Yesterday, our president spoke to the youth of our nation. It was a speech that was meant to be broadcast live, on what was the first day of school for many throughout the country, into their classrooms. Mr. Obama was specifically charging our students to work hard, to stay in school, and to wash their hands often. You know – all the good stuff.
If you know me, you know that I did not vote for Mr. Obama. And if you know me further, you know that I still stand by my vote. However, this particular speech sparked a nationwide controversy that resulted in some decisions with which I disagree. Speaking specifically of my school district, we had planned to broadcast the speech live into our classrooms. However, parents caught wind of this, and phones started ringing off the hook at central office. Long story short, because many parents and teachers felt that broadcasting a speech by our president was taking an inappropriate political stance in the classroom, our district decided not to show it. I think this was a mistake.
He is our president, after all. What was he going to do, try and indoctrinate first-graders into supporting abortion and universal healthcare? Rubbish. It was a fantastic speech. Fellow Republicans, chill out.
Here are two statements that stood out to me as excellent words of wisdom:
“You can’t let your failures define you — you have to let your failures teach you.”
…
“Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it. I do that every day. Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of strength because it shows you have the courage to admit when you don’t know something, and that then allows you to learn something new.”
As previously promised, I’m posting an old rant about South Florida that I had put on my MySpace blog, back when I used MySpace. I wrote it during my first year living there. Everything contained in it is 100% accurate. I simply was not a Miami girl. :)
Sunday, February 18, 2007
So, I don’t know. I’m really just curious why this place is so crowded. Do people actually enjoy it here?
A leaky shack in a really scary neighborhood will cost you the same as a nice house in Plano would cost. And yes I mean shack, and yes I mean a very nice house in Plano.
Need to drive ten miles? Give yourself an hour and a half. And one of those stress-reducing tapes that makes you think of the ocean and makes you count to ten a lot. And then you might be able to look past the honking and the constant near-wrecks from people cutting you off for about ten minutes. After that, you’ll throw the tape out the window and start cussing and cutting people off with the best of them.
Want to go out to eat? Expect a waitress, in about 30 minutes, to walk up and stare at you impatiently. After that, she will communicate with you in grunts. That is, if she ever decides to come back to your table.
Need to go to the grocery store? Getting hit with other people’s carts is the norm, and you won’t even get grunting from the cashier. She will scan your things and stare at you when she’s done. Well, that’s only after she’s finished her “Oh no he DIDN’T” conversation with her friend who’s standing behind the register with her. And then she’ll look at you annoyed because you had the audacity to interrupt her conversation by requesting that she perform some semblance of what she was hired to do.
Oh, did you want to enjoy the beautiful beaches? Well, by the time you find an expensive parking place (ten miles away) and make the hike to the sandy paradise, you’ll be too sweaty and tired to really enjoy much of anything, and you’ll be ready to go home before you even see the sand.
And my most recent experience tops it all: If you find that you’ve arrived at the Olive Garden parking lot and your little bundle of joy has pooped his diaper, no worries! Just change him right there and toss the dirty diaper in the parking lot, along with any wipes you needed to use. I’m sure someone will pick it up for you. It’s definitely someone else’s job to clean up your child’s feces.
One of the best benefits of working in my district is a free health club membership. I can literally go to this club for absolutely zero cost to my person. It’s awesome, and I love it – especially for Zumba! During the school year, I was going to Zumba twice a week in addition to attending other classes or doing some other workout routine 2-4 times per week. It was easy to convince myself, since the gym was literally on my way home from school!
The summer, however, has tested my dedication. First, I taught summer school for the month of June and a little bit into July. The location was completely across town. Any time I wanted to go to the gym, I would literally have to drive 25 minutes, pass my house, and drive another 15. So, I didn’t go often, to say the least! July brought with it a very similar commute for my writing workshop. Not a lot of gym action then, either.
All told, I probably averaged 1-2 visits to the gym per week over the summer. But those few days were glorious because I would proudly display my pedometer to my husband so he could be fully amazed by the thousands upon thousands of steps I had taken!
You see, along with my free gym membership, I get a free pedometer and a membership into the Virgin HealthMiles program. If I take enough steps, I get monetary rewards!
Well, this seemingly awesome device has become a snotty little tattle-tale. When Justin comes home from work, if he suspects that I have been unproductive, he just checks my numbers. And then I’m in for it.
You see, my husband believes that physical activity equals productivity. Unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to value productivity of the mind. I may have spent much of the day on the computer, but I’ve been writing! I’m blogged up for the week! I’ve written two chapters of my book!
And, by the way, I haven’t been on the computer the whole time. I’m making major headway in Don Quixote. I have my daily Bible. I have my journal.
My mind is firing on all cylinders! I wish that lazyometer measured brain activity. It’d be off the charts!
Oh well. Physical productivity will pick up next week as I head back to school. Ack.
Age has always been a big deal to me. Even in my late twenties, I take every opportunity to claim that I’m “almost” whatever the next age happens to be. Just like a six-year-old, I begin looking toward my next birthday about 8 months out — mostly because I have looked exactly the same for the last 15 years. Despite reassurances that I’ll appreciate it later, I just about lose it every time people make off-handed comments about how I look way too young for whatever it is they’re talking about. You see, I know what they’re really saying.
It’s funny, though, that we classify people by age and define age as the amount of time since birth. Board games call for the youngest player to begin, and participants start throwing out birthdays to determine who the baby is. That’s completely false logic! Don’t we (pro-lifers) believe that life begins at conception? Or, pro-do-anything-you-wanters, was I not alive the day before I exited my mother’s womb? If I had been born premature, would I really be “older?” Is someone who was supposed to be born a month after me, but came early, actually older than me?
This is so completely unfair. I demand a recount.
New Rule: Age should be calculated from conception.
So, if I was born in October, that places conception around Januaryish. I’m already 27 going on 28! Woo hoo!
Last weekend, we saw the movie Funny People. Do not see it. Ninety percent of it is not funny at all, and, while it attempts to be thought-provoking, it is not.
Slightly apprehensive about the movie, I watched an extended trailer, and it seemed like the rating was predominantly due to explicit language. While that does grate on my nerves when it’s excessive, there are worse things. Unfortunately, I didn’t even bother to look at why it received the rating it did:
LANGUAGE AND CRUDE SEXUAL HUMOR THROUGHOUT, AND SOME SEXUALITY
That’s bad enough, but it forgot to mention the pornography.
Why is it that, when it’s at a public theater instead of behind the walls of a XXX store, it’s no longer considered pornography? If pornography is obscene or explicit material intended to arouse sexual desire, then why exactly are most R-rated movies not classified as such?
Oh – it’s art. Perhaps you should go ahead and watch Funny People, then, and explain to me how having two back-to-back quickies with strangers is art? And, if it were necessary to character development of the offender, why exactly do we need to actually watch these encounters taking place? It’s so realistic and so visually explicit that I wouldn’t be surprised if Adam Sandler actually did have sex with those two girls on camera.
Assuming “art” is an adequate excuse for explicit material, it makes no difference to the movie industry. This is not for the purpose of art. It’s because we’re in an over-sexed society that constantly arouses and excites so that it may continually lay claim to our money and our morals. This is a very successful campaign to keep us wanting more.
At this juncture, I’m taking a stance. I refuse to allow pornography into my marriage under the guise of “entertainment.” Call me a prude, but if I’m going to give my money to people who make movies like this, I might as well be shoveling God’s provision into strip clubs and the aforementioned XXX stores. (And, by the way, giving my husband a stamped approval to enter into sexual perversion.)
I’m done. I will not be guilty of leading my family into sexual sin.
Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves. ~Matthew 10:16
Hypocrite. Fake. Phony. Liar. Sham. Pretender. I know. I hate them, too. Well, I guess I can’t say that I hate them. There are many that I truly love very deeply and, let’s face it: we all know we’re not supposed to hate anybody. But I hate the idea of them.
I hate the idea of sweaty preachers with terrible toupees stealing money from a poor old lady who just wants Jesus to save her wayward slut of a granddaughter. If the little old lady with the gaunt Social Security check were just more faithful and made more of a sacrifice, maybe Jesus would save the slut.
I hate the idea of motivational speakers who bastardize the Gospel and call themselves evangelists. They steal from the young, the rich, and the worldy who really should see through the smiling sham. If these happy, shiny people will simply donate exorbitant sums to a gluttonous empire, then they’ll definitely get richer. That’s all God wants to do, you know: bless your bank account.
I hate the idea of people who call themselves Christians but who look just like the screaming, selfish world.
Do you know there are real followers of Jesus Christ out there? I don’t know how many of them are in America, but they’re slowly infiltrating societies in the East. They cling to parts and pieces of moldy pages under mattresses and in cellars, knowing full well the consequences of being caught. These followers stand quietly and steadfastly against societies that will break, burn, mock, maim, and murder them for speaking the name of Jesus to an unconverted loved one.
Oh, and do they speak it! They speak what we will not in the face of what we cannot imagine. Sometimes they speak quietly in an enigmatic note to a close friend. Sometimes they sing praises while their flesh smokes. Sometimes they intercede for their persecutor between bloody blows. Such irresponsible behavior often makes their torturers intensify their abuse. Such thoughtless speech can cost everything: their home, their safety, their good name, their job, their life. Even worse, it can result in the death of an innocent child or spouse. They see a monster with bullets poised to enter the cranium of their four-year-old and all they can do is blubber the beautiful name as they shield their eyes and their ears. The real Christians do not fear those who can only hurt the body.
But, you know, all of this is terribly politically incorrect.
Hypocrite. Fake. Phony. Liar. Sham. Pretender. I know. That’s me, too. So, I guess I can’t say that I hate them. But I sure do pity them.
So, I had a week off after teaching summer school and it was GREAT! I got to see a bunch of my girlfriends in Dallas that I don’t normally get to see. I was so anxious to get there that I actually got a speeding ticket on the way up (with this face? I can’t believe he actually wrote me a ticket!)! I have never gotten a speeding ticket in my life. I guess cops look at my cute face and just figure all I need is a warning. Well, this guy was having none of it! Defensive driving is apparently in my future…
Anyway, I’m grumpy today because I’m starting a three-week teacher development course that is going to be all day every day! I usually despise teacher development courses because they could always be delivered in about 1/20 of the time. It’s like training for dummies and it makes me seriously concerned about the educational staff. (There’s always big paper and markers involved as we work together in groups. I’m not six! Grr I hate these things.)
Rumors have been circling that this is actually a useful inservice. Grueling, but useful. We’ll see how useful secondary writing strategies are for a teacher who spends her days teaching phonics… <sigh>
Justin has the right idea. He told me to change my attitude because, no matter what, I’ll get something out of it. It might not be immediately useful, but that doesn’t mean I won’t ever use it. I’m just trying to think about the 120 hours I will get towards my re-certification… that’s my bright side!
Speaking of Justin, he has jury duty today. You’d think he’d be mad, but he was thrilled! It’s like a day off for him. He hopes he gets picked!
I am not going to join Twitter. Some of you have caved to the pressure, but I will not.
In addition to writing and reading blogs, I have Facebook and it takes more than enough of my time! There’s something about knowing what people are doing or thinking, and knowing what people think about what I’m doing or thinking, that is just compelling. And it’s trying to suck my soul from my body.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with social networking. God made us social beings; we’re meant to care about others and to want others to care about us. I’m not sure, however, that we’re meant to have computers beginning to grow into our thighs because we’re so obsessed with what just happened since we got up to pee. (Oh, wait! That’s why we have Facebook on our phones now! One hand to refresh the page, one hand to, well…)
Why do I need to have yet another vehicle to wasted time? Facebook status updates are overwhelming enough!
A toilet seat that is still warm from the butt before me.
Indiscreet nursing sessions among strangers. (Key words being indiscreet and strangers.)
Feet that need to be exfoliated hanging out in flips for everyone to see.
The thing that goes against my (and everyone else’s) face when I am at the eye doctor.
Babies (who are about a year or two from developing the fine motor skills necessary to hold a spoon) “eating” apple sauce.
Any food that students give me that isn’t sealed in the manufacturer’s packaging.
Teenagers (or people who are old enough to know better but still act like they don’t) walking in public with their hands in each others’ back pockets. FYI – that is not sweet or endearing. It’s nasty.
Any fluid, organ, tissue, etc., which is designed to stay safely behind skin, seeping, hanging, bulging, squirting, leaking, or otherwise exiting the body.
A size ”x ” wearing a size “x minus 4.” (You look prettiest in your size, regardless of the number on the tag.)
ANYTHING happening to the eyes. Anything. (I just know I’ll die after some trauma to my eye; the cause of death will be chronic vomiting and fainting due to utter disgust and horror.)
There’s more, but I said this was the short version. When you get beyond the number ten, it’s no longer short. So, what grosses you out?
(This is a follow-up to a previous post, Medical Madness. By the way – I had no idea I’d stir up so much controversy with my “to-be-continued” post yesterday! It just got too long, so I had to break it up…)
After I left the hospital on Tuesday, I felt much better. I was, however, pretty unhappy with my treatment at the hospital. I was also feeling a little nauseous and I still had dull pain in my abdomen. I was hungry again, but I couldn’t eat the Chick-fil-A nuggets Justin bought me because, although they smelled delicious, they tasted absolutely disgusting. The waffle fries were gross, too. And so Justin ate my food and started saying that I must be pregnant; too bad the idiots at the hospital didn’t bother to do a pregnancy test on a young married woman who just fainted. Genius.
Anyway, I came home and slept for quite a while. I was very exhausted. After I woke up, the pain seemed to be gone and I had every intention of going to work the next day. That is, until the next day rolled around.
I woke up on Wednesday and the pain was back, as was the nausea, but no dizziness. Although I was hungry, I couldn’t eat breakfast once I made it and looked at it. I really wanted to try to suck it up and go to work anyway, but the last thing I needed was another ambulance ride. So, I called in sick and went to a different hospital. This doctor was much better and seemed to be much more thorough. Her diagnosis: I had a ruptured ovarian cyst that caused a sudden drop in blood pressure, which triggered the fainting spell.
That made much more sense.
She didn’t order blood work because I just had a lab workup the day before. She did want to give me a urine pregnancy test, although she doubted I was pregnant due to timing. I doubted the same thing for the same reason, but Justin just kept teasing me about it, so I got nervous! Unfortunately, the clinic ran out of pregnancy tests, (go figure!), so she discharged me with a prescription for Vicotin and the instructions to take a home pregnancy test and to set up an appointment with an ob/gyn in my network for an ultrasound ASAP. Sounded like a great plan…
If only it were that easy! I spent much of the rest of the day battling exhaustion and pain and calling doctors. (Oh – after a negative pregnancy test… sorry to keep you in suspense!) It was so frustrating that I was in tears. No one could see me until July, even when I explained what was going on, and they said they wouldn’t give me an ultrasound anyway unless their doctor ordered it. So, I could either wait a month or pay another emergency room co-pay to get an ultrasound at the hospital. I was just beside myself with frustration.
Justin and I decided that I should make an appointment for July, fully aware that I might just have to make another emergency room trip if things didn’t get better. Hopefully, it’s just a cyst, it’s just an isolated incident, and I’ll be as good as new before I know it. And thankfully, I made it through Thursday nearly pain-free, completely nausea- and dizziness-free, and feeling almost completely myself. It looks like I’m on the mend! And there’s no summer school on Fridays, so I can take it easy today.
But, that was a dramatic two days! (And don’t even get me started on what I think I’m about to go through at the dentist. He is NOT going to be happy with me and I don’t think I’m going to be happy with him after he gets done fixing my mouth.)
Age has always been a big deal to me. Even in my late twenties, I take every opportunity to claim that I’m “almost” whatever the next age happens to be. Just like a six-year-old, I begin looking toward my next birthday about 8 months out — mostly because I have looked exactly the same for the last 15 years. Despite reassurances that I’ll appreciate it later, I just about lose it every time people make off-handed comments about how I look way too young for whatever it is they’re talking about. You see, I know what they’re 
