My mother.
I could just say that and leave it, but I don't think I say enough about the woman who spawned me. And I should. I really should.
Don't get me wrong--she managed to not murder me several times (although, even with hindsight, some of her murderous bent was just about her, and I happened to be the hapless fool who stumbled into her rage); she has managed to not totally alienate me or my siblings; we rent this house from her for a more than fair price and we get to pretty much do as we please to it as long as the structure itself remains intact (although how much of that is related to the volume of other people's crap still being stored in that attic and garage is debatable). All in all, it could be worse.
But it doesn't change the fact that for all her lip servicing of praise and appreciation of my so-called talents, she just can't bring herself to say anything like "damn that was good" when I write something truly excellent.
I mean, c'mon! I write what is basically a meditation on a scripture or quote (and this month, it's a joke) for our church's newsletter--let me correct that. I write the whole dang thing, and this meditation/opening is part of that.
Some of them are mediocre. Some of them are good. This coming months is kick-in-the-ass excellent. It's a show-stopper, a sermon to remember, a totally great piece of my mind and soul.
And her response to it?
"Who wrote that?"
This is the comment she made after laughing in all the right places. This is what I get after all the appropriate responses.
This is the comment that sticks with me AFTER my husband, son, sister, and the priest read it--and say it's "really good."
She seemed, I kid you not, actually pissed when I said I wrote it.
I guess what bugs me is that she did this years ago after my sister showed her one of the poems I had written. My mother's comment BEFORE knowing who wrote it was, "Wow. That's really good. You should show that to your sister." (sister = me)
Once she learned that *I* had written it, it suddenly had faults.
Yeah, it was like 18 years ago, and THIS is what I remember.
I don't get it--how can a woman who tells me on a yearly basis that I have talent--gifts, really--that I should have pursued (and that it's not too late to do so) be so hyper-critical of what is PROOF that she is correct?
Especially in light of WHY I'm writing some of what I'm writing. I mean, it's not like I'm hiding it away and waiting til I die for someone to realize I'm good at it. It's not like, even as teenager/young adult I was writing all sorts of lovey-dovey hearts and flowers tripe or doom-gloom black black and die teen angst crapola.
Even what I suppose would be considered love poems had an edge--a sharp, prick you kind of edge.
I'm not saying that because I'm vain--I'm saying it because I read widely (even tripe and crapola) and can honestly say that, if I weren't the author of what I write, I'd still like it.
Yeah, *trumpet my own horn*, I'm THAT good.
And I'm taking it seriously again--I'm actually trying to do something with it. Other than amuse and delight myself, I mean. I'm writing this crapola, and I write about the Spawnlings for tripe. I write/edit/create/makeup the church newsletter for non-court ordered community service. I am going, next month, to a one-day writer's conference--dragging some of the tripe, crapola, and community service with me for unbiased and possibly eye-opening honest (and probably cruel) opinions.
The possibilities of deflating my little red wagon's wheels are endless.
But why does my own mother think that she should be the one to "keep [me] in my place" and "take [me] down a peg or two"?
Friday, March 28, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
My Sister, the Comedianne
My sister and I aren't all that much alike. Except for our senses of humor--which, to say the least, is off center.
Years ago, she lived in Erie, PA. She would call me, long distance--when there were no special plans or phone cards--during peak hours to say things like, "Do me a favor."
(Of course, even then, I knew better than to just answer "Yes.") "It depends."
"No. Really. Do me a favor."
"Tell me what it is first."
"Seriously. I need you to do me a favor."
Sigh. "Fine. What?"
"Tell me if there's a dial tone." *click*
She's crazy. She called me once, similar circumstances to say, "Do you wanna meet my new friend?" Her new friend was "Mr. Click" and you guessed it, she hung up on me then, too.
This time, though, it's local, and I'm the one who called her. She managed, though, to turn it on me:
I call my mother's house on Sunday (Easter Sunday, after church, mind you) My sister answers.
Sis: "Hello"
Me: "Where's your mother?"
S: "Sitting here"
Me: "Oh. Okay."
S: "Is that all?"
Me: "Uh, yeah."
Pause.
The line goes dead.
SHE HUNG UP ON ME! I thought she'd be handing the phone to our mother, but NO! She hangs up on me.
I hang up and redial. Thank God our mother is used to this from us, because when she answered, "Hello, " I was in full-out belly laugh. Tears pouring down my cheeks. I can't breathe.
My mother says, "You're idiots." And I laugh harder. My sister is laughing in the background, and the harder she laughs, the harder I laugh.
She's one of the few people I can never quite One-Up in the Humorous Arena.
Years ago, she lived in Erie, PA. She would call me, long distance--when there were no special plans or phone cards--during peak hours to say things like, "Do me a favor."
(Of course, even then, I knew better than to just answer "Yes.") "It depends."
"No. Really. Do me a favor."
"Tell me what it is first."
"Seriously. I need you to do me a favor."
Sigh. "Fine. What?"
"Tell me if there's a dial tone." *click*
She's crazy. She called me once, similar circumstances to say, "Do you wanna meet my new friend?" Her new friend was "Mr. Click" and you guessed it, she hung up on me then, too.
This time, though, it's local, and I'm the one who called her. She managed, though, to turn it on me:
I call my mother's house on Sunday (Easter Sunday, after church, mind you) My sister answers.
Sis: "Hello"
Me: "Where's your mother?"
S: "Sitting here"
Me: "Oh. Okay."
S: "Is that all?"
Me: "Uh, yeah."
Pause.
The line goes dead.
SHE HUNG UP ON ME! I thought she'd be handing the phone to our mother, but NO! She hangs up on me.
I hang up and redial. Thank God our mother is used to this from us, because when she answered, "Hello, " I was in full-out belly laugh. Tears pouring down my cheeks. I can't breathe.
My mother says, "You're idiots." And I laugh harder. My sister is laughing in the background, and the harder she laughs, the harder I laugh.
She's one of the few people I can never quite One-Up in the Humorous Arena.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Perspective
I find myself, of late, very angry, and very easy to anger. Especially (only?) at work. Today, a 40 minute drive has helped me, I think, put this in perspective.
'Round about October, one store-level manager apparently got a very figurative bug up his butt. He went from being a smart ass to being an asshole. He goes out of his way to be rude and condescending to me. (I've checked, he's been a major jerk to everyone, but he seems to reserve a special venom for me.) I don't know why.
I have suspicions which I won't elaborate on here--but I think, mostly, it has to do with the district manager being scammed, and since the scammer has the same last name I do, they've decided that I am in cahoots with the scammer, regardless of what I said (when asked) and regardless of my job performance up until then/now. He seems rather pissed that I'm not stupid and incompetent.
The winds of stupidity blow forth from him. When I get to work, I actually check to see if he's there--I want to know how stupid I am required to be for the day. (Yes, I believe I've said this to other managers.) It also stems from my asking him and another store level manager about cleaning the men's room...I was an extra person on the front end one Friday night, and if the guy who usually does it wasn't going to get to it, I wanted to know--I'd do double time on the women's room and the break room to be able to help. (I won't go in the men's room while the store is open--I've had enough "close calls" when the store is closed!) The Asshat actually, at one point, after making repeat my question 3x says, "I just quit listening to you."
Now, I know that I talk fast--especially when stressed or pissed, but I was working very hard to make myself clear. I was, I admit, pissed by his snotty comment "He usually gets them done--and he does a great job of it too" (sarcastic, defensive tone here). I countered that with, "I know that, I could tell you that. But what I want to know is if he needs help tonight, because I'm done with covering breaks...." this is the point where he said he quit listening.
I ended this *conversation* with Asshat with, "Well, okay, then. I'll just go back to pretending I'm stupid when you're here. You seem to prefer it that way."
I haven't spoken to him since, unless it was of absolute, customer service necessity. I get a feeling of impending doom coming off him--like he's waiting and watching for me to screw up so he can fire me. It wouldn't bother me so much, but I pointedly asked him, in November, if I'd done something to piss in his oatmeal. He asked me what I meant--so I told him. He said, "No. There's nothing."
I get the impression now, though, that he was lying then...and he's lying in wait now.
I did have a clarifying thought today, though. The reason I feel so inordinately out-of-control and pissed off all the time at work is because this is a man doing this. I am used to this sort of panties in a knot attitude from women. I'm used to being at odds with female supervisors. I'm used to dealing with this as a woman-to-woman issue, not a man. I don't generally threaten men with my demeanor (they are usually either amused or repulsed, never threatened.)
Another smidgen of anger comes from being written up in January. I was wrong, I freely admit that. BUT what bothers me is that what I said, to Asshat, in that meeting, was that I believe I am respected--as a person, on a level equal to any man in the building--not as a woman. How I get treated by managers (in general) and by my co workers (in general) has more to do with being an equal, gender aside/not withstanding.
He seems to have missed the whole point to what I said. I told them, at that time, that I'm a target for insecure women supervisors. I get that. I get that my competence and confidence is seen, by these women, to be an threat to them--my being good, translates, to them, that they are bad. In other words, just by being smart, funny, and competent, I make them look bad. Like I'm competing with them in some obscure misogynistic personality pageant.
Maybe it's the whole "I don't have to work full time" gig they have problems with. Maybe it's the fact that I'm rather head strong and blunt. Maybe it's that all those co workers and managers out there DO actually respect me--even if they don't like me. Maybe it's the fact that I can get results from sluggish and uncooperative sales associates and they can't. Maybe it's that I don't view 98% of the world from their angle.
Whatever it is, I truly do not care. I yam who I yam. I have spent too much time mierable and denying who I am, and I am not trying to appease the unclean masses again. Not ever. I will not sacrifice myself on the altar of stupidity. I won't sell my soul to an asshat in a retail uniform.
I've been asking "What the hell am I supposed to learn this time?" I divine the answer as, "How to finally, really, be like a man when there's conflict."
Is this something I can learn without a teacher?
'Round about October, one store-level manager apparently got a very figurative bug up his butt. He went from being a smart ass to being an asshole. He goes out of his way to be rude and condescending to me. (I've checked, he's been a major jerk to everyone, but he seems to reserve a special venom for me.) I don't know why.
I have suspicions which I won't elaborate on here--but I think, mostly, it has to do with the district manager being scammed, and since the scammer has the same last name I do, they've decided that I am in cahoots with the scammer, regardless of what I said (when asked) and regardless of my job performance up until then/now. He seems rather pissed that I'm not stupid and incompetent.
The winds of stupidity blow forth from him. When I get to work, I actually check to see if he's there--I want to know how stupid I am required to be for the day. (Yes, I believe I've said this to other managers.) It also stems from my asking him and another store level manager about cleaning the men's room...I was an extra person on the front end one Friday night, and if the guy who usually does it wasn't going to get to it, I wanted to know--I'd do double time on the women's room and the break room to be able to help. (I won't go in the men's room while the store is open--I've had enough "close calls" when the store is closed!) The Asshat actually, at one point, after making repeat my question 3x says, "I just quit listening to you."
Now, I know that I talk fast--especially when stressed or pissed, but I was working very hard to make myself clear. I was, I admit, pissed by his snotty comment "He usually gets them done--and he does a great job of it too" (sarcastic, defensive tone here). I countered that with, "I know that, I could tell you that. But what I want to know is if he needs help tonight, because I'm done with covering breaks...." this is the point where he said he quit listening.
I ended this *conversation* with Asshat with, "Well, okay, then. I'll just go back to pretending I'm stupid when you're here. You seem to prefer it that way."
I haven't spoken to him since, unless it was of absolute, customer service necessity. I get a feeling of impending doom coming off him--like he's waiting and watching for me to screw up so he can fire me. It wouldn't bother me so much, but I pointedly asked him, in November, if I'd done something to piss in his oatmeal. He asked me what I meant--so I told him. He said, "No. There's nothing."
I get the impression now, though, that he was lying then...and he's lying in wait now.
I did have a clarifying thought today, though. The reason I feel so inordinately out-of-control and pissed off all the time at work is because this is a man doing this. I am used to this sort of panties in a knot attitude from women. I'm used to being at odds with female supervisors. I'm used to dealing with this as a woman-to-woman issue, not a man. I don't generally threaten men with my demeanor (they are usually either amused or repulsed, never threatened.)
Another smidgen of anger comes from being written up in January. I was wrong, I freely admit that. BUT what bothers me is that what I said, to Asshat, in that meeting, was that I believe I am respected--as a person, on a level equal to any man in the building--not as a woman. How I get treated by managers (in general) and by my co workers (in general) has more to do with being an equal, gender aside/not withstanding.
He seems to have missed the whole point to what I said. I told them, at that time, that I'm a target for insecure women supervisors. I get that. I get that my competence and confidence is seen, by these women, to be an threat to them--my being good, translates, to them, that they are bad. In other words, just by being smart, funny, and competent, I make them look bad. Like I'm competing with them in some obscure misogynistic personality pageant.
Maybe it's the whole "I don't have to work full time" gig they have problems with. Maybe it's the fact that I'm rather head strong and blunt. Maybe it's that all those co workers and managers out there DO actually respect me--even if they don't like me. Maybe it's the fact that I can get results from sluggish and uncooperative sales associates and they can't. Maybe it's that I don't view 98% of the world from their angle.
Whatever it is, I truly do not care. I yam who I yam. I have spent too much time mierable and denying who I am, and I am not trying to appease the unclean masses again. Not ever. I will not sacrifice myself on the altar of stupidity. I won't sell my soul to an asshat in a retail uniform.
I've been asking "What the hell am I supposed to learn this time?" I divine the answer as, "How to finally, really, be like a man when there's conflict."
Is this something I can learn without a teacher?
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Explain, Please
In the town where I live, there is a church I will not attend. I left several years ago, and no amount of begging, asking, demanding, backstabbing, or manipulating can get me to go back. (Okay, I've been back for a few services, due to time constraints, but I'll rather travel 40 minutes 1-way to attend the church I moved to, all those years ago.)
This church has, for it's reigning clergy, an attention whore. A man who loves the sound of his own voice, couldn't answer a pointed question honestly, and who has tried to manipulate my family into returning. He's an In-Yer-Face kind of guy. He's all about himself. He does nothing, in my opinion, by way of outreach that does not glorify himself.
I don't like him. (But, I don't make a secret of it either.)
Since the church I do travel 40 minutes one way to attend is the same flavor, and in the same regional collection (referred to as "the diocese") as this man's congregation, I do have occasional contact with him.
That occasional contact usually makes me wonder if I shouldn't find another church--farther away from him, or, at the very least, in a different flavor. (It's like finding out your arch-nemisis is the spokesmodel for your favorite brand of ice cream. Ugh)
Anyway, one of his modus-operandi within our little Christian world is his church's lack of funds, and therefore, his personal lack of funds.
Today, I received his newsletter--the one supposedly put together to have all our collective congregations communicating with each other. In it, there is usually 3-4 pages devoted to the 4 other churches together....and 3-4 pages devoted exclusively to promoting his own church (called "every sneeze and dinner" in my ever-so-eloquent vocabulary).
This month's In-Yer-Face blather has information stating that his church will provide "admission, transportation, and food" to Hershey Park, PA, for any of his congregation who can "earn 20 points" by doing things listed (among them, attending church, a parish sponsored dinner, and participating in various during-service capacities).
What I don't get is how he can stomp about the diocese, proclaiming a total lack of funds in his church--practically begging for everyone else to help foot their bills--and yet, they can cough up $30+ bucks for admission, a couple hundred dollars to rent a bus, PLUS the cost of food (food aint cheap in amusement parks). If a minimum of 30 people "earn" their way to "heaven-cum-Hershey", he and his church are looking at a bill upwards of $1000--even if they get a group discount.
The parish, as a whole cannot pay to have their roof fixed, pay their assessments, or to pay this man the required minimum salary, but they can afford to pay for this? How does that math work?
This church has, for it's reigning clergy, an attention whore. A man who loves the sound of his own voice, couldn't answer a pointed question honestly, and who has tried to manipulate my family into returning. He's an In-Yer-Face kind of guy. He's all about himself. He does nothing, in my opinion, by way of outreach that does not glorify himself.
I don't like him. (But, I don't make a secret of it either.)
Since the church I do travel 40 minutes one way to attend is the same flavor, and in the same regional collection (referred to as "the diocese") as this man's congregation, I do have occasional contact with him.
That occasional contact usually makes me wonder if I shouldn't find another church--farther away from him, or, at the very least, in a different flavor. (It's like finding out your arch-nemisis is the spokesmodel for your favorite brand of ice cream. Ugh)
Anyway, one of his modus-operandi within our little Christian world is his church's lack of funds, and therefore, his personal lack of funds.
Today, I received his newsletter--the one supposedly put together to have all our collective congregations communicating with each other. In it, there is usually 3-4 pages devoted to the 4 other churches together....and 3-4 pages devoted exclusively to promoting his own church (called "every sneeze and dinner" in my ever-so-eloquent vocabulary).
This month's In-Yer-Face blather has information stating that his church will provide "admission, transportation, and food" to Hershey Park, PA, for any of his congregation who can "earn 20 points" by doing things listed (among them, attending church, a parish sponsored dinner, and participating in various during-service capacities).
What I don't get is how he can stomp about the diocese, proclaiming a total lack of funds in his church--practically begging for everyone else to help foot their bills--and yet, they can cough up $30+ bucks for admission, a couple hundred dollars to rent a bus, PLUS the cost of food (food aint cheap in amusement parks). If a minimum of 30 people "earn" their way to "heaven-cum-Hershey", he and his church are looking at a bill upwards of $1000--even if they get a group discount.
The parish, as a whole cannot pay to have their roof fixed, pay their assessments, or to pay this man the required minimum salary, but they can afford to pay for this? How does that math work?
Monday, March 03, 2008
A Laundry Proposal
I'm sick to death of folding whites.
The way I see it is this: In the 2 months since the beginning of this year, I have folded, I kid you not, a load of whites laundry every week. That equals close to 400 loads of socks, underwear and towels. (It's like 40 billion in dog years.)
I am unhappy with this situation, and I believe I have a simple solution to this problem.
STOP WEARING UNDERWEAR, PEOPLE!
I know that it's a good idea when the temperatures are in the negative hundreds, but for every arctic day we've had since January, there have been days were temps were balmy 40 and 50 degrees.
It's uncalled for, in temps like those, to layer up as if it's a second Ice Age (or a bad weather-as-villain movie.)
STOP THE INSANITY.
It's not like we need to worry that we'll be in an accident--it hasn't happened yet, what makes you think it's going to happen now?
Besides, if you are in an accident, and you're not wearing your tidy-whities (which I've folded every blessed day this new year), there's less for me to have to clean up after. And, if you think about it, if the jaws of life need to be employed, it's not like that scrap of cotton across your butt is going to make or break the seriousness of what's happening around you.
So, from now on, unless we're going to meet the Queen, be careful when you zip up--you don't want to catch anything important in that zipper.
(Plan B is to wear everything twice before it hits the washer--and that's just silly.)
The way I see it is this: In the 2 months since the beginning of this year, I have folded, I kid you not, a load of whites laundry every week. That equals close to 400 loads of socks, underwear and towels. (It's like 40 billion in dog years.)
I am unhappy with this situation, and I believe I have a simple solution to this problem.
STOP WEARING UNDERWEAR, PEOPLE!
I know that it's a good idea when the temperatures are in the negative hundreds, but for every arctic day we've had since January, there have been days were temps were balmy 40 and 50 degrees.
It's uncalled for, in temps like those, to layer up as if it's a second Ice Age (or a bad weather-as-villain movie.)
STOP THE INSANITY.
It's not like we need to worry that we'll be in an accident--it hasn't happened yet, what makes you think it's going to happen now?
Besides, if you are in an accident, and you're not wearing your tidy-whities (which I've folded every blessed day this new year), there's less for me to have to clean up after. And, if you think about it, if the jaws of life need to be employed, it's not like that scrap of cotton across your butt is going to make or break the seriousness of what's happening around you.
So, from now on, unless we're going to meet the Queen, be careful when you zip up--you don't want to catch anything important in that zipper.
(Plan B is to wear everything twice before it hits the washer--and that's just silly.)
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