My blog is not about insecurity, or narcissism. It's a way for me to think out loud, to connect with other people, and to record what goes on in my world for me. I don't know or care how many people read it. Would I love to be Mimi or Heather or Leigh Anne? Yes, if only because they're funnier and more consistent authors than I. And sure, it must be kind of cool to have hundreds or thousands of people drooling at the keyboard, awaiting your next missive or witty bon mot. Does that make me insecure and self-centered?
Okay, maybe a little.
But I hate this stupid genre of stereotypes. IS YOUR KID A TWIXTER? DO YOU MOMMYBLOG? IS YOUR PRIEST FUCKING BUNNIES? Suddenly, a negative spotlight wielded by bored fools with nothing better to do is thrown upon a group of people, who may or may not deserve it. And somehow, even though the stories are expected to be "balanced," the group being typed comes out sounding like fools. (Okay, except the bloggers in this article, most of whom I would like to buy a margarita.)
In case you have seen the scary Star Wars costume people at Sheryl's site and it left you wanting more, check out TronGuy. Wait, go pee first, and then do it.
I use Yahoo!!!! as my home page for IE, as pedestrian as that may sound. I'm used to it, and I like having those four or five boring little news headlines at my whim. So imagine my smirk when I read the following hed:
"Cheney slammed for dress at Auschwitz event"
Okay, first of all. The Cheney thing. I wish I had the PSP ability to paint a prom dress onto Cheney, but I have a lot to learn. Picture this one, though.
1. Favorite class in school: Acting 2. Sweets or salty snacks? Oh, mix 'em. Ever had chocolate drizzled popcorn? Yummy. 3. Secret desired talent: To be Sheryl Crow. 4. What musical instruments can you play? I used to play piano and guitar regularly. I had taken lessons in flute and violin as a child. 5. What kind of radio station do you listen to? 105.9 WCKG during the week (Howard Stern during morning commute, Steve Dahl on the way home). Pop music when I'm cooking. 6. Do you prefer paper or plastic grocery bags? Plastic. DH re-uses them to do the cat litter. 7. Creamy or Extra crunchy peanut butter? Creamy spreads better, but I grew up with Skippy Crunchy. 8. Plain or Peanut M&Ms? Plain. I suck on 'em. 9. What size shoe do you wear? 11. You know what they say about women with big feet?* 10. What size shirt do you wear? 18/20. I tend to buy big because I'm insecure.** 11. Would you rather play or watch sports? Watch and have a beer. 12. Baseball or Basketball: I like both, but sitting in Wrigley Field watching the Cubbies win on a sunny day is a great thing. 13. Things you collect? Co lored glass- and dinnerware. My grandmother has been slipping me her old L.E. Smith Glass, and I tend to pick up single pieces here and there from Crate's spring collections. 14. Favorite way to spend a free hour: Reading a good book, or watching a movie while working on a craft project. 15. Favorite way to spend a free day: Doing decadent stuff like getting my hair done, shopping, lying in the sun. 16. Which do you prefer: safe and in a rut or to try something new? Tough call. I tend towards the familiar, but I wish I were a little bit more adventurous. 17. New anime or old-style cartoons? If I have to pick, old cartoons. But the only animation I really watch for myself is The Simpsons, and maybe a little Family Guy and South Park. 18. Personal goal? To reach and maintain a healthy weight, to be a good mother and wife, and to have a satisfying career.
Five years and twelve hours ago, you entered the world. You cried just enough to let everyone know you were there, and then peacefully watched everyone make a fuss over you. To this day, you still like everyone making a fuss over you!
What are you into, now that you're five? Well, the same stuff really you were into yesterday when you were still four. You have the entire CTA train system memorized, down to the last stop and emergency announcement. You're a terrific artist and like to make up comic books. You love it when I ask you to help me cook, and you take such pleasure in being big enough to help out.
You're an incredibly smart and curious child, who seems at his happiest when learning something new. You sometimes can get frustrated by things that are too hard to do, but you're almost always willing to try, which is all we can ask of you. And then, when you break through some barrier and do something by yourself, it's a genuine celebration.
This morning, we drove you to school and talked about the big cake we brought for you to share with your classmates. You said you wanted Danny to come to celebrate your birthday in class with you. It reminded me of when I picked you up at school yesterday and you pointed out that the teacher had given you two smiley-face stickers -- one for you, and one for Danny because you wanted to give one to your brother. You can't know at this age how incredibly sweet that kind of thing is; the fact that you want your baby brother to share in the smallest good fortune with you.
That's probably the thing that I love the best. The unexpected, little loving generosity. It's a snapshot of your general good nature that I hope will still describe you when you're 15, and when you're 50.
Happy birthday, my first-ever baby boy. I wish for you many, many more happy celebrations.
When I call Maggie Gallagher an ass, please understand that it also stems from jealousy. I wanted to be the next Mike Royko, and I'm still bitter about it. And no, I'm not as funny as Royko (especially in the blogosphere, which is just brimming with writers who don't encounter stage fright) and who knows if I would have made it anyway. But it still pisses me off.
So this columnist was paid by the Bush administration to push Shrub's limited vision of what marriage should mean in the United States. Okay, fine. You want to take money to write that shit, that's your business. But to push that agenda in a newspaper without telling anyone? That's really wrong. When confronted, Gallagher said "Did I violate journalistic ethics by not disclosing it? I don't know. You tell me."
Since Gallagher is not the first and I suspect she won't be the last, let me in my tiny world tell the rest of you journos: you are lucky to have your jobs. People read what you write every day, and your words have strength you may not comprehend. But, as Uncle Ben said, "With great power comes great responsibility." Please wield your pen-as-sword wisely.
And if you won't, then at least fucking tell us you're puppets for Bush.
So far, this week has been chock full of baby sweetness. Jacob is thrilled to be back at school after a week of being out with terminal sniffles. He's had two three-star days* in a row, and I'm pulling for a third. Danny, meanwhile, is still running on all cuteness cylinders.
At the risk of sounding like Bad Mom, I have to admit my youngest son is just easier. Jacob, who turns five tomorrow (holy shit), is brilliant and handsome and funny, but definitely a more complicated kid. He is fully capable of debating me on any subject, procrastinating, complaining, etc. He has an incredibly strong sense of right and wrong, and he's vocal about it. He, like his mom, likes to be in charge.
Danny, at two-and-a-half, is a jolly little fellow. That's the word we use for him -- jolly. He's so freakin' happy to see us. He loves to hug. He loves butterfly and eskimo kisses, and snuggling with me in Big Bed (the name we inadvertently gave Mommy And Daddy's Giant King-Sized Bed). He loves the cats, and he loves his brother, and he loves the nanny, and he definitely loves my parents. He has a particularly strong bond with my dad -- not surprising, since Danny supposedly looks just like me as a baby.
At this age, Jacob had already begun having difficulties with us. He had an 18-month speech delay, which frustrated him to no end. We had him evaluated at around 26 months, just to make sure everything was okay, and decided to go with speech therapy. I was pregnant with Danny and concerned that the speech delay would cause even more problems for Jacob when he suddenly became A Big Brother And Therefore No Longer The Empire Of The Universe. Speech therapy helped, but we still dealt with fairly typical toddler tantrum behavior from Jacob.
Danny rarely resorts to tantrums; somehow, this kid just always gets his way, or doesn't get as pissed off when he doesn't. It's funny to me; Danny will just matter-of-factly ask for what he wants in his little adorable-tot voice, and it's like he's got me hypnotized. I'm in Jewel with him, doing a quick shop as the blizzard hits, and he decides he wants cake. Not the slice of cheese or corned beef offered to him in the deli, but cake. Cake, cake, cake.
We don't buy cake, unless it's someone's birthday. And I'm not normally a total pushover about what the kids want me to get at the store; even Jacob understands when I say "No, not today." So you can understand how weird it is when I just turn my cart into the baking aisle and let Danny pick out a cake mix and chocolate frosting. It was so easy to justify -- Danny asked for it. It's a blizzard outside and therefore we probably won't leave the apartment for the next 48 hours. Kids love cake. Daddy likes cake. Yes-we-should-make-a-cake .
Same thing happens in the morning. I have to go to work. I have a really tight schedule because I absolutely have to be at my desk for a bare minimum of 8 hours per day (not 7.9) and I have to commute to the burbs for work and I have to pick up whoever's at preschool by 6 pm at the absolute latest and I have to get the kids asleep by 7 pm. But Danny will just look at me, putting my watch on, and say "No. Mommy down." And, like the properly trained Mommybot I am, I move directly to my bed where the Littlest Prince is ensconced and sit down next to him so he can tuck his sweet little toddler body into mine. Suddenly it's just not so important for me to get gas on my way to work or take 15 minutes to grab a drab salad to gobble at my desk. Because the Baby Wants More Snuggles, and damned if he's going to miss out.
I'd say Danny is spoiled, but he seems to understand when we really do have to leave, or take a nap, or not buy the giant dancing BooBah, and is usually distractable. But I tell ya, the kid is fucking edible. Paul Reiser said it perfectly... it's hard to explain the need to physically chew on your younguns, until you have one. Then, the only way to express how much you love them is to actually eat them.
Q: How many Bush Administration officials does it take to change a light bulb?
A: None. There is nothing wrong with the light bulb; it's condition is improving every day. Any reports of its lack of incandescence are delusional spin from the liberal media. Illuminating rooms is HARD WORK. That light bulb has served honorably, and anything you say undermines the lighting effort. Why do you hate freedom?
I know, MLK day isn't topical four days later, but I couldn't decide how to blog this. My kids go to a Jewish non-profit preschool in the city. This is Danny's first year, and he goes two days a week. Jacob is on his third year, and he goes five days. On Wednesdays, the kids have music class, and I happen to be a big fan of the teacher, local and celebrated children's musician Susan Salidor.
Apparently, Susan has a song about Martin Luther King, and each year does a program on him. So, as Jacob's teacher Hattie explained to me, they talked about Dr. King and his message, as well as the fact that he was shot by "a bad man," which "made G-d very sad." After this program, Jacob went back to his classroom and drew a giant picture of a black man wearing a crown and festooned with tons of red and black gashes. Next to Dr. King (get it? crown?), was an expressionless man shooting a gun. The red and black gashes, Jacob said, were the bulletholes and stitches. Hattie was monstrously impressed with Jacob's artwork and hung it proudly in the classroom.
Filled with an awkward sort of kid-pride, I called DH. "Really? They told the kids how Dr. King was killed?" he responded, in shock. Relieved, I commiserated with him. Yes, by all means, tell children how this incredible man helped a nation begin to change things that were terribly wrong. But to tell 2-5 year olds that another man killed him?
I couldn't decide if I was being too sensitive about the subject, so I decided to wait and see if Jacob raised it at all. It didn't take long. On Monday, Hattie called to tell me that Jacob was being corrected by another teacher, and he responded, "Well, I'm going to kill you."
Probably I should explain that, while Jacob displays some fairly typical oppositional behavior (as the shrinks call it), he's generally a really good kid. He's very bright, imaginative and expressive. He also knows the basics of right and wrong (as well as any kid his age could, I suppose). We limit his TV and movies to non-violent, age-appropriate subjects and programs. So, for my almost-five-year-old to threaten to kill a teacher (because she dared tell him to stay on his cot and be quiet during naptime).... well, that tells me something funky is going on.
Am I making too much of this? Don't know... all I know is, I will be careful to ask Jacob's kindergarten teacher (and Danny's preschool teacher) about the way they approach Dr. King next year.
I don't know about you guys, but I'm very conflicted about staying on tBlog. I hate to lose the community. I have created a new world for myself over here. If you feel like joining me, or just checking me out here and there, please do. I always love company.
According to an article in today's Tribune, White House spokesman Scott McClellan said last week that "the inaugural is a way to not only celebrate freedom, but it's also a time to honor and pay tribute to our men and women in uniform who are servicing and sacrificing in defense of freedom."
Oh, bullshit. The inaugural is a way for companies who support the GOP to crow and splash money around, in the hopes that their interests will continue to be protected in Duh-buya's 2nd term. I'm going to quote the following verbatim from the article:
"Rep. Rahm Emanuel, the Illinois Democrat in charge of fundraising for Democratic congressional campaigns in 2006 and a former fundraiser for President Bill Clinton, suggested that the GOP's true stripes are showing in this war-themed inaugural celebration.
"'This is just who they are,' Emanuel said. 'We've got a bunch of working-stiff kids who are going to serve in the Army without a policy, without Kevlar vests, without [heavily armored] Humvees, and corporate America is going to make sure it has a good party. This is their idea of sacrifice. Some will sacrifice, and some will have a Bacchanalia. That's their idea of America at war.'"
You tell 'em, Rahm. Glad to be from your state, buddy.
... with an emphasis on the "spankin." Please give a big, warm, tBlog welcome to Tales From The Front Counter! Notice I did not create it on tBlog. I'm not ready to give up my JT blog, but I'm getting a bit fed up with "pardon our dust" eighteen times a day.
Tales From The Front Counter was created to give retail drones a place to bitch. I'm hoping to publish funny, etc. stories about the wacky world of retail.
I don't write often about my husband, partially because we have a prenup (kind of like a restraining order) about it. If he dumps me, all bets are off and his secrets can be splashed across the web like so many links to a Paris Hilton nudie flick. (What this says about our ability to have an open, honest relationship? Not much, I guess.) Referring to him on here only as DH wasn't so much a conscious decision as a holdover from my early pregnancy and new-mommy days on the Babycenter boards. (Remember? "My SIL says I should stop bfeeding DD now that DS is here, but DH said he'd beat me bloody and kick me out of the trailer," etc.) A few nights ago, I asked him if he ever read my blog. He was somewhat evasive in his answer, which is okay, I guess, although being very girly and (let's face it, immature) I was surprised that he didn't seem to be interested in his beloved's random musings and non-DH connections. To be honest, I occasionally only get into the stuff DH presses upon me to learn more about him and connect a bit better. I mean, seriously... Buckethead? Keneally I understand, but fucking Buckethead? Freak Kitchen? WTF? Anyway, I assured him that I don't often write about him, and I never call him by name on here. I told him I just use "DH." He didn't know what that meant. "Oh, you know. Like on all the Mommy boards. Darling Husband, Darling Son, Darling Daughter, that kind of gaggy stuff." "Really? I'm your 'Darling Husband?'" ***See if you can spot JT's mistake!*** "Well, sometimes people say it means 'Dumb husband,' but..." (The noise you don't hear right now is DH going ballistic. Half-seriously.) "(Name), *I* didn't say it meant 'dumb,' that's just what some people..." Well, folks, you can just see how things could have deteriorated from there, but I've been taking liquid Prozac and DH obviously didn't take it all that seriously. So he decided that "DH" would now stand for "Dah Husband," sort of like "Da Bears." We're Chicagoans and all, so that works for me. Of course, someone less mature than I could point out that DH could also be a "Duh, Husband" but I'm way too mature for that.
Anyway.
DH is a web developer and an independent contractor, which means it's really freakin' hard to get a decent full-time job doing it, and you can get total strangers to pay you to do it, but they won't do employment taxes and you get no benefits and no perks and no paid days off and you have to buy all your own computer equipment and software and shlep everywhere and take phone calls at any fucking hour that your insane clients from bumblefuck, Michigan call you to say they forgot their goddamned e-mail password again. (Oh, I'm not bitter.) DH is really good at what he does, not in any small part because he's very smart and self-directed and quite detail-oriented. His clients like him because he's polite, generous with his time, and funny. (Also reasons I like him.) He cleans up well, and he's really good at bridging the gap between techies and business types. Just about every job he's had has been by referral, which says a lot about him. This last job he's been on, I actually found via Craigslist sometime last spring. He's been at a giant international employee benefits firm. This company, which we'll call HolyGrail, has many offices. The one at which DH was stationed was really fucking far away from where we live in Chicago. However, the pay was decent and it was a four-month job, so woo-hoo for the JT family, because all our bills would be paid for at least four months! DH did really well at HolyGrail, and of course they all just loved him. He liked his work just fine, and got comfy enough there. Being an employee-benefits firm, they treated people pretty well, and he got some of the perks too. When his contract was supposed to end (in September), they extended him and some other contractors. He was given until December. DH, being no dummy, was angling to be brought on-board as a full-time hire if possible. Things looked pretty good all year. He worked his tail off, got along with everyone, and everything looked cool. In fact, late in the fall, his manager there started having talks with him about titles, job responsibilities, goals, etc. Late in December, when his days were numbered, DH was told his contract was being extended until January 14th. What next? We didn't know, but it didn't sound good. DH's contract company said they had had no conversations with HolyGrail about full-time hires because there wasn't a budget for it. HolyGrail, like somanyotherAmericancompanies, is in the midst of outsourcing a bunch of projects to India. So, DH started looking for his next job. Full-time would be incredible, long-term contract would be great, and, hey, a few days here and there wouldn't hurt. Through another consultant, DH got some interest from a neato web company with offices in Chicago. (Again, no real names. Let's say Galahad.) Someone from Galahad called and did a phone interview, and DH was able to knock the client-side developer questions out of the ballpark. Within a few days, he went in for the in-person interview. He called me, feeling low, afterwards. He had spoken with someone up high in development, and then had a couple of developers shoot questions at him. "I couldn't read these guys," he said. As usual, he underestimated his impact on people and was feeling pretty negative. However, Galahad supposedly needed five developers to start, hopefully, on January 17th, so we figured time might be on our side. This week, DH was staring down the barrel of the my-contract-is-ending gun, with no governor's pardon on its way. We started panicking about money in earnest. He came home from work discouraged and exhausted, after spending his days documenting all the work he'd been doing. Last night, I called him from the car at around 5:15. Did anyone say anything about Friday being his last day? Not much, I guess. His manager's superior stopped by to say goodbye, but that was about it. He was in a pretty lousy mood. Maybe 20 minutes after we hung up, DH called back. His HolyGrail manager came by to find him while we had been commiserating, and said they wanted to extend his contract six weeks. She was so thrilled, she actually had tears in her eyes. I picked up the kids at school, got them home and fed -- all the time, feeling about 10 pounds lighter, knowing that the rent would be paid for a few more months. By the time things were quiet, DH had tried to call several times. You guessed it -- his Galahad contact called him right after he spoke with HolyGrail, and Galahad loved him. He and another coder were the two people they'd liked best, and DH had the best personality/fit for them. Now what? DH explained the situation to his Galahad contact, who said he'd check in with them. The hope is that Galahad will let DH delay his start date by a week or two, and he could offer that week or two to HolyGrail so as not to burn any bridges. Galahad said they'd call him by noon today. I await the dulcet tones of my cell, praying for good news.
I suck, I know. No original thought whatsoever. But Flea's got me thinking about the need to update my own blogroll, and in going through the really long list of blogs I have in my IE Faves, I discovered this gem from Trancejen. You may see my comment below her post on dealing with religious folk (such as some Jehovah's Witnesses) who ring your doorbell and ask you to invite Jesus for a cuppa. Which reminded me of how I dealt with those guys who would ring my bell and ask me to leave my world of Judaic/satanism behind. I married DH in June of '96. A few days after the wedding, I was home alone on a blessedly quiet weekday. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment on Belmont, within spitting distance of Schuba's and a really great, greasy taqueria. The doorbell rang midmorning, and, assuming it was UPS with another wedding gift to open (yay! presents!! i'm a spoiled brat!), I threw wide the door. On my doorstep were two or three young men, all wearing dark suits, white shirts, and dress shoes. All carried bibles and small stacks of pamphlets. Caught off guard, I slammed the door and ran back to the bedroom. Persistent little buggers that they were, the guys rang the bell again. 'Maybe they'll go away,' I thought. But, just as Jesus hung in there (sorry), so did they. Seeing one of my favorite black scarves hanging on my bedroom door, I was seized with a funky idea. I snatched it up and wrapped it around my head and neck, then returned to the door and peered out through a crack. "Yes?" I asked. "Ma'am? Can you spare a moment?" one of the men asked. "No, go away!" I hissed. "My husband does not allow me to talk to strange men! He will be very angry!" "Ma'am, wait," one of the men started. "No! You must go! You will get me in trouble!" I slammed the door shut and leaned against it. I could hear soft murmurs from the men, and then their footfalls sounded as they went down the front steps and headed next door. Reading back through this, I feel bad for (a) making these guys potentially think I was an abused wife, and for (b) potentially being shallow about the very real issue of domestic abuse. I am really sensitive about proselytizing, though. When I was a DI slut in college, I ran into this stuff (and wrote about it) all the time. I even got approached in the women's room of a mostly deserted classroom building once, and it really freaked me out. So flame on if you must, but know ye that I write this not to offend, but to empty my brain of yet another memory that prevents me from understanding what I should be doing at work right now.
FYI, I'm listed on the incredible blogroll for What She Said!, a blog for and about women and feminists and other cool topics. I'm not on many blogrolls, so I have to give these folks some props. Thanks, Morgaine!
You've got to love the adults-only Legos. Seriously, these are explicit.
And, of course, the monstrously wonderful Knights of the Round Table song from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (Scroll down to where you can download the movie.) The same great guys bring you great Spider-Man, Star Wars, and 2001 Lego films here.
I'm officially a horrible person. Every weekday, I get the "Daywatch" e-mail from the Chicago Tribune. It's put together by "the staff of the Chicago Tribune," helmed by fellow U of I alumnus Charlie Meyerson. Since I don't have time to read the paper every day, this is my way of catching up on select local and national news items. Since the tsunami tragedy, the Trib (along with their media compatriots) has, of course, run numerous stories and pics from across the globe. There are the requisite "how you can help" updates, international and varied reactions to the event, and, daily, more and more pictures of shocked survivors. So, why am I horrible (with regards to this)? Because every day, I see yet another picture of some adorable, stupefied moppet, and the hand of an adult attempting to coax some food or drink into him or her. And I just cannot stand it. For a wretched bitch, I am a surprisingly soft touch. I cried at the end of "Saved!" for G-d's sake. Not just the first time I saw it, but even the second time I watched it with DH. I cry at the end of "Moonstruck" every single time I see it. (And that's a lot -- turn on any women's network or TBS and there it is!) I burst into tears in the winter of 2001, when I passed a woman ducking into the doorway of a closed high school with not-warmly-dressed-enough baby tucked into her arms and no obvious place to go. (I literally went home and told DH I wanted to just wrest the child from her arms and promise to raise him right.) I cried just now, reading John Kass' account of how his kid sledded into a park bench last winter and cracked his noggin. Now, I'm a former reporter, okay? I understand how this works. The goal is to choose the image and words that will most draw the reader into the story. In the wake of an international tragedy where assistance is needed, there may even be thought to coaxing the reader (consciously or otherwise) into action. But I just cannot stand it. In fact, the reason I left journalism (apparently forever) is that I had been assigned to the crime beat on the LaPorte Herald-Argus. At first, it was no big deal. Go to the station, write up all the juicy police reports, stuff like that. Then, one day, I staked out a spot in front of a house in a depressed part of Michigan City, right near the outlet mall. The mail carrier called the police when an increasingly strong odor began emanating from an elderly woman's home. He thought perhaps she had died in her sleep. She actually died because some punk wrangled his way into her house and killed her for her shitty, 10-year-old, 15" television. I was doing okay with this, but the rule was to wait until the police and coroner's crews cleared the property, in case we could get a direct quote. T here I was, in my nifty, girl-reporter suit and steno pad, standing by the curb on a gorgeous July afternoon. Neighbors stood about, shooting the breeze and speculating on the timeline of events. As kids came home from doing whatever they did all day, they hung around the street with everyone else, chomping on Chee-tos and gulping impossibly-flavored soda. Were they just excited because there were police cars, ambulances and reporters hanging around? Nope. They were excited because they thought they'd get to see the dead body brought out. You can't imagine their disappointment (and my horror) when the woman's body was carried out in the CSI-approved black body bag. "We can't see anything!" one kid cried. And they all booed. Now, you should understand that you're dealing with the person who wrote the other day asking for all the miserable, saddened and lonely tBloggers to please write me personally instead of resorting to drugs, alcohol, indiscriminate sex, or self-mutilation. My reaction to this incredibly sad but not-uncommon event was to stop sleeping. If I slept, I had nightmares -- nasty, bloody, Freddy Krueger nightmares. I called the previous crime reporter and asked, "How do you deal with this?" His answer, and my editor's as well, was "you get used to it and it stops bothering you." With the kind of balls you can only have in your early 20s, I decided that I didn't want to be the kind of person unbothered by violent crime. I didn't want to be a writer who couldn't identify with her subjects. I secretly adored when familes whose international adoptions or fights for stop signs I had covered called and invited me over for tea. I was proud to support the DARE efforts at the high school, and to be asked by the kids to be their mentor. I just didn't want to write a story about something that should be gut-wrenching, but not be sick over injustice, pain and suffering myself. What kind of effect could I have on a reader if I myself wasn't affected? Anyway, that ballsy and probably stupid decision led to my fabulous career as a retail salesperson/manager/teach er/cocktail waitress/event planner/consultant/financ ial analyst/etc. I'm not a reporter and haven't been since those days. The closest I've come is writing and laying out newsletters for various non-profits. But I'm still a soft touch, and I seem to get softer as I age (in more ways than one, snark snark). I don't have the energy to be miserable and powerless over the thousands of little children across the world whose little keppies I can't tuck into a warm bed every night. But I don't know how to change myself, and I can't change the world, either.
I don't know about you guys, but I tend to try to walk the halls a lot. I have really bad eyes, and since my job involves staring at my monitor all day, I take lots of bathroom, water and mail-checking breaks. And I run into lots of people and I always at least smile at them, if not say "hi."
It's endlessly interesting to me that you can pass someone at work every day and they will walk past you as if you don't exist. What's up with that? Do you just not have the energy to tilt up the edges of your mouth in the slightest greeting, or am I that repulsive?
My friend Steven is sick. (With strep throat; don't get excited.) Anyway, I commented to his blog but was reminded of my childhood:
I used to get strep 2-3 times per year when I was a kid, and it was a huge drag. My mom would have to take off work to shlep me to mean old Dr. Saunders, who would give me what seemed like the world's largest and most painful shot in the butt. He would shrug off my fears and tears by telling me that, in his day, doctors gave penicillin shots in the ear. (Is that even possible? Get away from me, scary old doctor man!) Anyway, my mom would take me to the drugstore in Beachwood, and while we waited for my prescription to be filled, she'd let me pick out one of those cool "Yes & Know" invisible ink books and maybe a pack of chocolate-covered cherries as a treat. I always looked fondly on that tradition, even if it was attached to the yucky part (actually being sick).
When I was 21, I finally had my tonsils taken out, and they were such a mess from being sick so often that the surgeon kept them for use by his students (blech). The upside? I haven't had strep since.
Okay, computer clock, now I know you're just fucking with me. It cannot possibly be only 2:08. I swear, I've been here for ages. And the worst thing is, time will only crawl more slowly now since I have just about two hours left in my workday. Then, I get to fight traffic back to the city, pick Jacob up from preschool and deal with what must be a crazy combination of cranky exhaustion and over-excited spazziness from his first day back at school.
My goal is to get the kid fed, toothbrushed and pj'd as quickly as possible. Aren't I terrible? Anyone else out there rush rush rush to get their kid down so you can have quiet time, and then sneak in once the kids are asleep to peek at them and kind of wish they were awake for snuggling?
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It's located in the header/near the top of the template. Breaking frames is where a page will not load within the frame of another webpage. We strongly urge you to email tblog.com and complain to them about their policy. As long as tblog does not allow their pages to load within a frame we cannot accept it at BlogExplposion as other members will not be able to view your site.
Sorry BlogExplosion.com
Damn. I was really hoping this would help me get more exposure as well as to see more blogs from interesting people. I am definitely not technical enough to manually recode my own template. Any suggestions?
It's a new year, and I'm trying something new. Some weird thing forced me to push the BlogExplosion button on JavaDiva's blog, and I signed up (before realizing the world of BE prefers that we not use profanity. Oops.).
So, if you're here for the first time, welcome. My name is JT. I work full time as a quality assurance analyst for a major US retailer. I love the company, and I go to work every day because, well, I get health insurance for my whole family! (Okay, I pay for that, but at least we've got it.) Before I was a paycheck whore, I had been a humor columnist, reporter, communications consultant, financial analyst (what the heck were they thinking?), part-time college instructor, cocktail waitress, and director of client services for a software company.
Speaking of family, I've been married for over eight years. I call my husband DH on here, since he would like to retain what little privacy he's got. (That's also why I don't blog much about him; sorry, but I promised I wouldn't dish any dirt unless he leaves me. If he walks off with some young chick, all bets are off.) We have two kids, Jacob and Daniel. We also have two cats, SCSI and GUI. We live in Chicago in an apartment that's crammed full of laundry, computer guts a nd toy trains.
If you found me via BE, thanks for coming. I hope you'll come back on a day when I'm feeling funnier.
Okay, so my band got filled on December 15th, so my stomach is now tightened to about 5 cms in diameter. That's pretty effin' small, so I can't do normal things like swallow pills or take big drinks of water. I can only drink liquids during the day; if I manage to get through the day without throwing up, I can eat up to 4 oz of mushy "solid" foods (like tuna salad, etc.) for dinner.
Needless to say, I've been a bit cranky. However, I have lost about 10 lbs since the 15th, so that's good, right? It's frustrating though, when I get on the scale and see little to no change from day to day. Shouldn't the loss be steady? Dunno. This is not the easiest way to lose weight (nor the most mainstream), but it does drive me crazy that it's not steady. I'm subject to the same pitfalls as anyone else, most of all, plateaus. Fug!
Damn. I just wrote a whole post and it's fucking blank.
What I said was how shocked I am by the sheer number of depressive bloggers out there. There are so many mostly youngish gals upset over their lives. Some for incredibly sad and valid reasons -- drugs, alcohol, teen pregnancy, the strange and scary need to cut themselves. Wow.
I am stuck between wanting to adopt these sad folks, and just being so fucking relieved that I'm no longer 15 years old. Okay, 34 has its problems, but nothing so hopeless as those dark, postadolescent years.
You don't know me (okay, a few of you do), but here's my resolution for 2005. If you are scared, sad, feel bleak and like there's nowhere to turn, please write to me. I'll listen, I'll sympathize, and if I can help, I will.
Boy, if we thought American ads were weird....
