Tina Fey has been my idol for some time now. Then Sheryl Sandberg came along and I’m all like, “Gah! You are amazing! Thank you for all you do!” So, I was pretty psyched this morning when I read about the start of the Ban Bossy campaign.

I hate the word “bossy.” Hate it. Maybe it was because I was the target of “bossy” a lot as a child. I’m the oldest child and grandchild. I’m a natural extrovert with enthusiastic tendencies. My ideas for games and activities, coupled with my excitement, meant I often rallied the troops on the playground or in the neighborhood for some fun adventure or another. Sometimes this rubbed other kids the wrong way and I was called “bossy.” The worst was other neighborhood kids’ mothers calling me a “hot shot” or telling their kids not to put up with me being bossy. I don’t remember the same of the boys in the neighborhood. The boys were never criticized for being bossy. They were praised for being leaders. I was “pushy.” They were “persuasive.” It was crap.

 Me at age 9 or 10, likely hoping not to be called “bossy” for being myself.

The scourge of puberty and and my bossy label meant I occasionally shied away from my natural leadership tendencies as a young adolescent for fear of not being liked. I think for a lot of girls it is more important to be well-liked than respected. This follows many of us into womanhood, myself included. As it was pointed out in numerous articles today, “bossy” leads to “the other b-word.”

Someone implied that my three-year-old daughter might follow my footsteps and become “bossy” like her mother. This implication made my blood boil. This quote from Sandberg is the best. “I want every little girl who’s told she’s bossy to be told she has leadership skills.”

image: Wikipedia

So, I’m all about the #banbossy campaign and I salute Sandberg’s Lean In and the Girl Scouts for starting it, but I think it needs to go even further. This quote from Sarah Silverman really struck a chord with me. “Stop telling girls they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. I think it’s a mistake. Not because they can’t, but because it never would have occurred to them they couldn’t.” 

image: upr.org

Someone with the best intentions pointed out to my daughter the other day that “Girls can do anything boys can!” Blerg! Shhh! Of course they can! Why wouldn’t they?! Don’t point it out to her. She probably never would have thought of it if someone hadn’t brought it up. Stop talking about how “girls can play sports too!” Blah! Blah! Blah! Just sign them up for sports, let them run for office in their classes and if the issue of sexism comes up, address it then, but don’t make it an issue before it is.

My daughter just finished learning all about the presidents in preschool. She even wrote a letter to President Obama. I did not point out to her that none of the presidents were women. I refuse to make a big deal about Hillary Clinton running for office in 2016. When she wins and becomes the first woman president, I refuse to make a big deal about her being a woman to my kids.

For daughter AND my son, I want the idea of a woman president to be an obvious part of life. I want the idea of a female boss to be typical, and the idea that she was bossy to get there, bogus.

Dear Mr. Costas,

First, let me say that I have always admired you as a journalist. Your storytelling is amazing. The Sandusky phone interview, epic. A true professional. Thanks for all the years of sports history. I also love hearing your voice in “Cars.” I think I speak for all parents of preschoolers when we tell you we’ve seen that movie no less than 900 times, so thank you for the subtle adult pop culture references to keep us entertained.

Getting down to business. Congrats on your viral hastag, #SaveBobCostasEye. Sorry about that other viral or bacterial thing you have going on. You know, the eye.  The concensus on Twitter has been that you washed your face with the yellow Russian water despite numerous warnings taped around Sochi hotels. You called it a “minor infection.” It stinks that you have to wear your glasses on air, but it is awesome that you charmingly compared yourself to “Peabody and Sherman.” That’s why we love you, Bob.

I have a suggestion on how to cure it. It’s gross, but hear me out. Don’t worry, I have a Bachelor’s degree from a liberal arts state university, so you can feel comfortable taking medical advice from me.

New Year’s Day I woke up with goopy mucous oozing from my itchy red eye. Unlike you, I don’t have the fine doctors provided by NBC Universal that you have with you in Sochi. Where was I going to get prescription drops for pink eye on a holiday?! I wasn’t. So I took drastic measures. I had drops available. Where, you ask?

Wait for it.

Bear with me.

I used my breast milk.

In my eye.

I know. It sounds repulsive. But breast milk is sterile and has antibiotic properties. The stuff is amazing! It cured it that day. Seriously. Gone. No, I did not squirt it in my eye. Come on, Bob that’s crazy. I dabbed some on my finger from the bottle and dropped it in.

Now I have found numerous uses for it including: baby Eczema, baby stuffy nose, cradle cap, dry skin, dry contact lenses and canker sores.

Oh, wait! That’s right. You are likely not lactating. Hmm. That spoils my plan for you. Again, I’m not a doctor but I wouldn’t recommend using someone else’s breast milk. That would just be weird. About as weird as some woman writing a blog post in the form of a letter to you about curing pink eye with breast milk.

So, sorry Bob. We will all just have to deal with your weepy red eye a few days longer. I blame Putin for somehow infecting those baby blues with his crazy. Keep up the good work! Happy Olympics!

Sincerely,

Amy

P.S. Go Team USA!

The news that former American Idol runner-up and Raleigh native, Clay Aiken was running for congress in North Carolina brought a smile to my face yesterday. I watched him in numerous TV interviews during his media blitz. His red hair, familiar native twang and sparkly eyes reminded me of another time. A quirky phase I went through in my life.

I have already voted for Clay Aiken. Oh, yes. I was one of millions who voted for him back in 2003. My roommate and one of my dearest friends, Sara and I shared an apartment near campus. I was 21. I turned 22 that summer. We were college seniors who were just a summer semester away from graduating when we watched every episode of American Idol. Okay, I made Sara watch every week because I was captivated by this kid from my home city.

He had a nice singing voice. We were just two years apart in age. I knew some people he knew and he just seemed like a really nice guy. I loved seeing a hometown kid succeed on the nation’s most popular show. I joined the message boards and encouraged Clay support with my AIM icon. I bought the Rolling Stone magazine with his picture on the front and made Sara go to a Kelly Clarkson/Clay Aiken concert with me where I may or may not have bought a t-shirt. I understood why girls were all about him. He was non-threatening and charming. Unlike some of the “Claymates” however, I was not surprised when he came out a few years later after his fame from the show had faded. I was happy for him that he felt like he could say that he was gay and be who he was.

Am I a little embarrassed of my silly infatuation in 2003? Of course. I was a little too old for that. But, I think the reason I had a summer fling with Clay Aiken was that subconsciously I was clinging to my last bit of lighthearted, teenage fun. Voting for a contestant on a reality show was a welcome distraction from my first real-world scary, frustrating job search. That was the summer I ended my internship, finished my final classes of undergrad and had interviews for a real jobs at TV stations. That was the summer I said goodbye to my college friends and moved back home with my parents because that’s where the job was and I had no choice but to face the startling, adult reality that I had no money and no where to go. Little did I know, when summer turned to fall I would fall in love with the man who would eventually become my husband. I quickly left the room at my parents house for an apartment I shared with him. Stashed in that girlish closet were old prom dresses, sorority photos and even a Clay poster taped to the inside of the door where no one would see the evidence of my fandom.

Me and my husband in Oct. 2003

Yesterday, the 32-year-old woman that I am now rocked the baby and wiped the nose of the three-year-old I have with that same man I met the year Clay Aiken became famous. I reminded my husband that he went with me to see Clay at the NC State Fair and the Raleigh Christmas Parade back then. He laughed and rolled his eyes telling me that he must have really been in love to have done all of that. We watched one of his interviews  last night and listened to his views on issues he wants to address as a potential congressman.

I can’t vote for or against Clay this time. I live one district away, but I wish him luck and thank him for bringing back memories of a funny, fleeting time in my life. I wondered how his political career would pan out and wondered if I would remember the day he announced he would run for office. I think this may be a funny, fleeting time in my life too. It is the first week of my life as a stay-at-home mom. I’m sure I’ll look back fondly.

Good luck Clay. While you campaign to get voters to mark your name on a ballot, I will always remember when Ryan Seacrest campaigned for you and I called a 1-866 number over and over, just to be a silly girl for just a few months longer.

From the profound to the ridiculous, here is a list of worries that have crossed my mind in the last week:

• That I will not be ready for maternity leave in time to get everything done that I need to do at work or home.
• That I will be more than ready for maternity leave and have time to kill.
• That someone will mistakenly think that Sen. Lindsey Graham is from North Carolina and not South Carolina. I prefer we keep that crazy beneath us where it belongs.

• That someone will say that I am somehow swollen in any way at all. I did not swell with my first pregnancy. I don’t plan on swelling this time. I pity the person who says that I look the least bit swollen. I will lose it. 
• That someone will now open fire in a Starbucks, specifically my Starbucks, simply to prove a point. Come on, Mr. Schultz, we could get shot in any public place. Why highlight one of your fine stores?

Courtesy: Caracas Chronicles

• That when I get into Starbucks, they will be out of Pumpkin Spice Lattes.
• That my kid has a cavity.
• That I will have a moment of pregnancy brain like I did last time. You may recall this $600 mistake.
• That I might get hemorrhoids.
• That this baby will resent me because I didn’t spend $250 to get 3D ultrasound pictures of him/her like I did their sister.
• That I might hear “Blurred Lines” on the radio again any time, ever. Remember earlier in the summer when that was “my jam?” Shoot me.  (But, not at Starbucks, please.)

I confessed my anglophila back when I sipped coffee at 5:00am from my souvenir mug to watch William and Catherine become man and wife. It came up again when I found out she was pregnant. I took it upon myself to write her a letter. I haven’t heard back from the palace.

I’m sure the tweets of an American mommy don’t mean much to a Royal mummy but, I vehemently defended Kate online today. I had the live stream of the door of that hospital up on my computer today.  Seriously. I got anxious for Kate. If the whole world was tweeting about my cervix, I would have a f-ing breakdown. I mean, when I heard some “Royal obstetrics expert” on ABC News predict how many centimeters she was dilated and what that meant for her labor (excuse me, labour) I almost turned it off. When she said “It gives a new definition to the term ‘crowing’ Ha ha ha ha!” I was truly disgusted.

I am so happy for them. Healthy babies, rock! I genuinely thought it was a girl. Which goes to show you how good I am at gender prediction. Okay, I need to run. I’m sending my husband to buy a gilded easel to announce this baby’s birth. Every kid deserves that type of pageantry upon their arrival, but maybe without all the cervix tweets.

Also, someone pointed out to me on Facebook tonight that the royal baby is the same weight as the Baby Jesus that Ricky Bobby prayed to in Talladega Nights. That is awesome, and you can’t unhear that comparison.  You’re welcome. Here’s hoping the Prince of Cambridge never has a binding endorsement with Powerade.