Neither of My Dads Will Like This

My first dad graduated from UofL and, I’m sure hollered a few C-A-R-D-S, C-A-R-D-S, Go Cards GO! cheers in his time.

My second dad had season tickets and often took me to the games at Freedom Hall when I was younger.

Neither of them are going to be too happy with my topic for the day (although, I’m pretty sure they would both agree.)

It’s time for the UofL Basketball program to take a break…they are embarrassing themselves. Two players were charged with resisting arrest at an alumni party Saturday night at Kye’s.

It sounds like they may have had too much to drink and craziness ensued. I’m totally guessing that alcohol was involved here…but if it looks like a grey goose and walks like a grey goose…

Apparently, their most respectable and credible (that’s my sarcasm font if you’re wondering) coach will determine their disciplinary measures for the school.

Nice…maybe he’ll take them to Porcino’s. They can have some risotto and drinks while Rick tells them how they may want to reconsider their behavior in public forums, “You know guys, being that you’re NCAA ballers in the one-time heartland of basketball county, there’s a chance you’re going to get put under the local media microscope.”

Because really, getting caught is the issue for Rick, right? I mean, who is he to talk about appropriate behavior when representing his organization and community?

Maybe they could get a team AA meeting going after practices with orange igloo coolers full of gatorade instead of coffee earns. Or better yet, simply hire a guy who follows both the players and (especially) the coach around so they’re not the last to leave the party, if you know what I mean.

My Office Is Almost There

I’m typing–for the first time–from my new home office tonight.

It’s my perfect office—halfway complete. I’m in heaven. In fact, I’m having a difficult time leaving. It’s really past my bedtime and I should probably go upstairs and hang with my husband, but all I want to do is sit here and stair at my wall.

It’s not just any wall, it’s one entire wall dedicated to all my books. There are a few other knick-knacks up there as well (or are they what-nots? a note from my dad, an Underwood typerwriter from my other dad, pictures of writers I admire looking down on me to encourage me…Erica, Marilyn, Rebecca, Sue and Ayn).

My work area is also complete: printer, speakers, monitors, keyboard and mouse all connected to my laptop, ready and technologically willing.

The incomplete half is behind me, a few scattered piles of organized messes. The heaps include things like paperwork that I don’t know what to do with (too irrelevant to take up prime space, too important to trash), office supplies, stationery (or is it ary? I can never remember that one), and storage boxes of CDs. Ghosts of music past.

Now that I have my very own space, where I can shut the rest of the world out while I concentrate on my vocation, we can only expect my writing to get better, right?

Here’s to wishful dreaming.

Historic Times

This Sunday will be a historic day for me and my immediate family. The Gesenhues Sunday dinner will be eaten at my house.

We’ve had the pleasure of hosting other Gesenhues-inspired family events at at our house through the years.  But never a Sunday dinner.

What will I fix? Very little as Grandma Teddy will be cooking most all of the food at her house and then transporting it here. When she called to ask what I wanted her to bring, I asked her what she usually brought when Sunday dinner was at other Gesenhues homes. She started with this list:

• corn (specifically her cream corn which my daughter has claimed is magical; actually, she called Grandma magical for being able to make it. I agree with her, and not in a, “ahhh, my grandmother is such a great cook she’s magical,” Hallmark card kind of way, but in a she’s got to have some type of crazy magic up her cooking sleeve because she is the ONLY person on earth who can make corn like she does, even though my pastry-chef cooking cousin is getting close.)
• chicken dumplings
• mashed potatoes

I asked how many chicken breast to get and what ingredients were needed to fix her usual boneless fried chicken (boneless fried chicken is Grandma’s usual go with with the menu items she listed). She replied, “Why don’t you just let me do the chicken here and bring that too.”

It kinda felt like when my husband asks me what clothes he should pick out to dress either of the kids and I say, “just let me do it,” because it’s easier to simply do it myself than have to explain what clothes to get and where to find them. Either way, I wasn’t going to argue.

She did give me one assignment–a vegetable. I could probably get away with steaming something, but I’m thinking I may just throw caution (and the 1,000,000+ carbs) to the wind and make a brocolli casserole. Might as well go for gold (or cream-colored carbs).

It’s going to be a small dinner as many of the Gesenhues folk will be walking the links. And while I have to say they will be missed (I have to write that as many of them are reading), my evil twin is thrilled that there may just be more leftovers to stock in my fridge when everyone who made it is full.

So when Sunday night rolls around and everyone has left and Mad Men is getting ready to start, there is a very good chance I’ll be able to warm up a cereal bowl portion of magical cream corn.

Jealous Much?!

Parent/Teacher Conferences Out

So much for bragging to my Louisville counterparts about how great the New Albany Floyd County School System is. They just got rid of parent/teacher conferences.

I’m kinda kidding in a blogging way…I still think my five-year-old’s school is phenomenal…but as my five-year-old would say:

“Come ON!”

Here’s the column I wrote about my concerns and who this is really going to affect:

Parents Need to Speak Up

A Follow-Up to Yesterday’s Post

Of course, Dave’s ratings are going up.

Is it because people can’t turn away from a train wreck?

Or is it because older, wealthy, powerful men taking advantage of their position turns people on moreso than off.

It’s obvious his bigger audience is because of his inappropriate behavior, not in spite of.

I wonder about his role as celebrity and how this situation appears to improve his overall standing. Politicians don’t get the same luck, but their sex scandal bell curve isn’t too severe. Elliot Spitzer is already back talking politics. His career may have been halted, but not ruined.

SEX, SEX, SEX

First: Roman Polanski

A couple weeks ago a dear friend mentioned Roman Polanski’s crime. My initial response was, “I don’t know, I’m not so sure I agree that he should go to jail.”

What the [insert potty mouth here] was I thinking? My lame response had been fueled by a documentary I watched sometime ago while suffering from the flu in a Chicago hotel room. It was produced by a Polanski sympathizer who showed how jumbled the case had become and the unfair tactics used by the judge.

Now that I’ve considered this with a bit more thought (and not under the influence of influenza), my position has changed. Regardless of the shambles the case became, or the fact that the victim chooses to let the matter drop, or that it happened thirty years ago…Roman Polanski is a pedophile and rapist and should be punished accordingly.

The girl was thirteen.

If you have sex with a thirteen year old you are committing a horrific crime. If we ignore such criminals we are telling everybody that this behavior is regrettable, but not worth the battle. We are telling victims the world over that we are not willing to fight on their behalf.

I was wrong B; I admit it. Roman Polanski is a criminal and should be forced to face his punishment.

Second: David Letterman

This one hurts my heart just a little. I have always (always) adored David Letterman. His latest trip to crazy town though has simply confirmed that he is no different than any other male in a powerful position who chooses to let his ego make more decisions than his higher-self.

Here’s the thing, you can’t have sex with someone you work with without it affecting you or your partner’s career trajectory. No matter how consensual the sex is, no matter how discreet you both are, no matter what…having sex with your boss changes everything.

The real issue here is that once you receive a romantic invite from someone at work who is in a more  powerful position than you are, you’re pretty much screwed either way…especially if the person is the one who runs the whole show. If you say no, you’re always going to be the person who said no. And if you say yes, you’re going to be “that girl.” Ugh…just typing it makes me angry—not because there are many “that girls” but because they get labeled as such.

Maybe David wasn’t a power hungry boss throwing his weight around with his pants down, but the fact that he chose to be involved with staff doesn’t count in his favor.

Third: Mackenzie Phillips

Oh dear sweet Mackenzie, how I feel for you and the struggles you have faced throughout your life. Maybe you need money and your new book will help; and maybe, you are taking a family matter and exploiting it across Oprah’s airwaves; and maybe, your severe and intense addictions have led you down some mind-blowingly dangerous paths, but I believe you and am thankful that you had the guts to put it out there.

This Is Me Whining

…i want to go to Hawaii…(spoken in a barely audible, mostly whisper, whiny voice that sounds like my daughter when i tell her it’s bedtime, “i don’t want to go to bed right now”)

a co-worker is off to the land of lei neckwear and poi dips. i’m jealous as all get out and by all get out i mean i wish i was getting out of the office and heading to an island under warm skies and surrounded by gorgeous water.

i know there are many of you out there (my husband included) who looooooooooooooove this weather. “oh it feels so great,” he says. “oh i love wearing long sleeves or a sweatshirt with shorts.”

UGH!

not me, i want it hot as lava all year through. i like the feeling when you first get in your car in the dead of summer and it has that baked oven temperature to it. cold weather blows. it makes me want to sleep and eat and do little of anything else. the thought of having to layer clothes and wear big bumbling coats bums me out.

one day i will live by a beach in 90 degree weather all year around. until then, bah humbug.

Preacher Amy

I tend to preach more than I should. I preach to readers, I preach to family, I preach to friends, I preach to my kiddos (that one’s allowed, preaching to your kids is like part of the job).

Here’s a quick gem I preached from this week’s column:

I believe that our thoughts are all powerful and affect the entire world around us. In my world, our thoughts ignite our emotions and turn into actions which create our reality. If the majority of what we are told on television, in newspapers, and online is steeped in gloom and doom, our collective consciousness will be dominated by sadness, fear, and anger. The deep and unfortunate irony is that mainstream media’s business model (bad news generates more money) perpetuates a reality based on this negative thought process.

You can read the full column here.

Is Anyone Else Listening to this Guy

Jason Stinson, the former PRP football coach, was acquitted this week after being charged with the tragic death of one his players who died following an intense practice session last season.

I have no argument with the trial or the verdict.

My concern is with his running commentary since. The guy showed up in NYC to be interviewed by Diane Sawyer. Here’s a quick gem he let drop:

Said Stinson of the player who lost his life, “The one thing I know about Max is that Max is in heaven with Jesus and that’s an awesome thought for me.”

Not that you–Mr. Stinson–would ever in a million years be reading this, but if you have ended up here after googling your name, please note: had I been the mother who had lost her child after one of your football practices, I would make it perfectly clear that you do not have the right to make any assumptions about my child or his afterlife…NO MATTER HOW “AWESOME” YOU MAY THINK IT IS.

I get that Stinson is simply trying to make peace with a horrific incident that he did not directly cause.  From my viewpoint, Stinson’s comment sounds as if he is using his spirituality as a veil to shroud his thinly earned innocence in.

I don’t believe Stinson should go to prison; but, a child’s life was put in the most severe jeopardy while on his watch. And no matter what his religious affiliations are or the measure of his devoutness, his only comment should be how very sorry he is that a child died.

Stinson says that he has no reason to apologize because he was not responsible for the child’s death. Wrong, again. Saying you’re sorry doesn’t mean you killed anyone. It means that you are a humane and compassionate man and father who is sorry that another parent must endure the worst imaginable scenario ever–the loss of a child.

There is a lack of reverence in Stinson’s attitude. He is literally unapologetic about the death of one of his players. And since he can’t say he’s sorry, it’s probably best that he just shuts-up all together.

Thank Goodness I Blog

Coming up with a column every week can be a tad bit difficult.

As luck would have it, I track a considerable amount of my stream of conscious thinking right here. So if the well runs dry some Sundays (my column deadline is Monday morning), I’ll revisit what I’ve rambled on about during the previous week to see if there’s anything in here worth using.

Sometimes I find a pearl I can polish and sometimes I just find a bunch of rambling. This week my blog worked in my favor. If you read regularly, you saw where I bitched and moaned about HuffPo.com running a series on why women are getting sadder. It’s just a few days back if you want to revisit it…or you can read the column it became: Exhaustion Blues, by me.

It’s pretty much the same content, except for this little gem of a paragraph that added a little more pomp to my circumstance:

What my generation didn’t know is that 33 percent of us who became wives would out-earn our spouses. And while our spouses are much more likely to contribute to domestic duties than their fathers, the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics cites that the division of household labor is still lopsided: 65 percent of women are cooking versus 38 percent of the men; 50 percent of women are doing the housework versus 20 percent of men; and in homes with children under the age of six, women are spending 1.2 hours a day providing physical care to their kiddos whereas men are giving less than half an hour worth of their time.