Fuck you, Hallmark! My apparel will be as gay as I want it to be, whether you like it or not! And I will don it whenever the hell I feel like it! And Target: I admit the whole piss sandal thing was just bad translation (ask GM about trying to sell Novas in Spanish speaking countries back in the day) but you squandered away a great opportunity with the whole manatee thing!
To explain, in case you missed it, Hallmark made an ornament featuring the traditional "ugly Christmas sweater." But it says "Don we now our FUN apparel," instead of our normal "gay." Target came out with a line of sandals called Orina, which apparently means "urine" in another language. They pulled them. Target also had an outfit a few months back, it was gray. If you ordered it in skinny girl sizes, it was Heather. However, in plus size the color was Manatee. But instead of reminding us of what amazing creatures the manatees are, even if they are endangered, Target chose to instead apologize for offending anyone by comparing us to them. Why not just say hey, you know those manatee things the old time sailors thought were mermaids? We thought you'd like a shirt the same color as one! Sorry, skinny bitches. You chicks get to wear a shirt named for a plant and strippers. Eat a sandwich and try again next year.
No, instead they apologized for the color naming error, refused to be gay, and generally pissed me off by insisting on being politically correct. What's wrong with being compared to a sea creature? What's wrong with dressing in gay clothing? Our society has become so obsessed with complaining about nothing, we are forcing the companies to resort to insanity!
Let me take a paragraph here to complain about the whole gay thing. Not the fact that people are, mind you, I don't really care who you desire as long as you read me. No, I'm confused about how and why the homosexual community became labeled with the term "gay," which has historically meant happy. Isn't this a lot of pressure to put on people? Imagine someone implying you have to be happy! All! The! Time! I am a generally happy person by nature (when I'm not on here bitching about shit) but even I can't be happy all the time! Sometimes I'm sad, or hurt, or angry, or sleepy, or one of the other dwarfs. Why do we insist all our homosexuals be gay? Are they not allowed to be depressed? To have a bad day? What the hell? I say we take back gay! As of this moment, gay means happy again! Homosexuals will just have to be called something else! I suggest "people." I suggest it gaily.
But back to my original point. We are a society so intent on everybody being perfect that nobody is allowed to be honest! Why can't I wear a manatee colored dress? Why can't my apparel be gay? Why can't we all respect others' holidays and wish them a good one? When did we get so damn uptight anyway?
Don't get me wrong; hurtful or mean words are never OK. I mean the racial slurs, the bad names, all that crap. That's not politically incorrect, it's just mean. No, I'm talking about companies who are so afraid of offending somebody or suffering through a boycott that they do ridiculous things like avoid simple words! Target, I love you. I really do. But own it! Be proud of those manatee clothes! I kind of need a pair of piss shoes too, now that you mention it! And while I'm there, I will buy the shit out of any gay apparel you have. Why? Because I'm so happy I could pee! All over my new shoes.
Now let's all get out there and spread the gay! Unless you happen to be homosexual, in which case you have my permission to be grumpy if you wish.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Open Letter
I keep seeing famous people writing these "open letters" to each other. Huh? I guess if you're famous and have something to say to someone who's also famous, you just write a letter. But instead of mailing it, you publicly publish it so everyone in the world can see it. OK, I'm game. I'm not famous, nor do I know any famous people, but hey, I have some people I can talk to, so here goes.
Dear Single Mother,
I'm going to get the outrage started right now by being brutally honest. I have never liked you. Let me tell you how you appear to outsiders. We see a woman who got pregnant by a loser. Or worse yet, a woman who had a great man but decided to let him go. We see a woman with too much going on, who failed to plan ahead. We see a woman who flaunts the fact that she can pop out kids just to get a piece of the welfare pie. We see a woman who intentionally keeps her innocent children away from their wonderful father just so she can be the martyr. We see a woman who expects and asks for special treatment just because she couldn't keep it together. We see a woman who does not know or care how important it is for children to grow up with a Dad. We see a woman ruining her childrens' lives simply because she wanted some strange or decided she didn't like her husband anymore. We see a woman with manicured nails whose kids are dirty or poorly dressed. We see all the things we never want to be. We also see a glimpse of what we could be, if we were pushed into the same situation. We hate you and we fear you. More than anything, we don't want to be you.
Now I will tell you something else. I was wrong. And I am truly sorry.
Now, as a grown up with my own child, I am capable of seeing things from another's perspective.I realize nobody should be punished forever for one bad decision. I understand that sometimes things don't work out the way we planned, or the way we wanted. I know now that nobody chooses to need help, and it's even harder to accept when it's from the wrong sources. I know that when you are in the grocery store line buying the meal the kid was supposed to have already been fed, his appearance is probably not what it would be if he were with you all day. I now know that sometimes the man whining about never being allowed to see his own children may actually have ample opportunity, just not under the terms he thinks he deserves. I know that, no matter upon whom we choose to blame the break up of any relationship, it can't possibly be all one person's fault. I now see that sometimes a girl can get so lost in a boy that she forgets how to be smart. I know now, thanks to life and experience, that sometimes shit just happens. And you can't control it, or take it back, or make it un-happen.
I also have learned that, contrary to popular belief, you're not contagious. For this belief, dear single mother, is why people are so mean to you. We think you're going to infect us. We think if we get too close to you, we'll get it, too. You know, like Smallpox. So we avoid you. We stand as far away as we can on our pedestals of judgment and we hope we never catch what you have. And we are wrong to do that, and again I am sorry.
It's exhausting, and I completely understand why you can be grumpy sometimes. You wake up (if you were lucky enough to actually get any sleep at all) and have to get sleepy grumpy kids out of the house to get them where they need to be all day. Then off to your job where you toil all day while worrying about the one who was sniffling this morning, hoping they don't call you to come get him. Off work, pick them up, and the last thing in the world you want to do is cook, so maybe a run through the drive thru will be OK. Then home to make sure everybody's fed, clean, and homeworked so you can collapse and do it all again tomorrow. And yes, you need help! You need help from the bastard who put you in this position to begin with! And when he's not there to provide the help, it makes you even more furious, and adds to the stress and exhaustion you already feel. It sucks. Every single day. And watching self-righteous two parent bitches judge you for doing the best you can just adds to the shit mix that is life.
So I vow to never be that self-righteous bitch again. And I sincerely apologize that I was ever her. I don't expect your forgiveness (that's just permission to do it again, as we all know) but I apologize anyway. And I make a plea to all Mothers, and really all women. Look, we are all in this fucked up world together. If we can't help each other out sometimes, we really aren't any better than men. So let's all just stop the judgmental bullshit and be nice to one another. I promise to start doing my part right now.
Love,
Jill
Dear Single Mother,
I'm going to get the outrage started right now by being brutally honest. I have never liked you. Let me tell you how you appear to outsiders. We see a woman who got pregnant by a loser. Or worse yet, a woman who had a great man but decided to let him go. We see a woman with too much going on, who failed to plan ahead. We see a woman who flaunts the fact that she can pop out kids just to get a piece of the welfare pie. We see a woman who intentionally keeps her innocent children away from their wonderful father just so she can be the martyr. We see a woman who expects and asks for special treatment just because she couldn't keep it together. We see a woman who does not know or care how important it is for children to grow up with a Dad. We see a woman ruining her childrens' lives simply because she wanted some strange or decided she didn't like her husband anymore. We see a woman with manicured nails whose kids are dirty or poorly dressed. We see all the things we never want to be. We also see a glimpse of what we could be, if we were pushed into the same situation. We hate you and we fear you. More than anything, we don't want to be you.
Now I will tell you something else. I was wrong. And I am truly sorry.
Now, as a grown up with my own child, I am capable of seeing things from another's perspective.I realize nobody should be punished forever for one bad decision. I understand that sometimes things don't work out the way we planned, or the way we wanted. I know now that nobody chooses to need help, and it's even harder to accept when it's from the wrong sources. I know that when you are in the grocery store line buying the meal the kid was supposed to have already been fed, his appearance is probably not what it would be if he were with you all day. I now know that sometimes the man whining about never being allowed to see his own children may actually have ample opportunity, just not under the terms he thinks he deserves. I know that, no matter upon whom we choose to blame the break up of any relationship, it can't possibly be all one person's fault. I now see that sometimes a girl can get so lost in a boy that she forgets how to be smart. I know now, thanks to life and experience, that sometimes shit just happens. And you can't control it, or take it back, or make it un-happen.
I also have learned that, contrary to popular belief, you're not contagious. For this belief, dear single mother, is why people are so mean to you. We think you're going to infect us. We think if we get too close to you, we'll get it, too. You know, like Smallpox. So we avoid you. We stand as far away as we can on our pedestals of judgment and we hope we never catch what you have. And we are wrong to do that, and again I am sorry.
It's exhausting, and I completely understand why you can be grumpy sometimes. You wake up (if you were lucky enough to actually get any sleep at all) and have to get sleepy grumpy kids out of the house to get them where they need to be all day. Then off to your job where you toil all day while worrying about the one who was sniffling this morning, hoping they don't call you to come get him. Off work, pick them up, and the last thing in the world you want to do is cook, so maybe a run through the drive thru will be OK. Then home to make sure everybody's fed, clean, and homeworked so you can collapse and do it all again tomorrow. And yes, you need help! You need help from the bastard who put you in this position to begin with! And when he's not there to provide the help, it makes you even more furious, and adds to the stress and exhaustion you already feel. It sucks. Every single day. And watching self-righteous two parent bitches judge you for doing the best you can just adds to the shit mix that is life.
So I vow to never be that self-righteous bitch again. And I sincerely apologize that I was ever her. I don't expect your forgiveness (that's just permission to do it again, as we all know) but I apologize anyway. And I make a plea to all Mothers, and really all women. Look, we are all in this fucked up world together. If we can't help each other out sometimes, we really aren't any better than men. So let's all just stop the judgmental bullshit and be nice to one another. I promise to start doing my part right now.
Love,
Jill
Sunday, September 15, 2013
How may I help you?
As technology advances and we become a less textile based society, our jobs gravitate to the service industries. In short, customer service jobs. Your restaurant positions, retail sales of everything from clothes to cars, technical assistance, even the skilled trades like plumbers and medical staff. All of it centers around customer service. In short, the ability to provide a service for the public and be nice about it in the process.
Some people should not have these jobs. And for the most part, these people are either smart enough not to get them or their employers are smart enough not to let them keep them very long. But on the other side of the fence, some people just shouldn't be served.
Full disclosure: every job I have ever had requires me to deal with the public, at least in small doses. Most of them actually center around me dealing with the public every moment I'm on duty, and usually even when I'm not officially on duty. Because of this, I get to see a lot of people in a lot of different situations. I have also learned how to be a good customer.
I've discussed the "asshole fee" before. This is real. If you've never worked a customer service job, you have probably never heard of it. If you have, you may have heard it called different names but if there's any way under the sun to charge it, you have. And you only charged the assholes who deserved to pay it, hopefully.
Now, we all have days where we are assholes. All of us. We can't help it. We wake up, find dog piss on the carpet, the coffee maker breaks, we get stuck in traffic, our kids are brats, and every once in a while it all builds up and we become assholes. Usually just for a little while, and most of us are smart enough to avoid people during this time. But I'm referring here to the people who are just everyday assholes by nature. You've met them; they're the ones always running around bitching about bad service.
As I said, I have learned to be a good customer. I also almost invariably get great customer service. Cashiers are quick, friendly, and efficient. Wait staff is observant and caring. Salespeople are attentive without being pushy. Even the Taco Bell drive thru employees will apologize if the food takes a few minutes to prepare. (They couldn't just be saying that to make me stop singing, either. I can rock Pink like nobody's business!) So whenever I hear someone complain that wherever they go they get bad service, I am left to assume that it must be them. I have yet to be proven wrong.
Think about it. If you are a nice, friendly person, other people are generally nice and friendly back. Unless they are having an asshole day. It's the same if they are being paid to deal with you. If you walk in with an attitude, they aren't going to want to be as nice to you. If you walk in with a smile, they will usually give it back. Hopefully, they won't even spit in your food.
I actually do get it when people have never worked customer service jobs before. They've never lived it, they just don't know. What I don't get is when people who should know better are bad customers. I knew a woman who waited tables in high school and to work her way through college. She continued on to get a career and family, and apparently forget how hard her previous job was! I was quite frightened to eat in a restaurant with this woman. She complained about the table, she demanded special food not on the menu, she made the server make different trips for each item. (Can we get a new fork? Thank you, can I get a refill? Thank you, we need more sugar. Thank you, can we get some steak sauce?) I have always been honest about the fact I would be the worst waitress in the world. But even a good one would break under this kind of pressure!
There is also something about human nature that makes a person standing on the other side of any type of counter or desk somehow become not human. And it's even more pronounced if they are on the other end of a phone. Just because someone's wearing a uniform and standing behind a counter does not mean they are not a person. It is not OK to be rude to them. It is not OK to yell at them or expect miracles from them or threaten them. It is not OK to feel you are better than them. You are not. In fact, if they can handle dealing with your stupid rude ass without hopping across the counter and smacking you, they are better than you. You should thank them for performing their job, not make it harder for them.
I am under the opinion that every person's first job should be something minimum wage and dealing with the public. You learn that the hardest jobs pay the least amount of money. You learn how to deal with the assholes without losing your cool. You learn how to get along with your fellow dregs of society and work together to make life better. Most important, you learn who to hate. You learn to hate the dickheads who just can't seem to order what they want. You learn to hate the bitches who are never happy, even when you do everything right. Hopefully, you also learn how not to be one of these people. You see, good people in rant land, for the most part you get what you give. Now go out there and be nice. And if you really don't want fries with that, a simple "No, thank you" will suffice.
I am under the opinion that every person's first job should be something minimum wage and dealing with the public. You learn that the hardest jobs pay the least amount of money. You learn how to deal with the assholes without losing your cool. You learn how to get along with your fellow dregs of society and work together to make life better. Most important, you learn who to hate. You learn to hate the dickheads who just can't seem to order what they want. You learn to hate the bitches who are never happy, even when you do everything right. Hopefully, you also learn how not to be one of these people. You see, good people in rant land, for the most part you get what you give. Now go out there and be nice. And if you really don't want fries with that, a simple "No, thank you" will suffice.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Facebook Fighting
Let me say up front: I love Facebook. I can talk to far away family on a daily basis. I can catch up with former classmates, co-workers, and even people I see every day. My page for this blog (friend "Jill Said") gets me more readers then I ever thought possible. I first heard of Facebook a few years ago while volunteering at Leroy's school. I heard a couple of other moms talking about Facebooking each other. Until then, I thought it was for college kids. Oh no, they informed me. The old people had taken over!
So I got a computer and set up a Facebook. I friended family, actual friends, kids' parents, and everyone else I enjoy talking to. And then I learned there are some people I don't enjoy talking to. Some of them I am still expected to be "friends" with! But now as I read my newsfeed, there are some disturbing things going on sometimes. I call it Facebook Fighting.
There are actually two kinds of Facebook Fighters. First we'll discuss the Baiters. These are the ones who will post a "bait" status, hoping to get a bite. Something like "Sally Jones is feeling aggravated." with no explanation. This is bait. Sally is aggravated by one of her Facebook "friends" and wants them to know it. They already do know it, but she wants to make sure everybody else knows they know it. And she secretly wants everybody to know what this person did to aggravate her, she just doesn't have the balls to tell anybody. So she posts her bait, sits back, and waits for the sparks to fly.
Here's the problem. This is a trap. A very easy trap to fall into, but still a trap. We've all been guilty of taking this bait and falling right into the trap. Even me. But the trap is slippery, and the trap is deep! And once you fall into it, you might never get back out!
It starts with a nibble, usually from someone who has no idea what the hell is going on. "Oh no!" they reply, "What on earth has happened to aggravate you?" To which Sally responds with some vague statement like "I've had the worst day of my entire life" or, better still, nothing. Meanwhile, Julie Smith (the bitch who pissed off Sally in the first place) has a choice to make. She's been reading this since it was posted. She is stewing. There are 1001 smart-ass comments she could make running through her mind. She really wants to post one. DON'T! Don't fall into the trap! Yes, we know Sally's a whiny little whore and needs to be taken down a peg. But seriously, don't do it! It does not end well. See, Julie will post something like "Yes, Sally. Do tell us all why you've had such a bad day." And that's the moment the shit will hit the fan.
Usually it's not Sally who is actually throwing the shit. It's one of Sally's "friends" who knows the whole story. This "friend" will chime in with "You know damn well why her day is bad, Julie! You're the one who committed the sin to make it that way!" Oh, snap. Here we go. Now everybody and their brother is going to weigh in on who did what to who and why, and we officially have a Facebook Fight.
The other kind of fighter is the stalker. This is the person who has a "friend" they hate so much, they watch this person's feed for any opportunity to mess with them. So Sally can post something completely innocent like "I just had a cook-out with the kids" and along comes Julie to turn it ugly. It will be something like "Oh, did you deny their father his normal visitation so you could bribe the kids with hot dogs?" Or "Your mother paid your electric bill, you can cook inside now." Something to that effect. And again, the game is on. Because now Sally's "friends" are outraged on her behalf, and they will post things to defend her. Then Julie's "friends" will pipe in with their two cents, siding with her. And at the end of the day, we all hate each other.
Seriously, we are all guilty of trapping or falling into this trap at least once. Even me. (I know! You'd think I'd be smarter! You'd think wrong.) But some people are so good at it, or so bored with life, they have made a sport of it! Unfriend these people. Now. Or remember who and what they are. Hide their posts from your feed if you have to. Read the bait, say out loud to the computer screen the witty insult you are thinking. But don't type it. If you do feel the need to type it, don't post it under any circumstances. Just don't. Even if someone is insulting you. Even if someone is insulting your mother, or your sister, or your adult son. Just don't. If they are insulting you, block them. If they are insulting your best friend, ignore them. This is not your fight. Let me repeat this last part, because I know you didn't catch it. This. Is. NOT. Your. Fight. It may seem like it's your fight, but it's not. It's your brother's fight. It's your best friend's fight. It's your cousin's fight. But it is not your fight.
I recently witnessed a stalker fight on Facebook. Ok, maybe Sally's post was a little bit baiting, but it did seem as if Julie was waiting for any opening she could find. And when she found it, boy did she go in full boar! Name calling, accusations, the whole nine yards. And as if that wasn't bad enough, another "friend" had to join the mix, adding his support to the documented verbal abuse being doled out! Here's my main problem with this particular situation. The person whose wall this was on has 664 "friends" who got to read bad things about her. The person starting the fight has 3850 "friends" who have access to this feed and now should know exactly what a meddling bitch their "friend" really is. (On a side note, seriously! Who knows 3580 people? Really?) Then, when the calvary jumped in with his equally rude comments, that expanded the available readership by another 2244 people. So when all was said and done, 6468 people had access to this conversation. A conversation which wasn't even the fight of anyone involved! It wasn't even their fight, and now 6468 people know how mean people can be.
Now, I'm not talking about trolling the pages of groups you hate and trying to teach them how to add. Yes, I'm talking to you, One Million Moms. Groups that spew hate and intolerance deserve a math lesson every so often. They have learned how to block, so at least their technical skills are good. Group hate is really good clean fun, and if they can't take it they really shouldn't start the group. No, I'm talking about actual people who you know and are supposed to be a "friend" to. Even if you're related to them. Seriously, just don't do it. Don't post the bait; you know where it's going to go. If the bait is aimed at you, don't bite. You know where it will go. And remember: 99% of the time, it's not your fight. If it is your fight, do yourself a favor and look at the number of "friends" your adversary has. Add this to the number of "friends" you have. Then you might as well factor in the amounts for anybody else you think might get involved. If what you are about to type shouldn't be said in front of 6468 people, it shouldn't be read by them either. Don't type it. Now you'll have to excuse me, I have some arithmetic lessons I need to get back to.
So I got a computer and set up a Facebook. I friended family, actual friends, kids' parents, and everyone else I enjoy talking to. And then I learned there are some people I don't enjoy talking to. Some of them I am still expected to be "friends" with! But now as I read my newsfeed, there are some disturbing things going on sometimes. I call it Facebook Fighting.
There are actually two kinds of Facebook Fighters. First we'll discuss the Baiters. These are the ones who will post a "bait" status, hoping to get a bite. Something like "Sally Jones is feeling aggravated." with no explanation. This is bait. Sally is aggravated by one of her Facebook "friends" and wants them to know it. They already do know it, but she wants to make sure everybody else knows they know it. And she secretly wants everybody to know what this person did to aggravate her, she just doesn't have the balls to tell anybody. So she posts her bait, sits back, and waits for the sparks to fly.
Here's the problem. This is a trap. A very easy trap to fall into, but still a trap. We've all been guilty of taking this bait and falling right into the trap. Even me. But the trap is slippery, and the trap is deep! And once you fall into it, you might never get back out!
It starts with a nibble, usually from someone who has no idea what the hell is going on. "Oh no!" they reply, "What on earth has happened to aggravate you?" To which Sally responds with some vague statement like "I've had the worst day of my entire life" or, better still, nothing. Meanwhile, Julie Smith (the bitch who pissed off Sally in the first place) has a choice to make. She's been reading this since it was posted. She is stewing. There are 1001 smart-ass comments she could make running through her mind. She really wants to post one. DON'T! Don't fall into the trap! Yes, we know Sally's a whiny little whore and needs to be taken down a peg. But seriously, don't do it! It does not end well. See, Julie will post something like "Yes, Sally. Do tell us all why you've had such a bad day." And that's the moment the shit will hit the fan.
Usually it's not Sally who is actually throwing the shit. It's one of Sally's "friends" who knows the whole story. This "friend" will chime in with "You know damn well why her day is bad, Julie! You're the one who committed the sin to make it that way!" Oh, snap. Here we go. Now everybody and their brother is going to weigh in on who did what to who and why, and we officially have a Facebook Fight.
The other kind of fighter is the stalker. This is the person who has a "friend" they hate so much, they watch this person's feed for any opportunity to mess with them. So Sally can post something completely innocent like "I just had a cook-out with the kids" and along comes Julie to turn it ugly. It will be something like "Oh, did you deny their father his normal visitation so you could bribe the kids with hot dogs?" Or "Your mother paid your electric bill, you can cook inside now." Something to that effect. And again, the game is on. Because now Sally's "friends" are outraged on her behalf, and they will post things to defend her. Then Julie's "friends" will pipe in with their two cents, siding with her. And at the end of the day, we all hate each other.
Seriously, we are all guilty of trapping or falling into this trap at least once. Even me. (I know! You'd think I'd be smarter! You'd think wrong.) But some people are so good at it, or so bored with life, they have made a sport of it! Unfriend these people. Now. Or remember who and what they are. Hide their posts from your feed if you have to. Read the bait, say out loud to the computer screen the witty insult you are thinking. But don't type it. If you do feel the need to type it, don't post it under any circumstances. Just don't. Even if someone is insulting you. Even if someone is insulting your mother, or your sister, or your adult son. Just don't. If they are insulting you, block them. If they are insulting your best friend, ignore them. This is not your fight. Let me repeat this last part, because I know you didn't catch it. This. Is. NOT. Your. Fight. It may seem like it's your fight, but it's not. It's your brother's fight. It's your best friend's fight. It's your cousin's fight. But it is not your fight.
I recently witnessed a stalker fight on Facebook. Ok, maybe Sally's post was a little bit baiting, but it did seem as if Julie was waiting for any opening she could find. And when she found it, boy did she go in full boar! Name calling, accusations, the whole nine yards. And as if that wasn't bad enough, another "friend" had to join the mix, adding his support to the documented verbal abuse being doled out! Here's my main problem with this particular situation. The person whose wall this was on has 664 "friends" who got to read bad things about her. The person starting the fight has 3850 "friends" who have access to this feed and now should know exactly what a meddling bitch their "friend" really is. (On a side note, seriously! Who knows 3580 people? Really?) Then, when the calvary jumped in with his equally rude comments, that expanded the available readership by another 2244 people. So when all was said and done, 6468 people had access to this conversation. A conversation which wasn't even the fight of anyone involved! It wasn't even their fight, and now 6468 people know how mean people can be.
Now, I'm not talking about trolling the pages of groups you hate and trying to teach them how to add. Yes, I'm talking to you, One Million Moms. Groups that spew hate and intolerance deserve a math lesson every so often. They have learned how to block, so at least their technical skills are good. Group hate is really good clean fun, and if they can't take it they really shouldn't start the group. No, I'm talking about actual people who you know and are supposed to be a "friend" to. Even if you're related to them. Seriously, just don't do it. Don't post the bait; you know where it's going to go. If the bait is aimed at you, don't bite. You know where it will go. And remember: 99% of the time, it's not your fight. If it is your fight, do yourself a favor and look at the number of "friends" your adversary has. Add this to the number of "friends" you have. Then you might as well factor in the amounts for anybody else you think might get involved. If what you are about to type shouldn't be said in front of 6468 people, it shouldn't be read by them either. Don't type it. Now you'll have to excuse me, I have some arithmetic lessons I need to get back to.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
My Hero!
When are we going to stop treating people like heroes just for doing the right thing? I mean, when is it OK to expect people to do the right thing just because it is the right thing to do? True heroes always say the same thing when recognized: "I just did what anyone else would do." And that should be the case. It should just be what anyone else would do. Unfortunately, we have created a society where not anyone would just do what should be done. So, yeah they did what anyone else SHOULD do, but not what everyone else WOULD do.
I do adore this guy from Ohio, and I really am glad he's getting free food and all for saving those girls. But seriously, what kind of a person would have just kept eating his Big Mac and made the poor woman break down the door herself? Wasn't helping her really just doing the bare minimum? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he did do the bare minimum. But still, shouldn't that be what's expected, not what's special?
The first hub's very best friend in the whole world was a self-proclaimed asshole. This is not a bad thing. In fact, we got along splendidly. I had no unrealistic expectations, and he always lived up to them. Cleveland also has an Asshole Friend, and I adore him. In fact, if you don't have any Asshole Friends you really should find one. They are a great social barometer, and always good for free entertainment. The times in my life I didn't have one I remember as being very empty and confusing.
Years ago, there was this great show on TV called Rescue 911! (I do believe the exclamation point was in fact part of the title!) You remember it, right? Google it, kids, it was awesome. Captain Kirk would play us real live 911 calls, they would reenact the emergency, and talk to the people who were there. Great stuff. And being William Shatner, you know the narration was top notch!
One night's episode, while Asshole Friend happened to be visiting, involved some type of car theft with a baby strapped in the car. If I remember correctly, the thief discovered the baby, pulled over, put car seat and all by the side of the road and kept driving. An older couple happened along, saw the car seat, pulled over and found the baby. They then put the child in their car and drove to the nearest police station. This was in the days before cell phones. Of course Mom was overjoyed to get her baby back, I think thief got caught, and they all lived happily ever after. Until the TV people came along. I'm sure it's the way the scene was edited, but it appeared the couple who found the baby were very proud of the fact that they stopped and picked the baby up. Like it was something special.
This is when the friend spoke up. I will remember this quote as long as I live. He said:
"I'm a complete asshole, and even I wouldn't leave a baby by the side of the road!"
Wow. That pretty much covers it. If even an asshole would do the same thing, it must be the bare minimum. So why can't we expect everybody to do the bare minimum anymore? Are we all so self-centered we don't even notice anything else? Or do we just not care?
Watch the news. Every time there is an accident, and incident, any situation involving someone who stopped to help, they interview them and put them on, labeled "Good Samaritan." Always I am glad to see that someone stopped to help, but at the same time I'm asking myself "Well, who would just drive by and leave a baby on the side of the road anyway?" Sadly, I think the answer is more people than we care to admit. And not the assholes, either. The employee not wanting to be late for work. The Mom who doesn't want to leave her kids in the car. The bystander who pulls out their phone to video the scene. Everybody waiting for somebody else to do it.
I've been fortunate enough to not be in a position where I need a Good Samaritan very often. When I have, one always showed up. I also try to do at least the bare minimum when I see someone else in need. I'm no hero. Just a normal asshole trying to make it through the day. Just like you. My hero.
I do adore this guy from Ohio, and I really am glad he's getting free food and all for saving those girls. But seriously, what kind of a person would have just kept eating his Big Mac and made the poor woman break down the door herself? Wasn't helping her really just doing the bare minimum? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he did do the bare minimum. But still, shouldn't that be what's expected, not what's special?
The first hub's very best friend in the whole world was a self-proclaimed asshole. This is not a bad thing. In fact, we got along splendidly. I had no unrealistic expectations, and he always lived up to them. Cleveland also has an Asshole Friend, and I adore him. In fact, if you don't have any Asshole Friends you really should find one. They are a great social barometer, and always good for free entertainment. The times in my life I didn't have one I remember as being very empty and confusing.
Years ago, there was this great show on TV called Rescue 911! (I do believe the exclamation point was in fact part of the title!) You remember it, right? Google it, kids, it was awesome. Captain Kirk would play us real live 911 calls, they would reenact the emergency, and talk to the people who were there. Great stuff. And being William Shatner, you know the narration was top notch!
One night's episode, while Asshole Friend happened to be visiting, involved some type of car theft with a baby strapped in the car. If I remember correctly, the thief discovered the baby, pulled over, put car seat and all by the side of the road and kept driving. An older couple happened along, saw the car seat, pulled over and found the baby. They then put the child in their car and drove to the nearest police station. This was in the days before cell phones. Of course Mom was overjoyed to get her baby back, I think thief got caught, and they all lived happily ever after. Until the TV people came along. I'm sure it's the way the scene was edited, but it appeared the couple who found the baby were very proud of the fact that they stopped and picked the baby up. Like it was something special.
This is when the friend spoke up. I will remember this quote as long as I live. He said:
"I'm a complete asshole, and even I wouldn't leave a baby by the side of the road!"
Wow. That pretty much covers it. If even an asshole would do the same thing, it must be the bare minimum. So why can't we expect everybody to do the bare minimum anymore? Are we all so self-centered we don't even notice anything else? Or do we just not care?
Watch the news. Every time there is an accident, and incident, any situation involving someone who stopped to help, they interview them and put them on, labeled "Good Samaritan." Always I am glad to see that someone stopped to help, but at the same time I'm asking myself "Well, who would just drive by and leave a baby on the side of the road anyway?" Sadly, I think the answer is more people than we care to admit. And not the assholes, either. The employee not wanting to be late for work. The Mom who doesn't want to leave her kids in the car. The bystander who pulls out their phone to video the scene. Everybody waiting for somebody else to do it.
I've been fortunate enough to not be in a position where I need a Good Samaritan very often. When I have, one always showed up. I also try to do at least the bare minimum when I see someone else in need. I'm no hero. Just a normal asshole trying to make it through the day. Just like you. My hero.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
How to Work With Boys
Since about 1992, I have mostly worked jobs revolving around car repair of some sort. Longer, if you want to count being a cashier in a truck stop convenience store, but I don't. My first real car job was changing oil in one of those quickie lube 10 minute places. I just kind of fell into the job, didn't really know any better. It was me and a bunch of boys. From there, I went to various dealerships where I continued to change oil and do other repair work, then moved up the ladder (and down on my ass) to the sit down job of service adviser. I'm the one who greets you when you drive in, finds out what your problem is, then tells you how much it's going to cost to fix it. Even in this day and age, a predominantly male occupation.
If you've read my old stuff (and if you haven't, you really should. I'm pretty hilarious.) you know that my third level of Hell would be to have to work with nothing but women. I've done it, and it was not good for me. I've never been much of a girly girl, and I really don't understand us as a species. So the fact that I'm generally surrounded by boys is actually pretty good for me. And it prepared me for what has become my home life: generally surrounded by boys.
You'll notice I call them boys. This is because of the first and most important rule of working (and living) with them: No matter how old they get, they are still boys. They like shiny things, going fast, and boobies. Maybe not in that order all the time, but always. You can't expect adult behavior out of them, they just don't know how. They will always have the attention span of a gnat, and will usually giggle like school children over the most immature jokes. I often say that I may look like a grown ass woman, but deep down inside I'm just a 12 year old boy. But men? Their 12 year old boy is right there, just under the manly surface. And it stays there. Forever. So to survive, you have to have a sense of humor. The more messed up, the better.
It's also important to learn the wives' names, and use them. Often. These women are your friends. You know that 10 hours a day you have to spend with that guy? They have to put up with his ass the other 14. They know. But they can also be your worst enemy, if they don't trust him, or don't trust him with you, or just plain don't trust you. Hell hath no fury like a wife scorned, so you don't want to do anything that could ever possibly be construed as scorning her. Do not betray that trust, or you will pay forever. Always use her name in everyday conversation with their husbands, and said husbands will be less likely to try to betray that trust, also. Anybody can have a wife, and still live free and be bad. But when they actually hear you say "I bet Carrie loves when you talk like that," it makes it personal. Now they run the risk of pissing off Carrie, and that would be bad. Plus, everybody likes to be called by name. It's just nicer. I also learned the hard way with phoning them: never just ask for the co-worker you called to talk to. Ever. No, you say "Hi, Carrie, this is Jill from your husband's place of work. May I speak to him for a moment?" The reaction is a whole lot better than hearing a girl's voice say "Is John there?" A whole lot. John will thank you, too.
You also must get used to having multiple older brother figures. They tease me mercilessly. Of course, I throw it right back at them, but there is a pesky little sister/ annoying older brother quality to our interactions. They will pick on me all day, call me names, do all the things brothers do. But they will also kick the ass of any outsider who tries to do the same thing. For those of us who didn't grow up with any brothers, it's actually pretty cool. Are you jealous yet?
One thing you have to remember though is where to look. Or more importantly, where not to look. Most guy places have some sort of "locker room" set up. Normally in shops, it's kind of buried in the back, away from where the general public goes. It is never air conditioned, and rarely heated. Because of this, there is a door somewhere which usually stays open. Don't look there. Ever. There are things about my co-workers I just don't want to know. Which ones wear the tidy whiteys is definitely on that list. Again: don't look. Just don't. Ever. You've been warned.
They also ask a lot of questions. See, for all their perceived knowledge, men are still pretty clueless about the opposite sex. We confuse them. This is mainly due to the lack of blood flow to the brain when they are with us, but it's still a very real phenomenon. So they ask me things like "Why does my wife do this, or say this, or think this?" Be careful how you answer. Always ask first: "Do you want to know the truth?" Then ask again before telling him the truth, just to make sure. Sometimes they don't like the answer.
Don't forget though, boys are icky. This is not meant as an insult, but it's the truth. Girls: They pee standing up! On purpose! Sometimes into fixtures resembling animal feeding troughs! All at the same time! Right next to each other! And when they are forced to pee into an actual toilet, they miss! Not just sometimes, either. Every. Single. Damn. Time! But they keep doing it! On purpose! I know, right? And even they know they are icky, because they won't even touch each other! When they are hurt and need bandaged, need their ponytail fixed, need their tie tied, etc. who do they come to? Another boy? Ewww, no! Nobody else will do these things for them! They seek out the girls. Because even though we know they're icky, we're used to it by now and will help them anyway.
For the most part though, when you are the only one and you speak their language, they tend to forget you're not one of them. This is really cool. Sometimes I feel like Jane Goodall being accepted into the chimpanzee family. I used to think they just forgot I was there. But now I have learned, they know I'm there, they just forget I'm a girl! Evidenced by the salesman who once started a question with "If you were a girl..." I answered, "Well, if I was in fact a girl,....." and he didn't even notice!
All in all though, I wouldn't trade my life for anything. I feel I'm bi-lingual, and I am able to translate at the drop of a hat. (UN, are you hiring?) I always understand the inside jokes. They don't look at me funny when I giggle at things. I don't have to explain why I'm giggling; they are, too! I have learned to fear, respect, and love these glorious creatures we call the opposite sex. Now, if we can just work on that whole pee thing.
If you've read my old stuff (and if you haven't, you really should. I'm pretty hilarious.) you know that my third level of Hell would be to have to work with nothing but women. I've done it, and it was not good for me. I've never been much of a girly girl, and I really don't understand us as a species. So the fact that I'm generally surrounded by boys is actually pretty good for me. And it prepared me for what has become my home life: generally surrounded by boys.
You'll notice I call them boys. This is because of the first and most important rule of working (and living) with them: No matter how old they get, they are still boys. They like shiny things, going fast, and boobies. Maybe not in that order all the time, but always. You can't expect adult behavior out of them, they just don't know how. They will always have the attention span of a gnat, and will usually giggle like school children over the most immature jokes. I often say that I may look like a grown ass woman, but deep down inside I'm just a 12 year old boy. But men? Their 12 year old boy is right there, just under the manly surface. And it stays there. Forever. So to survive, you have to have a sense of humor. The more messed up, the better.
It's also important to learn the wives' names, and use them. Often. These women are your friends. You know that 10 hours a day you have to spend with that guy? They have to put up with his ass the other 14. They know. But they can also be your worst enemy, if they don't trust him, or don't trust him with you, or just plain don't trust you. Hell hath no fury like a wife scorned, so you don't want to do anything that could ever possibly be construed as scorning her. Do not betray that trust, or you will pay forever. Always use her name in everyday conversation with their husbands, and said husbands will be less likely to try to betray that trust, also. Anybody can have a wife, and still live free and be bad. But when they actually hear you say "I bet Carrie loves when you talk like that," it makes it personal. Now they run the risk of pissing off Carrie, and that would be bad. Plus, everybody likes to be called by name. It's just nicer. I also learned the hard way with phoning them: never just ask for the co-worker you called to talk to. Ever. No, you say "Hi, Carrie, this is Jill from your husband's place of work. May I speak to him for a moment?" The reaction is a whole lot better than hearing a girl's voice say "Is John there?" A whole lot. John will thank you, too.
You also must get used to having multiple older brother figures. They tease me mercilessly. Of course, I throw it right back at them, but there is a pesky little sister/ annoying older brother quality to our interactions. They will pick on me all day, call me names, do all the things brothers do. But they will also kick the ass of any outsider who tries to do the same thing. For those of us who didn't grow up with any brothers, it's actually pretty cool. Are you jealous yet?
One thing you have to remember though is where to look. Or more importantly, where not to look. Most guy places have some sort of "locker room" set up. Normally in shops, it's kind of buried in the back, away from where the general public goes. It is never air conditioned, and rarely heated. Because of this, there is a door somewhere which usually stays open. Don't look there. Ever. There are things about my co-workers I just don't want to know. Which ones wear the tidy whiteys is definitely on that list. Again: don't look. Just don't. Ever. You've been warned.
They also ask a lot of questions. See, for all their perceived knowledge, men are still pretty clueless about the opposite sex. We confuse them. This is mainly due to the lack of blood flow to the brain when they are with us, but it's still a very real phenomenon. So they ask me things like "Why does my wife do this, or say this, or think this?" Be careful how you answer. Always ask first: "Do you want to know the truth?" Then ask again before telling him the truth, just to make sure. Sometimes they don't like the answer.
Don't forget though, boys are icky. This is not meant as an insult, but it's the truth. Girls: They pee standing up! On purpose! Sometimes into fixtures resembling animal feeding troughs! All at the same time! Right next to each other! And when they are forced to pee into an actual toilet, they miss! Not just sometimes, either. Every. Single. Damn. Time! But they keep doing it! On purpose! I know, right? And even they know they are icky, because they won't even touch each other! When they are hurt and need bandaged, need their ponytail fixed, need their tie tied, etc. who do they come to? Another boy? Ewww, no! Nobody else will do these things for them! They seek out the girls. Because even though we know they're icky, we're used to it by now and will help them anyway.
For the most part though, when you are the only one and you speak their language, they tend to forget you're not one of them. This is really cool. Sometimes I feel like Jane Goodall being accepted into the chimpanzee family. I used to think they just forgot I was there. But now I have learned, they know I'm there, they just forget I'm a girl! Evidenced by the salesman who once started a question with "If you were a girl..." I answered, "Well, if I was in fact a girl,....." and he didn't even notice!
All in all though, I wouldn't trade my life for anything. I feel I'm bi-lingual, and I am able to translate at the drop of a hat. (UN, are you hiring?) I always understand the inside jokes. They don't look at me funny when I giggle at things. I don't have to explain why I'm giggling; they are, too! I have learned to fear, respect, and love these glorious creatures we call the opposite sex. Now, if we can just work on that whole pee thing.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Shame On You!
I have to admit, I'm a little addicted to Dogshaming. If you don't know what I'm talking about, look it up right now. Go to Dogshaming.com and look. You will laugh. You will cry. You will understand immediately why I have become an addict. And I am totally on board! Cat Shaming, Husband Shaming, Wife Shaming, even Kid Shaming all sound like a good idea to me.
I think this is where we have dropped the ball in America. We have lost our shame. We have let our children lose their shame or, worse yet, raised them to have none! I meet people every day who are very very proud of how stupid they are. Or how lazy they are. Or how good they are at "playing the system" and getting free stuff. Or how they are above the rules so they don't bother to follow them. Proud!
I blame my generation, really. We messed up. When we were kids, one adult was as good as another. If my neighbor told me to stop doing something, I stopped! Why? Because a grown-up told me to! We didn't question, we didn't argue. We didn't analyze the chain of command. We just stopped being brats because we were told to. Why we feel the need to raise our children to behave any differently is beyond me, but we do. Tell a kid now to stop doing something, and what do you hear? "You're not my Mom! I don't have to listen to you!" And along will come a parent to stand protectively behind said brat and agree with them!
I feel sorry for teachers these days. Or anyone who has to work with children and therefore has to deal with parents. I have always said and firmly believe: I love kids, I hate parents. Parents take these innocent little creatures and turn them into self-centered little assholes! You can't discipline my child for acting up in class, I'll complain to the Principal! You can't expect my kid to follow the same rules as all the other kids, I'll go to the School Board! And don't even think about catching my kid doing something wrong! Heads will roll!
"You must have the wrong kid. My perfect little angel would never call his classmate a douche, he doesn't even know what that word means!"
Yeah, have you met your kid? Because I have, and he's a little douche himself! Of course he did it! He taught all the other kids the word, too! Now take off the blinders and teach him shame! What would our parents have said in the same situation? "Not my kid" or "You should be ashamed of yourself!" But we are so focused on raising kids with great self-esteem, we forgot to teach them to be ashamed!
But we sure have taught them to be proud. Just proud of the wrong things. I hear daily "I'm so stupid!" or "Yeah, I got that for free." or "Nobody can tell me what to do!" Uhhh, yeah. Pride in your stupidity? Pride in your ability to work the system? Pride in your refusal to learn? OK. You apparently have a lot to be proud of. Let's make a misspelled sign and share it with the world!
But try to shame them into doing the right thing, and suddenly you're the bad guy! You're ruining your child's self-esteem if you make them tell their friends they aren't allowed on Facebook anymore because they posted a picture of themselves doing something stupid or illegal. They can be proud of that bong they're hitting, but don't you dare make them post that they messed up and are paying for it. That would be humiliating! Oh no! I don't know yet where I stand on the signs. You know, making kids write a sign that says "I'm a stupid, disrespectful, (fill in the blank here) kid that did a horrible deed, so this is my public display." Not that I think it's mean or child abuse or anything like that. I just don't think they feel the shame the signs are supposed to elicit. They proudly hold up their signs, knowing they got away with whatever it is they did without losing their smart-ass phone. You've heard the term "Sarcasm is wasted on the stupid." I think in this case it should be "Shame is wasted on the proud." They just don't get it.
But isn't having some appropriate pride a good thing? Isn't shame an effective teaching tool? Thousands of years of Jewish Mothers can't be so wrong, can they? When did we lose the capacity to feel shame? When did we all decide to flaunt our character flaws, even brag about them, rather than trying to be better people? What happened to being embarrassed enough to never do something again? Yes, we all had our humiliating moments. But I for one learned from them. We are robbing our children of the opportunity to learn from their own humiliation. And in the process, we are creating a generation of proud little douche bags.
So I say, Shame On You! Shame On You, kids who are proud of being a dumb ass! Shame On You, parents who are proud of their dumb ass kids! Shame On You, people proudly flaunting your refusal to earn your own keep! Shame On You, drivers who refuse to follow the rules of the road! Shame On You, line cutters and texting drivers, and bad parents, and poor spellers, and mean people, and anyone else I'm forgetting! Shame! And yes, I am pretty proud of myself right now.
I think this is where we have dropped the ball in America. We have lost our shame. We have let our children lose their shame or, worse yet, raised them to have none! I meet people every day who are very very proud of how stupid they are. Or how lazy they are. Or how good they are at "playing the system" and getting free stuff. Or how they are above the rules so they don't bother to follow them. Proud!
I blame my generation, really. We messed up. When we were kids, one adult was as good as another. If my neighbor told me to stop doing something, I stopped! Why? Because a grown-up told me to! We didn't question, we didn't argue. We didn't analyze the chain of command. We just stopped being brats because we were told to. Why we feel the need to raise our children to behave any differently is beyond me, but we do. Tell a kid now to stop doing something, and what do you hear? "You're not my Mom! I don't have to listen to you!" And along will come a parent to stand protectively behind said brat and agree with them!
I feel sorry for teachers these days. Or anyone who has to work with children and therefore has to deal with parents. I have always said and firmly believe: I love kids, I hate parents. Parents take these innocent little creatures and turn them into self-centered little assholes! You can't discipline my child for acting up in class, I'll complain to the Principal! You can't expect my kid to follow the same rules as all the other kids, I'll go to the School Board! And don't even think about catching my kid doing something wrong! Heads will roll!
"You must have the wrong kid. My perfect little angel would never call his classmate a douche, he doesn't even know what that word means!"
Yeah, have you met your kid? Because I have, and he's a little douche himself! Of course he did it! He taught all the other kids the word, too! Now take off the blinders and teach him shame! What would our parents have said in the same situation? "Not my kid" or "You should be ashamed of yourself!" But we are so focused on raising kids with great self-esteem, we forgot to teach them to be ashamed!
But we sure have taught them to be proud. Just proud of the wrong things. I hear daily "I'm so stupid!" or "Yeah, I got that for free." or "Nobody can tell me what to do!" Uhhh, yeah. Pride in your stupidity? Pride in your ability to work the system? Pride in your refusal to learn? OK. You apparently have a lot to be proud of. Let's make a misspelled sign and share it with the world!
But try to shame them into doing the right thing, and suddenly you're the bad guy! You're ruining your child's self-esteem if you make them tell their friends they aren't allowed on Facebook anymore because they posted a picture of themselves doing something stupid or illegal. They can be proud of that bong they're hitting, but don't you dare make them post that they messed up and are paying for it. That would be humiliating! Oh no! I don't know yet where I stand on the signs. You know, making kids write a sign that says "I'm a stupid, disrespectful, (fill in the blank here) kid that did a horrible deed, so this is my public display." Not that I think it's mean or child abuse or anything like that. I just don't think they feel the shame the signs are supposed to elicit. They proudly hold up their signs, knowing they got away with whatever it is they did without losing their smart-ass phone. You've heard the term "Sarcasm is wasted on the stupid." I think in this case it should be "Shame is wasted on the proud." They just don't get it.
But isn't having some appropriate pride a good thing? Isn't shame an effective teaching tool? Thousands of years of Jewish Mothers can't be so wrong, can they? When did we lose the capacity to feel shame? When did we all decide to flaunt our character flaws, even brag about them, rather than trying to be better people? What happened to being embarrassed enough to never do something again? Yes, we all had our humiliating moments. But I for one learned from them. We are robbing our children of the opportunity to learn from their own humiliation. And in the process, we are creating a generation of proud little douche bags.
So I say, Shame On You! Shame On You, kids who are proud of being a dumb ass! Shame On You, parents who are proud of their dumb ass kids! Shame On You, people proudly flaunting your refusal to earn your own keep! Shame On You, drivers who refuse to follow the rules of the road! Shame On You, line cutters and texting drivers, and bad parents, and poor spellers, and mean people, and anyone else I'm forgetting! Shame! And yes, I am pretty proud of myself right now.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Cool Kids
Have you seen any of these public service announcements with people saying "It gets better?" I love this. I have been saying for years "High School is not real life" but this phrase is a lot shorter and easier. We are basically saying the same thing.
I first discovered this the summer after I graduated. I attended a travel school, where a bunch of recent graduates (mostly female) went to live and learn together for 5 weeks in a strange land known as Florida. Ironically, I really hate to travel now. I think it's the thought of having to pay for a place to sleep, when at home I already pay for a place to sleep. But I digress. While we were there learning, there was a small group of "Mean Girls," straight out of Tina Fey's childhood. They were making fun of someone, laughing at people, talking behind the other girls' backs, basically doing all the things the popular kids did back in High School. Until another girl called them on it. She scolded them, saying their behavior was "So NOT cool!" All I could think was: Whoa! Six months ago, these girls were the definition of cool! What happened? Oh yeah, we graduated. OK, high school is not real life. Yay!
I did however get to experience what it is like to be one of the cool kids. I was just in my mid 20's at the time. I worked at a place with a very defined caste system. Somehow, and I still can't tell you how, except that I was unhappily married with no children and had a lot of disposable income, I became part of the IN crowd. Being the nerd in hiding I was at the time, I happily joined. We would leave work, go to whatever bar was decided on that evening, stay until it closed, go home, get up in the morning and do it all over again. I quickly learned I cannot be a cool kid, even if they let me try.
I don't normally stick out in a crowd. I am of average height, average build, average attractiveness level. Drunk people tend not to remember me. I can only introduce myself to the same person about 6 times before I really don't care to know them. I also do not drive drunk, so sipping cola surrounded by drunk people was kind of awkward, too. I put up with it though, for about 6 months, just because I was allowed to hang with the cool kids! Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could actually be one of them someday! (I know. Remind me I was in my mid 20's at the time. But old rejection issues die hard, OK?) So I drove, and I played, and I bought, and I sucked up, and I stopped talking to the other people. You know, the ones in the lower castes. And I really thought I was happy being one of the cool kids. But then there was a turning point.
A circle of people gathered out behind the bar. Of course, being with the cool kids, I was invited into the circle. There was a pipe being passed. I assume it was pot, but nobody specified. The complete stranger to my left was next up to get it, and I looked at him. Specifically, at his mouth. It was not a pretty mouth. It was not a clean looking mouth. It did not look like a mouth I would want anywhere near any of my body parts. At any time, for any reason. But in order to remain a part of the cool kid group, I was expected to take an object which had just been in his mouth, and then put it into mine! That did it. My inner nerd voice got really loud right at that moment, and told me to get the hell out of there! So I did. I turned around and walked away. I drove home and made plans to set the poor man I was married to free. I decided to be me, in all my geeky glory, and to hell with all those cool people! Do you know what my new cool friends' reaction was to me walking away? None. They didn't notice. That was my wake up call. The cool kids don't care about even each other. Nice.
Yes, High School is not real life. Until it is. I didn't have this problem until I had school age kids of my own. Sometimes the parents aren't so adult. I have to assume these people had a much different High School experience than I did, since I would never want to relive mine. Ever. Or maybe they had my kind of experience and don't want their children to live the hell they did. I don't know, but there always seems to be a group of parents who are still living the high school dream, just 20 years later. Through their children. The peer pressure is brutal. The snide comments are heartbreaking. The blatant teaching of improper behavior to the kids is unforgivable. Their kids suffer just as much as ours do, too. They can't have the friends they want to have, can't join the clubs they want to join, have to be the cool kids their parents expect them to be. It has to suck! And they treat me like I got treated back then. That really sucks. Except now, I'm better equipped to handle it. I know how to let it go. I know to only surround myself with the good kids, and stay away from those mean ones. I get it now, because as much as the ones stuck in the past try to make it so, High School is not real life.
So, to be me, I'm trying to think of a funny way to wrap up this story. But I can't. Just take this one as one of my rants, and remember, weather you are living it now or already lived through it: High School is not real life! In other words, it gets better.
I first discovered this the summer after I graduated. I attended a travel school, where a bunch of recent graduates (mostly female) went to live and learn together for 5 weeks in a strange land known as Florida. Ironically, I really hate to travel now. I think it's the thought of having to pay for a place to sleep, when at home I already pay for a place to sleep. But I digress. While we were there learning, there was a small group of "Mean Girls," straight out of Tina Fey's childhood. They were making fun of someone, laughing at people, talking behind the other girls' backs, basically doing all the things the popular kids did back in High School. Until another girl called them on it. She scolded them, saying their behavior was "So NOT cool!" All I could think was: Whoa! Six months ago, these girls were the definition of cool! What happened? Oh yeah, we graduated. OK, high school is not real life. Yay!
I did however get to experience what it is like to be one of the cool kids. I was just in my mid 20's at the time. I worked at a place with a very defined caste system. Somehow, and I still can't tell you how, except that I was unhappily married with no children and had a lot of disposable income, I became part of the IN crowd. Being the nerd in hiding I was at the time, I happily joined. We would leave work, go to whatever bar was decided on that evening, stay until it closed, go home, get up in the morning and do it all over again. I quickly learned I cannot be a cool kid, even if they let me try.
I don't normally stick out in a crowd. I am of average height, average build, average attractiveness level. Drunk people tend not to remember me. I can only introduce myself to the same person about 6 times before I really don't care to know them. I also do not drive drunk, so sipping cola surrounded by drunk people was kind of awkward, too. I put up with it though, for about 6 months, just because I was allowed to hang with the cool kids! Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could actually be one of them someday! (I know. Remind me I was in my mid 20's at the time. But old rejection issues die hard, OK?) So I drove, and I played, and I bought, and I sucked up, and I stopped talking to the other people. You know, the ones in the lower castes. And I really thought I was happy being one of the cool kids. But then there was a turning point.
A circle of people gathered out behind the bar. Of course, being with the cool kids, I was invited into the circle. There was a pipe being passed. I assume it was pot, but nobody specified. The complete stranger to my left was next up to get it, and I looked at him. Specifically, at his mouth. It was not a pretty mouth. It was not a clean looking mouth. It did not look like a mouth I would want anywhere near any of my body parts. At any time, for any reason. But in order to remain a part of the cool kid group, I was expected to take an object which had just been in his mouth, and then put it into mine! That did it. My inner nerd voice got really loud right at that moment, and told me to get the hell out of there! So I did. I turned around and walked away. I drove home and made plans to set the poor man I was married to free. I decided to be me, in all my geeky glory, and to hell with all those cool people! Do you know what my new cool friends' reaction was to me walking away? None. They didn't notice. That was my wake up call. The cool kids don't care about even each other. Nice.
Yes, High School is not real life. Until it is. I didn't have this problem until I had school age kids of my own. Sometimes the parents aren't so adult. I have to assume these people had a much different High School experience than I did, since I would never want to relive mine. Ever. Or maybe they had my kind of experience and don't want their children to live the hell they did. I don't know, but there always seems to be a group of parents who are still living the high school dream, just 20 years later. Through their children. The peer pressure is brutal. The snide comments are heartbreaking. The blatant teaching of improper behavior to the kids is unforgivable. Their kids suffer just as much as ours do, too. They can't have the friends they want to have, can't join the clubs they want to join, have to be the cool kids their parents expect them to be. It has to suck! And they treat me like I got treated back then. That really sucks. Except now, I'm better equipped to handle it. I know how to let it go. I know to only surround myself with the good kids, and stay away from those mean ones. I get it now, because as much as the ones stuck in the past try to make it so, High School is not real life.
So, to be me, I'm trying to think of a funny way to wrap up this story. But I can't. Just take this one as one of my rants, and remember, weather you are living it now or already lived through it: High School is not real life! In other words, it gets better.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Children's Music
I seriously question the sanity (and competency, to be honest) of parents who constantly play their kids "Children's Music." You know, songs for kids. Or kids singing songs. Those annoying sets put on this Earth to drive us crazy. Yes there is a time and a place for the "Wheels On the Bus," but it isn't in my car! Seriously, preschool was great. We learned lots of new songs and dances, and that glitter is evil. I loved every minute of it. Really! But there are some things that should not come home with you. Like the Flu, glitter, and the music.
I was at a gathering once, shortly before Leroy was born. I heard a Mom say the highlight of her day was when she would get the opportunity to drive the car alone, with no kids. Then she could put the radio on the station SHE wanted to listen to, not what she had to play for the kids. When I asked why she didn't do that anyway, I got some crazy looks! I was confused. Was I going to lose my musical choice the moment I gave birth? But I already had step-kids! They didn't require special music. Did they? Did this mean we'd been driving wrong all this time because we put the radio on normal stations? Was singing along with Melanie's Averil Lavigne CD's scarring the boys for life? I was seriously questioning all of my musical choices! And considering giving up good taste for my kids!
But then I remembered: I used to be a kid. A long time ago, before safety seats and bicycle helmets, but still! I was a kid riding around in a car with my parents. And riding around in the big rig with my Dad. And these vehicles had radios. And never once during my whole childhood did either parent (or any other adult who drove me around, for that matter) ask me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. Not a single adult in my world ever changed the radio station or 8 track (yes I'm that old!) when I got into the car. Not once! So why the hell does my generation cater to our kids this way? I blame Barney. Not because he's guilty, just because I've always hated that purple piece of shit.
So that settled it. No special music for my kids. They would listen to whatever station I put on the radio and they would like it! My car, my radio, my tunes! Which is why car seats were invented, I think: to keep their grubby little paws off my radio buttons! Leroy was born, the boys and girl all aged, we exposed them to as many different musical styles as we could stand to listen to ourselves. They learned the children's songs at preschool, and all about Guns and Roses from Daddy. Life is good.
I learned very early in Leroy's life that he is a metal head. I would look into the rear view mirror and see him headbanging before he could talk. Neighbor kids cranking their radios would elicit instant response. The heavier, the better for my little toddler. Yep, he was a rocker! Still is. He keeps his hair long just to see it move when he bangs. But I've actually learned a few things from the little guy. About music, too.
I've never disliked Green Day, but I was never a huge fan, either. From the day Leroy was born, his world stops if Green Day plays anywhere. Really. American Idiot was released when he was about a year old. The songs we heard on the radio seemed good, so I invested in the CD. As soon as Leroy was old enough to talk, whenever we would get into any car to go anywhere he would say "Green Day!" And, especially if it was just the two of us, I would generally comply. And I learned: I love these guys! So when 21st Century Breakdown came along, guess what I got for Christmas? Oh yeah! And this year I hit the jackpot: Uno, Dos, and Tre! I'm not saying I wouldn't have discovered my Idiot love on my own, eventually. I'm sure I would have. But I am saying that Leroy's love did help me along the way. Would I be the huge fan I am now if we were Kidz Bopping all these years? Well, no. I would be in a padded room somewhere in the fetal position crying.
Music also paves the way for conversations necessary to raising kids. Conversations about choices, and making good ones. Music is not the only way paver; the news and local events have sparked some good ones, too. But music helps. And it teaches me about simplicity.
Case in point: a conversation with Leroy while driving the other day.
"Mom, is Billie Joe (Armstrong, the lead singer of his group. He's on a first name basis with them) OK now?"
"I've heard he's out of rehab, healthy, and they're starting the tour back up. So yeah, I think he's OK."
"Were the drugs what made him do all that stuff at that concert?" (See the "I Heart Radio" debacle for details)
"Probably had a lot to do with it, yeah."
"So what about Mike? Is he on drugs too?"
Uhhhh.... moral dilemma here. I can't exactly say someone I've never met is clean, or not, or uhhhh.... what's the right answer here? So I waffle:
"I don't believe so, why?"
"Well, when Billie Joe smashed up his guitar, Mike joined in and smashed his too. Why did he smash his?"
Uhhhhh..... well...... uhhhhh.....When in Rome? No, don't want to get into explaining that saying today, so...... Oh, I know! "Because he's a good friend."
"That's what I thought."
Whew! That's what he thought, indeed!
So rock on, people! My kids and I will be singing along with all the good music. As long as it's not "Wheels On the Bus." I mean, unless the bus has some awesome rims. Then we might talk.
I was at a gathering once, shortly before Leroy was born. I heard a Mom say the highlight of her day was when she would get the opportunity to drive the car alone, with no kids. Then she could put the radio on the station SHE wanted to listen to, not what she had to play for the kids. When I asked why she didn't do that anyway, I got some crazy looks! I was confused. Was I going to lose my musical choice the moment I gave birth? But I already had step-kids! They didn't require special music. Did they? Did this mean we'd been driving wrong all this time because we put the radio on normal stations? Was singing along with Melanie's Averil Lavigne CD's scarring the boys for life? I was seriously questioning all of my musical choices! And considering giving up good taste for my kids!
But then I remembered: I used to be a kid. A long time ago, before safety seats and bicycle helmets, but still! I was a kid riding around in a car with my parents. And riding around in the big rig with my Dad. And these vehicles had radios. And never once during my whole childhood did either parent (or any other adult who drove me around, for that matter) ask me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. Not a single adult in my world ever changed the radio station or 8 track (yes I'm that old!) when I got into the car. Not once! So why the hell does my generation cater to our kids this way? I blame Barney. Not because he's guilty, just because I've always hated that purple piece of shit.
So that settled it. No special music for my kids. They would listen to whatever station I put on the radio and they would like it! My car, my radio, my tunes! Which is why car seats were invented, I think: to keep their grubby little paws off my radio buttons! Leroy was born, the boys and girl all aged, we exposed them to as many different musical styles as we could stand to listen to ourselves. They learned the children's songs at preschool, and all about Guns and Roses from Daddy. Life is good.
I learned very early in Leroy's life that he is a metal head. I would look into the rear view mirror and see him headbanging before he could talk. Neighbor kids cranking their radios would elicit instant response. The heavier, the better for my little toddler. Yep, he was a rocker! Still is. He keeps his hair long just to see it move when he bangs. But I've actually learned a few things from the little guy. About music, too.
I've never disliked Green Day, but I was never a huge fan, either. From the day Leroy was born, his world stops if Green Day plays anywhere. Really. American Idiot was released when he was about a year old. The songs we heard on the radio seemed good, so I invested in the CD. As soon as Leroy was old enough to talk, whenever we would get into any car to go anywhere he would say "Green Day!" And, especially if it was just the two of us, I would generally comply. And I learned: I love these guys! So when 21st Century Breakdown came along, guess what I got for Christmas? Oh yeah! And this year I hit the jackpot: Uno, Dos, and Tre! I'm not saying I wouldn't have discovered my Idiot love on my own, eventually. I'm sure I would have. But I am saying that Leroy's love did help me along the way. Would I be the huge fan I am now if we were Kidz Bopping all these years? Well, no. I would be in a padded room somewhere in the fetal position crying.
Music also paves the way for conversations necessary to raising kids. Conversations about choices, and making good ones. Music is not the only way paver; the news and local events have sparked some good ones, too. But music helps. And it teaches me about simplicity.
Case in point: a conversation with Leroy while driving the other day.
"Mom, is Billie Joe (Armstrong, the lead singer of his group. He's on a first name basis with them) OK now?"
"I've heard he's out of rehab, healthy, and they're starting the tour back up. So yeah, I think he's OK."
"Were the drugs what made him do all that stuff at that concert?" (See the "I Heart Radio" debacle for details)
"Probably had a lot to do with it, yeah."
"So what about Mike? Is he on drugs too?"
Uhhhh.... moral dilemma here. I can't exactly say someone I've never met is clean, or not, or uhhhh.... what's the right answer here? So I waffle:
"I don't believe so, why?"
"Well, when Billie Joe smashed up his guitar, Mike joined in and smashed his too. Why did he smash his?"
Uhhhhh..... well...... uhhhhh.....When in Rome? No, don't want to get into explaining that saying today, so...... Oh, I know! "Because he's a good friend."
"That's what I thought."
Whew! That's what he thought, indeed!
So rock on, people! My kids and I will be singing along with all the good music. As long as it's not "Wheels On the Bus." I mean, unless the bus has some awesome rims. Then we might talk.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
My People
I fear change, so I haven't worked too many jobs in my life. Most of the ones I've switched around among do revolve around the same occupation. Some though, just kind of happened. I have my "career" jobs, then I have my "other" jobs. The straight out of high school, don't know what I'm going to do with my life jobs, the stay-at-home Mom needs to get out of the house sometimes part time gigs, the extra cash on the side type jobs. Needless to say, I have worked with a few different varieties of crews.
I often comment how I wouldn't last five minutes in an office environment. People generally think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I did work in an "office" for about six weeks once. I hated every second of it, and this office only consisted of three workers. I hated the boredom. I hated the clothes. I hated having to wear shoes that hurt my feet. But most of all, I hated when somebody else who worked in the building would walk into the room. They come in, do what needs to be done, then leave. That's when it started. Did I see what she was wearing? Did I hear the rumor about her cheating on her husband? Did I hear the rumor about her husband cheating on her? What did she do to her hair? Are those the ugliest shoes ever? You get the point. So then, every time I left the room, I wanted to circle back real quick and see what was wrong with me. But then I realized I didn't really want to know.
It is easy to assume that I think women cause more workplace drama. This is not exactly true. Men cause just as much drama as women, but I personally am just better equipped to deal with the male type. I don't know why. But if you get too many women into a workplace, the drama which ensues is just a bit much for me to handle. I have always just worked better with men.
Men are just a little bit different. They make fun of the way I walk, not the shoes I'm wearing while I do. I can deal with that. Plus, in case you haven't figured this out yet, I have kind of a potty mouth. Simply put, I cuss like a trucker. I can control it, usually, if I have to. But I prefer not to. I'm not saying all men enjoy cursing, but far fewer men have asked me to control my language than women. They also don't get upset when I giggle. The only boss who ever reprimanded me for "inappropriate giggling" was a woman. Again, not judging, just stating fact.
Some jobs, I know the first day there I'm never going to fit in. Others, I have to wait awhile before I grow on people. You know, like mold. My current job however, I knew the first week I was among my people. I had been warned: Cleveland was pretty upset about having to stop working, and understandably tense about me coming back. The thought of my mouth getting me in trouble was a pretty big fear for him. You know, that whole cuss like a trucker thing and all. Meanwhile, I found out later, co-worker to my right was informing his wife that he would probably be fired soon, since I'm a girl and all. It took us about 3 days to realize our humor is about the same, and we would all be fine. You're welcome, wife and husband.
Coming in to a new place, as one of the few girls who hold this sort of job, is always an adventure. The guys never know what to expect. Am I a girly-girl who got confused? A femi-nazi who has bigger balls than they do? Am I just scamming for a sexual harassment lawsuit? They just don't know! What I really am is a girl who can't stand dress shoes or pantyhose and kind of fell into a career where I don't need them! Nothing made me happier than, when I had been here a few months, I heard the boss man say "I sure am glad we got her, and not some prissy bitch!" Awww! See, these are my people!
I did have a boss once years ago, who made it extremely easy for the 3 girls who worked for him to get any time off we wanted. All we had to do was start a sentence with "Well, my ovary...." and that's as far as we needed to go. Yes, we took advantage of him. No, I don't feel too guilty about it.
At the beginning of winter this year, the Mommy-in-law bought me some new boots. MIL has great taste in clothing and fashion. I do not. So if she says something is good, I have no grounds for argument. These are black suede boots, lined with something warm and furry, very comfortable. I don't know the brand name, but she assures me they are "better than Ug," whatever that means. First snowy day, I come in wearing my new boots. I ask the married guys what "better than Ug" means, I finally learn that Ug is a whole brand of boots and is spelled Ugg. Cool! Then I am informed:
"Those better than Ugg boots sure don't make you walk any better!"
Awesome. See, I was born with one leg not quite as straight as the other one. The technical term from the Orthopedic surgeon is "squinty knee." One knee squints in at the other. In car terms, I suffer from a "toe out condition." To keep that knee from banging into the other one, I walk with a foot at about a 45 degree angle out from where it should be. It causes me to kind of, uh, waddle? Lope? I don't know the correct term there, but it's not graceful. Or free of pain. But apparently it is fairly amusing to watch. I don't run. I never learned how. Well, the boots are very nice and cool and all, but they do not help me walk better. Nice of my people to point that out for me.
I think when I really knew I was among my people was one day when I was standing outside with the boss man watching someone jog down the sidewalk. I commented that I always look behind the runners. You know, to see what is chasing them. He admitted he looks at the hands. To see what they're carrying (read: stealing.) The fact that neither one of us could come up with any other reason for someone to be jogging down the sidewalk is strangely comforting to me. These are so totally my people!
I often comment how I wouldn't last five minutes in an office environment. People generally think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I did work in an "office" for about six weeks once. I hated every second of it, and this office only consisted of three workers. I hated the boredom. I hated the clothes. I hated having to wear shoes that hurt my feet. But most of all, I hated when somebody else who worked in the building would walk into the room. They come in, do what needs to be done, then leave. That's when it started. Did I see what she was wearing? Did I hear the rumor about her cheating on her husband? Did I hear the rumor about her husband cheating on her? What did she do to her hair? Are those the ugliest shoes ever? You get the point. So then, every time I left the room, I wanted to circle back real quick and see what was wrong with me. But then I realized I didn't really want to know.
It is easy to assume that I think women cause more workplace drama. This is not exactly true. Men cause just as much drama as women, but I personally am just better equipped to deal with the male type. I don't know why. But if you get too many women into a workplace, the drama which ensues is just a bit much for me to handle. I have always just worked better with men.
Men are just a little bit different. They make fun of the way I walk, not the shoes I'm wearing while I do. I can deal with that. Plus, in case you haven't figured this out yet, I have kind of a potty mouth. Simply put, I cuss like a trucker. I can control it, usually, if I have to. But I prefer not to. I'm not saying all men enjoy cursing, but far fewer men have asked me to control my language than women. They also don't get upset when I giggle. The only boss who ever reprimanded me for "inappropriate giggling" was a woman. Again, not judging, just stating fact.
Some jobs, I know the first day there I'm never going to fit in. Others, I have to wait awhile before I grow on people. You know, like mold. My current job however, I knew the first week I was among my people. I had been warned: Cleveland was pretty upset about having to stop working, and understandably tense about me coming back. The thought of my mouth getting me in trouble was a pretty big fear for him. You know, that whole cuss like a trucker thing and all. Meanwhile, I found out later, co-worker to my right was informing his wife that he would probably be fired soon, since I'm a girl and all. It took us about 3 days to realize our humor is about the same, and we would all be fine. You're welcome, wife and husband.
Coming in to a new place, as one of the few girls who hold this sort of job, is always an adventure. The guys never know what to expect. Am I a girly-girl who got confused? A femi-nazi who has bigger balls than they do? Am I just scamming for a sexual harassment lawsuit? They just don't know! What I really am is a girl who can't stand dress shoes or pantyhose and kind of fell into a career where I don't need them! Nothing made me happier than, when I had been here a few months, I heard the boss man say "I sure am glad we got her, and not some prissy bitch!" Awww! See, these are my people!
I did have a boss once years ago, who made it extremely easy for the 3 girls who worked for him to get any time off we wanted. All we had to do was start a sentence with "Well, my ovary...." and that's as far as we needed to go. Yes, we took advantage of him. No, I don't feel too guilty about it.
At the beginning of winter this year, the Mommy-in-law bought me some new boots. MIL has great taste in clothing and fashion. I do not. So if she says something is good, I have no grounds for argument. These are black suede boots, lined with something warm and furry, very comfortable. I don't know the brand name, but she assures me they are "better than Ug," whatever that means. First snowy day, I come in wearing my new boots. I ask the married guys what "better than Ug" means, I finally learn that Ug is a whole brand of boots and is spelled Ugg. Cool! Then I am informed:
"Those better than Ugg boots sure don't make you walk any better!"
Awesome. See, I was born with one leg not quite as straight as the other one. The technical term from the Orthopedic surgeon is "squinty knee." One knee squints in at the other. In car terms, I suffer from a "toe out condition." To keep that knee from banging into the other one, I walk with a foot at about a 45 degree angle out from where it should be. It causes me to kind of, uh, waddle? Lope? I don't know the correct term there, but it's not graceful. Or free of pain. But apparently it is fairly amusing to watch. I don't run. I never learned how. Well, the boots are very nice and cool and all, but they do not help me walk better. Nice of my people to point that out for me.
I think when I really knew I was among my people was one day when I was standing outside with the boss man watching someone jog down the sidewalk. I commented that I always look behind the runners. You know, to see what is chasing them. He admitted he looks at the hands. To see what they're carrying (read: stealing.) The fact that neither one of us could come up with any other reason for someone to be jogging down the sidewalk is strangely comforting to me. These are so totally my people!
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Paranoia Parenting
Let me tell you "Elf on the Shelf" freaks a few things. If you need to plant spies in your house to get your children to behave, they are probably horrid little brats anyway and don't deserve Christmas gifts! If they are good children already, instilling paranoia into their lives will only backfire later. Trust me.
As if the whole month of December wasn't hectic enough, you expect me to find creative
adventures for the narc elf to do on top of everything else? Every day? And how is the elf spying on the kids if he's fishing in the toilet or hanging from the ceiling fan? And why do they call it "on the shelf" when that's the last place I see my braggart friends putting the little bastard? I'll tell you where my elf on the shelf is today: on the shelf at Walmart! I'm not doing it!
Not only did Santa see me when I was sleeping as a child, Jesus did, too. And the birds who would get into the chimney. And the bunnies who played in the back yard. And all the neighbors. And all of my teachers, parents' co-workers, complete strangers, and especially God. Any perceived sin I could possibly imagine would be met with severe parental punishment followed immediately by lightning bolts from the heavens. But here's the kicker: I was just naturally a good kid! All of this was completely useless; I wasn't planning on doing anything wrong anyway! The only thing all this overkill accomplished was screwing up my head.
I'm going to let the fans of Paranoia Parenting in on another little secret. Not from personal experience or anything. At some point in their life (usually around age 16 or so) your kids will figure it out. It starts small. They cuss, say, when they stub a toe. And nobody hears them! No lightning bolts strike them dead! Nobody appears with a bar of soap! The glorious F word echoes through the empty house, and nobody knows! This will be an eye opener to your kid. They will test their new found anonymity by breaking every rule they can find. They will wear unapproved make up. They will listen to devil music. They will try new adventures in smoking and drinking. They will find a boy or girl and experiment. They will, I promise. Why? Because they can! And the world will not end! Will your little elf friend be there then? I didn't think so.
But bad kids, I mean truly bad kids who act up just to prove a point, do they care if something else is watching them be bad? In my experience, usually not. In fact, they are generally pretty proud of being bad, so another witness is just icing on the cake, so to speak. Paranoia Parenting does not work with the bad kids. It just makes them more open about what they are doing.
Hey, I like this term Paranoia Parenting! Has anyone done a study on it yet? We've all had to sit through Helicopter Parents, Tiger Moms, Attachment Parenting, and I'm sure I have missed a few. Let's study the paranoia effect on children! I might be totally wrong, it may really make them better kids. Better kids with ulcers and anxiety issues, but better kids nonetheless. Until they do discover the secret. Leave me comments, here or on the Facebook page, and I'll do a pseudo-scientific study myself! Were you raised to always be looking over your shoulder? Did it make you behave any better? When did you figure out that nobody really cared what you were doing as much as you were led to believe? What did you do about it? Does it affect how you parent your own children? Tell me! I need to know! Otherwise I'll masquerade as an elf and sit around your house so I can see for myself!
As if the whole month of December wasn't hectic enough, you expect me to find creative
adventures for the narc elf to do on top of everything else? Every day? And how is the elf spying on the kids if he's fishing in the toilet or hanging from the ceiling fan? And why do they call it "on the shelf" when that's the last place I see my braggart friends putting the little bastard? I'll tell you where my elf on the shelf is today: on the shelf at Walmart! I'm not doing it!
Not only did Santa see me when I was sleeping as a child, Jesus did, too. And the birds who would get into the chimney. And the bunnies who played in the back yard. And all the neighbors. And all of my teachers, parents' co-workers, complete strangers, and especially God. Any perceived sin I could possibly imagine would be met with severe parental punishment followed immediately by lightning bolts from the heavens. But here's the kicker: I was just naturally a good kid! All of this was completely useless; I wasn't planning on doing anything wrong anyway! The only thing all this overkill accomplished was screwing up my head.
I'm going to let the fans of Paranoia Parenting in on another little secret. Not from personal experience or anything. At some point in their life (usually around age 16 or so) your kids will figure it out. It starts small. They cuss, say, when they stub a toe. And nobody hears them! No lightning bolts strike them dead! Nobody appears with a bar of soap! The glorious F word echoes through the empty house, and nobody knows! This will be an eye opener to your kid. They will test their new found anonymity by breaking every rule they can find. They will wear unapproved make up. They will listen to devil music. They will try new adventures in smoking and drinking. They will find a boy or girl and experiment. They will, I promise. Why? Because they can! And the world will not end! Will your little elf friend be there then? I didn't think so.
But bad kids, I mean truly bad kids who act up just to prove a point, do they care if something else is watching them be bad? In my experience, usually not. In fact, they are generally pretty proud of being bad, so another witness is just icing on the cake, so to speak. Paranoia Parenting does not work with the bad kids. It just makes them more open about what they are doing.
Hey, I like this term Paranoia Parenting! Has anyone done a study on it yet? We've all had to sit through Helicopter Parents, Tiger Moms, Attachment Parenting, and I'm sure I have missed a few. Let's study the paranoia effect on children! I might be totally wrong, it may really make them better kids. Better kids with ulcers and anxiety issues, but better kids nonetheless. Until they do discover the secret. Leave me comments, here or on the Facebook page, and I'll do a pseudo-scientific study myself! Were you raised to always be looking over your shoulder? Did it make you behave any better? When did you figure out that nobody really cared what you were doing as much as you were led to believe? What did you do about it? Does it affect how you parent your own children? Tell me! I need to know! Otherwise I'll masquerade as an elf and sit around your house so I can see for myself!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)