So long, farewell BHP

Get the scoop on what I'll be up to for the next few months!

This will be my last column for Brentwood Home Page, if the next few months go the way I’ve envisioned them.

I’m not counting on that happening, of course, because the past month has not gone the way I’ve envisioned it.

Everything about this Christmas was unusual. Not tragic, fortunately, just different.

None of my kids had a Big Item they were dying to get for Christmas this year. Therefore, they did not view their Christmas lists with the same urgency that their father and I did. More importantly, they did not understand why their grandparents needed the lists so badly.

As a result, I gave all our good gift ideas to desperate grandparents and wound up still shopping for my own kids on Christmas Eve. Sometimes I felt like I was just shopping so there’d be something under the tree. That is very unusual for me.

All of the Christmas events we enjoy, such as our church youth choir concert, seemed to sneak up on me. They didn’t really take place that much earlier than usual, but my brain wasn’t officially in Christmas gear yet. I was late getting in the game.

I tried to find joy in the preparations this year, but I just felt like I was falling behind. In the midst of all the holiday goings-on, everyday life persisted.

Everything about my routine took longer than usual. I live about a mile from Cool Springs, and more traffic on the roads and longer lines made even a regular trip to fill up the gas tank or the dentist take twice as long.

Why did I schedule a dental checkup during the holidays anyway?

My own closet became Santa’s workshop, so even getting dressed took longer than usual. I’m lucky I pulled out matching shoes from underneath the Amazon boxes and Target bags stuffed in there. Shopping without a list or a plan meant that the UPS man rang my doorbell many more times than is usual. My dog paced and barked so much more than usual that I thought her hair would fall out.

Eventually, thankfully, I started noticing the good stuff. My mailbox was fuller than usual, nearly overflowing with beautiful photo cards of friends and family. Neighbors dropped in more often than usual, sometimes bringing trays of homemade goodies and a few minutes of visiting.

On our way to church on Christmas Eve, I noticed in how many houses along the way the front rooms were lit up. Normally dark living rooms were bright and welcoming, ready to host relatives who don’t usually come by.

My family and I sang more than usual and ate more than usual. I gave out way more hugs than usual, and I didn’t regret one of them.

Everything about this season should be unusual, though. Nothing should be routine. To celebrate such a special event, I had to snap out of my habits and think intentionally about what I was doing. My heart wouldn’t be in it otherwise.

My heart is turning in a new direction that may seem unusual for me. I won’t be writing this column for BHP anymore because I’ve decided to run for a seat on the Brentwood City Commission.

I’ve gotten positive feedback from those I’ve told, and I’m excited about the challenge.

I’ve loved being associated with Brentwood Home Page because it’s been an unusual venture, but one that is long overdue. Brentwood has a lot going on, and it deserves dedicated news coverage.

With Susan and Kelly in charge, I’m sure it won’t be business as usual.

Christmas makes classical music OK

From this week's Brentwood Home Page column:


“Burl Ives is beast,” I heard one of my 14-year-olds say the other day.

For those who aren’t living the good life with 14-year-old boys in your house, if someone is “beast,” they are so good at something that they have exceeded human capabilities.

As you can imagine, I was surprised to hear one of my sons put Burl Ives and “beast” in the same sentence. I guess I should thank Music Choice.

Lately I’ve been playing a lot of Music Choice channel 433 on my TV because it is the Sounds of the Season channel. It plays classic Christmas music nonstop, with no commercials and lots of Christmas trivia.

It’s a nice change from the zombie zone the kids usually enter when they watch TV. Plus we get to hear a variety of music that we don’t usually hear. In fact, I realized this week that Christmas carols are the only time my kids hear orchestral music of any kind. They’re the only songs they hear where the fiddle is not a fiddle but a violin.

As a creative person, music means a lot to me. I try to expand my children’s listening library whenever possible.

Of course, it’s about as easy as driving down Mallory Lane on the Saturday before Christmas.

If I ever stray from their preapproved radio stations in the car, they squawk. I persist, though, because a woman can only listen to so much Eminem.

If I just try to listen to a little of MTSU’s jazz station, they talk over every song and spout off about how “weird” it sounds.

If I catch a moment of WPLN when it’s actually playing classical music, my kids whine that the “lullabies” are “putting them to sleep.”

Christmas music is the only exception. If we’re listening to Music Choice, they can hear Johnny Mathis, Doris Day, Andy Williams and Perry Como for hours and never complain.

They get a little Beegie Adair in when they’re not even thinking about it. I try to explain that Bing Crosby was more than just the guy who sang, “White Christmas.”

In fact, some artists may even reach the “beast” category, as in the case of Burl Ives. I’m pretty sure it was “Holly Jolly Christmas” that catapulted him to “beast” status. That and the fact that ol’ Burl sang it as the Snowman in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Everybody knows Rudolph is beast.

Hipsters have ruined Christmas fashion too

From this week's Brentwood Home Page column:

I’ve been trying to figure out how it all went wrong for Christmas sweaters.

You know they’re a big joke now, don’t you?

Starting last Christmas, the themed sweaters with tons of sequins, appliquéd snowmen, ribbon trim and glitter officially reached that point where they’re so out, they’re in.

After about a decade of being out of style, Christmas sweaters have become in demand at vintage clothing stores and Goodwill outlets.

Folks are pulling the bejeweled garments from the back of the closet and listing them on eBay. In fact, entire websites are devoted to selling “ugly” Christmas sweaters. I was feeling pretty good about myself until I saw a sweater like one I used to wear on sale for $15 on one of those sites.

Do you hear what I hear? It’s the sound of me getting old.

Why the resurgence in scornful popularity? Because hipsters decided it would be hilarious to wear old, grandma-style Christmas sweaters to their holiday parties.

Get it? They’re being ironic. It’s like saying, “Normally I’m very cool. But the fact that I’m wearing this hideously overdone sweater is funny because it’s so not me!”

They gleefully post photos of themselves online, hugging, laughing and showing off their garland-trimmed Santas or reindeer flying over one shoulder and down the back.

I think the irony is lost on the older generation, who probably see nothing humorous about wearing a perfectly good Christmas sweater to a Christmas party. When else would you wear it?

The part I think is funny is that most people viewing the photos wouldn’t get the joke, thinking those in the picture just had bad taste in sweaters.

“Why is this funny? It’s a bunch of people at a Christmas party. Ooh, those snowmen on her sweater are trimmed in rabbit fur! I wonder where you get one of those?”

A mere 10 years ago I could wear a Christmas sweater occasionally and not feel weird about it. I still own two: a vest and a cardigan. I happen to think they’re really cute or else I wouldn’t have bought them from the Chadwick’s catalog in about 1997.

In fact, the vest is awesome because it has these felt stockings on it that are adorned with real live 3-D jingle bells.

Of course, I haven’t worn them out in public in a while because they’re about as fashionable as denim jumpers.

I don’t own one of those. Anymore.

The truth is that I only wear my Christmas sweaters around the house. You know why? Because they make my 7-year-old little boy happy.

So take that, all you hipster wannabes. My kid thinks my tacky sweater is cool.

I’m even going to save it for the day he wants to wear it … to some party where he can win the ugliest Christmas sweater contest.

Sometimes presents should just be fun

From this week's Brentwood Home Page:

My 7-year-old son Owen got hold of the Toys For Us catalog, as his brothers called it when they were 3, and circled everything he wished he could have for Christmas.

Most of his choices didn’t surprise me, since he always wants Legos, building sets, spy stuff, board games and video games. Bur one selection made me question my parenting style.

He had circled this kid-sized, battery-operated police car, a Dodge Charger “Hemi” with lights, a siren and a working megaphone.

It was WAY cool.

The problem is that my husband and I have always had a policy against those vehicles. We never bought his older brothers the Power Wheels Jeep, even though they would have loved one, of course.

No, we were those parents who thought our kids’ toys should have standards. We wanted all our recreational purchases to improve our kids in some way. Why spend $300 on some toy that just carries them around the yard? Let’s get them a Kett car, which is pedal-powered, so they can use their leg muscles. You know, get some exercise while they’re having fun?

That’s what happens when you apply adult thinking to your kids’ gift requests. Presents aren’t always supposed to teach a lesson. Sometimes they’re just supposed to be fun.

We were pretty uppity about TV and video games too. I was so proud that my older boys never saw an episode of Spongebob Squarepants until they were 7 or 8. We’d managed to keep them safely ensconced in the world of PBS Kids for all that time.

Of course, what works in your family doesn’t work in other families. I witnessed one son’s first brush with peer pressure at a birthday party for a fellow preschooler who was a big fan of Pokemon and Power Rangers. When he opened the gift from my son, a copy of one of our favorite Little Bear videos, he looked at his mom like, “What am I supposed to do with this baby video?”

That right there is painful. I don’t care how old you are.

We’d also heard all the doomsday reports about the effects of the Xbox on kids, so we staunchly avoided any video games. We were so smug about our approach. Then we found out that our kids turned into drooling zombies who played video games the entire night when they’d go to sleepovers at the homes of their lucky friends whose parents did buy an Xbox.

So we caved and have since owned a Game Cube, a Wii and an Xbox.

Now that my oldest boys will (hopefully) head to college in four short years, I’m rethinking my toy policies.

Last summer we finally bought the Deadliest Toy on Earth, a trampoline. It was officially the best thing ever for about a week. Now, just like every other trampoline in the neighborhood, it sits in our yard, “safety net” drooping, waiting for a day when the boys have friends over so they will play on it.

Still, I’m glad we got it. Life is short, right?

I’m pretty sure Owen knows he won’t get a police car he can drive this Christmas. I mean, he’s over the age limit and I know he’s over the height limit. But I admire his optimism.

I like the fact that he quietly went over my head and circled the car anyway, hoping Santa at least might bring it down the chimney.

If he does, I know two 14-year-olds who would drive that thing all around the yard whether they fit in it or not.

But I’m still not getting them TVs for their rooms.

Best dressed in show

I always turn on the AKC dog shows when I see them on my DVR menu, hoping they'll be showing mastiffs. Unfortunately there are way more yappy terrier breeds than mastiffs, so I'm usually disappointed.
I did notice, however, the vast untapped opportunity for someone to market attractive fashion for female dog handlers.
The dogs are so impeccably groomed to the most minute detail, but sometimes the ugly clothes their handlers wear is distracting.
The blocky suits! The manmade fibers! The saggy stockings! The flat, nun-inspired shoes! It's all too ugly next to those beautiful breeds.
A lot of dog handlers, of course, are more used to getting down and dirty with the dogs and aren't too worried about looking chic.
It turns out, too, that the conditions of a dog handler's job make it difficult to dress pretty.
Why don't the ladies just don a simple black pant suit? I thought. That's a classic look that's usually flattering to anyone whose curves are tested during a jog across the show floor.
There's one thing black doesn't go with: dog hair.
Handlers also need pockets for carrying treats. Skirts can't be so full that they would block or tangle with the dog they're leading.
And it's harder to run alongside an award-winning Basenji in Laboutin heels.
Dog show venues are probably either really hot or really cold, so comfort is key. Those are a lot of demands to place on an outfit.
I think the "problem" could be solved if the show's organizers stopped making it a black-tie event. Then the handlers wouldn't struggle to fit into something so out of character with their regular lifestyle.
Of course, you see a lot of khaki down there, and merlot always looks good with gray.
A dog handler's day is not that different from a farmer's. Why not come up with a uniform for handlers that is more like something they would wear on a daily basis?
Since the handlers work so hard, why not put them in work clothes? Come up with pants they can bend, squat and run in. Make men's and women's sport shirts that are neat but not formal part of the dress code.
I'm not saying they should dress like cocktail waitresses on an oil rig.
But it would be fun if the handlers could compete for best in breed too.

No talking, for real

From this week's Brentwood Home Page:

The first birthday card I gave my husband while we were dating was of the humorous variety. It said something like, “With you in my life I know there will always be joy in my heart,” then something else nice, followed by the inside punch line, “… and sports on my TV.”
I knew early on that Tim was crazy about sports, both watching and playing. The first time I ever saw him at UT Knoxville, he was heading into the Presidential cafeteria on his way back from an intramural softball game.
For some of our early dates, we’d watch the Vols basketball team, coached by Don Devoe, play in the new Thompson Boling Arena when so few fans attended that entire sections of seats were blocked off with a huge black curtain.
After Tim and I married, I often fell asleep to the voices of Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann anchoring SportsCenter. Some of our most fun times involved his work softball teams and church basketball, and to this day weekend chores are planned around the Vols’ and Titans’ game times.
I know Tim has always dreamed of sharing those sports experiences with our boys, and to be honest I always looked forward to that day as well. I mean, how many games can one halfway-interested woman be expected to watch?
As often happens with dreams, though, reality doesn’t match the expectations.
Tim is picky about where and with whom he watches the Vols or Titans on TV, for example. He gets a little too intense to high-five a bunch of friends at a sports bar. We also don’t invite a lot of friends over for game-watching parties, either, because his laser focus is not conducive to friendship-building conversation.
I mean, such a serious fan can’t trust just anybody to enter the sacred zone of spectatorship. What if they talk about something besides what’s happening in the game at that moment?
Unfortunately, he can’t be so selective when it’s our own kids who’ve somehow gotten past the velvet rope.
The twins caught on to football at a young age, but they weren’t too distracting since their interest usually would fade after the first quarter and they’d go play elsewhere in the house.
They’re older now, though, so they stick around for the whole game. They also like to spout off their semi-informed 14-year-old observations about the plays and personnel like grumpy old men, much to the annoyance of their well-read father:
“That quarterback’s the worst! They need to get rid of him!” one of them will yell.
Of course, Tim can’t let it go.
“Why would you say that? His numbers are actually better than they’ve been all season!”
Tim attempts to educate them for a few plays before pulling rank: “You can think that if you want to, but I need silence now.” Then, 45 seconds later, he breaks his own rule when he says, “OK, this down is HUGE. We need this!” opening the floor for discussion once again.
Since 7-year-old Owen has played football, both the real and Madden-on-Xbox versions, he actually understands the game pretty well.
He also doesn’t leave the room. And he talks. A lot.
“Wow, there’s a lot of red in that stadium. I thought they were playing Alabama in Knoxville! 34-10. Oh no. We’re losing.”
This kind of exchange doesn’t lead to the father-son bonding experience where they all cheer the touchdowns and encourage each others’ predictions for the next play. It often ends with a series of comments like this:
“Owen, sit down.”
“Owen, please don’t walk in front of the TV.”
“Leave the dog alone, Owen.”
“Owen, sit down!”
“Owen, there are only 3 minutes and 18 seconds left in this game, and I want to watch them in peace!”
That’s when I attempt to distract them all by loudly unloading the dishwasher and carelessly tossing the silverware into the drawer.
On the field or off, nothing bonds a team like fighting a common enemy.

The good news: Fewer trees have to die

Man, the news industry has changed.
I think the state of my profession has changed more than almost any other in the past 30 years.
I am not THAT old, but when I was in college studying journalism, the Internet didn't exist. No one had a cell phone. All newspapers were printed on paper. At The Daily Helmsman at Memphis State, we literally cut out the printed articles and glued them on a board to deliver to the printer, where they "made the newspaper" overnight.
I still remember the smell of that hot glue machine. I remember occasionally using an X-acto knife to "edit" stories that already were glued to the board.
I remember the very first time I saw a Macintosh computer and Windows menus dropping down on the tiny black-and-white screen.
But I still had to spend hours in my design class learning about rotogravure printing and ink types and when you would use which method.
I'm too young to have prehistoric memories of my career.
Going back even farther, I remember an elementary school field trip to The Commercial Appeal offices in Memphis. The vast, open newsroom with ringing telephones intimidated me.
But the press room was the coolest, because I'd never seen rolls of paper so big they could only be moved by forklift. I'd never seen a machine that was three stories high. As my class listened to the tour guide explaining press runs, I remember him having to shout over the machinery.
I finally understood the phrase "stop the presses."
I didn't fully appreciate how much my industry has changed until a friend asked me to help her get a news office tour for her son's Cub Scout requirements. Our one major local newspaper, The Tennessean, wouldn't even do it because they fired the people who used to give tours. They're owned by Gannett and they're streamlining, you know.
She e-mailed me the requirement from the Scout manual:

"Visit a newspaper or magazine office. Ask for a tour of the various divisions, (editorial, business, and printing). During your tour, talk to an executive from the business side about management’s relations with reporters, editors, and photographers and what makes a “good” newspaper or magazine."

At first, she thought I could give him a "tour" of Brentwood Home Page, the online newspaper I write for. I tried to explain that it's only online, that there is no press, and it's literally a "home office." It would be like sitting in someone's den and talking to two women with a desktop computer.
They could offer him excellent advice on the news industry, but it wouldn't quite be the memorable Citizen Kane experience.
I contacted other smaller papers that still print on paper, but they declined, saying there "wasn't much to see" and they send out their stuff to be printed anyway.
Can't anybody show a Cub Scout what a newspaper looks like anymore?
Modern news is either corporate, mass-produced aggregates of wire news or localized, personalized news that, frankly, isn't very exciting to watch being made.
There are no "divisions" of a newspaper. Even established "papers" feel like start ups because in an attempt to save money, they have to function with as few people as possible doing everything.
Someone needs to let the BSA know what's been happening to local newspapers so they can update their manual.