I'm kinda sweet on this one.

My husband Chris has a marketing related blog.  I know - snore.  I read it, because I'm his wife, blah blah blah.  I try to leave comments, but he NEVER publishes them.  The first couple were serious and I was trying to be supportive.  They apparently weren't professional sounding enough.  Now I comment, knowing he moderates, and I leave the raunchiest, foul-mouthed, and dirty-talk comments possible.  I think he kind of digs it though.

Chris wrote a post yesterday that I like, and not just because he linked to me - I'm not the demographic for the marketing/advertising types that read Chris' stuff.  It's not a long post - he tries to keep them short and readable.  Click here and check it out.

Oh, and here's a picture of Chris not being a marketing guy - just being Dad.  He's real good at both.

Oh yeah? Well my daddy is Secratariet.

Our kids attend a private school. Chris and I both went to public schools and Chris' parents were teachers in public schools. This post is not discrediting public or private education.

Why do our kids go to private school? It's a great liberal arts school and we're able to knock some nickles together to make it happen. When we can't find anymore change under the couch cushions, we'll go to plan B. The school also provides some much needed diversity for our kids.

Living in Utah county there's almost no religious diversity, and there are lots and lots of white people. Attractive white people. Other than when Mom and Dad lived in Venezuela, I don't think I've seen so many attractive people in one geographic location. In Caracas the women had big boobs, pretty lips, white teeth, silky hair, perfect manicures, tight clothes and high heels. 

Once before a visit Mom warned me, "Just leave any jealous tendencies at home. The women here are  drop-dead gorgeous. They dress sexy all the time, and they love attention... I think the national fabric is spandex. Chris will gawk. So will you. Prepare yourself."  The women were gorgeous and the men were handsome and machismo. Back to the education issue.

It was important for us to send our kids to a school that offered more diversity. We were seeking different faiths, ethnicities, family size and shape, and maybe a few ugly kids.

I was on a ski lift last winter with a couple from NYC. People are always curious about what it's "really like" to live here. They asked all the usual questions about liquor laws, and do people try to convert us. I told them our kids went to a private school, among other reasons, for the purpose of social variety. The couple found it ironic, because they said parents in NYC seeking diversity for their kids chose public school over private.

People make assumptions about us because of our decision to send the boys to private school. We don't think public school isn't "good enough". We're not rich. We value kindness, intelligence and a love of learning, over a pedigree that's tossed around as a status symbol. Schools known for their excellence certainly appeal to us and we can appreciate someone's discipline and ability to achieve their educational goal. But quality education can occur many places, formally and informally. I'd love to go back in time and have a do-over with my own college experience.

One time Chris was having a business lunch with several guys and it was the part when people start sniffing around to size each other up—they shared where they went to school. Harvard, Yale, Duke, MIT—Oh, two degrees from MIT?  Neato. (It is neat. Chris nor I have pedigrees.) 

During the lunch when a colleague of Chris' who is intelligent, down-to-earth, and happens to have an impressive pedigree, was asked where he went to school, he very seriously answered, "Pond's Institute."  Nobody got it—except Chris. Everyone nodded, oohed and ahhed.

You know, I don't care if our sons go to Oxford or The Pond's Institute, marry a Vegas Showgirl or become one. I hope they're kind, independent, want to share their lives with us, and never stop learning.

I think I might be good...

It was Parent Night last night at the boys' school.  Chris stayed home with the kids and I went solo, which is usually how we have to handle things like this.  It works for us.

I rarely get to drive alone - anywhere.  I love it.  I enjoy talking with the kids and listening to music appropriate for them, but it's a treat to listen to whatever I want, as loudly as I want and sing while car dancing.  I sing and car dance with the kids in the car, but they don't like it.  It embarrasses them.  Chris doesn't like it either.  He says, "Please don't clap."

Oldest Boy's teacher auditioned for American Idol over the summer knowing she wouldn't make it because of her age - she's too old (I'm older than her, so I can say that).  I didn't hear the entire story, but the gist was she had drawn enough attention to herself that they allowed her to sing.  She's a belter who can carry a tune and she sang - Pat Benatar's Hit Me With Your Best Shot.

My brother Mallory Joe and I used to sing every word of every Pat Benatar song in my bedroom at the top of our lungs.  I know, who didn't? 

My friend Lynn P. Carlson was/is a belter and sang any time she could find a microphone.  Working swim meets, there was always a PA system (we were lifeguards), so the opportunity was hers many, many times.  She sang Patty Smythe's The Warrior, anything Pat Benatar, or Belinda Carlisle and occasionally Elvira by the Oakridge Boys.  She even sang at her own wedding - not the kind of tender, looking into your new husband's eyes singing, but the "I can do that, give me the mike!" singing.  I think she closed the party with New York New York.

We all know music is powerful and personal.  Punk Rock Dad recommended a book recently that, among other things, explains "...why people have a lifelong passion for music they heard in their youth...".  I believe the title is This is Your Brain on Music.  (Correct me if I'm wrong - anyone.)

This morning while working out with Supermodel, Pat Benatar's Hit Me With Your Best Shot played in the gym.  I was 14 years old again in my mind, singing with my brother Mallory Joe.  I could see my bedroom, the posters on the walls, my pet parakeet Larry...  So vivid.

What is it about wanting to be able to sing or play an instrument well that grips many of us, even the *shy* ones and at very young ages?  Maybe it's explained in the book.  Probably why Nickelback's Rockstar was so popular.

On the way home from Parent Night yesterday, I took my time, listened to and unabashadly sang along with Joe Cocker, Kid Rock, and a little Sam Cooke.  I believe in church, it would be called, "a joyful noise".

This is for you Lynn P. Carlson:

(The music's not in sync with the visual - sorry, it came that way.)