When Have A Great Day Doesn’t Really Mean Have A Great Day.

My mother-in-law takes issue with people here in the south. I especially notice her discomfort in the grocery store.

“Why was he talking to you? ” she says, speaking of the bagger, “Was he one of your former students?”

“Ewwww. They’re so syrupy sweet here. You know they don’t really mean it, don’t you?”

(Disclaimer: These are my mother-in-law’s stereotypes. Not mine.)

My Mother-in-law’s Theory: People in the north may be rude and keep to themselves but you can trust what comes out of their mouths. People in the south are phony and fake and have ulterior motives when they speak to you.

Of course, I disagree. I love the friendliness here. I find it real and reassuring that there are people trying to spread cheer in the world. I love the smiling hello greetings and the “thank-yews” when I leave the store. I take the friendliness at face value. Maybe because I’m right. Maybe because I’m just happier that way. But quite honestly? I don’t care. I’ll take my theory over hers any day of the week.

I’ve lived in both places, north and south. In the north for 21 years and the south for 27 years. And I’ve found phoniness in both parts of the country.

Our neighborhood has a Facebook page. And on this page, fellow residents (we have over 500) post their comments about upcoming activities, a heads-up about school fundraisers or about neighborhood amenities. My friend was fed up with some complaints about issues with the pool. So, she provided a disgruntled resident with a very fact based response, hoping to calm the resident down with what could be a highly charged issue.

It didn’t help. The resident responded with a snotty, juvenile comment and then concluded it with “Have a Great Day!”

Okay. We all know she didn’t really mean for anyone to have a great day. She was putting on her best syrupy, sweet, phony, sing-songy voice to say something she didn’t mean. She wanted to say, at best, “screw you” and at worst, “f-off.”

Throwing a “Have a nice/good/great day” at the end of a response when it’s clear you don’t mean it? So unnecessary. You aren’t fooling anyone. When you insist you really meant “Have a great day!”? No one believes you. We can see the snot through your sing-songy voice no matter if we’re from the north or the south.

Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Or…..

How about say nothing at all?

Stupid Things People Say To Families Formed Through International Adoption #38

We were in the grocery store. My daughter was a toddler. A elderly woman approached us.

“Is your husband Chinese?”

“No,” I said.

“Then you adopted her?”

“Yes,” I smiled.

“Ewww. I could never do that.”

I hugged my daughter tightly and said, “And we are so glad you didn’t!”

Peace For Whitney

I was always pulling for her. Always hoping she’d find some peace.

I just didn’t want it to be this way.

Such an amazing voice. Classic. Beautiful. Pure.

Rest in peace, Whitney. We will miss you.

Where In The World Are The Kindness Police When You Need Them?

The head football coach of the New York Jets, Rex Ryan, is under scrutiny by the NFL after telling a fan to “Shut the f— up!” as the team walked off the field at half-time.

The coach is under scrutiny by the NFL.

Fine.

But what about the heckler?

Where are the kindness police when you need them?

Apparently, this isn’t the first time for Mr. Ryan. He was fined $50,000 for flipping a fan off at a mixed martial arts event. The fact that the NFL is demanding appropriate and exemplary behavior from its players and coaches on and off the field is admirable.

But what about the fans?

Who holds them accountable?

I’m all for having opinions. I have plenty of opinions about the over-paid players, the outrageous cost of tickets and the searches that make me throw out the 5 month old fun-sized candy bar smashed at the bottom of my purse that I wouldn’t have tried to eat inside the stadium anyway (yes, this really happened.)  But if I have a beef with a coach or a player or the fat cats raking in the ticket money, I’ll go through the proper channels.

I can write a letter. I can place a phone call. Shoot. I can write a blog post. (I’d tweet it but I don’t know how to tweet. I’ll leave that for the experts that eat off my bird feeder.)

But I’m not about to heckle the coach in the middle of the game.

Cheer your team. Boo the ref.

But keep your insults to yourself when you’re at the game.

Just a little thing your mother should have taught you.

Thanks For Reminding Me, Andy Rooney, That Writers Never Die

A crotchety curmudgeon. A war-time journalist for the U.S. Army. A humorist. A somewhat reluctant television personality.  A former news correspondent. A husband. A father.

Andy Rooney 1919-2011

A writer.

I had a love/hate relationship with Andy Rooney. He made me laugh. He annoyed me. But always, he made me think. And I love a person who makes me think.

I’ve been watching him on 60 Minutes for as long as I can remember. There are some episodes, thanks to the invention of TiVo, where I’d skip to the last 10 minutes of the show just to watch Andy Rooney.

I’ve tried to copy his style. To no avail. But when I’m a bit down about my own blog and how I don’t seem to have a direction, I think of him.  It annoys me that I can’t find some niche. That I’m a female who blogs but it’s not a “mom blog” or a “writer’s blog.” I sometimes feel like a square peg in a round hole. It’s  just a blog. And I write about the serious and the mundane.

Hey. Kind of like Andy Rooney.

So, I secretly convince myself that I’m more of an Andy Rooney blog. Although, I’m not sure Andy would appreciate the comparison. But that’s ok. He’ll never read me. He hasn’t read me. Not that I know of, anyway.

But some people have read me. And they like what I’ve written. And that is what is important. To get the written word out there, hopefully to be read. But just get it out there.

My readers are kind of like my friends from high school. A mixed bag. I was friends with jocks, nerds and the artsy fartsy types. Today, my readers are executives, homemakers, chefs, musicians and teachers with a few artsy-fartsy thrown in for good measure.

But writers.

Every last one of them.

And am I honored to be in their presence. They inspire me. They make me laugh. They make me think. Together we get our thoughts out there to share, to see and be seen. We do our part to shift the cosmos a little, to shake up conventional wisdom. And I love that about all of you.

Our words are read. Some are preserved on paper. Some words are preserved on the internet. But they live on. And they touch souls. They open minds.

Yes, Andy Rooney. Thank goodness that writers never die.

It Was A Scene Straight Out Of My Cousin Vinny. And Jane Lived To Tell About It.

He showed up more than an hour before traffic court opened. Rolling Stones t-shirt. Scruffy beard. Work boots. I wondered why he was sitting outside the door so early. The only reason I was so early was because my son had a class at the community theater a few doors down. And I wasn’t about to get in line. This is Teeny Town, Southern State, USA. How many traffic tickets in one week could there be?

A lot, apparently. And from all walks of interesting life.

Traffic court didn’t open their doors until 5:30pm. Court began promptly at 6pm. My husband was supposed to meet me at 5:20pm to hand off the kids so I could get in line.

Yes. Jane received her second traffic ticket of her life. And yes. Jane was ticked (so to speak). She shouldn’t be here because she didn’t break the law. She just hit a certain intersection at a certain time when the light was indeed yellow but Officer Jack felt it was red. She had a witness. Her daughter, who said, “I’m proud of you Mom!” as she skated through the intersection. You see, Jane usually brakes for yellow lights. But with a quick glance in her mirrors, noticing the line of cars on her behind, she decided to complete her left turn to avoid getting hit. And when the flashing lights appeared in her rear view mirror, Mom turned to daughter and said, “Still proud of me?” Daughter slunk down in her seat.

But traffic court is where the fun began. Because Jane did her homework and consulted her lawyer friends. She was armed and ready, waiting in line to check in and challenge the powers that be. And Jane loves to people watch. What better place than traffic court?

“No food or drinks, no sunglasses or hats on your head and when you address the court it will be to your advantage to say ‘Yes, Ma’am’ or ‘Your Honor,” Officer Napoleon barked to all of us and we filed through. “If you have anything  that can be construed as a weapon and you have to ask me you jus’ better turn ‘right round (as Flo Rida’s song is now pulsing through my brain) and dispose of it outside.”

The room was tiny. It only sat 51 people. (Yes, I counted.) All the seats were taken and there was a line, winding out the door. Southern twangs were bouncing off the walls. Tattoos, stiletto heels, nicotine stained fingers and teeth, bleach blonds, teased bouffant hair-dos, skin-tight pants, gigantic costume jewelry. And this was seen on just one of the offenders. Tall. Short. Skinny and the calorically challenged. Blue hairs and the pimpled faced. All there for one reason and one reason only. To fight injustice!

“I was one year shy of finishin’ law school,” Officer Napoleon boasts, “But then I a-cided I wanted to be on the right side of the law!” Yuk-yuk-yuk. He laughed at his little joke. “Liar. Lawyer. It’s all the same!” He yukked again. I had to listen to this joke 5 times before I was finally out of earshot.

Her Honor finally arrived. Two men in orange jumpsuits and shackles were paraded in front of us, jumping the line to appear before the judge. A scare tactic, maybe? It worked with me. I started to shake and doubt my resolve.

As my liar, I mean lawyer friend suggested, I asked to speak to the prosecutor. My name was finally called and I nervously approached the table. I explained the yellow/red light. I told him about my calm and kind response with Officer Jack and how he was rude and abrupt. I told him that I realize it’s the Officer’s word against mine. Mr. Prosecutor offers to charge me with a much lesser offense, one that doesn’t carry any points. I am grateful and say, “I really appreciate that because Officer Jack didn’t even charge me with the right crime.”

I point to the copy of my ticket. “Under code it says 12-34-5-6A (codes are changed to protect the identity of my state and Officer Jack’s incompetency.) which is failure to stop at a stop sign. I was at a stop light and that is code 76-54-3-2A.”

You see, I am an inquiring mind. I do my homework.

“You need to speak to the public defender,” Mr. Prosecutor says, suddenly.

“But…,” I protest, thinking I’ve now done something terribly wrong and won’t get my lesser charge.

“No. Trust me. You want to speak to the public defender,” he smiles.

I nod and move on to the next table. Mr. Public Defender heard it all and is already thumbing through a law-book.

“You are absolutely right,” he says. “He charged you with the wrong offense. I would plead not guilty and ask for bench trial. With the wrong code, these charges should be dismissed. At worst, they might amend the charge but we’d still get this lesser charge.”

I’m stunned and amazed. (Thank you, lawyer friends of mine!) After much debating with Mr. Public Defender (because I could hardly believe my luck) and an amused smile from Mr. Prosecutor, I decide to take it to trial. But I have to wait until the end of October.

Stay tuned!

6-Year-Old Retires…..Whaaaaa?

This just in!

Six-year-old Eden Wood is retiring from…..

beauty pageants.

After all, she’s competed in over 300 already. Call it burn-out. Call it been-there-done-that.  Whatever the reason, she’s done.

Oh. Wait.

Maybe pageants will interfere with her book tour. She’s written a memoir. It’s called “From Cradle To Crown.” Six years old and she has a memoir already.

Boy, I’d better get busy with mine. Looks like I’m about 40 years behind schedule.

I Can’t Help It. I Just Have To Ask.

I told myself I wouldn’t give this subject any more airplay than it’s already received.

But I can’t help myself.

I’m confused about three things.

1. How could the jury find Casey Anthony guilty of lying to the police about the circumstances surrounding her missing child but NOT find her guilty of neglect? (On the count of neglect they found her not guilty. My jaw dropped. Wide open. I even caught a few flies.)

2. How could one juror say that they were just sick about not being able to find her guilty of murder but another (alternate) juror say he believes that Casey Anthony was a good mother?

3. How one look at that smug face of Casey Anthony at many times throughout the trial doesn’t convince anyone that she’s a nut case?

I couldn’t help it. I just had to ask.

Jane Goes Undercover. It’s Going To Be An Interesting Summer.

 

A little background, if I may: I began swimming competitively when I was about 9 years old. Apparently, I had a little talent in the sport. I made it to national meets by the time I was 13. I loved swimming. I was one of the weird ones who didn’t mind getting up at 5am to swim before school. I enjoyed being the first one to practice. I was one of those year-round crazies that swam 2-4 hours a day, 10,000 yards a practice, 50 weeks out of the year.

In college, I received a music scholarship and had to choose between swimming and music. It was a Big Ten University with a stellar swimming program. I made the team but not with any financial help. Since music was paying for some of my schooling, music won. But I had been coaching summer league swimming since I was 17 and found a part-time job as an assistant coach in a year round age group program in college. I could enjoy both of my loves. I was set. I coached for 12 years.

When my children came along I always steered them toward another sport. I knew how pushy/obnoxious/ignorant swimming parents could be. (Little did I know, they’d be the same way in every other sport) I didn’t want to become one of those parents. My youngest son wasn’t buying it. He begged and pleaded and practically went on strike until we’d let him swim. He started his first team experience a week ago.

Parents are required to volunteer at three meets per season. Because we started late, there weren’t many volunteer slots left to choose from. Except for Stroke and Turn Judge, which requires a training class. I attended the training class yesterday afternoon.

What an experience.

Background information #2: I’ve decided not to advertise my background in the sport. Many parents involved in swimming, if they haven’t competed themselves, think that because they’ve watched the Olympics a few times and can pick out Michael Phelps in a line up, they are experts at swimming. I’m a people watcher – a people observer. In short, I’m looking forward to seeing some of these “experts” in action.

“For those of us who arrived 4 minutes early, what did we miss?” asks a woman from the back, obviously annoyed that the instructor has started on time. Yes. He started on time. I know, because I’m a stickler for punctuality when it involves missing time from my family. I secretly shake my head and decide that those who choose any kind of officiating role must be control freaks.

The instructor is trying to find out what kind of experience we have in the sport.

“Raise your hand if you’ve officiated before and this is just a refresher course,” he asks.

Of course, my hand is down.

“Raise your hand if this is your first time taking the course.”

I raise my hand.

Because he thinks he knows the answer, he grins and says, “Keep your hand up if this is your child’s first season swimming.”

I’m the only one with my hand up.

He looks at me with wide eyes. “Your child has never swam before?”

“No sir,” I reply.

He shakes his head. “Then sharpen your pencil. You’ve got a lot to take in.”

I certainly do, I think, smiling inside.

About half way into the session, a woman asks, “Is this going to run much longer? My daughter has her last soccer game today.” We’ve only covered two strokes. We still have two more and relays and IMs to cover.

“You’ll need to sign up for another course,” the instructor replies, “You can’t be certified if you only complete half.”

“But my dad was an official at the Pam Am games,” she answers.

“Is he going to come with you to every meet?” asks the instructor.

She pouts and stays to finish the class.

We work in groups, analyzing different infractions. One of my group-mates boasts that he swam in high school and was never DQ’d (disqualified) so this is going to be a piece of cake for him.  And I think, yeah. That’s because you swam four months out of every year and probably only swam the freestyle. If you haven’t been DQ’d, you haven’t been swimming very long.

As we turned in our tests and they were graded in front of us, the instructor – obviously impressed with my score – said, “You must have been an excellent student in school.”

I smiled and nodded, afraid to open my mouth and betray my true experience.

Ahhhh, yes.

This is going to be an interesting season.

Imagine A History Teacher Making History

“Imagine a history teacher making history.” — Christa McAuliffe

January 28th marks a day when I can remember exactly where I was in 1986.

I was a college student, studying to be a teacher. I was at my apartment, between classes, warming up leftovers for lunch. I was standing in front of the television with a bowl and fork in my hand. I was watching history.

Today’s historic event had special meaning for me. I was studying to be a teacher and a teacher, Christa McAuliffe, the first ever ordinary citizen, would accompany astronauts into space. I also knew one of the finalists. My former government and American History teacher had vied for her very spot. My parents sent me newspaper clippings of his interviews. It was big news in our hometown.

I was in awe of Christa McAuliffe. I knew she was doing something I would never be brave enough to do. Scary. Reckless. Inspiring. Whatever you want to call it, I am grateful for the people who are not as chicken as I am. People who dare to explore and expand horizons and conquer the unknown.

I remember leaving church in the middle of mass when I was a young girl. My mother was crying and my father ushered us out quickly. Later, my mom explained that she was very upset about how the priest was criticizing the US government spending on the space program. It was a popular hot topic in the press. We’d already been to the moon. What was the point with continuing?

But it was new technology in the space program and discoveries in space that trickled down to the medical community. My mom’s father, my grandfather, had a rare nervous disorder. When my mother was a teenager, doctors gave my grandfather only months to live. He defied the odds thanks to modern medical technology. Science from the space program, developed for astronauts, had kept my grandfather alive so that his granddaughter was able to meet him, know him and develop a relationship with him. He, with the combined help of space technology and modern medicine, lived 21 years past his 6 month death sentence.

Today, I will be taking a moment of silence to honor those braver than I.

To honor the pioneers, the explorers, the inventors.

To honor those willing to take great risks so that others may gain greater understanding and knowledge.

To honor history teachers making history.

The Challenger Crew - January 28, 1986