Jill's Rants

Dear Maidenform

2016-07-09T16:53:00.000-07:00

I saw a study once saying millions of women, as many as 85%, are wearing the wrong size bra. The bra making industry is completely to blame for this of course, but we continue to buy their poorly sized products and are totally letting them off the hook. (Pun intended.) Why? We have no choice. What other options do we have? We can't just let the girls droop free out in public, can we? What other product can have an 85% failure rate and still sell billions of dollars worth of product? I can't think of any. Yet we fork over all our cash to Victoria without even questioning the fact that her secret is really that your bra won't fit.

I'm going to get very personal now. If it bothers you, too bad. I was a very late bloomer. Kind of. Part of growing up the skinny kid is growing up flat chested. My cup size was a friend of Bill until I was old enough to drive. (If you don't get that, ask someone who has been to an AA meeting.) Then I had a wonderful treat filled summer that allowed me to gain 20 lbs. and graduate to a B cup! I was very happy with those girls, and when they were still there at graduation I assumed this was my permanent size. I assumed wrong. At about age 21, they grew again. I measured everything in the scientific way they tell you, and determined myself to be a 32D. So I did what I thought was the normal thing to do, and went to Walmart to buy some new bras. I found an actual bra department employee (This was way back in the 1900s. They hadn't all learned to disappear yet) and asked her where I might find the 32D bras, as the biggest 32 cup I could find was a B. She did the "elevator eyes" that I would slap a man for, went to fetch her boss who appraised me as well, then they both informed me I was wrong. There was no such size.

So I did what I should have done first. I went to Frederick's of Hollywood. That salesperson, upon hearing my size, looked down just long enough to nod agreement before she asked me what style I liked. Lacy, satin, push up, T shirt? I was in love. I was in Heaven. And they have had my back (and boobs) since.

Then I got pregnant. I assumed I would nurse, so I went to the maternity store to get a nursing bra. My back had not gotten any broader, but I correctly assumed that moving up to a 34 would help the cups be bigger. Still, when I asked the salesperson to sell me a 34DD, I was transported back to that Walmart 10 years before. No, they don't carry that size. But don't everyone's boobs grow when they're pregnant? Yes, but usually not that much. Perhaps Lane Bryant or one of the other full figure stores could help my 105 lb. self out. So again, I went to my friends at Fredericks, who had the size I needed but aren't really in the business of selling things to help boobies fulfill their intended purpose. Lucky for us all, mine didn't work anyway so I was happy.

But now, a lot of the Frederick's of Hollywood stores are closed, as we've become a more internet shopping society. It's ok for me; I know how to determine my size. But I worry about the other 85% of women out there who don't know! Or the ones who believe the department store employees. Or just can't find the size we know we are anywhere!

On a side note, department stores, your bra departments suck. And not in that intended way. First of all, why are you arranging bras by brand? I don't know what brand I want! I want the brand that makes my size! If you make me go through every single fucking rack in your whole department to find out not a single one of those bastards is the size I need, I am pissed. And exhausted. Because in addition to the whole brand thing, you hang them wrong. A cups on the top, big cups on the bottom? What are you thinking? Do I look like it's easy for me to bend over? Do I look like, once I get my girls down there almost to the floor, I'll be able to get them back up again? Busty girls don't bend over! Ever! Until we need to find a bra. Then you have us all crawling on the floor desperately searching for something we probably won't find. It makes me hate you. All of you. Even my beloved Target.

And the bras themselves! For the love! I admit, maybe the A cup girls can wear clothes that require halter style straps or cross backs. But you should not make these models in anything bigger than a C. The reason? Those crazy little C-clips that hold the straps in place. They aren't reliable. They slide all day while you're moving, and sometimes they slide right out of their holder! Now, when this happens to an A cup girl, it's not too big a deal. She giggles, slides it back in, goes along with her day. But when it happens to a DD girl, people could get hurt! You are endangering everyone in my general area by building bras like this! Stop it! Stop it now! We aren't wearing cross backs. We aren't wearing halters. We are wearing clothes that we know will cover our inch wide bra straps because this is how we dress! Help us!

I encourage you, women of all sizes, to join me in some bra shaming at the upper levels. We demand more from our bra makers! We demand sizes that fit real women, not some fictitious creature you created on a runway. We demand you put the big cups in easy to reach places, and let the flat girls do some squats for once! We demand products which don't force me so take a stapler to the work restroom to keep myself contained. Simply put, let's demand better. Better for our boobs.

Besties

2016-01-01T18:14:00.002-08:00

A new year. Time to take stock of our lives and decide what we want to change. A time to look back at the year we just survived, see what we did right and what we could do better. A time for reflection. A time to look forward. A time to make resolutions.

My first claim was that I don't need any resolutions. For the most part, my life is pretty great. The only not great things about it involve other peoples' treatment of or attitude toward me. I can't change other people, and gave up trying. I can only control my reaction to their treatment. Since I've already made "Don't engage" a personal mantra, there's not a whole lot else I can do there. My job is changing for the better this year, so that's all good. My health is better than it's ever been, and I'm happily making better choices there. I'm not going to set myself up for failure by trying to do something drastic I don't want to do, so I'm just going to continue the path I'm on. I'm still nowhere close to being ready to date, so I'm happily alone there.

But I was wrong. I do need a resolution, and I'm making one. Before this year is over, I want a BFF. A bestie. One friend who values me above all her other friends, and who I value above all of mine. An Amy Farrah Fowler, if you will, to share my life with me. If you don't understand that reference, it can't be you.

Don't get me wrong, I have great friends. I have a sister who would be (and is) a great bestie, but she's my sister and lives 6 hours away. I have great friends and even some other relatives in my life who love and support me, and are willing to do anything I need. But all of them already have a bestie, so I'm just a friend. I have a ton of male friends, but that won't work. They just don't friend the same way we do. I have a son who my life revolves around, but let's face it, it wouldn't be fair to expect him to fulfill BFF duties. And it would be creepy and possibly bordering on abuse.

I'm not a rookie. I grew up with a bestie. Then I messed up and lost her. I put her in an impossible situation, then thought it was ok to blame her when she made the only choice she could. I was angry for a long time. I thought I was angry at her. Turns out, I was angry at me. But I'm 20 years older now, and I think I've learned my lesson.

So I need a bestie. Apply in person, please. You can have other friends of course, you just can't like them as much as you like me. Being married or in an otherwise stable relationship is a plus, that way I don't have to deal with your dating fiascoes or you wanting me to join in said torture. Having children who rule your world is pretty much required. And the ability to just pop in to my house on a moment's notice is mandatory. You must have a messed up sense of humor, and know the correct there, their, they're to use in all situations. You're expected to know your yours as well. In return, you get me. Happy New Year.

Worth the extra 22 cents?

2015-10-03T17:47:00.000-07:00

The following is a list of things I can do without shame or fear that my male coworkers may not be as able to do without being mocked.

1. Drink the flavored coffee. I can buy or make pretty much any flavor of coffee I want. I bring Peppermint Mocha, get French Vanilla from the machine, have even been known to mix the coffee with hot chocolate in a pinch. I drink it proudly. And if anyone does have the nerve to point out the fact that anything other than sugar and cream makes it a "girly drink," I just smile and remind them it's ok for me.

2. Wave. In any manner I choose. I can do excited cheerleader wave, parade wave, fancy lady asking for the check wave, even beauty pageant wave if I want to. I can wave at anybody at any time and it's acceptable. Men really get the shaft on the whole wave thing. If there is a situation where it's alright to wave, they must keep it calm and cool. Preferably with a head nod of some sort. Not a full nod, mind you. just a hint of movement.

3. I can show happiness! My sentences can end with exclamation marks, even when spoken! I can see something that makes me happy, and literally squeal like a little girl, and the only response I usually get is other people joining in my happiness. (This may be expressed by what appears to be them laughing at me, but they aren't. They're just joining in my happiness. Really.) They are always smiling, at least. If a grown man squeals like a little girl, well, I'll just leave that sentence for you to finish yourself.

4. I can also get excited. I can jump up and down. throw my arms in the air, take a victory lap, whatever I want to do! Men are pretty much limited to high fives and, in extreme situations, a belly bump or two. I feel so sorry for them when they win something.

5. Cry. Occasionally, even at work. Let me clarify one thing. I don't cry at work when someone is mean to me, simply because I think that gives them too much power. But if someone dies, gets hurt, loses something or someone important to them, I can cry and get away with it. Movies make me cry. Just about every movie I can think of offhand, really. When Alford left Batman in that one movie? Actual sobs. Lego movie, Hunger Games, Pitch Perfect, LOTR, don't even get me started on Toy Story 3. I will cry. Lately, even NCIS and the Big Bang Theory! And do you know who judges me for this? To my face, at least? Nobody.

6. Giggle. I can giggle, usually inappropriately, at any time. High pitched middle school girl giggles.

I also want to go on record saying I make the exact same hourly wage and commission percentage as my 2 male counterparts. But I also know that, even in the automotive industry, there are traditionally female jobs which do not pay nearly as much as the male held jobs in the same location. I get paid a "man's wage" because I do what has generally been a man's job. This does not mean the pay gap is not real. It is, and it is inexcusable. But maybe drinking the good coffee while waving at you does make it just a little bit easier to accept.

Who am I? #mommitment

2015-08-23T07:21:00.001-07:00

Since this is a different kind of post for me, meaning for someone besides myself, let me catch you up if you haven't read my stuff before. I'm a forty-something woman in middle America. When I first started putting thoughts to keyboard, I was a happily married mother of one, step-mother of four. I work full time in the service department of a car dealership. Between family, work, and the media, I was seeing a lot of stuff that made me laugh or pissed me off, so I decided to share it with the world. And all was great, until my world did a complete turn around.

I've spent the last year or so going through divorce court. It's a horrible, expensive world where it is literally someone's job to judge you. Seriously, it's even their job title and their whole job description! And since there were a whole lot of legal people judging me, I was acutely aware of the rest of the world judging me as well. My son, my ex, my step-children of course, but also my neighbors, my family and friends, the teachers at school, my co-workers and customers, pretty much every single person I ever come into contact with. But I felt it the most, and it affected me the most, when it was the other moms. If they were on "my side," I felt elated. If they weren't, I was crushed.

It's not like I'm new to the whole Mom Judgement phenomenon. I mean, I was an adult for quite a few years before I became a mother. I was a pro at telling people everything they were doing wrong! We all know how smart the childless are when it comes to raising children, and I was a genius! Then I became a mother, and realized what a bitch I had been all those years. And the day I got pregnant, I started receiving the judgement of the whole rest of the world. Here's a partial list of judge-worthy actions: I got pregnant without the benefit of marriage, and refused to marry him just because of a child. (We didn't marry until he was over a year old.) I begged the entire pregnancy for a C-section, and am still very angry the medical professionals did not comply. Through the actual birth, I took advantage of every single medical intervention they offered. Drugs, epidural, suction cup, you name it. My theory is, if you don't turn down Novocaine when you are getting a filling, why would you turn down drugs during delivery? I didn't nurse. I gloss over it and say they took him away from me for 8 hours as soon as he was born because of blood sugar issues, and that we never really got the hang of it. But the truth is, I had four children in the house who were not mine and were very nosy. And in public, I don't feel comfortable topless unless someone is throwing ones at me. My son turned out to have some pretty severe food allergies, and my milk would have killed him. But I do vividly remember hearing "If you had nursed, like you're supposed to, he wouldn't have this problem." I was a stay at home mom for the first five years of his life, but then had to return to work full time, as the only working parent. And now I'm a single parent, sharing parenting with my ex.

After reading all of that, you would assume I would have no right to judge anyone else, and you would assume correctly. But that didn't stop me. I still did it.

After being separated for a while, once a person's new routine is established, the subject inevitably turns to dating. When they started asking me when I was going to start dating, I actually said the sentence "Parents shouldn't date." Of course, I had great reasons to back up this statement. It's not fair to the children, and it certainly isn't fair to the poor sap you're dating. But I had a blanket judgmental statement at the ready for anyone who asked. "Parents shouldn't date." Who am I to issue such a proclamation?

What I meant, and what I should have said, is "I shouldn't date." I have a million good reasons for this, none of which affect anyone but me. No, it wouldn't be fair to my child. Yes, I have some major trust issues I need to work out (or not.) Yes, dealing with my situation would be some kind of screwed up undeserved punishment for anyone who was stupid enough to ask me out. Yes, I am choosing to only focus on the one male in my life I feel is important right now. (Well, the dog is male, and he's pretty great.) Yes, I have come to the conclusion that, with very few exceptions, every single person who has ever been in my life was there because of what I could do for them, with little to no thought for what they could do for me. No, I don't want to continue in this pattern.

So yeah, I shouldn't date. But who the hell am I to extend that rule to all parents everywhere? I don't know your situation. I don't know your heart. I don't know anything. So parents everywhere, I'm sorry, I had no right to judge. If dating, or nursing, or working, or staying home, or natural childbirth are right for you, then you just go right out there and do it! And I will do my very best every day to keep my opinions and issues about me right here with me. The right decision for me is not the right decision for anybody else. After all, who am I?

Must Be Nice

2015-06-23T17:38:00.000-07:00

Like most people, I have had both struggles and triumphs in my life. We all get through the tough times the best we can, and hopefully we celebrate the good times as well. The problem with both of these situations is people. Because basically, people suck.

We all know, when times get rough, we find out who our true friends are. They are the ones who stand by us and help us get back to some semblance of normal. The ones who listen while we cry, make us laugh when we don't really want to, hold our hair while we puke, float us cash when we're broke. They drive us to the hospital or pick us up from. They bring us food and make us eat it. They bring us groceries and make us accept them. They remind us that we are enough. They show us that it does eventually get better. They babysit for us, defend us in public and private, and if they are the type to do so they pray for us. The real friends among us always ask "What can I do?" The best friends among us don't even have to ask. They just do it.

Then there are the rest of the people in your world. The ones who instead start every sentence with "You know what you should do..." These are the ones who believe that, if you just listen to them and do what they say, your problems will disappear overnight. They pop up in times of distress, from everywhere. Always with helpful little hints.

You know what you should do? You should start dating. As soon as possible.

You know what you need to do? You need to kick him to the curb and not put up with that shit!

You know how to fix this, right? You need a good diet and exercise program. No carbs, no gluten, no sugar. And smoothies. Lots of smoothies.

You know what that kid needs? A good ass whoopin'.

You know you have to quit smoking now, right?

You get the point. No matter what is wrong, they have some tidbit of advice that will make everything all better immediately. And you'd better listen, because if you don't and things come crashing down, they will not help you pick up the pieces. Why would they? If there's one thing these fake friends know, it's that if it worked for them it should work for everybody. If you had only listened to them in the first place, none of this would have happened!

But sometimes, good things happen. To all of us. You get that promotion or your dream job. You recover from something. You take that trip you've been dreaming of for years. You find the partner of your dreams. You welcome a child or a grandchild. You buy a house, or a car, or a cupcake.

This is a good time to see which friends are real, too. You can tell them by their smiles and the way they are saying "That's great! I'm so happy for you!" or something similar. The fake ones? They'll be saying something along the lines of "Must be nice."

I wish I could just take off and travel the world like that.

She'll regret that later.

A new car? You should always buy used. They lose value. A foreign car? You should always buy American. How un-patritiotic. A new build? You should rent for a while instead.

Someday maybe I'll have enough money to look like that.

It makes me cringe. Every time. And what should one's reply be to such remarks? I hear "Must be nice" and my gut response is "Yes, it is." But then it looks like I'm the one being petty. So we smile and nod, pretend that the person speaking is not being wildly inappropriate, and continue on our way. Why? Why do we do this? It's not our job to justify the response of others, but yet we do it.

I have learned however, in my forty plus years of life, that we can't change other peoples' behavior. We can only change our reaction to it. So if you hear me say I'm happy for you or I congratulate you, I mean it. And whatever good is happening to you, I want you to enjoy it and have more, because being happy is awesome. And if you are having a problem and I tell you how to solve it without even taking your life into consideration, please just slap me. Remind me that it's not my job to make you stop puking, it's my job to hold your hair. Because that's what friends do. And when you have true ones, yes. It is nice.

Deconstructing Cinderella

2015-03-02T15:32:00.002-08:00

We all remember Cinderella from our childhood, right? I don't mean the new live action movie coming out this month, I mean the old school cartoon version all of us 40 somethings saw as children. And some of us are showing our children. I saw it a few years back as an adult, and I have to say: Don't. Seriously. If you haven't seen Cinderella as an adult, just don't. All your childhood dreams will be shattered. In fact, I'll just go ahead and start cracking them now.

First, let's discuss the living situation. You have four adult women sharing a house. The daughters are presumably old enough to be married off to a prince, but not quite old enough to get their own place. So these grown daughters just stay there with Mom/ Stepmom and mooch. But here's the real question: How the hell did Cinderella even come to be living there? Where is her dad? For that matter, where is the other dad? Maybe the stepmother is not really so wicked. Maybe she's just pissed off because all the men in her life run off and leave her with their problems! Add to that three grown ass women who refuse to go away, I might be a little wicked myself!

Next, let's face it. If you have the ability to make the Entire. Fucking. Forest! work for you, and you're not letting me in on that shit, I am going to hate you. I might even assign you extra household chores, since you're not the one doing them anyway. I would make your bitch ass earn that free room and board, and make your woodland creature friends earn theirs, too! Seriously, if you have that kind of power, the least you can do is be generous with it! Hook a sister up, already! Or even an ugly stepsister!

And oh, the Prince. Let's talk about the bachelor prince who just hasn't been able to find the right girl, even though they are being literally thrown at him. Poor guy is obviously gay, but his father the king just won't accept that. No wonder he can't find a princess! He's a queen! Show me one straight guy who would scour the countryside looking for the owner of the fabulous shoe. You can't.

Speaking of shoes, glass? Really? Of all the materials in all the world, Fairy Godmother gives you shoes made of glass? How do you even walk in those? Or dance? I mean, normally I'd say if you are at a party and lose a shoe, you are drunk. (Don't judge. We've all been there.) But I'm going to give Cindy the benefit of the doubt here and say there was probably no alcohol involved. Just stupid shoes. And even though the horses, the carraige, the dress, the hair, everything else the Fairy (not the prince, the Godmother) whipped up disappeared at the stroke of midnight, that one lost shoe remained. Why? If you're going to be that diligent about a curfew, why not go all the way? Turn those things back into something comfortable so miss "running late" can walk her drunk ass home!

Women have historically been judged on some pretty ridiculous criteria. Hair color, dress size, bra size, bank account size, IQ, pore clearness, you name it. But never in my life have I actually heard a man say "She was hot, smart and rich. Almost perfect. But did you see those feet? They were huge! I want nothing to do with her!" Granted, I don't normally talk to princes, but can we be more obscure? Although he was probably horribly disappointed when it did actually fit someone, so I'll let him go on that one. For now.

So the shoe fits, she gets to be a beard and live happily ever after, and Stepmom is one down, two to go. And I am left wondering how I ever actually liked this movie! I really hope the new one does a better job.

Devil's Advocate

2015-02-21T11:38:00.000-08:00

You don't work in a certain industry for long without learning how big the circle is. Your circle consists of others who work your job, or other jobs that relate to your job. In the world of automobile dealership service departments, the circle is pretty small. Some people work one dealership their whole career, some follow the money and hop around. Some are forced to move, because of downsizing, product elimination, dealer closings and the like. Simply put, I know people who work on just about every vehicle make out there. I also watch the news. Most nights, watching the news tells me which of my friends is going to have a bad day tomorrow, based on which make issued a recall that day. Lately, it's all of us. I don't know of a single make out there that doesn't have some kind of recall. It's getting a little crazy!

There is a time and a place for auto recalls. If your car is dangerous because of a design flaw or faulty part, and all of the cars made at the same time are equally dangerous, the people who built the car should fix it. But today I'm going to play devil's advocate and call this trend into question. Let the hate mail begin.

I'll admit the world's a different place than when I was a child. Our seat belt was the "Mom arm" that came out to catch us as she pushed the brake pedal. Our car seat was just that: the car seat. I would lay on the parcel shelf in the back of the car and wave at the trucks behind us. Somehow we all survived. I'm certainly not advocating this behavior now, as the streets are far more crowded and cars are built much differently today. But I am saying, at some point you have to own your own car and be responsible for what is going on inside it.

Sometimes while driving you need to ask yourself what would happen if... and drive as if it might. What would happen if my accelerator pedal stuck right now? How long would I have before I ran into the car in front of me? Maybe I should back off a bit. What would happen if my car shut off or stalled right now? Would I have time to put it in neutral and restart it before the guy behind me ran into me? Maybe I should get over a lane. What if my gas gauge is telling me I have an eighth of a tank more than I actually have? Maybe I should fill up more often. What would happen if my back up camera stopped working? Can I see behind me? What would happen if my brakes went out right now? Do I know how to safely use the emergency brake? At some point, we have to remember our car is a tool. We are the ones using the tool. It's our responsibility to use it correctly. And if we don't, whose fault is it? The car's? The people who made the car? The road? The government? No. It's our fault.

I think maybe this is what's becoming a problem now. Somebody has to be at fault. We need somebody to blame. I get it. If something bad happens to a loved one, our first instinct is to find somebody to blame. "Whose fault is this?" we ask ourselves, and often go in search of that party. But sometimes, let's face it, it's nobody's fault. We have nobody to blame, or worse, the loved one is at fault. But we need to place the blame somewhere. Somebody has to pay, either with money or some other means. And at the end of the day, when the blame has been placed and the debt has been paid, the bad thing that happened still happened. It didn't bring them back. It didn't make them whole. It didn't make you better. So why do we insist on repeating the same pattern?

Cars aren't the only thing being recalled, I know. Sometimes it's food, and sometimes rightly so. Sometimes it's furniture, electronics, appliances, even building materials. Some are valid. Some are a bit puzzling. A major US automaker just issued a recall for cars sold in 1999. You read that right, these cars were sold in a whole different millennium! Let's be real; if you haven't had issues yet with your 16 year old car, you're not going to! And if you do, come on! You've been driving this thing long enough it can legally drive itself! Whose responsibility is it to take care of it?

I too have cars with recalls. Do I get them done? Sure. But if something is wrong with said car, before or after said recall, I know it is also my problem. Therefore, my responsibility. I don't expect it to be free. Know why? Because it's my car! I own it, and all that comes with it. I know if I don't watch its tires and brakes, they may go flat or stop working for me. I know if I hang 20 pounds of crap on my key chain, that crap might catch on something and put my key in a position it shouldn't be. I know if I lose my power steering or I'm suddenly going faster or slower than I was, or if my gas gauge is wrong, or my navigation system suddenly thinks I'm in Siberia, it's not the end of the world. I must figure out how to adapt, and then I must pay to repair it. End of story.

My Roots

2014-06-15T16:48:00.000-07:00

I got the joy of attending my High School reunion recently. And I do mean joy. Loyal readers, you know High School was not the high point of my life. It was not the best four years I have experienced. I didn't hang with the right group, didn't participate in the right activities, didn't sit at the right cafeteria table, didn't quite make it unscathed through gym class, didn't drive the right car, have the right hair, wear the right clothes, and you can keep filling in the blanks from there. But, as we have discussed before, I did not let them see me cry and I survived. I got out of there and, for a while at least, didn't look back. Until I did. Here's what I learned:

1. The people I thought had it so good back then didn't really have it so good. Sure, there's a fine line between caring and controlling, which was my situation, but there's also a fine line between permissive and complacent. There is also a big line sometimes, forming a big arrow pointing at abuse. As jealous as I was of the kids who could run amok and do what they wanted, I learn now sometimes all they wanted was someone in their life who actually cared where they were. Or who would stop hitting them. It's heart breaking to know some of the stuff that was going on right under our noses that none of us knew about. Or the stuff that some of us did know about, just didn't know what to do about it! Let that be a lesson, kids. The life that looks so great from the outside might not be all it's cracked up to be on the inside.

B. Some douches are still douches. But most of them grew up to be perfectly nice people! People who might have had some shit going on back then that they didn't know how to handle, or who got a few visits from the Karma bitch and got it together. Overwhelmingly, they turned out OK. Apparently, people really can change! Not everybody, mind you. Some people just aren't nice, regardless. But I did have some perfectly great conversations with people who never would have given me the time of day back then. It was pretty shocking. Unfortunately, it works the other way, too. Some people who were perfectly nice back then turned into real douche bags later. I don't know why, but it happened. I guess it's a circle. Some change, some don't, some change for the worse. Go figure.

III. Your best friends in High School, the ones you thought would always be your best friends and you would live together forever with your husbands and kids in some fictional beautiful world? Yeah, that doesn't happen. Some will move away, some you will lose in a divorce, some will turn into snarky people you want nothing to do with, some you will just realize one day you have absolutely nothing in common with. But there's another side to this coin, too. Those people you didn't really know back then, who traveled in different circles, who you either admired or judged from afar, or just didn't notice? Sometimes these are the ones you end up forming beautiful friendships with that are more pure than anything your High School self could ever have imagined! I know, right?

4. Some of your High School classmates grew up to marry some pretty great people. Some of them also grew up to have pretty great lives. Remember the lessons we learned from #1, though. No place for jealousy here. Just be happy for them and tell them.

E. Those grades you busted your ass to keep up back then aren't really very important. The A students aren't really, as a whole, doing any better financially than the C students. The ones who earned scholarships or had a "free ride" are still just as likely to be in dire straights as the ones who went right into the work force or took some community college courses. Apparently, life is a crap shoot, and those of us who made it out alive all have equal opportunity to be princes or paupers. You just hope everybody is doing something they enjoy and be happy for them.

VI. Stay true to your roots. I learned this years ago, when I decided to get in touch with my inner nerd and let my geek flag fly. But as a group, it's important, too. Our barn dance/ bonfire was so much better than the last time at a ball room. Why? We all grew up either farm kids or friends with farm kids. Trying to be anything else later is denying who we are at heart. Even I questioned myself in the last few weeks! I really did spend a few minutes questioning my fashion choices. I was asking others what was OK to wear! I was worried and almost bought new clothes! Then I remembered the reason I don't know anything about clothes is because I don't care, and that my true beauty lives on the inside. It was a really rough 3 minutes though.

All in all, I am very glad I went. We really did all turn out pretty good. So if you get your invitation, think about it. Then tell me what you learned!

(Don't) Cry Out Loud?

2014-05-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

You all know I was born in the early 70's, and that music has always and continues to mold my life. Just like most of you. All of our special moments are framed by music. What was your prom theme? What was the first song you danced to as a married couple? What song did your child's mobile play? What CD is currently in your car's player? What song do you want played at your funeral? Not only do songs supply the mood for all we do, they also sometimes tell us how to behave. They tell us how to love, how to break up, how to survive afterward, and what to do next. They tell us how to be parents, how to treat our parents, and some of them even how to become parents! One thing they have taught everybody in my generation though, is not to cry.

Melissa Manchester told me when I was a child not to cry out loud. She told me to keep it inside, and learn how to hide my feelings. Kelly Clarkson reminded me as an adult that even if I make her cry, I don't get to actually see those tears in her hazel eyes. I learned well. I bet the rest of you did, too.

Then I became a Mom. And no matter how hard I try, there are things that make me cry. Like when Alfred left Bruce Wayne. When all the toys were in the furnace. Pink songs. When kids are nice to each other. When Elphie and Glinda change each other for good. The Special Olympics. When Sheldon hugs Leonard. Anything being born. You get it. But the one time I still feel the need to fight it is when someone does something hurtful.

I, like most women, cry when I'm mad. This makes me even more mad, since the last thing in the world I want is for the bastard who made me mad to see me cry! What would Melissa and Kelly think? I would be such a disappointment to them! So I fight it. I take a lap, I go away, I will myself more control. I do whatever it takes not to let the person who caused the tears see me cry! I know I'm not the only one. We all do it. Men, women, even children. We are convinced that our tears will give that other person power over us. In an attempt to keep that power from them, we refuse to give them our ammunition tears. Human nature.

But what if we're wrong? What if our tears don't give them power? What if knowing they made us cry instead actually takes away some of their power? I know, but stay with me here. Maybe, just maybe, some of the people who are saying hurtful things to us don't realize how hurtful their words are. Maybe, since we've heard them and not been visibly upset before, they don't know they are upsetting us. Maybe they are trying for a different response, and think that's what they are getting. Maybe they even mean to hurt us a little bit, but don't realize how much they actually do hurt us. Maybe they don't even care, but certainly the people around them should. To test my hypothesis, I suggest an experiment. It will be hard; it goes against everything we've ever been taught. But I am going to participate, so let's all try it together.

Cry. Openly. Without shame. Next time someone treats you in a way that makes you want to cry, do it. No fighting back tears. Let them go. Just let our honest feelings and tears out. I don't know what the response will be. Maybe our girls are right and we will be openly mocked. (Fair warning for those who choose to join me.) Maybe however, our tears won't give them power. Maybe our tears will instead give them pause. I'm not saying our tears should be a weapon. That's manipulative and wrong. I am saying that if they are there on their own, let them be.

I'm not going to actively look for these situations, nor should you. But the next time one presents itself, I'm going to block out Melissa and Kelly, and I'm going to let the tears flow instead. If you're willing, try it too. Let me know what happens, because you know I'll let you know.

When I have to be still

2014-03-01T08:55:00.000-08:00

The following is a brief summary of what was going through my head as I was laying in the MRI machine. If this makes no sense to you, your mind must be incredibly disciplined (boring) and you must be such a joy to talk to! If you can relate, then we are soul mates and you should enjoy reading my stuff. I don't think in paragraph form, so I won't write it that way either.

Why were they so worried about me freaking out? This isn't so bad, no worse than a tanning bed. But I don't have to be naked and it's not as hot. It doesn't smell like coconut in here, either. Don't move, don't move, don't move. I'm not breathing! I can't hold my breath for half an hour! OK, don't move but breathe. Breathe without moving. Not like that, I'm going to hyperventilate! OK, normal breathing without moving. Band breathing, into the belly and not the chest, just like Mr. Nelson taught us. Why do I have to remind myself to breathe? Did I turn stupid when they turned on this thing? Oooh! It moves! Those clanking noises are making my bench vibrate! That's weird. You know, that guy totally just talked me out of my bra in a span of like 30 seconds. Literally, the conversation went "Hi, I'm Matt and I'll be doing your test today. Ma'am, I'm going to need you to take off your bra." And I did! Was it the scrubs and the ID badge, or the fact that he called me ma'am? I should ask him how often that line works for him. I'm guessing every single time, if he's here. I bet my bra wouldn't even have affected the machine, Matt just has a thing for old lady saggy boobs. I bet he's looking through the window right now at my armpit boobs and laughing. Yes, Matt, they're real. When you make me take off my bra and then lay me on my back, they land somewhere around my armpits! Does that make you happy, Matt? Don't laugh, don't move. Focus on the music coming out of these paper covered headphones Matt put on me. But not too much, my foot is trying to tap. Damn it, foot! Stay where you go! Oh no. My nose itches. My nose has not itched in weeks! Why would it choose now to itch? Well, too bad, nose! You're going to have to stay itching, because I'm not going through this again for you or any other nose! I wonder why he put this towel over my face? What would I be able to see if the towel wasn't there? Is that why people freak out? Does it look scary in here? Maybe they should cover everybody's face and see if it helps. "Hi Jill. It's Matt. You doing OK?" Whoa! I can hear him! Can he hear my thoughts? Is that what the machine does, allow them to see into my fucked up brain? "Yes, Matt, I'm fine." "OK, just a few more rounds and you'll be done. You're doing great." "Thank you." Why did I just thank him? For reading my mind? Shit! I forgot to tell him my nose itches! Oh, wait. It's not itching anymore. Cool. When he asked what music I wanted, I should have asked if they had any Green Day. I'm guessing "Jesus of Suburbia" is long enough to get me through this whole test. But this is alright. I haven't heard "Welcome to the Jungle" in a few years. Remember senior year band camp when Guns & Roses was huge and we all walked around with those bandannas on our heads? We were such dorks. Still better than those dumb ass kids today, though. At least our pants stayed up! A few more rounds. What does that mean? How many rounds have I been through so far? One? How many rounds are there? Are we halfway done, a quarter of the way done, what? That weight he put on my arm to keep it in the right place is making my hand fall asleep. How did I not notice I was laying my head directly on top of my ponytail holder? What inconvenient head placement! Why do I never remember to position my head before we start these things? Either the ponytail holder is digging into my brain, or my hair is hanging, ready to get caught in every piece of equipment in the room! I wish I wasn't too lazy for short hair. I wish it wasn't so much work to keep short hair! Oh, there's Led Zeppelin. That Robert Plant. Wow, what a voice. Hey, I'm breathing and not moving! See, Matt? I can do this! Seriously, that hand is tingling and starting to get really uncomfortable. How much longer am I going to be in here? Should I yell for Matt? Will he think something's wrong and turn off the machine? If he turns it off, can we pick up from there later, or do we have to start all over? I really should have asked more questions before I got in here. My bra didn't even have an under wire! I wore that one today on purpose, just for that reason! Oh, the hooks. I bet those are metal. I get it. Sorry, Matt, for thinking you're a pervert. I'm sure you don't like seeing us sag any more than we like sagging. Now the thumb on that hand is twitching. Great. Keep it down, thumb. I don't think you're important, but we can't take any chances! How do people sit in a quiet room without a book? Doesn't their brain go through the same shit mine is going through now? Why would a person do that to herself? I don't get non readers. That just doesn't make any sense. Oh, Robert just stopped singing in the middle of a word. What happened? Where did you go, Robert? Did my twitchy thumb make you go away? Come back! Oh, the machine got quiet, too. I'm moving! "We're all finished, Jill. Most people move while they're in there, but you did great." Yeah, no big deal. Good thing it didn't measure my inner conversation!

If you don't get it, fine. If you do, you are not alone! Just do me a favor, and don't be the wuss who totally gets it and pretends not to just so people don't think you're crazy. It's better to be crazy than to be a liar!

You might be a dick if...

2014-02-19T11:37:00.000-08:00

I deal with a lot of dicks. Every day. Most of them, I hope, know they are dicks. If you say to them "You are a dick!" they say something like "So?" and admit it. But I believe a lot of people are walking around being dicks and honestly have no idea! Let me make a few points first, the main one being I am not implying one must possess a dick to be one. Girls can be just a big a dick as boys, sometimes even more so. No, I'm using the word dick as a catch-all term to include jerk, douche, bitch, asshole, and any other names you normally call people who are being dicks. I also want to make it clear that all of us are guilty of being dicks sometimes. Yes, even me. But some people are just so good at it that they can be considered full time dicks. So in the spirit of Jeff Foxworthy, I'm going to point out a few ways to tell if you're a dick.

First if all, dicks are without fail a self-centered group of people. They always put themselves before anybody else. So if you suffer from FEEIGM syndrome on a regular basis (see my post with that title for a full description, but all you need to know is it stands for Fuck Everybody Else, I Got Mine) then you are a dick. If, upon seeing any event, your first thought is how it's going to affect you, you're a dick. Example: "This traffic back up is going to make me late for work!" knowing there is a possibly fatal accident causing it.

If you have ever participated in road rage, you are a dick. Flipping off other drivers for following the rules, being mad at people for driving too slow, thinking other people are somehow in your way for being on the same road as you, all signs of being a dick.

If you stand in doorways, you are a dick. Doorways are there for people to enter and exit a room or building, not to gather or observe. Get in, or get out, but make up your mind!

If you feel you are entitled to anything, you are a dick. If you think it's somebody else's job to do anything you should be doing yourself, that means you feel entitled. If you were handed everything you wanted and needed all you life, your parents were raising a dick. They probably didn't mean to. Either they were raised the same way and are also dicks, or they thought they were giving you a good life by spoiling you. Regardless, if things magically appeared in your life through no effort of your own, and you expect that to continue for as long as you live, you are an entitled dick.

If the words "Thank You" don't come out of your mouth at least a dozen times a day, you are probably a dick. I will give credit if you haven't spoken to anyone today or can't talk. I know exactly 2 words in sign language: No, and Thank You. Enough said.

Before you make a choice, what criteria goes into your decision making process? I think every action should be subject to the following three questions: Is it right? Is it good? Is it nice? Every time I have ever been a dick, I was either doing something that was wrong, bad, or mean. Every single time. It always came back to bite me in the ass, too. So karma works. If I always try to do things that are the right thing to do, a good thing to do, and a nice thing to do, I never have to worry about being a dick! Pretty cool, huh?

This next one is going to confuse some people. People who really don't know they are dicks. This one is the kicker. If you think everybody else in the world is a dick who is out to get you, you're wrong. It's you. If your parents didn't raise you the way you think they should have, if every boyfriend or girlfriend you've ever had screwed you over, if your co-workers and bosses don't appreciate you the way they should, if complete strangers go out of their way to be mean to you, re-examine yourself. It's not me, it's you. We all know that dick. The one who has a target painted on them. The one who can't drive to work or walk across town or make a phone call or a purchase without somebody being mean to them. It's true: People do treat them like shit! But they do it for one reason and one reason only: They are a dick. Simply put, if you think the world is stacked against you, it's just because you're a dick.

If you feel the need to post negative comments to people's blog pages, but don't have the balls you use your name and just list yourself as "Anonymous," you are a dick. Also a coward, but certainly a dick.

I will tell you all right now, I did not have any one person in mind while writing this post. I had numerous examples in mind, some of whom I see on a regular basis, some I just made up for the purpose of this rant. But if you have been reading the whole post thinking I am talking about you, then yeah. You're a dick.

Does this post make my butt look big?

2014-02-04T16:28:00.000-08:00

It's no secret I love Jennifer Lawrence. The more I see and hear from her, the more I love her. And not just because she's beautiful and talented and plays great empowering characters, although those are all great reasons and true. I also love her because of her stance on body image, especially for young girls. But even the adults among us need to be conscious of this. We need to be aware of what we think about ourselves and why. We need to be aware of what we say to each other and to our daughters, and even our sons, and what effect our words and attitudes are going to have on them. We need to stop being so hard on ourselves. We need to stop being so hard on each other.

Have you heard of a thigh gap? Or a bikini bridge? How about muffin top? We name these body quirks and strive to achieve them, or avoid them. We mock those who have them, or expect unrealistic achievements of them. Then we teach our children to do the same thing to each other and themselves.

I have had a few different body types in my lifetime. Growing up, I was the skinny kid. Yep, I had a thigh gap from hell until I was at least 17. I have been the chunky girl, drowning my emotions in Twinkies. I have been the too thin girl, unable to hold down food because of chronic stress. I have been the pregnant girl who lost weight because of terrible terrible morning sickness that caused hospitalization. (Hey, remember when Princess Kate had that? I share a condition with freakin' royalty, people!) Now I happen to be a bit of a dumpy forty something woman. So I know how we treat pretty much everybody. And we treat them all like shit.

We all know how mean we are to overweight people. Tyra put on the fat suit to prove it. Fat Amy introduced herself that way, just to deny the other bitches the joy of naming her that on their own. We mock them and call them names, and even though the odds are pretty good our kids are going to be one of them someday, we let these kids hear us. We put them on diets and send mixed messages and make sure they know we don't want such a horrible unhealthy life for them while we drive through McDonalds for dinner. We also make sure they know how much we hate our own bodies and therefore ourselves when we gain a few pounds. We wrap all our self worth into our pant size, then tell our kids to judge people by what's inside, not what they look like. And then we wonder why they obsess about a thigh gap!

But the ones we are meanest to are the ones who have that thigh gap. I honestly was called "skinny bitch" more than Jill at certain times in my life. In a way, being thin is like being pregnant. Complete strangers feel it is acceptable to touch you. Acquaintances ask invasive questions you don't want to answer. Random people give you useless advice and seem to get upset when you disregard it. And in both cases, if you dare to complain about your treatment, it's met with a lecture about how you should be happy and grateful for your condition. People assume you went through great pains to achieve this thin body, so they also feel it's acceptable to comment on it. Little hint: It's not. It's not OK to tell me I'm skinny. Or fat. Or pregnant. I know, and none of these things are dependent on your perception.

But Moms: We need to make sure our perceptions are not creating expectations for our kids! Especially our daughters. If we bitch and moan about the weight we gained, they understand that the weight makes us an unattractive person. When we starve ourselves before a big event, or to get into a certain outfit, we are teaching them that appearance is more important than health. When we make comments about other women whose bodies are different than ours, we are letting them know that meeting the status quo is important and something to be desired. We are constantly allowing them to see how none of us is good enough! Is this how we want our children to grow up? Knowing that fitting in is more important than being happy and healthy?

I caught myself the other day. I bent over in a crowded restaurant without looking behind me first. When there wasn't enough room, I said to a complete stranger "I'm so sorry I hit you with my big butt." I was really apologizing for invading his space, for being careless enough to not check behind me. But what my son heard was me apologizing for the size of my ass. I don't want him growing up to judge girls by their ass size! But I still planted this in his head! And now I have no idea how to get it back out of there!

So I guess what I'm saying here is "Watch it." Hopefully my one slip won't scar little Leroy for life. But growing up in the 70's, watching all the women of my parents' generation obsess over every pound taught me that my ass is big and I should be ashamed of it. But I'm not. Food is yummy and I enjoy it. Gathering with good friends and good food is an activity I hope to always have the opportunity to participate in. My legs get me where I need to go no matter how crooked they are. My ass provides a cushion for sitting. My arms accomplish what I need them to, my hands do some pretty cool stuff. Most important, my brain does things that amaze even me, and my mouth can do some pretty impressive things too. I just need to learn to watch it!

Politically Correct

2013-12-27T16:17:00.001-08:00

     Fuck you, Hallmark! My apparel will be as gay as I want it to be, whether you like it or not! And I will don it whenever the hell I feel like it! And Target: I admit the whole piss sandal thing was just bad translation (ask GM about trying to sell Novas in Spanish speaking countries back in the day) but you squandered away a great opportunity with the whole manatee thing!

     To explain, in case you missed it, Hallmark made an ornament featuring the traditional "ugly Christmas sweater." But it says "Don we now our FUN apparel," instead of our normal "gay." Target came out with a line of sandals called Orina, which apparently means "urine" in another language. They pulled them. Target also had an outfit a few months back, it was gray. If you ordered it in skinny girl sizes, it was Heather. However, in plus size the color was Manatee. But instead of reminding us of what amazing creatures the manatees are, even if they are endangered, Target chose to instead apologize for offending anyone by comparing us to them. Why not just say hey, you know those manatee things the old time sailors thought were mermaids? We thought you'd like a shirt the same color as one! Sorry, skinny bitches. You chicks get to wear a shirt named for a plant and strippers. Eat a sandwich and try again next year.

No, instead they apologized for the color naming error, refused to be gay, and generally pissed me off by insisting on being politically correct. What's wrong with being compared to a sea creature? What's wrong with dressing in gay clothing? Our society has become so obsessed with complaining about nothing, we are forcing the companies to resort to insanity!

     Let me take a paragraph here to complain about the whole gay thing. Not the fact that people are, mind you, I don't really care who you desire as long as you read me. No, I'm confused about how and why the homosexual community became labeled with the term "gay," which has historically meant happy. Isn't this a lot of pressure to put on people? Imagine someone implying you have to be happy! All! The! Time! I am a generally happy person by nature (when I'm not on here bitching about shit) but even I can't be happy all the time! Sometimes I'm sad, or hurt, or angry, or sleepy, or one of the other dwarfs. Why do we insist all our homosexuals be gay? Are they not allowed to be depressed? To have a bad day? What the hell? I say we take back gay! As of this moment, gay means happy again! Homosexuals will just have to be called something else! I suggest "people." I suggest it gaily.

     But back to my original point. We are a society so intent on everybody being perfect that nobody is allowed to be honest! Why can't I wear a manatee colored dress? Why can't my apparel be gay? Why can't we all respect others' holidays and wish them a good one? When did we get so damn uptight anyway?

     Don't get me wrong; hurtful or mean words are never OK. I mean the racial slurs, the bad names, all that crap. That's not politically incorrect, it's just mean. No, I'm talking about companies who are so afraid of offending somebody or suffering through a boycott that they do ridiculous things like avoid simple words! Target, I love you. I really do. But own it! Be proud of those manatee clothes! I kind of need a pair of piss shoes too, now that you mention it! And while I'm there, I will buy the shit out of any gay apparel you have. Why? Because I'm so happy I could pee! All over my new shoes.

Now let's all get out there and spread the gay! Unless you happen to be homosexual, in which case you have my permission to be grumpy if you wish.

Open Letter

2013-10-23T14:27:00.000-07:00

     I keep seeing famous people writing these "open letters" to each other. Huh? I guess if you're famous and have something to say to someone who's also famous, you just write a letter. But instead of mailing it, you publicly publish it so everyone in the world can see it. OK, I'm game. I'm not famous, nor do I know any famous people, but hey, I have some people I can talk to, so here goes.

     Dear Single Mother,

      I'm going to get the outrage started right now by being brutally honest. I have never liked you. Let me tell you how you appear to outsiders. We see a woman who got pregnant by a loser. Or worse yet, a woman who had a great man but decided to let him go. We see a woman with too much going on, who failed to plan ahead. We see a woman who flaunts the fact that she can pop out kids just to get a piece of the welfare pie. We see a woman who intentionally keeps her innocent children away from their wonderful father just so she can be the martyr. We see a woman who expects and asks for special treatment just because she couldn't keep it together. We see a woman who does not know or care how important it is for children to grow up with a Dad. We see a woman ruining her childrens' lives simply because she wanted some strange or decided she didn't like her husband anymore. We see a woman with manicured nails whose kids are dirty or poorly dressed. We see all the things we never want to be. We also see a glimpse of what we could be, if we were pushed into the same situation. We hate you and we fear you. More than anything, we don't want to be you.

     Now I will tell you something else. I was wrong. And I am truly sorry.

     Now, as a grown up with my own child, I am capable of seeing things from another's perspective.I realize nobody should be punished forever for one bad decision. I understand that sometimes things don't work out the way we planned, or the way we wanted. I know now that nobody chooses to need help, and it's even harder to accept when it's from the wrong sources. I know that when you are in the grocery store line buying the meal the kid was supposed to have already been fed, his appearance is probably not what it would be if he were with you all day. I now know that sometimes the man whining about never being allowed to see his own children may actually have ample opportunity, just not under the terms he thinks he deserves. I know that, no matter upon whom we choose to blame the break up of any relationship, it can't possibly be all one person's fault. I now see that sometimes a girl can get so lost in a boy that she forgets how to be smart. I know now, thanks to life and experience, that sometimes shit just happens. And you can't control it, or take it back, or make it un-happen.

     I also have learned that, contrary to popular belief, you're not contagious. For this belief, dear single mother, is why people are so mean to you. We think you're going to infect us. We think if we get too close to you, we'll get it, too. You know, like Smallpox. So we avoid you. We stand as far away as we can on our pedestals of judgment and we hope we never catch what you have. And we are wrong to do that, and again I am sorry.

     It's exhausting, and I completely understand why you can be grumpy sometimes. You wake up (if you were lucky enough to actually get any sleep at all) and have to get sleepy grumpy kids out of the house to get them where they need to be all day. Then off to your job where you toil all day while worrying about the one who was sniffling this morning, hoping they don't call you to come get him. Off work, pick them up, and the last thing in the world you want to do is cook, so maybe a run through the drive thru will be OK. Then home to make sure everybody's fed, clean, and homeworked so you can collapse and do it all again tomorrow. And yes, you need help! You need help from the bastard who put you in this position to begin with! And when he's not there to provide the help, it makes you even more furious, and adds to the stress and exhaustion you already feel. It sucks. Every single day. And watching self-righteous two parent bitches judge you for doing the best you can just adds to the shit mix that is life.

     So I vow to never be that self-righteous bitch again. And I sincerely apologize that I was ever her. I don't expect your forgiveness (that's just permission to do it again, as we all know) but I apologize anyway. And I make a plea to all Mothers, and really all women. Look, we are all in this fucked up world together. If we can't help each other out sometimes, we really aren't any better than men. So let's all just stop the judgmental bullshit and be nice to one another. I promise to start doing my part right now.

                                                                                                                    Love,
                                                                                                                    Jill

How may I help you?

2013-09-15T05:59:00.000-07:00

As technology advances and we become a less textile based society, our jobs gravitate to the service industries. In short, customer service jobs. Your restaurant positions, retail sales of everything from clothes to cars, technical assistance, even the skilled trades like plumbers and medical staff. All of it centers around customer service. In short, the ability to provide a service for the public and be nice about it in the process.

Some people should not have these jobs. And for the most part, these people are either smart enough not to get them or their employers are smart enough not to let them keep them very long. But on the other side of the fence, some people just shouldn't be served.

Full disclosure: every job I have ever had requires me to deal with the public, at least in small doses. Most of them actually center around me dealing with the public every moment I'm on duty, and usually even when I'm not officially on duty. Because of this, I get to see a lot of people in a lot of different situations. I have also learned how to be a good customer.

I've discussed the "asshole fee" before. This is real. If you've never worked a customer service job, you have probably never heard of it. If you have, you may have heard it called different names but if there's any way under the sun to charge it, you have. And you only charged the assholes who deserved to pay it, hopefully.

Now, we all have days where we are assholes. All of us. We can't help it. We wake up, find dog piss on the carpet, the coffee maker breaks, we get stuck in traffic, our kids are brats, and every once in a while it all builds up and we become assholes. Usually just for a little while, and most of us are smart enough to avoid people during this time. But I'm referring here to the people who are just everyday assholes by nature. You've met them; they're the ones always running around bitching about bad service.

As I said, I have learned to be a good customer. I also almost invariably get great customer service. Cashiers are quick, friendly, and efficient. Wait staff is observant and caring. Salespeople are attentive without being pushy. Even the Taco Bell drive thru employees will apologize if the food takes a few minutes to prepare. (They couldn't just be saying that to make me stop singing, either. I can rock Pink like nobody's business!) So whenever I hear someone complain that wherever they go they get bad service, I am left to assume that it must be them. I have yet to be proven wrong.

Think about it. If you are a nice, friendly person, other people are generally nice and friendly back. Unless they are having an asshole day. It's the same if they are being paid to deal with you. If you walk in with an attitude, they aren't going to want to be as nice to you. If you walk in with a smile, they will usually give it back. Hopefully, they won't even spit in your food.

I actually do get it when people have never worked customer service jobs before. They've never lived it, they just don't know. What I don't get is when people who should know better are bad customers. I knew a woman who waited tables in high school and to work her way through college. She continued on to get a career and family, and apparently forget how hard her previous job was! I was quite frightened to eat in a restaurant with this woman. She complained about the table, she demanded special food not on the menu, she made the server make different trips for each item. (Can we get a new fork? Thank you, can I get a refill? Thank you, we need more sugar. Thank you, can we get some steak sauce?) I have always been honest about the fact I would be the worst waitress in the world. But even a good one would break under this kind of pressure!

There is also something about human nature that makes a person standing on the other side of any type of counter or desk somehow become not human. And it's even more pronounced if they are on the other end of a phone. Just because someone's wearing a uniform and standing behind a counter does not mean they are not a person. It is not OK to be rude to them. It is not OK to yell at them or expect miracles from them or threaten them. It is not OK to feel you are better than them. You are not. In fact, if they can handle dealing with your stupid rude ass without hopping across the counter and smacking you, they are better than you. You should thank them for performing their job, not make it harder for them.

I am under the opinion that every person's first job should be something minimum wage and dealing with the public. You learn that the hardest jobs pay the least amount of money. You learn how to deal with the assholes without losing your cool. You learn how to get along with your fellow dregs of society and work together to make life better. Most important, you learn who to hate. You learn to hate the dickheads who just can't seem to order what they want. You learn to hate the bitches who are never happy, even when you do everything right. Hopefully, you also learn how not to be one of these people. You see, good people in rant land, for the most part you get what you give. Now go out there and be nice. And if you really don't want fries with that, a simple "No, thank you" will suffice.

Facebook Fighting

2013-08-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

Let me say up front: I love Facebook. I can talk to far away family on a daily basis. I can catch up with former classmates, co-workers, and even people I see every day. My page for this blog (friend "Jill Said") gets me more readers then I ever thought possible. I first heard of Facebook a few years ago while volunteering at Leroy's school. I heard a couple of other moms talking about Facebooking each other. Until then, I thought it was for college kids. Oh no, they informed me. The old people had taken over!

So I got a computer and set up a Facebook. I friended family, actual friends, kids' parents, and everyone else I enjoy talking to. And then I learned there are some people I don't enjoy talking to. Some of them I am still expected to be "friends" with! But now as I read my newsfeed, there are some disturbing things going on sometimes. I call it Facebook Fighting.

     There are actually two kinds of Facebook Fighters. First we'll discuss the Baiters. These are the ones who will post a "bait" status, hoping to get a bite. Something like "Sally Jones is feeling aggravated." with no explanation. This is bait. Sally is aggravated by one of her Facebook "friends" and wants them to know it. They already do know it, but she wants to make sure everybody else knows they know it. And she secretly wants everybody to know what this person did to aggravate her, she just doesn't have the balls to tell anybody. So she posts her bait, sits back, and waits for the sparks to fly.

     Here's the problem. This is a trap. A very easy trap to fall into, but still a trap. We've all been guilty of taking this bait and falling right into the trap. Even me. But the trap is slippery, and the trap is deep! And once you fall into it, you might never get back out!

     It starts with a nibble, usually from someone who has no idea what the hell is going on. "Oh no!" they reply, "What on earth has happened to aggravate you?" To which Sally responds with some vague statement like "I've had the worst day of my entire life" or, better still, nothing. Meanwhile, Julie Smith (the bitch who pissed off Sally in the first place) has a choice to make. She's been reading this since it was posted. She is stewing. There are 1001 smart-ass comments she could make running through her mind. She really wants to post one. DON'T! Don't fall into the trap! Yes, we know Sally's a whiny little whore and needs to be taken down a peg. But seriously, don't do it! It does not end well. See, Julie will post something like "Yes, Sally. Do tell us all why you've had such a bad day." And that's the moment the shit will hit the fan.

     Usually it's not Sally who is actually throwing the shit. It's one of Sally's "friends" who knows the whole story. This "friend" will chime in with "You know damn well why her day is bad, Julie! You're the one who committed the sin to make it that way!" Oh, snap. Here we go. Now everybody and their brother is going to weigh in on who did what to who and why, and we officially have a Facebook Fight.

     The other kind of fighter is the stalker. This is the person who has a "friend" they hate so much, they watch this person's feed for any opportunity to mess with them. So Sally can post something completely innocent like "I just had a cook-out with the kids" and along comes Julie to turn it ugly. It will be something like "Oh, did you deny their father his normal visitation so you could bribe the kids with hot dogs?" Or "Your mother paid your electric bill, you can cook inside now." Something to that effect. And again, the game is on. Because now Sally's "friends" are outraged on her behalf, and they will post things to defend her. Then Julie's "friends" will pipe in with their two cents, siding with her. And at the end of the day, we all hate each other.

     Seriously, we are all guilty of trapping or falling into this trap at least once. Even me. (I know! You'd think I'd be smarter! You'd think wrong.) But some people are so good at it, or so bored with life, they have made a sport of it! Unfriend these people. Now. Or remember who and what they are. Hide their posts from your feed if you have to. Read the bait, say out loud to the computer screen the witty insult you are thinking. But don't type it. If you do feel the need to type it, don't post it under any circumstances. Just don't. Even if someone is insulting you. Even if someone is insulting your mother, or your sister, or your adult son. Just don't. If they are insulting you, block them. If they are insulting your best friend, ignore them. This is not your fight. Let me repeat this last part, because I know you didn't catch it. This. Is. NOT. Your. Fight. It may seem like it's your fight, but it's not. It's your brother's fight. It's your best friend's fight. It's your cousin's fight. But it is not your fight.

     I recently witnessed a stalker fight on Facebook. Ok, maybe Sally's post was a little bit baiting, but it did seem as if Julie was waiting for any opening she could find. And when she found it, boy did she go in full boar! Name calling, accusations, the whole nine yards. And as if that wasn't bad enough, another "friend" had to join the mix, adding his support to the documented verbal abuse being doled out! Here's my main problem with this particular situation. The person whose wall this was on has 664 "friends" who got to read bad things about her. The person starting the fight has 3850 "friends" who have access to this feed and now should know exactly what a meddling bitch their "friend" really is. (On a side note, seriously! Who knows 3580 people? Really?) Then, when the calvary jumped in with his equally rude comments, that expanded the available readership by another 2244 people. So when all was said and done, 6468 people had access to this conversation. A conversation which wasn't even the fight of anyone involved! It wasn't even their fight, and now 6468 people know how mean people can be.

     Now, I'm not talking about trolling the pages of groups you hate and trying to teach them how to add. Yes, I'm talking to you, One Million Moms. Groups that spew hate and intolerance deserve a math lesson every so often. They have learned how to block, so at least their technical skills are good. Group hate is really good clean fun, and if they can't take it they really shouldn't start the group. No, I'm talking about actual people who you know and are supposed to be a "friend" to. Even if you're related to them. Seriously, just don't do it. Don't post the bait; you know where it's going to go. If the bait is aimed at you, don't bite. You know where it will go. And remember: 99% of the time, it's not your fight. If it is your fight, do yourself a favor and look at the number of "friends" your adversary has. Add this to the number of "friends" you have. Then you might as well factor in the amounts for anybody else you think might get involved. If what you are about to type shouldn't be said in front of 6468 people, it shouldn't be read by them either. Don't type it. Now you'll have to excuse me, I have some arithmetic lessons I need to get back to.

My Hero!

2013-07-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

When are we going to stop treating people like heroes just for doing the right thing? I mean, when is it OK to expect people to do the right thing just because it is the right thing to do? True heroes always say the same thing when recognized: "I just did what anyone else would do." And that should be the case. It should just be what anyone else would do. Unfortunately, we have created a society where not anyone would just do what should be done. So, yeah they did what anyone else SHOULD do, but not what everyone else WOULD do.

I do adore this guy from Ohio, and I really am glad he's getting free food and all for saving those girls. But seriously, what kind of a person would have just kept eating his Big Mac and made the poor woman break down the door herself? Wasn't helping her really just doing the bare minimum? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he did do the bare minimum. But still, shouldn't that be what's expected, not what's special?

The first hub's very best friend in the whole world was a self-proclaimed asshole. This is not a bad thing. In fact, we got along splendidly. I had no unrealistic expectations, and he always lived up to them. Cleveland also has an Asshole Friend, and I adore him. In fact, if you don't have any Asshole Friends you really should find one. They are a great social barometer, and always good for free entertainment. The times in my life I didn't have one I remember as being very empty and confusing.

Years ago, there was this great show on TV called Rescue 911! (I do believe the exclamation point was in fact part of the title!) You remember it, right? Google it, kids, it was awesome. Captain Kirk would play us real live 911 calls, they would reenact the emergency, and talk to the people who were there. Great stuff. And being William Shatner, you know the narration was top notch!

One night's episode, while Asshole Friend happened to be visiting, involved some type of car theft with a baby strapped in the car. If I remember correctly, the thief discovered the baby, pulled over, put car seat and all by the side of the road and kept driving. An older couple happened along, saw the car seat, pulled over and found the baby. They then put the child in their car and drove to the nearest police station. This was in the days before cell phones. Of course Mom was overjoyed to get her baby back, I think thief got caught, and they all lived happily ever after. Until the TV people came along. I'm sure it's the way the scene was edited, but it appeared the couple who found the baby were very proud of the fact that they stopped and picked the baby up. Like it was something special.

This is when the friend spoke up. I will remember this quote as long as I live. He said:

"I'm a complete asshole, and even I wouldn't leave a baby by the side of the road!"

Wow. That pretty much covers it. If even an asshole would do the same thing, it must be the bare minimum. So why can't we expect everybody to do the bare minimum anymore? Are we all so self-centered we don't even notice anything else? Or do we just not care?

Watch the news. Every time there is an accident, and incident, any situation involving someone who stopped to help, they interview them and put them on, labeled "Good Samaritan." Always I am glad to see that someone stopped to help, but at the same time I'm asking myself "Well, who would just drive by and leave a baby on the side of the road anyway?" Sadly, I think the answer is more people than we care to admit. And not the assholes, either. The employee not wanting to be late for work. The Mom who doesn't want to leave her kids in the car. The bystander who pulls out their phone to video the scene. Everybody waiting for somebody else to do it.

I've been fortunate enough to not be in a position where I need a Good Samaritan very often. When I have, one always showed up. I also try to do at least the bare minimum when I see someone else in need. I'm no hero. Just a normal asshole trying to make it through the day. Just like you. My hero.

How to Work With Boys

2013-06-19T14:57:00.001-07:00

     Since about 1992, I have mostly worked jobs revolving around car repair of some sort. Longer, if you want to count being a cashier in a truck stop convenience store, but I don't. My first real car job was changing oil in one of those quickie lube 10 minute places. I just kind of fell into the job, didn't really know any better. It was me and a bunch of boys. From there, I went to various dealerships where I continued to change oil and do other repair work, then moved up the ladder (and down on my ass) to the sit down job of service adviser. I'm the one who greets you when you drive in, finds out what your problem is, then tells you how much it's going to cost to fix it. Even in this day and age, a predominantly male occupation.

     If you've read my old stuff (and if you haven't, you really should. I'm pretty hilarious.) you know that my third level of Hell would be to have to work with nothing but women. I've done it, and it was not good for me. I've never been much of a girly girl, and I really don't understand us as a species. So the fact that I'm generally surrounded by boys is actually pretty good for me. And it prepared me for what has become my home life: generally surrounded by boys.

     You'll notice I call them boys. This is because of the first and most important rule of working (and living) with them: No matter how old they get, they are still boys. They like shiny things, going fast, and boobies. Maybe not in that order all the time, but always. You can't expect adult behavior out of them, they just don't know how. They will always have the attention span of a gnat, and will usually giggle like school children over the most immature jokes. I often say that I may look like a grown ass woman, but deep down inside I'm just a 12 year old boy. But men? Their 12 year old boy is right there, just under the manly surface. And it stays there. Forever. So to survive, you have to have a sense of humor. The more messed up, the better.

     It's also important to learn the wives' names, and use them. Often. These women are your friends. You know that 10 hours a day you have to spend with that guy? They have to put up with his ass the other 14. They know. But they can also be your worst enemy, if they don't trust him, or don't trust him with you, or just plain don't trust you. Hell hath no fury like a wife scorned, so you don't want to do anything that could ever possibly be construed as scorning her. Do not betray that trust, or you will pay forever. Always use her name in everyday conversation with their husbands, and said husbands will be less likely to try to betray that trust, also. Anybody can have a wife, and still live free and be bad. But when they actually hear you say "I bet Carrie loves when you talk like that," it makes it personal. Now they run the risk of pissing off Carrie, and that would be bad. Plus, everybody likes to be called by name. It's just nicer. I also learned the hard way with phoning them: never just ask for the co-worker you called to talk to. Ever. No, you say "Hi, Carrie, this is Jill from your husband's place of work. May I speak to him for a moment?" The reaction is a whole lot better than hearing a girl's voice say "Is John there?" A whole lot. John will thank you, too.

     You also must get used to having multiple older brother figures. They tease me mercilessly. Of course, I throw it right back at them, but there is a pesky little sister/ annoying older brother quality to our interactions. They will pick on me all day, call me names, do all the things brothers do. But they will also kick the ass of any outsider who tries to do the same thing. For those of us who didn't grow up with any brothers, it's actually pretty cool. Are you jealous yet?

     One thing you have to remember though is where to look. Or more importantly, where not to look. Most guy places have some sort of "locker room" set up. Normally in shops, it's kind of buried in the back, away from where the general public goes. It is never air conditioned, and rarely heated. Because of this, there is a door somewhere which usually stays open. Don't look there. Ever. There are things about my co-workers I just don't want to know. Which ones wear the tidy whiteys is definitely on that list. Again: don't look. Just don't. Ever. You've been warned.

     They also ask a lot of questions. See, for all their perceived knowledge, men are still pretty clueless about the opposite sex. We confuse them. This is mainly due to the lack of blood flow to the brain when they are with us, but it's still a very real phenomenon. So they ask me things like "Why does my wife do this, or say this, or think this?" Be careful how you answer. Always ask first: "Do you want to know the truth?" Then ask again before telling him the truth, just to make sure. Sometimes they don't like the answer.

     Don't forget though, boys are icky. This is not meant as an insult, but it's the truth. Girls: They pee standing up! On purpose! Sometimes into fixtures resembling animal feeding troughs! All at the same time! Right next to each other! And when they are forced to pee into an actual toilet, they miss! Not just sometimes, either. Every. Single. Damn. Time! But they keep doing it! On purpose! I know, right? And even they know they are icky, because they won't even touch each other! When they are hurt and need bandaged, need their ponytail fixed, need their tie tied, etc. who do they come to? Another boy? Ewww, no! Nobody else will do these things for them! They seek out the girls. Because even though we know they're icky, we're used to it by now and will help them anyway.

     For the most part though, when you are the only one and you speak their language, they tend to forget you're not one of them. This is really cool. Sometimes I feel like Jane Goodall being accepted into the chimpanzee family. I used to think they just forgot I was there. But now I have learned, they know I'm there, they just forget I'm a girl! Evidenced by the salesman who once started a question with "If you were a girl..." I answered, "Well, if I was in fact a girl,....." and he didn't even notice!

     All in all though, I wouldn't trade my life for anything. I feel I'm bi-lingual, and I am able to translate at the drop of a hat. (UN, are you hiring?) I always understand the inside jokes. They don't look at me funny when I giggle at things. I don't have to explain why I'm giggling; they are, too! I have learned to fear, respect, and love these glorious creatures we call the opposite sex. Now, if we can just work on that whole pee thing.

Shame On You!

2013-05-15T08:21:00.001-07:00

     I have to admit, I'm a little addicted to Dogshaming. If you don't know what I'm talking about, look it up right now. Go to Dogshaming.com and look. You will laugh. You will cry. You will understand immediately why I have become an addict. And I am totally on board! Cat Shaming, Husband Shaming, Wife Shaming, even Kid Shaming all sound like a good idea to me.

     I think this is where we have dropped the ball in America. We have lost our shame. We have let our children lose their shame or, worse yet, raised them to have none! I meet people every day who are very very proud of how stupid they are. Or how lazy they are. Or how good they are at "playing the system" and getting free stuff. Or how they are above the rules so they don't bother to follow them. Proud!

     I blame my generation, really. We messed up. When we were kids, one adult was as good as another. If my neighbor told me to stop doing something, I stopped! Why? Because a grown-up told me to! We didn't question, we didn't argue. We didn't analyze the chain of command. We just stopped being brats because we were told to. Why we feel the need to raise our children to behave any differently is beyond me, but we do. Tell a kid now to stop doing something, and what do you hear? "You're not my Mom! I don't have to listen to you!" And along will come a parent to stand protectively behind said brat and agree with them!

     I feel sorry for teachers these days. Or anyone who has to work with children and therefore has to deal with parents. I have always said and firmly believe: I love kids, I hate parents. Parents take these innocent little creatures and turn them into self-centered little assholes! You can't discipline my child for acting up in class, I'll complain to the Principal! You can't expect my kid to follow the same rules as all the other kids, I'll go to the School Board! And don't even think about catching my kid doing something wrong! Heads will roll!

     "You must have the wrong kid. My perfect little angel would never call his classmate a douche, he doesn't even know what that word means!"

     Yeah, have you met your kid? Because I have, and he's a little douche himself! Of course he did it! He taught all the other kids the word, too! Now take off the blinders and teach him shame! What would our parents have said in the same situation? "Not my kid" or "You should be ashamed of yourself!" But we are so focused on raising kids with great self-esteem, we forgot to teach them to be ashamed!

     But we sure have taught them to be proud. Just proud of the wrong things. I hear daily "I'm so stupid!" or "Yeah, I got that for free." or "Nobody can tell me what to do!" Uhhh, yeah. Pride in your stupidity? Pride in your ability to work the system? Pride in your refusal to learn? OK. You apparently have a lot to be proud of. Let's make a misspelled sign and share it with the world!

     But try to shame them into doing the right thing, and suddenly you're the bad guy! You're ruining your child's self-esteem if you make them tell their friends they aren't allowed on Facebook anymore because they posted a picture of themselves doing something stupid or illegal. They can be proud of that bong they're hitting, but don't you dare make them post that they messed up and are paying for it. That would be humiliating! Oh no! I don't know yet where I stand on the signs. You know, making kids write a sign that says "I'm a stupid, disrespectful, (fill in the blank here) kid that did a horrible deed, so this is my public display." Not that I think it's mean or child abuse or anything like that. I just don't think they feel the shame the signs are supposed to elicit. They proudly hold up their signs, knowing they got away with whatever it is they did without losing their smart-ass phone. You've heard the term "Sarcasm is wasted on the stupid." I think in this case it should be "Shame is wasted on the proud." They just don't get it.

     But isn't having some appropriate pride a good thing? Isn't shame an effective teaching tool? Thousands of years of Jewish Mothers can't be so wrong, can they? When did we lose the capacity to feel shame? When did we all decide to flaunt our character flaws, even brag about them, rather than trying to be better people? What happened to being embarrassed enough to never do something again? Yes, we all had our humiliating moments. But I for one learned from them. We are robbing our children of the opportunity to learn from their own humiliation. And in the process, we are creating a generation of proud little douche bags.

     So I say, Shame On You! Shame On You, kids who are proud of being a dumb ass! Shame On You, parents who are proud of their dumb ass kids! Shame On You, people proudly flaunting your refusal to earn your own keep! Shame On You, drivers who refuse to follow the rules of the road! Shame On You, line cutters and texting drivers, and bad parents, and poor spellers, and mean people, and anyone else I'm forgetting! Shame! And yes, I am pretty proud of myself right now.

Cool Kids

2013-04-24T13:21:00.000-07:00

     Have you seen any of these public service announcements with people saying "It gets better?" I love this. I have been saying for years "High School is not real life" but this phrase is a lot shorter and easier. We are basically saying the same thing.

     I first discovered this the summer after I graduated. I attended a travel school, where a bunch of recent graduates (mostly female) went to live and learn together for 5 weeks in a strange land known as Florida. Ironically, I really hate to travel now. I think it's the thought of having to pay for a place to sleep, when at home I already pay for a place to sleep. But I digress. While we were there learning, there was a small group of "Mean Girls," straight out of Tina Fey's childhood. They were making fun of someone, laughing at people, talking behind the other girls' backs, basically doing all the things the popular kids did back in High School. Until another girl called them on it. She scolded them, saying their behavior was "So NOT cool!" All I could think was: Whoa! Six months ago, these girls were the definition of cool! What happened? Oh yeah, we graduated. OK, high school is not real life. Yay!

     I did however get to experience what it is like to be one of the cool kids. I was just in my mid 20's at the time. I worked at a place with a very defined caste system. Somehow, and I still can't tell you how, except that I was unhappily married with no children and had a lot of disposable income, I became part of the IN crowd. Being the nerd in hiding I was at the time, I happily joined. We would leave work, go to whatever bar was decided on that evening, stay until it closed, go home, get up in the morning and do it all over again. I quickly learned I cannot be a cool kid, even if they let me try.

     I don't normally stick out in a crowd. I am of average height, average build, average attractiveness level. Drunk people tend not to remember me. I can only introduce myself to the same person about 6 times before I really don't care to know them. I also do not drive drunk, so sipping cola surrounded by drunk people was kind of awkward, too. I put up with it though, for about 6 months, just because I was allowed to hang with the cool kids! Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could actually be one of them someday! (I know. Remind me I was in my mid 20's at the time. But old rejection issues die hard, OK?) So I drove, and I played, and I bought, and I sucked up, and I stopped talking to the other people. You know, the ones in the lower castes. And I really thought I was happy being one of the cool kids. But then there was a turning point.

     A circle of people gathered out behind the bar. Of course, being with the cool kids, I was invited into the circle. There was a pipe being passed. I assume it was pot, but nobody specified. The complete stranger to my left was next up to get it, and I looked at him. Specifically, at his mouth. It was not a pretty mouth. It was not a clean looking mouth. It did not look like a mouth I would want anywhere near any of my body parts. At any time, for any reason. But in order to remain a part of the cool kid group, I was expected to take an object which had just been in his mouth, and then put it into mine! That did it. My inner nerd voice got really loud right at that moment, and told me to get the hell out of there! So I did. I turned around and walked away. I drove home and made plans to set the poor man I was married to free. I decided to be me, in all my geeky glory, and to hell with all those cool people! Do you know what my new cool friends' reaction was to me walking away? None. They didn't notice. That was my wake up call. The cool kids don't care about even each other. Nice.

     Yes, High School is not real life. Until it is. I didn't have this problem until I had school age kids of my own. Sometimes the parents aren't so adult. I have to assume these people had a much different High School experience than I did, since I would never want to relive mine. Ever. Or maybe they had my kind of experience and don't want their children to live the hell they did. I don't know, but there always seems to be a group of parents who are still living the high school dream, just 20 years later. Through their children. The peer pressure is brutal. The snide comments are heartbreaking. The blatant teaching of improper behavior to the kids is unforgivable. Their kids suffer just as much as ours do, too. They can't have the friends they want to have, can't join the clubs they want to join, have to be the cool kids their parents expect them to be. It has to suck! And they treat me like I got treated back then. That really sucks. Except now, I'm better equipped to handle it. I know how to let it go. I know to only surround myself with the good kids, and stay away from those mean ones. I get it now, because as much as the ones stuck in the past try to make it so, High School is not real life.

     So, to be me, I'm trying to think of a funny way to wrap up this story. But I can't. Just take this one as one of my rants, and remember, weather you are living it now or already lived through it: High School is not real life! In other words, it gets better.

Children's Music

2013-03-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

     I seriously question the sanity (and competency, to be honest) of parents who constantly play their kids "Children's Music." You know, songs for kids. Or kids singing songs. Those annoying sets put on this Earth to drive us crazy. Yes there is a time and a place for the "Wheels On the Bus," but it isn't in my car! Seriously, preschool was great. We learned lots of new songs and dances, and that glitter is evil. I loved every minute of it. Really! But there are some things that should not come home with you. Like the Flu, glitter, and the music.

     I was at a gathering once, shortly before Leroy was born. I heard a Mom say the highlight of her day was when she would get the opportunity to drive the car alone, with no kids. Then she could put the radio on the station SHE wanted to listen to, not what she had to play for the kids. When I asked why she didn't do that anyway, I got some crazy looks! I was confused. Was I going to lose my musical choice the moment I gave birth? But I already had step-kids! They didn't require special music. Did they? Did this mean we'd been driving wrong all this time because we put the radio on normal stations? Was singing along with Melanie's Averil Lavigne CD's scarring the boys for life? I was seriously questioning all of my musical choices! And considering giving up good taste for my kids!

     But then I remembered: I used to be a kid. A long time ago, before safety seats and bicycle helmets, but still! I was a kid riding around in a car with my parents. And riding around in the big rig with my Dad. And these vehicles had radios. And never once during my whole childhood did either parent (or any other adult who drove me around, for that matter) ask me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. Not a single adult in my world ever changed the radio station or 8 track (yes I'm that old!) when I got into the car. Not once! So why the hell does my generation cater to our kids this way? I blame Barney. Not because he's guilty, just because I've always hated that purple piece of shit.

     So that settled it. No special music for my kids. They would listen to whatever station I put on the radio and they would like it! My car, my radio, my tunes! Which is why car seats were invented, I think: to keep their grubby little paws off my radio buttons! Leroy was born, the boys and girl all aged, we exposed them to as many different musical styles as we could stand to listen to ourselves. They learned the children's songs at preschool, and all about Guns and Roses from Daddy. Life is good.

     I learned very early in Leroy's life that he is a metal head. I would look into the rear view mirror and see him headbanging before he could talk. Neighbor kids cranking their radios would elicit instant response. The heavier, the better for my little toddler. Yep, he was a rocker! Still is. He keeps his hair long just to see it move when he bangs. But I've actually learned a few things from the little guy. About music, too.

     I've never disliked Green Day, but I was never a huge fan, either. From the day Leroy was born, his world stops if Green Day plays anywhere. Really. American Idiot was released when he was about a year old. The songs we heard on the radio seemed good, so I invested in the CD. As soon as Leroy was old enough to talk, whenever we would get into any car to go anywhere he would say "Green Day!" And, especially if it was just the two of us, I would generally comply. And I learned: I love these guys! So when 21st Century Breakdown came along, guess what I got for Christmas? Oh yeah! And this year I hit the jackpot: Uno, Dos, and Tre! I'm not saying I wouldn't have discovered my Idiot love on my own, eventually. I'm sure I would have. But I am saying that Leroy's love did help me along the way. Would I be the huge fan I am now if we were Kidz Bopping all these years? Well, no. I would be in a padded room somewhere in the fetal position crying.

     Music also paves the way for conversations necessary to raising kids. Conversations about choices, and making good ones. Music is not the only way paver; the news and local events have sparked some good ones, too. But music helps. And it teaches me about simplicity.

     Case in point: a conversation with Leroy while driving the other day.

     "Mom, is Billie Joe (Armstrong, the lead singer of his group. He's on a first name basis with them) OK now?"

     "I've heard he's out of rehab, healthy, and they're starting the tour back up. So yeah, I think he's OK."

     "Were the drugs what made him do all that stuff at that concert?" (See the "I Heart Radio" debacle for details)

     "Probably had a lot to do with it, yeah."

     "So what about Mike? Is he on drugs too?"

     Uhhhh.... moral dilemma here. I can't exactly say someone I've never met is clean, or not, or uhhhh.... what's the right answer here? So I waffle:

     "I don't believe so, why?"

     "Well, when Billie Joe smashed up his guitar, Mike joined in and smashed his too. Why did he smash his?"

     Uhhhhh..... well...... uhhhhh.....When in Rome? No, don't want to get into explaining that saying today, so...... Oh, I know! "Because he's a good friend."

     "That's what I thought."

     Whew! That's what he thought, indeed!

     So rock on, people! My kids and I will be singing along with all the good music. As long as it's not "Wheels On the Bus." I mean, unless the bus has some awesome rims. Then we might talk.

My People

2013-03-06T07:12:00.000-08:00

     I fear change, so I haven't worked too many jobs in my life. Most of the ones I've switched around among do revolve around the same occupation. Some though, just kind of happened. I have my "career" jobs, then I have my "other" jobs. The straight out of high school, don't know what I'm going to do with my life jobs, the stay-at-home Mom needs to get out of the house sometimes part time gigs, the extra cash on the side type jobs. Needless to say, I have worked with a few different varieties of crews.

     I often comment how I wouldn't last five minutes in an office environment. People generally think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I did work in an "office" for about six weeks once. I hated every second of it, and this office only consisted of three workers. I hated the boredom. I hated the clothes. I hated having to wear shoes that hurt my feet. But most of all, I hated when somebody else who worked in the building would walk into the room. They come in, do what needs to be done, then leave. That's when it started. Did I see what she was wearing? Did I hear the rumor about her cheating on her husband? Did I hear the rumor about her husband cheating on her? What did she do to her hair? Are those the ugliest shoes ever? You get the point. So then, every time I left the room, I wanted to circle back real quick and see what was wrong with me. But then I realized I didn't really want to know.

     It is easy to assume that I think women cause more workplace drama. This is not exactly true. Men cause just as much drama as women, but I personally am just better equipped to deal with the male type. I don't know why. But if you get too many women into a workplace, the drama which ensues is just a bit much for me to handle. I have always just worked better with men.

     Men are just a little bit different. They make fun of the way I walk, not the shoes I'm wearing while I do. I can deal with that. Plus, in case you haven't figured this out yet, I have kind of a potty mouth. Simply put, I cuss like a trucker. I can control it, usually, if I have to. But I prefer not to. I'm not saying all men enjoy cursing, but far fewer men have asked me to control my language than women. They also don't get upset when I giggle. The only boss who ever reprimanded me for "inappropriate giggling" was a woman. Again, not judging, just stating fact.

     Some jobs, I know the first day there I'm never going to fit in. Others, I have to wait awhile before I grow on people. You know, like mold. My current job however, I knew the first week I was among my people. I had been warned: Cleveland was pretty upset about having to stop working, and understandably tense about me coming back. The thought of my mouth getting me in trouble was a pretty big fear for him. You know, that whole cuss like a trucker thing and all. Meanwhile, I found out later, co-worker to my right was informing his wife that he would probably be fired soon, since I'm a girl and all. It took us about 3 days to realize our humor is about the same, and we would all be fine. You're welcome, wife and husband.

     Coming in to a new place, as one of the few girls who hold this sort of job, is always an adventure. The guys never know what to expect. Am I a girly-girl who got confused? A femi-nazi who has bigger balls than they do? Am I just scamming for a sexual harassment lawsuit? They just don't know! What I really am is a girl who can't stand dress shoes or pantyhose and kind of fell into a career where I don't need them! Nothing made me happier than, when I had been here a few months, I heard the boss man say "I sure am glad we got her, and not some prissy bitch!" Awww! See, these are my people!

     I did have a boss once years ago, who made it extremely easy for the 3 girls who worked for him to get any time off we wanted. All we had to do was start a sentence with "Well, my ovary...." and that's as far as we needed to go. Yes, we took advantage of him. No, I don't feel too guilty about it.

     At the beginning of winter this year, the Mommy-in-law bought me some new boots. MIL has great taste in clothing and fashion. I do not. So if she says something is good, I have no grounds for argument. These are black suede boots, lined with something warm and furry, very comfortable. I don't know the brand name, but she assures me they are "better than Ug," whatever that means. First snowy day, I come in wearing my new boots. I ask the married guys what "better than Ug" means, I finally learn that Ug is a whole brand of boots and is spelled Ugg. Cool! Then I am informed:

     "Those better than Ugg boots sure don't make you walk any better!"

     Awesome. See, I was born with one leg not quite as straight as the other one. The technical term from the Orthopedic surgeon is "squinty knee." One knee squints in at the other. In car terms, I suffer from a "toe out condition." To keep that knee from banging into the other one, I walk with a foot at about a 45 degree angle out from where it should be. It causes me to kind of, uh, waddle? Lope? I don't know the correct term there, but it's not graceful. Or free of pain. But apparently it is fairly amusing to watch. I don't run. I never learned how. Well, the boots are very nice and cool and all, but they do not help me walk better. Nice of my people to point that out for me.

     I think when I really knew I was among my people was one day when I was standing outside with the boss man watching someone jog down the sidewalk. I commented that I always look behind the runners. You know, to see what is chasing them. He admitted he looks at the hands. To see what they're carrying (read: stealing.) The fact that neither one of us could come up with any other reason for someone to be jogging down the sidewalk is strangely comforting to me. These are so totally my people!

Paranoia Parenting

2013-01-08T14:48:00.000-08:00

     Let me tell you "Elf on the Shelf" freaks a few things. If you need to plant spies in your house to get your children to behave, they are probably horrid little brats anyway and don't deserve Christmas gifts! If they are good children already, instilling paranoia into their lives will only backfire later. Trust me.

     As if the whole month of December wasn't hectic enough, you expect me to find creative
adventures for the narc elf to do on top of everything else? Every day? And how is the elf spying on the kids if he's fishing in the toilet or hanging from the ceiling fan? And why do they call it "on the shelf" when that's the last place I see my braggart friends putting the little bastard?  I'll tell you where my elf on the shelf is today: on the shelf at Walmart! I'm not doing it!

     Not only did Santa see me when I was sleeping as a child, Jesus did, too. And the birds who would get into the chimney. And the bunnies who played in the back yard. And all the neighbors. And all of my teachers, parents' co-workers, complete strangers, and especially God. Any perceived sin I could possibly imagine would be met with severe parental punishment followed immediately by lightning bolts from the heavens. But here's the kicker: I was just naturally a good kid! All of this was completely useless; I wasn't planning on doing anything wrong anyway! The only thing all this overkill accomplished was screwing up my head.

    I'm going to let the fans of Paranoia Parenting in on another little secret. Not from personal experience or anything. At some point in their life (usually around age 16 or so) your kids will figure it out. It starts small. They cuss, say, when they stub a toe. And nobody hears them! No lightning bolts strike them dead! Nobody appears with a bar of soap! The glorious F word echoes through the empty house, and nobody knows! This will be an eye opener to your kid. They will test their new found anonymity by breaking every rule they can find. They will wear unapproved make up. They will listen to devil music. They will try new adventures in smoking and drinking. They will find a boy or girl and experiment. They will, I promise. Why? Because they can! And the world will not end! Will your little elf friend be there then? I didn't think so.

     But bad kids, I mean truly bad kids who act up just to prove a point, do they care if something else is watching them be bad? In my experience, usually not. In fact, they are generally pretty proud of being bad, so another witness is just icing on the cake, so to speak. Paranoia Parenting does not work with the bad kids. It just makes them more open about what they are doing.

     Hey, I like this term Paranoia Parenting! Has anyone done a study on it yet? We've all had to sit through Helicopter Parents, Tiger Moms, Attachment Parenting, and I'm sure I have missed a few. Let's study the paranoia effect on children! I might be totally wrong, it may really make them better kids. Better kids with ulcers and anxiety issues, but better kids nonetheless. Until they do discover the secret. Leave me comments, here or on the Facebook page, and I'll do a pseudo-scientific study myself! Were you raised to always be looking over your shoulder? Did it make you behave any better? When did you figure out that nobody really cared what you were doing as much as you were led to believe? What did you do about it? Does it affect how you parent your own children? Tell me! I need to know! Otherwise I'll masquerade as an elf and sit around your house so I can see for myself!

The Joys of Motherhood

2012-12-11T14:53:00.000-08:00

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

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

     Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble mumble!"

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

     Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble!"

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

     "But mom!"

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

     "I can't!"

     "Is someone dying?"

     "No."

     "Then leave!"

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

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

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

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

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

Why Holidays Suck

2012-11-24T12:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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