"This has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever done," he said.
Hundreds of us stand outside in gusty winter wind at wee hours of the morning. Our line snakes through the enormous parking lot of a local home improvement store.
Because we want one thing:
To prove we are the dumbest among mankind.
Oops. No, I mean...a good deal. Yeah, we want a good deal.
But as the gentleman behind me in line uttered, "This has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever done," I just had to laugh.
Here we are, dressed like eskimos trying to stay warm in gale force winds on one of the coldest days of November anticipating the opportunity to grab a coveted item at a rock-bottom price.
I had never taken part in Black Friday festivities before. I was a newbie to the game.
I spent Thanksgiving afternoon combing through all the ads, making my list - my plan of attack.
Though I crawled into bed by 9pm in hopes of catching some brief shut-eye, I was much too excited to sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, I got up at 1:30, pulled on layer after layer of clothing and headed for the door. I would arrive at my first shopping stop by 2am to wait in line for an hour.
I was officially a Doorbuster. Awesome.
The line wasn't too long yet, so I was feeling pretty good about nabbing the three items I would scamper for when the doors flew open.
Oddly, people don't have much of a sense of humor at 2am. I find that shocking.
Seriously, look at us. We're standing in line, freezing to the point of numbness, just to say we got something for 60% off. That in itself is hilarious.
But no one seemed to find my jokes funny. There was, however, a guy who showed up around 2:30 and spouted a great joke. I laughed heartily.
I was the only one.
Come on, people. Maybe their faces were frozen?
I was taken a bit aback when some 4th or 5th grade boys came along peddling hot cocoa for a buck to weary shoppers. Truth is, their parents were doing the peddling. The boys were just holding the cups.
Sad.
Honestly, you're going to get your kids up at 2am to try to make a few bucks? And I mean a few. I only saw two people even take them up on their offer for that toasty beverage.
Black Friday shoppers take their job very seriously. No laughing at jokes. No unplanned purchases. Keep it on the straight and narrow. I was learning a lot about my new position.
As the hour we eagerly anticipated draws near, the crowd becomes restless. Soon there is squishing, shoving, and suddenly I am nearly hugging a perfect stranger.
The doors open. The crowd forges ahead.
I'm appalled as a woman behind me grabs my coat to stay within the fray. If my jacket gets ripped because of this nonsense, my sense of humor will be gone, too.
As last-minute cheaters attempt to squeeze in along the sides, they break the department store door. Yes, actually break it.
It's mayhem.
And sadly, I'm a part of it.
Whew, we're in. I go dashing off to find my deals. I am fortunate enough to snatch the last pair of boots in my size (yes!), and there are a plethora of the other items I came for, so I gather my wares and head for the checkout line.
Wow, these people move fast. The checkout line winds so far back, most people are muttering expletives under their breath as they walk endlessly along in search for the end of the line. As I wait in line, I get to listen to various conversations. It is wildly fun.
"How much are those things?" she asks.
"Five dollars each."
"Five dollars?! I would never pay that much for that."
Ooh, never mess with a shopper who thought they were getting a great deal. I can see the fury in her eyes.
Fortunately, a husband to one of them interjects to change the subject. Whew! Good move, man. That's why you came along, isn't it?
But kudos to this department store. Service is fast and plentiful. The line moves along quickly and soon I'm out the door to my next destination.
But this store is at the mall. My biggest challenge: parking.
Since newly-fallen snow has blurred the lines, cars are parked every which way. As I'm tempted to join in with that technique, I spot a patrol car.
Rats. Because I just know I'd be the one to get a ticket, guaranteed.
So I drive around and around and around and around until finally at the far end of the lot, I find a spot.
Again, I find my items swiftly, checkout is painless, and I'm ready for what's next.
Ugh, next store isn't open yet. So now I'll be doorbusting again. This one is significantly less violent, though. And these people had a sense of humor. Note to self: apparently nothing is funny until 4am. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that they were still drunk from the night before.
Fine with me, I'm just grateful for a responsive audience.
I should have appreciated the simplicity of this store. Because the next door I would bust through would be my greatest challenge.
It is here where I meet "This is the dumbest thing..." man. I appreciated the gentleman next to him, too. "People just go nuts. I don't get it. It's just stuff," he said.
Truth is, I feel the same way. But then why were we both standing in line at 4:30am for "stuff?" Because we all have an element of "crazy" in us. That's why.
Mayhem and chaos abounds. I get what I came for, but the multitude of people was overwhelming. If I hadn't needed a cart in order to haul the heavy item I was purchasing, the experience would have been much less daunting, I suppose. It's hard enough to maneuver you're own body through a crowd, let alone a huge shopping cart too. I don't think I've said "I'm sorry" that many times within an hour in my life. It was impossible not to smack into someone at every turn.
It's incredible to me how not 12 hours earlier it is likely that most of us were sitting around a table overflowing with food, giving thanks for all that we had in life.
And now? People are cussing, they're frustrated, they're cold, they're hot, they're frantic.
What a difference a day makes.
It gives the "Black" in Black Friday a whole new meaning.
But even with all the grumblers, there are the girlfriends, the mothers and daughters, and college buddies enjoying the chaos - er, fun - together.
In fact, my only regret of the morning was not having someone with me to experience the craziness. That would have made it more fun. And whoever it was would probably have laughed at my jokes at 2am.
You can't put a price tag on that.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
I'm no Madonna, but I may get her face.
I had the privilege of discovering how "the other half" lives today.
I was treated to four hours at a luxury spa. To say I was looking forward to it this morning at 7am is a big understatement.
Because my 8-year-old daughter actually said, "Mom, why are you acting so happy?"
If you came to my house on any other day at 7am you would understand her confusion. I am NOT a morning person and trying to get everyone dressed, throw breakfast on the table, pack lunches and snacks, and fly out the door to the bus stop in less than an hour is not a mood-enhancer in my book.
But today definitely was different.
I was going to be pampered.
Of course plenty of guilt pours over me at the thought of actually taking time to do something for myself.
Fortunately the price was right and I wasn't about to let an opportunity like this slip on by - guilt or no guilt.
On one hand, I like to think I'm not all that different from the typical clientele at a spa. I use my manners. I'm courteous. I like to drink water with fruit in it.
But on the other hand, I'm a complete idiot when it comes to actually knowing how to utilize the place.
You see, I'm one of those people that needs to read a book called "Spas for Dummies." No really. I'm quite unaccustomed to the ins and outs of a spa experience. And the people working there are so used to the environment they forget to mention the details.
Like how you won't be able to see your hand in front of your face when you enter your private steam/shower room. So you'll turn on the shower just so you can break through the steam, only to discover a soft - now sopping wet - towel lay folded on a bench for you to sit on and a drowned cup of water with - yes, fruit in it. If I would have been able to even see seating in there I could have enjoyed that whole experience a lot more.
Or it'd be nice if they'd tell you that you may burn your leg on a steam jet because you are, well, an idiot. Or that you simply stepped into a poorly designed corner of the shower. Either way, ouch.
Not exactly relaxing.
But I like massages. Generally. Only they should ask you if you're ticklish. The tension in my body obviously elevated as my massage therapist began to rub my upper arm just gliding near my armpit. He kept massaging with deeper motions and I was doing all I could to avoid laughing out loud! When you're sighing with relief when the guy finally puts your arm down and moves on, the massage probably isn't reaching its fullest potential.
My problem is I can't stop thinking about what the massage therapist is thinking. I imagine it to be, "What a strange place for a mole." or " "Wow, her fingernails need clipping." or "I've never experienced such tense upper arms!" Or I lie there and wonder if his hands are getting tired. Did he want to come to work today? Is he daydreaming about his lunch plans?
It kinda ruins the whole "it's all about you" concept of a spa.
But overall, it was a good massage and I would recommend it. Just be sure to tell him if you're ticklish.
Next it was time to hit the facial room....
Where a sophisticated woman rubbed crushed diamonds all over my face until I was red as a beet....but on my way to looking five years younger!
I even underwent the "Madonna treatment" (as it has been touted) - an oxygen infusion. Basically pumping oxygen into my pores and forcing the serum of my choice into various layers of skin. But it sounds and feels like someone is passing gas on your face.
Seriously. The technician even said, "It's going to sound really strange."
Translation from sophistication to simplicity: "It's going to sound like a fart."
Who knew Madonna would be so in love with flatulence. Nevertheless, I don't look like Madonna. At least not yet.
So far, just red, blotchy "wind-burned" cheeks. But I'm told in a few days I'll look so young I'm sure I'll be grabbing a wooden spoon belting out "Material Girl."
After a catered cuisine, my final stop was the pedicure chair. Ah, a place I at least recognize. (Not that I frequent them, but I see them at the mall!)
As crazy as it sounds, my favorite part of the day was probably seeing my sparkly purple toenails as I put my magazine down to grab my keys and head home.
I am grateful for the experience, but honestly I wouldn't pay money to do it again. But that's why it was a gift, and I'm appreciative of it.
But I'm also appreciative of the fact that I can spend a couple bucks on sparkly purple polish, throw a strawberry in my water glass, and be just as happy.
As for those diamonds? I still treasure the ones on my finger more than the effects of those on my face.
And let's face it, I'm the mother of two boys. I can get that gas-in-the-face thing on a daily basis.
I was treated to four hours at a luxury spa. To say I was looking forward to it this morning at 7am is a big understatement.
Because my 8-year-old daughter actually said, "Mom, why are you acting so happy?"
If you came to my house on any other day at 7am you would understand her confusion. I am NOT a morning person and trying to get everyone dressed, throw breakfast on the table, pack lunches and snacks, and fly out the door to the bus stop in less than an hour is not a mood-enhancer in my book.
But today definitely was different.
I was going to be pampered.
Of course plenty of guilt pours over me at the thought of actually taking time to do something for myself.
Fortunately the price was right and I wasn't about to let an opportunity like this slip on by - guilt or no guilt.
On one hand, I like to think I'm not all that different from the typical clientele at a spa. I use my manners. I'm courteous. I like to drink water with fruit in it.
But on the other hand, I'm a complete idiot when it comes to actually knowing how to utilize the place.
You see, I'm one of those people that needs to read a book called "Spas for Dummies." No really. I'm quite unaccustomed to the ins and outs of a spa experience. And the people working there are so used to the environment they forget to mention the details.
Like how you won't be able to see your hand in front of your face when you enter your private steam/shower room. So you'll turn on the shower just so you can break through the steam, only to discover a soft - now sopping wet - towel lay folded on a bench for you to sit on and a drowned cup of water with - yes, fruit in it. If I would have been able to even see seating in there I could have enjoyed that whole experience a lot more.
Or it'd be nice if they'd tell you that you may burn your leg on a steam jet because you are, well, an idiot. Or that you simply stepped into a poorly designed corner of the shower. Either way, ouch.
Not exactly relaxing.
But I like massages. Generally. Only they should ask you if you're ticklish. The tension in my body obviously elevated as my massage therapist began to rub my upper arm just gliding near my armpit. He kept massaging with deeper motions and I was doing all I could to avoid laughing out loud! When you're sighing with relief when the guy finally puts your arm down and moves on, the massage probably isn't reaching its fullest potential.
My problem is I can't stop thinking about what the massage therapist is thinking. I imagine it to be, "What a strange place for a mole." or " "Wow, her fingernails need clipping." or "I've never experienced such tense upper arms!" Or I lie there and wonder if his hands are getting tired. Did he want to come to work today? Is he daydreaming about his lunch plans?
It kinda ruins the whole "it's all about you" concept of a spa.
But overall, it was a good massage and I would recommend it. Just be sure to tell him if you're ticklish.
Next it was time to hit the facial room....
Where a sophisticated woman rubbed crushed diamonds all over my face until I was red as a beet....but on my way to looking five years younger!
I even underwent the "Madonna treatment" (as it has been touted) - an oxygen infusion. Basically pumping oxygen into my pores and forcing the serum of my choice into various layers of skin. But it sounds and feels like someone is passing gas on your face.
Seriously. The technician even said, "It's going to sound really strange."
Translation from sophistication to simplicity: "It's going to sound like a fart."
Who knew Madonna would be so in love with flatulence. Nevertheless, I don't look like Madonna. At least not yet.
So far, just red, blotchy "wind-burned" cheeks. But I'm told in a few days I'll look so young I'm sure I'll be grabbing a wooden spoon belting out "Material Girl."
After a catered cuisine, my final stop was the pedicure chair. Ah, a place I at least recognize. (Not that I frequent them, but I see them at the mall!)
As crazy as it sounds, my favorite part of the day was probably seeing my sparkly purple toenails as I put my magazine down to grab my keys and head home.
I am grateful for the experience, but honestly I wouldn't pay money to do it again. But that's why it was a gift, and I'm appreciative of it.
But I'm also appreciative of the fact that I can spend a couple bucks on sparkly purple polish, throw a strawberry in my water glass, and be just as happy.
As for those diamonds? I still treasure the ones on my finger more than the effects of those on my face.
And let's face it, I'm the mother of two boys. I can get that gas-in-the-face thing on a daily basis.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Because you can be "too" healthy.
Life Insurance companies crack me up.
Or, I should say, their attempt to determine the date of your demise cracks me up.
My husband and I applied for some additional life insurance recently. Our financial advisor told us this company has several different levels of coverage - the highest one is for the "least risk" and thus your premium is the lowest. So we're shooting for the sky, of course.
They send over a nurse to do all the vital testing - poke me with a needle, make me pee in cup, take my measurements, ask me if I've ever done drugs.
I was feeling pretty good about my overall health. After all, I've started running with some girlfriends - even getting up at 5am to get 5 to 7 miles in some days. So adding this additional running to my normal workouts should be keeping my heart pumping appropriately, I suspect.
I know, you either think I'm crazy or you envy me. Either way is cool with me.
But then I get a phone call from our financial advisor's office.
"Hi, Maxine. Your application has been put on hold due to low cholesterol. It came back at 124, and they are saying that's too low unless you're anorexic or a vegetarian. Are you either of those?"
I try not to burst into laughter into the phone as I pinch an inch and recall the big, juicy burger I ate the night before.
"Uh, certainly not."
Turns out the lovely life insurance people will not open my file again until I have a written explanation from my doctor as to why my cholesterol is "so low."
Honestly, I never thought this could be a problem. Has our unhealthy and obese nation now determined if your cholesterol isn't high there is something wrong with you?
Anyway...it's time to call the doctor. Ugh. I cannot tell you how much I despise going to doctors.
But I make the appointment. And the receptionist asks why I'm coming in.
I tell her the story.
She pauses, then adds that she's never heard of "too low of cholesterol" either.
The next week I'm sitting in the exam room with Doogie Howser (seriously, he couldn't have been more than a couple months out of school). Side note: Since I avoid doctors like the plague, I do not technically have a "primary care physician" so I just took whoever had an opening. Figures I would get the 5th string QB.
At any rate, the good doctor needs to examine me since I'm there. He asks me questions regarding children, family, lifestyle. Then he shrugs his shoulders and picks up the scope. Ears, nose, throat - all good. He has me lie down and he starts pushing on my stomach. Apparently fine. Albeit I'm wishing it was a little less squishy! But I'm ravenous since I had to fast for the blood test and as he pushes on my gut I'm struck with the realization of how long it's been since I last had food. I tell him nothing hurts, I'm just hungry. He tells me to go home and eat some fat. Yes, people. Direct from the doctor's mouth. Don't worry. I'll get you his phone number.
He asks me if I have any complaints, any concerns about my health.
"No. I could use more sleep though!" I say half-jokingly.
He looks at me and says, "Sleep? You said you work from home. You should get plenty of sleep."
Dear Reader: Let me reconnect you with a previous paragraph where we establish this doctor's very young age. And the other paragraph where I tell him about my children.
"I have three small children," I remind him.
"Oh, yeah," he says, rather cluelessly.
So after a clean bill of health, and another 124 cholesterol score, Doogie sits dumbfounded.
He shows me the chart showing 124 is in the 'normal' range.
He scratches his head. "I don't get it. It's normal. I'm supposed to write a letter explaining that you're normal?"
Then Doogie continues, "Just wait here. I'll find someone that will know what to do."
I'm assuming he's running to find a doctor whose white coat isn't quite so fresh from its package. A few minutes later he returns and says, "I'm going to write a letter that says 124 is normal and they can call me with any questions."
So that's exactly what he did.
And a week later I gained access to the top level of the life insurance.
Sounds like they were fishing for anything to bump me out of that level. I guess they figured if I was going to get the best insurance rate I had better pay for it one way or another. In this case, with a medical exam fee I didn't need to incur.
So my life insurance company decided I'm bound to live another 20 years. Or is at least willing to take that risk.
Personally, it sounds like a good time to eat potato chips and ice cream. After all, I can spare a few cholesterol points.
Or, I should say, their attempt to determine the date of your demise cracks me up.
My husband and I applied for some additional life insurance recently. Our financial advisor told us this company has several different levels of coverage - the highest one is for the "least risk" and thus your premium is the lowest. So we're shooting for the sky, of course.
They send over a nurse to do all the vital testing - poke me with a needle, make me pee in cup, take my measurements, ask me if I've ever done drugs.
I was feeling pretty good about my overall health. After all, I've started running with some girlfriends - even getting up at 5am to get 5 to 7 miles in some days. So adding this additional running to my normal workouts should be keeping my heart pumping appropriately, I suspect.
I know, you either think I'm crazy or you envy me. Either way is cool with me.
But then I get a phone call from our financial advisor's office.
"Hi, Maxine. Your application has been put on hold due to low cholesterol. It came back at 124, and they are saying that's too low unless you're anorexic or a vegetarian. Are you either of those?"
I try not to burst into laughter into the phone as I pinch an inch and recall the big, juicy burger I ate the night before.
"Uh, certainly not."
Turns out the lovely life insurance people will not open my file again until I have a written explanation from my doctor as to why my cholesterol is "so low."
Honestly, I never thought this could be a problem. Has our unhealthy and obese nation now determined if your cholesterol isn't high there is something wrong with you?
Anyway...it's time to call the doctor. Ugh. I cannot tell you how much I despise going to doctors.
But I make the appointment. And the receptionist asks why I'm coming in.
I tell her the story.
She pauses, then adds that she's never heard of "too low of cholesterol" either.
The next week I'm sitting in the exam room with Doogie Howser (seriously, he couldn't have been more than a couple months out of school). Side note: Since I avoid doctors like the plague, I do not technically have a "primary care physician" so I just took whoever had an opening. Figures I would get the 5th string QB.
At any rate, the good doctor needs to examine me since I'm there. He asks me questions regarding children, family, lifestyle. Then he shrugs his shoulders and picks up the scope. Ears, nose, throat - all good. He has me lie down and he starts pushing on my stomach. Apparently fine. Albeit I'm wishing it was a little less squishy! But I'm ravenous since I had to fast for the blood test and as he pushes on my gut I'm struck with the realization of how long it's been since I last had food. I tell him nothing hurts, I'm just hungry. He tells me to go home and eat some fat. Yes, people. Direct from the doctor's mouth. Don't worry. I'll get you his phone number.
He asks me if I have any complaints, any concerns about my health.
"No. I could use more sleep though!" I say half-jokingly.
He looks at me and says, "Sleep? You said you work from home. You should get plenty of sleep."
Dear Reader: Let me reconnect you with a previous paragraph where we establish this doctor's very young age. And the other paragraph where I tell him about my children.
"I have three small children," I remind him.
"Oh, yeah," he says, rather cluelessly.
So after a clean bill of health, and another 124 cholesterol score, Doogie sits dumbfounded.
He shows me the chart showing 124 is in the 'normal' range.
He scratches his head. "I don't get it. It's normal. I'm supposed to write a letter explaining that you're normal?"
Then Doogie continues, "Just wait here. I'll find someone that will know what to do."
I'm assuming he's running to find a doctor whose white coat isn't quite so fresh from its package. A few minutes later he returns and says, "I'm going to write a letter that says 124 is normal and they can call me with any questions."
So that's exactly what he did.
And a week later I gained access to the top level of the life insurance.
Sounds like they were fishing for anything to bump me out of that level. I guess they figured if I was going to get the best insurance rate I had better pay for it one way or another. In this case, with a medical exam fee I didn't need to incur.
So my life insurance company decided I'm bound to live another 20 years. Or is at least willing to take that risk.
Personally, it sounds like a good time to eat potato chips and ice cream. After all, I can spare a few cholesterol points.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I'm still here, just trying to stay afloat!
Wow! I haven't blogged since August? Time sure has a way of slipping past, doesn't it.
To say I've been busy is probably the world's biggest understatement. But I can tell when I've gotten too busy when it takes weeks to get to my DVR'd TV shows! I keep telling myself, "Oh, one of these days I'll get to watching that." I'll be watching the season premieres sometime in March, probably. But hey, when everyone's tired of re-runs in the summer, I'll just be nearing the suspense of the finales.
But my busyness has been good. I've stepped up my freelance work a bit, so that's keeping me hopping. And once I plop my kids into bed, I've got a to-do list a mile long waiting for me in my office.
Seems there's always something to research, write or review.
Thus, my blog...well, it takes a back seat.
But I'll be back. I promise. But right now I think I'm going to settle into bed with a good book. Or even a half-decent one. When your reading repertoire typically consists of Dr. Suess or Amelia Bedelia, it doesn't take much to stimulate this mind.
To say I've been busy is probably the world's biggest understatement. But I can tell when I've gotten too busy when it takes weeks to get to my DVR'd TV shows! I keep telling myself, "Oh, one of these days I'll get to watching that." I'll be watching the season premieres sometime in March, probably. But hey, when everyone's tired of re-runs in the summer, I'll just be nearing the suspense of the finales.
But my busyness has been good. I've stepped up my freelance work a bit, so that's keeping me hopping. And once I plop my kids into bed, I've got a to-do list a mile long waiting for me in my office.
Seems there's always something to research, write or review.
Thus, my blog...well, it takes a back seat.
But I'll be back. I promise. But right now I think I'm going to settle into bed with a good book. Or even a half-decent one. When your reading repertoire typically consists of Dr. Suess or Amelia Bedelia, it doesn't take much to stimulate this mind.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Selling Loot or Securing Literacy?
The PTO should be renamed MMM. For Money-Making Machines.
Have parent-teacher organizations always been fixated on fundraisers and frivolous activities? I have attended a couple PTO meetings in the short time I've had school-aged children, and I'm in awe of how the officers are dumbfounded as to why there isn't greater parent participation.
Uh, maybe because all you talk about is where to beg for money next? Who wants to conclude their Tuesday night in a meeting like that when reruns of The Office are calling?
I think PTO volunteers are getting lost in their own fundraising fervor. If they stop and look at what they're actually raising money for, perhaps things could change.
For instance, money raised pays for Pastries for Parents.
Really? We need another lame excuse to get kids out of the classroom so they can fall even farther behind in their literacy? And our society is obese as it is - why are we inviting everyone to consume more fat and sugar? Great lessons we're teaching our kids, huh?
Frankly, I think inviting parents or grandparents into school for "special" events like that is simply a bad idea. And here's why.
I attended an elementary school that did the "Donuts for Dad" and "Muffins for Mom" and "God-knows-what for Grandma," and it left me feeling sad and foolish.
Because my Dad had to work, Mom didn't always consider it a good use of time to make a 17-mile trip into town to eat a muffin for 6 minutes (I don't blame her one bit! Besides, my most vivid memory of "Muffins for Mom" was getting poisoned by the pointless pastry and being home sick the next day!!), and well, to be blunt - Grandma was dead.
So I spent those "special" events sitting by the other orphaned kids wallowing in self-pity. Or worse yet - I remember not even being included in the festivities one year if a family member didn't come. Sheesh, let's just stamp "NO ONE LOVES ME" on our foreheads and call it a day.
Ugh. I just don't see the point in the torment. Save the money you'd spend on those doughnuts and ask those parents to come to the classroom to volunteer - you know, actually contribute to a child's education instead of their risk for diabetes.
Because that's what I don't get. Parents are given a mile-long list of activities with a plea to check the box of whichever ones they'd be willing to volunteer for (Cake-walking Carnival, Bingo Bliss, Store Day for Six Graders)...but it doesn't put any emphasis on say, coming in once or twice a month, taking a mere half hour of the day to review spelling words. Listen to kids read. Or - gasp! - hear them count to 100.
No, let's send catalogs home so that kids can beg family and friends to buy worthless junk so the PTO can claim only a percentage of the profits to buy flowers for the secretary on Secretary's Day.
Is this really the best way to go about these things? I'd rather have someone simply ask me for a donation than to turn my kids into wrapping paper salesmen.
And don't even get me started on how they use our kids as pawns.
"Mommy, you have to fill this out so I can get a duck!" my daughter pleads as she rips the fundraising packet from her backpack.
A duck?! Huh?
Upon further inspection, I see that if I fill out these forms, the school will mail them to all of our out-of-town family and friends to beg for their support of their precious little niece or grandson.
Now, come on. If my family hasn't heard from me in over a month and the first correspondence they get is solicitation from my child, that just seems wrong.
And all this so my kid can earn a little rubber duck.
Are you kidding me?!
But those desperate little faces beam at the thought of earning a duck, so they grab a pen, shove the forms in my face, and wait for my response.
I wasn't the most popular parent that afternoon, but they'll get over it. It wasn't days earlier when my son was insistent upon ordering IronMan's Friends and Foes from the book order form sent home that day. Newsflash: the library is full of books. And I can get them for free!
Honestly, if I got as many A+ papers sent home as I do "buy me and sell me" packets, I'd feel much better about the educational institution I'm sending my children to on a daily basis.
Instead, my kid is supposed to sell six ounces of gummy bears for $8 so they can host a book fair. Which will then cost me even more money as my child begs me to buy the entire Junie B. Jones series.
Hey, I understand funds go toward legitimate tools for the classrooms, too. The ActiveBoards are helpful. Computer labs are important. Teachers needs supplies. I get it. But I also know there are grants for many of those things, and when I find out all the box tops I've been feverishly clipping are only going into the treasury of the Boy Scouts, I get a bit miffed.
I don't consider it wise stewardship to give money to some kid so he can learn how to fly-fish. I'd much rather give to a teacher to utilize in a classroom so children learn the three R's instead of the three P's. (Parties, Pastries and Peddling.)
I completely understand why participation in these PTOs is poor. Until there's a good reason to show up (ie. the betterment of my child's education), I'll be helping my kid with his homework at 7pm instead of discussing the significant number of "insufficient funds" checks received with the latest fundraiser.
And I'll gladly hand my child's teacher money out of my own pocket so she can breathe a little easier when it's time to replace that broken headset or buy new supplies. And I won't even demand a bag of gummy bears in return!
Because I'd love for my kids to race home from school and shove their well-earned test grade in my face instead of an order form.
Who knows? I may be so proud I'll spring for a duck.
Have parent-teacher organizations always been fixated on fundraisers and frivolous activities? I have attended a couple PTO meetings in the short time I've had school-aged children, and I'm in awe of how the officers are dumbfounded as to why there isn't greater parent participation.
Uh, maybe because all you talk about is where to beg for money next? Who wants to conclude their Tuesday night in a meeting like that when reruns of The Office are calling?
I think PTO volunteers are getting lost in their own fundraising fervor. If they stop and look at what they're actually raising money for, perhaps things could change.
For instance, money raised pays for Pastries for Parents.
Really? We need another lame excuse to get kids out of the classroom so they can fall even farther behind in their literacy? And our society is obese as it is - why are we inviting everyone to consume more fat and sugar? Great lessons we're teaching our kids, huh?
Frankly, I think inviting parents or grandparents into school for "special" events like that is simply a bad idea. And here's why.
I attended an elementary school that did the "Donuts for Dad" and "Muffins for Mom" and "God-knows-what for Grandma," and it left me feeling sad and foolish.
Because my Dad had to work, Mom didn't always consider it a good use of time to make a 17-mile trip into town to eat a muffin for 6 minutes (I don't blame her one bit! Besides, my most vivid memory of "Muffins for Mom" was getting poisoned by the pointless pastry and being home sick the next day!!), and well, to be blunt - Grandma was dead.
So I spent those "special" events sitting by the other orphaned kids wallowing in self-pity. Or worse yet - I remember not even being included in the festivities one year if a family member didn't come. Sheesh, let's just stamp "NO ONE LOVES ME" on our foreheads and call it a day.
Ugh. I just don't see the point in the torment. Save the money you'd spend on those doughnuts and ask those parents to come to the classroom to volunteer - you know, actually contribute to a child's education instead of their risk for diabetes.
Because that's what I don't get. Parents are given a mile-long list of activities with a plea to check the box of whichever ones they'd be willing to volunteer for (Cake-walking Carnival, Bingo Bliss, Store Day for Six Graders)...but it doesn't put any emphasis on say, coming in once or twice a month, taking a mere half hour of the day to review spelling words. Listen to kids read. Or - gasp! - hear them count to 100.
No, let's send catalogs home so that kids can beg family and friends to buy worthless junk so the PTO can claim only a percentage of the profits to buy flowers for the secretary on Secretary's Day.
Is this really the best way to go about these things? I'd rather have someone simply ask me for a donation than to turn my kids into wrapping paper salesmen.
And don't even get me started on how they use our kids as pawns.
"Mommy, you have to fill this out so I can get a duck!" my daughter pleads as she rips the fundraising packet from her backpack.
A duck?! Huh?
Upon further inspection, I see that if I fill out these forms, the school will mail them to all of our out-of-town family and friends to beg for their support of their precious little niece or grandson.
Now, come on. If my family hasn't heard from me in over a month and the first correspondence they get is solicitation from my child, that just seems wrong.
And all this so my kid can earn a little rubber duck.
Are you kidding me?!
But those desperate little faces beam at the thought of earning a duck, so they grab a pen, shove the forms in my face, and wait for my response.
I wasn't the most popular parent that afternoon, but they'll get over it. It wasn't days earlier when my son was insistent upon ordering IronMan's Friends and Foes from the book order form sent home that day. Newsflash: the library is full of books. And I can get them for free!
Honestly, if I got as many A+ papers sent home as I do "buy me and sell me" packets, I'd feel much better about the educational institution I'm sending my children to on a daily basis.
Instead, my kid is supposed to sell six ounces of gummy bears for $8 so they can host a book fair. Which will then cost me even more money as my child begs me to buy the entire Junie B. Jones series.
Hey, I understand funds go toward legitimate tools for the classrooms, too. The ActiveBoards are helpful. Computer labs are important. Teachers needs supplies. I get it. But I also know there are grants for many of those things, and when I find out all the box tops I've been feverishly clipping are only going into the treasury of the Boy Scouts, I get a bit miffed.
I don't consider it wise stewardship to give money to some kid so he can learn how to fly-fish. I'd much rather give to a teacher to utilize in a classroom so children learn the three R's instead of the three P's. (Parties, Pastries and Peddling.)
I completely understand why participation in these PTOs is poor. Until there's a good reason to show up (ie. the betterment of my child's education), I'll be helping my kid with his homework at 7pm instead of discussing the significant number of "insufficient funds" checks received with the latest fundraiser.
And I'll gladly hand my child's teacher money out of my own pocket so she can breathe a little easier when it's time to replace that broken headset or buy new supplies. And I won't even demand a bag of gummy bears in return!
Because I'd love for my kids to race home from school and shove their well-earned test grade in my face instead of an order form.
Who knows? I may be so proud I'll spring for a duck.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Finding My Way
It's that time of year when new college students stuff their possessions into a trunk of a car and jet off to what they believe is the beginning of freedom, future success, and happily ever after.
And to that I say, get real.
You're going to get fat. You're going to miss your Mom. And you're going to want to suffocate your roommate in her sleep within the first 30 days.
Or maybe that was just me.
Whenever I think of my freshman year of college, all I get is chills down my spine. It was a mess.
It started by loading my luggage in the back of my roommate's Dad's pickup and making our way to the University. Only the tailgate of that pickup fell open, and one of my pieces of luggage skidded out. It was full of my sweatshirts, namely a brand new yellow sweatshirt with my beloved college's name on the front.
I was crushed.
But in hindsight, I could have let the bag be squashed in rush hour traffic for as much as that school eventually meant to me.
But, I'll get to that later.
(The police department called my parents a couple days later when someone had found ithe bag and turned it in - all contents still in tact. Even my cherished yellow sweatshirt.)
En route to campus, we decided to stop and shop for furnishings. And spend too much money on puffy pillows and antiperspirant.
But we had stars in our eyes and big plans.
We could have purchased sleep-inducing-drug-laced pillows and I still wouldn't have gotten a decent night of sleep my entire freshman year, either. It wasn't always because my roommate was inviting her boyfriends (yes, she went through several) over, or talking on the phone into the wee hours of the night to one of them. No cell phones back then. I know. Shocking. She actually had to use a phone with a cord.
A cord that didn't go nearly far enough out of earshot, mind you.
But anyway...the bigger reason for my insomnia was the creakiest, most frightening loft bed ever created. My roommate purchased it from a former student and we were excited at first because it provided much-needed floor space. Only, we were afraid of setting anything under it in fear of the crash that we concluded was certainly imminent. And since my roommate had seniority, I was relegated to be the one to sleep on it.
Amazingly enough, it never did collapse. Which is shocking in itself for all the weight I gained that year.
When you start the year as the thinner roommate, and by Christmas break you have to swap jeans, you know you have a problem.
But that was only a slice of my problem. And by slice, I mean pizza. I ate a LOT of pizza.
I felt lost.
You have to understand. I was, what my roommate referred to as, 'the jock.' I wore sweatshirts and jeans every day, did my hair the same every day, and wore very minimal makeup because I didn't really know what I was doing in that category of personal hygiene.
To my roommate, that translated to: The Maxine Project. It's sad, really. She curled my hair and dressed me up in frills and pearls and sent me to the Underground. Don't worry, that was really a legitimate place. "Safe" college hangout.
But it had to be incredibly obvious I was a jock dressed in sheep's clothing. No, really, I think I wore some kind of wool sweater. Because it certainly didn't help my social life like she thought it would.
By the time I was half-way through the second quarter, I knew I would be transferring to somewhere more "jock-friendly." The University was a good school, but pretty artsy. I'm not artsy. I had no friends, no car (a fairly critical component to living independently, I found), and no life. And my roommate was "in love" and wallowing in all that it implies.
I, on the other hand, was swooning over a guy I was tutoring in math. (Now, for those of you who know how pathetic I am in math, please pull yourself up off the floor from laughter and continue to read. Because actually, I was stellar in Algebra. And that's what I was tutoring him in. Maybe it's because there are letters in the equations.)
Unfortunately, I don't think the guy saw me as anything other than his ticket to a passing grade. And even though he was awfully cute, he was dumb as rocks. So, it wasn't too tough to say goodbye to him.
But I had bigger problems. I was barely passing one of my classes, myself.
History.
I blame my high school History teacher for my lack of knowledge in this area, though. All I learned in his class was how to fall asleep during yet another boring film with my head upright.
However, if it hadn't been for that college History course, I may not have discovered my life's work.
You see, History exams were multiple choice. But I found out several tests later, that you could opt out of them if you preferred essay tests.
I figured I couldn't do any worse with essay questions, so thought I'd give it a shot.
And guess what?
I found out I could write my way to a passing grade. And not just a passing grade.
I was able to pull my low D up to a high B by quarter's end.
Whew.
I started my sophomore year as a transfer student at University #2. And my journalism teacher whipped me into shape.
I thought I could write until I met that guy. He could make Walter Cronkite cry.
But he made me better. And I still feel him peering over my shoulder when I'm writing a news story, critiquing every sentence. It keeps me humble!
So even though "Freshman Year" might be the pits, it doesn't last forever (thank God!).
I eventually learned how to eat pizza in moderation, get back into my jeans, and actually enjoy my old roommate again (she really did mean well).
But please don't ask me what year Taft became president.
Because then you will be forced to listen to me talk about how he was such a large man he got stuck in the White House bathtub, that he liked to play tennis, and that he never really wanted to be president...meanwhile I will hope to lose you in the dialogue enough to make you think I answered the question.
And to that I say, get real.
You're going to get fat. You're going to miss your Mom. And you're going to want to suffocate your roommate in her sleep within the first 30 days.
Or maybe that was just me.
Whenever I think of my freshman year of college, all I get is chills down my spine. It was a mess.
It started by loading my luggage in the back of my roommate's Dad's pickup and making our way to the University. Only the tailgate of that pickup fell open, and one of my pieces of luggage skidded out. It was full of my sweatshirts, namely a brand new yellow sweatshirt with my beloved college's name on the front.
I was crushed.
But in hindsight, I could have let the bag be squashed in rush hour traffic for as much as that school eventually meant to me.
But, I'll get to that later.
(The police department called my parents a couple days later when someone had found ithe bag and turned it in - all contents still in tact. Even my cherished yellow sweatshirt.)
En route to campus, we decided to stop and shop for furnishings. And spend too much money on puffy pillows and antiperspirant.
But we had stars in our eyes and big plans.
We could have purchased sleep-inducing-drug-laced pillows and I still wouldn't have gotten a decent night of sleep my entire freshman year, either. It wasn't always because my roommate was inviting her boyfriends (yes, she went through several) over, or talking on the phone into the wee hours of the night to one of them. No cell phones back then. I know. Shocking. She actually had to use a phone with a cord.
A cord that didn't go nearly far enough out of earshot, mind you.
But anyway...the bigger reason for my insomnia was the creakiest, most frightening loft bed ever created. My roommate purchased it from a former student and we were excited at first because it provided much-needed floor space. Only, we were afraid of setting anything under it in fear of the crash that we concluded was certainly imminent. And since my roommate had seniority, I was relegated to be the one to sleep on it.
Amazingly enough, it never did collapse. Which is shocking in itself for all the weight I gained that year.
When you start the year as the thinner roommate, and by Christmas break you have to swap jeans, you know you have a problem.
But that was only a slice of my problem. And by slice, I mean pizza. I ate a LOT of pizza.
I felt lost.
You have to understand. I was, what my roommate referred to as, 'the jock.' I wore sweatshirts and jeans every day, did my hair the same every day, and wore very minimal makeup because I didn't really know what I was doing in that category of personal hygiene.
To my roommate, that translated to: The Maxine Project. It's sad, really. She curled my hair and dressed me up in frills and pearls and sent me to the Underground. Don't worry, that was really a legitimate place. "Safe" college hangout.
But it had to be incredibly obvious I was a jock dressed in sheep's clothing. No, really, I think I wore some kind of wool sweater. Because it certainly didn't help my social life like she thought it would.
By the time I was half-way through the second quarter, I knew I would be transferring to somewhere more "jock-friendly." The University was a good school, but pretty artsy. I'm not artsy. I had no friends, no car (a fairly critical component to living independently, I found), and no life. And my roommate was "in love" and wallowing in all that it implies.
I, on the other hand, was swooning over a guy I was tutoring in math. (Now, for those of you who know how pathetic I am in math, please pull yourself up off the floor from laughter and continue to read. Because actually, I was stellar in Algebra. And that's what I was tutoring him in. Maybe it's because there are letters in the equations.)
Unfortunately, I don't think the guy saw me as anything other than his ticket to a passing grade. And even though he was awfully cute, he was dumb as rocks. So, it wasn't too tough to say goodbye to him.
But I had bigger problems. I was barely passing one of my classes, myself.
History.
I blame my high school History teacher for my lack of knowledge in this area, though. All I learned in his class was how to fall asleep during yet another boring film with my head upright.
However, if it hadn't been for that college History course, I may not have discovered my life's work.
You see, History exams were multiple choice. But I found out several tests later, that you could opt out of them if you preferred essay tests.
I figured I couldn't do any worse with essay questions, so thought I'd give it a shot.
And guess what?
I found out I could write my way to a passing grade. And not just a passing grade.
I was able to pull my low D up to a high B by quarter's end.
Whew.
I started my sophomore year as a transfer student at University #2. And my journalism teacher whipped me into shape.
I thought I could write until I met that guy. He could make Walter Cronkite cry.
But he made me better. And I still feel him peering over my shoulder when I'm writing a news story, critiquing every sentence. It keeps me humble!
So even though "Freshman Year" might be the pits, it doesn't last forever (thank God!).
I eventually learned how to eat pizza in moderation, get back into my jeans, and actually enjoy my old roommate again (she really did mean well).
But please don't ask me what year Taft became president.
Because then you will be forced to listen to me talk about how he was such a large man he got stuck in the White House bathtub, that he liked to play tennis, and that he never really wanted to be president...meanwhile I will hope to lose you in the dialogue enough to make you think I answered the question.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sorry to wake you, Mr. Secretary.
I'm driving myself batty these days. I've become a little obsessed with politics.
It happened innocently enough. I accepted a story assignment to do an election preview. It involves me interviewing the candidates running for office in my state.
Prior to this, I wasn't typically one to bury myself in political news, so I had to do some research before I sat myself in front of these people and ask them pertinent questions.
After surveying a variety of business people (the article is for a business magazine) as to their thoughts on the election and what issues are of importance to them, I hit the internet to find out everything I could about the candidates, the issues and in some cases...
What in the world the job even entails.
Seriously, who knows what the Secretary of State does? Pretty dull job, really.
Until you screw something up. Then you're on the front page of the news and suddenly everyone's mad and saying, "What the heck happened?"
Personally, after simply reviewing his job description, I was ready for a nap.
As far as the error he made, in all likelihood the guy probably fell asleep due to boredom. So he 'misplaced' some paperwork. Eh, it's probably in the stack he used as a pillow and it got drooled on so he pitched it.
But I digress.
After every interview, I'm more and more intrigued by the candidate and the job potentially ahead of them. And inevitably they use some word that I've heard before but never took the time to care what it meant, so as soon as I get home I'm Googling like a maniac.
Tort. You know, as in tort reform.
What a weird word. In case you were wondering, it's a French word that means "a wrong."
Or maybe I'm the only one who didn't know the real meaning of the word.
At any rate, as it turns out, it's kinda important.
And I'm sure glad I worked at a civil engineering firm for awhile because it helps a lot when candidates talk nonstop about "the need for infrastructure." Kept me from having to Google a lot of stuff.
But what might fascinate me more than anything is the persona of each candidate. You've got the guy who just wanted his name on the ballot to give another option to people who are fed up with the traditional candidates. He doesn't have much for answers, and he's not presuming he has any chance of winning, but you have to respect his efforts.
Then there's the guy who makes you feel like you're talking to the guy next door. He's friendly, funny, and down-to-earth. He's the kind of guy that makes you think you could possibly run for office someday, too.
And then you meet the guy who knows just what to say, pays little attention to the questions because he really just wants to give his pat answers and move on, and frankly, he has more important things to do than to talk to me.
So then I get wrapped up in all the issues. And I obsess about the economy, taxes, and stuff like tort. And I want to know more. I want to see what was happening with social security 10 years ago when the unemployment rate wasn't so high. Was it at risk then, or was it a non-issue because we had everyone working and paying those taxes to fund it?
It's consuming me now. But tomorrow I interview a Secretary of State candidate. Which is good, because after staying up late every night scanning the internet for more information, I'm going to need a nap.
It happened innocently enough. I accepted a story assignment to do an election preview. It involves me interviewing the candidates running for office in my state.
Prior to this, I wasn't typically one to bury myself in political news, so I had to do some research before I sat myself in front of these people and ask them pertinent questions.
After surveying a variety of business people (the article is for a business magazine) as to their thoughts on the election and what issues are of importance to them, I hit the internet to find out everything I could about the candidates, the issues and in some cases...
What in the world the job even entails.
Seriously, who knows what the Secretary of State does? Pretty dull job, really.
Until you screw something up. Then you're on the front page of the news and suddenly everyone's mad and saying, "What the heck happened?"
Personally, after simply reviewing his job description, I was ready for a nap.
As far as the error he made, in all likelihood the guy probably fell asleep due to boredom. So he 'misplaced' some paperwork. Eh, it's probably in the stack he used as a pillow and it got drooled on so he pitched it.
But I digress.
After every interview, I'm more and more intrigued by the candidate and the job potentially ahead of them. And inevitably they use some word that I've heard before but never took the time to care what it meant, so as soon as I get home I'm Googling like a maniac.
Tort. You know, as in tort reform.
What a weird word. In case you were wondering, it's a French word that means "a wrong."
Or maybe I'm the only one who didn't know the real meaning of the word.
At any rate, as it turns out, it's kinda important.
And I'm sure glad I worked at a civil engineering firm for awhile because it helps a lot when candidates talk nonstop about "the need for infrastructure." Kept me from having to Google a lot of stuff.
But what might fascinate me more than anything is the persona of each candidate. You've got the guy who just wanted his name on the ballot to give another option to people who are fed up with the traditional candidates. He doesn't have much for answers, and he's not presuming he has any chance of winning, but you have to respect his efforts.
Then there's the guy who makes you feel like you're talking to the guy next door. He's friendly, funny, and down-to-earth. He's the kind of guy that makes you think you could possibly run for office someday, too.
And then you meet the guy who knows just what to say, pays little attention to the questions because he really just wants to give his pat answers and move on, and frankly, he has more important things to do than to talk to me.
So then I get wrapped up in all the issues. And I obsess about the economy, taxes, and stuff like tort. And I want to know more. I want to see what was happening with social security 10 years ago when the unemployment rate wasn't so high. Was it at risk then, or was it a non-issue because we had everyone working and paying those taxes to fund it?
It's consuming me now. But tomorrow I interview a Secretary of State candidate. Which is good, because after staying up late every night scanning the internet for more information, I'm going to need a nap.
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