Seeking Qualified Help!

I always tell people I'm the subject matter expert of nothing because by and large, that has been the formula for my career. I always know a little about everything and enough to be dangerous, but never enough to be considered an "expert" in anything.

As far as experts go, I do feel like I've learned plenty about the dos and don'ts of interviewing. A lot of this expertise comes from having made my own rookie mistakes, but in recent years, it also stems from my experience as a hiring manager and the "interesting" people I've met and accidentally hired through the interview process. So, without giving up the names of any of these fine individuals, I give you these useful tips on how to kill your interview. I guess I'll let you decipher what I mean by "kill" in this context.

Be Punctual. Anyone who knows me is laughing their ass off right now that I would even have the audacity to provide such advice. Let's be honest here; I'm not on time for anything. Ever. I've arrived late to weddings, funerals, my own law school graduation ceremony, classes, doctor's appointments, to work like every single day, and yes - job interviews (plural). I fondly recall the time I arrived late to a job interview that was scheduled at a small local diner where I was to have breakfast with my interviewer; a nice attorney who was actually considering hiring me to be an associate for their three-person personal injury firm. I was late because just as I was leaving, my stupid cat vomited all over the living room floor. We're talkin' big chunky vomit with snotty brown bile on light beige carpet. Like any horrified human being who knew she wouldn't be home for another ten hours, I quickly cleaned it up as best as I could manage with less than five minutes to spare. By the time I got out the door, I was flustered and already late. And, like any imbecile who hasn't yet experienced enough job rejection in her life to learn a lesson, I felt inclined to let my interviewer know exactly why I was late and that I just had to take care of that mess because who wants to come home to all that dried nastiness?...and then yeah, we proceeded to eat breakfast together. (I ordered oatmeal because nothing really grosses me out after having worked in a nursing home.) Needless to say, I didn't hear from him ever again and I do not chase ambulances for a living.

Less than a week later, I interviewed for a summer clerkship with one of the big law firms in downtown Minneapolis. Of course I was late and because the combination of "chronic tardiness + Asian + woman + automobile = disaster," this story did not have a happy, gainful-employment-kind-of-ending either. As I drove up the parking ramp, I either under- or overestimated the right turn into the ramp and scraped the shit out of the passenger side of the car. I frantically parked, ran into the building, hurled myself into the elevator and tore into the conference room where I informed my panel of interviewers - yes PANEL - what I just did to my car and that I was "real sorry" for being late. God, it is a wonder I am employed at all. The moral here is "Even if you can't be timely for most things in life, for the love of all things good, allow yourself ample time to get to a damn job interview." NEXT...

Q&A. We're all familiar with the stupid clichéd questions that hiring managers will ask during the interview like, "How would you describe your greatest weaknesses?" or "Tell me about a time you overcame a really difficult obstacle," or "If you could be any fruit, which fruit and why?" Personally, I try to avoid the clichés because I think these questions are predictable and I expect that prospective candidates will already have bullshit fake answers prepared that I don't want to hear anyhow. So quite frankly, I'm just going to cut to the chase and ask you very pointed, basic questions that really get at what I want to know.  Here is a sampling of my questions followed by examples of shit I really wouldn't suggest you say to me if you want to get hired:

Q: "So, what motivated you to apply for the position?"
A: "Convenience, really. I hate driving all the way across town to get to my current job. Also, downtown looks fun."

Q: "What would you say is your biggest challenge in your current job?"
A: "Probably...(pondering thoughtfully) being organized. I'm not good at keeping track of things and can be a little scatter-brained at times."

Q: "What is it about this position that interests you most seeing as how you have never worked in a compliance role before?"
A: "I am really interested in the compliances." (etc. etc. more stupid, etc.) Note: There are a lot of words in the English language that are not made plural simply by adding an "s." There are many examples in the animal kingdom, such as deer, fish, moose, mouse, goose, etc. What's even more frustrating is that there are words that can't form plurals at all. "Compliance" is one of those words. If you add an "s" to it, the interview is automatically and immediately over.

Interviews are just as much about the candidate asking questions, too.  Here are some of my favorites:

Q: "How much vacation time will I receive with this position?"
Q: "What do the bonuses look like for this level of job?"
Q: "Do I have to be here every day or can I work from home?"
Q: "How much does this position pay?"

Here, dumb ass, let me answer all of the above for you. "You will have 365 days of vacation, but unfortunately for you, you will have no spending money coming from us to enjoy yourself. But, as an added bonus, you can be home every day for all I care because we're not paying you ANYTHING AT ALL. Best of luck to you, my friend."  NEXT...

Be a good listener. When the hiring manager is introducing herself, it would be nice if you'd be patient enough to let her finish her introduction before interrupting. I mean, what is wrong with you? I need all of 32 seconds to tell you who I am and you can't STFU long enough to humor me?

It's also important that if during the interview, you come to the horrible realization that you don't actually understand a goddamn thing about the position, that you find an intelligent way to ask some questions and learn more and that you actually listen to the explanation.

OR...you can also let the hiring manager know that "whoever wrote this thing [the posting] didn't do a very good job because this is really vague."  I mean, chances are probably high that the hiring manager had nothing to do with the scripting of the job posting, right? Wrong. Yeah, I wrote that job description.  I customized it because the general job descriptions written by our HR department are in fact vague and say nothing about this actual job. I pretty much spelled it all out for you. NEXT...

TMI. There's that fine line between showing your sparkling personality yet maintaining an air of professionalism. There are certain things you should probably forgo sharing about yourself in your first interview, such as your gruesome physical ailments, your bizarre personal hobbies and how you got fired from your last position, but it really wasn't your fault because the manager was difficult and doesn't deserve to be alive. Stuff like that. Keep it to yourself. NEXT...

Look the part. You really can't take things for granted when it comes to basic common sense and making a good first impression. I'm not shitting you, but people have shown up to interviews with me looking as follows:

• Man in a trench coat buttoned up to the top and tied around the waist. He never removed his jacket. I swear he was naked underneath. I wanted to ask if he was clothed, but that's not an appropriate interview question.
• Woman with crazy, ratted hair and smeary raccoon eye make-up. Since this was an early afternoon interview, I assumed she'd just come from a most incredible nooner. 
• Young woman with sheer blouse...and white bra. Ladies, white under white. You may as well have worn a neon bra. Taupe, while completely un-sexy, will easily remedy walking about in public like your bra is on the outside. I'm typically not one to stare inappropriately, but COME. ON. Throw me a bone here.

On second thought, I'm having a moment of self-reflection here and thinking that I really should revisit how I draft a job description. Clearly, I'm attracting the wrong candidates. Epiphany noted. NEXT...

Gratitude. There's nothing I like more than receiving a lovely little thank you note after an interview. Quite frankly, I expect it because I'm a stickler for old school formalities. I'm even cool with an e-mail because after all, that's how peeps communicate these days. Even if an interview is poor, it's like the candidate's final Hail Mary pass at redeeming himself. That being said, however, if you do have a shitty interview, you should avoid saying things like this as part of your thank you:

"Because of the interview formalities, there was without doubt, a mild sense of awkwardness from all parties and I certainly hope it does not become the focal point in your review assessment."  [and....end quote]

Whoa, whoa, wait a second. WHAT?!?!? Did you just call ME awkward? Interview formalities? Mild sense of awkwardness? Oh yes, there was awkwardness, alright. There was that pivotal moment when you screwed the pooch and we all knew it, yet you kept asking question after question in a valiant attempt to resuscitate your chances at getting this job. I'm sorry, kind fellow, but you need to get back on monster.com and keep giving it the old college try.

And with that, I invite you to apply for my open position and come have a delightful interview with me. You can decide how you want to "kill it."

"I will sell this house today. I will sell this house today..."

I knew that when we listed our home for sale in late May, it would be an exercise in patience. You may be thinking, "Wait a minute, I thought you sold your house already?" Well, we did. In fact, the first day we listed it, we had an offer within about four hours. My eternal pessimist knew that offer was just waaaaaaay too good to be true because quite frankly, it was too good to be true and I really don't feel like re-hashing the details of its demise because a) it was infuriatingly stupid, b) the buyer was an unreasonable douche, c) my life never works that easy and d) it was infuriatingly stupid. But, to make a long story short, the buyer canceled because she was/is completely leotarded. (P.S. I hope the house she eventually buys has a latent termite problem.) At any rate, this was not one of those gratifying sort of "I told you so" moments.

So, here we are, back on the old MLS again. Showing activity has been relatively plentiful and we still have ample time before we're scheduled to move into our next place in November. Eventually, "the one" will stop by and fall in love with it, but until then, I'm doing my very best not to smother Brent with a pillow in the middle of the night because you can only imagine how unbelievably uptight he has been throughout this whole process. GAWD. Okay, we all know we're talking about me here and not him, but admittedly, we're both getting tired of keeping this place showroom clean and the minute we have a confirmed buyer, all three of us are going to mess up all the toilets in a colossal way and not clean them because it will be beyond liberating.

This whole selling process reminds me so much of why I can relate to Annette Bening's character in American Beauty, which is hands down one of the best movies ever. I've expressed my feeling of kindredness with her character before, but usually in the context of her completely awesome mental breakdown scene.  At any rate, I'm something like this as we prepare for every showing, except we do not have a swimming pool and if we did, you can bet your ass I'd have it looking like a tropical oasis.

In the meantime, I know our story will eventually have a happy ending and not an American Beauty ending. Our house will sell and we'll finally move into the home we've been dreaming of all our lives. Brent will likely not get popped in the head by a deranged teenager and I have no plans of sleeping with Buddy Kane, the "King" of real estate, though if we get desperate enough heading into October, well, who knows...

Just humor me for a second...

My colleague and friend, Leah, explained the significance of a tattoo on her wrist that I'd never seen before. That spurred a conversation about tattoos and though I think tattoos are pretty awesome, I'm so non-committal about things, I don't see myself ever getting inked. Also, I'm not a huge fan of needles or pain and I get tired of things really quickly. I could see myself regretting the tattoo after about a month. (Maybe that's why people get the ol' tramp stamp? Out of sight, out of mind?)

This is just for the sake of nonsense, but you MUST choose from one of the following tattoos. Again, if you want to participate, you must choose from the options below. If you don't like this game, well too bad - it's my game and I said so, so just pick something and move on:

1. A little tiny swastika in the middle of your forehead (just an itty bitty one)
2. Two or three tear drops near your eye (left or right eye; like I care, it's your face)
3. The famous "cat butt" tattoo
4. The phrase "Meaningful Chinese saying" in Chinese on your mid-lower back
5. Your current significant other's name in any visible location
6. A giant "W" on each butt cheek

I think your choice will say a lot about you.  These are your only options.  If you choose something else, you're just not following very basic instructions and that signifies that you're a loser.  Thanks for playing.

Like a Boss!

At dinner tonight, Caleb asked me, "Mom, are you a boss?" I replied, "Yes, I suppose so," though I'm really not a fan of the word "boss" because I immediately envision someone sitting behind a desk barking orders at people and just acting, well...bossy. I'm not ruling out that I'm like that, but I like to think otherwise and I guess it's not up to me to be the final judge on that one. (Co-workers, feel free to weigh in. I'm a big girl; I can take it.)

Anyhow, Caleb continued to ask if as a boss, I "get to fire people."  I explained that while terminating someone from a job is part of being a boss, it's never fun because generally people's jobs mean a lot to them and losing one's job puts people in a difficult position (even if they played a role in losing their job, which usually they do!)  The obvious footnote here is when people don't care about their job because they've just won the Powerball or they're just apathetic and well, quite frankly, I try to not hire people with that kind of lousy attitude. In other words, letting someone go is part of the job, but it is neither fun nor is it a privilege. In all honesty, I've never once enjoyed letting someone go.

Caleb showed me what kind of boss he would be given the opportunity. This first picture is him sitting behind what can only be his giant mahogany desk someday.  Note the feet up and arms in the relaxed position, but the "boss scowl" that puts everyone on notice that he means business.

This next picture is his best "termination face."  More specifically, he is yelling, "You're $%*ing fired!!  Get out of my office!" (He didn't actually swear when he played out his little simulation, but let's be honest - this kid is going to have a filthy, filthy mouth one day.  We all know that to be true.)

Look, I don't know where he learns this shit because I certainly do not come home bragging about firing people, nor have I ever let someone go in such a heartless, cold manner. For starters, I reminded him that he'd better start toeing the line at school and stop getting yellow, red and blue card flips for behavioral mishaps or HE'S going to be the one on the firing line. As his parents, Brent and I will continue working on that, but we should all hope we don't end up working for this little tyrant one day.

"Back to school, back to school, to prove to my dad that I'm not a fool..."

Caleb's perception of Mr. Vetsch, his elementary school principal:

"I don't really ever see the principal. I think Mr. Vetsch is in his office watching the news and eating banana wraps all day. Sometimes he pauses his shows and stops eating his bananas to make some announcements, but then he goes right back to the TV and his banana wraps." 

Who knows if this is accurate or not, nor do I have any idea what a banana wrap is, but today was probably a big day for bananas and very unfortunate news. For this reason, let me offer you this somewhat random distraction from today's events.

If Caleb is anything like me, he will see the principal's office soon enough. Having a child in elementary school reminds me of some of the more inexplicable, embarrassing and strange memories I have from my early adolescence. Here is a small sampling:

Pass the glue, please.
Remember those little bottles of Elmer's paste? Don't ask me why, but I remember eating an extraordinary amount of that paste in kindergarten and genuinely liking it. I scooped it out with a tongue depressor or my index finger and just ate it for no good reason. (I was fond of the glue, too and would readily eat that if it was within closer reach.) I do NOT; however, remember learning anything useful in kindergarten. I'm sure I wasn't reading until sometime late in 1st grade and I certainly wasn't learning a foreign language. Could've been the paste and glue consumption, but I don't remember doing much of anything except making shitty crafts, napping, playing and singing songs.


Labels are important.
There was this 6th grade picnic at Alexander Park to celebrate the end of the school year and the end of "elementary school." It was a Friday. I distinctly remember it was a Friday and here's why. 
Earlier in the year, I had received a simply adorable package of "Day of the Week" underpants. After a while, I wasn't all that strict about wearing Monday undies on Monday and so on an so forth and on this particular day - a day when someone decided to "pants" me down to my ankles in front of several of my classmates - I was wearing the Sunday undies. I was thankful that the school year was mostly over, followed quickly by a long summer break with a transition to the junior high school, because by the time fall rolled around, most people had forgotten to tease me about my alleged failure to change my underwear on a regular basis.

At any rate, I think this traumatic event is a reason for my obsessive attention to detail and why I refuse to wear undergarments with any sort of distinct labels or markings. Plain and non-descript is the way to go if you're looking to get an extra day or two out of your drawers, folks. 


Some nuns are evil.
At first, I labeled this paragraph "Nuns are evil," but broad generalizations are unfair and I do recall a kind nun or two from my brief two-year stint in Catholic school. Unfortunately, it's the mean ones that really left a mark, both figuratively and literally. I won't delve into all of the events that led to these nuns taking out their pent up, hostile aggressions on me, but I remember certain nuns grabbing me with their sharp talon-like nails and leaving marks in my arms, yanking me by my ear lobes and doing other things to humiliate me like making me sit behind the classroom door for time-outs. Seriously, what the hell? Is that what they used to teach nuns in the nunnery? No wonder I gave up Catholicism for Lent one year and never turned back. 


My whole class was a giant asshole. 
This memory is actually just one gigantic recollection that spans from about the 4th through the 6th grades and really implicates my entire class at Washington Elementary School. Any Washington Elementary alums reading this are free to either agree or disagree, but I distinctly remember us making a few teachers completely lose their shit (Mr. Jaeger, Mr. Gora, Mrs. Knack, Mrs. Holmblad). I also recall a physical altercation between some of the students and the poor principal. Mr. Burgdorf, rest his soul, must have taken an unprecedented break from the news and his banana wraps that day, but I won't ever forget that incident and thinking, "Man, this class is a real bunch of assholes."

(Note: I looked all over for a 6th grade class picture.  No luck.  Anybody have one?  Send it to me, please.)


I'm going to abruptly stop here because I'm tired and well, it's my blog, so I will stop whenever I damn well please, but I do hope Caleb has some normal memories of his childhood. I'm also grateful that Elmer's has largely done away with old school glue and paste in exchange for glue sticks. (They taste horrible, too.)

Good night!

Warning: TMI

I have a habit of ending up in rather deep personal conversations with people on a regular basis and I am often times surprised by how quickly these conversations erode to a level that is not only juvenile, but downright disturbing (albeit hilarious).

A common theme will typically involve some discussion of bodily functions as just one example. If discussing such matters is beneath you, well - steer clear of me. Pooping and farting are absolutely on the table (no, not literally, you dumb ass) for open debate and discussion. Yes, there are aspects of pooping and farting worthy of debate and that may even be controversial. Not controversial in a "guns don't kill people, people kill people" sort of way, but more lighthearted in nature, of course.

Like earlier today, I chatted with a distant colleague and friend who I've known since kindergarten about bathroom etiquette in the office. He had just exited the men's room feeling somewhat embarrassed by his failure to hold back a sudden "splurge" of uncontrollable #2 and was sure that the other man in the restroom was likely grossed out. I told him I thought guys were kosher with this sort of thing in the men's room because quite frankly, my boss' office is right on the other side of the men's room and damn, I've heard some of the horrifying sounds that have reverberated through that wall. No one appears to be holding back anything and I'm eternally grateful I can't associate those sounds with the faces of my male counterparts around the office or I'd never get anything accomplished at work ever again.

I went on to explain that my perception and experience is that most women will play the waiting game with each other and try to outlast the woman/women in the neighboring stalls until they have the place to themselves. I've personally played this game before and have sat on the can doing essentially nothing while I've waited for the woman next door to just get the hell out of there. If you "win" the game, you might get a full minute or two to yourself where you can quickly do your business and carry on with your day like a proper lady who never poops.  If you "lose" this game, you walk around feeling and looking like you might burst all day long until you get home where you run inside and well, explode with relief. At any rate, he thought this was really fucking weird and that I'm weird and in researching this more, I've come to learn this is an actual condition and it is shared by both men and women, so there.

Okay, wow, TMI? Yep. I sure didn't start this post with the intention of sharing all that. In fact, I meant to reference a different conversation I just had about 20 minutes ago that started on the topic of relationships, men and women, and dating and somehow concluded with us discussing clown porn. For the record, search Google for "clown porn" and go to the images. What the living hell is wrong with people? If I die and anyone looks at our home computer, I guess I will take full credit for all of the demented search terms in our Google history to spare Brent the shame of having to admit he was curious about clown porn. I may as well because I wouldn't be here to care or defend myself anyhow. I did; however, find it suspect how quickly it auto-filled the search. Hmmm....

Looking back at the beginning of this post, I did initially mention that I often get into deep personal conversations with people. So fine, the two conversations above don't seem to fairly represent what I mean, but rest assured, I've had very meaningful conversations with both of these people. I can't help that both of them share the common thread of being psychologically disturbed. Yes, I'm definitely blaming this on a shared coincidence between the two of them and not some other common denominator, like me being part of both those warped conversations.

Denial is good.

Freud surely has better things to do.

Hello blog.  I didn't forget about you.  I've just been feeling blue for quite some time and have had nothing to say that hasn't been depressing or angst-ridden.  I think this funk is clearly the result of this miserable winter that will not end.  Or maybe it's the recent series of unanticipated events that led to mass destruction within our home or the never-ending list of unfinished tasks at my job and the perpetual feeling of being behind on everything all the damn time.  It could be any of these things, but when I feel this way, I have no desire to leave a mark here because being sad is boring.  Being boring sucks. Sucking at stuff sucks and I hate sucking at stuff.

Speaking of boring, that reminds me of a dream.  Which dream?  Like 97% of all my dreams actually.  My dreams are excruciatingly boring.  I have shared the following dream with a few people, but here's an example of just what I mean by "boring."  So, I'm at Cub Foods.  There's a sale on tangerines.  I know this because there's a sign above the tangerines that says "SALE" with a reduced listed price.  I grab some tangerines, throw them in my cart, pick up a few other items and proceed to the register.  The cashier rings up my tangerines at full price, which I immediately question and then we proceed to have a cordial debate over the sale sign and whether it's intended for the tangerines or the oranges.  Both of us make good points about the applicability of the sale, but I feel I make more compelling arguments about the confusing placement of the sign seemingly equidistant between the tangerines and oranges and that from the angle where I stood when I was in front of the fruit section, it was closer to the tangerines, which also makes me wonder about the real difference between tangerines and oranges...

If anyone completely tuned out for that entire paragraph above to go do something else like floss one's teeth or close the window entirely, I wouldn't blame you in the least.  The sad part is that I left out a lot of the finer details like the listed sale price and that the sign was mysteriously suspended above the fruit in mid-air and what I provided above were actually "the highlights."  If you loop that sequence of events 39 more times and slow it down so that each time it happens it takes about 15 minutes, you'll have some sense of what it's like to be in my dream state.  Seriously.  I wake up and wonder why these dreams can't even have something crazy going on off to the side.  Like, why can't the cashier be someone famous, hot and naked or why can't there be some circus clowns performing lewd acts on a goat by the popsicles (or with the popsicles)?  Something, anything.  I know the demented, twisted potential of my mind so these dreams are painfully weak and just unacceptable.  Subconscious, throw me a freakin' bone here.

I can't actually remember the last time I had a dream that was even remotely interesting. When I share my dreams with Brent, his typical reaction (if he can even stay with me long enough to endure the lame details) is "Well?!?" and I confirm that actually everything I described above with the orange and tangerine sale confusion was "it."  I don't even get full closure for christ's sake.  I just keep going back to the miserable tangerine display and throwing a few tangerines in the cart and the same boring sequence repeats itself over and over and over until the alarm goes off and it's time for actual life shit to get real.

I like to think my conscious life is more interesting than how life plays out in my dreams, but lately, life has felt like nothing more than a tangerine sale at the grocery store except all the tangerines are rotten and infested with larvae.  When we return from next week's vacation in Mexico, I'm hoping the sunshine will restore my mood and I can resume blogging with some energy and enthusiasm.  In the meantime, I'm sort of tired now and I'm craving an orange.  I hope there's a good sale tonight.

Sweet dreams and think spring, everyone...

When are you planning on...shutting your face?

At least once or twice a month, someone asks me when/if I'm planning on having another baby because people just do not seem to be satisfied with the fact that Brent and I have an only child. I know that every human being on the planet can relate to some form of questioning about when they plan to reach the next logical milestone in their lives that they obviously haven't reached yet. Single people need to date.  Dating couples need to get married. Married people need to get knocked up and people with kids need more kids and more kids, etc. Everyone asking these questions really just needs to shut the hell up because people inevitably have good answers and the reasons all begin with, "No. Because it is none of your fucking business, that's why," and maybe they end with a tragic or completely disgusting explanation that would make you wish you'd never even asked in the first place. Did you ever consider that possibility?

Most of the time when I hear this line of inquiry, it's in an elevator. No one, especially Minnesotans, likes silence in the elevator, so we will fill the air with nervous or mundane conversation. (This totally reminds me - ask Brent to tell you about the time he purposefully farted in an elevator in Las Vegas.  Hilarious story.) I know I've been guilty of striking up mundane conversations myself, but I generally try to avoid the "When are you planning on [insert thing the person hasn't done yet]?," unless I'm intoxicated or you're ridiculously attractive (then I will ask you a lot of stupid things that are none of my business).

Someone asked me the "When are you going to have more kids?" question today and I know she meant well, but seriously. Look, I think my kid is incredibly freakin' awesome. He's clearly my best "unplanned enormous life event that resulted from too much alcohol and poor judgment about my birth control choices" ever and I wouldn't change a single thing in my history if it meant voiding his existence, but we are sooooo good with one and quite frankly, I think he is SOOOOOO good with being "the one and only." He gets our undivided attention and as we've explained to him, "You can't have as many toys and you can't go on cool vacations if we have to buy diapers for a baby." Yes, we really have told him that because it's absolutely 100% true.

Like for instance, instead of us taking him to Tulum this March, we'd be mapping out a road trip across South Dakota. I don't have anything against South Dakota. In fact, our family road trip to South Dakota is one of two major vacations Family Keilen took back in the day. Yeah, we did the whole Wall Drug, Black Hills thing. I do recall getting in a wee bit of trouble on that vacation for spending my meager allowance on the infamous "Truly Tasteless Jokes" book.  I think I was maybe 10 or 11 years old at best and I was secretly reading the jokes to my younger brother, Josh, who would've been 6 or 7 if my memory serves me correctly. Anyhow, my mom discovered the book and shit got real after that. I remember her lighting into me something serious and then one of my parents made me discard the book in the dumpster behind the hotel. Then, they lectured me relentlessly about what a sick individual I was to find those sorts of things funny and I felt ashamed and awful (and I bet they dug that book out of the dumpster and were laughing at it later on after we went to bed), but now that I think about all this, I fucking hate South Dakota. And clearly, mom and dad, that book did NOT ruin me like you said it would!  Look at how awesome and normal I turned out.

And so, if anyone ever asks me again why I'm not planning on having anymore children, the reason is South Dakota.

Two boys, one purse?

Every night, I crawl into Caleb's twin bed with him and rub his head until he falls asleep. He doesn't necessarily need me to do this for him, but we both enjoy it and quite frankly, I'm going to keep doing it until he decides he's too old and cool for his mom.

At any rate, we have some of our best conversations as he's about to drift into dreamland. After a long silence, he suddenly piped up half asleep with some random questions. Tonight's topic of conversation was a continuation of questions he has asked me about couples who are gay. Now I've done my best to answer his inquiries in bits and pieces, but clearly, I've failed to answer some of the more burning questions. Our conversation went something like this:

Caleb: "If two boys get married, does one of them have to carry a purse?"

Me: "I don't think so, but I guess one of them could if he really wanted to.  And actually, what if both of them wanted to carry a purse? That'd be okay, right?"

Caleb: (slightly puzzled) "Yeah, I guess so."

Me: "Do you know what it's called when two boys are married to each other or two girls are married to each other?"

Caleb: "No."

Me: "It means they're 'gay.'"

Caleb: "Gay?  Oh, okay.  Well, what am I?"

Me: "Well, are you interested in boys or girls?"

Caleb: "I like girls."  (I've known the answer to this question since he was about age two.)

Me: "Well, then you are 'straight' and actually so am I because I am interested in men and I am especially in love with your dad."

Caleb: "You love dad...(yawn)...even though he's bald."

Me: "Yes, even though he's bald."

Like five seconds later, he was sound asleep. Bald is beautiful. I still don't really know the answer to the purse question.

The End.

Tier Three Contingency Girl

Last night, I went through a drawer full of papers Caleb has brought home from kindergarten so far this school year.  Most of the papers were completed homework assignments and worksheets for practicing math and reading; however, within the stack, I found a crude cut-out of a heart with "I love you" scrawled on it in pink crayon.  The heart is from Caleb's current "girlfriend."  I won't name her, but will say, this has been a fairly serious relationship, if there is such a thing between a five- and six-year old.  And yeah, I said "current" because she's not his first little romance.

Now today, he came home with a different cut-out hot pink heart with the words "I love you, Caleb.  Love [insert name of other girl here]."  As I came upstairs tonight, I heard Brent giving Caleb a bit of a hard time about it, but explaining proudly that it's good to have a "back-up or even several back-ups" in case something goes awry with the girlfriend.  I mean, you never know, right?

"Don't tell him things like that!" I yelled at Brent.  "No girl wants to be the designated 'contingency' or 'back-up' girl!"

"Nonsense!  It's a win-win for everyone.  Girls don't mind being the next one in line."  Brent explained to me.

"Okay, as the 'contingency' girl in school, I can tell you from experience that I did NOT like being the back-up."  I tried to explain.

As I think back to my days in elementary, junior high and senior high school, I recall having crushes at an early age; probably the same age as these little girls who so boldly give our son the little "I love you" messages and aren't the least bit shy about smothering him with hugs and kisses whenever they can get their little mitts on him, except I don't remember little girls being this brazen "back in the day."  [I realize that saying things like "back in the day" just serves as a stark reminder of how much time has actually lapsed since adolescence and the teen years.  Ugh.]  For anyone with daughters, don't underestimate your little darlings.  I've already seen the receiving end of their early affections and I'm eternally grateful there's no equivalent MTV show like "16 and Pregnant" for teenage boys.

I can easily count the number of times a boy asked me out, told me he loved me, or even that he really liked me before the age of 18.  Yeah, so that would be ZERO.  That's right.  None.  I think I was *possibly* someone's "back-up" once or maybe their "tier three contingency girl," but I don't ever remember being anyone's #1, not even for like a day.  I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I wanted to be that crush just one damn time.

I remember going to a junior high dance with one particular dumb ass and I'm pretty sure his mom and my mom finangled this arrangement.  He spent the majority of our "date" in the school cafeteria watching college basketball finals and getting in trouble with the principal for taking a clock off the wall and shattering it.  I spent much of the evening looking for said dumb ass and commiserating with my bitches about the general asshole-ness of teenage boys.  After the dance, his mom dropped me off at home where I most certainly cried and gorged myself stupid.  Needless to say, this wasn't what I'd classify as a good or even an acceptable date.  If "he" happens to read this somehow, look dude - I'm so over it, so don't flatter yourself.  I've been over it for like the past 22+ years, but at the time, I really did want to cause you serious bodily harm (because even though I didn't stand up for myself like I do now, I've always had a good dose of inner feistiness - it's just now more of an outer feistiness...mixed with profanity, cynicism and sarcasm.  Be glad we didn't have this date in my twenties or now.)

Now, there were a lot of reasons that likely contributed to my lack of popularity amongst the opposite sex back in the day.  I'll delve into just a few of my own theories.

Theory #1) Wearing bifocals in 4th grade.  And, we're not talking the nice invisible-type bifocals they have now.  Oh no, we're talkin' Coke bottles with the very prominent little circles that made you look cross-eyed and slow (or at least they made me look cross-eyed and slow and I was technically neither of those things).

Theory #2) Band.  Enough said.  There came a point in my life where having some level of talent as a musician became cool and rewarding (it was called college), but let's be honest - there's not a single reason why being in band in high school is cool.  Unfortunately, this concept was never intuitive to me at the time.  In fact my mantra seemed to be "The more band, the better!" so I participated enthusiastically in every form of "band" I could get my hands on, i.e., concert, marching, pep, jazz, community and not only did I go to band camp several times, I even went to a special "Flute Camp."  Take a moment to let your mind be blown.  And, no you sicko, I did not do THAT with my flute.  Ever.  Damn you "American Pie" all to hell.

Theory #3) My fucking hair.  Everyone brags about their epic 80s hair, but I'm sorry, my bangs could kick your bangs' ass back in the day.  I used a full can of Aqua Net every week.  When I flip through all my old photos, I'm absolutely convinced I was on some sort of personal abstinence campaign.  If you went to school with me and don't remember, it's because you chose to look away...all the time.  Everyone else will have to take my word for it until I can a) locate a photo and b) muster the nerve or get drunk enough to post it publicly because I'm friends with enough of you who will use such a photo against me.  Then again, for those who know me, you know not to go to war with me on such things because as far as the "I'll have the last word" game is concerned, I will win.  Always.  Try me.  At any rate, as a bonus theory, I'll have to blame my parents for letting me go out in public like this and at best, not doing more to shame me into seclusion.  I have lots of other ways to blame my parents, but not here and now - I went to therapy for all that.

Again, these are only a small handful of my own possible theories.  If any of my FJHS/FSHS classmates care to weigh in with alternative theories, feel free to shoot me an email.  No hard feelings.

As for Brent, I don't mean to paint him as a chauvinistic pig who objectifies women in any way.  In fact, he's quite the opposite and he treats me like a queen.  I have to especially commend his mother for raising such a wonderful gentleman, husband and father.  Brent and I just had a very different experience growing up.  "Mr. I-had-an-endless-supply-of-girls-fawning-over-me" football captain, salutatorian, class "this and that," blah-blah-blah obviously had a different experience, which I won't go into here because his mom might read this and she'd be horrified.  I also don't want Caleb to read this someday and get any clever (stupid) ideas.

As parents, I'm optimistic that Brent and I will raise Caleb with an appropriately balanced level of perspective as far as romance is concerned.  Brent can coach him on the best way to maneuver through a sea of admirers and I'll encourage him to give that girl with the completely jacked-up hair and glasses a fighting chance.  I mean, who knows where that all could lead...

From the mouths of babes

Everyone thinks their children are the smartest beings to ever grace the planet.  Roger* and I genuinely try to be realistic and objective when it comes to our one and only son. In fact, when he was two, we were scared he was leotarded because his vocabulary consisted of maybe nine words, including "ma" and "au revoir" and was largely comprised of unimpressive guttural noises coupled with his usual pissy facial expressions. (Holy shit, I need to note for the record that he was a real asshole from the time he was in utero until he was about 19 months, two weeks and three days, but who's keeping track?) At the time, our pediatrician said he should have a vocabulary of like 20 words and since 20 minus 9 is 11, we immediately drew the "leotarded conclusion" because that's like less than 50%, which is worse than failing. Now I'm supposed to be naturally gifted at math, but I'm not and as I tell people frequently, I also can't play the violin, I don't do nails, and no, I've never been an escort or in a porn flick. I can make a killer egg roll though, but that's compliments of Leeann Chin, who is actually Chinese, not Korean, but close enough. Therefore, I can't tell you off hand the actual percentage of 9/20 without pulling up the calculator app, but I know for sure it's less than 50%, so f*ck off.    

I'm really not sure what we were thinking. As if he wasn't going to talk or open up one day. In hindsight, it's completely absurd because both his parents are extroverts, right? Both of us can't shut up. One of us tries really hard to get the other one to shut up when the first one drinks and starts talking too much at a social gathering about how smart s/he is and how much s/he knows about everything, but I'm certain you know who is who here in this non-descript scenario. I'm pretty sure the kid just couldn't get a word in edgewise, but he eventually mastered the art of "interruption" + "talking over you like you're not there." This comes in handy in a lot of situations, but not at work. I've had to unlearn that skill over the past decade so people will think I'm an assertive professional, not a crazy loudmouth bitch.

Out of general curiosity, at what age do kids typically start in with  "I know that" and "I heard you"? Is age five normal? What about, "You should know that," and "What is wrong with you?" and "Why can't you be normal?" Just wondering.

Well, we're more than pleased with our son's verbal skills and mastery of the English language now. In fact, he's also learning Spanish and can count to ten in Korean (which has saved my ass more times than I can count in Mexican, let me tell you.) I'm going to make a conscious effort not to bog my blog with everything that comes out of his mouth, but he has more than made up for my "nausea/hives-wrought pregnancy," 20 hours of labor followed by a surprise c-section and for depriving me of 14 consecutive months of sleep with the endearing and hysterical things he now says on a daily basis. I really must declare - I LOVE THIS CHILD. "They" will tell you how utterly amazing it is to love a child and how you won't be able to comprehend how much undying affection you'll have for this little being, but you never really know until that moment when that little face looks at you with desperation and says, "You really don't have to walk me to my classroom anymore please...but I still love you, mom."

Tonight at bedtime, we discussed the roles of moms and dads. I asked him, "Well, what do you think moms do?" He replied, "Well...they...like to look pretty. They take a long time to do anything. Some of them drive crazy and...they wear dresses." I can't deny any of those things. He nailed it.

"Okay, what about dads?" He didn't need to think about this one at all. "Some of them are bald. They wear man shoes. They take a lot of dumps and they have a lot of underwear." (Check, check, check, and check, sorry Roger.  I love you, too.)

*I never asked Brent's permission (not that I need a man's damn permission to do or say anything I please) to be featured in this blog, so until I get his affirmative consent, I will refer to him as "Roger."

10 Things I Absolutely Hate About Facebook...Followed by 7 Reasons I Stay

I have three caveats here before you read this lengthy rant, should you decide to read it at all. I’ve certainly been guilty of at least one or more of these things myself (except half of them), but make a concerted effort not to commit these faux pas on a daily basis. If you're an avid Facebook user like me, I recognize your First Amendment right to say whatever you want, but I also exercise my own right to hide, block or unfriend you as necessary. Your horrific spelling and grammar are underlying adds to any of these items that exacerbate the annoyance factor tenfold.

1. Being purposefully vague. Look, if you’ve got something to say then have the big, hairy balls to come out and say it. But, if all you’re doing is fishing for a bunch of asinine questions about what you mean, what you did, what’s wrong with you, etc., I promise you, I will capitalize on your vagueness by presuming something grossly inappropriate and responding publicly as such. Example:  “I’ve got the best news ever!!!” My response: “I’m so glad you finally cured that yeast infection!!”  (See also “being passive-aggressive” and using the same set of balls to say what you mean and to whom you intend to say it.) What’s even worse is when your pathetic update actually does bait someone into asking “What do you mean?” and you respond with “I can’t say” or “I’ll message you, ;)” If you have to bait people into talking to you, I’m sad for you.
2. Hash tag abuse. There’s a time and a place for hash tags. That time and place is called “TWITTER” and even over there, I bet a hash tag for “myyeastinfectioncamebackforthethirdtimeandimreallysad” isn’t impressive. I’m no Twitter expert, but I do know a few things (correct me if I’m wrong). A) Hash tags are generally supposed to be witty and humorous, right? If you’re neither of those things, you should stop with the hash tags altogether. In fact, you might also consider deactivating your Facebook account because you’re boring me to f*cking tears. B) Hash tags aren’t supposed to have spaces, capitalization, or punctuation, nor should they be really lengthy sentences or statements that no one in their right mind would ever use in a search. Right = “attemptathumor”.  Wrong = “I’mtryingtobefunny,eventhoughI’mahumorlessdouchebag.” C) The more hash tags you use, #themoreiwanttopunchyouinyourthroatandbreakyourwindpipe.”
3. Self-created memes wrought with errors that aren’t the least bit witty or humorous. Okay, coming back to that old theme of “you’re not witty or humorous” – couple that with “you can’t write or spell worth a shit” and then throw in an online meme generator like “Someecards” and you’ve got a recipe for me blocking you in my news feed all day, every day. Do something original for once and shut your pie hole.
4. Instagram (and what you ate for dinner, but really Instagram everything). That picture of your dinner doesn’t interest me any more than it did five seconds before you made it all sepia/antiquey-looking with a thick black border. In fact, I don’t give a shit what you ate for dinner unless you had broiled human head with a side of goat intestines. If you ate that, I want to see it in a panoramic. Otherwise, please leave the professional photography to the professionals.
5. Your ailments and the ailments of others. Sure, I absolutely care about your well-being and I want to know if you’re battling a serious illness or going through a life-changing struggle with your health, but I didn’t want to see a picture of your infected wart or hear about how your kid pooped all over his sheets last night. Holy hell, why do you think I wanted to know that? Sometimes, I look at my news feed over my lunch break or during dinner, for the love of god. 
6. The airing of your filthy, filthy laundry. Remember what the world was like before you could instantly tell 831 people, including me, that your spouse is a spiteful asshole or that your boss is an unforgiveable lunatic bastard? (Note: Neither my spouse or my boss are either of those things.  That was for illustrative purposes only.) Do you *really* mean to tell everyone about your custody battle, how you hate your manager, and the dysfunction in your family? Please take a moment to think about those other people and what you would want for yourself. Your laundry stinks. Wash it on your own.
7. You – incessantly preaching at me.  If I want to go to church or do something outlandish, like vote Republican, I’m a big girl and I’ll do those things on my own. I’m all for you and your strong belief system, but you preaching in my news feed 26 times a day, 365 days a year isn’t going to change my mind about anything. In fact, it will only cause me to stray further and further from you, what you believe, and will likely increase my general disdain for you as a fellow human being. Not that you care, but that’s what I’ll do.
8. Mundane details. See also #6 and the need to broadcast to 831 people that you just washed your towels. If you feel so inclined to tell everyone that you just laundered your towels, can I ask that you at least do it with a little spunk and energy? Example:  “Boom!  I just washed my towels, bitches!”
9. PDA. Go get a room. Your nauseating love talk makes me want to vomit. You talking about or hinting not-so-coyly about the great sex you had is even worse. Look, we’re all happy you got laid and that you’re not a virgin because if I didn’t know otherwise...
10. TMI. This is a broad category that could also encompass any combination of almost any of the above, but I felt I had to explicitly state it as its own catch-all category just to be safe. (I’m somewhat impressed by the people who combine #1 and #10 actually.  You deserve two punches to the throat.) TMI definitely extends to both status updates and photos and can include details about you, your acquaintances, friends, relatives, the deceased, the unborn, and your pets.  TMI is usually disgusting and gross (either literally or figuratively) as an added bonus.   

Honorable Mentions: “You and your naked insecurity” and “You posting photos of yourself all day every day, over half of which you’ve taken with your smartphone. Can’t you find a friend or even a stranger to snap the occasional photo of you? P.S. Your arm is fat.”

If at the end of this list, you’re wondering, “Why the hell does she even use Facebook and why are we friends because I do most or all of these things?” Chances are great that you’re already frequently hidden, blocked and/or pending the next round of unfriending. Additionally, there really are some things I like about being out here in social media land:

1. Several of you are not only witty and humorous, but you’re absolutely hysterical and I enjoy your online company. Heck, I even try to see some of you in person when the opportunity strikes. If it weren’t for you, I’d have shut down a long time ago.
2. You lead an intriguing life and I aspire to/envy/admire it.
3. You’re smart and I like you. Sometimes I even learn from you. “Learning” is defined as you telling me something noteworthy I did not know about you or life in general, not you telling me the score of the football game or the current temperature or really anything easily discoverable on the internet.
4. We’re like-minded, which is scary for some of you.
5. I don’t actually like you at all, but was morbidly curious about your life and sort of enjoy your daily train wrecks.
6. I’m busy and this is a nice way of keeping track of you (i.e. cyberstalking you).
7. Some of you are family members and I feel obligated to keep you even though I know I can unfriend you whenever I feel like it, but Catholic guilt continues plaguing me even though I denounced Catholicism ages ago. Damn it.