True Confessions Friday:: I’ll Never Be on “The Biggest Loser”

I’ve heard such great things about the show “The Biggest Loser.”  One of my family doctors even suggested that I watch so I would be “inspired” to lose weight (fortunately, my friend Shari told me about “Ruby,” who is full of Southern charm and inspiration).  But it seems that “Season 8″ of the show is laden with F-bombs, cruelty, and humiliation (“Biggest Loser Trainers Go Too Far“).  As if we need a T.V. show to make a bunch of fat people feel ashamed…!

After watching the clip (from “Season 7″) below, I thought to myself, “Man, I don’t care if I do get a free t-shirt, I am *never* going on that show!”  I mean, can you imagine these people “training” a child to walk?  “Five more steps, you moron!  I can’t believe you can’t get this walking thing down! $*#$!  You lazy *#)$, stop crying, it’s only a little blood!  Real one year-olds don’t need to hold on to the table for balance!  GET UP, YOU PIECE OF )*U#$+!”  Uh, yeah.

Props to a lady named Michele who commented on the article, “Biggest Loser Trainers Go Too Far.” She wrote, “It’s humiliating enough being a ‘fluffy’ person and on national TV with millions of people watching you. Then to have them “F”ing you and think it’s okay and you have to take it….NOT. I think they both should apologize to the contestants on national TV. Every human being deserves dignity and respect, skinny, fluffy, black or white. It’s embarassing enough to have to wear spandex on national TV….ya know.” ( I love that–”fluffy people.”)

Anyway, it’s true that the contestants should know “The Biggest Loser” road isn’t an easy one; I mean, it is “reality” television.  But no one deserves to be treated like this, which is why you’ll never find me in spandex on national TV (or anywhere else for that matter).

True Confessions Friday:: Remembering 9/11 – I’m proud to be an American.

Eight years ago today, I was a senior just starting my Fall semester at college.  It had been a trying year with major surgery, a near-death experience, and a total of over two weeks in the hospital.  I was ready to put the terror behind me and move on with my life.  But—that day—September 11, 2001—showed me that we are all vulnerable, as individuals and as a nation.  I remember the days following 9/11.  People proudly displayed the American flag, instead of burning it. Red, white, and blue ribbons were worn by many to show our support for the men and women who lost their lives that day, for the rescuers who were still digging through the rubble, and to say, I am an American.

We, as a nation, have lost that spirit.  Will it take another terrorist attack to remind us how much we need each other?  Or to wrap ourselves in red, white, and blue again?  This is something that goes beyond what our government is doing, but a basic pride in our country and in our fellow man.  It’s not popular to say, “I love living in the United States.  I love being an American.”  But I say it and I am proud to say it.  Our country is great, despite her faults, and she is a beacon of hope to so many who are dying to enter her walls.  We determine her future by our actions and through our prayers.  By standing up for what is right and arguing against what is wrong, we are using our liberty and freedom gifted to us through the blood, sweat, and tears of so many patriots.

Today as I say a prayer for those still healing from the wounds inflicted eight years ago, for the families who never saw their loved ones come home, and for our nation, I will also thank God for the freedom He has given me to proclaim His name, to hold Bible studies for woman, and for allowing me to live in this great nation.  I will say it again—I am proud to be an American.

Links to posts by my friends remembering 9-11-01::

Thoughts on 9/11 – Are We Free? by Dale Fincher

Has It Really Been 8 Years? by TJ Gehman

9-11 – My Memories by Gerard “Gman” Fess

If you blogged about 9/11, please e-mail me so I can add a link or add a comment below!

True Confessions Friday:: Whenever I see a little blue car, I imagine that Shawn and Gus from “Psych” are driving it.

Shawn souped up Gus' company car and Gus is none too pleased.

Tonight “Psych” is ushering in its fourth season with a guest appearance by Cary Elwes (The Princess Bride, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, Glory).  In celebration of “Psych” and all its pineapple-y goodness, I’ve decided to confess this—whenever I see a little blue car, I imagine that Shawn and Gus, “Psych’s” dynamic duo, are driving it.  Sick, I know, but playing can-you-spot-the-little-blue-car on road trips is mucho fun.

Those who watch the show know that Shawn and Gus can often be seen traveling around Santa Barbara (actually Canada, since that is where the show is filmed) in Gus’s work car, which Shawn renamed the “Psychmobile.”  He also gave it some extra dubs, which were later removed by a horrified Gus. The vehicle in question appears to be a 4-door Toyota Echo, but I’m thinking a Chevy Aveo looks pretty darn close, too.  If it’s little and it’s blue and it’s on the road, it’s the Psychmobile.

Now, if I just kept my discoveries to myself, I’m sure my friends would be fine with my little obsession.  However, as the season premiere edges ever closer, I’m in a near “Psych”-frenzy ready to scream out to any LBC (that’s “little blue car”) I see.  See, that’s just not normal.  And don’t even get me started on pineapples, which are not only nature’s perfect fruit, but they also make unique presents for housewarmings, birthdays, bah mitzvahs, and that hard-to-shop-for somebody special.

Dear friends, if you think it’s bad now, just wait until I finally get Season 3 on DVD.  You just wait.  In fact, I’m gonna add a bunch of “Psych” merch to my Christmas list right now.

By the way, if you’re on Twitter, don’t forget to follow three hilarious Twitterers:: @psych_usa, @psychwrites, and of course, @psych_lassie. (Lassie is one cranky Twitterer, but he’s still darn funny.  Yes, I follow fictional characters on Twitter).

True Confessions Friday:: I’m the Queen of Typoland.

If there was such a place as Typoland, I’m fairly certain its citizens–the Typos–would make me their queen.  I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but for the life of me, I do not see the typos in my own manuscripts.  Sometimes Backseat Writer readers will e-mail me about egregious errors or a snarky comment leaver will leave me a snarky comment pointing out all my typos (FYI: I delete or edit these comments).   I’ve done everything to keep typos at bay–read the document several times to myself, then out loud, I run spell check, have a friend look it over (at which point, I’m fairly certain my friend is to blame, not me)…and these little buggers still get through my line of typo defense!

I’m a fairly good speller, usually getting 100’s on my spelling and vocab tests in school.  I type fast so  can get my thoughts down and, loyal readers, you’ve seen the results–sometimes its” become “sit” and “I go to the park” becomes “me go park.” I just want you to know that I try my very hardest to provide you with good typo-free posts.  There are probably six or seven typos in this post alone.

At least I get to be queen!  Even if it is of a place called “Typoland.”

True Confessions Friday:: My niece’s naughty behavior cracks me up.

She really loves my mom's dog, whom she calls "Cow."

Not all the time, mind you.  Just when there’s someone else (like my mom) who can point her towards the path of good behavior.  But even then, I can see my mom trying to hold in her laughter.  Of course, there are times when composure is just not possible.

For instance, my 2.5 year-old niece (she’ll be 3 in Sept. and she’s not technically my niece.  She’s my step-niece) was visiting my mom and step-dad for a few days.  Omigosh, that kid cracks me up.  Last night we were sitting on the porch and she wanted to water the flowers with her little plastic watering container.  She dumped the liquid out of the can causing a downpour on the pansies.  Then she wanted more water, presumably to do the same, but my mom told her, “No.” When no one was looking, she took my step-dad’s half-full glass of iced tea and dumped it on the flowers.  I busted out laughing.  Seeing how funny she was, she proudly went for my can of Diet Coke. Denied!  She was just trying to water the flowers—with any liquid in her grasp.

Apparently, she's reading a Brennan Manning book.

Earlier that evening, we took the dogs for a walk.  I attached my mom’s two dogs to a tandem leash and then clipped a pink leash to the tandem lead for my niece to use.  She really and truly thinks that she’s walking the dogs.  She accidentally dropped the pink leash a few times and I would exclaim, “Oh, no!  You better get that that or the puppies are going to run away!”  She would quickly grab her leash to ensure the safety of the dogs.  Well, at some point during the walk, she got something in her sandals.  After removing the item, which mean removing her sandal, she decided that she would rather resume the walk barefoot—a definite no-no!  During the rambunctious protest that occurred, she dropped the pink leash and refused to pick it up.  I reminded her that she wanted to walk the dogs and she couldn’t just leave them in the middle of the sidewalk.  Begrudgingly, she complied and was all smiles half a block later.  I think she actually dragged the dogs up the street.

She decided to put her coat on by herself--upside down!

Then there was our shopping trip to Target!  Deciding my niece needed new shoes, my mom and I headed to the shoe department and found some darling little shoes that were a mere $3.24—a cute bargain!  Perfect!  But the mini-fashionista would have none of that; she wanted Dora sandals (also discounted—that’s my girl).  Unfortunately, there were no Dora sandals in her size.  We tried to end this Dora fixation with other fine shoes, but no, it was all about Dora.  After nearly a dozen no’s, we finally found a pair of Disney Princess sandals that passed my niece’s high standards (after she cried because the Hello Kitty sandals were not in her size either).  I mean, when did two year-olds care about fashion?  Seriously!

We're a dynamic duo!

All this has taught me that I am definitely not ready to have a child because I can’t keep a straight face when all this nonsensical stuff is happening.  Even if I’m irritated at the moment, it makes me laugh later on.  Then again, I’m the cool aunt, aren’t I?  We cool aunts do cool stuff like buy our nieces their first My Little Ponies.  I don’t know if I was made to be a mother, but I was definitely made to be a cool aunt.

True Confessions Friday:: He called me Squeaker.

Anyone who’s ever talked to me or listened to one of my audio interviews over at The Christian Manifesto knows that I have a unique voice. While my mom thinks my voice is quite lovely and those who know me appreciate its quirkiness, it hasn’t always been a gift.  In fact, there was a time I didn’t want to talk at all because I hated my voice.  Plus, I felt like I had nothing worthwhile to say anyway.

It all started in middle school with this kid named Jeremy (I should out him by giving you his full name.  That would be mean and self-serving.  Besides, this is my confession, not his).  He was short blond kid with a bowl haircut and eyes that slanted with malicious intent.  He wasn’t popular and he wasn’t unpopular—he was middle-of-the-road mediocre.  The popular kids made fun of him, so to impress them, he made fun of me.  Why he wanted to impress kids who mocked him is beyond me.  You’d think a kid in the gifted program would have a little more sense.  I was one of his favorite targets.  Besides being a chubby nerd with the self-esteem of a banana, I had a funny voice, too.

He called me Squeaker and I hated it.

And I just about hated him for it.  I know we Christians aren’t supposed to hate, but this was middle school and as you know, middle school is war.  Plus, I said “just about,” which means I didn’t really hate him; I almost did.  Jeremy is still one of the meanest kids I’ve ever met.  Not only did he call me Squeaker, he got other kids to do it, too.

Every day during environmental science, he would taunt me from his seat ahead of mine.  No matter what I said he would imitate me, even if I was answering a question in class!  Plus, I sat one seat away from my first real crush, Tim-something-or-other (Notice I can’t remember his last name.  It started with a “W” though).  It was day after day of humiliation.  A few times Tim, my prepubescent knight in MC Hammer-like pants, told him to knock it off and Tim was popular enough to be taken seriously.  But Jeremy was relentless, like a collection agent that keeps calling your apartment for someone who doesn’t live there.

Jeremy was one of the reasons I was grateful to go to Christian high school.  I sit here at 29 years of age and still wonder how one young boy could be so cruel.  It wasn’t just calling me Squeaker—that was just the worst thing he did.  It shattered me—because the other kids joined in, because I believed it, and because I still believe it sometimes.  I hate that it happened half my life ago and it still hurts me.

But it’s also empowered me.  Despite my squeaky voice, I decided to go into communications, primarily for writing.  Still I found I loved our ghetto college radio station and video production.  It’s still my dream to host my own radio program (or podcast) and I’d love to do voiceover work, especially cartoon voices (seriously, that would be the coolest thing—EVER!)  What was once my weakness, God used as a strength—to teach youth, to lead Bible studies, to do interviews, and to talk non-stop even when people want me to shut up.  Jeremy called me Squeaker and he meant it for evil, yet God used it for good.  By the way, Jeremy, I forgive you, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget you.

True Confessions Friday:: I had a rockin’ Michael Jackson belt.

I still remember the day I got my Michael Jackson belt.  I was shopping at K-Mart with my mom and I found it on the edge of the “Boys Clothing Section.”  I begged her to buy me that boy belt (previous attempts to get boys’ shoes had not worked.  Didn’t she know that I needed Thundercats sneakers?)  She gave in easily and I proudly wore my Michael Jackson belt to daycare the next day.

Then in first grade, I met a kid who claimed that he was Michael Jackson’s nephew.  I half-believed him, but only because I wanted to meet Michael Jackson.  Something told me that it was a load of poppycock.  Still, just in case, I wore my Michael Jackson belt to school to show my classmate that I was a true fan who deserved to meet his “uncle.”

In middle school came the “Heal the World” and “Black/White” days, which were funny (I mean, the one song was used in the first Free Willy movie) and touching—all at the same time.  Michael’s sister, Janet, started to rock the music scene.  It was a strange and confusing time because Michael started to look like someone different.  He just wasn’t Michael Jackson anymore.

Around that time, a made-for-TV movie about the life of the Jackson children aired.  I couldn’t believe the abuse the children, especially Michael, endured at the hands of their cruel father.  Poor Michael.  He had been through an altered state of childhood and adolescence.  And, oh, did he suffer!

It explained Neverland and some of the other odd behavior Michael Jackson.  However, once the allegations of child abuse came along, his career was over.  Renamed “Jacko,” he became the laughingstock of pop music, even thought he was hailed the unofficial “King of Pop.”  He married Lisa Marie Presley, hung his baby over a banner, and his appearance more and more frail.  He was guilty, that was for sure, though he maintained his innocence until the day of his day—yesterday.

The slow decline of a pop star is sad sort of thing.  It’s like watching a beautiful flower wilt until its withered petals fall off and crumble onto the ground.  This is the best way I can find to characterize the life of Michael Jackson.

Despite his madness and his disgusting accusations of child abuse, I want to listen to my favorite MJ songs like “Billie Jean,” “Thriller,” and “Man in the Mirror” and remember how he shattered racial barriers with his music in the 80’s, defining an era.  And, if I still had it, I’d put on my Michael Jackson belt, just for today.

True Confessions Friday:: I wear my Supergirl shirt whenever I go to the doctor.

Yup, this is the actual shirt. Feel the power!

My doctors probably think I need to expand my wardrobe because no matter what specialist I’m seeing I wear the same shirt—a red Supergirl shirt I got when I was in college.  The practice started after my severe illnesses in 2001 (full story).  I was so scared I needed something tangible to make me feel strong and I thought, “How about a Supergirl shirt?”  It wasn’t that I trusted in the shirt instead of God; I just needed to remember that I was indeed a super girl. Plus, Supergirl and I are both blond bombshells (snicker).

Now eight years later, I still wear the shirt to see my family doctor, the dentist, and almost every specialist.  Recently, I went to the podiatrist in a different shirt and ended up getting worse, so I was sure to sport my Supergirl dubs on the follow-up visit.

To preserve the integrity of the shirt, I wear it only when I go to the doctor.  Every. Single. Time.  I admit this is a strange practice, but I realize that this shirt represents how God has been with me through each and every appointment—even when I was diagnosed with chronic illness, when I had a panic attack in the office, when my fear threatened to envelope me.  He was there then and He will be there in the future. As I’ve mentioned before, I suffer from hypochondria and “white coat syndrome.”  If a shirt makes me feel a little braver, so be it.  I know that it’s not just the shirt; it’s my God.

One day I may not need my Supergirl shirt, but I will never throw it out no matter how tattered it becomes.  It’s a symbol to me of God’s enduring love, comfort, and faithfulness.  That and it’s a really cool shirt, isn’t it?

**Note from Amy:: As a random aside, I am starting to collect Supergirl pins, key chains, and what not to keep the theme alive.  I won’t be able to wear the shirt forever, you know?**

True Confessions Friday:: I had a vanilla milkshake from Mickey D’s…

…and it was delicious.  OK, so it’s not a terribly juicy confession, but it is tasty!  And after the last couple o’ weeks, I needed one.  Cutting-edge content forthcoming next week!  Until then, have a great weekend!

P.S. I also wanted to let you know I didn’t quit.

True Confessions Friday:: I want to quit.

I want to quit.  I want to take a signed resignation letter to the desk of whoever gave me my current life and give my two weeks notice.  Then I want to consider my options and sign up for a new life—one with better benefits, cooler digs, and dogs that actually listen to my commands.  Starting today, I am no longer Amy the Blogger; I am now Amy the Supreme Court Justice.  If only quitting life was that easy…

I am tired of being in this place in my life.  I hate that nice girls finish last, that the good guys don’t always win, and that some stories don’t have happy endings.   Yet I want to believe that a nice girl can do well for herself, that the good guys will win [the heart of the nice girl], and that my story will have a tremendously happy ending.  However, nothing seems to change, except me, but not my circumstances.  For instance, where’s my cushy writing job?  Is it hiding in a land far away with Mr. Right and my diamond engagement ring?  I’m trudging on learning better ways to cope with my anxiety and depression, the world outside spins merrily on.  And I’m still here.

Sometimes here is a really hard place.

Quitting is the easy thing to do.  I can simply throw my hands in the air, announce “I quit” to the world, and give up.   I know I have a choice to live life, even when it hurts, or to quit.  Maybe I could sit under a broom tree like Elijah and wait to die.  I mean, if anyone ever tried to quit life, Elijah did in 1 Kings.  He basically says, “Look, God, all Your prophets are dead.  I’m the only one left and I’ll be dead soon, too.  I’m gonna sit under this tree and welcome death.” Of course, God had other plans for Elijah and cared for Elijah during his “two weeks notice”  (Read more at 1 Kings 17).

I won’t quit life just yet, even though I’m tempted. Besides, I don’t think there are any broom trees growing here in Eastern Pennsylvania anyway.