Okay I wasn’t going to say anything.  I wasn’t going to rant about this.  I was just going to let this slide, because I’m 42 weeks pregnant and so focused on bringing my child into the world that keeping up with current events shouldn’t even be on my radar screen.  But I’m realizing that I just can’t let this one go.  So it’s time for a rant.  This one is about Michael Jackson.

First I would like to thank my child for not entering the world on the same day that Michael Jackson left it.  Second, I would like to thank the heavens above for removing one more pedophile from the face of the earth before allowing my own child to enter.

And yes - there it is, the heart of this rant: WHY is our society acting so MOURNFUL over the loss of someone who was CLEARLY a child molester??  This is a man who paid off families to essentially sacrifice their children to his own sick and twisted desires.  It’s NOT OKAY.  Am I sorry that the guy is gone?  Hell NO!

That being said, do I think he contributed something amazing to pop culture?  Absofuckinglutely.  There is NO question that Michael Jackson totally changed popular music, bridged some gaps between “black” and “white” music (whatever those things mean anymore), and was not only probably the first artist who figured out how to leverage MTV for his own benefit, but who figured out to market himself in a way no other artist had ever done quite so expertly either before or since.  (I just happen to think the market for music has become SO fragmented at this point that we will never again experience another sensation like Michael Jackson.)

I used to be a huge fan of his.  HUGE!  I had all of his LPs (yes, back when they were REALLY on LP).  I spent countless hours trying to replicate his dance moves as I watched them on MTV back in the day.  I even still bust out a move or two when appropriate because his music, his dancing, the whole thing was just classic.  But for me, his personal life quickly overshadowed his tremendous talent.  I don’t care HOW talented, HOW brilliant, HOW unbelievably amazing somebody is if they prove that they simply lack basic human decency.   And MJ proved that.  Personally I think he proved it in spades.

Let’s FACE it people:  the guy was seriously fucked up.  And for that, I do feel bad for him.  He clearly had parents that didn’t help his situation, and his fame and celebrity I’m sure contributed to his increasingly bizarre behavior, and that’s terrible.  But neither of those things should excuse him from his bad behavior.  He molested children.  MOLESTED.  CHILDREN.  There REALLY aren’t too many crimes worse than that in my book.  Now granted, he was never convicted of this.  (And keep in mind that OJ was never convicted of murder EITHER, but do we think HE didn’t do it?)  Michael Jackson had more than enough money back in 1993 to make sure that he WOULD NEVER be convicted.  The proof is in the families that he paid off.  (And yes, there is hard evidence of this.  There is also hard evidence that those payoffs included some seriously tight gag orders for both the families AND Michael Jackson.)  So does anyone REALLY believe that he didn’t molest those children?  REALLY?

So I get SO fired up about this because every freakin’ “tribute” or “memorial” or other sort of sentimental reference to the guy simply MAKES ME SICK.  I just have SUCH a hard time feeling like the world has lost something or someone great.  I think the time for mourning was back in 1993 when the truth about MJ came out and those of us who thought he was some sort of genius had our starstruck haze wiped out in an instant.  As much as I loved his music back in the 80s, I simply couldn’t bring myself to listen to anything he created after his sketchy personal life became so evident.  And I’ve honestly felt a little guilty when enjoying the music he released before I knew what a sick person he was.  For me, it’s all tarnished.  I guess good character is just far too important in my book.

So I, for one, will not be getting on board with the tributes and the memorials and the general love-fest currently going on over MJ’s death.  I can’t do it.  I won’t.  Instead I will be thinking about how difficult this must be for his family to suddenly lose somebody they love in such a public way (and to have to deal with the kind of sick baggage he left behind).  And I will also be thinking about all of those children back in the late 80s and early 90s whose sick parents took payouts to sacrifice their innocence.  At least now they can breathe easier knowing that their perpetrator is no longer on this earth.

posted on July 1st, 2009 under The Rants | Leave a Response

Oh, the waiting is the hardest part.

I’m pregnant, and I’ve been pregnant now for a full 41 weeks.  Now I’ve got no complaints about this pregnancy - it couldn’t have been smoother.  I’ve had hardly a food aversion, an ache, a pain, a night of lost sleep.  It’s been smooth sailing from the get.  Except that I’m still sailing - right past my due date.  So last night I started to feel a little mentally ill about the whole thing.  Not totally mentally ill, but just a mild case.  As if the weather had just caused a flare up or something.  We’d talked with my doctor a week prior about how long past my due date we should wait before being induced.  The first conversation landed us with planning for an induction one week past the due date.  At the time it seemed like a good idea.  No need to have the baby stew in the amniotic fluid too long, right?

Well.  Then I started researching this decision a bit further.  It’s what I do.  I need all of the information.  I learned a lot more about the pros and cons of being induced, and quickly decided it was not for me.  Not yet, anyway.  And that’s not to say there aren’t plenty of other women who might find themselves in my exact situation who would totally opt for the induction.  Like I said, it’s just not for me.

Now as an aside, there is still a chance that I might have to be induced, and that’s totally fine with me.  If that time comes, it means we’ll have more data in favor of an induction being a good thing.  I need data to make decisions.  It’s just how I am.  If there is anything I’ve learned throughout this pregnancy, it’s that all of the decisions made along the way - no matter how much data one has available - are so intensely personal.  And I imagine parenting will be a lot like that too.  No matter how much others want to weigh in with their opinions and advice, you just simply can’t move forward until you are completely comfortable with your own decisions.  At least that’s how it’s worked for me so far, and my husband and I have been a totally united front throughout this whole thing.  Sometimes tuning out the noise coming from all directions seems absolutely impossible, but I’ve managed to find a way throughout this whole experience to ground myself and keep my center stable so that I have that little part inside of me that I can check in with every now and then to make sure I’m not rotating completely off of my own axis.  Plus I have a husband who is an expert at sensing when my axis might be a little off kilter, and who can give me just enough of a nudge to right things before I get all wobbley. 

So when we saw the doctor again this past Monday - after a weekend spent feeling fairly apprehensive about the impending induction - I brought up my concerns about being induced.  The doctor was awesome.  She totally heard what I was saying and we came up with an alternative plan, which included having an ultrasound a few days later.  I left her office on Monday feeling lighter, happier, and generally more relaxed.

But then I had three full days to pine over the thousand scenarios that could be playing out in my womb as I waited patiently for my Thursday morning ultrasound.  Hence the mental illness from last night, though not all a bad thing since I was able to channel it into a thorough scrubbing of the floors at home.  (I figured it might send me into labor.   It didn’t.  But it DID keep me from having ice cream for the first night in probably three solid weeks.  Hopefully my thighs will thank me later.)

So this morning was the ultrasound - the second one of the pregnancy.

You take it on faith, you take it to the heart.  The waiting is the hardest part.

Now our first ultrasound was amazing.  It was done at about 20 weeks.  Although I’d heard the heartbeat a few times by then, the ultrasound was hard evidence that there was really a child inside of me, rather than the tumor I’d convinced myself I was growing as part of what clearly I thought was just a hysterical pregnancy surely to end only in a giant fart in the wind.  (I’m serious.  Have you READ about what happened to Mary Tudor?)  But when the ultrasound technician put that wand against my jellied abdomen and we actually SAW a baby, well it was all over for me, man.  I believed in miracles all over again and I felt like the luckiest woman in the world - especially when I looked over and saw my beaming husband.  It’s one of those moments in life I think I’ll never forget.  Nothing could have prepared me for the experience.  Nothing. 

Of course it was quickly followed by the holy-shit-we’re-having-a-baby-in-20-weeks-and-nothing-is-ready thought that hit me like a brick on the head after the haze of the ultrasound wore off.  That was fun.  (And who knew we’d have these extra weeks?)

So today I had a much better idea of what to expect.  I knew we would actually be able to see real parts of a real baby and that I would get some hard data on whether this whole ship was still safely afloat.  But I also had my mental illness singing away in my brain because I knew we might not get great news, and that if the news was anything less than great I would be taken to another part of the hospital so that the doctor could induce labor and begin the long process of coaxing what might not be a thriving child into the world.  We were even told to “have the bag packed and in the car” in case it turned out to be go-time.  The prospect of what “might” happen was casting a shadow that made the rest of the possibilities lit too dimly for me to see.  (Between me and my husband, clearly I am the pessimist.)

What I didn’t expect, and what we actually got, was perfection.  Absolute perfection.  We saw that child’s little heart beating just like it should, its diaphragm bobbing up and down in full blown breathing rehearsal, its little arms moving about, even its little facial features down to spotting it blink an eye and purse its lips as it brought its hand to its little mouth.  (A self-soother!  Hallelujah!  Now I’m REALLY ready for the baby to get here!)  This child, at least right now, today, is healthy.  And for that I am both relieved and overjoyed beyond belief.

Baby you’re the only one that’s ever known how.  To make me wanna live like I wanna live now.  The waiting is the hardest part.

This of course brings us back to the waiting.  I find it astounding, just absolutely astounding, that nobody - NOBODY - knows what REALLY gets labor started.  There are theories, there are old wives tales, there is a lot of hearsay out there about what does it.  There are even hormonal/chemical explanations of what does it  - which is why it can be induced at all (even though what you don’t tend to hear is that inductions can be unsuccessful, increasing the probability of needing a c-section).  But there is no concrete evidence anywhere that any doctor anywhere can go on to tell a woman when her body will start this magical process of birthing a baby.  The medical professionals we’ve interacted with over the past several months all fully admit this. 

And maybe it’s a good thing.  Maybe that’s the way it should be.  Maybe we don’t appreciate the mysteriousness and magic of it nearly enough.  Or maybe other people totally get this and it’s just that I never appreciated this before, and this is just one of those lessons it was time for me to learn.  I’m sure this is only one of many lessons becoming a parent will bring.  In fact, I’ve no doubt.  I think there was a part of me that needed this example of just how much control over my life is now gone.  Gone forever.  And as apprehensive as I’ve been about that part of becoming a parent up until now, I think I’m finally fine with this loss of control.  I think I’m ready for one wild ride.  From where I stand now, it seems like a small price to pay to feel this kind of joy.

Oh baby, don’t it feel like heaven right now?  Don’t it feel like somethin’ from a dream…

So we’re back to waiting.  This time it’s a looser, funkier, happier kind of waiting, but we’re still waiting.  And looking back over 41 weeks of a picture-perfect pregnancy, for me, the waiting really is the hardest part.

Of course, labor might change my mind.  Stay tuned…

posted on June 25th, 2009 under Parenthood | 1 Comment

So a coworker of mine who - in my opinion - happens to be maybe a little too aggressive with deadlines and schedules for THE ONE AND ONLY PROJECT THAT HE HAS TO HANDLE here at work (as opposed to my 8-10 major projects at any given time…not that I’m complaining because I actually love this job) - has been trying to schedule a very pricey consultant to come in and do some work for us on this ONE project of his.

I am heavily involved in that project, so according to my boss, I will need to be involved with the interaction with said consultant.  Sigh.  (And btw - this particular consultant charges $4 per MINUTE.  Yes, their hourly rate was so mind blowing to me that I wanted to know exactly how loud the sucking sound would be for every minute of this Chinese torture.)

Couple of months ago, I put in for vacation time in September.  And in the previous weeks, I’ve been counting down the days to this vacation because although I adore this job and typically have a lot of fun with it every day, I am just really ready for a break.  I know once I’ve had some time with some real sand between my toes (even my newly straightened ones), I will come back into the office with fresh ideas and more inspiration.   So I need this break.  Need it.  Planned it.  Ain’t giving it up. 

My coworkers know when my vacation takes place.  I’ve mentioned it anytime some sort of potential conflict within the office has come up.  Not in any sort of “ha ha, I won’t be here” kind of way, but rather in a “hey if you need me here for that, we’ll have to find another time.”  It’s also posted on a “team availability” document that shows my time as clearly “UNavailable.”   And finally, I also explicitly stated my vacation time directly to my single-minded single-purposed overly deadline aggressive coworker when the idea of bringing said consultant into the office during the week of my vacation came up.   I won’t be here.  I just won’t.

So what, prey tell, did I just get in my email??  What?  What could it be?  Well NO SHIT!  It’s an EMAIL from the project coordinator of said $4/minute consulting firm saying that their plan is to be in Pittsburgh for our “kick off meeting” (sorry - pausing to control the bile rising in my throat) during THE WEEK THAT I’M OUT OF THE OFFICE!  So WHO IN THE HELL gave them possible dates during that week to plan this meeting?  Oh yes, it was the single-minded single-purposed overly deadline aggressive coworker!  Shocking.  And now what is he going to do?  Convince me to cut my vacation short?  HELL NO.

I’m sorry, but why the fuck couldn’t this “kick-off meeting” wait just a few more days?  Why was that again?

He has ONE PROJECT.  And because it’s a project that I formerly managed on top of my 9 other ones, I’m still heavily involved.  And that’s fine.  I like to be helpful.  But for CHRIST SAKES, he can’t even fully manage his ONE PROJECT.

I should probably be feeling bad right now.  If I were a good person, there would be a part of me that felt badly that somehow this coworker of mine misunderstood.  Or maybe I should just have patience and understand that he’s only been working here since April and there is so much for him to learn yet that he’s probably just overwhelmed. 

But I don’t feel that way.   And that’s just how it is.

posted on September 4th, 2008 under The Rants | 3 Comments

From thepittsburghchannel.com: “PITTSBURGH — If Port Authority workers vote to strike in September, downtown business leaders want to be prepared for their employees’ commuting and transportation issues.”

So what does our HR department do?  Sends out a survey.  Sounds like a good idea, right? 

Well it WOULD be, if the survey asked us anything of relevance.   But basically the questions were geared toward how employees currently commute to work.  And since 99% of us have our commutes CAPTURED IN THE HR PAYROLL SYSTEM BECAUSE WE HAVE OUR BUS PASSES AND/OR PARKING FEES TAKEN OUT OF OUR PAYCHECKS PRETAX, these effing NIMRODS in HR asked us questions in the survey that THEY CAN ALREADY ANSWER through the payroll system.  (And for those with information not reflected in the payroll system, for whom, I’m assuming HR would need the information from the most, a simple query should allow for the distribution of a targeted survey.)

Really?  REALLY PEOPLE?  And what in the WORLD did you think you were going to get from this survey?

And to the dipshit that added the question about whether providing us with bike locks would get us to ride our bikes to work:  Stick your EFFING HEAD out the EFFING WINDOW and take one freakin’ look at the TRAFFIC out there (not to mention the geniuses that fling their parallel-parked CAR DOORS open into that very traffic) and tell me that you think it’s really a lack of a BIKE LOCK keeping me from riding my bike to work.  REALLY?  This is health care, folks.  You weren’t worried at all about safety?  (Or maybe WINTER COMING?)

I can’t WAIT to see the contingency plan they drum up with the responses from THIS survey.  Not one question about telecommuting.  Not one question about flexible schedules.  Not one question about…hmmm…putting commuter rails out of downtown going in ALL directions instead of just South. 

After taking said survey yesterday, I’m routing for that Port Authority strike just for the entertainment of it - especially since that money from the ridiculous chunnel project is already at the bottom of the river.  Yeah, we needed a light rail going under a river that already has 13 bridges going across it.  That was some kind of brilliance too bright for my beady little eyes.

Kudos to both my HR department and the Port Authority for making me feel like the president of frickin’ MENSA INTERNATIONAL for a day.  It’s always nice to be reminded of just how far to the right side of the curve my own pathetic gray matter might be.  WOW.

posted on August 16th, 2008 under The Rants | Leave a Response

So I just discovered the beauty of having other people remove baggage from my life. 

 I looked around a few weeks ago and started mentally inventorying all of this stuff in our house.  It’s just Stuff.  We don’t use it.  It sits there for Someday and when Someday rolls around it usually means that I’m just dusting it rather than actually using it.

Then I discovered FreeCycle.

 Okay well I didn’t discover it.  I knew about it.  I heard it was quite handy.  It’s just that it always seemed like such a giant pain in the ass to me to have to post stuff and then monitor who wanted what and when they would get it and blah, blah, blah.  My internal default setting tends toward the antisocial side - to the point of often preferring to come home on a Friday after work and not see another soul until I’m back at work on Monday (though I rarely do because I realize it’s not really a healthy thing to be such a hermit).  I often don’t even answer the phone even when I know who is calling and anticipate that a conversation with that person might be fun.  So the idea of having electronic communications with strangers and then having to SEE them in PERSON had less than zero appeal.  As Jean-Paul Satre wrote, “Hell is other people.”  And I often think he had a point.  I’m just sayin’…

 But then I broke.  As I mentally tallied all of the items sitting around our house waiting for their next dusting, I finally cracked.  I posted something on FreeCycle.  There were several responses, a quick arrangement for pickup by an interested individual, a flawless transfer of goods, and low and behold, I am left with not just one, but TWO whole shelves in my home with nothing on them.  I have SPACE.  I feel lighter, happier, more peaceful.  And the interaction with the interested party? Not bad.  Not bat at all.  I am pleasantly surprised.  And my interested party feels like she won a giant prize.  That makes me happy.

But now I think I also might be addicted.

I just posted about five other things - sort of big things - things that have taken up prime real estate in our garage for about four years now.  Things that actually don’t really fit into either of our cars.  Already I’ve had numerous responses (and this is in less than 16 hours since I posted this stuff).  And if all goes as planned via multiple emails already exchanged, that real estate in our garage could be newfound space within the next 72 hours or so.  The mere thought makes me giddy.  But it also makes me rack my brain for other items I could part with.  Do we really NEED all of those books?  I’ve already read them.  And that furniture in the guest room?  I mean, it’s not like we often have overnight guests, right?  And you know, those cats just like to eat the plants and puke.  Wouldn’t somebody else want to have that joy? 

Believe me, I realize this can go too far.  And I’m doing my best to keep it under control.  (And no, I would never seriously think about trying to give the kitties away EVER.)  But I have to admit, this downsizing process is wildly liberating to me.  

Now what about those old guitars…

posted on July 2nd, 2008 under Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Life Philosophy #2: The reward one gets from not shitting in one’s pants is not having to walk around with shit in one’s pants.

 I have very few basic rules-of-thumb about life that I feel strongly should be universal.  Actually, until recently, I only had one:

Life Philosophy #1: Don’t shit where you eat.  Animals are programmed to not shit where they eat, but for some reason humans are not.  For example, if you date your boss (shit) who you see at work every day (where you eat), your life will stink really fast.  Not.  Cool.  (Why do people do this anyway?  It slays me.)

 So recently I had an epiphany which resulted in my latest life philosophy - which apparently also has to do with shitting.  And I’m starting to think that if one examines how to handle anything fecal and applies those basic rules to life in general, all will be well.  Case in point: if something really stinks in your life, find a way to flush it down, or it’s no surprise that you’re going to be sitting in the stench.  (Oh, and if you DO find yourself sitting in a stench, don’t sit there and wonder who’s going to spray some Lysol on it - it’s up to YOU to flush it down!)  But I digress…

 This latest philosophy of mine hit me like a brick in the head during a discussion that occurred at work just prior to a meeting.  This discussion basically went like this:

 Coworker #1: So my daughter got straight As for the year and I’m trying to figure out how to reward her.  I have to think of something to buy for her that she would really love.

 Coworker #2: Wow, that’s great.  When my daughter used the potty at daycare two months before her goal, the daycare reduced our fees by like $27 so we bought my daughter a bunch of candy.

 And this point, I exchanged horrified glances with Coworker #3, who happens to share the same philosophies on life that I do.  Not to mention that our glances at each other clearly conveyed our mutual entertainment of Coworker #2 equating potty training with getting straight As.  Hilarious.

 (Side note: It is this completely retarded behavior that has me terrified of procreating.  I don’t want becoming a parent to turn me into an illogical asshole as it does to so many others that I observe.  I don’t want to turn my house over to a miniature version of a human being who is not yet trained in table manners or matters of the excretory system or the application of appropriate vocal volumes to the appropriate situations.  I want to cling to the civilized life I’ve created for myself over the years.  I don’t want to hang stupid crayon drawings of fire trucks that look like they have hair coming out of them up in my home.  That’s not love.  That’s tasteless.  Some things are just non-negotiable with me.)

 Coworker #1: I used to give my daughters stars on this chart we hung in the bathroom for when they used the potty.  Then I had this big “prize box” filled with little wrapped gifts, and after a certain number of stars, they got to pick a prize from the box.  They were just little toys, but my kids loved this.

 Me: Wow, I remember when I did something great, my parents made it a point of illustrating the intrinsic reward of why what I did was great, but I guess times have changed.  Or maybe they just didn’t have money for gifts, who knows.  So should we jump into this agenda or what?

 Note that Coworker #3 starts laughing and puts her head down briefly on the table to regain control of herself.  Then the meeting starts.

  Now one of the things that’s been so wildly irritating to me at work lately is what seems to be this inexplicable attitude of entitlement that I would argue 100% of staff members born after 1980 seem to ooze.  It just oozes from them.  OOzes.  Like puss from a bad sore.  And I find it SO irritating.  It actually makes me wild with rage, to be honest.  No amount of coaching or just plain straight talk with them about what behaviors will be rewarded with pay increases and promotions seems to matter, they just seem to think they are entitled to both pay increases AND promotions. (This is even if they stroll in at 9 and leave by 4.  Seriously?  Who does that?)

 I want to shake them and scream at them and tell them about how hard I had to work to get where I am today - not that I’m actually very far “up the ladder” or anything.  They don’t seem to know what it means to literally be forced to choose between whether to get the car repair done or to eat.  That actually happened to me back in my mid-20s.  And it sucked.  I chose to eat, btw, and used public transportation and my own two feet until I could scrape money together for the car repair thankyouverymuch.  And my reward?  Learning how to PLAN for the unexpected car repair.  Believe me, lesson learned.  And I appreciate that I learned the lesson when I did.  There was nobody to bail me out.  This is how one becomes self reliant, which seems to be more and more rare these days.  And I KNOW these are the kind of experiences that only “old people” should pine about.  Uphill both ways, right?  I get it, I GET it now.  And yes,  I appreciate every sub zero uphill trek to and from school that every blue-haired member of society tells, and am quite thankful that our school system had bussing.  I FINALLY GET IT.  (And I SO feel your pain.)

 So when the conversation about rewarding children for potty training occurred at work, it totally dawned on me: when I grew up, my reward for not shitting in my pants was - guess what! - NOT having SHIT in my PANTS!  And I actually have vague memories of my mom cooing “see how NICE it is to feel all CLEAN!?”  The same was true for when I (finally) learned to pick up my toys and make my bed: “See how NICE it is to have SUCH a CLEAN ROOM?  It’s so PRETTY like this, isn’t it!”  And somehow it started to gel for me…why yes, yes it’s quite nice to have a dry bum.  I feel happy when my bum is dry.  I no longer have to wear those horrible plastic pants to bed, either.  I should try this more often.  And oh yes, it’s quite nice in here with the pretty bedspread showing and the toys all lined up.   It’s even pleasant.  And it looks bigger, too.  My toys actually look happy!  Perhaps I should try this whole tidiness thing my mom keeps telling me about.  And so my intrinsic OCD ways were born and I’ve never looked back.  The reward??  My house is CLEAN.  I can FIND things.  I feel peace and calm because I know what the FUCK is going on because things are in order.  THAT is my reward.  My reward for not shitting myself is that I don’t have to walk around all day with SHIT in my pants.  Because that, my friend, would stink.  I’m not given any other prize.  And I don’t get a raise or a promotion.  I have learned basic adult human functionality.  Go me.

I will never figure out why parenting took a nosedive, putting kids in the the drivers seats of many households.  I know that certainly wasn’t the case in the house in which I was raised, where my brother and I were convinced that the only reason our parents ever HAD kids was because it was cheaper than hiring a gardener and a housekeeper.  As it turns out, that is actually not true.  So they must have wanted us for other reasons.  They certainly loved us, and while I certainly can’t say they were perfect parents (who is?), they definitely did the best they could with what they had.  For the most part, they did pretty damned good.  And quite honestly, I’m greatful for the tough tests they put in front of us.  We got plenty of praise when praise was warranted.  There was no “game” to it.  No bribes.  No “stuff.” I’m convinced that it’s all made me a better person today.  I’m not focused on needing “stuff” to reward myself for a job well done.  My reward for paying the bills is that my credit rating rocks.  My reward for working hard around the house is that I live in a nice house.  And finally, my reward for working hard at work is that I get some autonomy, can make some pretty cool (and sometimes scary) decisions, and that I consitently get raises and promotions WHEN they are deserved.

 And let me just reiterate that I am not a parent.  I don’t know how hard it is.  I haven’t the foggiest.  In fact, I’m rather sure that there are parts of parenting that are 100% hell (which is why venturing into that territory gives me some serious pause - aside my fear of it turning me into a useless asshole).  But I am also rather sure that buying everything under the sun for one’s children when they even attempt to learn some basic human funcationality can make the life of a parent a living hell 100% of the time - or close to it.  I’d prefer that my kids understand the intrinsic reward in doing the things that good life maintenance dictates, and spend their time making real human connections with people so their lives have some meaning. 

So anyway, this revelation about whatever it was that snapped in the 80s (Too much money?  Too much TV?  Electing an actor president?  What was it??) that resulted in a generation of parents that reward their kids for not shitting in their pants has provided ME with THREE rewards:

1. Peace of mind in at least beginning to understand these twentysomething creatures that continue to trickle into the workforce, making my work life just a bit more of a living hell each day.  This newfound piece of mind, I’m convinced, will help me find my “happy place” before actually scratching out the eyes of any one of these nimrods.  (And the added bonus?  NOT getting in trouble for scratching out the eyes of a nimrod!)
2. A reminder to my future self to not become a retarded jackass of a parent (if and when I actually become a parent) that gives my kids presents for not shitting in their pants.  Or for picking up their toys.   Or for making their beds.  Or for getting straight As.  Or inevitably, paying their bills.  These are, in actuality, bribes.  And as mentioned, I have no idea of what it’s like to be a parent, so maybe I’m way off base here.  But from where I stand in my life right now, it seems these bribes multiply quickly, and soon the situation (and the kid) is out of control.  I want to officially remind my future self to stick to her guns.  Praise is good, presents…maybe not so much.  At least not always.
3. A way to articulate this life philosophy which apparently I’ve lived by for as long as I can remember, but never quite crystalized before now.  It just feels liberating to finally have the words to explain this phenomenon.

And maybe I’m asshole now, and parenting will make me less of an asshole.  I am absolutely willing to accept that.  But honestly?  I really think I might be onto something here. 

posted on June 24th, 2008 under The Rants | 3 Comments

I went to see Jonathan Coulton with Paul & Storm with hubby Ben and my friends Bridget and Laura last Saturday.  Before the show, I’d never even heard of Paul & Storm, and I knew only a little bit about Jonathan Coulton.  All I knew for sure was that I thought the song “SkyMall” was friggin hilarious, and that if the show would include songs remotely like it, I would have a good time.  Aside from that, even if the show sucked, I was in good company.  (Plus the venue is known for making fairly good drinks.  So I had that going for me too, which was nice.)

Can I just say, I was blown away.  BLOWN.  AWAY.  My face hurt so hard from laughing at that show that days later I’m still experiencing minor muscular aches in my cheeks.  Coulton never wound up doing “SkyMall” which was totally fine because not only was every song hilarious and great and fabulously entertaining, but there were the following added bonus moments:

• Paul & Storm’s entire act (true comedic genius I found completely refreshing, and Flight of the Conchords-ish)
• Paul & Storm “outing” the supergeeks in the audience with their reference to I Can Has Cheezeburger
• Paul & Storm with Coulton singing TMBG’s “Birdhouse in Your Soul”
• “Code Monkey” (although never a software programmer, working in IT, I can soooo relate), “Skullcrusher Mountain,” “Tom Cruise Crazy” & “First of May”
• Coulton’s mid-song Rickroll (thought I tore somthing in my side when laughing at this - maybe the hardest I have ever laughed)

To top it off, all 3 performers hung out as fans left the venue making themselves totally accessible for autographs and just to chat.  They’re all really nice guys – the kind of guys you’d want to invite to that next cookout.  Paul managed to point out that he noticed the looks Bridget and Laura gave me and Ben during “First of May.”   Apparently as fans, we entertained them as well.   My friend Bridget even got her photo with Coulton – very cool.  The only tradgedy of the night was that Bridgey’s hubby Dave was unable to attend.  There might not be anyone in the world who would have loved the show more.  Next time, Dave.  Next time.

posted on June 10th, 2008 under Good Comedy, Music | Leave a Response

So several family members got together this past weekend to celebrate Ian’s birthday, and at one point the conversation turned toward just that: birthdays.  This is a big year for birthdays in the famdamily…Ben hits 30, his mom and Uncle Larry both hit 60, Ned hits 50, and Aunt Suzanne hits 70.  Big year.  Anyway, when Aunt Sue mentioned that she’ll be 70, I said, “well this will be the only year that I’ll be half your age.”  Ben then made the same remark about this also being the only year he’ll be half of his mom’s age.

And then Larry chimed in with, “Well I’ll be half the age of someone who is 120.”

Um, no Larry.  You’ll be half the age of someone who is 122.  And if you can find someone out there who is turning 122, I think you should automatically win the PowerBall.

posted on March 12th, 2008 under Larri | 1 Comment

So I’ve decided to dedicate part of my life to writing solely about a man who I love and adore very dearly, and who provides me with literally constant entertainment: my father-in-law Larry.

Now Larry is a retired school teacher.  He worked very hard for 30 years teaching English to high school students, and he’s a really smart guy.  I can’t even imagine doing his job, and I certainly can’t imagine doing it for THIRTY years, so I have the utmost respect for this guy.  (So I won’t even be remotely offended if he decides to read this and critique my grammar and/or punctuation.)  Since retiring, Larry has expanded his horizons, which has provided me (and well, the entire family) with a vast warehouse of entertaining and comedic nuggets.  Here, I offer just one of those nuggets.

Larry, being the hip cat that he is (and I’m not even kidding…he’s not someone you’d look at and think “retiree”), has one of the latest cell phones (complete with Rolling Stones ringtone, mind you).  Soon after learning how to send text messages, he realized the beauty of abbreviations in his own unique way, resulting in the following exchange on a road trip with his wife Linda and two of their friends.

Larry [aloud]: “Hey I can even abbreviate my name.”  

Larry sends the following text to Linda: “Larri”

Linda, texting back to Larry: “Idiot.”

There is a bottomless source of material here.  I’m telling you.  I just can’t write it fast enough.

posted on March 10th, 2008 under Larri | 3 Comments

What are the ODDS that the one time I’m on crutches in nearly 15 years that I will be in a building that must be evacuated due to a fire?  Not a drill mind you, but a real fire.  You’d think they’d be low.  I mean, seriously.

So I’m at work yesterday afternoon, probably about 15 minutes before I would have normally gathered up my stuff to head out, and there’s some commotion several cubicles away.  One of my co-workers comes up to me and says “well you must not be in the garage today since you can’t drive, right?”  Uh, NO.  I’ve got a car down there…it’s just that my husband is the one that’s driving it while I’m one-footed.

Apparently there was a fire in our parking gargage.  And APPARENTLY at some point our building was supposedly evacuated, however, no alarm ever sounded on our floor.  I got up and hobbled over to where I could look out of the windows on the South side of our building, and I could see smoke.  Lots of smoke.  So I decided alarm or not, I needed to start figuring out how the hell I was going to get out.  We never received any word on whether it was safe to stay or not, and then folks just started taking matters into their own hands and telling people to leave.  It was a little chaotic and very disconcerting. 

So another one of my co-workers basically refused to let me go alone - and bless her heart - she stayed with me for the long slow “walk” (more like a hop) down seven flights of concrete stairs.  When we got to the bottom, both my bad foot and my left leg (from doing a half squat to lower me onto each stair) were throbbing in pain.  The conceirge from the hotel in my building saw me coming down the last few stairs and came over immediately to make sure I was okay. 

The hotel conceirge and my co-worker helped me get outside of the building and to a bench where I could sit and call my husband so that he could find me.  As I sat there in a pretty fair amount of pain, I started to get mad.  It seemed to me like pretty much everyone else in the entire complex had been notified about this fire and safely evacuated FAR earlier than anyone on my floor.   And if we WERE NOT supposed to evacuate our floor (which would have made sense because it probably would have been way safer to stay upstairs), then I’d LOVE to know why the hell nobody told us this.  Instead we were left guessing about how long we should wait:  until the WHOLE building is engolfed in smoke or until it actually FEELS hot enough for a fire to be burning?  Hmmm…

My husband found me and waited with me until we could figure out whether our car was affected by this fire - which apparently was burning (or at least smoking) in the parking garage below the building.  About 15 minutes later, the “all clear” was given and people started heading back into the building.  And as it turned out - after waiting in the hotel lobby for another 45 minutes for the crowd of people heading for the garage to dissipate - our car was thankfully unaffected.

But seriously?  WHAT are the odds?  Good grief.  I wonder what’s next.

posted on March 7th, 2008 under The Rants | 1 Comment