Doing something

I've never come right out and said this on my blog, but here goes. I really love teenagers. I can't explain why, but I have this tender place in my heart for them (yes, I actually have a heart). I am fascinated by them, want to meet them when I see them, want to listen to them and try to figure them out. Needless to say, there's no such thing as figuring out a teenager, but it sure is fun to try. At least I think so

As you may know from having care-objects of your own, it's easy to get Peeved when someone does something that puts your care-object in danger. Personally, I get really defensive when someone does something that might hurt teenagers. Yes, even the teenagers I don't even know. The ones I have never met. Why do I feel the need to defend my teenage friends AND my teenage strangers? Not sure. But I'm warning you right now I'm about to get all mama bear up in here.

Somebody's tried to hurt my teenage friends. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. (That's my ferocious mama bear growl. Be afraid.)

Below is the letter that I plan to send to ABC. Yes, ABC. As in the American Broadcast Company. I'm typically not a letter writer. In fact, I've never written such a letter before. And before you read any further, let me assure you: I've come to terms with the reality that this letter will, at best, end up in the hands of a mail room intern at ABC who will read the first few sentences and throw it in the recycle bin. But that's not stopping me. I can't just sit here and do nothing.

Join me in my discontent, won't you:

August 30, 2011

To Whom It May Concern:

As the Director of Youth and Children at a church in South Carolina, I have the honor and privilege of working with young people on a daily basis as I attempt to shepherd them through the trials and joys of childhood and adolescence. It is on their behalf that I write this letter.

In addition to working with children and youth, I also happen to be a faithful viewer of Good Morning America. I am writing to express my shock, disgust, and frustration after viewing a segment which was included in the Monday, August 15 episode of GMA. In the segment, George Stephanopoulos interviewed Cameron Matheson about an upcoming episode of “Bachelor Pad.” In the clip that followed, male contestants on the show were instructed to throw paint filled eggs at the female contestant who they considered to be least attractive.

My question is a simple one: Are you serious?

In this day and age, when school bullying and girls’ self esteem are two issues which deeply affect children of all ages, could it really be possible that an entity as powerful and far-reaching as ABC would condone and promote such behavior? Where is your sense of community responsibility and decency?

I was further shocked to learn that “Bachelor Pad” airs at 8:00 pm, a time when many school-aged young people are watching television. This fact raises a whole new crop of questions in my mind: How are we to insist that our young people conduct themselves with respect towards all people when a national television network presents such programming? How am I to encourage young girls to love themselves as they are when they see glimpses like this, which tell them that to be physically unattractive is to lose? Why are we so surprised when acts of bullying are pervasive in our schools and online?

I do not consider myself to be a person who is easily offended, which is why I felt compelled to write and express my disappointment. I hope and pray that this letter will serve as a reminder to you that you have a responsibility and that you hold a great deal of power (maybe too much). Like it or not, you have a responsibility to all children whose household includes a television set and a remote control. Do not forget that among your intended target audience are also a host of children who are either at risk of being bullied or who are at risk of emulating the behavior they see while watching the programs on your network.

To think that, at some point in the development phase of this episode, a group of people brainstormed such a contest and no one thought better of the idea…that cooler heads didn’t prevail…I believe it is evidence of an organization that is far more concerned with shock-value than with the potential consequences that could result from such a malicious display. Instead of helping to stop bullying or raise low self esteem, you are contributing to both problems.

Perhaps you haven’t recently spent time with a pre-teen or teenager. Let me assure you that children and youth are often not as mature as we’d like to think they are. Their minds and opinions and outlooks on life are still being formed. They are sponges, soaking up every morsel of life they encounter. Like it or not, they soak up the thinly veiled message presented by the contest on “Bachelor Pad” – that it’s ok to single out, pick on, throw things at, or otherwise degrade people they encounter who don’t measure up to certain standards. It is not ok.

Even on your worst days, your programs and the messages they contain reach more Americans than I could ever hope to reach, and that’s a shame. It’s a shame to think that there will likely be no public acknowledgement by your network that you crossed a line. The damage that’s been done by the airing of those few minutes of television can only be undone through the tireless efforts of concerned parents, teachers, community leaders, and others who desire a better, more inclusive, more peaceful existence for our children.

Your “reality” television show has, in fact, lost all touch with reality, and the nation you serve suffers as a result.

Signed,

Mama Bear

____

All this begs just one question: Anyone have Diane Sawyer's direct line?

Making room

So. The wedding is 6 weeks from today. And by "the" wedding, I mean "the one to which I'll wear white."

I'm becoming more and more convinced that things that happen in the movies don't actually happen in real life. It's taken me a mere 31 years to come to such a conclusion.

Example: In every movie ever made that involves a wedding or a love story, they never show the (somewhat frazzled) bride, 40-something days before she walks down the aisle, cleaning out every closet, shelf, cabinet, and cranny of her house to make room for her groom. But here I am, my PJ clad self, systematically reeking havoc on every stored item in my house.

I was half-tempted to grab a megaphone and say the following in every room of my house. Only thing that stopped me? No megaphone. "Listen up, random items. If you currently reside in a closet, cabinet, or other dark space, you are at risk of ending up in one of three piles: give away, sell, throw away. Say your prayers and put your best foot forward. Try your best to send some sentimental vibe my way which would cause me to look upon you with mercy. Otherwise, it's over. You have been warned."

And for many things...so many things...it's over. The piles are getting higher and the closets are getting barer. I'm ruthless, I tell you. Those clothes that I thought I might maybe wear again some day...maybe? Dead to me. Those random picture frames that I've been holding onto in the hall closet? GOODBYE. That tall stack of empty cardboard boxes that was taking up an entire shelf in the hall closet (don't ask. just....don't)? Adios.

I'm looking at everything with a critical eye, trying my best to give Jeremy equal space in the house.

We should totally add this part to the vows, don't you think? Something along the lines of 'to have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, with liberty and equal closet space for all.'

And, in case you're wondering, the pink lady totally, totally stays.

Lost, lost, lost, and found. Eventually.

It's a long story, the one about how I ended up in a downtown Charleston parking garage on Sunday morning. While I won't bore you with the details, I will invite you to join me at the juncture in the story which has me standing on the 4th level of the garage with my friend Sarah's large green suitcase in tow. The suitcase was not filled with my belongings, but hers. The shirt I was wearing also happened to be green, but a different and not altogether complimentary shade to the suitcase. Thankfully.

Can you imagine the humiliation if my shirt matched the suitcase I was lugging?

No, there was already enough humiliation going on at this tender juncture of the story. Not room for another ounce. For you see...I was lost. I could not find my car, which I was certain I'd parked on the 4th level the night before. But alas, there I stood. On the 4th floor, in the spot where my car should've been, accompanied by a suitcase, lacking my car.

What's so humiliating about that?, you ask. Well, my tribulation was not a personal one. Oh, no. I had witnesses. A cavalry of valet parking attendants took their turns running past me, in hot pursuit of their latest vehicular assignment, looking puzzled as to why exactly I was still wandering around the garage.

I took the elevator to the 5th level. That was wrong. I retreated to the 3rd floor. No car. All the while, the uniformed, efficient valet parking staff whirled and wizzed past me, shooting concerned and inquisitive glances in my direction.

In an act of desperation, I pushed the panic button on my keyless entry remote. My car's alarm sounded. Exhilarating! I pushed it several more times, in rapid succession, to verify that it was, in fact, my car crying out. It was! However, the echo caused by the concrete-laden garage made it impossible to tell...was the car on the level above me? Or below me? Or on the very level where I stood?

Maddening, I tell you.

Long story short, I finally found my car. It was parked on the 4th level, right where I thought it was. I found it, but not before several sweaty, panicked, worrisome minutes, and several unnecessary elevator/stair rides.

At least I gave the parking staff something to laugh about. Right? Right??

Misdirected angst

With school starting back across this glorious land, I am so moved to share with you a back-to-school confession. It's a confession of childhood angst and irrational fear. It's a story that repeated itself each year in the week that lead up to the start of school. It's a story I shall tell you. Now.

After our annual back-to-school clothes and supply shopping trip, I'd set about the task of deciding what to wear on the first day of school. I'd consider many outfits and combinations, trying each one on and observing myself carefully in the bathroom mirror. Some outfits were ruled out right away, while others were scrutinized and compared to other options. Shoes were added to the equation, as were socks and other accessories. Finally, after much deliberation, an outfit would emerge and win the title of "first day worthy." But even after the title was awarded, one crucial question would remain. I'd look at myself in the mirror and ask, very seriously:

"Is there any chance the teacher will be wearing this same outfit on the first day?"

Looking back, I realize it's highly unlikely that a middle aged teacher would arrive on the first day of school wearing khaki shorts, Keds, and a t-shirt with "Esprit" scrawled across the front. But at the time, it pained me to think of the embarrassment that would ensue should such a thing occur. Can you even imagine? It still makes me shudder a little.

Thankfully, my intense first-day-outfit screening process worked, and it never happened that I matched the teacher.

Turns out, I should've been more worried about MY HAIR.

Sneak-peak Saturday

Hoping this wedding sneak-peak will be enough to get you to forgive me for the post about my first dress fitting....maybe?

Here's a look at all the trimmings...shoes, jewelry, feather hair clip, and ribbon sash for the reception. Love them all...not quite sure why Blogger keeps loading this picture vertically...


And if your name is Jeremy and you're reading this, the dress is yellow and green tie-dye and shoots fireworks from its 7-inch thick shoulder pads. Not that you know what shoulder pads are...oh, never mind.

Also, everyone was wearing black

I never imagined a wedding dress fitting could go so horribly wrong. It started off on the wrong foot because I was late. I hate being late...it totally stresses me out and makes me all flustered. So, I walked into the dress shop and the whole staff (like 5 people) was standing there with their arms crossed, staring at me. I hastily apologized and the sales girl showed me to a fitting room, where my dress was waiting.

I took one look at the dress hanging in the room and thought, "Huh. That's not my dress." I was confused. I called the sales person to the room and told her, very simply, "This is not my dress."

"Yes, it is," she said with a hint of indignation in her voice. She told me to put it on while she checked the computer.

I was flustered (see: running late), so I obliged half-heartedly. Maybe it just looked different on the hanger than I remembered.

I was right. It was SO not my dress. Just about the time I started to freak out, there was a knock on the door. The sales person was there, holding a different dress.

"You were right," she exclaimed, as I muttered insults under my breath. I know I'm right, I thought to myself. "Here's your dress. I'm so sorry for the mix-up." She breezed out of the room as I removed the random dress, feeling relief wash over me.

As I unzipped the garment bag which covered this new dress, a wave of confusion hit me. This was most certainly not my dress, either. But before I could protest, the dressing room door flung open and a strange man was standing there. Imagine my shock! My unmentionables exposed! He gasped and quickly slammed the door.

I began to panic. What should I do? Call my mom? Demand to speak to a manager? I'm so not good with confrontation, but this is my wedding dress we're talking about. Time to put my propensity for sissy-ness aside.

I was near tears, sitting in the dressing room, trying to psyche myself up for a battle royale with the snobby store staff, when the unthinkable happened:

I woke up.

HA! All this to say, I had my first dress fitting today, and it went great despite the nightmare I had last night. I love the dress, I loved the seamstress, and it was so fun to put the dress on with the shoes AND accessories I've been gathering for the past few months.

The countdown is on: just a little over 2 months until the big day!

Into the wild...

I need to get out more.

This is one of many revelations I had during my most recent (and last...thank the good Lord) trip of the summer with the youth at church.

How is it that we (or maybe it's just me) become so fully habitual that it never occurs to us that we might actually enjoy something new? The walls of the bubble we're in get thicker and thicker until we convince ourselves that it's just not worth breaking out of the bubble to get a fresh perspective. (And again, maybe the "we" I refer to is more accurately "me.")

Invisible, self-imposed boundaries. They cripple the soul, I tell ya.

Why am I waxing poetic? Because I went backpacking, ya'll. Yes, really. Real, live backpacking where you carry all your stuff, abandon running water and soap, and sleep on the ground. On purpose.

The teenagers made me do it. Actually, that's a lie. It was all my idea. Last January, I set about trying to find trips that teenage boys might enjoy. If you haven't noticed, I'm a girl, therefore not totally proficient in "fun-things-for-boys." Hiking! Of course. Boys love to smell bad and play in the dirt, therefore, they will love a hiking trip. Right?

Which would totally explain why, when all was said and done, 5 girls signed up.

The end.

So, what's a girl to do when she finds herself 9 days away from a totally unknown world, staring at a suggested packing list which mentions "5-7 large trash bags"?* She makes a desperate phone call to Mr. and Mrs. Camping Time (aka: her brother and sister-in-law), and magically, the following appears on her doorstep:



A diaper box CRAMMED FULL OF GEAR. Two sleeping bags, a titanium pot, and a trail guide later, I was so ready to go. If good gear lends credibility, I arrived at the trail as the inventor of camping.

After a brief (7-hour) drive to Virginia, we arrived at our destination. The home of Wilderness Trail. We paused for this picture:

before a huge caravan of (I'm not even kidding you) 5 buses/vans/and trailers came screeching in the drive way. They were a church from Pensacola and they totally beat us on a technicality. We were smelling the roses (or the brick sign, as the case were), and we got beat.

After a brief orientation which included people gawking at the fact that only one of the 6 of us had ever been hiking before, we settled into our shelters, where we would spend nights 1, 2, and 7.
The morning of Day 3 brought us to this seemingly random trail head (is that what you call it even?), and the real adventure began. Actually, this isn't really even the trail we took. We went the other direction into the woods.


Here I am, with my pack. Shorts: Wal-Mart, Shirt: New Balance from TJ Maxx, Shoes: last season's cross trainers, Fear: palpable.

A before shot with the whole gang. The Wilderness Trail folks granted us two guides. We needed them both.

Some other highlights from the trip:

White blazes = Appalachian Trail. (Isn't it cute how I'm dropping hiking lingo like "blazes"?). This was a big moment for us:

Me, airing out my armpits at the end of Day 2.

My youngest nephew is named Grayson, after Grayson Highlands State Park, so I took this picture. In a weird way, I feel like I know him better after seeing this place.


Warning: hide your children from the following picture. It's me on the morning of Day 5, affectionately known as "GIT BACK DAY" at Wilderness Trail. Don't I look refreshed, relaxed and well-rested? No? Well, neither do you.

It's views like this that made all the hiking worth it. Amazing, breathtaking sunrises and sunsets book-ended hours spent standing slack-jawed at nature's beauty.


Here we are at the end of the trail, 4.5 days and 40 miles after we first began. We smelled so bad.


And here I am, kissing the finish line. I got gravel in my mouth and almost couldn't get back up. It was totally worth it.

Shortly after this picture was taken, we headed back to the Wilderness Trail property in a mini van. The hike that took us 4.5 days of sweat, tears, and even a little blood took a mere 13 minutes by car. I was insulted. Also, relieved.

Throughout this 8-day adventure, there were at least 8 times that I thought I might die. There were at least 4 times that I wished for my mommy, and at least 16 times I cursed myself for not bringing a camping pillow. And, since the trip ended 3 days ago, there have been at least 142 times that I've been so thankful that I finally abandoned my bubble and actually accomplished something as profound as wandering around in the woods for several days.
___

*For the record, my ideal packing list includes things like "sunscreen", "freshly pedicured toes", and "bathing suit" not "trash bags", "camping soap", and "wool socks."