Coffee Mug Crusade

When it comes to travel coffee mugs, I have horrible luck.

Now I know this isn’t a deep topic, but I realized this morning as I stared into the cupboard that I only have three travel mugs left in existence.  There is an eight to ten extinction rate with my travel mugs.

This is a problem for it seems I can never find the perfect mug.

Or, it seems that no mug will ever fulfill its sacred duty: traveling day to day with me to school and back and living to tell about it.

For some reason, I have incredibly bad luck when it comes to travel mugs.

I blame my husband, The Captain, for part of it.  He does not heed to the warnings imprinted on the bottom of the coffee mugs.  Many say, “Not dishwasher safe.”  He believes they say, “Put in dishwasher. Hope they last.”

The Disney one is the first one, followed by the rest that are now long gone.

The Disney one is the first one, followed by the rest that are now long gone.

One of my favorites came out of the dishwasher in the shape of a lava lamp.  Another ended up with so much condensation inside it looked like it came straight out of the rainforest.

And then the worst of all.  My Disney Finding Nemo mug began to leak.  From the bottom.  Leaking water, not coffee.  I do not understand how this is possible, but, alas, it is.

Darn.  I love that mug.

So, now, I am in a quest to find quality travel mugs that can a.) withstand being useful each and every day of the school year, and b.) withstand The Captain’s insatiable desire to put anything and everything into the dishwasher.

Wish me luck!

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The Big Game

Tonight is Big Game night.  High school football big rivalries team up against each other for the final fight of the regular season.  But that is not all that will “team” up; sometimes the towns team up against each other, too.

The Big GameFriday Night Lights takes on an entire new meaning in my neck of the woods.  I have really never seen anything like it until I moved to this area when I was a junior in high school.  I was completely overwhelmed how an entire high school could, basically, suspend all learning to be athletic supporters (pun intended).  By mid-week, all the hallways were elaborately decorated (students were in and out of classes to do so), students were dressed in daily themes (pajama day, hat day, hippie day – some kids took this one a little too far) and pretty much, the school itself was in a constant state of chaos that all led up to Friday’s end of the school day pep rally and The Big Game. This was my perception as a junior in high school.

Seeing the rivalry as an adult has taken on a whole other dimension for me – one that is almost worse than in my high school days.  At the start of September, before the school year is even in full swing, papers begin to trickle home. “Go Team, Beat the Other Team” t-shirt sales, stickers, information regarding The Big Game and spirit week and community pep rally events. And so it goes.  I have two dudes who both want the “latest and greatest limited edition” t-shirt design created specifically for The Big Game.  There are “all-calls” from the schools about the community bonfire, ticket sales and even spirit day themes.

There was also community outrage about the town’s trick or treat schedule because it conflicted with the scheduled community bonfire/pep rally. Many wrote letters to the editor.  Many complained about it on social media. Many are just plain crazy.

The rivalry may seem a little bit out of control.

This spring, some seniors from my town decided to paint the windows of their Big Game rival school with window paint – less than two weeks before graduation. Unbeknownst to them, the rival school had their windows treated with special UV decals to help keep the rooms cooler.  The window paint ruined the window treatments, costing thousands and thousands of dollars in damage.

Outrage and panic commenced from both towns.  Both communities were quickly playing judge and jury.  Both communities yelled about how horrible these seniors were.  Both communities made a frenzy out of the issue.  Both communities wanted these students to pay – with more than money.  Some of the common phrases heard around the area were: “These students have no respect,” “They should not be able to graduate,” “They should be arrested and have a criminal record,” “They are vandals,” “They should not walk at graduation,” and even as far as saying, “They must have horrible parents!”

Amazingly enough, no one said anything about how this zillion year old rivalry might have affected their judgment. And no one pointed out the fact that they have been raised on this rivalry, so of course they might make a bad decision based on the craziness of The Big Game.  No one mentioned that since the tender age of kindergarten, these students had been going to the community pep rallies and bonfires and dressing up for spirit week and buying the latest, limited-edition Big Game t-shirt.  No one mentioned any of this.  Instead, they wanted these students to miss graduation. Unreal.

Now, I don’t condone their behavior. I would be livid if it was my child, but I do think the issue is more than just a few seniors vandalizing property.  I firmly believe that the rivalry is so ingrained in them they can’t see the forest for the trees. The seniors mentioned above did get to graduate – and walk at graduation to the dismay of some. However, they lost out on some other rights of passage like Senior Day.  And respect.  They were required to perform many hours of community service and make restitution for the ruined windows.  Many people – in both towns – felt this was not enough.  They felt these seniors deserved the book thrown at them.

But, hey, enough about that.  After all, tonight is the big game.  These same community members will be heading to the stadium.  These same community members were a part of the record attendance at the community pep rallies.  These same community members stood in line for hours to buy their Big Game tickets.  These same community members participated in the annual adult party after the community pep rally.  They have purchased those limited-edition t-shirts. They have even trash-talked the rival team for weeks on Facebook (believe me, I have almost blocked people because of this). They are ready for The Big Game.  As they were last year and the year before – even the parents of those window-painting seniors.

IMG_4029So, what am I going to do as a parent to help my dudes put the rivalry in perspective?  I am going to start by skipping The Big Game tonight.  We are going to visit with friends and talk about other things.  We may even play board games, like Life, Sorry and The Game of Things – a big favorite around these parts.

I guess it will be The Big Game with us tonight, without the limited-edition t-shirts.  Monopoly, anyone?

Today is Jean Day Friday

One of my favorite bloggers, Tales from the Motherland, nominated me for a Liebster Award.  She is a wonderful writer, and I am truly honored for the nomination.

She made me laugh, however, with this comment: “…You’ve gotta tell me: why JeanDayFriday, when your name is Allison. Gotta know. ;-)

Surprisingly this is a question I get a lot. Sadly, the story is not too interesting.  But, I will share anyway, especially at the request of the amazing Dawn from Tales from the Motherland.

I wish this was a quirky tale, a fascinating one dealing with how the name of my blog arrived at me like a beacon of light.  I wish I could simply explain that my middle name is Jean, but, alas, it is not.  Truthfully, my blog name is nothing more than sheer desire to wear jeans to school each and every Friday. Oh yes.  That’s it.  Nothing more than honest vanity (or comfort).

A few years ago, my district began having jean days every Friday.  There was a dollar charge weekly, and those who paid, would get to wear jeans.  The dollars would go to something good for students – scholarships, fundraisers, etc.

At first, only a few people “bought” into the Friday jean-wearing craze.  But now, most participate and love it like I do.

So, each and every Thursday evening, my pal, Views from the Valley, and I would text something like this to each other: Tomorrow is jean day Friday!  Hooray!

This became a saying we used often.  If our Friday wasn’t going too well, we would say, “Hey, you know, it is Jean Day Friday!” Or if Thursday was less than desirable we would say, “At least tomorrow is Jean Day Friday!”

There are so many reasons this fit as my blog title.  For one, Fridays are just plain ol’ good days.  They signal the end of the work week, and the anticipation of the weekend.  Secondly, I dress professionally every day of the week, but Friday is a day where I can whip out the jeans and a school shirt and viola! I am ready for Friday!  Also, it is almost freeing in a strange, silly rebellious way.  I’m sporting jeans today and it’s Friday – Ha!  And most of all, it is something to look forward to, a glimmer of optimism/quirkiness and comfort.

So, I wanted my blog to give a similar mood, tone and feeling that I have when it is Jean Day Friday:  a quick, little smile in the week, and a reminder that it’s the little things that can make the days a bit brighter.

I wanted my blog to be fun and comfortable.  I wanted it to be a place where I could just be myself, close to the way I feel every Friday when I have my jeans on. I wanted it to be happy.  I hope it is some of those things.

Because it is Jean Day Friday after all.

Suz and I sporting on jeans on Friday.

Suz and I sporting on jeans on Friday.

The Birds, the Bees and Puppies

You never know when you may have to explain the birds and the bees to your children.

I did not think this would come into play at their tender ages of 11 and eight, but thanks to my mother-in-law, I had the horror opportunity to tell them a little bit about how babies are made.

One Tuesday night as I was in the middle of teaching a tap class, I received a frantic voice mail from my mother-in-law, Salt.

It went a little like this:  “Allison, hey. We have a problem here. The dogs are stuck together and I don’t know what to do! They have been stuck for over 20 minutes and I can’t get a hold of anyone.  You must call me back as soon as you get this because I just don’t know what to do!”

Reluctantly I returned the call.

“Hi there.  I only have a minute because I am in between classes,” I said.

“Chewie and Maisy got stuck together!  It has been over 30 minutes!  I didn’t know what to do!” she wailed.

“Are they still stuck together?” I asked in a calm voice so I could try and assess the situation.

“No. Finally they got themselves unstuck.  I called the vet because I couldn’t get anyone on the phone,” she exclaimed, her voice revealing how stressful it had been for her. “And the boys wanted to watch it the entire time!  I had to close the curtains!”

After hanging up with her and finishing teaching my dance classes, I ran my dudes to the store.

It would be an understatement to say there were a few questions that were asked.

“Mom, why were the dogs stuck together?”

“Mom, grandma said that Chewie’s penis had to shrink before they could be unstuck.  Why?”

“Mom, what does amorous mean?”

“Mom, why did grandma tell the vet the dogs were ‘getting it on’?  What does ‘getting it on’ mean and where were they getting it on to?”

“Mom, did you know that Chewie looked like he was doing the Harlem Shake on Maisy’s back?”

“Mom, Grandma kept trying to close the curtains so we couldn’t see the dogs. Why was she doing that?”

and the biggest question of all:

“Mom, is that how people make babies?”

OMG.

By this time, I am standing in front of the cashier at Kohl’s.  She is staring at me like I have lost my marbles (which, at that second, I wished was true).  Both boys were staring at me, too, waiting for answers.

Surely this should have been the exact moment I could’ve said, “Ask your father.”  But, alas, I am not that lucky.

I started lightly.  “Amorous means really, really lovey.”  Yes, I took the easiest question first.  Can you blame me?

Next answer: “Chewie probably doesn’t know the Harlem Shake,” but then I asked the stupidest question, “How exactly did this start?

Both dudes jumped at the chance to answer, speaking over each other.  The cashier looked at me like I had horns.

“Well, you see Mom, Chewie came inside and started following Maisy around. I mean, literally, (he uses this word a lot – he is 8) Chewie would not leave her alone,” Squishy chimed in.

“Yeah, and then he started to jump on her and stuff,” said 11-year-old String Bean with a wide-eyed grin, “And he wouldn’t stop, don’t be mad if I say this next part, Mom, OK?  Grandma said it wasn’t a bad word.”

“Ummm, OK, I guess?!” Fear bubbled up inside of me.

“Chewie started humping her.  That is what Grandma called it,” he said, looking at me to gauge my reaction.

Squishy interjects, “Yeah, Mom, it was crazy! It looked like this,” as he begins a vivid demonstration even Elvis would not have attempted on national TV.

“OK. You can stop showing me now,” I said as I pushed them out of Kohl’s.

“And Grandma said Maisy was a hussy.  What exactly is a hussy, Mom?  I’ve never heard of that word before.”

And so it goes.

As I tucked the dudes into bed that night, they were still buzzing about the events of the evening. They were hoping puppies would arrive soon (I did have to break down and explain how puppies are made), and they were bouncing off of the walls about the entire situation.

Squishy did have an ace up his sleeve.  “Mom, look at this!” he said, shoving his iPod in my face, “Here they are stuck together!”

Photographic proof of the event taken by an eight-year-old.  Amorous, indeed.

Stuck together.

Stuck together.

Rationalize It

Last January, I was going to go on a diet/exercise regime.  By the time April rolled around, I realized something. I had actually and successfully poorly rationalized three full months away.

Yeah, these cupcakes do contain calories.

Yeah, these cupcakes do contain calories.

What completely cracks me up about my behavior is that I act as if I am a person who does not rationalize poor choices.  There was a guest speaker at a previous Etech conference (a big technology conference for educators) and he spoke all about how humans rationalize things.  Feeling sick?  It will probably be OK tomorrow.  Eat the cupcake?  Sure, I can work it off.  Another glass of wine?  Heck yes, I deserve a fun night.  And so on.

Sitting there, I thought to myself, “I am not this person.  I don’t rationalize like that at all.”  Then, I looked around at all the suckers who, I thought, probably do over rationalize.  Poor souls, I thought, they are rationalizing their lives away.

Even Jim from The Office rationalizes.

Even Jim from The Office rationalizes.

Hello pot, meet kettle.  Crap.  I was one of those suckers.

I never realized until hearing this speaker and really pondering about it how much I actually rationalize things.  Here are some examples:

If I don’t write on my blog for a few weeks (hello blog, nice to see you again), I rationalize this by saying I have a lot on my plate right now, or I want the blog post to be good, or I am too tired/sick/cranky/silly to write.  Sadly, my last post was before Christmas.  I have rationalized almost a full month of blogging away.               Bad, bad girl.

I also rationalize people’s sometimes poor behavior.  Someone was rude to me earlier this week and instead of just sucking it up and being OK that they don’t like me, I rationalized it by thinking maybe they were having a bad day.  When I saw them in the hallway at the end of the day and they were laughing really hard, I realized they weren’t having a bad day.  They just don’t like talking to me.  Oh well, it happens, right?

Work out? In the cold? Sure! (Not!)

Work out in the cold? Sure! (Not!)

I rationalize other things, too.  My checkbook is one.  Oh, sure, I think to myself, I have money in there, and I really, really need it so it is OK if I go ahead and buy the flenderfloozle.  Not a good plan. And exercising, need I say more?  I am Scarlett O’hara sometimes with this.  I rationalize that the next day is a better day to exercise.  Then I think the next day and the next day until it becomes a vicious cycle with absolutely no exercising.

So, for my one and only New Year’s resolution, I am going to stop rationalizing things.  I am going be honest with myself and know that I am not going to walk outside in 28 degree weather and, instead, opt and read the latest YA novel on my Kindle.  I am going to pass on the gurligeezles and flenderfloozles because I really don’t need them and, if I eat the cupcake, I may not work it off later.

Glad to be back, and I will do my best to try and not rationalize another month away!

Hey, Santa!

Yes, you, Santa, the man in red with the belly bursting out of your suit, the laughter that is practically trademarked and the rosy cheeks from too much exertion after eating junk food.  You.  I have a bone to pick with you.

You, Santa, yeah you.

You, Santa, yeah you.

Look, jolly dude, I am getting tired of not being on your payroll.  You owe me big time.  I am so busy doing things for you, and I am getting sick of not getting any of the accolades.

You need to cough up some dough for this job I am doing for you, Santa.

Let me start with the search for the perfect gifts that I can’t even put my name on.  Yeah, I spent three hours hunting down an obscure Lego set, yet you get the smiles and the thanks.  Really?  Is this fair, Santa baby?  I don’t think so.  And now, both of my dudes want iPods.  These are not cheap, Kris Kringle, and, yet, your name will go on them.  That stinks, bearded man, it really does.  Will you set them up for the dudes?  No?  Oh, so add this to the list of another one of my grievances.

And then there is the Advent calendar.  Each night (or early in the morning when I wake up startled by the fact that I forgot the night before), I run and put little gifts in the Advent calendar.  Gifts that are “supposedly” from one of your minions.  Yeah, the elf that sneaks into our house, i.e. me, is getting ticked, Santa.  So are the dogs.  Why, you ask?  Because they get blamed when there is nothing left in the calendar.  Poor dogs, Santa.  Poor, poor dogs.  They sit, hearing the blame, and tuck their tales between their legs.  Is that fair, Kringle?  Shouldn’t you be sending a reliable elf each night that doesn’t have to swear through piles of essays to grade?  Yes, Santa, you should.  And you owe my sweet, innocent dogs.  Big time.

Creepy Elf. Sneaking into the manger. The horror.

Creepy Elf. Sneaking into the manger. The horror.

And then the creepy Elf on the Shelf.  Do you know where he was one of the mornings?  Why he was sitting next to Mary and Joseph in our manger scene.  He actually moved Mary and the baby Jesus in order to fit in there.  Creepy?  Heck yes, Santa.  He also has these spooky, hollow eyes – I almost feel like he is following me (and even undressing me) with them.  It is a strange feeling, Santa, and one you both should be aware of.  The last thing that looked at me like that, the chocolate Easter bunny, met an untimely demise.  IMG_2889 The dogs are mad at him, too, because they were also blamed for his failure to relocate one evening. I am sure they would like to have him as a chew toy, Kringle, so you need to tell the Elf, who the dudes named Henry, to keep himself out of the dog’s reach.  And stay away from my martini glasses.  Seriously, Papa Noel, those are not for children.

It is diet time, Santa. Yeah, you heard me.

It is diet time, Santa. Yeah, you heard me.

Oh, and Santa?  I just want you to know that I am leaving you carrots and celery this year.  They are for you so don’t try and pass them off to the reindeer.  Maybe it is time you join Cookie Monster in demonstrating a healthy lifestyle.  You need to be careful, Santa dear.  Plus, I have discontinued the candy tradition in the Advent calendar.  Why, you ask?  Have you ever witnessed an eight-year-old who has candy for breakfast?  No?  It is not pretty, St. Nick, but you wouldn’t know anything about that because you haven’t been there to talk a small child down from swinging on the chandelier.

Checking my list.  Twice.

Checking my list. Twice.

Your present this year is a lump of coal.  You are on my naughty list, Santa dude, yes indeed.  You may make it to my good list if, and only if, you can turn that coal into a diamond for me next year.

I need to go, Santa, I am bidding on eBay for a present that is completely sold out at Toys-R-Us.  You owe me.  Big time.  Ho, ho, ho.

Chasing Harry Potter (Legos)

My boys love Legos.  They LOVE them.  I can’t begin to describe this love, but it is very intense in their 11 and 8-year-old minds.  Legos are all over my finished basement.  I am not exaggerating this.  They are EVERYWHERE.  Seriously, I even found one on top of the toilet.  It was Yoda.  He was using the force to change the toilet paper roll (I wish!)

Have you ever stepped on a Lego?  It hurts more than a staple gun.  It is sheer pain, and, chances are, if you step on one, during your hopping and jumping and screaming, you will step on another.  Legos can cause serious injury.  You have been warned.

But, back to Lego Loves.  It is exciting when there are new Lego sets released. In fact, it is a feeding frenzy.  There are phrases such as, “Mom, I neeeeeeed this Lego set,” and, “I must have it today.  Can we go to Toys-R-Us?”  Pathetically, I get in on the action by saying things like, “Oh, yeah, that one is really cool,” and “Is Princess Leia included in that set? If so, we will have to get it!”

The Captain (my husband) gets frustrated with the Lego obsession.  His usual statements are, “Do we really need yet another Star Wars Lego set?” and, “Do we really even know what sets we have down there?”  (Side note:  Notice the “we” in his questions.  The “we” is not only directed at the dudes.  Oh, no.  Who has two thumbs and knows the “we” includes her?  Yeah, this girl.)

The Captain felt this way for a long time.  Until last November when Lego introduced the Harry Potter Hogwarts castle.

This set was the mecca of Lego wonderment.  It looked huge on the internet, and all of us (and I mean all) imagined ourselves in Hogwarts fighting along side of Harry defeating Valdomort.

It had to be ours.

And then, magic happened.  A coupon appeared in my inbox from the toy giant of all toy giants.  Thirty percent off all Legos (except Star Wars Legos, of course).  This was it! After all, who needed the Star Wars Legos when we could be at Hogwarts.  The magic, the mystery, the castle would be ours!  All ours!

So, I ventured to the palace of toys, grabbed the iconic castle and waltzed up to the register.  I presented my coupon and my rewards card (seriously, ten bucks off a later purchase – which would most likely be a Star Wars Lego set – was a supero dealio) and opened my wallet.

Panic.  No wallet was in my purse.  I proceeded to dump it out on the counter in front of the cashier.  Heat was rising in my face as I scrambled to remember where my wallet was.  Bells went off as I realized it was in another purse, and one I had carried for only a pathetic two hours that past weekend.

“Will you take a check?” I asked the cashier while he stared at the feminine hygiene products I was trying to sweep back into my purse.

“Yes, of course, with a driver’s license,” he said, stunned by the massive amount of lipstick, store receipts and gum wrappers that were plopped on the scanner.

“Well, that would be in my wallet, you see, which is in my other purse.  At home.  Thirty miles away,” I added the last bit more for effect.

“Sorry, m’am.  Can’t take a check without a license,” he said as he pulled the glorious castle from the bag.

“Stop!  Put that back!  I have a card in case of emergency – hang on and let me get it!”  Not only did he stop, but now the rest of the store is staring at the frantic woman who is pointing viciously at the cashier with the flashlight on her key chain.

The hallelujah choir began singing.  Birds chirped in the distance.  And a peaceful ocean breeze passed over me as I brought out the shiny blue card.

“Will this work?” I said, smiling like the Mad Hatter.

“Ah, sure,” said the cashier contemplating whether to finish the sale or have me committed.

As I walked out with the bag, glowing in my purchase, I shuddered when remembered the words once spoken to me by The Captain:

“Only use the emergency card in extreme emergencies.”

I stood there, keys in hand, glorious Lego castle encased in the brightly colored bag and paused for a moment thinking to myself: Does this qualify as an emergency?

Ode to the magic of Harry Potter.

It didn’t take me long to load the bag in my car and drive home with it.

I apologized to The Captain, but it wasn’t necessary.  Once he saw the amazing treasure, he, too, was wonder struck by its awesomeness.

Magical times.  Magical times indeed.

The Bet

My husband, The Captain, and I had a bet.  I lost.

I must preface this by saying I knew I was going to lose.  I agreed to the bet on the undeniable fact that I was going to lose.  Heck, I actually wanted to lose.  But I made the bet anyway.

It was: whoever has the most shoes must buy a Keurig.

Going into this, I was aware of my not-so-small obsession collection of shoes.  I am not a shoe crazed maniac or anything (unless I am in DSW with a time limit), but I like shoes.  They always fit.  They always look good.  They are amazing.

Even this mug needs a Keurig.

But, I digress.  I wanted a Keurig.  Badly.  Since our visit to my dad’s home in Houston this past spring, the Keurig was on my mind.  It was so easy to use, and there are oh-so-many flavors to pick from.  It was like a home Starbucks where pajamas and bed-head hair were welcomed with open arms and good coffee creamer.  The Keurig was Heaven in a coffee maker.  I had to have one.

Summer approached quickly, and I couldn’t justify to The Captain why I needed to drop some cash on the Keurig.  Here is a sample of one of our little “discussions” on the topic:

“I really want a Keurig.”

“We have a coffee maker.  We don’t need a Keurig.  Plus, we are going on some vacations this summer,” he said.

“I really want a Keurig.”

“We don’t need a Keurig.  Stop it with the Keurig already.  Geez,” he stated, adding a classic eye roll for effect.

“I really, really want a Keurig.”  By this time, The Captain has left the building (or room if I must get technical).

So, I put on my thinking cap.  “I am going to get that Keurig if it is the last thing I do before the school year ends.”  And then I laughed.  Loud enough to sound like a complete maniac.  Game on, Captain, game on.

A few weeks later, after setting around hints like leaving the computer on pages advertising the Keurig and posting Keurig sale flyers on the family bulletin board, I came up with the ultimate plan.  “I’ll get you, my Keurig, and your little K-cups, too!”

The Captain’s shoes before the bet.

The Captain was standing in the kitchen (he really likes it there, but that is another post for another day), and I began tossing jibes at him.

“You know, for a guy, you really have a massive amount of shoes.”

“No I don’t.  You have tons of shoes,” he said as he began concentrating on loading the dishwasher perfectly.

“I think you have more shoes than I do.  Seriously.  When was the last time you counted your shoes?”

“What are you getting at?  I don’t have more shoes than you do.  No one but your mother has more shoes than you do,”  he said.

“I think you do.  Let’s bet on it,” I stated innocently as my plan was unfolding brilliantly!

“OK.  What do we win if we have the fewest shoes?” he asked.  Dang, I thought, this was way too easy.

“The loser buys a Keurig,” I replied trying to stop my pinkie finger from touching my lip a la Dr. Evil.

“You’re on,” he said, “but there are some stipulations.”

Ugh.  I thought. He is on to me.

“OK.  Spill,” I said, waiting for my plan to evaporate.

“All shoes count.  Even those we don’t wear, OK?” he said, looking to me as if I was going to challenge his little rules.

“Perfect,” I said with a grin spread from cheek to cheek knowing full well the outcome of this bet.

And, as I said, I lost.  My final shoe count was 126 (not including the shoes my mother had dropped off that were hiding in the trunk of my car).  His was 62, although I seem to recall that his was more like 82, but I won’t get technical today.

Home, sweet Keurig.

Surprisingly enough, we are both very much enjoying the Keurig.  My plan worked amazingly well.  Next time, I am going to go for something bigger.  A new TV perhaps.  Wahhahahaha!

Do the Presidential Debate Dougie

Disco inferno with the healthcare strut, the economy twirl and, the ever popular, family values jazz square.

This past Wednesday was the ever famous (or infamous) presidential debate.

For the first time in my adult life, I didn’t watch them.  Instead, I mused as to what might make the debates more intriguing to watch.

I decided a dance off would be a better debate.

Here is my Facebook status from Wednesday night:

Oh, what a wonderful world.

In a dance off, each candidate could pick a popular dance move to perfect.  I am sure President Obama could rock it out with some of the latest moves, like the Dougie or the new Gangham Style.  And Mitt Romney might nail down a few moves such as The Electric Slide or even a country line dance to try and win over his Southern voters.  This would allow them both to loosen their ties and get groovin’.

Afterward, pros from Dancing With the Stars could come in and work with each candidate.  The prerequisite would be a patriotic tribute to the USA, and ties and stick suits would be tossed out in exchange for any silver lame, sequined costume with an American feel encompassing the good ol’ red, white and blue.  Each would have to perform an extensive tango, salsa and swing dance (for those voters who are still swinging on the fence).  The candidates would be judged on their technique, skill and comfort level.  There could even be a text vote for the best dance candidate.  Go star-spangled sequins and spandex!

After the Dancing with the Stars portion, the candidates would be added into a Broadway-style dance competition.  Talented Broadway choreographers would work with Mitt Romney to bring his own version of Patrick Swayze to Broadway’s might-be-produced Dirty Dancing.  After all, nobody puts Mitt in the corner.

Barack Obama would be introduced to the Broadway revival of Xanadu.  He would have crucial tap dancing sessions a la Gene Kelley as well as roller-skating stylings from Olivia Newton John.  Especially since roller-skating builds family values AND is part of a healthy lifestyle.

The final portion of the dance off would be the freestyle.  Each candidate would have to design a dance to represent America’s diversity.  The dance must be at least two minutes in length and should include, but not limited to, the Macarena, the twist (for the baby-boomers), the sprinkler (because who doesn’t like the sprinkler) and the running man.  Hey, even Mitt’s moonwalk and Barack’s Dougie might make for a standing ovation.  BTW, the Glee dancer is Harry Shum Jr.The celebrity judges would be:       MC Hammer (because we can’t touch this), J-Lo, Madonna, Conan O’Brien,  Jimmy Fallon (because he is my fav), the awesome Asian dancer from Glee and the mighty George Lucas because if George Lucas is there, it is a must-see, epic event.

It would be epic indeed.