Let’s say that I have this friend. And this friend decides to tell me some information, see, about his sister-in-law who works in a maternity ward. We’ll call this friend Albert because that’s sort of a distinguished-sounding name. He’s a good guy and we pick on each other in the best possible way. You know, like I leave fake poop in different places in his office, see? And that’s funny because then he tells the entire poms team that they can leave their athletic bags (which are enormous) in my office so that I return and can barely open the door there’s so much junk crammed in there. Albert is a trustworthy guy and if he ever reads this blog he will probably crap his pants that I just named him “Albert.”

This is heading somewhere. I promise. 

Albert has been in on some great pranks with me. Like that one time when we left maxi-pads stuck underneath another guy’s desk. As funny as we thought that was, however, just yesterday when I had a button come undone on my shirt due to my Godzilla Bra (you don’t want to know why I call it that) he was too embarrassed to tell me and let me leave his office looking like an idiot. There was a female student sitting in the office at the time and I asked her (cheerily, mind you, because I was in a good mood), “So! What are you doing in here?” and she replied, “Writing you this note.” That confused me so I walked over to her where she had written in caps:

GO INTO YOUR OFFICE AND FIX YOUR SHIRT.

Now, see Albert? Was that so hard? Couldn’t you have just said, “Dude. Fix your shirt.”? You wouldn’t have to mention the word “breasts” or “knockers” or even “Godzilla Boobs”. You just have to say something. Later that day I explained to him that this sort of thing falls under the umbrella of Not Looking Like an Asshole and that people, co-workers, friends – we do this for one another. So, Albert owed me big time. He shared that this sister-in-law had just had a mother come in and deliver twin girls. It’s at this point in the story that I must tell you to put down whatever you may be drinking. Sit back from your computer. Take a deep breath. Because I cannot make this crap up. I’m not interesting enough or creative enough to do this. 

Are you ready? There’s no going back from here and you aren’t even wondering about the Godzilla Bra anymore.

She’Marvelous and She’Fabulous.

Those are their names. I’m sincerely hoping that this mother was brought in from a mental health facility because there are so many shades of stupid in that that I cannot begin to address it. 

Albert: Can you believe that? Those girls will have to put that at the top of a resume someday.

Me: Not even. Those names are just going to be put on job applications and requests to be on reality shows. People with those names do NOT write resumes.

Traditions are there for a reason: to provide us with guilt when we don’t do them correctly. 

I’d finish that thought but my issue with procrastination is getting out of control lately. 

Since my children are older than most of my friends’ children there are these ‘new’ traditions with Christmas with which I am entirely unfamiliar. I learned this once again recently when hearing about a newish Christmas tradition that people do. The Elf on the Shelf. As my friend Krista explained to me, the elf makes an appearance on December 1st and watches over the children to ensure they are good. She explained this to me when I noticed her saying something about the Elf on the Shelf on her Facebook page. I asked her what that was because it was the second time I’d heard someone mention that. She posted a picture just for me to help explain this concept.

In her words:

Photo of Buddy Elf – just for you Kelly : ) He shows up at our house on Dec 1 and keeps an eye on the kids for Santa. He reports back to Santa every night then comes back to our house and hides somewhere where he can see the kids. On Christmas Eve he stays at the North Pole with Santa until next December.

Now, this is a tradition I can get behind. I understand that the idea here is to allow children to believe that Santa is watching them through his minions so that they are well behaved. Great idea! It’s so simple that I love it! I’m sure, knowing my friend Krista, that she randomly hides him in places where she knows the little eyes of her children will spy their elf, named “Buddy” of course, so that they will be good everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Her three children are all under 10 years of age, so this is probably the best kind of parenting ever. 

Now, let me take you back a few years when I was a kid. If you haven’t properly been vaccinated against that other form of parenting, Catholic Guilt, you may want to back up and wear a face mask. Because this crap will get all. over. you.

We were the kind of family who had the giant, white Bible with gold-inlay on the cover that you weren’t supposed to touch. You can gaze upon the cover, but you weren’t supposed to get your grubby fingers on it so just leave it alone, you miserable rotten kids. 

My parents didn’t really talk like that. I have to make that clear because I’m sure my mom will read this and freak out that I’m portraying her badly. In fact, let’s just add a disclaimer right here and now that says I may or may not take liberties in the telling of this story. Since I’m going to do that I may as well make myself the gifted kid in the family who skipped the fourth grade and also won the baton twirling contest that helped me get a scholarship to that summer camp in the Hamptons. 

Ok. Now I can move on with the story.

One of the prized possessions in my family is a hand-carved wooden Nativity set. It came with the standard Mary and Joseph, Wise Men, a few oxen, some sheep, and a gremlin. Which, of course, multiplied when we added water which is NOT recommended no matter what that Sea Monkey kit tells you to do. Mom would set up the Nativity scene at the beginning of the month and there would always be one person missing until Christmas day: Jesus. A little arms-out-wide wooden Jesus no bigger than a Weeble. 

There was a reason Jesus couldn’t be out, according to my parents and it didn’t have to do with the fact that he hadn’t been born yet. It was because he didn’t have a bed.

That’s right. The baby wooden Jesus wasn’t outfitted with sleeping arrangements. That was left to us children. My sisters and I all had to provide the bed for him with straw. Because of the manger, don’t you know? There was a bowl of straw next to the entire birthing party that was there for us to begin building a place for Jesus to lay his head. There was a trick to being “allowed” to put a piece of straw out for the bed: we had to do something good.

If you don’t see how that Catholic Guilt has just oozed right on over to your lap there, then you’re just not paying attention.

If Jesus didn’t have a place to sleep, THEN IT WAS ALL OUR FAULT. Clearly, we weren’t behaving well enough. We probably had caused that one cat to end up with a case of the shingles and then die a lonely death out back in the treehouse, didn’t we? It was our fault that Sister Mary Margaret Theresa Catherine of the Blessed Cul-de-Sac didn’t stop needing blood transfusions, huh? See, this is the crazy screwed up thoughts of my youth. Aren’t you curious as to how I haven’t had an extended stay at an AIRQUOTE institution AIRQUOTE chock full of little blue and red pills while getting sucked into the Matrix? ME, TOO. 

If I had an elf on the shelf that “caught” me being good then I wouldn’t have such a hard time with pillows as an adult. I believe you can’t rest your head on one until you’ve done something nice. Like picked straw out of your neighbor’s hair.

Many years ago when I was still teaching in the classroom I found my people. My people came to me. I didn’t have to go looking for them because tra-la-laaaa I am just that ridiculously lazy. For some reason, a bunch of young teachers and I all seemed to click together one year. We were teaching at a middle school and everyone seemed fantastically awesome. Like I had fallen into the land of Oz of teaching where we ate flower cups and swam in a lake of chocolate. Hold on. That’s Willy Wonka. I’m actually going to just leave that analogy because it still fits. Except there was no Violet turning Violet, Violet nor was there a fat kid getting sucked up by a tube. There might have been a golden goose who was behind the curtain with a robot chicken.

My God. My childhood movie watching has morphed into my adult late night television watching and mixed itself a cocktail. Somebody either hold me or get me a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Because I can tell this story is going to take a left turn at Albuquerque. 

LEFT.

Before I mention My People I have to mention running into some idiots this past week who were so far removed from My People that I had to wonder if they were people themselves. It was a group of people at the mall (the mall, y’all) where I had to run in to get my tights for the season. That sounds like a weird thing, but I love tights and wear them throughout the fall months because I enjoy keeping all my goodies intact even though sometimes I’m sure they’re trying to strangle me and sell my body parts to the Mattel Corporation for use in the mocha-colored Barbie dolls. There is such a thing, isn’t there? So, while I’m power walking through the mall to get said tights I see a gaggle of students whom I am trying to avoid because the administrator in me wants to yell, ‘PULL UP YOUR PANTS’ even though I know I shouldn’t do that when they’re just trying to get a warm pretzel but still. It almost comes out of my mouth but I sidestep them and they don’t really notice that it’s me which is a really good thing because I tire of the whole “What are YOU doing here?” question I always get because apparently I am an android who doesn’t require groceries or clothing or furniture polish. Then, I happen upon these people who are taking pictures of their socks. SOCKS. Socks that are not at all interesting. There are no sparkles or Santa wearing underwear or anything and I’m seriously starting to wonder if I shouldn’t do my tight shopping online. Socks. WTF, sock fetishists? 

My People like socks, but they don’t need to take pictures of them. My People were enthusiastic, creative, helpful teachers. We didn’t all teach the same curriculum either. Math, science, language arts. But something about this group of seven women clicked and we stuck with it. In the time since I started teaching with them we’ve seen marriage, divorce, house-building, pregnancy, miscarriage, hospital stays, autism, ADHD, and parties. There’s something I can say for that group: they know how to party. It was an anything goes time for us and someday I might tell you about the time we crashed a Halloween party when I was dressed as a pregnant nun and handed out communion (Hello, Hell. Are you ready for me yet?) and then later had to use the restroom so badly but didn’t feel like heading back into the house because it was constantly In Use so I just relieved myself outside. On the lawn. Of a stranger’s house. Dressed as a nun. 

These are the stories I can’t wait to tell the grandkids.

These gals helped me find myself and have fun doing it. They cried with me and laughed at me and we cooked together and I got my nickname of “Mocha” from one of them. It’s a beautiful thing when we can watch each other crash and burn and then pick up the pieces while each of us moves through the maze to find ourselves. It’s not always pretty, but it is what it is. But the really beautiful thing is that they also taught me to be vulnerable and allow myself to be taken care of and to always speak my mind because I might just have something interesting to say. Ok, so not like right now or anything. But sometimes. And when I get my lips to flapping I don’t always remember that it may be not-so-much-PC or that I let fly an opinion about a topic without wondering what the other person’s experiences have taught them about the topic and let loose a firestorm.

Last year I was talking with another former colleague and friend who told me that she won a $500 library for her classroom because of something I said. I was horrified that I might have said something rather stupid and I asked what thing could have possibly fallen out of my mouth to make her win books. One time in her classroom and we were talking about a myriad of things related to race and education and I told her that I started reading adolescent fiction and began to feel sorry for Black girls because they don’t often get to see a true reflection of themselves in literature. “Black girls don’t want to read ONLY about white girls and their experiences. They want to see themselves in books. Do you always assume that a character is white when you read a novel? Is that because the cover shows a white girl? Black girls want to read about themselves, too.” Without telling me about it, she responded to my comment by purchasing more adolescent fiction about Black girls and has continued to add them to her classroom collection until she started taking classes to get her Master’s degree and then mentioned this to someone who mentioned it to someone else and…well, the story goes that she wrote about it in a contest and won the money to put toward more books to help her students of all colors see themselves in what they read. She said to me, “If I made a difference it’s because someone opened my eyes. That was you.” Then, of course, I wept myself into a little puddle and felt so proud of my big mouth because, in a strange turn of events, it led to making a change in her that led to making a change in her classroom with her students and the students to come.

I might have made the youthful mistake of urinating outside one time while dressed as a nun, but sometimes my stupidity actually has some nice, unintended consequences. Willy Wonka would be smug about this whole thing.

Instituting a Mandatory Sit-Down Dinner with real utensils and a colorful plate (see: must include a green vegetable) (see also: everyone seems to like broccoli) (see finally: a happy mom) is something to which I aspire but can’t seem to pull off on a regular basis. I should do it more often because the conversations at dinner are slightly better than television comedies.

Is there dessert tonight? I really want something for dessert.

Don’t eat with your mouth full of food.

Jesus would think that eating with a mouthful is gross.

Yeah, what would Jesus do with a mouthful of food?

Jesus wouldn’t be mad about that.

No! Jesus would DO that!

Jesus wouldn’t eat with his mouthful. Can’t you hear his mother right now? “Jesus! Close your mouth!”

I think Jesus would want ice cream. Maybe a McFlurry.

For dessert? Oh, for sure. Jesus was all about the McFlurry.

You know, The Last Supper would have required some dessert. Can you imagine that Passover meal? I mean, seriously. Bland, boring food.

What did they eat at The Last Supper?

Unleavened bread. Bitter herbs. All that stuff with cut up apples and raisins. Right? Yuck. Jesus would need a McFlurry to wash away that grossness.

Didn’t you look closely at that painting of The Last Supper? The big arms outstretched? He was holding ice cream.

Yeah. Jesus was all, “Everybody! LOOK. We are going to get this picture done and THEN we can have ice cream for dessert! Ready? Be still.”

Oh, yeah. We are going to do this more often.

Imagine, if you will, that my best friend sends me an invitation to her wedding. Imagine, too, that she lives across the country and there is an entire year before the event. Naturally, I’m going to look at the calendar and check to see if I can make it. Next, I’m going to assess whether or not I’m in need of a new dress and shoes. Then, I’m going to start writing letters to family members and friends and the occasional neighbor to see if they’d like to sponsor me. You know, pay for my airfare, hotel, and possibly pay for some new clothes for me to wear while I’m there. Then, I’m going to mention that I’d love a new DSLR camera and a bigger, better laptop on which to download the pictures because this MacBook I’m using actually belongs to the school district I work for and hey! It’d be great if THEY could pay for it all and give it to me for FREE. All I would have to do is mention them in my card that I give the bride and groom for their wedding present. While I’m at it, perhaps I could get Williams and Sonoma to sponsor a gift. Something really nice and in the price range of $300 or so and, oh, what the hell, I’ll just ask for two of them so that the new couple could enjoy one and so could I! This is a genius plan, right?

You see, bloggers, this is a ridiculous notion. I have a whole 12 months to plan for this wedding. In the meantime, I will have to continue to pay my bills, keep up with my car insurance, buy groceries, and deal with the same financial issues as everyone else. We even have a word for this. It’s called R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y. If, by chance, I’m unable to afford such things then the conclusion I come to is that I simply cannot go.

Asking for a sponsor on the very post that BlogHer tells us that next year’s conference is in New York City is beyond low. Shame on you.

But I understand why you did that. You saw lots of women do it this year and get away with it. But really, have they? In every circle of women in which I was included in a conversation we were appalled at your behavior. Your lack of shame in striking a pose and declaring that your head-to-toe outfit was sponsored by so-and-so. In fact, my response to that was to do my best model pose and exclaim, “This, ladies? THIS was sponsored by Goodwill and hand-me-downs.” It’s just that I can’t help myself when you act so outrageous.

The onus is on us as a community to fix this. As a community, I was excited that I got to interact with companies this weekend. INTERACT. Which meant that I didn’t grab free swag and leave a party as soon as I collected some loot. I had a conversation with the folks from Microsoft who gave me new information about how to use their new interface and answer my questions. Did they shove crap in my hands? No way. They respectfully cared about me learning something new. Not getting something new.

Obligations from companies who want to see us use their product are at an all time high. Those of us who were sympathetic to the free stuff did our level best to come up with a way to re-use it. Would a hotel employee want this free swag? Could I convince people to give me products that I can take back to my highly impoverished high school and put in the hands of teenagers? While that’s a good intention, companies, it’s not what you wanted. You wanted your product in my hand and you want me to use it and love it and share it. Right? Unless I’m making a poor assumption about that, Mr. and Mrs. Corporate Sponsors, you’re going to have to come up with a way to connect better with me. I’d like to see that happen because the alternative is that you don’t hand out free stuff at all. (As an aside, I don’t expect you to give me expensive products like cameras and those of you who expected that? I’m looking at you.) (Another aside: As I’m looking at you I’m rolling my eyes at you, Greedy McNeedy.)

For some reason, it’s as if we pandered to the lowest common denominator this year with some attendants at BlogHer acting entitled and privileged and like their entire reason for being centered on getting free stuff. I’ll take responsibility here and use the pronoun “we”. That’s because I’m a part of this community and have even signed the pledge to Blog With Integrity. But I did this to write. I only started a blog to write. That’s been the passion all along. If you think you can start a blog and make money right away then you’re doing it wrong. Not just wrong. You’re doing it pathetically and you’re making a poor reflection on the writers.

So, companies? Take all that and learn from it. If you do better, we will do better. Having a better plan helps us all in the long run and we can make better informed decisions about products and things we’d normally purchase.

Or not purchase.

You know. Because maybe we don’t have the money for something and will have to do without.