Millionaire

"Be a winner."

That's what I found in my fortune cookie at lunch one day. Pretty ironic because the next day I was headed to New York City to test out for the possibility to be a contestant on "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire".

I'm going to try my damnedest.

It's funny what possesses a person to do such things. The idea first came to me when the show was announcing auditions for the fall season. Having recently overcome a very personal and challenging six months I figured what the hell, why not?

I went to the site, plugged in the required information, and within a few hours, they sent me an e-mail with my scheduled time and date.

Like a boyfriend who's afraid to commit, I immediately got second thoughts. I suddenly felt silly. I don't know why. I watch people every day on games shows, trying their luck and sometimes winning big. I sit on my sofa and think to myself how easy it is and I could be a better contestant. I yell answers at the television set and become frustrated when the contestants don't hear me.

Fantasy is always better than reality, and the reality is I am much braver from the comfort of my living room.

I was suddenly insecure, afraid of the outcome.  I second guessed my actions and kept putting it off. There were doctors appointments, school plays, no one to accompany me, etc. Anything I could use as an excuse to not follow through. The website had several weeks of testing dates, so I would keep rescheduling to the following week.

Until I tried to reschedule one last time and noticed that there were no more weeks to reschedule.

Crap. Now, what do I do?

I was at a crossroads. Either I scrap the entire idea and think for the rest of my life "what if" or I suck it up and stick to my plan.

Since my brother would have kicked my ass if I passed up this chance, I decided to follow through.

Life is an adventure, right? I thought to myself.

I booked a seat on the Acela express to NYC; taking on the "Big Apple" for one full day; by myself.
It was heaven. The seats were large, cushy, and made of leather. Of course, I picked one next to the window. Free wi-fi, electrical outlets by my side, footrest, adjustable desktop, and best of all; nobody sitting next to me. The only noise I heard was the clicking of the train on the tracks. It was like riding first class on an airplane.

This was the life.

Until he came on board.

Amtrak has a special car called the "Quiet Car". This is for people who want absolute quiet. I chose this car to ensure that I'm not bothered by crying babies, annoying business people, or loud iPods. I wanted to take this time to think and write. Amtrak is very strict with the rules attached to this car. They make sure to announce it several times at every stop and as the conductor collects tickets.
The rules are, no cell phones, no talking, if it is essential to talk, it is to be in short, whispered conversations and no music. Hell, even my computer had to be in mute mode. I could literally hear a pin drop.

It was very clear to everyone what car we were in, and I was about to find out just how seriously people took these rules.

We stopped in Connecticut and picked up some passengers. I remember being a kid on a school bus and not wanting someone sitting next to me. I would put a backpack next to me and avert my eyes, hoping that they would get the hint and pick another seat. Sometimes we got lucky and this strategy worked.

Unfortunately, this tactic didn't seem to work with the old man. There were several empty seats around me, but he decides to stop at my seat and smile.

Fuck. Really??

I had all my shit strewn about the two chairs staking my territory. There were clearly plenty of other seats available, but because the universe likes to fuck with me, this old man was attracted to me like a moth to a flame.

Shit.

 "Is this seat taken?" he says looking straight at me.  I look at him, then look at my shit everywhere, and ever so badly want to say; "Hell yes old man! Don't you see I'm all settled here?? Go find another seat!"

It's times like these where I wish I was a cold-hearted bitch.

However, I'm not, so I smile weakly and strain to politely say, "Oh, no, it isn't, here, let me put my bags under my seat."

Me and my fucking manners.

As he puts his things in the overhead compartment, I'm scrambling to neaten up my area. In my head, I'm thinking, why me? Out of all the seats on this freaking train, why the hell does he have to sit next to me?!

Why? Because that's just my luck.

Now we're settled and the conductor goes through his announcements and the "Quiet Car" schpiel; No talking, no music, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I go back to my work and people around me are doing the same. Things are good. For about 60 seconds.

He then decides that he is going to spark up a conversation with me. "So, Where are you going?" in a rather loud voice.

Now, the woman across from us turns her head so fast in our direction, I swear she got whiplash.
Here we go.

So I look at her with a, "what the hell do you want me to do, ignore him?" look, and then turn to him and quietly say "New York City".

"WHAT?" he yells.

I wince and think, "Dear Lord; whatever did I do to piss you off today?"

Now, in addition to the pissed off whiplash woman, I have acquired two passengers sitting across from us who are very annoyed at the fact that the old man is talking in the quiet car.

Because the man is older than Christ himself, he can't hear me, and I'm forced to answer a bit louder. "New York City!" I said.

A loud sigh and a roll of the eyes comes from whiplash lady.

"Oh!" he says, "New York City is a great place to visit! There is so much to see and do..." as he was talking I became anxious and just wanted him to shut up. Suddenly his voice just went into an inaudible tone. You know, like the parents in the Peanuts cartoons. The parents' voices were just - "wahp wahap waaahh wahp". I couldn't hear a word he was saying.

I began to sweat because I could see the darts shooting out of the eyes of the other passengers who wanted me to tell him to shut the fuck up.

What was I supposed to do? Like it was my fault the old man didn't care what fucking car he was in.

Then to make matters worse, I hear a man equivalent to a flight attendant starting down the aisle with a cart that holds various candies, gum, soda, alcohol (you know, for those functional alcoholics) and salty snacks. He's quite the smart ass- he makes smarmy comments and pushes his overpriced crap onto people who just want to get to work.

He stops at the old man and me, then suggests that the old man buy some 'tasty pretzels' or a cup of coffee. The old man peeks over at the cart and comments on how he's not interested in this junk food and doesn't bite at the overpriced bait. Offended, the snarky snack pusher moves on.

He turns to me and starts talking about how annoying that man was. I turned my head, nodded at him, politely smiled then returned to my work.

Quiet means quiet, old man.

Noticing that I was not engaging with him, the old man decides to nap.

Thank Christ.

I continue to write, look out the window, and munch on the lunch I brought. I had about an hour and a half to myself. I felt like a parent who was trying to get in all the "alone" time she could before her kid woke up.

The train comes to a stop and the old man wakes up.

Shit.

He looks at me and asks, "Where am I?"

Oh, great. Now he doesn't even remember where the hell he is?!

Hoping that he knew, I state, "In Connecticut." He flatly states. "I hate this state."

Hey, old man, thanks for sharing.

I ignore him, continue to type away. He glances over at me and asks me what kind of work I do. Inside I'm screaming "SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP!". People around me are looking at me like I'm the one encouraging his behavior.

I turn to him and sort of put up my finger to my lips and answer him in a whisper. Of course, he doesn't hear me and asks louder. I don't repeat, but instead, say "Shh, it's a quiet car." In perfect timing, Mr. Snack Pusher comes back with his overpriced loot.

This time, the old man purchases a Snickers bar. I think to myself, thank God. At least, his mouth will be full and can't talk.

I go back to my work and after a few minutes, I hear coughing.

I ignore him. The coughing continues. Then he makes this little squeak cough that makes me look at him.

Annoyingly, I turn to ask him if he's okay, and I notice he's choking.

Of course, he is.

I stared at him, watching to see how he does. I don't panic because he was coughing. The first rule; if a person is coughing, they can breathe. No need to intervene at this point. This I remember from my 20+ years of CPR/First Aid training.

His face was red, but he was still coughing. One last cough and the old man cleared his throat.

His face had a panic on it. His eyes were watering. I asked him if he was ok. He wearily nodded his head and said, "That was scary." and put down the rest of the candy bar.

Smart move old man.

Whiplash lady gave a raised eyebrow look as if to say, See what you get for talking in the "Quiet Car".

Seriously bitch? That was totally not called for.

I ignore the passengers, the old man, and the snack pusher for the rest of the train ride. If anyone tried to engage, I just pretended that I was so engrossed with my typing and didn't hear them.

Rude? Probably. But I had enough. What was supposed to be a wonderfully relaxing train ride for me, was nothing but stress, aggravation, and a near death experience.

I want my money back, Amtrak.

We pulled into Penn Station and I actually traveled on the NYC subway. No muggings, No bums, No panhandlers.

Finally, things were looking up.

I quickly found my way to the ABC Studio. Huge pictures of Diane Sawyer and Charlie Gibson hung on the walls in the foyer. I felt like I was on the set of GMA. I walk into the lobby and was greeted by security employees. I told them that I had an appointment (like I was important) for "Millionaire" at 5 pm. The guard directs me to a gray door down the building and informed me to be there around 4:30 pm. I thanked her and leave to find the door.

That's kinda sketchy, I thought. I found the door. It was flush with the rest of the side of the building and had no handle or sign on the outside. Now that I knew where I was supposed to be, I decided to take in the sites of Lincoln Center.

I returned to the designated door at 4:30 pm. Only, this time, there is a line with about 75 people in it.

There are two men with headsets and clipboards in their hands. I walk over to one and give him my paper. He finds my name, checks it off and tells me to stand in line.

So like a good and eager contestant, I do.

I'm behind a man who is like a large sumo wrestler. He keeps turning around and looking at me. I smile politely, he smiles back.

 I'm assuming that a smile was the New York City signal to converse. Nice. Now I have to entertain this fucker too? Shit. All I wanted to do on this trip was to blend. He asks me if we were supposed to bring any sort of identification.

Who am I your fucking mother? I think to myself.

Stunned, I look at him and say, "Yes, and there are two applications they wanted to be filled out and brought in."
 "Oh." he says. "Well, I didn't bring anything. I hope they don't ask for it. I just came here to get out of work for the afternoon. My boss thinks I'm at a dentist appointment." then turns around.

 New Yorkers. Gotta love'em.

He turns back around to me a second later, and asks, "So, what happens?" I said, "With what?" He says, "With getting on the show?"

Now, I'm thinking to myself, Do you even know what fucking show you're trying out for?! Thank Christ, it wasn't Jeopardy.

I explain to him (because I'm an ass like that) that there is a 30 question test we have to take to qualify, but other than that, I had no idea. He thanks me then turns around again.

Another second later, he turns back around and states that he will probably fail the test since he's not that smart.

Really? I would have never guessed. Up until now, you seemed pretty intelligent to me.

The line now starts to move. As we head into the non-descript gray door, there is a ramp that leads to a room that is quite large and has several square tables and chairs at one end, and round tables at the other. Pictures of various ABC celebrities hung on the walls and we were directed to go through a metal detector and have our bags searched.

Two young women conducted the testing. One directed us to our seat and the other handed us our test. At the tables were a "Millionaire" pencils and magnets.

Parting gifts, I'm assuming.

One of the women passed out large yellow manilla envelopes with numbers on them to each 'contestant' and an answer sheet. We were to remember that number on our envelope.

The other young woman went through the rules for testing and what would be happening if we qualified to move on.  Her tone was that of a tour guide. Bored and tired of saying the same thing over and over for hours on end.

We had 30 questions to answer in 10 minutes. There was no specification of what was a qualifying score. The answer sheets were passed in and fed through a computer for scoring. If our number was called, we passed and were to go to the round tables at the end of the room and wait to get our pictures taken.

At this point, I'm getting pretty anxious. I wanted to get going. All I could think of was my fortune. "Be a winner." This was my time. I could feel it. I started thinking of all the ways I would help my family, being able to meet Meredith Viera and 'ask the audience'.

I felt like Bobby Brady fantasizing about meeting Joe Namath. It just had to happen.

The ABC staffer starts the timer and the race was on. I did well. Or so I thought. I finished in record time and even had time to recheck my answers. Some of the questions were silly like;

"What is a national brand of oatmeal" A. Episcopalian, B. Quaker, C. Protestant D. None of the above.

Then there were harder ones like; "Entomology is the study of what?" A. Bugs, B. Snakes, C. Horses, D. Skin.

There were 100 people who tested out for the show, only 15 passed. To this day, I have no idea why they passed or why I didn't.

(By the way, the answers to the above questions were B and A.)

From start to finish, it only took twenty minutes to find out that I was not going to be a contestant or a millionaire.

So I left with my handy-dandy magnet and pencil for my efforts. But I'm not giving up. I will try out again.

Because I believe that someday I will, "Be a winner".

Dating in the puddle of life

Having recently become single again, I've realized at the ripe-old age of 44, that dating truly sucks.

Why can't relationships just work out? I was perfectly happy with what I had, and frankly if the other person weren't such a stubborn-doesn't-know-a-good-thing-when-he-sees-it-meathead, I wouldn't be here right now trying to find some other meathead who does know a good thing when he sees it.

Oh, and the word "meathead" is a term of endearment; I assure you.

So my dating pool has become a puddle, and we all know what happens when you dive into the shallow end.

When I was in my twenties the chances and places to meet someone was unlimited. The days were numerous. I had Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights to meet Mr. Right or, at least, Mr. Right Now.

The world was full of twenty-somethings, the opportunity for love was everywhere, and I was at the top of my game!

I was so eager, optimistic, and hopeful. The world was my oyster, and a pearl could be discovered at any given point. How could I lose?

I didn't look at the passing weekends as one closer to my thirties until devastation hit; the day I turned thirty.

That's when dating took a serious turn.  I dated with purpose. No wasting time on college-aged men. Oh no. No more of those young, wild and carefree men.  They became too young for me, and I was introduced to a new category of men; the older divorced male. It was at this point when dating made me feel old.

Reality hit me in the face like a brick wall. My time and looks were precious (not to mention limited) and I didn't want to waste them on just any guy. I had wants now. I had needs.

See how the pool turns into a puddle? Waddle, Waddle.

So to try and keep the puddle from completely drying up, I am forced to utilize the dreaded online dating.

Am I embarrassed? Quite so. I think to myself; What the hell am I doing on here? I'm not desperate like the other people who need to online date!

Yet, here I am.

 Trying to find love, friendship, happiness, or any other discreet or indiscreet activity at the click of a mouse.

Some call it shopping, fishing, harmonizing, figuring out if it's "our time", or swiping left or right depending on who you are and which site you're on. 

To me, online dating is like shopping at a thrift store for that 'treasure'. Something of value that was donated accidentally and I was the lucky girl to find. Like stumbling across an Ann Taylor dress pant in my size with the tags still intact. However, when I try them on, they either ride up my crotch or are way too short.

Which is why they are there in the first place.

For those of you who haven't tried this avenue of dating, anyone can scroll through hundreds of photos and profiles to see what attracts them. Then, with a "wink", a "flirt", or that ever-awkward "ice breaker" introductory e-mail, the love arrow has been shot.

Most of the time it usually bites me in the ass - but I digress.

Lately, all I've found are men who seem to think that all they need is a good profile title to win a lady's heart.

Here are some that I have had slip through my fingers:

"SpicyHero". He sounds like a lunch that will give me heartburn.

"Leftbygypsies". Really? I'm sorry you weren't loved by your parents.

"Whatifcliff". Seriously? What if what? Why would I want to date a guy who is in constant conflict with himself?

"Stoogeman". Shockingly, still available.

Then, there's the creme de la creme, the one that made my heart skip a beat;

"BigBalls1964". Oh yeah, baby. This is the one. The Big Kahuna. The end all; be all, of men. However, this makes me want to call a doctor. Elephantitis is not something to fool around with.

I don't want to give online dating an entirely bad rap. Even though I haven't made a 'love connection', I have gained some really great friendships with very supportive men who make me laugh on a daily basis.

So, as I continue the ever changing dating adventure, I'm still optimistic that someday I won't have to use the old cliche', "I shaved my legs for this?"

Until then, I'll keep on doing what I do; take care of my kids, strive to meet my goals, surround myself with great friends, and live my life to the fullest. And if someday I happen to bump into someone who wants to waddle along with me in the puddle of life; all the better.

Student Burnout...

I think I’m running out of steam. I have to write yet another story for my journalism class, and nothing is appealing to me. This scares me. Writing is usually a no brainer for me, however, this time it’s a daunting task (sorry Prof. Callahan!).

I scan the online newspaper sites to find some sort of current event to rant and rave about, however, I’m distracted by the article on Tom Brady’s current hairstyle and ones throughout the decade (I still say Giselle has her spiny little hands in on why his hair is so long) but I’m not bitter. I vote on which movie is the best romantic film of all time (of course Bridges of Madison County wins over Ghost). I scan Facebook (just because I’m addicted).

I can’t focus. I think about the next day I’ll have off from work, how many weeks left until finals, and the thought of not having to get up at 6:15am on a Saturday to trudge into Algebra class.

I’ve had enough. It’s time for the semester to end. I think what I have is diagnosed as Student Burnout so I decide to investigate.

I find a website called Helpguide.org. They define burnout as “a state of emotional, mental, and physical exhaustion caused by excessive and prolonged stress. It occurs when you feel overwhelmed and unable to meet constant demands. As the stress continues, you begin to lose the interest or motivation that led you to take on a certain role in the first place.”

Yep. That sounds like me.

It goes on to say, “You may be on the road to burnout if everyday is a bad day, Caring about work or home life seems like a total waste of energy, You’re exhausted all the time, the majority of your day is spent on tasks you fine either mind-numbing dull or overwhelming, or you feel like nothing you do makes a difference or is appreciated.

Now I don’t know about you, but that just defined what most working mothers (single or married) think like on a daily basis, or at least this mother does.

Take that as a hint to call your mother kids.

So, how do we avoid burnout? The Texas A & M University website has a special section in their student resources that outlines ideas to keep burnout at bay. They suggest:
> Recognize the problem. Watch for signs of stress
> Build positive social supports and control negativity in your environment.
> Gain control where you can.
> Quit doing something. In other words, say NO and mean it.
> Use stress-management techniques. Meditate.
> Rest.

Like me, you’re probably saying, “I’m already burnt out! What do I do now?”

Well, About.com has a Top 10 Stress Relief Strategies From Your Inner Child.
1. Daydreaming – taking a mental break to visualize something pleasurable helps deplete stress levels throughout the day.
2. Naps – power naps consisting of 15-20 minutes rejuvenates the mind and body.
3. Hugs – never underestimate the power of a good hug from a loved one.
4. Playing with Pets – studies proven they lower blood pressure better than medication.
5. Singing – loud and proud! Nobody says it has to be on key.
6. Playing Games – playing a quick online game of Boggle or other fun games relieves stress.
7. Drawing, Painting, Sculpting – Grab a coloring book and crayons and feel the stress dissolve!
8. Writing notes – Doodling or journaling helps with keeping focused to tasks.
9. Team Sports – group involvement and exercise can bring down stress levels.
10. Imagining the Future – reminding ourselves of our goals may bring motivation back.

And if that is still not enough, well, there is always chocolate.

Yes, I said chocolate.

Chocolate, especially dark chocolate has many health benefits. Included in that list is that it lowers stress levels. According to Life Mojo.com, “Eating a delicious piece of chocolate could possibly reduce stress levels; it works by stimulating the production of endorphin that may give rise to a happy feeling. In addition, the dark chocolate variety contains stimulants such as theobromine and caffeine that are major stimulants.”

So if you can see yourself as I see myself here, try and take a break, take a breath, or maybe just enjoy some sweet, dark chocolate and feel your troubles melt away.

I see you! Stop that texting!

Ok, so now that we’re all familiar with the new state law on texting and driving that went into effect on September 30, 2010 I’d like to address another texting issue that’s happening right here on the Northern Essex Community College campus.

Yep. You guessed it, texting during class. We’ve all done it and probably 90 percent of you who are reading this right now have texted in class at least once.

As I sit in my classes, I periodically look around the room. I observe 50 percent of the people who nonchalantly take out their phones and either check texts or respond to texts during class.

Call me crazy, but this action enflames me.

For one, you’re not as slick as you think you are. People DO notice that you’re texting. Second, vibrate still makes a noise and can or will make others check to see if it was their phone or look at you, which ends up in a 30 second disctraction away from a lesson.

Forgive me if I start to sound like your mother, but, shame on you!

It’s just downright rude.

I have even scolded my own daughter who is a sophmore in college and was texting me during one of her math classes that she had to take over. What she wanted was something that could have waited until the class was over. When I asked her to stop texting me and pay attention, her response was, “It’s not like I don’t know what’s going on.” My response, “Well then I will be expecting an “A” from you in this class.”

The texting stopped.

One professor I interviewed has strict rules about texting in class. I asked Professor Crivaro what her policy was on texting. She responded, “I expect the full attention of my students during the time they are in my class, both for their benefit and that of other students. Those kinds of distractions are detrimental to the class as a whole and, therefore, I have a zero tolerance policy which I clearly spell out on the first day of class. The first offense is a warning and the second is the student will be dropped from the class.” Professor Crivaro takes her lesson time extremely serious since omitting texting will only benefit others in her class.

KUDOS Professor Crivaro!

Other professors aren’t as strict. For example in Professor Stewarts’ syllabus she states to only silence cell phones or pagers as a classroom courtesy.

I wanted some feedback on what students thought of texting in class. So I sent e-mails out to my fellow classmates asking what their thoughts were on this subject. The responses I got were interesting. I was surprised to see the amount of students that actually were against texting in class.

Amy Thompson stated, “I’m against it, I believe you should show your professor/teacher the same respect he/she is showing their class, be attentive, listen and focus on the material not your cellphone.”

While another classmate brought up a point that I overlooked. She stated, “As a mother of an infant I need to be able to text information at times to my child’s caregiver. I would rather not have to leave class to make a call when I can simply send a quick text.”

There is also the opportunity for cheating. One student stated she saw another student text during an exam and later admitted it to her.

With the younger generation being considered a generation that has such a short attention span, I’m thinking that maybe there is something to look at with this issue.

Is this an attention span issue or are students just addicted to texting? Maybe 50 minute classes are too long for them to pay attention. I’m thinking that maybe we could incorporate breaks during class so students can get their texting in.

Sarcastic? You know I am.

As one student stated, “We are in college, not high school. We are paying for education, so we have the right to decide whether we will focus in class or not.”

And a part of me has to agree with her statement, however I ask you to stop and think the next time you send a text.

It could be the one that will cause someone else to lose focus.

McRib Phenomenon or Just McDisgusting?

“I have got to get one of those!” my boyfriend excitedly states from the other room as he overhears a commercial that the almighty Mickey-D’s is now offering the “McRib” sandwich nationwide once again since 1994. “Why?” I said, “What’s the big deal?.” “You don’t know? He says, “McRibs are this huge pop cult thing. You should read up on it.” “You’re kidding, right?” I flatly state. He responds, “Not kidding, Google it.”, as he giggles at my reaction.

So I take him up on his challenge.

What I found was astounding. Several stories announcing the McRibs limited reappearance beginning on November 2nd and lasting until December 5th have been posted on The Christian Science Monitor, The Huffington Post, and amazingly enough, The Wall Street Journal. Heck, it even has a Facebook page. I bet the Big Mac is pretty McJealous, never mind the bitter McAttitude of the Quarter Pounder.

It’s more like give me a break today instead of ‘deserving one.’

So after getting by the Wikipedia description (as if we needed one) and images of the sandwich I find a link to a website called “The McRib Locator.” Here is where anyone can document which McDonalds they claimed their sandwich and also pinpointed which McDonalds’ around the country that others have successfully found the barbeque slathered piece of pork-particle-mystery-meat-on-a-bun.

After doing some research, I decide that in order to write about the McRib, I will have to eat one. Take one for the team, so to speak.

Suddenly, I break out in a cold sweat.

Since I don’t make it a habit of eating anything processed, I at least wanted to know what I was going to clog my arteries with. I found an image of a “naked” piece of McRib. It looked like a piece of shriveled up flesh that had been sitting in formaldehyde waiting to be dissected.

Oh yummy.

Then I made the mistake of reading up on exactly what the “McRib” is made of. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. What I found, in my opinion, was truly disgusting. Directly from the McDonalds website are the ingredients of the rib “meat”. Ingredients: Pork, water, salt, dextrose, BHA and BHT and propyl gallate and citric acid (preservatives).

Attached to the saturated fat ingredients are the equally ugly nutrition stats; 24g Fat, 10g Sat Fat, 70g Cholesterol, and 44g Carbohydrates for a whopping 500 calories per sandwich.

Personally, I think the McRib, is McGross to be McHonest.

Ok, I’ll stop.

I found myself procrastinating to purchase the sandwich. Every day, I told myself, “Today’s the day.” Before I knew it a week went by and I hadn’t consumed the sandwich that has people visiting McDonalds sometimes twice a day.

However tempting, I just couldn’t do it. The pictures were too horrifying. The nutritional stats were equally disturbing. I let down my team.

Or did I?

I wanted to know what others on the Northern Essex Community College campus thought of the McRib so I sent out a blanket e-mail to 70 of my fellow students requesting any and all comments they had on the McRib phenomenon.

Surprisingly, I had only received one lengthy and descriptive e-mail from classmate, Peter Piantigini. I feel his e-mail is indicative of exactly why nobody cared to bother with a response to my original e-mail.

Peter commented, “I just want to urge the people out there thinking about what a great deal they are getting on a $3 rib sandwich, that they could go to a legitimate barbeque restaurant and get something that costs roughly $10 that tastes 30 times better.”

I totally concur with you Peter.

I could only gather that people think the McRib is just gross and not worth commenting
on never mind consuming.

With that being said, I will leave you with something else to chew on. While researching the McRib, I stumbled upon a story about Sally Davies, a New York photographer who left out a burger and fries from McDonalds for 180 days. The burger and fries did not mold or turn color in any way shape or form. To see this, go to
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/39656461.

Enjoy!

Misunderstood Puppets?

I can’t believe the news actually wasted 90 seconds of my life broadcasting that Bert from Sesame Street could actually be gay.

Seriously?

I look over at my boyfriend and flatly state to him, “You have got to be kidding me.” He lets out a giggle and shrugs his shoulders at me. I continue my rant. “Seriously, they have got to be joking. Who the hell cares if Bert is gay? He’s a puppet!”

Honestly people. Get a grip. Is there nothing else more important to report on than the non-existent, hypothetical sexual preference of a puppet? I’m sure they could have at least dug up some new information on Whitey Bulger or Jimmy Hoffa.

Anything would have been better than a story on a puppet who switched teams.

But hey, since they opened that can of worms why stop there? If they’re going to start dissecting Sesame Street characters why not take a look at the other puppets?
Yes. Let’s do that.

How about starting with Big Bird?

He has a pretty, effeminate voice and loves teddy bears. You never see him with a female Big Bird, and is always with his male pal, Mr. Snuffleupagus.

Hmm. Very interesting.

Oh, then there is Grover. He’s a silly little blue creature that constantly flails his arms around in a panic. Could he be gay too?

Ridiculous, isn’t it?

To be honest, I’m pretty ticked off about all of the talk about the twitter comment that was left on the Sesame Street page on October 25, 2010 that was supposedly left by Bert himself.

The comment was in reference to an upcoming A-Team re-make. Bert tweeted, “Ever notice how similar my hair is to Mr. T’s? The only difference is mine is a little more ‘mo’, and a little less ‘hawk’".

This single comment actually sparked the LA Times to do a three page story on whether or not the executives at Sesame Workshop are consciously trying to appeal to gay viewers and how PBS may not be so eager to embark on such a topic.

Personally, I couldn't care less if the Sesame execs are trying to do just that. However, if they are, I say Kudos to them! Sesame Street has always tried to be as diverse as possible with their puppets and their actors.

If you were an avid Sesame Street watcher as a child, take a moment and think about the characters. I bet there was at least one you could relate to in one way or another.

When I was a child, I remember Linda, the adult actor who was deaf and taught us all sign language. The way she communicated fascinated me and still does to this day. Aside from her disability, she was projected as a warm, funny and kind person. Had I not been exposed to her uniqueness, and educated on it, she could have been someone that I viewed as scary, odd, or even could have been prejudiced of.

Mr. Hooper was the grumpy but lovable store owner. He was a person that most of us could relate to as an elder, grumpy relative. C’mon, admit it, we've all had one.

Then there was Louis and Maria, the married Latino couple who raised a child on the show. Admittedly, I saw my own father in Louis even though I am full blooded Italian.

Then there was Bob. Bob was everyone’s confidant and buddy. He was a safe and secure person who always had it together. A sort of mother figure, but never paired up with anyone.

I think that as the years go on, and families change, so should children’s shows. Same sex marriages are now legal and couples are forming and raising families of their own. They are fantastic, conscientious, parents who only want the best for their children as we all do, and they are exposing their children to such great shows as Sesame Street. So why not show those children that there are other families just like them?

Currently on television there are two shows that promote gay parenting. ‘Modern Family’ and the other is ‘Glee’. According to the UCLA Williams Institute there are currently 1 million lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender parents raising about 2 million children in the U.S.

Hardly a drop in the bucket if you ask me.

There is so much left to be discovered with the statistics on children who are raised in same sex homes. I could only hope that there are lots of positive outcomes in the coming years. Only time will tell.

However, presently there are still many people that will never agree. There will always be people who will never believe that same sex couples should have children or raise them. No matter what the statistics positively conclude or how many studies have been conducted.

Some things we just can’t change. However, the one thing we can do is surround ourselves with people who love and accept us for who we are and try to educate the ones who don’t.

Just like Bert and Ernie.

Workouts, Painkillers, and Porno Doctors

It was Tony Horton's P90x's"Ab Ripper". A workout routine that consisted of 340 sit ups. Just one in a series of nine DVD's that was supposed to shred you in weeks. 

After noticing that my once firm; well, moderately firm; okay, my stomach that was once almost totally flat has now started looking like a bowl of Jell-O, I decided it's time to 'make time' and get back to working out.

After taking a look at my daily schedule, I find that I had two opportunities to workout; 5 AM or 9 PM. So I pick 5 AM because by 9 PM I'm comatose, whether I want to be or not.

The next morning I'm up and in front of the TV getting my abs ripped. Impressed that I completed workout by performing 315 out of the 340 sit ups, I felt pretty good that day. I could feel my stomach shrinking as the day went on.

Oh, Hail to the almighty P90x man!

This was it, I could see myself becoming just like the women in the video.

Except, I would have to get a tummy tuck, a boob lift, and possibly grow about five inches.

Ah, to dream the impossible dream. Alas, being the eternal optimist that I am, I set the alarm for 5 AM, and go to sleep, pumped for the morning workout.

The alarm rings and I turn over, hitting the buzzer. When I go to sit up, I realize exactly what I have done to myself. I am now the proud owner of an abdominal charlie horse and have to roll out of bed. My abdominal muscles are screaming at me. Seriously, I heard them. They were saying, "What the fuck were you thinking?!  Do you even remember the last time you even did a hundred sit ups? Let me remind you bitch, it was last November!"

Then, as I was getting into the shower, I faintly heard the left oblique say to the right oblique, "Oh, just wait, the lower abs have a plan. They're not done with her yet". After the minor bodily confrontation in the shower, my abs did feel pretty tight. They were convulsing; however, they were tight.

Yayyy P90x man.

As I wait for the pain to subside in my abs, I try the arms, legs, and full-body core workouts. All were very good, however, there is nothing like the Nazi regime of the Ab Ripper.

A week later, I decided to try the 'ripper again, now that I was able to laugh, stand erect, and lift a fork,  I turn on the TV, watch my beloved P90x man, Tony Horton get into position. As I begin, I complete two crunches when something goes "POP!" and makes me immediately go "WOWOUCH!" and curl up into the fetal position (which by the way I haven't been in since my divorce, but that's a story for another time).

I hold the lower part of my abdominal flab and wait a moment for the pain to subside. Since I still haven't learned my lesson, I continue.

I couldn't even lift my leg without yelping in pain.

FUCK! I'm screwed. I've never heard anything go POP on me before, and the only thing I could think of is that I opened my 8-year-old c-section scar or I just received my first hernia.

Damn me and my stubborn behavior.

Well, I was down, but I was far from out. Determined as I am, I quickly pop in the arms and shoulders DVD and finished what I could. Rocky, eat your heart out. 

Since the pain failed to subside, I made a visit to my general practitioner. After pushing on the injured area and making me do more sit ups, she suspected a hernia. She advised me to not work out until I saw a surgeon.

Surgeon?! Oh, beautiful.

I call the surgeon that she recommends and am given a three-week waiting period. The earliest time they have available is the day after my daughter's tonsillectomy. Begrudgingly, I take it. I figure I will sort things out when the time gets closer.

My daughters "day surgery" turns into a hospital stay, so the plans I had for my appointment were quickly dashed. Thinking fast on my feet, I called the doctors office to see if they could move up the appointment for later that day or possibly the next day. The conversation goes like this:

"Hi, I was wondering, if it was possible to reschedule my appointment for later today. My daughter was in surgery yesterday and ended up staying the night, so I'm not going to be able to make my 10:30 AM appointment. I know it's last minute, but I wasn't expecting her to stay. Anything you have for today, or possibly tomorrow, would be great."

"Oh, um...hmm. I'm sorry but there isn't any time today or tomorrow. She is booked solid, so you'll have to reschedule, and she is scheduling out three weeks."

Now, this receptionist either has  #1, no children, #2, no mercy, #3 no experience working with people, and me, already being grumpy, worried and tired due to lack of sleep, picked the wrong woman to say "No" to.

"Umm .. Noo. I don't think so, I said.  I've waited three weeks already, and I am not about to reschedule another three weeks when I have an injury that is already three weeks old. I need to be seen within the next couple of days.

 "Hold please." I wait approximately five minutes when I get an older and more experienced woman on the phone.

 "Hi, can you come in at 3:45 this afternoon?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, great, see you then!"

"Thank you very much for squeezing me in. I appreciate it!"

 I bring my daughter home and settled. I head out to the doctors office early just in case I get lost, or some meathead decides to cause a traffic jam. I want to make sure I am on time since I caused such a ruckus earlier. I don't know why, but the minute I stepped into the office, I got this overwhelming feeling that this was not the right doctor for me. I approach the window and a snobby 17 year- old receptionist is on the phone completely ignoring me for about three minutes. Somehow her social calendar was much more important than a prospective patient.

Priorities, you know.

When she hangs up, she hardly glances at me. I tell her my name, and we do the usual "first-time patient" dance. You know the one, the receptionist hands you the paperwork, you hand her your insurance card and your co-pay, then tells you to have a seat. Cha-cha-cha.

I am filling out the paperwork when I notice that the waiting area that was supposed to be 'completely booked' is completely empty.

I hand the receptionist my paperwork, grab a magazine and sit down. As I sit, a young female medical assistant calls my name.

As I approach her I am shocked at the way she greets me.

 "Hi, how's your daughter?" "I heard she was in the hospital."

 "Um.. yeah, She unexpectedly stayed overnight."

As I entered through the door heading towards an exam room, she continued to discuss my daughter's tonsillectomy. Three things ran through my head as I'm talking with her. One, why would she comment on my daughters surgery in front of others in the waiting room. Two, why I felt the need that I had to explain myself to this young assistant, and, three, how the hell did she know in such detail? I mean,  I'm sure they discuss reasons for pushing patients around but, did she feel the need to discuss it in full? The last one made me the most uneasy. It made me think what exactly were they talking about that allowed the medical assistant to know what was going on with my daughter. 

She leads me to an exam room and begins to take my vitals. She then tells me to unbutton and unzip my jeans then tells me to scootch both my underwear and jeans down around my hips so the doctor can access the hernia area. So I am sitting on the exam table, with my waistband pinching my ass and a little paper blanket to cover myself up. Feeling extremely awkward, it was like I was waiting for something very creepy to happen. 

I tried to reassure myself  that since she was a female doctor, she would be the most gentle of the sexes. However, I was about to have that theory shattered. 

The doctor comes in wearing sneakers, a pair of jeans, a Red Sox t-shirt, and a nylon zip-up sweat jacket with racing stripes down the arms. My first thought was, did I pull you away from something, Doc? She's kind of masculine looking, not that I mind, just be competent. Again, my hopes would be quickly dashed.

 The first thing she says to me -without making eye contact- is, "So, your daughter was in the hospital, huh?"

What the fuck?! Is this a test? Does this whole office think that I just made this up in order to get an appointment without waiting three more weeks? I wanted to show her my daughters discharge papers to prove to her that I wasn't lying.

She washes her hands, and asks - no, demands- me to lie down.

So I do.

She pokes and prods in my popped area, and again demands me to stand up.

So I do.

Now, remember, I have my pants unzipped and half way around my hips. She stands there watching as I try to hop off the exam table, fight with the paper blanket trying to keep my pants up around my hips. Then, something comes out of her mouth, that in a million years would I ever expect a doctor to say,

"Drop 'em."

I can't believe she just told me to "drop 'em". Feeling very uncomfortable, and even a little scared, I 'drop em'. I'm standing there, pants around my ankles and paper blanket hanging off the exam table. Needless to say, I'm humiliated. She says she can't feel anything then goes and sits on one of the chairs and tells me to come stand in front of her.

Awkwardly, with my pants around my ankles, I shuffle over to her. I felt like it was the beginning of a bad porno.  I'm expecting Ron Jeremy to walk in the exam room at any moment and "assist" in my exam. As I am standing there, she sitting in front of me, head in my crotch (so to speak) poking around, she says, "I don't feel anything."

 "Really?", I said afraid to rebut her. "Because now that you've poked around there, it's quite tender."

She states, "Yeah, well, you don't have a hernia, well, you could possibly have a small one, or you could possibly have a muscle pull, either way, there is no need to do surgery right now."

Umm...ok, so it's either I don't have a hernia, or I have a small hernia or it's a muscle pull. Jesus, which is it, Porno Doc!

All this in a grand total of three minutes.

She then continues to prescribe me 800 mg of Motrin three times a day for six weeks. Wait, what?!

 As I'm doing the math in my head, I'm thinking, wow, this is so wrong. That would be 2,400 mg of Motrin a day! For six weeks!

Doesn't she know what that would do to someone's stomach? I wonder quickly if she is in 'cahoots' with a GI doc in the office.

I leave with a follow-up appointment even though I had absolutely no intention on going back. The next day, I called my general practitioner for another referral. The next doctor's office was very accommodating, friendly, and took me within a week. The appointment goes very well. This doctor was kind, soft spoken, and most of all very conscious of being discreet while examining me. I state the reason why I was there, and that he was a second opinion. When I tell him the Motrin that was prescribed, I got a very validating raised eyebrow. We decide together that the surgery was the way to go, and it gets scheduled. I knew I made the right decision to get a second opinion.

As I am getting prepped for surgery, I have a slew of doctors and medical students coming in and asking my name and birth date several times, while poking and prodding me. I'm lying there getting my IV started and in walks a student doctor who introduces herself. Behind her is my doctors assistant. He introduces himself and tries to make a cute remark about removing my belly button ring (which I do not have). He looked exactly like Ron Jeremy, 70's porn mustache and all. 

I took one look at him and thought HELL NO!  I'm not having the porn king of the 80's down in my 'area' assisting with my surgery. It'll turn into some kind of kinky operating room group sex session! I try to fight off the 'happy shot' they gave me to relax, without success.

Damn drugs.

The surgery was a success. They removed a lump within my abdominal muscle and put me in the recovery room. As one nurse passes me off to another rotund nurse that sees me lying in the corner, and states, "Nobody puts baby in the corner." She giggles at her own joke then pushes my bed into one of the recovery room stalls continuing her impromptu stand-up act, advises me not to do any sit ups for a long time.  

"Pretty ironic, that's how I ended up here," I said.  

She laughs and says, "See, this is where exercise will get you."

I think to myself, Yeah, yeah, everyone's a comedian. Just give me the drugs lady, and keep your jokes to yourself. 

As I'm discharged, the doctor tells me that I am not to work out for several weeks in order to give my incision time to heal, and ordered me not use the P90x workout sessions. 

 I listen to his advice and dump the routine and go back to running.

However,  I think there is a bootleg video out there of my exam with Porno Doc.

If you find a copy, please, let me know.