Can't win'em all

Thanks "American Idol" for inspiring me.

No, I don't have any ambitions to audition for the show - though I can probably belt it out like the rest of them. I was reminded of the fact that sometimes the runner-ups find brighter glory.

I've been on pins and needles all week waiting on some important news - to see if I was one of three finalists chosen for MTV's College Affordability Challenge. I got an email last week asking for a conference call, as I was "under consideration" to be part of the lucky trio. From there, the public would pick the best idea of the group, allowing the winner to get a $10,000 scholarship and the opportunity to see his or her idea come to life.

During the conference call I was asked questions about my inspiration, about my own financial aid experiences and how my model for a better financial aid process - one that would lure the vast population of American students - would be different from what's already out there. I was a little nervous on the phone - I'm better with in-person interviews, but I did well. The rest was in God's hands.

Today, I got an email saying that the decision was tough, but I wasn't one of the final three.

Sigh.

But still, I was told how "excellent" my idea was. And that mine - chosen out of more than 200 entries - had made it into the top five. That's a pretty big deal in of itself - quite resume worthy.

There were just three entries that fit the judges criteria more - and they'll get to fly to D.C. next week. In hindsight, I probably should have made my idea a bit more unique as I initially wanted to integrate my idea with an existing platform. My thinking was that it would cost less money and be a win-win for all - a new and improved social media model with all the bells and whistles.

Oh well. God must know what he is doing.

I wish the finalists, whoever they are, much success.

Now, back to my "American Idol" musings. Not winning isn't so bad (at least after the initially sadness-in-the-bottom-of-your-soul-feeling goes away). It just motivates those who come so close to work that much harder, to prove themselves that much more because they know they have what it takes to be in the winner's shoes.

People love underdogs.

For me, it's been so encouraging to come so close to winning something so big because it proves I have a great mind to employ awesome ideas.

That alone will take me far in life.

Santa breaks into houses and elves stalk you - Merry Christmas!

I've never believed in Santa Claus.

Ever.

It's not that I didn't want to believe in him. It's just that no one ever explained the concept to me. Or maybe they did, but I just didn't buy into it. I don't remember my parents ever mentioning him to me, though. In fact, we never had conversations about it - except that it was Jesus' birthday and that baby Jesus got gifts. My earliest Christmas memories was me being awakened by my dad and lead into the living room where a bunch of presents were waiting for me. It wasn't my birthday - but who was I to complain!

So I figured: Christmas presents + being lead by my dad to the Christmas tree = Dad bought the gifts.

I was a smart little girl.

On the flip side of this, my younger sister grew up believing in Santa (how odd is that?!). She believed for the longest time - until her 12th birthday, if not longer. She believed after my parents divorce when the "Santa" of the household disappeared from our lives. She believed when Santa would leave notes thanking her for the cookies she left - even when those notes looked just like my mom's really bad handwriting. It's amazing, the faith of little children.

To this day, my now 20-something-year-old sister claims that one Christmas she actually saw Santa peak into our bedroom before he left.

With all this in mind, there's a new myth to add to the holiday mix - something called Elf on a Shelf. I had a friend mention this on her Facebook recently and I had no idea what she was talking about but it seemed to have her little girl giddy with Christmas cheer.

So this morning, as I was out running errands and the like, this Elf on a Shelf resurfaced as a topic on a morning radio show. The hosts were talking about how creepy the concept is. Apparently, Elf on a Shelf  "magically" appears in the home Dec. 1. The Elf (parents can name it whatever they want) serves as "Santa's helper," keeping an eye on your kids until Christmas, reporting any kind of mischief back to Santa for the naughty and nice list. The Elf is to appear in a different area of the house each morning - sitting and watching your every move.

It was funny to hear parents call in to the radio show about this thing. One mom called, saying that when her husband told their 3-year-old twins about the Elf - how they should expect him to magically appear in a different room of the house each morning - they stared back at him with strange looks. So he decided to tweak the Elf rule to just "the downstairs."

Other parents, not wanting to unnerve their kids with the story of some random Elf (stranger/danger!) showing up at the house - magically popping into room to room like some elfish stalker- told their kids  that since the Elf was a hard little worker at Santa's workshop all year, he gets the "privilege" of coming to stay with a family for the Christmas season . . . while all the while watching your every move.

All I have to say is at least Elf on a Shelf is not a Clown on a Shelf. Or Chucky on a Shelf.  Both would be totally creeeeepppppyyyy - in a "hide yo kids, hide yo wife and your husband" kind of way.

I think when I have kids, I'll just stick to telling them about good ol' non-stalkerish St. Nick - the jolly old dude with the beard who breaks into people's houses in the middle of the night to eat cookies and leave bunches of gifts.

How to save a life

I don't care if my kids don't look like me.

They don't have to be a special order of brown eyes, black hair, brown skin, plum-colored glasses and a perfect smile. 

I thought of this today when I was listening to a fav podcast of mine. The subject was the unexpected topic of adoption. Apparently November is national adoption month. 

I'm not adopted, neither am I in the position to adopt. I want to get married one day and have kids of my own - hopefully twins - a boy and girl (that way I can just go through childbirth once). But I have thought about adoption as something I could see myself possibly doing one day, whether I have my own kids or not. 

My muse? "Slumdog Millionaire."

I love bollywood movies and the Indian culture in general, so I was really excited to rent this film a year or so ago. Yet it's a film I'm afraid to watch again. Don't get me wrong, I loved it. But after the intense roller coaster drama, followed by the happily-ever-after-song-dance-ending, I sat on my living room floor starring at the TV screen for some time in a heavy sadness. I was thinking about the Indian orphans in the film - their rough street life, the circumstances they had been dealt yet didn't ask for. It made me want to hop on a plane and save a life - to give one of those little ones a better existence.

I thought about all that when I heard the podcast today. 

It doesn't really matter if a child ends up in a home where nobody looks like them, in a neighborhood far removed. What matters is that he or she has a home to go to - and a family that loves the child as if he or she was from their own DNA. 

As the blog turns

I was going to write about how much I enjoyed seeing The Weepies last week until a mild illness got in the way. Then I thought about turning that post into why I can concentrate better listening to music (i.e. Weepies) while doing homework than with the TV on (which makes me totally ADD).

But then this theory got debunked today when I spent all afternoon working with the TV playing soap operas and me actually engaged. The funny thing is I'm not even into soap operas anymore and I could never sit through an episode of "All My Children." But I got drawn into it today. I got hooked when I saw a courtroom scene disrupted by some random guy who walked in. Mouths dropped left and right. Not knowing what was going on I thought,  He probably came back from the dead or something. 

Sure enough, I was right.

Soap operas are the only place where people come back from the dead as if it's a normal process of life.

To be like this

I have a handful friends who don't give a dime about what other people think of them. From time to time, they remind me about this fact in the funniest of ways. An old high school acquaintance comes to mind. To this day she's still the same - loud and proud and quick to tell you she doesn't care if you try to rain on her parade. She'll just parade louder.

I'm glad for people like her and yet envious at the same time, as if they've found a slice of life that I haven't been offered yet. Or maybe I've already been offered it and am too afraid to taste the foreignness of it. Maybe it's something I have to develop a taste for.

I am stuck between not caring and caring. I blame it on the people-pleasing side of me.

Shall it rule no more.

I am one who likes paving her own path yet at the same time wonders what people are thinking about me when I do or don't do. Am I too much me? Not enough me?

But that's silly to think - how can you fail at being you?

You only fail when you start listening to everyone else - to the people who haven't really invested in you to begin with, and at the end of the day, could care less. Yet why are their voices the loudest?

I tell myself that the only voices that matter are God and my momma  - and every once in a while not even my momma. A few older mentors in my life matter too. I guess when I get married I can add my husband to that small list. And perhaps his mom - because everybody cares about what the mother-in-law thinks, whether they admit it to themselves or not.

My newest fix

Mark Ronson's latest album "Record Collection."

I heard about him listening to NPR a couple of days ago. Haven't downloaded the whole thing - just my superfavs: Record Collection (Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran sings the chorus, which initially attracted me to the album).

Somebody to Love Me (with Boy George) is also catchy, though the video is horrible.

And though I didn't buy it, I kinda like Circuit Breaker in all its video-sounding 1980s gameness.

Attraction of the day

I was on my way to lunch today when I saw A CAR ON FIRE! In a church parking lot!

Flames and black smoke poured out of the car, which was parked nice and neat in one of the vacant spaces in front of the church.

As I drove by slowly, I did a double and triple take. I couldn't figure out if I should stop or not. Maybe it wasn't real. Just for show, you know. Maybe it was part of a church message like: You'll burn in hell for ... for ... just 'cause. 

Okay, maybe it wasn't a church message. What church burns cars for fun?

What really happened to make a car go up in smoke?

As I drove by, I saw a man, woman and child stand on the other side of the church, peering around the corner at the car in flames. Maybe it was theirs. They kept their distance. I was surprised no one was yelling. It was the calmest car-on-fire scene ever. Even Hollywood couldn't have reproduced it better. A few cars pulled into the church lot. For a second, I had to remind myself that I wasn't a reporter anymore and that I didn't have to call an editor.

But should I stop?

With three cars pulling into the lot, I decided to keep on going. To not get involved. Yet, something pulled at me as I drove off. I felt like a bad citizen. If that were me standing there and my car was on fire, I'd want people to stop. I drove on for about a quarter of a mile. At a traffic light, I contemplated turning around. That's when I heard the sirens of a firetruck. All would be well.

Hmmm . . . Okay, so maybe not so well - somebody is out of a car - but at least the fire was put out.