need to hire a call center out of India to figure out which one is THE Mike Coleman I’m looking for.  Since I only have about 10 to 15 extra minutes a day to spare, I’m just hoping he’s reading this blog and will give me a buzz.

The other thing I learned is that once you finally DO get some of these people’s numbers, they’re either screening me or they’re NEVER at home.  To make matters worse, they have voice mailboxes that are either “full” or “not set up.”  Who does this?  I mean, maybe I’m just curious by nature, but when I walk into my house and there’s a message on the machine, there’s this innate temptation to …  I don’t know … FIND OUT WHO CALLED!  How does it get “full?”  As for not setting it up to begin with … Why are you even paying for the service?  We’re in an economic crisis here!

I hate to say it, but I’m really starting to wonder if some of my former classmates are either in prison or the Witness Protection Program.  It’s either that, or they simply don’t WANT to be found.  One guy went to Las Vegas and hasn’t been seen since.

Personally, I loved high school, but apparently not everyone did.  One classmate I managed to actually get on the phone laughed in my face, told me she wouldn’t be there and said she didn’t have an e-mail address because she was “too busy” for all that.  I had to resist the urge to drive over to her place to see if they were cooking on a wood-burning stove and doing homework on clay tablets.  I’m having a real hard time believing someone in their 30s doesn’t have Internet access or an e-mail account.  I can GUARANTEE you she has no idea I’m on the news because they’re waaaay too busy to go get a converter box.  Who needs to get all bogged down in current events anyway, right?

Week Two: I realize we have no money.  I don’t know why this was such a surprise.  What money tree was I expecting to shake to get this plane off the ground?  Most of the places I called had a sky-high room-rental fee.  When you add in the food, invitations, decorations, DJ (maybe I should call Gator) … the bills really start piling up. I feel like I’m planning a second wedding, minus the guy who bankrolled the thing.  My dad might loan us a couple of RVs for the event, but that’s about it.

On my daily trip to Target, I stumbled across these invitation “kits” that have everything included.  I know.  It’s cheesy but simultaneously cool for those on a tight budget.  They have the RSVP cards and everything all included.  If I can just get a clue and figure out how to print the things out, I’m in business.

Here’s my biggest dilemma.  How do you get money coming in for an event that’s two months away?  I, myself, am too inept to get the check in before the week of the event.  Heck, most of the time I never even send an RSVP, which I already know is incredibly rude.  Thank goodness September’s Cafe is trying to help my lame behind.  If it weren’t for them, I would have already thrown my hands up.

Any ideas on how to fund this thing or make it more fun — please send them my way.

Reunited and if feels …  not so good.

Camper’s Delight… parent’s plight

A couple of weeks ago I got really sad when I looked at our calendar and realized the summer was almost over.  I couldn’t help but get nostalgic… thinking about how quickly childhood summers seem to evaporate.  (sniff, sniff)

Fast forward to today, and I’m not sure I’m going to survive the rest of it.  My daughter has so many extra curricular activities, camps and social events planned that I’m starting to feel like one of President Obama’s White House schedulers, and if I’m her scheduler… that must make my mom and husband the pilot and co-pilot of Air force one since they’re the ones constantly hauling her around from place to place.

Life was so much simpler in years past!  We signed her up for a summer camp that was held at her school, and it lasted almost the entire break.  The gaping hole that plagues us working parents every summer was conveniently filled.  This year… I think it might have been easier if I’d just taken her to work with me every day and stashed her underneath the news desk.  (For the record, I’ve only done that once!)

The drama started (literally) around mid-March when my dad called with a proposition that complicated the summer of 09′ in a way none of us could have predicted.  Admittedly, I was on deadline at work and only half paying attention when he pitched this big idea.  All I remember is something about a drama camp, how she could be the next Reese Witherspoon, and that he would pay for it.  Ding, ding, ding!  THAT’S when I started to really focus on the conversation.  Two weeks of free childcare?  I’m in.  It’s my own little stimulus package.  Guess who just turned into Ben Bernanke!

I asked my daughter about it that same night.  She said it sounded fun, and within twelve hours the deal was sealed.  Little did we know, we had just signed her up for what would turn out to be a sweat shop for wanna be child stars and their parents!  I thought the drama was all supposed to unfold on stage, but apparently it’s a docudrama.  Much of the action takes place at the children’s homes while they and their parents juggle their lives around to try and figure out how to accommodate the rigorous rehearsal schedules AND get them to the eight “Beauty and the Beast” performances we agreed to have her perform in.  Eight performances!  When I got the schedule I nearly flipped my fake blonde lid.

The more I read, the worse it got.  She was supposed to be at two rehearsals, each of which lasted about four hours.  In addition to that, her group was supposed to perform Thursday thru Sunday on two separate weeks… both of which, by the way, were already spoken for.

I’m confused.  I thought we were paying for her to go to some little artsy camp where she’d come home, do a monologue in our living room, and we’d all clap profusely.  This was a full blown professional production!  I figured that out pretty quickly when I gently approached one of the workers to explain how we would not be able to make it to three of the weekend performances.

It’s as if the world stopped spinning on its’ axis.  Suddenly, I was looking into the eyes of Mrs. Hannigan from the play “Annie”.  She pulled her glasses down and looked at me like I had just told her I was dropping out of high school to study cosmetology.  From that moment on, I knew these people were no force to be reckoned with.  Nobody puts baby in the corner, but frankly I was more comfortable there after this little episode.  The message was sent loud and clear, “Straighten up… or get out!”

Monday night was the first four hour rehearsal.  That’s half a workday, but who’s counting?  My husband called me every hour to discuss his plight… sitting through a play our daughter was barely in.  Unfortunately, she did not get the lead role.  Instead, she is a bat/villager… which adds up to about three full minutes on stage.  On Tuesday, I took the bullet and watched her spin wildly around Belle “posing” as a menacing bird.  As I watched the scene, I couldn’t help but think that she looked a little too friendly with her long blond hair flowing out from underneath her black hat.  Come to think of it, did they even HAVE bats in the original story?  I’ve read that bedtime story a bazillion times, and I swear… I don’t remember a swarm of rabid bats going after Belle.  I was going to look when I got home, but it was 11:05.  We were both bleary eyed and in need of sleep.

I guess it’s official.  I’m no Terry Shields.  I couldn’t care less if my daughter has anything to do with acting, dancing, modeling, singing, or any kind of “show biz” for that matter.  Now… I did put her on a meth poster once when I was at the TBI, but that was an act of desperation after no one else would let their child do it.  The point is… I have no desire to push her in any particular direction, but she seems to be having fun so we’re going with it.  The play starts next week, and my dad has already purchased a block of tickets for everyone he knows.

On the bright side, if this acting thing doesn’t stick, my husband has a back up plan.  Earlier this summer, he put her in a golf, tennis, swimming camp.  If this bat role doesn’t win her an Oscar, she can at least consider being a professional athlete.  Of course she got reprimanded for taking off in a golf cart unattended and almost got thrown out.  Maybe she’ll be a professional racecar driver.  Only time will tell.

Flat Broke

My husband’s been toying with the idea of buying a flat screen television for three years now.  Every Sunday he meticulously combs the sale papers looking for the best deal.  About once a week, he can be found in the back of Best Buy where they have 65 sets lined up in various sizes, tints, and hues.

For the record, I kick and scream every time he drags me back there.  The only thing more mind numbing than staring at those screens would be if I took him to the mall, lined up 65 identical pairs of black shoes, and asked him to tell me which ones he liked the best.  Do you see where I’m going with this?  THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME!  I love how all the stores have started putting on the Discovery Channel featuring close ups of some frog or butterfly mating… like THAT’S going to seal the deal.

Anyway… I guess I finally drank the Kool Aid.  The other day we did a story about how this is “THE” time to buy electronics before the recession ends.  As much as I really doubt we’re in jeopardy of that happening anytime soon, I told my husband I was ready to push our 1999 big screen out the second story window.  Frankly, it looks about as out of date in our bonus room as “The Karate Kid” does at the video store.  I say “video store” because the film’s so old they probably don’t even have a DVD version of it.

It’s never been the flat screen I was against.  I’ve wanted one for years too.  What I HAVE been against is all the redecorating this is going to require.  Right now our mammoth antique set is eating up an entire corner of the bonus room.  What am I supposed to do with the big hole that’s left behind when we mount the new set on the wall, and secondly, where are we going to put all of the junk that’s currently piled up behind that bad boy.  I’m afraid to move it.  There could be ground hogs living back there.

Last Friday I decided to just go furniture shopping and try to figure this thing out.  It seemed simple enough.  I see furniture I want all the time when I’m NOT looking.  Unfortunately, now that I am… there’s nothing.  This is a little off topic, but have you ever noticed how the stuff in Pottery Barn and West Elm NEVER look the same in your house as they do in their catalogues?  What gives?  Am I too stupid to accessorize?

The furniture looks great when I buy it.  It looks fantastic sitting in the back of our Forerunner on the ride home, but as SOON as I take it inside my house… it turns into a complete snob.  It’s almost like it suddenly realizes it’s too good to hang out with my Pier one end table and Rooms to Go couch.  Last year I bought a buffet table from West Elm for our bonus room.  It was so uncomfortable sitting near my Target lamp I had to separate them.  I’m not sure who needs therapy more… me, or my furniture.

Anyway, late last Friday I went into this store that I knew was probably too expensive.  What the heck though.  I haven’t bought anything in a while.  Plus, I though I’d finally reached a point in my life/career where buying a chair wouldn’t bankrupt us.  Boy was I wrong.  I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only there was no Richard Gere waltzing in to pick up the tab.

I must have spent an hour with my new best friend picking out fabrics, describing my bonus room in graphic detail, and testing out my new chair.  I think we even talked about having sushi sometime, but now everything’s kind of fuzzy.  I think I was in some kind of shopping induced stupor.  When I made my way to the cash register to ask what the damage was, I sobered up immediately.  She couldn’t even say it out loud.  She printed out a piece of paper and tapped on the price.

It was $2,900!!!  I kept staring at the numbers on the paper expecting them to change or thinking maybe the decimal had been misplaced.  All the while, I could hear her talking about how this is great news!  Their 20% off sale had really knocked the price down.  I casually backed out of the store trying not to break anything while muttering something about talking to my husband about it.  Seriously, do people really feel comfortable sitting in $3,000 chairs, or do you just rope them off and put a spotlight on them like some kind of museum piece?  I thought about maybe just biting the bullet and charging people to sit there, but it seemed a little low rent.

So… unless I can find a buyer for one of my kidneys or figure out a way to have the chair drive me to work, I guess I’m going to have to keep looking.  Any ideas?  Send them my way.

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?