I could make this blog entry really short. Meetings suck. But then I wouldn't get to use any humor, sarcasm, pontification or run-on sentences. What's the fun in that? So instead I will list my pet peeves when it comes to said subject.
Now before you get all wonky on me and ask me what, as a SAHM, I could possibly have to complain about when it comes to meetings, pipe down over there Tito. I'm Michael Jackson in this blog, and you're Tito, and I don't need to rattle off my resume of current pro bono positions that require me to go to more meetings each week than I care to even think about. So grab an agenda and go sit in the corner with LaToya.
Meetings for the Sake of Having a Meeting
This is the one where there are no clear cut agenda, objectives, outcomes or point for anyone to have gone through four rounds of "Evening Kid Activities Logistics" with your spouse in order to attend it.
Meetings Where the Materials are Read to You Point by Point
Uhhhhhh, I've been reading since I was five. Save some trees and my time, and just email me this stuff. If you want to also email me a follow up pop quiz, bring it on son!
"Breakfast", "Lunch" and "Dinner" Meetings
If you are trying to get me to come to your meeting by luring me with a meal, lemme break it down for you:
-Breakfast: Y'all had best be serving some hot food. Cantaloupe and some mini-muffins that are so dry they turn into an inedible mass of crumbs when I try and bite into one is NOT breakfast. And REAL 1/2 and 1/2 for the coffee, people. You don't put powdered gas treatment in your car to make it run more efficiently. I'm not putting any powdered crap in my coffee either for the same reason.
-Lunch: I have been to "lunch" meetings where I am given the same amount of food that I pack in my seven-year-old's lunch box. While I am not a big gal, I do appreciate enough food to keep my stomach full at least for the duration of the meeting.
Dinner: If it resembles anything that is part of the meal service on an airplane, rethink the budget and the caterer next time. Nuff said.
Endless Q&A Sessions in Meetings
I get it. You lead a meeting, some people are going to have a follow up question or two. By all means, let them ask. I said one or two. If someone goes beyond two, I'm likely to "accidently" kick her/him under the table with the pointy toe of my stiletto as I uncross my legs. Being the good Christian that I am, I will assist them out of the meeting and to their car so they can hurry on home and get some ice on that bump, and I will be praying for swift healing for them in the name of Jesus, and BUH-bye now!
And like with the presidential debates, set a time limit on the A. If you can't sufficiently answer someone's question in a minute or two, do some research and follow up with an email. And if you send the answer to everyone on the meeting roster, for heaven's sake, blind copy it. Otherwise the Q person will "reply all" with ANOTHER question, and now the meeting has spilled over into my inbox and has no end point.
-Loooooooooooooong Meetings
Sweet Mary and Joseph, no meeting should ever last longer than two hours. And you had better have some good stuff in that agenda packet if you are going longer than ninety minutes. Like some covers from "Men's Health" magazine interspersed throughout or a couple of crosswords and a "doodle" page. Some meetings you can get away with playing on your phone, but others you can't, and it would be nice to have something as an incentive to stay awake.
So if I come to your meeting, I promise I will be a good girl and pay attention if you adhere to the guidelines above. And I practice what I preach with the meetings I lead. Short, sweet, informative and punctuated with humor are my main objectives. And oftentimes, followed up with post-meeting "debriefings" on the patio of a local restaurant with daily drink specials. So thanks for letting me air my meeting grievances, and I hereby declare this meeting adjourned!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Friday, May 10, 2013
Saturday, May 4, 2013
My Thoughts on: Cleaning My House
If you're the type of person who gets out of bed on Saturday morning, and your top priorities have nothing to do with a trip to the john and starting the coffeemaker, but instead of cleaning both of those, this blog entry is most certainly not for you. If cleaning for you is more of a "have to" and not a "get to", read on my friend.
Before we talk about my current stance on housecleaning, let me first take you on a short journey first through my childhood of the 70's and 80's and my twenty-something years in the 90's. I grew up with a chore list. Started when I was five, and every year, a chore was added. Now this was not stuff we got paid for or earned allowance for. This was a "you do this because you live here" type-deal. I dusted, vacuumed, cleaned bathrooms, washed floors, and a lot of other stuff that would leave some of you pampered children picturing a mini-me in a red curly wig singing "It's a Hard Knocks Life". Suffice it to say that by age 10, I could argue the use of Comet vs. Bon Ami with any housewife.
Moving along to my 20's. I got my first apartment in 1991, and I was all about keeping it spotless. Immaculate. Not a cobweb in the corner or dust bunny under the couch. My Saturday morning routine without fail was to clean my place from top to bottom, stem to stern. Whatever that means. I think it has something to do with boats. I grew up and live in Kansas, so the only experience I have as a boat captain is a part-time one as I'm driving it across the lake back to the dock, while holding the red Solo cup of the full-time captain we are boating with who has had to much to drink.
So from 1977-2002 (that's 25 years for those of you who get all confused counting years that span two centuries), I was all about getting behind a thorough cleaning of the house each and every week. Then in 2002, something happened that took that particular crazy train right off the rails. I became a mom. Nothing throws every routine you ever had completely out of whack like having a baby.
Oh, you used to clean the bathtub every day while you were in the shower? Yeah, well now you have 120 seconds to get in the shower and attempt to cleanse yourself before the baby takes the "Where's my mom?" whimper to a full-on "If someone doesn't pick me up RIGHT NOW, the neighbors are going to call Child Protective Services" scream. Aww, you used to have trouble going to sleep at night unless every dish in the sink was washed, dried and put away? Yeah, well now your husband has to pull your face out of your dinner plate because your sleep-deprived self passed out in it fifteen seconds after sitting down for the first time all day.
You get my drift. Babies change priorities. And that's a good thing. When I became a mom, I realized that I could not care less about dust bunnies and washing windows anymore. I would not trade one minute of time with my baby, then my baby and toddler, and now my kids, to spend the day cleaning every nook and cranny of my house.
Now, say you run a home daycare business like my friend Marty. Not keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts your business. And to clarify, CLEAN and ORGANIZED to me are not synonymous. I am all about an orderly house. I freely admit I am an anal-retentive OCD freak, just not about dust on the tops of the pictures hanging on the wall or people walking on the vacuum lines on the carpet. (Seriously, it's a thing for some people. What are you supposed to do, jump across the furniture to get around the room?) For me, keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts not my business, but my sanity, because I already have my hands full with the battle of "The Creep".
Everything in my house definitely has a designated place, and ideally, everything goes in said place. I said ideally. I live with three other people y'all, including Sandford and his son. Sandford is my Handsome Husband. Without my intervention, he and the Boy Child would maintain an existence that belongs in a homeless camp. Further details are not needed for you to effectively get the point.
Just believe me when I say it's an ongoing battle just to keep all their "stuff" (I would use a different word, but Jesus doesn't like it) from accumulating all over the house to the point where it looks like raccoons have taken up residence in our home. This would be the battle of "The Creep". Most of the moms reading this (and the 2% of the dads out there who care about such things) are nodding their heads right now because they too fight "The Creep" at their house.
With that ongoing struggle, who has the time or energy to CARE if the dining room light fixture is free of cobwebs, or heavens, when was the last time was I moved the fridge and cleaned behind it? But hey, I do have SOME standards for housekeeping. The laundry, vacuuming and de-toothpasting of the bathroom sinks get done on a weekly basis. Note that I did not say that ALL the laundry gets put away or that EVERY room in the house gets vacuumed every week. Just keepin' it real over here.
So if you come to my front door, you'd best check your judgy judgments about my housecleaning right there at it. Otherwise, I will hand you my cleaning supplies and tell you to go for it. Instead, I will be devoting my time to some other pursuit that, unlike house cleaning, doesn't leave me wondering one day and three family members later if I had done anything at all in the first place.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Before we talk about my current stance on housecleaning, let me first take you on a short journey first through my childhood of the 70's and 80's and my twenty-something years in the 90's. I grew up with a chore list. Started when I was five, and every year, a chore was added. Now this was not stuff we got paid for or earned allowance for. This was a "you do this because you live here" type-deal. I dusted, vacuumed, cleaned bathrooms, washed floors, and a lot of other stuff that would leave some of you pampered children picturing a mini-me in a red curly wig singing "It's a Hard Knocks Life". Suffice it to say that by age 10, I could argue the use of Comet vs. Bon Ami with any housewife.
Moving along to my 20's. I got my first apartment in 1991, and I was all about keeping it spotless. Immaculate. Not a cobweb in the corner or dust bunny under the couch. My Saturday morning routine without fail was to clean my place from top to bottom, stem to stern. Whatever that means. I think it has something to do with boats. I grew up and live in Kansas, so the only experience I have as a boat captain is a part-time one as I'm driving it across the lake back to the dock, while holding the red Solo cup of the full-time captain we are boating with who has had to much to drink.
So from 1977-2002 (that's 25 years for those of you who get all confused counting years that span two centuries), I was all about getting behind a thorough cleaning of the house each and every week. Then in 2002, something happened that took that particular crazy train right off the rails. I became a mom. Nothing throws every routine you ever had completely out of whack like having a baby.
Oh, you used to clean the bathtub every day while you were in the shower? Yeah, well now you have 120 seconds to get in the shower and attempt to cleanse yourself before the baby takes the "Where's my mom?" whimper to a full-on "If someone doesn't pick me up RIGHT NOW, the neighbors are going to call Child Protective Services" scream. Aww, you used to have trouble going to sleep at night unless every dish in the sink was washed, dried and put away? Yeah, well now your husband has to pull your face out of your dinner plate because your sleep-deprived self passed out in it fifteen seconds after sitting down for the first time all day.
You get my drift. Babies change priorities. And that's a good thing. When I became a mom, I realized that I could not care less about dust bunnies and washing windows anymore. I would not trade one minute of time with my baby, then my baby and toddler, and now my kids, to spend the day cleaning every nook and cranny of my house.
Now, say you run a home daycare business like my friend Marty. Not keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts your business. And to clarify, CLEAN and ORGANIZED to me are not synonymous. I am all about an orderly house. I freely admit I am an anal-retentive OCD freak, just not about dust on the tops of the pictures hanging on the wall or people walking on the vacuum lines on the carpet. (Seriously, it's a thing for some people. What are you supposed to do, jump across the furniture to get around the room?) For me, keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts not my business, but my sanity, because I already have my hands full with the battle of "The Creep".
Everything in my house definitely has a designated place, and ideally, everything goes in said place. I said ideally. I live with three other people y'all, including Sandford and his son. Sandford is my Handsome Husband. Without my intervention, he and the Boy Child would maintain an existence that belongs in a homeless camp. Further details are not needed for you to effectively get the point.
Just believe me when I say it's an ongoing battle just to keep all their "stuff" (I would use a different word, but Jesus doesn't like it) from accumulating all over the house to the point where it looks like raccoons have taken up residence in our home. This would be the battle of "The Creep". Most of the moms reading this (and the 2% of the dads out there who care about such things) are nodding their heads right now because they too fight "The Creep" at their house.
With that ongoing struggle, who has the time or energy to CARE if the dining room light fixture is free of cobwebs, or heavens, when was the last time was I moved the fridge and cleaned behind it? But hey, I do have SOME standards for housekeeping. The laundry, vacuuming and de-toothpasting of the bathroom sinks get done on a weekly basis. Note that I did not say that ALL the laundry gets put away or that EVERY room in the house gets vacuumed every week. Just keepin' it real over here.
So if you come to my front door, you'd best check your judgy judgments about my housecleaning right there at it. Otherwise, I will hand you my cleaning supplies and tell you to go for it. Instead, I will be devoting my time to some other pursuit that, unlike house cleaning, doesn't leave me wondering one day and three family members later if I had done anything at all in the first place.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
My Thoughts on: The Chocolate vs. The Bikini
It's April in the midwest. Flowers are blooming, trees are pollinating, allergy sufferers are miserable, and I am at an annual crossroads in my life. This is the point in time where we are about six weeks out from pool season, and a decision has to be made. A lifestyle-altering decision. Do I continue my obsessive and destructive love affair with The Chocolate, or cease the affair to reconnect with my faithful summer love of twenty-five years, The Bikini?
If you don't dig chocolate, and you haven't worn a bikini in your life, this blog entry probably ain't for you. But for those of you whose pulse rate spikes when you open a Whitman's Sampler (ahhh, you can smell it right now, can't you?), and for those who have committed to memory the first rule of the Bikini Code (a bikini is a privilege, and not a right), you are feelin' me big time right now.
I admit, the loooong KC winter of 2013 found me much more seduced by the siren call of Hershey, Cadbury, Dove and Rocher (kind of sounds like a yummy law firm, don't you think?) than I normally am. I can't help it. I get seriously bummed out by cold weather, and hey, chocolate makes me feel goooooood. So if one piece makes me feel gooooood, fifteen make me feel friggin' awesome! Shut up. We all have our addictions. I'm getting to the part where I turn the corner on mine, just hang on.
So around this time of year, I am forced to reintroduce myself to my body-mind psychotherapist. She lives in my full-length mirror in my bedroom. She makes me come to therapy in my underwear, and it's kind of weird because she comes in her underwear too, but whatever, she's the one in charge here.
And then we have a frank conversation about how this love affair is controlling my life, it's no good for me, I'm not who I once was, I'm avoiding people who care about me just so I can spend more time in it. It's not pretty. Eyes are opened, tears are shed, and a new resolve is born to do what needs to be done to cut the ties of this affair and reconnect with the faithful love, The Bikini.
Now everybody who has a modicum of Body Awareness knows that you cannot jump straight from breaking the chains of The Chocolate back into The Bikini. No, no, no, no, no. Remember Rule #1 of the Bikini Code. I wish more people had Rule #1 tattooed across their should-not-be-exposed-in-public midriff, but I digress.
I have to EARN my way back into the bikini. Yes, I teach yoga twice a week, run at least two days a week, yada, yada, yada. But weight gain and loss is simple math.
Calories in = Calories burned = Bikini Ready At All Times.
Calories in > Calories burned = You Got Some Work to do, Dough Girl
So I add another workout day of intense cardio/muscle work and start saying my goodbyes. To sugar and other white foods, dairy, carbonated beverages and all the other delicious delights who stand between me and The Bikini. Now I do have a bit of each from time to time. Going cold turkey takes me to a place of insanity that causes my family to force me out of the car and onto the shoulder of I-70 somewhere between KC and Lawrence.
I have never been, nor could I ever be a gluten-free vegan. Meat, good. Dough, good. Sheridan's Royal Turtle sundae, majestic. But for the purpose of honoring The Bikini, all of those things take a back seat until the glorious day when I can stand in front of my therapist in The Bikini, and she will proudly say to me, "My work here is done". Until next spring when the cycle repeats itself.
So if we cross paths in the next six weeks, and I seem a little less sparkly, please be kind and understanding that I am in limbo between my happy place with The Chocolate and the self-satisfaction of having earned my way back into The Bikini. Raise a low-cal protein smoothie in solidarity with me, and together, I promise we will make it through. Until then...
Sparkly Kisses,
D
If you don't dig chocolate, and you haven't worn a bikini in your life, this blog entry probably ain't for you. But for those of you whose pulse rate spikes when you open a Whitman's Sampler (ahhh, you can smell it right now, can't you?), and for those who have committed to memory the first rule of the Bikini Code (a bikini is a privilege, and not a right), you are feelin' me big time right now.
I admit, the loooong KC winter of 2013 found me much more seduced by the siren call of Hershey, Cadbury, Dove and Rocher (kind of sounds like a yummy law firm, don't you think?) than I normally am. I can't help it. I get seriously bummed out by cold weather, and hey, chocolate makes me feel goooooood. So if one piece makes me feel gooooood, fifteen make me feel friggin' awesome! Shut up. We all have our addictions. I'm getting to the part where I turn the corner on mine, just hang on.
So around this time of year, I am forced to reintroduce myself to my body-mind psychotherapist. She lives in my full-length mirror in my bedroom. She makes me come to therapy in my underwear, and it's kind of weird because she comes in her underwear too, but whatever, she's the one in charge here.
And then we have a frank conversation about how this love affair is controlling my life, it's no good for me, I'm not who I once was, I'm avoiding people who care about me just so I can spend more time in it. It's not pretty. Eyes are opened, tears are shed, and a new resolve is born to do what needs to be done to cut the ties of this affair and reconnect with the faithful love, The Bikini.
Now everybody who has a modicum of Body Awareness knows that you cannot jump straight from breaking the chains of The Chocolate back into The Bikini. No, no, no, no, no. Remember Rule #1 of the Bikini Code. I wish more people had Rule #1 tattooed across their should-not-be-exposed-in-public midriff, but I digress.
I have to EARN my way back into the bikini. Yes, I teach yoga twice a week, run at least two days a week, yada, yada, yada. But weight gain and loss is simple math.
Calories in = Calories burned = Bikini Ready At All Times.
Calories in > Calories burned = You Got Some Work to do, Dough Girl
So I add another workout day of intense cardio/muscle work and start saying my goodbyes. To sugar and other white foods, dairy, carbonated beverages and all the other delicious delights who stand between me and The Bikini. Now I do have a bit of each from time to time. Going cold turkey takes me to a place of insanity that causes my family to force me out of the car and onto the shoulder of I-70 somewhere between KC and Lawrence.
I have never been, nor could I ever be a gluten-free vegan. Meat, good. Dough, good. Sheridan's Royal Turtle sundae, majestic. But for the purpose of honoring The Bikini, all of those things take a back seat until the glorious day when I can stand in front of my therapist in The Bikini, and she will proudly say to me, "My work here is done". Until next spring when the cycle repeats itself.
So if we cross paths in the next six weeks, and I seem a little less sparkly, please be kind and understanding that I am in limbo between my happy place with The Chocolate and the self-satisfaction of having earned my way back into The Bikini. Raise a low-cal protein smoothie in solidarity with me, and together, I promise we will make it through. Until then...
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Sunday, March 24, 2013
My Thoughts on: The Plague of Perpetual Winter
I live in the midwestern U.S. For my international readers, that means that while we do experience four distinct change of seasons, they overlap, intermingle and plain ol' intrude on each other like toddlers trying to share a snack bowl. I have no problem whatsoever with autumn borrowing a day or two from summer, summer borrowing half a season from spring, and so on. Where we run into an issue is when winter borrows one nanosecond from any of the other three.
If you know me personally, you are aware that I am a 100% warm weather kind of gal. I could go on for days about all of the things I looooooove about summatime. Sun on my SPF-50'ed face makes me happy, happy, happy. My chakras line up, my spleen clears, my serotonin level soars, and an invisible Jamaican steel drum band band follows me around in my mind wherever I go.
If you listen very, very closely, you can probably hear Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" whenever I'm around. Probably helps if you have a Hurricane or two. Since it's currently 10:00 in the a.m. when I'm writing this and not exactly cocktail hour, I'll let YouTube give you an assist http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaGUr6wzyT8
Anyway, if you live where I live, you know that Mother Nature has really put the smackdown on us this winter. Three major snowstorms in a month, the latest one coming at the end of March. When it's supposed to be spring. You know, daffodils, green grass and kite flying. My daffodils and the grass are buried under ten inches of white vomit, and the only thing currently flying outside is said vomit as my neighbor uses his two-stage snow blower on his driveway.
If you're a fan of winter, please spare me all of your comments about how pretty the snow is, blah, blah, friggin' blah. It's a little like trying to convince Billy Graham than Anton LaVay had some redeeming qualities. An extreme example perhaps, and I'm sure that Billy even prayed for Anton. Hate the sin, not the sinner and all. But there's no mistaking it. I. Hate. Winter.
If I had lived in the time of Moses and had been Pharaoh, the Lord surely would have made "Perpetual Winter" one of the ten plagues He placed upon Egypt to let the Israelites go. In His infinite wisdom and knowledge of all things that cause me to freak the freak out, He would have also included the following nine:
"Plague of Snakes"
"Plague of Decaf Coffee"
"Plague of Lo-Cal Desserts"
"Plague of the 60+ min Meeting"
"Plague of Caring for Vomiting Children"
"Plague of Unwashed People in My Bed"
"Plague of Homeschooling My Own Children"
"Plague of Raw Meat Juice Coming into Contact with Food Prep Surfaces"
"Plague of Grocery Shopping on a Weekend/Day Before a Major Holiday"
What can I say. I'm a reptilaphobic, germaphobic, agoraphobic, cold weather-hating caffeine junkie with a sweet tooth. And long meetings just suck. To know me is not to love everything about me. Just to know that none of those things is probably going to change this late in my life. And that acceptance is not synonymous with approval.
I remain grateful that the Lord (so far) hasn't seen fit to rain any plagues down on me, and any of the above annoyances or inconveniences the devil tries to send my way can be easily overcome with the Almighty's aid. As Joel Osteen says in one of my fave quotes, "Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond. Don't let anyone or anything steal your joy"
Bearing that in mind, I will try hard to remember that while the winter seems never-ending right now, it is just a season, and it will pass. And while I will never find beauty in white vomit, I can find it in the fact that when it finally melts, the Earth will show its greens and blues and pinks and yellows and all the other vibrant colors of the spring.
So when it comes, if you see me doing the Carolina Shag in my tank top and flip flops, and you don't seem to hear any music, that's okay. Just pull up a chair, grab some vitamin D and vibe to the Otis Redding playing inside my head. And enjoy the warmth. Ahhhhhh!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
If you know me personally, you are aware that I am a 100% warm weather kind of gal. I could go on for days about all of the things I looooooove about summatime. Sun on my SPF-50'ed face makes me happy, happy, happy. My chakras line up, my spleen clears, my serotonin level soars, and an invisible Jamaican steel drum band band follows me around in my mind wherever I go.
If you listen very, very closely, you can probably hear Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" whenever I'm around. Probably helps if you have a Hurricane or two. Since it's currently 10:00 in the a.m. when I'm writing this and not exactly cocktail hour, I'll let YouTube give you an assist http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaGUr6wzyT8
Anyway, if you live where I live, you know that Mother Nature has really put the smackdown on us this winter. Three major snowstorms in a month, the latest one coming at the end of March. When it's supposed to be spring. You know, daffodils, green grass and kite flying. My daffodils and the grass are buried under ten inches of white vomit, and the only thing currently flying outside is said vomit as my neighbor uses his two-stage snow blower on his driveway.
If you're a fan of winter, please spare me all of your comments about how pretty the snow is, blah, blah, friggin' blah. It's a little like trying to convince Billy Graham than Anton LaVay had some redeeming qualities. An extreme example perhaps, and I'm sure that Billy even prayed for Anton. Hate the sin, not the sinner and all. But there's no mistaking it. I. Hate. Winter.
If I had lived in the time of Moses and had been Pharaoh, the Lord surely would have made "Perpetual Winter" one of the ten plagues He placed upon Egypt to let the Israelites go. In His infinite wisdom and knowledge of all things that cause me to freak the freak out, He would have also included the following nine:
"Plague of Snakes"
"Plague of Decaf Coffee"
"Plague of Lo-Cal Desserts"
"Plague of the 60+ min Meeting"
"Plague of Caring for Vomiting Children"
"Plague of Unwashed People in My Bed"
"Plague of Homeschooling My Own Children"
"Plague of Raw Meat Juice Coming into Contact with Food Prep Surfaces"
"Plague of Grocery Shopping on a Weekend/Day Before a Major Holiday"
What can I say. I'm a reptilaphobic, germaphobic, agoraphobic, cold weather-hating caffeine junkie with a sweet tooth. And long meetings just suck. To know me is not to love everything about me. Just to know that none of those things is probably going to change this late in my life. And that acceptance is not synonymous with approval.
I remain grateful that the Lord (so far) hasn't seen fit to rain any plagues down on me, and any of the above annoyances or inconveniences the devil tries to send my way can be easily overcome with the Almighty's aid. As Joel Osteen says in one of my fave quotes, "Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond. Don't let anyone or anything steal your joy"
Bearing that in mind, I will try hard to remember that while the winter seems never-ending right now, it is just a season, and it will pass. And while I will never find beauty in white vomit, I can find it in the fact that when it finally melts, the Earth will show its greens and blues and pinks and yellows and all the other vibrant colors of the spring.
So when it comes, if you see me doing the Carolina Shag in my tank top and flip flops, and you don't seem to hear any music, that's okay. Just pull up a chair, grab some vitamin D and vibe to the Otis Redding playing inside my head. And enjoy the warmth. Ahhhhhh!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Saturday, February 9, 2013
My Thoughts on: Bells & Whistles
My friend Marty got a new(er) car. It's purty, and it's fancy. It has cool interior lights that glow in different colors when you press a button and a TV screen you can talk to. I got to ride in it last night when we were on our way to someplace across the state line that neither of us was familiar with. We were armed with Betty's (that's her car's name) information kiosk, two iPhones with all of the latest Apple has to offer for navigation and direction, and the address of the place. We were set, right? Wrong.
Everything was cool until we were about five miles from our destination. Up until then we were on familiar highways. Now comes the part where we need some direction from somewhere. We try talking to Betty first. Betty is calm and soothing and a good listener. Right up to the part where she tells us the address doesn't exist. Now mind you, we are trying to find the First Baptist Church of a sizable town, not an illegal cockfight.
Everybody knows that the First Baptist Church of pretty much any town is usually bigger than city hall. Baptists know how to build a church, Honey. The higher the steeple, the closer to God. No drinking, no dancing, but they've got parking for 5000 and a sanctuary with ceiling lights you need a crane to change the bulbs in. Don't tell me the address doesn't exist, Betty.
We move on to the maps app on my iPhone 5. I can't figure out how to start routing us from our "current location" to the church because I don't KNOW what our current location is. I don't think telling it "on 350 Hwy between KFC and the Easy Breezy car wash" is going to fly. Isn't that what satellites are for, for crying out loud? YOU tell ME what our current location is.
Next I try talking to Siri. If you read my blog, you know how I feel about Siri. If you don't, and you don't care to read up, Siri doesn't get me. And I don't like Siri. The Bible teaches us to love everyone, but Siri isn't a person, so in my opinion, I can think unkind thoughts about her and keep my salvation.
Siri is at first confused by my overly-complicated command of "navigation to First Baptist Church of (city's name)" Can you smell the sarcasm here? She comes up with some instructions for knitting a sock monkey, but not directions to the church. I simplify the command. She then comes up with the names of 44 churches in the area, one of them being our destination. She says to "tap the right location". I tap. And tap again. Harder. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP Nothing.
Knowing that touch phones are sensitives little wussies and don't like cold fingers, I stick my fingers between my warm butt cheek and the heated seat for a few seconds. Tap. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP Nothing. I have my friend try. Tap. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP Nothing. Siri is such a b.....ig waste of time.
I hearken back to my Android phone days and open Google maps. Google has NEVAH let me down. I type in our destination, Google springs to life, finds our current location (PTL!) and immediately sets us on our way. Two blocks later, we are faced with a one way bridge with big signs saying "Do Not Enter".
At this point, if I were driving, I would have made sure I didn't see any cars on approach, said a prayer, and floored it across that bridge. I can see on the map that this road leads directly to the church, so I'm not going to let a little thing like one-way traffic stop me. But I'm not driving, and my friend has owned Betty for all of about two hours, so she opts to go around the bridge. Wimp.
We are now in a desolate part of town full of warehouses, barbed wire fences and bad lighting. I'm pretty sure this is where the torture scenes of the movie Reservoir Dogs were filmed. However, Google faithfully leads us out of the Tarentino district and back onto the main road. A few miles later, it tells us we have "arrived" at our destination. Which is a field. No steeple, no cross, no Baptists. Just grass and tumbleweeds. Dang, Google. You let me down, and I am broken hearted.
I try and save some face for Google by telling my friend that Google is so advanced that this is probably the "future home of the First Baptist Church" and that they just haven't broken ground yet. She's not buying it. I tried.
We drive a little further down and do a u-turn, and BAM! Appearing to us suddenly out of the fog and confusion is (cue the "Hallelujah Chorus") the First Baptist Church in all of its steepled, four story glory!! We are giddy, we are celebrating, we are woo-hooing, we going to a funeral visitation at a Baptist church, so we'd better simmer the heck down and rein it in.
After all of that, we decide it confirms what we already knew. For women over forty, sometimes a lot of technie bells and whistles is just a big colossal waste of time. Nothing beats a simple approach, like pulling over at the Phillips 66 and asking the counter dude where the biggest church in town is. In our high-tech world, sometimes we forget that. So Siri can shove it, and Betty can keep her information kiosk. But I still think her color changing cup holders are pretty cool.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Everything was cool until we were about five miles from our destination. Up until then we were on familiar highways. Now comes the part where we need some direction from somewhere. We try talking to Betty first. Betty is calm and soothing and a good listener. Right up to the part where she tells us the address doesn't exist. Now mind you, we are trying to find the First Baptist Church of a sizable town, not an illegal cockfight.
Everybody knows that the First Baptist Church of pretty much any town is usually bigger than city hall. Baptists know how to build a church, Honey. The higher the steeple, the closer to God. No drinking, no dancing, but they've got parking for 5000 and a sanctuary with ceiling lights you need a crane to change the bulbs in. Don't tell me the address doesn't exist, Betty.
We move on to the maps app on my iPhone 5. I can't figure out how to start routing us from our "current location" to the church because I don't KNOW what our current location is. I don't think telling it "on 350 Hwy between KFC and the Easy Breezy car wash" is going to fly. Isn't that what satellites are for, for crying out loud? YOU tell ME what our current location is.
Next I try talking to Siri. If you read my blog, you know how I feel about Siri. If you don't, and you don't care to read up, Siri doesn't get me. And I don't like Siri. The Bible teaches us to love everyone, but Siri isn't a person, so in my opinion, I can think unkind thoughts about her and keep my salvation.
Siri is at first confused by my overly-complicated command of "navigation to First Baptist Church of (city's name)" Can you smell the sarcasm here? She comes up with some instructions for knitting a sock monkey, but not directions to the church. I simplify the command. She then comes up with the names of 44 churches in the area, one of them being our destination. She says to "tap the right location". I tap. And tap again. Harder. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP Nothing.
Knowing that touch phones are sensitives little wussies and don't like cold fingers, I stick my fingers between my warm butt cheek and the heated seat for a few seconds. Tap. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP Nothing. I have my friend try. Tap. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP Nothing. Siri is such a b.....ig waste of time.
I hearken back to my Android phone days and open Google maps. Google has NEVAH let me down. I type in our destination, Google springs to life, finds our current location (PTL!) and immediately sets us on our way. Two blocks later, we are faced with a one way bridge with big signs saying "Do Not Enter".
At this point, if I were driving, I would have made sure I didn't see any cars on approach, said a prayer, and floored it across that bridge. I can see on the map that this road leads directly to the church, so I'm not going to let a little thing like one-way traffic stop me. But I'm not driving, and my friend has owned Betty for all of about two hours, so she opts to go around the bridge. Wimp.
We are now in a desolate part of town full of warehouses, barbed wire fences and bad lighting. I'm pretty sure this is where the torture scenes of the movie Reservoir Dogs were filmed. However, Google faithfully leads us out of the Tarentino district and back onto the main road. A few miles later, it tells us we have "arrived" at our destination. Which is a field. No steeple, no cross, no Baptists. Just grass and tumbleweeds. Dang, Google. You let me down, and I am broken hearted.
I try and save some face for Google by telling my friend that Google is so advanced that this is probably the "future home of the First Baptist Church" and that they just haven't broken ground yet. She's not buying it. I tried.
We drive a little further down and do a u-turn, and BAM! Appearing to us suddenly out of the fog and confusion is (cue the "Hallelujah Chorus") the First Baptist Church in all of its steepled, four story glory!! We are giddy, we are celebrating, we are woo-hooing, we going to a funeral visitation at a Baptist church, so we'd better simmer the heck down and rein it in.
After all of that, we decide it confirms what we already knew. For women over forty, sometimes a lot of technie bells and whistles is just a big colossal waste of time. Nothing beats a simple approach, like pulling over at the Phillips 66 and asking the counter dude where the biggest church in town is. In our high-tech world, sometimes we forget that. So Siri can shove it, and Betty can keep her information kiosk. But I still think her color changing cup holders are pretty cool.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Monday, January 21, 2013
My Thoughts on: The HH's Fashion Sense
I love my Handsome Husband dearly and more deeply every year we are married. But anyone who's been married a while knows that loving your spouse certainly doesn't mean loving everything about them. One of the things I can't affectionately embrace is the HH's fashion sense. Or complete lack thereof.
Now before you go defending him, let me first tell you that I was the clear victim of a bait and switch. When we first started dating a dozen or so years ago, he was the most dapper dude you would ever want to see. Custom fit suits, designer sweaters and jeans, hair perfectly coiffed, the guy was a walking Kenneth Cole catalogue. He was even known to pop into a nail salon for a manly-cure every now and again. A true metrosexual, and I was head over heels for such a suave presentation in such a young man.
But apparently when he said, "I do" to me two years later, he said, "I do NOT know how to dress myself anymore" to the rest of the world. Don't get me wrong, thanks to my shopping prowess, he still has a very nice wardrobe. His challenge lies in shoving aside the clothes in the closet that are best suited for things like working on cars and impersonating the homeless and getting TO the dapperware. Or in combining items from the dapperware collection so that he comes across as looking stylish and well put together and not like he got dressed in the dark.
Trust me when I tell you that the HH does NOT see the problem. He seemingly lacks a fundamental understanding that very few husband do have and that all wives definitely have that when a man walks out into the world wearing a wedding ring, he and his clothing are no longer a reflection on just himself.
It doesn't matter if his wife actually signed off on his wardrobe choice that day or not, every woman and gay man he comes into contact with asks themselves, "Why in the name of sweet baby Moses did his wife let him out of the house dressed like that?" Now please note that this observation is made solely by those two groups.
If you asked a straight man to tell you what the HH was wearing, he would say "clothes". Ask for more details, and he may add "a hat" or "tennis shoes". Guys just do not give a rip what other guys are wearing. When it comes to what impact their clothing will have on others, single men dress for single women. Single women dress for single men. Married women dress for other women, and married men dress in what their wife laid out on the bed.
I try and pick my battles. If we are headed to the Mayor's Christmas party for example, you had better believe I am picking out his clothes from his tie all the way down to his underwear. And yes, our outfits will be color-coordinated. Not so much so that we look like we are back up singers in the Neil Diamond tribute show in Branson, but just so that what we are wearing isn't on opposite sides of the color wheel.
If we are headed, say, to the ball fields or the swimming pool, he is given latitude to come up with his own ensemble. But if he opts for a ball cap that looks and smells like he wiped his hands on it after he finished cleaning a fish, or white calf-length socks and rubber clogs with his swimsuit (true story), not only will I walk ten paces ahead of him from the car to the venue and back, but I will be struck with a sudden case of marital amnesia if he tries to talk to me while we are there.
I definitely get that while the clothes do make the man on the outside, they really have nothing to do with the more important things like his heart and his character. I am grateful to love and be loved every day by my HH, even if impeccable taste to him is more about Guy Fieri than Guy Laroche.
So if you know him and see him out and about and in something that is less than fashionable, realize that behind the man is a woman who does what she can each day to resurrect his love and passion for his former fashion conscious side, while counting her blessings at the same time that after so many years, his love and passion for her remains. He may be at times a candidate for the show "What NOT to Wear", but he's MY fashion misfit, and I wouldn't trade him in for a more stylish model any day.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Now before you go defending him, let me first tell you that I was the clear victim of a bait and switch. When we first started dating a dozen or so years ago, he was the most dapper dude you would ever want to see. Custom fit suits, designer sweaters and jeans, hair perfectly coiffed, the guy was a walking Kenneth Cole catalogue. He was even known to pop into a nail salon for a manly-cure every now and again. A true metrosexual, and I was head over heels for such a suave presentation in such a young man.
But apparently when he said, "I do" to me two years later, he said, "I do NOT know how to dress myself anymore" to the rest of the world. Don't get me wrong, thanks to my shopping prowess, he still has a very nice wardrobe. His challenge lies in shoving aside the clothes in the closet that are best suited for things like working on cars and impersonating the homeless and getting TO the dapperware. Or in combining items from the dapperware collection so that he comes across as looking stylish and well put together and not like he got dressed in the dark.
Trust me when I tell you that the HH does NOT see the problem. He seemingly lacks a fundamental understanding that very few husband do have and that all wives definitely have that when a man walks out into the world wearing a wedding ring, he and his clothing are no longer a reflection on just himself.
It doesn't matter if his wife actually signed off on his wardrobe choice that day or not, every woman and gay man he comes into contact with asks themselves, "Why in the name of sweet baby Moses did his wife let him out of the house dressed like that?" Now please note that this observation is made solely by those two groups.
If you asked a straight man to tell you what the HH was wearing, he would say "clothes". Ask for more details, and he may add "a hat" or "tennis shoes". Guys just do not give a rip what other guys are wearing. When it comes to what impact their clothing will have on others, single men dress for single women. Single women dress for single men. Married women dress for other women, and married men dress in what their wife laid out on the bed.
I try and pick my battles. If we are headed to the Mayor's Christmas party for example, you had better believe I am picking out his clothes from his tie all the way down to his underwear. And yes, our outfits will be color-coordinated. Not so much so that we look like we are back up singers in the Neil Diamond tribute show in Branson, but just so that what we are wearing isn't on opposite sides of the color wheel.
If we are headed, say, to the ball fields or the swimming pool, he is given latitude to come up with his own ensemble. But if he opts for a ball cap that looks and smells like he wiped his hands on it after he finished cleaning a fish, or white calf-length socks and rubber clogs with his swimsuit (true story), not only will I walk ten paces ahead of him from the car to the venue and back, but I will be struck with a sudden case of marital amnesia if he tries to talk to me while we are there.
I definitely get that while the clothes do make the man on the outside, they really have nothing to do with the more important things like his heart and his character. I am grateful to love and be loved every day by my HH, even if impeccable taste to him is more about Guy Fieri than Guy Laroche.
So if you know him and see him out and about and in something that is less than fashionable, realize that behind the man is a woman who does what she can each day to resurrect his love and passion for his former fashion conscious side, while counting her blessings at the same time that after so many years, his love and passion for her remains. He may be at times a candidate for the show "What NOT to Wear", but he's MY fashion misfit, and I wouldn't trade him in for a more stylish model any day.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
My Thoughts on: Field Trips
I loved field trips as a kid. Who didn't, right? You got out of class, out of the school, onto a bus and off on an exciting adventure. Didn't matter where you went. The whole world took on a new perspective. Look, we're on the highway! Hey, there's a cat! Whoa, I'm not wearing a seat belt!
I have never understood the lack of safety restraints in school buses, even when I was a kid. In third grade, I went so far as to write the then newly-elected President Reagan (shut up) asking him why there weren't any seat belts on them. Six weeks later I got an official "pat on the head" form letter from The White House thanking me for writing. Enclosed with it was some literature about coping with childhood fears about nuclear war. Uhhhh, thanks Ronnie. Good to know your staff was in touch with the youth of America.
Now I'm a mom, and I get a different perspective of field trips as a chaperone. Don't get me wrong, I looooove having these experiences with my kids and making memories out of them. I am also very blessed to be a SAHM so I can go on the field trips. If there is a sign up sent home, I am all over it, and woo hoo, let's go!
When you and the other chaperones arrive for the pre-field trip ops meeting with the teacher, you're usually given a list with a group of kids that you are assigned to herd, uh, lead. As the PTA prez at my kids' school, I have come to know the other kiddos in each of their respective grades pretty darn well. Most of the other PTA moms know them too. We listen to the teacher's spiel, and as soon as her back is turned, we get down to comparing groups. Sometimes this leads to negotiations as intense and shrewd as those of Arab traders. Example:
"Look, I cannot handle having Johnny Smith in my group. When we went on the theater field trip, he kept taking old gum from under the seats and chewing it. Seriously grossed me out. If you will take him, I'll take Tommy Thompson from yours. I know he gets carsick and threw up on you on the bus last time"
"Okay, I will trade you Tommy for Johnny but raise you Susie Simmons. She talks in-cess-ant-ly, and I ended up with a migraine on the pumpkin patch field trip"
"Aw, sheesh. Alright, I will take Susie. But you're emptying the recycle bin in the staff lounge for a month"
"Deal"
*fist bump*
Since I know the kids well and the teacher knows this, I usually end up with a couple of the more "behaviorally challenged" kids in my group. But no problem, it's cool. I am here to help! I put on my super hero cloak of optimism and start out by high five-ing my kiddos and letting them pick out a kick butt name for our group, like "The Cheetahs" and give themselves all awesome nicknames. This shows them I am WAY more fun and hip than the other chaperones, and hey, aren't you glad you're in my group? Cuz I'm sure glad you're in mine! Woo hoo!
Yeah okay, fantasy, meet reality. By the end of the field trip, I'm so sick of saying things like, "Cheetahs, hands at your sides!", "Indiana Jones, eyes on me!", "Black Knight, the sign says 'Restricted Area' for a reason!" x 200 that I voluntarily take a vow of silence for the rest of the day.
Plus I have a pounding headache from trying to keep four kids who all want to go in four separate directions together for three hours. Seriously, take a box of four cats, dump them out in the middle of Grand Central Station, and then try and keep track of all of them. This is what chaperoning four eight-year-old boys at a museum is like.
Public school teachers are the most underpaid group of people in the history of civilization since the Jews built the Pyramids in Egypt. After three hours of field trip mania, I am ready to treat all the chaperones to a liquid lunch at the local bar. (I don't because: a) I'm not much of a drinker, and b) I'm too cheap. But still, you get my point.)
While we chaperones can sprint from the bus as soon as it hits the curb at school and into the nearest sound deprivation chamber, the teachers still have half a day of instruction to complete. They have to take twenty plus over-stimulated kids into the classroom and get them to FOCUS and LEARN. Wow. That's amazing. I can barely get the Boy Child to FOCUS and LEARN for fifteen minutes worth of homework each night. And he usually ends up not speaking to me, and I usually end up looking like this:
That would be why I don't home school and why I will tell any legislator who will give me fifteen seconds of their time that spending for public education and educators' salaries needs to be increased exponentially. But that's another whole other blog post!
The bottom line is that I love my kids to death, and I really am very enamored of their fellow students as well. Every field trip is an adventure, and my kids and I are making memories to last for their life time. As one of my Cheetahs said to me on the last field trip, "You always come with us. You are always here at school. Why do you do that?" I told him it's because, for me, the whole reason why I became a mom was not to have my child say, "I wish you were there", but instead to say, "I'm so glad you were with me".
I know every parent can't be there for everything their child wants them to, but I will move mountains to try to be there for mine. If it's important to them, it's important to me. Some day they will have their own kids, and I hope they move mountains to be there for theirs as well. By then I will have been officially retired for many years from cat herding duty, er, field trip chaperoning, and enjoying the fruits of my labor by being the kookiest granny ever to my grandbabies. Just you wait! ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
I have never understood the lack of safety restraints in school buses, even when I was a kid. In third grade, I went so far as to write the then newly-elected President Reagan (shut up) asking him why there weren't any seat belts on them. Six weeks later I got an official "pat on the head" form letter from The White House thanking me for writing. Enclosed with it was some literature about coping with childhood fears about nuclear war. Uhhhh, thanks Ronnie. Good to know your staff was in touch with the youth of America.
Now I'm a mom, and I get a different perspective of field trips as a chaperone. Don't get me wrong, I looooove having these experiences with my kids and making memories out of them. I am also very blessed to be a SAHM so I can go on the field trips. If there is a sign up sent home, I am all over it, and woo hoo, let's go!
When you and the other chaperones arrive for the pre-field trip ops meeting with the teacher, you're usually given a list with a group of kids that you are assigned to herd, uh, lead. As the PTA prez at my kids' school, I have come to know the other kiddos in each of their respective grades pretty darn well. Most of the other PTA moms know them too. We listen to the teacher's spiel, and as soon as her back is turned, we get down to comparing groups. Sometimes this leads to negotiations as intense and shrewd as those of Arab traders. Example:
"Look, I cannot handle having Johnny Smith in my group. When we went on the theater field trip, he kept taking old gum from under the seats and chewing it. Seriously grossed me out. If you will take him, I'll take Tommy Thompson from yours. I know he gets carsick and threw up on you on the bus last time"
"Okay, I will trade you Tommy for Johnny but raise you Susie Simmons. She talks in-cess-ant-ly, and I ended up with a migraine on the pumpkin patch field trip"
"Aw, sheesh. Alright, I will take Susie. But you're emptying the recycle bin in the staff lounge for a month"
"Deal"
*fist bump*
Since I know the kids well and the teacher knows this, I usually end up with a couple of the more "behaviorally challenged" kids in my group. But no problem, it's cool. I am here to help! I put on my super hero cloak of optimism and start out by high five-ing my kiddos and letting them pick out a kick butt name for our group, like "The Cheetahs" and give themselves all awesome nicknames. This shows them I am WAY more fun and hip than the other chaperones, and hey, aren't you glad you're in my group? Cuz I'm sure glad you're in mine! Woo hoo!
Yeah okay, fantasy, meet reality. By the end of the field trip, I'm so sick of saying things like, "Cheetahs, hands at your sides!", "Indiana Jones, eyes on me!", "Black Knight, the sign says 'Restricted Area' for a reason!" x 200 that I voluntarily take a vow of silence for the rest of the day.
Plus I have a pounding headache from trying to keep four kids who all want to go in four separate directions together for three hours. Seriously, take a box of four cats, dump them out in the middle of Grand Central Station, and then try and keep track of all of them. This is what chaperoning four eight-year-old boys at a museum is like.
Public school teachers are the most underpaid group of people in the history of civilization since the Jews built the Pyramids in Egypt. After three hours of field trip mania, I am ready to treat all the chaperones to a liquid lunch at the local bar. (I don't because: a) I'm not much of a drinker, and b) I'm too cheap. But still, you get my point.)
While we chaperones can sprint from the bus as soon as it hits the curb at school and into the nearest sound deprivation chamber, the teachers still have half a day of instruction to complete. They have to take twenty plus over-stimulated kids into the classroom and get them to FOCUS and LEARN. Wow. That's amazing. I can barely get the Boy Child to FOCUS and LEARN for fifteen minutes worth of homework each night. And he usually ends up not speaking to me, and I usually end up looking like this:
That would be why I don't home school and why I will tell any legislator who will give me fifteen seconds of their time that spending for public education and educators' salaries needs to be increased exponentially. But that's another whole other blog post!
The bottom line is that I love my kids to death, and I really am very enamored of their fellow students as well. Every field trip is an adventure, and my kids and I are making memories to last for their life time. As one of my Cheetahs said to me on the last field trip, "You always come with us. You are always here at school. Why do you do that?" I told him it's because, for me, the whole reason why I became a mom was not to have my child say, "I wish you were there", but instead to say, "I'm so glad you were with me".
I know every parent can't be there for everything their child wants them to, but I will move mountains to try to be there for mine. If it's important to them, it's important to me. Some day they will have their own kids, and I hope they move mountains to be there for theirs as well. By then I will have been officially retired for many years from cat herding duty, er, field trip chaperoning, and enjoying the fruits of my labor by being the kookiest granny ever to my grandbabies. Just you wait! ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)