I recently ended a year-and-a-half relationship. It's okay; it was necessary and a positive step. Even so, it's cause to reflect on my past relationships and what I've learned about why each happened and/or ended. There is one glaring variable in each and that is how much I have changed.
When I was first divorced, with a three-year-old daughter, I was afraid to be around other people. Specifically married people who had supposedly "gotten it right." I felt as if I just stood out, like there was a neon sign designating me as the failure in the room. I wanted so badly to have that again, to fit in with the "normal" parents. Now I find myself looking at these people and wondering if they're really happy, assuming most of the time they aren't. Marriage is hard.
I then went through a very difficult relationship that never gave me what I wanted. In trying to get what I wanted I bent, I twisted, I did everything I could think of to contort myself into what would make it work. Because I was Relationship Girl and I was damned if I wasn't going to make it work. I never got what I wanted and, instead, I lost myself in the process.
In the years after that relationship ended, I worked at finding myself again. Discovering what I liked. What I wanted from my life and who I wanted to be. I chose my friends carefully, surrounding myself with people who offered me the missing pieces of me. My security. My passions. My confidence. My humor. Self-sufficiency. Self-acceptance.
While discussing this most recent relationship with my hairdresser, I suddenly realized that I don't thrive in relationships. I thrive when I'm on my own. I've gained more out of my life in the times I've been "alone" than in any relationship I've ever been in. I thrive.
I shared this thought with a friend who expounded on it, saying that as women we focus on our partners, building them up until we, ourselves, are crushed. We fall behind in the shadows and expend all of our energy making sure the man in our life has what he needs to be secure. We lose track of what we need.
In each relationship of mine there has been an imbalance. Whether that imbalance was rooted in intelligence, a lack of mutual feelings, family backgrounds, or life stages, I feel like that is the core of why they didn't last. What I need is equality. Maybe equality will allow me the ability to thrive.
And, maybe, there is the possibility that I'm just not meant to be in a relationship. At this point in my life I value my independence over the many compromises that are required to be a successful partner. I've worked hard to be me and I'm not willing to just trade that away for the "security" offered in a relationship.
Maybe. I don't have the answers yet. I'm getting closer. What I know right now is that I have love in my life. I have a beautiful daughter who still needs me, even if for just a little while longer. I have love from friends who offer support, encouragement, and plenty of laughter. I have dogs who love me no matter what I'm going through and are happiest snuggling next to me. I have passions and interests and new adventures yet to be discovered.
These are the things that help me to thrive. I prefer thriving over wilting.
.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
Bacon Is In Danger
I came across this little gem of a story today. You know what's super sexy in a man? When he looks like Ryan Gosling and he cares about animals. Oh, wait! The real Ryan Gosling cares about animals. Seriously? He is so hot right now I think he might spontaneously combust. Hot, hot, hot.
He loves his dog. He takes his dog everywhere. And he also likes pigs. He's a Wilbur-lover!! Uh-oh. Hold the fucking phone!! Pigs = bacon. By trying to protect pigs, he is bacon-blocking the rest of us!! If one tiny little spider can save one pig, just think of the thousands of slabs of bacon His Royal Sexiness can save!!
Well now, this is certainly a dilemma. Continuing to eat bacon might reduce any chance I ever have with Mr. Gosling. But bacon is delicious. But Ryan is hot. But bacon. But sexiness. Bacon. Beautiful man. Crap!
Okay, here's my solution. If Ryan Gosling sleeps with me I will give up bacon. People exchange sex for much less all the time, so I think it's a pretty fair trade. Sex for bacon. I mean, sex for the absence of bacon. (I think I can, I think I can!)
I will simply have my people get in touch with Ryan's people and he and I will save a few pieces of bacon. I mean pigs. We'll save pigs. Lots of Wilburs!
Take that, Charlotte.
He loves his dog. He takes his dog everywhere. And he also likes pigs. He's a Wilbur-lover!! Uh-oh. Hold the fucking phone!! Pigs = bacon. By trying to protect pigs, he is bacon-blocking the rest of us!! If one tiny little spider can save one pig, just think of the thousands of slabs of bacon His Royal Sexiness can save!!
Well now, this is certainly a dilemma. Continuing to eat bacon might reduce any chance I ever have with Mr. Gosling. But bacon is delicious. But Ryan is hot. But bacon. But sexiness. Bacon. Beautiful man. Crap!
Okay, here's my solution. If Ryan Gosling sleeps with me I will give up bacon. People exchange sex for much less all the time, so I think it's a pretty fair trade. Sex for bacon. I mean, sex for the absence of bacon. (I think I can, I think I can!)
I will simply have my people get in touch with Ryan's people and he and I will save a few pieces of bacon. I mean pigs. We'll save pigs. Lots of Wilburs!
Take that, Charlotte.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Why Do I Bother?
Spend an hour straightening my hair. Get this response:
"Did you straighten your hair?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
Spend 30 minutes curling my hair. Get this response:
"Your hair looks good. It's not frizzy."
"Thanks?"
Pull wet-just-out-of-the-shower hair back into a big clip because I'm either too lazy, running late, or too hot to spend 20 minutes under a hair dryer. Get this response:
"OH MY GOSH!! YOUR HAIR LOOKS SO GOOD!!!! WILL YOU SHOW ME HOW TO DO THAT???!!!?"
Srsly.
"Did you straighten your hair?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
Spend 30 minutes curling my hair. Get this response:
"Your hair looks good. It's not frizzy."
"Thanks?"
Pull wet-just-out-of-the-shower hair back into a big clip because I'm either too lazy, running late, or too hot to spend 20 minutes under a hair dryer. Get this response:
"OH MY GOSH!! YOUR HAIR LOOKS SO GOOD!!!! WILL YOU SHOW ME HOW TO DO THAT???!!!?"
Srsly.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
Uncle Lynn and Looming Mortality
This weekend I found out that my Uncle Lynn passed away. He had a stroke a couple of weeks ago and apparently the second one this weekend took him from us. Too soon, as they say.
My mom has/had three brothers and two sisters. She is the oldest of the six. My Aunt Renea will always be my favorite aunt, but I noticed my cousins commenting that Uncle Lynn was their favorite uncle. Each uncle has been my favorite at some point. What I remember most about Uncle Lynn was his zest for life and his big laugh. Of course he ate too much and drank too much and smoked too much, but that was him. He had big appetites.
Because I grew up in California and the rest of the family was in Mississippi, I haven't ever been especially close to any of them or known any one any better than the others. I just know that I love them all. And any time I was there to visit, Uncle Lynn gave me the biggest bear hugs of anyone. It is instantly home to me, even though I didn't grow up there. He will be missed. Going back now won't be the same. There will always be a large hole that only Uncle Lynn could fill.
His death, while sorrowful in its own right, has a deeper meaning to me. My grandparents are gone. All of them. They have been for a few years now. When that happened, I felt the shift. I think as long as grandparents are around, a part of us can still be kids. And now another shift has occurred, rearranging my world further. The first of my parents' generation is gone. Those details I take for granted are starting to slip by. My own mortality is suddenly looming closer. The time I have with everyone is swiftly diminishing. I feel the losses to come.
Uncle Lynn is gone too soon. In his honor, please find the nearest person that you love and give them the bestest, biggest bear hug from the bottom of your heart.
My mom has/had three brothers and two sisters. She is the oldest of the six. My Aunt Renea will always be my favorite aunt, but I noticed my cousins commenting that Uncle Lynn was their favorite uncle. Each uncle has been my favorite at some point. What I remember most about Uncle Lynn was his zest for life and his big laugh. Of course he ate too much and drank too much and smoked too much, but that was him. He had big appetites.
Because I grew up in California and the rest of the family was in Mississippi, I haven't ever been especially close to any of them or known any one any better than the others. I just know that I love them all. And any time I was there to visit, Uncle Lynn gave me the biggest bear hugs of anyone. It is instantly home to me, even though I didn't grow up there. He will be missed. Going back now won't be the same. There will always be a large hole that only Uncle Lynn could fill.
His death, while sorrowful in its own right, has a deeper meaning to me. My grandparents are gone. All of them. They have been for a few years now. When that happened, I felt the shift. I think as long as grandparents are around, a part of us can still be kids. And now another shift has occurred, rearranging my world further. The first of my parents' generation is gone. Those details I take for granted are starting to slip by. My own mortality is suddenly looming closer. The time I have with everyone is swiftly diminishing. I feel the losses to come.
Uncle Lynn is gone too soon. In his honor, please find the nearest person that you love and give them the bestest, biggest bear hug from the bottom of your heart.
Monday, July 01, 2013
I Didn't Even Break a Nail
The Wifey finally got her patio furniture this weekend. I say finally because one recent weekend we spent two hours in Lowe's trying to decide on a set. The sales guys looked like they wanted to kick us out of the store after question #33. Do they deliver? Do they assemble? How much is this? How much is that? They kept encouraging her to go online for her purchase, probably just to get us out of what hair they had remaining.
This little event also happened after she purchased a set for an astronomical price that sent her into massive hysterics. It was so outrageous I couldn't even support it or justify it in any way so the order was canceled.
So, finally. The chosen set (at a reasonable price) was delivered Saturday. Being the magnanimous friend that I am, I offered to help her put it together. She told me it would be hard, I told her it would take 20 minutes. Both of us were right and both of us were wrong.
Three hours and two gallons of sweat later, we were relaxing comfortably in the assembled chairs, our feet propped on the assembled ottomans, my cocktail on the assembled fire pit/table. D even helped, assembling an ottoman all by her lonesome.
Of course we took the opportunity to teach her an important life lesson: to know the difference between needing a man and wanting a man. Would we have preferred to have a dude around to do the dirty work for us? Hell, yeah. I would rather have been inside enjoying the refreshing air conditioning instead of lying on the ground getting feasted on by ants and cutting myself either with scissors or screws. The point was that we got it done. We didn't need a handy dude. We are handy enough.
The BBQ that she got? It took three dudes just to load it into her car. Two of us girls to unload it and reassemble it after they messed it up.
After all that work, we decided we did need a delivery guy. Sometimes it's just necessary to have someone bring you food.
This little event also happened after she purchased a set for an astronomical price that sent her into massive hysterics. It was so outrageous I couldn't even support it or justify it in any way so the order was canceled.
So, finally. The chosen set (at a reasonable price) was delivered Saturday. Being the magnanimous friend that I am, I offered to help her put it together. She told me it would be hard, I told her it would take 20 minutes. Both of us were right and both of us were wrong.
Three hours and two gallons of sweat later, we were relaxing comfortably in the assembled chairs, our feet propped on the assembled ottomans, my cocktail on the assembled fire pit/table. D even helped, assembling an ottoman all by her lonesome.
Of course we took the opportunity to teach her an important life lesson: to know the difference between needing a man and wanting a man. Would we have preferred to have a dude around to do the dirty work for us? Hell, yeah. I would rather have been inside enjoying the refreshing air conditioning instead of lying on the ground getting feasted on by ants and cutting myself either with scissors or screws. The point was that we got it done. We didn't need a handy dude. We are handy enough.
The BBQ that she got? It took three dudes just to load it into her car. Two of us girls to unload it and reassemble it after they messed it up.
After all that work, we decided we did need a delivery guy. Sometimes it's just necessary to have someone bring you food.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Being A Bad Ass
A few years ago I went through quite a transition, at the end of which I think I came out stronger and a better person. Certainly better than I had been for a long time. I decided that I wanted to mark said transition with a honkin' big tattoo. After researching possibilities, I decided on a peacock. Peacocks symbolize royalty and strength, but resemble their cousin the Phoenix in that they signify new life and new beginnings. Because I knew it was going to be expensive and I wanted the right person to do it, it took a while to finally make the plan to get it done.
This month I spent two sessions getting the absolutely most perfect tattoo I could have ever dreamed of. Only it's not a peacock because I insist on the right to change my mind. Instead I got a lion but my incredibly talented artist (Holly from Mum's if you're inspired after this story) incorporated a peacock design in my lion's mane. He's beautiful, he's gorgeous, I couldn't love him more. And two sessions? Yeah, he's kinda big.
I know you're all going to ask and, yes, it hurt. It hurt like a mofo. When I got my two smaller tattoos there was no pain. Maybe a mild annoyance, but no pain. I have been living for the last 12 years under the false assumption that I am special and immune to pain. I am not. I wish I were one of those people that could just transform her mind to another place to avoid the pain. Instead, I get consumed by it. I practiced labor breathing, I hummed to the music playing in the room, I tensed every muscle that exists in my body.
But here's the thing. It was totally worth it. 100%. Enduring the seven hours of excruciating pain was totally worth the art I now sport on my skin.
Now for the dumb part. I love it. I love its placement. But it's not in an easy spot to show off. Especially in a dress. Which is what I wore to my friend's baby shower this past weekend. And, because it's so new and I'm so newly in love with it, I can't stop talking about it. Which just makes people want to see it. Duh.
At the end of the shower my friend kind of insisted on seeing it so a group of us trotted off to the restaurant bathroom for the Big Reveal. Her baby daddy happened to be there. Of course he wanted in on the viewing. Oh well, it's not like it's the first time I've exposed myself to a near stranger.
The funny part is that this baby daddy is a 6'6" tall black dude. (he claims that he and my friend are having a blaxican which amuses me endlessly.) When I turned around and lifted my dress up, he exclaimed, "Ouch! No way! You are a bad ass." There were other murmurs of approval before I returned to some modicum of modesty.
So apparently, that's how I do baby showers. Putting my tattooed ass on exhibit in the women's restroom.
I am kind of a bad ass though. And I know it sounds cheesy, but my lion is a reminder of how far I've come and that I have the strength to keep going. He's colorful, he's creative, he has a quiet dignity and a kindness about him. These are all things I hope to be at some point.
Although public restrooms probably don't offer the highest sense of dignity. Huh.
Bygones.
This month I spent two sessions getting the absolutely most perfect tattoo I could have ever dreamed of. Only it's not a peacock because I insist on the right to change my mind. Instead I got a lion but my incredibly talented artist (Holly from Mum's if you're inspired after this story) incorporated a peacock design in my lion's mane. He's beautiful, he's gorgeous, I couldn't love him more. And two sessions? Yeah, he's kinda big.
I know you're all going to ask and, yes, it hurt. It hurt like a mofo. When I got my two smaller tattoos there was no pain. Maybe a mild annoyance, but no pain. I have been living for the last 12 years under the false assumption that I am special and immune to pain. I am not. I wish I were one of those people that could just transform her mind to another place to avoid the pain. Instead, I get consumed by it. I practiced labor breathing, I hummed to the music playing in the room, I tensed every muscle that exists in my body.
But here's the thing. It was totally worth it. 100%. Enduring the seven hours of excruciating pain was totally worth the art I now sport on my skin.
Now for the dumb part. I love it. I love its placement. But it's not in an easy spot to show off. Especially in a dress. Which is what I wore to my friend's baby shower this past weekend. And, because it's so new and I'm so newly in love with it, I can't stop talking about it. Which just makes people want to see it. Duh.
At the end of the shower my friend kind of insisted on seeing it so a group of us trotted off to the restaurant bathroom for the Big Reveal. Her baby daddy happened to be there. Of course he wanted in on the viewing. Oh well, it's not like it's the first time I've exposed myself to a near stranger.
The funny part is that this baby daddy is a 6'6" tall black dude. (he claims that he and my friend are having a blaxican which amuses me endlessly.) When I turned around and lifted my dress up, he exclaimed, "Ouch! No way! You are a bad ass." There were other murmurs of approval before I returned to some modicum of modesty.
So apparently, that's how I do baby showers. Putting my tattooed ass on exhibit in the women's restroom.
I am kind of a bad ass though. And I know it sounds cheesy, but my lion is a reminder of how far I've come and that I have the strength to keep going. He's colorful, he's creative, he has a quiet dignity and a kindness about him. These are all things I hope to be at some point.
Although public restrooms probably don't offer the highest sense of dignity. Huh.
Bygones.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
It's Understandably Disturbing
This will be disgusting if you are squeamish. Or very, very private. Or, probably, male. Feel free to stop here. I'm not holding back on this one.
Are you sure you want to go on?
Okay, we're diving into the deep end on this one.
For years and years and years I was on The Pill. I liked being on The Pill. Short periods, no babies, minimal PMS. ("Minimal" being a relative term.) Last year, because I'm "old" and have high cholesterol and my gynecologist hates me, I was taken off of The Pill. She suggested an IUD. I considered suggesting she mind her own damn business and I wasn't paying her to take meds away from me.
Fast forward a year. I've gained 10 pounds, I have monster PMS, and every month I'm a walking crime scene. Not to mention the regular T-Rex vs. King Kong battles in my uterus. Ladies, some of you wish you didn't know what I'm talking about but you do. I whine to my doctor, hoping she'll put me back on my Beloved Pill. Nope. "You should really consider an IUD. Here is some information on Merena." Seriously? You should consider fucking off.
But the cramps got worse and I started to wonder if Aunt Flo shouldn't be renamed Aunt Niagara Falls. So a few months later I gave in. After calling my insurance company that I don't have to pay to have a foreign object inserted into my body. I also did my research on the internets. Pluses/minuses, pros/cons. Pro? I never want to give birth to another teenager again in my entire life so I'm okay with long-term birth control. Con? The foreign object in my body. Plus? It's possible I could stop having a period entirely. Minus? Foreign object in my body. Fine, let's do this. I made the appointment.
And now we come to the educational portion of this post. I am going to tell you what I learned that I shouldn't have and what I experienced that no "informative" online searches will tell you.
Do not look up videos online of IUD placement. Don't do this. You know, guys are lucky. Their junk is just out there all day long. "Oh look, there's my penis." "I'll stop and look at my penis while I'm getting dressed." "Time to pee. Why hello there, penis friend!" They're rather fond of waving those things around. I know that I have a vagina. We are intimately acquainted. I know when she's happy and when she's not. But I am not overly familiar with what she looks like, so I always feel a bit jarred when confronted with a full-on vagina. And, even though I've been told that mine is quite attractive, I always think it looks weird. This is what you will see in these videos. You will see soft, vulnerable flesh manipulated with a speculum while a small tube disappears inside. It's a bit unnerving. Just skip this part.
Also skip any videos that tell you about personal experiences. You don't need to know about That One Girl who had the worst placement experience ever and just insisted on sharing it with the internets. These women mean well, but they should just write that shit in their diaries and move on.
Do learn all that you can from reliable medical sources. All birth control is not created equally and neither are women's bodies. What works for me may not work for you and vice-versa. You want to make an educated, informed decision about your reproductive rights. Do talk to your friends. My friends assured me that the IUD is great and lovable and that it works for them.
Now, say you decide to go ahead. If you would like to know about the actual placement experience, let's continue. Because the freaky things that happen, you won't find in any so-called helpful research.
The advice I got from the nurse was to take ibuprofen an hour before my appointment. Done. The general advice I saw online was to have someone drive you home afterward. I didn't think that would be necessary, but I did have a back-up plan just in case.
The whole procedure is like a PAP Smear Supreme. Same stirrups, same speculum, same lying-down-staring-at-whatever-lame-object-is-hung-from-the-ceiling. In my case it was a dragonfly. I would like to suggest to the gynecological offices worldwide that you offer something comforting at these times. A puppy would be really excellent in helping to take our minds off of what is going on down there, but then everyone in the room would be distracted by the cuteness and bad things could happen. I really like those warm, freshly-warm-out-of-the-dryer blankets you get in hospitals. Even a teddy bear would be appreciated. Something.
Moving on.
This is like an extended PAP. There's some extra scraping. (In my case, this was probably clean-up because my doctor prefers to do this while you're on your period. Like in the middle of it. Something about the cervix being softer and making the procedure easier.) There's a numbing process and this is where is starts to get bizarre. "You may get a weird taste in your mouth and your mouth will go numb." Um, okay. What? And just as I was saying how very odd that sounded, there went my tongue. Numbness. It didn't stop there. There was some more scraping or pressure or whatever was going on. Some handoffs between doctor and nurse, some conversation between the two of them. And then, "You might feel like someone is squeezing your tonsils." This was during the actual insertion part. What? How on earth are my mouth and throat connected to my uterus? Oh no!! I can't swallow! My throat is paralyzed!! It won't move! What on earth is going on here?? I'm going to die!!!!! Oh, okay, wait, that's better. My throat is working again. That was some weird shit.
Remember how my vagina is allegedly attractive? Well, it turns out that my cervix and uterus are textbook. The whole thing went exactly as it was supposed to. Yay. Bragging rights. I have textbook reproductive organs. Right on.
I thought it was over, but there was one more step. The ultrasound. To make sure the tiny little piece of plastic went in just the right place. This entails the use of something that looks like an extra extra extra long dildo, complete with condom cover. At that point I just wanted to be done. I didn't want anymore intrusions into my at-this-point sensitive lady parts. I only looked at the picture on the screen to appease her and get it over with. Perfect placement. "You're good for five years. Have a nice day."
I was told that I would have cramping afterward, but by that point I'd already been cramping for days so it wasn't a big deal. I didn't need the ride home, but I did stop to get a milkshake on my way back to the office. Hey, I'd earned it. I left work an hour early and spent the evening on the couch, but it really wasn't worse than the worst cramps that I have. I had a little nausea so I decided against going to zumba. No need to act like a superhero. It's now been 24+ hours and I'm still cramping, but I'm also still having my period.
Overall, it wasn't all that bad. Few things are ever as bad as expected, but I thought you should know about those little surprises that nobody else mentioned. Throat-tightness and the inability to swallow might be a trigger for those with anxiety. I could have really freaked out over that, but it lasted less than 30 seconds.
However, if you want to milk it, it's completely fair to say that you don't want to cook or do dishes. Cramps are stupid and it's perfectly acceptable to spend an evening on the couch eating ice cream.
Are you sure you want to go on?
Okay, we're diving into the deep end on this one.
For years and years and years I was on The Pill. I liked being on The Pill. Short periods, no babies, minimal PMS. ("Minimal" being a relative term.) Last year, because I'm "old" and have high cholesterol and my gynecologist hates me, I was taken off of The Pill. She suggested an IUD. I considered suggesting she mind her own damn business and I wasn't paying her to take meds away from me.
Fast forward a year. I've gained 10 pounds, I have monster PMS, and every month I'm a walking crime scene. Not to mention the regular T-Rex vs. King Kong battles in my uterus. Ladies, some of you wish you didn't know what I'm talking about but you do. I whine to my doctor, hoping she'll put me back on my Beloved Pill. Nope. "You should really consider an IUD. Here is some information on Merena." Seriously? You should consider fucking off.
But the cramps got worse and I started to wonder if Aunt Flo shouldn't be renamed Aunt Niagara Falls. So a few months later I gave in. After calling my insurance company that I don't have to pay to have a foreign object inserted into my body. I also did my research on the internets. Pluses/minuses, pros/cons. Pro? I never want to give birth to another teenager again in my entire life so I'm okay with long-term birth control. Con? The foreign object in my body. Plus? It's possible I could stop having a period entirely. Minus? Foreign object in my body. Fine, let's do this. I made the appointment.
And now we come to the educational portion of this post. I am going to tell you what I learned that I shouldn't have and what I experienced that no "informative" online searches will tell you.
Do not look up videos online of IUD placement. Don't do this. You know, guys are lucky. Their junk is just out there all day long. "Oh look, there's my penis." "I'll stop and look at my penis while I'm getting dressed." "Time to pee. Why hello there, penis friend!" They're rather fond of waving those things around. I know that I have a vagina. We are intimately acquainted. I know when she's happy and when she's not. But I am not overly familiar with what she looks like, so I always feel a bit jarred when confronted with a full-on vagina. And, even though I've been told that mine is quite attractive, I always think it looks weird. This is what you will see in these videos. You will see soft, vulnerable flesh manipulated with a speculum while a small tube disappears inside. It's a bit unnerving. Just skip this part.
Also skip any videos that tell you about personal experiences. You don't need to know about That One Girl who had the worst placement experience ever and just insisted on sharing it with the internets. These women mean well, but they should just write that shit in their diaries and move on.
Do learn all that you can from reliable medical sources. All birth control is not created equally and neither are women's bodies. What works for me may not work for you and vice-versa. You want to make an educated, informed decision about your reproductive rights. Do talk to your friends. My friends assured me that the IUD is great and lovable and that it works for them.
Now, say you decide to go ahead. If you would like to know about the actual placement experience, let's continue. Because the freaky things that happen, you won't find in any so-called helpful research.
The advice I got from the nurse was to take ibuprofen an hour before my appointment. Done. The general advice I saw online was to have someone drive you home afterward. I didn't think that would be necessary, but I did have a back-up plan just in case.
The whole procedure is like a PAP Smear Supreme. Same stirrups, same speculum, same lying-down-staring-at-whatever-lame-object-is-hung-from-the-ceiling. In my case it was a dragonfly. I would like to suggest to the gynecological offices worldwide that you offer something comforting at these times. A puppy would be really excellent in helping to take our minds off of what is going on down there, but then everyone in the room would be distracted by the cuteness and bad things could happen. I really like those warm, freshly-warm-out-of-the-dryer blankets you get in hospitals. Even a teddy bear would be appreciated. Something.
Moving on.
This is like an extended PAP. There's some extra scraping. (In my case, this was probably clean-up because my doctor prefers to do this while you're on your period. Like in the middle of it. Something about the cervix being softer and making the procedure easier.) There's a numbing process and this is where is starts to get bizarre. "You may get a weird taste in your mouth and your mouth will go numb." Um, okay. What? And just as I was saying how very odd that sounded, there went my tongue. Numbness. It didn't stop there. There was some more scraping or pressure or whatever was going on. Some handoffs between doctor and nurse, some conversation between the two of them. And then, "You might feel like someone is squeezing your tonsils." This was during the actual insertion part. What? How on earth are my mouth and throat connected to my uterus? Oh no!! I can't swallow! My throat is paralyzed!! It won't move! What on earth is going on here?? I'm going to die!!!!! Oh, okay, wait, that's better. My throat is working again. That was some weird shit.
Remember how my vagina is allegedly attractive? Well, it turns out that my cervix and uterus are textbook. The whole thing went exactly as it was supposed to. Yay. Bragging rights. I have textbook reproductive organs. Right on.
I thought it was over, but there was one more step. The ultrasound. To make sure the tiny little piece of plastic went in just the right place. This entails the use of something that looks like an extra extra extra long dildo, complete with condom cover. At that point I just wanted to be done. I didn't want anymore intrusions into my at-this-point sensitive lady parts. I only looked at the picture on the screen to appease her and get it over with. Perfect placement. "You're good for five years. Have a nice day."
I was told that I would have cramping afterward, but by that point I'd already been cramping for days so it wasn't a big deal. I didn't need the ride home, but I did stop to get a milkshake on my way back to the office. Hey, I'd earned it. I left work an hour early and spent the evening on the couch, but it really wasn't worse than the worst cramps that I have. I had a little nausea so I decided against going to zumba. No need to act like a superhero. It's now been 24+ hours and I'm still cramping, but I'm also still having my period.
Overall, it wasn't all that bad. Few things are ever as bad as expected, but I thought you should know about those little surprises that nobody else mentioned. Throat-tightness and the inability to swallow might be a trigger for those with anxiety. I could have really freaked out over that, but it lasted less than 30 seconds.
However, if you want to milk it, it's completely fair to say that you don't want to cook or do dishes. Cramps are stupid and it's perfectly acceptable to spend an evening on the couch eating ice cream.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Mommy and Me: The Teenage Edition
You know those Mommy and Me groups where moms get together and drink coffee and compare diaper brands while their babies roll around on the floor? They set up play dates and share ideas about naps and support each other through teething and first-day-of-kindergarten jitters. Pinterest now has whole boards dedicated to cute food and lunch recipes, the best craft projects, and suggestions for mother-daughter dates. Magazine articles discuss the fine balance between career aspirations and juggling sports schedules and dance recitals.
These are all great. Because being a mom is a tough job and these outlets and groups provide support for moms during these important formative years. But you know what? There's a huge segment of the population left in the dark. These are the moms of teenagers, who probably need the support more than the moms complaining that every shirt they own has a spit-up stain on it.
Teething? Walk in the park. Colic? That was nearly unbearable, but it ended. Those first days of school, while tearful, are reasons to celebrate. They're bittersweet milestones that we live for. I had oodles of patience when my daughter was a baby. I was so completely smitten with her. I felt like she was my purpose in life. When she cried, it was merely a matter of discerning the reason and Fixing It for her. Cake. Seriously.
Teenagers are a completely different animal. There are jokes about how hard it is and how they're these alien beings. The older moms I know promise me that she'll come back. I recently read a really beautiful analogy, something about how children are in their own orbit and during the teenage years it's dark because they're on the other side of the moon and you just have to wait for their homecoming.
Only I don't want to wait. I want it all to be okay now. I want to know that I'm not the huge failure I feel that I am on a nearly daily basis. I want her back now. The dark is too dark.
D has depression. I have depression. D has anxiety. I have anxiety. What all of this means is that there is an extra layer of difficulty. She finds it harder to concentrate; she's easily overwhelmed. But she constantly self-sabotages and I can't get her to see that. I find it harder to deal with her. When she isn't home at the designated time and doesn't return texts, I stare out the window waiting for the cops to show up at my door and tell me she's gone. We yell about what's fair and what isn't fair. There are empty promises and chance after chance after chance.
She's smart but she won't try. Her grades reflect her apathy. She has one more year and I feel like I can't do it. If she's not sitting right in front of me, I can't trust her to do what needs to be done. Hell, I can't even trust then that she isn't sitting there staring at Facebook or Tumblr. And, heading into her senior year, I shouldn't have to hold her hand and be on her every minute.
This is where we need a new kind of Mommy and Me. Maybe the kind where we drink bottles of wine and pass around the Kleenex box and commiserate about what selfish little turds teenagers are. The kind where we can say the dark, ugly things we feel and not be judged for them.
I have never felt more alone in my life. It's an endless cycle of just feeling like shit. She's difficult, I'm tired. I know that high school ends and she can do what she's supposed to do so I encourage, I prod, I threaten, I plead, I cajole. I get tired. I want to give up. I want to walk away or run away. I want to leave her to fend for herself because it just isn't worth it. What kind of mother does that? I feel guilty, I hate myself, I hate my life, it all hardly seems worth it. Guilt, guilt, guilt. So I try again but it's more exhausting. She needs me. I'm responsible for her. I don't want to fail. I don't want her to fail. I don't care.
I also am always holding back. I want to tell her that she's sucking the goddamn life out of me. That she makes everything harder for me and can she just get it the fuck together and stop slowly killing me. But the words never leave my mouth because they are not words you say to a child with depression. They are not words that a mother says to her child. And yet I need her to know, but I know that she can't handle it yet. So. The vicious cycle repeats.
Yeah, this isn't a happy day. I'd like to sit here and tell you that I will rally. That another day is another chance. That I'm stronger than I think. The truth is though, that isn't how I feel. These are the things They don't tell you. There is no help menu, no magic troubleshooting wizard. It's just hard.
The dirty truth is that sometimes, some days are just harder than the rest.
These are all great. Because being a mom is a tough job and these outlets and groups provide support for moms during these important formative years. But you know what? There's a huge segment of the population left in the dark. These are the moms of teenagers, who probably need the support more than the moms complaining that every shirt they own has a spit-up stain on it.
Teething? Walk in the park. Colic? That was nearly unbearable, but it ended. Those first days of school, while tearful, are reasons to celebrate. They're bittersweet milestones that we live for. I had oodles of patience when my daughter was a baby. I was so completely smitten with her. I felt like she was my purpose in life. When she cried, it was merely a matter of discerning the reason and Fixing It for her. Cake. Seriously.
Teenagers are a completely different animal. There are jokes about how hard it is and how they're these alien beings. The older moms I know promise me that she'll come back. I recently read a really beautiful analogy, something about how children are in their own orbit and during the teenage years it's dark because they're on the other side of the moon and you just have to wait for their homecoming.
Only I don't want to wait. I want it all to be okay now. I want to know that I'm not the huge failure I feel that I am on a nearly daily basis. I want her back now. The dark is too dark.
D has depression. I have depression. D has anxiety. I have anxiety. What all of this means is that there is an extra layer of difficulty. She finds it harder to concentrate; she's easily overwhelmed. But she constantly self-sabotages and I can't get her to see that. I find it harder to deal with her. When she isn't home at the designated time and doesn't return texts, I stare out the window waiting for the cops to show up at my door and tell me she's gone. We yell about what's fair and what isn't fair. There are empty promises and chance after chance after chance.
She's smart but she won't try. Her grades reflect her apathy. She has one more year and I feel like I can't do it. If she's not sitting right in front of me, I can't trust her to do what needs to be done. Hell, I can't even trust then that she isn't sitting there staring at Facebook or Tumblr. And, heading into her senior year, I shouldn't have to hold her hand and be on her every minute.
This is where we need a new kind of Mommy and Me. Maybe the kind where we drink bottles of wine and pass around the Kleenex box and commiserate about what selfish little turds teenagers are. The kind where we can say the dark, ugly things we feel and not be judged for them.
I have never felt more alone in my life. It's an endless cycle of just feeling like shit. She's difficult, I'm tired. I know that high school ends and she can do what she's supposed to do so I encourage, I prod, I threaten, I plead, I cajole. I get tired. I want to give up. I want to walk away or run away. I want to leave her to fend for herself because it just isn't worth it. What kind of mother does that? I feel guilty, I hate myself, I hate my life, it all hardly seems worth it. Guilt, guilt, guilt. So I try again but it's more exhausting. She needs me. I'm responsible for her. I don't want to fail. I don't want her to fail. I don't care.
I also am always holding back. I want to tell her that she's sucking the goddamn life out of me. That she makes everything harder for me and can she just get it the fuck together and stop slowly killing me. But the words never leave my mouth because they are not words you say to a child with depression. They are not words that a mother says to her child. And yet I need her to know, but I know that she can't handle it yet. So. The vicious cycle repeats.
Yeah, this isn't a happy day. I'd like to sit here and tell you that I will rally. That another day is another chance. That I'm stronger than I think. The truth is though, that isn't how I feel. These are the things They don't tell you. There is no help menu, no magic troubleshooting wizard. It's just hard.
The dirty truth is that sometimes, some days are just harder than the rest.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Things I'm Not Ready For
D will be 17 next month. Which means I have one year left to "enjoy" her childhood. I'm not ready for the ups and downs and the roller coaster of emotions that this will bring. I can't wait for her to leave, I can't bear the thought of her leaving. I'm so proud of her growing up; I want her to go back to being little. It's the best and the worst and the happiest and the saddest and the weirdest of times.
Our most recent development is dating. She has a boyfriend. A steady. They're going out. They're hooked up. Whatever the current lingo is, there is a boy who is significant in her life. He's the cat's meow. It on a stick. Her main squeeze. You get the idea.
What I'm most proud of her for in this little tale of puppy love is that she clearly set her boundaries in the beginning. There is a history between the two of them and she told him right off, "I'm messed up. I have problems. Decide right now if you want to stick around, because I can't have my heart broken." This is how you do it. Bow down.
At first it was sort of adorable. Their names rhyme. He brings her chocolate. He cute-asked her to prom (which is another whole teenage cultural trend that has gotten out of control, but is beside the point right now). And then it started to get serious. And I have started to freak out.
She loves to tell me things. Lots of things. Sometimes too many things. She told me the exact moment that she knew she loves him. And she was so deliriously happy about it. "We were riding back and this song came on and it was the first song we slow-danced to and I just looked at him and he looked at me and right then I just knew I knew how I felt I knew that I love him." Yes, read that without taking a breath because that's how she said it.
My heart broke a little. Because I am happy for her, but I can't completely share in her excitement. She's not my girlfriend, she's my baby girl. And this specific moment of happiness won't last. It's pure and new and so sweet and I know of all the heartache that's to come. I don't want her heart broken. I don't want her hurt. I want her to ride this little cloud of bliss into the sunset.
Over Mother's Day weekend she shared lots of stories and feelings with me. A big topic of conversation was the fact that the Three Little Words were said the week before (per my advice, she made him say them first. I repeat, bow down.). The cynic in me wanted to vomit while the mom in me wanted to cry. I don't think either was the reaction she had hoped for.
While we were having lunch she said, "You can ask me anything you want. If there's anything you want to know, I'll tell you." This was in relation to the boy because he is all she wants to talk about. But I don't want to know. I don't want to ask. I don't want certain images in my head. I don't need to know, it's none of my business, and for Pete's sake!! I'm your mother and we don't talk like girlfriends!!!! If you tell me how you feel when he kisses you I will have to pour acid in my ears!!!!!!!!!!
So I asked her if she's ever smoked a cigarette. Or been drunk outside the house. Or inhaled. These are safe topics. These are questions I'm somewhat prepared to hear the answers to. These are things that I can freak out about and she will understand and her feelings won't be hurt. I don't have to be fake-supportive or lie about how sweet it is. These are very clearly bad things and we both understand this.
I don't want to be the cynic. I don't want to crush her little spirit. But, damn it, boys are icky and she needs to put a lid on this until she's 30. Or until I die. I reserve the right to change my mind about either limit at any time.
Our most recent development is dating. She has a boyfriend. A steady. They're going out. They're hooked up. Whatever the current lingo is, there is a boy who is significant in her life. He's the cat's meow. It on a stick. Her main squeeze. You get the idea.
What I'm most proud of her for in this little tale of puppy love is that she clearly set her boundaries in the beginning. There is a history between the two of them and she told him right off, "I'm messed up. I have problems. Decide right now if you want to stick around, because I can't have my heart broken." This is how you do it. Bow down.
At first it was sort of adorable. Their names rhyme. He brings her chocolate. He cute-asked her to prom (which is another whole teenage cultural trend that has gotten out of control, but is beside the point right now). And then it started to get serious. And I have started to freak out.
She loves to tell me things. Lots of things. Sometimes too many things. She told me the exact moment that she knew she loves him. And she was so deliriously happy about it. "We were riding back and this song came on and it was the first song we slow-danced to and I just looked at him and he looked at me and right then I just knew I knew how I felt I knew that I love him." Yes, read that without taking a breath because that's how she said it.
My heart broke a little. Because I am happy for her, but I can't completely share in her excitement. She's not my girlfriend, she's my baby girl. And this specific moment of happiness won't last. It's pure and new and so sweet and I know of all the heartache that's to come. I don't want her heart broken. I don't want her hurt. I want her to ride this little cloud of bliss into the sunset.
Over Mother's Day weekend she shared lots of stories and feelings with me. A big topic of conversation was the fact that the Three Little Words were said the week before (per my advice, she made him say them first. I repeat, bow down.). The cynic in me wanted to vomit while the mom in me wanted to cry. I don't think either was the reaction she had hoped for.
While we were having lunch she said, "You can ask me anything you want. If there's anything you want to know, I'll tell you." This was in relation to the boy because he is all she wants to talk about. But I don't want to know. I don't want to ask. I don't want certain images in my head. I don't need to know, it's none of my business, and for Pete's sake!! I'm your mother and we don't talk like girlfriends!!!! If you tell me how you feel when he kisses you I will have to pour acid in my ears!!!!!!!!!!
So I asked her if she's ever smoked a cigarette. Or been drunk outside the house. Or inhaled. These are safe topics. These are questions I'm somewhat prepared to hear the answers to. These are things that I can freak out about and she will understand and her feelings won't be hurt. I don't have to be fake-supportive or lie about how sweet it is. These are very clearly bad things and we both understand this.
I don't want to be the cynic. I don't want to crush her little spirit. But, damn it, boys are icky and she needs to put a lid on this until she's 30. Or until I die. I reserve the right to change my mind about either limit at any time.
Sunday, May 05, 2013
The Circle of Life
Lots going on lately. Beginnings, endings, starting, finishing. I hardly know which way is up anymore.
I finished school last week. I officially (or soon will, once it arrives in the mail) hold a master's degree. An M.B.A. It took nearly two years and seemed like it would last forever. I turned in my last assignment on Thursday and then just sat there. Huh. That's it? I think I expected balloons and streamers to fall from the ceiling. Nope. It was rather anti-climatic. No big fanfare. No claps on the back. No cheering audience.
Even now I think I'm supposed to be working on a paper. I felt guilty sleeping in this morning. I'm so used to having deadlines looming over my head. I can sleep in now. I have my weekends back. And yet, somehow, it seems wrong.
Maybe because I did it by myself. No classmates. No group discussions. Just me. Sitting at my kitchen table. Early mornings. Late nights. Weekend afternoons. Whatever it took. Just me. Often a cup of coffee. Usually some music. It became a routine, something to always think about. My crazy mind thinks that maybe I should just keep going. I always wanted a PhD, right? No. Not really. Right?
D went to her junior prom last night. I think I'm still processing that. That and the almost $300 I spent between the dress, the shoes, the handbag, flowers, and the fake eyelashes she had to have. I went to take pictures of her with her date. Her boyfriend. Boyfriend. KY and I went to dinner afterward. He asked, "How does it feel that your little girl is growing up?" Damn it. I was okay until then. Then, in that moment, I wanted to run and get her and hug her and bring her home and watch cartoons with her. I didn't want to her to grow up. To be with a boy. To move on, in any way.
KY's insightful observation? "You can't wait for her to leave. You're so tired of having her around and want her to move on and then you cry and can't stand the thought of her leaving and want her to stay forever. I can't keep up with it all." Really? Imagine how it feels to be inside my body.
Because I do want her to go. Parenting is exhausting. But I don't think I will ever be done either. I don't want her to be in love. She tells me how she feels about her boyfriend and I don't want to know. I want, more than anything, for her to be happy. But does it have to be him? Does it have to be that way? I don't get to choose her happiness and part of me is relieved. But another part of me thinks that is just crap. It's confusing to say the least.
Next year she will graduate. Which means a couple of things. She will start her new life. And so will I. I don't have to stay here anymore. Her leaving means I get to leave too. I get to Start Over.
This summer we are road-tripping. Checking out schools for her and a new location for me. It both thrills me and terrifies me. I like the familiar. Change generally freaks me out. Even when I choose the change, it's a challenge. And this is a big change. I have my sights set on a spot on the map far, far from this current X. It's a big leap.
Yep. Lots going on right now. Plans, adjustments, goals are all changing. I don't know yet how I will land. Or where. But I think it's time. It's time to shake it up a little bit. Time to reach a little higher and a little farther. It's time for a new adventure. It's time to grow up.
Maybe.
I finished school last week. I officially (or soon will, once it arrives in the mail) hold a master's degree. An M.B.A. It took nearly two years and seemed like it would last forever. I turned in my last assignment on Thursday and then just sat there. Huh. That's it? I think I expected balloons and streamers to fall from the ceiling. Nope. It was rather anti-climatic. No big fanfare. No claps on the back. No cheering audience.
Even now I think I'm supposed to be working on a paper. I felt guilty sleeping in this morning. I'm so used to having deadlines looming over my head. I can sleep in now. I have my weekends back. And yet, somehow, it seems wrong.
Maybe because I did it by myself. No classmates. No group discussions. Just me. Sitting at my kitchen table. Early mornings. Late nights. Weekend afternoons. Whatever it took. Just me. Often a cup of coffee. Usually some music. It became a routine, something to always think about. My crazy mind thinks that maybe I should just keep going. I always wanted a PhD, right? No. Not really. Right?
D went to her junior prom last night. I think I'm still processing that. That and the almost $300 I spent between the dress, the shoes, the handbag, flowers, and the fake eyelashes she had to have. I went to take pictures of her with her date. Her boyfriend. Boyfriend. KY and I went to dinner afterward. He asked, "How does it feel that your little girl is growing up?" Damn it. I was okay until then. Then, in that moment, I wanted to run and get her and hug her and bring her home and watch cartoons with her. I didn't want to her to grow up. To be with a boy. To move on, in any way.
KY's insightful observation? "You can't wait for her to leave. You're so tired of having her around and want her to move on and then you cry and can't stand the thought of her leaving and want her to stay forever. I can't keep up with it all." Really? Imagine how it feels to be inside my body.
Because I do want her to go. Parenting is exhausting. But I don't think I will ever be done either. I don't want her to be in love. She tells me how she feels about her boyfriend and I don't want to know. I want, more than anything, for her to be happy. But does it have to be him? Does it have to be that way? I don't get to choose her happiness and part of me is relieved. But another part of me thinks that is just crap. It's confusing to say the least.
Next year she will graduate. Which means a couple of things. She will start her new life. And so will I. I don't have to stay here anymore. Her leaving means I get to leave too. I get to Start Over.
This summer we are road-tripping. Checking out schools for her and a new location for me. It both thrills me and terrifies me. I like the familiar. Change generally freaks me out. Even when I choose the change, it's a challenge. And this is a big change. I have my sights set on a spot on the map far, far from this current X. It's a big leap.
Yep. Lots going on right now. Plans, adjustments, goals are all changing. I don't know yet how I will land. Or where. But I think it's time. It's time to shake it up a little bit. Time to reach a little higher and a little farther. It's time for a new adventure. It's time to grow up.
Maybe.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Degrees of Separation. Or the Best Celebrity Sighting Ever. Ever!!
I once had a brush with celebrity.
Actually, growing up in Southern California, I probably had several. I was supposedly spotted by a talent scout somewhere in Sun Land, but my mother turned them down. Her first incarnation as puppet master.
I saw Tom Bosley at the pool at the Disneyland hotel when I was 12 or so. Later I caught a glimpse (and a blurry photo) of George Takei, also at Disneyland. I talked to Gedde Watanabe (from Sixteen Candles) in line for the Revolution at Magic Mountain.
I went to Universal Studios enough to have the tour memorized. Clock from Back to the Future? Check. Fake shark from Jaws? Check. Not scary, by the way. Earthquake? Old hat, everyday occurrence.
And then I moved to Oregon. Where limos were not an everyday occurrence. Kevin Costner filmed at Smith Rock but I didn't see that movie. Jennifer Love Hewitt "worked out" at the Athletic Club of Bend. With Mario Lopez. Actually, she just stretched in front of him. She was in my way. While I was earnestly working out to look good on my honeymoon. Yes, this was a lifetime ago.
And then I went to Victoria. Butchart Gardens, to be exact. My ex-boyfriend was totally crushing on a guy that he claimed was on Stargate. Stargate? Wtf, right? Who cares? He followed him around like a little puppy dog. Drooling. I was embarrassed. I tried to verify the sighting casually. Tall? Yes. Dreads? Yes. But he was with an older woman. His mom? Oh, yes. It was Mother's Day weekend. Poor guy, he just wants to be alone with his mom. He turned away every time he caught me looking at him. Annoyed. Irritated. I understood. I pulled the ex-boyfriend away.
Flash forward a few years. I'm watching Game of Thrones. Like the Nerd Girl I am. Except a lot of people I know watch it too so it's acceptable. And then Khal Drogo appears. In all of his ferociousness and base sexiness. That growl. That intensity. I was gone. Gone. And then....
The long hair. Check. That shy look. Check. Oh, dear lord. It's him. I fucking saw Khal Drogo in Victoria, Canada. On Mother's Day. With his mommy. Looking at fucking flowers.
Yeah, he's sexy on Game of Thrones. Khaleesi knows her shit. He's the moon. He is It on a Stick.
And I saw him. With his mommy.
If I had only known. I would have ogled him so hard.
Seriously. So. Hard.
Actually, growing up in Southern California, I probably had several. I was supposedly spotted by a talent scout somewhere in Sun Land, but my mother turned them down. Her first incarnation as puppet master.
I saw Tom Bosley at the pool at the Disneyland hotel when I was 12 or so. Later I caught a glimpse (and a blurry photo) of George Takei, also at Disneyland. I talked to Gedde Watanabe (from Sixteen Candles) in line for the Revolution at Magic Mountain.
I went to Universal Studios enough to have the tour memorized. Clock from Back to the Future? Check. Fake shark from Jaws? Check. Not scary, by the way. Earthquake? Old hat, everyday occurrence.
And then I moved to Oregon. Where limos were not an everyday occurrence. Kevin Costner filmed at Smith Rock but I didn't see that movie. Jennifer Love Hewitt "worked out" at the Athletic Club of Bend. With Mario Lopez. Actually, she just stretched in front of him. She was in my way. While I was earnestly working out to look good on my honeymoon. Yes, this was a lifetime ago.
And then I went to Victoria. Butchart Gardens, to be exact. My ex-boyfriend was totally crushing on a guy that he claimed was on Stargate. Stargate? Wtf, right? Who cares? He followed him around like a little puppy dog. Drooling. I was embarrassed. I tried to verify the sighting casually. Tall? Yes. Dreads? Yes. But he was with an older woman. His mom? Oh, yes. It was Mother's Day weekend. Poor guy, he just wants to be alone with his mom. He turned away every time he caught me looking at him. Annoyed. Irritated. I understood. I pulled the ex-boyfriend away.
Flash forward a few years. I'm watching Game of Thrones. Like the Nerd Girl I am. Except a lot of people I know watch it too so it's acceptable. And then Khal Drogo appears. In all of his ferociousness and base sexiness. That growl. That intensity. I was gone. Gone. And then....
The long hair. Check. That shy look. Check. Oh, dear lord. It's him. I fucking saw Khal Drogo in Victoria, Canada. On Mother's Day. With his mommy. Looking at fucking flowers.
Yeah, he's sexy on Game of Thrones. Khaleesi knows her shit. He's the moon. He is It on a Stick.
And I saw him. With his mommy.
If I had only known. I would have ogled him so hard.
Seriously. So. Hard.
Monday, April 22, 2013
An Open Letter to the Airline Industry
I didn't think it was appropriate last week, in light of the tragedies our country was experiencing, to complain about my recent air travel. But now the bad guys have been taken out, victim assistance is underway, and the recovery process has begun.
God bless Boston.
God bless Texas.
So now, and I am confident that thousands of you (or the three or four who actually read my blog), will agree with this sentiment to the airline industry.
Y'all need to get your shit together.
I am including y'all, even though my recent experiences were with Alaska and United, because I think very few of y'all have a clue what you're doing or what we want from you or even give one iota of a shit.
Do you remember when flying used to be fun? When you got actual meals and the flight attendants were friendly and handed out pillows and blankets and cared about your comfort? When flying was half the fun of a vacation? It seems like so long ago, doesn't it?
Now, I understand that the events of 9/11 fucked up air travel. A mockery was made of air travel safety. Huge financial losses were incurred by the airlines and we're paying the penalty. I get that. It sucks, but I think most of us have resigned ourselves to these facts. What I can't and won't resign myself to is the complete lack of customer service that now exists. The fact that we have been stripped of our dignity as living souls and are now just pushed around, lined up, and re-sorted, prodded along like moronic cattle.
I flew to California with the wife, JP, nearly two weeks ago. Most of the spring break crowd seemed to have abated; the reason for the full flights had more to do with the reduced number of flights rather than the actual number of persons traveling.
What first irritated us was the fact that the price of the plane ticket did not include seat assignments. This was extra. Since when do you not get a seat with a plane ticket? We found ourselves rows apart on the flights into California. How does this even come into being? Obviously, if someone buys two tickets, they expect those two seats to be together, right? Unless they prefer the closeness of strangers to their friends. How do families fly with small children? Are they expected to pay extra so that their three-year-old isn't seated 20 rows away?
It's a stupid policy.
Now let's look at the actual people we encountered. Because we were seated so far apart, we thought we'd take a stab at asking someone at the gate if we could change seats. There were two women at the counter, apparently bitching about their jobs or customers they had dealt with or where they wanted to get their nails done. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that we stood there politely and when one of the women deigned to pay us any mind, throwing her hand out impatiently for JP's boarding pass, she only let JP get through half of her question before curtly replying, "It's full. Full flight. No." Mind you we still had about half an hour to board, we were the only two people at the counter so we weren't taking up precious time that needed to be spent boarding an actual plane. There was no "I'm sorry" or any other shred of attempt at human decency or communication. "Peasants. Don't even think of talking to me."
On the return flight, it got worse. Different airline, same ungodly hour of the day. The kiosks at Orange County don't allow baggage check-in like the kiosks in Redmond. As happy as we were to figure out how to print out boarding passes by ourselves at 5:30 a.m., we were equally discouraged by the fact that this wasn't enough. And we were so nicely informed by the shrew harpy handling baggage check-in.
Shrew Harpy began by barking at people in our line. "This line is for people who have paid for their baggage. ONLY those people." Oh. Hmm.... Because we tried that at the kiosk. "No. No. You can't do it there." (Read in the tone of "How absolutely stupid and simple-minded are you?!?") Oh. Hmmm...
So JP uses her phone to access the site online and pay for the bags. Done. Check. Get back in line to wait to use the second kiosk at the counter. Where there is mass confusion because Shrew Harpy is barking at everyone up there. One man tried to ask a question, "Uh, I don't know what number..." She shrieked back at him, "YOU NEED A CREDIT CARD NUMBER!!!" I don't think that was even what he was asking.
When it was our turn, she snatched my boarding pass out of my hand, asking if we had paid. We answered yes, we had just done it online. Her response? "Well! I will find out in just a minute if you paid or not." Like we lied about it and she was going to catch us in that lie. When our confirmation numbers went through, she grabbed our bags, threw them onto the scale and then turned back to scream in my face, thrusting her finger behind me. "You go that way!! Don't stand here now. Go, go, GO!!!!"
We ended up discussing this psychotic individual with the couple behind us in the security line. Even the TSA agent who overheard us was appalled. A TSA agent. A TSA agent thought we had been treated badly.
I know the travel industry is more stressful than it used to be. I know flight attendants and ticket agents deal with some real assholes. But I am fairly docile at 5:30 in the morning. After having the stomach flu for the 24 hours prior, I just wanted a nice, quiet place to sit. I just wanted to get home. I wasn't asking to be yelled at. Asking questions of unclear procedures does not make one an asshole.
So, airlines. Get your shit together. Take a course on customer service or fire all of your staff and start over or fire your executives and replace them with people that might actually care a little bit about how your businesses are represented. I don't care what you do or how you do it. What you're doing right now is bullshit. Fix it.
God bless Boston.
God bless Texas.
So now, and I am confident that thousands of you (or the three or four who actually read my blog), will agree with this sentiment to the airline industry.
Y'all need to get your shit together.
I am including y'all, even though my recent experiences were with Alaska and United, because I think very few of y'all have a clue what you're doing or what we want from you or even give one iota of a shit.
Do you remember when flying used to be fun? When you got actual meals and the flight attendants were friendly and handed out pillows and blankets and cared about your comfort? When flying was half the fun of a vacation? It seems like so long ago, doesn't it?
Now, I understand that the events of 9/11 fucked up air travel. A mockery was made of air travel safety. Huge financial losses were incurred by the airlines and we're paying the penalty. I get that. It sucks, but I think most of us have resigned ourselves to these facts. What I can't and won't resign myself to is the complete lack of customer service that now exists. The fact that we have been stripped of our dignity as living souls and are now just pushed around, lined up, and re-sorted, prodded along like moronic cattle.
I flew to California with the wife, JP, nearly two weeks ago. Most of the spring break crowd seemed to have abated; the reason for the full flights had more to do with the reduced number of flights rather than the actual number of persons traveling.
What first irritated us was the fact that the price of the plane ticket did not include seat assignments. This was extra. Since when do you not get a seat with a plane ticket? We found ourselves rows apart on the flights into California. How does this even come into being? Obviously, if someone buys two tickets, they expect those two seats to be together, right? Unless they prefer the closeness of strangers to their friends. How do families fly with small children? Are they expected to pay extra so that their three-year-old isn't seated 20 rows away?
It's a stupid policy.
Now let's look at the actual people we encountered. Because we were seated so far apart, we thought we'd take a stab at asking someone at the gate if we could change seats. There were two women at the counter, apparently bitching about their jobs or customers they had dealt with or where they wanted to get their nails done. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that we stood there politely and when one of the women deigned to pay us any mind, throwing her hand out impatiently for JP's boarding pass, she only let JP get through half of her question before curtly replying, "It's full. Full flight. No." Mind you we still had about half an hour to board, we were the only two people at the counter so we weren't taking up precious time that needed to be spent boarding an actual plane. There was no "I'm sorry" or any other shred of attempt at human decency or communication. "Peasants. Don't even think of talking to me."
On the return flight, it got worse. Different airline, same ungodly hour of the day. The kiosks at Orange County don't allow baggage check-in like the kiosks in Redmond. As happy as we were to figure out how to print out boarding passes by ourselves at 5:30 a.m., we were equally discouraged by the fact that this wasn't enough. And we were so nicely informed by the shrew harpy handling baggage check-in.
Shrew Harpy began by barking at people in our line. "This line is for people who have paid for their baggage. ONLY those people." Oh. Hmm.... Because we tried that at the kiosk. "No. No. You can't do it there." (Read in the tone of "How absolutely stupid and simple-minded are you?!?") Oh. Hmmm...
So JP uses her phone to access the site online and pay for the bags. Done. Check. Get back in line to wait to use the second kiosk at the counter. Where there is mass confusion because Shrew Harpy is barking at everyone up there. One man tried to ask a question, "Uh, I don't know what number..." She shrieked back at him, "YOU NEED A CREDIT CARD NUMBER!!!" I don't think that was even what he was asking.
When it was our turn, she snatched my boarding pass out of my hand, asking if we had paid. We answered yes, we had just done it online. Her response? "Well! I will find out in just a minute if you paid or not." Like we lied about it and she was going to catch us in that lie. When our confirmation numbers went through, she grabbed our bags, threw them onto the scale and then turned back to scream in my face, thrusting her finger behind me. "You go that way!! Don't stand here now. Go, go, GO!!!!"
We ended up discussing this psychotic individual with the couple behind us in the security line. Even the TSA agent who overheard us was appalled. A TSA agent. A TSA agent thought we had been treated badly.
I know the travel industry is more stressful than it used to be. I know flight attendants and ticket agents deal with some real assholes. But I am fairly docile at 5:30 in the morning. After having the stomach flu for the 24 hours prior, I just wanted a nice, quiet place to sit. I just wanted to get home. I wasn't asking to be yelled at. Asking questions of unclear procedures does not make one an asshole.
So, airlines. Get your shit together. Take a course on customer service or fire all of your staff and start over or fire your executives and replace them with people that might actually care a little bit about how your businesses are represented. I don't care what you do or how you do it. What you're doing right now is bullshit. Fix it.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Gathering Strength
I wasn't going to say anything about what happened in Boston on Monday because I didn't think I had anything to add. Certainly nothing I could say more eloquently than what has already been said. But reading, yet again, another story about how selfless people have been in helping the injured sparked a thought that I do want to share.
Which is that whatever it is that these horrible people are trying to do when they commit crimes like this, I think it's having the opposite effect.
Yes, the point of Monday's attack was seemingly to hurt as many people as possible in as many ways possible. The timing and the type of bombs used support this idea. And they did. Lives were lost. Lives were changed irrevocably and forever. Mission accomplished.
But something else is happening as well. People are growing stronger. We are seeing past the evil and the atrocities inflicted to see what humanity really is about. It is about kindness and selflessness. It is about those running towards the explosions to see how they can help. It's about offering a blanket or a cup of coffee or holding a hand.
Determination and resolve are forming. My friend J says he has always wanted to run in the Boston Marathon, it's always been a dream and a goal. But now he defiantly wants to go. Defiantly. In the face of. Because of. Because he is not going to let someone take that dream from him.
Here's another thing. Any time a tragedy happens in Boston, or Newtown, or Columbine, or wherever, I learn a little more about my country. I learn about the spirit of the people in these places. These American people. There is no division between political party or county line, north and south or east and west. I feel more connected to my country each time we are damaged because I see who we really are. How strong and capable and kind and generous. This is when patriotism means something to me.
So, to anyone, anywhere who wishes us harm: this is a war you won't win. You are not tearing us apart. You are bringing us together. You are creating love that replaces your hate. We are capable of far more and far better than you because of the love we have for each other. This love has a greater effect than you ever will.
Which is that whatever it is that these horrible people are trying to do when they commit crimes like this, I think it's having the opposite effect.
Yes, the point of Monday's attack was seemingly to hurt as many people as possible in as many ways possible. The timing and the type of bombs used support this idea. And they did. Lives were lost. Lives were changed irrevocably and forever. Mission accomplished.
But something else is happening as well. People are growing stronger. We are seeing past the evil and the atrocities inflicted to see what humanity really is about. It is about kindness and selflessness. It is about those running towards the explosions to see how they can help. It's about offering a blanket or a cup of coffee or holding a hand.
Determination and resolve are forming. My friend J says he has always wanted to run in the Boston Marathon, it's always been a dream and a goal. But now he defiantly wants to go. Defiantly. In the face of. Because of. Because he is not going to let someone take that dream from him.
Here's another thing. Any time a tragedy happens in Boston, or Newtown, or Columbine, or wherever, I learn a little more about my country. I learn about the spirit of the people in these places. These American people. There is no division between political party or county line, north and south or east and west. I feel more connected to my country each time we are damaged because I see who we really are. How strong and capable and kind and generous. This is when patriotism means something to me.
So, to anyone, anywhere who wishes us harm: this is a war you won't win. You are not tearing us apart. You are bringing us together. You are creating love that replaces your hate. We are capable of far more and far better than you because of the love we have for each other. This love has a greater effect than you ever will.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
How to Kill Yourself in Three Days
Day 1- Walk the butte with two small dogs who will make you walk faster than you want to. Breathe.
Day 2 - Go to Zumba. Feel stupid and see your mom every time you look in the mirror but convince yourself that you are burning enough calories to make you look hotter than your mom ever dreamed of. Ignore the fact that your legs are already pissed off at you. Tell them you're all in this together, they can't be the only good thing about your body, it isn't fair to your abs. Who are the real enemy here.
Day 3 - Go cross-country skiing for the first time ever. Shuffle along as the last person in your group and struggle to hold back the tears that are either stemming from a severe case of PMS, feeling-forced-to-do-something-you-never-wanted-to-do-induced depression, or the fact that every muscle below your waist is trying to kill you. Including the bottoms of your feet. You have muscle there? Fall down, pulling your shin and foot into an unnatural position. Give up after two hours and walk the rest of the way. Feed your body a Bloody Mary and BBQ hamburger while promising it that if it will just start losing weight on its own, you will never do that to it again.
Day 2 - Go to Zumba. Feel stupid and see your mom every time you look in the mirror but convince yourself that you are burning enough calories to make you look hotter than your mom ever dreamed of. Ignore the fact that your legs are already pissed off at you. Tell them you're all in this together, they can't be the only good thing about your body, it isn't fair to your abs. Who are the real enemy here.
Day 3 - Go cross-country skiing for the first time ever. Shuffle along as the last person in your group and struggle to hold back the tears that are either stemming from a severe case of PMS, feeling-forced-to-do-something-you-never-wanted-to-do-induced depression, or the fact that every muscle below your waist is trying to kill you. Including the bottoms of your feet. You have muscle there? Fall down, pulling your shin and foot into an unnatural position. Give up after two hours and walk the rest of the way. Feed your body a Bloody Mary and BBQ hamburger while promising it that if it will just start losing weight on its own, you will never do that to it again.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
World's Worst Boss
I once had the World's Worst Boss. I'm not even kidding. It's not hyperbole. I mean, maybe Imelda Marcos was worse, but at least she had a shoe collection I could respect. This guy? No way in hell. He still has a business in town, so if you ask me personally, I will tell you not to go there, but I think he's a big enough asshole to want to sue me because of something I say in my piddly little blog so I won't say his name here.
I started working for He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named when my daughter was very young. I had been trying to make use of my college degree, but it wasn't panning out and the job I was trying to get away from required that I work overnight. I spent a lot of time crying because I couldn't put my daughter to bed. I finally decided that I needed a job with daylight hours, Monday-through-Friday. Whatever that job turned out to be.
The interview process with HWSNBN should have tipped me off, but, as a single mom, I was pretty desperate. It started with a math test, which isn't completely out of the ordinary. However, the interview with the private investigator is. And this was before I even talked to HWSNBN. The PI asked me a ton of bizarre questions. Did I ever own a business in California? Did I ever go by this name? That name? He concluded by saying they were both pretty sure I would omit something and they were right. Um, excuse me? You come up with all of this "information" about me that has zero to do with me and think I'm leaving something out? Huh. Well, then.
When I started, there was a man and woman also working there. They often closed the door to his office to have long talks which made me feel completely left out. The explanation at the time was that some things had happened lately that they were embarrassed by. Several months later they told me the truth - they hated HWSNBN and didn't want to scare me off. Thanks for the warning, guys.
During those months and in the almost-four years afterward, I came to understand their hatred. I developed my own. I very quickly learned to be afraid of him. I soon started stress-eating, gaining 15 pounds during the time I worked there. I started drinking copious amounts of alcohol after work. I cried in the shower every day before work and had chronic stomachaches just thinking about what I would have to deal with that day.
When I told/tell people how awful he was (is?), they wouldn't believe me. And you might not either. So here is just a short list of what I lived with during The Dark Years:
1. He once told a male co-worker to tell our female co-worker to tell me that I needed to wear a padded bra because I was a distraction during meetings. Since he didn't tell me directly, he didn't consider it harassment.
2. If we weren't in meetings by 8:00, we got locked outside. That never happened to me.
3. He kept a record of our phone calls and named them things like "mystery caller" and kept notes about how long those phone calls were. For me, this was usually my best friend who I would call in tears saying how much I wanted to quit.
4. He yelled. A lot. He screamed until his face was blood-red and the veins in his head popped out. He once asked me what planet I was from and I really believe, had I not been on the other side of the desk from him, he would have hit me. He flung his arm at me several times.
5. He made us wear pantyhose. Not the worst thing in the world, but close. It really is just a symptom of how much of a control freak he was.
6. He kept a separate computer system from what the franchise offered/required and we were basically threatened with our lives if we let anyone know.
7. He did a lot of sneaky things that were wrong, but slippery enough to get by with them. And yet he talked a lot about integrity and honesty.
8. He fired a girl because she was fat.
9. He sent a memo to all of us calling a corporate person a bitch. It might have been the auditor. Wonder why. Huh.
10. He regularly harassed me about my clothing. I do not dress promiscuously, especially in an office setting. However, if there was a certain (abstract) amount of cleavage he wasn't comfortable with, he lectured and threatened to send me home, all the while making me feel cheap and worthless. A younger, cuter girl in the office could wear the same exact thing as me, or show more, and yet not a word was said to her.
11. He made it nearly impossible for us to quit. We were required to sign a non-compete statement in the tri-county area. He paid for us to get licensed but if we left before a certain period of time, we were required to pay him back. I finally decided the non-compete was a load of crap and started interviewing elsewhere. His reputation preceded him. People were afraid of him. I couldn't get a job in that field.
12. Did I mention the yelling? On a daily basis? None of us did anything that ever called for that. Did we make mistakes? Sure. But we were professionals and should have been treated as such. He was a tyrant. I literally didn't know from one day to the next if he was going to come into my office, slam the door, and commence screaming, or if by some miracle I would avoid it. And yes, customers could hear him.
I worked with someone who had worked for another franchise owner for something like eight years. She practically ran his business, knew what she was doing, and had proven herself as responsible and capable. HWSNBN treated her like she was a moron. Needless to say, his employee turnover rate was high. Customers commented on it.
Customers also commented on how much they disliked him. Several refused to deal with him or talk to him and would only talk to one of us. Several left because they didn't want to do business with him. And then he blamed us.
He is not an attractive man. A couple of times he had a billboard near the highway with his picture on it. His face, jumbo-sized. People called to complain. Some were nice, saying that it was merely "jarring" and could we please take it down? Others had a more violent reaction to it, saying that he looked like a child molester and they shouldn't be subjected to such ugliness on their daily drives. I wanted to tell them that I had to look at that face all day every day and it wasn't any better up-close.
Nobody that I worked with left under happy circumstances. They left because they couldn't take it anymore. Including me. I came home one evening, the night before Christmas Eve, knowing that I would be on vacation for the next week. And yet I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't shake the anxiety. I couldn't enjoy the holiday with my daughter. I no longer recognized myself. I sat down at my computer and emailed him, asking him to consider my vacation my week's notice that I was leaving. He accepted immediately.
I had no job to go to. I had never left a job without first securing another one. I had bills. I had a daughter to take care of. Rent. And yet I felt the greatest sense of relief. Just knowing I would never be yelled at by him again made it all worth it.
Oh, you know, I just realized that pimps are probably worse bosses than he is. But since it's illegal, you can expect that. You shouldn't expect that from another adult in a professional setting.
And P.S. Mr. HWSNBN: You're not the best deal in town. You may think you are, and you may lower your employee's self-esteem enough to think they don't deserve better, but you're wrong. I got a job making double what you paid me. They're nice to me. I've never been yelled at. I'm not pitted against fellow employees or asked to spy on them. I can wear whatever I want (within reason, but I'm a reasonable person), come and go as I please, and I take Christmas break off every year. Did I mention I get paid double?
I started working for He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named when my daughter was very young. I had been trying to make use of my college degree, but it wasn't panning out and the job I was trying to get away from required that I work overnight. I spent a lot of time crying because I couldn't put my daughter to bed. I finally decided that I needed a job with daylight hours, Monday-through-Friday. Whatever that job turned out to be.
The interview process with HWSNBN should have tipped me off, but, as a single mom, I was pretty desperate. It started with a math test, which isn't completely out of the ordinary. However, the interview with the private investigator is. And this was before I even talked to HWSNBN. The PI asked me a ton of bizarre questions. Did I ever own a business in California? Did I ever go by this name? That name? He concluded by saying they were both pretty sure I would omit something and they were right. Um, excuse me? You come up with all of this "information" about me that has zero to do with me and think I'm leaving something out? Huh. Well, then.
When I started, there was a man and woman also working there. They often closed the door to his office to have long talks which made me feel completely left out. The explanation at the time was that some things had happened lately that they were embarrassed by. Several months later they told me the truth - they hated HWSNBN and didn't want to scare me off. Thanks for the warning, guys.
During those months and in the almost-four years afterward, I came to understand their hatred. I developed my own. I very quickly learned to be afraid of him. I soon started stress-eating, gaining 15 pounds during the time I worked there. I started drinking copious amounts of alcohol after work. I cried in the shower every day before work and had chronic stomachaches just thinking about what I would have to deal with that day.
When I told/tell people how awful he was (is?), they wouldn't believe me. And you might not either. So here is just a short list of what I lived with during The Dark Years:
1. He once told a male co-worker to tell our female co-worker to tell me that I needed to wear a padded bra because I was a distraction during meetings. Since he didn't tell me directly, he didn't consider it harassment.
2. If we weren't in meetings by 8:00, we got locked outside. That never happened to me.
3. He kept a record of our phone calls and named them things like "mystery caller" and kept notes about how long those phone calls were. For me, this was usually my best friend who I would call in tears saying how much I wanted to quit.
4. He yelled. A lot. He screamed until his face was blood-red and the veins in his head popped out. He once asked me what planet I was from and I really believe, had I not been on the other side of the desk from him, he would have hit me. He flung his arm at me several times.
5. He made us wear pantyhose. Not the worst thing in the world, but close. It really is just a symptom of how much of a control freak he was.
6. He kept a separate computer system from what the franchise offered/required and we were basically threatened with our lives if we let anyone know.
7. He did a lot of sneaky things that were wrong, but slippery enough to get by with them. And yet he talked a lot about integrity and honesty.
8. He fired a girl because she was fat.
9. He sent a memo to all of us calling a corporate person a bitch. It might have been the auditor. Wonder why. Huh.
10. He regularly harassed me about my clothing. I do not dress promiscuously, especially in an office setting. However, if there was a certain (abstract) amount of cleavage he wasn't comfortable with, he lectured and threatened to send me home, all the while making me feel cheap and worthless. A younger, cuter girl in the office could wear the same exact thing as me, or show more, and yet not a word was said to her.
11. He made it nearly impossible for us to quit. We were required to sign a non-compete statement in the tri-county area. He paid for us to get licensed but if we left before a certain period of time, we were required to pay him back. I finally decided the non-compete was a load of crap and started interviewing elsewhere. His reputation preceded him. People were afraid of him. I couldn't get a job in that field.
12. Did I mention the yelling? On a daily basis? None of us did anything that ever called for that. Did we make mistakes? Sure. But we were professionals and should have been treated as such. He was a tyrant. I literally didn't know from one day to the next if he was going to come into my office, slam the door, and commence screaming, or if by some miracle I would avoid it. And yes, customers could hear him.
I worked with someone who had worked for another franchise owner for something like eight years. She practically ran his business, knew what she was doing, and had proven herself as responsible and capable. HWSNBN treated her like she was a moron. Needless to say, his employee turnover rate was high. Customers commented on it.
Customers also commented on how much they disliked him. Several refused to deal with him or talk to him and would only talk to one of us. Several left because they didn't want to do business with him. And then he blamed us.
He is not an attractive man. A couple of times he had a billboard near the highway with his picture on it. His face, jumbo-sized. People called to complain. Some were nice, saying that it was merely "jarring" and could we please take it down? Others had a more violent reaction to it, saying that he looked like a child molester and they shouldn't be subjected to such ugliness on their daily drives. I wanted to tell them that I had to look at that face all day every day and it wasn't any better up-close.
Nobody that I worked with left under happy circumstances. They left because they couldn't take it anymore. Including me. I came home one evening, the night before Christmas Eve, knowing that I would be on vacation for the next week. And yet I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't shake the anxiety. I couldn't enjoy the holiday with my daughter. I no longer recognized myself. I sat down at my computer and emailed him, asking him to consider my vacation my week's notice that I was leaving. He accepted immediately.
I had no job to go to. I had never left a job without first securing another one. I had bills. I had a daughter to take care of. Rent. And yet I felt the greatest sense of relief. Just knowing I would never be yelled at by him again made it all worth it.
Oh, you know, I just realized that pimps are probably worse bosses than he is. But since it's illegal, you can expect that. You shouldn't expect that from another adult in a professional setting.
And P.S. Mr. HWSNBN: You're not the best deal in town. You may think you are, and you may lower your employee's self-esteem enough to think they don't deserve better, but you're wrong. I got a job making double what you paid me. They're nice to me. I've never been yelled at. I'm not pitted against fellow employees or asked to spy on them. I can wear whatever I want (within reason, but I'm a reasonable person), come and go as I please, and I take Christmas break off every year. Did I mention I get paid double?
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Pope Jorge Sounds Better. If You Ask Me....
Here in the office we are up-to-date on current events. I mean real news, not like who got a proposal on The Bachelor. Because we're smarty pants like that. And because I'm the only one that watches The Bachelor.
Today's big news happens to be about the election of the new pope. Some of us are Catholic, some are not. Although, based on the conversation below, I am now questioning those who claim to be Catholic. It's like they're wolves in sheep's clothing. Or agnostics in pope's robes.
Me: Why do they change their names?
WS: Because they can choose their own.
Me: But why? What's the point? What's the meaning behind it?
WS: They just do it.
Because I doubt that the name change has anything to do with a Nike slogan, I googled it. Turns out that God changed the names of people that he sent on special missions and, since the popes are on special missions, they now change their names.
Me: How did you not know that?
WS: It's tradition. Didn't I say that?
Me: No, you didn't. You call yourself Catholic. Hey, it says that God changed Jesus' name. What name was he born with?
WS: Uh......
Me: Seriously, what kind of Catholic are you?
Maybe the couples on The Bachelor would stay together if the bachelors changed their names after the show.
Today's big news happens to be about the election of the new pope. Some of us are Catholic, some are not. Although, based on the conversation below, I am now questioning those who claim to be Catholic. It's like they're wolves in sheep's clothing. Or agnostics in pope's robes.
Me: Why do they change their names?
WS: Because they can choose their own.
Me: But why? What's the point? What's the meaning behind it?
WS: They just do it.
Because I doubt that the name change has anything to do with a Nike slogan, I googled it. Turns out that God changed the names of people that he sent on special missions and, since the popes are on special missions, they now change their names.
Me: How did you not know that?
WS: It's tradition. Didn't I say that?
Me: No, you didn't. You call yourself Catholic. Hey, it says that God changed Jesus' name. What name was he born with?
WS: Uh......
Me: Seriously, what kind of Catholic are you?
Maybe the couples on The Bachelor would stay together if the bachelors changed their names after the show.
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
On the Road Again
I love road trips. And that doesn't make me unusual, because lots of people love road trips. What's not to love? Scenery flying by, music cranked up, junk food littering the floor of the car. There's also the sore butts, the dazed feeling when walking into a still location after being in a moving vehicle for hours, and the crankiness that comes from being trapped in a car with people you're supposed to love. But I digress. As usual.
I have fond memories of road tripping as a little girl with my parents. We'd drive from California to Texas and Mississippi to visit the grandparents. Dad worked for Brougham, an RV manufacturer, so we'd borrow a motor home and ride in comfort. My stepbrother and I would lounge on the bunk beds in back playing road games, reading books, watching the miles go by, napping. One time my mom volunteered to deliver one for a customer so we made a girls' trip of it with my sister, who was probably four or five at the time, singing Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" over and over.
Every trip we made we had to stop at Stuckey's. We loved Stuckey's!! The A-lined, blue roof covered a restaurant and lot of other goodies. I know they were famous for their pecan rolls, but I don't remember loving them as a kid. I do remember the gift shop with the rows of toys. I even had a paper-doll-type replica of a Stuckey's once, complete with blue roof.
This summer D, KY and I are trekking across the country to Nashville so D can check out the schools there. I've already found the Stuckey's that falls along our route, insisting that we will be stopping there. Whether or not we need gas, food, or a bathroom, this is an Absolute Must.
As excited as I am, I'm trying not to play it up too much. Both D and KY are from different generations (because, good lord, I'm old!) and probably won't appreciate the kitschyness that is Stuckey's. It's not a part of their childhood like it was mine. To D, cool toys are iPods and hand-held video games. To me, they were paper Stuckey's buildings and travel-sized board games and tiny Hello Kitty pencils. I am prepared for the eye-rolls.
I'm also prepared that the nostalgia won't live up to the current reality. I've been reading up on it and Stuckey's has undergone a few changes over the years, including ownership. It's also not the 70's anymore and I'm not eight and unjaded.
Still, I am totally looking forward to seeing those road signs and counting down the miles until that blue roof pops up on the horizon. I'll even try a pecan roll this time.
I have fond memories of road tripping as a little girl with my parents. We'd drive from California to Texas and Mississippi to visit the grandparents. Dad worked for Brougham, an RV manufacturer, so we'd borrow a motor home and ride in comfort. My stepbrother and I would lounge on the bunk beds in back playing road games, reading books, watching the miles go by, napping. One time my mom volunteered to deliver one for a customer so we made a girls' trip of it with my sister, who was probably four or five at the time, singing Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" over and over.
Every trip we made we had to stop at Stuckey's. We loved Stuckey's!! The A-lined, blue roof covered a restaurant and lot of other goodies. I know they were famous for their pecan rolls, but I don't remember loving them as a kid. I do remember the gift shop with the rows of toys. I even had a paper-doll-type replica of a Stuckey's once, complete with blue roof.
This summer D, KY and I are trekking across the country to Nashville so D can check out the schools there. I've already found the Stuckey's that falls along our route, insisting that we will be stopping there. Whether or not we need gas, food, or a bathroom, this is an Absolute Must.
As excited as I am, I'm trying not to play it up too much. Both D and KY are from different generations (because, good lord, I'm old!) and probably won't appreciate the kitschyness that is Stuckey's. It's not a part of their childhood like it was mine. To D, cool toys are iPods and hand-held video games. To me, they were paper Stuckey's buildings and travel-sized board games and tiny Hello Kitty pencils. I am prepared for the eye-rolls.
I'm also prepared that the nostalgia won't live up to the current reality. I've been reading up on it and Stuckey's has undergone a few changes over the years, including ownership. It's also not the 70's anymore and I'm not eight and unjaded.
Still, I am totally looking forward to seeing those road signs and counting down the miles until that blue roof pops up on the horizon. I'll even try a pecan roll this time.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Tables of Content
When KY and I went to the coast last weekend, I dragged him to the Sylvia Beach Hotel's restaurant Tables of Content. I had read about it online and almost all of the reviews raved about it. It has a book theme. The dinners are presented in chapters. It's food. How could I not want to go? How could he say no to something I wanted so badly?
Sylvia Beach Hotel is located in Nye Beach in Newport. The hotel faces the ocean, with steps right down to the beach. Each room has a book theme - there is the Tolkein room, Dr. Seuss, and Steinbeck, among others. One of our dining companions let us in on a little secret that the rooms are left open after they are cleaned and can be toured in the afternoon before the next guests check in. I wanted so badly to do this but we ran out of time.
The restaurant is located on the bottom floor of the hotel, also facing the ocean. We had the most incredible sunset views as we were being seated. The room is small with just a few tables that seat 6-8 people. If you are a party of less than 6-8 people, you are seated at a table with others. We were seated with three other couples. I knew this going in, and was a little worried that we'd have to sit with the balding, purple-haired guy milling around the lobby. Nope, we got the gay couple. Score! We were also the youngest and right next to the most adorable miniature version of Colonel Sanders. Loved him.
The whole idea is to mix and mingle and get to know your fellow diners. Two of the other couples had been previously so they let us in on the little secrets and how it all worked. The third couple at our table were the parents of the chef. She warned us ahead of time not to make any negative comments about the food.
Once we were all seated and served drinks, we were instructed to play Two Truths and a Lie at our respective tables. This is where you tell two true things and one lie about yourself and the others at your table can ask you questions about them in order to guess which is the lie. As I was telling my stories, Chef's mom remarked what an excellent liar I am. This isn't really the thing you want your boyfriend to hear about you. These were my stories -
1. At my fourth birthday party, my cat killed a snake on our back patio.
2. I once owned a tarantula.
3. In my current home, I have found no less than 15 black widows.
I was a good enough liar that there was no consensus on one single story, they were all mixed up. See if you can guess for yourself. If you have read maybe 5% of my blogs, you'll know for sure which one of them is true.
When the first course arrived, I was worried about Chef's mom's warning. It was roasted cauliflower soup. Not a fan of cauliflower. But it was delicious! So smooth and creamy and totally un-cauliflower-like. The bread was perfectly soft and crusted with sesame seeds, adding a nutty flavor. Next came the salad, fresh greens with a grapefruit vinaigrette. Yep, pretty much hate grapefruit. However, the arugula was the freshest I've ever had and the dressing was just light and refreshing, with none of that bitter aftertaste that I don't like.
When making the reservation, I was required to pre-order our entree. Each night there is a choice for meat, chicken, fish, or vegetarian. I chose the rack of lamb and KY opted for the chicken Marsala. My lamb was so soft and flavorful and perfectly cooked. I wanted more than my allotted portion. KY's Marsala was perfect to me, although he found the sherry flavoring a little too strong. I snuck the extra mushrooms left over on the center plate. (All dishes are served family style so they're passed around the table.)
The accompanying sides to the entree were a lentil salad and steamed leeks. Guess what? Yep, don't like either one of them. Or at least I didn't. They were both so much better than anything I'd ever had them in before. I would have had seconds of both if I weren't saving room for dessert.
Oh, dessert. How I love you so. Chef's parents were celebrating their anniversary so she made the dessert especially for them. Lucky, lucky us. We were served a chocolate torte with orange zest and freshly whipped cream. It wasn't light, but the orange zest took away some of the richness and made for a completely perfect ending to our meal.
Our other couples were also completely lovely. We learned about community art projects, life on a military base in Afghanistan, talked about classic cars and books about food, and shared stories about Shaman weddings and cake decorating. We were introduced to Chef, who was absolutely delightful and I didn't have to lie to her one bit about anything presented to our table.
I will definitely visit Tables of Content again. I loved everything about it. The pictures on the walls, the views, the food, the company. It wasn't just a dinner, it was an experience. In all the years I've been going to the coast, it's a shame I've missed this little gem.
Sylvia Beach Hotel is located in Nye Beach in Newport. The hotel faces the ocean, with steps right down to the beach. Each room has a book theme - there is the Tolkein room, Dr. Seuss, and Steinbeck, among others. One of our dining companions let us in on a little secret that the rooms are left open after they are cleaned and can be toured in the afternoon before the next guests check in. I wanted so badly to do this but we ran out of time.
The restaurant is located on the bottom floor of the hotel, also facing the ocean. We had the most incredible sunset views as we were being seated. The room is small with just a few tables that seat 6-8 people. If you are a party of less than 6-8 people, you are seated at a table with others. We were seated with three other couples. I knew this going in, and was a little worried that we'd have to sit with the balding, purple-haired guy milling around the lobby. Nope, we got the gay couple. Score! We were also the youngest and right next to the most adorable miniature version of Colonel Sanders. Loved him.
The whole idea is to mix and mingle and get to know your fellow diners. Two of the other couples had been previously so they let us in on the little secrets and how it all worked. The third couple at our table were the parents of the chef. She warned us ahead of time not to make any negative comments about the food.
Once we were all seated and served drinks, we were instructed to play Two Truths and a Lie at our respective tables. This is where you tell two true things and one lie about yourself and the others at your table can ask you questions about them in order to guess which is the lie. As I was telling my stories, Chef's mom remarked what an excellent liar I am. This isn't really the thing you want your boyfriend to hear about you. These were my stories -
1. At my fourth birthday party, my cat killed a snake on our back patio.
2. I once owned a tarantula.
3. In my current home, I have found no less than 15 black widows.
I was a good enough liar that there was no consensus on one single story, they were all mixed up. See if you can guess for yourself. If you have read maybe 5% of my blogs, you'll know for sure which one of them is true.
When the first course arrived, I was worried about Chef's mom's warning. It was roasted cauliflower soup. Not a fan of cauliflower. But it was delicious! So smooth and creamy and totally un-cauliflower-like. The bread was perfectly soft and crusted with sesame seeds, adding a nutty flavor. Next came the salad, fresh greens with a grapefruit vinaigrette. Yep, pretty much hate grapefruit. However, the arugula was the freshest I've ever had and the dressing was just light and refreshing, with none of that bitter aftertaste that I don't like.
When making the reservation, I was required to pre-order our entree. Each night there is a choice for meat, chicken, fish, or vegetarian. I chose the rack of lamb and KY opted for the chicken Marsala. My lamb was so soft and flavorful and perfectly cooked. I wanted more than my allotted portion. KY's Marsala was perfect to me, although he found the sherry flavoring a little too strong. I snuck the extra mushrooms left over on the center plate. (All dishes are served family style so they're passed around the table.)
The accompanying sides to the entree were a lentil salad and steamed leeks. Guess what? Yep, don't like either one of them. Or at least I didn't. They were both so much better than anything I'd ever had them in before. I would have had seconds of both if I weren't saving room for dessert.
Oh, dessert. How I love you so. Chef's parents were celebrating their anniversary so she made the dessert especially for them. Lucky, lucky us. We were served a chocolate torte with orange zest and freshly whipped cream. It wasn't light, but the orange zest took away some of the richness and made for a completely perfect ending to our meal.
Our other couples were also completely lovely. We learned about community art projects, life on a military base in Afghanistan, talked about classic cars and books about food, and shared stories about Shaman weddings and cake decorating. We were introduced to Chef, who was absolutely delightful and I didn't have to lie to her one bit about anything presented to our table.
I will definitely visit Tables of Content again. I loved everything about it. The pictures on the walls, the views, the food, the company. It wasn't just a dinner, it was an experience. In all the years I've been going to the coast, it's a shame I've missed this little gem.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
How the Avon Lady Killed Our Cat
When I was in jr. high school, (and my freshman year of high school), we lived in Chino Hills. As the name implies, it was a very hilly area. We lived in the specific area of Carbon Canyon which I wasn't allowed to tell anyone. I was only supposed to say that I lived in Chino so that I wouldn't sound like an over-privileged white girl who came down from her mountaintop to visit with the peasants.
Our driveway had the steepest incline known to the western world. And it was long. Like maybe a quarter of a mile. Sometimes it seemed like half a mile. After walking up and down that driveway to and from the bus stop every day, I was finally able to complete the required running in P.E. tests. If I had that driveway now, well, first it would be impossible where it snows, but second of all I would probably be in the shape of my life. People would stop hiking the butte and just show up at my driveway.
My friends' parents refused to go up it. They would drop me off at the bottom and just let me walk up. I guess they just assumed that I made it to the house okay. I was like 75 pounds, who would worry about a kid like that? Since it was windy, they couldn't even see the end. I could have been attacked by a lizard or a coyote on the way up.
For some reason, there was a gate at the top of the driveway. There was a fence around the whole property instead of just the back yard and the gate could be locked. I seriously worry about the people that lived there before us that they thought they needed an obstacle course and layers of security to get onto the property. I really don't think the peacocks on one side or the 70-year-olds on the other side posed any kind of threat.
The only time we closed the gate was when we were gone to keep the dogs inside. The rest of the time it was open because we had English bulldogs and they're not really highly motivated to wander off if they know their food provider is nearby.
Remember how nobody but us drove up it? Or my parents, since I was 12 and didn't drive, and really, thank goodness I didn't learn to drive on that driveway because I probably would have killed us all. Well, the one person who ever drove up was the Avon lady. She must have really, really wanted that pink Cadillac to risk the Most Treacherous Driveway Known to Man.
Now, our dogs were no longer used to seeing anyone but us since nobody but us ever made the trek. Also, they could probably smell her desperation. So they barked at her. I can imagine she was frightened because most people have an irrational fear of bulldogs, but by golly, she was going to get that pink Cadillac even if she needed an artificial leg to drive it with.
By the time she got to the door the dogs were in a near frenzy. They didn't trust her, they didn't like her, they wanted her to roll herself back down the hill. So when my mom opened the front door and our kitten went darting out, George, the only boy dog, grabbed the kitten in his mouth to defend her from the evil Avon lady who obviously would stop at nothing to get to us with her overrated makeup and cheap perfume.
Bulldogs were originally bred to fight. They were bred to fight bulls, hence the name. They were designed to clamp down on the neck of a bull and hold on until they brought the bull down. It all sounds very violent and ugly and inhumane, but this is the strength that came down on our poor little kitten. And I'm sure it looked very violent. The Avon lady screamed. My mom screamed at her to leave. The Avon lady screamed and said she was sorry (because she knew it was her fault). My mother told her that the best thing she could do would be to vacate our property immediately as she had done enough damage and to never, ever return again.
Of course as soon as she was gone, George released the kitten. He was only protecting it from her. The poor boy didn't realize what he had really done because he didn't realize how strong he was. He just reacted. With the best of intentions, of course. His jaws of steel crushed our poor little kitten and we lost her in a matter of minutes. The damage was too great, there wasn't even time to rush her to the vet.
George was not reprimanded. We cried because it was sad, but we knew he was only trying to protect his family. There was nothing even to forgive him for. Besides, he was never the smart one and it was clear that he was confused by our deep sadness. He was sure that he had done a Good Thing like a Good Boy.
I have never bought anything from Avon. I never will. I've never been friends with anyone affiliated with Avon, as far as I know. We blamed that woman for her stupidity and her insensitivity. We blamed her for the death of our little kitten.
I wasn't sure what the moral of that story was until recently. For the longest time it was just that Avon and stupid Avon ladies aren't to be trusted. But I think if that incident happened today, there would have been far more serious consequences for us and for George. Sure, she ignored a steep driveway and stepped onto a property despite the warning barks of dogs, but I bet today George would be blamed for what happened that day. In today's world he would be seen as a vicious animal and vicious animals are removed from their homes. We would have been devastated had he been taken from us. We loved our dumb George. And we knew that he was only protecting us, his family.
And this is what happens in the vast majority of the cases we hear about. Dogs are being dogs. Protecting their families, their territory, acting out of a sense of responsibility and often fear. We need to remember this. Respect a dog that's barking. Respect his boundaries and pay attention to his body language. Dogs can't talk to us in our language, but they are yelling at us to get our attention in theirs.
Still, I think the second moral of the story is that if you sell Avon, bad things will happen to you.
Our driveway had the steepest incline known to the western world. And it was long. Like maybe a quarter of a mile. Sometimes it seemed like half a mile. After walking up and down that driveway to and from the bus stop every day, I was finally able to complete the required running in P.E. tests. If I had that driveway now, well, first it would be impossible where it snows, but second of all I would probably be in the shape of my life. People would stop hiking the butte and just show up at my driveway.
My friends' parents refused to go up it. They would drop me off at the bottom and just let me walk up. I guess they just assumed that I made it to the house okay. I was like 75 pounds, who would worry about a kid like that? Since it was windy, they couldn't even see the end. I could have been attacked by a lizard or a coyote on the way up.
For some reason, there was a gate at the top of the driveway. There was a fence around the whole property instead of just the back yard and the gate could be locked. I seriously worry about the people that lived there before us that they thought they needed an obstacle course and layers of security to get onto the property. I really don't think the peacocks on one side or the 70-year-olds on the other side posed any kind of threat.
The only time we closed the gate was when we were gone to keep the dogs inside. The rest of the time it was open because we had English bulldogs and they're not really highly motivated to wander off if they know their food provider is nearby.
Remember how nobody but us drove up it? Or my parents, since I was 12 and didn't drive, and really, thank goodness I didn't learn to drive on that driveway because I probably would have killed us all. Well, the one person who ever drove up was the Avon lady. She must have really, really wanted that pink Cadillac to risk the Most Treacherous Driveway Known to Man.
Now, our dogs were no longer used to seeing anyone but us since nobody but us ever made the trek. Also, they could probably smell her desperation. So they barked at her. I can imagine she was frightened because most people have an irrational fear of bulldogs, but by golly, she was going to get that pink Cadillac even if she needed an artificial leg to drive it with.
By the time she got to the door the dogs were in a near frenzy. They didn't trust her, they didn't like her, they wanted her to roll herself back down the hill. So when my mom opened the front door and our kitten went darting out, George, the only boy dog, grabbed the kitten in his mouth to defend her from the evil Avon lady who obviously would stop at nothing to get to us with her overrated makeup and cheap perfume.
Bulldogs were originally bred to fight. They were bred to fight bulls, hence the name. They were designed to clamp down on the neck of a bull and hold on until they brought the bull down. It all sounds very violent and ugly and inhumane, but this is the strength that came down on our poor little kitten. And I'm sure it looked very violent. The Avon lady screamed. My mom screamed at her to leave. The Avon lady screamed and said she was sorry (because she knew it was her fault). My mother told her that the best thing she could do would be to vacate our property immediately as she had done enough damage and to never, ever return again.
Of course as soon as she was gone, George released the kitten. He was only protecting it from her. The poor boy didn't realize what he had really done because he didn't realize how strong he was. He just reacted. With the best of intentions, of course. His jaws of steel crushed our poor little kitten and we lost her in a matter of minutes. The damage was too great, there wasn't even time to rush her to the vet.
George was not reprimanded. We cried because it was sad, but we knew he was only trying to protect his family. There was nothing even to forgive him for. Besides, he was never the smart one and it was clear that he was confused by our deep sadness. He was sure that he had done a Good Thing like a Good Boy.
I have never bought anything from Avon. I never will. I've never been friends with anyone affiliated with Avon, as far as I know. We blamed that woman for her stupidity and her insensitivity. We blamed her for the death of our little kitten.
I wasn't sure what the moral of that story was until recently. For the longest time it was just that Avon and stupid Avon ladies aren't to be trusted. But I think if that incident happened today, there would have been far more serious consequences for us and for George. Sure, she ignored a steep driveway and stepped onto a property despite the warning barks of dogs, but I bet today George would be blamed for what happened that day. In today's world he would be seen as a vicious animal and vicious animals are removed from their homes. We would have been devastated had he been taken from us. We loved our dumb George. And we knew that he was only protecting us, his family.
And this is what happens in the vast majority of the cases we hear about. Dogs are being dogs. Protecting their families, their territory, acting out of a sense of responsibility and often fear. We need to remember this. Respect a dog that's barking. Respect his boundaries and pay attention to his body language. Dogs can't talk to us in our language, but they are yelling at us to get our attention in theirs.
Still, I think the second moral of the story is that if you sell Avon, bad things will happen to you.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
How to Make People Think You Have a Mental Health Issue
You might think the title of this post refers to me. Surprisingly, it doesn't. Except in the respect that I was so disturbed by what I am about to tell you that my mental stability was at risk.
The wife and I went to breakfast yesterday. It's getting to be a regular Saturday routine, which makes me feel like a Sex and the City character, only we don't need four women, just two because the two of us make enough trouble for four people.
I digress.
When I walked to my table I saw a small baby in a high chair right next to us. It was abnormally tiny and not moving. It was also not dressed appropriately for the weather. That's because it wasn't a real baby. Silly me for assuming that restaurant high chairs are reserved for real babies. Duh. Especially in crowded restaurants where there's not enough space to start with. Yeah, let's waste it on a piece of plastic.
So that's not even the weird part. Or the real asshole part. It gets worse.
The dad had to go to the bathroom. The high chair was in his way. He very carefully slid it back so as not to disturb Fake Baby. And then he removed books from the book shelf behind him so that Fake Baby could see over the table. First it was just a few but I guess that wasn't enough. He put a whole freaking stack in the chair. For Fake Baby. And he didn't lift her up by her head, he gently asked his daughter hold her so he could get it just right. Like he didn't want to upset Fake Baby.
Okay. So maybe it was really sweet that he was showing his daughter's doll such tenderness in helping to care for her. But I really think that he believed the doll was real. It was weird. It was disturbing. And distracting. And really just fucking freaky.
I might have nightmares. Chucky has nothing on that Fake Baby bitch.
The wife and I went to breakfast yesterday. It's getting to be a regular Saturday routine, which makes me feel like a Sex and the City character, only we don't need four women, just two because the two of us make enough trouble for four people.
I digress.
When I walked to my table I saw a small baby in a high chair right next to us. It was abnormally tiny and not moving. It was also not dressed appropriately for the weather. That's because it wasn't a real baby. Silly me for assuming that restaurant high chairs are reserved for real babies. Duh. Especially in crowded restaurants where there's not enough space to start with. Yeah, let's waste it on a piece of plastic.
So that's not even the weird part. Or the real asshole part. It gets worse.
The dad had to go to the bathroom. The high chair was in his way. He very carefully slid it back so as not to disturb Fake Baby. And then he removed books from the book shelf behind him so that Fake Baby could see over the table. First it was just a few but I guess that wasn't enough. He put a whole freaking stack in the chair. For Fake Baby. And he didn't lift her up by her head, he gently asked his daughter hold her so he could get it just right. Like he didn't want to upset Fake Baby.
Okay. So maybe it was really sweet that he was showing his daughter's doll such tenderness in helping to care for her. But I really think that he believed the doll was real. It was weird. It was disturbing. And distracting. And really just fucking freaky.
I might have nightmares. Chucky has nothing on that Fake Baby bitch.
Lessons Learned at the Oregon Coast
I went on a little couple's retreat to the coast over the weekend. Actually it was kind of a family retreat since the puppies went along and left little room in the bed for us. Whatever. It's my favorite way to sleep.
Here are a few things I learned while I was there.
1. Rocks can be slippery and it hurts when one falls on them. However, I didn't bruise. Maybe I just don't have anymore blood.
2. Sea lions look like they're all best buddies when they're curled up together but they're constantly growling and biting at each other. They're nasty.
3. An excellent breakfast can't be duplicated when you order a different meal the next day. How are eggs and potatoes supposed to measure up to the best burrito ever? Also, it's good to get the one thing on the menu that sounds weird as a breakfast item. Like ham and asparagus crepes. Yum. With brandy sauce. Extra yum.
4. Ruby cares much more about her brother than she lets on. Remy wasn't feeling well after drinking salt water (duh) and spent the drive home shaking and acting pathetic. We covered him with a blanket but Ruby snuggled right up next to him to help keep him warm and comforted. She wouldn't even leave him to come snuggle with me.
5. Tables of Content is the best place for dinner on the coast. More on that later.
6. Not all clam chowders are created equal. Some of them aren't even any good. At all.
7. Traveling with dogs is awesome. They have the joy of discovery like small children without the whining or dirty diapers.
Here are a few things I learned while I was there.
1. Rocks can be slippery and it hurts when one falls on them. However, I didn't bruise. Maybe I just don't have anymore blood.
2. Sea lions look like they're all best buddies when they're curled up together but they're constantly growling and biting at each other. They're nasty.
3. An excellent breakfast can't be duplicated when you order a different meal the next day. How are eggs and potatoes supposed to measure up to the best burrito ever? Also, it's good to get the one thing on the menu that sounds weird as a breakfast item. Like ham and asparagus crepes. Yum. With brandy sauce. Extra yum.
4. Ruby cares much more about her brother than she lets on. Remy wasn't feeling well after drinking salt water (duh) and spent the drive home shaking and acting pathetic. We covered him with a blanket but Ruby snuggled right up next to him to help keep him warm and comforted. She wouldn't even leave him to come snuggle with me.
5. Tables of Content is the best place for dinner on the coast. More on that later.
6. Not all clam chowders are created equal. Some of them aren't even any good. At all.
7. Traveling with dogs is awesome. They have the joy of discovery like small children without the whining or dirty diapers.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Baby Snuggles and New Beginnings
I told you about a special family in December. I've kept in touch with Mom since then and, even though I am incredibly lame and haven't yet finished Princess's armoir that I started three months ago, she invited me to come visit and see Baby Boy.
You guys, he is the sweetest little boy in the world! He just snuggled and sighed and melted my heart. And he is so healthy! He's a big boy at the 90th percentile. Mom is doing such a good job with him and, by the way, looks incredible. It's funny meeting someone at the height of pregnancy and puffiness and then discovering what they look like under all of that. She's beautiful.
Princess is doing so well. Her room was organized and filled with Barbies and movies and cleaned up so nicely. However, she assured me that it would soon be messy again because "that's what kids do." She is an absolute delight and I was so secretly thrilled to see that she was wearing the shoes that I had bought for her.
They had another reason for me to come over. They'd made up a thank you card for my office, for everyone who had helped them get their new start in life. Princess had colored and decorated it (she showed me specifically what she did) and Mom added pictures she had taken Christmas morning. There is so much happiness and love in that card. And it's huge! It's now hanging on our bulletin board in the hall.
I think a lot of times when we help someone it's in the short-term or it's anonymous or part of a huge effort such as hurricane relief. We don't get to see if our efforts truly matter. We don't know if we've made a difference. Which isn't the point, really. Giving comes from the heart and shouldn't expect anything in return.
Still, it's nice to see the difference for a change. It's heartwarming to see this family settled into their home with all of the things we take for granted. Furniture. A toaster. A bathmat. It's nice to know that a little girl has warm clothes to wear to school and a baby boy who likes to snuggle has soft blankets to cozy into at night. And that a mom can breathe a little easier with some of the burden off of her shoulders. She can take a break and think about her options. Because she has them now. She can think about returning to school because she doesn't have to worry about whether or not her daughter is going to have a bed to sleep in. She's strong and smart and just needed a little bit of help.
I'm grateful to have been a small part of that. If she's inspired to pay it forward, wonderful. If it stops with her and her children, I'm okay with that too. Because she's not out of the clear yet, she needs to figure out how to take care of her children in the long-term. It's not easy to start over and it's especially not easy as a single mom with an infant. I know she can do it. She's come so far already.
You guys, he is the sweetest little boy in the world! He just snuggled and sighed and melted my heart. And he is so healthy! He's a big boy at the 90th percentile. Mom is doing such a good job with him and, by the way, looks incredible. It's funny meeting someone at the height of pregnancy and puffiness and then discovering what they look like under all of that. She's beautiful.
Princess is doing so well. Her room was organized and filled with Barbies and movies and cleaned up so nicely. However, she assured me that it would soon be messy again because "that's what kids do." She is an absolute delight and I was so secretly thrilled to see that she was wearing the shoes that I had bought for her.
They had another reason for me to come over. They'd made up a thank you card for my office, for everyone who had helped them get their new start in life. Princess had colored and decorated it (she showed me specifically what she did) and Mom added pictures she had taken Christmas morning. There is so much happiness and love in that card. And it's huge! It's now hanging on our bulletin board in the hall.
I think a lot of times when we help someone it's in the short-term or it's anonymous or part of a huge effort such as hurricane relief. We don't get to see if our efforts truly matter. We don't know if we've made a difference. Which isn't the point, really. Giving comes from the heart and shouldn't expect anything in return.
Still, it's nice to see the difference for a change. It's heartwarming to see this family settled into their home with all of the things we take for granted. Furniture. A toaster. A bathmat. It's nice to know that a little girl has warm clothes to wear to school and a baby boy who likes to snuggle has soft blankets to cozy into at night. And that a mom can breathe a little easier with some of the burden off of her shoulders. She can take a break and think about her options. Because she has them now. She can think about returning to school because she doesn't have to worry about whether or not her daughter is going to have a bed to sleep in. She's strong and smart and just needed a little bit of help.
I'm grateful to have been a small part of that. If she's inspired to pay it forward, wonderful. If it stops with her and her children, I'm okay with that too. Because she's not out of the clear yet, she needs to figure out how to take care of her children in the long-term. It's not easy to start over and it's especially not easy as a single mom with an infant. I know she can do it. She's come so far already.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
Priorities
Last night D and I went to dinner. She was needing some mom time, I was needing some bread. I really needed to put myself into a coma after the craptastic day I had, but I settled for empty carbs.
When it came time to pay the bill, I had a small heart attack. Actually, it was just another crappy thing to add to my crappy day. See, during the day I had to take my ID out for the life exam lady and when I put my wallet away, I just threw it in the drawer on top of my purse. The stupid thing did not magically put itself away inside of my purse. Of course I forgot until I needed it. On the other end of town. After I had eaten my grilled chicken and D had her fill of shrimp pasta.
While images of washing dishes in shame flashed through my head, D calmly said, "Don't worry Mom, I can drive home. I have my ID." Because that is the first thing she thought of as a teenager who wants desperately to drive everywhere herself and only wishes she could do it alone. She wasn't thinking about doing dishes next to me.
Luckily, I use my debit card enough that I have the number memorized. When I tried to explain this to our waitress, she immediately called a manager over. As if I had grown horns and fangs since the last time she stopped by our table. Her reaction was reflected in her tip.
D did get to drive home. She came within an inch of hitting a camper, took the extra long way out of the parking lot, and nearly parked on top of the bikes in the garage, but didn't kill anyone. At least it was a good reminder to not forget my wallet again.
When it came time to pay the bill, I had a small heart attack. Actually, it was just another crappy thing to add to my crappy day. See, during the day I had to take my ID out for the life exam lady and when I put my wallet away, I just threw it in the drawer on top of my purse. The stupid thing did not magically put itself away inside of my purse. Of course I forgot until I needed it. On the other end of town. After I had eaten my grilled chicken and D had her fill of shrimp pasta.
While images of washing dishes in shame flashed through my head, D calmly said, "Don't worry Mom, I can drive home. I have my ID." Because that is the first thing she thought of as a teenager who wants desperately to drive everywhere herself and only wishes she could do it alone. She wasn't thinking about doing dishes next to me.
Luckily, I use my debit card enough that I have the number memorized. When I tried to explain this to our waitress, she immediately called a manager over. As if I had grown horns and fangs since the last time she stopped by our table. Her reaction was reflected in her tip.
D did get to drive home. She came within an inch of hitting a camper, took the extra long way out of the parking lot, and nearly parked on top of the bikes in the garage, but didn't kill anyone. At least it was a good reminder to not forget my wallet again.
Friday, February 01, 2013
The Story of Kelsha
The first day that I met Kelsha was also the first day that I met KY's mom and his best friend. All of the important women in his life. He said his dog didn't like many people but she immediately ambled up to me on her short little legs and greeted me with a smile.
The second time I saw Kelsha she was having leg problems and was unable to get herself around. Even in her discomfort she wasn't displeased with me. I saw her a handful of times after that when she was outside and I was walking up to the house. Always friendly, always accepting of a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear.
This is not a long story because Kelsha is in her last chapter. She's slowing down and nearing the last few pages. I've been fortunate to be able to spend this last week with her. I didn't know her as a puppy or adult, but I am getting to know her senior self.
Kelsha is wonderful. In the way that only old dogs can be. She's sweet and has mastered the art of looking adorable by laying her head just so. She gently nudges my hand when I stop petting her and tolerates being covered under a blanket. Her head smells like a little cow and so that is what I call her now. Little Cow. I have fallen in love with her.
She no longer wants to eat. She might patiently take a bite or two of what's offered, but no more than that. Her back legs betray her and she often needs help getting back up. Some days she just wants to be carried. She's covered in benign tumors which can't feel good. It takes forever for her to walk anywhere and most of the time she just wants to lie down on her bed and sleep.
KY is endlessly patient with her. If I didn't love him already, this would be the way to my heart. He's so gentle and caring in a way that I haven't seen before. I think dogs have a way of bringing out our best in ways that we can't do for each other.
I may have missed the first 13 years of her life, but I'm grateful for the time I have had to get to know her. I feel privileged that they both have allowed me to spend this time together. There is now a special piece in my heart with Kelsha's name on it and in some way I will be a better person having had this precious experience.
The second time I saw Kelsha she was having leg problems and was unable to get herself around. Even in her discomfort she wasn't displeased with me. I saw her a handful of times after that when she was outside and I was walking up to the house. Always friendly, always accepting of a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear.
This is not a long story because Kelsha is in her last chapter. She's slowing down and nearing the last few pages. I've been fortunate to be able to spend this last week with her. I didn't know her as a puppy or adult, but I am getting to know her senior self.
Kelsha is wonderful. In the way that only old dogs can be. She's sweet and has mastered the art of looking adorable by laying her head just so. She gently nudges my hand when I stop petting her and tolerates being covered under a blanket. Her head smells like a little cow and so that is what I call her now. Little Cow. I have fallen in love with her.
She no longer wants to eat. She might patiently take a bite or two of what's offered, but no more than that. Her back legs betray her and she often needs help getting back up. Some days she just wants to be carried. She's covered in benign tumors which can't feel good. It takes forever for her to walk anywhere and most of the time she just wants to lie down on her bed and sleep.
KY is endlessly patient with her. If I didn't love him already, this would be the way to my heart. He's so gentle and caring in a way that I haven't seen before. I think dogs have a way of bringing out our best in ways that we can't do for each other.
I may have missed the first 13 years of her life, but I'm grateful for the time I have had to get to know her. I feel privileged that they both have allowed me to spend this time together. There is now a special piece in my heart with Kelsha's name on it and in some way I will be a better person having had this precious experience.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Meditating in Downward Dog
I've been sitting at my desk for long periods of time lately. Too long. Plus I'm kinda old so I get stiff really quickly. Tonight I thought I would do a nice, stretching yoga session to help get some of that out. I thought it would be relaxing. I forget that I live with two little Boston Terrors.
I tried to get them in relaxing mode by feeding them and turning on the fireplace. Ruby gravitates to that like a moth to a (literal) flame. Remy is normally the one who tries to distract me.
Full bellies. Warm fire. Dim the lights. Lay down the mat. Breathe.
Get interrupted. Immediately. Because of course the little beasts want to go outside. Fine. Stretch while waiting for them to finish. Let them in. They run through the house like crazy. Fine. They'll settle down. I settle into Downward Dog.
And then. The shit hits the mat. The literal shit hits the mat.
Because Ruby decides to come tearing across it and leaves a brown spot. Right in front of my face. Get up, get a wet paper towel, wipe the mat. She runs across it again thinking she's cute. She's not. Because something smells bad. She stepped in poo and then ran into the house and across my mat. Right where I will put my face in any sort of pose where I'm facing down.
I get the mat cleaned off and start again. I get through the poses and start to relax. Even though Remy is pacing around me. Then comes the meditation part. A nice mantra. How lovely. "Treat all outside noises like thoughts and push them away." Jump out of my skin when the damn dogs start barking and go racing to the front door because they apparently heard an imaginary doorbell. Little fuckers. I'd like to push them off a cliff right now.
Ruby finally curls in front of the fire. Remy finally goes to lay down in another part of the house. It could be the cold floor of the garage for all I care. I finish the last five minutes in peace. Namaste.
And then I turn around and see the poop spots on the carpet and I am conveniently out of carpet cleaner.
I think there's still some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer. I'm going to go self-medicate now.
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Name Change
My first name is nine letters long. My last name is also nine letters long. Add in my middle name and we get a grand total of 23 characters. Plus spaces. That's a lot of typing. With many opportunities for error. Not to mention there are roughly 83 ways to spell my first name. There's a Catholic spelling, a Greek spelling, a lazy spelling, phonetic spelling, on and on.
I thought this morning that shortening my name might be nice. People try to shorten it all the time, against my wishes. That or they come up with something completely unrelated. I mean, if you say your name is Barbara, I'm not going to say, "Oh, it's nice to meet you Francis." But people do that to me on a regular basis. Then again, people are basically stupid. (Forget good or evil, the answer is stupid.)
So I came up with Pie. Because you'd remember someone with a name like Pie, right? And everybody likes pie so they'd like me. If someone randomly said, "I love pie", I could say, "I love you too." And that would make me a nicer person. Nobody hates pie. There are too many kinds to like And even if someone did say "I hate blueberry pie" I couldn't take it personally because I'm not Blueberry Pie. I'm just Pie. But if they said "I love okra pie", even though that sounds gross, I could choose to take that personally and feel good about myself.
I think I'm onto something. If we all had nice names, then we'd all be nicer people. Your neighbor could be Chocolate. A co-worker could be Puppy Breath. Name your baby Pajamas and see what happens.
I'm going to start with Pie.
I thought this morning that shortening my name might be nice. People try to shorten it all the time, against my wishes. That or they come up with something completely unrelated. I mean, if you say your name is Barbara, I'm not going to say, "Oh, it's nice to meet you Francis." But people do that to me on a regular basis. Then again, people are basically stupid. (Forget good or evil, the answer is stupid.)
So I came up with Pie. Because you'd remember someone with a name like Pie, right? And everybody likes pie so they'd like me. If someone randomly said, "I love pie", I could say, "I love you too." And that would make me a nicer person. Nobody hates pie. There are too many kinds to like And even if someone did say "I hate blueberry pie" I couldn't take it personally because I'm not Blueberry Pie. I'm just Pie. But if they said "I love okra pie", even though that sounds gross, I could choose to take that personally and feel good about myself.
I think I'm onto something. If we all had nice names, then we'd all be nicer people. Your neighbor could be Chocolate. A co-worker could be Puppy Breath. Name your baby Pajamas and see what happens.
I'm going to start with Pie.
Socially Awkward Dog Is Not Steve Buscemi
I took the Boston Terrors out for an unprecedented, two-days-in-a-row-in-January! walk. Well, I took Ruby twice, Remy just one of those times. And he's the one that was properly socialized as a puppy, but I don't know if I ever want to be seen in public with him again.
Saturday Ruby and I went for a walk with the wife and her pug Shanaenae Laquifah Kwanza Jackson. AKA Gracie. I so want these two to be best friends, but Ruby doesn't get the concept of friendship. When she's not completely ignoring little Gracie, she's trying to kill her. Stealthily. As in no warning, no alarm, just full-on lunging for her throat.
She does, however, get the concept of shopping. After doing half of the Old Mill loop, we took them around the shops in order to get the full effect of their cuteness. Ruby window shops. It's not all stores, just the ones that catch her eye. She'll stop, peek inside, and then continue her booty-shaking strut. Then we came to Victoria's Secret, where she wanted to go inside. She tried to walk into both the Pink side and the regular side. I don't know if it was the lace or the smell that attracted her.
On Sunday KY and I took both Ruby and Remy so that I could lose a few calories before consuming my much-anticipated movie popcorn. Again, Ruby wanted to go into Vicki's. She even sat down in the doorway when I pulled her back. Maybe she's getting inspiration to lose a few pounds. Like mother, like dog.
Afterward, we took Remy to the dog park. Ruby had to sit outside because the sign clearly said "No aggressive dogs." Remy used to be the good one. He used to know how to play. Yesterday it was like he forgot how to be a normal dog.
First of all, he had to pee on the gate before we even got in. A drop of it splashed on my shoe. Gross. Then he sniffed the butts of the three giant Husky-type dogs who had zero interest in him. He looked retarded. Next, he went around trying to get anything bigger than him to chase him. Nobody took the bait. He looked like a socially retarded kid that all the other kids just turn away from. They know better than to be mean to him and they're more embarrassed for him than anything else anyway.
When nobody would play with him, he started barking for their attention. I actually heard some guy say to him, "Shut up, Steve Buscemi!" and then he laughed at him.
The darling little husky puppy wanted to play with him but she must have been too close to his size because he just growled at her to leave him alone. After that I decided I'd had enough humiliation and led him back out. Of course he had to pee on the gate again as a final embarrassment.
I think I'll stick to lunching with Ruby and Shanaenae. I am determined to make them best friends.
Saturday Ruby and I went for a walk with the wife and her pug Shanaenae Laquifah Kwanza Jackson. AKA Gracie. I so want these two to be best friends, but Ruby doesn't get the concept of friendship. When she's not completely ignoring little Gracie, she's trying to kill her. Stealthily. As in no warning, no alarm, just full-on lunging for her throat.
She does, however, get the concept of shopping. After doing half of the Old Mill loop, we took them around the shops in order to get the full effect of their cuteness. Ruby window shops. It's not all stores, just the ones that catch her eye. She'll stop, peek inside, and then continue her booty-shaking strut. Then we came to Victoria's Secret, where she wanted to go inside. She tried to walk into both the Pink side and the regular side. I don't know if it was the lace or the smell that attracted her.
On Sunday KY and I took both Ruby and Remy so that I could lose a few calories before consuming my much-anticipated movie popcorn. Again, Ruby wanted to go into Vicki's. She even sat down in the doorway when I pulled her back. Maybe she's getting inspiration to lose a few pounds. Like mother, like dog.
Afterward, we took Remy to the dog park. Ruby had to sit outside because the sign clearly said "No aggressive dogs." Remy used to be the good one. He used to know how to play. Yesterday it was like he forgot how to be a normal dog.
First of all, he had to pee on the gate before we even got in. A drop of it splashed on my shoe. Gross. Then he sniffed the butts of the three giant Husky-type dogs who had zero interest in him. He looked retarded. Next, he went around trying to get anything bigger than him to chase him. Nobody took the bait. He looked like a socially retarded kid that all the other kids just turn away from. They know better than to be mean to him and they're more embarrassed for him than anything else anyway.
When nobody would play with him, he started barking for their attention. I actually heard some guy say to him, "Shut up, Steve Buscemi!" and then he laughed at him.
The darling little husky puppy wanted to play with him but she must have been too close to his size because he just growled at her to leave him alone. After that I decided I'd had enough humiliation and led him back out. Of course he had to pee on the gate again as a final embarrassment.
I think I'll stick to lunching with Ruby and Shanaenae. I am determined to make them best friends.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Remembering Barbie
When I was little, my favorite toys were my Barbies. I had the three-story Barbie townhouse with the elevator and a pink convertible sports car. My best friend Jenny and I would play with them for hours, when we weren't playing in her mom's high heels. She come home from a summer visit with her dad once and brought a new Barbie which I then coveted until I got one of my own for my birthday. It was the Beauty Secrets Barbie and she had the longest, most beautiful hair we'd ever seen. We loved her long pink gown and braided her hair in as many ways we could think of.
What I loved about Barbie was her tiny little shoes and how you could buy them in any color to match her many outfits. I could spend hours in the Barbie aisle at Toys R' Us looking at all of the clothes and accessories and furniture and jewelry that were available for her. I'd dress her and undress her and brush her hair until she looked perfect. Sometimes I'd make furniture for her out of shoe boxes or blankets out of scraps of material.
My stepbrother visited every summer and added a very dangerous and dark element to Barbie's life. His GI Joe was well-known as a Barbie rapist and assaulted her on a regular basis. Mostly it was date rape. But aside from that, Barbie had a pretty nice life in Southern California. However, this is probably the reason that there was never a Ken in my small collection. My Barbie remained single.
D's first Barbie was actually Mulan and was a reward for potty training. She was two and a half. After that she wanted every Barbie known to man - shopping Barbie, Glinda the Good Witch, Belle, Barbie's sister, whatever was on the shelf in every season. She actually horrified me with her poor care of them. Cutting their hair, throwing them in piles in her toy box, leaving them half-naked everywhere. She loved them, but she didn't care for them the way I did.
As an adult I learned how "unhealthy" Barbie is for little girls' self-esteem. How if she were real, she'd be an Amazon and severely deformed. That she is an unrealistic role model for girls everywhere. But here's the thing. Barbie is a doll. We all knew that. She's a doll and we got to say what she wore and we got to decide what kind of life she had and we decided how she should wear her hair. We used our imaginations to create scenarios for her when we played with her. It was play and it was fun and we sadly outgrew her over the years.
Barbie wasn't real the way "role models" today are. Little girls are now exposed to the Nicki Minaj's and Snookis and Honey Boo Boos of the world. Sexuality is forced on them at too-early ages and the idea of what they "should be" is continuously dumbed down. What must little girls think life is meant to be with all of these images constantly thrust at them? Not to mention the whole phenomenon of Twilight, where a lonely girl changes who she is physically just so she can be with a boy whose family member wants to kill her.
I played quietly with Barbie in my room. She could be a doctor or a mom or as glamorous or plain as I wanted. It was up to me. I made my own choices. It's harder for girls today to make their own choices with all of the surrounding noise and images of women who behave wildly just for the attention.
All of this makes Barbie look as innocent as she is. After all, she was invented as a playmate by a mother for her daughter. As a way for her daughter to act out her own dreams and her own future.
I'd take Barbie over Bella any day.
What I loved about Barbie was her tiny little shoes and how you could buy them in any color to match her many outfits. I could spend hours in the Barbie aisle at Toys R' Us looking at all of the clothes and accessories and furniture and jewelry that were available for her. I'd dress her and undress her and brush her hair until she looked perfect. Sometimes I'd make furniture for her out of shoe boxes or blankets out of scraps of material.
My stepbrother visited every summer and added a very dangerous and dark element to Barbie's life. His GI Joe was well-known as a Barbie rapist and assaulted her on a regular basis. Mostly it was date rape. But aside from that, Barbie had a pretty nice life in Southern California. However, this is probably the reason that there was never a Ken in my small collection. My Barbie remained single.
D's first Barbie was actually Mulan and was a reward for potty training. She was two and a half. After that she wanted every Barbie known to man - shopping Barbie, Glinda the Good Witch, Belle, Barbie's sister, whatever was on the shelf in every season. She actually horrified me with her poor care of them. Cutting their hair, throwing them in piles in her toy box, leaving them half-naked everywhere. She loved them, but she didn't care for them the way I did.
As an adult I learned how "unhealthy" Barbie is for little girls' self-esteem. How if she were real, she'd be an Amazon and severely deformed. That she is an unrealistic role model for girls everywhere. But here's the thing. Barbie is a doll. We all knew that. She's a doll and we got to say what she wore and we got to decide what kind of life she had and we decided how she should wear her hair. We used our imaginations to create scenarios for her when we played with her. It was play and it was fun and we sadly outgrew her over the years.
Barbie wasn't real the way "role models" today are. Little girls are now exposed to the Nicki Minaj's and Snookis and Honey Boo Boos of the world. Sexuality is forced on them at too-early ages and the idea of what they "should be" is continuously dumbed down. What must little girls think life is meant to be with all of these images constantly thrust at them? Not to mention the whole phenomenon of Twilight, where a lonely girl changes who she is physically just so she can be with a boy whose family member wants to kill her.
I played quietly with Barbie in my room. She could be a doctor or a mom or as glamorous or plain as I wanted. It was up to me. I made my own choices. It's harder for girls today to make their own choices with all of the surrounding noise and images of women who behave wildly just for the attention.
All of this makes Barbie look as innocent as she is. After all, she was invented as a playmate by a mother for her daughter. As a way for her daughter to act out her own dreams and her own future.
I'd take Barbie over Bella any day.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
With This Stapler I Thee Wed
How many of you have a work spouse? You know, a member of the opposite sex that you work with, lunch with, and generally spend most of your day with until you go home to your real spouse? They're someone you like and have common interests with and you become dependent on them. And it can get emotional because sometimes you need someone to save your bacon when you're on a deadline and you know you can always count on that person.
My friend Sam has one of these. I think his voice sounds like Michael Jackson, but I think she's attracted to the way he talks about his family. And let's face it, ladies, family men who are truly dedicated to their wife and kids are some of the hottest guys around. So I can't blame her. And they do work together a lot. Very closely. As in he purposely presses a knee against her leg sometimes. He knows that she knows that he's doing it on purpose but they both pretend that neither one of them knows and will never admit that they know. Because if they knew for real, out loud, it would all have to stop since it would then be something less than innocent.
And work spouses can cause a bit of damage for those who don't treat it as what it is. It's a working relationship. It's not a replacement for the relationship you have in your "real" life and it can't come before your "real" relationship. It happens between work hours and then it stops.
The closest thing I have to a work husband is JZ and we're more like an old married couple than newlyweds. In fact we bypassed the whole courting stage and went straight to comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that he complains about the way my coffee smells and has no problem throwing an occasional "bitch" my way. But that's probably because I nag him about picking up cupcakes and force him to be a part of projects he really has no interest in. We came dangerously close to a divorce when we went on the same diet. If we were really married, we would have been sleeping in separate rooms and beginning to divide our assets. As it is, we take separate vacations.
If you don't have a work spouse, I highly recommend getting one. At the very least they're entertaining. You always have someone to sit next to in meetings, they can buy you coffee or lunch, and they can write complicated SQL statements when you need them. If you're lucky they can provide you some innocent flirting. And if you're really lucky, and also not already married or otherwise committed for real, then you don't have to follow any rules at all.
My friend Sam has one of these. I think his voice sounds like Michael Jackson, but I think she's attracted to the way he talks about his family. And let's face it, ladies, family men who are truly dedicated to their wife and kids are some of the hottest guys around. So I can't blame her. And they do work together a lot. Very closely. As in he purposely presses a knee against her leg sometimes. He knows that she knows that he's doing it on purpose but they both pretend that neither one of them knows and will never admit that they know. Because if they knew for real, out loud, it would all have to stop since it would then be something less than innocent.
And work spouses can cause a bit of damage for those who don't treat it as what it is. It's a working relationship. It's not a replacement for the relationship you have in your "real" life and it can't come before your "real" relationship. It happens between work hours and then it stops.
The closest thing I have to a work husband is JZ and we're more like an old married couple than newlyweds. In fact we bypassed the whole courting stage and went straight to comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that he complains about the way my coffee smells and has no problem throwing an occasional "bitch" my way. But that's probably because I nag him about picking up cupcakes and force him to be a part of projects he really has no interest in. We came dangerously close to a divorce when we went on the same diet. If we were really married, we would have been sleeping in separate rooms and beginning to divide our assets. As it is, we take separate vacations.
If you don't have a work spouse, I highly recommend getting one. At the very least they're entertaining. You always have someone to sit next to in meetings, they can buy you coffee or lunch, and they can write complicated SQL statements when you need them. If you're lucky they can provide you some innocent flirting. And if you're really lucky, and also not already married or otherwise committed for real, then you don't have to follow any rules at all.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Cat As Metaphor
My co-worker, JZ, has the seat by the window and alerts me to the interesting things that either enter into or pass by the building. The family of deer, transgenders, dogs for me to molest. Today he remarked that there is a cat that walks by on a regular basis. He is dark gray and kind of stocky and rough-looking.
Me: Oh, that's a street cat.
JZ: He could be a house kitty. At my house.
Me: No, he's definitely a street cat. He's just out there roaming the neighborhood, being a ladies' man.
JZ: Some street kitties can turn into house kitties. They just need a nice warm place to stay.
Me: Are you projecting onto that cat?
JZ: Maybe. Maybe he just wants a warm place to sleep. And food. He can have a kitty door so he can come and go as he pleases.
Me: And that's why you're still single.
Me: Oh, that's a street cat.
JZ: He could be a house kitty. At my house.
Me: No, he's definitely a street cat. He's just out there roaming the neighborhood, being a ladies' man.
JZ: Some street kitties can turn into house kitties. They just need a nice warm place to stay.
Me: Are you projecting onto that cat?
JZ: Maybe. Maybe he just wants a warm place to sleep. And food. He can have a kitty door so he can come and go as he pleases.
Me: And that's why you're still single.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Where My Mind Goes
I left work early yesterday to take D to a couple of appointments and then met up with some work peeps for a drink after. I was having a conversation with JZ, who sits next to me in the office, when the conversation took a turn for the stupid.
JZ: So who left the panties on my desk?
Me: um...... (blushing and stammering and thinking to myself, WTF?!?!?) Who left WHAT?
JZ: Who left the pennies? There was a stack of pennies when I came back from lunch.
Me: OH! I thought you said PANTIES!
JZ: ha ha ha ha.... Of course you did.
Me: Well, of course it's funny that I heard it that way, but I thought it was really pretentious of you to think that I would be the one to leave panties on your desk. I mean. Really.
JZ: ha ha ha ha ha ha......
To my credit, it was very loud in there.
JZ: So who left the panties on my desk?
Me: um...... (blushing and stammering and thinking to myself, WTF?!?!?) Who left WHAT?
JZ: Who left the pennies? There was a stack of pennies when I came back from lunch.
Me: OH! I thought you said PANTIES!
JZ: ha ha ha ha.... Of course you did.
Me: Well, of course it's funny that I heard it that way, but I thought it was really pretentious of you to think that I would be the one to leave panties on your desk. I mean. Really.
JZ: ha ha ha ha ha ha......
To my credit, it was very loud in there.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
It's Not Every Day You Have Lunch with Someone You Haven't Seen in 30 Years
We shared a boyfriend in fourth grade. We roller skated by his house in an early form of stalking. We tricked our fourth grade teacher into letting us watch Days of Our Lives at lunch by telling him it was a new colorized version of The Twilight Zone. We prank-called boys and strangers while teetering around in her mom's high heels. We swam in my pool, at the lake, and at the ocean. She wrote down the wrong lyrics to songs her brother listened to and we giggled long into the night.
The last time I saw her I was 12. It's been 30 years and we are having lunch today.
I was able to find her because I established my stalking skills early. It's been years, off and on, that I've tried to find her. We wrote once in college and lost touch after that. But I found her. Finally.
We've lived parallel lives. After college, we both altered our paths, took a few turns, did different things. We each have a daughter. And for the last 13 years, without knowing it, we have lived in the same town. We've shopped in the same stores, eaten in the same restaurants. She has unknowingly watched D dance in The Nutcracker. I substituted at her daughter's elementary school a lifetime ago.
How is it possible that I've never seen her while running into the same five or six people over and over and over? It seems like we would have at least one friend in common. One. Somewhere.
Today will change all of that. I will see her face-to-face. I will give her a huge hug and we will begin the process of catching up. Of re-establishing a friendship that started at the age of six. We will talk about our families - our parents, our siblings and, now, our children.
Her daughter is nine. The same age we were when we shared that boyfriend and wore bell-bottoms and passed notes in class. We now get to know each other as adults. As women. As moms.
I can't even begin to explain how full my heart is right now.
The last time I saw her I was 12. It's been 30 years and we are having lunch today.
I was able to find her because I established my stalking skills early. It's been years, off and on, that I've tried to find her. We wrote once in college and lost touch after that. But I found her. Finally.
We've lived parallel lives. After college, we both altered our paths, took a few turns, did different things. We each have a daughter. And for the last 13 years, without knowing it, we have lived in the same town. We've shopped in the same stores, eaten in the same restaurants. She has unknowingly watched D dance in The Nutcracker. I substituted at her daughter's elementary school a lifetime ago.
How is it possible that I've never seen her while running into the same five or six people over and over and over? It seems like we would have at least one friend in common. One. Somewhere.
Today will change all of that. I will see her face-to-face. I will give her a huge hug and we will begin the process of catching up. Of re-establishing a friendship that started at the age of six. We will talk about our families - our parents, our siblings and, now, our children.
Her daughter is nine. The same age we were when we shared that boyfriend and wore bell-bottoms and passed notes in class. We now get to know each other as adults. As women. As moms.
I can't even begin to explain how full my heart is right now.
Thursday, January 03, 2013
How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?
If you don't know how much I love dogs, then we have never met. Everyone I know points dogs out to me wherever I am. I almost stole a puppy from a co-worker, which may be the reason he keeps him in the car now. The only reason I don't have more than two is because I don't have the money or the space for them. Otherwise I would have a whole bunch of them of all kinds. But mostly the smooshy-faced, because they're my favorites.
I grew up with bulldogs. My parents got our first, Astarte, when I was four. She was actually a gift to my mom when she was dating my dad. There was a small grassy hill next to our apartment and Astarte and I would roll down that hill over and over together.
Next came George. His brother was the bulldog in the Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry movies. I was mostly mean to him and would push him out of his favorite little hidey hole under the palm trees next to the pool.
George and Astarte produced Aphrodite, who gave birth to Venus and Cassiopeia from different litters. Cassie Gave birth to Taurus. There was also Maggie, who was supposed to be mine, but she drowned in the pool as a puppy.
After they all eventually died of cancer, my parents tried once more with a pair of older dogs from a breeder friend and then switched to a chihuahua and miniature Schnauzer. As of now, I think their pack includes the mini Schnauzer, a boxer, a golden retriever, and a mini dachsund. Whew.
I've loved dogs all my life. I've played with them, been drooled on by them, held them as teeny little puppies, making sure they were clean and well-fed, and slept in beds with them. What I missed most during my college years was having a dog around and I vowed to have another as soon as I could.
Dogs are wonderful. They love us unconditionally and forgive us our flaws. They often forgive far more than any creature should have to. They only live to be loved and to make us happy. Mine have curled up next to me while I cried, kept me warm at night, and are infinitely patient with all of my moods and weirdness.
With all that they give me, I want to give back. And it feels like giving back to just two small Bostons isn't enough. I want to give something to their brothers and sisters and cousins and distant, twice-removed cousins. I want to give by making sure that all waggy-tailed, saggy-skinned, stretched-out, drooling, little kissing machines have homes and families and know what it is to be loved.
I don't make resolutions at the start of the year. They don't stick. For a while I tried calling them goals, but that didn't make them stick either. And I'm not making a resolution this year either. But I am making a commitment. I'm making a commitment to do whatever I can to help animals in need. And I'm asking you to do the same.
How much is that doggy in the window? Too much. The cost that dogs pay when bred from puppy mills is too much. They pay with their lives. Most people today, hopefully, are aware of the tragedies caused by puppy mills. If you're not, I'm not going to go into it, just understand that it is devastating. You can look up the horrors for yourself. Just don't buy a dog from a pet store. End of story.
If you're thinking of getting a dog, think seriously about adopting. I adopted my Dalmatian, but not my Bostons. I will adopt next time. Even if you want a specific breed, there are rescue groups. And they often have puppies. Adopting saves lives.
Shelters are overrun with animals. It is a crime against nature that so many of them are put down daily. That their last days are spent in a cement cell. Do what you can. Adopt, foster, volunteer, donate.
The biggest way to keep animals out of shelters in the first place is to be responsible. There are enough dogs (and cats) in the world already who desperately need homes. Don't breed yours. Unless breeding is your life because you show them or are specifically committed to the integrity of the breed, don't do it. You want to make some extra money? Your dog is not a part-time job. Your dog is not a puppy factory. And you don't know that those puppies are going to loving, forever homes when you put them on Craigslist.
I realize that there are plenty of causes out there. People are homeless. Cancer is still an asshole. Children need protection. I support anyone who feels passionately about any cause and if you already have one, I wish you the best and thank you for what you are doing. My passion just happens to be dogs and if you aren't already doing something for someone, I urge you to join me.
I no longer want to see pictures of starving dogs or abused dogs or hear about dogs being made to fight or dogs being put down unfairly because they exhibit behaviors that have been bred into them by us. We, as people, took dogs into our homes, we taught them to be pets. We taught them to be dependent on us and to need us. Let's not let them down.
“Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are the center of their universe. We are the focus of their love and faith and trust. They serve us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt the best deal man has ever made. ”
― Roger Caras
I grew up with bulldogs. My parents got our first, Astarte, when I was four. She was actually a gift to my mom when she was dating my dad. There was a small grassy hill next to our apartment and Astarte and I would roll down that hill over and over together.
Next came George. His brother was the bulldog in the Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry movies. I was mostly mean to him and would push him out of his favorite little hidey hole under the palm trees next to the pool.
George and Astarte produced Aphrodite, who gave birth to Venus and Cassiopeia from different litters. Cassie Gave birth to Taurus. There was also Maggie, who was supposed to be mine, but she drowned in the pool as a puppy.
After they all eventually died of cancer, my parents tried once more with a pair of older dogs from a breeder friend and then switched to a chihuahua and miniature Schnauzer. As of now, I think their pack includes the mini Schnauzer, a boxer, a golden retriever, and a mini dachsund. Whew.
I've loved dogs all my life. I've played with them, been drooled on by them, held them as teeny little puppies, making sure they were clean and well-fed, and slept in beds with them. What I missed most during my college years was having a dog around and I vowed to have another as soon as I could.
Dogs are wonderful. They love us unconditionally and forgive us our flaws. They often forgive far more than any creature should have to. They only live to be loved and to make us happy. Mine have curled up next to me while I cried, kept me warm at night, and are infinitely patient with all of my moods and weirdness.
With all that they give me, I want to give back. And it feels like giving back to just two small Bostons isn't enough. I want to give something to their brothers and sisters and cousins and distant, twice-removed cousins. I want to give by making sure that all waggy-tailed, saggy-skinned, stretched-out, drooling, little kissing machines have homes and families and know what it is to be loved.
I don't make resolutions at the start of the year. They don't stick. For a while I tried calling them goals, but that didn't make them stick either. And I'm not making a resolution this year either. But I am making a commitment. I'm making a commitment to do whatever I can to help animals in need. And I'm asking you to do the same.
How much is that doggy in the window? Too much. The cost that dogs pay when bred from puppy mills is too much. They pay with their lives. Most people today, hopefully, are aware of the tragedies caused by puppy mills. If you're not, I'm not going to go into it, just understand that it is devastating. You can look up the horrors for yourself. Just don't buy a dog from a pet store. End of story.
If you're thinking of getting a dog, think seriously about adopting. I adopted my Dalmatian, but not my Bostons. I will adopt next time. Even if you want a specific breed, there are rescue groups. And they often have puppies. Adopting saves lives.
Shelters are overrun with animals. It is a crime against nature that so many of them are put down daily. That their last days are spent in a cement cell. Do what you can. Adopt, foster, volunteer, donate.
The biggest way to keep animals out of shelters in the first place is to be responsible. There are enough dogs (and cats) in the world already who desperately need homes. Don't breed yours. Unless breeding is your life because you show them or are specifically committed to the integrity of the breed, don't do it. You want to make some extra money? Your dog is not a part-time job. Your dog is not a puppy factory. And you don't know that those puppies are going to loving, forever homes when you put them on Craigslist.
I realize that there are plenty of causes out there. People are homeless. Cancer is still an asshole. Children need protection. I support anyone who feels passionately about any cause and if you already have one, I wish you the best and thank you for what you are doing. My passion just happens to be dogs and if you aren't already doing something for someone, I urge you to join me.
I no longer want to see pictures of starving dogs or abused dogs or hear about dogs being made to fight or dogs being put down unfairly because they exhibit behaviors that have been bred into them by us. We, as people, took dogs into our homes, we taught them to be pets. We taught them to be dependent on us and to need us. Let's not let them down.
“Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are the center of their universe. We are the focus of their love and faith and trust. They serve us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt the best deal man has ever made. ”
― Roger Caras
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