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 |  Crazy things my kids, husband and pets do, workplace nonsense and exhusband skewering |
| Events from the everyday life of a working mother of three, business analyst at a major company who tries to exist in a world of corporate bureaucracy, and prevent her children from turning out like her pathologically lazy and underemployed ex-husband. Enter at your own risk. |
| After getting home from work this evening, much too late, I head to the mailbox. My head is down and I’m trudging, dragging my feet, weighted down by the endless crap from my crappy job, and imagining the stack of bills in the day’s mail. I open the box and yes, I find the expected stack of utility bills, no doubt reflecting the enormous amount of power and water my teen and preteen progeny consume without regard for cost or natural resources. And statements from doctors and dentists, along with the daily solicitations for credit cards, home equity loans and mortgage refinancing, and three catalogs for stuff we clearly don’t need and can’t afford. I gather up this mountain of paper and turn to walk back to the house and am stunned to find myself surrounded by roses. The fairy rose bushes along both sides of our driveway are on fire with fuschia blooms. Covered with hundreds of flowers the color of a million sunsets, and emanating a heavenly fragrance in the thick evening air. The stack of stuff in my arms suddenly seems lighter, less important as the scent of roses circles me, the sight of such incredible beauty erases the cares of a long, frustrating day, and I’m reminded of my husband’s tender love for me. My love, known for coarse jokes and manly ways, planted these rose bushes for me two years ago, as we set about the task of making this place our home. So much work went into taking someone else’s house and placing our stamp on it. Changing it from theirs to ours. The rose bushes were small, far apart, scrawny and spare. But my manly man knew what they would become, and the effect they would produce. I’m not sure how long they’d been blooming before I noticed. That’s obviously an indication of my scattered attentions and overextension. But I won’t walk past them again without taking in their lovely scent, appreciating their brilliant color, and remembering God’s grace and my husband’s very manly love of roses - and me. |
| I can't believe I'm blogging about politics again, but I just feel so confused about so many of my fellow Americans. I was young once, and idealistic. I believed in so many ideals that I've come to realize now, in my middle age, were naive. Now that I've achieved moderate success in my career and personal life, I'm really starting to resent the idea that those who haven't worked as hard, kept their noses clean, and struggled to overcome the affects of bad choices expect me to fork over my 'extra' cash so they don't have to work as hard. So they can have what it took me decades to have, and they can have it right now. Where is it written that along with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, everyone is entitled to own a home? Did I miss that day in school? And how did the lending institutions decide that a down payment and a job were no longer necessary to qualify? Quoting an editorial by Ann Coulter - "Threatening lawsuits, Clinton's Federal Reserve demanded that banks treat welfare payments and unemployment benefits as valid income sources to qualify for a mortgage. That isn't a joke -- it's a fact." Is it any surprise that we're in the mess we're in? Sacrificing to save for a down payment indicates discipline and resolve. Working to safeguard your credit score, or rehabilitate it, in order to secure a home loan indicates you understand the responsibility you're undertaking. Working at a job you hate every day, day in day out for a boss you despise, because it's what it takes to achieve your dream, means you are a mature adult and are ready for the responsibility. And it means you're like most people, myself included, who would rather eat a warm pile of poo than stand with your hand out waiting for someone else to give you something you've not earned. What's happened to us? When did hard work and personal responsibility become old and outdated, like John McCain? The home mortgage crisis has been simmering for years now. It started during the Democratic Clinton administration, and was a time bomb doomed to explode. The decline in home values was the spark that lit the fuse. When you didn't make a down payment on your mortgage, then the value of your home depreciates instead of appreciates, you owe more than your home is worth. The interest rate goes up on your adjustable rate loan, and you can no longer afford the payment. Blame it on the banks if you will, and there's plenty of blame to go around, but a mature person doesn't bite off more than they can chew, then expect someone else to make it all better. It's just another indication that we're a nation hooked on immediate gratification. We buy things we don't need with money we don't have, then act surprised when it all blows up in our faces. The banks give you the credit, but they don't make you use it. So I guess this officially makes me 1) a conservative, and 2) old. That much I have in common with John McCain. I watched the debate last night, and I kept thinking, "Sure, he's old. But he's sharp." By the end of the debate, I'd forgotten about the 'old' part, and was left with an impression of his years of service and experience. I thought about if I were very ill, and needed a physician to treat my serious illness, if I walked in the office to find a young, inexperienced physician with a wonderful, youthful demeanor and an engaging manner, I'd probably not be terribly confident. If I walked in to find an older, more experienced physician who could offer a treatment plan that had a proven track record of success, I'd feel better and more hopeful. I'm at the age now where I work with more people who are younger than me than are my age or older. I find many of the young ones to be arrogant, impatient, and willing to cut corners and make excuses. They have a sense of entitlement about them, the opinion that their ideas should be given as much credence as mine. They seem to think that my experience is overrated, and that new ideas are more important. But when there's a crisis, who do you think they come to? Yep. I'm very concerned that we have this very situation with the electorate this year. Experience is not as important as lofty ideals, charisma, and the endorsement of movie stars. This election will more than likely be decided by young people with no perspective, and irresponsible people who only care about what the candidate is promising to do for them. I'm worried about what the candidate is going to do TO me. |
| Let me start this rant by saying I hate politics, and if I ever forgot why, I'm now reminded every fifteen minutes. I plan to vote in the upcoming presidential election because it is not only my right, and my privilege, but my obligation. But I'm not ashamed to say I'm not impressed by either candidate, and wish there were other options. No one can claim the high road in this election. There's more mud being slung than at my family reunion. Both sides claim they have the answers, and I don't like their answers. I don't support a war with my tax dollars that was ill-advised and ill-planned, but don't agree with leaving Iraq in a bigger mess than we found it. I like tax cuts but not when we're just mortgaging our children's future for some hazy economic stimulus plan. Neither do I support more taxes from my income bracket to support people who have no desire to take advantage of the already available educational opportunities that would allow them to eventually afford the sort of lifestyle my husband and I worked hard for many years to obtain. I'm obviously getting old, evidenced by the fact that I'm blogging about politics and taxes, and that's okay. I'm old enough to have seen a lot of crap, and unfortunately if it smells like crap, it probably is crap. I was married to the ultimate bullshitter, so I recognize the fuzzy talk and non-specific answers. He could have been a politician if he weren't so lazy. But I digress... |
| With three kids in school, you could say I'm pretty interested in our education system. I know there are a lot of problems with our schools, but with all the money and bureaucracy that's been spent on improving education, the problems persist. Could it be that money and oversight and more standardized tests and more government agencies can't fix those problems? Could it be that the problems aren't so much with the schools as they are with the families? I don't claim to be an expert, but when children are raised by children, without proper nutrition, without expectations or consequences, without parents who care more about their children's welfare than their own, all the money in the world can't enable the schools to handle the problems that result. But the problem with families is like the elephant in the room. No one wants to talk about it for fear that we'll offend someone who's made bad choices, and continues to make bad choices and puts their children at risk not just for failure in school, but for failure in life. The mission of our schools is to educate our children. Not to teach them hygiene. Not to teach them finances. Not to teach them morality. Those things should be taught at home. But it seems so many parents, and I use the term loosely, have no qualifications to teach their children those important life skills, but by default teach them to expect someone else to do the heavy lifting. Parents don't have to provide a proper breakfast or lunch - schools will do that. Parents don't have to provide basic supplies - paper, pencils, notebooks, folders - schools will do that. Parents don't have to teach responsibility and accountability - teachers, in between reading, writing, science, math, history, language, will teach them how to control their tempers, how to work independently, how to resolve conflicts and treat each other with respect. And God help us all if those lessons don't stick, because we all suffer if they don't. How is the education system supposed to raise our children to be responsible, productive members of society when those children see their single mothers and absent fathers abdicate responsibility, and blame the very government that feeds them for all their problems? How much money is enough? How can this failed social policy that has continued for decades now be reversed? The broken family is at the heart of so many problems with our country. Single parenthood is unfortunately more the norm than the exception now. Girls raised by single mothers, repeating the cycle, adding more and more numbers to the permanent underclass. Young men only acknowledging responsibility when a paternity test cannot be denied. How have we strayed so far from the time when the two parent family was the backbone of our society? How have we 'progressed' to the point that mothers raising children alone is no longer a tragic misfortune but an expectation and something we celebrate as a choice? How can this brokenness be fixed? Until we repair the fabric of our family structure, require men to be responsible for their offspring, to be a daily part of their lives AND impress upon our young women the selfish nature of bringing children into the world outside of that two parent family, we can't expect our education system to provide the sort of academic education needed to prepare our nation's next generation of leaders. Parents - take care of your children, and let our teachers teach! |
| But - have you ever run into someone you haven't seen in years, and you're just STUNNED at how old they look? Friday, I was walking out of one of our buildings at work after a meeting, and a girl I worked with 15 years ago walked out around the same time. I call her a 'girl' because when we worked together, she was probably only 23 or 24 years old, and I was ten years older. She seemed like a child to me then - just married, no kids, cute shape and fashionable clothes. Always in high heels and a slim skirt. Fifteen years later, she does not look like a 'girl' anymore. Crows feet, bags under her eyes, and probably 20 pounds heavier. Wearing pants and flat shoes. I was so surprised to see her looking so different than how I remembered her, yet 15 years takes its toll on everyone. I kept thinking about that all day, and then it occurred to me later - she was probably thinking the same thing about ME! Imagine the conversation with her husband that night: "Hey honey. Do you remember that girl Vickie from Audit? She had blonde curly hair. Yeah, she had a big butt. Oh - my - God! You should see her now! She looks ancient!" Time does move on and, if you're lucky, you get to ride along. |
| Holy crap! Now that Molly is thirteen, and assuming more responsibility for household chores, I'd actually started saying things like "I guess thirteen's not so bad," and "It's kind of nice having another person to help out." Coming home to an empty kitchen sink, with dishes loaded in the dishwasher, and then put away when clean has been pretty nice, actually. Then, as always, the bad news hit. Thirteen means not only that she's more picky about her clothes, but that her clothes are much more expensive. I tried to use our back to school shopping trip as a lesson in personal finance, and maybe some of it sunk in. She REALLY wanted a particular shoe - Vans checkerboard slip-ons. They were not terribly expensive, but she does recognize that in the context of other things we were looking at, they weren't cheap. So we agreed that if we got those shoes, we wouldn't spend as much on some other things. We bought her clothes at Old Navy, Target, and hit a sale at the mall and got some really good bargains. So by nine o'clock, she was able to see that attention to price actually netted her more stuff. It was a battle, but when she saw that the jeans we bought for her in the girls department at Old Navy cost half as much as the same jeans in juniors AND we didn't have to hem them (she's 5' 00" tall,) she didn't argue. The last store we went to was Buckle. T-shirts were $50, and jeans were $138. She commented on her friend Chloe getting her clothes from that store, and was actually laughing about the prices in there, and how stupid it was to pay more for one pair of jeans than we paid for 4 pairs. So maybe I made some progress. We had no tears or shouting, and she thanked me over and over for letting her get so much stuff. She is recognizing that some of her friends whose mom's spend a fortune on their clothes don't look any better and aren't any happier than she is. That's my girl! |
| I never seem to learn. Whenever I am so stupid as to mention that things are going well, it all goes to Hell in a handbasket. My job sucks so bad right now, I lay awake at night dreading the alarm going off. Any wee pain starts me thinking just maybe I'm getting sick, and will have a good excuse to stay home. First, a new guy has moved in the cube next to mine. No one's been there since I moved in so I haven't had to deal with any noise. That's rare in the cube farm environment we work in, so I was really enjoying the peace and quiet. Makes it easier to concentrate. The cubes have walls that are about four feet tall, so we don't have to look at each other while we work, thank goodness. So this guy moves in, and he seems nice enough. But then his phone rings. He answers, "Is this my beautiful, wonderful wife?" I reach for my trash can, about to barf! I try to concentrate on my work, but he keeps blabbering on and on. "So, how was your workout? Oh, I'm sorry you have a headache. Is it a bad one? Oh, why don't you just rest. Take one of your pills." I'm trying not to listen, but it's impossible. His tone of voice is so syrupy sweet. He finally gets off the phone, and in a few minutes, his phone rings again. He answers it, and it's obviously not his wife, so he talks like a regular person. Not a blithering idiot. So he only talks in that tone to his wife. Gag! Okay, I'm really not a grouch. Really. I worship the ground my G walks on, but I would never dream of talking like that to him, especially when other people could hear. And we keep our conversations short while at work because we're AT WORK, need to be working, and don't want to bother other people who are trying to WORK. I'm thinking of calling G up and complaining about my hemorrhoids. Enough about that guy. What I really hate about work right now is the project I'm on. Everything I do is at least twice as hard as it should be because of the people I'm having to work with. We meet with them, and get information but the next time we meet, it's like we misunderstood everything they said the last time. Like we can't understand English. So after each meeting I have to come back to my desk and immediately document everything discussed and send back notes and give them an opportunity to clarify (meaning change) what they said. And in the next meeting we spend the first ten minutes of the hour going back over the notes from the last meeting, beating those to death. I feel like my life force is being siphoned off. I'm infested with parasites. Nothing should be this hard. The problem is that these people don't have the discipline to meet together and decide what they want. We have to drag it out of them. Then they change their mind and act like we just didn't understand what they said. They're sneaky and dishonest, and looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and discipline. I hate working with them. They are so nice to me when I'm meeting with them, but would drop me in the grease in a minute if it would save their sorry asses. Anyway, I hate my job, but I like the money. What do you do? Kids to feed, air conditioning units to buy. Oh, that's another rant! Since we bought this shit hole, money pit, whatever you want to call this lovely suburban home last year, it's been one thing after another. The crawlspace was leaking and wet, and growing mold, so it had to be repaired or we'd all be sick. That was $5K. Ouch. Now the upstairs bonus room and the boys' bedroom are hot as H- E- double hockey sticks, and the air conditioning unit that's supposed to cool the whole house, 2700 square feet, is on one zone (with one thermostat) and never runs long enough to cool the upstairs because when it's cool enough downstairs, the thermostat cuts it off. If we run it long enough, you could hang meat downstairs. G, being obsessive-compulsive, has contacted every heat and air company in the middle Tennessee area for bids, and probably six have come out and given us six different answers about the right way to fix the problem. At least three recommended a computerized dampener system with separate thermostats for the upstairs and downstairs. When the upstairs thermostat says we need more air upstairs, the dampeners divert air from the downstairs to the upstairs. They all insisted our five ton unit was adequate to cool the whole house, and just getting air to the upstairs would make it comfortable. Sounds good huh? Should be considerably cheaper than a separate unit to cool just the upstairs, right? WRONG! Almost $5K, and no new unit, and no guarantee it will actually solve the problem. Something sounds really wrong with this picture. We drove around our neighborhood, and every house with the same plan as ours has two units; large for downstairs and smaller for upstairs. We got one company who said the 5 ton unit is not adequate, and we need a second unit. More expensive than electronic dampeners, but not much more, and guaranteed to actually keep the upstairs cool. So there goes any hope for a vacation this year. I'm cashing in my vacation time at 90 cents on the dollar to pay for this. Just glad I can do that. So I shouldn't bitch. Do I have anything good to talk about? Of course. My dad's eyesight after his surgery is improving every day. LeeAnn and Jimmy are spending a lot of time with us this summer, coming for dinner on Wednesdays and playing tennis with us. The boys and Molly are all doing chores this summer to earn an allowance so they can buy songs for their iPods. G and I are playing tennis at least twice a week, and getting back to where we were before G's last knee surgery. And G is doing well on his current meds - no arrythmia. A family with two daughters, seventh and eigth grade, moved in next door. That house was vacant for over a year. The dad is a regular guy, not a maniac about his yard, so he should be a good neighbor. And Molly paid me such a sweet compliment the other day. She said 'Mom, you may be boring, but at least you're not crazy.' I almost cried. That's high praise from a thirteen year old. So maybe I'll get back to Blogville sooner next time. And hopefully not to just bitch and moan. Thanks, Dee, for the push! |
| I just don't feel like myself lately. It seems like I don't have any thoughts worth sharing. That's why I'm not even blogging. Maybe it's the weather, or stress from work, but there's just not much interesting, really not much of anything going on upstairs right now. Maybe it's like a mid-life crisis. I'm not confident in my job right now, I feel unsure about my parenting skills, and I don't know where my writing is going. My forty-ninth birthday is just three months away, and that's a stones throw from fifty. A half century of just muddling through, leaving barely a mark on the world. I feel like I've done nothing with my life. I don't want to sound like I'm ungrateful, or I'm complaining. We have a great life. My kids are happy and healthy (sound of me knocking on wood,) G is doing well on his heart arrhythmia meds, and we have good jobs that allow us to live in a comfortable home in a safe neighborhood. And after a day at work, I still have the time and energy to spend with my family and write. So life is good. But... Shouldn't I have accomplished something by now? Shouldn't I have something to be proud of? Or am I just greedy and selfish, not content with making a living and raising my kids? Maybe this uncomfortable feeling is the realization that I have to come up with a plan, get off my ass and do something. I don't have unlimited time. The years are speeding on, passing me by like a bullet train. The book I wrote and have been editing, over and over and over, isn't going to just miraculously appear on bookshelves everywhere. Agents aren't going to come looking for me, begging to shop my book to publishers. I have to make a decision on whether to keep going with that book, or just move on and seriously commit to the next one. I have a great idea for it, and have been outlining the plot, working on character development, but feel torn over starting a new book when the first one is still needing work if I'm ever going to get serious about wrapping it up and getting an agent. I don't think I can do both. Anyway, I'm going to have to decide what to do, and then maybe I can get out of this funk. Wish me luck. |
| These days if you're over seven years old and don't have an iPod, you're NOBODY! Sean got an iPod Shuffle last Christmas, and Molly got one this Christmas. They've complained mightily about how small they are and you can't choose the song you want to listen to because they have no screen. I told them to be grateful, and shut up, because the bigger iPods, the Nano, or the Classic with a touch screen are so much more expensive, and they're not responsible enough to have those. Well, for Molly's thirteenth birthday, we broke down and bought her a Classic iPod, with 16G of storage so she can have more songs than I've probably heard in my entire life. She was ecstatic! I've barely seen her since her party, and when I do, she has those little white earbuds attached to her head. It's been much quieter around the house. Well, the boys were desparate for one, too. They'd saved their Christmas and report card money (chips off the old block, I must say...) and along with the chunk of change they got for their final report cards, were able to BUY, with no help from me, their own iPod Nano's, the 4G kind. This technology is truly amazing. These tiny devices are not much thicker than a credit card, and can hold over 1000 songs. And the sound quality is actually pretty good. G would disagree, but he's a maniac from the vinyl album days, and swears nothing sounds better than Jimmy Page on his high-end turntable. I say "Whatever!" You can't carry a turntable, and speakers in your pocket! So now all three kids are actually interested in doing chores so they can earn money to buy music from iTunes. At 99 cents a song, they can buy the songs they want, and I get the garbage taken out and the dishwasher unloaded. I may get used to this... |
| My daughter, born smaller than a five pound bag of sugar, is now thirteen years old. She was so tiny and frail the day she came home from the hospital, just four pounds, I was afraid to touch her. When she cried, it was shocking that such noise could possibly come from something so delicate. That should have warned me... Now officially a teenager, that same insistence and demanding nature are still with her. I'm sure they serve her well in many instances, but they still set my nerves on edge and raise my blood pressure. We've reached that point where when she speaks, I know she's either going to demand something (instead of ask,) complain about something she doesn't have (and everyone else does,) or tell me something she did, maybe days ago, that she shouldn't have done, and she's just telling me before I find out some other way. So, today we celebrate Molly's move into her teenage years. And my acceptance of gray hair, a perpetual headache, and the sound of my own voice, usually raised, saying things I swore I'd never say, like 'Shut the Hell up!' and 'I don't care what everyone else has,' and 'I don't have to explain. Those are the rules!' And my personal favorite, 'When you start working and get your own place, you can live like a pig!' Hmmm. Pretty sure my mother used that one, too. Happy 13th birthday, sweet Molly. While you're stomping around the house, muttering about how unfair and crazy I am, I'll remember your tiny sleeping face, your wee little hands, the smell of you, clean after a bath, as you fell asleep in my arms. God gave me a perfect gift. I hope he'll continue to give me patience. |
| My freakin' stupid crown came off my tooth, again! The first time, I was eating lunch and swallowed the damn thing. Spent a few nervous days waiting for it to come back out, but never noticed if it did - sorry, probably too much info! Today, I was eating a granola bar and it popped right off. I didn't swallow it this time, thankfully. This thing has never felt right. I've avoided chewing on that side consistently since the swallowed one was replaced. Everytime I forgot, I just expected it to come off, and today it did. So tomorrow, back to the dentist. Hope everyone had a good Mother's Day. We visited my parents and brother on Saturday at a park. It was a beautiful day, and we ate a picnic lunch in the fresh air. My dad is doing great after his eye surgery he had last Tuesday to repair a hole in his retina. Hardly any redness in the eye, and he says his vision is already better, but not back to normal just yet. Sunday we went to church, then hung out at home, played Rummicube with LeeAnn, then went to see the movie Ironman. Awesome movie. Lots of action, good characters, and incredible special effects. Worth the price of admission. Molly even liked it. That's high praise from a twelve year old girl. Her birthday is the 24th, and we're having her party on the 25th. She's invited thirty people to our house. Thirteen is a big deal. We bought a fire pit so we can have a fire, tell ghost stories, and roast marshmallows. Of course, I'm not allowed to talk to anyone. My only purpose is to provide food. I stopped being cool at least five years ago. |
| With the help of modern pharmaceuticals, G is back home, and getting back to normal. It's amazing how you can bitch and moan about someone's snoring, but miss it so terribly when it's absent. The night he spent in the hospital was the longest I've spent in years. I barely slept, just flipped and flopped in bed, and looked at the clock, worried and stressed. The doctor released him around noon on Friday, and we spent the weekend just being grateful he's okay. One pill three times a day and another once a day seems to be the ticket to a regular heart rythm. He goes back to the doctor on Tuesday, and then we'll see if that's what he needs to keep doing. I'm still nervous as a cat though, asking if he's taken his pills, how he feels, if he's okay. I'm sure I'm driving him nuts. G's daughter LeeAnn and her friend Courtney came for dinner tonight. Courtney's visiting from Oklahoma. She's been LeeAnn's best friend since middle school. We cooked a big dinner and had strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream for dessert. LeeAnn always seems so excited about my cooking. Not sure if it's really my cooking or just the fact that her mother never, ever cooks. So tomorrow G goes back to work, with all the stress of the job. He seems to be fine, no side effects of the drugs or remaining heart palpitations. I'm hoping his first day back is calm and easy. |
| I'm sitting her tonight alone, not sleepy, dreading going to bed without G. He left for work this morning, planning to make an appointment with his doctor about the heart palpitations he's been having for the last few days. We both thought he overdid it this weekend with the marathon landscaping, didn't drink enough water, and still wasn't 100% over his nose surgery. So he called the doctor, who told him to go to the ER. He went to the ER and they admitted him to Critical Care. He has atrial fibrillation, which is an irregular heartbeat. They are giving him IV drugs to regulate his heartbeat, and should discharge him tomorrow after they're sure the drugs are working. This morning I kissed him goodbye when he went to work, never expecting he would not be home with me tonight. Seeing him in a hospital bed, with wires and tubes, was like a cold knife of fear in my stomach. He's the strong, silent type, and all his previous medical issues - two knee surgeries and the recent nose surgery - were things that were 'fixed' and we knew he'd be fine after recovery. This is different. This is his heart. And even though what I've read tonight says he'll be okay if properly medicated, there's that fear now that he's not as strong, he's not invincible, and I won't have him forever. I thought I'd never find someone who could put up with me and all my crap. G's more than I could have every hoped for. So if you read this, keep us in your prayers. |
| I have been traumatized. Horrible images crawl across the insides of my eyelids, haunt my sleep, torture my days. I don't know how I'll get over it. Ever since I moved upstairs to a new cubicle in a different 'cube farm' at work, I'm constantly running into this woman. She is rather large. No shame there. But her boobs are absolutely grotesque. Massive, gargantuan, gi-normous (as Molly would say.) Okay, she can't help that. What is haunting me is the image of these milk sacks, poorly supported and covered only by thin, clingy shirts or sweater, hanging down to her waist and swinging from side to side. Come on! Ladies, do us all a favor, puh-leez! 1. Get a good bra. Surely your back will feel better, and you'll look much better AND more professional. 2. For God's sake, don't wear clingy clothes! We know they're there. We don't need to see the outline where your boobs are puffing over the top of your bra. 3. Familiarize yourself with the concept of a JACKET. I don't have big bazoombas, but I wear a jacket every day. Winter, summer, spring and fall. I have short sleeve and 3/4 length sleeves for summer. Jackets cover your bazoombas, and look much nicer in the workplace. More professional. If had to be in a meeting with her, I would feel like the airbag in my car deployed! This chick is a manager. She needs to dress more professionally! If there were a suggestion box, I would suggest an extreme make-over. If I were in charge, I'd make everyone attend Workplace Attire 101. But I'm not in charge. So I guess I'll keep peeking around corners trying to avoid her. And her girls. |
| G has been expressing his anal retentive, OCD tendencies with landscaping. This weekend, he planted a beautiful tree called a pom pom, several rose bushes and a shitload of different ground cover. We've given up on getting grass to grow in a corner of our yard, and decided to just put something else in that will spread out and add some different textures and colors. We had a tree cut down a couple of months ago that was much too large for that corner. When G was digging the hole for the pom pom tree, he found several huge roots from the old tree, and couldn't cut them out with just the sharp edge of the shovel. So off we go to Lowes for a hatchet. I wait in the car, and see him walking out of Lowes with a huge pickax with a bright yellow handle. After we got home, he got buyer's remorse and decided not to use it, and left it in the back of my van. When the boys got in the van this morning to go to school, Ryan says, "Mom, why do you have a hoe in your car." All Sean heard was 'ho,' and just lost it. Sean started laughing, and could not stop. He laughed all the way to school, and was still cracking up when he walked in the door. I strongly cautioned him from sharing the little joke with anyone, because I really didn't want to get a call from the principal today. Listening to his silly giggling this morning got me in a good mood which lasted all day. Starting your day with laughter, even over a crude, ten year old boy play on words, is so much better than listening to the talking heads on radio, getting all worked up over the recession, the election or any number or doom and gloom stories. I hope you can start your day with a good laugh! |
| If you're like me, you can't help laughing at the horribly embarrassing things that happen to other people. As long as they're not physically hurt, it's practically impossible to avoid laughing. But when it happens to you, the feeling of embarrassment is physical, painful even, and is something you remember longer than the pain of childbirth. I've had several of those experiences and will have many more I'm sure. Some are minor, like realizing you have a bugger in your nose when you go to the restroom at work, after an hour long meeting. Or leaving the house wearing two different shoes. Or lactating through your breast pads and staining your shirt. The severity of the embarrassment is often related to your age, and the circumstances. Walking into the wrong restroom as an adult, in an airport in another city, is mild. Walking into the wrong restroom as the new kid in highschool is pretty damn hard to recover from. That happened to me in the 10th grade. We moved in the middle of the school year to a tiny town outside of Nashville. I didn't know my way around and thought I was going through a door leading to the stairwell. It was NOT the stairwell. I ran out, but the damage was done. Not only was I the 'new girl,' I was a freak, a pervert, a spaz, an alien. And I couldn't just leave and never come back. Another time, I skidded on the blacktop playground, after running at top speed and tripping clumsily. Again, I was a new kid, having moved in the middle of the year. I was just trying to impress the kids with my speed. I looked up to see a boy I liked, laughing and pointing at me. It was worse than embarrassment; it was shame. I wanted to die at the age of nine. See
Embarrassment didn't stop when I grew up. When I was teaching Freshman Composition after graduating from college, I felt pretty awkward since I was only a few years older than my students. I had to get new glasses because I was reading so much, and was told I needed bifocals, at 22 years old. The first day I wore them, I parked my car and started walking to class. Bam! I fell right off the curb. Books and papers flew everywhere. I looked up to see three of my students. They at least were smart enough not to laugh. The worst experience, so far, was when I left the restroom at work with the tail end of my skirt tucked in the back of my pantyhose. Of course, there were many coworkers who saw it all. I guess such things are just part of life. With all the entertaining embarrassments I've had the pleasure of witnessing, it's only fair that I give back sometimes, provide some entertainment for someone else. |
| Have you ever worked with someone who you like 90% of the time, but the other 10% you want to set them on fire? There's a guy like that at work who is very bright, and generally pleasant. But ever since he's been 'stuck' on a project he doesn't like, he's been obnoxious. Maybe he's always been obnoxious but it's just now bothering me. He's got it in his head that he knows better than anyone else how our entire IT department should be run. Everyone's just stuck in the bureaucracy, and has to do everything a certain way, and if he was in charge, bla bla bla... Guess what, buddy? You're not in charge! You're lucky to have a freaking' job! He was hired as a business analyst, same grade as me, but he's never been a business analyst before. He has great analytical skills, but his people skills leave a lot to be desired, and his writing is atrocious. Part of what we do is meet with the business, find out from them in great detail exactly what they want IT to do for them. This usually involves building a software application that meets the business need. Most of the time it's a system that eliminates a time-consuming, manual process that's prone to error, and not consistently performed throughout the business. If 200 people are supposed to do the same thing, there will be 200 different results. So no matter how good you are at getting the information out of the business, all the details about what they need, If you can't communicate that in writing, you can't get their agreement, then turn it over to the techies to actually do it. Creating a standard document that lays out everything in a standardized format is what is required of a business analyst. It's part of our job. It's what we call a product specification. This A-hole put together a list of 'requirements' that didn't make any sense to anyone. So the Project Manager told him to do a Product Spec, and he said, "I don't do specs." I just laughed. I emailed him and said, "I heard you don't do specs. Are you too good?" He emailed me back and said, "That's not my role?" I emailed and said, "I'm a BA and I do specs. So what is your role?" He says, "Relationship manager." I just laughed. That's what I want to be. A relationship manager. I want to tell the business everything they want to hear. Be their best friend. Then let someone else do the work and clean up the mess. I think I'm done with this guy. |
| I know I said I hate this freakin' job. But today I may not hate it so much. Today was actually good. Don't want to bore anyone with details, but I've been working since the first of the year to narrow down this project, get a real understanding of what the business wants us to do. Today we finally got there. I hate meetings, too, but they're a necessary evil. Most are just talk, talk, talk, people just talking to hear their own voices. You could boil an hour long meeting down, and come out with 15 minutes of useful information. Today we had an hour long meeting that was worth every minute. I presented the documentation for the system we're developing, along with screen shots of the reports and on-line forms. We talked about our approach, the business agreed, we agreed to about five minor changes to the document, and we were done. Not a typical meeting. The developer told me he'd never seen better documentation, or been in a requirements meeting that went better than the one today. I feel like we've made so much progress, and earned respect from the business owner today. So some days the hard work is worth it. Other days you feel like you've been kicked in the head. But today was a good day. Oh, I almost forgot! Both boys got straight A's on their report cards! Ryan got a 97 in Math, up from an 88 last time! I'm so proud of both of them. Way to go boys! |
| Sure haven't had much time to blog - working constantly, while trying to edit chapters of the book written years ago. Just taking a quick break from work... Wanted to announce the birth of my ex's FIFTH child this morning. Molly, Sean and Ryan are the proud siblings of yet another half-brother, or as I like to call him, "Excuse number two to reduce child support payments." Wonder how long it will take their dad (cough, cough) to schedule a court date for a child support hearing? Or has the paperwork already been filed? That's all for now. Back to work to support three children, make more money so he can pay less money. |
| This Sunday, I needed to go to church more than most. Sure, attending services always tends to pick me up and set me back in the right direction after a long week of living through the daily grind, following someone else’s directions rather than my own. By Sunday, I’ve usually strayed pretty far from how I set out to live and behave on Monday. But today, I’m sorely in need of something to help put life in perspective. Something to remind me that things may not be as bad as they seem right now, and heal my broken heart. Today the children’s choir sang “Hosanna to the Son of David.” I can barely make it through a performance of our children’s choir without crying, but today was more emotional than most for me. To see the innocent faces of the three and four year olds, to hear their sweet voices and think about what their lives have in store, what they are capable of, how much they can change the world, is immensely moving for me. I always think about when my children were that age, and how much they’ve changed, and a part of me feels a sadness and loss for that period when they were so sweet and open to things not of this world. Sunday is usually a day for putting away the week and preparing for a new one. After church, there’s usually the mad rush to shop for food for the week, wash and put away laundry, finish up homework due on Mondays. But today I can’t think about that. I can’t get the words out of my head that I’ve heard on the radio this week. Words of hatred and separation. Words from someone who claims to be a man of God but who has twisted the word of God to inflame and incite. It’s difficult to reconcile that rhetoric to the peaceful mission and message I know from church. I thought the Christian church claims the same universal text, the same God, the same King, but what I’ve heard this week is not a message of Love Thy Neighbor. It’s God Damn America. It’s a message of God’s wrath. And it’s made me more sad than angry. It’s made me feel things I never thought I’d feel. An intense fear and aversion for anyone who could possibly ascribe to such beliefs. But at the same time, a deep sadness for anyone who could read anything other than hope into the gospel of Jesus Christ. I’ve been close to crying about this all week. To think we live in a country that offers such opportunities, such resources to encourage and support dreams, but yet we are still so divided. I can’t claim to understand anyone’s argument that America should be damned. I can’t claim to understand anyone’s assertion that America deserves the wrath of God. I’m only one American, trying to take care of my family, paying taxes, and not complaining about the fact that my taxes are spent to feed, clothe and educate the children of other people who don’t know when to stop having more children they can’t take care of, who don’t have the sense to take advantage of everything this country offers because people like me do the right thing, work and pay more and more taxes every year. I know in my heart that God made us all equal in his eyes, but didn’t give us all the same gifts. He gave me a pretty good brain which allows me to do rather well. Sometimes I wish he hadn’t given me such a big heart, because it feels pretty bad right now. I know that Christ tells us to give freely, regardless of the circumstances. So I do. But it hurts to think I am considered part of the evil that holds certain people down, when I was not born of privilege, and have made my way with no help from anyone. I know I’ll never be able to understand what it’s like to be discriminated against. Even as a woman in a predominately male profession, and not being included in the ‘boy’s network,’ I can’t presume to know how it feels to be denied a job or housing because of anything outside of my control. But I do know that if I want to succeed there are things I can do to improve my chances. Having children I can’t support does not advance my stature. Using drugs or abusing alcohol doesn’t either. And if I screw up and get fired from my job because I stayed out late and missed work or failed a drug test, can I blame that on someone? If my kids don’t have books for school because I spent money on cigarettes instead, whose fault is that? If I dress like I’m going to a nightclub instead of working for a major corporation, who can I blame if I don’t move up the corporate ladder? If I choose to have unprotected sex, get pregnant and drop out of high school, who should I be jealous of when at thirty I don’t have a college degree and don’t make fifty thousand dollars a year? Hearing “God Damn America” this week made me feel for the first time in my life that if anyone does not like it here, does not appreciate what this country has to offer, does not comprehend that this is the most generous country on the face of the Earth, they should go somewhere else. Anywhere else. See where else they can go where they’ll be fed and clothed and educated, despite their ability to pay. Where they are allowed to worship however they choose. Where they are not murdered because of their beliefs or their heritage or the color of their skin. If they choose to stay here and enjoy the benefits of this generous, diverse land of unlimited opportunities, they should avoid the divisive rhetoric and work to solve problems instead of painting an entire race of people with a broad brush of hate. |
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The kicker is they have seen my pic on my blog...but I have no idea how they look. 
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