I haven't written in a long while. Maybe because I don't essentially writing to myself and posting it for (mainly) myself to read. I know there are a few of you readers out there (I thank and love you), but mostly, it's just me. So, I took a little break to heal up the knee and I'm almost as good as new.
On June 23, just two days after school is out (yes--two whole days of summer fun for me!), I'm having an MPFL reconstruction. That stands for Medial Patellar Femoral Ligament recontstruction. Basically, I have no groove for my kneecap to sit in. It's flat, which allows for my patella to freely travel to the outside of my knee (ouch) as it did in December. It is beyond physical therapy, as there really isn't any therapy for bone deformations. So, I'm having the ligament that I tore reconstructed so it will (hopefully) keep my kneecap better anchored. The reconstruction comes with an interesting option--I can choose to use my own tissue for the reconstruction, which would be taken from my hamstring, or, I can opt for donor tissue from a cadaver. My stepson thinks that "dead guy" tissue would be cool, because then I would be like a zombie. It is less painful to use the donor tissue, but there is the minimal risk of tissue rejection, too. Choices, choices...
Now, on to the subject line for this blog...the Nook. My husband is so cool that he bought me a Barnes and Noble Nook eReader so I'll have many reading options when I'm stuck in bed this summer. I will admit that when eReaders debuted, I resisted. I sneered. I guffawed. "No way will I give up my paper books! I love paper and I need to feel it and smell it and carry it with me." Well, I got over that--quickly. One thing I love more than paper is the ability to read several things at one time. I like to be reading about 2 or 3 books, a couple of magazines, and a newspaper. And, this is the true beauty of the Nook. I can flip from one to another in seconds. When I want to buy a book, I can have it in 30 seconds. I can even download a 15-30 page sample of the book before I buy it. I can read for one hour a day from any eBook at a Barnes and Noble location. There is a built-in dictionary, a function for highlighting and taking notes, and a web browser. On top of all that, there are super-cute covers and accessories. I love to accessorize, especially when it's a Jonathan Adler designed Nook cover. Ahhhh....
So, if you'd grappled with the decision of whether or not to sell your book and paper-loving soul to an eReader, I say go for it. My bet is it will only take a few minutes to convert you. And although I still love my traditional books, I have actually read more in the past month than I have in a long time, in thanks to the Nook. When someone recently gave me a hardcover copy of Kathryn Stockett's The Help, I even replied, "Oh, thanks, but I'm going to get it on my Nook." And I did--in approximately 15 seconds.
****By the way, if you've got any suggestions for books or movies about people laid up in bed or with injured legs, I'd love to hear them. My goal is to read and watch as many as I can to make the most out of this surgery. Current suggestions:
Rear Window
Misery
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
My Left Foot
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Please No Baby for Carrie Bradshaw!
I was a latecomer to Sex and the City. In fact, I had always looked down my nose at it. I love fashion, guys, and girlfriends, but from what I'd heard, the series just seemed so...vapid. That was until I got divorced and the show became my best friend. My mother rescued me by buying me the whole series, all packaged in a pink velvet box, and I managed to watch all six seasons over the course of four days. Pathetic? Definitely. Useful? Yes. I had just moved into my own place after a seven year marriage, and there wasn't a lot of fun or humor in my life. After watching the first few episodes, I was hooked. I laughed and actually got excited about being a single gal again. I dusted myself off, got a few cute outfits and new pairs of shoes, and got back in the game.
When the movie came out, I was worried. It looked corny, and it was. My new and fabulous boyfriend (who's now my husband) sweetly agreed to see it on opening night after a friend bailed out. How could I not go see my "friends" on opening night after a three year absence? I think he was the only man there, but he endured this girl-fest like a trooper. I am embarrassed to admit it, but my eyes actually teared up when I heard the opening theme song. It brought back so many memories--good and bad--but I needed to see what would happen, especially to my favorite character, Carrie Bradshaw.
Did you know there are quizzes online that you can take to find out which Sex and the City character you "are"? I suspect that most women who would take this kind of quiz think they're Carrie, and once the quizzes start, it's fairly easy to skew the results. "Would rather buy Manolos than groceries." Or "Always picks the wrong guy over and over again." Or "Loves to take fashion risks." See where it's going? Well, yes, I took the quiz, and, yes, I was Carrie. I definitely identify with Carrie--a whimsical, funny, goofy fashionista (god, I hate that word) who has the ability to laugh at herself. But, as even my husband pointed out (come on--I had to share the results with someone!), I have a healthy dose of Miranda in me, too--Carrie's analytical, terrifically sarcastic and skeptical friend. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out why the whole Sex and the City formula works--because every woman has a little bit of each of the four characters inside of them. Duh. That sounded like a commercial for the show.
This May, a sequel to the Sex and the City movie will be released, and what has me worried (other than the trailers where the cast seems to be partying fashionably in the mid-East) is that some spoilers *****WARNING, DANGER, Will Robinson!**** say that Carrie will find out she's pregnant. Noooooo!!! Please say it's not true! Not that I have anything against mothers, but as a childless woman, I've always liked it when TV characters like Bradshaw buck tradition. There aren't a whole lot of childess female characters on TV, and I have to admit that I want Carrie to keep living my fantasy--as a sassy writer who can dump however much cash she wants on Christian Dior because she doesn't have diapers to buy or a college fund to start. I want her to stay out late, sans babysitters or nannies. Just because most women have children doesn't mean that this interesting character needs to follow the same predictable path. Let me have my childless Carrie! Sure, you could make the argument that this will make her a dynamic character--one who finally realizes that all those Chanel handbags and Prada dresses were a mark of shallowness. She would finally see that having a career as a writer isn't nearly as important as diaper duty, and that she surely could never have found the meaning of life until she discovered the joys of breastfeeding. Blech. For once, please just leave that to Charlotte.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Are You Prepared?
Living in southern California for the past 10 years has taught me to expect and prepare for earthquakes. Luckily, there hasn't been a huge one since I've lived here, but I'm sure we're bound to get one sooner or later. My fear is that I'll be sleeping, naked and without my glasses, in bed, or I'll be in the middle of a shower when the big one hits. Nakedness and blindness may be, perhaps, even more frightening to me than surfing the earth's crust before wiping out into a sinkhole.
But, events like the ones that happened recently in Haiti and Chile always put me in my Girl Scout "let's get prepared!!" mode. I make sure the disgusting looking beef burrito MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) haven't expired. I double check the batteries in the portable radio. I verify an extra pair of glasses and a stash of cash. Most importantly, I replenish the Vicodin. I say "replenish" because I've probably dug some out from time to time. Even if I'm not hurt in the quake, I'm absolutely certain I'll be needing it. Who wouldn't in a mess like that? It's a must-have in any survival kit.
While updating my survival kit recently, I started to think about why no one has ever invented a "Stepmother's Survival Kit." I need one and I'm going to start preparing one. I'm going to make my list here, and I hope that you all can help me add to the list so I don't miss any important necessities. I want to be a tip-top survivalist!
Stepmother's Survival Kit
But, events like the ones that happened recently in Haiti and Chile always put me in my Girl Scout "let's get prepared!!" mode. I make sure the disgusting looking beef burrito MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) haven't expired. I double check the batteries in the portable radio. I verify an extra pair of glasses and a stash of cash. Most importantly, I replenish the Vicodin. I say "replenish" because I've probably dug some out from time to time. Even if I'm not hurt in the quake, I'm absolutely certain I'll be needing it. Who wouldn't in a mess like that? It's a must-have in any survival kit.
While updating my survival kit recently, I started to think about why no one has ever invented a "Stepmother's Survival Kit." I need one and I'm going to start preparing one. I'm going to make my list here, and I hope that you all can help me add to the list so I don't miss any important necessities. I want to be a tip-top survivalist!
Stepmother's Survival Kit
- 10+ sets of earplugs
- Unlimited bottles of wine (or hard liquor of choice, depending on how difficult bio mom is)
- An ice pack
- A heating pad
- Tape--to help you keep your mouth shut before you say things you'll regret
- A helmet
- Protective shoes (have you ever stepped on a lego in the middle of the night?!)
- One bottle Vicodin (see above)
- A locker with a good padlock (who would've thought a 4 year-old boy would want a bottle of Pucci Vivara perfume?!)
- Extra furniture (for when the cool stuff you had when you were single gets ruined by melted crayons, markers, scissors)
- An extra pair of glasses (also see above)
- Your mother and best friend's numbers on speed dial
- Thicker skin
- A copy of Izzy Rose's The Package Deal
- An iPod full of power songs to get you through any situation
Friday, February 26, 2010
I Coulda Been a Contender?
It's depressing that I haven't written poetry in a long time. I'm not trying to brag, but I used to be quite good. I started writing it when I was in eighth grade, and the craft eventually overtook my life until I graduated from college. Then, I slowly withdrew.
Back at Iowa, I was accepted into the Undergraduate Writers' Workshop in Poetry several times, and I made some of the most lasting memories there. I met many of my heroes of contemporary poetry, and created some work of which I'm still proud. Two of my favorite professors told me they thought I had some talent and encouraged me to apply to the graduate workshop. I knew that the chances of getting in there were slim, even though I knew much of the faculty, but with writers I admired urging me to go for it, I did. I was rejected. I never re-applied or sought acceptance into any other graduate creative writing program.
Sure, I continued to write poetry, and I even had a great group of writing friends in Des Moines who constantly inspired me to keep going. Again, I wrote some of my favorite poems during this post-college phase of my life, but somewhere between the Des Moines of 1999 and L.A. from 2000-present, I just lost my touch or my muse or my words. Whatever you want to call it, that's what I let slip away.
In some ways I'm glad I let it go. Poetry was beginning to consume many aspects of my life. It would come at the oddest moments, and it was hard to explain to a dinner companion or customer at the cosmetics counter why I had to dig around frantically to find a scrap of paper and a pen. Every piece of conversation, every book I read or movie I watched became fodder for poetry, and it was exhausting.
But, lately, the thought of what I've lost has made me sad. I've seen some of my dear friends from the workshop days go on to publish incredible things. Rosemary Griggs wrote a beautiful book of poems, Josh Ferris was a National Book Award finalist for his first novel, and I eagerly await Julia Story's first book of poetry. I actually remember Josh telling me and Julie Story one night at dinner that he thought we were the "stars" of the workshop. Well, they are all stars now, but I'm just burned out.
What is important about poetry to me, though? Sure, I'd like to be published. Who wouldn't like recognition for their creativity? But another part of me remembers that I never started writing poetry to become famous. I started writing because I liked the way the words sounded. I wrote the things that I, myself, would like to read. Where have my words gone? Is it that now I am "settled" that I have nothing more about which to write? I always wrote the best material in periods of heartbreak and depression. Maybe married life and medication have dulled the ache to write. Even when I try, I feel I can't write anymore. I never re-applied to the workshop or applied anywhere else. I have submitted a couple of poems to journals, websites here and there, but the only writing credits I can list are being footnotes in a couple of books about Elvis (thanks, Peter Nazareth) and a credit for comparing John Ashbery to William Carlos Williams in a poetry book (thanks, David Hamilton). I even tried to share my poetry when I was accepted into the UCLA Writing Project a couple of summers ago. While the writing coach had positive, encouraging things to say, the other members often said they just didn't "get" what I was trying to write, so they couldn't give me feedback.
I have observed, too, that the California style of writing is much different than the Iowa style. I remember delving into Robert Creeley, John Ashbery, and Charles Wright with zeal. Here, everything is narrative and multicultural, and a friend and published poet Amy Uyematsu told me that she has observed that it's much easier to get published here if you've got an angle--preferably a multicultural one. She even experienced backlash when her second book of poetry strayed from the Japanese themes of her first book.
I don't know what I'm looking for. My family says that I should write again to help with my feelings of isolation, but without a community, I feel more isolation. I need to figure out first if I even want to write poetry anymore. I mean, just because we used to be good at something doesn't mean we will always be--or even that we have to be.
Back at Iowa, I was accepted into the Undergraduate Writers' Workshop in Poetry several times, and I made some of the most lasting memories there. I met many of my heroes of contemporary poetry, and created some work of which I'm still proud. Two of my favorite professors told me they thought I had some talent and encouraged me to apply to the graduate workshop. I knew that the chances of getting in there were slim, even though I knew much of the faculty, but with writers I admired urging me to go for it, I did. I was rejected. I never re-applied or sought acceptance into any other graduate creative writing program.
Sure, I continued to write poetry, and I even had a great group of writing friends in Des Moines who constantly inspired me to keep going. Again, I wrote some of my favorite poems during this post-college phase of my life, but somewhere between the Des Moines of 1999 and L.A. from 2000-present, I just lost my touch or my muse or my words. Whatever you want to call it, that's what I let slip away.
In some ways I'm glad I let it go. Poetry was beginning to consume many aspects of my life. It would come at the oddest moments, and it was hard to explain to a dinner companion or customer at the cosmetics counter why I had to dig around frantically to find a scrap of paper and a pen. Every piece of conversation, every book I read or movie I watched became fodder for poetry, and it was exhausting.
But, lately, the thought of what I've lost has made me sad. I've seen some of my dear friends from the workshop days go on to publish incredible things. Rosemary Griggs wrote a beautiful book of poems, Josh Ferris was a National Book Award finalist for his first novel, and I eagerly await Julia Story's first book of poetry. I actually remember Josh telling me and Julie Story one night at dinner that he thought we were the "stars" of the workshop. Well, they are all stars now, but I'm just burned out.
What is important about poetry to me, though? Sure, I'd like to be published. Who wouldn't like recognition for their creativity? But another part of me remembers that I never started writing poetry to become famous. I started writing because I liked the way the words sounded. I wrote the things that I, myself, would like to read. Where have my words gone? Is it that now I am "settled" that I have nothing more about which to write? I always wrote the best material in periods of heartbreak and depression. Maybe married life and medication have dulled the ache to write. Even when I try, I feel I can't write anymore. I never re-applied to the workshop or applied anywhere else. I have submitted a couple of poems to journals, websites here and there, but the only writing credits I can list are being footnotes in a couple of books about Elvis (thanks, Peter Nazareth) and a credit for comparing John Ashbery to William Carlos Williams in a poetry book (thanks, David Hamilton). I even tried to share my poetry when I was accepted into the UCLA Writing Project a couple of summers ago. While the writing coach had positive, encouraging things to say, the other members often said they just didn't "get" what I was trying to write, so they couldn't give me feedback.
I have observed, too, that the California style of writing is much different than the Iowa style. I remember delving into Robert Creeley, John Ashbery, and Charles Wright with zeal. Here, everything is narrative and multicultural, and a friend and published poet Amy Uyematsu told me that she has observed that it's much easier to get published here if you've got an angle--preferably a multicultural one. She even experienced backlash when her second book of poetry strayed from the Japanese themes of her first book.
I don't know what I'm looking for. My family says that I should write again to help with my feelings of isolation, but without a community, I feel more isolation. I need to figure out first if I even want to write poetry anymore. I mean, just because we used to be good at something doesn't mean we will always be--or even that we have to be.
Monday, February 22, 2010
May the Force Be With Me
My stepson told me last night that I would look "way more like Princess Leia" if:
1. I had two buns on my head.
2. I had on a white suit.
3. I had more freckles.
4. I had a smaller mouth.
5. I had different eyeballs.
and, my favorite:
6. If I had a "way less bigger" nose.
As my friend Chris said, "Show him a picture of Carrie Fisher now--that'll shut him up!" Time for an "Extreme Makeover," I presume.
Me--more Betty Draperish than Princess Leia-ish.
1. I had two buns on my head.
2. I had on a white suit.
3. I had more freckles.
4. I had a smaller mouth.
5. I had different eyeballs.
and, my favorite:
6. If I had a "way less bigger" nose.
As my friend Chris said, "Show him a picture of Carrie Fisher now--that'll shut him up!" Time for an "Extreme Makeover," I presume.
Me--more Betty Draperish than Princess Leia-ish.Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I Can't Fight This Feeling Any More
REO Speedwagon said it best: "I've forgotten what I started fighting for." Man, my job sucks lately. Furlough days, lay-offs, pay cuts, and class size increases seem imminent. I'm teaching classes of 40+ ninth graders, which is enough to bring this ship into the shore and throw away the oars forever. Okay. Enough. I don't even like that band.
I'd like to think that when all this crap is going on at work, that at least your colleagues would have your back. Mine don't. I'm a lead teacher for an academy at our school, and every decision I've made with the coordinator has been criticized by the other academy teachers (who aren't in a leadership position, by the way). A couple of years ago, my friend and I became the co-coordinators of this academy, and we were elected over two "veteran" teachers. So, of course, these two teachers feel free to complain about anything and everything we do, from choosing a meeting day and time to what kind of computers we order to which counselor we choose to replace the old one who's retiring. It never ends. To make things worse, when we "took over" the academy, funds and programs had been mismanaged and neglected, and these other teachers hated the fact that we were trying to clean things up and get back to enforcing the curriculum, grant codes, and rules of the program. They'd become accustomed to doing what they pleased (and giving themselves handsome cash bonuses in the process). So, even though we were doing the "right" thing, we got labeled as the bad guys. Note to self: Whenever one tries to do the "right" and "ethical" thing after others have abused the system, that person will become a pariah. That's me--Pariah Carey.
Now, why I'm whining for myself: My co-coordinator and friend is leaving tomorrow for the rest of the year on maternity leave. She is so excited to get the hell out of there, and I don't blame her. But, this leaves me with no ally--no buffer--between the complainers and me. As if being a teacher at a rough, impoverished inner-city school isn't enough, now I'm going to be even more isolated than before. Luckily, the other teachers at the school know that the other academy members are *dare I say* crazy. But, I don't have to work with those sane teachers on a daily basis--I get to work with the loopy ones. Oh, help me.
I'd like to think that when all this crap is going on at work, that at least your colleagues would have your back. Mine don't. I'm a lead teacher for an academy at our school, and every decision I've made with the coordinator has been criticized by the other academy teachers (who aren't in a leadership position, by the way). A couple of years ago, my friend and I became the co-coordinators of this academy, and we were elected over two "veteran" teachers. So, of course, these two teachers feel free to complain about anything and everything we do, from choosing a meeting day and time to what kind of computers we order to which counselor we choose to replace the old one who's retiring. It never ends. To make things worse, when we "took over" the academy, funds and programs had been mismanaged and neglected, and these other teachers hated the fact that we were trying to clean things up and get back to enforcing the curriculum, grant codes, and rules of the program. They'd become accustomed to doing what they pleased (and giving themselves handsome cash bonuses in the process). So, even though we were doing the "right" thing, we got labeled as the bad guys. Note to self: Whenever one tries to do the "right" and "ethical" thing after others have abused the system, that person will become a pariah. That's me--Pariah Carey.
Now, why I'm whining for myself: My co-coordinator and friend is leaving tomorrow for the rest of the year on maternity leave. She is so excited to get the hell out of there, and I don't blame her. But, this leaves me with no ally--no buffer--between the complainers and me. As if being a teacher at a rough, impoverished inner-city school isn't enough, now I'm going to be even more isolated than before. Luckily, the other teachers at the school know that the other academy members are *dare I say* crazy. But, I don't have to work with those sane teachers on a daily basis--I get to work with the loopy ones. Oh, help me.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Hurry Up, Please! It's Time!
T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruellest month, but I'm certain it's February. The weather, regardless of locale, is craptastic, and as a teacher, I'm living for Spring Break. This year, it doesn't happen to be until the first week of April, which, to me, means that February lasts now until the first week of April. There's just nothing interesting about March. I prefer to skip it altogether.
Lately I've been watching entirely too much T.V. It's embarrassing. I've always been a reader, and although I've never been one to shun T.V. (oh, how I love my pop culture), I don't think I've ever watched as much in my life as I have during the last two months. Much of this has to do with my immobility from my knee injury, but when I find myself singing the "lapband song" in the shower, I know I've got a problem. Big time. "Let your new life begin, call 1-800-GET-SLIM..." or, is it "THIN"?
One T.V. show has me thinking about stepmotherhood recently, though--"The Bachelor." This is the first season I've actually watched it, and I'm so impatient that I read all the spoilers online after I watched the first episode. Of course I told my mother everything that I'd read would happen, and now she marvels at my "insider knowledge" as every detail I reported has come true so far. Want to know who wins?
What bothers me about "The Bachelor" is the way that the show involves the children of the contestants (is that what they're called?!) in this inane process of finding a mate. It's fine if you're a single childless guy or gal, but if you've got kids, why in the world would you want to parade them in front of the cameras for the world to see? And, is it a sound idea to tote your tot along on a date with someone you might never see again? In this season, one of the women had an eight-year-old son who actually sent a toy airplane along with his mother to give to the bachelor (who is a pilot). When the lady gave it to the bachelor, she mentioned that her son couldn't wait to meet him someday and hopes that his mom finds love. Puke. To make things worse, the lady actually brings her kid along on a date to Sea World with the bachelor, who sends her packing after the next episode.
Is it me or it that just wrong? I didn't even meet my stepson until after about six or seven months of dating my now-husband. We waited until we knew that things were stable and serious between us until I began forming a relationship with his son. I can understand if the child was a little older, maybe, but it just seems wrong to get a kid's hope up--let him meet this cool guy that takes him and his mommy to Sea World and then never sees them again. Did I mention that this kid's dad had died in a plane crash?
Then, I found it revolting that another contestant, Rozlyn (kicked off the show for an 'inappropriate relationship' with a staffer), had a kid who she kept secret from the bachelor. According to the spoilers, she was told to keep it quiet, so I don't know if she chose to hide it or not. Regardless, when someone is meeting and dating a potential spouse, that person deserves to know that the other has a child. Any of us stepmoms know what kind of baggage comes along with a stepkid. People need to know up front what they may be getting into, as entering stepmotherhood or stepfatherhood is no joke. It takes patience, understanding, and the ability to keep your mouth shut from time-to-time. From my conversations with dozens of stepmoms, many have said that they don't know if they'd ever even gotten involved with their significant others if they knew what being a stepmom actually entailed. Can you imagine if you didn't even know until after you'd fallen for someone? Some people may say it wouldn't matter--love conquers all...blah...blah...blah...Wrong. It does matter. And you'd better be darn well sure you're the type of person who likes an E-ticket roller coaster ride.
Finally, this brings me to the bachelor last season (Did I say I'd never watched it before this season? Oops!), Jason. How can you forget his proposal to Melissa, which he took back in order to swap her for Molly? Imagine what his kid went through. "Hey, Ty, remember Melissa? The woman I told you and the whole television world that I would marry? Well, Daddy changed his mind. Here's your new stepmommy--Molly!" And, I love how the show just completely skipped over the fact that Jason doesn't just come with the baggage of a kid, but with a bio-mom, too. Where was she? The producers of the show should've hauled her in, the future in-laws, any shared friends he had with his ex, about twenty of the little kid's friends, and a therapist, because all of those people are about to enter her life, too. But, no. This "reality" is all for show. Welcome to "The Wasteland."
Now I'm completely embarrassed that not only do I remember last season's charmer, Jason, but also the name of his son. At least I got in three references to T.S. Eliot, though, for counterbalance. Whew! Brain saved--at least for today.
Lately I've been watching entirely too much T.V. It's embarrassing. I've always been a reader, and although I've never been one to shun T.V. (oh, how I love my pop culture), I don't think I've ever watched as much in my life as I have during the last two months. Much of this has to do with my immobility from my knee injury, but when I find myself singing the "lapband song" in the shower, I know I've got a problem. Big time. "Let your new life begin, call 1-800-GET-SLIM..." or, is it "THIN"?
One T.V. show has me thinking about stepmotherhood recently, though--"The Bachelor." This is the first season I've actually watched it, and I'm so impatient that I read all the spoilers online after I watched the first episode. Of course I told my mother everything that I'd read would happen, and now she marvels at my "insider knowledge" as every detail I reported has come true so far. Want to know who wins?
What bothers me about "The Bachelor" is the way that the show involves the children of the contestants (is that what they're called?!) in this inane process of finding a mate. It's fine if you're a single childless guy or gal, but if you've got kids, why in the world would you want to parade them in front of the cameras for the world to see? And, is it a sound idea to tote your tot along on a date with someone you might never see again? In this season, one of the women had an eight-year-old son who actually sent a toy airplane along with his mother to give to the bachelor (who is a pilot). When the lady gave it to the bachelor, she mentioned that her son couldn't wait to meet him someday and hopes that his mom finds love. Puke. To make things worse, the lady actually brings her kid along on a date to Sea World with the bachelor, who sends her packing after the next episode.
Is it me or it that just wrong? I didn't even meet my stepson until after about six or seven months of dating my now-husband. We waited until we knew that things were stable and serious between us until I began forming a relationship with his son. I can understand if the child was a little older, maybe, but it just seems wrong to get a kid's hope up--let him meet this cool guy that takes him and his mommy to Sea World and then never sees them again. Did I mention that this kid's dad had died in a plane crash?
Then, I found it revolting that another contestant, Rozlyn (kicked off the show for an 'inappropriate relationship' with a staffer), had a kid who she kept secret from the bachelor. According to the spoilers, she was told to keep it quiet, so I don't know if she chose to hide it or not. Regardless, when someone is meeting and dating a potential spouse, that person deserves to know that the other has a child. Any of us stepmoms know what kind of baggage comes along with a stepkid. People need to know up front what they may be getting into, as entering stepmotherhood or stepfatherhood is no joke. It takes patience, understanding, and the ability to keep your mouth shut from time-to-time. From my conversations with dozens of stepmoms, many have said that they don't know if they'd ever even gotten involved with their significant others if they knew what being a stepmom actually entailed. Can you imagine if you didn't even know until after you'd fallen for someone? Some people may say it wouldn't matter--love conquers all...blah...blah...blah...Wrong. It does matter. And you'd better be darn well sure you're the type of person who likes an E-ticket roller coaster ride.
Finally, this brings me to the bachelor last season (Did I say I'd never watched it before this season? Oops!), Jason. How can you forget his proposal to Melissa, which he took back in order to swap her for Molly? Imagine what his kid went through. "Hey, Ty, remember Melissa? The woman I told you and the whole television world that I would marry? Well, Daddy changed his mind. Here's your new stepmommy--Molly!" And, I love how the show just completely skipped over the fact that Jason doesn't just come with the baggage of a kid, but with a bio-mom, too. Where was she? The producers of the show should've hauled her in, the future in-laws, any shared friends he had with his ex, about twenty of the little kid's friends, and a therapist, because all of those people are about to enter her life, too. But, no. This "reality" is all for show. Welcome to "The Wasteland."
Now I'm completely embarrassed that not only do I remember last season's charmer, Jason, but also the name of his son. At least I got in three references to T.S. Eliot, though, for counterbalance. Whew! Brain saved--at least for today.
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