Bloggers are artists. You might not think of us that way because there's no blog posts hanging in the Louvre or the Met, but it's art just the same. We are like painters - our oils are honesty, humor, and emotion; our canvas is the World Wide Web.
And just like all artists, we want you to like us. I mean, we really want you to like us. But if you don't, that's okay, too.
I can't stand Lady Gaga music, I hated all the Harry Potter books, and I wouldn't cast Kristen Stewart to make a collect phone call, but some of you might disagree with me. Well, except for that Kristen Stewart thing. I mean, seriously.
The point is that we're all entitled to our opinion.
I wrote a post called 20 Things A Mother Should Tell Her Son in about 15-minutes on a Sunday afternoon while cooking dinner. If I had known that millions of people were going to read it, I probably would have spent more time of it. I would have devoted a solid twenty.
It's like that dream where you accidentally go to school naked, except my school was the Internet and my class was the population of New York. Suddenly I was all like, 'Does this blog make me look fat? Is my HTML on straight?' I swear, it was just like middle school all over again.
Since then, I've read hundreds of negative comments, several articles personally attacking my parenting, and one message board full of people convinced that I'm single-handedly ruining the next generation of men. (You're welcome, by the way.) And unfortunately, on most days, the hundreds of criticisms outweigh the millions of shares. I'm no mathematician, but that doesn't make any sense.
I don't mind you disagreeing with me. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I love it because that means I made you think. You read my list and thought to yourself, "Pfft. Really? She's so stupid. If this was my list, I would tell my son...."
And that's just awesome. If my stupidity inspires you, then I'll be happy to be this moronic again tomorrow.
Disagreeing is fine, but please do not attack me personally. Counterpoint my thoughts. Share your opinions. Just don't cut me with your switchblade, m'kay?
"You are stupid and selfish."
"I don't know what dinosaur wrote this, but move out of the south!"
"When you teach a false doctrine, you are not helping you're children, but you are destroying their lives before they get a chance to live."
"You are raising a mangina. Your son doesn't have a chance."
"And look at the advice she gave her daughter? Let's just say that I feel sorry for her husband having to live with somebody like that."
"What closed minded dumbass wrote this?"
"My first thought was that you hated all men and you were divorced (not remarried) and bitter, but I read one post implying that you loved your husband."
"It could be read as gender discrimination either way - either you are over-protective about your daughter or that you just don't care about boys."
"I will pray the Lord takes away all the hate in your heart."
"Whoever wrote this is an idiot."
"It's not easier having sons. You have to teach them values and morals too."
"Are you really this stupid?"
"This is seriously the most paranoid thing that I've read on here."
"You are raising the type of son that you are trying to protect your daughter against."
And that doesn't include all the people who just said they hated it or they weren't impressed. Ahem.
I would say it didn't bother me, but I don't lie on my blog (that much).
Other bloggers have also shared their opinions about cyber-bullying.
Michele, of the hilarious blog ODNT, wrote about her feelings when she received hate mail, which eventually turned into a public Twitter breakup. And every blogger knows, a Twitter breakup is the worst kind.
Leslie, of the award-winning blog The Bearded Iris, took down her comment section for the summer after a photograph was criticized inappropriately. I saw the photograph and I thought it was pure awesomeness.
It's good to know I'm not alone.
When I read the personal attacks posted about me, I felt like Robin Williams talking to Matt Damon on the park bench in the movie Good Will Hunting: "But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine and you ripped my fucking life apart?"
I'm an artist and I painted something - something original that I created - but you took one look at my painting and you called me an idiot, a horrible wife, and a bad mom. And that's not nice, y'all! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
You cannot possibly understand the depths of me as a woman, wife, mother, or writer simply from reading one post. I've been hanging out with me my entire life, and I haven't gotten me figured out yet.
Online bullying has become just like road rage. It's too easy for us to login and release our personal frustration on strangers without any accountability or repercussion. In short, we need to stop giving people the cyber-finger while we're stuck in traffic on the information highway.
Years ago, I watched an interview on VH-1 with Rosie O'Donnell about Madonna. She said that she and Madge were on an elevator in New York shortly after Madonna dyed her hair black. A stranger got on the elevator, said, "You're Madonna, right? Your hair looks like shit like that", and then he got off at the next floor as if he hadn't said a word. Rosie said that Madonna was genuinely upset about it, and even teared up over the insult.
It stuck with me because I think somebody like Madonna is invincible. But wait, Madonna cared about what some stranger said to her? The same woman who can do 42 hours of yoga per day, she cried? Imagine how somebody like me must feel. I haven't seen the inside of a yoga studio since, well, ever.
I'm not what you'd call a "thick-skinned" person. In fact, my skin is so thin that you can determine my blood type simply by looking at my forearm, but I'm learning. I'm learning how to take those hurtful words and put them in a box. I deal with them when it's appropriate, and when it's not, I shut the lid and walk away.
Last night, I went home and kissed my husband and hugged my children. We laughed and talked and played ball together in the yard. I tucked my babies into bed and snuggled up with my husband before drifting off to a peaceful sleep, and I didn't allow those negative comments to define me as a person.
So you didn't ruin my day. You were just a part of it.
Showing posts with label I Rant Sometimes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I Rant Sometimes. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
My Thoughts on Chick-Fil-A
Did you ever think a southern fried chicken sandwich would become the symbol of our country's social issues? Yeah, me neither.
Am I the only one who's tired of talking about it? It's become Chick-Fil-Annoying, if you ask me.
I've hesitated about sharing my opinions because I'm probably going to offend people on both sides. I see valid points from both, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
[For Chick-Fil-A.]
It's common knowledge that Chick-Fil-A is run by a very devout southern Baptist family. Can you name another retail establishment that is closed on Sunday? It's not surprising that a traditional Christian family has traditional Christian beliefs.
This quote from Dan Cathy's Christian Radio interview is sometimes left out: "... While my family and I believe in the Biblical definition of marriage, we love and respect anyone who disagrees."
Not that I believe Cathy's statements were intentional marketing, but wow! - what a marketing campaign! Every radio station has talked about it. Every television network has covered it. It's been all over Facebook and Twitter. Common, everyday people just like you and me are talking about Chick-Fil-A at the grocery store or the neighborhood pool. And Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day? With lines that were miles long? Marketing genius.
At the end of the day, free speech is free speech. Freedom of religion is freedom of religion. These freedoms exist for all of us, whether we agree with each other or not.
If we ban Chick-Fil-A in certain cities because of their Christian beliefs, should we ban Jewish owned establishments for the same reason? What about Muslim businesses? How would you feel if a city didn't allow sushi restaurants due to their religious beliefs? I, for one, would cry a river. I love sushi. And I would say that it wasn't fair.
Freedom from religious persecution was sort of the whole reason that we started America in the first place.
[Against Chick-Fil-A.]
But, look - if you feel that way, Mr. Cathy, did you have to be so specific about expressing it?
I would have preferred every "we" in his statement to be "I" instead. Each person is entitled to their opinions and their beliefs, but when he said "we" instead of "I", he changed "Dan Cathy" to "Chick-Fil-A". And it's just not cool to speak for an entire organization of executives, franchise owners, employees and even patrons.
And now, we're forced to take sides when all we wanted was a chicken sandwich and some waffle fries.
I got a small taste of the offense, personally, when I read his statement: "We are a family-owned business, a family-led business, and we are married to our first wives."
As for me? I'm not married to my first husband. So would Dan Cathy deny me the beautiful, faithful love that I share with my husband now? Would he call our son a bastard? Would he condemn me to Hell for divorce?
When a comment is directed toward you, it's easy to take it personally.
Take out what he said about gay marriage and insert "people who are overweight" or "women who don't work" or "men who play too much golf" or anything else you want. Like I said, when a comment is directed toward you, it's easy to take it personally.
Nobody can argue against what the Bible says about marriage. Nobody is trying. But the Bible also says that you should honor your mother and father. You should not drink until you are drunk. You should not covet your neighbor's possessions. You should not commit adultery. You should not have pre-marital sex. You should not take the Lord's name in vain.
So if you've ever said, "God, I hate my husband!" just before going out drinking with your girlfriends so you could gossip about so-and-so's new Escalade, you've committed a multitude of sins.
And according to the Bible, a sin is a sin. There was only one perfect man who ever walked on this earth and his name was Jesus, not Dan Cathy.
Nobody told me that I couldn't marry my husband, so why should I tell somebody else who they can marry?
Love is an individual choice. And all individuals should be loved.
Whether you're for or against this issue, let's try spreading some love, y'all. It tastes even better than chicken.
Am I the only one who's tired of talking about it? It's become Chick-Fil-Annoying, if you ask me.
I've hesitated about sharing my opinions because I'm probably going to offend people on both sides. I see valid points from both, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
[For Chick-Fil-A.]
It's common knowledge that Chick-Fil-A is run by a very devout southern Baptist family. Can you name another retail establishment that is closed on Sunday? It's not surprising that a traditional Christian family has traditional Christian beliefs.
This quote from Dan Cathy's Christian Radio interview is sometimes left out: "... While my family and I believe in the Biblical definition of marriage, we love and respect anyone who disagrees."
Not that I believe Cathy's statements were intentional marketing, but wow! - what a marketing campaign! Every radio station has talked about it. Every television network has covered it. It's been all over Facebook and Twitter. Common, everyday people just like you and me are talking about Chick-Fil-A at the grocery store or the neighborhood pool. And Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day? With lines that were miles long? Marketing genius.
At the end of the day, free speech is free speech. Freedom of religion is freedom of religion. These freedoms exist for all of us, whether we agree with each other or not.
If we ban Chick-Fil-A in certain cities because of their Christian beliefs, should we ban Jewish owned establishments for the same reason? What about Muslim businesses? How would you feel if a city didn't allow sushi restaurants due to their religious beliefs? I, for one, would cry a river. I love sushi. And I would say that it wasn't fair.
Freedom from religious persecution was sort of the whole reason that we started America in the first place.
[Against Chick-Fil-A.]
But, look - if you feel that way, Mr. Cathy, did you have to be so specific about expressing it?
I would have preferred every "we" in his statement to be "I" instead. Each person is entitled to their opinions and their beliefs, but when he said "we" instead of "I", he changed "Dan Cathy" to "Chick-Fil-A". And it's just not cool to speak for an entire organization of executives, franchise owners, employees and even patrons.
And now, we're forced to take sides when all we wanted was a chicken sandwich and some waffle fries.
I got a small taste of the offense, personally, when I read his statement: "We are a family-owned business, a family-led business, and we are married to our first wives."
As for me? I'm not married to my first husband. So would Dan Cathy deny me the beautiful, faithful love that I share with my husband now? Would he call our son a bastard? Would he condemn me to Hell for divorce?
When a comment is directed toward you, it's easy to take it personally.
Take out what he said about gay marriage and insert "people who are overweight" or "women who don't work" or "men who play too much golf" or anything else you want. Like I said, when a comment is directed toward you, it's easy to take it personally.
Nobody can argue against what the Bible says about marriage. Nobody is trying. But the Bible also says that you should honor your mother and father. You should not drink until you are drunk. You should not covet your neighbor's possessions. You should not commit adultery. You should not have pre-marital sex. You should not take the Lord's name in vain.
So if you've ever said, "God, I hate my husband!" just before going out drinking with your girlfriends so you could gossip about so-and-so's new Escalade, you've committed a multitude of sins.
And according to the Bible, a sin is a sin. There was only one perfect man who ever walked on this earth and his name was Jesus, not Dan Cathy.
Nobody told me that I couldn't marry my husband, so why should I tell somebody else who they can marry?
Love is an individual choice. And all individuals should be loved.
Whether you're for or against this issue, let's try spreading some love, y'all. It tastes even better than chicken.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Luke, Where Is Your Father?
About ten o'clock last night, somebody rang our doorbell. And then again. And again.
Well, good freaking grief. Where's the fire?
If I had normal children, they'd be asleep right now and you'd be in deep poo, mister. But instead, we're in Bailey's room watching Fairly Odd Parents and I don't feel like walking alllll the waaaaay downstaaaaaairs to answer the door.
Besides, we already have a home church, I don't want any magazine subscriptions, and I've personally eaten 12 boxes of Girl Scout cookies this year. That about covers any reason you might have for ringing my doorbell.
But Brian opened the door (I think he would leave me for a box of Tagalongs given the chance) and walked outside. A few minutes later, he came upstairs and announced that we had been door ditched.
DOOR DITCHED?! YESSSS! WE'VE ARRIVED! We're officially those old, uncool people who live down the street that teenagers love to watch answer the door only to discover that nobody is standing there. IT'S A RIOT.
I sort of feel like I should start reading up on what that AARP program is all about.
So here's something that you should know about my husband: If delinquent teenage pranks were a profession - he'd be effing Bill Gates - which would be great because then I'd have "my people" watch Fairly Odd Parents and write this blog for you. Everybody wins. Well, really, just me, but it's still totally worth it. You know - for me.
And because Brian earned his Ph.D. in door ditching, he knew they'd be back. So he decided to do what somebody did to him when he was a teenager. And no - I'm not talking about that time when he was sleeping and they they dipped his fingers in warm water. Come on!... I'm kidding probably. I'm talking about scaring the bejesus out of some pranksters!
He went out the back door, quietly opened the fence gate, walked around the side of the house and hid behind a large tree near the driveway. And yep - sure as the firey poop that will be thrown on our doorstep next week, those punks tried to door ditch us again.
Hey! What are you doing?
Uh... nothing.
It doesn't look like nothing. Are you door ditching?
No, sir.
Then why are you standing in this driveway?
Uh... I'm not sure.
Not sure? Well, what do you know?
Uh....
Do you know your name?
It's Luke, sir.
Luke, where is your father?
Luke, where is your father?
He's at home.
And where's your friend?
I don't have a friend, sir.
Then let's walk over to those bushes and see if we can find him.
Looks like your friend left you here with me, Luke. Do you know the man who lives in this house?
No, sir.
He's crazy! He is crazy, Luke. He was in the military and he was a cop. Do you know that crazy man?
No, sir.
That crazy man is me. So my advice to you is to find another house. Door ditch somebody else, okay, Luke?
Yes, sir.
Tune in next week as my blog post is entitled:
Crazy ex-cop, ex-military's home completely destroyed by eggs and toilet paper
Subtitle:
If only we still had a door for them to ditch
Well, good freaking grief. Where's the fire?
If I had normal children, they'd be asleep right now and you'd be in deep poo, mister. But instead, we're in Bailey's room watching Fairly Odd Parents and I don't feel like walking alllll the waaaaay downstaaaaaairs to answer the door.
Besides, we already have a home church, I don't want any magazine subscriptions, and I've personally eaten 12 boxes of Girl Scout cookies this year. That about covers any reason you might have for ringing my doorbell.
But Brian opened the door (I think he would leave me for a box of Tagalongs given the chance) and walked outside. A few minutes later, he came upstairs and announced that we had been door ditched.
DOOR DITCHED?! YESSSS! WE'VE ARRIVED! We're officially those old, uncool people who live down the street that teenagers love to watch answer the door only to discover that nobody is standing there. IT'S A RIOT.
I sort of feel like I should start reading up on what that AARP program is all about.
So here's something that you should know about my husband: If delinquent teenage pranks were a profession - he'd be effing Bill Gates - which would be great because then I'd have "my people" watch Fairly Odd Parents and write this blog for you. Everybody wins. Well, really, just me, but it's still totally worth it. You know - for me.
And because Brian earned his Ph.D. in door ditching, he knew they'd be back. So he decided to do what somebody did to him when he was a teenager. And no - I'm not talking about that time when he was sleeping and they they dipped his fingers in warm water. Come on!... I'm kidding probably. I'm talking about scaring the bejesus out of some pranksters!
He went out the back door, quietly opened the fence gate, walked around the side of the house and hid behind a large tree near the driveway. And yep - sure as the firey poop that will be thrown on our doorstep next week, those punks tried to door ditch us again.
 |
| This is Brian when he was in the military. Isn't he all handsome 'n' stuff? Here's when the door ditching catching training began. Try saying that 5 times fast. |
One teenager waited in some nearby shrubs while another one walked up our driveway. Brian jumped out and said,
Hey! What are you doing?
Uh... nothing.
It doesn't look like nothing. Are you door ditching?
No, sir.
Then why are you standing in this driveway?
Uh... I'm not sure.
Not sure? Well, what do you know?
Uh....
Do you know your name?
It's Luke, sir.
Luke, where is your father?
I'm sorry, but I have to interrupt here. In my head, when I hear Brian saying, "Luke, where is your father", it sounds just like Darth Vadar saying, "Luke, I am your father." I know it didn't happen that way, but man! - wouldn't it have been awesome if it did? And yes, that was a rhetorical. Of course it would have been awesome! Okay. Back to the story....
Luke, where is your father?
Sorry. I had to say it just one more time.
He's at home.
And where's your friend?
I don't have a friend, sir.
Then let's walk over to those bushes and see if we can find him.
*Cowardly teenage boy/ door ditching cohort runs down the street like his pants were on fire.*
Looks like your friend left you here with me, Luke. Do you know the man who lives in this house?
No, sir.
He's crazy! He is crazy, Luke. He was in the military and he was a cop. Do you know that crazy man?
No, sir.
That crazy man is me. So my advice to you is to find another house. Door ditch somebody else, okay, Luke?
Yes, sir.
 |
| He eats door ditchers for breakfast. |
Tune in next week as my blog post is entitled:
Crazy ex-cop, ex-military's home completely destroyed by eggs and toilet paper
Subtitle:
If only we still had a door for them to ditch
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Thursday, January 26, 2012
I had a tough day at work and my son looked like a hooker
Yesterday was a rough day and I felt overwhelmed. I had so much to do that I wanted to hire a body double.
Oh, and those purple shorts are size 18 months, but Drew is a size 3T. I literally saw butt cheek hanging out.
Drew was dressed like a preschool hooker, which caused a hate crime right there between the nap mats and the finger paints. Seriously. It was a Lifetime movie waiting to happen. Hillary Swank will probably be cast for the lead.
Actually, scratch that. I didn't want another body like mine. I wanted a body like Carrie Underwood's. Can you rent one of those? Well, you know, I mean - legally?
I left the office late. I was worried that I wouldn't make it to the kids' schools before they charged me a late fee and/or called Social Services. Dang! If I get stuck behind a tractor, I'm screwed! No joke. That's actually happened before. I don't work in what you would refer to as "the city".
I rushed into Drew's school with ten minutes to spare and found him sitting on the floor, crying, and dressed like a hooker.
Remember when schools actually cared about family values?
I wanted to post a photo of Drew wearing this outfit, but I thought my husband might divorce me over it. And I'm pretty sure that blogs stand up in a court of law.
This is what he was wearing:
.JPG) |
| Look at that boy with the daisy dukes on... I want you to... Look at that boy with the daisy dukes on... everybody |
Oh, and those purple shorts are size 18 months, but Drew is a size 3T. I literally saw butt cheek hanging out.
So maybe my rough day didn't compare to Drew's rough day because he somehow managed to soil two outfits. The school could have washed his clothes or they could have called me, but instead, they thought that dressing him like Charlie Sheen's girlfriend wasn't considered an emergency.
Sure - there was no medical emergency, but there was definitely a fashion emergency going on.
I walked up to Drew and asked him why he was crying. He said that Luke punched him in the eye with a train. That's the preschool equivalent to rolled coins or brass knuckles! That Luke kid is on the fast track to parole meetings and community service - you mark my words.
Of course, in Luke's defense, if a dude wears purple booty shorts to school, then he's probably going to get punched in the face. I guess it's good that Drew learned that lesson early.
Of course, in Luke's defense, if a dude wears purple booty shorts to school, then he's probably going to get punched in the face. I guess it's good that Drew learned that lesson early.
 |
| Yo, Adriaaaaaaaan! We did iiiiiiiit! |
Drew was dressed like a preschool hooker, which caused a hate crime right there between the nap mats and the finger paints. Seriously. It was a Lifetime movie waiting to happen. Hillary Swank will probably be cast for the lead.
Between my stressful day, Drew's stressful day, and Drew's stressful day making my day more stressful, I had a Michelob Ultra for dinner. There. I said it. And luckily, it was only three points on Weight Watchers, which left me plenty of points for comfort foods at midnight.
Monday, January 9, 2012
"The Boy" Is Here
On Saturday afternoon, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, hoping expecting to see some Girl Scouts smiling their sweet, little smiles that force me to order several boxes of Samoas completely and totally against my will. Listen, Girl Scouts should do hostage negotiation instead of cookie sales. It's impossible to say no to them. Believe me, I've tried, you know, sort of.
Anyway, a ten-year-old boy was standing on my front porch WHO DIDN'T HAVE ANY COOKIES AT ALL. Sheesh, somebody should teach this kid some manners.
"Hi. Is Bailey home?"
"Uhmmm, Bailey? Bailey who? Sorry. Never heard of her. You must have the wrong house."
It caught me off guard. I wasn't prepared. My house was clean, I had makeup on and my Smith & Wesson was in the shop. Where are those cupcakes? I should at least try to scare him off with my poor baking skills.
See, when a boy comes to your house, you have a maternal duty to scare the crap out of him. It's the same way with telling your kids that sitting too close to the television will make them blind or that Santa will come back and get that Wii if they don't start eating their vegetables. It's just part of being a mom.
I had hoped to look crazy, disheveled and/or homicidal when a boy first knocked on my door asking for my daughter, but none of that happened. Now he thinks that we are a normal family without a single dead body in the basement freezer. Damn it.
So Bailey stepped outside and talked to the boy for ten solid minutes. Yes, I know that he has a name. And I will gladly call him that once he's standing more than 100-feet away from my daughter.
I didn't go outside with her because THEY DESERVED SOME PRIVACY, Y'ALL. So I watched them through the shutters on the upstairs window instead.
Brian was pickin' up what I was puttin' down, because suddenly, our shrubs needed grooming. Yes, I know that it's the dead of winter and those gardenias aren't going to grow an inch between now and March, but when "the boy" was at our house, there was a landscape emergency. Trust me. It had to be done.
A friend of mine, John Little, suggested that we try what clinical psychologists refer to as the "Bad Boys Technique." The training video is posted below.
Anyway, a ten-year-old boy was standing on my front porch WHO DIDN'T HAVE ANY COOKIES AT ALL. Sheesh, somebody should teach this kid some manners.
"Hi. Is Bailey home?"
"Uhmmm, Bailey? Bailey who? Sorry. Never heard of her. You must have the wrong house."
It caught me off guard. I wasn't prepared. My house was clean, I had makeup on and my Smith & Wesson was in the shop. Where are those cupcakes? I should at least try to scare him off with my poor baking skills.
See, when a boy comes to your house, you have a maternal duty to scare the crap out of him. It's the same way with telling your kids that sitting too close to the television will make them blind or that Santa will come back and get that Wii if they don't start eating their vegetables. It's just part of being a mom.
I had hoped to look crazy, disheveled and/or homicidal when a boy first knocked on my door asking for my daughter, but none of that happened. Now he thinks that we are a normal family without a single dead body in the basement freezer. Damn it.
So Bailey stepped outside and talked to the boy for ten solid minutes. Yes, I know that he has a name. And I will gladly call him that once he's standing more than 100-feet away from my daughter.
I didn't go outside with her because THEY DESERVED SOME PRIVACY, Y'ALL. So I watched them through the shutters on the upstairs window instead.
Brian was pickin' up what I was puttin' down, because suddenly, our shrubs needed grooming. Yes, I know that it's the dead of winter and those gardenias aren't going to grow an inch between now and March, but when "the boy" was at our house, there was a landscape emergency. Trust me. It had to be done.
A friend of mine, John Little, suggested that we try what clinical psychologists refer to as the "Bad Boys Technique." The training video is posted below.
This video is rated R and for mature audiences only. The thoughts expressed in this video belong solely to that of Bad Boys and do not represent the thoughts or opinions of Werdyab Blog.
Oh, okay, who am I kidding? Of course they do! THIS IS MY DAUGHTER WE'RE TALKING ABOUT HERE. All bets are off.
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Saturday, December 31, 2011
Mr. Stinky Pants hit on me
The last few months of 2011 can suck it! We've either been stuck in the bed sick or stuck in some doctor's office watching 1995 Disney movies. For fun, we would play Look At My Puke & Guess What I Ate. Hey. Don't judge. It's been a rough patch.
But Drew woke up this morning without a fever! Hallelujah!
He was begging me to take him somewhere. ANYWHERE. He's been stuck in the house for days and so have I.
So I decided to take Drew to McDonald's and let him play on the indoor playground because 1) it's free and 2).... yeah, mainly because it's free.
As I was scrolling through my Facebook news feed, a random Dad starting talking to me. No matter how many times I tried to politely close the conversation, he kept talking. CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I'M BUSY HERE? I MIGHT MISS A TRAFFIC RANT OR AN INSPIRATIONAL QUOTE IF YOU KEEP YAPPING.
It's been a long time, but I think he was hitting on me. Yes, I know that sounds narcissistic, but without saying it, the punchline won't be as funny later. And I'm willing to look ridiculous for a laugh. IT'S WHAT I DO.
Is this guy slow?
I didn't say two words to him. I had on no makeup and I think I washed my hair two days ago. *Think* being the key word in that sentence. Poor fella. He must really be desperate.
I found a way to mention my husband at least three times, but this guy wasn't deterred. HOMEWRECKER!
About that time, his seven-year-old daughter walked up and said,
You know when you're kind of hoping that something bad happens to somebody, but then when it actually happens, you feel awful? That's what happened to me.
Then he left faster than you can spell narcissistic. And even faster than that if you're a poor speller.
But Drew woke up this morning without a fever! Hallelujah!
He was begging me to take him somewhere. ANYWHERE. He's been stuck in the house for days and so have I.
I wonder what the weather is like out there... Wow. What is that fiery ball in the sky? Is that the sun? It's been so long since I've seen it, I almost forgot what it looked like.
So I decided to take Drew to McDonald's and let him play on the indoor playground because 1) it's free and 2).... yeah, mainly because it's free.
As I was scrolling through my Facebook news feed, a random Dad starting talking to me. No matter how many times I tried to politely close the conversation, he kept talking. CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I'M BUSY HERE? I MIGHT MISS A TRAFFIC RANT OR AN INSPIRATIONAL QUOTE IF YOU KEEP YAPPING.
It's been a long time, but I think he was hitting on me. Yes, I know that sounds narcissistic, but without saying it, the punchline won't be as funny later. And I'm willing to look ridiculous for a laugh. IT'S WHAT I DO.
He said things like "you are so nice to talk to" and "gosh, you are so pretty"...
Is this guy slow?
I didn't say two words to him. I had on no makeup and I think I washed my hair two days ago. *Think* being the key word in that sentence. Poor fella. He must really be desperate.
I found a way to mention my husband at least three times, but this guy wasn't deterred. HOMEWRECKER!
How am I going to get rid of him? Drew, it's time to move to the Chick-Fil-A. They have a free playground, too, you know.
About that time, his seven-year-old daughter walked up and said,
"Do you know what my Dad's nickname is? It's Mr. Stinky Pants."
And I said, "Oh, I know. Daddies are stinkers, aren't they?"
"No. We call him that because he farts all the time. And his farts stink. REALLY bad."
You know when you're kind of hoping that something bad happens to somebody, but then when it actually happens, you feel awful? That's what happened to me.
"I think that we should go now. Nice talking to you. Bye." - Mr. Stinky Pants
Then he left faster than you can spell narcissistic. And even faster than that if you're a poor speller.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Lesson Learned: Blog Bragging is Bad
How many times do you have to touch a hot stove before you finally realize that you are going to get burned? If you're a blogger, it's somewhere between a "crap ton" and a "hell of a lot".
I keep making bold statements on the web that I am forced to take back later. It's like the universe is out to make me look stupid. Like I need any help! Pfft. AS IF THE UNIVERSE EVEN READS MY BLOG.
In my post after Thanksgiving, I boasted that Drew was three-years-old and had never been sick. I laughed about how some secret government agency might force Brian and I to have hundreds of kids to create a supergenetic race. Oh, how funny it was on that day...
Well, guess who's laughing now? No, not me. It's the universe. The stupid, dumb universe.
Last night, I took Drew to the Urgent Care with strep, a double ear infection and a sinus infection. It's like his body was trying to slowly kill him from the forehead down. He was throwing up most of the night and I was doing everything I knew to break his 104 degree fever.
This morning, working on very little sleep, I poured EggBeaters into my coffee thinking it was cream and then I made a grammatical error on Facebook while complaining about it.
And if there's two things that I cannot stand, it's bad coffee and bad grammar.
So, just to bring you up to speed - since my braggy post about Drew being all superhuman 'n' stuff, this is what has happened:
See how dangerous it is to brag?
But I decided that two can play at this game.
Look, universe. If you're going to take statements that I make on my blog and then flip them around so that I look like a liar, that's cool. No, really. It's no problem.
I've just got a few things that I would like to get on the record, okay?
Did you get all that, universe? Great. Thanks.
I keep making bold statements on the web that I am forced to take back later. It's like the universe is out to make me look stupid. Like I need any help! Pfft. AS IF THE UNIVERSE EVEN READS MY BLOG.
In my post after Thanksgiving, I boasted that Drew was three-years-old and had never been sick. I laughed about how some secret government agency might force Brian and I to have hundreds of kids to create a supergenetic race. Oh, how funny it was on that day...
Well, guess who's laughing now? No, not me. It's the universe. The stupid, dumb universe.
Last night, I took Drew to the Urgent Care with strep, a double ear infection and a sinus infection. It's like his body was trying to slowly kill him from the forehead down. He was throwing up most of the night and I was doing everything I knew to break his 104 degree fever.
This morning, working on very little sleep, I poured EggBeaters into my coffee thinking it was cream and then I made a grammatical error on Facebook while complaining about it.
And if there's two things that I cannot stand, it's bad coffee and bad grammar.
So, just to bring you up to speed - since my braggy post about Drew being all superhuman 'n' stuff, this is what has happened:
3 trips to the Urgent Care
3 doctor office visits
X-rays
Tests
Shots
Referral to Specialist
6 diagnosed illnesses
Vomit. Lots of vomit.
104 degree temperature
5 prescription medications
4 over-the-counter drugs
1 bottle of wine (that was for me)
See how dangerous it is to brag?
But I decided that two can play at this game.
Look, universe. If you're going to take statements that I make on my blog and then flip them around so that I look like a liar, that's cool. No, really. It's no problem.
I've just got a few things that I would like to get on the record, okay?
- I have never had a million dollars in my bank account.
- My legs have never looked like Carrie Underwood's.
- I have never had a closet the size of my living room.
- I have never been able to eat all the ice cream I want without gaining an ounce.
- My body looks nothing like Megan Fox's. I mean, really - like, nothing.
Did you get all that, universe? Great. Thanks.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Christmas in the Urgent Care
On Saturday, we enjoyed Christmas dinner with my Dad's side of the family. I LOVE CHRISTMAS.
And for those of you playing along at home: Thanksgiving Vomit - 2 Amanda - O.
I still couldn't eat turkey, dressing, pumpkin flavored anything OR Cheesecake Factory cheesecake! I'm telling you - we should have gone with Dominos instead.
After eating dinner, we started opening presents and Drew coughed. He coughed again. And again. He couldn't stop. If coughing was an Olympic event, Drew would be wearing a gold medal around his neck!
He was struggling for air and having trouble swallowing, so we quickly left to take him to the closest facility - Children's Healthcare of Atlanta Urgent Care.
The receptionist said that the wait was about three hours.
I told her that I wasn't asking to jump ahead in line. I was just asking that someone exam him and make sure that he could wait three hours. Seemed reasonable to me. Having patients die in the waiting room is probably bad for business.
So I gave her a chance to make it right, but she didn't. That's cool. It's her choice.
So then, in the calmest voice that I possess (the same one that serial killers use right before they chop up their victims into tiny pieces), I sternly looked into her eyes and I said,
And then I cried. I hate confrontation.
After a quick exam, the doctor ordered a chest and throat x-ray. The x-ray technician said that she was nervous when she saw that Drew was only three-years-old, but HE DID GREAT. She said she'd never seen a better behaved toddler.
His chest looked good but his throat was swollen. They pumped him full of steroids and and then we waited for a couple of hours to make sure that he was okay.
This was the worst part because now Drew was feeling well enough to be bored. I did everything I could think of to keep him busy. I even let him pick my nose once.
We had slipped into that Urgent Care Time Continuum where each minute lasts FOREEEEVERRRR. I looked to the left of me and saw Influenza. I looked to the right of me and saw Strep Throat. Awesome. I'll probably take home some nice Christmas gifts for the fam.
So at one point, we took photos with my iPhone to pass the time. See below: Drew giving the finger to the Urgent Care. That one's definitely not making the Hanna Andersson catalog this year.
And before you report me, NO, I did not teach him to do that. It was purely coincidental. But this affirms that thing down deep inside all of us that uncontrollably shoots a bird when we're pushed to the limit.
Besides, he's probably barely even seen me do that in traffic on I-75.
And for those of you playing along at home: Thanksgiving Vomit - 2 Amanda - O.
I still couldn't eat turkey, dressing, pumpkin flavored anything OR Cheesecake Factory cheesecake! I'm telling you - we should have gone with Dominos instead.
 |
| The kids in their matching Christmas PJs. This is my favorite Christmas tradition. Thanks, Aunt Sue! |
After eating dinner, we started opening presents and Drew coughed. He coughed again. And again. He couldn't stop. If coughing was an Olympic event, Drew would be wearing a gold medal around his neck!
He was struggling for air and having trouble swallowing, so we quickly left to take him to the closest facility - Children's Healthcare of Atlanta Urgent Care.
We'll just open these presents in the car. Thanks.By the time we got to the Urgent Care, I was in a panic! Drew was coughing every few seconds. And I'm not talking about a normal, sick cough. I'm talking a forcing-air-through-your-tiny-swollen-throat-so-that-you-can-live-to-see-another-day cough.
The receptionist said that the wait was about three hours.
Three hours? Uh... I'm sorry. Maybe you didn't hear me when I said THAT MY SON WAS HAVING TROUBLE BREATHING!
I told her that I wasn't asking to jump ahead in line. I was just asking that someone exam him and make sure that he could wait three hours. Seemed reasonable to me. Having patients die in the waiting room is probably bad for business.
So I gave her a chance to make it right, but she didn't. That's cool. It's her choice.
So then, in the calmest voice that I possess (the same one that serial killers use right before they chop up their victims into tiny pieces), I sternly looked into her eyes and I said,
Okay, here's what I'm going to do. I am going to stand in the middle of your waiting room and scream as loud as I can, "My son can't breathe! My son can't breathe! Somebody help me!" until you get us back there.
Uh...Okay. Well... then we will get someone to examine him right away.
Ahem. Thank you.
And then I cried. I hate confrontation.
After a quick exam, the doctor ordered a chest and throat x-ray. The x-ray technician said that she was nervous when she saw that Drew was only three-years-old, but HE DID GREAT. She said she'd never seen a better behaved toddler.
Now - I'm not saying that the low oxygen count had anything to do with it, but I will take that compliment and run - thank you very much.
His chest looked good but his throat was swollen. They pumped him full of steroids and and then we waited for a couple of hours to make sure that he was okay.
This was the worst part because now Drew was feeling well enough to be bored. I did everything I could think of to keep him busy. I even let him pick my nose once.
We had slipped into that Urgent Care Time Continuum where each minute lasts FOREEEEVERRRR. I looked to the left of me and saw Influenza. I looked to the right of me and saw Strep Throat. Awesome. I'll probably take home some nice Christmas gifts for the fam.
So at one point, we took photos with my iPhone to pass the time. See below: Drew giving the finger to the Urgent Care. That one's definitely not making the Hanna Andersson catalog this year.
And before you report me, NO, I did not teach him to do that. It was purely coincidental. But this affirms that thing down deep inside all of us that uncontrollably shoots a bird when we're pushed to the limit.
Besides, he's probably barely even seen me do that in traffic on I-75.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Twilight Week
It's Twilight Week, people. Do you know what that means? Everywhere you look, you will see teenage girls and thirty-something Moms going bananas as they count down the seconds until the flick hits theaters. Like, literally. Check it out.
I'm sorry, but I just don't get the phenomenon. But don't worry - you won't be the first person to try to convince me:
Oh. My. God. It's only, like, the greatest love story EVER. Okay, so Bella's all torn because she's really attracted to Jacob. I mean, who wouldn't be? hehehe. Am I right or am I right? Anyway, Jacob is soooo sweet, and since he's a werewolf, you know, he can give her a normal life. Well, sort of. But Edward is her soul-mate and you just can't fight true love! Bella is destined to be with him forever. Team Edward!
If you're a Twi-girl or a Twi-Mom, please do not take offense to this post. I'm not meaning to poke fun. Really. I'm actually quite envious of you. I want to feel your passion and excitement about something other than a 30% off coupon from Kohl's. I want to go to the movies with you at midnight and tweet about Edward's hair. But I don't, so I can't.
When I admit my anti-Twi-ness to others, it often comes as quite a shock. And I get the same look as if I just said that yoga pants are uncomfortable or that I don't like chocolate: eyes widen, mouths open, and a deep inhale immediately precedes a high-pitched WHAT?
And suddenly, I feel about as awkward as Edward walking into the Red Cross.
Now, granted, I have not read the books. How can someone who loves to read NOT read the Twilight books?
Well, I'm glad you asked. See - at first it was because I wasn't interested in a story about vampires, but then it was because everybody else had already read them. My goal is to be the last woman under the age of eighty to have not read this series. And man! What a conversation that will be at Bingo next Tuesday. Booyah!
I've watched the movies, though. I thought the first one ranked just above From Justin To Kelly and just below Battlefield Earth. Seriously - I've had root canals that caused less pain.
Yes, yes, yes... I know. The books are better. Then why did the author let some idiot director and a bunch of bad actors bring this novel to life?...er, I mean, to death? (Sorry, vampires.)
And I've gotten my oil changed in less time than Bella pauses between words. I just want to slap her on back and say, "Spit... it.... out." And then bat my eyelids. And then say "Edward" in a raspy whisper.
Okay. Confession time. Something magical happens to me during the last thirty seconds of each of the Twilight films. I don't know if I'm just distracted from all that glitter skin or if it's Jacob's abs, but as soon as the credits roll, I find myself actually looking forward to watching the next one. There's crack in those credits!
So to my friends who are flying to another city to watch the movie premier, to those who will get out in the freezing rain at midnight to go to the theater, and especially to those who will sit through a Twilight Marathon this weekend, I will be with you in spirit.
And by that, I mean that I'll be sleeping or doing laundry.
Have fun, Twihards! And please tell Bella, Edward, Jacob and that little devil baby that I'll see them on HBO in a few months.
Monday, September 26, 2011
UTO
I saw a UTO this afternoon: Unidentified Texting Opportunity. So I seized it! Booyah!
Is there a stalker translator in the house? Because I do not even understand that last text.
So I asked my sister, "Do I know an AJ?" (There are several years that I have almost completely blocked out.) She confirmed that I do not, but regardless, I saw no need to respond, so I didn't.
But after a few minutes, he sent another text, and curiosity got the best of me. Check out UTO: The Sequel.
I had total UTO remorse after responding "Yes" to his "Do you get pictures on your phone?" question.
For future reference, the correct response should have been: "No, I don't. The last time that I bought a cell phone was the same day that I bought the Ace of Base cassette. I just love I Saw The Sign."
Fortunately, he did not send any photos, but instead, he went straight to his Text a Stranger Lifeline and asked if I had ever lived in Midtown.
Well, good heavens, no. He clearly has not heard my strong southern accent. Midtown does not want crap like that rednecking up their streets.
Who in the devil could this be? I'm curious, but not curious enough to pursue it any further.
Thanks for the afternoon entertainment, UTO. This was the most interesting thing that happened today. Yes, it's that sad.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Who wears short shorts? Nair for short shorts.
If you are too young to remember that commercial, please stop reading this post. What are you doing reading a Mommy Blog anyway? You should be sexting or playing beer pong or something. Act your age, for crying outloud.
The answer to the question who wears short shorts is definitely.not.me. As soon as cellulite and stretch marks become fashionable, I'm in. Until then, some stories are better left untold.
I had a moment of weakness while trying on shorts today. I had to have that internal battle between the part of myself who does not want to sweat like a dog in a Chinese restaurant and the part of myself who actually cares what I look like wearing shorts.
Is physical insecurity just part of being a woman?
Some insecurity always haunts me like the Ghost of Young & Stupid Past, the Ghost of What Not To Wear Present and the Ghost of Getting Older Future.
When I was in eighth grade, some idiotic punk (nah, I'm not bitter) stood up in class and said, "Hey, everybody! How do you babysit Amanda?... Lick her lips and stick her to the wall!"
[Insert emotionally scarring laughter here.]
He sure opened up a can of whoop-Amanda because making fun of my lips became more fashionable than Madonna's belly button. (When I am talking about 1987, I feel that I should adjust my metaphors and similes accordingly.)
Guess what happened just a few short years later? Julia Roberts became a Pretty Woman and suddenly lips that take up one-third of your face were not only acceptable but considered attractive. Ka-blam!
But the insecurity about the size of my lips has never disappeared. And through the years, a long list of new insecurities have been added.
While trying on those shorts today, and turning from side to side in the full-length mirror trying to find the angle that made me look ten pounds thinner, I thought, 'Dang! I wish I looked like I did five years ago.'
But guess what. I didn't wear shorts then, either.
When you're thirty-five, you want to look twenty-five. And when you're forty-five, you want to look thirty-five. Are you pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?
I realized that a woman will never be as young or look as good as she does right now.
So enjoy today! Wear that bikini. Dig out that little black dress from the back of the closet. Do not untag yourself from that Facebook photo. And even buy the shorts.
Because you deserve it, and well... today is as good as it gets.
I'll leave you with that inspiring yet depressing thought. Not sure if you feel better or worse now, huh?
The answer to the question who wears short shorts is definitely.not.me. As soon as cellulite and stretch marks become fashionable, I'm in. Until then, some stories are better left untold.
I had a moment of weakness while trying on shorts today. I had to have that internal battle between the part of myself who does not want to sweat like a dog in a Chinese restaurant and the part of myself who actually cares what I look like wearing shorts.
Is physical insecurity just part of being a woman?
Some insecurity always haunts me like the Ghost of Young & Stupid Past, the Ghost of What Not To Wear Present and the Ghost of Getting Older Future.
When I was in eighth grade, some idiotic punk (nah, I'm not bitter) stood up in class and said, "Hey, everybody! How do you babysit Amanda?... Lick her lips and stick her to the wall!"
[Insert emotionally scarring laughter here.]
He sure opened up a can of whoop-Amanda because making fun of my lips became more fashionable than Madonna's belly button. (When I am talking about 1987, I feel that I should adjust my metaphors and similes accordingly.)
Guess what happened just a few short years later? Julia Roberts became a Pretty Woman and suddenly lips that take up one-third of your face were not only acceptable but considered attractive. Ka-blam!
But the insecurity about the size of my lips has never disappeared. And through the years, a long list of new insecurities have been added.
While trying on those shorts today, and turning from side to side in the full-length mirror trying to find the angle that made me look ten pounds thinner, I thought, 'Dang! I wish I looked like I did five years ago.'
But guess what. I didn't wear shorts then, either.
When you're thirty-five, you want to look twenty-five. And when you're forty-five, you want to look thirty-five. Are you pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?
I realized that a woman will never be as young or look as good as she does right now.
So enjoy today! Wear that bikini. Dig out that little black dress from the back of the closet. Do not untag yourself from that Facebook photo. And even buy the shorts.
Because you deserve it, and well... today is as good as it gets.
I'll leave you with that inspiring yet depressing thought. Not sure if you feel better or worse now, huh?
Friday, September 23, 2011
J Lo For President
Last night as I watched the GOP debate on television, three thoughts came to mind:
After the debate, Frank Luntz asked a focus group to share their opinions of the Florida event. When asked which candidate they thought won the debate, the overwhelming response was Mitt Romney.
Truth be told, I thought he won, too. But if we could somehow find a way squish together Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich and Herman Cain into one politician, I think we'd have one dandy President. Oh, and add Michele Bachmann's hair. She always has great hair.
So it was not the fact that they picked Romney as the winner that interested me. It was the reasons why they chose him that I found fascinating:
Not one person said that Mitt Romney won the debate because of his policies, economic plan or vision for America's future.
So how do we really choose a President?
It made me think about the very first televised debate in 1960 between Republican Nominee Richard Nixon and Democratic Nominee John F. Kennedy.
Nixon had been hitting the campaign trail hard up until the day of the debate and he had also been sick. He looked tired, pale and weathered. Nixon refused to wear make-up (he's no sissy!). He shaved that morning, but by the time the debate started, you could see a 5 o'clock shadow. And nobody wants a bum for President.
Kennedy, on the other hand, took time off from campaigning to rest before the debate. He wore make-up and looked tan. He even wore mismatched clothes so that his attire would look best on black and white television. He came across confident, strong and secure. And let's don't forget, easy on the eyes.
The 70 million Americans who watched the debate on television chose Kennedy as the winner. But interestingly enough, most Americans who listened to the debate on the radio thought that Nixon won.
I bet Nixon never wanted to be a Cover Girl so bad in his life.
Ultimately, Kennedy was elected President of the United States by the closest margin since 1916 - winning by only 0.01% of the popular vote. Even though Kennedy had a Republican predecessor and economic recession in his corner (sound familiar?), as well as issues with the Soviet Union and his family's political influence, his victory is largely attributed to his good looks and silver tongue during that first televised debate.
Richard Nixon learned from his television mistakes and successfully ran for President in 1968. Of course, while in office he made another mistake, but I think you have probably heard that story before.
If all we want are good looks, we should elect Jennifer Lopez as leader of the free world!
I can't wait to hear the J.Lo/ Pitbull Presidential Remix of On The Floor:
I know you got it if you're on the Senate floor
Let's keep it rockin', makin' laws on the floor
If you're a criminal, it's okay on the floor
Sign it quick on the floor
Before they read on the floor
1) A dog's poo is now more famous than Gary Johnson.
2) I want a ring-side seat when Mitt Romney and Rick Perry take care of business the same way that Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed did.
3) Television appearances greatly affect who is elected President of the United States.
After the debate, Frank Luntz asked a focus group to share their opinions of the Florida event. When asked which candidate they thought won the debate, the overwhelming response was Mitt Romney.
Truth be told, I thought he won, too. But if we could somehow find a way squish together Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich and Herman Cain into one politician, I think we'd have one dandy President. Oh, and add Michele Bachmann's hair. She always has great hair.
So it was not the fact that they picked Romney as the winner that interested me. It was the reasons why they chose him that I found fascinating:
"Romney was confident."
"He spoke with ease."
"He didn't stutter."
"Mitt Romney seems strong."
"He looked like a leader"
"He was elegant." (I think what he probably meant to say was "eloquent".)
And my personal favorite.... "Romney looked Presidential."
Not one person said that Mitt Romney won the debate because of his policies, economic plan or vision for America's future.
So how do we really choose a President?
It made me think about the very first televised debate in 1960 between Republican Nominee Richard Nixon and Democratic Nominee John F. Kennedy.
Nixon had been hitting the campaign trail hard up until the day of the debate and he had also been sick. He looked tired, pale and weathered. Nixon refused to wear make-up (he's no sissy!). He shaved that morning, but by the time the debate started, you could see a 5 o'clock shadow. And nobody wants a bum for President.
Kennedy, on the other hand, took time off from campaigning to rest before the debate. He wore make-up and looked tan. He even wore mismatched clothes so that his attire would look best on black and white television. He came across confident, strong and secure. And let's don't forget, easy on the eyes.
The 70 million Americans who watched the debate on television chose Kennedy as the winner. But interestingly enough, most Americans who listened to the debate on the radio thought that Nixon won.
I bet Nixon never wanted to be a Cover Girl so bad in his life.
Richard Nixon learned from his television mistakes and successfully ran for President in 1968. Of course, while in office he made another mistake, but I think you have probably heard that story before.
If all we want are good looks, we should elect Jennifer Lopez as leader of the free world!
I can't wait to hear the J.Lo/ Pitbull Presidential Remix of On The Floor:
I know you got it if you're on the Senate floor
Let's keep it rockin', makin' laws on the floor
If you're a criminal, it's okay on the floor
Sign it quick on the floor
Before they read on the floor
First televised debate held in 1960
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
"Thrown in your face like a giant cream pie"
The Bert Show has been on Atlanta radio for over a decade. Their tell-it-like-it-is, no bull approach to real issues like parenting, relationships and friendships make them revered by their audience. Most of the time.
The assignment was for each cast member to write an "editorial" that would be randomly selected and read by another cast member. Anonymity was to remain in tact no matter what.
Later renamed "The Cowardly Editorial", this letter tackled obesity while tackling the hearts of many Bert Show listeners who struggle with this issue. The letter was harsh and crude: The Cowardly Editorial and Bert's Apology Letter
Here are some excerpts from The Cowardly Editorial:
Excuse me? "THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN A FAT PERSON..."? This line alone completely offends me. Replace "fat" with "black" "hispanic" "female" "Jewish", etc. and tell me if you wouldn't expect an uprising. Is it okay to treat overweight people like that? The flippant, disrespectful tone makes this letter completely unacceptable.
And the opportunity to make good points about a real issue was lost. Was there any truth to the information in the letter? Well, sure. We all know that we need to eat healthy and exercise to look and feel better. We also know that we need to save 20% of our income, but how many of us do that? Some things are easier said than done.
What this boils down to is that there are two ways to say everything:
Ahem. Which one is better received? Because both examples paid me the same "compliment".
I know how hard it is to lose weight, and I don't have the same medical struggles that others do. I also don't have a food addiction. I just like fried chicken and Dunkin Donuts. :)
Addiction is real. It's very easy for me to have looked at somebody like Amy Winehouse and said, "Just stop doing drugs!" because I've never tried or been addicted to drugs. I have no idea what that struggle is like. The counter argument is that Amy Winehouse died because of her addiction to drugs...and obseity kills, too. But don't you think that Amy Winehouse would have changed if she could? Do you really think that she planned to die as a result of her addiction? I wonder how the right kind of support would have helped her. And just in case you're wondering, the Cowardly Editorial isn't an example of "the right kind of support".
The author mentioned that they were sick of "political correctness", but there is a fine line between political correctness and common decency. To me, "political correctness" might have kept you from feeling like you could speak on obesity in the first place. But, "common decency" means that you shouldn't character attack and use inappropriate humor to belittle your target.
Especially considering, what, about 60% of Americans are overweight and 35% of those are considered obese? Way to offend more than half of your audience.
For several years, The Bert Show has been a paid advocate for a product called Healthy Trim - a weight loss supplement to help you get "high school skinny". Audience members have called in sharing their weight loss struggles and the cast has been sympathetic to their plight. Now, that sympathy has lost some or all of its credibility. The actions of one have hurt the entire cast. If Tiger Woods can lose a Gatorade endorsement for cheating on his wife, then the Bert Show should lose a Healthy Trim endorsement for offending the product's target market.
To the author of the Cowardly Editorial: Since you claim to be so concerned about the health of your fellow Americans, do you think that your letter helped anybody get on a path to a healthier lifestyle? Do you think they want to eat better and exercise after hearing your thoughts on the matter? Do you still think that all overweight people are lazy? If you do, then I'll have to say that all Radio DJs are stupid.
Lesson learned, Bert Show: Don't bite the hand that feeds you.
The assignment was for each cast member to write an "editorial" that would be randomly selected and read by another cast member. Anonymity was to remain in tact no matter what.
Later renamed "The Cowardly Editorial", this letter tackled obesity while tackling the hearts of many Bert Show listeners who struggle with this issue. The letter was harsh and crude: The Cowardly Editorial and Bert's Apology Letter
Here are some excerpts from The Cowardly Editorial:
"You get offended if you are stared at. You get offended if you are pointed at. You get offended if you are laughed at. Instead of focusing on what’s going on around you, you should be focusing on yourself and shedding a few pounds."
"And all you have to do is walk out your door and it’s thrown in your face like a giant cream pie."
"And here’s a bigger slap in the chubby cheek."
"Oh Wait…you need a break? You’re out of breath? Having a hard time walking up those three whopping stairs? Give ME a break…"
"And don’t feed me the excuse that you don’t have the time. They actually have TVs at the gym these days, so you can peel yourself off your sofa and you won’t have to miss a minute of the Food Network."
"And now here comes the whining. The only thing worse than a fat person is a fat person who whines about being fat."
Excuse me? "THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN A FAT PERSON..."? This line alone completely offends me. Replace "fat" with "black" "hispanic" "female" "Jewish", etc. and tell me if you wouldn't expect an uprising. Is it okay to treat overweight people like that? The flippant, disrespectful tone makes this letter completely unacceptable.
And the opportunity to make good points about a real issue was lost. Was there any truth to the information in the letter? Well, sure. We all know that we need to eat healthy and exercise to look and feel better. We also know that we need to save 20% of our income, but how many of us do that? Some things are easier said than done.
What this boils down to is that there are two ways to say everything:
"Amanda, have you been working out? You look great!"
OR
"Amanda, have you been working out? Because your thighs don't have nearly the same amount of cottage cheese that they did last time I saw you. In fact, that horrific muffin top looks a little smaller, too."
Ahem. Which one is better received? Because both examples paid me the same "compliment".
I know how hard it is to lose weight, and I don't have the same medical struggles that others do. I also don't have a food addiction. I just like fried chicken and Dunkin Donuts. :)
Addiction is real. It's very easy for me to have looked at somebody like Amy Winehouse and said, "Just stop doing drugs!" because I've never tried or been addicted to drugs. I have no idea what that struggle is like. The counter argument is that Amy Winehouse died because of her addiction to drugs...and obseity kills, too. But don't you think that Amy Winehouse would have changed if she could? Do you really think that she planned to die as a result of her addiction? I wonder how the right kind of support would have helped her. And just in case you're wondering, the Cowardly Editorial isn't an example of "the right kind of support".
The author mentioned that they were sick of "political correctness", but there is a fine line between political correctness and common decency. To me, "political correctness" might have kept you from feeling like you could speak on obesity in the first place. But, "common decency" means that you shouldn't character attack and use inappropriate humor to belittle your target.
Especially considering, what, about 60% of Americans are overweight and 35% of those are considered obese? Way to offend more than half of your audience.
For several years, The Bert Show has been a paid advocate for a product called Healthy Trim - a weight loss supplement to help you get "high school skinny". Audience members have called in sharing their weight loss struggles and the cast has been sympathetic to their plight. Now, that sympathy has lost some or all of its credibility. The actions of one have hurt the entire cast. If Tiger Woods can lose a Gatorade endorsement for cheating on his wife, then the Bert Show should lose a Healthy Trim endorsement for offending the product's target market.
To the author of the Cowardly Editorial: Since you claim to be so concerned about the health of your fellow Americans, do you think that your letter helped anybody get on a path to a healthier lifestyle? Do you think they want to eat better and exercise after hearing your thoughts on the matter? Do you still think that all overweight people are lazy? If you do, then I'll have to say that all Radio DJs are stupid.
Lesson learned, Bert Show: Don't bite the hand that feeds you.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
What the *BEEP* is wrong with people?
In the mood for a little skepticism and acrimony on your Wednesday? Well, you've come to the right place! But wait for the ending. I'll have you back on the rainbow road in few paragraphs.
Is it just me or is the whole freaking world in a bad mood? And I'll admit that I'm no exception. Between work, household chores, family activities and volunteer work, my life is like a pressure cooker. It's hard not to let that kind of pace and stress negatively affect your attitude. And some people can't keep their personal stuff personal, so they present their life circumstances to you on a silver platter of sarcasm, impatience and crap.
We aren't used to this kind of animosity in the south. In Georgia, we are accustomed to everyone being, well, peachy. When we ask, "How are you today?", we don't really want to know how you are. We want you to do what you're supposed to do: smile and say, "I'm fine and how are you?" If you actually start telling us how you are, i.e., how you're two months behind on your mortgage or how you think your husband might be cheating, then we just won't know what to do with that. Don't be surprised if we don't pause, nervously scan the room, give you a half-smile and say, "Uh.... I'm fine?... and how are you?" It's called behavioral conditioning. Pavlov's Dog.
Recently I used my lunch hour to make a quick run to Lowe's for some plants. I seldom get a lunch minute let alone an hour these days, and I was using birthday gift cards from my good friend Tiff. Time out of the office + free plants = Amanda joy!
I spent about 30 minutes walking up and down the aisles in the Lawn and Garden section before deciding on my plants. I happily walked back to my car, looking forward to planting my new backyard additions.
Then I saw it. A torn piece of paper stuck to the driver's window of my car. It was a rude, handwritten note from somebody with poor penmanship and even worse grammatical skills telling me what a terrible job I did parking my SUV.
So I walked all the way around my car. It was sitting well within the lines and shouldn't have inconvenienced anyone parking next to me. And if Miss Parking Lot Police knew how bad I usually park, she would have left me a medal instead of a nastygram.
But still, it completely stole my Amanda joy!
On the way back to the office, I began thinking about the person who wrote that note. I wonder what is going on in her life to make her so angry? Why would she, for seemingly no real reason, attack a total stranger? Did she just lose her job? Is her marriage on the rocks?
It made me feel sad for her. I mean, here we are shopping on a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon. She should be enjoying this moment. She should be happy. But times are hard: economically, socially and physically. We all face daily hardships and we struggle with how to process them and absorb them.
You can't yell at your boss without risking losing your job. You can't cuss out your spouse without spending the night on the couch. Each action has an equal and opposite reaction. It's basic physics. But you can leave a note on somebody's car without much, if any, consequence. It's a way to get out some of your internal hostility without repercussion.
Or maybe there is. Something tells me that this individual didn't leave the Lowe's parking lot feeling like she was leaving the spa. I bet writing that note only made her feel more miserable. It only fuels the internal fire and pulls you deeper into the abyss.
So after giving somebody the bird on I-75, yelling at the Target cashier or leaving an angry note on a car window, NOW try dealing with your idiot boss or nagging spouse. What you thought would help you only makes things harder. And now, the interstate commuter, the Target cashier or the plant buyer has absorbed your stress into their already stressful lives. Where does all that stress go? And so it becomes cyclical...
So instead of that note robbing me of my Amanda joy, I said a little prayer for the lady who wrote it. I figure she needs somebody on her side... even if I can't park.
Is it just me or is the whole freaking world in a bad mood? And I'll admit that I'm no exception. Between work, household chores, family activities and volunteer work, my life is like a pressure cooker. It's hard not to let that kind of pace and stress negatively affect your attitude. And some people can't keep their personal stuff personal, so they present their life circumstances to you on a silver platter of sarcasm, impatience and crap.
We aren't used to this kind of animosity in the south. In Georgia, we are accustomed to everyone being, well, peachy. When we ask, "How are you today?", we don't really want to know how you are. We want you to do what you're supposed to do: smile and say, "I'm fine and how are you?" If you actually start telling us how you are, i.e., how you're two months behind on your mortgage or how you think your husband might be cheating, then we just won't know what to do with that. Don't be surprised if we don't pause, nervously scan the room, give you a half-smile and say, "Uh.... I'm fine?... and how are you?" It's called behavioral conditioning. Pavlov's Dog.
Recently I used my lunch hour to make a quick run to Lowe's for some plants. I seldom get a lunch minute let alone an hour these days, and I was using birthday gift cards from my good friend Tiff. Time out of the office + free plants = Amanda joy!
I spent about 30 minutes walking up and down the aisles in the Lawn and Garden section before deciding on my plants. I happily walked back to my car, looking forward to planting my new backyard additions.
Then I saw it. A torn piece of paper stuck to the driver's window of my car. It was a rude, handwritten note from somebody with poor penmanship and even worse grammatical skills telling me what a terrible job I did parking my SUV.
So I walked all the way around my car. It was sitting well within the lines and shouldn't have inconvenienced anyone parking next to me. And if Miss Parking Lot Police knew how bad I usually park, she would have left me a medal instead of a nastygram.
But still, it completely stole my Amanda joy!
On the way back to the office, I began thinking about the person who wrote that note. I wonder what is going on in her life to make her so angry? Why would she, for seemingly no real reason, attack a total stranger? Did she just lose her job? Is her marriage on the rocks?
It made me feel sad for her. I mean, here we are shopping on a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon. She should be enjoying this moment. She should be happy. But times are hard: economically, socially and physically. We all face daily hardships and we struggle with how to process them and absorb them.
You can't yell at your boss without risking losing your job. You can't cuss out your spouse without spending the night on the couch. Each action has an equal and opposite reaction. It's basic physics. But you can leave a note on somebody's car without much, if any, consequence. It's a way to get out some of your internal hostility without repercussion.
Or maybe there is. Something tells me that this individual didn't leave the Lowe's parking lot feeling like she was leaving the spa. I bet writing that note only made her feel more miserable. It only fuels the internal fire and pulls you deeper into the abyss.
So after giving somebody the bird on I-75, yelling at the Target cashier or leaving an angry note on a car window, NOW try dealing with your idiot boss or nagging spouse. What you thought would help you only makes things harder. And now, the interstate commuter, the Target cashier or the plant buyer has absorbed your stress into their already stressful lives. Where does all that stress go? And so it becomes cyclical...
So instead of that note robbing me of my Amanda joy, I said a little prayer for the lady who wrote it. I figure she needs somebody on her side... even if I can't park.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
OMG! So upset right now! I can't believe this is happening!
Title get your attention? This, my dear friends, is an example of my latest and greatest pet-peeve: cryptic Facebook statuses, also known as, Vaguebooking.
So, just for kicks, let's allow this example to play itself out, shall we?....
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery
OMG! So upset right now! I can't believe this is happening!
Friend #1:What's wrong?
Friend #2: Whatever it is, I'm so sorry! Hope it gets better.
Friend #3: I'm praying for you.
Friend #4: I just tried to call you and you didn't answer!! Call me back!
Friend #5: Is this about what we talked about yesterday when we were you know where?
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Yes it is.
Friend #5: I know what you mean. I would be so upset too!
Friend #6: What is this about?
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: I'll private message you.
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Just sent
Friend #6: OMG! That's awful!!!
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Yep.
Friend #4: Seriously! What is up? You need to call me back!
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: I'll inbox you.
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Friend #1, you're not gonna believe it. It sort of has to do with what we were discussing last week.
How many times have you seen a status thread just like this one?
You can't help but be interested in something that, if you actually knew what it was, you probably couldn't care less. Maybe the dry cleaners didn't have my clothes ready at 3 pm as promised. Maybe my co-worker snagged the last jelly donut at the meeting this morning. Or, maybe it actually is something big. The point is, if it's a secret, please keep it that way. And if it's not a secret, please tell us. It's that black and white.
I tend to be Friend #2 in the above scenario... like, I don't want to look too interested but still show support. And maybe when the actual story comes out, I'll be in the loop. Because let's be honest, you got my attention. But if it has to do with dry cleaning or jelly donuts, then I've just wasted 50 characters and 42 seconds on Facebook for nothing.
I can rationalize a counter point: "I'm not posting this for anyone else's benefit. It's just for my personal release." Okay, fine. If you prefer the World Wide Web to a journal or a good workout at the gym, then I understand. But think about what it creates:
So, just for kicks, let's allow this example to play itself out, shall we?....
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery
OMG! So upset right now! I can't believe this is happening!
Friend #1:What's wrong?
Friend #2: Whatever it is, I'm so sorry! Hope it gets better.
Friend #3: I'm praying for you.
Friend #4: I just tried to call you and you didn't answer!! Call me back!
Friend #5: Is this about what we talked about yesterday when we were you know where?
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Yes it is.
Friend #5: I know what you mean. I would be so upset too!
Friend #6: What is this about?
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: I'll private message you.
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Just sent
Friend #6: OMG! That's awful!!!
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Yep.
Friend #4: Seriously! What is up? You need to call me back!
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: I'll inbox you.
Amanda Bailey Hohenbery: Friend #1, you're not gonna believe it. It sort of has to do with what we were discussing last week.
How many times have you seen a status thread just like this one?
You can't help but be interested in something that, if you actually knew what it was, you probably couldn't care less. Maybe the dry cleaners didn't have my clothes ready at 3 pm as promised. Maybe my co-worker snagged the last jelly donut at the meeting this morning. Or, maybe it actually is something big. The point is, if it's a secret, please keep it that way. And if it's not a secret, please tell us. It's that black and white.
I tend to be Friend #2 in the above scenario... like, I don't want to look too interested but still show support. And maybe when the actual story comes out, I'll be in the loop. Because let's be honest, you got my attention. But if it has to do with dry cleaning or jelly donuts, then I've just wasted 50 characters and 42 seconds on Facebook for nothing.
I can rationalize a counter point: "I'm not posting this for anyone else's benefit. It's just for my personal release." Okay, fine. If you prefer the World Wide Web to a journal or a good workout at the gym, then I understand. But think about what it creates:
- Facebook rumors. We can't help but be interested in your dirty laundry. If you don't want us to figure out what is it, please don't dangle the cyber carrot.
- Cliques. Friend #5 is included, Friend #1 and #6 are almost included and Friend #4 wants to be. It's kind of a weird hanging out at the high school football game sort of thing.
- You create sympathy or interest. This is absolutely fine when warranted. But if you post three of these a day, then you'll become the boy who cried wolf, or in this case, the friend who cried OMG.
For those cliffhanger statuses, I'm going to start posting "bass" or "trout" because if they're fishing, I want to at least give them something to catch.
Occasionally, I see Facebook users who are bold enough to actually detail the situation in the comment thread. (Usually a vague statement is more status-worthy than the actual scoop anyway.) And when this is done, I commend that user's bravery.
So please, say what you mean and mean what you say. Your Facebook friends will appreciate it. We might even pick up your dry cleaning or buy you a jelly donut.
Occasionally, I see Facebook users who are bold enough to actually detail the situation in the comment thread. (Usually a vague statement is more status-worthy than the actual scoop anyway.) And when this is done, I commend that user's bravery.
So please, say what you mean and mean what you say. Your Facebook friends will appreciate it. We might even pick up your dry cleaning or buy you a jelly donut.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Sheen Scene
Charlie Sheen has been all over the news lately. It's like the Michael Jackson interview from a few years back... I want to stop watching, really I do, but for some reason, I just can't. Any chance that he's remaking that crazy Joaquin Phoenix documentary?
Over the past few weeks, Charlie Sheen has bragged about hitting seven-gram rocks, called his girlfriends "goddesses" and said that he's always "winning". He even claims that he himself is a drug and that he has tiger blood running through his veins. (I know somebody who tried to buy a gram of Charlie Sheen once. Turns out it was only Emilo Estavez cut with meth.)
It's clear to see who the "half man" is on Two and a Half Men. In short, he's a total nut job.
Sheen has admitted to alcohol, drug and prostitute addictions that no high-dollar rehab facility can cure. And I'm not even sure that he wants to be cured.
Is this a publicity stunt? Personally, I don't think that there's a PR rep inventive enough to script this stuff. And, Charlie Sheen's not that good of an actor. Check out his "Sheen's Korner" podcast (video posted below).
But I must admit that I've never had any interest in Charlie Sheen until recently. I'm not alone because XM has just launched "Tiger Blood Radio": a station strictly devoted to 24/7 updates on Charlie Sheen.
Is he really doing and saying that much stupid stuff? Why, yes. Yes, he is. He makes cocaine addicts thankful that they don't do that much cocaine.
Yesterday, he was officially fired from Two and a Half Men. CBS will not pay him his contracted rate of $2 million an episode (remember when everybody freaked out over the Friends cast getting $750,000 an episode?). But I'm happy to read that the rest of the cast and crew will be paid out for their contracts. It's like paid vacation for them. Take that, tiger boy.
John Stamos was rumored to be replacing Charlie Sheen on Two and a Half Men, but CBS has officially announced that there is no truth to that rumor. However, Martin Sheen has not yet gone on record about the rumor that he asked John Stamos to replace Charlie Sheen as his son.
After nuclear war, the only things that will survive are cockroaches and TMZ.
Over the past few weeks, Charlie Sheen has bragged about hitting seven-gram rocks, called his girlfriends "goddesses" and said that he's always "winning". He even claims that he himself is a drug and that he has tiger blood running through his veins. (I know somebody who tried to buy a gram of Charlie Sheen once. Turns out it was only Emilo Estavez cut with meth.)
It's clear to see who the "half man" is on Two and a Half Men. In short, he's a total nut job.
Sheen has admitted to alcohol, drug and prostitute addictions that no high-dollar rehab facility can cure. And I'm not even sure that he wants to be cured.
Is this a publicity stunt? Personally, I don't think that there's a PR rep inventive enough to script this stuff. And, Charlie Sheen's not that good of an actor. Check out his "Sheen's Korner" podcast (video posted below).
But I must admit that I've never had any interest in Charlie Sheen until recently. I'm not alone because XM has just launched "Tiger Blood Radio": a station strictly devoted to 24/7 updates on Charlie Sheen.
Is he really doing and saying that much stupid stuff? Why, yes. Yes, he is. He makes cocaine addicts thankful that they don't do that much cocaine.
Yesterday, he was officially fired from Two and a Half Men. CBS will not pay him his contracted rate of $2 million an episode (remember when everybody freaked out over the Friends cast getting $750,000 an episode?). But I'm happy to read that the rest of the cast and crew will be paid out for their contracts. It's like paid vacation for them. Take that, tiger boy.
John Stamos was rumored to be replacing Charlie Sheen on Two and a Half Men, but CBS has officially announced that there is no truth to that rumor. However, Martin Sheen has not yet gone on record about the rumor that he asked John Stamos to replace Charlie Sheen as his son.
Charlie Sheen established a Twitter account, and by the next day, he had over 1 million followers, setting a new Twitter record. Sheen's antics have beaten out Libya's story in the news for two weeks.
What the heck is wrong with us? Well, we love dirty laundry, we love to watch a star rise and fall, and apparently, we love to watch a man wave a machete from a 50 story building rooftop.
After nuclear war, the only things that will survive are cockroaches and TMZ.
Jimmy Fallon Spoof
Sheen's Korner
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Can't Sleep. Clowns Will Eat Me.
Bailey asked if we could go to the Ringling Bros Circus. Uh... no. Doesn't she know that clowns will be there? I'm scared to death of those creepy little bastards.
For years, I've tried to wrap my brain around why anybody would think that clowns are cool. I mean, do you want to hire this guy for your child's next birthday party?
How about this one?
Even clowns that are supposed to be nice still look creepy.
Good freaking grief, people. Wise up! These creatures are not lovable. They're not cute. They're not funny. THEY WANT TO EAT YOUR CHILDREN.
A few years back, I took a girls' trip to Vegas. Laura, Melody and Katie decided that I needed to face my fear of clowns by visiting the hotel and casino Circus Circus. Have you ever seen this place? Sheesh. Too bad all it did was make me a little scared of Vegas, too.
And by the way, if you stay at Circus Circus, these are the people who watch you while you sleep.
So this blog is a little less of a blog and a little more of a public service announcement. Join my petition now and let's get creepy clowns removed from circus acts all around the globe. Together, we can make the world a better place.
And as a extra bonus to making the world a better place, maybe I can take my children to the circus without hiding under the bleachers. I'm only kidding... probably.
For years, I've tried to wrap my brain around why anybody would think that clowns are cool. I mean, do you want to hire this guy for your child's next birthday party?
How about this one?
Even clowns that are supposed to be nice still look creepy.
Good freaking grief, people. Wise up! These creatures are not lovable. They're not cute. They're not funny. THEY WANT TO EAT YOUR CHILDREN.
A few years back, I took a girls' trip to Vegas. Laura, Melody and Katie decided that I needed to face my fear of clowns by visiting the hotel and casino Circus Circus. Have you ever seen this place? Sheesh. Too bad all it did was make me a little scared of Vegas, too.
And by the way, if you stay at Circus Circus, these are the people who watch you while you sleep.
And as a extra bonus to making the world a better place, maybe I can take my children to the circus without hiding under the bleachers. I'm only kidding... probably.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Customer Disservice
I am an official e-bayer now. I sold four items this week that were collecting dust in my closet for $112.99 + shipping costs. Yay me! Shoe shopping, anyone?
Today, I took a couple of sold items into the local UPS store for shipping after lunch at Jersey Mike's, a.k.a, Sandwich Heaven.
The cashier looked seemingly normal. She was tall, fairly attractive, late 20s. While she was boxing up my items, she stopped and said, "Did you just eat?" When I said yes, I had, she replied with, "I can tell because you stink like onions. What did you eat? Something with onions on it?"
Wow. She's obviously got mad detective skills.
Oddly enough, I wasn't offended... yet. I'm sure that I did smell like onions. But eating at Jersey Mike's is totally worth it (for me at least). Then she said, "Gross. You smell really ethnic."
Excuse me? Is this 2011 or 1911? I couldn't believe that she assumed I wouldn't be offended by her racism.
Awkward silence was created, and unfortunately, she felt the need to fill it: "Onions and I don't get along. I mean, I like 'em, but they just make me really gassy. Do they make you gassy?"
If I could break wind on command, you better believe that I would have right then. But instead, I just took my package and left. I figure that another UPS store deserves my shipping business more than that one.
After I post this blog, I think I'll visit 1800flowers.com for a nice bouquet of onions to have anonymously delivered to the store. Just a small token of my affection for her customer disservice this afternoon.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Ditch the Resolution
New Year's Resolutions: (nu yirs rez-e-lu-shens) n. A to-do list for the first week of January.
Okay, so you won't find that definition in Webster's, but it's true just the same. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. It's almost like by calling something a "New Year's Resolution", I'm dooming it to absolute failure.
And I don't like failures. I prefer denial.
So I made a list of "resolutions" this year that cannot possibly be achieved. That way, I get all of my failures out of the way early and get on with 2011.
1. Start my own country called Amanada.
2. Get drafted into the WNBA
3. Win the Quiet Game.
4. Give up Goodfeel (my security blanket).
5. Start referring to "Coke" as "pop".
6. Sleep until noon.
7. Let my hair go natural.
8. Stop procrastinating.
9. Quit drinking coffee.
10. Reduce my shoe collection to nothing but sneakers.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Retail Therapy
Monday, January 3rd was a day off of work with babysitting! I sort of felt like I'd won the Mommy Lottery.
I wanted to do something that is tough (or impossible) to do with children in tow. So after a quick analysis of my options, I decided on Lenox Square Mall shopping. I hadn't been there since before Drew was born. In fact, these days I'm lucky to get to Town Center or Northpoint for a quick essential shopping excursion.
I arrived at Lenox, vallet parked, picked up a Starbucks latte, took a deep breath and looked down the marble path to shopping utopia. Ahhhh. This is the life!
As I walked through the mall, I began to covet many things: Louis Vuitton suitcases, Stewart Weitzman pumps, Gucci dresses, Dior sunglasses, Manolo shoes, True Religion jeans, FENDI purses, Cartier bracelets, Burberry scarfs, Prada shirts, etc, etc, etc. Suddenly, I felt more like I was playing dress-up than shopping because "shopping" indicates that you might actually purchase something.
I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I almost started to feel sorry for myself. Like I should be buying these things. I mean, I work as hard as anybody else does.
About that time, I walked into Kate Spade and passed a grown woman, literally crying, begging her Mom for a $750 sweater. "But Mommy, it would be perfect with leggings!" (And yes, she was still saying "Mommy" in her mid-thirties.)
And I thought to myself, 'Seriously? Is that the most compelling argument that you can make?' Good grief. Rich parents are wasted on the stupid.
Her Mom sighed, turned to the salesperson and said, "Okay. We'll take the shirt, along with the other two things that she tried on."
I didn't stick around to find out the total purchase price, but you can bet your bottom dollar that if Bailey (even at 9 years old - forget 35) was crying in a store, that she wouldn't walk out of there with so much as a stick of gum.
I left and started walking toward Neiman Marcus. I entered the department store right behind a mother and her two daughters, who were probably 10 and 12 years old. The older of the two daughters walked by a necklace display and said to her mother, "I'm going to grow up and marry a rich husband!"
Her mother's response? "Oh, yes, baby. I mean, you have to." Then she began to explain to her daughter in detail how if she wanted to have nice things, she would have to marry a rich man.
This mother never even considered empowering her daughter to earn her own money through hard work, education or entrepreneurship. She also never mentioned that it was fine to marry a man with money (and not for money) as long as you loved him, because without love, the rest of it will never make you truly happy. Ask anybody in a loveless marriage how many necklaces they would give up to have somebody to love and to love them back.
And I thought, 'Geez, what is wrong with people these days?'
Then I realized that I was right there with them - seeking happiness from things that are simply things. I was letting a designer handbag and a couple of pairs of expensive shoes rob me of my Mommy Lottery joy. Hello, reality check.
So I began to think about all my riches. My supportive parents who taught me how to love by example. My family who I consider my friends and my friends who I consider my family. My husband who still looks at me like we've just started dating. And my precious children who bring pure joy to my life.
Suddenly I realized that I'm loaded! :)
I continued my window shopping at Lenox Square Mall for the rest of the afternoon. I left there that day, emptied handed, but feeling just a little bit happier than I was when I walked in.
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