My Space - Facebook - What?

Well, it's official. I am stupid. I've just spent forty-five minutes trying to create a facebook page and a myspace page and I had to stop before I threw a fit and kicked my computer. All the kids I teach and every person under the age of 100 has either a facebook or myspace page, and me being the hip young person I am thought I would join the crowd. Oh, no my friends, it's not an easy task. After signing up for both, facebook and the ever popular myspace, I tried to create the pages. I answered every personal question known to mankind about my personal history, educational history, work history, hobbies, likes, dislikes, pets (both current and deceased), relationship status (both current and past "I can only hope they meant the ones I'll admit to"), location, religious beliefs and political affiliations, and a list of things they really don't want to hear about, and then I couldn't find it. WTF? I hate to admit it, but, I just love those three little letters :) Sometimes, they're the only way to express just how confused I am. I also love the expression "This can only be explained by using the word, cluster." That was one of my father's sayings and he knew what he was talking about, but, I digress. Let's get back to the facebook - myspace adventure. I lost everything I typed, I couldn't figure out how to put pictures or cute graphics on the page, and I guess no one wants to be my friend, because I couldn't go to any pages for the people I know without first requesting them to "friend" me and even that wouldn't work. I give up! Facebook and MySpace will have to do without me. I guess that old saying is true, This old dog can't learn any new tricks. I'm going to go listen to records (that's right, those round black vinyl things) or manually change the stations on my tv, while talking on the rotary phone with one of my "old" friends.

Cruisin

In exactly 150 days I will be on the high seas sailing for ports in the Caribbean. My friend of 35+ years and I are going on a cruise to Jamaica, Grand Cayman Island, and Cozumel during the Thanksgiving Holiday. I can hardly wait.

I've never been on a cruise and I am both excited and afraid at the same time. My excitement comes from the simple fact of "it's a cruise" and the fear comes from the fact "it's a cruise."

I've always wanted to go to a tropical island with white sand, blue water, fruity drinks, and hot guys in short pants. At my age, I'm guessing I better be happy with the sand and water. I can't drink any more due to high blood pressure and hot guys in short pants have a tendency to shy away from old, fat ladies :) That's okay, I can still look at them. I guess it's a good thing I was never able to go to Jamaica when I was younger, because I just know I would have taken advantage of the tropical climate's wonderful agriculture products and probably landed in jail on some type of drug charge. This way, I'll just lie in the sun and splash around in the water like all good little girls should do :)

The other day, Debby brought up the question of whether we should take out cruise insurance. When I asked her why, she replied "in case you fall down the stairs and break a leg." I wondered why I had to be the one to fall and break a bone, she's the one with a bum knee, but no... it seems a fall down the stairs and a broken leg are in my future. I was okay with the injury (I know there has to be some kind of drugs to tide me over until I could see a doctor) until Debby made the comment that the insurance would pay for the helicopter ride to take me to the mainland to see a doctor. I yelped, "helicopter - you know I don't fly" and she made the wise assumption that chances are, there would not be another cruise ship just bobbing around on the ocean waiting to give me a ride to the hospital. Let's all pray that I stay healthy and unbroken, because if I have to ride in a helicopter I'm going to need some of Jamaica's #1 export and I'm not talking about sugar cane or rum :)

Now that I'm thinking about the cruise, the theme song from The Poseidon Adventure is running through my head. I can see it now, if the ship turns over I'll be trying to get my fat ass through a little bitty hole just like Shelly Winters did. Oh, wait - she died in the movie. That's not good!

Well, it's time to scan the movie channels and see if "The Poseidon Adventure", "A Perfect Storm" or "Jaws" is on the tv. I'll think I'll sneak "Jaws" on board in my suitcase and Debby and I will have to watch it on our first night at sea.

"...The Saints Go Marching In..."

I wanted to write a little something tonight to document history. The New Orleans Saints won a NFC playoff game against the Philadelphia Eagles tonight and I'm pretty sure this is one of the signs of the end of the world. While listening to the sports commentators after the game, I learned that this is only the second playoff game the Saints have ever won in their 40 year history. I think it's about damn time. True Saints fans have waited long enough to be able to brag about our boys in black and gold. Next week, they play for the NFC title and then it will be possible to put the words "Saints" and "Super Bowl" in the same sentence. Oh sure, those two words have been in sentences together before, but it was usually followed by "snowball's chance in Hell" and "when Hell freezes over." For a team named after holy men, Hell gets tossed around with them a lot. I for one, am extremely happy to think about the Saints and NFL playoff games in a good way, but as happy as I am, I know I can't hold a candle to the emotions my father would be having if he were alive today.

My father, Nick Picinich, was a "die-hard, never say never, love them no matter what" Saints fan. He watched every game they played on tv. He never saw a game in person, because he couldn't see paying big money for football tickets, but the world stood still for two and a half hours whenever his beloved black and gold boys took the field. He stood behind them through the years with Kenny "The Snake" Stabler and cussed the fans who wore paper bags on their heads and chanted about the "Aints." He thought it was just fine for Bobby Hebert to mouth cuss words on national tv and was convinced Morton Anderson was Heaven sent. He talked me into taking a math class I didn't need in college because Fred Turner had gone back to college in the summer to finish his degree and I had to be in the same class with him. The day I came home with a note Fred had written him on a napkin (after I accosted him in the cafeteria) was a story he told to everyone - repeatedly. Yes, my daddy was a true, die-hard Saints fan. If someone would have cut him, he wouldn't have bled red, he would have bled black or gold.

When Daddy had heart surgery and was in ICU at the local hospital he had a bad reaction to the pain medication. He became combative and was constantly trying to get out of the bed. One day the nurse called me and was frantic. She couldn't get him calmed down and was at a lose as what to do to help him. I told her to get a tv in his room and turn it to channel 9. The Saints game was coming on and that would make a world of difference in his behavior and make her job much easier. She told me he was delirious and couldn't watch tv, because he didn't have a clue as to what was going on around him. I told her "get the tv - turn it on - let him watch the Saints and then leave him alone." She called back a few minutes later and said it he was fine. He was smiling, watching the game, and not trying to pull out the iv's or jump out of the bed. I just smiled, grabbed his Saints coffee cup and headed to the hospital. When I got to the hospital, he was content and watching the cute little cheerleaders waiting for the half-time show to end and the game to start back up.

Right before Daddy died, he had to go to a nursing home. He only stayed a week, but he spent that week wrapped in his Saints blanket with the nurses watching a rare Monday night Saints game. He was happy. He had a pretty lady sitting with him, a Saints game on tv, and he was covered in the sacred colors of black and gold. I miss my Daddy a lot, but tonight I felt extremely close to him. As I watched the game I had a feeling of peace about me. I'm not sure what Heaven is like, but I like to think there's a tv up there and Nick was glued to the screen watching his team make history. If the Saints win next week, his fondest wish will be granted and they will be in the Superbowl. I know he'll be watching that game.

Here's a joke for you that Daddy loved: "The devil is surveying Hell and notices that a large group of people are happy and having a party. When he talks to them, they tell him they're from Louisiana and are used to hot weather. The devil turns up the heat and sees that they're still happy and partying. On the third day he decides to change tactics and sends an ice storm throughout Hell thinking the Louisianaians won't know how to handle cold weather. When he goes to check on them, they crying and hugging each other, happy and wild. When he asks them what's going on they laugh and say "Oh, it's a miracle - The Saints won the Super Bowl and Hell froze over." Get ready Mr. Devil, you might need a warm coat, the Saints are marching in!

Field Trip

Well, It's official. I have lost my mind. I am leaving my school at 10:30 in the morning to board the "old" school bus to take 27 freshman geography students on a field trip. I guess it's true, the "OA" has me and now I have lost what little brain cells I didn't burn through at an Aerosmith or Snoop Dog concert. By the way, my older cousin by two weeks, who just got sprung from the "big house" informed me that I suffer from "OA." That's his nice way of telling me I'm old. "OA" means "old age" and it seems, he took a couple of sensitivty classes down at the pen and he's trying out his cell-block psych on me.
PS. The field trip was a success. I took 27 students to the zoo and brought 27 students back to school. No animals were harmed during this adventure, but the CiCi's Pizza will never be the same.

Rah Rah Girls

Well, it's official. I did something terrible in a previous life and I am currently being punished in this one. I am the Booster Sponsor for the pep squad at the high school where I teach.
I've been teaching for eleven years and was the yearbook sponsor for eight of those years and spent two years as the seventh grade class sponsor at the inner city school with the reputation as the worst school in the parish. The school wasn't that bad and the children were by no means bad enough to earn that label. Changes in administrations both at the school and "downtown" helped create an uncomfortable situation that was trying at best for learning, but I digress.
Any ways, at my new school , which by the way, I love, I am the Booster Sponsor. It is my job to see to 36 young ladies' (they don't like be called girls, but one day ten years down the line they'll dream of someone calling them girls.) needs; wants; marching skills; dancing abilities; hair emergency needs; uniform fits (too tight, too loose, too long, but never too short); shoe locations (never where they're supposed to be); football player adoptions; basketball player adoptions; regular boyfriend adoption jealousy issues; and any and all other drama events. Oh man, I'm tired.
I think when I thought about my mid to late forties, I hadn't planned to be on a school bus with 37 screaming, singing, giggling, crying, girls on an extremely old and suspiously sounding school bus tearing through the dark Louisiana night on our way to a football game in a town I can't pronounce and it shows no bars on my cell phone.
Wish me luck. I'm getting old and I don't know if I can adapt enough to set up house at the new football field, but I just know my boosters will be beautifully dressed, marching proudly with their heads held high and their boobs thrust out catching the eye of every football player on field. We can only hope it's our team's eyes their catching. Yeah Rah!

Thank God My Head Didn't Fall Off

Today is the 20th anniversary of the day I broke my neck. Yes, I know, it's obvious I had a head injury. HaHa. Now everybody knows where I get the ideas for all the crazy shit in my head. All kidding aside, I am probably one of the luckiest people on the planet. What are the chances I could live through a head-on collision in a convertible Volkswagen and live to tell about it. Not only live, but suffer no major permanent damage. God was definitely looking out for me on that day.

One of my good friends and I were on our way to the outlet mall in Shreveport, Louisiana, when a drunk driver decided to drive down the middle of the highway. I'm not sure about a lot of the details of that day, but I remember the "drunk car" perfectly. It was a white Ford LTD with a burgundy landeau top being loosely steered by one tore-up redneck. As I tried to dodge this monster car coming at me, I ended up being run off the road and spinning out of control across the on-coming traffic and flipping ass over head to land in a ditch beside the railroad tracks. I know the car flipped three times, because I had three separate fractures in my neck. If I close my eyes and get real quiet, I can still see and smell the grass on the side of the road as it came toward me. Lucky for me, the parish EMT's were having disaster training four miles down the road and they were to the wreck in an instant. I was also lucky it was lunch time for the workers of Caspiano Plantation, because they saw the entire thing and came running.

When the three men from Caspiano Plantation got to me all I could think about was the fact that the car was still running. I just knew that any second the car would burst into flames and I would have a lot of explaining to do to God. I knew the car was going to explode, because they always do on television and in the movies. Once again, lucky for me that's usually not the case in a car wreck. After the plantation workers cut my hair (it was wrapped around the roll-bar) they dragged me to a nice grassy area and tried to ease my worries by telling me I didn't look too bad except for the huge swelling area on the back of my head and neck. It seems that's a sure sign of a broken neck - that and the fact that I couldn't move my head.

When the EMT's got to the scene their first thought was to put me in a helicopter and fly me to the nearest hospital. There was only one thing wrong with that plan - I'm terrified of flying and I refused to ride in the copter. I know, it seems that my fear of flying would have been outweighed by my fear of permanent head, neck, and back injury, but no - I was still scared to death of flying. I opted for the nice safe ambulance and a ride to the local Catholic hospital. I kind of knew there was something bad wrong with me and I wanted to be as close to God as I could get. I figured that nuns would be a good place to start. Once again, lucky for me the Catholic hospital was Shumpert Medical Center and they specialized in head and neck injuries.

After a frightful stay in the emergency room where I came to the incorrect conclusion I was paralyzed (I was touching the sand-bags on my neck thinking they were my shoulders and was freaking out because I couldn't feel it) I was fitted with neck braces, screws, rods, and other assorted metal headgear, shot full of morphine and demorayl and sent to a room. Man, who ever discovered morphine and demorayl deserves one of the best seats in Heaven. These are some wonderful drugs. After about ten minutes, I didn't have a pain in my body or a care in the world.

When the neuro-surgeon came to see me the next day he showed me my x-rays and explained I had three compound bursting fractures of the spinal column. I had fractured C-1, C-2, and C-3 vertebrae and was his first patient to live through that type of injury. Not only was I alive, I had no neurological damage and was able to walk after three days. The nursing staff, doctors, and nuns of Shumpert called me the miracle girl and explained just how lucky I had been. It seems that the higher up on the spinal column you break, the more things to go wrong. I should have been dead or at the very least paralyzed, but instead I was going to be okay. I stayed in the hospital for only three weeks and except for the occasional crick in my neck from a bad mattress or a change in the barometric pressure, I'm doing fine. I guess it's true, God looks out for fools, drunks, and babies. Just call me God's little lucky fool.

The World of Reality Shows

Well, it has happened again. I am stuck watching a stupid reality show. I swore I would never watch another one of these damned shows after I devoted way too much of my time to the latest season of American Idol. My neighbor and best friend, Debby, managed to talk me into watching Idol and it took control of my tv viewing life, not to mention the effect it had on my real life. I found myself planning my activities around a television show on Tuesday and Wednesday nights. Some of the teachers I work with decided to take dance lessons on Wednesday nights and wanted me to go with them. It sounded like a great idea, until it dawned on me that's the night the Idol results are aired. I even went so far as to take notes on the singers performances and compare them with other twisted little Idol viewers. To top off my Idol sickness, I was devastated when Chris was voted off the show three weeks before the finale. I just knew he was going to win. He was my version of the perfect idol - a bald - headed hard rocker. I even found myself sad when poor little deaf elf-looking Elliot said goodbye the week before the finale. When the season ended, I swore off reality shows. Well, that plan has been shot in the head with my discovery of So You Think You Can Dance.

My newest obsession, So You Think You Can Dance is the brainchild of the evil genius who invented American Idol. These guys are raking in money hand over fist with this latest show. Now they have an addictive show going year-round. I don't think Dance is as popular as Idol, because so far I haven't had trouble voting. I've been able to get through on the phone each time I've called to vote, unlike my luck with Idol. To top off this new habit I have, I'm starting to get attached to the little dancing people, and the majority of them look like little bitty people. I just love the little ballet dancing elf, Justin and Yuri from the Ukraine or Croatia or where ever the hell he's from is too cute to watch. I can only hope that the two of them do well in the show, so I can continue to feed my habit. On the off chance they are both eliminated soon, I can always get my reality show fix with Rock Star which to me is American Idol on crack.

Whatever happened to the good old days of television viewing? I used to be quite happy watching police dramas, Jerry Springer, and wrestling. At least then I knew all the people were actors and all the action was fake.