The state of our current media role models...

...here are some of the media personalities you chose to vote off. What do these easily accessible images say about their power as role models?

Miley Cyrus: Who let her out of the house like this?

Michael Jackson: Enough already.

Lindsay Lohan: Yes, she is wearing clothes.

Kanye West: Impoliteness is attractive.

Jon Gosselin: Where are your kids daddy?

Carlos Mencia: Intolerance Sells.

A Stroke of Genius?

I love commercials. It's one of those quirky things about me that completely irritates most people I know. My favorite part about watching TV is coming across an outrageously clever advertisement idea. Over the past decade there have been two particular companies to hit on a marketing campaign which I find totally fantastic because of their witty nature and catchy jingle. These are Mastercard (priceless) and Budweiser (Real Men of Genius).



Doesn't this just make you giggle? Not only is the tune catchy, it actually forces us to think about all the "little guys" out there, caught up in their daily grind but without whom our lives would be a tad bit inconvenienced. I like that Budweiser salutes the men and women who provide services we take for granted (Chinese food delivery guy is another great one). Granted, now they've gone a bit overboard with versions such as "silent killer gas passer" and "Mr. cell phone holster wearer." These are funny, but not as effective as the original intent.

That brings me to the interesting thought of how a company should decide when an ad has run it's course? Do they pull the ad while still popular so it is fondly remembered (like Seinfeld ending at the height of success so fans would only remember it as a great show)? Or do they, like Budweiser's Real Men of Genius, run it into the ground until it's dead?

P.S. -
I was always a big fan of Geico commercials. However, they are a company that started off producing creative ads and then fell apart with the introduction of the Gecko, in my opinion. Here's an oldie but goodie from them:

Playing God?

An issue that I've only just learned about in the past five years is what some call "planning a baby." What does this mean?

Well, it means that a couple decides they are ready to bring a child into their family, but instead of the good ol' fashioned method of getting pregnant, they try to manipulate the situation in order to affect the sex of the baby. This is most prevalent in couples who want to conceive a female child.

The basic assumption is that Y or male sperm swim faster then X or female sperm. This means that families who either want a girl right off the bat or perhaps have a few boys and are desperate for a girl, can use this method of "planning a baby" as they try to conceive.

According to Dr. Shettles, leading proponent of "planning a baby," these are a few things you can do to ensure the baby turns out a girl:

1. Have sex every day from day 1 to day 5, then stop three days before ovulation.

2. The man should take a hot shower immediately before intercourse.

My opinion?
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. If a couple decides that they are ready for a baby and are fortunate enough to get pregnant, they should be absolutely, ecstatically happy. End of story. Trying to decide the sex of the baby means, in my opinion, that if they don't end up with the girl (or boy) they are trying for, they will be less excited about the tiny life they've created. So many people can't ever even have a baby so if a couple is lucky enough to conceive, they should be thrilled.

My question to you
Should couples interfere with the natural process of conception in order to get the girl (or boy) they desire?

Teacher's Got Booty

The first time I walked into a seventh grade classroom, as the teacher-not the student, I thought to myself, "now this is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life." I loved the smell of the erasable markers. I loved the three bulletin boards, all mine to decorate. I loved the desk where my own apples and inspirational quotes would sit proudly, urging my students to succeed. To put it mildly, I was hooked on the idea of being a teacher. Ironically, what I would learn that first day of school would reinforce my determination to become the best teacher I could be, but in a much different manner than I first expected.

The October air was not even a little bit cool in Jacksonville, FL as I drove my then-boyfriend's (now husband) Jeep Wrangler to the back door of building B at Kernan Middle School. I was loaded up with boxes and bags full of "teacher things" I had spent the weekend acquiring at Target, Wal*Mart, and Dollar Tree. I was positive that my "I've been caught doing something good" sticky's and "Get out of Homework free" passes were going to be a hit. Not only would I be the youngest teacher, at a mere 22, but I would be far-and-away the coolest teacher KMS had ever seen. As playing school had been a favorite childhood game of mine, I was sure I had this teaching thing "in the bag," as they say.

I would have five classes of thirty-six students each and one co-teacher for the students with exceptionalities. We were already eight weeks into the school year. Eight weeks during which these five classes, now mine, had been run by a teacher who had a mental break down followed by various substitutes, all of which had run screaming after one day. In my innocent mind I figured all these kids needed was a teacher who would love them, nurture their strengths, not dwell on their weaknesses, and smile all the time. Don't get me wrong - I was a smart, tough cookie but it was my bleeding heart that had led me to this particular school, this particular situation.

When the warning bell rang, it was like a whoosh of electricity surged through the one-level hallway. Kids literally ran screaming, tossing, jumping, cursing, laughing, and crying down the corridor while I stood at my door utterly terrified. It's just Monday morning jitters, I told myself. I don't think I was so much scared of the kids as I was of the fact that my perception of "being a teacher" was critically different than what I realized I was about to experience.

In my first period class I politely asked Miranda to pick her head up and open her eyes as sleeping was for our beds, not our desks. She responded back with a not-so-polite, "f**k you" which took her on a trip to the principals office.

In my third period class I asked Nathan to stay at his seat instead of continually popping up and down to see what was going on at everyone else's desk but his own. His loud and powerful response was, "you're not the boss of me" as he proceeded to launch his whole desk at my head. Student number two to the principal's office.

In my fourth period class, right after lunch, Junior told me, "we've scared off nine other teachers, see I've kept count," and showed me a tally (including names and number of days) of each teacher this group had been through in eight short weeks. My response to him was, "keep my name off that list buddy because I'm here to stay!"

A lesser woman would have cracked by this point.

As the day wore on and I was the recipient of more obscenities than it would be polite to reproduce, more objects were lobbed in my direction, and more comments were made about my staying power as their teacher, I became more and more determined to win over the whole lot of them. The sad truth was becoming evident - all my gimmicks were for naught - these students would have to be persuaded by strict teaching, tireless effort to engage, and a caring demeanor.

When my sixth and final class was about to begin, I actually had a two-minute window where the class before had packed up quickly enough and the next class hadn't finished goofing around at their lockers yet. A veteran KMS teacher recommended that I line each class up outside my classroom and so as to have them enter in an orderly manner. I was taking a quick breather to collect myself at the end of a trying day and even though I was sure I wanted to be a teacher, I was feeling beaten down by the mayhem. The next class was lined up at the door. I could hear them jostling books and slapping backpacks around as they waited restlessly. The door of my classroom creaked open and as I began to say, "not just yet," a tiny, squeaky voice exclaimed - "teacher's got booty!" and then slammed the door. Now as I was only 22 and in my pre-baby body, I was pretty sure that "teacher's got booty" was meant to be a direct compliment of a certain body part. I could hear the rest of the class, we're talking thirty-five other twelve-year olds, start to giggle in the way where they knew something inappropriate had taken place but it was too funny not to laugh. For whatever reason, it was okay to shout expletives at me, but talking about my butt was off-limits. For a minute I thought that's it, I'm outta here. No pre-teen boy whose voice hasn't changed should be noticing my booty, much less talking about it but then something happened. I started to laugh. I laughed and laughed and laughed my way right over to the door where I greeted them all merrily and welcomed them into their new English classroom. We had a great class and word of the infamous "teacher's got booty" comment quickly spread through 7B. By the next day I had earned a new level of respect because instead of flipping out, which they figured would be the normal adult reaction, I found it funny. And I laughed.

From that moment on, things changed. I realized that being a good teacher meant paying attention to what students really want you to hear and figuring out ways to make the learning fun. Laughing instead of reprimanding taught me that middle school was a place of intensity but also a place of innocence. Once I learned to tap into that innocence that still existed, I would be able to be the best teacher I could be. If not for "teacher's got booty," I may not have found the success that I enjoyed as a middle school teacher for many years after that first day.

I Hope You Dance

If I had to create a bumper sticker that models my philosophy for life it would be, "I Hope You Dance."

This is actually the title of a song by Leann Womack which I first heard when living in Myrtle Beach, SC in 2002. My life at that time was crazy! I had just graduated college, broken up with a long time boyfriend, and started (only to quickly quit) my first "real" job. Whenever I would call my mom with the latest sob story she would say, "I hope you dance." Because I was 21 and my mom was obviously a total weirdo, I didn't pay much attention to her. I shrugged the saying off, never giving it a second thought.

One evening as I ran around Angelos serving steaks on sizzling platters to unhappy vacationers at the beach, I heard the line, "I hope you dance" in the kitchen. For a minute I felt disoriented like my mom was there with me. Actually, I thought I might be going a little insane. I realized that it was the radio and that the line my mom kept repeating, over and over, was the chorus of a song. Imagine my surprise to learn that my own mother could be cool enough to use the line of a song as advice!

The song, "I hope you dance," is about learning to live your life to its fullest potential. It's about never giving up hope and trying things that might seem scary to you. Even when we fail we can say that we at least tried. As an adult (even though I was technically one then too!) I truly understand the meaning behind these words. "I hope you dance" is not some silly thing my wacky mom said to shut me up, what she was trying to tell me was that even though life gets rough and I could sit around complaining about it, I would be better off if I took things in stride, learned a lesson, and moved on to overcoming the next obstacle.

Now I have a child and even though he's only two, I often tell him, "I hope you dance" Max. Of course, right now he takes that to mean he should throw his arms in the air and spin in circles but, hey, that works for me.