Let Me Just Say A few Words (A Work Rant)

Let me just say right here and now that I am not the person who sets the postal rates.  And let me also just say I already know that, whatever is in the package you have come to mail, it cost less than the postage.  I know this because the people who just mailed something ahead of you told the very same story. I'm not even going to wonder aloud about why all of you are mailing cheap crap all over the U.S.(and sometimes to foreign countries) especially when you think the postal rates are so exorbitant.  

Image from this page 

Let me also just say that there is no "slow boat to China" rate available.  And when I say that your package is going to take upwards of seven days to arrive wherever you are paying through the nose to send it, that is the cheapest damn way we can do it. Apparently, the postal service decommissioned pack mules some time ago, so your mail has to travel by some mechanized means of transport.  So yes, that's the cheapest way, I'm sure.  

What I'm not sure of, is when the postal rates are going up, because, like I said, I'm not the person who sets those rates.  The big guy with a bunch of packages behind you in line, and the chick behind him--who is already late getting back to the office from mailing stuff for her boss because she stopped and got herself a pumpkin spice latte before she came in here-- yeah, neither of them want to listen to you stand here and speculate with me about what the new rate is going to be and whether it means that you should buy a couple of rolls of stamps, just to be on the safe side. You're going to have to make that call yourself, pal.

And let me just say, that even though you've seen them on TV, not every box is an "if it fits, it ships" kind of a box, and all of those boxes are priority mail, so please don't ask me to "just send it the cheap way" if you bring your parcel up to the counter in a priority box, with a priority label slapped on it and priority tape holding it closed.  Flat rate doesn't mean cheap, necessarily, it means the rate is always going to be the same-- until postage goes up, and no, I still don't know when that is.  But if you have to get your inexpensive present to the birthday girl in two days because you forgot to mail it last week and you don't want your daughter-in-law hinting to the kids that, if Nanna really cared, she would have gotten the gift there on time, it's gonna cost you.  Probably more than the gift, so everyone says.  

But let me just say, that at least that gal, the one who wants it to look like priority mail and get there as fast as priority mail, but still wants to pay the slow boat to China rate-- she may be annoying, but at least her box is packed and ready to go.  If you bring an unwrapped present and an address on a slip of paper, and stand at the counter offering it to me, your package is not ready to go.  In fact, let me just say that it's not a package until it's in a box that is taped shut with a completed address label on it. It's just stuff, with aspirations to travel.

So, let me just take a minute to talk about public helplessness.  For the record, I'm not talking about people who genuinely need assistance and deserve our good will.  And, let me just say that I think there are two circles of hell for this kind of thing.  In the first are the people who are just kind of clueless:  the people, usually younger, who come into the post office and don't know what they need to do to mail a package, or even a letter, and ask questions like:  
Do I have to put the address on?  
Where do I put the address, on the front?  
Do you really need the zip code?  Oh, okay, um...I think it has a nine in it?  
Do you sell self-addressed stamped envelopes? 
Let's see... yes, yes, yes, and hell, no! 

Picture from here

But I understand that these people probably just lack experience as postal consumers and this might be the first time they're having to use something besides e-mail. Clearly, some people are just not down with the package mailing concept. That's why the people behind you in line are sighing loudly and asking if they could just, real quick, get a priority box so they can come back later.   That's why the people behind you in line are groaning and playing Fruit Ninja on their phones.  That's why I'm boxing your gift and taping your package, and even filling out your address label, if necessary.  For the people behind you.  You're welcome.

In the second, inner circle, are the able bodied people who act or appear helpless in order to have others take care of things for them and the people who seem to expect that their problems, desires, etc.  will somehow be solved or fulfilled as needed.   That's right, it's you, Mr. "I sell stuff on eBay, but I can't inconvenience myself to put something in a box and write a legible address on it," you're the guy I'm talking to.  You're the one screaming the loudest about the postal rates, packing your stuff without any bubble wrap (have you seen what they charge for that stuff?), then pitching a fit when something happens to your package because you sent it "slow boat to China."  And you're the one who came in with the address on a scrap of a post-it, so poorly written that you had to check your "smart phone" to look at the order again, without once stepping out of line to let the little lady behind you buy her Holy Family Christmas stamps.  There is a special fiery place reserved for you.  It's right next to the gal selling handmade earrings and putting them in such tiny packages that there is nowhere to apply the postage without covering the address.  But that is part of another rant...

Let me just say that I need you to step aside, because every once in a while, there is someone who waits patiently, chats pleasantly, and expresses delighted surprise that the cost to mail their item is lower than he expected. "Isn't that a bargain? Can you get it there any faster if I pay a little more?" some trim old man will ask, then tell his slightly younger wife how excellent it is to be able to still pay so little to send their grand kids a couple of trinkets they picked up at the thrift store, and so fast too!  It's the same exact rate I told the gal before him, who was cranked because it was more than the cost of what she was sending.  But this guy is happy and he's whistling a bit as he walks out of the shop.  It seems that your attitude about everything in life depends on your perspective.  Just saying...

Why You Don't Want to be My Friend

I've been thinking a lot about the post I wrote the other night about my mom friends.  I woke up thinking that I really didn't do justice to friendship by reducing it to meeting people you see regularly and happen to have a few minutes to talk to. (To be 100% honest, I actually woke up thinking that I needed to brush my teeth because I had been sleeping with my mouth wide open, but that might just be too much information.)

from this page

I also realized that I was only thinking about this thing from my own perspective, and blithely assuming I would just be able to charm someone and make friends if only I could chat with them for a few minutes on a regular basis.  Oh really?  Doesn't that fail to account for how people might feel about meeting me?  Just because our kids are in class together and they might be friends doesn't necessarily mean that we will become besties.   I am really sorry for this callous attitude toward friendships, but I think it proves what I often fear:  I am not a very good friend. 

I know I'm kind of selfish sometimes, because I hear myself talking about, you know, myself, and I realize that maybe I don't give other people a chance to share things.  And while I see plenty of grey out there in the world, I tend to think about most things in kind of an analytical black and white, this or that kind of way.  I see alternative ideas, but reject them quickly and just assume everyone is with me.  Are you with me?

When I do think deeply about things, I'm not good at sharing the process.  I'm not one to bounce ideas off of others, though others seem to want to bounce off me all the time, and that's not bad.  Unfortunately, once I've weighed in with my viewpoint, I can get kind of persuasive and preachy if someone disagrees with me.  For myself, I like to think first and talk later, so I'm not good at discussing things as I go along.  

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And that's just when I'm talking to people.  My real problem is that I tend to be neglectful and I'm not good at initiating plans for getting together.  (No wonder I casually equated forming friendships with meeting people at places (like the schoolyard) that I was already going to anyway!)  My introverted nature (that's what I'm calling this selfishness these days) craves quiet and need time alone.  Sometimes I just need to sit and stare into space to recharge the old batteries.  With kids and other family members depending on me, my batteries wear down pretty fast.  

But this doesn't mean I don't love the friends I have.  In fact, this makes me value my current mom friends (indeed, all my friends who have hung in there with me) even more and reminds me that I really hadn't given us all credit for the connections we've made. We all have busy lives that are full of things other than friendship, but this reaching out, this connection, is something that really enriches every day life in a serious way.  

Because if you can't talk to someone, even for a few minutes, and share what's going on, and have a laugh about it, or get some good advice, life is a lot harder than it needs to be.  

Thanks for sticking with me, friends.

I'm Just Gonna Play a Video

Haven't really been feelin' it today, so when I was supposed to be writing, I spent time looking at stuff on the internet.  Hey, it's something I'm really good at, and sometimes, you just have to go with it.  Here are a couple of kind of inspiring things I found.  They are called kinetic typography and they focus on really cool messages by making the words come to life, literally.

See you tomorrow.

Mom Friends

Fiona asked me the other day why I wasn't friends with the moms of kids in her class, like I am with the moms of Delia's friends.  I really didn't know what to say, because there isn't really a reason, but there are some explanations, beginning with how we all got to know each other. Mainly, I got to be friends with "the moms," as Fiona calls them, because we were all sitting together waiting to pick our kids up and we all kind of bonded over that.  Our family had not been living back in Scottsdale that long when Delia started kindergarten, and we really knew no one here with school aged kids-- except for my true bff Alex who has three boys a little older than my girls, but I knew her way before we had these kids, and I'm not sure that counts-- so when Delia started school, it was all new.  Plus, Delia simultaneously made friends with the kids that belonged to the moms I was hanging with, so it was easy to talk about what was going on, and to make plans to get together outside of school because the kids also wanted to hang out.  Another factor was that we live walking distance from the school, so the moms saw us around the neighborhood, and often offered us rides home, and then to school for pick-up time, because, in Arizona, the school year starts in August, when the days are 100 degrees and above and even a short walk can be exhausting.  It was also easy to have them stop in at our house here and there after school, since we were close by.  So, I guess, I got to be friends with these moms for the same reason most of us end up married to people we meet at work, or school, or church:  access.  It's easier to make friends with someone when you share interests, and you can't make friends with people unless your paths cross pretty regularly.


Now that we've all known each other a while, we talk about lots of stuff that goes beyond our kids, and we support each other and have a really nice network of families.  We have gone through job changes and family health issues together and we've vented and laughed and bitched and cried together.  We've seen our kids grow and change together over the last couple of years.

It's not that I don't want to be friends with moms from Fiona's class, because I have met a few women I like really well.  But a couple of things have changed since Delia started school that make it harder to fall into the natural rhythm of getting to know new people.  One thing is that, this year, the school district has developed a new policy of "kids only" inside the school yard during school hours as part of its safety and security program.  So now, instead of walking the kids onto the playground and standing around chatting while the kids play before the bell rings, parents walk the kids just up to the school gate or let them out of the car in the parking lot drop off lanes. Without the opportunity to congregate in the morning and get to know each other, there isn't an effortless exchange like there was when Delia started kindergarten.  On this same note, I realize that I wasn't working when Delia started school, so I was there on the schoolyard to pick her up every day, opening up another possibility for meeting other parents.  Now, I work part time, so I am only there in the afternoon a couple of days a week, and then, I tend to spend the time catching up with the moms I know-- my mom friends-- instead of striking up new relationships.  A mom can only spread herself so thin, after all.  

Fiona, 3 year old "wing-girl"

And finally, I can't discount the fact that, when Delia was in kindergarten,  I always had Fiona with me, and there is no better ice breaker than an active, chatty three year old, except maybe a labradoodle puppy.  She was a great "wingman" for making mom friends.  

I also have to be honest then, and take some of this on myself.  I'm not really good about putting myself out there and being a joiner.  I'm pretty strongly in the introvert camp.  I mean, I'm a writer partly because I like to sit by myself and think.  A lot.  And I'm much older than a lot of these moms (like, I could be their mom) and I admit that this even made it hard for me with the mom friends I have made.  Yeah, you caught me, I am whining in self defense.  

I have tried to step up my efforts to help in Fiona's class, so I have volunteered for Art Masterpiece, and I did go on the field trip to a farm in October, and I helped out with the fall festival (oh, wait, that was for Delia's class, so it didn't really help me meet kindergarten parents...)  I did see a promising sign a couple of weeks ago.  I was walking to school to help with a kindergarten party/art activity, when one of the kindergarten moms stopped and offered me a ride the rest of the way.  Our kids are friends, so we had plenty to talk about and it was fun to work in the classroom with her.  We've just become Facebook friends, so I think that's a start...

School yard pic from this page

Like Brushing My Teeth While eating Oreos...

I was going to warn everyone to just look away if they saw our family on the news accompanied by a haz-mat crew and a clean-up team.  I thought that when the girls' room was finally declared a federal disaster area, and the money from FEMA came in, there might be some local coverage.  Apparently though, you cannot get federal cleanup funds for one of the bedrooms in a two bedroom apartment. Even a bedroom occupied by two little girls who refuse to recognize the need to pick anything up, except under threat of painful death. Since the rest of the place isn't quite in the disaster relief category, I guess I'll just have to continue to kvetch at the girls while I clean up without the benefit of federal assistance.  

It would have been nice to use the funds for a new vacuum though.  Maybe someone makes one that doesn't cough and splutter when it sucks up beads and bobby pins and the tiny rubber bands that the girls are using to make necklaces and bracelets on those "looms" that are all the rage right now.  And don't get me started on the hairballs.  If I didn't know that the girls had 100 percent human DNA, I would assume that they were somehow part Persian long-hairs or Bernese Mountain dogs, because the vacuum is always rolling up big balls of blond and auburn hair.  With the way the girls blow their coats, I am constantly threatening pixie cuts. 

I guess part of what gets me down is how quickly their room can go from clean, or at least clean-ish, to utterly messy.  I say clean-ish, because I am not bleaching my cleaning rags or swiping all the surfaces with anti-bacterial cloths, (except in the bathrooms and the kitchen, where I am definitely anti-everything that's even remotely bacterial),  so I don't consider myself a fanatic.  And because we live in the desert, I have had to make my peace with the dust that re-settles instantly on every surface as soon as it is dusted, and the sand and tiny gravel that clings to all uncarpeted areas. Dishes in the sink will not drive me to distraction.  No, for better or worse, I am only of the neat and tidy, clear surfaces, everything-in-it's-place school of clean, but I still can't seem to catch a break.  I just finish in one room, returning it to what I feel is a normal, orderly state, when I turn around to see that the mess has reappeared, even larger, in the next room.   And there seems to be an endless stream of clutter that emanates from the girls' very beings.  It's not just in their room, it follows them in a swirling cloud, like that kid Pigpen from the old Charlie Brown cartoons, except with actual objects replacing the dirt.  So there always seems to be stuff everywhere, even though I am picking up constantly.  It's as if I live in one of those cartoons that say that cleaning up when kids are home "is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing." 

To preserve my own sanity, and the girls' lives, I've ruled that their stuff must stay in their room, and issued orders that they must put away one project before starting another.  I know they do this at school, as I have helped with art class and seen both girls pick up infinitesimally tiny scraps of construction paper under the watchful eyes of their smiling teachers, just to have the privilege of starting their math assignments.  I scream that there will be no dessert for the rest of the year if things aren't neat, and they barely wait until I close my mouth before they ask if they can go watch Dog with a Blog.  When I finally do explode, (actually, I get very quiet, and start to drool just a little as I hiss at them through clenched teeth) they will slink into their room to pick up.  A few minutes later, I'll hear some giggling mixed in with the usual bickering and settle down a bit, thinking they have finally gotten the idea.  Nine times out of ten though, when I go in to check on them, I find that their room is even worse. Yes, they have finally pulled toys and markers and books, etc. out from under the bed and behind their desk.  But only to play with! 

I know that the girls are still pretty young, and I shouldn't quite expect that they will spontaneously decide to put their stuff away, no matter what I threaten or promise.  I have to hope that the example of cleared surfaces and vacuumed floors will imprint on their psyches eventually, like it did on mine. And now, working as a team (they handle the complaining and reaching into tiny spaces, and I do the actual putting back and throwing away) we do get the room done. I've noticed that they seem to like it neat, and they even try to maintain it.  For a minute or two.

Burglary cartoon found on this page.  Pigpen, the copyrighted Charles Schulz character, found here. Cleaning e card found here.

A Number of Things You May Not Know About Me

Recently, at least recently in my circle of acquaintances, a game of sorts has been circulating on Face book, in which one of your friends "tags" you by giving you a number and then, you reveal that number of things about yourself. That, right there, is the limit of my understanding of the game, and I could be wrong, because I figured that much out for myself, by looking at the posts of others who identified themselves as "tagged."  And we all know how effed-up you can get when you kind of half understand something your friends (who also only half-understand it) are talking about, and then you act on that limited second-hand "knowledge."  If you doubt me on this, think about how you heard about sex stuff in fifth or sixth grade, from the kids who had older sisters and brothers and plenty of misinformation to share.  I know people who are still recovering from mistakes they made based on that kind of bad intel...  

I think you are also supposed to go on and "tag" people by giving them numbers, to perpetuate the whole wacky cycle of self-revelation.  In the spirit of that confessional enterprise, I will start by saying that I didn't get the part about tagging others, and failed to do so.  I feel kind of foolish about this, as now it is so clear. But not super bad about it, the way I felt when I failed to continue a chain letter in fourth grade, despite the fact that it contained specific threats of death and misfortune for my entire family and future descendants if I didn't copy it out completely and mail it to three friends and three strangers within six days.  My mom told me the whole thing was fake and silly and threw all the copies I had started in the trash.  "The only bad luck 
you'll have," she said, utterly exasperated, "is if you don't get your homework done, because then you won't get to watch TV for the rest of the week."  It was Monday, so I gave up and eventually forgot about the whole thing. Though now that I think about it, that might explain a couple of dozen things that have happened over the last two decades.  

To make up for all that, I'm calling a do-over.  I've decided to reveal a few more things here.  Since I tagged myself, I'm not sure of the number, but I'll do my best.  My life is basically pretty boring, so there just aren't a lot of hidden dark corners I can clean out, but here goes:


1.  I once had to walk home from the day care center in the settling dark, in a snow storm in Maine, carrying baby Delia.  There was too much snow on the ground to push her stroller, so I had to leave it.  I was wearing a down jacket and she was wearing a snowsuit, so it was tough to keep her from sliding out of my arms.  To avoid totally dropping her when I slid in a snow drift, I thrust her way up in the air and fell on my knees, ripping my jeans and getting completely soaked in the slush.  She was fine, but I was crying and really shaken.  I made Mike pick her up for weeks after that, always making some excuse, but not telling him why, until the thaw started in March.

2.  After getting into the one of the colleges of my dreams when I was seventeen, I got pregnant and flunked out by spring.  I went from student of the year at my high school to pregnant teen drop out in less than a year.  (Too bad there was no reality TV then, I could have made a fortune.)

3.  Here's another real downer, but it is something about me.  I had to flee my apartment with my sons when they were two and four years old, taking their stuff in big black trash bags, because their dad, my first husband, was a physically abusive psycho.  He used to call to check up on me every couple of hours, (no cell phones then) so I had to wait until he called, act like everything was fine, then call the people who were helping me, so that we could get out before he called again.  When he found out I went to my parents' house, he came over and pounded on the door, threatening to kill us all, until they said they were calling the police. I went the next day to get a restraining order.  I was 22.  

Wow, now to shake off the negative, let's completely change the subject:

4.  At home, Mike and the girls call me "Moo-Shu."  Like the Chinese restaurant pork dish.  As far as I know, none of them have ever eaten moo-shu, but the name got stuck in Fiona's head when she watched an episode of Fetch! with Ruff Ruffman on PBS Kids, where the cartoon pooch kept yelling, "Don't forget to pick up the moo-shu!"  Moo-shu also seems to stand for some mommy-lovin', as in when Fiona says, "Come on, Mommy, give me some Moo-shu!" and settles into my lap for some cuddles.  

I guess my number was four, because now I am exhausted... and to make up for last time, I'm tagging you all, friends.  Pick a number and tell me some stuff.  

Chain letter picture from here, a blog I've never read, but I really liked the image.

And Now, a Word from the Champion Procrastinator of All Time

So here I am again, almost at the very end of the day, staying up way past my bedtime because of this (self-imposed) blog-post-every-day deadline.  It is amazing to me how quickly I fall into the work habits I've had since junior high.  You know, piddling around all day, "thinking" about my assignment, looking up books and articles for "research," writing a paragraph or two, then erasing them (now I just hit backspace until the false start disappears), walking away, doing a few other things that absolutely do not have to be done today, then finally, when I can't wait any longer, I sit down and write, having created the pressure I seem to need to get something on paper.  

That's just messed up.   I have long wondered if I can justify all of this by claiming that my best work is actually produced in a sleep-deprived semi-stupor.  Nah!  We all know it's really just a lack of discipline.  

And speaking of that, I am amazed at how much time evaporates when I am sitting in front of a computer.  I take my laptop to work at the post office, because I keep thinking I will have time to write.  And I do, though now, as the holidays approach, work has gotten a lot busier. I actually came home today and told Mike that all I'd accomplished at work today was, you know, work. But really, if I used my time wisely, like my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Berrier (and my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Koch, and my sixth grade teacher Mrs. Holliday, and my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Little-- I think you get the idea...) kept telling me I should, I could get a lot of work done in the moments between postal customers.  

Part of the problem is that I don't even have to get up to wander away from my work.  Just click on a different screen.  Oh! Look at everything new on Face book in the last twenty minutes.  Oh! Look at all the cool stuff on Etsy since I checked this morning.  Oh! Look, new e-mails-- can't let that in-box fill up.  Now, I've discovered the joys of wasting time on, I mean listening to, Spotify, the streaming radio thingy. I listened to a hundred songs today.  Really?  Am I twelve?  Now I'm not even getting my spices alphabetized or my underwear drawer organized while I avoid writing.  I've reached a new bottom level of non-productivity.  At least I've achieved something, I guess.

Sigh.  

Brainstorm! Get this new strategy:  I'm going to plan to do surf the internet for hours, answer e-mails and listen to streaming radio.  All by the end of the day, so that there's some time pressure, too.  I think I'll find myself wandering away from that stuff to write in no time.  I mean, as long as I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing, I can get a lot done. 

 I'll let you know how this works out, as soon as I get around to trying it.