A woman is replacing the cap on her tire valve. Standing beside her, leaning against the car and looking at a phone, is a man. What is your first thought here?
I wouldn't have thought about it at all, except that I saw this picture as a meme on Facebook. It said, "God, please protect my daughter from 'men' like him."
That tingled the ol' feminist spidey-sense.
What, pray tell, does she need to be protected from? Tires? Valves? Air? Listen, it's 2016. Women have been driving for 100 years now. It's not only likely, but probable, that some of us know how to operate and maintain our vehicles. And if my vehicle is the one that needs basic maintenance, please kindly step aside so I can take care of it. My car does not become your business simply because you have different reproductive organs.
We don't know the story behind the photo. What I see is that the woman looks calm and comfortable. The man is outside the car, not shut up in it, and though his mouth is closed in the photo, he appears to be keeping her company. A Facebook friend suggested he was searching for the correct tire pressure for her car, and received the response, "no, he's lazy." Why on Earth is that the immediate assumption here?
One more fact from the photo: the people are Black.
So I ask again, why is "he's lazy" the assumption?
When I commented that there is no reason a task which a woman is capable of doing should be done by a man, simply because of his gender, I was told to "relax, it's just a Facebook post."
Remind me to relax again when these blatantly sexist, and (probably) subconsciously racist, assumptions aren't being made.
11/13/2016
11/10/2016
American
The 2016 election was completely disheartening. It demonstrates that a message of intolerance resonated so well with 60 million of my countrymen that they raised the blustering spokesperson of that mentality to the highest office our nation offers. It is hard to comprehend how far backwards these voters are willing to set America's progression. I was shocked and upset. The next morning, it occurred to me that people only change when they're uncomfortable.
Sixty million people were so uncomfortable, they demanded a complete turnaround of leadership. For perspective's sake, keep in mind that 60 million Americans represent roughly 24% of the voting population. The election by this vocal minority of such an overwhelmingly insular person appears, to me, to be the dramatic final gasps of a dying ideal; one which makes the majority of Americans uncomfortable. So let's get uncomfortable. Let's keep backing intolerance into a corner by advocating for civil rights. Let's allow this event to strengthen our resolve to continue building the environment we want our children to live in. We can let our discomfort embolden us to be kind the way the result has emboldened those who wish ill on people who differ from them. We don't have to - and absolutely shouldn't - allow it to set us back.
Sixty million people were so uncomfortable, they demanded a complete turnaround of leadership. For perspective's sake, keep in mind that 60 million Americans represent roughly 24% of the voting population. The election by this vocal minority of such an overwhelmingly insular person appears, to me, to be the dramatic final gasps of a dying ideal; one which makes the majority of Americans uncomfortable. So let's get uncomfortable. Let's keep backing intolerance into a corner by advocating for civil rights. Let's allow this event to strengthen our resolve to continue building the environment we want our children to live in. We can let our discomfort embolden us to be kind the way the result has emboldened those who wish ill on people who differ from them. We don't have to - and absolutely shouldn't - allow it to set us back.
3/18/2015
Poet: Love
I was once quite the poet. I'm going to post some of those poems here. Some will be raw, some will be polished. There may even be first & final draft comparisons. Here's the first one.
Love
If I am in love, let it be my sanctuary
Let it guide and protect;
Let it encase me like a blanket
Across my shoulders and shielding my heart
Let it be classic and sophisticated
With excitement and wonder;
New and old all at once
Let it stick to my soul
Rather than slip through my fingers
Let the ease of its touches
Comfort and soothe;
Let it be worth all its troubles,
And let it flow like a river
Whose delta spills into my soul
If I am in love, let it be.
3/15/2015
Stay at Home Parent
I hate giving blog posts like this attention. I really, really do, because they are obvious emotional reflex testers; designed to stir controversy in order to draw attention. But in this case, I am happy to add my voice of dissent to such an insult to parents.
The work in question is "Being A Stay At Home Mother Is Not A Job," by Liz Pardue Schultz. She begins the article by saying she was a stay at home mother for five years, so that qualifies her to say that, even though it is hard work, it is not a job; it is a privilege, but a hobby. I understand that the author is applying a very narrow definition of the word 'job' to this entire assertion, and I won't disagree that those of us who are able to procreate are fortunate. I also won't say that it isn't worthy of being called a job. While 'job' has many definitions, 'hobby' is defined as an activity that is not a main occupation. I so very much wanted to stay home with my children, but I was not able to. I have worked full time (with one short bout of unemployment) throughout both of my kids' lives, and I still would never refer to raising them as a hobby. Their well being is my main occupation, regardless of what my career may be. If people begin viewing the propagation of our species as a hobby, we will die out. If people begin viewing parenting their children as a hobby, civilization will no doubt suffer greatly.
This excerpt reads, "having someone else foot the bill for a lifestyle that only benefits you and your close family is by no means a “job,”" just one paragraph after the phrase "the children they decided to contribute to society," is used. Ironic, since if we parents are doing our jobs successfully, the benefits will reach far beyond us and our close families. The choices we make as parents are our method of shaping the person we give the world into an asset to that world. That should not be minimized.
Secondarily, when referencing someone else footing the bill, is this defined as the other party who contributed to the creation of the child in question? It shouldn't need pointing out that it is very much also their bill to foot. Is this to mean the taxes that were pooled for assistance programs some parents participate in? The taxes that the author and her husband paid? The assistance programs that benefit the child that will later benefit society? Taxpayers also fund pubic schools, because it is an investment in our collective future. Is teaching a privilege? Perhaps for many, but it's also a job.
Another argument made is that running a household is something that every adult must do, regardless of their parental status, and they don't consider those things their life's work. I see her point; however, these things we do outside of a company-generated paycheck actually can contribute to one's career. Have you ever noticed that job applications prompt you to list any hobbies that may be relevant to the job? If you were seeking a career in child care, well, being a parent is experience. Going camping? Throwing a friend a party? Caring for your elderly parents? These (all are examples from the article) can be opportunities that allow you to answer those sometimes challenging "Tell me about a time when..." interview questions. Or, they may simply contribute to how you tackle a project at work. My point is there are hobbies we do that, while not generating income, are influences on our career, or our general world view.
A job is not only what you do outside the home, or what will fill the "Occupation" field on your death certificate. It is also not an undertaking that is only bitched about. A job can simply be the task you are obligated to do, and the choice to rear a human is quite an obligation (with many smaller obligations necessary to complete the task). Not everyone hates their job, but there are universally unappealing aspects. That is why for every happy mom she found in the groups she tried to fit into, there were three unhappy ones - you will find this to be the same in any corporate setting. Some professionals have competent coworkers, and understanding bosses. Most do not. Complaining about these frustrations and seeking others' understanding of them is necessary for our emotional well-being. Just as the author has done by writing the post in question.
For all that I disagree with here, I absolutely love this well said affirmation: "If you’re proud of how you’re living your life, there’s no need to rephrase it to make it more palatable to those who don’t agree with its worth." However, I find it misguided in its application here. There is nothing helpful about implying that stay at home parents are ashamed of their choice because they found an analogy that works for them. It is certainly discouraging to outright say that they do not have self respect. I truly believe that having parenthood viewed as the investment in and contribution to society that it is does help change the culture of criticism applied to this choice of lifestyle. Speaking as one of "the people out there who actually have" a job, mine is a lifestyle that is hard but definitely worth the struggle to me. It consists of my job as a company representative, and my job as a parent.
The work in question is "Being A Stay At Home Mother Is Not A Job," by Liz Pardue Schultz. She begins the article by saying she was a stay at home mother for five years, so that qualifies her to say that, even though it is hard work, it is not a job; it is a privilege, but a hobby. I understand that the author is applying a very narrow definition of the word 'job' to this entire assertion, and I won't disagree that those of us who are able to procreate are fortunate. I also won't say that it isn't worthy of being called a job. While 'job' has many definitions, 'hobby' is defined as an activity that is not a main occupation. I so very much wanted to stay home with my children, but I was not able to. I have worked full time (with one short bout of unemployment) throughout both of my kids' lives, and I still would never refer to raising them as a hobby. Their well being is my main occupation, regardless of what my career may be. If people begin viewing the propagation of our species as a hobby, we will die out. If people begin viewing parenting their children as a hobby, civilization will no doubt suffer greatly.
This excerpt reads, "having someone else foot the bill for a lifestyle that only benefits you and your close family is by no means a “job,”" just one paragraph after the phrase "the children they decided to contribute to society," is used. Ironic, since if we parents are doing our jobs successfully, the benefits will reach far beyond us and our close families. The choices we make as parents are our method of shaping the person we give the world into an asset to that world. That should not be minimized.
Secondarily, when referencing someone else footing the bill, is this defined as the other party who contributed to the creation of the child in question? It shouldn't need pointing out that it is very much also their bill to foot. Is this to mean the taxes that were pooled for assistance programs some parents participate in? The taxes that the author and her husband paid? The assistance programs that benefit the child that will later benefit society? Taxpayers also fund pubic schools, because it is an investment in our collective future. Is teaching a privilege? Perhaps for many, but it's also a job.
Another argument made is that running a household is something that every adult must do, regardless of their parental status, and they don't consider those things their life's work. I see her point; however, these things we do outside of a company-generated paycheck actually can contribute to one's career. Have you ever noticed that job applications prompt you to list any hobbies that may be relevant to the job? If you were seeking a career in child care, well, being a parent is experience. Going camping? Throwing a friend a party? Caring for your elderly parents? These (all are examples from the article) can be opportunities that allow you to answer those sometimes challenging "Tell me about a time when..." interview questions. Or, they may simply contribute to how you tackle a project at work. My point is there are hobbies we do that, while not generating income, are influences on our career, or our general world view.
A job is not only what you do outside the home, or what will fill the "Occupation" field on your death certificate. It is also not an undertaking that is only bitched about. A job can simply be the task you are obligated to do, and the choice to rear a human is quite an obligation (with many smaller obligations necessary to complete the task). Not everyone hates their job, but there are universally unappealing aspects. That is why for every happy mom she found in the groups she tried to fit into, there were three unhappy ones - you will find this to be the same in any corporate setting. Some professionals have competent coworkers, and understanding bosses. Most do not. Complaining about these frustrations and seeking others' understanding of them is necessary for our emotional well-being. Just as the author has done by writing the post in question.
For all that I disagree with here, I absolutely love this well said affirmation: "If you’re proud of how you’re living your life, there’s no need to rephrase it to make it more palatable to those who don’t agree with its worth." However, I find it misguided in its application here. There is nothing helpful about implying that stay at home parents are ashamed of their choice because they found an analogy that works for them. It is certainly discouraging to outright say that they do not have self respect. I truly believe that having parenthood viewed as the investment in and contribution to society that it is does help change the culture of criticism applied to this choice of lifestyle. Speaking as one of "the people out there who actually have" a job, mine is a lifestyle that is hard but definitely worth the struggle to me. It consists of my job as a company representative, and my job as a parent.
5/29/2013
Protestor
Until last weekend, I had never protested anything. Well, sure, I protest things all the time, but never formally. The March Against Monsanto, however, was one that I was happy to join in. Food is important. That seems so silly to have to say, yet does need saying.
Years ago, after dropping off our children at kindergarten, I wanted to go get coffee with another mom. As I approached her, so did another mother, who proceeded to speak to her about the food being served in the school cafeteria. One of her issues was with the particular brand of yogurt being provided. I interrupted, "Well, at least it's yogurt. It's healthy."
I was given a look as though I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. "It has dyes, and additives, and sugar."
Her delivery was rough, but I do have to admit that I hadn't ever - ever - considered this. I had been brought up on boxed and canned food, as well as candy colored yogurt. How was this not okay? Since then, I have read much on food, and which foods are or are not healthy. My eating habits have completely changed, and having lived without these types of foods, I now understand how much sugar is added unnecessarily to almost everything, and I see how unnecessary dyes and additives are as well. But I remember well not knowing much about my food, and I know there are many people who still don't think too hard about it, having trusted food producers all their lives. There are so many of us who simply don't realize how fully our diet impacts our lives. I still struggle with this, thinking this junk or that junk won't hurt, but it does, and my body lets me know that it does. My anecdotal evidence aside, that we are headed to a near future where a couple of companies control our entire food supply absolutely outrages me. The argument in favor of GMOs is that they help feed the world. If that's true, how can people still be starving? It's because the companies that patent this food aren't giving it away. Even if they were, it would be a one-time deal, since planting the seeds from this food is completely illegal. Enough of my ranting for now. I encourage you to review the available information on both sides of the issue.
As for the protest itself, my local march happened on a beautiful Saturday. I had slathered myself in sunscreen and comfortable clothing. I didn't have a sign, but I didn't need one; the organizers had plenty, so I borrowed one. It simply read, "No 2 GMOs." Husband made an even simpler, but still terrific, sign: "Label it." We marched our 10 blocks, waving our signs at passers by, and waving them more enthusiastically when we were honked at. Not everyone shared our enthusiasm, which was certainly expected, but nothing bad happened.
On our walk back to headquarters, a woman driving by yelled out, "More GMOs! Extra GMOs!" Someone in our group yelled back a profanity, and I whispered to Husband, "She probably doesn't even know what GMOs are. She's just being a troll." He agreed. I didn't think about it too much right then, but now, I think, just you wait. I know there are people who don't understand protesting at all, ever. I was there because this cause is important to me for many reasons, but I realize that I'm no one to that stranger in her SUV at the stop light. Well, Stranger: just you wait. One day, you too will have a cause. Who knows what it may be: stopping texting while driving, your side of the abortion debate, raising awareness of the rare fatal disease you or your loved one is diagnosed with. You will have one. You may not organize or participate in a protest, or march, or even a Facebook group for your cause. But you will cheer upon your cause's victories, and boo upon its defeats. You will feel all the passion we feel about our cause. You may not act on that passion, though, and I can sympathize. I mean, you just never know when a random motorist will shout at you in favor of your opposition, and who needs that?
Years ago, after dropping off our children at kindergarten, I wanted to go get coffee with another mom. As I approached her, so did another mother, who proceeded to speak to her about the food being served in the school cafeteria. One of her issues was with the particular brand of yogurt being provided. I interrupted, "Well, at least it's yogurt. It's healthy."
I was given a look as though I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. "It has dyes, and additives, and sugar."
Her delivery was rough, but I do have to admit that I hadn't ever - ever - considered this. I had been brought up on boxed and canned food, as well as candy colored yogurt. How was this not okay? Since then, I have read much on food, and which foods are or are not healthy. My eating habits have completely changed, and having lived without these types of foods, I now understand how much sugar is added unnecessarily to almost everything, and I see how unnecessary dyes and additives are as well. But I remember well not knowing much about my food, and I know there are many people who still don't think too hard about it, having trusted food producers all their lives. There are so many of us who simply don't realize how fully our diet impacts our lives. I still struggle with this, thinking this junk or that junk won't hurt, but it does, and my body lets me know that it does. My anecdotal evidence aside, that we are headed to a near future where a couple of companies control our entire food supply absolutely outrages me. The argument in favor of GMOs is that they help feed the world. If that's true, how can people still be starving? It's because the companies that patent this food aren't giving it away. Even if they were, it would be a one-time deal, since planting the seeds from this food is completely illegal. Enough of my ranting for now. I encourage you to review the available information on both sides of the issue.
As for the protest itself, my local march happened on a beautiful Saturday. I had slathered myself in sunscreen and comfortable clothing. I didn't have a sign, but I didn't need one; the organizers had plenty, so I borrowed one. It simply read, "No 2 GMOs." Husband made an even simpler, but still terrific, sign: "Label it." We marched our 10 blocks, waving our signs at passers by, and waving them more enthusiastically when we were honked at. Not everyone shared our enthusiasm, which was certainly expected, but nothing bad happened.
On our walk back to headquarters, a woman driving by yelled out, "More GMOs! Extra GMOs!" Someone in our group yelled back a profanity, and I whispered to Husband, "She probably doesn't even know what GMOs are. She's just being a troll." He agreed. I didn't think about it too much right then, but now, I think, just you wait. I know there are people who don't understand protesting at all, ever. I was there because this cause is important to me for many reasons, but I realize that I'm no one to that stranger in her SUV at the stop light. Well, Stranger: just you wait. One day, you too will have a cause. Who knows what it may be: stopping texting while driving, your side of the abortion debate, raising awareness of the rare fatal disease you or your loved one is diagnosed with. You will have one. You may not organize or participate in a protest, or march, or even a Facebook group for your cause. But you will cheer upon your cause's victories, and boo upon its defeats. You will feel all the passion we feel about our cause. You may not act on that passion, though, and I can sympathize. I mean, you just never know when a random motorist will shout at you in favor of your opposition, and who needs that?
2/03/2013
Opthamologist
I have an eye thing. I have never had my vision tested, because once my husband told me they puff air in your eyes, any inkling I may have had to get an eye exam evaporated. Husband has no eye fears, having worn contacts for most of his life. He even went so far as to have PRK vision correction. His procedure was videotaped. Not only was it recorded, he has watched the recording. Not only has he watched it, he has convinced others to watch it with him. He has done this more than once. I have still never participated. I can't even wear sunglasses, because they're too close to my eyes for my comfort.
Last weekend, while I was watching my niece, 5-year-old Diva, and nephew, 2-year-old Buddy, Diva got a time out. While in time out, Buddy sat quietly next to her. He's so protective of his big sister. As her time out ended, and I was hugging her, I glanced at Buddy, still sitting quietly...SHOVING A TOY INTO HIS EYE. What. The.
"AAH! BUDDY, STOP!" He stopped, removed the toy, looked at my panicked face, and cried. He'd actually gotten this thing (it was a small peg that belongs to one of my son's games) a couple of millimeters into his eye socket. He wasn't hurt, my yelling had just scared him. I'm glad for that - maybe he won't try it again. I hope I didn't end up giving him my eye phobia, though. It's certainly not healthy. Besides, I have my own children to permanently traumatize.
Last weekend, while I was watching my niece, 5-year-old Diva, and nephew, 2-year-old Buddy, Diva got a time out. While in time out, Buddy sat quietly next to her. He's so protective of his big sister. As her time out ended, and I was hugging her, I glanced at Buddy, still sitting quietly...SHOVING A TOY INTO HIS EYE. What. The.
"AAH! BUDDY, STOP!" He stopped, removed the toy, looked at my panicked face, and cried. He'd actually gotten this thing (it was a small peg that belongs to one of my son's games) a couple of millimeters into his eye socket. He wasn't hurt, my yelling had just scared him. I'm glad for that - maybe he won't try it again. I hope I didn't end up giving him my eye phobia, though. It's certainly not healthy. Besides, I have my own children to permanently traumatize.
9/19/2012
Public Roadway Planner
When I was a kid, my mom would communicate with no ambiguity that she disliked driving. I didn't understand, because I couldn't wait to start driving. I couldn't get enough of my cozy coupe. I longed for a Power Wheels. Driving a golf cart and a boat was the highlight of my twelfth summer. I literally dreamed - multiple times - of driving an actual automobile on an actual street. Now that I've been driving for nearly 20 years and sometimes have multiple car trips a day between myself and the kids, I do understand. There are laws regarding commuting - laws which you don't even realize are laws until you have some driving experience under your timing belt.
Laws such as:
If the speed limit increases, the sign will be visible to the driver behind you from 5 miles away.
If the speed limit decreases, the sign will be visible to no one but you at any time.
If you are in the left lane and traffic requires that you slow down to get into the right lane, your blinker will be ignored and you will be passed on the right repeatedly.
If your blinker is working, it will be ignored by all.
If your blinker is somehow not working, you will be honked at by all.
No other driver knows what hazard lights are for but you. Prepare to be honked at.
When you decide to run a yellow light, it will turn red faster.
When you decide to stop for a yellow light, three more cars will go through before it turns red.
Potholes only get filled on streets you take twice a year.
Upon driving through a slow construction zone, your bladder will immediately shrink to the size of a pinhead.
When you finally decide to take the route your husband swears is fastest, that is where the construction will be.
There are many more that I'm not able to think of at the moment, but give me a long enough commute and I'll be more than confident that I could plan the roadways better than these current jokers.
Laws such as:
If the speed limit increases, the sign will be visible to the driver behind you from 5 miles away.
If the speed limit decreases, the sign will be visible to no one but you at any time.
If you are in the left lane and traffic requires that you slow down to get into the right lane, your blinker will be ignored and you will be passed on the right repeatedly.
If your blinker is working, it will be ignored by all.
If your blinker is somehow not working, you will be honked at by all.
No other driver knows what hazard lights are for but you. Prepare to be honked at.
When you decide to run a yellow light, it will turn red faster.
When you decide to stop for a yellow light, three more cars will go through before it turns red.
Potholes only get filled on streets you take twice a year.
Upon driving through a slow construction zone, your bladder will immediately shrink to the size of a pinhead.
When you finally decide to take the route your husband swears is fastest, that is where the construction will be.
There are many more that I'm not able to think of at the moment, but give me a long enough commute and I'll be more than confident that I could plan the roadways better than these current jokers.
9/12/2012
Older Sibling
Bug, my youngest, just began kindergarten. He's been in day care for a couple of years, but this is "real school." Big kid stuff. Not for the fainthearted. Daughter is in high school, so of course is very experienced in the matters of the schoolyard. Older siblings are supposed to guide the younger ones, I understand. I didn't have an older sibling, so I had to wing it growing up. I don't recall imparting much knowledge upon my younger siblings, either. But the other night at dinner, I got to witness it firsthand:
We are discussing school in general. I'm not paying too much attention to what exactly is being said until I hear, "...and if anyone tells you to hold onto your tongue and say 'apple', do NOT do it." Daughter says this in the way we tell him not to get in a car with a stranger; not to cross the street without an adult; not to eat anything he doesn't read the ingredients of - as if it will kill him. As if nothing in all 13 years of public schooling is more important.
"Why?" he asks. Of course he does, my curious boy. He asks why stars go supernova.
"Trust me. Just..." she trails off, shakes her head solemnly, and waves her hand, as if the thought of this occurring is too much to bear.
They're so cute. Daughter would kill me for saying that; she's way past the cute ages. I think it's such an adorable, sweet moment. I giggle. I suppose my mother had these moments, but I don't remember ever being such a helpful sibling.
We are discussing school in general. I'm not paying too much attention to what exactly is being said until I hear, "...and if anyone tells you to hold onto your tongue and say 'apple', do NOT do it." Daughter says this in the way we tell him not to get in a car with a stranger; not to cross the street without an adult; not to eat anything he doesn't read the ingredients of - as if it will kill him. As if nothing in all 13 years of public schooling is more important.
"Why?" he asks. Of course he does, my curious boy. He asks why stars go supernova.
"Trust me. Just..." she trails off, shakes her head solemnly, and waves her hand, as if the thought of this occurring is too much to bear.
They're so cute. Daughter would kill me for saying that; she's way past the cute ages. I think it's such an adorable, sweet moment. I giggle. I suppose my mother had these moments, but I don't remember ever being such a helpful sibling.
9/05/2012
Oral Surgeon (I've said this before)
September 4th, 2012, at approximately 1 second after the dentist's office closing, my tooth became a raging inferno of pain. I took ibuprofen, only to ask Husband less than an hour later WHERE THE HELL IS THE VICODIN?! PLEEEEAAAASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL PETE'S SAKE DON'T TELL ME WE THREW IT OUT! ...but we had. of course.
I was near tears. I didn't finish dinner (not me). I was warm and sweaty, and my sub-zero basement felt good (also not me). I knew exactly which tooth, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted it gone. With the assistance of many anti-inflammatory pills and topical gel, I barely held out until the dentist opened. Luckily they could see me today. Also luckily, the tooth could be pulled today. I actually responded, "Yay," albeit not enthusiastically, since I was still in severe pain. Surprising I had a word, considering I suspect all my interactions so far had sounded thus:
"Hey! Good morning!"
"Ow."
"How are you?"
"Ouchie, ow owie."
"Do you have your TPS report ready for the meeting?"
"Owwwww. Ouch."
Actual words made me optimistic that I was on my road to recovery, with a lighter oral load.
A few minutes later, I was in the chair, weathering bouts of severe pain interspersed with slightly less severe pain, more anxious for Novocaine than I have ever been, and then finally - it happened. The injections hurt, sure, but sweet relief was on its way. I asked if he could put something against my cheek, since last time my cheek was pretty mangled and it hurt me worse than the empty tooth socket. He said, "I don't usually do that. Your cheek really shouldn't be involved." Music to my ears. The doctor then warned me that I'd feel pressure, and that was such an understatement that I barely held my composure. He asked if I was okay, and I sort of waved my hand to indicate "not really." The pressure stopped. The doctor poked at me with a couple more instruments, but there was no more pain. He and his assistant began to pull away.
"You got it?" I and my widened eyes asked.
"Yep."
"Thank goodness. It is such a relief."
I was so relieved that I didn't whine too much at the doctor trying to talk me into having my last (not quite erupted) wisdom tooth pulled as soon as possible. I'm certainly not looking forward to that one, but compared to the last time, I actually didn't hate this procedure. I didn't even hate the doctor.
I was near tears. I didn't finish dinner (not me). I was warm and sweaty, and my sub-zero basement felt good (also not me). I knew exactly which tooth, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted it gone. With the assistance of many anti-inflammatory pills and topical gel, I barely held out until the dentist opened. Luckily they could see me today. Also luckily, the tooth could be pulled today. I actually responded, "Yay," albeit not enthusiastically, since I was still in severe pain. Surprising I had a word, considering I suspect all my interactions so far had sounded thus:
"Hey! Good morning!"
"Ow."
"How are you?"
"Ouchie, ow owie."
"Do you have your TPS report ready for the meeting?"
"Owwwww. Ouch."
Actual words made me optimistic that I was on my road to recovery, with a lighter oral load.
A few minutes later, I was in the chair, weathering bouts of severe pain interspersed with slightly less severe pain, more anxious for Novocaine than I have ever been, and then finally - it happened. The injections hurt, sure, but sweet relief was on its way. I asked if he could put something against my cheek, since last time my cheek was pretty mangled and it hurt me worse than the empty tooth socket. He said, "I don't usually do that. Your cheek really shouldn't be involved." Music to my ears. The doctor then warned me that I'd feel pressure, and that was such an understatement that I barely held my composure. He asked if I was okay, and I sort of waved my hand to indicate "not really." The pressure stopped. The doctor poked at me with a couple more instruments, but there was no more pain. He and his assistant began to pull away.
"You got it?" I and my widened eyes asked.
"Yep."
"Thank goodness. It is such a relief."
I was so relieved that I didn't whine too much at the doctor trying to talk me into having my last (not quite erupted) wisdom tooth pulled as soon as possible. I'm certainly not looking forward to that one, but compared to the last time, I actually didn't hate this procedure. I didn't even hate the doctor.
7/08/2012
Server
In my early stages toward becoming a non-professional, I have worked food service, yet I have never actually been a server. I worked behind counters at an ice cream shop and a pizza shop. I didn't have to be nice, because I didn't rely on tips. I didn't have to be accurate, because I couldn't have cared less if my manager had to refund a customer's money. "There's like, a ton of hot fudge back here," I thought, "I'll just make them another sundae...and one for myself while I'm at it." I'm sure some special orders irked me, but I tried to accommodate them. Since I usually made the food myself or worked with a small crew, communication wasn't too difficult. I don't think it compares to being a food server in a busy chain restaurant. Therefore, with the integrity of this blog's name intact, I'll relate a recent dining experience.
It was simple enough: a double date including a movie, then dinner after. We chose a restaurant in the same parking lot as the theater, which had opened fairly recently. We had been to other restaurants in this franchise so expected nothing unusual. Our server, Smiley, was very friendly and seemed very attentive when taking our orders. Beetle's girlfriend Christina Hendricks ordered a steak "between medium-well and well. Done, but not burned." I ordered a deliciously described salad. The menu showed that this particular salad did not come with chicken on it; chicken cost extra. Smiley asked if I wanted chicken, and I emphatically stated (I think all 3 of my table mates may have also chimed in here) "NO. Chicken."
When Smiley came around a few minutes later, I ordered a drink. Smiley said, "Sure! And your chicken salad will be out shortly as well." "NO! No. Chicken." I reminded him, though my memory is hazy as to whether or not my teeth were clenched at the time. "Right! No chicken. Got it." And off he ran, leaving the omen looming over me and my honey-buttered croissants.Yet the salad arrived with no chicken in sight. No chicken in sight. After three bites, I found a chunk of dead animal. I sighed and set down my fork. "They put the chicken on and then picked it off," I told Husband. Smiley was actually quite attentive, and when he checked on us again a few minutes later, Husband sent back the salad, explaining to him the chicken debacle. As Smiley brought back my chicken-free salad, Christina made known her dissatisfaction with her steak, which was decidedly, bent-her-knife-trying-to-cut-into-it burnt. Unlike salad, steak has to be cooked, so - although Smiley offered - she did not get a replacement.
Hearing of Table 7's impending negative Yelp review, Manager comes to ask what he can do to set things right. He offers two things: to take the steak off the bill, and a free dessert. While us girls decided against the dessert, Beetle's will was shattered by the prospect of a free giant cookie topped with free ice cream for free. The bill arrived, and, like the meals themselves, had to be sent back, because they had charged us for the steak.
The experience had its frustrations, but ultimately, we all kind of laughed in wonder at how this has never happened to us before now. I have to give props to Smiley, who kept cool in spite of all these missteps. Because the service was good and he and Manager did make things right overall, no one suggested never dining there again. And we tipped him, of course, because we knew that most of the trouble wasn't his fault. I know that if I worked for tips, I'd probably have to learn to survive on ramen noodles.
It was simple enough: a double date including a movie, then dinner after. We chose a restaurant in the same parking lot as the theater, which had opened fairly recently. We had been to other restaurants in this franchise so expected nothing unusual. Our server, Smiley, was very friendly and seemed very attentive when taking our orders. Beetle's girlfriend Christina Hendricks ordered a steak "between medium-well and well. Done, but not burned." I ordered a deliciously described salad. The menu showed that this particular salad did not come with chicken on it; chicken cost extra. Smiley asked if I wanted chicken, and I emphatically stated (I think all 3 of my table mates may have also chimed in here) "NO. Chicken."
When Smiley came around a few minutes later, I ordered a drink. Smiley said, "Sure! And your chicken salad will be out shortly as well." "NO! No. Chicken." I reminded him, though my memory is hazy as to whether or not my teeth were clenched at the time. "Right! No chicken. Got it." And off he ran, leaving the omen looming over me and my honey-buttered croissants.Yet the salad arrived with no chicken in sight. No chicken in sight. After three bites, I found a chunk of dead animal. I sighed and set down my fork. "They put the chicken on and then picked it off," I told Husband. Smiley was actually quite attentive, and when he checked on us again a few minutes later, Husband sent back the salad, explaining to him the chicken debacle. As Smiley brought back my chicken-free salad, Christina made known her dissatisfaction with her steak, which was decidedly, bent-her-knife-trying-to-cut-into-it burnt. Unlike salad, steak has to be cooked, so - although Smiley offered - she did not get a replacement.
Hearing of Table 7's impending negative Yelp review, Manager comes to ask what he can do to set things right. He offers two things: to take the steak off the bill, and a free dessert. While us girls decided against the dessert, Beetle's will was shattered by the prospect of a free giant cookie topped with free ice cream for free. The bill arrived, and, like the meals themselves, had to be sent back, because they had charged us for the steak.
The experience had its frustrations, but ultimately, we all kind of laughed in wonder at how this has never happened to us before now. I have to give props to Smiley, who kept cool in spite of all these missteps. Because the service was good and he and Manager did make things right overall, no one suggested never dining there again. And we tipped him, of course, because we knew that most of the trouble wasn't his fault. I know that if I worked for tips, I'd probably have to learn to survive on ramen noodles.
7/01/2012
Confidence Builder
I had a proud mom moment. One of those moments where you realize you did something right despite having taken so many naps while you parked the kids in front of the TV. One of those moments that make you smile smugly but then instantly try to hide that smugness. One of those proud mom moments.
I was at the park with my kids and a friend. Daughter, the fashionista, was wearing a hot pink top with glitter, bright blue shorts, and knee socks. My friend thought Daughter had gotten those sartorial ideas from somewhere, and asked, "Who are you trying to look like?"
And Daughter said, "Myself."
<Insert beaming ear-to-ear grin here>
I have had other proud mom moments, of course, but this one came from my thirteen-year-old. Does anyone remember being 13? Do you remember the peer pressure? How everyone looked alike and if you didn't look a certain way you were labeled and probably snickered at? My daughter most certainly notices this, and gives not a fuck.
Which makes me THE GREATEST PARENT EVER WHO EVER LIVED EVER (suck it, every other parent worldwide including my husband!), and I will laugh maniacally all the way home.
In all seriousness, I have to confess that I don't know where I fall into the nature-vs.-nurture argument here - and that, in fact, her attitude may have nothing to do with my genes nor my guidance. I am still staunchly proud of the young lady I'm helping prepare for the world. Or perhaps, the young lady I'm helping prepare the world for.
I was at the park with my kids and a friend. Daughter, the fashionista, was wearing a hot pink top with glitter, bright blue shorts, and knee socks. My friend thought Daughter had gotten those sartorial ideas from somewhere, and asked, "Who are you trying to look like?"
And Daughter said, "Myself."
<Insert beaming ear-to-ear grin here>
I have had other proud mom moments, of course, but this one came from my thirteen-year-old. Does anyone remember being 13? Do you remember the peer pressure? How everyone looked alike and if you didn't look a certain way you were labeled and probably snickered at? My daughter most certainly notices this, and gives not a fuck.
Which makes me THE GREATEST PARENT EVER WHO EVER LIVED EVER (suck it, every other parent worldwide including my husband!), and I will laugh maniacally all the way home.
In all seriousness, I have to confess that I don't know where I fall into the nature-vs.-nurture argument here - and that, in fact, her attitude may have nothing to do with my genes nor my guidance. I am still staunchly proud of the young lady I'm helping prepare for the world. Or perhaps, the young lady I'm helping prepare the world for.
6/30/2012
Firefighter
I live in Colorado Springs. A fire erupted just west of here Saturday, June 23rd. On Tuesday, June 26th, it blazed through a canyon into some of the city's west side neighborhoods, prompting mass evacuations and presenting a very real danger to our city. Our hearts raced as we watched the fire come down the mountain, knowing there would be lives forever changed, if not altogether claimed. In the following days, as things calmed some, we learned that 347 homes were destroyed, yet there were only two confirmed deaths. This is entirely due to the diligence and sheer bravery of the approximately 1,000 firefighters who stood there keeping us safe. Thank you cannot be said enough.
6/24/2012
Public Restroom Engineer
Murphy's Law of Public Restrooms
General Public:
If carrying a purse or wearing a coat, the hook on the back of the stall door will be missing.
If there is a door to the restroom, there will be a hand dryer, resulting in no paper towels with which to pull open the door.
If there is no door, there will be plenty of paper towels but the trash can will be overflowing.
The touchless paper towel dispenser will be broken, requiring one to touch the machine.
The automatic flush is a precisely tuned machine which only flushes during those precious seconds between placing the seat protector on and sitting oneself down. It otherwise does not work.
Once a month, women will not fail to locate the one public restroom with no trash can inside the stall.
Soap only exists in bathrooms with push-button faucets that spit out water for 5 seconds at a time.
There will be ample toilet paper only on those oblong rolls that dispense one square at a time.
When Accompanied by Kids:
If a changing pad is forgotten, there will be no diaper changing station.
Diaper changing stations exist in men's rooms only when the father is not with the baby.
Even in the most kid-friendly of places - establishments in which they have placed a second, lower handle to the restroom door and shortened the height of the toilets themselves - the sinks, soap dispensers, and paper towels will be out of reach of anyone not yet in middle school.
When children need to wash their hands, the only faucets available will be those whose temperature cannot be adjusted and that temperature is set to "Skin Graft Now Required."
The automatic flush is a precisely tuned machine which senses young children's fear and flushes only when in the presence of a child in whom it can cause a panicked meltdown. It otherwise does not work.
Public restrooms have a restraining order on children requiring their usage, and must maintain a distance of no less than 100 yards at those times.
General Public:
If carrying a purse or wearing a coat, the hook on the back of the stall door will be missing.
If there is a door to the restroom, there will be a hand dryer, resulting in no paper towels with which to pull open the door.
If there is no door, there will be plenty of paper towels but the trash can will be overflowing.
The touchless paper towel dispenser will be broken, requiring one to touch the machine.
The automatic flush is a precisely tuned machine which only flushes during those precious seconds between placing the seat protector on and sitting oneself down. It otherwise does not work.
Once a month, women will not fail to locate the one public restroom with no trash can inside the stall.
Soap only exists in bathrooms with push-button faucets that spit out water for 5 seconds at a time.
There will be ample toilet paper only on those oblong rolls that dispense one square at a time.
When Accompanied by Kids:
If a changing pad is forgotten, there will be no diaper changing station.
Diaper changing stations exist in men's rooms only when the father is not with the baby.
Even in the most kid-friendly of places - establishments in which they have placed a second, lower handle to the restroom door and shortened the height of the toilets themselves - the sinks, soap dispensers, and paper towels will be out of reach of anyone not yet in middle school.
When children need to wash their hands, the only faucets available will be those whose temperature cannot be adjusted and that temperature is set to "Skin Graft Now Required."
The automatic flush is a precisely tuned machine which senses young children's fear and flushes only when in the presence of a child in whom it can cause a panicked meltdown. It otherwise does not work.
Public restrooms have a restraining order on children requiring their usage, and must maintain a distance of no less than 100 yards at those times.
6/17/2012
Water Extractor
I became a homeowner again in April. I knew it would have its risks; its perils, but I did not know it would happen so soon. We bought a house with a recently finished basement, where the fabulous master bedroom is. Of course we had it inspected before we actually purchased it, and there was no evidence of any basement leaks, and why would anyone willingly install carpet in an area where there could potentially be more water leaks? My mind was at rest about it. So the day the huge hail storm hit, I thought nothing of it. Until I sat on my bed for a bit. When I got up, my hip was soaking wet and I had no idea what it was from. I looked around to find that the window well above my bed had standing water, which was leaking into my room and directly onto my bed. I grabbed some towels, sopped up what I could, and asked Husband for the ShopVac. He proceeded to vacuum out the window well, while I sat helpless, having already put towels down. Once he was done, he came in to help me with the bed and carpet. Upon actually beginning to extract the water, we realized just how bad it had gotten: the carpet was soaked much farther from the window than I originally thought, and as we pulled the mattress off of the foundation, saw that the water had gotten halfway across the bed. My mattress is memory foam; it had absorbed that water like a sponge. The water on my hip hadn't been just incidental transfer - my weight on the mattress had squeezed the water up from underneath it. The water from outside. The water that had been filtered through the dirt on the ground. Eeeeewwww.
Neither of us having hands large enough to wring it out, we threw away the mattress and bought a new one (a horror story for another time). We pulled up the carpet and had fans blowing on it for 4 days, but still had to throw out half the carpet pad too, because the kind we have is spill resistant, and the fans couldn't penetrate it to dry it out. Husband drilled holes in the wall to help air it out. He pulled up the windowsill and vacuumed that as well. After all this, when pulling out more drywall, we found some mold. We can't be positive that it came from this particular leak or something unrelated, but the costs seem to just keep racking up. Insurance? You ask. Not covered. Of course. Sigh. We'll keep working at it, hoping for the best and having credit cards at the ready in case of the worst. Eventually, when all the water is gone, we'll have a bedroom again.
Neither of us having hands large enough to wring it out, we threw away the mattress and bought a new one (a horror story for another time). We pulled up the carpet and had fans blowing on it for 4 days, but still had to throw out half the carpet pad too, because the kind we have is spill resistant, and the fans couldn't penetrate it to dry it out. Husband drilled holes in the wall to help air it out. He pulled up the windowsill and vacuumed that as well. After all this, when pulling out more drywall, we found some mold. We can't be positive that it came from this particular leak or something unrelated, but the costs seem to just keep racking up. Insurance? You ask. Not covered. Of course. Sigh. We'll keep working at it, hoping for the best and having credit cards at the ready in case of the worst. Eventually, when all the water is gone, we'll have a bedroom again.
6/10/2012
Murphy's Law Abiding Citizen
I was an early cell phone adopter. My first phone was talk only - no text, no internet, 75 minutes of airtime a month. I have had several phones since then. Not one of them has ever broken. My husband lost one several years ago, so I unselfishly gave him mine and bought a much cheaper, much less smart one. After that, he found his, naturally. So in December when I "bought" my free-with-contract latest-Android-OS smartphone, I didn't bother to get any sort of handset insurance on it. If you've ever seen any movie or read any book ever, you can see where this is going. This story isn't as much about the phone breaking, though, as the aftermath.
Our story begins on the morning of I Don't Know, Some Weekday. My alarm was ringing, and I wasn't ready to try to get to work on time yet so I hit snooze. As I dragged my sleepy hand back under the deliciously warm covers, I was unconsciously dragging my phone with it. My hand made it back; the phone did not. It fell between my nightstand and my bed, landing on the power strip there. I have dropped this phone before, on concrete even, and it was fine. Magically, this phone had managed to land on the edge of the power button for the power strip, cracking the screen, and rendering the phone completely useless. At first, the screen was just a jumble of jagged colors from the spiderweb crack. Then, it went entirely dark and never recovered.
We are advised to not speak ill of the dead, but there were days when I hated that phone. The battery could be fully charged when I woke up and without me even using it be dead by the time I left work. It was big and clunky too, but it was free and it did work, and a working phone is better than no phone at all. But there I was, with no phone at all. Luckily, I had the sense to wait until we got our first land line phone in 10 years to break my cell phone. Also luckily, a friend was willing to loan me a talk-and-text-only cell phone until I got a new one. Unluckily, I had no way of checking Facebook while waiting to pick up my daughter from school. Imagine! I went to the cell phone store and pled with them to allow me to renew my contract and buy a new phone for the lower price, but they would not budge. I threatened to cancel my contract and go elsewhere, they would not budge. The salesman suggested a cell phone repair store, a thought that had not occurred to me. So I went there optimistically, only to be told within 5 seconds of showing them the phone that the replacement part is $300 (excluding labor costs) and they don't even have it in stock. I could get a new phone on eBay for that price.
I did find a phone I wanted on eBay. I had decided that since the broken phone had been free, it wouldn't kill me to spend lots of money and just get the phone I want and won't mind still having for a couple of years until my contract is finally up and they're offering me free phones and hand jobs and unicorns to keep my business. eBay had the phone I wanted for a couple hundred dollars less than full retail. I was willing to pay the Buy It Now price just to get my hands on a shiny new phone. eBay then proceeded to flip me off with both hands as it denied not one, not two, but three credit cards I offered it. I got some error about the cards not being valid for payment. I think eBay just doesn't like money, because THREE separate credit cards?! On top of it, my husband tried to use his Bill Me Later account, and that refused to work either. Not that I did much business on eBay, but I guess I won't bother ever trying to again.
At that point, it had been a week since my phone broke. After cussing at eBay, I decided the easiest thing to do was to go back to the cell phone store and pay full retail for the phone. It was easy, after the half hour wait for a salesperson to become free to help me. Now, I have a shiny new smart phone that is not as clunky and doesn't need to be charged every 5 minutes. And handset insurance.
Our story begins on the morning of I Don't Know, Some Weekday. My alarm was ringing, and I wasn't ready to try to get to work on time yet so I hit snooze. As I dragged my sleepy hand back under the deliciously warm covers, I was unconsciously dragging my phone with it. My hand made it back; the phone did not. It fell between my nightstand and my bed, landing on the power strip there. I have dropped this phone before, on concrete even, and it was fine. Magically, this phone had managed to land on the edge of the power button for the power strip, cracking the screen, and rendering the phone completely useless. At first, the screen was just a jumble of jagged colors from the spiderweb crack. Then, it went entirely dark and never recovered.
We are advised to not speak ill of the dead, but there were days when I hated that phone. The battery could be fully charged when I woke up and without me even using it be dead by the time I left work. It was big and clunky too, but it was free and it did work, and a working phone is better than no phone at all. But there I was, with no phone at all. Luckily, I had the sense to wait until we got our first land line phone in 10 years to break my cell phone. Also luckily, a friend was willing to loan me a talk-and-text-only cell phone until I got a new one. Unluckily, I had no way of checking Facebook while waiting to pick up my daughter from school. Imagine! I went to the cell phone store and pled with them to allow me to renew my contract and buy a new phone for the lower price, but they would not budge. I threatened to cancel my contract and go elsewhere, they would not budge. The salesman suggested a cell phone repair store, a thought that had not occurred to me. So I went there optimistically, only to be told within 5 seconds of showing them the phone that the replacement part is $300 (excluding labor costs) and they don't even have it in stock. I could get a new phone on eBay for that price.
I did find a phone I wanted on eBay. I had decided that since the broken phone had been free, it wouldn't kill me to spend lots of money and just get the phone I want and won't mind still having for a couple of years until my contract is finally up and they're offering me free phones and hand jobs and unicorns to keep my business. eBay had the phone I wanted for a couple hundred dollars less than full retail. I was willing to pay the Buy It Now price just to get my hands on a shiny new phone. eBay then proceeded to flip me off with both hands as it denied not one, not two, but three credit cards I offered it. I got some error about the cards not being valid for payment. I think eBay just doesn't like money, because THREE separate credit cards?! On top of it, my husband tried to use his Bill Me Later account, and that refused to work either. Not that I did much business on eBay, but I guess I won't bother ever trying to again.
At that point, it had been a week since my phone broke. After cussing at eBay, I decided the easiest thing to do was to go back to the cell phone store and pay full retail for the phone. It was easy, after the half hour wait for a salesperson to become free to help me. Now, I have a shiny new smart phone that is not as clunky and doesn't need to be charged every 5 minutes. And handset insurance.
1/29/2012
Aide and Abettor
My son likes board games; so much so that he often plays with them alone. Mostly he just plays with the game pieces like they're action figures, not caring to play the game as directed. Sometimes he asks me to play, and today, I ended up teaching him how to play Guess Who. He caught on quickly, winning his very first game. I had just a couple of characters left that could've been his. I'd asked earlier if his person was a girl, and he'd said yes. So I asked him if he was either Girl 1 or Girl 2, and he showed me that he'd actually drawn a male character. He giggled wildly and said, "I tricked you!"
I explained that answering dishonestly in this game is cheating. Honestly, though, I didn't know whether I should be disappointed that he cheated, or proud that he learned the rules quickly enough to know how to cheat on his first game. It was actually funny, because he's five and it was just a board game. When we played the second time, he didn't cheat; I won that round. He'd learned his lesson. Later, when he wanted some Count Chocula (known in our house as a "dessert cereal"), he came to me, wrapped his little arms around me, put his head on my shoulder, gave me the sweetest puppy dog eyes, longest pleeeeeeeeaaaaase, and a kiss on my cheek. My sweet little boy, cheating and bribing all in one day. They grow so fast.
I explained that answering dishonestly in this game is cheating. Honestly, though, I didn't know whether I should be disappointed that he cheated, or proud that he learned the rules quickly enough to know how to cheat on his first game. It was actually funny, because he's five and it was just a board game. When we played the second time, he didn't cheat; I won that round. He'd learned his lesson. Later, when he wanted some Count Chocula (known in our house as a "dessert cereal"), he came to me, wrapped his little arms around me, put his head on my shoulder, gave me the sweetest puppy dog eyes, longest pleeeeeeeeaaaaase, and a kiss on my cheek. My sweet little boy, cheating and bribing all in one day. They grow so fast.
1/22/2012
Self-Helper
My baby turned 5 a couple of weeks ago. I don't know where the time went. I was pregnant forever, he was finally born, he took a couple of steps, and all of a sudden he's 5. He plays better, both with his sister and independently. He can get his own snacks. He can operate the TV. The bottom line is that he requires less of my attention now. I tried to savor his infancy, but now that it's gone I don't have any excuses for not investing more of my time into myself and the things I like to do. I don't have to sell myself short on 20 minute exercise sessions because he'll get bored and goodness knows what he'll get into. I don't have to take 2-minute showers because he might find and eat a food he's allergic to. I don't have to put off making jewelry until he's asleep because his tiny hands are trying to splash my beads everywhere. If he needs me, he can wait until I finish reading a chapter before I jump up to help. So I plan to invest in my well-being more. I'll work out for an hour when I can, maybe soak in a bath after. I can read with both eyes on the page instead of one on him. I can shut myself in my room to write. I can make jewelry in peace. Maybe I'll even find time to learn something new. I knew I couldn't keep him from growing up forever, so now it's time for me to start growing as well.
10/25/2011
Homeowner
I miss blogging. I truly do. I also miss jewelry making, and reading, and karaoke, and other clever things smart women do. I've been putting in a lot of overtime at work, which leaves precious little time for hobbies like the above, or the even more frivolous, such as housecleaning. See, Husband and me are thinking about considering looking into maybe buying a house. I'm told these cost money. Not just here's-200 bucks-I'll-move-in-on-Friday money, but herds of money. If I want a house, I best set out to wrangle said monies.
We've already started looking at available homes, even though we're probably not actually moving for another 8 months. Hours into adding this criterion, and removing that criterion, Husband's question was a good one: "How did people look at houses before the Internet?" I'm reasonably convinced that they didn't. Houses were never bought nor sold prior to checkboxes that let you search within a specific school district.
Many years ago I actually bought two homes without Internet assistance, and I remember the experience much as I remember using a typewriter on my more important homework assignments: It is an experience now to reserve only if your electricity is out. For weeks. And your phone and laptop batteries have already died. And maybe the Internet got destroyed in a fire. Seriously, looking at homes online is one of my favorite things to do. If my Facebook notifications appeared on the real estate site I was searching I'd never leave my computer at all. I get angry when there are no interior photos of a listed home. Only photos of the front exterior and the view from the back deck? Disqualified! If there are interior shots, but the kitchen isn't one of them? Disqualified! The kitchen is my favorite part, because that's where I keep my coffee. I need to make sure it's worthy. These things are important if you want to sell me your house. Which you do. Want to. Sell me your house. Because I'll make a great homeowner, and because once you do I can stop working all this overtime.
We've already started looking at available homes, even though we're probably not actually moving for another 8 months. Hours into adding this criterion, and removing that criterion, Husband's question was a good one: "How did people look at houses before the Internet?" I'm reasonably convinced that they didn't. Houses were never bought nor sold prior to checkboxes that let you search within a specific school district.
Many years ago I actually bought two homes without Internet assistance, and I remember the experience much as I remember using a typewriter on my more important homework assignments: It is an experience now to reserve only if your electricity is out. For weeks. And your phone and laptop batteries have already died. And maybe the Internet got destroyed in a fire. Seriously, looking at homes online is one of my favorite things to do. If my Facebook notifications appeared on the real estate site I was searching I'd never leave my computer at all. I get angry when there are no interior photos of a listed home. Only photos of the front exterior and the view from the back deck? Disqualified! If there are interior shots, but the kitchen isn't one of them? Disqualified! The kitchen is my favorite part, because that's where I keep my coffee. I need to make sure it's worthy. These things are important if you want to sell me your house. Which you do. Want to. Sell me your house. Because I'll make a great homeowner, and because once you do I can stop working all this overtime.
8/17/2011
Runner
Flint and I have been running. We're following the Couch to 5k program, which uses interval training to build up from 0k to 5k in about 2 months. So far we're sticking with it. We chat through the warm-up, wheeze "almost done!" encouragements through the rest. Some days are particularly challenging, like when I'm not feeling well or we're running on grass instead of concrete. Grass and hills make me whine "This is hard-uh!" like a four-year-old. Like my four-year-old, if we're getting specific.
I exercise every day, with little exception. I can handle some serious cardio training (Thank you, Jillian Michaels!) all in the comfort of my home, on my plush carpet. No hills, no ruts, no moving forward. Am I so out of shape that it kills me to run 90 seconds on grass? Have I so lost touch with my youth that all I know how to do are specified routines?
Actually, that last paragraph hits me with the much bigger question: How did I get to be a person who runs? Exercise is one thing, because you can consider Dance Dance Revolution exercise. I also love kickboxing. These things are fun. Running is the opposite of fun. When Kickboxing learns Running is coming to dinner, it seats Running next to Uncle Shuffleboard. And now here I am, a runner. I think I can call myself that because, while I may not be able to run even a continuous 10 minutes yet, I'm going at this pavement pounding in earnest. I have to make myself slow down. I have read articles on form. I take tips on shoes and stretching. I fuel and hydrate. And I don't hate it. In fact, I so much don't hate it that if I don't get to run, I feel anxious. I regret it every time. I know that I'm steadily improving, and I don't want any setbacks.
Don't worry, though; I will still be very much in the non-professional category of runner for any foreseeable future. The reason I know I can only get better is because I began at so low a level that typing the word "running" left me winded.
I exercise every day, with little exception. I can handle some serious cardio training (Thank you, Jillian Michaels!) all in the comfort of my home, on my plush carpet. No hills, no ruts, no moving forward. Am I so out of shape that it kills me to run 90 seconds on grass? Have I so lost touch with my youth that all I know how to do are specified routines?
Actually, that last paragraph hits me with the much bigger question: How did I get to be a person who runs? Exercise is one thing, because you can consider Dance Dance Revolution exercise. I also love kickboxing. These things are fun. Running is the opposite of fun. When Kickboxing learns Running is coming to dinner, it seats Running next to Uncle Shuffleboard. And now here I am, a runner. I think I can call myself that because, while I may not be able to run even a continuous 10 minutes yet, I'm going at this pavement pounding in earnest. I have to make myself slow down. I have read articles on form. I take tips on shoes and stretching. I fuel and hydrate. And I don't hate it. In fact, I so much don't hate it that if I don't get to run, I feel anxious. I regret it every time. I know that I'm steadily improving, and I don't want any setbacks.
Don't worry, though; I will still be very much in the non-professional category of runner for any foreseeable future. The reason I know I can only get better is because I began at so low a level that typing the word "running" left me winded.
4/30/2011
Labeler
At work - my real job that they pay me to do and is my actual profession - we've been tasked with adding creative labels to our email signatures. It's an optional team building exercise, and meant to be fun. For example, your label could be, "Jane Doe, League Bowler," "John Smith, Stamp Collector," or "Sauron, Dark Lord." But when it comes to labeling myself, I am undecided. "Describe yourself in three words" is not a test I can easily pass.
If you want to hire me, the words are "efficient," "dependable," and "resolute" (That's not a solicitation. I'm not for hire). If you were my friend, you might use the words "crazy," "talkative," "supportive." If you were not my friend, you might say "crazy," "talkative," "annoying." If you were my mom before I turned 18, you wouldn't say so much as yell "lazy," "argumentative," "goddammityouneverlistentomedon'tyoutalkbacktomegotoyourroomrightnowyounglady!"
While the email labels at work aren't meant to define you, but to give others a glimpse into the person you are outside of work, a part of me feels that I should give as complete a picture as I can. I want to expose the traits of mine that I like best. The worst and greatest piece of this is that the difficulty in choosing lies in the fact that I have many traits that I like. If that sounds like bragging, please understand that it took me a long time to become a me that I like. If you remain unconvinced, please refer back to the previous paragraph's descriptions of me filtered through the voices of my enemies and my mother.
If you want to hire me, the words are "efficient," "dependable," and "resolute" (That's not a solicitation. I'm not for hire). If you were my friend, you might use the words "crazy," "talkative," "supportive." If you were not my friend, you might say "crazy," "talkative," "annoying." If you were my mom before I turned 18, you wouldn't say so much as yell "lazy," "argumentative," "goddammityouneverlistentomedon'tyoutalkbacktomegotoyourroomrightnowyounglady!"
While the email labels at work aren't meant to define you, but to give others a glimpse into the person you are outside of work, a part of me feels that I should give as complete a picture as I can. I want to expose the traits of mine that I like best. The worst and greatest piece of this is that the difficulty in choosing lies in the fact that I have many traits that I like. If that sounds like bragging, please understand that it took me a long time to become a me that I like. If you remain unconvinced, please refer back to the previous paragraph's descriptions of me filtered through the voices of my enemies and my mother.
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