We tend to give our full attention to the opinions of experts. They know the most about a given subject so also must be the best qualified as to form a conclusive decision about what's best. This is an example of one such expert and my best effort at refraining from making him look like a jack-hole in front of a crowd. Instead, I'll tell you here.
I once attended an all-day seminar presented by a Psychologist on the topic of Reactive Adjustment Disorders, especially as it pertained to children who were in foster or adoptive homes. The majority of the audience were foster parents, social workers, and associated agencies and service providers for children in foster care or foster-adopt homes. He had some valid points during most of the day, although it was mostly regurgitation of known psychological theories. I do have to mention that he had this ridiculous idea that it had very little to do with the fathers, that many men have abandoned their children and the kids turned out fine, as long as the mom was nurturing. So he kept referring to it as a "mommy thing" and repeatedly said it is critical for these newly placed children to be tied to your "apron straps" for an extended period of time in order to ensure a successful attachment. First of all dipthong, it's apron STRINGS. If he would just think tampons (strings - it’s a mommy thing) instead of boots (straps - which the father should have pulled himself up by) it might be easier to remember. I gave him a freebie thinking he was nervous and misspoke. Nope. He referenced it in three different PowerPoint slides. Apron straps. Hey Jackwagon, if you're going to love a catchphrase that much, get it right. That's not even what made me decide he was an idiot.
When we got to the question and answer part of the seminar, I asked what his thoughts were about giving some of these kids access to one another in an effort to alleviate the anxiety of being the "only one" of their peers who were either in foster care or who were in the process of or had been adopted, to further facilitate attachment to their "new" or even "temporary" families. I posed my question first recognizing that our society had gone from being one that didn't talk about anything to one that would litigate over a violation of one's privacy, and added that I was not including those children who were already in a group home atmosphere and who obviously knew everyone else there was in the same boat.
His answer? "Absolutely not". It would interfere with their treatment. All these foster or adopted kids are already too much of a mess to be introducing them to each other. It would be like letting people in Alcoholics Anonymous get together for a kegger. A support group just for the parents would be a much better option in his opinion. That way they could get the tools necessary to go back and handle things within the family unit.
I am still, to this day, regretting not kicking him in the balls at that point. I don't care if he is a doctor. He doesn't know shineola. And he has adopted and fostered kids of his own. He said that they had open adoptions and still let the kids have contact with their biological parents and yada yada, but that he would not consider letting them reach out to other kids in their situation because it would be too damaging.
Too damaging.
I probably wouldn’t even have an opinion about this if I was “normal”. But I was adopted. I was around 3 years old, and I have always known and had contact with my biological family. My adoptive parents and extended family always treated me like I was their own. I was afforded many opportunities I would not have had if I had stayed with the family I was born into. However, I was in HIGH SCHOOL before I ever met one other person that admitted they were adopted. And honestly, I don't think that one counts because it was a boyfriend, and I don't think his friends knew. He only told me because he knew I was first. To this day, I am flabbergasted by the statistical evidence that there are approximately, well just a buttload of people in this country that are adopted, but I'll be damned if I can figure out where they all went. As an adult, I know OF other adults and children who are adopted, but only one of those adults told me herself. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect people to wear t-shirts proclaiming their status. I know I don't start off conversations with strangers with "Hi, I'm adopted". I guess I've just been forced into it more than others because people aren't shy about pointing out the obvious age difference between me and my parents. I just know I cannot be the only person who's gone through life in that fishbowl, feeling like a freak. Sadly, I know just how that doctor's adopted kids are going to feel all through school, thinking they're not normal because he didn't want to "damage" them by exposing them to other kids like them (who also would not be normal).
Now, I know this will come off as offensive to someone, but it's the closest example I can think of. I do not and would never consider being adopted a disease. But I think of all the children who are stuck in hospitals battling whatever specific unfair sickness has attacked them. At first they feel all alone. But slowly, as their parents research their illness, they find other families and other children who are affected by the same thing and they connect. They support one another. They cry together and laugh together. They learn from one another what to expect, and their stress is eased as they hear of others surviving the process. They share victories and defeats together. Sometimes, they share death and they grieve together. Here's the kicker; the child is actually included in the whole thing.
Can you imagine a doctor diagnosing a 5 year old with leukemia, then deciding that child should not be given access to other children with leukemia because they're already (emotionally) too much of a mess and it might interfere with their treatment? Let them believe they're the only ones around, alienate them further from their peers, and let them rely on the solidarity and support within the family unit. What a miserable thought. I'm going to go hug my kids and hope that when Dr. Todall Moran's kids grow up and he's had a chance to hear from them how they feel different from their friends that he'll change his mind about his theory. Hopefully by then he'll change his presentation slides too. Apron straps. Yay for college.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Coupon FAIL
So TLC recently one-upped themselves (the network, not the lady singing group who no longer has the "L") by seeping into my brain with yet another show about wonder women sporting a specialized talent: couponing. This is now one more thing I didn't realize I was not so skilled in until someone pointed it out to me.
If you missed it I would tell you to set your DVR to catch it next time it's on but I hope to save a friend or two (probably all that's reading this anyway) from the torture they'll inflict on themselves afterward. Basically it's this: these women are freaks who roll through the checkout with up to nine carts overflowing and walk out paying almost nothing. Inspirational? At first, sure. Maybe I can't store the kind of stash they have, which was estimated to support one woman's family for two years. The other lady had enough toilet paper for her and her husband for 47 years. Forty seven years. FORTY SEVEN YEARS. I want to know how the divorce decree reads for distribution of assets, each gets a 23.5 year supply? Who gets first pick at the double-rolls? There just is no way this marriage is going to work out. She'll be on Hoarders in three seasons and Sister Wives in four. He'll only want her for the extra laundry soap. Stay tuned.
I figured I could baby-step my way into this little hobby with minimal problems. I started out laying the groundwork, binder and all. I am pretty good at setting up an organizational system. Then things went a little downhill. Okay a lot downhill, like Clark Griswold on his sledding adventure. It started with needing extra Ben Gay for the arthritic cramps in my hands from the repetitive clipping of the scissors, except I don't have a coupon for Ben Gay. Then...
I popped into a discount store on my lunch hour to see if they had any of the items matching my coupons. I was so proud of myself that I literally only bought things I had coupons for, and that with it being a discount store, the $80.00 worth of groceries would only cost me around $20.00. Everything on the belt, matching coupons at the ready, the clerk sternly looked at me and advised very unapologetically:
Okay, so fortunately I did have the money to hand over, $42.78, which I, in a past life of blissful ignorance, would have regaled in over saving half. Somehow in this moment I was too deflated to celebrate. There are people in the world who would walk away from the mess, say "I don't want it then" and leave. Not me, I just tucked the coupons away, forked over the money, and schlepped my bags to the car with a black cloud over my head. Ispent wasted a lot of time staring at their shelves to match with my recollection and binder full of products I was looking for. I could have had lunch with a friend instead. This is stupid.
But it's not really. Lesson learned. I'm not going to be "good" at this for a while if ever, as is evident by my amateur misstep. I'll try again once my confidence is back, and after my kids eat all that friggin' yogurt I just bought.
If you missed it I would tell you to set your DVR to catch it next time it's on but I hope to save a friend or two (probably all that's reading this anyway) from the torture they'll inflict on themselves afterward. Basically it's this: these women are freaks who roll through the checkout with up to nine carts overflowing and walk out paying almost nothing. Inspirational? At first, sure. Maybe I can't store the kind of stash they have, which was estimated to support one woman's family for two years. The other lady had enough toilet paper for her and her husband for 47 years. Forty seven years. FORTY SEVEN YEARS. I want to know how the divorce decree reads for distribution of assets, each gets a 23.5 year supply? Who gets first pick at the double-rolls? There just is no way this marriage is going to work out. She'll be on Hoarders in three seasons and Sister Wives in four. He'll only want her for the extra laundry soap. Stay tuned.
I figured I could baby-step my way into this little hobby with minimal problems. I started out laying the groundwork, binder and all. I am pretty good at setting up an organizational system. Then things went a little downhill. Okay a lot downhill, like Clark Griswold on his sledding adventure. It started with needing extra Ben Gay for the arthritic cramps in my hands from the repetitive clipping of the scissors, except I don't have a coupon for Ben Gay. Then...
I popped into a discount store on my lunch hour to see if they had any of the items matching my coupons. I was so proud of myself that I literally only bought things I had coupons for, and that with it being a discount store, the $80.00 worth of groceries would only cost me around $20.00. Everything on the belt, matching coupons at the ready, the clerk sternly looked at me and advised very unapologetically:
"I hope you're not trying to use those coupons here, we don't take them."Really? REALLY? You know, that's one of the things that I would think they would display loud and proud somewhere around the doors, windows, registers, somewhere. "We don't accept manufacturer's coupons." I put it in the same category as "We don't take checks". You have to tell people things like that up front. I mean I know Costco doesn't take them, but who in their right mind is going to use a 50 cents off a toothbrush coupon for the package of 82 they have to buy there for $612.00? Kidding, I love Costco. Apparently so much so that they constantly harass me to upgrade my account because I have, according to their records, spent SO much money there that I'm really missing out on some cash back deal.
Okay, so fortunately I did have the money to hand over, $42.78, which I, in a past life of blissful ignorance, would have regaled in over saving half. Somehow in this moment I was too deflated to celebrate. There are people in the world who would walk away from the mess, say "I don't want it then" and leave. Not me, I just tucked the coupons away, forked over the money, and schlepped my bags to the car with a black cloud over my head. I
But it's not really. Lesson learned. I'm not going to be "good" at this for a while if ever, as is evident by my amateur misstep. I'll try again once my confidence is back, and after my kids eat all that friggin' yogurt I just bought.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
You're Beautiful
"You're beautiful" gets thrown around a lot, but maybe sometimes not enough. I have been told this throughout my life, and to be honest, I really have never believed it. It's so easy to tell our friends they're beautiful, and we genuinely mean it. So how come we can't do the same for ourselves?
I look back on pictures of myself and remember that at the time I was so self conscious, felt like I was too fat, my hair was not right, etc... only to think in the present how I'd chop off my right arm to look that fantastic again. I have vivid memories of grade school, of being jealous of the girls that wore a particular kind of pants, because my body shape didn't so much lend itself to them looking quite the same on me. I wished that the bulkiness residing between my hips and my knees would just melt away so I could be "normal". Normal. What was I thinking??? I was totally normal, and if I ever for one second could fathom thinking those thoughts about any little girl today I would kick my own ass.
As much jealousy I felt for those girls, I never once looked down on or judged or thought less-pretty the ones that were bigger than me. They were just as beautiful, but I saw them for WHO they were, usually more friendly to me and with laughter and smiles their eyes would dance. I thought they shone, but still found a way to let my self-perceived faults get under my skin.
Being told I was pretty or beautiful has always made me uncomfortable and a little annoyed at times because I felt I had more to offer than vanity. I also never believed it, brushing off a compliment to embrace a different theory, like he must be trying to get in my pants or she must have a sinister motive, or she's my friend and is just trying to make me feel better. Hair coiffed and full makeup made me seem stuck up, self-centered, unapproachable to some. For me, though, it was just a mask to hide the self-conscious girl who thought she wasn't pretty, wasn't good enough. Everyone knew back then that the bigger your hair was, the smaller your butt would look...so the perms and the hairspray and control top pantyhose were constant - thank you '80s. No wonder the beauty industry will never tank no matter the state of our economy.
I have one friend in particular who really is one of the most beautiful people I know. I have never seen an unflattering picture of her. She literally looks like an angel and she always has. She has struggled with her weight issues for a good part of her life, but still radiates this unexplainable light. I remember her making a disparaging remark about her less favorite body parts and I physically felt like someone stabbed me in the heart. It crushed me to hear her talk that way about herself, to know that she felt that way when I thought she was absolutely perfect. I've also had a few gal-pals throughout life that will call me on it when I do that. They'll say "don't you dare talk about my friend like that". It's pretty effective in snapping you out of it.
Then there's my boys, who will grab me by the cheeks, get in my face, and say "Mommy, you are so pretty". It's easy to pass that off as less than expert opinion because they also think Daddy is Superman and that I have special powers because I know how to make tomato soup out of a can. Kids are right and honest though, particularly when they don't filter what their hearts feel. Mine say this mostly when I'm laying in bed in sweatpants and hair a mess. They don't get all impressed with silly things like lipstick or hairspray.
And so to all the girls in my life: I think you are unbelievably beautiful, each and every one of you. You are all so unique in yourselves, in your relationship with me, and I'm so thankful for the bonds we have shared. Go on with the hair color, the eyeshadow, the wrinkle creams, whatever it takes to make you feel good (and not like a crazy homeless woman like I feel on a bad hair day)...but please be as kind to yourself as you would your best friend.
To the boys: Thank you for the compliments, it must have taken some amount of courage to say it. I will take the comments under consideration with more seriousness, and make sure that my kids continue feeling comfortable saying it....it may come in handy for them someday...I just hope whomever is on the receiving end believes them.
I look back on pictures of myself and remember that at the time I was so self conscious, felt like I was too fat, my hair was not right, etc... only to think in the present how I'd chop off my right arm to look that fantastic again. I have vivid memories of grade school, of being jealous of the girls that wore a particular kind of pants, because my body shape didn't so much lend itself to them looking quite the same on me. I wished that the bulkiness residing between my hips and my knees would just melt away so I could be "normal". Normal. What was I thinking??? I was totally normal, and if I ever for one second could fathom thinking those thoughts about any little girl today I would kick my own ass.
As much jealousy I felt for those girls, I never once looked down on or judged or thought less-pretty the ones that were bigger than me. They were just as beautiful, but I saw them for WHO they were, usually more friendly to me and with laughter and smiles their eyes would dance. I thought they shone, but still found a way to let my self-perceived faults get under my skin.
Being told I was pretty or beautiful has always made me uncomfortable and a little annoyed at times because I felt I had more to offer than vanity. I also never believed it, brushing off a compliment to embrace a different theory, like he must be trying to get in my pants or she must have a sinister motive, or she's my friend and is just trying to make me feel better. Hair coiffed and full makeup made me seem stuck up, self-centered, unapproachable to some. For me, though, it was just a mask to hide the self-conscious girl who thought she wasn't pretty, wasn't good enough. Everyone knew back then that the bigger your hair was, the smaller your butt would look...so the perms and the hairspray and control top pantyhose were constant - thank you '80s. No wonder the beauty industry will never tank no matter the state of our economy.
I have one friend in particular who really is one of the most beautiful people I know. I have never seen an unflattering picture of her. She literally looks like an angel and she always has. She has struggled with her weight issues for a good part of her life, but still radiates this unexplainable light. I remember her making a disparaging remark about her less favorite body parts and I physically felt like someone stabbed me in the heart. It crushed me to hear her talk that way about herself, to know that she felt that way when I thought she was absolutely perfect. I've also had a few gal-pals throughout life that will call me on it when I do that. They'll say "don't you dare talk about my friend like that". It's pretty effective in snapping you out of it.
Then there's my boys, who will grab me by the cheeks, get in my face, and say "Mommy, you are so pretty". It's easy to pass that off as less than expert opinion because they also think Daddy is Superman and that I have special powers because I know how to make tomato soup out of a can. Kids are right and honest though, particularly when they don't filter what their hearts feel. Mine say this mostly when I'm laying in bed in sweatpants and hair a mess. They don't get all impressed with silly things like lipstick or hairspray.
And so to all the girls in my life: I think you are unbelievably beautiful, each and every one of you. You are all so unique in yourselves, in your relationship with me, and I'm so thankful for the bonds we have shared. Go on with the hair color, the eyeshadow, the wrinkle creams, whatever it takes to make you feel good (and not like a crazy homeless woman like I feel on a bad hair day)...but please be as kind to yourself as you would your best friend.
To the boys: Thank you for the compliments, it must have taken some amount of courage to say it. I will take the comments under consideration with more seriousness, and make sure that my kids continue feeling comfortable saying it....it may come in handy for them someday...I just hope whomever is on the receiving end believes them.
Monday, December 27, 2010
May the Force(d Christmas Spirit) Be with You
Let me start by saying I really hope everyone was able to experience this holiday season at least a little bit through the eyes of a child. No matter how your feelings shake out about it, it's near impossible to ignore the magical, mystical wonder that comes with little ones who get so excited, so filled with electric anticipation that they very well could power up all the Christmas lights if you could harness and redirect the power.
Secondly, I must acknowledge it's been since Halloween that I've gotten any thoughts out here. Thanksgiving came and went and then we all know how the downhill slide to December 25th goes. I'm a busy mom, a busy wife, a busy daughter....and I've neglected to take the time to get here and have my say. I did, however, get all my Christmas cards out in time - score one for me.
This holiday season, my goal was to ignore the things that typically bring me down, the crazed shoppers and their less-than-courteous attitudes, the people in my life who have chronically disappointed me, the cold that makes my prematurely arthritic joints feel as though they'll surely snap in two. Instead, I tried not to go into any stores when I was crunched for time, electing to go when I could be leisurely relaxed about spending extra minutes in the checkout lines, feathers not ruffled over the top-heavy carts ahead of me nor the inexperienced checkers who were just trying to earn some extra money during a difficult time of year for some. I took the time to bundle myself as well as I did my kids, to make sure the cold wouldn't get to my bones as quickly as the days when I didn't bother paying attention to my own needs. I repeatedly told myself that some relationships just won't ever work, and that instead of beating myself up trying to change for those people, that it really is them and not me with the issues. It's way more important for me to focus attention on those who bring joy and love into my life than those who complicate it.
I thought this was especially important this year because the kids are getting to the age where they will pick up on and project my attitude. I want both of them to be kind, tolerant, altruistic, and not let others dictate how they feel about themselves. That's what we all want for our children, but I thought it hypocritical for me to live in the unfortunate reality of grown-upism and the harsh disappointments that come with it when all it takes is a shift in personal attitude to create the example you'd want others to set for your kids.
So I whole-heartedly did small things alone...I made sure I had at least some change for the bell ringers before heading to the store. I put the groceries on the checkout belt for a gentleman in an electric scooter. I bought a gift for my husband that I knew he really wanted, even though it wasn't something I would have given him. I tried very hard to force myself to do things to remind myself it's not all about me. Once I felt the joy that always brings, the happiness from an unreciprocated act, I knew I could pass the lesson onto the boys with more confidence.
I told them we were going somewhere special. Immediately the quizzing began.
"McDonald's?!?!?!"
"Ehhh, not exactly. We're going to the store, and you can buy anything you want for anyone you want except yourself."
They quickly turned to each other and started whispering.
"Okay, you buy something for me, and I'll buy something for you, but I'm going to tell you what I want."
"NO! That's not the way this works. We are NOT buying anything for anyone who is in this car right now."
"Darn it. I don't want to go then."
All through the dollar store we trudged, and as the toys filed into the cart, their attitudes became lighter. Their selections were hilarious as they began to focus on purposeful reasons for picking what they picked. Sixteen dollars plus tax later, we were on our way home. They wondered what they'd get in return for these gifts they were giving.
"You aren't going to get anything from them. It's like if we bought a bag of dog food and took it to the animal shelter for those doggies who don't have families. Those doggies can't give you anything back, but it would still make your heart feel good."
Later that night, every time Esten looked at me he would start crying. I was annoyed thinking he was letting his selfishness get the better of him. I finally got out of him what the problem was.
"I'm just so sad for those doggies that don't have families or a home!"
Praise the Lord. He finally got it, kind of. I didn't mean for his sensitive side to take such a blow though. He eventually got over it, and a few days later we began wrapping. They were in charge of putting bows on and putting the gifts under the tree. Once they were into the process, the bubbles of anticipation and satisfaction of wanting to give were coming to the surface. When the time came, we loaded up all the gifts and took them to the family gathering spot where all the recipients would be. Before the other gifts were given, my boys passed out their offerings to those they selected....all their cousins, one auntie, and one uncle. The other aunties and uncles were prepped and properly braced for the disappointment of not being on the list. The kids opened up those gifts, one by one, and the smiles on my boys' faces grew with each as they eagerly explained why they picked that present for that cousin. It was one of the best parts of the holiday, and my heart felt amazing that I was able to give that "gift" to my children. To shift their focus even briefly from the greediness that inherently comes with this time of year was a feat I wasn't sure would happen, but I'm so thankful it did.
Of course if you ask them about the best part, they'll say it was the DS that Santa brought each of them. And that's okay, because I won't be waiting until next Christmas to repeat the exercise in giving, I'll try to make it a habit that lasts all year. It feels so fantastic and you know, it's all about me.
Secondly, I must acknowledge it's been since Halloween that I've gotten any thoughts out here. Thanksgiving came and went and then we all know how the downhill slide to December 25th goes. I'm a busy mom, a busy wife, a busy daughter....and I've neglected to take the time to get here and have my say. I did, however, get all my Christmas cards out in time - score one for me.
This holiday season, my goal was to ignore the things that typically bring me down, the crazed shoppers and their less-than-courteous attitudes, the people in my life who have chronically disappointed me, the cold that makes my prematurely arthritic joints feel as though they'll surely snap in two. Instead, I tried not to go into any stores when I was crunched for time, electing to go when I could be leisurely relaxed about spending extra minutes in the checkout lines, feathers not ruffled over the top-heavy carts ahead of me nor the inexperienced checkers who were just trying to earn some extra money during a difficult time of year for some. I took the time to bundle myself as well as I did my kids, to make sure the cold wouldn't get to my bones as quickly as the days when I didn't bother paying attention to my own needs. I repeatedly told myself that some relationships just won't ever work, and that instead of beating myself up trying to change for those people, that it really is them and not me with the issues. It's way more important for me to focus attention on those who bring joy and love into my life than those who complicate it.
I thought this was especially important this year because the kids are getting to the age where they will pick up on and project my attitude. I want both of them to be kind, tolerant, altruistic, and not let others dictate how they feel about themselves. That's what we all want for our children, but I thought it hypocritical for me to live in the unfortunate reality of grown-upism and the harsh disappointments that come with it when all it takes is a shift in personal attitude to create the example you'd want others to set for your kids.
So I whole-heartedly did small things alone...I made sure I had at least some change for the bell ringers before heading to the store. I put the groceries on the checkout belt for a gentleman in an electric scooter. I bought a gift for my husband that I knew he really wanted, even though it wasn't something I would have given him. I tried very hard to force myself to do things to remind myself it's not all about me. Once I felt the joy that always brings, the happiness from an unreciprocated act, I knew I could pass the lesson onto the boys with more confidence.
I told them we were going somewhere special. Immediately the quizzing began.
"McDonald's?!?!?!"
"Ehhh, not exactly. We're going to the store, and you can buy anything you want for anyone you want except yourself."
They quickly turned to each other and started whispering.
"Okay, you buy something for me, and I'll buy something for you, but I'm going to tell you what I want."
"NO! That's not the way this works. We are NOT buying anything for anyone who is in this car right now."
"Darn it. I don't want to go then."
All through the dollar store we trudged, and as the toys filed into the cart, their attitudes became lighter. Their selections were hilarious as they began to focus on purposeful reasons for picking what they picked. Sixteen dollars plus tax later, we were on our way home. They wondered what they'd get in return for these gifts they were giving.
"You aren't going to get anything from them. It's like if we bought a bag of dog food and took it to the animal shelter for those doggies who don't have families. Those doggies can't give you anything back, but it would still make your heart feel good."
Later that night, every time Esten looked at me he would start crying. I was annoyed thinking he was letting his selfishness get the better of him. I finally got out of him what the problem was.
"I'm just so sad for those doggies that don't have families or a home!"
Praise the Lord. He finally got it, kind of. I didn't mean for his sensitive side to take such a blow though. He eventually got over it, and a few days later we began wrapping. They were in charge of putting bows on and putting the gifts under the tree. Once they were into the process, the bubbles of anticipation and satisfaction of wanting to give were coming to the surface. When the time came, we loaded up all the gifts and took them to the family gathering spot where all the recipients would be. Before the other gifts were given, my boys passed out their offerings to those they selected....all their cousins, one auntie, and one uncle. The other aunties and uncles were prepped and properly braced for the disappointment of not being on the list. The kids opened up those gifts, one by one, and the smiles on my boys' faces grew with each as they eagerly explained why they picked that present for that cousin. It was one of the best parts of the holiday, and my heart felt amazing that I was able to give that "gift" to my children. To shift their focus even briefly from the greediness that inherently comes with this time of year was a feat I wasn't sure would happen, but I'm so thankful it did.
Of course if you ask them about the best part, they'll say it was the DS that Santa brought each of them. And that's okay, because I won't be waiting until next Christmas to repeat the exercise in giving, I'll try to make it a habit that lasts all year. It feels so fantastic and you know, it's all about me.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Walmart: Where the Magic Happens
Rare is the occasion where I get to slip into Walmart without my kids. When I do, it's so much less painful in a sense, because I can skip the gnashing of teeth and wailing over refused toy purchases and who needs a spanking and who needs to go potty and who is pushing mommy over the edge. Tonight was one of those times. Times like this I am able to observe past the perimeter of my cart's personal space, if that exists, and make note of the, ah-hem...freak show that is going on there. We all know it, we all see it, we're just sometimes too rushed to really soak it in. So I'll share my experience, which really turned out to be heartwarmingly romantic. Not in a Twilight kind of way (I guess I'm the only one who hasn't read the books or seen the movies) but in a full moon brings out the crazies in love kind of way...
So this couple strolls down the aisle like it's the red carpet at the Oscar's and I stop for a minute thinking I might be interrupting something important. Mostly, I'm afraid someone might be taking their picture and I don't want to be in it accidentally and have it posted on the internet. It's Homecoming in __________? (sorry I can't keep track, ask me 18 years ago) and they are dressed to kill. I hear a little boy ask if they're getting married. Cute. They walk back by the electronics department where they part ways. The boy, all dapper in his vest heads straight for the gaming console to test out some new game. Typical. The girl, I secretly hope, is going to buy condoms. And sponges, and foam, and birthcontrol pills, and the morning after pill, and a coat hanger. Times like these are when I really wish I could win the lottery. To randomly help some poor girl like that out, to just follow her and offer her thirty grand to just walk away and go to the dance by herself because this tard just brought her to Walmart. I want her to set her standards higher, to demand more than this because, frankly, this is how he's going to act when he's forty, except it won't be quite so cute, and she's going to have way more stretch marks than options. I circle around the boy who has now met up with other boys who I guess all had some plan to meet up in their rented formal wear to hang out and take turns exchanging germs on the single controller there. Don't they know that barfy-diarrhea stomach thing is going around? They will tomorrow. I wasn't really meaning to circle them like a vulture, but I was more like a bat, without glasses I could NOT figure out where I was in relation to what on earth I was going to get for the seven-year-old birthday girl whose party brought me to Hellmart in the first place.
I get half my stuff and run almost literally into a male nurse and a to be honest I am not really sure, might have been pirate girl or hooker or something, I am hoping they were on their way to a costume party but seemed a little bit early being the 23rd and all, but whatever. I just suddenly felt reeeeeally dirty, like I had stumbled into their bedroom in the middle of some kinky role playing session, and I wanted to get out before they invited me to "stay and play". I know he was a male nurse because his outfit said "Male Nurse" which was lucky because I would have probably confused him for an ER doctor or a Gynecologist so I'm glad he clarified. I don't know what she was because it was honestly just fabricky stuff fashioned in an inappropriate manner even for Walmart given the temperature outside and her girth. I'm not pointing fingers at the calorically challenged, because I fight that fight myself, but she was proud of whatever it was that she had. It was clear, however, that they were excited and in love, and he was clearly going to use her outfit to his advantage tonight. Good for him. I think. Ew.
Anywayyy, with my mental shopping list finally satisfied, complete with requisite wrapping supplies (i.e. gift bags) I made a beeline for the checkout that looked like it would have the shortest wait. One couple behind one lady and they didn't have a lot of stuff. Perfect. Riiiight.
Normally, I am not one to notice what other people are buying. I'm usually too consumed with whether I've forgotten anything myself and/or whether my kids have added anything to the cart without my knowledge. But this wasn't fair. These two forced me to look.
"Why didn't you get the Walmart brand of tooth glue? That crap's expensive."
So now I have to look at the "tooth glue". Poligrip. Okay. And then the other stuff. I can't help it. Baby formula, marshmallows, generic soda, red and black thong underwear, and a case of clay shooting targets. Hmmm, just the basics tonight I guess.
"Because Sheila don't like the Walmart brand, she says it don't keep her dentures in good when she eats hot wings."
"Hot wings like hot like they melt the glue or hot wings like spicy Mexicans?"
"I don't KNOW! It don't matter anyway, just shut up."
"Oh ________ Sheila. I never liked her anyway".
"You liked her Thanksgiving when you had sex with her after the rest of us all passed out."
"Oh yeah, I did. Well are you gonna get all mad if that happens again, because I'm not real sure I can say it won't."
"Hell yeah I'm gonna get mad if I find out, you need to get better at having an affair with my sister if you don't want to end up on Jerry Springer you idiot."
"Hey Baby, at least I saved all that money reloadin' my shells and got you them fancy panties there, huh? Huh? Huh?"
"Ooh, yeah. I love you baby."
"I love you too baby."
Then they kissed. With tongue. And I threw up in my mouth a little and vowed to try harder to do my shopping at Shopko next time. And I'm taking my kids with me for distraction, because frankly I can't handle knowing this much about other people. I need a shower.
So this couple strolls down the aisle like it's the red carpet at the Oscar's and I stop for a minute thinking I might be interrupting something important. Mostly, I'm afraid someone might be taking their picture and I don't want to be in it accidentally and have it posted on the internet. It's Homecoming in __________? (sorry I can't keep track, ask me 18 years ago) and they are dressed to kill. I hear a little boy ask if they're getting married. Cute. They walk back by the electronics department where they part ways. The boy, all dapper in his vest heads straight for the gaming console to test out some new game. Typical. The girl, I secretly hope, is going to buy condoms. And sponges, and foam, and birthcontrol pills, and the morning after pill, and a coat hanger. Times like these are when I really wish I could win the lottery. To randomly help some poor girl like that out, to just follow her and offer her thirty grand to just walk away and go to the dance by herself because this tard just brought her to Walmart. I want her to set her standards higher, to demand more than this because, frankly, this is how he's going to act when he's forty, except it won't be quite so cute, and she's going to have way more stretch marks than options. I circle around the boy who has now met up with other boys who I guess all had some plan to meet up in their rented formal wear to hang out and take turns exchanging germs on the single controller there. Don't they know that barfy-diarrhea stomach thing is going around? They will tomorrow. I wasn't really meaning to circle them like a vulture, but I was more like a bat, without glasses I could NOT figure out where I was in relation to what on earth I was going to get for the seven-year-old birthday girl whose party brought me to Hellmart in the first place.
I get half my stuff and run almost literally into a male nurse and a to be honest I am not really sure, might have been pirate girl or hooker or something, I am hoping they were on their way to a costume party but seemed a little bit early being the 23rd and all, but whatever. I just suddenly felt reeeeeally dirty, like I had stumbled into their bedroom in the middle of some kinky role playing session, and I wanted to get out before they invited me to "stay and play". I know he was a male nurse because his outfit said "Male Nurse" which was lucky because I would have probably confused him for an ER doctor or a Gynecologist so I'm glad he clarified. I don't know what she was because it was honestly just fabricky stuff fashioned in an inappropriate manner even for Walmart given the temperature outside and her girth. I'm not pointing fingers at the calorically challenged, because I fight that fight myself, but she was proud of whatever it was that she had. It was clear, however, that they were excited and in love, and he was clearly going to use her outfit to his advantage tonight. Good for him. I think. Ew.
Anywayyy, with my mental shopping list finally satisfied, complete with requisite wrapping supplies (i.e. gift bags) I made a beeline for the checkout that looked like it would have the shortest wait. One couple behind one lady and they didn't have a lot of stuff. Perfect. Riiiight.
Normally, I am not one to notice what other people are buying. I'm usually too consumed with whether I've forgotten anything myself and/or whether my kids have added anything to the cart without my knowledge. But this wasn't fair. These two forced me to look.
"Why didn't you get the Walmart brand of tooth glue? That crap's expensive."
So now I have to look at the "tooth glue". Poligrip. Okay. And then the other stuff. I can't help it. Baby formula, marshmallows, generic soda, red and black thong underwear, and a case of clay shooting targets. Hmmm, just the basics tonight I guess.
"Because Sheila don't like the Walmart brand, she says it don't keep her dentures in good when she eats hot wings."
"Hot wings like hot like they melt the glue or hot wings like spicy Mexicans?"
"I don't KNOW! It don't matter anyway, just shut up."
"Oh ________ Sheila. I never liked her anyway".
"You liked her Thanksgiving when you had sex with her after the rest of us all passed out."
"Oh yeah, I did. Well are you gonna get all mad if that happens again, because I'm not real sure I can say it won't."
"Hell yeah I'm gonna get mad if I find out, you need to get better at having an affair with my sister if you don't want to end up on Jerry Springer you idiot."
"Hey Baby, at least I saved all that money reloadin' my shells and got you them fancy panties there, huh? Huh? Huh?"
"Ooh, yeah. I love you baby."
"I love you too baby."
Then they kissed. With tongue. And I threw up in my mouth a little and vowed to try harder to do my shopping at Shopko next time. And I'm taking my kids with me for distraction, because frankly I can't handle knowing this much about other people. I need a shower.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Fashionistically Challenged
On my way to work today I passed by a group of Jr. High schoolers walking up the sidewalk in a pack, clearly on an "official" mission, complete with teacher bringing up the rear. They were lumbering along in typical teenager lackadaisical style, obviously unmotivated at such an early hour. As I got closer my brain got confuseder and confuseder about their attire. I seriously could not figure out if they were purposely dressed in pseudo-costume for some spirit week day I clearly missed in my days, or whether it was simply the fact that I'm officially old and those were the outfits that they hoped to define themselves in all their individuality, their youth, their clear lack of parental presence during their morning dressing routine.
I'm not joking, not even a little. I am clearly so out of touch with today's youth, save for the two mini-me's that rule our castle and the pack of cousins that thus far, we as an extended family have banded together to forcefully control by showering them at all birthdays and Christmases with "normal" outfits from Old Navy like God intended. Probably the most out there is Dylan, who inherited his Uncle Jake's label whore gene and who we only ever see dripping in DC clothing head to toe (literally, hat to slippers).
This is not to say my kids don't look like ragamuffins the majority of the time, because let's face it, they do. They're big into dressing themselves, and after all the consecutive time I've clocked with the diapers, socks, shirts, pants assembly line I'm all for their independence in that area. Their choices don't always "go", but hey, where does Clayton have to be that's so important he can't have on a pink and white striped polo with BSU blue and orange sweats? I don't think Dora or Diego give a rat's how he looks hanging out on the couch really. Now, if he's in Jr. High and still dressing like that we're going to have a serious talk. Or not, depending on whether it's effective in keeping the girls away. It is my ultimate goal to keep these two single and supporting their mother well into her old age, you know.
Nonetheless, my mind still reeling from those outfits, those...whatever they were...made me distinctly remember when my mom had a huge problem with something I was going to wear to Jr. High one day. Brace yourself. I had taken the laces out of my white Keds. I was going to wear my Keds to school with no laces, because that was pretty cool to do at the time, and to be honest, my freakishly high arches love high heels, but not so much shoelaces strapped over top of them like a prime rib. She took one look and said absolutely not was I going to school "like that". Like that. Hmmmm. I guess I have her to thank for stopping me at the shoe laces, because judging from what I saw today, who knows what I would have dared to wear had she not put her foot down when she did.
I'm not joking, not even a little. I am clearly so out of touch with today's youth, save for the two mini-me's that rule our castle and the pack of cousins that thus far, we as an extended family have banded together to forcefully control by showering them at all birthdays and Christmases with "normal" outfits from Old Navy like God intended. Probably the most out there is Dylan, who inherited his Uncle Jake's label whore gene and who we only ever see dripping in DC clothing head to toe (literally, hat to slippers).
This is not to say my kids don't look like ragamuffins the majority of the time, because let's face it, they do. They're big into dressing themselves, and after all the consecutive time I've clocked with the diapers, socks, shirts, pants assembly line I'm all for their independence in that area. Their choices don't always "go", but hey, where does Clayton have to be that's so important he can't have on a pink and white striped polo with BSU blue and orange sweats? I don't think Dora or Diego give a rat's how he looks hanging out on the couch really. Now, if he's in Jr. High and still dressing like that we're going to have a serious talk. Or not, depending on whether it's effective in keeping the girls away. It is my ultimate goal to keep these two single and supporting their mother well into her old age, you know.
Nonetheless, my mind still reeling from those outfits, those...whatever they were...made me distinctly remember when my mom had a huge problem with something I was going to wear to Jr. High one day. Brace yourself. I had taken the laces out of my white Keds. I was going to wear my Keds to school with no laces, because that was pretty cool to do at the time, and to be honest, my freakishly high arches love high heels, but not so much shoelaces strapped over top of them like a prime rib. She took one look and said absolutely not was I going to school "like that". Like that. Hmmmm. I guess I have her to thank for stopping me at the shoe laces, because judging from what I saw today, who knows what I would have dared to wear had she not put her foot down when she did.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Fat Monkeys
So we recently became an official "Netflix" family, thanks to a trial offer. We're more a "Hastings" kind of family anyway, but since we can also get instant movies via the Wii, we're doing it, and it's somewhat expanded my usual selection. We typically rent whatever movie we intended to see in the theater but due to our lack of social life tend to miss before it's gone. I've watched some films I'd otherwise pass by. Today I, as any nerdy girl would do, curled up on the couch to watch National Geographic: Stress: Portrait of a Killer. I'll save you the trouble and fill you in on the important parts.
Baboons and some other monkeys studied spend about 3 hours finding and consuming food for the day, leaving them the rest of their waking hours to simply: mess with each other in a more often than not mean-spirited way.
The illustrative clips equated in my mind with a typical day with pretty much any two or more children, including one of a clearly dominant bully trying to drown his lankier younger sibling.
The point of the studies was simply surrounding the idea that the hierarchy of status within the group determined the health factors of the population. Those in positions of status were healthier, showing clearer arteries and lower blood pressure levels, and those in subordinate positions had clogged arteries, compromised immune systems, high cholesterol and actual spare tires. Surprisingly, it was not because those lower-class baboons gathered at McDonald's to pound Big Macs while they chain smoked and did tequila shots. It was simply because they spent the majority of their time stressed out because the more "important" baboons were busting their balls all day long.
Interesting.
They equated it with studies of people in England who work in the public-service sector over the course of 40 years, and found the same thing...those in higher positions tended to be healthier than working-class Joes. Of course, even the HIGHEST of the positions they studied had jacked up teeth, which is a given for those Brits (not a point of the documentary, just my observation).
So how, then, can I explain my cholesterol levels when I was pretty much on the course of being a ball buster, not a ball bustee? Apparently there's some busting going on in my life....could it be the two hooligans that I just spanked for the 47th time today for violating my cease and desist order on stairway-sleeping-bag-sledding? Is it my concern that when I stick them in the tub in about 10 minutes one of them will inevitably try to drown the other? Is it that when I get to work in the morning there might be a baboon in a suit (not naming any names) that will eat for 3 hours then have the rest of the day just to screw with the rest of us subordinates? Will we scatter, asses in the air, attempting to escape the wrath? Why can't someone just hold me and pick the lice out of my fur?
My plea to all: Please stop busting my balls, I can't afford to take time off for a cardiac bypass right now.
Baboons and some other monkeys studied spend about 3 hours finding and consuming food for the day, leaving them the rest of their waking hours to simply: mess with each other in a more often than not mean-spirited way.
The illustrative clips equated in my mind with a typical day with pretty much any two or more children, including one of a clearly dominant bully trying to drown his lankier younger sibling.
The point of the studies was simply surrounding the idea that the hierarchy of status within the group determined the health factors of the population. Those in positions of status were healthier, showing clearer arteries and lower blood pressure levels, and those in subordinate positions had clogged arteries, compromised immune systems, high cholesterol and actual spare tires. Surprisingly, it was not because those lower-class baboons gathered at McDonald's to pound Big Macs while they chain smoked and did tequila shots. It was simply because they spent the majority of their time stressed out because the more "important" baboons were busting their balls all day long.
Interesting.
They equated it with studies of people in England who work in the public-service sector over the course of 40 years, and found the same thing...those in higher positions tended to be healthier than working-class Joes. Of course, even the HIGHEST of the positions they studied had jacked up teeth, which is a given for those Brits (not a point of the documentary, just my observation).
So how, then, can I explain my cholesterol levels when I was pretty much on the course of being a ball buster, not a ball bustee? Apparently there's some busting going on in my life....could it be the two hooligans that I just spanked for the 47th time today for violating my cease and desist order on stairway-sleeping-bag-sledding? Is it my concern that when I stick them in the tub in about 10 minutes one of them will inevitably try to drown the other? Is it that when I get to work in the morning there might be a baboon in a suit (not naming any names) that will eat for 3 hours then have the rest of the day just to screw with the rest of us subordinates? Will we scatter, asses in the air, attempting to escape the wrath? Why can't someone just hold me and pick the lice out of my fur?
My plea to all: Please stop busting my balls, I can't afford to take time off for a cardiac bypass right now.
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