Diapers and PopTarts

I had to make a very difficult decision last night.  You know the kind.  The kind of decision that throws your stomach into knots and you just don't know which way is the right way.  Knowing your choice can send your life into turmoil.  Feeling the cold sweat as you consider the ramifications of your decision.

Do I get my groceries at WalMart?

I had the surprising joy of an evening out last night.  Typically, my Sunday's consist of housework and laundry, so the invite to go see a movie was like a nice little unexpected treat.  Let me tell you, I must not get out much, because I was more than happy to get all my little assigned chores done before allowing myself to go.  I was the happy little homemaker whistling while I worked yesterday.

I tend to be a homebody, maybe because I deal with the public all week at work.  Once the weekend hits, I don't normally leave our little burg until I absolutely have to.  Which usually means my Mondays are spent running errands.  I don't actually LIKE using my time off on Mondays to get groceries and run to the bank, but I soothe the pain of it with a meetup for coffee in the morning at the local coffee shop.  Kind of a trade off for one pleasant thing with six unpleasant chores.  (see how I'm constantly bargaining with myself?)

Obviously, going to a movie means leaving town, since I can't even buy a roll of toilet paper or a gallon of gas here.  So, I thought I'd get a few errands out of the way while I was at it.  Apparently, my brain was telling me it was the WRONG DAY for errands, because when I pulled up to the ATM machine to get some cash, I drew a total blank on my pin number.  Sitting here typing this, I can rattle that four digit number off no problem.  Staring at a keypad on an ATM machine?  Not so much.  I quickly learned after the fourth attempt, my bank will lock that debit card down tighter than tight.  So now I faced the conundrum of getting cash for this movie.  Since I was at the bank anyway, I at least pulled around in a circle and threw my deposit in the night slot, mentally marking one thing off my Monday errand list.

I zipped into the dollar store, thinking since I had a few things on Monday list, I could at least attempt to use my debit card there.  Yes, I'm fully aware I was just told NO NO NO at the ATM, but my brain was telling me that maybe, just maybe, I was only grounded from ATM machines for the rest of the day.  I get to the checkout, cross my fingers, and swipe my card.  DECLINED.  The gal working (hey, small town, so everyone chit chats with their cashiers) told me the hold on my card shouldn't last longer than 24 hours, and I'm grumbling, thinking the point of all this is so I don't have to go into town for the next 24-36 hours in the first place.  Thankfully, I've always got a backup card with me, so I at least made my purchases, and good thing I used that card, because I also realize there are only two checks sitting in my checkbook.

This still hasn't solved the problem of movie cash, but now two things are scratched off my Monday errand list.

I head to the gas station, passing by the movie theater where I see my mom and cousin going in.  I consider yelling out the window that I'm going business to business begging for cash, but don't want to give any weirdos any ideas.  The movie theater does sit right next to a bar, after all, where occasionally you see the random weirdo just loitering on the sidewalk.

I pump the minimal amount of gas since I'm in a hurry (well, not minimal, but definitely not a fill up), and beg the cashier to allow me to write the check for $10 over.  I tell her about my ATM brain fart and she laughs at me.  Ha ha, yeah, maybe I'll laugh later, but I'm just trying to go to this damn movie.  I get a $10 from her and I'm on my way, having scratched off another Monday errand.

I'm glad I didn't do any shouting out the window, because in the few short blocks of driving back, there is a strange shirtless man wandering down the sidewalk who looks like he'd offer $10 for a bath.

Of course, running what feels like out of time, I take the first parking spot I find, which really isn't much of a parking spot left since the asshole in the spot behind it has decided he wants to take up a spot and a half.  But by this time, I don't care about proper parking, use my little handy dandy rear camera and get as close to his bumper as possible, which still leaves me partially in a yellow zone.  We'll see if my $10 cash costs me a parking ticket, but I'm beyond caring.

Can I just say that preteens are self absorbed little twits?  Not only did I have two barge into line in front of me, but the same two then held up the concession line because they can't add.  It's not like our community theater is rocket science...$4 movies and $3.50-$8 concessions.  All in increments of 50 cents.  Pretty simple math, no?  Obviously it is, but they made five different purchases all based upon the amount of change they were getting back.

Anyway, movie was watched and we gathered at my aunts house after for some lovely visiting time.  It's in the back of my head that the search for cash eliminated all my Monday errands except for one.  And really, that one errand could be accomplished if I'm willing to enter Hellmart.  I only enter Hellmart maybe once a year, and it's only when there's absolute desperation involved.  It's an unhappy place, filled with unhappy people, and I try to avoid it at all costs.  The customer service sucks, the employees seem to clearly hate their jobs, and I spend more time saying hello to people I know than I do getting my shopping done.  It's a magnet for gossiping and awkward social gatherings.

But, my Monday errand list only has groceries remaining.  Do I do it?  Do I enter the hell zone and just get it done?  I have a list, so it should be no problem getting in and out in a short time.  I then realize maybe my daughter is still in town from her double shift, and I text her letting her know I'm at my aunts house and thinking of getting groceries after.  She shows up, and the visit goes longer in to the late evening hours, thunderstorms whip through town, and the laughter and silliness put me in the right frame of mind.

I can do this.

As I pull in to their rat maze parking lot that makes no sense, I'm wondering why there are so many cars.  All the way there, I did not see a single other car driving through town, but there's at least 30 cars in the parking lot.  Some have people just sitting in them, some are running, there's even the ever so popular car sitting at the doors because someone doesn't want to walk the extra 100 feet to the doors.  I realize the car next to me has their trunk popped open, but no one is in the car.  Strange, but it's Hellmart, so I don't think much of it until I walk by and see the cases of diapers and PopTarts.  JUST diapers and PopTarts.  Not just boxes of PopTarts, but cases.

I guess I shouldn't even wonder, because it IS Hellmart, and this place is just WEIRD, but I can't stop thinking about cases of PopTarts and diapers.  I mean, why just those two things?  Who buys that many PopTarts?

Sadly, the soda I had at the movie theater requires a bathroom, and I got the lovely experience of a Hellmart bathroom at 11 at night.  Apparently, they don't clean them until midnight, because it was disgusting.  So disgusting, I don't even want to describe it or think about it a moment longer.

Jesus was standing in the self checkout lanes.  He wasn't buying anything, just standing there, perhaps dreaming of PopTarts and the pearly gates.

The shopping went fairly quick, even with me not knowing where anything was and employees blocking aisles while they grumbled through their work.  I also realized that the lights must go out in the dairy, meat, and produce cases at 11, because they flickered off right when I was needing those items.  Of course.  Maybe it was a sign from Jesus up in the self checkout to slow my roll and just embrace the Hellmart experience.

I had to write a check, which I've never done in that Hellmart, because it involved having to dig out my ID and sign my first born away, who by this time was nearly asleep on her feet all because mommy didn't want to enter Hellmart alone.

And, though by the time we left, I didn't see another customer wandering through the store with the glazed Hellmart stare, the PopTart car was still in the parking lot, still showing off it's loot through the gaping trunk.  Jesus had disappeared by this time, but I've heard he does that occasionally.

I hope Jesus grants my wish that it's another 12 months before I step foot in that hellhole. 

Damn.  I didn't buy PopTarts.

12 Shot Thursday

COFFEE DAY!!!!
 Hell yes, baaaaaybeee!  And you know what that means?   Rambling time!  If this is your first time reading something written on a COFFEE DAY, I suggest reading a previous post so you can be forewarned of the jumbled mess my brain becomes on Thursdays.

I ignored the messes I woke up to this morning.  Well, not really, I just drowned them in espresso.  I probably shouldn't complain about having an extra person in the house for the summer.  Especially considering my daughter informed me this is probably the end.  This is the end, beautiful friend.  (Doors reference there in case you missed it.)  End actually meaning that she would like her own apartment by the end of her next year in college.  So, if all goes as planned, I won't have these irritations much longer but for the sake of all that is holy, I had forgotten what a mess a girl child/adult leaves in her wake.  I suppose it could be worse...her laundry isn't as big a mountain as it used to be, since she pretty much lives in work clothes and lounge wear.  She's also working so much that her ability to have a social life is almost nada, so the few occasions she goes out and disappears until the next morning have not been able to get a rise out of me.  However, because of these excessive work hours, I now have not just one, but TWO tabletops covered in girl-crap.  The beginnings of craft projects, about ten books because she has gotten hooked on a particular author, nail polish bottles, dirty socks (yes, on MY TABLE), dirty tank tops, hair bands, jewelry, and money.  She's a waitress, and sometimes, after a particularly grueling shift (or at the end of a double shift) she's just too tired to cash in her tips and stuffs wadded up bills wherever she finds room (which I found out is usually the glove box of her car), along with the five pounds of change weighing her apron down to her knees, and yup, you guessed it, then dumps it on her choice of table.  Then, there's the collection of 40+ bobby pins in the bathroom.  They are in the bathroom, in a dish, because I put them there every time I find one.  And where there's one, there's another.  And another.  And another.  It's pretty common sense my vacuum cleaner hates these things, so I have spent entirely too much time this summer scouring the floor not only looking for mouse carcasses, but bobby pins.  I'm usually rewarded for my efforts.  In bobby pins, not carcasses, because FatCat is still on strike.  At the moment, I'm ignoring the growing piles, cleaning off one table and making one heaping pile on the other table.  She's got three double shifts this week, and I'm waiting for the right moment before ordering a cleanup...preferably through text message once I've left for work.  Smart cookie that I am.

I arrived to work with a greeting from my niece who was helping out today.  I adore that girl, and not just because she's not living with me spreading bobby pins everywhere.  But, since I grew up in a family with a sick sense of humor, I love to give the child loads and oodles of crap.  So, after watching a ten minute video last night of nothing but stupid pranks, I was so ready to mess with her.  My favorite moment was when I was pricing some Christmas greenery (yes Christmas, shut it) and had a long, viney looking spare piece, in which I promptly threw at her screaming "OH MY GAWD, IT'S A SNAKE".

I love to hear her screech.

You ever notice that if people would actually just LISTEN to you, you could answer their question ALOT quicker?

This was one conversation today:

"Do you know where the tea room is?"

Me:  "Yes, are you familiar with our downtown?"  (I should probably note here that the downtown I'm speaking of is only about six square blocks)

"The tea room?  Where is it?"

Me:  (again)  "Are you familiar with our downtown?  Have you been on Main Street today?"  (pointing in the direction of Main Street only four storefronts away.

"I don't know where the tea room is, it used to be across from the drug store."

Me:  "The tearoom used to be close to the drug store (I'm not going to tell her it never was ACROSS from it), but that was about 15 years ago.  Did you see the movie theater when you came into town?"

"Where is the tea room?"

Me:  "The movie theater is right around the corner, so when you see the marquee, look directly across the street...that's where the tea room is."

"I think it's called Betty's Bread Basket"

Me:  (by this point, I'm not going to attempt to give her any more information short of exactly where that tea room is.  If I tell her it's been bought by a new owner, this whole conversation could get even more time consuming and confusing)  "Yes, the Bread Basket, it's across from the movie theater on Main Street".

Did I ever mention I actually have an incredible amount of patience?  Maybe not according to the thoughts in my head, but it at least appears that way.  Especially on coffee day.

Along with a day of questions, I also had a day of muffintops, boobs, and ass cheeks.  I understand it's summer, BUT, I also think that common sense would say a white tissue tee should not be worn with a sky blue bra underneath.  Especially when the tee is at least two sizes too small.  And just a word of advice...if you find yourself yanking at the crotch of your shorts every time you get out of your car, you might want to buy the next size up.  Because not only are they riding up, but they're riding DOWN when you're tugging, and I now know exactly what your thong looks like.  In detail.

I drive home, mind racing on espresso, and OF COURSE, get behind a field looker.  This is farm country, and even when you think there's nothing to see in the fields, there are plenty of good ol' boys that see plenty.  And drive 35MPH to make sure they see every last inch of it.  Lines on the road, be damned and all.  So, I had plenty of time to think about things, like exactly how people get those perfect lines mowed into their lawns.  Ours looks like someone had a seizure while mowing, which maybe I should ask my daughter if she's been twitching lately, since she's the one doing it.  I guess it's possible she's picking up bobby pins out of the grass, so the lines wouldn't be absolutely straight.

I arrive home to the loud buzzing of the generator at the fire station/city office.  Power out.  Again.  I blogged last week that it's not common for us to lose power, and I think someone took that as a challenge.  In reality, I find out some new line work is being done, but I have to ask, why shut down entire grids for a span of over an hour right at dinnertime?  And, huh, big question here, why not tell people, since this is the second time in four days?

The bright side is I used that as an excuse to not cook dinner, since I didn't know how long the power would be out...smart cookie again.  When the power finally returned, I started up the computer, going through emails, and then hit up Facebook.  I found this interesting thing going on...if I looked at certain "likes" on statuses or comments, the number automatically went down by one.  I'm not such a tech-doofus that I couldn't figure it out...it means somewhere out there, someone I am a mutual acquaintance with has me blocked.  So, hovering over a "like" number of three, suddenly flashes down to two.  Suddenly, I'm hovering over ALL the likes, getting a little burst of joy every time my mouse causes a number to decrease by one.  I'm giddy with the BLOCKED POWER (said in a Darth Vader voice)...hover, hover, unlike, unlike.  By the time I get through my newsfeed (or tire of the already increasing political viewpoints), I feel like I have a magic wand in my hands that just makes things go *POOF*.

I tried my *POOF* power on the table of girl piles, but all I succeeded in doing is stepping on another bobby pin.  Power trip deflated.  Espresso high coming down.

Facebook Parenting

Ahhhh, yes...good ol' Facebook.  Where life is beautiful all the time.  Especially when it comes to kids and our stellar parenting styles.

Hey, I get it.  I really do.  As a mother of two crotchfruit myself, it gets just oh so tempting to put those stellar moments out there for the whole world (or the world according to your friends list) to see.  We all have those mom pride moments we want to share, especially when we may have family who doesn't see our offspring as much as they would like.  But let's be honest with ourselves, sometimes, maybe not all, alot of what is getting thrown on Facebook about our children is a mommy ego trip that lets us believe we really aren't screwing them up and we might just be doing something right.

I've always believed none of us will know what kind of parent we were until those little baby robins are shoved out of the nest and forced to fly on their own.  For all the parenting advice that focuses so heavily on the first five years of a child's life, the fruits of our labors won't become known to us until they reach their 25th birthday without a criminal record.

However, I digress.  What I'm more intent on blathering on about is Facebook and the happy, shiny, shitting glitter statuses we throw out there about our precious wee ones.  Maybe it's easy for me to say, because Facebook was not the be all, end all social networking site when my children were younger.  Hell, if I'm going to admit my age, the internet wasn't more than a fledgling robin itself when my children were still shitting their pants.  So who knows, I could have been one of those parents posting all day long every day about the wonders of the mini-genius I had crawling around on the floor looking for crumbs.  I'd like to think that in my tendency of "keeping it real", I would have posted much as a I do now.  Perhaps, it is the parenting of children through toddlerhood, pre-teen nightmares, and teenager-make-me-drink-dom that has mellowed me into thinking this way.  Yeah, I did that amazing thing of creating life (sarcasm), but I'm tired.  They kicked my ass, and now, at 16 and nearing 20, I'm just kind of over the magic.  Yes, they do fantastic, spectacular things that make me want to shout out to the 122 people I have graced with the privilege of seeing my wall.

But let's pause a moment and think about what Facebook would look like if we all were a little more "real" about our lives...

"Johnny ran away from Vacation Bible School this morning.  Maybe MIL should stop forcing Jesus down the kid's throat when all he wants to do is make guns out of sticks."

"Stripped the 13 year old's room down to a mattress today because it's legal and punching her is not."

"Didn't hear the baby crying right away...guess that fifth shot of Jack was not such a good idea."

"Diagnosed my kid with appendicitis...over the phone...because I went to work even though he was puking."

"First name basis with the principal.  I sure wish he'd take my advice and just kick Junior's ass to keep him in line."

"Daughter's skirt is so short she looks like a two dollar hooker on the Sunset Strip"

"Wonder if the teacher figured out I downed a couple shots before conferences"

"Dinner of bologna and spaghetti-o's tonight.  On paper plates."

You get the idea.

Maybe there really ARE perfect parents out there, with kids who shit glitter and win a trophy every day just for breathing.  I don't assume to know how life is for everyone, so I guess that Leave It To Beaver existence IS possible. 

What I DO know, is I am THANKFUL my early parenting years were done before social media.  Because if I was starting out now, I'd be intimidated as fuck.  All those perfect children being perfectly parented every single minute of the day, and I would glance up from my computer and gaze upon my own children and feel about as useful as tits on a boar (thanks dad, for that little gem).  

Infancy and toddlerhood of crusty boogers, saggy diapers, children fighting, all the day's food displayed for everyone to see on their 3rd outfit of the day.  On to childhood of eating glue, artwork created on every surface of the house, destroying everything in their path.  Enter the pre-teen years of attitude, awkward ugly duckling photos, that ability to speak at a volume ten times louder than the rest of the room when with their friends, joining activities they really suck at.  And then the wonderful world of teenagers with mom sneaking drinks in the bathroom, hiding the booze so they don't steal it, drivers licenses that would be better wasted on an 85 year old epileptic blind woman, drugs, sex, rock and roll.

Yeah, parenting is hard.  Parenting sucks the life out of you.  There's the smooth sailing days, in which you go to bed that evening and wonder what kind of atrocities they're storing up for you.  The moments when you hide somewhere no one can find you and bawl your eyes out because you just. can't. take. one. more. thing.

Hey, I fully admit that maybe it's just me.  It's very possible the parenting gene skipped a generation around here, because by the time I had the first one ready to leave the nest, this momma bird was ready to shove a boot straight up her ass to get her to fly.

These kids have done great things, and made me proud, but I've got the grey hairs to prove that it all came at a cost.  And I'm not going to sugarcoat that with happy little shiny Facebook updates about what Dick and Jane did that day with Puff and Spot.  On my page, you'll get the bad with the good.  And it's not just about being my authentic self, either.  It's also for those who are viewing.  Because maybe there's a new mom out there wondering where her flower filled, rainbow and pot of parenting gold exists while the baby screams for the sixth hour in a row.  Maybe there's the parent of the pre-teen who wonders who that monster is that woke up this morning spewing sewage from their mouth.  Maybe there's a mom somewhere out there who has just HAD IT, and has just come out of her hiding place from sobbing her guts out and logs on to Facebook.

You're not alone, girlie.  Not alone at all.

Keep it real.

Tech-Doofus

I can spot a fake handbag.  I can bake up a killer key lime pie.  I can help you select the perfect outfit for your body type and style.  I can make you feel like your shopping experience is the best part of your day.

I can not, however, do much in regards to technology.

We all have skills.  Mine just don't fall along the lines of the latest tech gadgets. 

I have a smart phone, but there are icons on it (are they even called icons?) that are foreign to me.  I thought it was the coolest thing ever when I learned I could turn my camera sound off.  I still haven't figured out how to look at contact information without calling a person at the same time.  I occasionally install apps I think will be useful and then delete them when my eyes cross trying to understand them.  I thought I was oh so organized when I started using my phone calendar until I missed a dentist appointment.  I very quickly went back to the paper calendar sitting on my desk, and as long as I remember to turn the page on Sunday, there have been no more missed appointments or reminders.

Apps like Twitter, Instagram, SnapChat, and whatever the hell RSS Feed means make me bang my head against whatever screen I'm looking at.  I really, truly, do not understand these things.  I know, I know, EVERYONE uses one or all of them, and having teenagers, you would think I would get with the program.  But what do these things do that I don't already do?  (Did I just use the word "do" too many times there?  Blame the espresso)  I know everything I've learned about blogging says I should also link this blog to Twitter and Instagram accounts, but I'm wondering WHY?

Start with Twitter.  From the little I know about it, it's just random status updates with hashtags.  Isn't that Facebook?  Minus the hashtags, unless you like hashtags.  With cheese and onions.  I prefer mine with hot sauce as well.  Wait...hashbrowns.

Then Instagram, which if I've looked over my daughter's shoulders enough times (I can't keep track of all these apps she's showing me), it's a photo feed.  I think.  I know I see photo after photo scrolling by.  But then I see the same photos on Facebook.  And it seems you can link your Instagram account with Facebook, so you could see the same photos in two places.  Unless I'm totally wrong, because like I admitted from the start, I'm a complete moron when it comes to this kind of thing.

And then SnapChat.  This is the one my daughter keeps bugging me to get.  I keep asking her how this compares to just sending a photo with a text message, and I admit, I tune her out when she starts babbling about why it's so much better.  But all I hear are pictures delete once you've viewed them and then I think, if the picture's worth viewing, why isn't it worth viewing more than once?  Or for more than ten seconds, or however long it's set to? 

What ARE these things?  And why do they confuse me so much?  Why do I just do all of the above on either a text message or Facebook and say "good enough"?  What kind of fantastic benefits of technology am I ignoring or just not seeing?

I feel pretty accomplished when I can manage to program our thermostat for the week.  I recently did this at work and I felt like throwing a party when I arrived at work the next day and didn't have to adjust anything.  Have I done this on our home thermostat?  No, but that has more to do with my hatred of closing windows, which is an entirely different thing I may rant about some day.

I know how to operate about five buttons on our remote control, and even though the TV remote should operate several other pieces of equipment, I just feel better grabbing that old DVD remote and hitting those buttons.  And this is where the problem of technology seems to be coming to a head around here.  Living in the sticks limits our options as far as TV viewing goes.  Satellite is the only thing available, and we had it for quite some time, but I noticed that our favorite channels would require paying for hundreds of channels we didn't want.  I dumped that shit, after getting tired of the "nothing's on" and the endless rotation of channel flipping. 

I made the switch to streaming video, with Hulu, Netflix, and Amazon, which in my doofus tech brain meant alot of trial and error trying to figure out how to register devices and a bunch of gobbldigook I didn't understand.  We're stuck with DSL in this godforsaken land, so there have been moments of kicking kids off the WiFi, but in general, I was happy about it.

Until the TV complaints started.  I guess our TV is old.  Because it doesn't have an HDMI input.  I have absolutely no clue what that means.  I do know that more often than not, our streaming gets interrupted and seems wonky.  See how tech savvy I am?  I use words like "wonky" to describe it.  I'm almost to the point of not being able to use Hulu at all, and Netflix hiccups on me quite a bit.  I chalk it up to living in the boonies, but my family seems to think that a new TV with HDMI input will help.  But these are the same people who try to explain things like Twitter and SnapChat to me, so obviously, I have my doubts.

What I do NOT doubt is that my TV holds pretties.  Because it's a big behemoth dinosaur with a flat top. 

So of course, all that runs through my brain is where do the pretties go?  And then, second, and what's probably more important, is wondering how in the hell a TV that took the huffing and puffing of two grown big men to get in the house is going to get OUT of the house?  Even if it's free, is anyone really going to WANT this dinosaur?  Because really, with no HDMI input, which everyone seems to know about but me, what's it really worth other than entertainment of shoving it out the front door like and unwanted dead mouse corpse?  And let's be real, it's HEAVY...there's no shoving of anything, no entertainment in watching it fly off a curb, and for the sake of all that is holy, it HOLDS PRETTIES.

So, here I sit, trying to ignore the TV dilemma.  Maybe I'll just go find myself an ancient VCR and hook that sucker up to the brontosauraTV.   And try to figure out the VCR remote without having to use the universal remote.  Or not.

I think I'll just go read a book instead.

Your Offense Offends Me

Not really, but I've always wanted to say that.  Especially really fast, about five times in a row, because I'd become a stumbling idiot in the process and probably spit all over myself. 

I'm not easily offended.  Many who know me would agree, especially after hearing endless f-bombs and off color humor constantly coming out of my mouth.  In fact, it probably could wear thin on people if they don't have a sick sense of humor or are having one of those complete crapola days.  Hey, it happens, and I know I may not be everyone's cup of tea.  I shrug, I move on.

I've decided I really enjoy this blogging thing.  I didn't think I would, because so many times, reading various blogs, I don't feel a sense of authenticity.  It can become a bit like an extended Facebook, where you only see the happy, the shining moments, and you start to wonder if these people ever poop, trip, gush awkwardly, ignore housework, have shitty parent moments, or wear underwear with holes in them.

Boy, I had to end that list quick before I actually admit to too many failings that equal WAY too much information.

Many of my posts have come across with humor, and it's not because I want to gloss anything over.  Actually, I'm not sure there IS a way to gloss over dead animals in trees, or feeling like a 3 year old about to have a colossal meltdown.  This IS my brain.  My brain on humor.  Life without humor is not a life I am willing to live.  Yes, sarcastic humor most times, peppered with vulgarity, which REALLY if that vulgarity is running through my brain, I really should be authentic to those reading and not edit myself.

By the way, today was coffee day again.  Considering I haven't touched on the actual topic of this blog post as of yet, it should be obvious.

Occasionally, I'm serious. 

No, really, I am.

I'm just as capable of serious thought as the next person, though that can be hard to believe sometimes, even by myself.  And just like when I need to purge the vulgarity and sick humor of the day, I purge the serious as well.

Yesterday's blog post was about online charity.  Not in the sense of helping the ill, the downtrodden, the underprivileged.  It was about the online beggars.

Yes, they exist.  Many of them have gathered in one place, and I couldn't help myself when I got sucked into reading all the posts.  I HAD to purge my thoughts.

Obviously, when you blog, you see what kind of activity your blog has.  Well, let me tell you, this particular post got viewed ALOT.  I know several of my friends shared it (thank you!), but what I didn't realize is it caused quite a stir among some individuals.  I didn't know this, because to look at the blog post, you see that little area that says "no comments".

Well, of course, being friends, we had discussion over the negative response.  Interestingly enough, as I started to hear about this silly little strife, I waited fruitlessly for a comment either on the blog post, or on the Facebook page associated with my blog.  After all, it's completely public, and I am more than willing to engage in some discussion as to why someone may feel my thoughts and opinions are incorrect.  That's an expected result of putting your thoughts on the internet, after all.  Not everyone is going to think as you do.

"Not everyone is going to think as you do".  Yes, I just quoted myself.  Because it's such a simple statement.  Dare I say, common sense, even.  I kind of thought everyone knew this, but I also still believe in Santa Claus, so shows what I know.

I find the internet fascinating.  People do tend to get wound up, offended, noses out of joint, hell, even hostile over the written word.  I'll admit, I am not immune to this myself.  Sometimes, you see something so offensive, so totally against the core of who you are and how you think that you feel compelled to say something.  Though typically, a normal person would say it directly on the post that caused such offense.

And really, that's the GREAT thing about the internet.  It gives you an opportunity to interact with people who may not share the same thoughts as you.  It's a way to engage in healthy debate, and there's opportunity for everyone to be heard.  Pretty awesomesauce when you think about it.  Where else can you speak about a sensitive subject and everyone TAKES TURNS to speak their mind? 

Where the awesomesauce ends however, is when it becomes hostile.  I'm sure we've all seen evidence of "those types".  The ones who can't refrain from throwing veiled (or outright) insults, or are so passive aggressive in their attempt to feel superior that they just won't even directly address the original author.

Now, I understand fully that I bring out the chickenshit in some people.  I actually laugh at that statement (and myself) because I am merely this girl sitting at her computer without a bra on and playing Madonna on her speakers.  Yes, Madonna.  Oops, now it's switched over to Queen.  I know I come on strong.  That won't change, because it's who I am.  Blame my dad, he who says what he means and means what he says.

But for chrissakes people, it IS just the internet.  It's not like I'm going to reach through my monitor and bitch slap you for DARING to disagree.  In fact, I encourage disagreement (the non-hostile kind of course), because at least if you are disagreeing, you are speaking YOUR truth.  Because HELLO, your truth does not have to match my truth.

I'm all about differences.  Some of my most valued relationships in this world are made up of unique and beautiful differences.  I have friends all over this country who are vastly different from me.  They are some of the most precious, caring, special people I know.  I love them fiercely, and they have added such an immense amount joy to my life that I cannot ever quite explain.  Their differences, all of the uniqueness, is what bonds us.  We love each other as individuals, and our ability to disagree with each other while loving each other is priceless.  The same goes for family...I have a large extended family that comes from all walks of life, with such vastly different views, but I love each and every one of them the same. 

I personally would never homeschool my kids, but I know fantastic homeschoolers.  I am an atheist, but I know wonderful, loving Christians.  I'm not a huge fan of children, but I know so many people that absolutely love and adore spending time with kids.  I go beserk if I stay home for too long, but I'm surrounded by excellent stay at home moms.  I could go on and on, but these are all differences that may cause someone to say something I don't agree with.  And if I feel compelled to state my own opinions, it's very easy to do in a way that allows for discussion, instead of just screaming from a soapbox while hurling insults at people (and their children...what kind of ASSHOLE does that???)

So, why, on the internet of all places, are differences so freely looked down upon?  In fact, why do some people care?  Why care enough to whine, bitch, moan, belittle to others, but not have quite enough balls to just go to the source?

Well, I will tell you why.

When you feel as if you have to shout justifications loudly to anyone who will listen, EXCEPT the person making the statement to begin with, there may just be some truth in what the original poster is actually saying.

Yup, I said it.  And maybe that post about online charity hit too close to home.  Maybe, deep down, underneath the public rantings and insults, where your truth really lies, hidden underneath the bravado, you realize you're the same type of moocher I blogged about.

But you know what?  Own it.  Owning up to your faults is so completely freeing.  More freeing than taking off your bra in the comfort of your own home at the end of the day.  We are ALL flawed.  We're human.  It's a wonderful thing, this flawed existence we lead.  It's ok,  at least you gave me something to blog about, on a day I wasn't really feeling inspired to blog about anything.  Don't let it get to you.  After all, it is just the internet, and really, if something rings a little too harsh for you, that's on you, not me.  Examine yourself and your own reactions, instead of attempts to attack those who agree. 

And on that note, I'm going to listen to some Justin Timberlake.  Because he's finally old enough to make me not feel like such a perv while enjoying him.

Gimme Gimme Gimmee

Times are tough, economy downturn, victim of downsizing, yada yada yada.  We've heard it all before, and some are living it.  Unless you are the very fortunate, we've all had those moments of wanting something, hell, even needing something, and having to say "I can't afford it."

Well STOP THE PRESSES and fret no more!!! 

Now, when faced with those pesky troubles called LIFE, you can just create a donation page and expect the world to solve your problems!

I ran across this site called GoFundMe, and it's filled with user-created donation requests.  There are plenty of really great causes going on throughout the site, and plenty of stories that could bring a tear to your eye and tug at your heartstrings more than any Sarah McLachlan animal adoption commercial.  (Sometimes I think I got rid of cable just so I wouldn't have to see that commercial anymore)

But, ladies and gents, this blog post is not dedicated to the tens of thousands of worthy causes out there.  This isn't about the dreams and hopes of people with terminal illnesses, or financially encouraging underprivileged families to attain that wish for summer camp.  No, what this is about, is the ENTITLED gimme gimme gimme pages.  The more I saw, the more I scrolled through.  It was like getting sucked into a really bad reality show that you can't seem to stop watching, even though you find your brain cells dying off the further you go.  (Yet another reason I got rid of cable)  It's such a horrendously long list of wants and "needs" that I'm actually going to make a list.  Actually, I'm going to make a list because my brain processes better that way, and I've been at work all day and I'm fried.  Yes, I was AT WORK all day.  I work, because I have wants and needs.  And my mommy and daddy told me to work for what I want.  Simple concept, but apparently, it's getting lost in the era of gimme gimme gimme.

1.  Auto repairs.  I'm a lucky gal in that not only is my hubby handy with a socket and wrench, but so is my son.  Many of my repairs or vehicle maintenance are taken care of right here at home.  However, driving a newer vehicle means there are some things that just have to be done by a pro.  Everything from glass repair, damage repair, motor issues that require computer diagnostics, hell, even new tires, and I'm taking that sucker in.  You see, I kind of knew this was one of those things expected of a car or truck owner.  You buy a vehicle, you maintain a vehicle.  And yes, they occasionally need new tires (you let me know if you ever buy a car and actually are a big enough dumbass to think those tires are going to last the life of your ownership), oil changes for the not so handy, brakes (again, that pesky regular maintenance thing) and then the more major of repairs, like when a crackhead claims he fell asleep on a bridge and rear ends you.  It's just part of OWNING a vehicle, and if you have to beg online to maintain a vehicle, you may want to consider a bicycle, because tubes don't cost much.

2.  Home repair.  Dont' even get me started.  Ok, I'm already started, so I'll dive right in.  Granted, I bought a money pit, and I was fully aware of the money pit status at the time of purchase.  The "to do" list will never end.  But even when I've owned a home that didn't carry the money pit title, I knew that THINGS GO WRONG.  Water heaters die, furnaces don't last forever, there's that pesky maintenance thing again with roofs, windows, siding.  Let alone if you want to paint and decorate specifically to your own very personal tastes.  It all takes money.  Then there's the unforeseen...the washer that dies a horrid death and spews water and soap all over, kids who never learn that paint is for canvas and redecorate all your walls in their special form of graffiti, hell, even heavy rains beyond your wildest imagination that then show you exactly why there is only a furnace in your cellar (other than the fact that it's creepy as hell and only fit for a Chupacabra)

Didn't save the furnace, but hey, those furnace filters were dry!

 

Yes, along with the extensive $30K renovations from a simple ceiling tile falling (actually, for once, I UNDERexaggerate...the whole ceiling fell), and all the other joys of homeownership, I am now on my THIRD furnace in 11 years.  Not a great track record for furnaces that last on average 20 years, huh?  But you know, four feet of water tends to do a bit of damage, and go figure, it's OUR house, so we've forked out thousands due to bad drainage, sealing, and failed sump pumps.  It's that pesky maintenance thing, and sometimes, hell MANY times, that maintenance blows, especially when you find yourself repeating it over and over again.  But that's what happens with home ownership...you buy, YOU maintain. 

3.  Jobs.  Yup, there are GoFundMe pages related to all kinds of jobs.  People want free and clear money to open their own store.  They want a job out of state, but need YOU to pay for not only their moving truck, but their rent AND deposit, food to last them until their first paycheck, AND a bicycle to get to work with.  Yes, there are even people who want you to fund their expenses to go on an interview.  You don't even HAVE the job, but are begging for money to MAYBE get the job????  Oh, and there's the ripe little home based businesses wanting money to expand.  You know, for packaging, marketing, and advertising.  Because yes, it makes perfect sense that your business expenses should be paid for by people on the internet and not the profits from the business!  Why use logic?  How can people expect you to increase your revenue without their own hard earned money?  It's not enough they're buying your shit, they should finance your business even further!

*can't find the sarcasm font*

4.  Tuition.  Hell, college IS expensive.  I'm putting one through school now, and I could rant all day every day about the costs, much of which comes out of OUR pockets.  But we're not even talking about begging for "real" college.  Seminars.  Classes where you spend three weeks of your life learning how to say kum-by-yah in ten languages and they hand you a certificate for your $2000.  That kind of thing where any person without a case of the gimme's is going to KNOW that it's a worthless piece of paper.

5.  Unrealistic dreams.  Not the kind of dream that has taken a lifetime of sacrifice and still cannot be fulfilled.  Not the wishes of a child who won't see their 10th birthday.  No.  BIG DREAMS.  Like a pool liner for your inground swimming pool.  Paying for a cruise for your 30th birthday (where you use words like "party!" and "but I'm flat broke").  Finishing the tattoo you started.  Living expenses while you write a book...yeah, actual living expenses, as in rent, utilities, and food.  Trip money for meeting celebrities.  The list goes on and on.

6.  Weddings.  Yeah, weddings.  But not just ANY wedding.  Oh no, going to the courthouse is not the wedding these people want.  They want, scratch that...they NEED their dream wedding.  Because the success of their marriage depends on it.

I'm confused.  I refuse to believe that people are THIS entitled.  Hell, at least the people standing at the intersections holding up a sign are actually openly begging, and not writing up some flowery creative bullshit in an attempt to actually make you believe that they shouldn't have to work for these things.  Work.  Job.  GET A JOB.  Get TWO jobs.  Really, I don't care if you're selling your plasma, canning beets and whoring them out as organic at your farmers markets, AND working an 80 hour week job.  But pay for your own shit.  Truly, it IS the American way.  Work hard, see returns.  NOT take 30 seconds and fill in the blanks and beg.  It may be a free will donation site, but let's call it what it is...it's shameless begging, because something in your warped little brain seems to tell you that these are things that should be given to you, and not earned.

Gimme gimme gimme.

Tsk tsk tsk.

There's An App For That

Funny that I chose to clear out the rose bushes yesterday.  I typically let nature take over in that area, because the roses are very old and usually get eaten up by some insect or creature.   But it's near the patio and storm cellar doors, and I was sick of the view of overgrown Jurassic Park looking weeds.  I had to wonder if I was just masochistic by the time I was done pulling all the weeds and other plants that seem to want to grow there, because my arms look like I wrestled with a cat that had a hot poker shoved up it's ass.  I'm still randomly having to take a needle to my hands to pull the sliver like thorns out of them.

I was doing yard work in an effort to cure my grumpiness, so maybe there was a subconscious will to harm myself back into a state of zen and joy.  Whatever it was, it didn't work, and I had to put myself in a time out (aka nap) by late afternoon.  I woke up thinking I could then move on with my evening by being good mommy and cooking dinner and finishing some laundry, hell maybe I would even bake for the kidlets.  But when I realized 19 year old child wasn't home, and 16 year old man child wanted to go hang out with friends after work, I settled into further sloth behavior and planted my ass on the couch with some magazines. 

I saw a weather alert on my phone for a severe thunderstorm watch, which anymore seems to mean that it will get windy and we will be lucky to see a sprinkle or two.  I actually abandoned the sloth behavior and marched outside where the wind was starting to pick up, and weighed down a few things, pulled patio chair cushions into the shed, and moved some stuff closer to the house.  I was feeling pretty smart at this point, since I usually wait to pick up things after they've blown across the yard.  Looking at the skies, and being blinded by sun, I went ahead and watered flowers that appeared to have withered and given up on life.  By this time, I'm fed up with these constant promises of rain that never seem to happen, and feeling like the oh-so-smarty pants that is just going to trump Mother Nature's false promises.

The first Severe Thunderstorm Warning rolls in, and I'm rolling my eyes at the brief rainstorm that made me close my windows for ten minutes.  Next thing I know, the sun is shining again, the birds are singing their happy little song.  The 19 year old arrives home, and I start perusing Netflix wondering if there is something for us to watch that we can agree on that won't make her roll her eyes or my brain putrefy.

Then BAM!  Both our phones illicit this horrendous screeching sound and I see this weird looking window pop up with a random "tornado warning, take cover".  We look at each other with a WTF, I glance at the windows and see the sky is cloudy but nothing that is making me think it's time to grab the ruby slippers and run for cover.  Within seconds, the ear piercing howl of our town tornado siren starts wailing.  And I really do mean wailing.  It's never quite uniform in it's wails, and seems to select random pitches the longer it goes. 

So, considering our storm shelter is also the Chupacabra lair, and you can only enter it through cellar doors set into the ground outside, we do what any normal small town Iowan would do and go outside and look up.  Of course, having grabbed that extra appendage called a cell phone, we both look like little groupies as we're holding phones up getting video of the waaaaah, waaa(hiccup)aaaaah, waaaaa(belch)aaaaah.  We make our way to the front of the house, where we can bet a better view of the western skies that might tell us if Dorothy is about to leave Kansas.   Nope, nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  Yeah, it looks like some storms are rolling in to the northwest, but it's pretty far out there and nowhere near our six little square blocks.  The sirens make a final wailing death screech and die off.  We wait, hanging out on the front steps watching these storms in the distance, enjoying a breeze that is just enough to slightly cool off a hot and muggy day.  Obviously, being a phone junkie, I'm taking pictures, checking weather radar, and being reassured by the large cell I see is passing us by to the north.

The light show starts with some really great lightning powering up in the northwest sky, and I'm pretty chillaxed enjoying the show, because it's still pretty far off, and really doesn't seem to be moving toward us.  I confirm this again with a quick check of the handy dandy weather app I have on my phone, and then track down my son to make sure he doesn't try to drive home while this little weather "event" is moving through.  I mean, my app is telling me it's not going to actually hit this area, and yeah, it's breezy, but it's not even raining and all the lightning is pretty far in the distance.  I'm feeling confident (cocky) that this is the usual weather forecast that always seems to miss us.  But you know, *ahem* just in case I'm wrong (but I'm NOT wrong because I have that handy dandy app on my phone), I wouldn't want my son driving through big open sky country just to try and come home.

As the light show gains strength, I'm thinking how cool this would be to jump in the truck and get on the other side of the six square blocks so we have a open view of everything moving through.  Hubby calls from North Dakota, asking me what's going on there.  He's got a buddy calling him who lives west of us saying they have a tornado touched down, and I reassure him with the handy dandy radar app I've been using and telling him OF COURSE we are being cautious.  He understands fully, because he's usually the one down in the Chupacabra lair changing the furnace filter, and he knows we don't go in that pit of hell unless we absolutely have to.  C'mon, in ten years we've only sheltered down there twice before in a storm, so really, this is no big deal.  Plus, there's that cool light show going on.

It's getting darker, afterall, it is night time at this point, and the light show is really the only thing letting us see what these storm clouds are doing.  We've got some pretty green going on above us, but my app is still telling me all is fine, though I catch myself looking up to see if I see any swirling going on during those flashes.

Still no rain, still just a nice breeze, though I admit to myself that the breeze has probably graduated to the status of windy.  But hey, it's hot out, and I'm enjoying it.  There are some hellacious looking clouds passing up to the northwest and I'm thinking hell, those farms are getting pounded, but cool show bro (cocky little weather girl that I have become).  Daughter heads in the house to plug her phone in, because there is nothing worse than a dying phone when there are so many status updates needing to be tweeted, Facebooked, and SnapChatted.

And then WAAAAAAAAAAH, WOOOOOOOOOOO....the town siren starts up again.  In about three seconds flat I realize it's too dark now for me to see what the skies are really doing, I've watched all the weather spotters speed out of town, and our sirens typically are only activated when something is actually seen.  Yup, time to stop relying on the weather app and get our asses into the cellar.  The daughter grabs the cat who by this time is yowling; perhaps attempting to out yowl the town sirens. 

We get into the Chupacabra lair, still feeling at least halfway confident that this is like any other time and we'll just be standing among the spiders and dirt until the sirens stop.  The cat is still meowing like the whiny little wussy that he is and I'm thinking he really needs to just shut up or next time his ass stays upstairs.

FLASH, the power suddenly goes out.  With it, goes the tornado siren.  We give it a few seconds in the pitch black windowless storm cellar, and yup, town generator kicks on and the siren goes back to wailing it's siren song.  However, the creepout factor just went up five times since this IS the Chupacabra lair, and the only things we grabbed were a whiny cat and cell phones.  At least daughter has a flashlight app on hers, so can use that if we have to.  I'm not too thrilled at the prospect of the power being out, because even with only six square blocks to power, we hardly EVER lose it, even during strong storms.  Just as this thought crosses my mind, the tornado sirens start wailing a dying, winding down sound, and even with the siren being located just through our back yard, it gets quieter and quieter until it finally dies a horrid sounding death into silence.

And then we hear the storm.

Howling winds, and the rain starts, and it must be one hell of a pounding, driving rain.  I'm still thinking ok, strong storm, and at least this is better safe then sorry.  Though it's starting to feel like the horror movie scene where something comes out of the dark.  The cat is still yowling, so at least he hasn't been snatched and eaten by whatever lives in the lair.  Though he's still yowling, and the sirens have stopped, so what's he so bothered by?  No, I don't want to think about that, because that may mean my app is wrong, and so far this is really no big deal.

I hear the home phone ringing upstairs and am thinking what the hell kind of moron is calling NOW?  I almost wish I could answer it just to tell the damn telemarketer sitting on his ass in India that HELLO WE ARE ABOUT TO BE BLOWN TO PIECES HERE DUMBASS.  My cell phone rings, it's my dad, I tell him it does actually sound like it's getting bad, and he tells me it was him calling the home phone to inform my stupid ass to get down in the lair.  Gee, Daddy, do you know your daughter or what?  Not like I had been sitting outside watching everything for the last hour.  I let him know we are ok, in the cellar, it's getting loud, and I will call him when it all passes.  Once I'm off the phone, I hear the rumbling.  Granted, this could be thunder that is rolling through so steadily that it creates a dull roar, but it's just not feeling that way.  It's the kind of rumbling you actually feel and not just hear.  I keep reminding my daughter (and myself because I'm finally feeling a tad concerned) that a tornado will be deafening, so as long as this remains a dull roar, it's passing us by.  Rains are torrential, I can hear the water starting to seep into the basement, and I briefly think of the sump pump that sits two feet away from me without any power.  The cat is still freaking out, the daughter is getting pretty stressed, and I'm occasionally holding my hand to the wall behind me to see if I feel it vibrating.

Time passes SO slowly when you're waiting for the house to come down around you.

It was a total of about 25 minutes in the cellar.  Without the sirens to let us know how long to remain underground, I had to rely on my handy dandy phone and the warning that finally appeared on it a full five minutes after we actually went to the cellar.  The cat settled down about the same time the noise diminished to just downpours, and I got to enjoy the soothing sound of even more water trickling in.

Rub a dub dub.  View from the wood board we were crouched on.

Daughter's phone had died, so no trusty flashlight app to use (going to have to get one of those), and we both decided we need an emergency bottle of liquor stashed among the rock, dirt, and spiders.  Probably should get a weather radio while we're at it.  And a flashlight that doesn't require an app.  Yeah, I'll get around to that.

Let me tell you, this town is CREEPY with no power.  After rising from the depths, and after reassuring a hubby who probably had to be worried sick because the last thing I had told him is that we were in the cellar and grudgingly admitting it sounded pretty bad out there, I began mopping up the wet soggy messes in the house that had all the windows open (my carpet is still damp today).  I admitted my addiction to the rest of the world and went out to the truck to plug in my phone and listen to the weather radio station.  Things had totally calmed down and we did take a brief drive to see if anything had damaged our area, and short of tree limbs down and leaves whipped everywhere, it was otherwise just very, very dark.  Which made the light show going on to the south of us really pretty.

Just can't resist those light shows.

Another hot and humid day today, with another forecast for strong storms tonight.  No weather radio.  A somewhat crappy flashlight I found in the house.  No liquor.

So not prepared.

Better charge my phone for those handy dandy apps.

Uncaffeinated

I'm one of those lucky shits that has a work schedule of Tuesday through Friday, so 3 day weekend bitches!  And, looking on the bright side of things, when I work the occasional Saturday (like I will this week), that 3 day weekend turns into 4.  Of course, Sunday, I took my dear old time doing laundry and housework, because i have that four day weekend and have an extra 24 hours in my week to be productive!  I kept thinking of that extra 24 hours as I stayed up late reading a book, because with 24 extra hours, I can take a nap if I'm tired the next day.

I couldn't even get too irritated when my eyes popped open a full hour before the alarm went off.  I couldn't feel more than a smidge of angst over setting the alarm in the first place, though it was to make sure the 16 year old man child did get up and go to work.  I only felt slight violent tendencies when I staggered downstairs to realize that the birds were singing their song of joy so loudly at 5:23 in the morning.  I skipped the routine of making my espresso, because I have that extra 24 hours, and with birds clanging bells in my pounding head, I was going to use one or two of those hours to go back to bed the moment the teen boy stumbled out the door.

As I trudged upstairs back to the gloriously dark bedroom, I whipped off the making-me-barely-decent clothing, preparing for snuggling down in bed for some sheer sloth time.  I grabbed my phone, thinking I better let the hubby know I'm going to snooze, which is really code word for don't blow my phone up with chipper morning text messages.  I see I have a message waiting, and expecting the "good morning, my family!", I open it quickly to see "We are looking forward to your appt: 6/16/14 at 9:00AM" from my dental office.

I'm not sure exactly what came out of my mouth at that moment, but I do know it was loud enough for the neighborhood to hear, because at that moment, the birds seemed to stop their cheerful little song.

I stumble to the closet, throw on some clothes, shuffle my pounding head into the bathroom, throw in some hairspray and mess it up a little (thank you low maintenance hair cut) slap on some spackle just enough to make it look like I made an effort and haul my grouchy ass to the coffee shop so I can get some adequate caffeine intake for this forgotten dentist appointment.

I now know why, even when there are plans to go to the coffee shop, I still down some espresso prior to leaving the house.  I am a bitch without caffeine intake.  Yes, espresso turns homicidal, judgy McJudgerson into a happy little lark who thinks all mornings are glorious.

As I sat in my parked car, thinking the walk across the street to the coffee shop is just too much to ask of me in addition to a dentist appointment, my eyes scan the happy little worker bees going by.  I contemplate slamming my door open into oncoming traffic...just because.  I watch the woman getting out of her car in the pretty coral dress and instantly gasp in horror at her choice in footwear.  Black patent heels with a coral dress?  Really?  As if that isn't bad enough, she can't even walk in the heels and has the classic slight bent knee, something large and stiff shoved straight up her ass stride going on.  Which then just draws attention to the badly coordinated shoe choice with the coral dress.

Hey, I already admitted the judgy McJudgerson tendency.  Give me a break.

I contemplate getting out the car and see the eternally grouchy-I-hate-people receptionist from a medical office getting out of her car.  I consider for a moment flipping her off because she's such an unpleasant person (as if I'm any more pleasant this fine early morning).  The thought crosses my mind that no amount of caffeine is going to make her customer service skills improve, but then I'm distracted by the person walking by my truck with the phone up to their ear.  My thoughts instantly flash to people not being able to just walk without being on their damn phones anymore and I picture myself leaping out of the truck and bitch slapping that phone straight away from her head.

Knowing by this point that caffeine intake is at a point of critical mass, I head into the coffee shop, to stand in line behind Ms. Stiff Legs In High Heels and Eternally Grouchy Receptionist and then run a lengthy mental diatribe about their coffee orders with thoughts like "lightweight" and "amateur" while digging my nails into my palms and breaking out into a cold sweat as the withdrawals set in.

I'm waited on by a new girl, and as I'm mentally screaming "Whyyyyyyy a new one on THIS morning of all mornings????"  I realize my debit card is sitting at home on my desk.  Though I have credit cards with me, I feel this as just one more little thing piling on my uncaffeinated burden of being in public.  I hand over my card after very carefully and slowly explaining my order (because I'm one of those annoying espresso drinkers that never drinks a normal drink right off the menu board), and the new girl stares at the card like it's a ticking time bomb.  I briefly consider snatching it out of her hands and swiping the damn thing myself, but thankfully, I find just enough restraint to stand there politely smiling.  Smirking.  Or sneering.  Your choice.

As my coffee comrades join me (since Monday mornings are our typical coffee gathering, though this morning I had other sloth plans), I explain the horror of the forgotten dental appointment, and realize Whitney Houston is playing on the radio in the background.  Whitney fucking Houston.  Screeching straight into my brain about always loving me.  That song is intolerable WITH caffeine, let alone none, and I briefly consider screeching right along with her at mega-volume.  Again, self control kicks in and I just grind my teeth, waiting for my drink to arrive.  Grinding, right before a dentist appointment.  Great idea.  I should have just screeched.

As we discuss dentist appointments, my drink arrives, and I slurp from that container as loudly as possible because I'm thinking everyone should be just as irritated by life on a Monday morning as I am.  My aunt mentions xrays, and it dawns on me that I'm probably due for xrays at this visit.  I consider telling the staff that I'm pregnant to avoid having cardboard shoved in my mouth to the point of gagging, and then ask my present company if it would work to tell them I'm pregnant every time.  I could always claim a miscarriage, and pregnancy again, and this could go on and on for about ten years until they realize that I'm probably too old to be claiming human incubation.  I think this idea is brilliant, yet that could be the lack of caffeine intake making me think such ludicrously ridiculous thoughts.  At least I've stopped judging the fashion choices of the people walking by.

I'm properly caffeinated by the time I arrive at the dental office, though I freely tell anyone who will listen that this appointment has interrupted my sloth time.  I then get the news that I'm due for a panoramic xray, which means standing with a machine around your head instead of cardboard in your mouth.  I think awesomesauce to that one, until, as the machine starts circling, I realize I'm slightly claustrophobic.  Though the front of the xray is slightly blurred (couldn't be from that momentary panic-fidgeting), the rest of the film shows teeth all where they should be except for two.  Two wisdom teeth, which I think I remember having that information somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, but have forgotten in a haze of sloth plans interrupted.  I'm informed they're impacted, which is just a heinous dirty word for down in my jaw, and the dental assistant seems to enjoy pointing out the one that's set deep into my jaw and at a complete sideways angle, pointing straight at the rest of teeth as if to say "I'm gonna get ya sucka".  I pathetically tell her in a slightly whiny voice that they've never bothered me, and I'm told that we'll go over it after looking at old scans and when the dentist comes in.  We proceed with the cleaning, and miracle of all miracles, everything goes fine on a day when it just seems that things would naturally not go smoothly.  The dentist arrives, looks at scans, and tells me that the wisdom teeth have moved slightly from the last scan, and MIRACLE, they are something to keep an eye on, instead of the usual "let's take action immediately".  However, I get to hear warnings of things like cysts developing, nerve damage because they are crowded so close to the nerves in my jaw, and something about talking, though that could have been my overactive imagination picturing losing all ability to talk which in my chatty little world would be worse than cutting off my own foot with a rusty children's scissors.

I escape alive, find my iced coffee still cold in my truck, and think, hey, I might actually be productive today regardless of my previous sloth plans.  I drive home with all the thoughts of projects I could complete, work that could be done.  I don't care that it's going to start edging towards 90 degrees today, because I'm still on that high of summer after a polar vortex and don't believe any amount of heat is going to bother me.  I even think that maybe, just for once, I will be able to get the monster weed trimmer started and won't look like an epileptic having seizures as I yank on that thing.  Thoughts of painting run through my head, especially after I remembered to ask hubby to leave the sawhorses set up for me.  All I will need is to grab my craft board and select some fun spray paint when I get home.

And then, I turn the corner of our block and get a view of the driveway.  And see the lock.  On the garage.  The lock that is slowly turning into the bane of my existence.  The lock that has two keys.  One key on hubby's key ring.  One key on son-man-child's key ring.  Both of whom are at work.  Granted, I could drive back to town and try to track down where they have my son working today just to get that damn key.  But that's not the POINT!!!  The point, is instead of a spare key hanging in my house, one of them travels through several states every week because lawd knows you might need that motherfucking garage key while you sit in Montana!!!!  I've been promised a spare to be made, but I guess that gets forgotten when you're busy flying over the handles of your motocross bike and crashing your 40 something body into the dirt so that you're hobbling around and groaning the remainder of the weekend.   It's hard to remember the spray paint, craft boards, and other garage goodies your wife might want when bruised over 50% of your body.  Sheesh.  He should be thinking of MY crafty projects when wondering if those ribs are broken or just bruised.

Breathe.  Drink more espresso.  Rant and rave online.  Publicly shame yourself for being such a bitchy little twit.  Salvage the day and at least weed some flowerbeds.  Grab the weed trimmer sitting in your shed and yank on it like a lunatic.  Listen to some Nine Inch Nails and get the Ms. Crabbypants out of your system while yanking on Jurassic Park looking weeds.

And for the sake of all that is holy in the world, suck it up buttercup and get the goddamn corpse out of the tree.

Happy Monday.

P.S.  I want to punch my computer for not recognizing caffeinated and uncaffeinated as real words.  Uncultured swine.

Life Lessons; Father's Day Edition

I took a drive this morning, across the county to my childhood home.  There was quite a bit of traffic, and a few times I had a moment of near road rage as I screeched "NOT THE PIE!".  I shivered while watching for the maniacs and freaks on the road, running air conditioning that was not really needed except to keep a chill on THE PIE.  I had a little time to think during that chilly drive, about that simple little pie, and really what it meant.

I have been fortunate enough to have great men in my life.  Not great in the slightly better word for good.  But GREAT.  Shining.  Educators.  Men who made me who I am.  I don't say that lightly, in my world of taking it lightly.

My parents had great fathers.  I'm not going to sugarcoat it and talk about fantastic childhoods filled with white picket fences.  A Leave It To Beaver existence is not what makes a great father.  But a great father teaches and guides, and they certainly had that.

I lost both grandfathers at a young age, both to accidental deaths.  I wonder had they lived, would their life lessons have been greater?  Would I see them differently, knowing them through an adults eyes, instead of a child's?  Both were hard workers.  Both had wickedly twisted senses of humor.  I have far more memories of my mom's dad, as he died when I was a teenager, while my paternal grandfather passed while I was still a young child.  But what does it say that in that short memory of my dad's dad,  I still remember him clearly trying to scare us kids by randomly popping out his false teeth at us?  Some would call it therapy inducing pranks, but I called it fun.  What child doesn't enjoy being both terrified and fascinated at the same time? 

My mom's dad was cool, in the teenage sense of retro cool.  Did everyone have a grandpa that listened to Pink Floyd?  I liked to think not, and it was him I thought of as I sat six months pregnant in the grass at a Pink Floyd concert in my 20's.  I remember playing with my mom's younger siblings Barbie's at their house, and begging grandpa to do the voices, and if you were lucky, he'd pick up one of those Barbie's and have entire conversations with you in a falsetto ridiculous voice.  When my mom was just starting out with her store, it was grandpa who went to work with her every day.  Being a pre-teen, I didn't understand at the time all the words of wisdom he was sharing with her on running a business, words she has since shared with me.  But I did understand his silliness, even at a place of business.  Pulling on women's wigs, setting up the child sized doll in the hall of the store, making it "talk" to the customers in one of his voices.  He probably scarred some children (and adults) for life, but in my brain, it was my grandpa being silly.  It might seem mundane, or inconsequential, but as an adult, knowing the very hard life he had led, knowing his experiences that would break many people, it is still a lesson we all can benefit from.  The lesson of laughter.  Of silliness.  Of hard work and sacrifice, but finding silliness in the most every day of things.

My own father is not a man of many words.  He, like my grandfathers, was a hard worker, working a union job that provided, but did not inspire.  He did what he had to do to provide for his family, and it showed in the times he would come home covered in filth from the foundry.  He also has a wicked sense of humor.  I still to this day cannot look at a transom window without remembering the terror of our childhood home.

You see, our bathroom door had one of these windows.  And picture innocently sitting on the toilet as a child, daydreaming, and seeing that hallway light go out through that window.  We knew what that meant.  It meant HE was in the hallway closet.  Lurking.  Waiting.  No amount of preparing yourself would save you from the terror of dad jumping out of that closet.  No amount of crying "moooooooooom" would save your whiny little ass.  Don't ask me what mom was doing as you plaintively cried for her to just turn on the light and get dad out of the closet.  One time, I witnessed the fury of mom when dad attempted this little trick on her, so I think it's possible she saw this as a way of getting it out of his system on us, so he would never do that to her again.  All I know, is even by the fifth or sixth time, it still was enough to scare the piss out of us.  Probably why he did it when we were in the bathroom.  Empty bladder...kid can't piss themselves in fright.

The man of little words (except BOO!), has never made me doubt that I'm daddy's little girl, however.  I knew it when I would walk in the house at 12:05AM, and he'd be sitting there looking at the clock, handing out the groundings when he didn't believe my lameass excuse that my watch was set differently from his.  He showed his superhero cape and sword when he tracked me down at a much too old for me boyfriend's house, after I "ran away".  The sword being his fists, the cape being the threats against the scumbag's life.  He taught me responsibility when we spent a day picking up rotten apples in the neighbor's yard after throwing them at said neighbor's house the night before.  He taught me respect when he made mom "the paddle", because dealing with three hedonistic feral little shits while he was at work was more than she could handle some days.  (Don't worry, she broke the paddle slamming it against the wall instead of across our asses, though we deserved many ass whoppings.)  He was the father, firmly insisting you get your ass out of bed for Sunday morning breakfast, and I'm convinced to this day that he knew exactly when that would hurt the most from a night out with friends involving whatever cheap liquor you could get your hands on.

He is the man who helped us rebuild this house, after we tore it apart down to nearly nothing, and then wondered what the hell we had just gotten ourselves into.  He is the man I saw go to mush when he arrived at the hospital and held our daughter, his first grandchild, for the first time.  He has been the man who quietly stood by while things in our lives may have been falling apart, silently letting us know by his unwavering presence that we had to learn adult lessons, but we also always had a dad to let us know we are unconditionally loved.  He taught me to fish, to mow, to wire a house, he is the one I would call in the middle of the night because the basement was flooding again and he was the one telling me it might not be a good idea to play around with plugging in the sump pump while standing in a foot of water.  He taught me to work hard, and did I say WORK HARD?  But be silly...feel free to punch that Velveteen Rabbit across the room at Christmas time.  Let your kids watch Jurassic Park as toddlers because a well rounded, frightening childhood is a GOOD childhood.  He is the man who gave me my sense of humor (as twisted as it might seem sometimes), the man who taught me respect, the man who passed on his sense of speaking plainly and to the point.

He's the father my husband did not have.  He's accepted him, treated him like a son, and given my husband the same unconditional love he has given me.  My husband has a father, but marrying me, he gained a DAD.

My father, like his father, and my mother's father, is a man of few words.  But there are not enough words in existence to describe him.  And that's ok.  His actions have always spoken volumes.  So when he called me a few weeks ago to tell me he was in the "big city", and asked if I wanted him to find me the ever-so-difficult key lime juice to top all key lime juices, of course I said yes.  And of course, he gets THE PIE on this Father's Day.  Because he's my daddy.  And I'm his little girl.

Happy Father's Day Poppa.

Slow Your Roll, Crackhead

Coffee, coffee, coffee, java, espressooooooooooooo.

Yeah, it was "coffee day" at work today.  Makes perfect sense to us, but considering I drink the silky nectar of the gods every day, you may wonder how that's different than any other day.

Well, allow me to elaborate, because my brain is buzzing faster than my fingers can type.  On Thursdays, our local coffee shop is open late.  Usually, they close at two, but not Thursdays.  Oh no, not the beautiful, shining, holy day of Thursday.  So, Thursday afternoons, they start happy hour at 2:00, which means 50 cents off a large espresso drink and hell yes, every Thursday, we are calling an order in with glee.  So, that usual 8-10 shots of espresso per day gets upped upped UP to an extra four.

COFFEE DAY!!!!

Imagine my delight when my son called asking if he could hang out with friends after he got off work.  With the daughter at work until probably 9 tonight, that means mommy is ALOOOOOOONE (yes I howled that) in the house tonight!

COFFEE DAY!!!  ALOOOOOOOONE tonight on a major caffeine buzz and it's Pinterest here I come!  And it's not just perusing Pinterest time, but it's actual DOING Pinterest time!

I just baked pine cones.

Yes, I put pine cones in my oven.

Pinterest says it kills any potential bugs and what Pinterest says, I do.

My pine cones are cooling, and I felt like a giddy school girl ripping open my Amazon box that arrived yesterday.  By the way, isn't Amazon Prime just the shiznit?  I can order cheap little $7 items and they are shipped free and in my grubby little paws in TWO DAYS.  Because it was merely THREE days ago that I looked at all my Pinterest projects for pine cones and realized I really need to do something with the hundreds of pine cones I picked up after the polar vortex hell.

Pine cone firestarters.  Yup, I've got my muffin tins ready, lined with Christmas cupcake liners.  I have no idea why I have Christmas cupcake liners, because I don't make cupcakes at Christmas, but there ya have it.  Pine cones are baked (I had to get that little tip from another pin, but I've had so much espresso that clicking and opening another window was easy peasy).   I've opened the Amazon box and popped all the air bubbles like it was Fourth of July, and did a little jig, dancing to the tune of whatever that loud popping noise was making.  I unpacked my candle string and exclaimed a loud (because it's just me and the cat) "oooooooohhhhhhh".  I AM FEELING CRAFTY.

I have this pretty little cabinet in my mud room.  It's whitewashed with tin inlays on the door, and oh so pretty.  Yes, there IS a point to this and it has nothing to do with all that espresso and it's not like my brain is going 85 miles an hour, I really WILL get to the point.  Because this cabinet matches my oh so pretty iron and wood whitewashed bench, it has to sit in the mudroom.  But there is no way in hell I'm going to put typical mudroom things in it.  It is FAR too pretty for shoes, mittens, hats, and other "right inside the door" things.  So, I decided when I got it that it would hold my candles. 

I have a candle problem.  It's slightly bigger than my shoe problem, which really means it's a HUGE problem.  I love smellies.  Yes, I call them smellies.  The cabinet is FULL of smellies.  Tea light smellies, votive smellies, wax melt smellies, pillar smellies.  You name it, it's in there. 

Pier One (yes I digress, but hello...COFFEE DAY) has this really annoying habit of getting you totally hooked on a scent and then discontinuing it.  Kind of like Bath and Body Works and Victoria's Secret with their scents, however, I digress from my digression.  So along with my already heinous smellies problem, imagine my joy and delight when college daughter said she was getting a part time job at Pier One.  Angels were singing, light shone from above.  AND imagine what it must have been like getting THAT phone call.  The phone call that makes your stomach flip and a sweat break out.  She informed me that Pier One was clearancing Spice Cake, and it may not be coming back. 

Let me tell you, I broke light speed getting my ass the 40 miles to Pier One.  And I was like a crazy couponer auditioning for a show on TLC.  Hell yes, I cleared that shelf!  I even made little grunting piggy noises while I filled my baskets.

So, the point to that particular transgression is the Pier One haul means that the smellies cabinet is overflowing.  In my Spice Cake gluttony, I have ignored all the other smellies, and they're starting to feel like the last kid picked for a game of dodge ball.

Rounding out the longest digression in the history of blogging (hello....COFFEE DAY), I need wax for my pine cone project.  Preferably scented wax, which SURPRISE, is no problem for me considering I have a SMELLIES CABINET.

So I selected some smellies wax melts I've been ignoring (yummo, Creme Brulee), and realized I need a glass jar to create a double boiler on the stove.  I search cupboards, wondering where that glass jar went that I had out last week for cucumbers and then couldn't find the lid, mind racing, too much espresso.  Then the light bulb goes on...DING!  I threw it out.

Yes, I went there.  I shamefully (maybe not, because there is NO shame when you're racing to the finish line on espresso) and I pulled the garbage bag out of the can under the sink.  My thought process, which granted, is not the most clear when jacked up on java, was the bags are clear, so I will be able to see if the jar is in this particular bag.  My hand slips and gets a handful of, go figure, espresso grounds, and just when I think all hope is lost and I'm about to waste a jar of food, just to have an empty, I see it.  VOILA!  Not the jar I threw away, but a pasta sauce jar.  PRAISE CHEEZITS!    So yes, even less shame, I dug into that garbage bag and grabbed that precious jar, washed it out without even gagging, and I've got my double boiler going with wax.

Seeing that this method of melting the wax down is going to take awhile, I start typing away at this blog and get carried away (shocker considering it's COFFEE DAY), and suddenly remember the wax melting in the kitchen unattended.  No, this is not where I tell you about the glass jar that exploded wax all over my kitchen (though now that I've typed that, I need to go check it again).  I realized, seeing the wax nearly melted and ready, that I need to get those candle wicks wrapped around the pine cones.  NO PROBLEM!  Here's where that espresso kicks in again and I whip through 18 of those babies in no time!  I start pouring wax, realizing these are really big pine cones and they don't want to stand upright very well, but espresso also increases my patience factor (don't ask me how) and I realize if I just hold each one upright for a minute or two, they're fine.

However, I also realize that the pasta sauce wax jar only holds enough wax for about six pine cones.  I stare at my pans realizing I've got 12 more to go and race back to my smellies cabinet for more wax.  Still an overflowing cabinet, so that's really not a problem either, and I select smellies to sacrifice and start chopping them up when I realize these particular smellies are slightly larger than the mouth of the wax jar.  Of course, in my espresso haze, I'm a bit rushed through the process, and now have wax smellies shreds all over my countertops, but by gosh, I got those suckers in the jars and am melting away again.

As I check on that second jar of wax for the sixth time (the chunks were bigger so this one is taking longer), I see that my first batch of pine cone smellies are setting up quite nicely.

PIN WIN.

Of course, I won't REALLY know if it's a pin win until I start a pine cone on fire.  But right now, I don't think this espresso buzz and a lighter are a good match.

*snort*  Match.  Lighter.  FIRE.  get it?

At some point tonight, after the remaining 12 pine cones are properly ensconced in smellies, I'm going to have to work on coming down off this caffeine high, but right now, I'm in too much of a Pinterest euphoria to worry about it.  For now, I shall get up, check my wax, and dance a little jig.

Sing Along: Who Wears Short Shorts?

An article about school dress codes is making the rounds on social media, in which a parent disagrees with the policies, saying   "I have never, ever communicated to my child that her dress was a “distraction” to others or that she bore responsibility if someone reacted in any way—favorably, rudely, distracted, or otherwise—to her body. That schools are passing on this very message to her and other female students—and simultaneously communicating to boys that their learning environment is being compromised by the sight of girls' limbs or cleavage—is unhealthy and unsound at best, illegal at worst."  (see full article HERE)

I had touched on the subject of young women's clothing in a previous post titled "Alone is Not A Dirty Word " but I feel compelled to elaborate on the subject, especially now that warm weather has arrived.  There are so many aspects of this I can touch on, so bear with me while I try to cover everything I'm feeling.

First of all, we are talking about school dress codes.  At the ripe old age of 42, when school is a distant memory, I still remember having a dress code.  It pretty much covered the same dress codes we see so commonly now, with skirt and short lengths and straps, though because of the fashion of that time, there was no need for the policies about baring bellies or sagging pants.  We still could not wear anything with logos advertising violence, alcohol, or drugs, or anything deemed offensive.  It was not a shock to see someone try to push the rules and be asked to go home and change, or turn a tshirt inside out.   Were we protesting?  Maybe mentally, but no one was holding up signs for the world to see.  Were we crying to our parents, and then they were standing up against school policy?  NO.  The administration, made up of ADULTS in our school put these policies in place, and then expected them to be followed.  Just as policies against fighting, bullying, being loud or disruptive, and general codes of conduct were implemented, so was the dress code policy.

Did we attempt to bend the rules?  Of course.  We were TEENAGERS.  Being a teenager was all about pushing our boundaries, expressing ourselves in the confusion of figuring out who we are, and just plain old rebelling.  However, when an adult told us that we were clearly breaking a written rule that we had signed off on at the beginning of the school year, we backed off.  We found our boundary.  The limit had been reached.

This was all part of the valuable lesson of learning to respect authority.  In this day and age, it seems to be encouraged to defy or question authority.  There have been some positives, of course, to rebellious thinking, in which laws are changed, modified, or more freedoms are given.  But where is the fine line in which we teach our kids that just because they WANT it, they can HAVE it?  When do we step up and tell our children that though you may not agree, though you may feel repressed, there ARE rules you must follow? 

This reminds me of my daughter in high school.  Her junior year, she joined the Tom's No Shoes For a Day campaign, to raise awareness for children across the globe who do not own shoes.  Granted, she may have done this as an act of rebellion in school, just to see if she could get away with not wearing shoes.  I saw her read and learn about the movement, she owned a pair of Tom's, so I let her make that decision to not wear shoes that day.  HOWEVER, I reminded her of the school dress code policy, and told her that even if shoes were not specifically stated, it was probably a health and safety issue, so she needed to have the expectation that administration would say something.  I supported her in the campaign, but I also supported the school policy.  So, when administration called to tell us they were giving her the choice to put shoes on or be sent home for the day, I left that choice to her.  I did not ARGUE with administration, and I did not publicly blast the school over the internet. 

What was the lesson for my daughter that day?  There are rules in life.  As adults, we live with them every day.  From traffic rules, criminal laws, financial rules, to employment rules.  And guess what?  There are dress codes in nearly every form of employment you will find.  Dress codes that range from safety, to health, to modesty, to just plain appropriateness.  We may not like them, but we abide by them.  Let me say that again...WE MAY NOT LIKE THEM, BUT WE ABIDE BY THEM.  Why would we teach our children any different?

On another point, whenever posts regarding dress code or manner of dress appear, you hear so many people saying that the focus seems to be on females and not males.  Actually, yes, I will agree with this.  However, I don't believe that focus is for the reason so many seem to think it is.  I've seen people throw out accusations that it's because we sexualize women, or it propagates a rape culture.  I think it is far simpler than that.  We focus on women's manner of dress because it's widely more available for women to bare their bodies in fashion.  If men were commonly walking around in shorts cut off at their upper thigh, or wearing shirts that revealed a large portion of their chest, of course the focus would be on them as well.  Are there not arguments out there to insist that young men pull up their pants and not bare their underwear while attending school?  And while we're talking about young men "baring", how many meme's, photos, and jokes circulated the internet during the Olympics with pictures of male athletes in their swimwear or ski gear?

What this boils down to is we are visual creatures.  Not just men, but women too.  Humans are visual.  Short of losing your eyesight, we seek and find what pleasures us.  Advertisers know this.  Pinterest absolutely knows this, or there would not be thousands of boards dedicated to pictures of what any one individual may find beautiful.  On the flip side of this, it is absolutely human nature to have a reaction of disgust, embarrassment, or shock when viewing something our brain interprets as negative.  And for so many people, viewing young women baring their bodies will evoke a negative response.  Not because they are ashamed of the human body, but because they actually sense the desperation for attention based on the visual a person puts out. 

Without completely repeating my previous post on this subject, I wonder what IS a young woman thinking when she puts on a short that bares as much as some underwear would?  Why did she choose that short, instead of one 3, 4, or 6 inches longer?  What is she thinking when she puts on the tight camisole that clearly shows her bra?  Why that cami and not the one with a looser fit and no deep v-neck?  Why the strapless dress that will result in the "3 minute yank" or the bodycon skirt designed for young 20 somethings that fits tighter than wrapping yourself in Saran Wrap?  Whether the intention is there or not, it reeks of desperation for attention.  Attention on looks, and attention on body. 

As I have previously blogged, "Obviously, it starts at a young age, when girls aren't even sure why they want to feel pretty, but they understand they get more attention if they do.  Just take a moment and look at some (thankfully not all) of the youth clothing lines.  Designs copy the "older girls" with more fitted styles, lower waistbands, thinner fabrics.   Some teen stores, that previously only carried juniors/teen sizing, are now marketing to the younger girls with smaller and smaller sizing, offering youth fits for the same clothing girls twice their age are wearing.   But exactly what KIND of attention does this encourage?  As they move into older styles, finding themselves to finally be able to wear the juniors clothing they've been eyeing every time they walk through a mall, exactly what message are they sending?  Hemlines become shorter, straps on shirts and dresses disappear, heels become higher, and they start delving into the world of the "sexy look".


I'd LOVE to blame the manufacturers, but I can't.  Manufacturers design and market according to demand.  If all you see in every store is body-baring clothing for women, it is because there is a demand.  If the consumer does not buy it, it will disappear. 

And yes, it may be everywhere you look, but so is alot of other clothing.  We're not talking a website designed specifically for fashion modeled after Little House On The Prairie either.  Some of the most popular mainstream stores for teens and pre-teens have plenty of options that would fit any dress code, and not create such a frenzy in social media.  Just a quick glance at Buckle.com, one of our most popular teen stores in our area, and I see plenty that would get you sent home from school, but an equal amount that would be just fine. 

Just an example of the dozens of options in skirt lengths.

These aren't even the longest shorts they offer.

There are plenty of shorts within the fingertip range, in all the brands the teens seem to want so badly.  Even their dresses offer plenty of options at the fingertip or knee length, or the ever so popular maxi skirt and dress.  So, exactly, what are parents fighting for? 

Does it not seem odd that parents are shouting from the rooftops that our young girls should be able to bare as much skin as they like?  That we should change human nature, and how the brain works, because we've become a society that encourages sexualization?  Well hello, mom and dads, just WHO is encouraging it?

YES, your child DOES bear responsibility in the reactions of others.  Because like it or not, we, as visual humans, live in a society where our first judgements are based upon what we see.  It happens when a plate of food arrives at our restaurant table that is arranged in such a way as to make it look the most appetizing.  The advertisements with the beautiful backdrop displaying a product.  The objects in our every day life that illicit a brain response of negative or positive.  Of happy or sad.  Of beauty or ugly.  It is why we teach and read endless articles on dressing for a job interview.  Because, yes, there IS such a thing as first impressions, and YES, like it or not, they matter.

So again, exactly what IS that first impression you want the world to have about your child?