Yes, He Said That

Sometimes, my husband reads the old blog here.

And, sometimes, he laughs.

But the rest of the time, he cries wolf.

Or, rather, misrepresentation.

You see, sometimes, he claims that I, um, exaggerate what he says.

That I, on occasion, put words in his mouth.

Take, for instance, my post last week on surrogacy. While he agrees that that very conversation occurred between he and I at the restaurant over the weekend, he maintains that he didn't say those exact words in that exact order.

To which I reply, "Puh-leeze!"

Because, you see, while I'm sure I'm not getting every single article and pronoun across exactly as he said it, I'm pretty much telling you a true story. And, I'm pretty much telling it word for word.

After all, I'm an auditory learner, and if I have nothing else going for me, I have a freakishly good memory.

I'm may not exactly be a looker; I may not know how to bake a souffle, and I may not understand the basic principles of physics, but memory? Memory I got.

It is, if anything, my one claim to fame.

I know where we went, on what day, at what time, in which clothes, what the weather was like, what we ordered to eat, and what - pretty much - everybody said and did while we were out. For almost every single thing we do.

What can I say? It's a gift.

A fairly unprofitable gift that really helps me with precisely nothing, but a gift nonetheless.

Anyways, my husband doesn't like this little gift of mine. Mostly because he can't actually believe he says the things he says.

Then again, the man woke up yesterday morning and didn't remember taking all his clothes off before bed. Except there he lay, a la natural, his clothes at a pile at the foot of the bed.

So, the fact remains, he did. He stripped down in his sleep, it seems, and he says the most ridiculous things at random.

All the time, whether he remembers them or not.

Lucky me, I'm just here to record it.

Case in point: Our drive home Sunday afternoon.

He had the radio on, and we were talking.

All of sudden, a little pop tune came on the radio. I didn't recognize the ditty, but my husband did.

He reached down, turned up the volume, and exclaimed, "Oooh, Justin Bieb-LER!"

source

"Justin Bieb-ler, babe?" I replied skeptically, unsure how he knew who the teeny-bopper was in the first place and worried why he didn't immediately change the channel upon recognition of him. "Don't you mean Justin Bieber No 'L.' Just Bieber?"

He looked at me, even more skeptically, and questioned, "Bieber? Not Biebler? Or, wait, is it Boob-ler?"

And that, my friends, is my husband.

Word for word.

***

In all honesty, I am blessed to be married to such an awesome man, who takes one for the team quite often when I blog about our ridiculous conversations ad nauseum. I love you, baby!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Let's hear it for the girls

Ever have a flashback to being young and single?

You know, when all you needed was a sturdy duffle bag and big, ole Thermos full of coffee, and before you knew it, you were on your way to some sort of ambiguous adventure on half a tank of gas and the promise of maybe, just maybe, catching a glimpse of a celebrity or two?

That's the kind of weekend I had.

What started out as a 2.5 days with some of my blogging buddies turned into a full-frontal laughfest.

It was nothing like I imagined it would be.

It was better.

Because something happens when you throw together four very different women who are grounded in one simple thing: Blogging.

Upfront honesty and comedy ensue.

It's glorious, really.

So glorious, in fact, that I'm stalling. I'm afraid to write about it. Because I fear I won't do it justice. Because these ladies had me in stitches, and I'm afraid you really just had to be there.

Still, I'm going to try. For the sake of married women everywhere, who all a deserve a weekend away with the girls.
So, let's meet the characters, shall we?

First up, we have Justine. A young, married blogger over at Almost There, she works as a nanny by day and has various other specialities by night. One of which includes public vomiting. And the ability to laugh about it later.
Next up, we have Jess. A hip, happening radio promotions aficionado, who blogs over at All-American Jess, she has connections like no other. And she has a freakishly good sense of smell. Which can prove to be dangerous in a variety of situations.
Third, we've got Lil' Woman, who hails from Little Woman, Little Home. This engaged little fireball will say anything, to anyone, at anytime. And leaves you with the pictures to prove it. She's also willing to hug a lonely military wife, just to give her some personal contact.
Finally, we have me, from, well, here. You all know enough about me, already. But suffice it to say that, on this trip, I managed to get us lost in my own hometown and struggled with a skin irritation brought about thanks to my extremely pear-shaped figure. My thighs will never be the same.

So, let's started, shall we?

Friday, 5:30 p.m.: I meet Lil' Woman in the parking lot of a random Best Buy. We both scream so loud upon seeing each other that her fiance' all but pushes her out of their car.
5:58 p.m: Lil' Woman and I arrive at our hotel. We are met with valet parking, which is distinctly "too classy" for the two of us, as evidenced by the fact that we both ran helter-skelter to the hotel door with about 18 bags slung over each arm, positively giddy with excitement. Still, we manage our way through it and find a seat in the lobby to wait for the other two girls. We also take a photo with an Orlando Magic fan who just happened to wander by dressed like a chicken. To better capture the local color, of course.
6:18 p.m.: Lil' Woman and I realize we're at the wrong hotel after the other girls call us, telling us they're standing in the lobby, too, and they can't see us. Whoops. Thirty minutes into the trip, and I'd already gotten us lost. In the very city where I was born and raised.

6:19 p.m.: We rescue my car from it's first (and only) run-in with valet parking. I'm now $5 poorer.

6:32 p.m.: We arrive at the correct hotel, hike up nine floors, and find our room. We begin to converse, catch up, and talk about - what else? - cervical mucus.

6: 45 p.m.: After Justine explains to Lil' Woman how fertile cervical mucus resembles the texture and stretchiness of egg whites, Lil' Woman swears off men, conception, and child-bearing forever. Or at least considers it.

8:30 p.m.: After several other confessions in our new "Circle of Trust," we all head out to dinner at the classiest place on Earth - the Olive Garden. At this point, we were basically holding hands, skipping, and revealing exactly what names we want to bestow on our first-born children.

9:00 p.m.: The waitress brings us our first order of salad and breadsticks. Lil' Woman, starving, goes in for a big bite of iceberg. But spits it out before she can even taste it, yelling, "Oh, &#*^, are we supposed to pray or something like that?" This makes Jess laugh so hard, she almost chokes on her unsweetened iced tea. People are officially staring, so Justine and I give the most hasty of graces ever.

9:05 a.m.: We begin to discuss our favorite topic: Blogging. Justine and Lil' Woman - a Midwesterner and Northerner, respectively - mentioned how so many bloggers were "obsessed with that thing. That thing called Seck?" Jess and I just looked at each other, until finally, we muttered, "Wait, do you mean the S.E.C., as in the Southeastern Conference?" Word to the wise for Southern bloggers: SEC reads as "seck" to Northerners who don't watch college football. But don't worry. Jess and I immediately rectified the situation (and threw in a little propaganda about how "Seck" is the best college-football conference in the country to boot.)

9:10 p.m.: Justine begins to feel queasy and retreats from the table. The rest of us are stumped, having never actually had to physically comfort a blog-friend through nausea before. I seriously ponder if I should leave a "Feel better soon!" comment on her blog while she's in the bathroom.

9:18 p.m.: We leave the restaurant quickly so we can get sick Justine to bed.

9:25 p.m.: We return to the hotel and begin to book it toward our room. But not quick enough. Because before Justine - who is power-walking like no other - can make it to our bathroom, she throws up. Right smack dab in the middle of the lobby.

9:26 p.m.: Lil' Woman - who's apparently overcome her recently confessed fear of bodily functions - accompanies Justine to the nearest bathroom. Jess and I wither under the stares of hotel staff who seem to think we've been on some sort of bender, though none of us - including our resident projectile vomiter - had imbibed a drop.

10:10 p.m.: We finally tuck ourselves into bed but continue to talk about a host of different topics, including how several of our friends - knowing we were meeting up with "people we met on the Internet" - feared we were walking into some sort of trap, where we'd end up tossed into a Dumpster after being harvested for our internal organs. We all made a pact not to steal each other's kidneys and then dozed off around 3 a.m.

Saturday, 9:00 a.m.: Desperate and hungry the following morning, we arose in search of food and found a little gem called Keke's Breakfast Cafe, where I expressed my undying love for their pancakes and swore that if my husband didn't return from boot camp, I'd have my marriage annulled and marry into the Keke family, just so I could have "Florida Style" breakfast goods every morning.
9:15 a.m.: Another group of women watch us from a table away, until one finally turns to her friends and whispers, conspiratorially, "Oh, they're all bloggers." We're all thrilled by the fact that we've been coined with our much-preferred job titles.

11:10 a.m.: We headed toward Universal Studios, where we made our way from attraction to attraction. We humored Lil' Woman, who has an apparent penchant for all live characters and had our photo taken with every Homer Simpson, Spiderman, and stuffed bubble-gum shrimp in the park.
12:00 p.m.: We bounce from attraction to attraction, laughing all the while.
1:15 p.m.: Due to all the profuse walking, my capri pants start to irritate my legs, or, more specifically, my inner thighs. I begin to wish I'd worn spandex athletic-wear.

2:00 p.m.: The inner-thigh irritation worsens.

2:30 p.m.: We decide to see/ride "The Disaster" show/ride at Universal Studios. The ride engineer asks for some volunteers to help make the ride's "disaster movie." Lil' Woman jumps at the chance to play an evil villain. Justine and Jess shove me on stage after the man asks for "someone over 19 wearing close-toed shows and pants, who considers themselves slightly athletic."

2:31 p.m.: I'm not thrilled about my new acting gig.

2:35 p.m: But before I know it, I'm dunked in a pit of balls and told to flail my arms about, scream, and act like I'm drowning, all in front of a live studio audience. This, mind you, is all captured on film. Meanwhile, Lil' Woman is laughing maniacally.
2:45 p.m.: We watch a video where I appear to be drowning in water - not balls - thanks to the wonders of green-screen. The entire 200-person audience laughs.
2:46 p.m.: I'm not thrilled.

2:55 p.m.: We exit the ride, and I realize my inner-thigh irritation is getting worse. It's now graduated to full-on chafing.

5:00 p.m.: We wander over to Islands of Adventure to force Justine on at least one roller coaster before we leave.
5:01 p.m.: My chafing worsens.

5:35 p.m.: We wait in line to ride the Incredible Hulk roller coaster, only to realize we're standing in front of a middle-aged man and three scantily clad 13-year-old girls - all of whom were attending the theme park for a cheerleading competition.

5:36 p.m.: We observe the man kissing, hugging and downright ogling the girls.

5:37 p.m.: We realize the man is not the girls' father.

5:38 p.m: We are legitimately freaked out and ponder calling the police or grabbing one of the girls and asking her if she needs help extracting herself from this wholly inappropriate coach/chaperone/sexual predator situation.

5:39 p.m.: We all proceed to glare at the man, and Lil' Woman even manages to sternly say, "Please take your hands off her."

5:40 p.m.: The line finally splits, and we're separated away from the now-coined "Lester the Molestor" and those poor adolescents. I'm still kind of worried about them, and I vow that I will never let my future children wear a bikini top, be a cheerleader, or go on a trip with a creepy male chaperone.

5:55 p.m: My chafing worsens.

6:15 p.m.: We finally ride the coaster, and though I've done it before, I'm not as young as I used to be, and I almost trip getting off it. I'm disoriented from the spinning and looping and intense speeds by body underwent. And also from the intense pain of my chafing.

7:00 p.m.: We finally go to leave the park, and I'm forced to waddle, so as to minimize contact between my inner thighs. Justine tells me that it's A-OK, though, because, after all, it's "good practice for when you're pregnant."

8:00 p.m.: We get dressed in some finery and head out to dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. But not before I lotion my thighs, though even that didn't make the waddle go away.

8:40 p.m.: We meet Ro, a nice waiter who poses for pictures after Lil' Woman tells him we're all in Orlando together because we're at a (fake) bloggers' conference.

9:00 p.m.: I order a salad for 12; Lil' Woman orders a grilled cheese the size of her head. We're not shy about food around these parts.
9:30 p.m.: Ro adores us so much, he gives us free Godiva chocolate to go with our cheesecake. We tell him that this officially earns him a spot on our blogs. Here's to you, Ro!
10:15 p.m.: We return to our hotel and run into the poor staffer who had to clean up Justine's vomit incident. She inquires if he's "the guy who had to clean up my throw-up yesterday." He nods sorrowfully that he is. We wonder if he deserves a tip.

11: 00 p.m.: We head back to our room for some more slumber-party fun. Though the fun became all too much for this teacher, and I passed out talking - literally - mid-sentence. I'm blaming the burning pain in my inner thighs. The girls then send me an e-mail while I'm snoozing at 1 a.m. so I can know what parts of the conversation I missed out on. Only in a group of a bloggers...

9:00 a.m.: We arise, but not before I proceed to put pajama pants under my maxi dress so I can minimize Sunday's chafing.

9:30 a.m.: We head back to Keke's Breakfast Cafe. The waitress gives us an odd look and shakes her head, mumbling, "You're back." Yes, we are! Bring on the Florida-style pancakes!

10:10 a.m.: We return to Universal Studios because, lo and behold, Ellen DeGeneres is taping two episodes of her show. Both of which include musical guests. One of which is Rascal Flatts. Whom I adore.

11:00 a.m.: Lil' Woman fashions a flashy, hot-pink sign that says "Bloggers 4 Ellen," in attempt to get us onstage to meet celebrities.
12:00 p.m.: The show begins taping, and we are unfortunately not onstage. But we are dancing away in the crowd and peering as a host of celebrities - Mario Lopez, Sharon Osbourne, some girl from American Idol, and Portia de Rossi - come on and off the stage, including Ellen and her stunt double.
12:34 p.m.: We watch Usher perform. We realize that Rascal Flatts is performing later.
1:30 p.m.: We hop in line in hopes of getting in to see the second taping. I grab some staffer and tell him we're bloggers, in hopes that this will give us an edge. Instead, he hands us ponchos and water bottles. I was not entirely sure how that was an equivalent, but we took the free loot anyway.

1:45 p.m.: It begins to rain, and we are ushered into crowd by Ellen staffers to watch Rascal Flatts sing. We are also forced to throw away our hot pink poster. But not before putting in a good word for our friend Gina and her little boy Logan. It was the least we could do, considering the only reason we got out of bed after four hours of sleep Sunday morning was because we knew Gina would have done it. (Hence our new motto, "What Would Gina Do?" WWGD bracelets coming to infomercials near you.)
2:00 p.m.: It begins to rain.

2:02 p.m.: I begin to sweat under my layers of pajama pants, a maxi dress, and the most unbreathable poncho known to man.

2:30 p.m.: Rascall Flatts and Ellen come on. We cheer and sing along to "Life is a Highway" together in the pouring rain. The girls are reminded about my penchant for cheesy country songs. I don't care. I do care that Ellen is freakishly tan and tiny in person. I want to know if she's really using all those Oil of Olay and CoverGirl products she endorses.
3:15 p.m.: We fight a torrential downpour and a huge crowd to vacate the park and head back to our car. But Ellen actively waved at us through her own rain-soaked hair and poncho. Success!

3:17 p.m.: I report to the girls that, although I'm soaked in sweat and rain, that the pajama-pants and maxi dress minimized the chafing and put a halt to almost all of my inner-thigh pain.

3:30 p.m.: We find a Walgreens, where we exchange photos, and we hit a Chipotle up for a super late lunch.

4:30 p.m.: We plan our next bloggy meet-up, which will celebrate a certain somebody's bacherolette party, and we're inviting all of you! Stay tuned because you won't want to miss out on this!
5:15 p.m.: We finally wrench ourselves away from each other, remembering we have jobs and families and responsibilities that are way less fun than celebrity-stalking, sober vomiting, and soothing chafed thighs.

6:15 p.m.: I fight the urge to call in sick, turn my car around, and head back toward the girls. But my sensible Teacher Self wins the argument. And I keep driving down the rode toward home.

***

Whew! Re-living all that made me tired again. I'll be honest, if I wasn't storing up personal days for my husbands' return, I'd have called in sick to work yesterday. And probably today.

Because unlike those younger, single days - when I could bounce back from sleepless nights and day after day constantly on my feet - I can't do it anymore.

Fun times like that leave me with deep, body exhaustion; headaches; and a strong desire to bathe my legs in aloe vera and never wear abrasive fabrics again.

Still, just like when I was younger, it was worth it. Every last minute of it. I'll sing along in the rain with Rascal Flatts any day, thank you very much. Especially with these girls.

But now, somebody hand me my sweat pants. My thighs need a break.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Me, My Family, and Some Famous People: Part 2

Find Part 1 here.

***

So while I was en route to a fun and fabulous John Mayer concert, I took a call from my brother.

Who was in Washington, D.C., being all high-end and impressive.

Because my baby bro had been invited to the President's National Prayer Breakfast.

Apparently, he's just that important.

So while his big sis is just a teacher who's lucky enough to sing along with John Mayer one weekend, my brother - a plain, old military officer - gets to represent the state of Florida at the President's National Shindig for All Things Prayerful and Sacred.

Yes, my little brother prayed with President Barack Obama.

And Vice President Joe Biden.

And several other senators and congressional representatives, who - when not praying - were all too eager to shake his hand, buy him drinks, and talk to him about his life for the day-and-half event.

He even ate dinner with William P. Young, the author of the hit novel The Shack.

But besides rubbing elbows with the Obamas and other D.C. elite, he made a friend - a friend who, where I come from, pretty much trumps meeting the President of the United States.

It all started when my brother took his seat for dinner the first night.

Being young and nervous, and desperately trying to hang on in a conversation with U.S. senator Bill Nelson, my brother felt relieved when a younger guy about his age sat down next to him.

My brother said he recognized the guy, but barely. It was the classic, "I think I know you from somewhere. But where?" scenario.

Nervously, my brother gave his new table-mate a smile. The young guy smiles back, extends his hand, and says, "Hi there. I'm Tim."

My brother nods, smiles, introduces himself, all while wondering, "Who's Tim, and how do I know him?"

Tim, it turned out, was very interested in my brother, his military career, his relationship with God, and his general outlook on life.

My brother said they were having a genuinely nice, fraternal conversation when Tim haphazardly mentioned something about "being nervous with the draft coming up."

And by "draft," he totally meant the NFL Draft.

As in, the place all big-time college football players go to be farmed out according to their rank and talent level.

It's enough to make a grown man quake with fear.

Even if that grown man happens to be the one and only Tim Tebow.

Or, in other words, my brother's new best friend.

Yes, my brother had befriended - unknowingly, mind you - University of Florida former quarterback, Heisman Trophy-winner, controversial Super Bowl commercial star, and Christian powerhouse Tim Tebow.

source

At this point, my brother did the obligatory tie-in and managed to mention that his dear big sister was also a fellow Florida Gator - a proud University of Florida alumni.

He also may or may not have mentioned the fact that his sister makes a mean pot roast and still lives in the UF vicinity should Tim ever need a home-cooked meal while he's finishing up his bachelor's degree this year.

Or I may have imagined that part.

But whatever.

My brother ate dinner with the President and chatted up Tim Tebow.

In some weird six degrees of separation, I am now a de-facto politico who wines and dines infamous college football players.

Or I'm just a high-school teacher with a wild imagination who enjoys living vicariously through my little brother.

My life is uber-exciting, people. Uber.

But still! Tim Tebow and my brother. Just a bunch of old chums. Laughing and talking and praying and sharing war stories from the football field and the pool. (My brother - who is actually Tim's age - was a college water polo player.)

All while President Barack and First Lady Michelle look on beneficently. (Or at least that's how I imagined it going down.)

What a weekend.

For my brother.

I'm just the sister he told about it.

But still, a girl can dream.

So here's hoping one day my brother brings his new friend Tim over for dinner.

And hey, the President can totally come, too.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! And if you haven't done so yet, don't forget to enter my Bloggy Birthday Giveaway!

Me, My Family, and Some Famous People: Part 1

I'm not a big celebrity follower.

I don't read the gossip mags; I don't check People or US Weekly's Web sites; heck, I don't even follow celebrities on Twitter.

Frankly, I don't see the attraction.

When your life consists of corralling high-school students 10 months out of the year, celebrity and all that it entails pales in comparison.

I'm too busy living in the moment. (Teehee. Get it? Get it?)

Plus, I'm also pretty oblivious to all things celebrity.

I have approximately zero "I Met A Famous Person" stories.

Well, one time, I drove by Hulk Hogan on the interstate, turned to my college friend and said, "I think that's Hulk Hogan," before I returned to eating SweetTarts and jamming out to The Cranberries.

Other than that, though, I'm pretty celebrity-run-in free.

So when our dear friends Nigel and Hannah invited us to attend the John Mayer concert this weekend, I was excited. When I found out how good are seats were, I was doubly excited. And when I found out it would allow us to spend some wonderful time with our dear friends, I was triply excited.

But I didn't really think about the fact that I was going to be pretty darn close to John Mayer, guitar-playing heart-throb and major (and sometimes controversial) celebrity.

Except, in fact, we were.

And it was awesome.

Regardless of how you feel about good, old, politically outspoken J. Mayer, he's quite the impressive musician. I was blown away by his talent, as well as by his natural hilarity and sense of sarcastic, yet comic, timing.

I also gathered a few other observations about John Mayer, who, I might add, was close enough to me that I'm fairly certain we held eye contact for a good minute of one song, which only ended when I turned to the hubs and said, "I'm fairly certain John Mayer was just looking at right at me. I hope you're not jealous."(Apparently, the hubs was not.)

So, without further ado, I give you, Several Things I Want to Tell John Mayer (When We Meet Again and He Tells My Husband - Very Respectfully - That I Am a Charming Woman.)

1. "John Mayer, you have a freakishly tiny hiney."
Look, I'm not the kind of girl that checks out another man's hiney. I have values. But it was hard not to notice John's teeny tiny behind. Its very itsy-bitsy nature made it hard not to stare at it. Even my husband noticed Mayer's teensy tush. It was so small, it was just weird. Then again, Mr. Mayer's insistence on shaking his hips rhythmically to his guitar rifts really made it hard to avert your eyes from his back-end.

Frankly, you can't blame me.

2. "John Mayer, you own more guitars than God."
OK, that may be a slight exaggeration. But seriously, the man had so many guitars on stage that he seemed to be using two or three a song without repeating. He even had his own "guitar tuner," who worked in a kneeling position, holding a flashlight between his teeth, to repair John's guitars when they seemed not to be to Mr. Mayer's liking. And, while I know that I'm not a music aficionado, I have to wonder, "Why so many, John? Why so many?" Seriously, how many guitars does one man need? Does it really make a big difference? Or do you just enjoy making your roadies work extra hard?

Shame on you, John. Guitar gluttony is not becoming.

3. "John Mayor, if you are really dating Taylor Swift, I'm deeply saddened. And a little enraged."
I didn't know about this little Mayer-Swift rumor until my husband filled me in on it while we were heading toward the concert. When I found out, I blurted out, and I quote, "No way. No how. He's not that seedy. Wasn't Jennifer Aniston enough?" (Another concert-goer behind me gave me the old "Amen, sister!" after my exclamation, and we then exchanged the well-practiced Gaze of Female Understanding: The "Oh, Men!" Eye Roll.) But later, another girl behind me, holding up the "John, 'You Belong With Me,'" sign, begged to differ.

Apparently, Johnny is that seedy.

To me, this screams Creepy Lolita-Conquest Material. It's the classic older celebrity man conquering the pretty, innocent, young country singer for all the world to see just. because. he. can. Which - again - is shady. And terrible for poor Taylor. And for John. And for the general teeny-bopper following both of them have gathered over the past few years.

Come on, you two, think about the kids.

4. "John Mayer, if you have an opening, would you consider hiring me as a back-up singer?"
I am mystified by back-up bands. I love the back-up bass player; I'm in awe of the back-up guitarist. And don't even get me started on the drummer. I love me some drummer-watching.

To be honest, I think I'd make an excellent addition to any back-up band. I can head-bob with wanton abandon, sing along as needed, and wear glittery T-shirts bedazzled with art right from the cover of John Mayer's newest album.

But considering I can't play guitar, bass or drums - and the fact that my middle-school flute-playing skills have long since expired - I think my only option is to stand behind John and sway, swinging my arms from side to side and going, "Ooh, ooh, ooh ooh!"

However, let me tell you, I can work a crowd and semi-carry a tune. I also look fabulous in glitter.

John, please, take a chance on me.

***

In all seriousness, we had a great time. And we were beyond blessed to spend a wonderful weekend with our dear friends. Both the hubs and I treasured the time with them. (Thanks, Nigel and Hannah!)

However, my celebrity experience was trumped. Because while I was en route to standing within shouting distance from John Mayer for two straight hours, my brother called me.

From Washington, D.C.

Where he was currently interacting with some big-time politicians.

And where he had met some other big-time people over the weekend.

Like, seriously, big-time.

Bigger than Taylor Swift. Bigger than John Mayer.

Big-time.

My little brother trumped me, Mayer, and all that our special weekend entailed.

So tune in for Part 2 tomorrow to find out exactly who my brother rubbed shoulders with over his fun weekend.

Until then, I'll be practicing my back-up vocals for John Mayer's next tour.

Me me me me me me me me me me...

***

Happy Monday everyone!

I'm lovin' it

I'm having one of those weeks.

One of those weeks where I'm guaranteed to lose five pounds because I don't have enough time to eat, and I've constantly got the adrenaline pumping. At times, I'm literally running from task to task.

My baby journalism students (ninth and 10th graders) are putting together their very first edition of the school paper.

For me, this is the equivalent of corralling 28 baby bulls in a china shop, and not just keeping them from destroying everything in sight, but also coaching them through hand-painting an entire Wedgewood set of wedding china, without grabbing the brush and teacups from their hands (hooves?) and exclaiming, "Here! Just let me do it myself!"

Still, despite all that, I've made it a goal to keep up the normal blogging regimen. Something has to keep me sane. But I'm going to have to keep this week's posts easy, short and sweet, if for no other reason than out of necessity.

So, I'm so grateful to Gina, at Namaste by Day, who tagged me to play along with this little game a while back.

I have to use Google Images to explain my answers for each category listed below.

This is going to be fun...

1. Your favorite beverage:
Oh, how I love a steamy, foam-topped cappuccino. It's relaxing to drink, with an energizing after effect. I am most definitely a girl who needs her coffee, with extra caffeine, thank you very much. I love it a little too much, probably.

But there's something about a piping hot cappuccino, coupled with a good book or a good friend.

Heaven on Earth.

2. Your hometown:
I share a hometown with the Happiest Place on Earth.

I was born and raised in Orlando, Fla., the city known for Disney World, the always-terrifying Interstate 4, and over-crowding.

Apparently, it's also one of the 10 most violent cities in America and is becoming one of the best places to buy and sell heroin. (Can you tell I'm not a big fan?)

Seriously, if it wasn't for my close friends and family who still live there, I wouldn't go back. They are Orlando's only bright spot for me.

Well, them and IKEA.

3. Your favorite television show:
Oh, LOST, how I love thee? Let me count the ways!

My husband and I sit on the edge of our couch every Wednesday night, dinner plates on our laps, mouths gaping at the show that leaves us shocked and awed and wondering what will happen next.

We love it. And I cannot wait till January-February 2010, when it returns.

4. Your occupation:
I'm a high school language arts/journalism teacher (which is not a well-stocked area for Google Images, by the way.)

Technically, I teach English, but I also have certifications in journalism, photography, and art. (Ha! Which says nothing! I'm useless without a computer. Colored pencils are beyond me. Seriously.)

My background was not in education, at least not at first. I fell into teaching after falling in love with it while teaching a communications course for college freshmen and sophomores, as I worked on my master's degree in journalism and health communication. (My bachelor's degrees don't reflect my current job, either. I ended up with a B.S. in journalism and a B.A. in history. And had no intention of teaching at that point.)

Four years later, I now work with ninth through 12th graders in a variety of language and creative arts classes.
I also work as a trainer/fitness instructor in the evenings and on the weekends. I have worked in fitness and recreation now for almost seven years, and I can safely say that this field has graduated from being a hobby I did to make a little spare cash to a true passion. One day, I'd love to own my own women's wellness center, where I could take care of the fitness component of the program. One distant day...

5. Your first car:
A 1988, gray-blue Plymouth Sundance, which I named Molly. (Don't ask.) It was donated to me by my wonderful grandmother.

She (the car, not my grandmother) was on her last legs when I got her, and she(again, the car, not my grandmother) died the last week of my senior year of high school. But I remember her fondly.

She definitely put in her time, dragging my friends and me to and from water polo games, stalling out over deep rain puddles, and one time, hitting a chain-link fence as I was exiting a Saturday morning swim practice.

RIP, Molly.

6. Your favorite dish:
Eggplant parmesan.

Seriously, my grandmother, a full-blooded, tiny Italian woman (and the same person who gave me the Sundance,) makes the best eggplant parm on this Earth.

But, because I'm nothing if not a devoted granddaughter, I still insist on testing out every other Italian restaurant's version of this famous dish, just to see if she's still got it.

And people, I'm here to tell you: She's still got it. In spades.

7. Celebrity you've been told you resemble:
I really don't see this. And I wish I did, because hello! She's gorgeous!

But I've had a few people tell me I look like Jennifer Garner.

Still, I can't find much of a resemblance.

Her tall, lean build; her straight hair; her big lips?

While I wish I had those features, I'm a realist, and my short, muscular stature; curly hair, and puny pucker are telling another story.

8. Celebrity on your "to do" list:
I have loved Matt Damon since Good Will Hunting. He's just so darn cute.

Even my husband knows of my celebrity crush on Matty. After all, only two years ago, the hubs graced me with a Matt Damon postcard collection for my birthday.

I kid you not.

And you know what? The fact that Matt Damon married a non-celebrity and adopted her child makes me love him even more.

He is the only reason I went to see the Bourne Identity movies.

The. Only. Reason.

9. Your favorite childhood toy:
Books.

I used to take laundry baskets to the library, fill 'em up, and return the books a week later, all read.

I loved to read, even as a small child.

Before I could walk, apparently, my mother would prop me up with a book and turn the pages for me. And even as a baby, I'd stare at the book, mesmerized, for hours.

And you know what? Not much as changed.

I'd read through an entire weekend if I was allowed.

10. Any random photo:

I have a little guilt talking about this, in light of the recent pumpkin shortage some areas of the country are experiencing, but thanks to dumb luck, I haven't had this problem.

Right when it became available, I bought a bulk package of giant-sized cans of pumpkin from Sam's Club, simply because I was so darned excited to cook with it, as I have a deep and undying love for all things pumpkin.

And then I got home and realized I only knew how to make pumpkin pie and pumpkin spice cake. And that even if I made jumbo batches of both, I still had about 5/6ths of my unintentional pumpkin supply left.

So I turned to the blog world, and I was not disappointed.

I made Lauren's pumpkin crisp, Mrs. Southern Bride's pumpkin pie soup, and Shaina's pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. (I also improvised a pumpkin milkshake of my very own!)

Which means I only have one word left to say:

YUM!!!!
(Thank you, girls, for sharing your recipes. My over-crowded pantry, and my husband, are thrilled.)

***

I was going to tag some specific bloggers to play along, but I figure, with the fall rush hitting all of us full throttle, some of you all might be a little hard-up for thoughtful blog topics, too.

So, I tag you all. Play along if you want. It's a blast! (And it's a great, easy excuse for a blog post!)

Also, come on back tomorrow. The fabulous Mrs. Potts will be guest posting for Workout Wednesday!

Thanks for reading! Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Hello, CMT? Did you get the memo?

We're now going on 12 hours straight of all MJ, all the time.

Yes, Michael Jackson is dead. The king of pop sings no longer.

Everywhere, all over the world, people are mourning the loss of a great musician and cultural icon.

And every television station, radio broadcast and Web site is running a constant stream of MJ media; videos, songs, photo montages set to "Beat It," "Billy Jean," and "Thriller." (Because we all know the man never sang a sentimental song in his life. You know, except "Man in the Mirror," "We Are the World," and the random theme song to that whale movie, "Free Willy." Where are those montages, people? The man died, and we're celebrating his life with the song "Beat It?" Have some class!)

But meanwhile, while CNN, MTV, VH1, ABC, BET, CBS, and heck, even the Spanish Channel, are recounting MJ from his Jackson 5 days to his dangling baby moments, one station holds strong to their broadcasting promise: All country, all the time.

Yes, CMT, Country Music Television, is currently boasting crooners belting out lyrics like, "God is great; beer is good, and people are crazy," and over the last two hours, I haven't even seen a mention of MJ. Apparently, CMT didn't get that fax.

And apparently, while the rest of world, even Lindsay Lohan, who managed to deliver the oh-so-eloquent Twitter last night on MJ's death, "OMG NO...I feel sick" (I have news for you, Lindsey, Michael's death is probably not why you feel sick,) CMT remains untouched.

Because let's face it, he may have been the king of pop; he may have rocked out; he may have inspired countless R & B musicians everywhere, but he never really felt the need to interact with musicians who think tractors are sexy.

You just don't hear country musicians shouting out to Michael Jackson during a CMT award show. God? Yes. Momma? Sure. Pick-up trucks and horses? Absolutely.

Michael? Not so much.

In fact, I think the closest Michael ever came to interacting with the country music world is wearing a cowboy hat. Maybe. (I can't guarantee it, but it seems a fashion choice he may have made at some point in his life.)

But in all seriousness, when such a popular public figure dies, especially unexpectedly, most people, even Lindsey Lohan, are shaken. To the core.

It shows us all that we're not immortal. That at some point, we are all going to lose our lives.

It shows us the true sanctity of human life, a gift that we're all given, but a gift that has a mysterious, unknown expiration date.

And yet, it shows that life goes on. That human beings, even Michael Jackson, will pass away. Because we are only human beings. And that when we do, others will keep living their mission, whether that be raising a family, serving their country, or singing country music.

At least Michael has 55 out of 56 channels dedicated to his death. No one else will ever get that kind of tribute. Not U.S. soldiers who give their lives for our freedom. Not mothers and fathers who raise the children that lead our nation. Heck, not even those very leaders of our nation.

So, today, we have to remember a man who brought joy to many. But we also have to remember that he was only a man. And that eventually, most television stations will return to their regularly scheduled programming, not just CMT.
__
P.S. I would like to thank my friend Christine, who spent the night here last night, and has now dedicated two hours of her morning to monitoring CMT. This post would not have been possible without her. Yes, Christine, you can take the TV off of mute now. I'm done writing.

Too many nothings to write about...

Nothing huge has happened, and yet, I always seem to have lots and lots to say. So I'm stringing it all together into some random tidbits for Tuesday:

1. My parents are coming into town this weekend! Yay! Except, wait...I need to clean my house! What is it about your mom that makes you feel like your home is a) a mess and b) never quite polished/dusted/decorated enough? Wasn't I supposed to get rid of this feeling once I grew up?

2. I love dishes, and more specifically, I love Target's cute dishes. If you do too, check out the give-away on Whitney's blog, My Journey Toward: The Glamorous Life of a Housewife. She's a newlywed and a new mommy-to-be, and I've been reading her blog for a while and loving it!

3. I have no idea what it is about the end of January through February, but literally 95 percent of my close friends have birthdays during this time period...there are three birthdays this week alone! Expect a lot of birthday posts to come!

4. I have to do teach THREE fitness classes tonight. Three. I won't lie. I've done this before, back in my college days, but what's so jarring about this is that I didn't find out till a) 5:30 this morning, and b) when I was half way to 6 a.m. Cycling class. So yes, by 7 p.m. today, I'll have completed a cycle class, a BOSU training class, a cardio circuit class, and an aerobics class. And I have to teach three our of four of them. I feel kind of duped by the fellow instructor who did this to me, but it's too late now to explain why. The show, er, class, must go on, and I'm the unfortunate main attraction. I will not be walking tomorrow.

5. I'm furious, furious, furious with the media. Now, this isn't uncommon for me, despite the fact that I have an academic/professional background in journalism. But really?The media, bloggers, everybody has given J. Simpson here a hard time because she's fat. Is she wearing an ugly belt, bad jeans? Sure. (Although, can we just point out that apparently she was a at chilli cook-off? I mean, there isn't really appropriate dress for that sort of thing.)

However, my concern is not with this celebrity. I hate hate hate (and rarely follow) celebrity gossip (plus Simpson, I'm sure, can and will take care of herself. She doesn't need me defending her).

What really makes me so, so mad is the effect this kind of name-calling has on children, specifically adolescent girls.

As a high school teacher, I work with them every day, and images and words like these are SO detrimental to these girls. Because real-world women and girls look like this, if not more shapely. And when you call this "fat," you are, in essence, labeling all of us as fat. As an adult, I don't much care, but younger versions of us do care. They are still forging paths and identities, and these kinds of media attacks (even against others) are big obstacles in the way of their growing up safely.

In addition, these celebrity media-hounds are bad-mouthing what women are all about. What makes women so special and wonderful is our God-given ability to give birth to children and care for them. That gift is exclusive to women. And when you mock someone's body, with features that are NOT fat, but are indeed womanly, you mock her ability to do what she's designed to do.

No one should make young girls ashamed to have the curves and bodies that will enable them to be mothers when they are ready. Teenage girls have a hard place in this world as it is, and it hurts my heart to see the girls in my classroom deal with even more than they should be at their age. (Phew! Sorry! I had to get that one out there!)

6. My poor husband. As some of you know, Patrick works full time and has gone back to school. He's in a fine arts program, and it's very time-consuming (not exactly book learning. You have to constantly create.) He's been staying up till 5 a.m.(the time I get up!) to get his work done, after he works a full day and attends class. I feel so horrible for him. He was dozing off mid-dinner last night! And on top of that, he left his USB drive in a work computer yesterday, which had ALL of his portfolio work and assignments on it. And someone took it. He's hoping it will appear in lost and found today, but if it doesn't, he's going to have to re-do everything! So, any encouragement you have for him would be most appreciated.

Thanks for reading my rants! Have a lovely Tuesday!