Don't Count Your Chicks Before They Hatch

Females are not interchangeable. Any man who has encountered more than one woman in his lifetime should probably be able to figure this out. I didn’t think I’d have to say this in the year 2008 but, newsflash, female candidates are not interchangeable either. What, because Hillary Clinton had a very good shot at being elected the first female president of the United States, and female voters supported her campaign, those same female voters will lemmingly follow the next female candidate that is nudged into the spotlight, despite the fact that she is not qualified for the job she is up for? How presumptuous. What a blatant display of shameless pandering. Tsk tsk tsk.

I don't know about you but, I was more than a little offended when Senator John McCain unleashed a female running mate upon us, all the while thinking this would be all it would take to sway the onetime Hillary Clinton supporters in his direction. The political strategists, consultants, pundits, vice presidential search committee members all seem to think that we, women, are all the damn same and, therefore, will all vote the way we are guided (shepherded, really) to vote. They think that, just because a woman is on the ballot, other women will mindlessly vote for her even if she is, clearly, out of her bird. No, I say. This woman here is not that easily swayed. Don’t bother trying to “target” me with your research, polls, and statistics because, guess what? I move.

It seems that, over these past couple of days, this whole Republican vice presidential nomination of Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska has gotten me thinking about the woman I am. This, of course, sent my mind wandering back to my girlhood. You see, as a kid, I used to be forced to go to my parents' restaurant to help out by answering the phones, working the register, making cappuccinos, and filling soda glasses with that soda gun that is, like most things, fun to toy with until you realize it isn't a toy, but actually, a tool for working. That said, there I was, essentially hidden behind the bar (no liquor license in those days) to do my various jobs that earned me, I swear to God, $9 total a night, for what worked out to be seven hours of labor. Still, I didn't mind being stationed back there, despite the insulting pay. I didn’t feel comfortable working the floor because that always required a surplus of BS-ing with customers, so, being behind that fort of a bar suited me just fine. I really couldn’t stand the BS. I mean, who were these people? And why did I have to tell them how I was doing in school?

Anyway, during my time served in the restaurant, my mother had this awful tendency of pawning young customers off on me, not caring if I actually wanted to chat with them, which, of course, I didn’t. I'd hear her as she talked to some random family, addressing the daughter with something like, "Oh, you're 12? My daughter is 12." Then I'd see her point in my direction with the smile she only wore when she looked at me in the presence of paying customers. "That's Sandra. You're both 12. Why don't you go talk to her?" My mother did this a lot. I’d cringe, yes, but ultimately, I would talk to them and make them laugh. I was absolutely polite. Some might even say dutiful; this was a business, after all.

So, often I'd be left to entertain a bunch of young, stranger girls who, because they were of, or about my age, were supposed to be just like me, at least, according to the adults in the vicinity. My mother thought that's all it took, our being 12-year-old girls, to make us instant friends. What she didn't seem to understand was that, unlike me, most 12-year-old girls were already little hoochie mamas with older boyfriends they let touch them "down there". Needless to say, I did not relate to, nor respect these sweet-looking girls who snuck cigarettes and convinced their parents they had a stomach flu when they were really hung over. At 12 years of age I didn't even drink root beer, never mind, beer beer (still don’t), and frankly, undressing my anatomically incorrect Ken doll embarrassed me so much, I just kept him in the same outfit for years. To me, it didn't matter if he and Barbie were at the beach, he was going to stay dressed as an astronaut.

That said, if you must know, while I am perfectly capable of exchanging pleasantries and being hospitable and charming for the sake of making those around me feel more comfortable, I've never fully understood the charade of it all. The phoniness, the Hi, how are you? It's so good to see you! lines of fiction always made me want vomit in my mouth a little when I didn’t care about the people I was forced to talk to. At the very least, I should have tacked my own list of Martin Lutheresque grievances on the door. The truth is, I do not genuinely want to speak to most people. The good thing is this: somewhere between the ages of 22 and 28, I completely stopped caring about whether or not it showed that I didn't like certain people. In other words, as an adult woman, if I don't like you, it will show. And if I do not want to engage in conversation with you, I won't, regardless of whether or not you expect me to. Regardless of whether or not it is good for business.

You see, while my family may still very much be in the restaurant business, I am not. I am my own person, after all. Therefore, you won't get my friendship just by ordering a pizza. Nor will you be entitled to my time and conversation just by being around my age. You have to earn all aspects of the woman I’ve grown up to be. Hence, if you think you’ll get my vote just by virtue of having been born a woman, think again. My vote has to be earned. Governor Palin and I are not the same, after all. She happily deals in BS, while I, happily, escaped it because I, unlike Governor Palin, am not a politician.

Oh, and, unlike Governor Palin, I won’t potentially be a heartbeat away from the presidency of the United States of America any time soon. Thus, because of this, taking the time to learn about what this candidate stands for and what her policies are, as opposed to what kind of a woman she is and how she wears a ponytail, is crucial. It seems to me that when you dismiss individual female voters and clump them together as “the woman vote”, you’ll find, instead, an army, not a sorority, of informed voters who will likely be waving the Obama/Biden winning ticket. In other words, don't count your chicks before they hatch. Not that they were ever yours to begin with.

Attention Wal-Mart Snobbers

Drive for a mere hour and a half in New Jersey and you might encounter corn fields, or sheep and cows grazing, or a red pick-up truck with a not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back. You might see a car show being held at some local, old-fashioned, drive-in burger joint. You might even stumble upon a Wal-Mart and be excited because, well, you've never been to a Wal-Mart. You've never even seen a Wal-Mart. As you suddenly spy a sly fox weaving its way in and out of parking spaces with its clever pointed steps, you might ask yourself if every Wal-Mart has a fox roaming around its parking lot in the middle of the day. Then, as you sneak past the fox, you might actually find yourself inside Wal-Mart, only to find that it is, in fact, like a giant, cluttered garage...before one might wisely decide to either throw everything away or, naturally, have a garage sale. Thus, you might be overwhelmingly disappointed with Wal-Mart.

Still, with a dizziness inspired by the very determined fluorescent lighting, you might stagger along the wide linoleum aisles in your three inch heels and oversized sunglasses wondering why every last sign in the store needs to be that awful shade of blue, and why you're the only person wearing all black. You might go on to survey the other shoppers and notice how nearly all the men are wearing shirts with their sleeves cut off. You might also notice how nearly all of their wives are wearing white or hot pink shorts that are way too tight. Finally, given the distinctive sound echoing from their feet, you might notice that, as they shop, the lot of them are slapping behind their gray carts in flip flops.

At this point you might be wondering how you look within the context of Wal-Mart, but you will not find one mirror on the walls of Wal-Mart. This might annoy you. You might even pout a little in front of the long stretch of shelves stocked with American flags. Then, as you wander into the children's section that is in all kinds of disarray, a Wal-Mart employee donning a rather unfortunate blue vest might come up to you and ask, in a gasping-for-breath kind of way, if you're finding everything you need. You might wonder about her rural spin on a New Jersey accent and think this woman needs to quit smoking, but you might say, thank you, yes, and then make a snide remark about the prosti-tot children's clothing for sale, as you hold up a size 6x push-up bra bikini top for her to witness. She might shake her head at the garment and agree with you about its scandalous nature. You might like her.

This Wal-Mart employee might be named Sheila, and, soon enough, she might start talking to you about how much her 8-year-old daughter's not-so-innocent taste in clothing has been costing her lately, both in terms of money, and in terms of her relationship with her daughter...because they fight all the time. Hearing this, you might lift your sunglasses off of your face and onto your head as Sheila might mindlessly start folding shirts, telling you about how hard the divorce has been on her daughter. "He just left," she might rurally wheeze of her former husband.

Then, as Sheila might be talking, you might (with your big black bag slung over your shoulder, and your big black sunglasses atop your head) start folding shirts, too. At first, you might not even notice you are folding shirts. And then, after some time, you and Sheila might both notice that all the shirts you are folding are either Hannah Montana, High School Musical, or Jonas Brothers shirts. So, Sheila might take this opportunity to tell you how absolutely sick of the Jonas Brothers she is. Then, as you smooth out the sleeves on one of the shirts, you might make a joke about how, even though you don't hate the Jonas Brothers music per se, you still can't seem to resist the urge to make a Jonas-Brothers-Kabob of them by searing each mini-man through his middle with an oversized knitting needle: Kevin-Joe-Nick.

At this, Sheila might laugh so hard that another Wal-Mart employee might come over to ask what was so funny. Sheila might repeat what you said and then both Wal-Mart employees dressed in their Smurfy vests might laugh. Then, as you fold your last High School Musical shirt and get ready to say goodbye, Sheila might reach out to you, put her hand on your shoulder and thank you for making her day. Likewise, you might say, as you exit and head back into the Wal-Mart parking lot, wholly expecting to find that clever fox, but only finding that not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back of a red pick-up truck.

Making a Splash Below the Surface

Everyone is talking about how Michael Phelps' God-given body, coupled with his need to harness his hyperactive energy as a kid, basically determined his fate of becoming the best and fastest swimmer in the whole dang world. How can he keep winning? How is this so easy for him? Well, first of all, Phelps is effectively tireless. Second of all, he has a super-long torso that sits atop his short-ish, sturdy legs. In addition, he has flipper-like, size 14 feet, boasts an arm-span of 6' 2", and happens to be in possession of a heart that pumps twice as much blood, twice as fast as the average man. According to Bob Costas and Company, that's basically how Phelps does it.

Still, along with genetics, Phelps, the freak of nature that he is, goes the extra length and sticks to an intense training regimen. The guy trains so hard and so thoroughly, he only gets out of the pool to eat and sleep. What does he eat, you ask? Well, God bless America, there is nothing healthful about his diet. The guy eats whatever the hell he wants and as much of it as he wants because he burns every last morsel of it in the pool. I love the idea that he is fueled by pancakes and hot dogs. This reaffirms my belief that a sedentary life, not food, is the mortal enemy. People who only eat whole grains, greens, and steamed fish seem desperately sad to me. They are the same people who, upon receiving their own gold medals, always look as though they would have preferred to have been given chocolate medallions wrapped in gold foil, or burgers wrapped in crinkly yellow paper. Thank you for the gold medal. Now, point me toward the golden arches.

Anyway, all this talk about the body that Phelps inhabits has gotten me thinking about my own seemingly pathetic vessel. What was I built for? Do I have the body of an Olympian, or a simian? A bold build, or a blogger's bod? Baby-maker, or babysitter? I wonder, for what purpose did God make my particular frame? What can we tell by looking at ourselves and at one another, on the surface? Are we ever correct to assume anything about anyone based on what we see?

My nose might tell you that I am a singer, which I am. My hands might tell you that I am not a guitarist, which I am not. My hair might tell you that I am Italian, which I am. However, my skin tone might tell you that I am Scandinavian, which I am not. And my size ten body? Well, that might tell you that I have high cholesterol and high blood pressure, and cannot run fast. The thing is, I don't, I don't, and, somehow, I can.

That last point, specifically, has been perplexing those around me since I was a big little girl trying to fake her own death to get out of gym class. I was egregiously bad at anything that required endurance and hand-eye coordination, yes, but speed was a different matter. My running of the 50-Yard-Dash, for example, never failed to stun every insensitive gym teacher I have ever had. This, of course, was always followed by a comment along the lines of, "You know, Bazzarelli, you've got potential. If you ever got with the program and dropped that extra weight you insist on carrying around with you, you might be able to really do this." One of my gym teachers even made it a point to tell my guidance counselor that I could be a sprinter if I, "laid off Pop's pizza." Which reminds me, what an asshole.

Anyway, these backhanded compliments never really did anything to persuade me to take up running and put down my fork because, honestly, I never liked to run and always felt self-conscious when I was forced to. That being said, what this attention being paid to my running did do was this: it made me aware of something else God had given me, but for a non-Olympic reason, I assure you. To this day, I'll only race against someone when that someone needs to be taught a lesson on the foolishness of making assumptions. In other words, my running might tell you that I am a teacher, which I am.

Now, over these past couple of days I've heard many a sports commentator talk about how Michael "Superman" Phelps was made for what he's doing. This, I believe, given all those gold medals and world records of his, is hard to deny. Still, that's not to say he wasn't made to do other things as well. Not everything shows at a glance, after all. Not even if you live your life in a Speedo.

Zzzzzz...

When I was a teenager, I could sleep like a champion. I should have been given a trophy, I was so adept. Even in my early twenties, sleeping was not a chore by any means. I had no trouble falling asleep and even less trouble staying asleep. Nowadays, however, I'm lucky if I can get three hours a night. It takes me forever to fall asleep, and when I do drift off, finally, I tend to wake up every 40 minutes or so. Anything will wake me. The slightest sound is like a tornado ripping the roof off my house, wind-whipping me out of bed and into a stone-cold-red-alert state that is nearly impossible to wind down from.

When it comes to sleeping, my intentions are as good as they come. I earmark plenty of hours of sleep time for myself and look forward to getting some rest. I get myself mentally prepared, picturing myself being in bed snoozing long before I'm even in my bedroom. While I'm getting ready for bed, I'm lulling myself to sleep with the mere idea of being asleep. Yawn. I love my bed. Yawn. I am going to feel so cozy and snug once I am in my bed. Yawn. I am going to go to sleep now...cozy and snug in my bed that I love. Sweet dreams for me. Goodnight, Moon.

I have turned off the ringers on my phones. I have set my alarm for the next morning. I have gotten all settled and set, turned the light off and...nothing. Sleep does not come. I wait it out for a spell. Nothing. I turn the light back on. I read a book or a magazine. I get fantastically sleepy. I turn the light off again and...nothing. I grab my headphones and listen to some tunes. I yawn. My body aches. I am desperately tired but...nothing. I turn the light back on and I write some notes, maybe an idea for a song, or a poem, or a short story. Maybe a to-do list for the next day, or an idea for a class project or essay topic that I just had as I stirred, here in my well-intended, but not-quite-realized slumber that is so not a party, it isn't even funny.

I'm just here. Tossing and turning. Pillows and sheets and comforter are strewn about. They are the debris of a sleepless night of the not-so-interesting kind. I am waiting. Thinking. What did I wear last Thursday? How many cups are in a gallon? I wonder if the new Batman movie really is cursed. I like Morgan Freeman. Is my nose losing weight? My nose feels so bony. I wonder if I could break my own nose with just my thumb and my index finger. I look at the clock again and again. The hours are ticking by and I am still awake. I am not sleeping. In my head I am writing what will become my latest blog entry.

I remember watching a CNN special report a while back about how America's lack of sleep was becoming America's number one health problem. At the time I had little to no sympathy for the sleepless. What's the big deal? Just go to sleep, people. Well, it's at least ten years later, and now I know what all the quacking was about. Suddenly, I can't sleep either. Overall, I suspect it's gotten much worse, statistic-wise. How many of us can't fall asleep and stay asleep once we fall?

Given all the sleep aid commercials I see on any given night, I'd imagine that at least half of us can't accomplish what seems like the simplest, most natural task, despite our best efforts. Hence, why else would the pharmaceutical companies be so diligently trying to cash in? The demand is great and the problem is real. Studies show that people who sleep fewer than 6 hours a night don't live as long as those who get seven or more hours.

Plus, sleeplessness leads to carelessness and accidents. Drowsy driving is equivalent to drunk driving. According to the National Highway Transportation Board, drowsiness and fatigue behind the wheel account for more than 1,500 deaths each year. Sleepiness is also to blame for mistakes and disasters on the job. The Exxon Valdez oil spill, the Challenger explosion, and the Chernobyl and Three Mile Island nuclear meltdowns were all caused by folks suffering from sleep deprivation. So, yes, it is both a health problem and a safety issue. I just don't think pills are the answer.

For the past few years different doctors have tried to prescribe sleep medication to me, but I have always refused. I've heard enough horror stories about people who drive to work in their pajamas at three in the morning because their sleep aids don't shut down the act-out-my-dreams part of their brains. I've also heard about the sleep "hangover" where the sleep lingers all day long. Who wants to experience that? Before you know it, you've become a bloated, sequined Elvis, popping a pill to fall asleep, and then a pill to wake up until you've died on the toilet. Can you believe that they even go so far as to prescribe this stuff to children?

By the way, the Lunesta commercials confuse me. Butterflies at night? Do butterflies fly at night? I know they like to hang out and rest when it's overcast, but does that suddenly make them the owls of the insect world? Whoo whoo came up with this? And that sixth-grade-roller-rink-green-glow-stick effect...what's up with that? If you're an insomniac butterfly and you are interested in taking Lunesta, side effects may include glowing in the dark and fluttering around at night over the heads of actors who are pretending to be sleeping soundly with smiles on their faces for the sake of selling this drug to the masses who will take it because they are too tired to pay attention to the side-effects.

There's also Ambien. Isn't that the name of that trippy, out-there-in the-atmosphere music? No wait. That's Ambient. Yeah, not that different when you think about it, given the side-effects.

Some Ambien side-effects:

(AssociatedContent.com)

- Daytime Drowsiness, Dizziness, Weakness, feeling "Drugged" or Light-Headed- Lack of Coordination- Amnesia, Ability to Forget Certain Things- Vivid or Abnormal Dreams- Diarrhea, Nausea, Vomiting- Headache, Muscle Pain- Blurred Vision- Hives; Difficulty breathing; Swelling of the face, lips, tongue, or throat

Irony alert! Irony alert!

- Experiencing Less Sleep

Wait! It gets better!

- Depression, Suicidal Thoughts- Unusual Risk-Taking Behavior, No Fear of Danger, Decreased Inhibitions- Feeling Aggressive or Agitated- Hallucinations, Confusion, Loss of Personality

Still, this has to be the best one:

(Drugs.com)

Some patients taking Ambien have performed certain activities while they were not fully awake. These have included sleep-driving, making and eating food, making phone calls, and having sex. Oh. My. God. Patients often do not remember these events after they happen. Oh. My. God. Such an event may be more likely to occur if you use a high dose of Ambien . It may also be more likely if you drink alcohol or take other medicines that may cause drowsiness while you use Ambien . Tell your doctor right away if such an event happens to you. Um, like, I thought you didn't remember.

I now present to you, the side-effects of Lunesta:

(Drugs.com)

Lunesta may cause a severe allergic reaction. Stop taking Lunesta and get emergency medical help if you have any of these signs of an allergic reaction: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat. Sound familiar? Stop using Lunesta and call your doctor at once (in the event that your swollen tongue doesn't get in the way of your speaking, of course) if you have any of these serious side effects: aggression, agitation, changes in behavior; thoughts of hurting yourself; or hallucinations, hearing or seeing things (like green, glow-in-the-dark butterflies)

And these are the "less serious" side-effects of Lunesta:

Day-time drowsiness, dizziness, "hangover" feeling problems with memory or concentration (Huh? What'd you say?) anxiety, depression, nervous feeling headache nausea, stomach pain, loss of appetite, constipation dry mouth mild skin rash unusual or unpleasant taste in your mouth (It's apparently a metal taste that lasts all day. Yummy! No wonder you're not hungry. Hey, maybe you should take Ambien at the same time so that, in your "sleep", you can cook yourself a meal and eat it.)

Anyway, that's it. The end. Now, I don't know about you but, don't these "aids" seem worse than the problem itself? That said, I suppose a positive could come from this long and winding list of negatives. Instead of counting sheep...we can just count side-effects. Now, that might actually help.

Are you getting sleepy?

Dollar Dollar Bill

Do you remember when love songs of the R&B variety weren't about strippers? You know, before R&B slow and mid-tempo jams were infused with hip hop vernacular and swagger? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy well-crafted hip hop songs and the pop culture-laden, wink wink lyrics of many modern day R&B artists. Chris Brown's, "You're like Jordans on Saturday," line comes to mind.

That said, doesn't a squarely romantic R&B song seem like a faint memory when you're listening to the radio nowadays? I don't get it. A woman would have to be able to relate to a woman who would "make love in this club" in order to swoon and daydream along to one of these songs. Is this who you have to be to get a song written about you? Are these the songs men are dedicating to their girlfriends? Who are these girlfriends? It's whore-able.

Let me tell you something. Not too long ago, Mr. Wyclef Jean passed me on the street outside The Hit Factory in NYC. I didn't say anything to him. However, had I somehow managed to summon the nerve, I might have sarcastically said, "Hey, Mr. Jean. I have an idea. Why don't you write a song about a stripper?" Granted, his stripper songs are more cautionary tales, "real talk" about the trials and tribulations associated with stripper life, but, in case you haven't noticed, this awesomely talented man (Gone Till November is still one of my favorite tracks ever) has about five songs in his repertoire that are about those who shake their money-makers.

It seems a little unbalanced, if you ask me, especially when you consider the myriad of topics one in his position could potentially write about. I guess it would be fine if he were the only one recording these ditties, but there are a slew of other writers and producers out there who are just banging these things out and cashing their checks one after another. It never ends. It's like a stripper song franchise. Ho's for Ho's, I suppose.

And these songs creep up on you, don't they? You can be driving along in your car, listening to a beautiful melody with beautiful sentiments being beautifully expressed ever-so-sincerely via the most seductive male singing voice on the planet, thinking, Hey, this could be about me. Someone could love me this way someday. What a lovely song with such...BOOM! The ass lyric. The reference to the pole. The shaking it. The dollar dollar bill. The letdown. This isn't about me.

So, in my spare time I like to make up parody songs with awful stripper-centric lyrics that I perform for friends and family. The thing is, even the most ridiculous lyrics I can conjure up seem like they could actually be the lyrics to some of these songs that are so pervasive.


Example:

Girl, I been lovin' you so much for so long
Ain't no way I gon' stop it
Cuz, girl, the love I feel for you is so strong
When you pop ya ass and drop it


Insanely stupid, right? And yet, utterly plausible. Maybe this already is in a song. Who knows. (Sigh) Maybe I'm just getting old or something. Maybe, since they are wildly popular, I'm the only one who takes issue with these songs. Still, while this may very well be the case, don't you sometimes wonder what songs couples will be choosing as their wedding songs in the very near future? After all, the guy who sings about being "in love with a stripper" will probably need a tune to slow dance to on his big day...when he marries the preacher's daughter.

Profoundly Disturbed

There are a few things that disturb me so profoundly that, when I'm forced to think about them, I can almost hear myself calling upon God in some silent way to ask, WTF? I tell God to do a better job, for Chrissakes, knowing full well that God probably isn't listening because God is likely too caught up in Facebook at the moment. Thus, I force myself to think of something else, as I try to navigate my way through the horror on my own, by my-damn-self.

See, any true story about the rape of a child, any true story about genital mutilation, and any true story about a beheading, causes me to feel so emotionally, spiritually, and physically assaulted, that all the cells in my body seem to pinch themselves shut simultaneously, causing me to fall into something I can't fully describe. Maybe it's my own humanity that gets kicked in the gut at these moments, the core of goodness most of us have but don't generally tap into too deeply. I don't know. All I know is that, even with so many disturbing truths in our world, these are the three that, every time they come up in the news, kill something in me.

So, why am I bringing this up? Well, at lunch yesterday, my brother recounted the story of Tim McClean, a twenty-two-year-old kid who was traveling in Toronto, Canada, taking a Greyhound bus from Edmonton to Winnipeg. Apparently, as Tim McClean napped, an unprovoked, unidentified insane man pulled out a knife and methodically began to stab him as he screamed in agony. Then, with the same knife that he had been doing the stabbing with, he cut off Tim McClean's head. I can barely type this, I swear to God. If you aren't familiar with the whole story, here: http://www.canada.com/montrealgazette/news/story.html?id=7886faf4-e8e9-4217-ac1d-66563d16ec9f.

I can't imagine. I really can't.

My God, that poor kid.

Sort of Right, But Sort of Wrong

My five-year-old niece and I got into a war of words the other day over, of all things, a Miley Cyrus song. I was trying to perform 7 Things I Hate About You to the audience of my own reflection, courtesy of my niece's in-wall aquarium, but she kept interrupting me to tell me that I was messing up the words. I was getting it all WRONG WRONG WRONG!

"She says 7 things I like about you, not hate," my niece insisted.

"Yes," I said, in my very patient teacher voice. "But she only says that when she sings the chorus for the last time. She changes it from hate to like at the end."

I then took my explanation one step further.

"You see, she's only saying she hates him because her feelings are a little bit hurt, but she really likes him. Get it? The song is called 7 Things I Hate About You, I promise I'm not lying."

"WRONG WRONG WRONG! It's like. It's like. She says 7 things I LIKE about you, and that's it. She never says HATE. SHE NEVER SAYS HATE."

And with this, she started to come unhinged. Her eyes began to water and her nostrils flared. She looked like someone whose entire belief system was on the verge of being shattered by someone she once trusted. Her face seemed to read, Why are you pushing me? I'm right. You're wrong. I'm SURE. Stop messing with me, you crazy poopy head!

Now, at the sight of this, any other adult, I'm SURE, would have just said, Okay, okay...it's LIKE; you're right, just to put the kid's mind at ease.

Nope, sorry. I don't play that. I tell kids the truth, even if they think they don't want to hear it. How else are they supposed to learn how to trust you? I don't rub it in their faces or anything, but I don't believe in BS at any age level. Sometimes, because it has to be, it's a softer version of the truth, but the truth nonetheless. And sometimes I just tell it like it is. For example, when one of my students asked me if getting your ears pierced hurts, I said yes...because it does. She said, "But my mommy said it doesn't hurt."

"Your mommy is lying," I said. "But if you want to be able to wear earrings, you have to get your ears pierced. You have to decide if it's worth the pain."

The next day, after her having gotten her ears pierced at the mall, she came to class and reported on her experience.

"You were right, Miss Sandra. It did hurt. But at least now I can wear earrings."

See? The truth is a good thing. Anyway, back to the song.

"Listen," I said. "I'm sorry you're upset, but I'm correct. You'll hear for yourself when the song comes on."

An hour later, while my niece and I were in her kitchen sharing a slice of cheesecake, we heard the song. It was coming from the TV in the living room, the TV that is perpetually tuned to the Disney Channel. We dashed toward it, practically pushing each other into the wall in the process.

And there she was, Miley Cyrus, in her slick new video, singing 7 Things...I LIKE About You.

"Ha!" my niece blurted out before she effortlessly slid into a very sing song-y, "Told you so. Told you so. You got schooled. It's LIKE. It's LIKE. You were wrong."

How was I to know that the Disney Channel only plays the last part of the video, neglecting the hate altogether? This is the only bit of the song my niece has ever heard because A) she has yet to hear it in its entirety on the radio, and B) she does not watch MTV.

So, to her and to millions of other young Miley Cyrus fans watching the Disney Channel, Miley just straight-up likes 7 things about you. I mean, Disney should just go ahead and call itself the Disinfectant Company once and for all. Really.

Unwilling to let her revel in her perceived victory, even if she is just five years old, I tried to clarify things, for her sake, of course.

"You were sort of right, but sort of wrong," I said. "When you come over my house I'll let you hear the real version of the song, not the baby one."

My niece's eyes narrowed suddenly. And then, sailing through the air and toward my head came her enormous satin-faced Miley Cyrus pillow.

"Oh yeah?" I said. "Is that what a Miley Cyrus fan does? She throws stuff with Miley's face on it all around? Huh? Do you think Miley Cyrus would like that you threw her pillow? I don't think so."

Stomping toward me, scowling the whole way, my niece approached me and dramatically snatched the pillow up from the ground where it lay.

"This," she said, pointedly pointing to the smiling face on the pillow she was now holding, "is NOT Miley Cyrus. Don't you see she's wearing a blonde wig? Don't you see she's in character? This," she repeated, "is Hannah Montana."

Again, sort of right, but sort of wrong. Like I said, the truth is a good thing, it just fails to be an uncomplicated thing at the same time.