Tina Bausinger

I'm still feeling relaxed from Thanksgiving break, but that won't last long. The Christmas pressure is already on.

Last month, on Thanksgiving day (before the sales, mind you), a friend of mine went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessities, thinking she was beating the crowd.

She was wrong.

Even though it was nowhere near midnight, some people (and I use that term loosely) were already there saving their places for the post-Thanksgiving sale.

Sorry, did you say something?

Nobody wants to be the boring person (also known as TBP). You know, the person who is so in love with the sound of his or her own voice he or she can only go a few seconds without hearing it? It’s like a crack addiction. Not that I actually know about crack addictions, other than the countless hours I have spent watching “Intervention.” Anyway, there are a few different categories of these people: the academic bore, the advice fairy and the storyteller.

I watched a lot of TV as a child, especially during the summer when I had nothing else to do. The mother I am today is a direct result of countless hours of exposure to the various motherly influences I encountered via our TV set. One such mother was Mrs. Cleaver from the sitcom “Leave it to Beaver.” Actually, I knew two “Mrs. Cleavers.”

Normally I write a little something about what it's like to be an older student on campus as an undergrad.

Today, I'd like to deviate from that.

My father David Coleman passed away 7 years ago this month. He died Sept. 14, 2003, after a very short battle with cancer. Although he's gone, there are lessons I learned from him that still remain-lessons I believe would benefit anyone, especially a college student.

So the last week was a whole new world for me.  My short story, “Dad’s Tomatoes” is part of the new “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad” anthology.

There’s been some publicity from this.

This week has been a blur. Monday, I was on East Texas Live, where I was interviewed, well, live.

There was no prepping whatsoever.  I sat out in the waiting room until 11:13 (I was scheduled to go on at 11:15).

The other day, my oldest daughter, Jordanne, who is attending Tyler Junior College, was being inducted into Phi Theta Kappa. It’s a really big honor to be in the top 5 percent of students who literally make the grade. I was especially excited because I, myself, am an old Phi Theta Kappar. Or Kappan. Or whatever. Anyway, I left all that childishness behind and started going to REAL COLLEGE (Read: paying three times the tuition of the old one ... but that’s another column).

Don’t tell my husband, but I think I’ve fallen in love.

Now don’t get too excited. It’s not that juicy.

I haven’t met some tall, dark stranger on the midnight train to someplace exotic. If I did, I’m pretty sure he’d keep walking. The minivan and excess baby weight are kind of a turnoff. Can I really call it baby weight if the baby is ten?

Oh, right. I’m getting off topic here. I won’t leave you hanging.

I’ve fallen in love with ... American literature. Wait. Stay with me here.

When I was a little girl, many, many moons ago in a galaxy far away, I wanted to be invited to Kim Macy’s slumber party. Don’t worry; names have been changed to protect the guilty.

She was so cool and pretty and wore a rabbit fur coat. Please, no letters from PETA supporters, it was just the fad back then.We didn’t know any better. If you don’t believe me, look at our hair styles.

Anyway, if you can hear the sad violins in the background, I’ll continue. Basically what happened was this:  every girl in the class was pretty much invited, except me.

Hey, are you feeling it? Crunch time?  I felt it last week when I randomly wandered into the guy’s bathroom.  First clue: the ladies’ room does not have urinals.  Second clue:  The ladies’ room does not have men.