Mariah and the Meaning of Christmas

Mariah's best feature...

I am not a Mariah Carey fan, as a matter a fact I detest everything about her. To me, Mariah is the epitome of everything that is wrong with women's perception of ourselves-everything about the woman screams insecurity. Her skirts always seem a little too short, her makeup a little too overdone,her boobs a little too on display. I just want to slap her, remind her she is a beautiful woman with a ridiculous amount of talent and tell her to settle down. Her songs seem the same way to me. Why scream when you have a beautiful voice? We know you can travel through multiple octaves, it's not necessary to do it on every note. In short, Mariah, calm your spandex-encased ass down and just sing. Enjoy your smoking hot husband and stop traipsing about needing everybodys attention, Mariah-you are the original attention whore.
Which is why I wonder if it's a sign of the impending end of the world that I find myself enjoying Mariah's Christmas melodies. That's right, now playing on my Pandora- All I Want For Christmas Is You....and Christmas music by The Jackson 5. And a lot of Christmas Music that would best be described as Chamber Music, as in Hark The Herald Angels Sing by Felix Mendelsshon (who's name I probably misspelled, but that's okay, you probably haven't heard of him anyway). Felix would be playing on the Classical Christmas Station, which I listened to on a two hour drive the other night. Many hymns were sung and much of the music was instrumental on the Classical Christmas Station, there were several offerings from the music of The Nutcracker. This might not seem like a strange choice of driving music unless you know me very well and know that my other Pandora stations are things like Gucci Mane radio, Eminem radio, Jay-Z radio, and for light listening-Kanye radio. When I am feeling whimsical, I have Beyonce radio. It may not seem odd I listened to two hours of Christmas music except that I work in retail, where Christmas music is piped in my ears 8 hours a day, much of it Mariah. And I mostly detest Christmas music.

 I eat these, I don't make them

It might not seem odd except that I am an extremely anti-tradition person. I shop in Pink, not Coldwater Creek; I'd rather watch ESPN than HGTV; I don't do marriage; I live in Missouri and cheer for Kansas. And when it comes to Christmas, I'm not exactly decorating sugar cookies and gingerbread houses. But tradition and meaning are not the same thing. When you work retail, Christmas can quickly lose any meaning. Hours a day assisting people with their gift lists can reduce the holiday season to more cranky customers spending money they don't really have on people they don't really like. A few extra dollars in your paycheck can come at an exhausting price, as anyone who has ever worked Black Friday will tell you. If you want your Christmas Spirit crushed like a roach under someones shoe, try "helping" that customer who is in hour 4 of sleepless Black Friday shopping, they are not exactly merry. They aren't jolly. They are an angry elf and the little voice in the back of your head might be reminding you how little you get paid.
When you are a single mom, it's easy to be stressed out in the holiday season. Those long hours don't produce very large paychecks, and bills don't take holiday vacations. Stretching them to find a way to put anything under the tree isn't easy. Holidays can bring depression and stress and can morph into a nightmare when life seems like a struggle anyway. It's a time of questioning if you're actually doing the best you can when you can't even give your kids a nice Christmas, a time for feeling lonely because while having children is fulfilling, you are also reminded of your aloneness. Christmas can be a wonderfully romantic time with all of the lights, and gifts, and parties  to attend together. Unless you are single, when you admire Christmas lights ALONE, attend parties ALONE, and awkwardly tell your family (again) that you are ALONE because No, you're still not dating anyone. Which is why you are ALONE.
But, for all the stress and exhaustion, I still love Christmas. I still find meaning in Christmas. Even though I work in retail, I know the meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with anything I'm selling. The meaning of Christmas is why I listen to songs like Joy To The World instead of White Christmas. I find the meaning of Christmas when I go to midnight Mass, or if I'm exhausted after working Christmas Eve, Christmas Day Mass. I find meaning in Christmas when I watch the movie The Polar Express, because I still believe in the magic of believing. I find meaning in Christmas when I watch It's a Wonderful Life because "each man's life touches so many others, and when he's gone it leaves an awful hole." & "no man is a failure who has friends."

All I want for Christmas

The meaning of Christmas isn't about all the stuff that magazines and shows tell us we are supposed to do, unless we enjoy doing them and they bring us closer to our family and our God. Baking, shopping, parties, even family get togethers shouldn't be stressful. If they are, then somewhere, the meaning has been lost and you are becoming the Mariah of Christmas-and not the one who actually does a good job on O Holy Night. The one who looks like she should be paid by the hour in that stupid Santa getup. Don't turn Christmas into an attention whore holiday, find your priorities.
As for me, it will be a meaningful-and for us, traditional- Christmas, at my house. There will be no big turkey dinner (I don't enjoy cooking), and anything that is baked will probably be burned because I will be distracted when Dwight and the Lakers are on. There will be gifts because retail hours are good during the holidays. There will be Mass, where we will celebrate the real gift of the season. There will be basketball, because Aaron and I always watch the NBA on Christmas. And there will be Elf,  because it is my favourite movie. Buddy the Elf is everything Christmas should be-genuine, happy, and excited. And not afraid to believe, and believing is the true meaning of the season.
The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear. Obviously, Mariah listened to this advice.

April not Katey

When my daughter was born I decided to name her after my oldest childhood friend. I picked the name out when I found out I was having a little girl-April after my friend, Kathryn after my grandmother. All of the daughters in my family are named either Mary or Kathryn (or in my sister's case, both) which is ironic since I am the only Catholic in my family and my sister Mary Kathryn is Jewish, but that's our own special Douglas County diversity I guess. I wanted to call my baby Katey, I liked spelling it a little different, I liked the cute name for my adorable baby girl and Katey she was.
When Katey was about five, she met the mother and sister of the girl she is named after; my friend April died when I was 19. I had chosen the name because I remembered April as a happy child, I wanted to name my daughter after someone I only had good memories of. My happiest childhood memories, some of my few memories of my parents when they were together, are of times spent with April's family. I hoped the name would bring good karma (or whatever) to my little girl. Although Katey was always called Katey, I still knew the significance of her name. She was a happy baby, and a seemingly happy little girl, with a beautiful smile and an artistic dreamy side.
Like most parents, I never wanted anything bad to happen to my child, I wanted to protect her from the pain and suffering of the world. I wanted her life to be perfect. It wasn't. When she was two and half, I had to explain why her daddy wasn't coming home, and Katey and I had to learn a new way to live as just the two of us. That night after she went to bed, I calmly went and laid out her clothes for the next day, because life goes on when you are a mom and have a child to take care of and one on the way. That winter her brother was born and now our two was three. I remember that first night home with my new baby, and my daughter, needing to feed him and make her dinner and wondering what I would do...My daughter was patient in a way many two year olds would not have been, she learned that two outnumber one and this new life was how we are.
When Katey was in preschool I picked her up one day and turned the tv on to the continuing coverage of 9/11. She asked about it, and I remember how frightened I was that I had brought my children into a world that was no longer safe. I felt it was the first bad thing I ever had to tell my daughter, I hoped it would be the worst.
It wasn't. Last spring I stumbled into the house trying to get control of my emotions after I found out about the death of Steeler Seaburn. My daughter was a freshman, she knew Steeler, she talked about him often. She had heard about him for years from me and went to school with him. I knew I needed to wake her up and tell her. I knew I needed to be the adult, I needed to be strong for her. I needed to find that place that had laid out her clothes after her dad left, that had assured her we were safe after planes crashed into buildings, that had recovered and stood up to Ed so I could see her grow up. I didn't find it. My daughter took care of me for a couple of days, reminding me to eat; asking me if I was okay, cleaning the house and telling me about my new niece. I saw a side of her I didn't know she had, a strength that made me proud, and also makes me realise how grown up she is.
When Katey moved from elementary to middle school she decided she wanted to be called her first name instead of Katey. Her friends and teachers call her April now, but to me she is still Katey. I'm stubborn, and I'm sure it annoys her. I'm fortunate that I feel like I have a good relationship with my amazing daughter, we laugh and joke like friends and I genuinely enjoy being around her. She confides in me, we share interests; and despite the difficulties of being a teenager (and yes, they are there) I am blessed with a good kid. Sometimes a dramatic and moody kid, but a good one who takes on more responsibility than most because I work long hours for little money-it's not an easy life being the child of a single mother. It hasn't been an easy thing to share your mother with grief over a child that wasn't hers, but Katey doesn't complain. Her brother and I steal the tv for sports, but Katey doesn't complain. She doesn't have the spending money other kids have, but Katey doesn't complain.
I'm more protective than I used to be, letting go and watching her grow up is harder than I expected. Putting her in a car with other kids, the idea of her driving a car, those are things that terrify me now. But I know she must grow into this person who she is....and that person is April. I need to start calling her by the name she chooses to go by, start recognizing that she is no longer the little girl with the bow in her hair. She is growing into a young woman, she is her own person and is free to make her own choices. I can't protect her from the pain of the world. Keeping her "little" doesn't keep her safe. Recognizing her strength prepares her to keep herself safe. And that, really, is the best I can do for my little girl. For my April.

Cheerio

When I was a little girl, if you had asked me who the most beautiful woman in the world was, or who I wanted to be like when I grew up, I would have given you one of two answers. Both were about equally delusional, and at completely opposite ends of the spectrum of sophistication. One was a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. I used to practice cheerleading for hours, I loved pom-pons, I wanted gymnastic lessons more than anything. Then someone broke the news that Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders weren't short and chubby, and my dream died (and Ed lived). But the person I admired most in the world, who I thought was even more beautiful and classy than a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader (if that's possible) was Princess Diana. In a time before mass marketing of Disney princesses, she was a real live, beautiful princess splashed across magazines and headlines everywhere for me to see. My friends may have been admiring the cast of 90210 or Alyssa Milano, but I wanted to be Princess Diana.Other girls read Seventeen magazine, I read books about the Royal Family.
When Princess Diana died in 1997, I cried for days. I got up at 3am to watch her funeral and sat with my baby in my lap bawling my eyes out. I wasn't a little girl anymore, I was a mother-like Diana-and by then I knew the things about her I hadn't seen in the pictures as a little girl. Her life was far from perfect, she was living proof that money, fame, and beauty are not always keys to happiness. I loved her as a Princess, but grew to admire her as a real person, a mother, and someone who's struggles I could identify with even if her life was very far removed from mine.

Single mom, like me

My love of Princess Diana meant as a kid, and even now as an adult, I was obsessed with the United Kingdom. I still am. My phone is set to the UK keyboard & settings-as is my Facebook-; my bedroom decorated with pictures of London; and my speech is littered with British slang (probably incorrectly, but just try and correct me, you pratt). Many of my favourite authors and books are British-I find British writers funnier. I follow the British Prime Minister, and Clarence House, as well as several UK authors (like the hilarious Jenny Colgan) on Twitter.
 I applied to teach there a few years ago, but emigration laws and my financial status are not exactly in line right now-or ever. I have a fit for British accents..Once or twice I might have told people I was from England and therefore I don't celebrate the 4th of July. (stop judging, I really dislike fireworks and potato salad, okay?) Prince Harry is one of the only white guys on the planet that I find attractive. Obviously, then, I am more than a little excited about the Olympics in London. Its going to be like a two-week British binge and I am all for it.

The man who taught my son what the word "bong" means...

There's something about the Olympics that brings out that part of me that buys all that questionable music on Itunes completely takes over. "Is gymnastics on?"-excited, Nickelback loving Jean Ann will ask. "I love gymnastics!!" Because sadly, I do-I'll watch every event, every tumble, every sappy story. Keri Shrug and her ankle-I was on that like a teenybopper on Bieber. Give me an Olympic feel good story and I am like an American Idol fan (do those still exist?), glued to my television cheering. Phelps fans? You better believe it, my whole house was. We watched every swimming event in the 2008 games. Some people criticise Michael Phelps for smoking weed, I say -"Thank you, I had to have the Just Say No talk with my kids sometime....why not when they were still only in elementary school." Its just one more special family moment Michael shared with us.

Each ring symbolizes...I have no idea. 

You better believe I will be watching track-and- field. It's like all the action of NASCAR, only quieter and with trained athletes. In honor of the Olympians, I will not snarl and grimace when my new trainers tell me to "sprint!"-I will be motivated by Olympic greatness and achieve greatness myself, or at least run faster and not curse at them under my breath. I'll watch sports I know nothing about just because its the Olympics, perhaps I will become interested in archery again (or never). And it's the Olympics from London-LONDON. There will be such media saturation of the country I love so much...err I mean I will cheer for the USA again and again.
How about that new Dream Team? I sure hope they defeat Spain in the finals and bring home the gold (read: I hope I get to see more of Serge Ibaka on tv-- go Spain, go...oops did I type that outloud?) Maybe for the love of my country I will finally embrace that muppet-looking kid from Kentucky and forgive him for beating Kansas. (That's not required, though, right? I can still support Team USA and carry my grudge like an Olympic Torch, right?)

More TV time, Team Spain

Anyway, because I love all things British, and Olympic, tomorrow night I am hoping to watch the Opening Ceremonies with my family and I will be asking myself many important Olympic questions. Is it too late for me to learn a back handspring? ...How are my flip turns these days? Would I drop the baton? (yes) How heavy is a gold medal to wear? ...Why did all the really hot members of Team USA get hurt? Is Lebron hot or not? .Will they focus the camera more on Serge Ibaka, less on Kobe?..What sport is this? What are the damn rules to this sport? Is that water ballet, is that really an Olympic sport? Would the kids laugh if I bought some of these rhythmic gymnastic ribbons? ....How many days in London would I need to see things properly? How much would like two weeks in the UK cost? .... Is it wrong to be attracted to Prince Harry? Why isn't there more Olympic coverage of Prince Harry?....  Will my trainers know how many biscuits (that's cookies in the States) I ate while watching this Olympic coverage? How old is Bob Costas? His work looks good...how do you find out who his Botox guy is? ..... Oh, the Olympics are over? Is the BBC running a program about Prince Harry?

Big Cats

I don't really know what a cougar is. I'm good with lions (King of the Jungle, Disney cash cow, sketchy brothers) and tigers (overused school mascot, loses easily to midmajors in NCAA Tournament play, really should have just eaten Mike Tyson in that movie as a public service); I know leopards and cheetahs have spots, but maybe not because a black leopard might not so I'm confused again. My son, who has a vast storehouse of animal fact knowledge was trying to explain the Big Cat question (mountain lion? panther?  puma? cougar?) to us the other day, when he finally said "If you want to see a cougar look on the couch."

One of the problems with dating (or attempting to date...or talk...maybe make eye contact) as a single woman over the age of about 25 (ok, 30) is you earn a label "out there." Pretty women who date older men become "arm candy" or gold diggers (Kanye didn't write a song about it because it's a compliment). Any woman who has children and who has maintained her appearance an figure is a MILF, and to me that's not a compliment. I'd like to personally punch in the face whoever wrote the song Stacy's Mom a few years ago, or maybe I could just beat the crap out of Stifler's mom instead because a generation of now twentysomething males have grown up with MILF fantasies that are-quite frankly-a little creepy. I don't care if I'm a MILF, I see too many women pushing expensive strollers with well-dressed but screaming or whining exhausted children every day because their MILF status is more important to them than their child's nap. I don't need attention that badly anymore. And if you are too busy shopping for cute clothes, new lingerie, or high heels, let me take your baby to the park. I was awfully busy when mine were growing up-I understand what you are missing.

The truth is, my children are partly grown and I don't want to raise someone else's. I've done an okay job by myself. I don't need someone to pay my bills, fix my car, or buy me gifts. I am a child of parents from a generation in which women were taught to find men to take care of them, and I won't teach my daughter what was taught to me. So if I want someone in my life it's because I like talking to them, spending time with them, or sharing common interests. I don't know a lot of 50 year old guys who went to Wiz Khalifa. I quit my own generation (see previous blog) so I rarely have much in common with men my own age, much less someone older. I'm just not at the same place in my life many women in my age range or age group are -I wasted much of my life in a relationship with Ed, I'm not ready to settle for stability and comfort while I'm still figuring my life out

I asked my doctor the other day if I could still have children. Not that I want another baby, but the truth is I don't know that I don't want another baby-look at im there in this random picture I found, maybe I want one of those...or not. I don't know exactly what my job will be in a year. I'd like to sell my house, so I don't know where I will be living in a year. I'm at a jw place in my life. (just wondering, maybe I will name  that baby JW..not really) It is easy for me to talk to people who are are still wondering about their lives too, who don't have it all figured out yet. Most of my friends are younger, they are still wondering, so we have great times together-sometimes those are at night clubs (night club might be a stretch for Downtown Springfield, but still you get the idea). We go to concerts together, read popular books, try new workout programs and talk about celebrity gossip sometimes. I watch sports, mostly the NBA, and college basketball. I like people who share those interests, therefore I usually talk to or date younger men. Which brings me to, the previous Big Cat reference. Much like the poor confused panther, I am not really sure if I am a cougar or not. Technically (and by technically, I mean according to the definition I found on Urban Dictionary) I don't think I am really old enough to be a cougar yet. But there is usually a pretty healthy age gap between me and any given man (I think the term is cub) I am talking to.

(Cougar Cub...actual)

If I am, in fact, a true cougar. I am a pretty weak one. I am the runt (do cougars have litters?). In the cougar pack (do cougars travel in packs? or is that only on singles cruises?), I would be the omega...I think that's more of a wolf reference but wild animals, hunting prey-it's like trying to find someone to date in Springfield-so same difference. According to Urban Dictionary as a cougar I think I am supposed to be aggressive, straight forward, possibly even domineering. I think I am supposed to have a lot of money-and spend much of it on self improvement-and also on my cubs. Cougars should probably dress in very high heels, possibly a lot of leopard or cheetah print and a high percentage of spandex in their clothes. I think they are supposed to take charge or relationships and call the shots, being all impressive with their cougar selves.

(Cougar Cub...delusional)

I read Harry Potter books. When I go out with my friends, I try to stand as near the wall as possible and make myself look small. If I see someone I find attractive, I look at the ground. I am poor, really really poor.The only leopard print I own stays hidden under my clothes, but includes underwear with actual leopards on them because I thought they were funny -I'm hoping for underwear of all styles-maybe bras too-that celebrate the Big Cats. I own many pairs of high heels, but don't wear them very often because I have a running injury. My idea of self improvement is a morning at the gym boxing, not a day at the spa. I don't even have big blonde hair, and I've never been able to save up enough for Botox. 

My most recent attempt at stalking prey almost killed my cat. And I really didn't do a very bang up job of stalking since the cub in question never even took me on a real date, and almost killed my cat. I may be new to this dating idea but I think the ultimate goal is dates (and not dead pets) so I believe the score would be Cougar Jean Ann 0, Playa Cubs 1. This is not how we win championships, Team Cougar. I know that some of you might be reading this and thinking-maybe you aren't a cougar or a MILF, but just a nice active mom who would like to meet someone who shares your interest.....that would be a too simple thought, my friends. Without labels, stereotypes and terrible communication, really what is this nightmare we call dating? (oh, yeah-a relationship, like the kind that might actually work)

With my children in Florida this week on that hard earned (read grandma treat) vacation, I figure it would be an excellent time to brush up on my cougar skills. So I've decided to call Joan Rivers. That was a cougar joke, disguised as a puma joke so it probably only seemed funny in certain parts of the country. I'll probably check my Twitter, since that seems to be the only place I can actually interact with males since in their actual presence I lose the ability to speak to anything except the ground. I think we are getting in some new underwear with tigers on them to add to my jungle collection.  I have a really fantastic plan to reread Harry Potter books 1-7 because that's.....well, that's who I am. I read Harry Potter. I watch the NBA. I listen to Ice Cream Paint Job Remix. Call me a cougar-or better yet, just call me Jean Ann.

TBH II

You know that excitement you feel when you find out your favorite artist is releasing a new album or your favorite author is writing a new book? Well, friends I am sure you are all feeling that same excitement with the triumphant return of my blog from its little hiatus....Feel free to organise JK Rowling-new book release type parties.
You know that disappointment you feel when you find out that "new" music is just a different version of the same songs, or the same book with slightly different characters? Prepare the angry mumbles now, my loyal readers (and by loyal readers, I mean my mom) as I proudly present TBH II. After all we all know if anything is good (or marginally passable) in true Hollywood style a sequel is a no-brainer. And by no brainer, I mean ADD-fueled trip through previous blogs, and slightly whinier excuses as to why I can't come up with original material. The blog equivalent of another Godfather (or more realistically, Scary Movie 5)
(Friends don't let friends wear these)

To be honest, I'm kind of glad Rock of Ages has been reported to be a flop. Not that I have anything against musicals, I enjoyed 8 Mile. What? That wasn't a musical; well, you know what I mean... But, I spotted actual acid washed jeans for sale in the Battlefield Mall the other day, and the neon colors splashed everywhere are burning my retinas. I tried to warn you people, yet here it is invading every pore of our being-nothing is safe. Our fashion, our movies, and soon saxophone and big guitar laden songs will be pouring from the radio. This must be stopped before it is accepted again, have you people learned nothing from terrible yearbook photos and Prom pictures of the days gone by? 1987 needs to stay where it was....in the ugly, ugly past. I can see why Tom Cruise would be all about a movie glorifying the '80's, but Tom- you are not Maverick anymore and big hair and terrible bands are not welcome in this new millennium. 

Not Dirk, or a Celtic...unrelated OKC player not mentioned in blog, included for your, okay my,viewing pleasure

To be honest, I hate grass. No, not the kind Kid Cudi writes songs about. The kind which grows in my yard, forcing me to cut it. The kind birds-which I also dislike for no real reason- use to make elaborate nests in my BBQ and bring forth other birds which then either die in said BBQ or around the yard only to be chopped up in the previously mentioned lawn mower. I also hate rain, because it makes the grass grow. And while I am on the subject, I might add I also have an irrational dislike of the Boston Celtics, Dirk Nowitzki, frozen custard, and saxophones.And while I can't relate any of these to how fast my grass is growing, I might or might not be enjoying an evil fantasy about forcing Dirk to mow my lawn right now.

Durantula-an awesome nickname, that I probably misspelled

To be honest, my son and I enjoy watching many sports playoffs together and one of my favorite memories in his short life is that we were watching together in October when the Cardinals won the Series, but I am really enjoying the NBA playoffs. If you're not okay with your kid looking  up to Kevin Durant, then I am not sure what I can say. They don't come much more clean cut in the world of sports, or much more enjoyable to watch. And watching the Oklahoma City fans reminds me of the glory years of Willard basketball when the gym was small and people were so packed in you couldn't move. Much like my life with my dad has been timelined by the sports events we watched, so has my son's with me. And I'm okay with this. All families have their traditions, this is ours. I can't really make up my mind as to who to cheer for in these playoffs, but watching with my boy is really more important to me than who wins.

To be honest, it is the son of someone else that my last blog was about that has kept me from blogging for the past two and a half months. I wrote my last blog the day that Steeler Seaburn died and in the time since then, although life has gone on, in so many ways it has not. I wrote that blog before I saw the peacock feathers at his funeral, before I watched his friends mourn for him, before I sat in a cemetery on my knees crying the kind of heaving sobs I didn't even know I had. Before I realised the number of memories, stories, songs on my Ipod, movies I like, tv shows I watch and even little sayings I have that Steeler was a part of. How I took for granted that sometimes I just asked him questions that I knew he would know the answers to, or checked Facebook just to see how he was doing.  Before I watched his class graduate without him, watching his friends walk to the stage-not needing their names called because I recognised them by the way they stood or walked and knowing that somehow-deep down- I was looking for Steeler even though I knew he wouldn't be there. I was in shock, I think, still when I wrote that. I was not yet accepting that he was really gone and that I would mourn him in a way I had never mourned or grieved for anyone or anything in my life. It is a grief I am not sure I have a right to, but there are days when the reality hits me like a punch in the face and I am sometimes almost doubled over again with crying that this person who was so alive, and so dynamic and so very good for the world is gone. I have seen Steeler's mother, Genny, a few times since his death, and often times I feel angry afterwards. Angry and confused because I want to know why....why Genny's child? and these are answers I don't have....
So tonight I will watch the game with my son, and to be honest, tomorrow (maybe even tonight) I will probably yell at him for something. I will think, as I do every day, about this son of another mother who is gone and I will pray for her, for him, and for my son. And to be honest, I will wait for the world to be normal again, and know it will not be.

Steeler

There are certain unwritten "dos and dont's" about being a "professional" teacher. "Do" enforce rules fairly and equally; for instance don't write passes to let students out of class fourth hour because they are hungry and you have snacks. "Don't" play favorites, meaning don't allow some students priveleges others can't have-like keeping their gym clothes and hats in your desk. "Do" stay on topic-if students try to distract you by, say, asking you to call them "Nighthawk" don't let it lead to a side discussion starting with "What, why do you want to be called Nighthawk?" "Don't" let students eat in class, espescially not cupcakes you baked them. "Do" dress professionally -cover your new tattoo so none of your students yell "skank!!!" when your boss walks by.
I doubt I am remembered as much of a professional at Willard High School, and that's fine. Professionalism was never why I was there, I was there because I liked working with kids, and it is one of those kids that has left a hole in my heart tonight. As I sit here with tears running down my face, remembering, it is making those exceptions for three years that allowed me to know Steeler Seaburn. And I am so thankful.
Anyone who knew me in any of my final three years at Willard probably knew Steeler, too. And by anyone, I mean my neighbor knew him from my stories and a football game she went to; my kids knew him from the stories; my Facebook friends knew him (in case your wondering about this status: "Sorry Mom, I'm coming out of the closet"-Steeler's handiwork); Ed knew him (Steeler would check if he noticed I wasn't eating); a couple of unfortunate males I briefly texted knew him (my phone didn't always lock, and even when it did-he knew the code)  My final year there I think he spent more time in my room than any other student, and I've kept in contact with him in the months since I left Willard. I was going shopping for his graduation gift later this week.
By the time I first met Steeler, as a freshman in my seventh hour class, I was a pretty "seasoned" teacher. There wasn't much I hadn't seen, but I was slowly being transitioned from a Health teacher to English and I was becoming less and less happy at Willard as I became stronger and stronger in my recovery. Steeler was one of a group of boys who managed to find themselves sentenced to three years of English with me, three years in which I changed dramatically as a person while watching them grow up. Three years is a long time, espescially in the life of a teenager. Three years shows you who a person is, what kind of heart they have and I have met few people who had a better or kinder heart than Steeler Seaburn.
When you are an English teacher it is a given that many kids won't like your class and English was not Steeler's subject. And his personality was the very defintion of classroom distratction. He was loud, hysterically funny, and increasingly inappropriate. Between the books he didn't want to read and the papers he hated writing, and the mother who wanted him to do both, it would have been very easy for him to hate me. But he didn't. Instead he asked for help, and I helped him with the papers, the assignments, the books, and eventually a little of everything else. And he helped me. When someone is in your room, in your desk, in your life, they learn about you. Steeler knew me, he knew my kids, he knew the struggles and the ugly rumors that last year; yet he stood by me, family is like that.
I could fill pages of blog with funny stories from the years I knew him because he was truly one of the most hilarious people I've ever known. I used to tell him he WAS Elf, from the movie-a movie I had never even seen until he announced (one day in my class for no real apparent reason) "the best way to spread Christmas cheer is by singing loud for all to hear." But I don't think I'm talented enough to capture who he really was in memories typed in a blog. It's too two dimensional for one of the most 3D people I've ever known. Anyone who has ever known him has probably laughed, or blushed, or both at something he said to them. And anyone who has ever known him has probably been touched by something he did. And it is those somethings that are ripping my heart out tonight. I know a lot of funny people but I don't know that many who were as thoughtful as Steeler Seaburn.
I'm thinking tonight of his mother, we used to have our yearly conferences in October (these days I see her sometimes at the Mall), and can't even imagine what she is feeling. I don't know that I have enough prayers but every one I have is going out to her on the loss of her son. It is selfish, I know to grieve, as he is in a better place, but tonight I am feeling that the world is an emptier place without the boy she shared with me for several memorable years. On my birthday (which I do not advertise on Facebook) I got a Happy Birthday text from Steeler. I have no idea how or why he remembered my birthday but he did, although I guess I shouldn't be surprised. That was Steeler. In the days before I left WHS, I told him "everyone moves on no one will even remember I worked here before long"; his answer was "you will always be our second mom." It was an honor, Steeler. Thank you.

Our Sons

I think it was the Skittles that really broke my heart. Trayvon Martin had Skittles candy and a bottle of tea in his hand-it's the same thing Aaron picks out when we stop for gas or a snack on the way home from school sometimes. Children are killed in our country, children are brutally murdered in our country every year. That is a sad, but true fact and those murders often make headlines. Why have I felt Trayvon Martin's death so personally? I think it is because, as I said on Facebook one day, he could be my son. My son, only a few years younger, plays sports, loves Skittles, watches the NBA and doesn't always make the wisest of decisions. My son loves wearing hoodies. Walking to a nearby store at night for candy, even if it was ill advised, would be the type of decision I could see Aaron making. So I could easily see this boy as my son, or one of his friends. As a mother I can only imagine the pain another mother is, and has been, feeling this past month. It wrenches my soul. There is no greater sorrow than to lose a child, and to lose one in such a senseless and terrible way must bring both pain and anger I can't even fathom.

Is anger the way we should react? I have anger. I have anger with myself that this story made headlines for weeks before I learned about it...on Twitter....from LeBron James. Really? Am I an adult? But at least I learned. I talked about it with my children. My son, who looked at the pictures of the Heat in their hoodies and wanted to take one himself. My daughter, only two years younger than Trayvon, would have gone to school with him in a different place. They discuss it in her social studies class. I wonder about those discussions, in a school where she has heard the word n**** used in the hall as a racial slur numerous times.
I don't know exactly what happened in that neighborhood on that night, but I know a child died. I don't know if his attire, or his skin color, had anything to do with it. Hopefully, these things will be answered over the weeks to come and will be reported to us openly and honestly.
I've already said Trayvon somehow reminded me a bit of my son.Would the color of my son's skin save him on a dark night in a neighborhood? I don't know. It's a question I've asked myself, I think it's a question maybe many of us have asked ourselves. Perhaps it's a question, or a fact, that has allowed some of us to distance ourselves from this case. To not be as outraged as we should. It's an uncomfortable task, to examine your own deepest prejudices, to examine the racial bias of your community or country. I don't know where this country needs to go from here, but I know this-if I have any more children they would look much more like Trayvon than their brother and sister. And I know this, if those children would not be safe because of their skin color on that same street than this is an America I don't want to live in. If those children would not have every opportunity because of their skin color as the two I already have, then it's an America I don't want to live in.
In the America I want to live in, they will be treated exactly the same in school, have the same opportunity to go to the college they choose, succeed in the career they want, have a family. In the America I want to live in, young men can walk down a street and not be shot-not by young men of their own race, not by men protected by misguided "self defense laws", not by any sort of statistic just waiting to make the nightly news. But the America I live in...has some work to do and we should not need the death of a child to remind us. Perhaps if we are willing to ask the hard questions and learn the hard lessons, we can build a better country for the family Trayvon Martin left behind and the families yet to come.

**Footnote: (all references to any future children are hypothetical, Mom. I'm not having any more kids at this time or in the foreseeable future)

A Letter to Peyton Manning

(You, Peyton)

Dear Peyton,
I've been there. Believe me, I've been there. You have a job you like, maybe even think you love. You've been there a long time, longer than many others. People tell you you are good at it, you seem popular even though you make a few mistakes. Sure you have some critics and you don't have as many big awards (Superbowl Trophies, ahem, ahem) as some might like-but you're doing pretty well for yourself. Then-BAM!- management decides you are not exactly the direction of the future. Maybe you just don't fit in. And suddenly you are unemployed....
It's disorienting, although it appears you handled it pretty well with the National Manning Interest Tour of teams. Not all of us had that luxury, but I digress. You landed on your feet just fine. You found a new job. Who knows, maybe you will even be better at this one. Maybe your new job will let you use skills you didn't know you had, show sides of your personality that you couldn't before. Maybe you will feel free to speak your mind, voice your beliefs, have a social life and not have to worry who is watching or agreeing with you.
Perhaps Denver holds wonderful new friends for you. People who are fun, and who want you to be fun too. People who laugh at your jokes and who have open minds. People who support you in every decision. Perhaps you will have a stronger line blocking for you, so you won't get knocked down and feel left to fend for yourself. Perhaps your new coach has nothing but the best planned for you and will develop a plan to get you there.

(Still You,Peyton)

It won't be long and you might not even recognize the person you were in Indianapolis. You might wonder why you stayed  there so long. Your smile might be wider, your jokes will actually  be funnier. You will look younger because you are more relaxed. Your kids (do you have kids?) will like you better because you have time for them, even though you may be working harder because success in this new place is suddenly so important to you. Your social life will improve with all these new friends you are about to make. Maybe you are making less money (No, wait you are not making less money. In fact, you have more money than God) but you are squeaking by.

(Not you, but is this really about you?)

In short this new life will take some adjusting but you will reinvent yourself in Denver. The person you may become will be one who likes himself and everyone around him. You will be happier and healthier. Leaving Indianapolis-however you did it-will be the best decision you ever made. When you say your prayers at night you will Thank God for guiding you down this path and placing all of these wonderful new people in it. You will remember that he has a plan if you will just trust him. He knows what he is doing with you, Peyton. He knows what he is doing with all of us. After all, I've been there.
Your biggest fan,
Jean Ann

Classless: The Gospel

Classless: The Gospel: The truth is tonight is just a Kanye kind of night. It hasn't been a bad day, exactly.... but a little Kanye therapy will make me feel all b...

The Gospel

The truth is tonight is just a Kanye kind of night. It hasn't been a bad day, exactly.... but a little Kanye therapy will make me feel all better. Perhaps you don't have Kanye nights, perhaps you don't believe in Kanye nights. Perhaps the mere idea and existence of Kanye offends you, perhaps you have already stopped reading. That's okay-I probably already offended you a long time ago (hello, thinly veiled cougar references). But I am a firm believer in Kanye nights, in all things Kanye. As a matter of fact: I hereby proclaim the world needs more Kanye. And by more Kanye-I mean more Kanye tweets, more Kanye songs, more Kanye live performances within driving distance of Springfield, Missouri. More Kanye on my Ipod. Perhaps some Kanye texts-to me, hint, hint Mr. West... Kanye tweets are the reason I am on Twitter, ESPN may spend their time trying to stir up LeBron controversy, but LeBron never topped the Old School Kanye Wisdom of Yestertwitter.
Which brings me to my first lesson of the Kanye Gospel: speak the truth. In a world where we so often feel angry and decieved by media, politicians, authors, even family and friends sometimes-Kanye speaks his mind. He's honest. Is he rude? Probably...Is he conceited? Possibly  But is he telling the truth? Usually. Is it jarring? Of course it is. We all know part of being polite are little white lies, ("it's an honor just to be nominated" vs "if I don't win, I'll be pissed"). Many of you hate Mr. West because of the Horrible Terrible Thing he did to Taylor Swift. Was it a terrible rude beyond excusable moment? Oh, yes it was. Did he make an incredible ass of himself? Yes, he did. Was he telling the truth? Yes, he was. How do we know? What do you do with your hands when you hear Beyonce's Single Ladies ? What was the name of the song Taylor won for? Exactly...Does that justify anything? No....but still. Sometimes someone says what everyone is thinking.

(Video We All Still Imitate In the Privacy of Our own Homes)

Which brings me to Runaway...How many times have you wanted to tell someone- "Runaway as fast as you can.."? You hear your friend droning on and on (again) about this boy/girl/only true love who has cheated on/left/ignored/annoyed/confused/fill-in-the-blank them AGAIN and you just want to say very calmly "you can leave or live with it". But you can't because that makes you a bad friend. Kanye can. He did. He wrote a song. He made a toast. It's called Runaway. Go to Itunes. Perhaps you will enjoy the irony when he reminds you you have been putting up with his s***t way too long.

"No one man should have all that power"-it's a line from the song Power from Kanye's Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy album, which should have been nominated a Grammy for Album of the Year. This song helped me survive the last year. I listened to it over and over, it reminded me that no one, no one,  but me would be in charge of my life. No "man" (except the one "upstairs) makes decisions about what happens to me except me. No one bullies me, or you. You and God control your destiny. The power is in prayer. The power is in faith, and in hard work. The power is not in the illusion of control. I don't know exactly what Kanye West meant when he wrote the song (he's free to tweet me anytime...anytime, tweet me Kanye!!) but the personal meaning to me in this song is huge, I hope everyone has songs that help them this much. If not Kanye-then someone.
Creativity gives you a voice. I realize rap isn't everyone's music of choice. But one of the things I respect about Kanye is his voice-and I don't necessarily mean I hope someone asks him to sing. I mean his outlet for creativity-he's a creative guy. His songs show more than rap lyrics. His songs sound different, he doesn't repeat the same thing over and over. He collaborates, he samples other songs, he includes instruments. I'm not knocking on any other rappers, but there's a reason Kanye has surpassed Eminem as my favorite rapper. Each of his songs sound unique to me. He doesn't repeat himself as often, he's more creative. He's venturing out into other things. Will his clothing lines, producing, movie ventures be successful-I have no idea...but I respect his creativity.

Kanye is all that is wrong -and right -with America. Every excess that we (those of us who will honestly look at this country and say, some things aren't right here) see in America is on display in Kanye. He openly expresses his own greatness, much like America does when we annoy the rest of the world. (And we do, it's true, we do) Sometimes I hear people criticize NFL players who dance after they score a touchdown; we don't always like to see people celebrate themselves, even though it's as American as apple pie, kids. At one time Mr. West was about the most disdained and disowned member of society. He offended us all when he stole a moment from America's Sweetheart. But he also proved what may be the most American idea of all in the process. If you are talented and will work hard enough-America will forgive anything. Right, Ray Lewis? Both Watch the Throne and My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy were nominated for Grammys this year. Both should have been nominated for more. The Kanye-Jay-Z tour sold out all over the country. He performed on numerous award shows, at halftime of the NBA All-Star Game, the VS Fashion Show and many other televised events. Radio stations played his music (so edited it lost half the songs, but still). The bottom line-dumbass may make you infamous, but talent can still make you famous in the land of the free.

An America I'm Proud Of

And really isn't that what this country is about? Call it blasphemy-it's really just hyperbole ( I was an English teacher, trust me) but the greatest of my Kanye Gospel lessons is just that-freedom. If we are really about freedom of speech, and expression, here in America-we need guys like Kanye. We need lyrics censors want to edit. we need people who speak their mind. We need the ability-and freedom-to turn them off if we want and choose to. Yes, it's a Kanye kind of night. Thankfully, we were both Made in America.

TBH

(TBH- Not Running for President)

The high school kids I am friends with on Facebook keep posting TBH as their status. Although I don't really understand how this game (is it a game?) works it appears to be a way to visit each other's walls and write posts that begin with "to be honest..." and then proceed to comment on each other, their friendship, a charming good time they had two years ago-or just use the word chill as an adjective as many times as possible. There are multiple reasons I don't understand or want to play this game; the most obvious reason being that there are a great many truths in my life I really don't want to know. I encourage my friends to lie to me, quite frankly. That's why they are, in fact, my very good friends. Sample TBH conversation:

Very Good Friend:  "TBH, Jean Ann- You wasted your money, those jeans do nothing for your butt...TBH, Jean Ann-I can see the gray in your hair....TBH, Jean Ann-that guy is too young for you, this cougar thing-it's not working..."
Me: "Obscene word"
Honesty may be a virtue, but it probably won't win you many popularity contests. Think about what happens to honest politicians-they have press conferences to announce their resignations. What if we stopped air brushing magazine covers and advertisements, or ended celebrity gossip? What if he really answered the question "do I look fat in this?" No, TBH is not a good idea, unless you want free reign to run amok making thinly veiled insults to friends and family-and we really already have that. It's called JK and lol. (JK) Unless of course we all used TBH only for ourselves and told the truth about ourselves-especially on Facebook? If we just -out of the blue-posted what we were REALLY thinking, feeling or doing-instead of what we wanted the world (read our friends, family, or people from high school we should be so over trying to impress) to believe about our successful, together and mature selves. It might look something like this:

(Independent Women...Married to Wealthy Rappers/Moguls)

TBH:  ITunes is the devil, I think. It's like having a bar on the corner of your street if you are an alcoholic. You hear a song on the radio, you open the app, $1.29 later it's on your Iphone, Ipod, Ipad, ICloud, whatever...a few minutes later you hear another one...you start to remember all the great songs. It's the Old School Lunch Hour...No one has to know you just downloaded that much Destiny's Child, there's no cashier to face with that huge stack of Dr. Dre cd's, no one will ever know you actually bought Will Smith's Greatest Hits, ITunes will keep your dirty little NSync secrets. What? You spent $15 in 10 minutes??? Is that J.Lo's Love Don't Cost A Thing? It's like waking up from one of those nights back in college with a bad hangover and very little memory...ITunes might be the devil.

(Do I know these guys?)

TBH:  I have no idea who is running for President, besides the President. Most of my news comes from Twitter or SportsCenter or PTI, and I don't think Tony Kornheiser is running-although I might vote for him if he did. I should probably find out, there is probably an app I could get for my phone if I wasn't always on ITunes. I follow rappers, athletes, authors, and a few people I know on Twitter. I also follow the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom-he doesn't talk about the Presidential election, neither does JK Rowling when she tweets. She rarely tweets; but when she does, I feel strangely elated-as if the sophistication of Twitter is suddenly heightened, which again has nothing to do with who will be running our country for the next four years.
TBH- I have ADD. (As if the paragraph above didn't clue you in a bit) I take medication to prevent migraines that makes me forgetful and contributes to my attention deficit-it made studying and taking tests in my A&P classes horrible. Sometimes I have to make three trips to Wal-Mart before I can come home with what I need, sometimes I forget a word in the middle of a sentence. It's annoying, but it's a trade off for managing the migraine headaches that were taking over my life. I have probably always had ADD (and my battle with Ed did not help)-I have a child who has ADHD. Attention defecit is a battle of patience, one I often lose-with both myself and my child. I pray for patience, and forgiveness, every day.
TBH-I tried Internet dating-for 3 days.... I deleted the app from my phone, I think I was better at Angry Birds-where I have never even mastered Level 5. Stupid Pigs. Maybe I was actually playing Angry Birds instead of Internet Dating, I am not even sure, I was confused. My friend said I had lots of messages and that was good-but all I saw were lots of cowboys and pictures that I am pretty sure were blurry on purpose. I did not think that was good. I'm back to the old fashioned kind of dating, which is not.

(Coming Soon to my Living Room)

TBH-My new favorite sport is the NBA. Many things about the NBA bother me, sometimes I think they play sloppy and I yell at them. But I think the reason I like the NBA is that I miss watching high school basketball and exciting nights in the gym. Watching basketball on tv isn't quite the same, but unlike NFL or NASCAR, the NBA plays several times a week not just on the weekends-when I'm pretty much guaranteed to be working. I can actually watch it instead of checking the updates on my ESPN app on my phone. The NBA also has an unusually high percentage of exceptionally attractive individuals playing; therefore I enjoy it. I really want a Dwight Howard fathead-in my living room- but that might be a little much. Dwight Howard should have been on the cover of People instead of Bradley Cooper-I have a Dwight Howard app on my phone, I don't know what it does, but I have it. I follow him on Twitter. I'd follow him into a dark alley, if he'd let me....

TBH-Thank goodness people don't post every thought in their head. I'm not really sure the point of this blog. Maybe I felt I'd been a little too serious, or maybe there is a hidden message-welcome to life with attention deficit disorder. Maybe it's to show that these are the things I think about sometimes, when I probably should be worried about my future, the bills, finding a better paying job, that power steering thing with the car, wondering if I should move to Memphis...Perhaps it's a deep commentary on the shallowness of social media or the dangers of Twitter and how it can turn ordinary Midwestern moms into obsessive fan stalkers (JK,lol). TBH maybe I don't care what you think and I just wanted another excuse to Google "Dwight Howard " Images. Maybe I should stop blogging and start researching who to vote for for Prime Minister.

Love Songs

The first time I heard Adele sing, I yawned. I'll admit it. I was bored, and thoroughly not impressed. "She's got an interesting sound, but that song is annoying," I scoffed to my daughter. A few weeks of radio overplay later, I was ready to hunt her down with an angry mob. Then we added it to our play list at work and I really thought I might have a new contender for my Celine Dion Get Off My Airwaves (you freaking Canadian) Award (although Adele is British, thereby making her slightly more tolerable, I felt). Then I heard Someone Like You...and I took it all back. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, and I had no idea why. I recently added Set Fire To The Rain to my Ipod. Her voice makes me want to grab my thesaurus, and use words like smoldering, haunting, heart stopping (see, that word right there proves I needed the thesaurus). I've long been a fan of the over the top diva power pipes-Xtina, Beyonce-but Adele is in another class, another world. Her songs are like a punch to the stomach, you don't just hear them, you feel them, and they take your breath away.

(Not Adele, but possibly setting fire to something)

What's more, when I listen to Someone Like You (the song that makes me cry for no apparent reason) and Set Fire To The Rain it makes me wish and wonder. I'm not much of a love song kinda gal. Lil Wayne's How to Love is about as sentimental as my Ipod goes, unless you want to count Usher's Love In This Club II, which probably only counts as a love song because Usher can make even the naughtiest lyrics sound smooth. (And he does refer to himself -in the third person-as "daddy" multiple times, thereby earning himself some extra "love" points, I'm sure). I am the person who once told someone that I thought the song Spacebound by Eminem was "romantic." Which it is, until the part about choking the life out of his loved one...
Back to Adele and her lyrics that make me wish I could muster the kind of heartbreak that would lead to a search for "someone like you" or the passion to "set fire to the rain." I wonder what that feels like-to hurt that much, to feel that much.  Now I have passion-anyone who has ever seen me cheer at a ball game knows I can be passionate. Want to argue social causes? I'm quite passionate and I'm proud of that. My kids know their mom will take a stand when it matters, but "love" is not a cause as far as I'm concerned. It's just a nonentity, unless you are talking about the family kind-the mother to child kind; the aunt-to-nephew kind; the Cards fan-to-beating-the-Cubs kind. I know other people believe in love, have love, show love, even wallow in it. I have friends who are in darling relationships, are happily married, or are planning to get married. I know love happens, look at celebrities who are perfect examples of soulmates. I adore Beyonce and Jay-Z.There's that Kardashian girl, the one who didn't marry the ugly white guy. Some of our Presidents have had wonderful marriages... But, quantum physics also happens, that doesn't mean I understand it.

(Not a Kardashian, or an ugly white guy)

 Let me clarify a few things here-I am not a person who is bitter or angry about love, I simply don't believe in it. Not that I think it's like Santa Clause, I know love exists (and brings presents, after all I work in retail) but for myself-love fits about as well as skinny jeans. Not attractive, friends. Not attractive. And I don't buy into many of the ideas of love I see portrayed around me...I don't believe we "fall" in love. Love is a choice, we choose who we love. And if you choose to love someone who makes you miserable, then you chose to be miserable. If you choose to love someone who doesn't love you back, well-good luck with that round hole and square peg. As you can see-I don't spend much time reading Nicholas Sparks, Twilight or watching any movies with Matthew McConaughey /Hugh Grant/Owen Wilson and Kate Hudson/Cameron Diaz/Drew Barrymore....I've shared plenty of awkward, and amusing, adventures with people in my lifetime-sadly none of them turned into a movie deal... errr I mean true love.

I work in retail, and Valentine's Day is coming, so I see love as a useful tool in the world. Valentine's Day=presents=money spending=hours for me=bills paid. Just as the love of Christmas helped fix my car, buy birthday presents for my son, and keep the heat on at my house; so will the idea of love in the next month I hope. But helping people pick out presents for their significant others doesn't convince me love is waiting for me-it's not. And for anyone who is going to tell me that love happens when you least expect it-do you know what really happens when you least expect it? Car repairs...stitches for your son..thunderstorms while wearing white..pregnancies. There is no cupid with a giant novelty hammer waiting to crack anyone on the head. Life holds enough unexpected surprises for me, peering around corners for my true love does not need to be one of them.
I'm sure there is a word for people like me-I like practical, but those of you with soft hearts and violin (or -shudder-Kenny G) music in your heads might say jaded. I'm a realist-I analyze situations and make sense out of them, and that includes interactions between men and women. I know some people in wonderful happy marriages and I know they found that kind of love that lasts, they work at it every day and they made a commitment to each other and their love-if you will. I get that, but I also know there are people like me..who, quite simply didn't. And won't. I see it a bit like the ability to sing, something else I wish I could do when I hear Adele. I see people walking down the mall or coming into the store I work at who are obviously happy and who see only each other and I can appreciate, even envy, that. But I can't imagine ever having it, I can't imagine even wanting it; because to me that idea is a bit like waiting for my Hogwarts letter...there are those with magic and the rest of us are just Muggles. So, while I have nothing but respect for Adele now (and have made this public apology), I think Drop the World  still probably will play more often in these headphones for a while. Because this Muggle just doesn't understand that magic called love.

My cat likes to drink from the toilet. If we leave the bathroom seat up, or the door open, he will nose his way in, jump up excitedly and go face down-butt up into the bowl for some heavy duty binge drinking. It's not a pretty picture, especially for an animal who often prances around as though being petted is beneath his "dignity." When I used to see the cat with his face and paws buried in the porcelain god, I would harangue away at the children about making sure the "poor animal" had fresh water-look at him, he's so "desperate" he's drinking from the toilet...but he has water, he has food. He simply enjoys commode water it seems...

(Cat, living in my house)

Now, I'm not a cat person. Even though I'm single, not as young as I'd like to be, woefully lacking in a social life, and quite shy I am not-repeat NOT-a cat person. A cat lives in my house. I didn't invite him there, I don't invite him to stay. When he escapes, I don't chase or look for him. I've been known to mutter the word good riddance...often. I often try to give him away in creative ways....but my daughter loves him so he stays.
He is included in this blog simply as a metaphor because as much as I hate to admit it, I've been wondering if maybe, like the cat-I'm happy drinking from the toilet, too. (That, by the way is another metaphor, repeat a metaphor...I drink from my Love Pink water bottle)

(Defense, Rebounds...Hot)

My favorite NBA team is bad, they suck-and I will be very sad if my favorite player leaves them for title contender LA.  My favorite college basketball team will not win the NCAA Tournament this year. My favorite NFL team...has won 2 games this season. I openly support Kanye.I often vote Democrat, in Southwest Missouri. It appears I know less about winning than Charlie Sheen. When it comes to sports, drinking from the toilet is kind of my approach to choosing who I cheer for-meaning I'd rather be loyal to the average than ride the bandwagon of the popular. (Okay, there might also be a really,really hot theme to my favorite NBA player, but really it's his defense, I promise. Defense, Rebounds...Hot)

My favorite poem (and by favorite poem I mean only poem not by Shel Silverstein I have ever understood) is the Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. If there is a path less traveled by, I will travel it. As a matter of fact, I will beat it down, thrash through the dense underbrush, scratch my hands on thorns, climb over rocks and cling desperately to a cliff if I have to. Songs and redeeming novels will tell you the hard roads build character and maybe they do, but I don't know if my friends would say I am a person of exceptionally upstanding character. I don't know that I aspire to be a person of unusually high character, quite frankly. It's quite possible I simply aspire to be a person of happiness and personal peace. A person who contributes to society, a person who can pay my bills, take care of my kids and who-at the end of day-is happy and content. A person who remembers to thank God for the gifts in my life and who hopefully is a decent-but probably not exceptional-parent. A person, who, in other words is okay drinking from the toilet. And by drinking from the toilet I mean, I know there is better out there-but maybe what I've got is fine.

(Know the feeling?)

If you follow my blog, it probably doesn't take much deep analysis to figure out that I was not sorry to see 2011 go. It was, in some ways, the worst and the best year of my life. My career ended. A person with a career is not drinking from the toilet. I have spent the last few weeks working almost 40 hour weeks in a minimum wage job, sometimes 10 hour days on my feet, with very few days off. Anyone who has ever worked that kind of schedule and brought home a minimum wage paycheck understands the drinking from the toilet feeling when the paycheck and then the bills come. Yet, as hard as that struggle has been, there is a happiness and satisfaction I feel with my job I never felt with my "career." Why is that? Perhaps that is why I am struggling so much with the idea of continuing to pour money and resources into school and a new career-what if I don't need a "career" if I can figure out how to pay the bills with a job...Maybe I am okay drinking from the toilet.
When I "walked" away from my career, I also walked away from the place I had been for 10 years...and the small town, teacher expectations that went with it. When I found my new job, I found new friends, and a new life that probably seems very "drinking from the toilet" to people who knew me a few years ago. Which is how I came to spend New Year's Eve in a nightclub this year...something I hadn't done in...a while (okay a while is a few weeks- and this was years, possibly enough to write a speech about that could be delivered at a National Battlefield, but anyway)  I was a bit of a deer caught in headlights, well off the well traveled road.  But I was there-because my friends invited me. And that, having a place to go and people to be with, set this New Year's apart from last years and many before that. As I have mentioned before, my freedom from teaching has allowed me to explore the social opportunities (read friends, theoretically dates) that gives my children their freedom from being my social life and best friends.
These past few months, I have come to understand that Mom is a role I have in the world, not a wall I should use to hide from it. Drinking from the toilet doesn't mean settling for less than what I want (sorry, old white plumbers...not, yet) but accepting that it's okay to be a normal, human average Mom-woman who has both kids and a life, and friends...and maybe male friends. I don't know. Baby steps. Maybe baby steps in high heels....

I don't really believe in New Year's Resolutions, they never last. If you don't believe me, go back to your gym the last week in February and look for the two people on the treadmills next to you. But in the new year, I'm planning to be more diligent about putting the cover down on the toilet because...it's a disgusting habit. The cat who lives in my house may be a nasty animal, but I don't have to encourage it. ( I think there's probably another metaphor in there, possibly a sports metaphor; but I will save it for another blog) As for my own drinking, oops, I mean goals...I think it's time I really accepted this person who I am. A person who may very well be okay with an average life and a less than perfect...everything. And focused on the things that are really important-like planning my triumphant return to the nightclub, and those high heels. Perhaps this time I might even try making eye contact or talking to someone. I've wasted too much of my life feeling disappointed about the meantime of "drinking from the toilet" --not just being happy with what I am and have and looking around and taking in this road less traveled. In high heels.