Keeping It Classy, Iowa

Iowa does not automatically mean "hick", regardless of what kind of BuzzFeed article you have read.

I feel like after the wrap up of this season's The Bachelor, we may have gotten a bit of a bad rap.  Yes, there is a tremendous amount of wide, open space, that fills slowly with growing crops.  You can enjoy the aroma of money in spring while passing by fields freshly sprayed with manure.  You will also frequently pass by a large steel building located in the middle of nowhere, and wonder what the stench wafting in your windows is.  (For the non-Iowan, that's called a hog confinement.)

Contrary to what you may have viewed on the whoring yourself out for money show, Iowan's DO know how to form a complete sentence.  There are also some of us who can sing.  We even find things to do other than go to bars for pizza, and visit Post Offices.  Not every major event in our lives takes place in a barn.

That being said, I feel I must admit to a few small things about living in rural Iowa.

During Lent, the aroma of dirty grease fryers fills the air.  Every bar and tavern within three miles of a cornfield is frying up fish that will lube up your intestines better than a box of Ex Lax.  If you should happen to live next to one of these grease pits (as I do), the warm spring day will seem like a curse as you open a window and realize your entire house now smells like a vat of rancid lard.  You will also race home after work, hoping against all hope that the endless constipated people needing to take a shit after eating grease soaked fish have not parked in your yard.  You will then remember the piles of mud that have appeared after a quick thaw of snow, and keep your fingers crossed it will work as a moat and keep people from parking near your home.  However, that does not solve the problem of the people parking at the mud free curb in front of your house, where you will spend the following morning picking up beer cans left behind by tee totalling fish revelers.  Typically, it's a Busch Light can, occasionally, a to go cup with the remnants of liquor, and every once in a while, a dirty diaper.  Just because they are Catholic does not mean they aren't swine.

Holidays such as St. Patrick's Day are celebrated with a parade.  But what that really means is we will put on a parade to make it look like we're keeping a holiday family friendly, but once the sun goes down, that parade is forgotten and it's bar time.  If you have no wish to dance on a table or throw up in a dirty bathroom, it's just common knowledge that you don't enter that particular town on St. Patrick's Day.  But hey, there's a parade.

When the weather begins to warm (and here in Iowa, that means anything above 45 degrees), it's time to get out the motorcycle.  And put your small child on the back.  Without a helmet.  You also open all your car windows and turn the cassette player up really really loud.  Usually playing  Iron Maiden.  Because the entire downtown wants to hear it through your home stereo-turned-subwoofer in your trunk.  Which usually means muffled music heard through trunk rattling.

When warm weather arrives, people start complaining about it being cold.  While wearing no jackets.  They are the same people who whined through the entire winter.  Because living in Iowa your entire life does not prepare you for the normal winter weather we have every year, apparently.  These same people will complain, once again, when summer arrives, but will instantly move on to saying it's too hot.  While wearing their jackets.

As a rural Iowan, you can also peruse the pages of your local shopper for jobs, things for sale, and entertainment in the area.  Basically, a paper of nothing but advertisements and announcements.  Along with finding out where all your greasy fish is being cooked, you can decide whether or not you want to attend the male strip show at the county fairgrounds, or better yet, the 1st annual Testicle Festival.  Don't ask me what is actually happening at a Testicle Festival, but being from rural Iowa, I can guarantee it includes the deep frying of some sort of animal balls.  Typically, the standard fried nut comes from a pig, but hey, it's a festival, so who knows what kind of testicle buffet they will have going on.  Perhaps they will even have games and a testicle parade for the kiddos.

That being said, rural Iowa IS a fantastic place to live.  Once you get used to the various aromas of the land, you can send your kids off to play in the local creek all day, build a huge bonfire in your yard, engage in a little target practice in a field, and shoot off fireworks without worrying about a trip to jail.  Even when you tend to keep to yourself as I do, there is a sense of community and coming together when emergency or tragedy strikes. 

You just have to acquire a "taste" for it.  Remember, though there may be the aroma of pig shit, the frying of pig nuts, there's also an endless supply of bacon.  And that's enough right there.

How to Exterminate Roach People

I look at our weather forecast and nearly weep.  A big, snot running, ugly cry.  And not because I cringed in horror, but big, dripping tears of joy.

Warmth.

Sun.

Numbers starting with a 5...even some starting with a 6.

Dear lawd sweet baby cheezits can I get an amen?

Now, that being said, I must purge these horrid thoughts, because when weather begins to warm, the freaks thaw out and start scurrying through my life like cockroaches.

First it was the women bundled up in winter coats and hats on a 57 degree day grumbling that it was too chilly.

Then, it was the grocery cashier regaling every person within earshot about her memories of the blizzard of '73.  With a friendly reminder to not get too happy about a beautiful sunny day.  I nearly slammed her, face first, into my pork shoulder roast.  The thought of grinding her nose into raw meat gave me even more pleasure than having the first window open in my house since early October.

And that was yesterday.  Today, the cockroach scurrying multiplied like any good vermin infestation tends to.

Though there were very few people who were able to actually voice a complaint about the weather, the freakfest did not stop coming through the doors. 

Obviously, people have been cooped up in the house way too long, and no longer know how to behave in public. 

Why should I be the one feeling like a fool when I respond to the endless mumbling going on throughout the store?  I was responding, attempting to help the person who appeared to be speaking every time I was within earshot, but it soon became clear she was having a very lengthy conversation with the other personality residing in her brain.

It also felt like a warm summer day when I had to reach for the large bottle of sea salt spray, making a round through the store, squirting as I went.  How can one person smell so bad that they leave a wave of putrescence wherever they have stepped?

Why do three young adults need to stop and rest while walking down the street?  They're young and healthy, but apparently so tired that they need to take a small siesta on the doorstep of an attorney's office before venturing across the street to our store.  And once inside our store, one was so obviously exhausted that the toddler sized chair was the only place he could muster enough energy to check his phone.  Yes, yes, tweeting is tiresome work, I know.

But all was not lost, as a truckload of designer clothing made its way into our store.  By the time it was unloaded, I had a counter and floor completely covered in piles and boxes.  As I began to neatly pack it away for future pricing, I got the joy of all joys in my life...the Curious George's.   It's not enough that we have an entire store packed with beautiful things hanging on racks, displayed on shelves, and at fingertip reach everywhere you look. 

No.

They all wanted to see what was in the boxes.

Touch touch touch.

Pick up.

Admire.

Exclaim "what is this?!!!"

Exclaiming over items I have not even looked at yet.  I, who works there, has not touched, folded, viewed, or inspected them.  But please, Nosy Rosy, Curious George, by all means, reach your grubby little paws into my boxes of merchandise and help yourself.

GET YOUR FILTHY FUCKING HANDS OFF THAT SHIT.

Though I was mentally screaming each and every time, I politely said, OVER AND OVER, "Please, I can not have you touching merchandise that has just arrived in the store."

In which I got the ever-so-famous response of "I"m just looooooooooking".  Yes, in the whiniest tone imaginable.

MENTAL SIGH.  "I haven't even looked at it, and I'M an employee, so again, I need you to not be looking through those boxes, please."

And then, of course, the slightly miffed, nose out of joint, haughty sniff, walk away like I've just asked them to lick me where I pee.

HOWEVER....

Regardless of the cockroach shenanigans, it was a GLORIOUS day.  I may have worked under the harsh lights of buzzing fluorescents, but that sun was shining into my dark little soul.  I washed my filth-mobile with no worries of doors freezing shut.  I opened my sunroof for the drive home.  I soaked up that blazing sun like a cat in a window.  Scurrying little cockroaches be damned.

When the cockroaches invade, shut your eyes, turn your face to the sky, and soak it in.  Life's prescription for joy...spring.

I'm Listening

I've written about the need to shut the fuck up and just listen before.  At that particular purging of thoughts, I was railing about the incessant need to be right, which then leads to people not truly listening to what others have to say.

However, now I delve into a far more serious aspect of listening. 

The voices of our young adults.

Yeah, yeah, there's thousand of memes, posts, and blogging rants out there about the trials and tribulations of raising teenagers.  As adults, we love to roll our eyes, and commiserate over having teens in the house.  It is a solidarity of parents when we make wisecracks about the survival of the teen years.

However, I'm going to drop the facade of being surrounded by teen angst, and hopefully get a message out to those young adults.  It is a message I feel is very important, and it must be purged from my brain before I explode in a litany of expletives like no other.

Just one week ago, I sat in a library meeting room discussing our monthly book club's choice of Catcher In The Rye.  It's a love or hate book.  There really is no middle ground, and you will either find it an absolute waste of time, or have it tug at your heart and brain.  I was the latter, finding that though Holden Caufield may come across initially as a whiny, spoiled little rich kid, I was also delving into the mind of a very depressed 16 year old young man.  It reminded my adult brain that as we grow and mature, it is very easy to expect the world around us to grow and mature right along with is.  It becomes too easy to lose touch with the teenage brain, because quite frankly, no matter what kind of teenage years we personally each have survived, I do not know a single one of us that would love to repeat them again.  I so clearly remember saying, with every amount of determination I could muster, "I so hope that I would pick up on the signs of such clear depression and be able to help."

How ironic, now that I look back on it.

Just two short days later, a friend of my son's died.

Cause of death has not been formally confirmed.  As a parent, there is a part of me that completely understands wanting to maintain privacy during such a tragedy.  But also, as a parent, I find myself at a loss as to how to help my son work through his grief without knowing what has happened, other than his friend being gone.  We went through the immediate notifications from the school, with counselors being available to students and parents for a few hours on the weekend.  I did not know what to expect sending my son back to school on Monday, only knowing it would be a difficult day as the reality of his friend being gone set in.

My disappointment in our school system has slowly built throughout this week.  Once school was back in session on Monday, not a word has been said by administration and nearly all staff in regards to the loss of one of their students.  My son has attended classes in which it seemed as if nothing has happened and it's business as usual. 

Now, that being said, I need to give credit to the handful of staff who have addressed the death of a classmate head on.  Their show of emotion and their own grief was absolutely what their students needed to see this week.  It allowed them to know that their loss is palpable, and it is completely within their rights as human beings to NOT be OK.  By showing their own feelings, they are telling their students that it is not just another normal day, and most importantly, they are listening.

Residing in a rural community often means that even when privacy is requested, it just is not going to happen.  People have scanners, and they love their gossip.  I abhor gossip, but working with the public means I cannot avoid it.  That being said, the word "suicide" has been said repeatedly, not only amongst the general public, but amongst the students as well.

Even without the cause of death being made public, I think it is important that any time suicide is so widely discussed, it is an opportunity to get a message across to our young adults.  The Suicide Prevention Resource Center says "If the family refuses to permit disclosure, schools can state, 'The family has requested that information about the cause of death not be shared at this time.' and can nevertheless use the opportunity to talk with students about the phenomenon of suicide:  We know there has been alot of talk about whether this was a suicide death.  Since the subject of suicide has been raised, we want to take this opportunity to give you accurate information about suicide in general, ways to prevent it, and how to get help if you or someone you know is feeling depressed or may be suicidal. "

Remaining silent is not OK.

Let me repeat.

Silence is NOT OK.

I know there is the fear of "suicide contagion".   According to the SPRC, contagion is the process by which one suicide may contribute to another.  However, contagion is relatively rare, accounting for 1-5% of all suicides annually.  In addition, it is recommended that if there is a fear of contagion, administrators should take ADDITIONAL steps beyond a basic crisis response, NOT a complete lack of any response at all.

Remaining silent is damaging and heartbreaking in so many ways.  It projects an attitude of "just forget about it" at a time when it is going to be the foremost thought in their heads.  It dismisses their feelings about their grief, about their friendships that they value, and about the helplessness they may be feeling.  Gossip runs rampant about the "why", when in fact, the why does not matter.  What matters is that when a person is in emotional distress, we need to make sure as adults that will will always listen.  Not only when they are in emotional distress over the loss of a friend, but the depression and mental illness that can affect so many of our young adults.

Our young adults need to know that WE ARE LISTENING.  Their thoughts, emotions, sadness, and trials are worth listening to.  We've all been there...we were all teenagers once.  I so clearly remember hopping off the bus with my best friend in high school, and screaming a feral yell at the top of our lungs just prior to opening those high school doors and entering for the day.  We did it frequently, because it was the best way we knew how to release that pent up frustration or anger building in our brains.  Being a teenager is not easy, especially now with all the expectations of perfection and achievement that reflects upon a parent in a society that is so open to broadcasting and sharing our daily lives.

When we remain silent, when we do not discuss a tragedy or a great loss, we send a message that we are not willing to listen.  Whether that is our intent or not, that is what our youth are learning.  And what a terrible feeling that must be to those who are grieving.

So, dear teenagers, I am listening.  Your thoughts matter.  YOU MATTER.   The teenage years suck.  They SUCK BAD.  Alot of it is just plain old survival...but most importantly, above all else, you need to survive.  Because there is a future out there full of joys, happiness, and experiences you can not yet imagine.  And there is nothing more exciting to a parent than seeing their child step off that cliff of the teenage years and SOAR AND FLY. 

Let your frustrations out.  Expel the anger and the disappointments.  Just as screaming in front of a high school door released a little bit of angst each day, reaching out and saying "help" will release that heavy burden on your shoulders.  Cry.  Yell.  There ARE people listening, regardless of the message you have been receiving.  Do not EVER forget that.

There is darkness, but there is also light.  It is OK to need some help to find it.  It's human to not be OK, and it is also our job as human beings in this beautiful world to tell you that WE ARE LISTENING.

Keeping It Real: Uber-Bitch Edition

Raging Rhonda.

Irritable Isabel.

Fuck off Frannie.

I could easily change my name this week, considering the Ms. Crabby Pants Extraordinaire begging to be let loose upon the masses.

I sit at my desk with my ears plugged, filling my brain with all the soothing music I can muster off my playlist, knowing that if I take these little buds out of my ears, every last noise is going to grate on my nerves like a paper shredder.  I know there's a name for people who can not stand noise, but I don't know if I can label myself with this really-long-word-I-don't-remember, or if I should just suck it up sweetheart and call it like it is.

I'm in uber-bitch mode. 

EVERYTHING irritates me right now.

I'm irritated with myself for being so irritated at everything.

The fucking weather fucking sucks.  One pissant snow storm brought that particular crabby pants attitude out in me.  Maybe because the plowing from my house to work is done by a blind man.  I don't know who this blind man is, or I would probably be standing out on the highway, shoveling snow into a truck bed so I can go dump it in his yard.  Eight miles of snow shoveling, and I could maybe get that bitchiness out of my system and get over the fact that we now hire blind people to be snowplow drivers.  Every other road I see is plowed nicely, and maybe it's not perfect, but there's at least 50% of the road showing so you actually know where the fucking lanes are.  But noooo...not the road to work.  I had the day off after the snowpocalypse, so my rage took an extra day to set in.  With that extra day, you would think there was extra snowplowing going on, but apparently, blind man had Monday off as well.  By Tuesday, when other roads were improving, ours was still nearly 100% covered, but because it had been a couple days since the snowfall, it had progressed into packed down snow-shit that was slick as a sheet of ice.  Wednesday, very minute tracks started to appear, so there was at least a hint of which lane I was driving in.  However, by Wednesday evening, it was recovered after a day of wind and drifting, so much so that it hit the undercarriage of a car if you sat low enough to the ground in whatever you were driving.  Thinking the blind man MUST be aware of this, I expected a somewhat easier drive Thursday morning, only to be proven wrong AGAIN, with the same messes I had driven through the night before.  By this time, I was in full on weather rage mode, and to add to it, the one snowplow I DID see was busy plowing the ditch.  Yeah, blind dumbfucker, that's great...remove the snow from the ditch so I have nothing soft to land in if I go sailing off the side of the road because I can't tell where my lane is.  Thanks, Obama.

The temps took a nosedive today, which piled on the ragey, bitchy feeling brewing in my brain for oh-so-many reasons.  The heat lamp which sits in our well did not get checked over the weekend, and considering the lifespan of the bulbs, I was fairly confident the light was OUT.  With falling temperatures coming, I knew that meant I should leave our water dripping in order to avoid frozen pipes.  However, water no longer just drips, it dribbles, because the aerator has been taken off the faucet for a repair, and a new one has not been put back on.  So, irritation not only began simmering over the annoyingly incessant sound of dribbling, but also of the reminder that a new aerator has still not been put on.  And it can't be just the heat lamp needing routine maintenance...oh HELL NO, not on bitchy McCrabbypants days.  Now I'm well aware that the water softener needs a new filter because I have a lovely rust stain forming in my kitchen sink where the water has been dribbling.  Which means intensive scrubbing.  That I'm too crabby to want to do.  And is just another lovely reminder that I live in hicksville where the water quality is questionable, at best.

Cold temperatures also mean no car washes.  Unless, of course, I would like my doors to freeze shut while it sits outside.  But with snowpocalypse, blind snowplow driver, and a city unable to clear anything within three feet of a curb, my truck looks like it has been painted in a grey, white, and poop tye dye.  Which gets on your pant legs and shoes every time you get in or out of the vehicle unless you are extra cautious.  And of course, I'm NOT cautious, because I'm too busy thinking negative thoughts every time I even look at my vehicle.

What you DON'T see in the picture, is the giant hump of snow I hurdled to get in this parking spot, because some asshat pushed snow into the spot, creating a two foot drift.

I've been especially ragey over the other drivers on the roads.  There have been the typical good ol' boys who come rip tearing up on my back bumper, as I try to navigate my two wheel drive truck through the unplowed/shitplowed roads.  I'd flip them off, but they wouldn't see my finger sticking up through the filth covered back window anyway.  They, in their four wheel drive, have no problems sailing across the snow wasteland, but in my little filth-machine, I can't quite do the speed limit, and occasionally have to let off the gas when the truck begins to slide.  Would they prefer I slide into the freshly plowed ditch so they can get past me to whatever very important coffee date they seem to have?  Perhaps I will write "Feeling Uber-Bitchy" in the filth in my back window, so they can be forewarned of exactly how I'm feeling about them riding my ass.  It's not like I'm going grandma-speed...only five to ten under the limit at most, but that doesn't stop them from riding my ass like a dog in heat.  These will be the same dumb hicks who will slow down to a crawl in the spring so they can do their field-viewing, but come winter time, when there are no crops to gawk at, they are in an all out hurry.

Add in seeing nearly every driver with a phone plastered to their ear, and it's a damn miracle I haven't just rammed my vehicle straight into them in a pissy fit of rage.  I am PERPLEXED as to how people drive while gabbing incessantly on the phone.  And everyone seems to do it.  Am I the only person that finds chit chatting on the phone to be distracting while driving? 

And this week is the week of looking at absolute SHIT that people seem to think is worth money, but shouldn't even be sent to charity, unless of course, you're wanting to make a statement of thinking that charity equals POOP.  People are WAY too chatty, and not in that chatty, I really enjoy my job type of way.  Chatty as in endless rambling just for the sake of hearing their own voice.  Chatty BLATHER, that doesn't even make sense, including very personal details of their life, even though I don't even know their name.  Occasionally, they will ask ME a question, but then continue blathering on, not even waiting for an answer.  You get enough days of THAT, and you start feeling invisible.  But a ragey invisible.  The kind of invisible that makes your hand just ITCH to reach out and bitch slap them to see if maybe THAT will make them shut up for just ONE second.  But no, the Crabbypants has not escalated to those extremes, and with only one more day of work in the week, I think I can survive without an assault charge ending up on my record.

Maybe.

So on the drive home, knowing that I was feeling full-blown bitch mode arriving, I told myself to do whatever it takes to get this the fuck out of my system.  Obviously, that meant blogging the shit, puke, and crud out of my system.  It means plugging headphones into my ears (and I JAMMED those suckers in so hard it hurt) and blasting the most soothing music I could find.  It means typing until my fingers hurt, because I absolutely LOATHE feeling like a crotchety old hag.  It meant talking to Charlie, and letting those big eyes tell me that yes, it's ok.  Get it out of your system now, and move the fuck on, you stupid, silly, bitchy girl.

Tomorrow is a new day.  Sure, I told myself that yesterday when Ms. Crabbypants was at only 75%, but now that I've hit 100%, it can only subside from here.  I will force the sunshine and rainbows, sing it out of my system, and dedicate the day tomorrow to silly play.  I will take a moment in the store room, and slap the shit out of myself if need be. 

Because I find myself quite irritating to be around right now.

I Smell A Struggle

"Improve Brain Health – A study conducted in 2003 discovered that drinking whiskey reduces your risk of Alzheimer’s and dementia. If you’re worried that your brain is slowing down in your old age, it’s time to start drinking whiskey to protect your very important organ from damage." - 10 Health Benefits of Whiskey


I've been awful concerned over the state of my brain cells the last two weeks.  I'm used to having a jinxed day that makes me want to hide from the world.  The type of day where the fumbling, blathering, and foolishness compounds until I know I just need to go to bed and reset my brain cells to start over.  But recently, I have started to wonder if there's something wrong between my ears.  Perhaps it's early onset Alzheimer's.  A touch of dementia, maybe.  Could be, during that plague, the fever fried enough brain cells to make a difference.  Or there's always the possibility I'm suffering multitudes of mini strokes, slowly killing off my wits until I'm left a blubbering fool in a corner.

Life is no more stressful than normal.  I'm still chill as a penguin, cool as a kitty cat, cruising along in my oblivious way, brushing off anything that tries to poke me with annoyances, getting the pissy pants out of my system as soon as I feel it starting to weigh me down.  I cannot blame a major catastrophic event, or even a piling up of chores or daily reminders.  Life continues to chug along as it always has.  I can not blame being busy, as I have removed the term "busy" from my life. 

The "death of a shopaholic" could be blamed.  I am still shopping-free, other than needs.  I ordered jeans for my son, new sheets for the bed, bought groceries, gas, and the normal household staples.  No shopping trips, or frivolous perusings of a sale or thrift store.  I'd love to say it has had a negative impact on my ability to think, but it HAS only been a couple of weeks, and there really is no scientific data to back up that particular thought process.  And if I'm going to be honest with myself, I DID order that shirt for $9, prompting a purge of closets that resulted in four good sized totes and bags being removed from just one room.  I'm removing far more than I'm bringing in, and I seem to be ok with that.  Ok enough that it can't possibly be contributing to my brain dead, fumbling oaf factor.

I have forgotten how to walk.  I'm tripping, stumbling, shuffling, and sometimes, my foot just won't lift and I even end up lurching.  It's comical to watch, and I find myself laughing quite a bit.  So not only do I look like a complete klutz, but a klutz without a hold on reality who randomly laughs at nothing.  Sometimes, I think I'm just feeling like I'm tripping, but I'm not actually tripping, so then I really AM laughing at nothing, which then must make me really look like a fool.  However, judging by my hair, I obviously don't concern myself with looking like a fool.

I have completely forgotten how to speak.  Words will be in my brain, flashing in big neon pink letters (always pink, and I don't know why), yet they won't come out of my mouth.  Instead, there will be a blah, blah, blah, or uh, uh, uh, waving my arms around as if I can somehow grab the word from mid air.  Sometimes, the word never comes, and I'm forced to use "thing", or "doohickey", or even better, "whatchamajigger".  Even better, the word will come to me when it no longer matters one iota, yet my brain feels obligated to blurt it out, making me look like a confused old fool.  This little tendency, which seemed to really rear its ugly head last week, made me think of Googling how early dementia can show up in a person.  I may have grey hairs hiding in the obnoxious streaks, but I'm really not old enough to start planning on my entry to the Alzheimer's unit, right?  However, I was comforted, when after nearly two weeks of this babbling, or lack of babbling, I heard someone younger than me do the same thing.  I don't know if she does it as frequently as I seem to be, but it was a small moment of comfort knowing I am not alone.

As is obvious in the post, I can apparently type without a hitch, so perhaps it is a sign that I should just shut my big fat mouth and type more.  Or just become a mute.

Every day chores and actions seem to slip away.  I have even fumbled making espresso.  I could say that's due to the early hour in which I'm making it, but this is really one of those things that typically I feel I could do in my sleep.  I finally arrived home at a decent hour tonight, and was so eager to get those new sheets on my bed, but that fitted sheet was a STRUGGLE.  I felt like the smoke of my brain cells burning away must have been emitting from my ears, because I turned that sheet around THREE times before it seemed to fit on the mattress correctly.  And considering a mattress is equal measure on at least two sides, I should have accomplished that task within two tries.  But NOOOO...there is something wrong with my brain, and it took three tries before I was able to get a fitted sheet on my bed.

I have poked my eyeballs with mascara wands, gotten a scarf stuck in my jeans zipper, slipped on the floor and nearly did the splits in front of a toilet, dropped a takeout container (in slow motion just staring at it with my mouth hanging open), struggled to bag up purchases, had to count back change out loud because in my head it doesn't seem to add up, and the list goes on, and on, and on.  I have gotten so used to muttering "Such is my life" that I don't even notice saying it anymore.  I have frequently found myself standing somewhere, wondering why, knowing there was something I was going to do, but in the span of 30 seconds somehow forgot.  That's pretty typical, but when it happens over and over and over again for days in a row, I start to question whether I should go get a brain scan done.  In fact, I even offered to go get one, after a particularly brain dead day last week.

It has even started to leak into my interactions with people.  I'm typically able to make people laugh, find the humor in a difficult situation, and make light of situations to cheer people up.  However, the last two weeks, I have started to wonder if maybe my thoughts are in English in my head, but once they come out of my mouth, they are gobbledigook, and that would explain why I am met with silence, a dead stare, or as if I have said nothing at all.  Were it not for all the other bumbling moments of my life the last two weeks, I'd say the winter blahs have set in, and people are particularly more ornery than usual.  But when you add in all the blathering, fumbling moments, maybe it really IS my brain rejecting normal thought processes.

And then, the answer came to me.  The last two weeks, I've been choosing to do things outside of pouring that delicious little frosty cold beverage.  I have been alcohol free (except for that cheap whine I cracked open in the middle of the day on Monday) for two weeks.  No Jack Daniels.  I've bought the Coke, but ended up letting my teenager drink it, because I wasn't including cocktail time in my daily activities.

So today, after continued ramblings and stumbles, I promised myself it was Happy Hour when I arrived home.  I had nothing else on the schedule, except a changing of sheets, and I was going to enjoy a tasty little beverage to restore the brain damage I have done by....by....OH SHIT, IT HAPPENED.

*gulps down a few more swallows*

The brain damage I have done by abstaining from Jack Daniels.  ABSTAINING.

The proof will be in tomorrow's activities.  Depending upon the number of drinks, of course.

Such is my life.

"NO"...Said No One Ever

I'll be lucky to get this typed out and saved before my computer emits smoke and starts making a horrendous screeching noise.  No, it's not the computer...it's that damn internet connection, which apparently does not like snow.

Whatever, ya bastard.

However, what I really want to rant and rave about, or at least get on my high horse/unicorn named Charlie, is a parenting struggle I witness nearly every day.

The inability, or unwillingness, to just say NO.

When did NO become the dirty word of the day? 

I'm not going to venture a guess that in this world of whining, pissing, moaning, and channeling our inner Eeyore that we've removed the word NO from our vocabulary.  But it sure is in short supply where dealing with children are concerned, and I have to ponder why.  Because I like to ponder such inane bullshit...it passes the time while the snow that was supposed to be gone continues to fall.

Obviously, since I do not have an open door policy to every rugrat on the block, I am witness to this anti-NO campaign while I am out in public.  Being a parent of older children, and a professional user of the word NO, I bemoan it's absence in my daily struggles of looking socially acceptable with a smile on my face.  Instead, I am witness to ignoring, cajoling, rationalizing, cooing, coddling, and yes, even whining.  But not the dreaded word NO.

There are several types of the anti-NO campaigners.  Allow me to share my completely useless observations, and of course, feel free to see if any of these seem familiar to you.  Perhaps, without even realizing it, you are part of the anti-NO movement.  There's t-shirts available, should you decide to proclaim your solidarity.

1.  The IGNORER:  I'd call it the oblivious, but no one can be oblivious to junior's antics when he decides to climb clothing racks.  Or enter store rooms.  Or stand on chairs.  Crawl on the floor under the men's jeans.  Wander into a lower level, or better yet, on a sunny day, completely out of the store and into the street.  I don't know what's going through the Ignorer's brain.  Possibly the three Xanax they popped at 8AM with the whiskey spiked coffee?  But I can assure you, I have had to alert plenty an Ignorer to their child's antics.  Even when said child is screeching at full volume while using clothing racks as monkey bars.  The entire downtown can hear the child, but the Ignorer apparently can not.  The Ignorer just continues to shop, and when I have to finally say something, they act as if I've thrown ice cubes down their shirt and exclaim their shock over the banshee wailing and romping that has gone on right under their nose.  But do the say NO?  *hysterical laughter*  Well, they do usually say things like "those ladies are going to get mad at you if you don't stop".  Because god forbid Junior have any notion of mom getting mad.  Oh hell no, mommy loves you, you precious wee snowflake, perfect spawn of my loins.  Mommy would NEVER put such negativity on your fragile, developing ego, because Mommy is the good guy.  Mommy is going to blame the store employees for ruining your fun.

Sigh.

2.  The THERAPIST:  This one is fun to watch.  As the little urchin plays, touches, grabs, and wanders, mommy is reciting a litany of gentle encouragement and guidance.  Sounds lovely, doesn't it?    However, urchin (and it's always singular, usually moms of more than one can't achieve this talent), is usually grabbing heavy crystal, wildly spinning the jewelry display, grabbing whatever colorful or sparkling wonder catches their eye.  Meanwhile, mom coos "now we just look, and don't touch" repeatedly.  Occasionally, the Therapist will mix it up a bit and throw in a "yes, just looking with mommy" like it's a team effort.  However, while urchin continues to handle merchandise far beyond their years, merchandise that mom will have no intention of paying for should said urchin drop that 5 pound cut crystal bowl, mom is actually doing her own shopping, content to know that her brilliant little urchin is turning into a savvy shopper like herself. 

Another version of the Therapist will stop shopping all together, while she watches her urchin play.  Because it's not like she's in a store or anything.  There is, after all, things for her urchin to play with, so instead of shopping, Mommy will stand in the middle of the store and just watch urchin have a play date with store employees.  Store employees are a tad busy working and actually waiting on customers who don't have urchin playtime foremost in their mind, but that's ok.  Because if Mommy removes urchin from what they are playing with, urchin might scream.  And we can't have screaming, because that might be an indicator that Mommy is not nominated for that year's #1 Mom award.  Standing awkwardly, Mommy Therapist will occasionally softly remind urchin that it's time to leave, however, urchin, having been to this rodeo before, knows if they continue to just play, Mommy will stay rooted in her awkward-spot, sweating out how to get urchin out of the store without a whimper.  But no matter how long it takes, Mommy will NOT say NO.

3.  The RATIONALIZER:  This is when Therapist Mom turns into Rationalizing Mom.  When all other options have failed, she will string out a speech worthy of a psychiatrist's couch.  Rationalizing Mom will finally leave her post of just viewing the child, and sit down to have a heart to heart.  It will go on for several minutes, many times, longer, and include every reason under the sun why they need their little dear heart to follow them out of the store.  These reasons will include a list of the errands Mommy still has to run, throwing in bonuses like being able to use the special cart at the grocery store, or going to get ice cream.  Because it takes a trip to the ice cream shop to get her child to cooperate.  Simply picking up the child and carrying them out the door isn't acceptable, because their child may create a scene and make someone report her to the Bestmommybrigade.  It's better to let the child understand the schedule you need to adhere to, and the importance of getting to the shoe store.  Because every child really cares about the shoe store, and that line of reasoning will certainly work.  Time management, after all, is something every toddler understands and can commiserate over.

4.  The WHINER:  The Whiner usually begins the moment she enters the door.  Typically, she's following a mini-whiner who has taken off at a dead sprint upon entering.  Mini-whiner can be heard stomping and pounding through the store, because mini-whiners tend to also be mini-clompers, who have somehow learned in their short lifespan that feet should come down as hard as possible whenever in motion.  Mini-whiner will then proceed to scavenge for purchases throughout the store, while Mommy Whiner goes her own way, doing her own shopping.  And exchange across aisles begins, with mini-whiner making noise as they get into areas they should not, touching things not meant for little hands, the sounds of packages opening and items dropping echoing through the store.  Mini-whiner typically will be whining for whatever item they are destroying, while Mommy Whiner calls out in a high pitched careening voice, asking them what they are getting into.  It is a constant line of questioning, with no obvious wish for an answer.  Perhaps the Mommy Whiner uses this technique as a locator for the child.  As long as the whining continues between the two, she feels she is remaining in contact with her child and sees it as some form of "watching" over them.  Though when the child goes silent (never a good sign), Mommy Whiner tends not to notice, and still continues the wheedling tone of asking the child what they have found, never noticing they are no longer answering.  But the dreaded word NO is never uttered.  She'll even occasionally throw out a "if you aren't good, I won't be buying you anything", however, 99.95% of the time, regardless of mini-whiner's antics, there are things bought for the delightful little creature.

If you've recognized any of the above listed anti-NO behaviors, I'm going to clue you in on something.  As a fellow mother, I've been there, done that.  I've had the kid playing in areas they shouldn't.  I had the child that wandered off.  The sticky fingered thief in the making who thought he could help himself to every last thing in the place.  The child strung out on pixie sticks who was a perfect angel in the car, but bounced off the walls the moment I walked into a place of business.  Now, I am the older mom, still occasionally struggling with inappropriate public behavior, but my use of the word NO is perfected.  I have had fit throwers, and not just the whining that we have all dealt with, but the flow blown, uncontrolled, laying on the floor while flailing about in seizure like movements type of meltdown.  And yes, it was embarrassing.  However, I still said NO.  Occasionally, there were trips to a bathroom, or out to the car, where a private little "chat" happened, and if junior got their shit under control, we re-entered the store.  Sometimes, we didn't re-enter.  And yes, there were things I NEEDED to get, but short of standing in line at a pharmacy or quickly grabbing the four pack of toilet paper because I was left with one square plastered to the tube at home, there was never anything that required me subjecting the world to the heinous acts of one of my offspring.  Sometimes, it meant a time out in the car (for both of us) that  took twice as long as the shopping would have, but those little bastards learned that I will say NO.  And mean it.  And sometimes, the "why" was BECAUSE I SAID SO.

It's OK to say NO.  Let them whine, throw their fit, and haul their asses out kicking and screaming when you're ready to go.  I'll sympathize.  I'll be thankful those days are over.  I get it.  I did it.

What's NOT ok is the anti-NO movement.  Because you're raising an entitled shit who knows that they are in control and they call the shots.  And imagine what kind of adult that creates.  The kind of adult often referred to as a colossal asshole.  The eternal fuckup.  The aimless drifter because mommy isn't holding their hand letting them do whatever willy nilly they could possibly desire.  The name you see and think "they never quite got their shit together".

So c'mon now.  It's a small word.  One syllable.  And it works.  As long as YOU work at it.

Nnnnnnnnn

Oooooooo

NO.

Thanks for the ride, Charlie.

Death of a Shopaholic

I had these big ambitions to purge today.

Had.

I even had a mental picture.  Though admittedly, most of my thoughts come with mental pictures and mini movies running through my head of how things will be.

They're usually in the fantasy genre.

Because I was able to immediately think of a handful things that were no longer wanted, my brain somehow believed that meant a massive purge of belongings was going to happen.  However, when I made my way through closets, still only grasping the handful of things I had originally thought of, I began to see that I am a daydreamer.  By the time I made it to the jewelry, I was cackling like a madwoman, and the three necklaces that have made their way into my tote may not actually make it all the way to the store to be sold.

Have I finally made it to that stage in life where I actually LIKE everything I own?  My eyes scan the rooms of the house, and even with all the love for shopping, I can't imagine taking something off a wall and replacing it.  I may look like a candle hoarder with all the holders and stands placed throughout the house, but I LOVE my candles, and not a single one feels out of place or as if it does not belong.  Short of finding a comfy chair for a corner, I am content to wait a few years for new furniture.  After all, though the couch looks like it's seen better days, it's at that comfy, broken in point of knowing exactly how to welcome you into curling up with a good book.

However, if I am happy with the contents of closets, and the various items making this house a home, that really means I should stop shopping.  There, after all, is no reason to, right?

So, perhaps, this is the year to put shopping on the back burner.  Part of me wants to laugh hysterically at such a notion, but the reasonable adult in me realizes there just is not much reason to spend hours walking through stores when I don't NEED anything.

Off the top of my head, I can think of several items that it wouldn't hurt to buy.  New bath towels.  New sheets.  Paint.  And more paint.  Lots of paint.  I have several mental projects beginning to form for the coming year, so I suppose I could train a shopaholic brain to start focusing on using my time for painting, digging, and building instead of acquiring.

I'm scared.

I've never NOT shopped.  I hear the call of a sale from 100 miles away.  Shopping has become a way of relaxation.  Can it be possible for me to spend a day out with a shopping partner and merely enjoy looking at things and not buying them?  Does such a thing exist?

It may be that my mind is working too hard after a pitiful attempt to purge.  It could be procrastination of doing the weekly meal planning and making a grocery list.  Perhaps it's just an elaborate way to avoid laundry.

But there is a little voice in the back of head telling me that if I can't (or won't) purge, then maybe it's time to start focusing on other things.  Maybe that's easy to say because I missed this month's $1 sale at Goodwill.

I may be retiring the shopaholic in me.  Will she come out of retirement?  Stay tuned, and find out.