The New Year of Your Choice

Imma need someone to explain myself to me, really. I'm throwing a New Year's Eve party, and it's going to be epic. Oh, no, not in that drink-to-hallucination and wear the lampshade kind of sense. It's just that I'm lucky enough to ring in the new year with some very old (not elderly, long term) and dear friends. A lot of them. A lot of them that have bottomless children. We're talking two full days of eating, drinking, and gratuitous merrymaking that's gonna require lots of fun fuel. Folks, how to feed the locusts? I'm getting a little breathless.

I'm just one person! Don't get me wrong. Man, am I excited to fete BFF. She and I have been tight since the days of neon clothing and Duran Duran. But I digress. Because in the meanwhile, she's married a big dude and had two hulking children. And unlike the Counce offspring, they ain't picky about what they consume. I don't know how she did it, but those kids love veggies. And fruit. And...well, pretty much anything that won't bite back first. I am in charge of feeding these people for two days.

The other couple we're inviting for the New Year's Eve party  has three teenagers. There is no metaphor that does justice to the amount of food these young adults can put back. Again: I could not love these people more. It gives me great pleasure to ply them with food. But I'm going to need one of those Home Depot carts at Target in order to get all the food swag I need home. And perhaps some sherpas. Man, does this Carol Brady need an Alice.

But I'm so in. I need a spreadsheet and a Ph.D to plan for the next several days, but Momma always did say I was hardheaded. Who can get up at 3 a.m. to turn on a crockpot? I can! But we're going to have a brisket that hopefully could feed a small African nation for a week. Four breakfasts. Four dinners. Three lunches. Good thing I own stock in my grocery store.

So why do I do it? You very well may ask. Because, dear reader, in the end? I love it. I love to host. I love a house full of laughter and company. I love to stuff people I love with fine, homemade food. It makes me happy to induce carb comas to those I hold most dear. Food is a big part of my family tradition. I mean, what's New Year's Day without Good Luck Jambalaya made with black eyed peas? You simply can't risk a bad 2012 all because you didn't get your black eyed peas, people! Priorities!

So in the end, I may dither and flap over going to lengths to entertain my dear ones. But I know first: I choose this. I choose to surround myself with my darling family and friends and I chose the admittedly challenging menu. I could scale back. We could get some Kentucky Fried, and my friends would love me and our party just the same. I choose the hustle and the bustle; I arranged it.

Eat, drink, and be merry! There's no more appropriate time for said than New Year's Eve. I will not complain about my Homeric grocery store journeys. I will not lament the time and care preparation will take in my making merry. I'm just grateful to have so many loved ones, so much love, at this holiday time. It's ridiculous what an American princess I am. So spoiled.

So friends, eat McDonald's off a paper plate. Or prepare the most lavish New Year's Eve party you ever had and drink Cristal. But know you've chosen the way you want it, and enjoy. Count your blessings as we welcome in 2013. I'm so grateful to have the means to stuff my friends with a ridiculous amount of food and drink. So grateful they're taking the long ride here with their kids and a Boston terrier in a small car, just to eyeball me and my little brood.

I wish you a happy New Year and a fun New Year's Eve, whether you're in sequins and heels or your bathrobe, whether with twenty people at a rowdy club or with just yourself and Ryan Seacrest. However you've arranged it, my wish for you is to find the joy and positives associated with the choices you've made and choices that bring you serenity and moments of great joy in 2013. Now, if you don't mind, you'll have to excuse me. I've got a grocery run to make.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

How's it going, Fat Man? How's tricks? This week is your big scene! Everyone outside the North Pole is so jonesing for your arrival. I hope you're on schedule. Fitting all those flat screens in the sleigh? Got me an iPad? I know you and the Mrs. are super busy this time of year keeping elves in line, grooming reindeer, watching the weather forecasts and in general bending the laws of physics and time. I don't mean to hassle you. But since you're in the business, I thought I'd drop you a line.

Because I've been giving some thought to what I want on my Christmas list this year, and I need your help. I could certainly use some of your Christmas magic if not a full-on Christmas miracle to make my Christmas dreams come true. It's not that what I want is expensive. Well, okay, the iPad is outrageously high. But material objects are not so much at the top of my list this year.

No, Santa, instead I need mental gifts to survive two weeks home with my family and the holiday season in general. Don't get me wrong! I love my spouse and children. When they're not actively trying to commit crimes. You think I exaggerate. But have you seen their act in that magic snowball of yours? The threat of the naughty list seems negligible. Alas, my children fear nothing, not even a childhood icon of your considerable weight. No pun or offense intended.

And I love the holidays! Christmas Eve, in particular, still feels magical to this old broad: like love is in the air, and no problem is too big to be solved by Christmas magic. I still feel the romance. I did grow up with some great Christmas specials and movies that may or may not have convinced me miracles can happen before end credits. But in spite of my natural affection for all things Christmas,  I still must say keeping the old goodwill intact while wrestling other shoppers and the traffic? Bah. Humbug. 

So Santa, send me some patience. Patience to make it through this school break. Make board games and children's programming less torturous. Intervene in battles over game controllers, computer time, and who called whom what. Inspire my children to change out of pajamas happily and quickly and in to clothing that doesn't make them look feral. Send some Christmas magic that returns shoes to their proper resting place so I am less likely to lose my life tripping over them. If you can re-animate Frosty, surely you can motivate my offspring to get off the couch.

Yes, Santa, this year I ask for fortitude, as I'm unlikely to get what I'd really like for Christmas: a chef, a team of muscle-bound nannies, and a housekeeping service. Related: if Hubs gets me any type of cleaning implement at all this year, that sucker better be diamond-encrusted. But I digress. Your gift to me, Santa, will be in my refusal to throttle the first one that says "I'm bored!" Christmas afternoon.

Get me through the cooking. The scrubbing. The hosting. The intense sibling rivalry as familarity breeds contempt. All with a giant cheese-eating grin on my face no matter how many times the dishwasher needs to be unloaded or my golden retriever's feet need to be cleaned before she can come in the house. No matter how many empty milk cartons Hubs abandons on the counter.

Peace on earth! Goodwill to men! It's not just a phrase from a Christmas carol, Santa. And I gots to get me some. It's a tall order, Santa, and I know it. But I've seen bigger Christmas miracles. And if anyone can bring the Christmas magic, it's you, Kringle. I'm convinced with your Christmas mojo, I can sail through the Yuletide with the best attitude yet. 

Peace on earth! Goodwill towards men, my children, and the gum-snapping, impossibly bored cashier with the pink hair and eyebrow ring who moves like she's on Quaaludes. Let nothing me dismay, including the elbow in the ribs from that lady who just has to get to that on-sale ceramic Santa before I do. Make me tender and mild to that driver who's tailgating me...with reindeer antlers on his car.

Thanks for looking into my Christmas list, Santa, even if what I crave doesn't come in boxes or bags. Peace on Earth? Hell, I'll take peace in my living room first. But we've all got to start somewhere, right? And I know I can count on you, Santa. Here's to a New Year featuring clean, well-behaved children, a clean house that stays that way, and goodwill towards siblings. See you Christmas Eve, Santa. As always, there's cookies and milk in it for you. Thanks in advance.

Love,
Eliska




 

Leaps of Faith

Ever do something you're incredibly excited about that at the same time scares the hell out of you? Set a goal for yourself that seems almost impossible but at the same time totally doable? Strike out to achieve, build, or create something at a risk to yourself? Even when you didn't completely understand what was pushing you to expand your boundaries?

Think about it. Did you train for a race? Interview for that job? Quit that job? Put down that deposit on that Harley Davidson? Did you say yes, or did you say no when the universe gave you the opening to make a big change? Is the window still open? Do you still dream? Or does fear almost imperceptibly hold you back from taking up a challenge?

Man, do I dream. And on that note, I've been making some plans that thrill me...and at the same time scare the poo out of me. What am I thinking? I've got a house full of kids and plenty to occupy me. But ever since I decided being a counselor would be a good idea, I also believed in my community having access to free mental health care.

So I decided to wander over to Community Lifeline Center (check us out at communitylifeline.org) to see if they might need a mental health gun-for-hire. Turns out they think I can not only think I can counsel, but that I can run a whole community counseling center for them. Insert spit take here!

Am I on crack that I would take this on? Evidently I am certifiable, because I've not only brought on some lovely helpers but we're plotting to find you and give you free counseling if you live in Collin County. I, the electronically challenged. I, the harried mother of three. I, the clearly crazed.

But I, like you, have a calling. What is the Source daring you to do? What would you do if money and resources were not an issue? What do you do a little better than other people do, get lost in the moment doing it? Can you make it a gift to the world? Do you dare?

I may be making a huge mistake. I may be biting off more than I can chew. Can I really direct a mental health initiative for the county? Who the hell do I think I am?

Hey. Maybe I can't pull this off. Maybe it's a mistake. But it's not feeling that way. It's feeling like the Universe is lining up for something good to happen. All I know is I've been putting this dream out there in the form of energy for years, and here's my counseling building for the community.

So, onward and upward. I'll take it a day at a time. When there's a knot, I'll get people to help me. Especially when it comes to electronic records which scare me most of all. But I digress. I truly believe as long as I'm working to give my Source-given talents to the world, I will be guided in the right direction. But it's up to me not to give an inch to fear, to answer the call, to take the risk.

So what about you? Who the hell are you? What's presenting itself to you? What's a risk you could take to give your gift an airing? Can you step out of our comfort zone in order to make your gifts count in the world? I have to confess, it's breathtaking sometimes. It's also terrifying and some work for you. But I'd argue it's why we're here.

So let's hold hands and jump off a cliff together, shall we? Here's what author Martha Beck had to say about this:

"Some  cartoon characters whip out hankies, improvise parachutes, and float daintily to Earth. Others crash-land and pop up only slightly woozy. The more leaps of faith you take, the more you'll find your own hankies: ways of solving problems when they appear. When you crash, you'll keep getting better at the pop-up. You'll live through every leap except the big one at the end. And even if you never leap, you'll die anyway."

So this kind of thinking leads me to the door of a community service agency, where I'm being called to adventure. Fear makes bad decisions anyway. Join me and take a leap of faith. You just might be looking at a dream come true.  If the call keeps coming? Answer it.

The Great Santa Caper

I'm getting nervous, y'all. It seems my nine year old is, age appropriately, starting to be suspicious of the Santa thing. He's no dummy, and it turns out he's kind of on to us. He's got hardened criminals for friends as elementary school, evidently, who are jaded. They've left Santa behind already, and they're talking to him. Now, he is becoming a skeptic. Asking questions. And he, in fact, has told me he will be no less than brokenhearted (his words! Egad!) if it turns out his parents actually engaged in years of subterfuge and what must only add up in his little head to no less than felony identity theft and betrayal: lying about leaving presents instead of the Big Guy. The parental stakes are high.

Twice, my son has mentioned it! The depths to which he will feel pain if Dad and I are the ones leaving the gifts under the tree. We were safe for awhile after we bought him his hand-held gaming system for awhile. He told us he knew Santa was real after getting his Nintendo a year ago because and according to him: "You're way too poor to buy me a Nintendo!" But this year, I can tell the school peers have been bending his ear a bit about Saint Nick and his faith has been tested.

And it's time; the average age kids find out Santa's presents come from mom and dad is actually age seven. So we've squeezed a good bit of magic out of the Fat Man for my oldest boy. But he's got two younger siblings, seven and five, for whom we'd like to make the magic last a bit longer. So we're juking in a Yuletide minefield over here, folks. We can't afford a misstep that blows the experience up for everyone. A meltdown must be avoided.

He wants to know how Santa bends the laws of physics. He's curious about all those "Santa's helpers" dressed up as Santa and exactly how these grownups are in league with the Head Elf. He's especially curious why Santa would be limited in his electronics availability. He's starting to notice toys are not stamped "Made At the North Pole." And that the UPS driver seems to keep delivering packages to me that quickly disappear. But he doesn't want to give Santa, or being a kid, up just yet. 

Because my oldest, also known as Borg Designation 1 of 3, is a little different from boys his age. He's still living a rich fantasy life; he's a dreamer, a softie. He just might be one of those kids who has some trouble if Santa is yanked out from behind the curtain in a sudden kind of way. And after trolling the internet researching, as is wont to happen, I've not been encouraged by what I've read about how Hubs and I should have been handling Santa.

Evidently, and according the interwebs, by perpetuating the Santa myth to my kids I make them question the existence of God, turn them into materialistic takers, ruin the trust between us, and compromise own morality. I've learned my true motive in being Santa is to bribe my kids into good behavior. Silly me! Even Brad Pitt claims to have been emotionally scarred by the dawning of enlightenment where Santa was concerned. Although he seems to have turned out okay. And with his kind of money, I'm sure Christmas is every day for his pack of kids. But I digress.

So has Santa been worth it? Seems to me and looking around, most people I know were raised with some belief in Santa if you have a certain socio-cultural experience. As I recall it happening to me, logic and reason by age nine had me knowing that there was no way Santa was a true entity.

And that fateful day when my dad popped the trunk open to reveal accidentally our suddenly unveiled Christmas bounty and then turned to my brother and me to say, "You knew Santa wasn't real," I was not torn asunder emotionally. I felt mature. Smart and sophisticated. I was among the adult ranks now.

In fact, since our younger sibling was still Santa-aged, we were brought in as honorary adults at Christmas, care-taking the Santa magic for our baby brother. It felt like a right of passage and a responsibility. And Santa still brought surprise gifts for us and was part of our family long after we knew he was a myth along with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

So, Santa lives on at Chez Counce. Perhaps I've done my children a disservice with all those reindeer-nibbled carrots and cookie crumbs left on the plate, notes from the tooth fairy, and hidden eggs.  But I've decided when asked the Big Question at last by my children regarding Santa's reality, I will channel writer Frank Church who wrote these words on the pages of the New York Sun in his classic 1897 response to eight year old Virginia O'Hanlon's question about whether Santa Claus was real:

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.

Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

So here's to milk-and-cookie-ing Santa for all he's worth. Most of us come out of childhood with minimal scarring about the existence of Santa. And he's a great way to pass down culture and values to our kiddos, too. Let's enjoy him at every age. After all, if worse comes to worst, it's just more grist for my kids' future therapy mills, after all, right?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. 

All I Want For Christmas is My Sanity

I don’t know about y’all, folks, but considering it's barely December, already there has been an amazing amount of jingle going on at Chez Counce. We’re mere weeks away from the holiday we celebrate at my house, Christmas, and the three children under the age of nine have demanded so far nothing less than a full-on Santapalooza since the day after Thanksgiving.

Before it's all over, I will have sat on Santa’s lap, made and decorated the obligatory gingerbread men, caroled myself silly, pasted foam snowflakes crafts together, toured neighborhood for lights, wrapped presents, served hot chocolate and candy canes, dressed up the kids and watched them dance the Jingle Bell Rock at their schools. I fear by Christmas Eve they will be actually levitating a little bit.

It’s a lot, the holiday season, for anyone, if you let it be. How do you maintain mental health while under such elven pressure? How do you grit your teeth, smile, and get your yule on with minimal emotional scarring? Gather around, children:

If it ain’t fun, don’t do it. If you find yourself at a holiday event hissing at your family to Have fun already, dammit!, I’m thinking you might want to rethink the purpose of your tradition. My four-year-old loves the concept of Santa. Santa in person, however, might as well be a jihadist for all the terror he invokes in my middle child. Forcing my child near Santa, whether at a mall or breakfast, is ill advised. Who’s the activity for, anyway?

Acknowledge your feelings. If a loved one has died recently or you aren’t near your loved ones, it’s normal to feel sadness and grief. Take time to express yourself. It’s okay and expected for the holiday season to induce some stress and depression. Seek support through friends and family members. Or seek professional help if physical complaints, sleep and appetite disturbances, irritability, and hopelessness continue past a couple of weeks.

Delegate, delegate, delegate! If you’re hosting, ask others to bring food, or if your budget allows, cater some of the food. If you have friends or family members who insist on home cooked family meals, cheerfully announce you are delighted to serve theirs!

Keep decorations simple. Unless you’re just incredibly passionate about decorating, less can be more. Trust me: women like me will appreciate you for it.

Reconsider holiday cards. These take a lot of time and energy. But you have options! Send them out every other year, send them to only out-of-town friends and family, or just wait until Valentine’s Day when things aren’t so crazy.

Think about how to impart your deepest values to your children. Most of us want our children to realize the value of giving over receiving. This is an excellent time to teach this value. Think about giving to charities in lieu of gifts. Dad doesn’t really need a new tie anyway. Gather up gently used toys that aren’t as popular as they once were with your children, and take them to a local shelter together. Volunteer with your children and teach them the real reasons behind the seasons. It ain’t all about the Furby.

Limit gifts, keep a budget, and stick to it. I can be the worst about buying last minute items that are just perfect for someone…even though I’ve already bought for that person. Remember your commitment to stay congruent with you values by spending wisely. Your children will appreciate happy parents more than any gift. It also takes pressure off of family and friends to reciprocate. In this economy, bling is dead. It’s now hip to consume less and be greener.

Be realistic. Families grow and traditions change. Be willing to find new ways to celebrate and understand that some traditions may not still be possible. Make new and more meaningful traditions that reflect your values.

Set differences aside. Stress levels run high at the holidays. Mix in a little eggnog with too much “nog,” and you can have serious issues. Accept family members as they are and don’t get too upset or distressed if something goes awry.

Don’t abandon healthy habits. It’s tempting to let the holidays be a culinary free for all. Overindulgence only adds to stress and guilt. Have a healthy snack before parties: whole grains, fruits, and veggies have the fiber to fill you and cut cravings. Remember sweets send you high before the inevitable crash. Keep up exercise, journaling, time for fun. Take a breather. Fifteen minutes alone can be amazing: steal away to a quiet place (hello, bathroom and trashy magazine!), take a walk at night and stargaze, or listen to some soothing or inspiring music.

Rethink resolutions. I’ve always resented the artificial prompt of the new year to somehow make up for past excess. Instead, just return to basic, healthy lifestyle choices. Make specific goals with a reasonable time line. Resolutions can set you up to failure if you are unrealistic. There’s a reason the Slim Fast commercials air non-stop in January and disappear in February, ladies!

Forget about perfection. One of my favorite holiday movies is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Towards the end of the film, Clark Griswold bares his teeth into a maniacal grin and shouts at his dismayed family: “We’re going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny @#$%^&* Kaye!” Clark has gone to extremes to make the holiday perfect for his family…and nearly sent himself to the asylum in the process. Holiday TV specials are filled with happy endings. Sadly, TV is not real life. Problems do not wrap up neatly at the end of the hour. There’s no such thing as “normal,” and we all have our own special brand of crazy that makes our family unique and special. Love the ones you’re with…warts and all. We all need that.

Remember: your attitude is up to you. Lastly, don’t let stress and depression be unwelcome guests this holiday season. Remaining calm and cultivating joy can help defuse any stressful situation, and eyes that are warmed by the heart can see these situations more clearly. Making the decision to ask yourself:  “Am I bringing my best self into this situation?” has the potential of transforming any difficult moment. This may be challenging, but it is intensely rewarding. Happy holidays, everyone!

Parent Fail

Hey. You. You boneheads that brought your four children under the age of ten to the movie theater to see the latest Bond film, Skyfall, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. I hate to break it to you, but this is an open letter to you, because you are so doing parenting wrong. The decision to expose those kids to the sex, violence, and profanity in that movie? Epic. Parenting. Fail. And you need to be called out on it. I'm up for a little public shaming.

I mean, really: bringing your three or four year old daughter to an R rated movie? She had her blankie and bottle with her while 007 was having his shaken, not stirred. Her legs barely stuck out over the theater seat. Oh, and she was paying attention. I heard her asking you questions, Mommy. In fact, I heard A LOT from the four children you had up past decent bedtimes to expose them to completely inappropriate cinematic material. The three boys under ten lined up to our side had lots of tween commentary about blowing things and snickers for boobies. Good times.

Your eight or nine year old son was also the only one to giggle, wildly inappropriately, at the gruesome end to our Bond villain, a serious denouement scene. The rest of the theater was silent. But then again, making noise didn't really seem to concern you: you were either unaware or didn't care you were making a great deal of noise as you brought out your bowls and cups from home to share your popcorn and drinks with your children on the row behind you during the movie.

How many ways did you fail, parents to small children in that theater? Let me count the ways:

You failed your children. Why did you insist on bringing these impressionable young people to see all this violence? I'm a jaded old lady. I enjoy a thirty-kill spy movie on occasion because it's age appropriate for me. I wanted to snatch your baby's blanket and wrap it around her head so she wouldn't see all the blood, guts, and guns. How did she not have nightmares? What time DO your children go to bed anyway? Why was she up so late? You don't care she heard the B, F, and S words that night? You needed your Daniel Craig fix so badly you would expose them to R rated material? Thee three boys lined up next to me and Hubs giggled at every bloody moment. What are you teaching them? How numb ARE you?

You failed me and the rest of the audience. The excessive talking, snack sharing, and not to mention two potty breaks for the baby who was too little to even take the stairs? More than a little distracting in a packed theater. The sold out, adult audience was straining to filter out British accents and listen for plot points as you pointed out to Baby Sister that yes, that was a house in the movie! Before it got blown up in your baby's face, I mean. I couldn't relax and truly enjoy my adult gratuitous violence. I literally felt uncomfortable sitting next to your eight year old during Bond's sex scenes and annoyed at how they snickered at all the violence. I did not get the experience I hoped to have when I payed through the nose for my popcorn due to you and your entourage of minors.

You failed yourself. Admit it. You're better than this. You don't need to see a movie so badly that you would expose your naive children to it. Well, before seeing the Bond movie, naive. I'm not so sure how innocent your children are at this point. You chose to have these children. You can either wait until they grow up or get a damned babysitter if you want to see an R movie. You showed appalling self-centeredness at bringing your kids to this show and with your display of obliviousness with the inter-aisle snack sharing.

So. Do better. Pay attention to movie ratings. They're there for knuckleheads like you. Under seven? G only. Under ten? PG at best. And a lot of times those are questionable. PG-13? 13. Duh. R is 17 and up, people. There's a reason for that rating, folks, and it's called human development. The brain is still forming. And trust me, there's no room for the ultra violence of an R rated James Bond film. Do us all a favor. Get a sitter. Or stay home and put the kids down at a decent hour. Give them a chance, for the love of Pete. Because that display of you and your family at the movies Wednesday night? Was all kinds of no.

The Southern Girl's Guide to College Football

Ah, it's that wonderful time of the year when we all gather to join in celebration, feast, and to be of good cheer together. No, I'm not talking Thanksgiving or the holidays, folks! I'm talking one of the major religions of the South: college football. It's November in America, and that means our favorite sport is on. And women of the South are just as big a fan of college football as the men. Don't underestimate us. Here's some basic rules for the discerning Southern woman when it comes to watching college ball:

Now, down South, we females know how to dress for college football games. Men wear suits and ties in the stands (or at least a nicely pressed Oxford and team cap), and you might find any proud Southern girl in the stand outfitted in Ralph Lauren skirt, impeccably matched riding boots, and diamond earrings. There's a fifth of bourbon tucked lovingly into her Chanel tote. Wallets not necessary – that’s what our dates are for. Our stadiums, like our hair, are bigger than yours. Our weather is perpetually climate.

We Southern women also know about football. We're versed. We know what a PAT, a quarterback sneak, and an offensive I formation are. Your daddy may have taught your about how to change a tire. But our daddies made sure we knew what true defensive pass interference looks like and what a chop block is. Where women from other states in the union might demur, "My, what a violent play," you can find your Southern woman shrieking from the stands something like "Catch that sumbitch and break his knee!"

A Southern girl also knows all about the rules of ticket procurement, parking, and game day. We come to expect we can only get on the waiting list for next year's season tickets this year. We know the trailers and vans start parking on Wednesday before the game at the Grove or Five Points or whatever your Southern college has named the spot where alumni park their over-sized RVs to drink and smoke what can only be described as an entire slaughterhouse of assorted meats. There are individualized smokers shaped like our mascot. Classes get canceled the Fridays before rivalry games. Live bands perform before game time in the parking lot, and they share your beer. Don't know where the stadium is? Be quiet. You'll hear it. The crowd is bigger on game day than the city that hosts the game.

Yes, booze plays a major role for most Southerners, female or male, on game day. But we're classy enough to dump out half the coke from our team mascot cup to leave room for the bourbon. You can smell it in the air after each score. It helps us sing the national anthem with verve. We've just got to be a little more careful around the halftime fireworks.

And we in the South stay at the stadium until the last rib is eaten off the smoker. Doesn't matter if our team wins or loses, there's always time for another rack to go on and another trip to the package store. We'll need that bourbon for planning for the first tailgate party of the next season, you see.

And as ludicrous as this claim will likely seem to outsiders, here, you are effectively born into loyalty toward a football team. Families carry their allegiances through generations. If you are born into a family divided (God forbid you have both OU and Texas fans in the family), then your family members will fight for your loyalty from the moment you are born. Here in the South, asking “Who do you root for?” is something akin to asking your political party, only it’s socially acceptable to talk and fight about it with and without logic. It’s the one place where “if you don’t have nothin’ nice to say” doesn’t apply. We worship God on Sunday and the SEC on Saturday.

So if you're a transplant or, heaven help you, a Northerner, perhaps this information helps you understand the nature of the Southern girl and our beloved football. Because not only is college football a matter of family loyalty, it's a matter of pride. And yeah, it's weird. But it's football. And we Southern girls love it.

Crazy to the Left of Me, Crazy to the Right

At long last, the election is over! And whether your guy won or not, you have to agree having the whole brouhaha behind us can only be better for our country.  However, I have to say I’ve been less than impressed with people who call themselves adults in the wake of the re-election of President Obama. The vitriol that existed November 5^th is evidently just as strong on November 7^th.  And it’s not just one political party I’m watching behaving badly. I’m seeing unnecessary roughness on the left AND on the right in social media, and I’m here to say: It’s time to grow the heck up, folks.

I realize everyone feels the stakes are high for our country. Frankly, I’m glad to see so many people lined up at the polls and the high level of involvement with the American political process. All of that? A good thing. But the low-blow Facebook statuses and the uber-snarky tweets are getting to me, folks. They’re like teaching a pig to sing: a waste of time and irritating to the pig.

Because we should all get it by now, right? Haven’t we all been humiliated on the field at one time or another? I remember feeling a dark despair in 2004 when the country thought it a good idea to re-elect George Bush for a second term that bordered on clinical depression. I daresay  my beloved right-wing audience remembers the bloom on that rose. “Sore Loserman”? Yeah. This ain’t America’s first trip to the bad behavior rodeo as far as our politics are concerned.

So, time for a primer for both my smug lefties and my bereft righties, methinks, concerning a little post-election concept called “sportsmanship.” We claim it’s important to teach to our children. Yet if the ugliness I’m seeing being shared online gives even an inkling about what we’re passing on? I fear for the future.

It’s about discipline and self-control, people. You show respect for yourself when you show respect for others. And, hello? How many people decided to change their mind over your Facebook status or Twitter feed? OH YEAH NONE. We teach our young to respect our opponents. They are how we become better. We welcome their challenge. We shake hands at the end of the game to thank our opponent for making us stronger, smarter, faster.

Respect the officials. Again, easy to tell your son not to argue a call with a ref. But when you show zero respect for at least the office? Not cool.  Play fair. Accept the calls. If you’re on top, offer encouragement to your opponent: the opposite of trash talk. And if you’re down, we teach our kids to get up, dust off, and get back in the game: also great advice for the good sportsman. Er, sportsperson. Sport. Yeah. Amazing what we tell our kids to do when we can't walk the walk.

There’s no pouting in sports, guys. Let’s keep it offline too, eh? Likewise, there should be no gloating. I’ve seen a kind of schadenfreude online the last couple of days that can’t bode well for anyone’s karma, I assure you. Good sports don’t take joy in the pain, suffering, or loss of another. You just say hooray for your side. Cheer in a positive manner. The displays of temper and name-calling since the election? It doesn’t suit anyone.

I mean, calling the election a sham? Saying “America died”? Ted Nugent said if you voted for Obama, you’re a pimp, a whore, or a welfare brat? That Obama is “subhuman”? Or on the other side, encouraging Republicans to move to Canada? PUH-LEASE.  

If you haven’t noticed, politics move in cycles. Once again, the victors will once again be the losers, and vice-versa. Put your boots on the ground for what you believe and go for it. But don’t be the jerk that pulls a Sharpie out of your sock after the touchdown breakdance. We’re all on the same team, guys, and that’s Team America. Is it easier for me to write this article in 2012 than it would have been in 2004? Sure. I’m not Pollyanna, and as y’all know, I don’t lean right. 

But Bush-bashing was no more sportsmanlike than Obama-bashing. I’m hoping that as a nation we can get over our election blues soon. Because left or right, we’re Thelma and Louise. We’re in this thing together. We’ll try it a different way for awhile. But we better hang on to one another. We’re in the same sedan hurtling towards the same cliff. And as Romney-backer Kid Rock once sang, time to get in the pit and try and love someone. Let’s find our similarities. We can slug it out, but we’ve got to shake hands at the end of the game. Every Little Leaguer knows it. Now you.