3 months ago
Friday, July 24, 2009
Moved!
You can now find the new, improved (still working on and will probably change themes fifty times in the next two days) Pretty Nameless on its own server and all. Thanks Mom! Now I just have to figure out how to redirect this one.
Moving!
As soon as I pick a template that I like and get it uploaded, Pretty Nameless will be moving to it's own domain. You'll be able to find it at www.prettynameless.com, and I'll actually be keeping up with it and trying to do more with it.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Binge and Purge
No, I'm not talking bulimia, although I did toy around with that a bit as a teenager. But then someone told me it would rot my teeth and I gave it up. Who wants to be rail thin but toothless? Kind of a crappy trade-off. Kind of sad though that, prior to informing me about the tooth rot issue, I was told my esophagus would get destroyed and I didn't even think twice about that. After all, who cares if I don't have a pretty esophagus and can't speak! Ah the vanity of a teenage girl. So I gave up puking and took up dropping acid and walking twenty or so miles in eight hours a few times a month. Best diet ever.
The binging and purging I'm referring to is that of my stuff. Stuff, junk, that I've collected over the years. I binged when we had money. I have enough Bath and Body Works lotion moisturize the entire alligator population in Florida for a year. Stockpiles of food I don't even like, clothes I've never worn, and votive candles I'll never light because Jake would use them to start the Great Poconos Fire to rival that of O'Leary's cow. That's just the stuff I bought. Forget about the stuff I've saved "just in case." Bottle inserts from when Jake was still using a ba, coffee cans, plastic containers, old school assignments, phone bills from over a decade ago. The list goes on and on. I live in a relatively small area, and the clutter was out of control. It never bothered me until about two weeks ago. Then I just snapped.
I started throwing out shit like you wouldn't believe. Two huge garbage bags of clothes went to goodwill and another huge bag in the garbage (I didn't think anyone wanted to wear my old underwear that were reserved for that most wonderful time of the month, or the pajamas that my naked butt slept in for years). Every single sock (of which I used to have two full drawers) that had even a hint of a hole went in the garbage. The big bin of "maybe I'll find their mates someday" socks? Gone, after I used them to scrub the floors of course, in a random effort to be more environmentally conscious, or conserve money on paper towels.
I discovered a few things. The most shocking was that there is a floor in my bedroom. The second most shocking was that I actually feel a lot better when every surface of my house isn't covered with random stuff. It's kind of liberating to get rid of crap. I still have a long way to go, but eventually I'll get down to having just the stuff I actually want, and not the stuff I feel obligated to keep because I spent money on it at some point. I'm sure that this sudden motivation to clean everything in sight will die off sooner than later, so I'm trying to make the best of it while I can.
The binging and purging I'm referring to is that of my stuff. Stuff, junk, that I've collected over the years. I binged when we had money. I have enough Bath and Body Works lotion moisturize the entire alligator population in Florida for a year. Stockpiles of food I don't even like, clothes I've never worn, and votive candles I'll never light because Jake would use them to start the Great Poconos Fire to rival that of O'Leary's cow. That's just the stuff I bought. Forget about the stuff I've saved "just in case." Bottle inserts from when Jake was still using a ba, coffee cans, plastic containers, old school assignments, phone bills from over a decade ago. The list goes on and on. I live in a relatively small area, and the clutter was out of control. It never bothered me until about two weeks ago. Then I just snapped.
I started throwing out shit like you wouldn't believe. Two huge garbage bags of clothes went to goodwill and another huge bag in the garbage (I didn't think anyone wanted to wear my old underwear that were reserved for that most wonderful time of the month, or the pajamas that my naked butt slept in for years). Every single sock (of which I used to have two full drawers) that had even a hint of a hole went in the garbage. The big bin of "maybe I'll find their mates someday" socks? Gone, after I used them to scrub the floors of course, in a random effort to be more environmentally conscious, or conserve money on paper towels.
I discovered a few things. The most shocking was that there is a floor in my bedroom. The second most shocking was that I actually feel a lot better when every surface of my house isn't covered with random stuff. It's kind of liberating to get rid of crap. I still have a long way to go, but eventually I'll get down to having just the stuff I actually want, and not the stuff I feel obligated to keep because I spent money on it at some point. I'm sure that this sudden motivation to clean everything in sight will die off sooner than later, so I'm trying to make the best of it while I can.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Catching up
I've been ignoring this blog lately because I've been working on another project and trying to survive day to day with the crap hand I've been dealt. Also because no one really reads it anyway, so it's not likely to be missed. Still, I like to actually write my random thoughts out every now and then, so I'll keep up with it for a few days before I wander off again.
It's summer, which is a bad time for me because of that whole reverse SAD crap. I can't just have normal SAD like everyone else, I have to be miserable in the summer. It's the whole extra daylight crap. The sun and I have never been good friends. Just to make sure I haven't forgotten this, the rotten prick burned the hell out of my shoulders despite liberal use of sunscreen. I am painfully peeling. Not attractive at all. So of course I get more depressed when the bastard stays in the sky for an extra three to four hours. Who wouldn't? That is way too much daylight for any person to have to endure. Because of it, I get massively depressed come four PM, when it's supposed to be getting dark out. This continues until I go to bed.
But Jake seems to like summer. The carnivals, the park, his new-found love of the beach (between this and his dislike of pasta, if he didn't look so much like me, I'd have to question the hospital to ensure there wasn't some sort of baby-switching fiasco going on), staying up later because I can hardly convince him that it's time for bed if the damn sun is still shining. He loves it. Although he's suddenly decided that the pool is an evil entity, AFTER we got season passes. So while he's awake, I make an effort to hide my disdain for the season. But being broke this year, it's a lot harder to pretend I'm happy. I can't take him to half the places he wants to go. There will be no water park, no Dorney park, no daily runs for milkshakes. It makes me sad. I hate telling him "sorry baby, we don't have the money for that."
So I'll be much happier when summer is over and it's too cold to do anything. Also, once October comes, I'm that much closer to having a job again, even if only for six weeks. I went off on some random tangent here, I'm not sure what my original point was. Once again, I'll try to keep up with this blog for a week or so at least, but beyond that I make no promises. Sometimes I do just run out of things to say, or just don't care enough to say them.
It's summer, which is a bad time for me because of that whole reverse SAD crap. I can't just have normal SAD like everyone else, I have to be miserable in the summer. It's the whole extra daylight crap. The sun and I have never been good friends. Just to make sure I haven't forgotten this, the rotten prick burned the hell out of my shoulders despite liberal use of sunscreen. I am painfully peeling. Not attractive at all. So of course I get more depressed when the bastard stays in the sky for an extra three to four hours. Who wouldn't? That is way too much daylight for any person to have to endure. Because of it, I get massively depressed come four PM, when it's supposed to be getting dark out. This continues until I go to bed.
But Jake seems to like summer. The carnivals, the park, his new-found love of the beach (between this and his dislike of pasta, if he didn't look so much like me, I'd have to question the hospital to ensure there wasn't some sort of baby-switching fiasco going on), staying up later because I can hardly convince him that it's time for bed if the damn sun is still shining. He loves it. Although he's suddenly decided that the pool is an evil entity, AFTER we got season passes. So while he's awake, I make an effort to hide my disdain for the season. But being broke this year, it's a lot harder to pretend I'm happy. I can't take him to half the places he wants to go. There will be no water park, no Dorney park, no daily runs for milkshakes. It makes me sad. I hate telling him "sorry baby, we don't have the money for that."
So I'll be much happier when summer is over and it's too cold to do anything. Also, once October comes, I'm that much closer to having a job again, even if only for six weeks. I went off on some random tangent here, I'm not sure what my original point was. Once again, I'll try to keep up with this blog for a week or so at least, but beyond that I make no promises. Sometimes I do just run out of things to say, or just don't care enough to say them.
Most Likely To Survive
I have anxiety/panic disorder. While it can be frustrating to start hyperventilating because the TV remote has been misplaced, or to have a full blown anxiety attack every time I look at my bank statement and realize I can't survive another two weeks, I find that there are benefits to being afflicted. One advantage is that I am far more likely to survive some sort of attack than someone who doesn't suffer from this disorder.
In one of my many psych classes, my professor discussed a theory that states those who suffer from anxiety/panic disorder exhibit the same hair trigger "fight of flight" response that helped early man survive. In a way, I take it to mean that my sympathetic nervous system is somehow less evolved than non-sufferers, which is kind of insulting. But in another way, it means I have somehow managed to retain that piece of genetic code that allowed us to make our way to the top of the food chain in the first place. What this also means is that if the wooly mammoths or dinosaurs make a comeback, I will be more likely to survive than those who don't panic over the existence of, say, fruit flies.
This hair trigger fight or flight response works well for me even in today's society where the constant threat of invading tribes or saber tooth tigers isn't looming. For example, I am terrified of things that sting. I was stung once when I was seven years old, and that was enough. Because I am so attuned to my sympathetic nervous system, I can flee from stinging insects long before anyone else around me is even aware they are present. I can distinguish the differences between the buzzing of a bee vs. that of a fly, a hornet vs. a hummingbird, a less threatening bumblebee vs. one that will aggressively destroy me if given the chance. A split second after hearing its approach, I can grab my kid and be locked safely in the house.
Of course, there are times when my "fight" response kicks in and it would be better to just keep my mouth shut. I got into a cursing match with a guy in the McDonald's parking lot who tried to tell me how to parent my child once. The other day, I screamed at a prick who ran the stop sign. Both our windows were down and he told me to shut up. Of course I cursed at him, then worried that he would chase me down. He did look like the type to take girls back to his house and eat them for dinner (and not in the good way). One of these days my brain's desire to fight the wrong battles rather than let things be and flee is going to get me into trouble.
But I can still console myself with the knowledge that, should aliens invade or mountain men try to drag me back to their cabin for supper, I will be more likely to survive than those of you oh so normal, non panicky people. So go ahead and live your happy lives, free of tachycardia, breathing into bags, and head spinning terror. Because when the shit hits the fan, and it always does, I'll still be standing while you're someone's dinner!
In one of my many psych classes, my professor discussed a theory that states those who suffer from anxiety/panic disorder exhibit the same hair trigger "fight of flight" response that helped early man survive. In a way, I take it to mean that my sympathetic nervous system is somehow less evolved than non-sufferers, which is kind of insulting. But in another way, it means I have somehow managed to retain that piece of genetic code that allowed us to make our way to the top of the food chain in the first place. What this also means is that if the wooly mammoths or dinosaurs make a comeback, I will be more likely to survive than those who don't panic over the existence of, say, fruit flies.
This hair trigger fight or flight response works well for me even in today's society where the constant threat of invading tribes or saber tooth tigers isn't looming. For example, I am terrified of things that sting. I was stung once when I was seven years old, and that was enough. Because I am so attuned to my sympathetic nervous system, I can flee from stinging insects long before anyone else around me is even aware they are present. I can distinguish the differences between the buzzing of a bee vs. that of a fly, a hornet vs. a hummingbird, a less threatening bumblebee vs. one that will aggressively destroy me if given the chance. A split second after hearing its approach, I can grab my kid and be locked safely in the house.
Of course, there are times when my "fight" response kicks in and it would be better to just keep my mouth shut. I got into a cursing match with a guy in the McDonald's parking lot who tried to tell me how to parent my child once. The other day, I screamed at a prick who ran the stop sign. Both our windows were down and he told me to shut up. Of course I cursed at him, then worried that he would chase me down. He did look like the type to take girls back to his house and eat them for dinner (and not in the good way). One of these days my brain's desire to fight the wrong battles rather than let things be and flee is going to get me into trouble.
But I can still console myself with the knowledge that, should aliens invade or mountain men try to drag me back to their cabin for supper, I will be more likely to survive than those of you oh so normal, non panicky people. So go ahead and live your happy lives, free of tachycardia, breathing into bags, and head spinning terror. Because when the shit hits the fan, and it always does, I'll still be standing while you're someone's dinner!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthing Day to Me
Tonight I held my three year old for the last time. When he wakes up in the morning, he'll be a four year old. Technically, not until 7:56 PM tomorrow, but I'm not going to make him wait until then to open his remaining presents. Today was his birthday party in the park. Half his little friends didn't show up. Hopefully that will change when he starts elementary school. But he still had a great time. The thunder storm held out until the very end of his party. We came home and I attempted to assemble a Hot Wheels trick track. I think there must be something in the "y" chromosome that makes this task a lot easier, because try as I might, I still didn't get it to work the way it's supposed to. I also discovered that I still suck at Operation, even in the shape of Spongebob. You'd think several decades plus a few years would have given me the fine motor skills to extract a wrench from a cardboard cutout patient. Good thing I never wanted to be a surgeon.
I can't believe how fast he's growing, or how far he's come. Enjoy some of my nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Birth
Three weeks
Four Months
First Birthday
Eighteen Months 
Second Birthday
September 2007
Third Birthday
TodayMelancholy
My little boy is going to be four on Sunday. He's gone from a 3lb 5oz preemie to a 38lb preschooler. He had a traumatic birth. We both did. I wonder if that's why he's such a stubborn kid now. Preemies have to be stubborn, they have to be strong-willed, or they can't survive. To be so tiny, not even supposed to be out of the womb yet, and have to start fighting for your life, it has to have a long-term impact. Maybe when I'm ready to pull my hair out because he refuses to listen to me, refuses to eat anything other than chicken nuggets and turkey dogs, stands firm in his belief that he has radioactive blood and can swing into action at any moment, maybe I should stop for a moment and remember that the reason my son is alive today is because of that very strong will to have his own way. Maybe I should also remember that he gets a lot of his stubborness from me.
I always get a little melancholy around his birthday. I remember in vivid detail every moment of the terrifying day and a half before he was born. I remember being all alone the night before and the night of his birth, after my mom left. Night one- alone, hooked up to monitors, listening to my son kick and hiccup, unable to sleep, wondering what was going to happen. Night two- alone, sick on the mag drip, delusional belief that it was all a strange dream and Jacob was still safe in my belly, wishing that someone would tell me what was going on, wishing I wasn't so alone. No one should be alone after giving birth, especially after giving birth and having your baby taken off to a NICU, and not being able to see him for over 24 hours.
And here I am, four years later, still alone. At least I have my son sleeping in the next room and I know he's safe. I have family, I have friends. I love and I am loved. But I am still utterly alone.
I always get a little melancholy around his birthday. I remember in vivid detail every moment of the terrifying day and a half before he was born. I remember being all alone the night before and the night of his birth, after my mom left. Night one- alone, hooked up to monitors, listening to my son kick and hiccup, unable to sleep, wondering what was going to happen. Night two- alone, sick on the mag drip, delusional belief that it was all a strange dream and Jacob was still safe in my belly, wishing that someone would tell me what was going on, wishing I wasn't so alone. No one should be alone after giving birth, especially after giving birth and having your baby taken off to a NICU, and not being able to see him for over 24 hours.
And here I am, four years later, still alone. At least I have my son sleeping in the next room and I know he's safe. I have family, I have friends. I love and I am loved. But I am still utterly alone.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Dead Things
"They" say bad things come in threes, right? Well, apparently dead things come that way too. This afternoon, I found a dead bird laying in the middle of my living room. I scooped it up, tossed it over the fence, and went upstairs. Two hours later, I went down and found a dead chipmunk laying on my floor, my dog Cooper looking really proud. I thanked him for his efforts at feeding me, assured him I could survive on the stuff in the freezer and pantry, then tossed it over the fence. This evening, I came out into my mom's kitchen (I live in the downstairs apartment) and found yet another dead bird. So that should be it, right? No more dead things for a while?
I'm wondering if it's some sort of freaky omen or something. I'm generally not all that superstitious, but things have been kind of off lately all over the place in my life. I've been feeling low, anxious, and sad quite a bit. I miss my grandparents more and more every day. I thought it would get better with time, but it's not. I'm scared about not having a job, stressing about money on a daily basis. I'm frustrated with my current situation and inability to figure out how to make it better. Life has gotten harder than I ever imagined it could, and I'm just trying to deal with it the best I can. Then dead things turn up all over the house. Does it have a deeper meaning? According to my superstitions book, a bird in the house means death. If it's dead though, does it mean the opposite? Of course I'm looking too much into this. It could just mean I have too many cats. I'm feeling rather melancholy though, and I've always been prone to random depression in the summer months. It's just too darn bright and cheery out.
I'm wondering if it's some sort of freaky omen or something. I'm generally not all that superstitious, but things have been kind of off lately all over the place in my life. I've been feeling low, anxious, and sad quite a bit. I miss my grandparents more and more every day. I thought it would get better with time, but it's not. I'm scared about not having a job, stressing about money on a daily basis. I'm frustrated with my current situation and inability to figure out how to make it better. Life has gotten harder than I ever imagined it could, and I'm just trying to deal with it the best I can. Then dead things turn up all over the house. Does it have a deeper meaning? According to my superstitions book, a bird in the house means death. If it's dead though, does it mean the opposite? Of course I'm looking too much into this. It could just mean I have too many cats. I'm feeling rather melancholy though, and I've always been prone to random depression in the summer months. It's just too darn bright and cheery out.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Wii EA Sports Active Personal Trainer First Impressions
I took a survey a few months ago, and found out a few weeks ago that I qualified for the 30 Day Challenge through Ammo Marketing, which got me the game for free. Yay for free stuff! I've been waiting very anxiously. It came today, and I was to start using it right away because the challenge also started today.
So I ran home, opened the box, opened the box inside the box, put the game in, unplugged the DVD player and plugged in the Wii (only our front AV things work), turned on the Wii, updated the Wii, figured out how to put the leg band on, put the leg band back on after it fell off and got started. Five minutes later, I had my profile entered and was already cursing at the perky trainer. "You want me to do what? Run? Seriously? Why? Am I being chased by a cannibal?"
So far, the game is pretty awesome. I only had to do a twenty minute workout, and you're never doing the same thing more than maybe two minutes at a time, so in theory, it should go fast. To me and my non-exercising self, it seemed like an hour went by. My first medium intensity (this was my first mistake, by the way) workout consisted of walking/running (more running than walking, I don't think it's right that they tease you by implying that you'll actually get to walk for more than three seconds), squats, boxing (my favorite, it's always fun to hit stuff!), side lunges (see my issues with the game below), bicep curls with the resistence band, some horrible bent rowing thing, and inline skating (which I've never done with skates, so I don't know how to do it without). These exercises repeated two times. It's like a cheaper version of Curves, except not as fast paced.
Pros-
-It's cheaper than Wii Fit, but if you do have the balance board, you can use it.
-Constantly changing exercises, so I didn't get bored too fast
-Pretty good, in-depth videos that explain everything.
-A fairly complete workout
-Can just do whatever exercises you want if you don't want to take the 30 Day Challenge.
Cons-
- I wish I could put my own music in it, or that it at least had some way to choose just the stuff you want to hear beyond just choosing a genre. Overall, the music was by far the weakest part.
- That crazy nunchuck doesn't stay in the leg band right, or I'm not clear on how to put it in right (the one flaw in the video, she does it too fast and I can't see which way it's supposed to go), so the game kept telling me I wasn't doing the side lunges correctly.
-After a while, the leg band does fall down. Especially when running. Of course, I was wearing pajamas that are like two sizes too big, so the pant leg was crinkly. This could have contributed to the problem.
So far, I would reccomend this game. I'll update this when I've seen more of what the game has to offer.
So I ran home, opened the box, opened the box inside the box, put the game in, unplugged the DVD player and plugged in the Wii (only our front AV things work), turned on the Wii, updated the Wii, figured out how to put the leg band on, put the leg band back on after it fell off and got started. Five minutes later, I had my profile entered and was already cursing at the perky trainer. "You want me to do what? Run? Seriously? Why? Am I being chased by a cannibal?"
So far, the game is pretty awesome. I only had to do a twenty minute workout, and you're never doing the same thing more than maybe two minutes at a time, so in theory, it should go fast. To me and my non-exercising self, it seemed like an hour went by. My first medium intensity (this was my first mistake, by the way) workout consisted of walking/running (more running than walking, I don't think it's right that they tease you by implying that you'll actually get to walk for more than three seconds), squats, boxing (my favorite, it's always fun to hit stuff!), side lunges (see my issues with the game below), bicep curls with the resistence band, some horrible bent rowing thing, and inline skating (which I've never done with skates, so I don't know how to do it without). These exercises repeated two times. It's like a cheaper version of Curves, except not as fast paced.
Pros-
-It's cheaper than Wii Fit, but if you do have the balance board, you can use it.
-Constantly changing exercises, so I didn't get bored too fast
-Pretty good, in-depth videos that explain everything.
-A fairly complete workout
-Can just do whatever exercises you want if you don't want to take the 30 Day Challenge.
Cons-
- I wish I could put my own music in it, or that it at least had some way to choose just the stuff you want to hear beyond just choosing a genre. Overall, the music was by far the weakest part.
- That crazy nunchuck doesn't stay in the leg band right, or I'm not clear on how to put it in right (the one flaw in the video, she does it too fast and I can't see which way it's supposed to go), so the game kept telling me I wasn't doing the side lunges correctly.
-After a while, the leg band does fall down. Especially when running. Of course, I was wearing pajamas that are like two sizes too big, so the pant leg was crinkly. This could have contributed to the problem.
So far, I would reccomend this game. I'll update this when I've seen more of what the game has to offer.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Ticking time bomb or future King?
I just sat down to write something that I thought would be therapeutic about an event that took place when I was fourteen. Something that, as I'm finding in therapy, has affected me far more than I gave it credit for doing. I thought if I wrote it out just for myself, and wrote out an "alternate ending," I would feel better. I still plan to do that, but then a thought occurred to me. If an adult writes a fictional piece about people killing others for any reason, sometimes revenge, other times for sheer joy, no one blinks. Some adults make a rather lucrative living off violently slaughtering fictional innocents in ways far more terrifying than via a shooting spree. If Stephen King wrote about a high schooler going on a killing spree, it would be a best seller. (It is possible that he already wrote about this. Wasn't Apt Pupil about that? I'm sorry Mr. King, I haven't read all your stuff. I'm more of a Koontz girl. But I love your movies and think you're awesome. Although I'm a little bitter about that damn clown.)
However, teenagers, frustrated with the social pressures and ridiculous games played out in high schools across the country, are not permitted this same freedom of creative expression. If a senior English Lit student writes about slaughtering his classmates, he's yanked out of school, expelled at best, and arrested at worse. It is assumed that he is mentally unbalanced, plotting another Columbine. He needs to be removed, studied, possibly sent far away for the protection of the other children. He is immediately guilty of harboring a desire to turn his fiction into reality.
Where is the logic in that? Where is the logic in denying a creative student an outlet for all that teenage angst intensified by adolescent hormones? Have there been actual scientific studies stating that if a teenager writes about murdering his classmates, he'll actually go out and do it? I'd like to see some hard, unbiased data on this. I'm pretty sure all across the country, teenagers are scribbling in their journals (do they still even use paper journals anymore?) about flaying the homecoming queen or castrating the quarterback. If every kid who wrote or thought about it actually did it, we wouldn't have very many high schools now would we? So where is the logic? Preemptive strike maybe? The US seems to be very fond of preemptively striking against other countries, so it shouldn't be surprising they'd do it to even the youngest of their citizens.
When I was a senior in high school, several years before Columbine turned the school system into a place of paranoia and over-reaction, I wrote a story in which another student I did not like was brutally impaled by a hockey stick. I handed it in to my teacher (a Catholic nun). She wasn't thrilled, she told me I shouldn't harbor such feelings of hatred, but that was the end of it. I still received a good grade for the quality of the writing. I did not go on to kill anyone. I never would, except possibly in self defense. I grew up to be a pretty good person, or at least I think so. I shudder to think what would have become of me if I handed that in today.
I feel for teens today, I really do. As obnoxious as they can be (I'm sure I was just as bad), it has to be more than a little disconcerting to know that if you write or say the wrong thing, even if it's just an innocent creative writing exercise, your entire school career can be destroyed. But don't despair, just keep your mouths shut and your pens still until you graduate. Then, suddenly, you're no longer a threat to society if you write about killing the prom queen.
I feel for teens today, I really do. As obnoxious as they can be (I'm sure I was just as bad), it has to be more than a little disconcerting to know that if you write or say the wrong thing, even if it's just an innocent creative writing exercise, your entire school career can be destroyed. But don't despair, just keep your mouths shut and your pens still until you graduate. Then, suddenly, you're no longer a threat to society if you write about killing the prom queen.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
"I can do it!"
I am beginning to really dread those words when they come out of my almost-four-year-old. As a mother, I am certainly very proud of how independent Jacob is becoming. I'm proud that he uses the potty and never has an accident, I'm proud that he can dress himself, clean up his own messes (when he chooses, unfortunately that's the one time he says "I can't do it!"), and has mastered the mouse and keyboard so he can endlessly play at NickJR.com. Really, I'm very proud of my son. He's amazing, he learns something new every day, and he has limitless energy.
But as a human being prone to great impatience, hearing those four little words- I can do it!- in a tone that says "back off Mommy, if you try to button these pants, I'm taking out your eye!" makes me cringe on more occasions than not. The phrase usually comes as we're trying to get out the door for an appointment for which we're already late because Jake had to make sure the Wonder Pets really did save the day, or Map gave proper directions for Dora to reach her destination, or those meddling kids and their dog actually could solve the mystery. So we're already late, and my darling boy is trying to button the most impossible pair of pants, because Mommy didn't make it to the laundry mat (our washer is broken) and those are the only clean pair left. The mere suggestion that sometimes it is okay to ask for help sends him into a tantrum.
I stand there watching, waiting, alternating between thinking "I am throwing out every damn pair of pants that has buttons," "Please kiddo, please just ask Mommy for help," and "gee, I'm so proud of my little boy!' Seconds tick by, Jacob likes us to count to see how long it takes to put on his clothes. Each article starts back at zero. Eight seconds for undies, 15 for socks, twenty seconds for a shirt because he has to turn it round and round to make sure the tag is in the back. Then the pants. I stop counting at around fifty.
So intent on doing things himself is my son that he talks about it in his sleep. He woke up screaming last night. As I got him calmed down, he was crying over and over "I can do it, I want to do it, I can do it!" I asked him "What baby? What can you do?" His response- "Be Spongebob." Uh, alright kiddo, that's one thing Mama can't help you with, so go for it.
But as a human being prone to great impatience, hearing those four little words- I can do it!- in a tone that says "back off Mommy, if you try to button these pants, I'm taking out your eye!" makes me cringe on more occasions than not. The phrase usually comes as we're trying to get out the door for an appointment for which we're already late because Jake had to make sure the Wonder Pets really did save the day, or Map gave proper directions for Dora to reach her destination, or those meddling kids and their dog actually could solve the mystery. So we're already late, and my darling boy is trying to button the most impossible pair of pants, because Mommy didn't make it to the laundry mat (our washer is broken) and those are the only clean pair left. The mere suggestion that sometimes it is okay to ask for help sends him into a tantrum.
I stand there watching, waiting, alternating between thinking "I am throwing out every damn pair of pants that has buttons," "Please kiddo, please just ask Mommy for help," and "gee, I'm so proud of my little boy!' Seconds tick by, Jacob likes us to count to see how long it takes to put on his clothes. Each article starts back at zero. Eight seconds for undies, 15 for socks, twenty seconds for a shirt because he has to turn it round and round to make sure the tag is in the back. Then the pants. I stop counting at around fifty.
So intent on doing things himself is my son that he talks about it in his sleep. He woke up screaming last night. As I got him calmed down, he was crying over and over "I can do it, I want to do it, I can do it!" I asked him "What baby? What can you do?" His response- "Be Spongebob." Uh, alright kiddo, that's one thing Mama can't help you with, so go for it.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I'd rather be smart than sane
As you can tell, if you're paying attention, I lost interest in the whole "self help" experiment days ago. I tried to take it seriously, but every book I checked out of the library bored me practically to tears. It's not that I don't want to be helped, I just think there are better ways of going about it. I go to therapy every other week. My therapist is awesome. She tells me that all the things I feel, all the things I worry about, are perfectly normal. I'm not a freak, I'm not all that insane. We make progress. I figure that by making myself go every other week, I'm helping myself. So why drag myself and anyone who may actually be reading this through a tedious experiment when I think we all know what the end result would be. I am trying to change my way of thinking, but not because a book told me how to do it. I'm trying to be more positive, less doom and gloom. Although quite often, the only thing I'm "positive" about is the fact that I'm pretty screwed right now. But at least I'm positive about something! Yay for that!
Instead of self-help, I'm going back to my great love: self-education. Ever since Jake was born, I've grown lax on my goal to learn everything there is to know about everything under the stars. I did go to school and took some pretty difficult and intense classes, but that can't be classified as self-education. I used to pick a subject, absorb as much information as possible on it, then move on. I learned more about sleep in a month than most people learn in a lifetime (although none of it stuck apparently, because here I am at 2am wide awake. I'm usually just getting off the phone about now, but someone got his ass kicked by cold medicine, so I'm making do with the internet).
I think the pursuit of knowledge is one of the most important adventures a human can take. I think too many people are too content to learn only what they need to know for their chosen field, or worse, learn nothing at all and let other people figure things out for them. I want to know everything. I want to know how the human body works, how ancient civilizations survived, how a microscopic bug can wipe out millions, why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. I don't understand how so many can be happy to just know how to eat, sleep, breathe, and fuck.
So instead of reading random, boring self-help books, I'm currently reading Rogue State: A Guide to the World's Only Superpower by William Blum. I've learned a lot about the horrible things our country has done to other countries in the world. I don't understand how we, the people, did not know about these things before, and if we did, why the hell we would let it continue. It hasn't exactly been the cathartic, healing sort of experience that I would have gotten from, say, the Secret, but it's been enlightening and at least I'm learning something. I highly recommend it. Next, I'm either going to further educate myself on censorship of the press throughout history, or read about the various parts of the human brain more in depth than I went into in nursing school. Someday, I'll have amassed as much knowledge as my hero Ken Jennings, and will be able to kick ass on Jeopardy. That's always been the goal. Sane is great and all, but I'd really rather be smart. I kind of don't think you can have it both ways.
Instead of self-help, I'm going back to my great love: self-education. Ever since Jake was born, I've grown lax on my goal to learn everything there is to know about everything under the stars. I did go to school and took some pretty difficult and intense classes, but that can't be classified as self-education. I used to pick a subject, absorb as much information as possible on it, then move on. I learned more about sleep in a month than most people learn in a lifetime (although none of it stuck apparently, because here I am at 2am wide awake. I'm usually just getting off the phone about now, but someone got his ass kicked by cold medicine, so I'm making do with the internet).
I think the pursuit of knowledge is one of the most important adventures a human can take. I think too many people are too content to learn only what they need to know for their chosen field, or worse, learn nothing at all and let other people figure things out for them. I want to know everything. I want to know how the human body works, how ancient civilizations survived, how a microscopic bug can wipe out millions, why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. I don't understand how so many can be happy to just know how to eat, sleep, breathe, and fuck.
So instead of reading random, boring self-help books, I'm currently reading Rogue State: A Guide to the World's Only Superpower by William Blum. I've learned a lot about the horrible things our country has done to other countries in the world. I don't understand how we, the people, did not know about these things before, and if we did, why the hell we would let it continue. It hasn't exactly been the cathartic, healing sort of experience that I would have gotten from, say, the Secret, but it's been enlightening and at least I'm learning something. I highly recommend it. Next, I'm either going to further educate myself on censorship of the press throughout history, or read about the various parts of the human brain more in depth than I went into in nursing school. Someday, I'll have amassed as much knowledge as my hero Ken Jennings, and will be able to kick ass on Jeopardy. That's always been the goal. Sane is great and all, but I'd really rather be smart. I kind of don't think you can have it both ways.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
I Hate May
May is the worst month financially for me, because it is the month I have to register my car, get car insurance, and get the car inspected. I have yet to just take my car to be inspected and leave after paying the simple $20 fee. Last year, it cost over $500 to get it inspected, because it needed tires, bushings (I think that's what they're called, I keep calling them the wrong thing, they make your car not tip over when you turn), a tune-up, transmission fluid flushed and refilled (or whatever they did with it) and a few other things. Not all of these things were required to pass, but the guy made it sound like my car would explode if I didn't get it done, so I just kept saying "fine, whatever." This year, I don't have the money for "fine, whatever." So when he came at me with a list a mile long of things I needed to do to make my car survive another year, I burst into tears and started bawling in the middle of the Midas car service area. The list was narrowed down to four things that HAVE to be done, coming out to $350. Now, apparently, I'm getting a "good" deal on the work and parts, but when you don't have a damn job, $350 is an awful lot of money.
Car insurance is another fun thing. I've never had a ticket. I had one accident five years ago involving a turtle, but that's it. Yeah, okay, so that turtle incident totaled my car, but I had State Farm at the time and the bastards didn't even give me half of what my car was worth. So why does it cost $300 for six months just for liability? I had to drop everything else in order to afford the insurance. We had two cars on our old policy, and Rich had like five tickets and four accidents in the last seven years. Everything was covered, and that only cost $688 for six months. Why is mine so high? That doesn't seem very fair.
May is just a crappy month. On the one hand, I hate living in a state that forces inspections, but on the other hand, if they didn't force it on me, I'd have no idea that my car was the death trap they claim it to be. I also think it's ridiculous to have to register your car every single year. A car should be registered once, unless you move. It's just another way for the state to steal more of the money I don't even have. May is coming to an end, and I still haven't registered the car or fixed all the crap that needs to be fixed. Screw you May.
Car insurance is another fun thing. I've never had a ticket. I had one accident five years ago involving a turtle, but that's it. Yeah, okay, so that turtle incident totaled my car, but I had State Farm at the time and the bastards didn't even give me half of what my car was worth. So why does it cost $300 for six months just for liability? I had to drop everything else in order to afford the insurance. We had two cars on our old policy, and Rich had like five tickets and four accidents in the last seven years. Everything was covered, and that only cost $688 for six months. Why is mine so high? That doesn't seem very fair.
May is just a crappy month. On the one hand, I hate living in a state that forces inspections, but on the other hand, if they didn't force it on me, I'd have no idea that my car was the death trap they claim it to be. I also think it's ridiculous to have to register your car every single year. A car should be registered once, unless you move. It's just another way for the state to steal more of the money I don't even have. May is coming to an end, and I still haven't registered the car or fixed all the crap that needs to be fixed. Screw you May.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Self-help for the self-helpless
Today, after applying for yet another job about which I'll probably never hear back, I decided to peruse the library for an hour. I love the library, filled with thousands of books (however, none of my extensive Amazon wish list books can ever be found there, much to my chagrin), people being obnoxiously quiet, and stacks high enough to hide me indefinitely from the outside world (also too high for me to actually reach anything, but they are kind enough to provide stools every three feet, so they get points for being short-person friendly). I like to go and just randomly browse a section or two in great depth. Today I somehow managed to choose the section that contains self-help books, followed by true crime and conspiracy books. Yes, I believe there is a connection between the two, but do we really want to get that far into my muddled way of thinking? Even my therapist gets a bit confused at times, and she is trained to understand crazy little minds.
I honestly do not get the appeal of the self-help book. This is a multi-million dollar market. The New York Times Bestseller's List now has, at least on Amazon, an entire list devoted to these types of books. Entire books dedicated to telling me how to transform my entire life by just changing the way I think. Books that tell me how to get rid of self-defeating behavior, how to think positive, how to think more like a man (oh the places I could go with this) , how to let go and let some form of higher power take over, and how to not "sweat the small stuff." All I have to do is read thier book, and my life will instantly be better.
Does it actually work for anyone? I really want to know. Will I read a book about the power of positive thinking and suddenly be freed from all the anxiety about my lack of gainful employment. Will I be struck with an epiphone about my true calling in life after reading a few passages from the ever famous "What Color is Your Parachute?" Can I learn to love myself and find self-worth by reading a book of the same title?
I don't think it can work. My mother is an adamant believer that it can. We have argued this point many times. I think we all know ourselves well enough to understand our own mindset. Saying to ourselves "snap out of it, think positive!" is not going to instantly change our lives. I am, by nature, pessimistically optomistic at best. When my serotonin levels are up, I think everything is going to be just dandy, and everything will work out the way it is supposed to. When they're down, I'm convinced the universe is conspiring to keep me miserable for the rest of my life. I already know exactly what is wrong with me. I know where all my problems stem from, I know what makes me the way I am. Can a few thousand words on a page actually change my entire life?
So I'm embarking on an experiment. For the next two months, I will read every self-help book that I can fit in to my already busy schedule of moping around, crying about my lack of finances, and stressing over the lack of color in my parachute. So, probably about four. I'll actually follow the advice in the books. If, at the end of that sixty days, I have found some major insight into my own way of thinking and managed to completely turn it around, won the lottery by the sheer power of positive thought, or even found a job I actually love, then I'll admit defeat. If not, well, I get nothing, because I can barely take on a multi-million dollar industry and convince them to admit they're wrong. I get the satisfaction of knowing that I'm right though, even if no one else feels the same.
So watch for the new "Pretty Nameless Self-Helpless Experiment Blog," which I'll link here as soon as I create it.
I honestly do not get the appeal of the self-help book. This is a multi-million dollar market. The New York Times Bestseller's List now has, at least on Amazon, an entire list devoted to these types of books. Entire books dedicated to telling me how to transform my entire life by just changing the way I think. Books that tell me how to get rid of self-defeating behavior, how to think positive, how to think more like a man (oh the places I could go with this) , how to let go and let some form of higher power take over, and how to not "sweat the small stuff." All I have to do is read thier book, and my life will instantly be better.
Does it actually work for anyone? I really want to know. Will I read a book about the power of positive thinking and suddenly be freed from all the anxiety about my lack of gainful employment. Will I be struck with an epiphone about my true calling in life after reading a few passages from the ever famous "What Color is Your Parachute?" Can I learn to love myself and find self-worth by reading a book of the same title?
I don't think it can work. My mother is an adamant believer that it can. We have argued this point many times. I think we all know ourselves well enough to understand our own mindset. Saying to ourselves "snap out of it, think positive!" is not going to instantly change our lives. I am, by nature, pessimistically optomistic at best. When my serotonin levels are up, I think everything is going to be just dandy, and everything will work out the way it is supposed to. When they're down, I'm convinced the universe is conspiring to keep me miserable for the rest of my life. I already know exactly what is wrong with me. I know where all my problems stem from, I know what makes me the way I am. Can a few thousand words on a page actually change my entire life?
So I'm embarking on an experiment. For the next two months, I will read every self-help book that I can fit in to my already busy schedule of moping around, crying about my lack of finances, and stressing over the lack of color in my parachute. So, probably about four. I'll actually follow the advice in the books. If, at the end of that sixty days, I have found some major insight into my own way of thinking and managed to completely turn it around, won the lottery by the sheer power of positive thought, or even found a job I actually love, then I'll admit defeat. If not, well, I get nothing, because I can barely take on a multi-million dollar industry and convince them to admit they're wrong. I get the satisfaction of knowing that I'm right though, even if no one else feels the same.
So watch for the new "Pretty Nameless Self-Helpless Experiment Blog," which I'll link here as soon as I create it.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Hypocrite Mommy, and proud of it.
Before I ever got pregnant, there were a few things I swore I would never do when I had a child. I tried to keep the list very short, because I know people always say "well, my kid will never..." and that never works out well. I never swore that my kid wouldn't watch TV, because I watched more TV as a child than is recommended by every form of parenting expert out there, and I still had/have a very active imagination. I never said I would force my child to be a vegetarian, although I prefer he not eat mammals. That didn't work out of course, my dear friend Dana introduced him to pig in the form of ring bologna and he never looked back. But that's fine, I wasn't planning to force my dietary preferences on him (except when it comes to rice. I don't want my kid eating something that looks like maggots. Ewwwwww!).
But there were a few things that I swore I'd never do or let him do. The first is put a TV in his room before he was at least ten. My reasoning was that no child actually needs to have electronics in their room at age two. No two year old should be sitting alone in their room anyway. I thought having a TV before he even started real school would make him spoiled. Who am I kidding? The house already looks like an extremely fertile Toys R Us had wild, passionate sex with Amazon and delivered a healthy litter of bunnies, which then exploded all over the house. The boy is the epitome of spoiled. So Friday, after much thought (mostly because it was easier to just pretend I was mulling it over rather than actually get off my ass and rearrange the boy's entire room), I caved. My son is now the proud second-hand owner of a spare 20" flat screen TV. My darling almost-four year old can now watch his countless educational programs (see previous post) from the comfort of his very own Spiderman bed, cuddled up in his Spiderman blanket, surrounded by his Spiderman decals. The Spiderman franchise really should be paying my kid for all the advertising he gives them. Note that I do not even have a flat screen TV because I can't afford one big enough to thoroughly enjoy such educational programming as Supernatural, Ghost Whisperer, and Bones. We originally bought the crappy, not even HD, flat screen so that I could watch DVD's in my room since the soon-to-be-ex would never give up the decent-sized one in the living room.
The second thing I swore I'd never do is take my kid to the circus. Circus' are cruel. Elephants, camels, and bears do not belong in small cages, being hustled from town to town on a silly train, forced to perform in front of a live audience. Plus, even the non-animal abusing circus' have clowns. I think we all know my stance on clowns. If not, you need to read back a bit further. To recap- clowns are bad, evil lurks behind that painted grin, and I'm not entirely convinced they don't think I'd make a good supper. So the circus has two very strong, very legitimate strikes against it. Guess what I'm doing on May 20? Yup. Taking my sweet little boy and his sociopathic imaginary friend to the circus. In fact, we're combining my fear of clowns and disdain for animal torture with something else I love so much- driving to Camelback Mountain, around hairpin turns, possibly in the dark if I can't make the early show, and trying to find parking in a lot that was clearly designed for people who can actually grasp the concept of backing out of spaces less than six inches from the bumper of the next car. Have we discussed my driving issues yet?
So there it is. Two things I swore would never happen, and both are happening in the same month. I'm a hypocrite. I openly admit it. But whatever, my kid is happy, which is all that really matters to me. Also, Zee Zee the sociopath is happy, which means she may not carve me into small pieces while I sleep.
But there were a few things that I swore I'd never do or let him do. The first is put a TV in his room before he was at least ten. My reasoning was that no child actually needs to have electronics in their room at age two. No two year old should be sitting alone in their room anyway. I thought having a TV before he even started real school would make him spoiled. Who am I kidding? The house already looks like an extremely fertile Toys R Us had wild, passionate sex with Amazon and delivered a healthy litter of bunnies, which then exploded all over the house. The boy is the epitome of spoiled. So Friday, after much thought (mostly because it was easier to just pretend I was mulling it over rather than actually get off my ass and rearrange the boy's entire room), I caved. My son is now the proud second-hand owner of a spare 20" flat screen TV. My darling almost-four year old can now watch his countless educational programs (see previous post) from the comfort of his very own Spiderman bed, cuddled up in his Spiderman blanket, surrounded by his Spiderman decals. The Spiderman franchise really should be paying my kid for all the advertising he gives them. Note that I do not even have a flat screen TV because I can't afford one big enough to thoroughly enjoy such educational programming as Supernatural, Ghost Whisperer, and Bones. We originally bought the crappy, not even HD, flat screen so that I could watch DVD's in my room since the soon-to-be-ex would never give up the decent-sized one in the living room.
The second thing I swore I'd never do is take my kid to the circus. Circus' are cruel. Elephants, camels, and bears do not belong in small cages, being hustled from town to town on a silly train, forced to perform in front of a live audience. Plus, even the non-animal abusing circus' have clowns. I think we all know my stance on clowns. If not, you need to read back a bit further. To recap- clowns are bad, evil lurks behind that painted grin, and I'm not entirely convinced they don't think I'd make a good supper. So the circus has two very strong, very legitimate strikes against it. Guess what I'm doing on May 20? Yup. Taking my sweet little boy and his sociopathic imaginary friend to the circus. In fact, we're combining my fear of clowns and disdain for animal torture with something else I love so much- driving to Camelback Mountain, around hairpin turns, possibly in the dark if I can't make the early show, and trying to find parking in a lot that was clearly designed for people who can actually grasp the concept of backing out of spaces less than six inches from the bumper of the next car. Have we discussed my driving issues yet?
So there it is. Two things I swore would never happen, and both are happening in the same month. I'm a hypocrite. I openly admit it. But whatever, my kid is happy, which is all that really matters to me. Also, Zee Zee the sociopath is happy, which means she may not carve me into small pieces while I sleep.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
ZeeZee, the imaginary friend
Jacob has a new imaginary friend. Her name is ZeeZee. I'm fairly convinced she is a sociopath at best, a demonic entity at worse. ZeeZee arrived about a week or so ago, apparently from outer space, where she returns when she's not hanging out inspiring my son to perform wicked acts. I learned tonight that she is 18. A little old for my not-quite four year old, don't you think? She doesn't come around when I'm here.
Since her arrival, ZeeZee has taught my son the word "bullshit," told him all about cutting people during surgery, and taught him a few new games that I'm not sure I really want to know about. I swear, I didn't teach him to say "bullshit." I rarely use that word. I use a lot of other words that I wouldn't want him to repeat, but I've never been a fan of the way "bullshit" flows off the tongue. It is possible he heard it from his father months ago, while his father was still around. It's possible he heard it on TV in passing, although I'm pretty careful about limiting his television watching to such calming and educational influences as Spiderman, Power Rangers, and Scooby Doo. It is unlikely that his imaginary friend taught it to him, therefore she must be a demonic entity. It's only logical.
I'm not at all freaked about the sudden emmergence of ZeeZee. I had four imaginary friends with equally strange names. One was very mischievous. I understand that he has a lot to work out in his little brain. Daddy left, Mommy is stressed a lot, and George W. Bush is still a free man. It's a lot of confusion to comprehend for a tiny little mind. But ZeeZee is downright creepy! My therapist (doesn't that sound so metro?) claims that nothing jumps out at her as being strange, and that ZeeZee is a perfectly normal, rational response for a child his age. But my therapist doesn't have to hide the knives in case ZeeZee convinces Jacob that he is perfectly in his right to skip eight years of medical school, surgical internships and residencies (I watch Grey's Anatomy, I know what schooling you need to cut into people) and move right on to the solo surgery.
Can someone recommend a good exorcist?
Since her arrival, ZeeZee has taught my son the word "bullshit," told him all about cutting people during surgery, and taught him a few new games that I'm not sure I really want to know about. I swear, I didn't teach him to say "bullshit." I rarely use that word. I use a lot of other words that I wouldn't want him to repeat, but I've never been a fan of the way "bullshit" flows off the tongue. It is possible he heard it from his father months ago, while his father was still around. It's possible he heard it on TV in passing, although I'm pretty careful about limiting his television watching to such calming and educational influences as Spiderman, Power Rangers, and Scooby Doo. It is unlikely that his imaginary friend taught it to him, therefore she must be a demonic entity. It's only logical.
I'm not at all freaked about the sudden emmergence of ZeeZee. I had four imaginary friends with equally strange names. One was very mischievous. I understand that he has a lot to work out in his little brain. Daddy left, Mommy is stressed a lot, and George W. Bush is still a free man. It's a lot of confusion to comprehend for a tiny little mind. But ZeeZee is downright creepy! My therapist (doesn't that sound so metro?) claims that nothing jumps out at her as being strange, and that ZeeZee is a perfectly normal, rational response for a child his age. But my therapist doesn't have to hide the knives in case ZeeZee convinces Jacob that he is perfectly in his right to skip eight years of medical school, surgical internships and residencies (I watch Grey's Anatomy, I know what schooling you need to cut into people) and move right on to the solo surgery.
Can someone recommend a good exorcist?
Selling passion
I suck at this whole blogging thing, and keeping up with it. I gave fair warning though, I would be all into it for about a month, then start to dwindle off. I am back with a renewed dedication. That should last about a week. I had a busy month, and my internet access has been rather intermittent lately (got into a fight with a Verizon tech guy, but that's a whole other story). I filed for divorce! Yay! I'm so excited. Of course, I have no clue if I did it right. I wont know until I don't get a divorce basically. I can call, and maybe they can tell me if everything is going through, but maybe they cant. Although, I was given a covert nod that the papers looked okay, so I'm optimistic. I sent papers my husband, he promised to sign them, and I've finished typing up the remaining forms. If all goes well, I'll be divorced shortly after my birthday, which is at the end of July. Happy Birthday to me. Seriously, I'm throwing a party. I think he will too though, so at least we're finally on the same page.
The husband has a new girlfriend, one that I actually approve of. Not that it's any of my business, but I figure if eventually he's going to take Jacob for a visit, then I'd rather have him dating a nice woman with a Master's Degree rather than a girl in jail for selling meth. Yes, Meth Girl was an option, I'm not making that up. So he's moving on, I've moved on, we're all happy, or on our way to happy.
I still can't find a freaken job. Why is it so damn hard to find someone who will hire me? I can't even get a goddamn interview, and it's starting to piss me off. I'm a good employee, these people don't know what they're missing. Screw them. I'm thinking about selling sex toys with my friend. Why not? There are lots of lonely people out there in need of battery operated boyfriends, right? Heck, even the not so lonely like a few enhancements now and then. It's better than prostitution, right?
The husband has a new girlfriend, one that I actually approve of. Not that it's any of my business, but I figure if eventually he's going to take Jacob for a visit, then I'd rather have him dating a nice woman with a Master's Degree rather than a girl in jail for selling meth. Yes, Meth Girl was an option, I'm not making that up. So he's moving on, I've moved on, we're all happy, or on our way to happy.
I still can't find a freaken job. Why is it so damn hard to find someone who will hire me? I can't even get a goddamn interview, and it's starting to piss me off. I'm a good employee, these people don't know what they're missing. Screw them. I'm thinking about selling sex toys with my friend. Why not? There are lots of lonely people out there in need of battery operated boyfriends, right? Heck, even the not so lonely like a few enhancements now and then. It's better than prostitution, right?
Friday, April 17, 2009
Handjobs and Hepatitis
I need a job. I am getting desperate. I'm having daily panic attacks about my inability to find a damn job. I've applied for close to 50 jobs in the last two weeks alone, and I've heard close to nothing. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong. It doesn't help that I don't translate well on paper. I've had one job the last seven years, and that was a seasonal job. But it gave me managing skills, and that should help. Other than that, everything I'm able to do can't be proven on a resume. Prospective employers get hundreds of responses to ads, they're not going to give me a chance when they have someone who looks awesome on paper, even though I can guarantee that they wont be nearly as awesome as me in reality, because let's face it, I rock. Not really, but I can have a moment of ego-boosting self-confidence, right?
I had an interview a couple of weeks ago. It was a joke. It was with a guy I knew through the mall that has his own company. I knew he was a bit of a womanizer and pervert, but I thought it could still lead to a legitimate job offer. The first thing he asked me is if I want to go to Brazil with him. Then he mentioned his kinky ex-girlfriend, and sex clubs in NY, where I didn't have to participate, just watch and see if anything struck my fancy. This guy is in his 50's. Even if he was in his 30's and good looking, I have no desire to go off to a foreign country to possibly be tied up as someone's love slave and then have my kidneys sold on the black market. Yeah, I know, I"m miss "worst case scenerio" girl, but I can't imagine he wanted me there for my ability to make an omelet. I had one other job interview, with a normal company. But they needed someone to work ten hours a day on Sunday, and I have no sitter.
Pretty much every job I apply for that I am actually qualified for (basically, cashier work) frowns at my application because I can't work nights and weekends, except on rare occasions. My mom can't watch Jake for whatever reason, and his daycare is only open until 7. I'm still not getting a dime from the STBX, because he's apparently OVER-qualified for every job out in Indiana. At least he has no worries, his parents are still paying for everything. Very frustrating.
At the entrance of my development is a seedy "erotic massage" parlor. They have a "help wanted" sign in the window. I've actually thought "could I do it? Could I make a living for a short while giving guys crappy massages and hand jobs, among other things?" I have nothing against people who choose to do that. If two people consent to sex, and one wants to pay the other for it, I don't see the problem. Some people can handle being a prostitute. I couldn't though. It would creep me out. I'd cry the whole time, and that's just not sexy. Besides, most of the girls there look like 80's throwbacks, and if that's the dress code, count me out. There has to be something out there that doesn't involve handjobs and hepatitis.
I had an interview a couple of weeks ago. It was a joke. It was with a guy I knew through the mall that has his own company. I knew he was a bit of a womanizer and pervert, but I thought it could still lead to a legitimate job offer. The first thing he asked me is if I want to go to Brazil with him. Then he mentioned his kinky ex-girlfriend, and sex clubs in NY, where I didn't have to participate, just watch and see if anything struck my fancy. This guy is in his 50's. Even if he was in his 30's and good looking, I have no desire to go off to a foreign country to possibly be tied up as someone's love slave and then have my kidneys sold on the black market. Yeah, I know, I"m miss "worst case scenerio" girl, but I can't imagine he wanted me there for my ability to make an omelet. I had one other job interview, with a normal company. But they needed someone to work ten hours a day on Sunday, and I have no sitter.
Pretty much every job I apply for that I am actually qualified for (basically, cashier work) frowns at my application because I can't work nights and weekends, except on rare occasions. My mom can't watch Jake for whatever reason, and his daycare is only open until 7. I'm still not getting a dime from the STBX, because he's apparently OVER-qualified for every job out in Indiana. At least he has no worries, his parents are still paying for everything. Very frustrating.
At the entrance of my development is a seedy "erotic massage" parlor. They have a "help wanted" sign in the window. I've actually thought "could I do it? Could I make a living for a short while giving guys crappy massages and hand jobs, among other things?" I have nothing against people who choose to do that. If two people consent to sex, and one wants to pay the other for it, I don't see the problem. Some people can handle being a prostitute. I couldn't though. It would creep me out. I'd cry the whole time, and that's just not sexy. Besides, most of the girls there look like 80's throwbacks, and if that's the dress code, count me out. There has to be something out there that doesn't involve handjobs and hepatitis.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Easterbunnyland
I am the boss of the Easter Bunny. I remind my son of this every time he acts up. I'm also the boss of Santa, which carries a lot more power because Jake doesn't seem to care as much about the potential loss of candy as he does about the potential loss of massive amounts of toys, but whatever, it works well enough. I've been the boss of the Bunny and Santa for about seven years now, taking only three seasons off for maternity leave and school. I love it. It's a great job. I manage an awesome handpicked staff that returns year after year, am pretty much left on my own by the corporate headquarters, and make fairly decent money a few weeks out of the year (although I'm cranky because my pay was cut this season due to the rotten, stupid economy).
I have very few complaints about my job. The stress that I have is familiar stress- bunnies and Santa's running late, stuck in traffic, panicking me into thinking they're not going to show up; figuring out camera and computer system glitches, why is the printer printing 10000 copies of the same picture (because I let Jacob within thirty feet of the system), why am I bleeding profusely while trying to plug in a fan, that sort of thing. My only major complaint about the job is parents. If it weren't for the parents, the job would be cake. I have a few major gripes that I'd like to get off my chest, because I'm bound by a contract to be polite to people in person.
Gripe one- If your child is terrified of the bunny or Santa, they're not going to "smile nice" no matter how many times I pretend to sneeze, let things fall off my head, or say "hey sweetie, smile for the camera!" It's cruel to force your children to sit with something that terrifies them. The world never ended because little Timmy didn't get his photo taken with the Easter Bunny. No child ever grew up to be a serial killer because he didn't like Santa. I'm not entirely convinced, however, that forcing them to sit with a mutant rabbit or a strange bearded man when they clearly would rather be having you pick out splinters with a sewing needle wont make them one day stand over you while you're sleeping wielding a machete and cackling about slitting your throat. But if you want to take that risk, go for it. Just don't expect us to stand there acting like idiots for twenty minutes trying to get your bawling child to "smile nice."
Gripe two- Let's talk more about that twenty minute issue. This is a small stand in the mall. It's not a magazine photo shoot. There are people behind you, and more people coming, all of whom have been waiting for their turn to drive me batty as well. Please don't make me take fifty pictures of your child while you insist on that perfect, fake memory, then tell me "you know what, the first one was the best, let's go with that." Especially when we told you in the first place that this is as good as it's going to get. We've been doing this for years. We've seen thousands of children. You may know your child best in all other respects, but we can tell you exactly how your child is going to react once they sit on that mutant rabbit or strange bearded man's lap. Just trust us. If sweet, darling Betty is giving the evil eye in the first picture, it's only going to get worse. At some point, she is going to open-fire on the entire mall if you don't get her out of there. So unless she's blinking or looking at you (because you can't follow directions and stand where we tell you to stand), go with the first shot. It's not going to get much better.
Gripe three- You've been standing in line for twenty minutes staring at our list of packages and their prices. We saw you looking at them, we heard you discussing the pros and cons of every one of them. We take an awesome picture of your child, you're thrilled, we're ready to take your money and get you off our set. But you stand there for another twenty minutes debating over how many pictures you need. Meanwhile, we can't take pictures because it'll just hold up the printing process and create a back log of customers. Take notice of how I shift from foot to foot and try to silently sigh in frustration. Be courteous to others, know what you want when you get up there.
Gripe four- This one is serious. The other stuff, I can live with, I can tolerate, and I'm a quarter joking about. But this one drives me truly mad. Please understand that there is a real live person inside the Bunny or Santa suit. They're not robots or aliens. They get hungry, they get thirsty, they have to use the bathroom, they need breaks. Most of all, they get hot. Especially the Bunny. When I say we need to go on a break, and we'll be back in 45 minutes, do not pitch a hissy fit and run down to the mall office to complain. Do not stomp your foot and proclaim that we have just ruined your child's day. Do not insist we take "one last customer." Have a heart. Understand that the person in that suit is dripping with sweat, dying of thirst, and ready to pass out. When we take a break, it's not to make your life miserable, it's to prevent a medical emergency from occuring. I know it sucks to have to wait, but get over it. If you hold us up with your complaints, we'll just take longer. We're spiteful that way.
Here are a few tips on how to be the type of customer we like- Know what you want, don't traumatize your child in front of us, be happy with a real memory photo and not some forced smile that will be worthless in ten years, and be understanding when I tell you if I don't take the bunny off right away, I'll need an ambulance. Be the type of customer we like, and we'll give you free stuff. We get really good coupons from the other places in the mall, we just hide them from you because we want them for ourselves. But if we like you, we share. We know exactly where you can get your photos copied cheap without having to worry about pesky copyright rules (actually, the company will give you a photo release if you call, but we can save you that call). We occasionally have some decent stuff that we want to get rid of. But you'll never see any of it if you're acting like a lunatic and making us want to throw the cash register at you.
I have very few complaints about my job. The stress that I have is familiar stress- bunnies and Santa's running late, stuck in traffic, panicking me into thinking they're not going to show up; figuring out camera and computer system glitches, why is the printer printing 10000 copies of the same picture (because I let Jacob within thirty feet of the system), why am I bleeding profusely while trying to plug in a fan, that sort of thing. My only major complaint about the job is parents. If it weren't for the parents, the job would be cake. I have a few major gripes that I'd like to get off my chest, because I'm bound by a contract to be polite to people in person.
Gripe one- If your child is terrified of the bunny or Santa, they're not going to "smile nice" no matter how many times I pretend to sneeze, let things fall off my head, or say "hey sweetie, smile for the camera!" It's cruel to force your children to sit with something that terrifies them. The world never ended because little Timmy didn't get his photo taken with the Easter Bunny. No child ever grew up to be a serial killer because he didn't like Santa. I'm not entirely convinced, however, that forcing them to sit with a mutant rabbit or a strange bearded man when they clearly would rather be having you pick out splinters with a sewing needle wont make them one day stand over you while you're sleeping wielding a machete and cackling about slitting your throat. But if you want to take that risk, go for it. Just don't expect us to stand there acting like idiots for twenty minutes trying to get your bawling child to "smile nice."
Gripe two- Let's talk more about that twenty minute issue. This is a small stand in the mall. It's not a magazine photo shoot. There are people behind you, and more people coming, all of whom have been waiting for their turn to drive me batty as well. Please don't make me take fifty pictures of your child while you insist on that perfect, fake memory, then tell me "you know what, the first one was the best, let's go with that." Especially when we told you in the first place that this is as good as it's going to get. We've been doing this for years. We've seen thousands of children. You may know your child best in all other respects, but we can tell you exactly how your child is going to react once they sit on that mutant rabbit or strange bearded man's lap. Just trust us. If sweet, darling Betty is giving the evil eye in the first picture, it's only going to get worse. At some point, she is going to open-fire on the entire mall if you don't get her out of there. So unless she's blinking or looking at you (because you can't follow directions and stand where we tell you to stand), go with the first shot. It's not going to get much better.
Gripe three- You've been standing in line for twenty minutes staring at our list of packages and their prices. We saw you looking at them, we heard you discussing the pros and cons of every one of them. We take an awesome picture of your child, you're thrilled, we're ready to take your money and get you off our set. But you stand there for another twenty minutes debating over how many pictures you need. Meanwhile, we can't take pictures because it'll just hold up the printing process and create a back log of customers. Take notice of how I shift from foot to foot and try to silently sigh in frustration. Be courteous to others, know what you want when you get up there.
Gripe four- This one is serious. The other stuff, I can live with, I can tolerate, and I'm a quarter joking about. But this one drives me truly mad. Please understand that there is a real live person inside the Bunny or Santa suit. They're not robots or aliens. They get hungry, they get thirsty, they have to use the bathroom, they need breaks. Most of all, they get hot. Especially the Bunny. When I say we need to go on a break, and we'll be back in 45 minutes, do not pitch a hissy fit and run down to the mall office to complain. Do not stomp your foot and proclaim that we have just ruined your child's day. Do not insist we take "one last customer." Have a heart. Understand that the person in that suit is dripping with sweat, dying of thirst, and ready to pass out. When we take a break, it's not to make your life miserable, it's to prevent a medical emergency from occuring. I know it sucks to have to wait, but get over it. If you hold us up with your complaints, we'll just take longer. We're spiteful that way.
Here are a few tips on how to be the type of customer we like- Know what you want, don't traumatize your child in front of us, be happy with a real memory photo and not some forced smile that will be worthless in ten years, and be understanding when I tell you if I don't take the bunny off right away, I'll need an ambulance. Be the type of customer we like, and we'll give you free stuff. We get really good coupons from the other places in the mall, we just hide them from you because we want them for ourselves. But if we like you, we share. We know exactly where you can get your photos copied cheap without having to worry about pesky copyright rules (actually, the company will give you a photo release if you call, but we can save you that call). We occasionally have some decent stuff that we want to get rid of. But you'll never see any of it if you're acting like a lunatic and making us want to throw the cash register at you.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Stir Crazy
I have an intense desire to get the hell out of this place for a night, a few days, forever. I don't know why it's so bad right now, maybe cabin fever or something. I just feel like I can't sit still, I can't stay in one place anymore. I want to grab my son, hop on the highway, and see where I end up. I know where I want to end up. Of course, there are several flaws with this plan that make it impossible. The first and foremost is that I don't drive on the highway. Merging scares the shit out of me. People flying by, big giant trucks ready to crush me, it's too scary for my anxiety-ridden being to take. I've driven on the highway twice in my life, both times out of absolute necessity. I hated it both times. I'm actually planning to overcome this fear shortly, but I'll never be able to make long trips that involve going through cities.
Second major issue, I'm broke, and going broker by the moment with no good prospects in sight. My car has crappy gas mileage lately, I keep hearing something about needing to put air in my tires, but that is beyond me at this point. (I'm only half kidding, it's pathetic really). I told my friend we should run away and waitress our way across the country. Again, there are flaws with that plan. I can't waitress. There is no way anyone is going to let me walk across the room carrying a tray with actual food on it. It would be dangerous to all around me. I can't even walk across the room carrying nothing without tripping over my own feet. I am the Queen of Klutz, and I wear my crown proudly, albeit crookedly.
Third, Jacob would be extremely pissed if we left all his toys and his dogs behind. I'm pretty sure he'd don a clown mask and torture me in my sleep if we left behind the Power Rangers, Spiderman, Planet Heroes, huge bin of Matchbox cars, the twenty gallons of Playdoh, Martian Matter, and all the scraps of random old toys that he refuses to relinquish.
So for now, I'm pretty much stuck here, wishing I was somewhere else and going out of my mind. Maybe I'll use some of this restlessness to actually clean my house and get rid of a bunch of crap. Doubtful though. Most likely I'll just continue to sit here bitching and moaning about things I can't do anything about right now. Divorces don't go faster because you whine, money doesn't grow on trees because you ask it to, and time doesn't past just because you cry about it.
Second major issue, I'm broke, and going broker by the moment with no good prospects in sight. My car has crappy gas mileage lately, I keep hearing something about needing to put air in my tires, but that is beyond me at this point. (I'm only half kidding, it's pathetic really). I told my friend we should run away and waitress our way across the country. Again, there are flaws with that plan. I can't waitress. There is no way anyone is going to let me walk across the room carrying a tray with actual food on it. It would be dangerous to all around me. I can't even walk across the room carrying nothing without tripping over my own feet. I am the Queen of Klutz, and I wear my crown proudly, albeit crookedly.
Third, Jacob would be extremely pissed if we left all his toys and his dogs behind. I'm pretty sure he'd don a clown mask and torture me in my sleep if we left behind the Power Rangers, Spiderman, Planet Heroes, huge bin of Matchbox cars, the twenty gallons of Playdoh, Martian Matter, and all the scraps of random old toys that he refuses to relinquish.
So for now, I'm pretty much stuck here, wishing I was somewhere else and going out of my mind. Maybe I'll use some of this restlessness to actually clean my house and get rid of a bunch of crap. Doubtful though. Most likely I'll just continue to sit here bitching and moaning about things I can't do anything about right now. Divorces don't go faster because you whine, money doesn't grow on trees because you ask it to, and time doesn't past just because you cry about it.
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