The Joys of Motherhood

     Moms know. You get like one day. When they are infants, it may be one day every 3 months, when they are toddlers maybe one day every 2 weeks. My youngest is 9, so I have paid some dues. I get one day a week. One day to do all those things you have to do for everybody else and can't do for yourself because of all those little, uh, lets say "angels" running around. Like shaving your whole leg, not just the bottom half. Cutting your toenails. Trimming those walrus eyebrows. You know what you do, and how often you get to do it. My day is Sunday.

     So I'm in the shower on Sunday, haven't been in for a full minute yet. And I hear:

     Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble mumble!"

     "I can't hear you. Wait until I'm out of the shower."

     Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble!"

     "I can't hear you. Wait until I'm out of the shower."

     "But mom!"

     "I! CAN'T! HEAR! YOU! WAIT! UNTIL! I'M! OUT! OF! THE! SHOWER!"

     "I can't!"

     "Is someone dying?"

     "No."

     "Then leave!"

     But then I'm concerned, you know? What is wrong? I forgot to ask if anyone was bleeding. I forgot to ask if everyone was conscious. What caused Leroy to come to me and yell? What? So I rush through my shower. My one shower I can take without being late to work or the dishwasher kicking in to douse me with cold water or the teenager stealing all the hot water for his shower. I rush. I get out and don't even dry off. I wrap myself in a towel and hurry to the door to find Leroy. I have to say his name a few times to get him to come back. I ask what was so important it couldn't wait until I was out of the shower to tell me. And this is what he said:

     "Dad told me to tell you to let him know when you get out of the shower."

     Read that again. Yes, you read that right. The thing he couldn't wait until I was out of the shower to tell me was that I'm supposed to tell someone when I'm out of the shower. Yet somehow the irony was lost on the little brat.

     So now, all clean, I head down to the kitchen. I make coffee and pour my bowl of cereal. Cereal eaters, you know the drill. You have a very limited amount of time after pouring the milk before the bowl becomes a gelatinous goo unfit for human consumption. So the Frosted Flakes are doused, I sit down to enjoy them, and who shows up the ruin it for me? The fricking dog! Apparently all the boys in the house have been too busy interrupting my shower to take her outside! So she sits down in front of me and starts barking. I feel for her, I really do. It sucks to have to pee and not be able to! I know! But seriously! There are currently 5 other people in this house capable of taking you outside, why do you single out the one with a fresh bowl of Frosted Flakes? So I say "Listen, you little bitch, (see what I did there?) I deserve to eat my breakfast! I will take you out when I'm done!"  And, guess what? It worked! She stopped barking and sat down beside me with her head on my foot. And after I finished, we went outside.

     So I guess my whole question is, how can I get the boys in my house to be as thoughtful as the dog? No, really, I want to know! I need a boy Obedience School! Ah, the joys of motherhood!

Why Holidays Suck

     You're a smart one, Mr. Grinch. By avoiding all the crap! The only thing that would make more sense is if the Grinch were actually a woman. More specific, a Mother. We really get the raw deal when it comes to holidays.

     Regular readers know my favorite holiday is Halloween. Why? Nobody hands me a list of shit they want me to buy for them, there are no gifts more complicated than a candy bar, and the most important, nobody expects me to create some elaborate meal. Now I can hear the good little Susie Homemakers out there now, fretting about their witch hat cookies and finger wrap hot dogs and the like. And sure, they are fun if you have too much time on your hands, but also totally voluntary. That's the key: you can make them if you want, but nobody expects them out of you. The other holidays are a whole different story.

     It starts with Thanksgiving. Creating the feast is a truly thankless task, as all who do it every year know. Last year I was broken, literally. Both wrists casted. So we had a small simple meal for 4, with me supervising the culinary challenged Cleveland on what to do. This year, though I'm all back to normal, so the holiday has to be, too. That means closer to 11 people, and everything up to me. Normally, I get up fairly early Thanksgiving morning, get the turkey into the oven, then sit down and watch the parade alone until my family wakes up. This year I tried a marinade, so I did the bulk of the prep the night before. This changed the routine, so everything was different.

     First, I had company while preparing the turkey. This was new, but all right since it was just James and Leroy, the most helpful of the bunch. They were almost as horrified as me when I had to reach into the turkey's ass and pull out its innards. Really, this practice should be abolished immediately. It's not bad enough we kill it, we then have to shove its own (presumably) body parts up its ass? If we treated dead people like this.... Well, anyway, I get it all empty, then prepare its marinade. A recipe from the wife of the co-worker to my right, called Drunken Turkey. Apple juice, brown sugar, and whiskey. It started as a simple conversation with Leroy, but it got me thinking later.

     "Is it normal for us to put whiskey on the turkey?" (Notice he says "us," like he's helping or something. Cute.)

     "No, I'm trying something new this year."

     "Oh." Long silence. Then, "If it turns out bad, it's all your fault."

     But if it turns out well, which it did, is that my doing too? Apparently not. After last year, Cleveland did remember to thank me for the meal. Of course the guests who don't live here always remember to say thank you. But the cretins I'm related to? Still waiting.

     And this is just the beginning of the holiday season we all are supposed to look forward to every year. Now it's time to prepare for Christmas! The decorating, the wrapping, of course the buying, and certainly another few meals will be expected. And who gets to do all of this? Mom, of course. And if it turns our bad, who gets blamed? Mom, of course. But when it turns out magical, who do we go thank? Santa, of course!

     Lois Griffin said it best: (I know she's a cartoon character, but I can still quote her) "You think all this holiday cheer just falls right out of the sky? Well it doesn't! It falls out of my holly jolly butt!" And if you want to be honest about it, when they have to shoot her out of the tree with a tranquilizer dart, a little bit of every mother out there said "I feel you, sister." I know I said it out loud. Then my family stared at me like I grew another head and promptly shushed me.

   But she's right. What does Dad do at holiday time? Watch football and fall asleep. Put together a few toys you had to beat people over the head to get to and watch you wrap everything else. Plead ignorance when  it comes to being able to hang, bake, or buy anything. Yes, I can still hear you, women married to the perfect men. I know YOUR husband makes the cookies, decorates the tree, buys and wraps all the gifts. Well, shut up, bitch! Here in the real world, we have to do it all ourselves!

     Not that I'm bitter or anything. I really am happy to provide my family with a fun Christmas. I just refuse to kill myself or my sanity in the process. Susie knows what I'm talking about. It's already a thankless job, why do we make it so much harder than it needs to be? Your tree does not need to be the prettiest one in town; your kids don't care. Your house doesn't need to be perfectly decorated; your real friends don't care. And fake friends, well, if they judge you, who cares? I know. We do. Every single one of us.

     So here's my solution, another What Would Jill Do adventure. This year, instead of asking for a Christmas list from my kids (which they have already given to Cleveland, by the way) I'm going to force them to make a list of what they would like to buy for others. Will it change them? No. But it will make me feel better. If anybody doesn't like my decorations, or if I don't like theirs, the only acceptable reaction is silence. And when I open the hand made gifts that kids work hard to create, I will remember that this is what makes all the crap worthwhile. Happy Holidays!

Forgive Me

      Ever since Phil Donahue invented the talk show, we've been hearing a lot about closure. Closure. We broke up, you died, somebody hurt me and my loved ones, I need closure. I cannot ever be a happy person with a normal life until I somehow achieve closure. Well, I'm here to tell you: Closure is a Crock!

     There is nothing you are going to do to bring back a dead loved one. There is nothing that will take away the hurt somebody else made you feel. There is nothing I am going to say to an ex to make him less of a douche. Nothing. What can I do? Learn from it and go on.

     There's this really popular quote from Oprah (she used to have a television show; perhaps you've heard of her) in which she says "Forgiveness is letting go of the hope that the past can be changed." I'm sorry, Oprah, but I must respectfully call bullshit on this one. Let's replace it with a quote from Jill (she has a blog; perhaps you've heard of her) in which she says "Forgiveness is permission for you to do it again."

     Yeah, I know. It's un-american to disagree with Oprah. Regular readers know I kind of march to my own beat, though. But seriously, think about it. You wrong me. I forgive you. You will do it again. Why? Because I am allowing you to! But imagine this instead. You wrong me. I never speak to you again. You won't wrong me anymore, will you? Easy peasy! Close that!

     So maybe I am a fan of closure, just a different kind. Like doors. In your face. Or my world. To your presence in it. OK, I can see where this is a good thing after all! I won't forgive you, though. I'll just close you out.

     Now don't misunderstand and think this doesn't work both ways. I can hear the good people among you now, wondering: "But Jill, don't you want people to forgive you?" No. No I don't. If I wrong you, I did something horrible. I will never forgive myself, why should I expect you to forgive me? Plus, if you do, I might think you didn't see the transgression as the horrible act it was, and therefore might think it OK to do it again! See how that works?

     Honestly, I might be a little more forgiving if any of us were a little better at apologizing. We live in a nation incapable of a proper apology. It's not our fault, nobody ever taught us! We are so used to seeing what I call the "Political Apology." That's when there's public outcry for you to 'fess up, but you don't know how. This always starts with the phrase "I'm sorry if anyone was offended..." Not sorry I did it, mind you. Just sorry that it bothered people. And not really sorry, just forced to say so. See, what this does is take the blame off the guilty person and put it instead on the people who were prudish enough to be upset because their expectations were not met. It makes it their problem, for being hurt, not the offender's problem for doing the hurting. I hate Political Apologies. They mean nothing, and do not even begin to earn forgiveness.

     The smaller, less famous version is what I call the "Man Apology," simply because I have received this apology from every man who has ever wronged me. I'm sure women do it too, but I've had more men wrong me than women. Or at least the men have made an attempt to apologize, where women usually don't. This one is one sentence, usually very well rehearsed, which has the ability to make me homicidal. It goes "I'm sorry you feel that way." If you've ever received the man apology, you know exactly what a crock it actually is. If you've ever accepted a man apology, don't do it again. You got taken. It's not real. They aren't sorry they did it, they're just sorry you found out. Oh, you're mad at me for drinking all night with the guys and then sloppily making out with our waitress? Oh, I'm sorry you feel that way. Forgive me, feed me dinner and do my laundry so I can go out next week and do it all again.

     Now, I can still hear some of you as you read this thinking I'm possibly a bit bitter. You know what? You are absolutely right! And I will stay bitter forever. Those who have wronged me will never get the chance to do it again. If you think this is the wrong attitude to have, well, I can only say I'm really sorry you feel that way. (See how that doesn't help anything?) And if you still are offended by what I have to say, I can only ask for your forgiveness.

Rude People

     I seriously have the most inane conversations, especially with people who can't hear me. I find myself saying things, out loud, while driving or sitting at my desk at work, or in a room full of family members who don't hear anything I say. Those who read me already know I am surrounded by rude drivers, cell phone users, and just plain people on a daily basis. So a whole rant just about rude people seems appropriate.

     I don't claim to be Miss Manners. I don't always know proper etiquette in all situations. Not all of us were raised to know which fork to use or what to do in a lot of social situations. For instance, I just last year learned that if anybody in a person's family dies, you are supposed to take them food. My whole life I thought that only applied if the main cook of the family died, and nobody else. In my defense, nobody has ever brought me food over someone else's death. So I never knew. Not my fault, nobody told me! There has also been some controversy about returning dishes. I was told many years ago never to return an empty dish. If someone is nice enough to bring you their leftovers (back in my single days, some of the older ladies I worked with would do this for me) the least you can do is fill the dish back up with some of yours for them, right? But I've known other people who want nothing to do with anyone else's cooking, they just want the dish back clean! I'm still not sure which is "proper," but I'll take the full dish back anytime.

     No, what bothers me is not the little rules that some of us just didn't learn. What bothers me is the big things, the ones everyone should know. You know, the ones we learned back in Kindergarten. Like, if we all stayed in line as well as our children do, life would be so much sweeter. You remember lines, right? They are everywhere: on the roads, at the store, at school (for the kids and the grown ups!) Everywhere! At what age exactly did we forget how they work? I get cut in front of daily! Everywhere! OK, I know you're in a hurry. I get it. But is it my fault? I think not. You don't have to push others out of your way to get where you are going. Really. Kindergartners know: if there is a line, my place is at the end of it! Why is this concept so hard for adults?

     And again, the whole FEEIGM Syndrome comes into play. Why park in the space like everybody else if you can just stop somewhere? I don't care if you'll "only be a minute," you are in everybody else's way, and that is rude. And if you stop in the middle of a crowd of people to talk to somebody else you ran into, you are in the way and blocking everybody else, and that is rude. If you see the sign saying your lane ends a mile ahead but wait until the last possible second to squeeze in with the other lane so you can drive faster, you are holding other people up and that is rude.

     So I guess my whole definition of rude seems to center around not giving a shit about other people. Being self centered is rude. I've been telling my step kids for 10 years now that it is rude to keep people waiting. Every time I say it, they look at me like I'm speaking another language. To be fair, they do have the rudest parents I know, but still! You would think something would sink in after 11 years of having me in their lives! No. I again apologize to Laura Bush, and now have created the Laura Bush Syndrome. This will be when you really really try to teach someone the right way, but they just don't get it. Ever. For instance, if I could figure out a way to get paid minimum wage for all the time I've spent over the years waiting for Cleveland, I would be a millionaire by now. Sitting in a car waiting, sitting in an office or restaurant waiting, standing by the door waiting. And that's just for him!

     I think pattern tardiness is probably my pet rude peeve. What it says to me is that you think your time is more important than my time. It's more important for you to finish doing what you were doing than to do what you were supposed to do with me. Why? Why are you so special? I don't have any heart surgeon friends. It would be OK if they were late. You know, if someone needed an emergency heart surgery, then yeah, that would be more important than me. It would be OK. But really, is looking for your missing shoe more important than me? Waiting for the school bus because you left too late? Or, God forbid, searching the house for your cell phone? (Hint: it may be in the toilet!) No! At least they shouldn't be. I know, it's my fault. I let him get away with it in the beginning, now I'm stuck with it forever. But it still pisses me off.


     I once worked with a guy who did something nice for another guy. The other guy walked away silent, and this one said, very sweetly and nicely, "you're welcome." This guy didn't respond, but he told me that about 80% of the people you say "you're welcome" to will actually get the hint and realize they should have said "thank you." I have tried this, but when I say it, it comes out all sarcastic. Even when I didn't mean it to be. So it doesn't really work for me, but it did work wonders for him. You non sarcastic folks: try it and let me know!


     And what pisses me off even more is the fact that rude people are allowed to be parents! So they can breed more rude people! Where will it end? If a child grows up seeing parents who adhere to the belief that the rules are for everybody else, not them, what kind of grown up will this child become? My guess is another asshole who thinks the rules apply to everyone but them! But here's the problem: if the rules don't actually apply to anybody, what good are they? What's the point? We can all just drive like asses, cut in line, make others' days more inconvenient, and be happy with our little FEEIGM possessing selves the whole time! I'm sorry, this is a band wagon I just cannot get onto. I'm trying like mad to raise my kids to have compassion for other people. To be helpful to others. To see if someone around them is struggling and help if they are. Why does this make me some kind of rarity?

     My kids are great door holders. Really. If they get stuck at the right place at the right time, they can hold a door for hours. But seriously, if there is a door which does not open itself, they will hold it for others. Why? Because it's the polite thing to do. I am constantly amazed, however, at the number of adults who will just walk through the door as if it is my kids' job to hold it open for them! Not a thank you, not a nod and a smile, not even a look up from texting! And it's not the older teen/ young adult set that we kind of expect it from. It's the baby boomers! You know, the "Greatest Generation," who should know how to treat people properly! I am always amazed! I learned when Leroy was little, if you ever want to separate the good people from bad, pay attention to how they treat children. Especially ones who are just learning to wave or say "hi." These are the same people who would completely ignore him when he did either. The "grandparently" looking people would just walk right past. You know who always waved and said "hi" back to him? The teenagers. The Harley dudes. The tattooed freaks. Why? They were polite!

     I know I'm nothing in the big scheme of how the world works. But I would like to make a request: parents, please. Teach your children manners. By example. Don't be rude or self centered in front of them. Teach them that we are all people and deserve basic respect because of it. If this means you have to put down the phone for a few minutes and actually talk to them, then I'm sorry. That's just how it is. Maybe if they see that you aren't that important, they won't think they are the center of the universe, either! I beg you! Pass along What Jill Said in your life! Stop being rude, people! Oh yeah, Thanks!

    

Jack O Lanterns

     Halloween is my favorite holiday. The leaves are pretty, the costumes are fun. The partys are great. Nobody expects me to create any kind of elaborate meals. No kids are handing me a list of shit they want me to buy for them. If you do show up at my house begging, all I have to do is hand you a Tootsie Pop and you'll be on your way. Best. Holiday. Ever!

     Except for one thing: the Jack O Lanterns. I hate them. I hate everything about them. I hate pumpkin patches. They charge way too much money for the 40lb pumpkin your kid just HAS to have. I hate lugging pumpkins home from the grocery store. I hate that you have to make a special trip to get them, since you can't fit them into the car with all the other groceries. I hate that you can't leave them outside until you're ready to carve them without getting frostbite as you are gutting them. I hate gutting them. I hate the feel of cold (or even warm) pumpkin innards all over my hands. And then, as is always the case, all over the rest of me, too. I hate washing pumpkin guts out of my hair, out of my clothes, off the table, off the chairs, floor, walls, and pets.

     I hate that there are people out there creating these really awesome kick-ass pumpkins just to make me feel that much worse about the sorry one I'm about to hack. I hate the "easy to use" stencils that never quite fit the pumpkin and that, I'm sorry, aren't so easy to use. I hate that the youngest kid has to choose the most elaborate stencil in the book and won't take your word for it when you tell them the simpler the better. I hate that the pumpkin never ever ever ever turns out looking anything like the fricking stencil anyway, after working on it for 6 fricking hours!

     I hate handing children I usually don't trust with a sharp fork the biggest knife we own and trying to decide how much we really use all our fingers, anyway. I hate how doing any activities together as a family which involve anything creative makes me feel. I am not a crafty person. Kids are not always tolerant of other people's artistic shortcomings. Or each others. I hate that there is always one kid who is not happy with his final product. I hate how there is always one kid (sometimes the same one, sometimes a different one) who thinks it is his job to tell everyone else what is wrong with their pumpkin. I hate that they believe him.

     In case you can't tell, I really really hate the whole Jack O Lantern concept. When I was a kid, we didn't do it. My mom made us paint the faces on, no cutting allowed. I really felt like I was missing out on something growing up. Now, not so much.  Maybe this is why I suck so badly at cutting out their little faces now. I don't know. 

     Here's what I do know. My sister got me a "Jill O Lantern" treat bag. Looks like one of those bastard pumpkins, but with a bow in her hair. And it's a bag, so no guts. Or cutting. Or crying. I hung it up at work, with a post-it saying "Will work for candy." (The boss man suggested "Will trick for treats" but that might be misunderstood.) And here's another thing I love about Halloween: the bag  has candy in it! And I didn't put it there! I'm just about happier than a witch in a broom factory over that one.

     So now, the worst is over. I just survived yet another year of Jack O Lantern hell, and they are all on display ready for the big day. My ranting is over, and life can return to normal. Happy Halloween, everybody! 

Conversations I Have

     "Where do I need to go after work for James' performance?"

      "His school. We'll meet you there."

     "Two other boys went through this same school. Did they not join this group, or did they forget to invite us to the performance?"

     "There's singing and dancing involved."

     Feel that expression on your face? That's what my face did, too. Are you reading it again, trying to see what you missed? Yeah, I was going through it in my head, too. This happens so often that I actually do question myself (and my sanity) on a regular basis. Is it me, or did he just totally answer a completely different question than I asked? I really don't think it's me. But it happens with eerie regularity. And not just with Cleveland, with the masses as well!

     "Service Department, this is Jill, how can I help you?"

     "No, I wanted Service."

     (As I said in my greeting) "This is service, how can I help you?"

     "No, I wanted to talk to one of the guys."

     Normally I say "Hold, please" then say out loud (though I would love to page it) "One of the guys, line 3 please. Someone with testicles, line 3." The guys laugh and then answer the phone. But sometimes I am the only one there to answer the phone. There are no guys to talk to. And as much as I would LOVE to just hang up, I kind of get paid to do a job so I kind of have to do it and stuff.

     "I'm one of the service advisors, what can I do for you?"

     Sometimes they will just hang up for me (Yay!) but other times they just say some of the stupidest sentences I have ever heard. Usually it's at least three more times of asking for the department they have already been connected to. Then they say something that makes me really want to help them out, like:

     "You probably can't help me, but..."

     Try that line anywhere else in the world and see how it works for you. Well, pizza order taker, you are probably going to mess this up, but I want... Or , gee ER doc, I'm pretty sure you're not the one I want to see with this nail sticking out the bottom of my foot, but I guess you'll have to do. No, professor, I'm sure you're a complete idiot, but here's my homework anyway. Do you really believe your pizza will arrive spit free? That they will take great pains (see what I did there?) to make sure you get plenty of Morphine? That you're going to ace that class without even trying? Really? But I must continue talking to your rude stupid ass. Because my job is to put up with morons like you. Little hint though. If you really don't think, in all areas of the customer service world, there exists an "asshole fee," you are sorely mistaken. And you are being charged this fee, probably everywhere you go.

     "Where's (employee who sits to my left?)"

     "He's off today."

     "Where's (employee who sits to my right?)"

     "He's at lunch."

     "Isn't anybody here?"

     That's not rude or hurtful at all. Really. Go ahead and tell me I'm nobody. This nobody is about to charge you the asshole fee. Somebody would be here, if you were important enough to show up for. You're not. Now put away your cell phone and bite me.

     I also love conversations where people answer their own questions as they ask them. They don't really need me, except to smile and nod.

     "I'm ready to pay, do I go to the cashier?"

     "Do I park here in visitor parking?"

     "It's lunchtime, should I eat now?"

     "It's cold, should I wear my coat?"

     I generally answer "No" to all answer-questions. That really screws with a person's head. Then they will say: "Really? No?" and argue with me over wheather they were right or not! Why did you ask in the first place, you freak?

     Now I live in a house full of mumblers. Drives me crazy. I haven't understood a word Charlie has said in well over five years. He will enter a room, mumble something unintelligible, then walk away. Cleveland will look at me and ask what he just said. "Hell if I know! I assume if it's important he'll learn to enunciate."

     "Enunci-huh?"

     "Enunciate. It means to spit the shit out of your mouth and speak in a manner that other people can understand."

     "Oh."

     Cleveland, on top of the mumbling, also fades out at the end of sentences. I stopped asking "what" years ago. I hear: "I'm going to nmnfdsfnkl."

     "Rearrange the sentence."

     "Rea-huh?" OK, that didn't work. So I repeat what I heard, so he knows what part I'm missing.

     "You're going where?"

     Annoyed voice; louder but still mumbly: "I SAID I'M GOING TO MNNFDSFNKL! Why don't you listen?"

     "Why don't you enunciate?"

     "Enunci-huh?"
    
     I give up. I don't even care where you're going anymore. I just need to know if there's singing and dancing involved.

Cell Phones

     Every time I see someone at the store verifying what kind of milk to get, or have car trouble and need a ride, or the other countless wonderful uses for them, I ask myself: "What did we do before cell phones?" Then I remember: we spoke to each other like civilized people!

     Really, every sentence should not start with: "Hold on" and then a moving of the phone. We should not be able to share your entire day with you. I don't want to. Really. And I'm just guessing here, but I'm pretty sure whoever you're "talking" to doesn't really care, either.

     And who is on the other end of the phone? I would never sit there listening while somebody who was supposed to be talking to me was ordering the biggee fries. Unless the other end is ordering a large pepperoni, of course. Why do we need to share so much information with so many people? Do any of us even really care?

    Not to mention, we are setting a horrible example. There are thumb rings now for kids, to remind them not to text while driving. We have to tell them not to text while driving! Nobody had to tell me not to read while driving, why is this necessary? But it's not their fault; they have grown up only seeing their parents with things stuck to the side of our heads! Talking to everyone under the sun except them! They think it belongs there, much like we assumed the cigarettes belonged in our parents' hands. They cannot fathom a world where we cannot all instantly communicate our most shallow of thoughts to others with equally shallow thoughts who will apparently die if they don't share!


     And a short aside to the bluetooth users here. We don't really see the thing on your ear. We just see you talking, seemingly to yourself, and we think you are probably a little crazy. You needed to know.


     I got home from work last week to find my husband at the kitchen counter with his cell phone in pieces and a blow dryer. I didn't ask, but he told me anyway. He dropped it in the toilet. (Don't worry: I sanitized! Twice. Well, three times.) I didn't say what was going through my head, because he's ignored it all before. But seriously. Dropped your phone in the toilet? You can't be cut off from civilization long enough to take a shit? Seriously? Why do you take your phone to the bathroom? Who are you going to call? It better not be me, I do not want to talk to you right now. And if I call you, well, that's what voicemail is for! This is a man who has left his phone in the cart at the grocery store, left his phone on the counter of every place he's ever shopped, left his phone, well, everywhere. Even in the toilet. He refuses to leave the house without it. Worse, he refuses to leave it in the car. He has answered his phone while driving, at restaurants, even in a movie theater!

     Right now, I want to formally apologize to Laura Bush. The entire time her husband was President, every time he said "nu-coo-ler" I thought: "She's a librarian! Why has she never taught her husband to read?" Now I realize it is totally not her fault. You just can't teach these wonderful creatures we call men anything! So Laura, I am sorry. And world, when you see my husband yakking on that damn cell phone at the most inappropriate times, I tried. I have been trying to teach him for 11 years now, he just does not get it!

     We were at Taco Bell. Granted, not the epitome of fine dining, but a public place nonetheless. His phone rings. I say: "If you are going to answer that, take it outside."

     His response: "Why? Everybody else talks on the phone in restaurants."

     I say "No, everybody else does not, just you. And even if other people did, that doesn't make it OK. Nobody wants to hear you talking to someone who isn't even here. Focus on the people here with you. We are more important."

     "How do you know you're more important than the person calling?"

     "Simple. I bothered to show up."

     He did not agree with that statement, though I think it is pure genius. The people with you should feel like they are more important than some random person calling you. For that simple reason. We bothered to show up. I did more than push a button, I am here. I deserve your attention, just as you deserve mine. We finished our meal, with "Leroy" pretty much agreeing with me. He added that it is embarrassing to him when Dad is talking loudly on the phone in public. (This has done nothing to change his behavior, either.) As we walked outside, there sat a random woman on the curb, talking on her cell phone. I could have kissed her right there. Instead, "Leroy" took it for me. "See, Dad? She went outside!" Not as good as asking permission to flip off people, but wow do kids say the darndest things.

     Cell phone addicts: I have some news for you. You're not going to like it, it may hurt your ego a bit. But you need to hear it, "Cleveland" included. Here it is. You are not that important. I'm sorry. I know that hurt. But it's true. You are not that important. The world will survive without you long enough to catch a movie. It will continue to turn while you eat your dinner. Nobody is going to go off the deep end in the time it takes you to shit. I promise. Why? Because you are not that important. Take a minute and see the good of this. You are not Atlas. It is not your job to keep the world afloat. Or even your family and friends. They can handle it without you for a little bit. You are not that important. Thank you.

     I need to go now. I think I hear my phone ringing.

FEEIGM Syndrome

     Let me warn you all up front: my potty mouth is going to be out in full force on this one. That F in the title stands for exactly what you think it stands for. You know. The mother of all cuss words, so to speak. So if profanity offends you, well what the hell are you doing reading my blog? And also, you may want to skip this one.

     It all started roughly nine years ago. One Sunday morning on "our weekend," (when the step kids are with us) I got up and made pancakes for everybody. Common enough thing to do, we all like them and they really aren't that difficult to create. "Melanie" was about 14, and you know teenagers aren't by nature morning people. So it was pretty much a given that we would all eat, and save the leftovers for her. No biggee, right?

     Right, until "Charlie," who was about 8, decided that if ya were snoozin' you were gonna be losin'. He ate what he wanted of the pancakes, then said he was still hungry. Went to the pancake plate, took every single one.  Again, every single one. Cut them all up, put syrup on them. Then ate two (yes, I counted. Two) bites. Then he did something he had never done before and hasn't done since. He took his own plate to the kitchen sink, put it in, and turned on the water to rinse it off. Just to make sure the pancakes would never be edible to anyone, namely "Melanie."

     When I looked at him and said my signature "Really?" he feigned innocence.

     "What? I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was! I cleaned up my own plate, why are you mad?"

     That's when the name hit me and the syndrome was born. Fuck Everybody Else, I Got Mine.
    
     Yes, that's right. Fuck Everybody Else, I Got Mine.

     I shortened it to FEEIGM, just so I can say it in public. Now I see it every day in every situation, although my family, being the pioneers and all, are certainly the best. In fact, after nine years of hearing me say it and refer to it in everyday conversation, I doubt that half of them could tell you what it means. They are that good at it.

     The shop where I work has big garage doors, with directions painted on them. Honk your horn, we will let you in. Simple, right? Until it is raining outside, or 20 degrees or windy as hell or some other such nonsense. That's when the FEEIGM kicks in full force. Honk the horn, wait for the door to open, pull in just far enough for your car to be inside, stop, park, and get out. Taking your keys with you, of course. Fuck all the people lined up behind me, I'm inside! Or my favorite: stop under the door so we can't close it. Or honk, see the door open, and sit there. In the nice warm car as the acrtic tundra is blowing my computer off my desk. We have found there to be only one way to get these people to actually drive into the building. Wanna know what the way is? Close the door. Or start to. As soon as they see it start to move, it becomes a race to see if they can beat it. Really. It would be quite humorous to watch, if we had those fancy doors that stop if they touch something. We don't, so we have to be ready to stop it just to save the door. Self preservation at play here, I really don't give a shit about your car. I do really love my door, though. See, under the right circumstances, even I can suffer from FEEIGM!

     The epitome of FEEIGM though has to be Black Friday. I for one will not shop anywhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas; you are hard pressed to get me in the grocery store. I avoid malls and department stores like the plague. Why? FEEIGM! It starts in the parking lot and goes downhill from there. You think that empty space you've been eyeing for the last 20 minutes is yours? Think again, sucker! Mine! Only one Tickle me Elmo on the shelf with 2 people reaching for it? Watch for the elbow to the face! Mine! Think you are actually next in line to pay after waiting for an hour? Wrong! I will cut right in front of you! Mine! And Merry Fucking Christmas to you, too!

     But you see it at other times of year, too. (See my "Road Rage" post for a few examples.) Especially in parking lots. And public places. And my house. The charger to my laptop (where I create this, by the way) was recently replaced with one that no longer charges. Why? Somebody broke that one, and needed his laptop charged. My phone charger, which has lived in the very same plug at the very same counter since the beginning of time, frequently disappears. Why? Somebody else's phone needed charged, and couldn't sit there on the counter while charging. You know, like mine does. My keys walk away at a regular frequency. Why? Somebody needed to get into the garage and couldn't be bothered to return them to their hanging place.  All the kids' DS games have to have the correct child's name on them in Sharpie at time of purchase. Why? Another kid might decide he likes that game, too. The dog can howl for hours, waiting to go outside, only to have to find a place inside to go instead. Why? Nobody could stop playing the (borrowed) DS game long enough to take her out! Up to five people can be sitting in the same room, happily watching the same show, and suddenly the channel will change. Why? Because whoever picked up the remote wants to watch something else!

     Don't get me wrong, I know it is my job to teach the little cretans how to properly behave. (Including the "adult" one I married, apparently.) But since I already work a full time job, this overfull time job gets to be a bit much for me! And honestly, it is difficult when the whole world is setting the opposite example! How many times have you seen the most thoughtless, rude people out in public and, when somebody does something nice for their kid, they scream "Say thank you!" Here's a thought, parents: model the good behavior instead of screaming it at your kids! Let the person with the basket go ahead of you with your cart. Don't expect people to work holidays. Be pleasant to the people who are "serving" you. I mean the waitresses, the cashiers, the receptionists, all the other "little people" you see every day. Thank them. Be aware of your surroundings. If your actions are negatively affecting someone else, CHANGE YOUR ACTIONS! The world does not revolve around you, it revolves around the person behind you. Or beside you. Or maybe in front of you, as long as they didn't cut the line to get there. Let's all vow to stop raising a generation of assholes by refusing to be assholes ourselves! The change starts with you. Not me, of course. I've got mine already.

Famous People

   Amanda Bynes just got caught again, driving with a suspended license. Randy Travis naps in the street. Lindsey Lohan, well, do we really need to discuss her?

  Where is the law that says when you become famous you have to lose your mind? And why are there so many famous people who do? Look, to be fair, most people can handle fame and fortune just fine. We never hear about most of them doing the things that keep the tabloids in business. But there is an ever growing group of famous people who are just crazy!

     My first concern is the cheating. I mean really, if Jennifer Aniston, Halle Berry, and Sandra Bullock can all be cheated on, what chance is there for the rest of us? These are HOT, rich, talented women! They make millions, look amazing, have jobs that, let's face it, kick ass. They can sweep you away on a whirlwind vacation, buy you the new car (or boat, or house, or city) you've been dreaming of, introduce you to the most amazing people you could possibly imagine, and pay people to make them look fabulous the whole time. Perfect woman, right? You would think so, but no. Apparently, to a man, even these women are just not quite good enough. If only she were what? A little richer, a little prettier, a little more famous? What? What do you need, guys?

     My main concern, though is famous people who insist on driving. Badly. While drunk. What the hell, people? I tell you now, the day I strike it rich, I hire three people. One to clean up after me (and hell, before me, too), one to cook for me, and one whose whole job will be to drive my ass around. I might sit up front with them, but I won't drive again! I will drink all day, party all night, and that damn driver better be right there to take me down to the Speedway for an Icee! Now!

     And then they have the balls to complain about being famous. That really irks me. "I can't go to the grocery store without seeing myself on the cover of a magazine!" Wow, that must really suck. Your beautifully airbrushed self staring at your at home self. I honestly don't know how they can live that way. Not. Here's what I really honestly don't know: what the hell they're doing at the grocery store! Send your chef to pick up the food for you! Your driver can take him! They can get you an Icee on the way home!

     And to complain about people recognizing you in public! Really? Isn't that the whole definition of being famous? Isn't that what you were striving for in the first place? How dare the people (who put you where you are) insist on an autograph! Or, heaven forbid, a picture! Can't they see you are busy driving yourself around town to look for magazine covers? The nerve! Let me tell you a secret, famous people: recognition is good. It means you are doing your job. Get over yourself, smile, wave, and be grateful you achieved your goal! Someday you will be a has-been, and will treasure the moments you had. Ask the has-beens. They will tell you.

     And now we have a whole group of people who are famous just for being themselves and letting people follow them around with cameras. Wow. Who knew that would be a marketable skill back when we were all in college? Wasted time and money. Just forget to put on your pants when you leave the house, you can be set for life! These people don't seem as snobby when they are caught out in public. In fact, they seek it. Maybe the real famous people can take a lesson or two. I for one know way too much about what's happening in New Jersey for my own personal comfort. And if I see one more toddler in a tiara, I might just puke.

     Regular readers know my opinion of famous people getting involved in politics. Fine if you believe in who you are helping, but don't tell us how to vote! That's one really cool thing about the not famous people: Our vote counts just the same as theirs does! So enough of that.

     I guess the crazy famous people are really just doing their job. I mean, it is pretty entertaining. Once you get past the pity, I mean. But train wrecks draw a crowd just as easily as random acts of knidness do, I guess. Maybe easier. So I guess I owe you an apology, crazy famous people. You are truly entertainment for the masses, and doing a bang up job. Carry on. And if your totally screwed up life makes mine look that much better by comparison, well, I guess that's just the way it will have to be. Until I get famous. Then, we'll talk.

Road Rage

     I just watched a video on Yahoo of a driver who, instead of waiting for the school bus to move, drove down the sidewalk to get past. Yes, you read that right, drove down the sidewalk. To avoid waiting for the school bus. Apparently, this driver had done this before, the bus driver filmed it and showed the police. They set up a "sting" and caught her in the act. Bus driver: normally, having your phone out while driving a bus would be cause for alarm, but since you were obviuosly parked, I say Genius! Who would have thought to record such thoughtless behavior to show the police? Great thinking! To the police: Thank you for taking this bus driver seriously. And for hiding down the block and waiting to catch the offender. Great job! This is the kicker, though. The sidewalk driver is probably angry with both of you right now for messing up her morning. Probably mad at a lot of people. Probably mad at everybody in the world except the one person who is to blame. Herself.

     We  have become a nation of rude drivers. (Rude people, actually, but that's another story.) And it all boils down to one attitude: that where you are going is more important than where I am going. That stop sign or speed limit? Those are for everybody else, not you. You are important. You have places to be. You couldn't get your ass out of bed this morning and are going to be late for work. You don't have time to wait for that school bus, you have to go!

     This particular school bus is apparently for kids with some different needs. The driver had to help the kid at this stop onto the bus because of a wheel chair. Is this going to take a little longer? I would assume so. But as my co-worker said "Why not just go around the block and avoid that part of the street altogether?" I realized there are quite a few  simple solutions to this driver's problem. None of which involve sidewalk driving. Leave the house 5 minutes earlier. Leave the house 5 minutes later. Yes, adjust your route. Bring some coffee, and enjoy the wait time to drink it and prepare for your day. (In this case, maybe decaf. This one seems to have some jitter issues already.) Listen to Bob and Tom and enjoy a laugh while you wait. Ever hear of books on tape?  Use the time to focus on how to stop being a self-centered bitch. Just a few, off the top of my head. But don't plow over pedestrians because the wheelchair ridden child takes too long to get on the bus! Have some compassion, people!

     A few years back, a main road in our town had some construction going on. Lanes were closed, new stoplights were put up, new rules were put into play. The first was the "No Right Turn On Red" sign at the end of the highway exit ramp. There was a temporary wall up, and you couldn't see what was coming. As I was waiting for the light to turn green, the older woman behind me started beeping the horn furiously, making rude hand gestures. What? You're in a hurry to get home and wait for death? So I pointed to the sign and waited. She continued beeping. I wish I had thought of it, I would have put the car in park and walked back to her, as the light turned green, and given her  a reading lesson. I'm not confrontational by nature, though. So I didn't come up with that one until I was already home. Too bad.

     At another intersection with a stoplight, they actually had to put up huge orange signs saying "Do Not Block Intersection." I was amazed! They must not make signs that say "Don't be a dick." But again, when the light turned green and I didn't immediately pull forward to block the intersection, a different older lady showed her annoyance with her horn. I again pointed at the big ass sign, at which point I saw her in the rearview mirror calling me a "stupid bitch." Or maybe she was wearing "shoes that itch" or likes to eat "soup and pitch." But it looked a lot like "stupid bitch" to me. And to 6 year old "Leroy" in the back seat.  It was that day I heard what may be my favorite words from this child.

     "Mom, can I flip her off?"

     "Well, dear, the correct question is 'May I flip her off?' And the answer is yes. Yes you may."


     I don't know about everyone else, but when I'm in a new driving situation, I look for signs to tell me where to go. I also look to see what the other, more experienced people are doing. If a sign tells me to stay in line or pull here and wait or stop or not park here, I do what the sign tells me. If there is a line of cars waiting for the same thing I am, I go to the end of the line. Common sense, no? Apparently, no! Every day I see drivers go right when the sign says left, cut to the front of the line, block things they shouldn't block. (Parking spaces? Really? You think it's OK to pull sideways in front of multiple parked cars and get out of the car? They don't need to leave?) All because they are more important than me. I'm sure these are the same douchebags who take the full cart to the u-scan line. And show up 15  minutes late to every appointment they have every day. Although I'm sure that last one isn't their fault. You know, that bus was in the way and all.

Get outta my uterus!

    I live in a really great town. Small enough to always see someone you know, big enough to have both a McDonalds and a Taco Bell. Those us us who live "in town" can walk pretty much everywhere we want to go. There are also a few big cities nearby, so we can keep up with the rest of the world, too. But even sleepy little towns sometimes have some drama. Lately ours has been political. A local leader has been accused of some not so honest business dealings. Of course, me being me, I can't just sit idly by and watch. I have to "use my words" and share my opinions. Which is cool and all, and I don't expect others to agree with my opinions always. Or ever. But in this instance, someone who does not agree with me called the situation a party wide conspiracy. (What? I don't party! Even when I was young and could party I really sucked at it!) Then she said it was obviously a Republican attempt to oust someone!

     I have been called a lot of things in my life. Mom, sister, daughter, co worker, bitch, friend, hot, (just seeing if I could sneak that in there without anyone noticing), even by some awesome. But I have never been called a Republican! Other people's opinions normally don't bother me. But for some unknown reason, this complete stranger spreading this rumor about me has me upset! So my neighbor asked, OK what am I then? The truth is, I won't pick a party because I don't trust any of them. When I vote, and I do vote every time I can, I don't look at the letter behind a name. I vote with my conscience, my brain, my gut, and yes sometimes my uterus.

     Let me first tell you why I personally feel the need to vote. Do you remember the miniseries "Roots?" We all saw it as kids, and sometimes the History Channel will show it again so we can watch it as adults. In the show, as I'm sure in real life, the owners seem to think they were doing their slaves a favor by allowing them to be here and work. They actually compare the slaves to livestock. Read this again. They see the human beings they bought and own as nothing more than an ox or cow. Something to do what you need done, then disposed of however you see fit. Yet these men had the right to vote a full 50 years before any women could. Fifty years our country allowed livestock to vote rather than their own mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters. Now don't misunderstand: I'm not condoning the treatment of people like livestock. (Although being treated like most family pets in America today would actually be a pretty good life). I am making the point here that we thought of our livestock better than we thought of our women. So, being a woman, I vote.

     That's not to say everybody should vote. Yes, everybody should have the right to vote, but really, not everybody should excercise the right. Despite Puff Daddy or P Diddy or whatever the hell his name is this week telling everybody to vote or die, some people should just stay home. Who? The ones who don't do their homework. The ones who are voting for a person because their spouse, parent, employer, etc. told them to. The ones who vote based on lawn signs. Or commercials. Or what little letter is behind someone's name. These are the dangerous voters. The ones who are doing someone else's bidding because they don't know any better. The ones who blindly follow someone else because they don't know what's going on. The ones who believe what these idiots are saying!


     My least favorite part of fall (and lately the summer, too) is the election propaganda. We have more than a month left before the election, and I still think I might scream if I hear the words "and I approve this message" on TV one more time! The mud slinging, the half truths and outright lies. The famous people talking like their opinion is supposed to mean something to me. It bites. All of it. I just want the bare bones minimum "what are you going to do" questions answered. To get there, we have to dig through 20 tons of bullshit, and it really isn't fair. It does make uneducated people think they know more than they do. It puts people in positions they should not hold. It makes us all weaker. And maybe just a little bit more ignorant. Certainly more confused.

     I don't care how legitimate a rape is, my ovaries are not capable of shutting down just because I want them to. If this were the case, there would be no unwanted pregnancies. Ever. Obviously, there are. Every day. And how a woman deals with one is her business. Not mine, not the government's, and certainly not some uninformed men who don't know the basic workings of the human body. Hey, I'm not all up in your sperm, let's agree for you to stay out of my uterus! And really, you can think I'm a slut all day without ever having met me. That's fine. In your mind, I probably am. But don't let that opinion affect what healthcare I am entitled to. Or I might bring up the fact that some slut callers out there are actually drug addicts. Should that fact make you ineligible for treatment? I don't think so, but I'm just a woman. And a slut. And let me float this: if wanting safe and reliable birth control to be available to all who want it (you know, until we perfect that ovary shut down thing) makes me a slut, then this country is full of sluts. Your daughter, your sister, your mother, maybe even your grandmother. Sluts everywhere! Of all ages, colors, and creeds.

     So I say Sluts Unite! Educate yourselves, vote, and stand up for what's right! Let's get these men out of our uterus! Unless you're stupid. Then just stay home.

    I'm Jill Brown, and I approve this message.

Guilty Pleasures

     So I am hearing about a lot of things lately that are supposed to be peoples' "Guilty Pleasures."  Back in the day, the boys used to call fat ugly girls mopeds. You know, fun to ride but you don't want your friends to see you on one. Now we just call them guilty pleasures. Things you enjoy doing, but don't want everyone to know you enjoy. I have just one word for this phenomenon: Bullshit.

     If my friends are going to make fun of me for liking Nickleback, they aren't really my friends anyway. And I can't be the only one, judging by the size of that diamond Chad just put on Averil Lavigne's finger. And let's just get this out of the way up front, too. I can sing along with every song on the "Let Go" CD, so obviously I like her, too. Mock away. I refuse to hide my pleasures. I thought about creating the term "Innocent Pleasures," but I'm not sure how innocent all of them can be considered, so I have created "Proud Pleasures."

     I have been proudly married to Shaun Cassidy since 1978. There, I said it. He doesn't know, of course. Neither do his wife nor my husband. But this does not make my love for him any less real. The "Under Wraps" album (yes, album) came with a poster that hung on my wall for years. Poor Shaun, behind a wall of what must have been very strong clear plastic. Pushing on it, trying to get out. But alas, the plastic is too strong, and he just can't break free. With his beautifully feathered hair, and his all black outfit, like his georgeous little head is just sticking out of nothing. It really is a school girl's dream.

     I did let peer pressure make me take down that poster. But, being me, I replaced it with none other than Boy George. I know, he is even less likely to marry me than Shaun (or more likely to want Shaun, maybe) but that does not make him any less adorable. I learned to apply make up by copying my "Colour By Numbers" album cover. I never did get very good at it, and gave up even trying for special occassions about a decade ago, but for about 6 months there in the ninth grade, I was one pop idol worthy little trollop!

     So now, in my adult life, I refuse to let other people tell me who to like, not like, make fun of, or applaud. I love who I love, detest what I detest, and don't stop to think about if I'm supposed to feel guilty about it. I know it's un-American, but I'm not a huge fan of Bruce Springsteen. I would also venture to say that a lot of people who claim to be are just afraid of being called un-American. You know, like they would feel guilty. I don't. And he's doing all right without me, so we're all good. I also haven't read 50 Shades of Gray or even the Twilight series. Just not my thing. They also seem do be doing just fine without me, so again, we're all good. But, and this is the important part, I would never ever make fun of my friends for enjoying any of these things. If they get joy from them, they should be proud!

     I have also recently discovered a new Proud Pleasure. Every once in a while, I like to sit at a computer and type out all the crap that's floating around in my head on a daily basis. I thought maybe some other people who think like me would enjoy reading my ponderings, so I made this. Please, readers, do this for me. Do not let reading my musings be your guilty pleasure. Make it your proud pleasure. I will be proud to like all of you, if you will proudly read me!

Decision Impairment

     I have no patience for the decision impaired. I have never had a problem making decisions myself, and really cannot even begin to understand why other people do. Especially with the simple things, or what we normally call "no-brainers." I mean seriously, if you don't really need your brain to make this decision, how can the choice be so difficult? I've had to watch my kids agonize for what seems like hours over which Hot Wheel to buy. I watch customers waffle for way too long about wheather they need a 5 or 6 year battery. I just want to grab people, shake them, and scream "MAKE UP YOUR MIND!" But I don't. Usually.

     This being said, I happen to be married to a man who suffers from this affliction. Shopping with him is my fifth degree of hell. If he didn't get me the good parking, I would never take him anywhere. I've seen him put more thought into a model car or pair of pants than he has put into marraiges. Does he want it? Does it cost too much? If he waits for it to go on sale, will they sell out before he makes it back? Can he return it if he changes his mind? Then he turns to me and says "I don't know, should I get it?" Oh, no. I'm not falling into that trap! If I say yes, I made him spend money that should have been spent on something else. If I say no, I will forever be reminded of how I wouldn't let him buy the dream item he will want forever until the end of time. So my answer is always the same: "If you want it, get it. If not, walk away now. Just MAKE UP YOUR MIND!"

      I recently learned from an excellent article on Discover Magazine that the inability to make decisions plays a major factor in the psychology of hoarding. Simply put, if you can't decide what to throw away or where to put things, you never throw away anything and put things everywhere. So simple, but a huge revelation for me. That explains my house. And why I am the only person living there who can find the trash can. I honestly thought the decision impairment was the whole affliction in and of itself. A few weeks ago, I learned I was wrong. It is just a symptom of a much larger affliction. No, what "Cleveland" suffers from is not the inability to decide, it is the need for agreement. He does not consider himself to be correct until somebody, or better yet everybody, agrees with him. I don't know what to call this affliction. My first thought was "Ross Geller Syndrome" but anyone who hasn't seen the "Opposable Thumbs" episode of "Friends" would have no idea what this means. So I don't know what to call it, but it certainly exists.

    
     This is how I learned. The husband left with 2 boys and the truck to go buy wood to fix our soffits. Three hours later, they returned home with an empty truck. He did speak with the Menard's employees, though. Apparently, pine is cheaper but doesn't last as long. But cedar will last forever, making the extra cost up front well worth the reduced work later. A no-brainer, right? Wrong! He needed to come home and ask me first. Am I a wood expert? No. Have I done any research at all on which wood would be best suited to our needs? No. Did the employee seem to know what he or she was talking about while explaining the differences? Yes. Can you tell at a glance or at least at a touch the quality of the wood? I would assume. But none of these are good enough reasons to buy something, unless someone is there to tell you that you're right. How screwed up is this?


     I'm pretty sure what bothers me the most about the lack of decision making ability people have is the fact that they think every decision is so fricking important! If you agonize about which shirt to wear every day, how are you going to be able to make the really important choices? If I have to tell you what kind of wood to buy, how are you going to decide if you should pull the plug on me or not? Who is going to have to agree with you on that one?  And on the little decisions, and I guess by extension all decisions, "so what?" has always been my motto. I decided to wear the pink shirt instead of the green one. So what? I decided to take the highway instead of the back roads today. So what? I decided to base my entire career path on footwear. (If I can't wear gym shoes, I can't take the job.) So what? Yes I have made really bad decisions in my life. Big ones. So what? I learned what not to do the next time. The next decision will be easier to make because a wiser person will be making it. And I really don't need anybody to agree with me to know I'm right. You can have hundreds of people claiming the world is flat forever, it won't be any less round. Do I care if these people agree with me? No. And if they don't, so what?

TXT TLK

     I am the world's worst texter. Mostly because I feel the need to write as close as I can to correctly. I like to capitalize the first words of sentences, and I can't figure out how to do that on my phone. I like to spell the whole word, not just the consonants. I am capable of using what I call "Purple Rain" abbreviations, but that's about it. If you don't understand what "Purple Rain" abbreviations are, you are obviously under 40 years of age or were not a Prince fan. Suffice it to say, when we all got our "Purple Rain" cassette tape (yes, kids, before CD's we had to listen to music on ancient artifacts called cassette tapes) and went to read the lyrics (before we just Googled them) they were written a little differently than previous lyrics. When he wanted to say "for" he used 4, "to" was 2, "you" was U and "are" was R. Now we had seen the R thing before, but only at Toys R Us. He was breaking all the rules, and we all admired him for it.

   Then we invented cell phones. And it wasn't good enough to just be able to call anyone anytime, we decided we want to talk to them without actually having to, you know, talk to them. And texting was born. For those of you too young to remember, in the old days we just had number keys on the phone. So to text "Hi" to somebody, you had to push 4,4, wait a second so it knew you wanted the H, then 4,4,4. So using abbreviations actually made a lot of sense. If you could just hit B4, it was a whole lot easier than spelling the whole word. But now, even I have a qwerty keyboard, and I still carry a "stupid" phone! Can't we all type with our thumbs as if we were typing with our fingers?

    I also have a problem with some of the things we claim to be doing in our texts. Are you really LOL? Because I don't hear you. And ROTFL? Then how would you be able to text that? And how do you get back up? I think we all agree if it were indeed possible to LMAO, we would all be a size 2, so that ain't happening. Now I have to admit, I do admire the simplicity of WTF. But now, people are actually changing this one to WTH, so what's really the point? And it's not confined to texting! We communicate like this in all parts of our life now. I have actually had to "unfriend" people just because I can't understand a word they are typing! Really?
  
 I guess what I'm really trying to say is: OMG people! WTF has happened to R language? IDK what I C nymore! Can we all agree to just type R native language from now on? U no, B4 the txt? IKR? Thx! TTYL!




     Ok, it's been over a month since I posted this, but I have to update with an actual text conversation I just had with the husband. This is why I have no hair.
     Me: (from work) Do we have anything tonight?
     Him: You tell me
(OK this pisses me off, because I'm at work, he's not, why can't he just look at the calendar?)
     Me: U can't look at your book or the calendar that are 15 miles away from me?
     Him: Im not at home
(Notice, no hint of where he is or why he's not at home!)
     Him again: Meet at taco bell. Call us when you close. Or do you want us to do drive through
     Me: Drive thru is cheaper, no drinks. Just have it at home.
     Him: The usual for everybody plus whatever you want
(Are you seeing the problem here? Call US, do you wnt US to drive through.)
     Me: Oh. When you said do you want us to do drive thru I thought you meant you. I did not realize you meant I am supposed to do drive thru. Usual for everybody includes who in the everybody?
(They see the visitation schedule as more of a suggestion. Or bird cage lining. I never have any idea who is at my house at any given moment.)
     Him: Hard for me to do drive thru when I don't know when you'll be home.
     Me: Here's a thought: try answering the questions you are asked when texting!
     Him: (he sends me a list of people to order for. Finally.)
     He should really be thankful I'm not a violent person! That was exhausting! PS, I still don't know where he is!   

70's Music

     I am a child of the seventies. Really, a child. I was in elementary school through the seventies. I listened to the music as a child would. I YMCA'd at the skating rink, thought I knew how to put on my my my my my boogie shoes, danced with the shadows, you name it. In fact, when KC and the Sunshine band told us to shake our bootie, we white suburban children had absolutely no idea what a bootie was, except those shoes babies wore, and that didn't make much sense. So my sister and I changed it to something we had heard of but didn't have yet, and ran around singing "Shake your boobies!" I enjoyed the decade, then moved on to my teens and the eighties. Then satellite radio was created. The decade by number system made it easy to catch up on all that music I heard as a kid. I listened to it as an adult. And wondered: how did any of these people ever get laid?
  
  Now, the sixties artists, they had it going on. You can't be with the one you love? No problem! Just love the one you're with. If you can't get a drunk desperate girl into bed with that one, well you just aren't trying hard enough and should be ashamed of yourself. Then, maybe because of women's lib, or maybe we just all got a little lazy, things changed. Then we weren't talking about moving in, or changing your life or anything. But if you have no plans for the evening, maybe I could see you? Really? Did this ever work? For anybody?
  
  But then, as I was parking a customer's car, I was forced to listen to the CD they had playing. Well, not forced, I did find the volume knob to turn it down, but it was playing some new, rappy beat music. The line that caught my attention was "at the strip club where we met." Wow. So my mind is all over the place on this one. Was she an employee, a fellow customer, a passerby needing change for the bus, what? And what fun stories for the grandchildren! "Well, Granny was working the pole like nobody's business, when in walked the most handsome man I'd ever seen. Oh, the pants were down just far enough to see the boxers that matched his shirt, his grill was sparkling, it was magical."
   
 About this time, I was forced out of my imagined story by another line, which I hope was about the same girl, but it's not entirely clear. This one could "suck dick like she was toothless." Wow. Even I am speechless on this one. And I'm rarely speechless. But it does kind of make Goodbye Stranger, it's been nice seem a whole lot more romantic, don't you think?

Old People

     I was always raised to believe that older equals wiser. I mean they say it all the time: older and wiser. Why would I not believe this to be true? But it's not. It started with the news people telling us during the last heat wave to "watch your elderly." Huh? Watch them do what? But apparently when one gets to a certain age, one forgets how to push the 'on' button of one's air conditioner. Or fan. Or whatever cooling methods one's house is equipped with. Really?
  
   Now, before you get all upset about what I'm going to say here, let me clarify. I'm not talking about low income elderly or otherwise disabled elderly who actually do not have air conditioning or cannot afford to run it. These people should be helped, and there are places they should be able to go. No, I'm talking about financially secure, perfectly sane people who refuse to turn on the air. I've heard a few reasons why, and will tell you why they aren't good ones. 1. "I get cold!" Hey, right next to that 'on' button is an 'off' button. Don't die of heat stroke because you're afraid of being a bit chilly. Set the thermostat accordingly. Wear something. It will be OK. 2. "I'm afraid of blowing a fuse." Mind you, this is  from a woman who unplugs the clocks because she read about the energy vampires that might raise that $12 electric bill. You don't have fuses, you have breakers. And hey! Go ahead and blow one! Call the electrician. They will come and fix it for you. And you have somebody to talk to for a few hours while they do. It will be OK.  3. "If you stay in air conditioning all day, then when you go outside the heat will get you!" You are a retired widow. Where do you need to go in hundred degree weather besides your air conditioned car? And by that logic, shouldn't we keep the heat off in the winter just so you won't freeze to death if you need to go outside then? Turn on the air and be cool. Stay inside for a few days. It will be OK.
   
      My other old people concern is the scam where a "grandchild" calls or emails, saying they are traveling abroad, have run into some trouble, need bailed out. Can you wire me some money, Grandma without telling my parents? I don't want them mad at me! OK, first of all, if you aren't close enough with your grandchildren to know if they are really traveling abroad, you aren't close enough with them to give them money! And second, what kind of devious person would bypass their own children to sneak money to a grandchild without them knowing? You should be ashamed of yourself if you have fallen for this scam! Talk to your children! Don't give their children money without permission! Wow, these elderly really do need to be watched!
   
      This all did make for a good teachable moment, though. The 23 year old smart ass at work was being really nice to me (40 something) and my work neighbor (50 something) all week. Are we feeling all right, is the fan hitting us ok, do we need anything to drink, would we like a popsicle? Finally I asked what his deal was, and he said "Well, they said on the news to watch your elderly. Just wanna make sure you guys are all right." I don't care what you say about this younger generation. They are good kids.

Ninjago!

     Cartoon Network has this show on, starting its second season, called Ninjago. Not Ninja-go, like one would assume, pronounced NinJAAAgo.  Basically, it is Lego people in a Lego world who are both Ninjas and kids. Cartoon Lego people. Yes, you read that right. With their little pop off  Lego heads, you know, the ones hanging out in that other dimension with all of Barbie's shoes and half your damn socks. And their little Lego "C" shaped hands. They do almost have knees in the cartoon version, so they can like run and stuff. And dragons to fly around on. If you have not sat in a room while your children watch this show, you need to. Actual conversation:
  
   One kid, yelling at the TV: "Dude! Why are you fighting them off all by yourself? Why not call for help?"
  
     Different kid: "What's he gonna do, text? He has no thumbs!"
  
    Original kid: "Oh yeah. Right."
 
     Me: "This show is great! Haaaa!"
   
     Now, "Leroy" has this thing, he always has to "be" somebody in whatever he's watching, which makes us have to "be" somebody, too. Like "OK, Mom. I'm Dash, you're Elastigirl, and Dad is Mr. Incredible." Or "OK, Mom. I'm Stewie, you're Lois, and Dad is Peter." You get it. I am always the girl, since I'm the only girl in the house. In this case, I'm Nya, which is OK because she's pretty bad-ass. She's the smartest of the group, and travels around in this robot samurai thing that's pretty cool. But in order to remain the cool mom, I was watching the opening theme trying to learn everybody's name and who's who.
  
   The one who always wears red is named Kai, OK, like Cayenne peppers, they are red, got it. The one who always wears blue is Jay. Total gimmee there, blue jay. Cool. The one who always wears black is Cole. All right, change the spelling a bit and you have black as coal. I have got this down! Then the one who always wears white. Zane.     Zane?      Zane. I guess it was the whitest name they could think of. Well, what I really think is that someone suggested Trevor, but since everyone else only has one syllable they thought the white guy should, too. Then somebody said "What's the whitest one syllable name we can come up with?" and Zane was created.  None of the boys wants to be Zane when they play. See, even they know.

Stupid Genes!

     I always try to look on the bright side. Married to a disabled man, I get the good parking. At least when he's with me. I get to have a career, guilt free, while he is my stay at home Dad. It works for us, and mostly is good. Except for Cub Scouts. More specifically, Cub Scout hikes. He can't go, so I have to. Now, I've never been a girly girl. I touch frogs and toads, I'm not afraid of snakes or spiders, some good old mud never hurt anybody. And back before I got fat and couldn't get myself back up off the ground, I've been known to sleep in tents and pee in the woods. If I have to. But hiking for fun seems to me kind of like jogging. You know, useless. But it gets the kids beltloops and pins, so I do what I have to do. Today's hike reminded me of a phenonomen that started years ago.

     Many many moons ago, back in the last millenium, my husband was not anyone to me except my boss. That's right, years before we ever considered dating, I worked for him. In a shop. As anyone who works these places (and most others) knows, employees' cars (or other items or services) are always put on the back burner. Other customers come first, and they kind of assume you'll be back tomorrow. A co-worker's car was in for repair, and of course not finished yet. I passed within a mile of his house on my way home, so naturally I was the one he asked to take him home. I was at the time clock waiting, when boss man asked why. I told him since Ed's car wasn't finished yet, I was taking him home. This is the important part. He actually looked at me and said, in a questioning tone, "Taking him home?" Of course my smart ass nature kicked in, so I answered.

     "Yes. He will get into my car with me, at which point I will drive him to his house. Then, he will get out of my car, and I will continue driving until I get to my house. Then I will park the car and go inside." His whole response to this? "Oh."

     Throughout our working, then dating, then married relationship this pattern has continued. Usually when I'm asking about something he doesn't want to talk about. Example:

     Me: "How about you clean up the dog shit in the hallway?"

     Him: "Dog shit in the hallway?" Like he's never heard any of those words before.

     Me: "Yes. In the long room that leads to the other rooms, there is a pile of fecal matter, presumably canine. Hopefully canine. I don't think it would be a good idea to leave it there, and since I'm currently (fill in the blank of the 12 things I'm currently doing while he's watching TV) I would like for you to clean it up, please."

     Him: "Oh."

     So today was a Cub Scout hike. I figure that maybe "James," a step-son who was never allowed to be a Cub Scout might enjoy it. So I say to him: "Today is a Cub Scout hike. Would you like to tag along?" And what does the little brat say? As if he's never heard the word before, "Hike?"

     Me: "Yes. Hike. It's like a walk, but it takes place in the woods."

     James: "I know what it is!"

     OK, A: Then why did you ask? And B: The response is always supposed to be "Oh." Nothing more, nothing less. Just "Oh."  Definitely my husband's child though. Stupid genes.

Body Art

     Ah, the local swimming pool (or Aquatic Center if you want to be precise.) The perfect place to check out everybody else's body art. And to realize how different your life outlook is than your significant other.

     Very rarely can I get "Cleveland" to go to the pool with us. He can swim (I can't), he has more days off a week than I do (all of them), we get passes for all of us every year. But he pretty much refuses to go. Ever. I did get him to go opening day this year, we had to get our pictures taken for the passes. He sat with me, watching the kids swim and slide and dive and all that good stuff. We were also checking out the tats. Why? Because they are everywhere, and you can actually see most of them in swimwear.

     He sees a guy walk past that I didn't notice. I read. He mentions that dude must be really into Legos. That got my attention. Why?

     "He has a Lego wall tattood across his back."

     "Oh, like a colorful Lego wall, or some other kind of Lego structure? I think if I was going to tattoo on Legos, I wouldn't choose a wall."

      "I don't know, it's in black and white." Which makes me wonder if it's really a Lego wall after all. I mean, Legos, sure. Black and white Legos? What kind of a freak is this guy? Then it hits me, and I finally ask:

     "You're sure it's not just a regular wall? I mean, maybe he's just a big Pink Floyd fan, not unnaturally obsessed with Legos." That made him think for a few minutes, then he decided there was just no way on earth it could be anything except a Lego wall. I mean, after all, why would anyone tattoo any other substance on themselves but cheap plastic, right? He seriously refused to even consider any other explanation. They had to be black and white Legos. On a grown man's back.

     Well, obviously I had to hunt down the dude and get a sneaky, sunglass hidden look at his back. Three guesses what I found there. Yep, Pink Floyd. The Wall. Great work, actually. Looked just like the album cover. I do realize not everyone goes straight to the Pink like me. I get it. We can't all be Comfortably Numb all the time. But straight to Legos? On a tat? Yep, I am married to a freak, who obviously does not get out enough. Or listen to decent music.

Getting Started

     So, as I was ranting to myself the whole drive home from work the other day, it occurs to me that I need a healthier outlet to my opinions than my windshield. Don't get me wrong, I love my windshield. It protects me from the wind, rain, snow and bugs. If I turn them on, it has built in squeeges that keep it "clean." (Or at least clear of debris in the places where they scrape.) It is quiet and kind of a great listener. But it doesn't talk back. I can't bounce ideas off it. I can, they just come back the same way I threw them. Really. And if your windshield changes the ideas before they get back to you, call me. I need to borrow your car.
     Simply put, I am a working Mom, Stepmom, and wife who has opinions. Those who know me normally don't ask for most of my opinions, for I am more than willing to share them. Sometimes loudly. Sometimes with colerful language. Always with humor. Never to cause other people pain. Or shame, unless they deserve to be shamed.
     I am fortunate to have a wondeful family, great co-workers, and even an OK if not disfunctional extended family, for the most part. I'm also honest enough to admit that sometimes these wonderful people drive me bat shit crazy with their demands and stupidity. And sometimes I don't handle it well, as my windshield could tell you. If it could talk.
    I am very new to the blog concept. I don't know how to make people read this. Or if I want them to. Or if this is just a sort of  "online diary" that I can add to when I get bored. Or how to find this later. But please, let me know what you think, and I'll check in later.