E-mail Insanity

Be forewarned: Rant in progress!

Okay, let me start this all off by saying I love my family and friends that send me e-mails regularly. Most of the *chain* e-mails I get are sweet, Jesus Loves You, pictures of angels or puppies or babies type messages. I don't mind those. They're benign enough and if someone thinks enough of me to add me to their distribution list when they're sending out a "You're My Best Bud" or "I prayed for a miracle for you today" e-mail, well, I am grateful to be remembered.

But I also get the OTHER e-mails as well. You know what I'm talking about. The "Everyone should have to speak English around here" and "Let's all rise up because Lowe's doesn't use the word Christmas as many times as they use the word holiday in all their ads" e-mails. The ones that DRIVE ME TOTALLY INSANE! People, if you have my e-mail address you must know that I am a LIBERAL person. I am not a *crazy Christian* and I most certainly am not, never have been nor ever will be, not even for five million dollars and a free night pass with George Clooney (I must admit I did hesitate on that one) a Republican.

Here is my belief. We live in AMERICA, land of the FREE, the place that gives you the right to put down the Mexican people, the Cuban people, the French people, the Middle Eastern people, whoever, in your e-mails to me. Why does it matter if Jose speaks Spanish while he's here? Do we speak French when we go to France? Of course not. If I go to Brazil for a year as an exchange student, will I be fluent in Portugese? Absolutely not. And that would be difficult for me, but it would be MY problem.

If Jose wants to apply for a job where English is a requirement, then Jose should learn English. If he wants to become an American citizen, he should have to take the test in English because English is the chosen language for America. This applies to me applying for a job as a personal trainer -- I MUST LOSE WEIGHT and learn the ins and outs of working out. But if Jose comes to America, has taken his citizenship test and passed it, or is here on a visa and is working legally, and he has a job where he is not required to speak English, a job in his own Spanish community, why in the name of your mama is it any business of yours to say he has to speak your language? This country is founded on immigrants -- Italians, Irishmen, all of them. We are no longer the land of the free, people, we are the land of the judgmental, dictating what people should and shouldn't be doing, forcing our own beliefs down the throats of others. I can't imagine why anyone would want to come here from another country anymore. We are becoming the land of the persecuted.

I got an e-mail this week about some kids in California somewhere putting up a Mexican flag and putting the American flag upside down. Oh, the outrage! Desecrating the American flag. I get these e-mails from the same people who put the American flag on their clothes, on their shoes, their beach towels, flower pots, their Christmas decorations. How is that any different? Is that respect for the flag, wiping your sandy butt on your red, white and blue beach towel? Me thinks not. If some idiot wants to turn the flag upside down, write horrible things on it, whatever, then he's just an idiot, period. But we live, again, in AMERICA, where we have the freedom of expression. Just as an e-mail can say these flag-torturers are idiots, those same flag-torturers have the right to turn it upside down and get their moronic grins sent 'round the world via the Internet.

And then the *boycott any store that says holiday* e-mails. These are my favorites. Guys, come on. Christmas is a holiday, fact. Not everyone is a Christian, fact. Just because you might be a Christian doesn't give you the right to dictate how I might greet my fellow shoppers in December. Here is my little thought for the day. If you are a true believer in Jesus, a Christian, then why is it okay to judge every person who doesn't believe the way you do, look the way you do, speak the way you do? Would the people you are shunning, putting down, sending hateful e-mails about not be the exact people Jesus would bring into his arms and show love to?

Spouting that you are a Christian and you have been to church 432 Sundays in a row does not impress. Striving to show compassion, tolerance, acceptance, understanding and love to people who are not like us, people who have wronged us, people who need us, well, that is being Christ-like in my book. This other stuff, this sitting in judgment of others because they're not *Christian* enough for you, well, I guess you could say that makes you god-like, just not like God.

So here you sit reading this saying, Kristi, you are judging us. How are you any different? I am not different. I have my own beliefs, too. But being able to come here and rant about it for a minute keeps me from firing off an e-mail back to the sender saying, "Don't send me this b.s. again. Don't you know I'm not like that?" It gives me a place to set it down and leave it so it won't drive me insane.

Okay, people, don't be sending me I'm anti-American comments because for one, that's a sticks and stones kinda thing and that's just not gonna hurt me, and for two, I'll just delete 'em. I'm not anti-American. I'm just not a big supporter of this new *anti-anyone who isn't like me* movement that seems to be sweeping the nation and sweeping through my e-mail box. Nope, not a big supporter of that. Next thing you know, the crosses will be burning again and there will be a shortage of white sheets at Walmart. I guess maybe why I don't support it is because I'm different, been that way my whole life, probably always will be. Conformity is not my friend, girls and boys.

So if you need to tell me what a great job the little elf in the White House is doing or how if you don't support the war it means you don't support the troops or how Jesus hates all people except the Southern Baptists, please take me off that e-mail list. However, if you've got a nice e-mail about how I'm your friend and you sent this to me to bring me luck or because I need a hug or because you know I love pictures of cute puppies dressed in funny costumes, keep 'em coming. Everybody knows I can't resist a pug in a nun's habit!

~Peace~

Hannah Montana

Well, after much discussion back and forth, we finally decided to buy (scalp) the Hannah Montana tickets for the girls. Sold out show, November 24, tickets on Ebay going for $1,000 and up -- and sometimes that's just for TWO. So weird.

I remember back in the New Kids days how crazy it was, but was it sold out and people scrambling for tickets? I guess so because I can remember we sold some tix during that time, but I KNOW it wasn't as costly as it is for this show -- Inflation?!?

I know we'll get lots of comments, rolled eyes, whispers behind our back about spoiled children, blah, blah, blah. But you know what? I remember from the time I was old enough to remember going to concerts -- lots of concerts -- and I loved them. I remember SOOOO many, too many to list here. I loved that experience, something about the fact that you were in the same place with the person actually singing the songs you listened to on the radio made it like magic. I still love that experience.

Joe took me to Rascal Flatts last year with my two cousins and it was an absolute blast. I'm 38 years old and I still get a great big thrill out of it. There's no explanation, no picture I can draw, no way to explain why it is such a joy to me. (It's not like I love being in enormous crowds of people.) Maybe because it always carries me back to those times with Mom and Dad at the shows I first saw with them or to the first concert I got to attend alone with my best friend (Rick Springfield, Civic Coliseum, seventh grade). Maybe it's just because it gives me 3 hours of no responsibilities, no obligations, no worries. Who knows? Whatever it is, I want my girls to have it for themselves. And after our Cheetah Girls experience earlier this year, it is obvious they love the concert thing, too.

So after much discussion about it all, we're going. We're making it a birthday present for each of them and we're going.

Some people -- and I can probably name most of them -- are gonna have lots of judgment toward us about this decision, some of them reading this right at the moment. I guess the way I feel about that is -- respectfully -- I don't give a flip what anybody else thinks about it. My girls are awesome, fun, happy kids and I hope I can perpetuate that in them until they are grown and that it will live on somewhere in them until they're parents.

And if giving them memories that will stick with them until they're 38 years old costs me more than the asking price, so be it. I can't take it with me anyway. But I can leave all of those times -- concerts, beach vacations, ball trips, manicures/pedicures -- with them. So when I'm gone they'll be able to reach back and find those memories and laugh or smile or cry, whatever.

Then, when they're taking my grandkids to their first show, they can tell the story of their trip to Hannah Montana, or whoever, while they're loading up on concert programs and searching for their seats. And they'll get it when their little ones scream and yell and jump up and down when the show starts.

Time is so short and they're only little for a blink, a wink, a second. What is that song of Hannah Montana's Kelsey sings all the time? Life's what you make of it, so let's make it rock. Corny, corny, but so, so true. So if you're out on November 24 near the Thompson Boling Arena, I'll be the one clapping and laughing and singing with two little people and the old geezer and not regretting one millisecond of it!

Doctor Visit

So this morning I am awoken at 6:50 a.m. to my 6-year-old toting her pillow to my room. Figuring she had had a bad dream, couldn't sleep, whatever, I started to make room for her in bed. Then she got closer and I noticed that her pink pillow was covered with blood, looking like maybe her ear had fallen off at some point in the night. Another nosebleed. This is probably the fifth or sixth one in six weeks. Enough of the guessing, time for the dreaded trip to the germ capital of the world -- the pediatrician's office. Gotta make sure there's no sinus infection living up there.

So after the requisite BP check, weight check, the pediatrician bee-bops in the door -- not in a chatty mood (It's Monday after all.) He takes one look in her throat, asks me literally two questions and says no infection, just scabs in her nose and then tells me to put Vaseline on a Q-tip, insert (Yeah, I know. I gagged and so did Syd.) and rub it onto the inside of her nose twice a day for a week.

I said, "Well, I just wanted to make sure she didn't have any swelling, infection, etc., because she's complaining of pain, too." He said, "No swelling, just irritation." The man did not even make an attempt at looking in her nose. How does he know she has no swelling in there? She could have a whole serving of macaroni up there for all he knows because HE DIDN'T TAKE THE TIME TO LOOK! So frustrating.

This is the second doctor we've had to go to at this particular pediatrician's office because the first doctor under-diagnosed Kelsey on more than one occasion and we ended up once in the E.R. the same night for severe ear infection (not just the cold she had been diagnosed with four hours before) and once back at the doctor's office the same day for strep throat (not just *seasonal allergies*, as the lovely doctor had told us that morning.) I guess I'm gonna have to start searching out a new group. Ugh.

But for now Sydney has dried up and is sleeping off her early wake-up call. Guess I'm on Vaseline duty at bedtime tonight. Yippee. If this post is not a major advertisement for birth control, I don't know what is!

Crazy Parents

The Knoxville News-Sentinel today has an article about why sports parents are so crazy, so pushy these days. A topic after my own heart. After what feels like a bazillion years as the wife of the coach, God knows I've seen and heard just about every negative, ignorant, irresponsible crazy rant there is about the coach.

"Why isn't Junior playing shortstop? He's played shortstop since he was 4." (Even though Junior now is as slow as my 82 year old grandmother and hasn't fielded a ball cleanly since the opening scrimmage.)

"Why is Junior bunting? Don't these idiots know he's a power hitter?" (Even though Junior is averaging maybe .150 in his last 15 at bats and his only prayer of seeing first base is with a successful bunt.)

"Why did those morons have the steal on?" "Don't they know we have two outs?" (Even though the steal sign wasn't on and Junior just decided -- down by a run in the bottom of the 8th inning with two outs -- he now has the speed of former Olympian Carl Lewis.)

In the Sentinel article, Coach Bill Young says that he and his wife came up with a policy to deal with the parent problem. They weren't going to be friends with the parents of the players on the team. They would be cordial, but would not have any close personal relationships.
Best idea ever, period.

Over the years, Joe and I have made our own peace with the no friend attitude. I dutifully march to the outfield at the beginning of every game (or at least as far away from the parent bleachers as I can), far enough away that I can not hear the whispers, the groans, the curses and the outright bashing of my husband and other family members who have so unselfishly agreed to coach these various teams. I have heard from different people that some of the other moms think I'm a *snob*, antisocial, etc. because I don't interact the way I should. That used to bother me tremendously. Nobody likes being the butt of jokes or gossip talk. But I just believe that a necessary part of surviving when your child plays competitive sports and your husband coaches is keeping a safe distance from the other parents.
From the looks of things, I guess I'll be an outfield mom for several more years to come. With both the girls playing softball now, it's only gonna get more interesting!

For more on this article, follow the link. http://knoxnews.com/news/2007/jul/29/the-vice/