I got the joy of attending my High School reunion recently. And I do mean joy. Loyal readers, you know High School was not the high point of my life. It was not the best four years I have experienced. I didn't hang with the right group, didn't participate in the right activities, didn't sit at the right cafeteria table, didn't quite make it unscathed through gym class, didn't drive the right car, have the right hair, wear the right clothes, and you can keep filling in the blanks from there. But, as we have discussed before, I did not let them see me cry and I survived. I got out of there and, for a while at least, didn't look back. Until I did. Here's what I learned:
1. The people I thought had it so good back then didn't really have it so good. Sure, there's a fine line between caring and controlling, which was my situation, but there's also a fine line between permissive and complacent. There is also a big line sometimes, forming a big arrow pointing at abuse. As jealous as I was of the kids who could run amok and do what they wanted, I learn now sometimes all they wanted was someone in their life who actually cared where they were. Or who would stop hitting them. It's heart breaking to know some of the stuff that was going on right under our noses that none of us knew about. Or the stuff that some of us did know about, just didn't know what to do about it! Let that be a lesson, kids. The life that looks so great from the outside might not be all it's cracked up to be on the inside.
B. Some douches are still douches. But most of them grew up to be perfectly nice people! People who might have had some shit going on back then that they didn't know how to handle, or who got a few visits from the Karma bitch and got it together. Overwhelmingly, they turned out OK. Apparently, people really can change! Not everybody, mind you. Some people just aren't nice, regardless. But I did have some perfectly great conversations with people who never would have given me the time of day back then. It was pretty shocking. Unfortunately, it works the other way, too. Some people who were perfectly nice back then turned into real douche bags later. I don't know why, but it happened. I guess it's a circle. Some change, some don't, some change for the worse. Go figure.
III. Your best friends in High School, the ones you thought would always be your best friends and you would live together forever with your husbands and kids in some fictional beautiful world? Yeah, that doesn't happen. Some will move away, some you will lose in a divorce, some will turn into snarky people you want nothing to do with, some you will just realize one day you have absolutely nothing in common with. But there's another side to this coin, too. Those people you didn't really know back then, who traveled in different circles, who you either admired or judged from afar, or just didn't notice? Sometimes these are the ones you end up forming beautiful friendships with that are more pure than anything your High School self could ever have imagined! I know, right?
4. Some of your High School classmates grew up to marry some pretty great people. Some of them also grew up to have pretty great lives. Remember the lessons we learned from #1, though. No place for jealousy here. Just be happy for them and tell them.
E. Those grades you busted your ass to keep up back then aren't really very important. The A students aren't really, as a whole, doing any better financially than the C students. The ones who earned scholarships or had a "free ride" are still just as likely to be in dire straights as the ones who went right into the work force or took some community college courses. Apparently, life is a crap shoot, and those of us who made it out alive all have equal opportunity to be princes or paupers. You just hope everybody is doing something they enjoy and be happy for them.
VI. Stay true to your roots. I learned this years ago, when I decided to get in touch with my inner nerd and let my geek flag fly. But as a group, it's important, too. Our barn dance/ bonfire was so much better than the last time at a ball room. Why? We all grew up either farm kids or friends with farm kids. Trying to be anything else later is denying who we are at heart. Even I questioned myself in the last few weeks! I really did spend a few minutes questioning my fashion choices. I was asking others what was OK to wear! I was worried and almost bought new clothes! Then I remembered the reason I don't know anything about clothes is because I don't care, and that my true beauty lives on the inside. It was a really rough 3 minutes though.
All in all, I am very glad I went. We really did all turn out pretty good. So if you get your invitation, think about it. Then tell me what you learned!
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Saturday, May 3, 2014
(Don't) Cry Out Loud?
You all know I was born in the early 70's, and that music has always and continues to mold my life. Just like most of you. All of our special moments are framed by music. What was your prom theme? What was the first song you danced to as a married couple? What song did your child's mobile play? What CD is currently in your car's player? What song do you want played at your funeral? Not only do songs supply the mood for all we do, they also sometimes tell us how to behave. They tell us how to love, how to break up, how to survive afterward, and what to do next. They tell us how to be parents, how to treat our parents, and some of them even how to become parents! One thing they have taught everybody in my generation though, is not to cry.
Melissa Manchester told me when I was a child not to cry out loud. She told me to keep it inside, and learn how to hide my feelings. Kelly Clarkson reminded me as an adult that even if I make her cry, I don't get to actually see those tears in her hazel eyes. I learned well. I bet the rest of you did, too.
Then I became a Mom. And no matter how hard I try, there are things that make me cry. Like when Alfred left Bruce Wayne. When all the toys were in the furnace. Pink songs. When kids are nice to each other. When Elphie and Glinda change each other for good. The Special Olympics. When Sheldon hugs Leonard. Anything being born. You get it. But the one time I still feel the need to fight it is when someone does something hurtful.
I, like most women, cry when I'm mad. This makes me even more mad, since the last thing in the world I want is for the bastard who made me mad to see me cry! What would Melissa and Kelly think? I would be such a disappointment to them! So I fight it. I take a lap, I go away, I will myself more control. I do whatever it takes not to let the person who caused the tears see me cry! I know I'm not the only one. We all do it. Men, women, even children. We are convinced that our tears will give that other person power over us. In an attempt to keep that power from them, we refuse to give them our ammunition tears. Human nature.
But what if we're wrong? What if our tears don't give them power? What if knowing they made us cry instead actually takes away some of their power? I know, but stay with me here. Maybe, just maybe, some of the people who are saying hurtful things to us don't realize how hurtful their words are. Maybe, since we've heard them and not been visibly upset before, they don't know they are upsetting us. Maybe they are trying for a different response, and think that's what they are getting. Maybe they even mean to hurt us a little bit, but don't realize how much they actually do hurt us. Maybe they don't even care, but certainly the people around them should. To test my hypothesis, I suggest an experiment. It will be hard; it goes against everything we've ever been taught. But I am going to participate, so let's all try it together.
Cry. Openly. Without shame. Next time someone treats you in a way that makes you want to cry, do it. No fighting back tears. Let them go. Just let our honest feelings and tears out. I don't know what the response will be. Maybe our girls are right and we will be openly mocked. (Fair warning for those who choose to join me.) Maybe however, our tears won't give them power. Maybe our tears will instead give them pause. I'm not saying our tears should be a weapon. That's manipulative and wrong. I am saying that if they are there on their own, let them be.
I'm not going to actively look for these situations, nor should you. But the next time one presents itself, I'm going to block out Melissa and Kelly, and I'm going to let the tears flow instead. If you're willing, try it too. Let me know what happens, because you know I'll let you know.
Melissa Manchester told me when I was a child not to cry out loud. She told me to keep it inside, and learn how to hide my feelings. Kelly Clarkson reminded me as an adult that even if I make her cry, I don't get to actually see those tears in her hazel eyes. I learned well. I bet the rest of you did, too.
Then I became a Mom. And no matter how hard I try, there are things that make me cry. Like when Alfred left Bruce Wayne. When all the toys were in the furnace. Pink songs. When kids are nice to each other. When Elphie and Glinda change each other for good. The Special Olympics. When Sheldon hugs Leonard. Anything being born. You get it. But the one time I still feel the need to fight it is when someone does something hurtful.
I, like most women, cry when I'm mad. This makes me even more mad, since the last thing in the world I want is for the bastard who made me mad to see me cry! What would Melissa and Kelly think? I would be such a disappointment to them! So I fight it. I take a lap, I go away, I will myself more control. I do whatever it takes not to let the person who caused the tears see me cry! I know I'm not the only one. We all do it. Men, women, even children. We are convinced that our tears will give that other person power over us. In an attempt to keep that power from them, we refuse to give them our ammunition tears. Human nature.
But what if we're wrong? What if our tears don't give them power? What if knowing they made us cry instead actually takes away some of their power? I know, but stay with me here. Maybe, just maybe, some of the people who are saying hurtful things to us don't realize how hurtful their words are. Maybe, since we've heard them and not been visibly upset before, they don't know they are upsetting us. Maybe they are trying for a different response, and think that's what they are getting. Maybe they even mean to hurt us a little bit, but don't realize how much they actually do hurt us. Maybe they don't even care, but certainly the people around them should. To test my hypothesis, I suggest an experiment. It will be hard; it goes against everything we've ever been taught. But I am going to participate, so let's all try it together.
Cry. Openly. Without shame. Next time someone treats you in a way that makes you want to cry, do it. No fighting back tears. Let them go. Just let our honest feelings and tears out. I don't know what the response will be. Maybe our girls are right and we will be openly mocked. (Fair warning for those who choose to join me.) Maybe however, our tears won't give them power. Maybe our tears will instead give them pause. I'm not saying our tears should be a weapon. That's manipulative and wrong. I am saying that if they are there on their own, let them be.
I'm not going to actively look for these situations, nor should you. But the next time one presents itself, I'm going to block out Melissa and Kelly, and I'm going to let the tears flow instead. If you're willing, try it too. Let me know what happens, because you know I'll let you know.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
When I have to be still
The following is a brief summary of what was going through my head as I was laying in the MRI machine. If this makes no sense to you, your mind must be incredibly disciplined (boring) and you must be such a joy to talk to! If you can relate, then we are soul mates and you should enjoy reading my stuff. I don't think in paragraph form, so I won't write it that way either.
Why were they so worried about me freaking out? This isn't so bad, no worse than a tanning bed. But I don't have to be naked and it's not as hot. It doesn't smell like coconut in here, either. Don't move, don't move, don't move. I'm not breathing! I can't hold my breath for half an hour! OK, don't move but breathe. Breathe without moving. Not like that, I'm going to hyperventilate! OK, normal breathing without moving. Band breathing, into the belly and not the chest, just like Mr. Nelson taught us. Why do I have to remind myself to breathe? Did I turn stupid when they turned on this thing? Oooh! It moves! Those clanking noises are making my bench vibrate! That's weird. You know, that guy totally just talked me out of my bra in a span of like 30 seconds. Literally, the conversation went "Hi, I'm Matt and I'll be doing your test today. Ma'am, I'm going to need you to take off your bra." And I did! Was it the scrubs and the ID badge, or the fact that he called me ma'am? I should ask him how often that line works for him. I'm guessing every single time, if he's here. I bet my bra wouldn't even have affected the machine, Matt just has a thing for old lady saggy boobs. I bet he's looking through the window right now at my armpit boobs and laughing. Yes, Matt, they're real. When you make me take off my bra and then lay me on my back, they land somewhere around my armpits! Does that make you happy, Matt? Don't laugh, don't move. Focus on the music coming out of these paper covered headphones Matt put on me. But not too much, my foot is trying to tap. Damn it, foot! Stay where you go! Oh no. My nose itches. My nose has not itched in weeks! Why would it choose now to itch? Well, too bad, nose! You're going to have to stay itching, because I'm not going through this again for you or any other nose! I wonder why he put this towel over my face? What would I be able to see if the towel wasn't there? Is that why people freak out? Does it look scary in here? Maybe they should cover everybody's face and see if it helps. "Hi Jill. It's Matt. You doing OK?" Whoa! I can hear him! Can he hear my thoughts? Is that what the machine does, allow them to see into my fucked up brain? "Yes, Matt, I'm fine." "OK, just a few more rounds and you'll be done. You're doing great." "Thank you." Why did I just thank him? For reading my mind? Shit! I forgot to tell him my nose itches! Oh, wait. It's not itching anymore. Cool. When he asked what music I wanted, I should have asked if they had any Green Day. I'm guessing "Jesus of Suburbia" is long enough to get me through this whole test. But this is alright. I haven't heard "Welcome to the Jungle" in a few years. Remember senior year band camp when Guns & Roses was huge and we all walked around with those bandannas on our heads? We were such dorks. Still better than those dumb ass kids today, though. At least our pants stayed up! A few more rounds. What does that mean? How many rounds have I been through so far? One? How many rounds are there? Are we halfway done, a quarter of the way done, what? That weight he put on my arm to keep it in the right place is making my hand fall asleep. How did I not notice I was laying my head directly on top of my ponytail holder? What inconvenient head placement! Why do I never remember to position my head before we start these things? Either the ponytail holder is digging into my brain, or my hair is hanging, ready to get caught in every piece of equipment in the room! I wish I wasn't too lazy for short hair. I wish it wasn't so much work to keep short hair! Oh, there's Led Zeppelin. That Robert Plant. Wow, what a voice. Hey, I'm breathing and not moving! See, Matt? I can do this! Seriously, that hand is tingling and starting to get really uncomfortable. How much longer am I going to be in here? Should I yell for Matt? Will he think something's wrong and turn off the machine? If he turns it off, can we pick up from there later, or do we have to start all over? I really should have asked more questions before I got in here. My bra didn't even have an under wire! I wore that one today on purpose, just for that reason! Oh, the hooks. I bet those are metal. I get it. Sorry, Matt, for thinking you're a pervert. I'm sure you don't like seeing us sag any more than we like sagging. Now the thumb on that hand is twitching. Great. Keep it down, thumb. I don't think you're important, but we can't take any chances! How do people sit in a quiet room without a book? Doesn't their brain go through the same shit mine is going through now? Why would a person do that to herself? I don't get non readers. That just doesn't make any sense. Oh, Robert just stopped singing in the middle of a word. What happened? Where did you go, Robert? Did my twitchy thumb make you go away? Come back! Oh, the machine got quiet, too. I'm moving! "We're all finished, Jill. Most people move while they're in there, but you did great." Yeah, no big deal. Good thing it didn't measure my inner conversation!
If you don't get it, fine. If you do, you are not alone! Just do me a favor, and don't be the wuss who totally gets it and pretends not to just so people don't think you're crazy. It's better to be crazy than to be a liar!
Why were they so worried about me freaking out? This isn't so bad, no worse than a tanning bed. But I don't have to be naked and it's not as hot. It doesn't smell like coconut in here, either. Don't move, don't move, don't move. I'm not breathing! I can't hold my breath for half an hour! OK, don't move but breathe. Breathe without moving. Not like that, I'm going to hyperventilate! OK, normal breathing without moving. Band breathing, into the belly and not the chest, just like Mr. Nelson taught us. Why do I have to remind myself to breathe? Did I turn stupid when they turned on this thing? Oooh! It moves! Those clanking noises are making my bench vibrate! That's weird. You know, that guy totally just talked me out of my bra in a span of like 30 seconds. Literally, the conversation went "Hi, I'm Matt and I'll be doing your test today. Ma'am, I'm going to need you to take off your bra." And I did! Was it the scrubs and the ID badge, or the fact that he called me ma'am? I should ask him how often that line works for him. I'm guessing every single time, if he's here. I bet my bra wouldn't even have affected the machine, Matt just has a thing for old lady saggy boobs. I bet he's looking through the window right now at my armpit boobs and laughing. Yes, Matt, they're real. When you make me take off my bra and then lay me on my back, they land somewhere around my armpits! Does that make you happy, Matt? Don't laugh, don't move. Focus on the music coming out of these paper covered headphones Matt put on me. But not too much, my foot is trying to tap. Damn it, foot! Stay where you go! Oh no. My nose itches. My nose has not itched in weeks! Why would it choose now to itch? Well, too bad, nose! You're going to have to stay itching, because I'm not going through this again for you or any other nose! I wonder why he put this towel over my face? What would I be able to see if the towel wasn't there? Is that why people freak out? Does it look scary in here? Maybe they should cover everybody's face and see if it helps. "Hi Jill. It's Matt. You doing OK?" Whoa! I can hear him! Can he hear my thoughts? Is that what the machine does, allow them to see into my fucked up brain? "Yes, Matt, I'm fine." "OK, just a few more rounds and you'll be done. You're doing great." "Thank you." Why did I just thank him? For reading my mind? Shit! I forgot to tell him my nose itches! Oh, wait. It's not itching anymore. Cool. When he asked what music I wanted, I should have asked if they had any Green Day. I'm guessing "Jesus of Suburbia" is long enough to get me through this whole test. But this is alright. I haven't heard "Welcome to the Jungle" in a few years. Remember senior year band camp when Guns & Roses was huge and we all walked around with those bandannas on our heads? We were such dorks. Still better than those dumb ass kids today, though. At least our pants stayed up! A few more rounds. What does that mean? How many rounds have I been through so far? One? How many rounds are there? Are we halfway done, a quarter of the way done, what? That weight he put on my arm to keep it in the right place is making my hand fall asleep. How did I not notice I was laying my head directly on top of my ponytail holder? What inconvenient head placement! Why do I never remember to position my head before we start these things? Either the ponytail holder is digging into my brain, or my hair is hanging, ready to get caught in every piece of equipment in the room! I wish I wasn't too lazy for short hair. I wish it wasn't so much work to keep short hair! Oh, there's Led Zeppelin. That Robert Plant. Wow, what a voice. Hey, I'm breathing and not moving! See, Matt? I can do this! Seriously, that hand is tingling and starting to get really uncomfortable. How much longer am I going to be in here? Should I yell for Matt? Will he think something's wrong and turn off the machine? If he turns it off, can we pick up from there later, or do we have to start all over? I really should have asked more questions before I got in here. My bra didn't even have an under wire! I wore that one today on purpose, just for that reason! Oh, the hooks. I bet those are metal. I get it. Sorry, Matt, for thinking you're a pervert. I'm sure you don't like seeing us sag any more than we like sagging. Now the thumb on that hand is twitching. Great. Keep it down, thumb. I don't think you're important, but we can't take any chances! How do people sit in a quiet room without a book? Doesn't their brain go through the same shit mine is going through now? Why would a person do that to herself? I don't get non readers. That just doesn't make any sense. Oh, Robert just stopped singing in the middle of a word. What happened? Where did you go, Robert? Did my twitchy thumb make you go away? Come back! Oh, the machine got quiet, too. I'm moving! "We're all finished, Jill. Most people move while they're in there, but you did great." Yeah, no big deal. Good thing it didn't measure my inner conversation!
If you don't get it, fine. If you do, you are not alone! Just do me a favor, and don't be the wuss who totally gets it and pretends not to just so people don't think you're crazy. It's better to be crazy than to be a liar!
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
You might be a dick if...
I deal with a lot of dicks. Every day. Most of them, I hope, know they are dicks. If you say to them "You are a dick!" they say something like "So?" and admit it. But I believe a lot of people are walking around being dicks and honestly have no idea! Let me make a few points first, the main one being I am not implying one must possess a dick to be one. Girls can be just a big a dick as boys, sometimes even more so. No, I'm using the word dick as a catch-all term to include jerk, douche, bitch, asshole, and any other names you normally call people who are being dicks. I also want to make it clear that all of us are guilty of being dicks sometimes. Yes, even me. But some people are just so good at it that they can be considered full time dicks. So in the spirit of Jeff Foxworthy, I'm going to point out a few ways to tell if you're a dick.
First if all, dicks are without fail a self-centered group of people. They always put themselves before anybody else. So if you suffer from FEEIGM syndrome on a regular basis (see my post with that title for a full description, but all you need to know is it stands for Fuck Everybody Else, I Got Mine) then you are a dick. If, upon seeing any event, your first thought is how it's going to affect you, you're a dick. Example: "This traffic back up is going to make me late for work!" knowing there is a possibly fatal accident causing it.
If you have ever participated in road rage, you are a dick. Flipping off other drivers for following the rules, being mad at people for driving too slow, thinking other people are somehow in your way for being on the same road as you, all signs of being a dick.
If you stand in doorways, you are a dick. Doorways are there for people to enter and exit a room or building, not to gather or observe. Get in, or get out, but make up your mind!
If you feel you are entitled to anything, you are a dick. If you think it's somebody else's job to do anything you should be doing yourself, that means you feel entitled. If you were handed everything you wanted and needed all you life, your parents were raising a dick. They probably didn't mean to. Either they were raised the same way and are also dicks, or they thought they were giving you a good life by spoiling you. Regardless, if things magically appeared in your life through no effort of your own, and you expect that to continue for as long as you live, you are an entitled dick.
If the words "Thank You" don't come out of your mouth at least a dozen times a day, you are probably a dick. I will give credit if you haven't spoken to anyone today or can't talk. I know exactly 2 words in sign language: No, and Thank You. Enough said.
Before you make a choice, what criteria goes into your decision making process? I think every action should be subject to the following three questions: Is it right? Is it good? Is it nice? Every time I have ever been a dick, I was either doing something that was wrong, bad, or mean. Every single time. It always came back to bite me in the ass, too. So karma works. If I always try to do things that are the right thing to do, a good thing to do, and a nice thing to do, I never have to worry about being a dick! Pretty cool, huh?
This next one is going to confuse some people. People who really don't know they are dicks. This one is the kicker. If you think everybody else in the world is a dick who is out to get you, you're wrong. It's you. If your parents didn't raise you the way you think they should have, if every boyfriend or girlfriend you've ever had screwed you over, if your co-workers and bosses don't appreciate you the way they should, if complete strangers go out of their way to be mean to you, re-examine yourself. It's not me, it's you. We all know that dick. The one who has a target painted on them. The one who can't drive to work or walk across town or make a phone call or a purchase without somebody being mean to them. It's true: People do treat them like shit! But they do it for one reason and one reason only: They are a dick. Simply put, if you think the world is stacked against you, it's just because you're a dick.
If you feel the need to post negative comments to people's blog pages, but don't have the balls you use your name and just list yourself as "Anonymous," you are a dick. Also a coward, but certainly a dick.
I will tell you all right now, I did not have any one person in mind while writing this post. I had numerous examples in mind, some of whom I see on a regular basis, some I just made up for the purpose of this rant. But if you have been reading the whole post thinking I am talking about you, then yeah. You're a dick.
First if all, dicks are without fail a self-centered group of people. They always put themselves before anybody else. So if you suffer from FEEIGM syndrome on a regular basis (see my post with that title for a full description, but all you need to know is it stands for Fuck Everybody Else, I Got Mine) then you are a dick. If, upon seeing any event, your first thought is how it's going to affect you, you're a dick. Example: "This traffic back up is going to make me late for work!" knowing there is a possibly fatal accident causing it.
If you have ever participated in road rage, you are a dick. Flipping off other drivers for following the rules, being mad at people for driving too slow, thinking other people are somehow in your way for being on the same road as you, all signs of being a dick.
If you stand in doorways, you are a dick. Doorways are there for people to enter and exit a room or building, not to gather or observe. Get in, or get out, but make up your mind!
If you feel you are entitled to anything, you are a dick. If you think it's somebody else's job to do anything you should be doing yourself, that means you feel entitled. If you were handed everything you wanted and needed all you life, your parents were raising a dick. They probably didn't mean to. Either they were raised the same way and are also dicks, or they thought they were giving you a good life by spoiling you. Regardless, if things magically appeared in your life through no effort of your own, and you expect that to continue for as long as you live, you are an entitled dick.
If the words "Thank You" don't come out of your mouth at least a dozen times a day, you are probably a dick. I will give credit if you haven't spoken to anyone today or can't talk. I know exactly 2 words in sign language: No, and Thank You. Enough said.
Before you make a choice, what criteria goes into your decision making process? I think every action should be subject to the following three questions: Is it right? Is it good? Is it nice? Every time I have ever been a dick, I was either doing something that was wrong, bad, or mean. Every single time. It always came back to bite me in the ass, too. So karma works. If I always try to do things that are the right thing to do, a good thing to do, and a nice thing to do, I never have to worry about being a dick! Pretty cool, huh?
This next one is going to confuse some people. People who really don't know they are dicks. This one is the kicker. If you think everybody else in the world is a dick who is out to get you, you're wrong. It's you. If your parents didn't raise you the way you think they should have, if every boyfriend or girlfriend you've ever had screwed you over, if your co-workers and bosses don't appreciate you the way they should, if complete strangers go out of their way to be mean to you, re-examine yourself. It's not me, it's you. We all know that dick. The one who has a target painted on them. The one who can't drive to work or walk across town or make a phone call or a purchase without somebody being mean to them. It's true: People do treat them like shit! But they do it for one reason and one reason only: They are a dick. Simply put, if you think the world is stacked against you, it's just because you're a dick.
If you feel the need to post negative comments to people's blog pages, but don't have the balls you use your name and just list yourself as "Anonymous," you are a dick. Also a coward, but certainly a dick.
I will tell you all right now, I did not have any one person in mind while writing this post. I had numerous examples in mind, some of whom I see on a regular basis, some I just made up for the purpose of this rant. But if you have been reading the whole post thinking I am talking about you, then yeah. You're a dick.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Does this post make my butt look big?
It's no secret I love Jennifer Lawrence. The more I see and hear from her, the more I love her. And not just because she's beautiful and talented and plays great empowering characters, although those are all great reasons and true. I also love her because of her stance on body image, especially for young girls. But even the adults among us need to be conscious of this. We need to be aware of what we think about ourselves and why. We need to be aware of what we say to each other and to our daughters, and even our sons, and what effect our words and attitudes are going to have on them. We need to stop being so hard on ourselves. We need to stop being so hard on each other.
Have you heard of a thigh gap? Or a bikini bridge? How about muffin top? We name these body quirks and strive to achieve them, or avoid them. We mock those who have them, or expect unrealistic achievements of them. Then we teach our children to do the same thing to each other and themselves.
I have had a few different body types in my lifetime. Growing up, I was the skinny kid. Yep, I had a thigh gap from hell until I was at least 17. I have been the chunky girl, drowning my emotions in Twinkies. I have been the too thin girl, unable to hold down food because of chronic stress. I have been the pregnant girl who lost weight because of terrible terrible morning sickness that caused hospitalization. (Hey, remember when Princess Kate had that? I share a condition with freakin' royalty, people!) Now I happen to be a bit of a dumpy forty something woman. So I know how we treat pretty much everybody. And we treat them all like shit.
We all know how mean we are to overweight people. Tyra put on the fat suit to prove it. Fat Amy introduced herself that way, just to deny the other bitches the joy of naming her that on their own. We mock them and call them names, and even though the odds are pretty good our kids are going to be one of them someday, we let these kids hear us. We put them on diets and send mixed messages and make sure they know we don't want such a horrible unhealthy life for them while we drive through McDonalds for dinner. We also make sure they know how much we hate our own bodies and therefore ourselves when we gain a few pounds. We wrap all our self worth into our pant size, then tell our kids to judge people by what's inside, not what they look like. And then we wonder why they obsess about a thigh gap!
But the ones we are meanest to are the ones who have that thigh gap. I honestly was called "skinny bitch" more than Jill at certain times in my life. In a way, being thin is like being pregnant. Complete strangers feel it is acceptable to touch you. Acquaintances ask invasive questions you don't want to answer. Random people give you useless advice and seem to get upset when you disregard it. And in both cases, if you dare to complain about your treatment, it's met with a lecture about how you should be happy and grateful for your condition. People assume you went through great pains to achieve this thin body, so they also feel it's acceptable to comment on it. Little hint: It's not. It's not OK to tell me I'm skinny. Or fat. Or pregnant. I know, and none of these things are dependent on your perception.
But Moms: We need to make sure our perceptions are not creating expectations for our kids! Especially our daughters. If we bitch and moan about the weight we gained, they understand that the weight makes us an unattractive person. When we starve ourselves before a big event, or to get into a certain outfit, we are teaching them that appearance is more important than health. When we make comments about other women whose bodies are different than ours, we are letting them know that meeting the status quo is important and something to be desired. We are constantly allowing them to see how none of us is good enough! Is this how we want our children to grow up? Knowing that fitting in is more important than being happy and healthy?
I caught myself the other day. I bent over in a crowded restaurant without looking behind me first. When there wasn't enough room, I said to a complete stranger "I'm so sorry I hit you with my big butt." I was really apologizing for invading his space, for being careless enough to not check behind me. But what my son heard was me apologizing for the size of my ass. I don't want him growing up to judge girls by their ass size! But I still planted this in his head! And now I have no idea how to get it back out of there!
So I guess what I'm saying here is "Watch it." Hopefully my one slip won't scar little Leroy for life. But growing up in the 70's, watching all the women of my parents' generation obsess over every pound taught me that my ass is big and I should be ashamed of it. But I'm not. Food is yummy and I enjoy it. Gathering with good friends and good food is an activity I hope to always have the opportunity to participate in. My legs get me where I need to go no matter how crooked they are. My ass provides a cushion for sitting. My arms accomplish what I need them to, my hands do some pretty cool stuff. Most important, my brain does things that amaze even me, and my mouth can do some pretty impressive things too. I just need to learn to watch it!
Have you heard of a thigh gap? Or a bikini bridge? How about muffin top? We name these body quirks and strive to achieve them, or avoid them. We mock those who have them, or expect unrealistic achievements of them. Then we teach our children to do the same thing to each other and themselves.
I have had a few different body types in my lifetime. Growing up, I was the skinny kid. Yep, I had a thigh gap from hell until I was at least 17. I have been the chunky girl, drowning my emotions in Twinkies. I have been the too thin girl, unable to hold down food because of chronic stress. I have been the pregnant girl who lost weight because of terrible terrible morning sickness that caused hospitalization. (Hey, remember when Princess Kate had that? I share a condition with freakin' royalty, people!) Now I happen to be a bit of a dumpy forty something woman. So I know how we treat pretty much everybody. And we treat them all like shit.
We all know how mean we are to overweight people. Tyra put on the fat suit to prove it. Fat Amy introduced herself that way, just to deny the other bitches the joy of naming her that on their own. We mock them and call them names, and even though the odds are pretty good our kids are going to be one of them someday, we let these kids hear us. We put them on diets and send mixed messages and make sure they know we don't want such a horrible unhealthy life for them while we drive through McDonalds for dinner. We also make sure they know how much we hate our own bodies and therefore ourselves when we gain a few pounds. We wrap all our self worth into our pant size, then tell our kids to judge people by what's inside, not what they look like. And then we wonder why they obsess about a thigh gap!
But the ones we are meanest to are the ones who have that thigh gap. I honestly was called "skinny bitch" more than Jill at certain times in my life. In a way, being thin is like being pregnant. Complete strangers feel it is acceptable to touch you. Acquaintances ask invasive questions you don't want to answer. Random people give you useless advice and seem to get upset when you disregard it. And in both cases, if you dare to complain about your treatment, it's met with a lecture about how you should be happy and grateful for your condition. People assume you went through great pains to achieve this thin body, so they also feel it's acceptable to comment on it. Little hint: It's not. It's not OK to tell me I'm skinny. Or fat. Or pregnant. I know, and none of these things are dependent on your perception.
But Moms: We need to make sure our perceptions are not creating expectations for our kids! Especially our daughters. If we bitch and moan about the weight we gained, they understand that the weight makes us an unattractive person. When we starve ourselves before a big event, or to get into a certain outfit, we are teaching them that appearance is more important than health. When we make comments about other women whose bodies are different than ours, we are letting them know that meeting the status quo is important and something to be desired. We are constantly allowing them to see how none of us is good enough! Is this how we want our children to grow up? Knowing that fitting in is more important than being happy and healthy?
I caught myself the other day. I bent over in a crowded restaurant without looking behind me first. When there wasn't enough room, I said to a complete stranger "I'm so sorry I hit you with my big butt." I was really apologizing for invading his space, for being careless enough to not check behind me. But what my son heard was me apologizing for the size of my ass. I don't want him growing up to judge girls by their ass size! But I still planted this in his head! And now I have no idea how to get it back out of there!
So I guess what I'm saying here is "Watch it." Hopefully my one slip won't scar little Leroy for life. But growing up in the 70's, watching all the women of my parents' generation obsess over every pound taught me that my ass is big and I should be ashamed of it. But I'm not. Food is yummy and I enjoy it. Gathering with good friends and good food is an activity I hope to always have the opportunity to participate in. My legs get me where I need to go no matter how crooked they are. My ass provides a cushion for sitting. My arms accomplish what I need them to, my hands do some pretty cool stuff. Most important, my brain does things that amaze even me, and my mouth can do some pretty impressive things too. I just need to learn to watch it!
Friday, December 27, 2013
Politically Correct
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.
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.
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
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