At work over the past couple of years I've been tasked with creating a monthly ‘health newsletter’. Yeah, it’s as exciting as it sounds.
But one thing I’ve realized as I work on the articles that are in these newsletters is that more often than not, articles about exercise and nutrition piss me off.
When some ‘expert’ writes about overtraining and suggests that ‘after particularly hard day, give yourself a break that next day. Go on a gentle hike or take a yoga class.’
I just want to puke.
First of all, who the hell has time to ‘go on a gentle hike’? I know I don’t. I don’t leave anywhere near a place to hike, so I’d have to DRIVE somewhere to do it.
I work 40+ hours a week. Then I go home and do a minimum of 20 minutes of homework with Olivia each night. After that, I make dinner and clean up after dinner. THEN I pack lunches. If I’m lucky and it’s not Olivia’s bath/shower night, I’m done around 7:30. Who want to go on a hike at that point?
Not me, that’s for sure. And a yoga class? I don’t live anywhere near a place where I could take a yoga class in person so it would have to be done in my living room with an audience. No thank you.
I read the blog of a woman (why do I read this blog when it irritates me so much? That’s a question for another day.) who claims to go for 4+ mile walks or do some sort of Facebook workout each day before the kids she babysits for show up. This woman had six kids of her own and babysits in her home. Supposedly, if one of her teenagers is home, she’ll just trot out for an hour in the middle of the day and go for a ‘run.’
**This reminds me of way back when there were ‘discussion boards’. I often visited one at iVillage and there was women (who turned out to be a troll) who’d post on a board for step-parents. The line I remember most is when she once wrote, “I insist on a hot breakfast.” I read that with a snotty little smirk, like people who serve their kids Lucky Charms with extra marshmallows should be forced to relinquish custody. This troll would often talk about how he and her husband would go for walks in the evenings after the kids (I think she claimed there were six of them) were in bed. Sure. Sure they did.**
Can you hear my eyes rolling from here? Give me a break.
I know there are people who make exercise a priority. Bully for them.
I read an article recently (again for the work newsletter) that talked about not making exercise about losing weight. It suggested that people instead make exercise about being healthy.
Duh. Like we don’t all know that.
It also nagged about how a person shouldn’t make themselves do workouts they don’t enjoy. That sort of thing isn’t sustainable. You think?
I think my bad attitude comes from the fact that I KNOW what I SHOULD be doing. I KNOW! But I don’t know how to make what I should be doing a priority. Instead, I have to prioritize homework, and making a living so we can pay our bills and keep a roof over our head. I have to make dinner and clean up. I have to pack lunches and at some point, I just have to be done doing and doing and doing.
So the thought of going out at 8pm (because I am NOT getting up before 5:45 to exercise) and exercising is not attractive to me. Even if I could find an exercise that I might actually enjoy (hahahhaha) actually doing that exercise at the end of a day that started at 5:45am and is still going at 8pm is probably out of the question.
Just ignore this post. I felt the need to whine and bitch and sometimes. Getting it out of my head makes me less likely to be bitchy about it, even if I don’t vocalize it, when I get home.
A mom, a dad and two daughters. We're living ordinary lives with a twist of 5p- (Cri du Chat) for spice. But we're about so much more than our younger daughter's genetic diagnosis.
Showing posts with label Bitch Bitch Bitch Bitch Bitch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bitch Bitch Bitch Bitch Bitch. Show all posts
Monday, May 31, 2021
Friday, May 28, 2021
The No-Good, Very Bad McDonald's
We were on our way home from a track meet and Alyssa asked if we could stop at McDonald’s and get her a McDouble, fries and a strawberry shake.
I said sure and we headed north and west, toward home and the nearest McD’s. We were about an hour away from home, in Defiance, Ohio.
We found the McD’s and took our place in the drive-thru line. The line wasn’t bad when we got there. It got much worse soon after we arrived.
I placed our order: 1 McDouble cheese burger 1 six-piece chicken McNuggets with ranch 2 medium fries 1 medium strawberry shake 1 medium chocolate shake 1 large Coke 1 water
We head to the first window where we handed over our $17.31, exact change, thank you very much because I’m ancient and it’s what I do. They were lucky I didn’t have an actual change purse carrying all my coins.
We got to the second window and the girl inside asked, “What did you have?”
I told her and she handed us our water, Coke and a bag of food. I asked about the shakes.
She looked confused and asked someone inside if they’d ‘made’ the shakes.
You know that at McD’s, you don’t actually MAKE shakes, right? You just pour the milky substance from the machine into the cups. It’s not complicated.
She then asked us to please go park in “Drive-Thru Reserved Parking #2.”
Mmmm, okay. We did this and Alyssa ate her McDouble in about four bites. She was hungry. She snacked on her fries while we waited for her strawberry shake.
My mom ate her fries and we waited for the shakes. We hoped whoever brought the shakes would also bring straws for our Coke and water since they hadn’t been place in the bag with the food like they usually were.
I looked at the clock and it was 7:06. I declared that at 7:15, I would go inside, Covid be damned, and ask for the shakes.
My mom decided that was a ridiculous amount of time to wait and stomped inside.
She came out with straws but no shakes.
She said that the straws were just inside the door so she’d just grabbed them and left.
I had been waiting for the straw to eat my McNuggets because I wanted to drink the sweet, sweet Coke while I ate.
I ate a nugget and took a drink of the Coke. It tasted weird but I thought nothing of it. It was similar to when I’d had issues with my taste buds right after chemo.
I finished off the nuggets with minimal sips of Coke because it really was a weird taste.
A poor McD’s worker, a very thin young man with crossed eyes, came to our car with a bag. I wondered for a moment if he’d bagged our shakes. Nope, he asked if we were the car waiting for the McDouble and 6-piece nuggets.
I replied that we were actually waiting for shakes. But as he walked away, I realized he’d brought the FOOD we’d ordered and received. He’d already walked back inside before I could ask when we might expect the shakes.
The woman in the car next to us got out and stormed into the restaurant. I got out and threw away our garbage and decided I’d go in too and see what the problem was with the shakes.
I decided that while I was already out of the car, I’d also go inside and find out about the shakes.
The woman who’d stomped into the restaurant came back out, fire shooting out of her ears.
I got up to the counter and ignored for a few seconds but then the cross-eyed dude came back in after taking something out and I asked him about the shakes.
An older (probably 30s) woman asked what kind of shakes and what size.
I told her.
She told poor cross-eyed dude to make them for me.
I waited. And waited.
The poor fella seemed to be having trouble filling the cups with the shakes. He grabbed a handful of napkins and cleaned the chocolate off the outside of the cup.
Then he came to the counter and asked very timidly, “Uhh, the strawberry isn’t working. Will you take vanilla?”
I politely told him yes, I would take vanilla.
I just REALLY wanted to get out of there. I felt like if I was in there much longer, I would never escape and it would turn into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
I escaped with my mom’s chocolate shake and Alyssa’s now-vanilla shake.
They were relieved to see me, having feared, like I had, that I’d never return from the black hole that was McDonald’s lobby.
I picked up my Coke for another drink and paused when I saw that the lid had the ‘diet’ tab pushed in.
SON OF A BITCH!
That was why my Coke tasted weird. It was DIET. I HATE diet Coke.
However.
I was NOT going back in the restaurant. I had maybe taken five drinks so it was pretty full. I figured it was the universe telling me I didn’t need caffeine that late in the evening.
The rest of our trip home was uneventful. We ranted a bit about the service at that McDonald’s but then let it go because life’s too short to get that miffed about a couple of shakes. We were in good company and had a nice evening.
When I got home, I was preparing to pour the nasty diet Coke down the drain when Tom stopped me.
He took a sip and declared it, “Deeeeee-licious.”
Then he proceeded to drank it all. I was glad because suddenly I didn’t feel like I’d wasted my money.
I said sure and we headed north and west, toward home and the nearest McD’s. We were about an hour away from home, in Defiance, Ohio.
We found the McD’s and took our place in the drive-thru line. The line wasn’t bad when we got there. It got much worse soon after we arrived.
I placed our order: 1 McDouble cheese burger 1 six-piece chicken McNuggets with ranch 2 medium fries 1 medium strawberry shake 1 medium chocolate shake 1 large Coke 1 water
We head to the first window where we handed over our $17.31, exact change, thank you very much because I’m ancient and it’s what I do. They were lucky I didn’t have an actual change purse carrying all my coins.
We got to the second window and the girl inside asked, “What did you have?”
I told her and she handed us our water, Coke and a bag of food. I asked about the shakes.
She looked confused and asked someone inside if they’d ‘made’ the shakes.
You know that at McD’s, you don’t actually MAKE shakes, right? You just pour the milky substance from the machine into the cups. It’s not complicated.
She then asked us to please go park in “Drive-Thru Reserved Parking #2.”
Mmmm, okay. We did this and Alyssa ate her McDouble in about four bites. She was hungry. She snacked on her fries while we waited for her strawberry shake.
My mom ate her fries and we waited for the shakes. We hoped whoever brought the shakes would also bring straws for our Coke and water since they hadn’t been place in the bag with the food like they usually were.
I looked at the clock and it was 7:06. I declared that at 7:15, I would go inside, Covid be damned, and ask for the shakes.
My mom decided that was a ridiculous amount of time to wait and stomped inside.
She came out with straws but no shakes.
She said that the straws were just inside the door so she’d just grabbed them and left.
I had been waiting for the straw to eat my McNuggets because I wanted to drink the sweet, sweet Coke while I ate.
I ate a nugget and took a drink of the Coke. It tasted weird but I thought nothing of it. It was similar to when I’d had issues with my taste buds right after chemo.
I finished off the nuggets with minimal sips of Coke because it really was a weird taste.
A poor McD’s worker, a very thin young man with crossed eyes, came to our car with a bag. I wondered for a moment if he’d bagged our shakes. Nope, he asked if we were the car waiting for the McDouble and 6-piece nuggets.
I replied that we were actually waiting for shakes. But as he walked away, I realized he’d brought the FOOD we’d ordered and received. He’d already walked back inside before I could ask when we might expect the shakes.
The woman in the car next to us got out and stormed into the restaurant. I got out and threw away our garbage and decided I’d go in too and see what the problem was with the shakes.
I decided that while I was already out of the car, I’d also go inside and find out about the shakes.
The woman who’d stomped into the restaurant came back out, fire shooting out of her ears.
I got up to the counter and ignored for a few seconds but then the cross-eyed dude came back in after taking something out and I asked him about the shakes.
An older (probably 30s) woman asked what kind of shakes and what size.
I told her.
She told poor cross-eyed dude to make them for me.
I waited. And waited.
The poor fella seemed to be having trouble filling the cups with the shakes. He grabbed a handful of napkins and cleaned the chocolate off the outside of the cup.
Then he came to the counter and asked very timidly, “Uhh, the strawberry isn’t working. Will you take vanilla?”
I politely told him yes, I would take vanilla.
I just REALLY wanted to get out of there. I felt like if I was in there much longer, I would never escape and it would turn into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
I escaped with my mom’s chocolate shake and Alyssa’s now-vanilla shake.
They were relieved to see me, having feared, like I had, that I’d never return from the black hole that was McDonald’s lobby.
I picked up my Coke for another drink and paused when I saw that the lid had the ‘diet’ tab pushed in.
SON OF A BITCH!
That was why my Coke tasted weird. It was DIET. I HATE diet Coke.
However.
I was NOT going back in the restaurant. I had maybe taken five drinks so it was pretty full. I figured it was the universe telling me I didn’t need caffeine that late in the evening.
The rest of our trip home was uneventful. We ranted a bit about the service at that McDonald’s but then let it go because life’s too short to get that miffed about a couple of shakes. We were in good company and had a nice evening.
When I got home, I was preparing to pour the nasty diet Coke down the drain when Tom stopped me.
He took a sip and declared it, “Deeeeee-licious.”
Then he proceeded to drank it all. I was glad because suddenly I didn’t feel like I’d wasted my money.
Wednesday, May 26, 2021
Just Another Vent
I live in a very conservative area of the country. It’s exhausting, actually.
The people who believe the propaganda spewed by our 45th presidents makes me sad and angry and exasperated all at the same time
This little rant is brought to you by a couple of 50+ men talking amongst themselves about ten feet from my desk at work.
One was visiting from an outside company. The other is a co-worker of mine.
Anyway, these two old white dudes were there, co-worker was signing out a company car so they could go to one of our other facilities.
Co-worker noticed Visitor’s mask, which was in his hand not on his face, and said to Visitor, “You can wear that if you want to but you don’t have to.”
Visitor replied, “I hear they make you sick.”
“I’ve heard that too,” Co-worker replied.
Are you fucking kidding me?
In this day and age, do people REALLY believe that WEARING a face mask will make them sick? Why would they think that? Is there any sort of proof that this is the case? Wait, let me google.
Nope, a quick google search shows there is no evidence that wearing a face mask will make you sick and, in fact, there is heavy evidence the wearing a face mask will prevent you from getting sick. So…
Earlier this week, as one of our production employees was clocking out, someone mentioned gas prices going up. I said something about having put gas in my car the previous Friday before work and finding that by 10am that morning, gas had gone from $2.72 to $2.99.
Dude clocking out said something like, “This never happened when T*#@^! Was president.”
I simply said, “Hmmm.”
But come on! We all know that gas prices go up and down regularly. It’s not like gas went down to $.99 when 45 was in office and is suddenly $10 a gallon now that Biden is president.
And yet…these people believe these things. These people, these working class citizens believe that if we raise the minimum wage so that people can, you know, LIVE and not be on the verge of poverty, that somehow that will make THEIR (the working class) lives harder. They believe this and it makes me crazy.
I said something merely in passing within earshot of my step-dad a few weeks ago about how great it had been to go get our Covid vaccinations and not have to pay and I mused about how great it would be if all health care were like that.
Holy shit, I didn’t realize I’d thrown down the gauntlet there. He started going on and on and on about how much we’d pay in taxes if that were the case and how the American people would pay for it one way or the other and on and on and on.
Dude! I was not looking for a debate. I was simply saying how great it would have been a few years ago for me to have fought cancer and NOT worried about bankrupting my family due to the insane cost of medical treatment.
And all this was coming from a man who receives his care free of charge from the VA, which I do not begrudge. He served his time, he deserves to get his medical on the government’s dime. But don’t we all deserve decent care? Why is the cost of insulin so prohibitive that some people have to choose between their medicine and feeding their family? Why do epi-pens cost so freaking much that some people have to forgo them and just pray they don’t come in contact with a tree nut or a bee?
It feels like simple human decency to me.
Women have a right to their own bodies, sick people have a right to the medicines that will make them well. People have a right to make enough money to pay their bills and maybe even start saving for retirement. Is this all really too much too ask? Are they all really such radical, liberal, socialist ideas?
The people who believe the propaganda spewed by our 45th presidents makes me sad and angry and exasperated all at the same time
This little rant is brought to you by a couple of 50+ men talking amongst themselves about ten feet from my desk at work.
One was visiting from an outside company. The other is a co-worker of mine.
Anyway, these two old white dudes were there, co-worker was signing out a company car so they could go to one of our other facilities.
Co-worker noticed Visitor’s mask, which was in his hand not on his face, and said to Visitor, “You can wear that if you want to but you don’t have to.”
Visitor replied, “I hear they make you sick.”
“I’ve heard that too,” Co-worker replied.
Are you fucking kidding me?
In this day and age, do people REALLY believe that WEARING a face mask will make them sick? Why would they think that? Is there any sort of proof that this is the case? Wait, let me google.
Nope, a quick google search shows there is no evidence that wearing a face mask will make you sick and, in fact, there is heavy evidence the wearing a face mask will prevent you from getting sick. So…
Earlier this week, as one of our production employees was clocking out, someone mentioned gas prices going up. I said something about having put gas in my car the previous Friday before work and finding that by 10am that morning, gas had gone from $2.72 to $2.99.
Dude clocking out said something like, “This never happened when T*#@^! Was president.”
I simply said, “Hmmm.”
But come on! We all know that gas prices go up and down regularly. It’s not like gas went down to $.99 when 45 was in office and is suddenly $10 a gallon now that Biden is president.
And yet…these people believe these things. These people, these working class citizens believe that if we raise the minimum wage so that people can, you know, LIVE and not be on the verge of poverty, that somehow that will make THEIR (the working class) lives harder. They believe this and it makes me crazy.
I said something merely in passing within earshot of my step-dad a few weeks ago about how great it had been to go get our Covid vaccinations and not have to pay and I mused about how great it would be if all health care were like that.
Holy shit, I didn’t realize I’d thrown down the gauntlet there. He started going on and on and on about how much we’d pay in taxes if that were the case and how the American people would pay for it one way or the other and on and on and on.
Dude! I was not looking for a debate. I was simply saying how great it would have been a few years ago for me to have fought cancer and NOT worried about bankrupting my family due to the insane cost of medical treatment.
And all this was coming from a man who receives his care free of charge from the VA, which I do not begrudge. He served his time, he deserves to get his medical on the government’s dime. But don’t we all deserve decent care? Why is the cost of insulin so prohibitive that some people have to choose between their medicine and feeding their family? Why do epi-pens cost so freaking much that some people have to forgo them and just pray they don’t come in contact with a tree nut or a bee?
It feels like simple human decency to me.
Women have a right to their own bodies, sick people have a right to the medicines that will make them well. People have a right to make enough money to pay their bills and maybe even start saving for retirement. Is this all really too much too ask? Are they all really such radical, liberal, socialist ideas?
Thursday, May 6, 2021
Attitude
Well.
Once upon a Tuesday evening, there was a home track meet. Tom and Olivia joined me at the track to watch Alyssa do the high jump (she came in 4th) and bask in the lovely weather we were having that day.
It was a day in which the temperature rose to the low 80s. So it was lovely, if a little warm for the runners.
The high jump took a long time because girls kept having to go off and run races then come back and jump and round and round they went.
Finally it was over and Alyssa joined us outside the fence that circles the track. She informed me and Tom that there was some sort of ‘senior night’ going on. At that point, Olivia collapsed into a puddle of despair. She was hot and tired and bored and hungry.
My mother took pity on us all and offered to take Liv to her house while Tom and I waited with Lyss at the track for whatever senior thing was happening.
Tom and I found a seat in the shade while Alyssa stood at the fence and watched the races. It was fine.
But then she got bored too. She came over to where we were sitting and said she was ready to go. She hasn’t actually heard about anything for the seniors from anyone official, just from her best friend. So the three of us left, Tom and Lyss for home and I headed to my mom’s to get Olivia.
I offered to ‘let’ Tom go get her but he declared with a smirk that we all know that Olivia wants me. Ha. Sure, she does. He was just saying that to get out of having to go get her. I mean, okay, yes, if he were to show up to pick her up, her first question would be, “Where’s Mom?”
But should that stop him from being the one to pick her up? No, it should not. Of course, she was at MY mom’s house, so there’s that too but still…
So I got to my mom’s house and they were surprised to see me so early. Olivia had just started eating some broccoli. She’d just finished a bowl of pineapple with whipped cream. (It’s a Gram thing, that sort of thing never occurs to me.) She ate two bowls of broccoli while I was there.
We finally got home and Tom had pizza ready. It was about 7:15. It was thoughtful of him to make pizza.
He informed Olivia her pizza was ready. I told him she’d eaten broccoli and pineapple at Gram’s, hoping it would soften him toward her eating all the pizza he was putting in front of her.
It didn’t.
She didn’t complain, so she must have still been hungry.
I gathered O’s homework so that we could get through it after she ate.
Tom asked me why I wasn’t eating.
I told him I would eat after homework was done.
I must have replied with a snippy tone because he gave me a look and asked me what I was giving him attitude.
Excuse me? Attitude? Are you kidding me?
I sighed and tried not to cry and informed him that I simply wanted to get homework out of the way before I could eat.
But seriously, attitude? What am I, one of the kids?
He left the room and I felt the stress of the day press down on me. What the hell just happened?
He came back to the kitchen and heated up O’s pizza because she can’t stand to eat anything that is cooler than the temperature on the surface of the sun.
She ate and I organized her homework.
But it felt like the entire evening was off. We were all tired from being in the heat and the sun. We’re used to frigid temperatures and this sudden summer heat was too much for our delicate systems to take.
In the end it was fine. Homework was finished, pizza was eaten, and everyone finally went to bed and slept off the stress and attitude of the day.
Once upon a Tuesday evening, there was a home track meet. Tom and Olivia joined me at the track to watch Alyssa do the high jump (she came in 4th) and bask in the lovely weather we were having that day.
It was a day in which the temperature rose to the low 80s. So it was lovely, if a little warm for the runners.
The high jump took a long time because girls kept having to go off and run races then come back and jump and round and round they went.
Finally it was over and Alyssa joined us outside the fence that circles the track. She informed me and Tom that there was some sort of ‘senior night’ going on. At that point, Olivia collapsed into a puddle of despair. She was hot and tired and bored and hungry.
My mother took pity on us all and offered to take Liv to her house while Tom and I waited with Lyss at the track for whatever senior thing was happening.
Tom and I found a seat in the shade while Alyssa stood at the fence and watched the races. It was fine.
But then she got bored too. She came over to where we were sitting and said she was ready to go. She hasn’t actually heard about anything for the seniors from anyone official, just from her best friend. So the three of us left, Tom and Lyss for home and I headed to my mom’s to get Olivia.
I offered to ‘let’ Tom go get her but he declared with a smirk that we all know that Olivia wants me. Ha. Sure, she does. He was just saying that to get out of having to go get her. I mean, okay, yes, if he were to show up to pick her up, her first question would be, “Where’s Mom?”
But should that stop him from being the one to pick her up? No, it should not. Of course, she was at MY mom’s house, so there’s that too but still…
So I got to my mom’s house and they were surprised to see me so early. Olivia had just started eating some broccoli. She’d just finished a bowl of pineapple with whipped cream. (It’s a Gram thing, that sort of thing never occurs to me.) She ate two bowls of broccoli while I was there.
We finally got home and Tom had pizza ready. It was about 7:15. It was thoughtful of him to make pizza.
He informed Olivia her pizza was ready. I told him she’d eaten broccoli and pineapple at Gram’s, hoping it would soften him toward her eating all the pizza he was putting in front of her.
It didn’t.
She didn’t complain, so she must have still been hungry.
I gathered O’s homework so that we could get through it after she ate.
Tom asked me why I wasn’t eating.
I told him I would eat after homework was done.
I must have replied with a snippy tone because he gave me a look and asked me what I was giving him attitude.
Excuse me? Attitude? Are you kidding me?
I sighed and tried not to cry and informed him that I simply wanted to get homework out of the way before I could eat.
But seriously, attitude? What am I, one of the kids?
He left the room and I felt the stress of the day press down on me. What the hell just happened?
He came back to the kitchen and heated up O’s pizza because she can’t stand to eat anything that is cooler than the temperature on the surface of the sun.
She ate and I organized her homework.
But it felt like the entire evening was off. We were all tired from being in the heat and the sun. We’re used to frigid temperatures and this sudden summer heat was too much for our delicate systems to take.
In the end it was fine. Homework was finished, pizza was eaten, and everyone finally went to bed and slept off the stress and attitude of the day.
Friday, January 15, 2021
McDonald's
In the past, oh, almost nine months, we’ve gone through the drive-thru of our nearest McDonalds…a lot.
More often than we should, actually.
Sidebar: There are three drivers in our family of four. Care to guess how many of those three drivers is willing to order/purchase food at a drive-thru?
The answer, is one. ONE of the three of us is willing/able to order food at a drive-thru.
One guess as to which ONE of us that is.
So at least one night each week, I’ll get home after working for 9+ hours that day and I’ll be greeted at the door by one of my lovely children who will inform me that ‘Dad’ is sending use to McDonald’s to pick up dinner. He seems to think that if he gives me his debit card, that’s his portion of providing dinner.
Okay, so it’s only about 10 miles away but still.
So yeah.
Now to be fair, in all the times we’ve been through this McD’s drive-thru, they’ve messed up our order one time.
That’s pretty good odds if you figure we’ve been there at least twice a month (but we’ve been SO MUCH more often…) in the past nine months.
But the one time they messed up it, we didn’t realize it until I was about a block away. I turned around and got back in line at the drive-thru. Thankfully, this McD’s, even when there’s a long-ish line is pretty quick.
So when it was my turn at the intercom, I just said, in my sweet little drive-thru ordering voice, “Hi, we just went through a few minutes ago and you shorted us two orders of fries.”
Silence.
So I waited, and waited. Finally, because the person on the other end of the intercom still hadn’t replied I said, “Uh, could we, like, get those fries?”
At that point I was instructed to just pull forward. No apology, no offer of a Flurry for my trouble. Just “Pull forward.”
The person at the window who gave us the fries we’d been shorted didn’t apologize either. What is this world coming to, I ask you.
Alyssa and I shared a look and a laugh as we pulled away. It was just so ridiculous.
Oh yes, didn’t I mention that when I’m sent to McD’s with Tom’s card to pick up dinner, the girls ALWAYS go with me. Like, literally, always. The only time they’re not with me when I’m picking up food is when I get it right after work before I go home.
Yes, I’m a little bitter that Tom gets EVEN MORE time at home ALONE. I just…well. There’s nothing to be done about that, is there?
So perhaps I should just let it go.
More often than we should, actually.
Sidebar: There are three drivers in our family of four. Care to guess how many of those three drivers is willing to order/purchase food at a drive-thru?
The answer, is one. ONE of the three of us is willing/able to order food at a drive-thru.
One guess as to which ONE of us that is.
So at least one night each week, I’ll get home after working for 9+ hours that day and I’ll be greeted at the door by one of my lovely children who will inform me that ‘Dad’ is sending use to McDonald’s to pick up dinner. He seems to think that if he gives me his debit card, that’s his portion of providing dinner.
Okay, so it’s only about 10 miles away but still.
So yeah.
Now to be fair, in all the times we’ve been through this McD’s drive-thru, they’ve messed up our order one time.
That’s pretty good odds if you figure we’ve been there at least twice a month (but we’ve been SO MUCH more often…) in the past nine months.
But the one time they messed up it, we didn’t realize it until I was about a block away. I turned around and got back in line at the drive-thru. Thankfully, this McD’s, even when there’s a long-ish line is pretty quick.
So when it was my turn at the intercom, I just said, in my sweet little drive-thru ordering voice, “Hi, we just went through a few minutes ago and you shorted us two orders of fries.”
Silence.
So I waited, and waited. Finally, because the person on the other end of the intercom still hadn’t replied I said, “Uh, could we, like, get those fries?”
At that point I was instructed to just pull forward. No apology, no offer of a Flurry for my trouble. Just “Pull forward.”
The person at the window who gave us the fries we’d been shorted didn’t apologize either. What is this world coming to, I ask you.
Alyssa and I shared a look and a laugh as we pulled away. It was just so ridiculous.
Oh yes, didn’t I mention that when I’m sent to McD’s with Tom’s card to pick up dinner, the girls ALWAYS go with me. Like, literally, always. The only time they’re not with me when I’m picking up food is when I get it right after work before I go home.
Yes, I’m a little bitter that Tom gets EVEN MORE time at home ALONE. I just…well. There’s nothing to be done about that, is there?
So perhaps I should just let it go.
Thursday, September 24, 2020
A Week at the Post Office
I’ve mentioned (ad nauseam) that I go to the post office every single day for work. Some days, weeks, months, I only have to go into the part where the post office boxes are so that I can pick up the incoming mail from the six post office boxes that my work has.
Why yes, I feel quite important when I pull out the key ring with SIX post office box keys on it. I’m way cooler than you over there opening your ONE PO box. Ha on you, only having three envelopes. Look at me with my bags of mail.
Yeah, mail is super fun, except when it’s not.
See, one recent week, the post office was getting on my last nerve.
I had to go in and talk to the ladies (it’s always ladies. Why are there NEVER any men working the stupid counter?) at the counter. They’re the ones who deal with the general public and I feel for them because the general public is stupid. I feel stupid when I’m a member of the general public. Just saying.
So that week, I had to go up to the counter every single day. So frustrating.
The first day is was so I could try and sent a garment back to the UK. It was a return. The company send a label and everything; except, since it was an international return, I had to fill out customs paperwork. And apparently, the label they sent was just an address label. It didn’t include postage, which was going to be $14.95. The hell?
So I took the stupid customs label and told Kathy behind the counter I’d be back the next day.
The next day, not only did I have my return, I also had a check from work to pay for the six post office boxes for the next six months. AND I had a yellow ticket (of leave? Alas, no, no yellow ticket of leave for you, prisoner 24601.) that indicated there was something that hadn’t fit in the P.O. boxes.
That’s SUPER fun.
First, I gave her the check my boss had given me for the P.O. boxes and…it wasn’t made out for the right amount. The label with the amount they’d sent in was faded and the last number, a 6, looked very much like a 0. Kathy asked me if I wanted make up the $6 difference.
I did not. While I might have had cash on hand, I didn’t want to part with it even though I know work would have reimbursed me. But damn it, I shouldn’t have to pay for stuff like that with my own money.
Then I gave her the yellow ticket that had been in the box from the day before but that I hadn’t seen until I got back to the office because there was so much mail it had been buried in there amidst the checks and catalogs and invoices.
Kathy took my yellow ticket, disappeared behind the wall that separates the general public from the VIPs of the postal world. She returned with a big ass box (not so big, but it was heavy, which is actually just as annoying as being big…I HATE big, heavy boxes. This is probably a bit PTSD from when Tom used to send ridiculously large and heavy boxes with me to my previous employment to be shipped via UPS, which pissed me off to no end and was one of the very few things we’ve ever had actual fights about.
This box, for the record, did NOT have a P.O. box number listed. It actually had a street address, which was not the street address of the plant I work at. My place of employment has four plants within a one mile radius. I work at plant 1. This box was addressed to plant 4.
The hell? Why was it waiting for me to pick up when it could have been sent with the freaking mailman to the actual street address on the box?
That this point, I was very near my last reserve of patience.
So finally Kathy perused my customs forms and asked me the company name for the return.
I don’t know. I didn’t buy the stupid garment. I was returning it for Alyssa, who’d bought it for her sister, bless her heart. But it didn’t fit her sister and who wants a $40 bra that doesn’t fit? Not us. You want a bra sitting around your house that doesn’t fit anyone? Give me a call, the stupid thing is still in my purse.
Anyway, I told her I had no idea what the business name is and took the package, the customs paperwork and ANOTHER customs form because Kathy had helpfully stamped the one I’d already filled out with that day’s date and so I’d need to do it all again for the next day.
I told her I’d take the check back and have my boss issue a new one.
Whatever!
The first was empty. Wheee!!! But guess what? As I was checking the first, empty post office box, I realized I’d forgotten the heavy-ass box Kathy had brought up for me before the whole customs issue came up. It was still sitting on the counter beside Kathy’s workspace.
So, I went BACK to Kathy’s counter to retrieve that stupid box. But there was this DUDE standing there talking to Kathy about I don’t even know what. And he was in my way! Instead of standing directly in front of Kathy, where there is plexiglass protecting her from creeps like this, he stood off to the side, directly in front of the stupid heavy box I didn’t even want. Except I needed that box because it wasn’t mine, it belonged to plant 4 and I needed to take it there. Or, you know, back to plant 1 where I could then send it to plant 4 via ‘interoffice mail.’ Sigh.
Kathy’s coworker saw my frustration and retrieved my box from its purgatory in front of annoying dude who does not understand personal space.
I took that stupid heavy box out to my car and then went in to actually get the mail out of the other five post office boxes.
The next box I opened…had another stupid yellow ticket. Are you freaking kidding me?
I had to go BACK IN TO THE COUNTER for the THIRD time for anyone who’s counting to get whatever was waiting for me behind door number two.
It ended up being a packet of mail that was just too much to fit into the box. Figures.
The next day (third day of the week, for those counting) I had to go to the counter to try and send that stupid bra back to England AND pay for the P.O. boxes with the corrected check.
Somedays, I think the post office is more trouble than it’s worth.
Then I remember that Kevin Costner movie, The Postman. Did you guys see that one? One scene has the bad guy about to kill two of the postman’s mailmen. These two boys stop and introduce themselves to each other and the bad guy realizes that if these two don’t know each other, his rival for world domination has already gotten away from him.
That’s not really a good description of the scene but close enough. What I’m saying is, that movie reminds me that we’re lucky to have mail service and it keeps us connected in a way that even the internet can’t quite do so I’ll try and not let my trivial annoyances stop me from mailing a letter every now and then.
Monday, September 21, 2020
Feeling Put Upon
The Saturday of Labor Day weekend, Olivia woke up around 8am. She then talked at me for the next hour and a half while I lay dosing, trying to ignore her need to get up and go.
I finally dragged my lazy carcass out of bed at 9:30 but I certainly didn’t want to. The day went downhill from there.
I’d mentioned to Tom earlier in the week that I was going to paint the bathroom.
That morning he asked me what color. I told him. Then he asked me what color I wanted to paint the front door. See, I’d mentioned that to him earlier in the week too.
I hemmed and hawed on answering that one because I didn’t really care to hear his opinion on my thoughts. Dude has an opinion on everything. EVERYTHING. And see, the thing is, his opinions are always so strong. It’s never, eh, I don’t mind that. It’s always a sure and confidents yes or no.
It’s infuriating.
Except that morning all his opinions did was make me weepy.
I did tell him that it wasn’t him, it was me. I didn’t know why but my emotions were very close to the surface and those emotions were all sunshine and roses. They were teary and sad and angry emotions.
We made it to my mom’s house without any actual tears falling, though things were cloudy on the way.
Tom called me on our way to town to tell me that he didn’t actually care what color I chose to paint the front door.
That was nice.
See, once upon a time, very early in our marriage, I painted our laundry room a bright apple green.
He hated it. He hated it so much that he can’t imagine me NOT picking another horrible color for any part of our house.
But guess what? I learned from that. I don’t go all willy-nilly with my paint colors anymore. See my previous post about the nice cool white I picked for the bathroom.
So give the green a freaking rest, is what I’m saying. It’s been at least fifteen years since I did that. I’m not a bright eyed 35 year old with apples in her eyes and confidence in her choices anymore.
Whew, it feels good to get that out.
We made it to Menards and headed to the paint department. Let me tell you, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend is not the time to go to Menards. When we arrived, there were three carts available for use by the front door. The rest were scattered about the store, in use by the seventy million other customers.
My mom pointed down an aisle in the paint section and said, “The Rustoleum is at the end.”
I started down the aisle but couldn’t see the stupid Rustoleum and stopped halfway. I didn’t quite stomp my foot but I did give out a plaintive, “Where am I going?”
Yes, it was incredibly whiny. Yes, I hated myself so much in that moment. But I was so tired and felt so put upon by the entire world.
My girls are so amazing. They both just rolled with my stupid whiny mood. They laughed at me as I behaved like a brat. They didn’t take my bitchiness personally (I hope) and they just let me wallow in my mood.
We went to lunch, which helped because hello Applebee’s chicken fajita roll and strawberry lemonade.
Walmart was the worst but by then I’d expected just that and so I made my way through the store with as much stoicism as I could and finally, at home, I was done.
There was no paint prep that Saturday. There was very little laundry done. I did not vacuum.
Tom left to go…somewhere that afternoon. Alyssa went out with N and so Liv and I had noodles for dinner. It was comforting and just what we needed.
The next day, I was back to fine. I felt god enough, emotionally and physically to paint the bathroom and do laundry and cook so I’m calling that weekend a wash.
I finally dragged my lazy carcass out of bed at 9:30 but I certainly didn’t want to. The day went downhill from there.
I’d mentioned to Tom earlier in the week that I was going to paint the bathroom.
That morning he asked me what color. I told him. Then he asked me what color I wanted to paint the front door. See, I’d mentioned that to him earlier in the week too.
I hemmed and hawed on answering that one because I didn’t really care to hear his opinion on my thoughts. Dude has an opinion on everything. EVERYTHING. And see, the thing is, his opinions are always so strong. It’s never, eh, I don’t mind that. It’s always a sure and confidents yes or no.
It’s infuriating.
Except that morning all his opinions did was make me weepy.
I did tell him that it wasn’t him, it was me. I didn’t know why but my emotions were very close to the surface and those emotions were all sunshine and roses. They were teary and sad and angry emotions.
We made it to my mom’s house without any actual tears falling, though things were cloudy on the way.
Tom called me on our way to town to tell me that he didn’t actually care what color I chose to paint the front door.
That was nice.
See, once upon a time, very early in our marriage, I painted our laundry room a bright apple green.
He hated it. He hated it so much that he can’t imagine me NOT picking another horrible color for any part of our house.
But guess what? I learned from that. I don’t go all willy-nilly with my paint colors anymore. See my previous post about the nice cool white I picked for the bathroom.
So give the green a freaking rest, is what I’m saying. It’s been at least fifteen years since I did that. I’m not a bright eyed 35 year old with apples in her eyes and confidence in her choices anymore.
Whew, it feels good to get that out.
We made it to Menards and headed to the paint department. Let me tell you, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend is not the time to go to Menards. When we arrived, there were three carts available for use by the front door. The rest were scattered about the store, in use by the seventy million other customers.
My mom pointed down an aisle in the paint section and said, “The Rustoleum is at the end.”
I started down the aisle but couldn’t see the stupid Rustoleum and stopped halfway. I didn’t quite stomp my foot but I did give out a plaintive, “Where am I going?”
Yes, it was incredibly whiny. Yes, I hated myself so much in that moment. But I was so tired and felt so put upon by the entire world.
My girls are so amazing. They both just rolled with my stupid whiny mood. They laughed at me as I behaved like a brat. They didn’t take my bitchiness personally (I hope) and they just let me wallow in my mood.
We went to lunch, which helped because hello Applebee’s chicken fajita roll and strawberry lemonade.
Walmart was the worst but by then I’d expected just that and so I made my way through the store with as much stoicism as I could and finally, at home, I was done.
There was no paint prep that Saturday. There was very little laundry done. I did not vacuum.
Tom left to go…somewhere that afternoon. Alyssa went out with N and so Liv and I had noodles for dinner. It was comforting and just what we needed.
The next day, I was back to fine. I felt god enough, emotionally and physically to paint the bathroom and do laundry and cook so I’m calling that weekend a wash.
Monday, September 7, 2020
A Very Brady Rant
I had to get blood drawn for labs. I went to the hospital at 9:30 one weekday morning. My thought was that it shouldn’t be all that busy at that time. I mean, people work, right?
Apparently not around here, they don’t because that hospital was crawling with people. Okay, so the people weren’t actually crawling but they were everywhere.
One dude in particular was especially antsy about the wait.
After I’d checked in with the receptionists and got my pager for registration, I sat down to wait.
This dude was sitting in a chair about ten feet from my little couch. His chair faced the registration doors. My couch faced him and the television that was mounted above and to his left.
The television was tuned to HGTV and they were showing episodes of A Very Brady Renovation. Yay! Except freaking Marcia Brady kept crying every time a new room was revealed. Chill the fuck out, Marcia!
This dude, though, damn he was irritating. He sat slumped in his chair for a few minutes, then he’d sit up straight and look at his beeper. Then he’d stand up and stretch, which always let to him clutching his right shoulder.
I was about to ask him if maybe he should be in line in the emergency room when he’d sit back down again, glance around to see if anyone was looking at him and then grumble under his breath.
I wanted to tell him to relax, watch a bit of A Very Brady Renovation and stop fidgeting. Obviously all the fidgeting was bothering his stupid right shoulder.
What was most irritating for me was that I had to look past him to watch A Very Brady Renovation, which meant that every time he looked my way, I knew it. I was never actually looking at him, because, duh, A Very Brady Renovation was on, why would I look anywhere else? But I knew he was looking and it was creepy as hell.
Thank Pete, (not Pete Brady, who used to be my favorite Brady brother until I watched Christopher Knight on his stupid reality TV show where he married America’s Next Top Model season cycle 1 winner Adrienne Curry. I think the show was called My Fair Brady, which, can we all agree is a REALLY stupid title for a REALLY stupid show? I only watched a partial episode on the Youtubes once but during that episode Chris was a raging dick to Adrienne and that made me detest him. And now, damn it, I guess I have to pick stupid Greg as my favorite Brady brother even though I can barely stand him because Bobby aka Mike Lookinland is just gross. That dude has NOT aged well at all. Oh, and by the way, Cindy Brady? The eighties called and they want their hair back.)
Ahem, where was I?
Oh yes, thank Pete that fidgety, creepy dude was called before I was and he left my line of vision. I was able to watch Marcia cry a few more times before my beeper went off and I got to go back and have a needle stuck in my arm. Good times; takes me back to my chemo days when I got stuck weekly. Ahh, memories. But wait, this time was actually different. This was the first time in all the times someone has stuck a needle in my arm that the person doing the sticking told me I have tiny veins. What? I have given blood my entire adult life, well, until I was diagnosed with cancer and had to be pumped full of chemotherapy, thank you so much. Now they don’t want my precious AB+ blood. So have my veins shrunk in the last two years? Is that even a thing?
Umm…I have no idea where I was going with any of this. Maybe there was no actual story here, except that the hospital was crazy busy and it wasn’t even because of Covid because if you suspected you had Covid-19, you weren’t even supposed to go into the hospital. There were signs all over the freaking place declaring that.
Alas, perhaps these days there is no ‘good’ time to go have blood drawn, unless you figure that anytime HGTV is airing A Very Brady Renovation is a good time to go so you have something to watch while you wait eleven hours from registration to blood draw is a good time to go. Then, well, check your local listing.
I don’t even know.
Apparently not around here, they don’t because that hospital was crawling with people. Okay, so the people weren’t actually crawling but they were everywhere.
One dude in particular was especially antsy about the wait.
After I’d checked in with the receptionists and got my pager for registration, I sat down to wait.
This dude was sitting in a chair about ten feet from my little couch. His chair faced the registration doors. My couch faced him and the television that was mounted above and to his left.
The television was tuned to HGTV and they were showing episodes of A Very Brady Renovation. Yay! Except freaking Marcia Brady kept crying every time a new room was revealed. Chill the fuck out, Marcia!
This dude, though, damn he was irritating. He sat slumped in his chair for a few minutes, then he’d sit up straight and look at his beeper. Then he’d stand up and stretch, which always let to him clutching his right shoulder.
I was about to ask him if maybe he should be in line in the emergency room when he’d sit back down again, glance around to see if anyone was looking at him and then grumble under his breath.
I wanted to tell him to relax, watch a bit of A Very Brady Renovation and stop fidgeting. Obviously all the fidgeting was bothering his stupid right shoulder.
What was most irritating for me was that I had to look past him to watch A Very Brady Renovation, which meant that every time he looked my way, I knew it. I was never actually looking at him, because, duh, A Very Brady Renovation was on, why would I look anywhere else? But I knew he was looking and it was creepy as hell.
Thank Pete, (not Pete Brady, who used to be my favorite Brady brother until I watched Christopher Knight on his stupid reality TV show where he married America’s Next Top Model season cycle 1 winner Adrienne Curry. I think the show was called My Fair Brady, which, can we all agree is a REALLY stupid title for a REALLY stupid show? I only watched a partial episode on the Youtubes once but during that episode Chris was a raging dick to Adrienne and that made me detest him. And now, damn it, I guess I have to pick stupid Greg as my favorite Brady brother even though I can barely stand him because Bobby aka Mike Lookinland is just gross. That dude has NOT aged well at all. Oh, and by the way, Cindy Brady? The eighties called and they want their hair back.)
Ahem, where was I?
Oh yes, thank Pete that fidgety, creepy dude was called before I was and he left my line of vision. I was able to watch Marcia cry a few more times before my beeper went off and I got to go back and have a needle stuck in my arm. Good times; takes me back to my chemo days when I got stuck weekly. Ahh, memories. But wait, this time was actually different. This was the first time in all the times someone has stuck a needle in my arm that the person doing the sticking told me I have tiny veins. What? I have given blood my entire adult life, well, until I was diagnosed with cancer and had to be pumped full of chemotherapy, thank you so much. Now they don’t want my precious AB+ blood. So have my veins shrunk in the last two years? Is that even a thing?
Umm…I have no idea where I was going with any of this. Maybe there was no actual story here, except that the hospital was crazy busy and it wasn’t even because of Covid because if you suspected you had Covid-19, you weren’t even supposed to go into the hospital. There were signs all over the freaking place declaring that.
Alas, perhaps these days there is no ‘good’ time to go have blood drawn, unless you figure that anytime HGTV is airing A Very Brady Renovation is a good time to go so you have something to watch while you wait eleven hours from registration to blood draw is a good time to go. Then, well, check your local listing.
I don’t even know.
Monday, August 31, 2020
Putting the P in Postal
I go to the post office every day for work. I pick up the incoming mail from the PO boxes (yes, boxes, there are six that I check daily) and at least once a week, I have to go in and actually interact with postal workers. They’re fine, very professional, maybe a little irritable sometimes but they deal with the general public and let me tell you, that would make me cranky too. And we’ve all figured out that you just can’t fix stupid.
On one recent trip to the post office, I had to drop off a certified mailing, get the date stamp on my receipt for the certified mailing and buy twenty rolls of stamps.
While she was waiting on me, Annie, the post office employee took a phone call. From her side of the call, I could tell that someone wanted to put their mail on hold.
Annie explained that the customer would need to come into the post office and do this in person.
After some back and forth, Annie offered the option of going online to make this request. She told the person it would cost $1.05 to do this online. Then she gave the address to the website.
We all know the postal service’s website, right? USPS.com
Annie said just that, “Go to USPS.com and click on the change my address link. No, that P as in Paul.”
The customer on the phone thought Annie had said B as in boy.
You guys…why would the United States Postal Service’s website be USBS.com? I mean, sure the B could be for BULL and the S could be for SHIT but come on!
I kind of love that Annie said, “P, as in Paul.” She’s way kinder than I am I would have said, my voice dripping in sarcasm, “P…as in POSTAL.” The ‘duh’ at the end of that sentence would have been unvoiced but VERY implied.
After she hung up the phone and rang up my $1100.00 worth of stamps, Annie gave me a smile and as a way of explaining that exchange said, “She was young.”
Just being a customer in that place for ten minutes makes me understand the whole phrase ‘going postal.’
Like I said, you can’t fix stupid but the young do (usually) grow up.
On one recent trip to the post office, I had to drop off a certified mailing, get the date stamp on my receipt for the certified mailing and buy twenty rolls of stamps.
While she was waiting on me, Annie, the post office employee took a phone call. From her side of the call, I could tell that someone wanted to put their mail on hold.
Annie explained that the customer would need to come into the post office and do this in person.
After some back and forth, Annie offered the option of going online to make this request. She told the person it would cost $1.05 to do this online. Then she gave the address to the website.
We all know the postal service’s website, right? USPS.com
Annie said just that, “Go to USPS.com and click on the change my address link. No, that P as in Paul.”
The customer on the phone thought Annie had said B as in boy.
You guys…why would the United States Postal Service’s website be USBS.com? I mean, sure the B could be for BULL and the S could be for SHIT but come on!
I kind of love that Annie said, “P, as in Paul.” She’s way kinder than I am I would have said, my voice dripping in sarcasm, “P…as in POSTAL.” The ‘duh’ at the end of that sentence would have been unvoiced but VERY implied.
After she hung up the phone and rang up my $1100.00 worth of stamps, Annie gave me a smile and as a way of explaining that exchange said, “She was young.”
Just being a customer in that place for ten minutes makes me understand the whole phrase ‘going postal.’
Like I said, you can’t fix stupid but the young do (usually) grow up.
Wednesday, August 12, 2020
Debunked
For the better part of 2020, Alyssa has been asking that we take down the bunkbeds in her room.
They stood in a corner of her room, taking up space and just being used as storage for her plethora of stuffed animals.
She’d had a full-sized bed in there for three years, so the room was pretty cramped.
Each time she’d mentioned taking the bunkbeds down, Tom would tell her that he needed to take pictures of the beds put together so he could list them for sale. He also listed not having anywhere to store the frame and mattresses once we took them down.
She recently asked again, saying that I’d said she could store everything in my room for the time being. He told her that once she got the bed cleaned off, he’d take pictures and we’d go from there.
When she got home from work on a Sunday, I told her to go take everything off the beds and let her dad take the pictures.
He went up, took the pictures, came back down and said something snippy about having to move crap from under the bed.
Sigh.
Then he said he’d go find an Allen wrench so we could start dissembling the bed frame.
Well.
Guess who else in this house has Allen wrenches!?!
I scurried up those stairs and fetched tool box. No, it’s not pink.
Alyssa and I were well on our way to finding the correct wrench when Sir Thomas made his way back up the stairs with his own Allen wrench set.
As he and Lyss worked to loosen the bolts I asked if I should get a baggie for the hardware.
The response I got was a VERY short, “Are you asking her?”
Alyssa and I shared a look. That response was so out of proportion to the question I’d just asked that I simply said, “Okay then. I’ll go get a baggie.”
I returned shortly with a baggie in which we put the bolts as they came out of the bed.
Sir Snips-a-lot was all giggles by this time. Apparently, the mood had passed.
I mildly mentioned that maybe he hadn’t needed to be quite so irritable with me. He apologized and we moved on.
The bed came down and the room has been rearranged to the teenager’s liking.
The next morning, I received another apology for the biting remark said during the takedown of the bunkbeds.
I knew we were pushing him to do something he didn’t really want to do but in the end, it took about a half hour of his time. So…I accepted his apology and all’s well in the Ordinary household.
They stood in a corner of her room, taking up space and just being used as storage for her plethora of stuffed animals.
She’d had a full-sized bed in there for three years, so the room was pretty cramped.
Each time she’d mentioned taking the bunkbeds down, Tom would tell her that he needed to take pictures of the beds put together so he could list them for sale. He also listed not having anywhere to store the frame and mattresses once we took them down.
She recently asked again, saying that I’d said she could store everything in my room for the time being. He told her that once she got the bed cleaned off, he’d take pictures and we’d go from there.
When she got home from work on a Sunday, I told her to go take everything off the beds and let her dad take the pictures.
He went up, took the pictures, came back down and said something snippy about having to move crap from under the bed.
Sigh.
Then he said he’d go find an Allen wrench so we could start dissembling the bed frame.
Well.
Guess who else in this house has Allen wrenches!?!
I scurried up those stairs and fetched tool box. No, it’s not pink.
Alyssa and I were well on our way to finding the correct wrench when Sir Thomas made his way back up the stairs with his own Allen wrench set.
As he and Lyss worked to loosen the bolts I asked if I should get a baggie for the hardware.
The response I got was a VERY short, “Are you asking her?”
Alyssa and I shared a look. That response was so out of proportion to the question I’d just asked that I simply said, “Okay then. I’ll go get a baggie.”
I returned shortly with a baggie in which we put the bolts as they came out of the bed.
Sir Snips-a-lot was all giggles by this time. Apparently, the mood had passed.
I mildly mentioned that maybe he hadn’t needed to be quite so irritable with me. He apologized and we moved on.
The bed came down and the room has been rearranged to the teenager’s liking.
The next morning, I received another apology for the biting remark said during the takedown of the bunkbeds.
I knew we were pushing him to do something he didn’t really want to do but in the end, it took about a half hour of his time. So…I accepted his apology and all’s well in the Ordinary household.
Thursday, June 25, 2020
Imposter
In my head, I am never good enough.
One recent Thursday, I got home from work around 5pm. Alyssa and Tom had been there all day, just hanging out. Olivia was with my mom and wouldn’t be home until at least 7pm.
I’d planned to put on my new roller skates as soon as I got home and work on breaking them in.
Instead, I plopped down on the couch next to Alyssa for an hour.
Tom mentioned pizza for dinner.
He and Alyssa bickered over who was going to make it. He ended up going in to the kitchen and I heard him chopping onions. At that point, I assumed he was getting ready to put the pizza in the oven.
At 7:00, Alyssa went into the kitchen and exclaimed, “Dad! I thought you were making the pizza!”
He declared that no, he wasn’t making it. He’d chopped the onions but it was her job to put the pizzas together and get them in the oven.
I felt so defeated by this whole thing. By the time the stupid oven heated and the pizza cooked, it wouldn’t be done until at least 7:30. I decided then and there I was NOT eating that late.
I know. I’m only punishing myself. But it was so frustrating. If I’d known he was doing some kind of power play with Alyssa, I’d have gone out and put the stupid pizzas in the oven myself.
I went up and laid in my bed with a fan blowing on me. It would have been lovely if only I hadn’t been feeling sorry for myself. I was hungry and yet…I knew I wasn’t going to eat.
Olivia called me from town to let me know she and Gram had just dropped the boys off at their house and they’d be home in about a half hour.
I went back downstairs and put a can of soup in my bag for lunch at work the next day. I couldn’t bring myself to cut up a cucumber or make a salad. It frustrates me so much that I am so self-defeating.
Olivia got home, we all welcomed her as if she’d been gone for weeks instead of 36 hours.
The pizza got done just as she was getting home so she was just in time to eat a couple of pieces even though she’d had McD’s an hour before.
While I sat at the table with the girls as they ate their pizza, Tom brought three pieces of pizza to the table for me.
I glared at the pizza and asked him, “Where’s yours?”
See, let’s back up a bit. He’s been eating salad for dinner every night for a week. NO WAY IN HELL was I going to sit there and eat THREE pieces of pizza while he stuffed lettuce in his face. Nope.
I let the pizza sit there while O finished eating her own. Tom did end up getting one piece of pizza for himself. While he ate it, I got up and put the leftover pizza away, including the three pieces he’d set out for me. Full disclosure: I ate several mushrooms off one of the pieces he’d give me. So I didn’t completely abstain from dinner that night.
As I was putting everything away, he came over and started washing the dishes.
I could tell he was pissed. When I asked him why he was mad he said, “You didn’t eat, there’s no need for you to have to do the dishes.”
And okay, that’s very nice. But…damn it, it made me feel terrible.
Why?
Why does it matter to him if I eat pizza or not? I’m FAT. I’m gross. I can skip a meal or twenty and not be anywhere near starvation.
I often feel like nothing I do is good enough. I can’t skip enough meals to be thin enough. I can’t be gentle enough to be a good mother.
I don’t exercise enough. I don’t model good choices for my girls. I don’t keep our house clean enough.
Let’s be clear that this is all me. No one in my house says anything to make me feel this way. It’s all my own issues and my own sense of not being nearly good enough. Everyone THINKS I’m good enough but that’s because I’m faking it just enough to make it in their eyes.
When I tucked O into bed that night she said, “Was it better while I was gone?”
Oh. Oh no, not even close. I told her I didn’t sleep well the night before because she wasn’t there. I told her life is NEVER better when she’s not there.
Now, let me be clear, I do not think that my husband’s and children’s lives would be better without me. As bitchy as I sometimes get, as awful as I often am, I never imagine that they’d be better off without me.
They love me. They love me despite that fact that I can’t seem to love myself. So Imma stick around even though I often don’t feel like I deserve any of them.
One recent Thursday, I got home from work around 5pm. Alyssa and Tom had been there all day, just hanging out. Olivia was with my mom and wouldn’t be home until at least 7pm.
I’d planned to put on my new roller skates as soon as I got home and work on breaking them in.
Instead, I plopped down on the couch next to Alyssa for an hour.
Tom mentioned pizza for dinner.
He and Alyssa bickered over who was going to make it. He ended up going in to the kitchen and I heard him chopping onions. At that point, I assumed he was getting ready to put the pizza in the oven.
At 7:00, Alyssa went into the kitchen and exclaimed, “Dad! I thought you were making the pizza!”
He declared that no, he wasn’t making it. He’d chopped the onions but it was her job to put the pizzas together and get them in the oven.
I felt so defeated by this whole thing. By the time the stupid oven heated and the pizza cooked, it wouldn’t be done until at least 7:30. I decided then and there I was NOT eating that late.
I know. I’m only punishing myself. But it was so frustrating. If I’d known he was doing some kind of power play with Alyssa, I’d have gone out and put the stupid pizzas in the oven myself.
I went up and laid in my bed with a fan blowing on me. It would have been lovely if only I hadn’t been feeling sorry for myself. I was hungry and yet…I knew I wasn’t going to eat.
Olivia called me from town to let me know she and Gram had just dropped the boys off at their house and they’d be home in about a half hour.
I went back downstairs and put a can of soup in my bag for lunch at work the next day. I couldn’t bring myself to cut up a cucumber or make a salad. It frustrates me so much that I am so self-defeating.
Olivia got home, we all welcomed her as if she’d been gone for weeks instead of 36 hours.
The pizza got done just as she was getting home so she was just in time to eat a couple of pieces even though she’d had McD’s an hour before.
While I sat at the table with the girls as they ate their pizza, Tom brought three pieces of pizza to the table for me.
I glared at the pizza and asked him, “Where’s yours?”
See, let’s back up a bit. He’s been eating salad for dinner every night for a week. NO WAY IN HELL was I going to sit there and eat THREE pieces of pizza while he stuffed lettuce in his face. Nope.
I let the pizza sit there while O finished eating her own. Tom did end up getting one piece of pizza for himself. While he ate it, I got up and put the leftover pizza away, including the three pieces he’d set out for me. Full disclosure: I ate several mushrooms off one of the pieces he’d give me. So I didn’t completely abstain from dinner that night.
As I was putting everything away, he came over and started washing the dishes.
I could tell he was pissed. When I asked him why he was mad he said, “You didn’t eat, there’s no need for you to have to do the dishes.”
And okay, that’s very nice. But…damn it, it made me feel terrible.
Why?
Why does it matter to him if I eat pizza or not? I’m FAT. I’m gross. I can skip a meal or twenty and not be anywhere near starvation.
I often feel like nothing I do is good enough. I can’t skip enough meals to be thin enough. I can’t be gentle enough to be a good mother.
I don’t exercise enough. I don’t model good choices for my girls. I don’t keep our house clean enough.
Let’s be clear that this is all me. No one in my house says anything to make me feel this way. It’s all my own issues and my own sense of not being nearly good enough. Everyone THINKS I’m good enough but that’s because I’m faking it just enough to make it in their eyes.
When I tucked O into bed that night she said, “Was it better while I was gone?”
Oh. Oh no, not even close. I told her I didn’t sleep well the night before because she wasn’t there. I told her life is NEVER better when she’s not there.
Now, let me be clear, I do not think that my husband’s and children’s lives would be better without me. As bitchy as I sometimes get, as awful as I often am, I never imagine that they’d be better off without me.
They love me. They love me despite that fact that I can’t seem to love myself. So Imma stick around even though I often don’t feel like I deserve any of them.
Monday, June 22, 2020
America's Roast Beef, Yes Sir!
I’ve learned a few things from having a teenage daughter who works at a fast food restaurant.
While I did once work at KFC a hundred years ago, I only worked there for six weeks because I HATED it. It was just so seriously awful. I admire Lyss so, so much for sticking it out at Arby’s for as long as she has. Maybe it helps that her first job, in the kitchen at a boy scout camp, was so much worse than what she’s doing now that Arby’s doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe it also helps that she works with several friends and she likes most of her other co-workers as well.
Or maybe, and this is just a shot in the dark, she’s just a better person than I am. I am absolutely not discounting that possibility.
So in her time at Arby’s she’s shared the biggest pet peeves that people working in fast food have.
1. When you’re in the drive-thru and the voice comes over the intercom asking you if they can take your order, don’t chortle and say, “Heheheh, it’s gonna be a big one.” Seriously. Don’t do that. It’s an asshole move and it just serves to irritate every single person listening in on the order.
2. Do order just a beverage through the drive-thru. Everyone is always SO HAPPY when someone comes to the drive-thru and orders just a drink. Even just a shake makes their lives that much easier.
3. Don’t call the young lady handing your food anything that might be an endearment. It’s not charming, it’s not polite; it’s creepy and gross. And yes, saying, “Thanks, Super Model”c ounts as creepy and gross. Yuck.
4. This should probably e 3a. But don’t try and flirt with the person taking your order. OR the person making your order, or the person around the corner trying to cut beef. Leave these kids (and their mom-supervisors) alone. They’re just trying to get through their day. Isn’t it enough that they leave that place smelling like curly fries? Do they also have to pretend to be deaf so they can avoid your obnoxious comments? They are NOT interested in having a flirtatious conversation with someone old enough to be their parent or, God forbid, their GRANDPARENT. Stop. Just…don’t.
5. If you are going to be ordering a lot of food, prefacing it with an apology actually does kind of help. It lets the employees know that you know you’re kind of being a jerk and you’re actually sorry for it. But then again, this might just be me. I mean, I apologize for taking up space so…take #5 with a grain of salt, or maybe a side of ranch.
6. If the place you’re ordering from says their water isn’t working so you can’t order beverages, don’t ask for coffee, then tea and finally a Coke. The WATER WAS CUT BY THE CONSTRUCTIONS WORKERS. Here, have a shake!
7. If you’re pissed off when the poor teenager manning the register tells you that CORPORATE discontinued onion rings, please know that this wasn’t done AT you. And the kid making $11/hour isn’t to blame. Decisions like that are above their pay grade.
We’ve all had crappy jobs, right? It’s too bad we can’t all remember that when we’re out in public treating service workers like crap when things don’t go our way.
What I’m saying is maybe we could all not be dicks to each other when we’re out and about.
And damn it, if you’re in a place where the employees are wearing masks, the least you can do is wear one too! I mean, DAMN!
While I did once work at KFC a hundred years ago, I only worked there for six weeks because I HATED it. It was just so seriously awful. I admire Lyss so, so much for sticking it out at Arby’s for as long as she has. Maybe it helps that her first job, in the kitchen at a boy scout camp, was so much worse than what she’s doing now that Arby’s doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe it also helps that she works with several friends and she likes most of her other co-workers as well.
Or maybe, and this is just a shot in the dark, she’s just a better person than I am. I am absolutely not discounting that possibility.
So in her time at Arby’s she’s shared the biggest pet peeves that people working in fast food have.
1. When you’re in the drive-thru and the voice comes over the intercom asking you if they can take your order, don’t chortle and say, “Heheheh, it’s gonna be a big one.” Seriously. Don’t do that. It’s an asshole move and it just serves to irritate every single person listening in on the order.
2. Do order just a beverage through the drive-thru. Everyone is always SO HAPPY when someone comes to the drive-thru and orders just a drink. Even just a shake makes their lives that much easier.
3. Don’t call the young lady handing your food anything that might be an endearment. It’s not charming, it’s not polite; it’s creepy and gross. And yes, saying, “Thanks, Super Model”c ounts as creepy and gross. Yuck.
4. This should probably e 3a. But don’t try and flirt with the person taking your order. OR the person making your order, or the person around the corner trying to cut beef. Leave these kids (and their mom-supervisors) alone. They’re just trying to get through their day. Isn’t it enough that they leave that place smelling like curly fries? Do they also have to pretend to be deaf so they can avoid your obnoxious comments? They are NOT interested in having a flirtatious conversation with someone old enough to be their parent or, God forbid, their GRANDPARENT. Stop. Just…don’t.
5. If you are going to be ordering a lot of food, prefacing it with an apology actually does kind of help. It lets the employees know that you know you’re kind of being a jerk and you’re actually sorry for it. But then again, this might just be me. I mean, I apologize for taking up space so…take #5 with a grain of salt, or maybe a side of ranch.
6. If the place you’re ordering from says their water isn’t working so you can’t order beverages, don’t ask for coffee, then tea and finally a Coke. The WATER WAS CUT BY THE CONSTRUCTIONS WORKERS. Here, have a shake!
7. If you’re pissed off when the poor teenager manning the register tells you that CORPORATE discontinued onion rings, please know that this wasn’t done AT you. And the kid making $11/hour isn’t to blame. Decisions like that are above their pay grade.
We’ve all had crappy jobs, right? It’s too bad we can’t all remember that when we’re out in public treating service workers like crap when things don’t go our way.
What I’m saying is maybe we could all not be dicks to each other when we’re out and about.
And damn it, if you’re in a place where the employees are wearing masks, the least you can do is wear one too! I mean, DAMN!
Thursday, June 18, 2020
Bread
So the whole celery challenge is over. With its completion, Tom decided he’d give up bread for the time being.
I only mention this so that in case anyone hears of a woman being arrested for murder, you all know that there were extenuating circumstances.
Because, see, if he loses ten pounds in a week from giving up FREAKING BREAD, I will murder him.
Wait, does that seem extreme? Really? Ever so sorry but no.
I ate CELERY for a week. Let’s remember, too, that this was not unlimited celery. I ate a single freaking stalk of celery each day and I did NOT lose ten pounds during that week.
So, if that man is able to eat normally except for the omission of BREAD from his diet and loses weight like I expect he will, I will not be responsible for my actions.
I will be found not guilty for reasons of insanity because damn it, men and weight-loss make me crazy.
I only mention this so that in case anyone hears of a woman being arrested for murder, you all know that there were extenuating circumstances.
Because, see, if he loses ten pounds in a week from giving up FREAKING BREAD, I will murder him.
Wait, does that seem extreme? Really? Ever so sorry but no.
I ate CELERY for a week. Let’s remember, too, that this was not unlimited celery. I ate a single freaking stalk of celery each day and I did NOT lose ten pounds during that week.
So, if that man is able to eat normally except for the omission of BREAD from his diet and loses weight like I expect he will, I will not be responsible for my actions.
I will be found not guilty for reasons of insanity because damn it, men and weight-loss make me crazy.
Friday, April 3, 2020
The Bad Years
Maybe it’s just a symptom of getting older.
Maybe I’m turning into a pessimist right before your eyes.
Maybe these past few years have just sucked.
You be the judge.
2017 – In July of that year, I was informed that the company I worked for was closing down the facility where I and around 30 other people worked. I’d been there for seventeen years. Yikes. Nothing like starting over, right? On the bright side of that situation, they told us in July but weren’t closing until the end of December. And those of us who stayed on with the company would receive a ‘stay package’ as well as a severance package.
But wait, 2017 wasn’t done with us yet. In August, on the 21st to be exact, I was given a diagnosis of breast cancer.
Well.
Let’s do this. I was given an appointment with a surgeon for the next Thursday, August 24. At that appointment we scheduled my surgery, which took place on September 5th. It was a Tuesday.
After surgery, we scheduled the start of chemo. Those treatments took us into 2018.
2018 actually wasn’t too horrible. I completed my cancer treatment, finishing chemotherapy and radiation therapy. I took the summer off and started looking for a job in July of that year.
I started my new job in August of 2018.
2019 – The year of injury. Tom hurt himself a couple of times this year. Each injury was bad enough that it took him out of commission for a couple of months each time.
It was awful to see him suffer.
The farmers also suffered during 2019. The rains seemed like they would never end. It was literally too wet for most farmers in our area to get the crops in the ground.
2020 – Damn. Talk about adding insult to injury. Hello Covid-19, way to turn the world upside down.
I don’t have a pretty little conclusion to this one, because right this second we’re stuck right in the middle of this shit storm. But it’s bad…it’s really, REALLY bad. And it will probably get much worse before it gets better.
That’s such a scary thought. But then…it’s a scary world out there right now.
And damn it, I just cannot stop touching my face. My nose itches, my eyelashes are being weird. Oh, that spot above my eyebrows is itchy now. Wait, there’s a hair in my eyes.
Maybe I’m turning into a pessimist right before your eyes.
Maybe these past few years have just sucked.
You be the judge.
2017 – In July of that year, I was informed that the company I worked for was closing down the facility where I and around 30 other people worked. I’d been there for seventeen years. Yikes. Nothing like starting over, right? On the bright side of that situation, they told us in July but weren’t closing until the end of December. And those of us who stayed on with the company would receive a ‘stay package’ as well as a severance package.
But wait, 2017 wasn’t done with us yet. In August, on the 21st to be exact, I was given a diagnosis of breast cancer.
Well.
Let’s do this. I was given an appointment with a surgeon for the next Thursday, August 24. At that appointment we scheduled my surgery, which took place on September 5th. It was a Tuesday.
After surgery, we scheduled the start of chemo. Those treatments took us into 2018.
2018 actually wasn’t too horrible. I completed my cancer treatment, finishing chemotherapy and radiation therapy. I took the summer off and started looking for a job in July of that year.
I started my new job in August of 2018.
2019 – The year of injury. Tom hurt himself a couple of times this year. Each injury was bad enough that it took him out of commission for a couple of months each time.
It was awful to see him suffer.
The farmers also suffered during 2019. The rains seemed like they would never end. It was literally too wet for most farmers in our area to get the crops in the ground.
2020 – Damn. Talk about adding insult to injury. Hello Covid-19, way to turn the world upside down.
I don’t have a pretty little conclusion to this one, because right this second we’re stuck right in the middle of this shit storm. But it’s bad…it’s really, REALLY bad. And it will probably get much worse before it gets better.
That’s such a scary thought. But then…it’s a scary world out there right now.
And damn it, I just cannot stop touching my face. My nose itches, my eyelashes are being weird. Oh, that spot above my eyebrows is itchy now. Wait, there’s a hair in my eyes.
Thursday, April 2, 2020
Doom
This was written not quite a week into our government-enforced semi-shut-in, I was feeling quite a sense of doom.
I’m so tired. Not necessarily physically, but emotionally. This whole Covid-19 situation is taking its toll on all of us.
Alyssa had most of the first week (spring break week) out of school off work as well but had to go back on Thursday. When I got home from work that Thursday, Tom mentioned he was thinking of sending me out to Arby’s to check out Alyssa’s work environment.
Why he’d have to send me, I have no idea. I mean, the dude can drive a car. He has $$ if he wants to actually buy something while there but no, he was going to SEND ME back out. Sigh.
Alas, he took one look at my face and realized that I was going NO WHERE that evening. In fact, the only place I went from that point, was to sleep. Ha, I crack myself up.
But seriously, the weight of world is heavy these days.
Italy is dying.
The U.S. is right behind it.
I just…don’t know.
And, to be a whiny baby, I can’t help but wonder why I, the person in our household who is probably the most at risk should I catch this horrible illness, am the one who is going out every single day to work and then being expected to go to the store, the gas station, the wherever the hell you might think of to go. I know. I get it. I’m the one who HAS to leave in order to make a living.
But it feels so unfair.
When I got home that day, Tom said that Alyssa was starting to get anxious. I replied that I am too.
But, jokes on me, her anxiousness is about being locked in the house and my anxiousness is having to leave the house.
She wants to get out. She wants to go see Naomi. She wants to be FREE.
I want to be shut in, I want to NOT have to go anywhere. I want to be shut in and have the façade of safety.
I want this to be over and for our entire family to come out the other side, safe and sound.
My chest hurts these days. Is it anxiety/panic/worry? Or is it a heart attack and should I risk the doctor’s office to have it check out? It’s awful that this is even a question, isn’t it?
I’m so tired. Not necessarily physically, but emotionally. This whole Covid-19 situation is taking its toll on all of us.
Alyssa had most of the first week (spring break week) out of school off work as well but had to go back on Thursday. When I got home from work that Thursday, Tom mentioned he was thinking of sending me out to Arby’s to check out Alyssa’s work environment.
Why he’d have to send me, I have no idea. I mean, the dude can drive a car. He has $$ if he wants to actually buy something while there but no, he was going to SEND ME back out. Sigh.
Alas, he took one look at my face and realized that I was going NO WHERE that evening. In fact, the only place I went from that point, was to sleep. Ha, I crack myself up.
But seriously, the weight of world is heavy these days.
Italy is dying.
The U.S. is right behind it.
I just…don’t know.
And, to be a whiny baby, I can’t help but wonder why I, the person in our household who is probably the most at risk should I catch this horrible illness, am the one who is going out every single day to work and then being expected to go to the store, the gas station, the wherever the hell you might think of to go. I know. I get it. I’m the one who HAS to leave in order to make a living.
But it feels so unfair.
When I got home that day, Tom said that Alyssa was starting to get anxious. I replied that I am too.
But, jokes on me, her anxiousness is about being locked in the house and my anxiousness is having to leave the house.
She wants to get out. She wants to go see Naomi. She wants to be FREE.
I want to be shut in, I want to NOT have to go anywhere. I want to be shut in and have the façade of safety.
I want this to be over and for our entire family to come out the other side, safe and sound.
My chest hurts these days. Is it anxiety/panic/worry? Or is it a heart attack and should I risk the doctor’s office to have it check out? It’s awful that this is even a question, isn’t it?
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Stage Mom
Another year, another musical. This year’s musical is The Addam’s Family. Alyssa is in the chorus.
Because I’m That Mom, I’ve helped with costumes and hair and makeup. I also made food for the evening of the last performance.
It’s what I do.
But you know what? I’m willing to be That Mom but I really don’t want to be THAT MOM.
And yet, they almost made me do it.
The first full dress rehearsal with hair and makeup was the Sunday before the actual performances which were the following Friday and Saturday.
Oh my goodness, let me tell you, that show was rough that Sunday night. Yikes.
But what made me almost turn into THAT MOM was the fact that during an ensemble scene there are two duets. One is sung by two girls on the left side of the stage. The other is sung by my own darling Alyssa and a fellow ancestor (what they call the chorus in The Addams Family.) That Sunday evening the two girls on the left side of the stage both had microphones (these are worn on the head with the mike wrapping around their face toward their mouth) and neither Alyssa nor her duet partner had one.
Obviously, this meant that you couldn’t hear Lyss’s voice (or her male partner’s) over the pit band. But you heard A and J loud and clear.
I made up my mind that the next day, which was also a full hair and makeup dress rehearsal, I would speak to one of the directors and gently suggest that perhaps one of the two mikes on the girls across the stage from Lyss should give up her microphone to Alyssa or the dude who was ‘singing’ along with her (for what it’s worth, he doesn’t actually sing, so it’s kind of a solo – Oh, hello, my name is Marie Nordoff and I am THAT MOM.)
I worked myself into quite the tizzy that night, worrying over the ‘confrontation’ I’d have to have with the directors.
Yes, it was as ridiculous as it sounds. I kept telling my stupid brain to call the hell down. It wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, seriously.
But my mind would not stop. I ran scenarios in my head, thought about how I’d make the suggestion gently, not so much as a stage mom but as a concerned audience member who wants everyone to hear everything that’s going on in the play.
And guess what? All that angst was for naught. The directors watched the same rehearsal I’d watched and told Alyssa the very next night that she needed to wear one of the mikes so we could hear her.
Hear that brain? We didn’t have to be THAT MOM. It’s okay and all that worry was completely unnecessary.
[Side story to this whole thing: I stupidly mentioned the mike thing to the real Marie Nordoff. Guess which role her daughter, Harmony, is playing? Why yes, she is a member of the Addams Family, however did you guess? No, I’m not going to say which member of the family. I’m pretending to maintain the slightest bit of anonymity here. Anyway, when I mentioned not being able to hear Alyssa’s and her duet partner’s voices, Marie was quick to tell me that the school has a limited number of microphones and they have to give them out in order of who has the most lines/songs.
Duh.
I managed to not roll my eyes at her or tell her, “Yeah, I know. It’s not like I was going to suggest they take Harmony’s microphone away from her to give to my kid and her one small solo. Though, let’s all be honest here, Harmony’s got a voice on her that carries pretty darned well without a mike. Just saying.]
*Please note that the musical was a couple of weeks ago but I wrote this and scheduled it to post at a later date. I know, I should probably be better at posting more current stuff but hey, I'm doing the best I can here.*
Because I’m That Mom, I’ve helped with costumes and hair and makeup. I also made food for the evening of the last performance.
It’s what I do.
But you know what? I’m willing to be That Mom but I really don’t want to be THAT MOM.
And yet, they almost made me do it.
The first full dress rehearsal with hair and makeup was the Sunday before the actual performances which were the following Friday and Saturday.
Oh my goodness, let me tell you, that show was rough that Sunday night. Yikes.
But what made me almost turn into THAT MOM was the fact that during an ensemble scene there are two duets. One is sung by two girls on the left side of the stage. The other is sung by my own darling Alyssa and a fellow ancestor (what they call the chorus in The Addams Family.) That Sunday evening the two girls on the left side of the stage both had microphones (these are worn on the head with the mike wrapping around their face toward their mouth) and neither Alyssa nor her duet partner had one.
Obviously, this meant that you couldn’t hear Lyss’s voice (or her male partner’s) over the pit band. But you heard A and J loud and clear.
I made up my mind that the next day, which was also a full hair and makeup dress rehearsal, I would speak to one of the directors and gently suggest that perhaps one of the two mikes on the girls across the stage from Lyss should give up her microphone to Alyssa or the dude who was ‘singing’ along with her (for what it’s worth, he doesn’t actually sing, so it’s kind of a solo – Oh, hello, my name is Marie Nordoff and I am THAT MOM.)
I worked myself into quite the tizzy that night, worrying over the ‘confrontation’ I’d have to have with the directors.
Yes, it was as ridiculous as it sounds. I kept telling my stupid brain to call the hell down. It wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, seriously.
But my mind would not stop. I ran scenarios in my head, thought about how I’d make the suggestion gently, not so much as a stage mom but as a concerned audience member who wants everyone to hear everything that’s going on in the play.
And guess what? All that angst was for naught. The directors watched the same rehearsal I’d watched and told Alyssa the very next night that she needed to wear one of the mikes so we could hear her.
Hear that brain? We didn’t have to be THAT MOM. It’s okay and all that worry was completely unnecessary.
[Side story to this whole thing: I stupidly mentioned the mike thing to the real Marie Nordoff. Guess which role her daughter, Harmony, is playing? Why yes, she is a member of the Addams Family, however did you guess? No, I’m not going to say which member of the family. I’m pretending to maintain the slightest bit of anonymity here. Anyway, when I mentioned not being able to hear Alyssa’s and her duet partner’s voices, Marie was quick to tell me that the school has a limited number of microphones and they have to give them out in order of who has the most lines/songs.
Duh.
I managed to not roll my eyes at her or tell her, “Yeah, I know. It’s not like I was going to suggest they take Harmony’s microphone away from her to give to my kid and her one small solo. Though, let’s all be honest here, Harmony’s got a voice on her that carries pretty darned well without a mike. Just saying.]
*Please note that the musical was a couple of weeks ago but I wrote this and scheduled it to post at a later date. I know, I should probably be better at posting more current stuff but hey, I'm doing the best I can here.*
Monday, March 23, 2020
She Comes By It Naturally
The week before the school musical was rough.
I don’t know why the slightest adjustment to our schedule messes me up so much but damn.
A Tuesday (big shocker) evening was stressful from beginning to end. O and I spent about 45 minutes at my mom’s which was the least stressful part of the day. Rain fell and we watched a rainbow appear. It was lovely.
Then…we went home and it all fell apart. We got home around 6:15. Guess who had homework. If you guessed that I was the one who had homework, you’d be right because obviously if O brings home work that has to be turned in the next day, I am basically the one who does it. I’m so over that shit. I actually wrote question marks on two of the questions because they were stupid and I couldn’t figure out how, from the boring-ass article sent home, one would figure out the answer. One such question was something like, “How could the original settles of the near the Indus river have avoided the flooding of their area?”
I mean…? What? They could have maybe, I don’t know, not settled there? What a stupid question.
Ahem.
Part of what annoys the shit out of me during ‘our’ homework time is that the more frustrated I get, the more Olivia acts out. I know she’s responding to me. I know if I’d just calm myself down it would go much more smoothly but the more she acts out, the more irritated I get and it’s just builds until I want to scream.
After the homework fiasco, it was time for Olivia to eat dinner.
You guys….I just don’t know. This child asks for snacks every ten minutes all freaking day long. But the minutes you put food in front of her that is an actually meal, she acts like she’s three years old. She reads and writes and plays with whatever is in front of her but she doesn’t actually EAT HER FREAKING FOOD. She screws around and then complains that the food is cold.
It’s infuriating. She is thirteen years old and has hands that work, why will she NOT pick up a fucking fork and feed herself?
Finally, she was done eating (sort of but whatever) and she and I could go upstairs so she could take a bath.
Please note that nowhere in the above paragraphs do I mentioned eating dinner myself. Oh hell no. I had to pack lunches (mine and Alyssa’s because she’s decided that when she was in fifth grade and wanted so desperately to pack her own lunch that this independence as premature and these days she’s simply too busy and put-upon to pack her own lunch.) while Liv was eating.
The bath took FOREVER but at last, she was clean and hey, would you look at that, she hadn’t flooded the bathroom. I’m calling it a win.
That was our Tuesday evening.
Then...Wednesday at work…OMG.
I go to the post office every single day at 10am.
Except on this day, at 9:22, the owner of the company brought an envelope down to be mailed and mentioned having more and confirming that I usually go at 10am.
I confirmed that I do go at 10 but said (stupidly) that if he needed me to wait a few minutes, I could go a little later than 10.
At 9:57, he came down with one more envelope (how freaking long does it take to write checks is what I want to know?) and said that if I could give him five to ten more minutes he'd have more. Obviously, I said sure because, hello, owner of the company.
I went into the restroom at 10ish.
I came out at a few minutes after 10ish. Still no more mail.
I waited.
And waited.
Suddenly, I realized I’d heard his voice in the conference room, which is around the corner from my desk.
It was 10:15 at this point, almost twenty minutes after he’d asked me if I could give him five or ten more minutes.
I was twiddling my stupid thumbs waiting for mail that obviously wasn’t coming any time soon.
Damn it!
I had a project that I needed to start at 10:30.
I know the post office isn’t going anywhere and it’s open all day but I have a schedule and a routine and I HATE it when it gets messed up.
Obviously, Olivia comes by this naturally.
I finally left for the post office at 10:23, having confirmed that the owner was not, in fact, going to be giving anything else that needed to go out. Actually, though, could you maybe just take these three letters/checks later in the day?
Sure, why not? It’s not like I need to rush home each evening and do homework or anything.
Gah, I’m such a bitch these days.
I don’t know why the slightest adjustment to our schedule messes me up so much but damn.
A Tuesday (big shocker) evening was stressful from beginning to end. O and I spent about 45 minutes at my mom’s which was the least stressful part of the day. Rain fell and we watched a rainbow appear. It was lovely.
Then…we went home and it all fell apart. We got home around 6:15. Guess who had homework. If you guessed that I was the one who had homework, you’d be right because obviously if O brings home work that has to be turned in the next day, I am basically the one who does it. I’m so over that shit. I actually wrote question marks on two of the questions because they were stupid and I couldn’t figure out how, from the boring-ass article sent home, one would figure out the answer. One such question was something like, “How could the original settles of the near the Indus river have avoided the flooding of their area?”
I mean…? What? They could have maybe, I don’t know, not settled there? What a stupid question.
Ahem.
Part of what annoys the shit out of me during ‘our’ homework time is that the more frustrated I get, the more Olivia acts out. I know she’s responding to me. I know if I’d just calm myself down it would go much more smoothly but the more she acts out, the more irritated I get and it’s just builds until I want to scream.
After the homework fiasco, it was time for Olivia to eat dinner.
You guys….I just don’t know. This child asks for snacks every ten minutes all freaking day long. But the minutes you put food in front of her that is an actually meal, she acts like she’s three years old. She reads and writes and plays with whatever is in front of her but she doesn’t actually EAT HER FREAKING FOOD. She screws around and then complains that the food is cold.
It’s infuriating. She is thirteen years old and has hands that work, why will she NOT pick up a fucking fork and feed herself?
Finally, she was done eating (sort of but whatever) and she and I could go upstairs so she could take a bath.
Please note that nowhere in the above paragraphs do I mentioned eating dinner myself. Oh hell no. I had to pack lunches (mine and Alyssa’s because she’s decided that when she was in fifth grade and wanted so desperately to pack her own lunch that this independence as premature and these days she’s simply too busy and put-upon to pack her own lunch.) while Liv was eating.
The bath took FOREVER but at last, she was clean and hey, would you look at that, she hadn’t flooded the bathroom. I’m calling it a win.
That was our Tuesday evening.
Then...Wednesday at work…OMG.
I go to the post office every single day at 10am.
Except on this day, at 9:22, the owner of the company brought an envelope down to be mailed and mentioned having more and confirming that I usually go at 10am.
I confirmed that I do go at 10 but said (stupidly) that if he needed me to wait a few minutes, I could go a little later than 10.
At 9:57, he came down with one more envelope (how freaking long does it take to write checks is what I want to know?) and said that if I could give him five to ten more minutes he'd have more. Obviously, I said sure because, hello, owner of the company.
I went into the restroom at 10ish.
I came out at a few minutes after 10ish. Still no more mail.
I waited.
And waited.
Suddenly, I realized I’d heard his voice in the conference room, which is around the corner from my desk.
It was 10:15 at this point, almost twenty minutes after he’d asked me if I could give him five or ten more minutes.
I was twiddling my stupid thumbs waiting for mail that obviously wasn’t coming any time soon.
Damn it!
I had a project that I needed to start at 10:30.
I know the post office isn’t going anywhere and it’s open all day but I have a schedule and a routine and I HATE it when it gets messed up.
Obviously, Olivia comes by this naturally.
I finally left for the post office at 10:23, having confirmed that the owner was not, in fact, going to be giving anything else that needed to go out. Actually, though, could you maybe just take these three letters/checks later in the day?
Sure, why not? It’s not like I need to rush home each evening and do homework or anything.
Gah, I’m such a bitch these days.
Sunday, March 15, 2020
Ramen and Toilet Paper
So… corona virus, aka, Covid 19…
Yeah.
Ohio schools have closed at least through April 3. The situation will be reevaluated at a later date to see if they’ll close longer than that.
Oh how I laughed at Tom when we found out he’ll be stuck in a house with Olivia for three weeks.
And yet…damn.
I mean, sure, I get it. We need to slow this thing down. Social distancing and all that.
We currently have plenty of toilet paper, in case you were worried about our butts.
Alas, we’re down to our last package of ramen. Think there will be some when I go Walmart to buy groceries on Saturday?
I’m taking bets here.
See, I don’t even plan to go in order to ‘stock up’. I just need to buy groceries, which is what I do every Saturday. But we are low on ramen. And since the girls will be home for three weeks, we’ll need soup and Spaghetti-Os. Ewww, but still, a child can’t live on ramen alone.
Let’s not forget the macaroni and cheese.
It will appear to the average shopper (me) that I’m stocking up and perhaps even hoarding and that’s okay.
I took Alyssa to the doctor the other day for her sports physical. I felt a vague sense of guilt for taking a perfectly healthy child to a germ-infested doctor’s office but she needed that physical in order to participate in track meets. She can practice without it but she has to have had the physical in order to compete.
She’s fine, by the way. I know that shocks exactly no one.
But our doctor talked to us a little about covid-19. He said that the panic amongst the medical community is due to the unknown. They just don’t know what this virus will do to people, not really. It’s spreading so fast and making the elderly SO sick (or, rather, KILLING them) and there simply are not enough tests in this country to stop people from spreading this stupid virus.
So we have to slow everyone down.
I mentioned SARS and Zika to my doctor and he seemed surprised that I remembered them. They were flashes in the pan, if you will. He said he hopesCovid-19 goes the same path but no one knows for sure that it will.
It might become more like influenza, which still kills tens of thousands of people each year.
He pointed out that the flu killed more people in the late 1910s than bullets did in WWI. So…yeah, that’s depressing.
But we’re hopeful. We’re rallying. We’re staying home and washing our hands and not licking the handle of the shopping carts.
And…some of us (not me, but some people) are buying ALL the toilet paper and hand sanitizer. I just hope there’s still ramen available the next time I go buy groceries.
Yeah.
Ohio schools have closed at least through April 3. The situation will be reevaluated at a later date to see if they’ll close longer than that.
Oh how I laughed at Tom when we found out he’ll be stuck in a house with Olivia for three weeks.
And yet…damn.
I mean, sure, I get it. We need to slow this thing down. Social distancing and all that.
We currently have plenty of toilet paper, in case you were worried about our butts.
Alas, we’re down to our last package of ramen. Think there will be some when I go Walmart to buy groceries on Saturday?
I’m taking bets here.
See, I don’t even plan to go in order to ‘stock up’. I just need to buy groceries, which is what I do every Saturday. But we are low on ramen. And since the girls will be home for three weeks, we’ll need soup and Spaghetti-Os. Ewww, but still, a child can’t live on ramen alone.
Let’s not forget the macaroni and cheese.
It will appear to the average shopper (me) that I’m stocking up and perhaps even hoarding and that’s okay.
I took Alyssa to the doctor the other day for her sports physical. I felt a vague sense of guilt for taking a perfectly healthy child to a germ-infested doctor’s office but she needed that physical in order to participate in track meets. She can practice without it but she has to have had the physical in order to compete.
She’s fine, by the way. I know that shocks exactly no one.
But our doctor talked to us a little about covid-19. He said that the panic amongst the medical community is due to the unknown. They just don’t know what this virus will do to people, not really. It’s spreading so fast and making the elderly SO sick (or, rather, KILLING them) and there simply are not enough tests in this country to stop people from spreading this stupid virus.
So we have to slow everyone down.
I mentioned SARS and Zika to my doctor and he seemed surprised that I remembered them. They were flashes in the pan, if you will. He said he hopesCovid-19 goes the same path but no one knows for sure that it will.
It might become more like influenza, which still kills tens of thousands of people each year.
He pointed out that the flu killed more people in the late 1910s than bullets did in WWI. So…yeah, that’s depressing.
But we’re hopeful. We’re rallying. We’re staying home and washing our hands and not licking the handle of the shopping carts.
And…some of us (not me, but some people) are buying ALL the toilet paper and hand sanitizer. I just hope there’s still ramen available the next time I go buy groceries.
Thursday, March 5, 2020
A Blue Sweater
I wear a sweater to work almost every day. And by sweater, I mean the kind like a cardigan rather than those that are pulled over your head. I have several, obviously. Once upon a time, I had two black sweaters, a blue (royal-ish/navy-ish) one, a light gray sweater and two beige sweaters in different lenths.
Alas, my blue sweater sprung a leak. Aka, it got an enormous hole in it right under my right armpit; it was almost as if the stench under there was so strong it couldn’t be contained. So sad.
One of my black sweaters got a really bad snag and also had to be retired.
Which brings me down to one black sweater, one light gray and two beige. I only really wear one of the beige sweaters.
The other one is just a really unfortunate beige and because of this, I decided, AHA! I’d dye the unfortunate beige one navy blue. The cost of a bottle of dye is much less than a new blue sweater.
Remember that one time I dyed something and it took me five thousand trips up and down the stairs from the kitchen to the basement and back again into infinity? Yeah, this time around the dyeing process was much smoother.
I read the instructions…I followed the instructions. I even noted on the instructions that this dye was not recommended for acrylic.
Huh.
Guess what I didn’t do?
I didn’t check to see what this unfortunate beige sweater was made out of. Can you say foreshadowing?
I went through the entire dyeing process. I made the machine do a pre-soak of the sweater in the blue dye.
I went down an hour later to check the status of the sweater.
I opened the washer…I took out…an unfortunate beige sweater.
The little string that is attached to the shoulder to keep the sweater on a hanger was blue, so I didn’t imagine the entire dyeing process.
I checked the tag. Guess what that stupid, unfortunate beige sweater is made of?
Need a minute?
Let me give you a hint…ACRYLIC. Gross, nasty feeling acrylic. No wonder I hardly ever wear that stupid sweater, the unfortunate beige color notwithstanding.
Which means, obviously, that I am now out the cost of a bottle of dye AND I need to buy a new blue sweater. (I wear a lot of blue, which is why it’s necessary for me to own a blue sweater. The girls’ school colors are blue and gray, another reason for wanting/needing a blue sweater. Not that I have to justify my desire to buy a blue sweater, I mean…ahem.)
Alas, my blue sweater sprung a leak. Aka, it got an enormous hole in it right under my right armpit; it was almost as if the stench under there was so strong it couldn’t be contained. So sad.
One of my black sweaters got a really bad snag and also had to be retired.
Which brings me down to one black sweater, one light gray and two beige. I only really wear one of the beige sweaters.
The other one is just a really unfortunate beige and because of this, I decided, AHA! I’d dye the unfortunate beige one navy blue. The cost of a bottle of dye is much less than a new blue sweater.
Remember that one time I dyed something and it took me five thousand trips up and down the stairs from the kitchen to the basement and back again into infinity? Yeah, this time around the dyeing process was much smoother.
I read the instructions…I followed the instructions. I even noted on the instructions that this dye was not recommended for acrylic.
Huh.
Guess what I didn’t do?
I didn’t check to see what this unfortunate beige sweater was made out of. Can you say foreshadowing?
I went through the entire dyeing process. I made the machine do a pre-soak of the sweater in the blue dye.
I went down an hour later to check the status of the sweater.
I opened the washer…I took out…an unfortunate beige sweater.
The little string that is attached to the shoulder to keep the sweater on a hanger was blue, so I didn’t imagine the entire dyeing process.
I checked the tag. Guess what that stupid, unfortunate beige sweater is made of?
Need a minute?
Let me give you a hint…ACRYLIC. Gross, nasty feeling acrylic. No wonder I hardly ever wear that stupid sweater, the unfortunate beige color notwithstanding.
Which means, obviously, that I am now out the cost of a bottle of dye AND I need to buy a new blue sweater. (I wear a lot of blue, which is why it’s necessary for me to own a blue sweater. The girls’ school colors are blue and gray, another reason for wanting/needing a blue sweater. Not that I have to justify my desire to buy a blue sweater, I mean…ahem.)
Friday, January 24, 2020
Cocky
Okay, so I admit it. I felt pretty darned good as we went to bed that first Monday back from Christmas break.
We’d gotten a lot done. I’d freaking rocked the domestic goddess thing.
When I got home from work that evening, Olivia and I pounded out her homework in record time. We went to my mom’s house to visit for a bit, went back home where I heated up dinner for both girls and myself. Tom’s on his own for meals, he tends to work right through the regular dinner hour so…he’s a grown up, he can figure it out.
After dinner, I packed lunches and then took Olivia up so she could take a bath. She was only vaguely stinky but I know that a vague funk can turn into a vicious funk very quickly.
I helped her wash her hair and then, by 8:30, we were downstairs where I washed the dinner dishes, got Olivia her evening serving of pie and ice cream and by 9:10, we were heading back upstairs to bed.
And, get this, I’d accomplished all of the above with minimal bitchiness. Go me!!
So it only makes sense that the very next day, a FREAKING Tuesday, was a disaster.
I got home after at 5:20 after having to stop at Walmart for cereal, batteries, Tums, bagels, a rotisserie chicken, oatmeal cream pies and Suzie-Qs. Yes, that was the list. Ugh!
Olivia and I sat down to do homework.
I lost my shit pretty much right off the bat, which made her put up a block that kept her from writing $1.35 on problem number 3.
I stopped her from erasing something because the erasing, the constant erasing, the never-ending erasing drives me insane.
But the derailed her almost completely.
We sat there for a half hour trying to complete five math problems that were something along the lines of: “Write the number in standard form: 9 hundreds, 3 tens and 7 ones.”
Which I read aloud to Olivia and then say, “Write 937.”
That was the first one. It was fine.
The second one was similar…and yet harder.
The third one asked her to write a number sentence and then said something like, “Miguel had $.85. He earned $1.35. How much money did he have?”
All she had to write was, “$.85 + $1.35 = $2.20.”
Easy, right?
No.
Because I’m a terrible person who stopped her from erasing the $ before the 1. We sat there for fifteen minutes with her just looking at me.
By the end I just wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for me and I wanted to cry for her.
I hate that this is so hard for her. I hate that I sometimes make it harder still.
Before bed that night, I told her I was sorry for being so cranky.
She said, “Well, at least you’re only cranky when you’re talking to me.”
…
My heart broke into a thousand pieces.
My sweet, beautiful, funny, smart girl thinks, feels, and believes I’m only cranky when I’m talking to her.
That says a lot, doesn’t it?
It means I have to work hard, in the long term, to STOP being such a bitch to this child. She deserves so much better. She deserves a loving, patient, kind parent who doesn’t take her idiosyncrasies personally and works out ways to help her around the blocks her brain puts up when things don’t go exactly as planned.
So yeah…that happened.
We’d gotten a lot done. I’d freaking rocked the domestic goddess thing.
When I got home from work that evening, Olivia and I pounded out her homework in record time. We went to my mom’s house to visit for a bit, went back home where I heated up dinner for both girls and myself. Tom’s on his own for meals, he tends to work right through the regular dinner hour so…he’s a grown up, he can figure it out.
After dinner, I packed lunches and then took Olivia up so she could take a bath. She was only vaguely stinky but I know that a vague funk can turn into a vicious funk very quickly.
I helped her wash her hair and then, by 8:30, we were downstairs where I washed the dinner dishes, got Olivia her evening serving of pie and ice cream and by 9:10, we were heading back upstairs to bed.
And, get this, I’d accomplished all of the above with minimal bitchiness. Go me!!
So it only makes sense that the very next day, a FREAKING Tuesday, was a disaster.
I got home after at 5:20 after having to stop at Walmart for cereal, batteries, Tums, bagels, a rotisserie chicken, oatmeal cream pies and Suzie-Qs. Yes, that was the list. Ugh!
Olivia and I sat down to do homework.
I lost my shit pretty much right off the bat, which made her put up a block that kept her from writing $1.35 on problem number 3.
I stopped her from erasing something because the erasing, the constant erasing, the never-ending erasing drives me insane.
But the derailed her almost completely.
We sat there for a half hour trying to complete five math problems that were something along the lines of: “Write the number in standard form: 9 hundreds, 3 tens and 7 ones.”
Which I read aloud to Olivia and then say, “Write 937.”
That was the first one. It was fine.
The second one was similar…and yet harder.
The third one asked her to write a number sentence and then said something like, “Miguel had $.85. He earned $1.35. How much money did he have?”
All she had to write was, “$.85 + $1.35 = $2.20.”
Easy, right?
No.
Because I’m a terrible person who stopped her from erasing the $ before the 1. We sat there for fifteen minutes with her just looking at me.
By the end I just wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for me and I wanted to cry for her.
I hate that this is so hard for her. I hate that I sometimes make it harder still.
Before bed that night, I told her I was sorry for being so cranky.
She said, “Well, at least you’re only cranky when you’re talking to me.”
…
My heart broke into a thousand pieces.
My sweet, beautiful, funny, smart girl thinks, feels, and believes I’m only cranky when I’m talking to her.
That says a lot, doesn’t it?
It means I have to work hard, in the long term, to STOP being such a bitch to this child. She deserves so much better. She deserves a loving, patient, kind parent who doesn’t take her idiosyncrasies personally and works out ways to help her around the blocks her brain puts up when things don’t go exactly as planned.
So yeah…that happened.
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