it's a little bit crazy, isn't it?
how the people you've written off pull through for you when you least expect it, and those who you need to catch you let you down when you need them.
don't pretend like you don't know what i'm talking about. it just kills me when people get on their high horse and preach about how my family is doing everything wrong. we're not trying. all these trials aren't God throwing them at us; it's us. our fault. our bad. almost deliberate. we're doing this to ourselves.
it's so funny how they do things to help. but their service is a burden. tell me, how humanitarian...how good samaritan are you if you roll your eyes while you're being such a good person? does the action of seemingly doing something nice make you great? negative. firm negative. attitude counts for everything.
how dare you. failure doesn't make a person worthless. it's not worth your disappointment. don't waste your breath on the effort it takes to talk your smack. last time i checked, your favorite was jobless for years. years. this same preacher didn't have a job, then when she got one, it's once or twice a week. how does this make her an expert on job finding...how does this give you a right to tell us we should be getting second and third jobs?
so, let me get this straight. dad's not in an office. he doesn't fly to chile and europe. he doesn't leave on business trips for days at a time, then sleep on the couch when he gets home. his marriage isn't falling apart. he's not making six digits. he doesn't yell every chance he gets.
but he's not in an office. he's not getting fat and staring at a computer screen 8 hours a day at work, then another 8 till he goes to bed. so he's worthless, right?
right. got it. thank you for that insight.
and you. yeah, you know who i'm talking about. that's right. look at me. he's just like your husband. who you never bothered to try and understand. dad was with you every day when he died. he was there for you. and you can sleep at night telling us how badly you're disappointed in him for not having what your definition of a 'real' job is? is he not doing exactly what you loving hubby of over 50 years did? mountain man-ing...youth wilderness counselor for thee troubled youth of the world....living off of nature...one with the animals...blah blah blah. one and the same, lady. read it and weep. take a step back and look at what you're doing. by condemning, you're condemning the one person in the world who never left your side. the only person who could have done it.
so don't tell us you're turning your back now because of this. you were never there. and never will be. thank you, thank you.
reverse roles. flip side. mom's side of the family. we've struggled from day one with differences in opinion. fought constantly. avoided each other. then, when we need it....you pull through for us. give us some place to lay our heads until we get back on our feet. until we figure this out. tell us the one thing we need to hear: you support us. you support dad. you accept that this is different. but also that that doesn't make it less worthwhile. thank you, thank you.
so those of you who have graced us with your disappointment and less-than-kind words of advice, snide comments, rolled eyes, and crap talking. take it elsewhere. we didn't need you then. thought we needed you now. but i guess you proved us wrong. so we won't need you ever.
how about you get off your high horse and take a good look at it. cuz once you're on the ground you'll realize it's on its knees
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
God. grumpa. life.
'jade smile. you are very beautiful when you smile.' wait a second as i smile for him. first a cheesy grin, then i'm scared into a real smile after he glares at me. 'there. you aren't even half as pretty when you are frowning.'
it's not that i'm an ill-content person. my face just looks naturally pissed off unless i'm smiling.
but grandpa did that to you. he made you smile--whether that was scaring you to the point where the options were down to: a) smiling and b) bursting into tears, or being so darn cute that you couldn't help it but smile at him, cracking a joke, making fun of your father, telling you you're beautiful, smart, charming...ok so basically grumpa made me smile with just about everything he did.
i knew he was sick. he knew this time it would kill him. but....i just didn't expect it that day. i was texting my mom while i was at work, and she was informing me that grumpa (called so because we often compared him to grumpy the dwarf...and because the great grandchildren couldn't seem to pronounce grandpa...so grumpa came out) was a very sick man--yeah, i knew that--and that i should try to visit when i got off work. this, i was planning to do. but when mom said that i should try to get there asap... as in, leave early... i balked a little. that would require leaving the girl i was working with alone to close up shop. and really, what was two more hours? grandpa had been sick for days. for years. he would be ok. he was always ok.
then she said that doc told them grumpa had hours. mere. hours. you better bet that i barely even said goodbye to the girl i was working with. i was out of there.
i was already crying by the time i got to the hospital. that's how big of a baby i am. the orderlies didn't stop me--i came rushing down the hall, and they must have been able to tell from my horror-struck face that i was with the jensens, so they let me right in, no questions asked. i was struck by how sad the room was. in there were my aunts, my parents, my two younger siblings (my older brother hadn't been able to make it out of work yet), and all of my cousins who had been able to make it. not a single one of them wasn't crying.
time for some background history. grandpa had been struggling with a rare blood cancer (multiple myeloma, i do believe), which had resulted in an amputated leg. for obvious reasons, that put a serious damper in his seriously active lifestyle. he struggled with pneumonia and a handful of other infections. lung tumors. what landed him in the hospital this time was a heart attack--on top of the pneumonia. the topper? the cardiologist said this actually wasn't his first heart attack. he'd had several over the years. proof of how much pain he was in 24/7: he didn't even feel not one, but several, heart attacks. two arteries were completely blocked, one was 90% blocked. grumpa had seen better days.
there were surgeries that could be done, but given grandpa's now-weak state, there were incredible chances that he wouldn't even make it off the operating table. eventually, we decided we had to at least try. so that day i got that awful, awful text from mom, he had gone in to have a stent put it. long story short, it didn't go well.
so here i am, crying. with 31083740183 other people in the room, also crying. there were moments where every labored breath--remember the pneumonia--was a cause for panic. what if this was it? what if this was the last time we ever saw him? the family noticed me in the corner, and encouraged me to say hello, let him know i was here for him.
i almost didn't want to. i didn't like seeing the grandpa that demanded i smile for him so i could be pretty so sick in his creaky hospital bed. he had a tube sticking out from his neck; the hole was massive. there was blood matted around the incision. the rest of him didn't look much better. he kept complaining that he was hot, but his skin wasn't warm to the touch. but i knew that when i walked away from that room, for the last time, after he was gone forever, i would regret not telling him i was there, and holding his hand, and telling him i loved him.
so i walked up, painfully aware that everyone in the room was watching me, and grasped his hand. he barely held mine back, but didn't open his eyes to see who was touching him.
'dad? jade's here...' my aunt sharla told him, nudging his stub gently. i say stub, because that was his amputated side.
'jade's here?' he asked faintly, and spared me a one-eyed glance, keeping the other closed. 'glad you could make it,' he said with his old familiar sense of humor. it's hard to keep guys like grandpa down. they're just too damn...good.
of course i was sobbing, but i couldn't help but laugh a little. at least there were parts of grandpa that were still there, even without a leg, a whole heart, lungs that would breathe for him, blood that worked the way it was supposed to; he still had his dry, witty personality, his family, his faith. 'glad to be here.' and i let grandma reclaim her spot at grumpa's side.
i'm told that earlier, he had told grandma that her fingernails were dirty. also without opening his eyes. that was grandpa for you. anything to draw attention away from the pain--and i have the most hideous suspicion that he did it to take our minds off our pain, not his mind off of his. he was one of those people who gave and gave. even on his deathbed.
eventually, we kind of stopped crying. we had it resigned--this was it, he was dying...he'd be angry if he were coherent enough to realize how upset we all were. so we might as well make the best of it. it is what it is. there were even jokes cracked every now and then. all the stragglers who needed to get out of school, tests, and work had made it to say their goodbyes and express their love for the greatest man any of us have ever met.
eventually the time came where breathing was harder. not the normal pneumonia-breaths, but the kind where you know that he's not getting air, his heart isn't working. sharla was watching the monitor all night, being a nurse and all, she knew what all the numbers and lines and beeping meant. she said we needed to get grandma, who had stepped out to go to the bathroom, asap. his pulse and oxygen levels were dropping at an alarming rate. he was dying.
mom pushed through all of us who were by the bed. we were in her way, and she had something she needed to say before he passed. she leaned over, gave her father-in-law a hug, and whispered something in his ear. i now know that what she whispered was 'thank you.'
it's amazing how much two words can say, in so little time, sometimes with so little effort.
there was a bit of mass confusion, as i noted strange things, and sometimes thought too coherently given the circumstance. i thought to send my sister out of the room, who was having a hard time handling her first brush with death. but i noticed the color of the straw of my coke--a cheery blue, with red stripes. i noticed all of grandma's turkey had slid out of her sandwich she sent for. i thought to grab grandpa's hand, even if he couldn't feel it, so at least i would know i was there for him in the end. i saw my dad truly cry for what could have possibly been the first time in my life. i watched as the heart rate went flat, my grandma lost what had been left her raw composure, and noticed that the time on the machine didn't match the time of the clock on the wall. the fact that it was a little funny that his second-to last statement in this life was 'ah...shit.' and his final words were, 'oh, i'm sick.'
i couldn't stop crying. i was in near hysterics. everyone grouped into their own families, hugging and giving support, occasionally walking up to grandpa and giving him a kiss on the cheek while his body was still warm; while it still felt like he could get up and walk out of this room like he had so many times before.
the most heartbreaking thing you'll ever see is the look on your grandmother's face when she just loses the man she's been in love with over 50 years.
the words were the same 'this is a nightmare.' 'what am i going to do without you?' 'why didn't you tell me you were sick'. we hugged her, offering her support, while trying glean some of her strength for ourselves. breck--my sister--needed to leave. now. she couldn't handle this anymore. so i offered to take her home. i needed to leave.
i hugged grandpa for the final time. i whispered in his ear things i was too scared to say out loud. things that didn't need an audience. things that probably didn't even need words. things like i love you and thank you so much for raising that guy that is my father, for making him so wonderful and thank you for being there for me. i needed to pull myself together. i needed caffeine. i needed to get the next couple of days' shifts worked out to allow for personal grieving, funeral preparations, and the actual proceedings. i needed to handle this like a big kid.
i said all the right things. i gave breck the pep talk: grumpa was in a better place. he had his leg back. he wasn't in pain anymore. he had gone surrounded by the people he loved, who loved him just as much. we were honored to have him as such a strong role model, to have him looking out for us.
it helped.
we held hands on the way home. we were uncertain what to do with the music, having it on seemed too cheerful, having it off was too quiet. so we settled for having it so quiet that you had to strain to hear it. we did well until part of the radio offered a 'goodnight kisses' segment, where people could call in and give 'goodnight kisses' to those who meant the most to them. the girl who got through offered hers to her grandpa--the greatest grandpa in the world--and she loved him so much, thank you for everything, blah blah blah. didn't she know that MY grandpa was the best in the world? sure, hers is probably great. but mine is, was, and always will be better. that's how grandpa worked--go big or go home. don't sweat the small stuff. a job worth doing is a job worth doing well.
i lost it. completely lost it. i wailed. like i would imagine a banshee would sound like had she just lost her grandfather. breck lost it when i did. she tried to be brave for me, expecting me to be brave in return, and i let her down.
cars behind us at the stop light were honking, because i couldn't seem to remember how to steer and push the gas pedal at the same time. i flipped them off because i didn't care where they needed to be. didn't they know that something life-altering had just happened to me? i wasn't on the phone, i wasn't talking to a car full of friends, i wasn't in the bahamas. i was sad. so, so sad.
finally we got home. i took care of my dog. i took a shower. i cried until my throat hurt and my nose gave rudolph's a run for its money and i was choking. the sounds coming out of me shouldn't have even been possible. every little thought did it--that he wouldn't be able to check his facebook page anymore (not that he really knew how to work it), that if i left him a message (not that i had been caring enough to ever do it before), he'd never read it. that he was probably making fun of me for being so soft, which made me cry harder. because i wanted him THERE to make fun of me for being soft, to tell me that it is what it is and i shouldn't sweat the small stuff. grumpa would consider him dying somewhere in the category of 'small stuff.'
dad came home. how sad he was almost compared to how sad grandma was. dad was the only son, so he'd had a particularly strong bond with his daddy. not unlike my bond with my daddy. he laid on his bed, and i laid with my head on his stomach, and he comforted me while i cried. he was strong for me, even though i hadn't been strong enough for my sister. dad had been prepared for this. had prepared for years. it took me by surprise. i had truly expected grumpa to walk away from this. like normal.
but life isn't normal anymore.
i weeped harder when i realized sometimes i'd have to do with my dad. and that it would be a million times more difficult for me than this was. i'm not convinced that i'm going to be able to handle it. Daddy is now fully aware that he isn't allowed to die. not anytime soon. not ever. i forbade it.
but what i've learned from my first life-altering experience with death? life goes on. the ambulances and police cars that whizzed past me on the freeway on mine and breck's escape home reminded me of that.
i'm not the only one out there. other people's lives are still happening. mine isn't the only one who's been turned upside down. and i wasn't alone.
you are strong enough to deal with God dishes you. grandpa did it every day. i can too. all i have to do is remember what he did, occasionally ask for help, use the resources he gave me, like a fantastic daddy, and follow his example.
Dear God,
I hope you realize how lucky you are to get to hand out with the great LaVell J Jensen every day from now on. He's easily one of your better creations.
Love,
Me
it's not that i'm an ill-content person. my face just looks naturally pissed off unless i'm smiling.
but grandpa did that to you. he made you smile--whether that was scaring you to the point where the options were down to: a) smiling and b) bursting into tears, or being so darn cute that you couldn't help it but smile at him, cracking a joke, making fun of your father, telling you you're beautiful, smart, charming...ok so basically grumpa made me smile with just about everything he did.
i knew he was sick. he knew this time it would kill him. but....i just didn't expect it that day. i was texting my mom while i was at work, and she was informing me that grumpa (called so because we often compared him to grumpy the dwarf...and because the great grandchildren couldn't seem to pronounce grandpa...so grumpa came out) was a very sick man--yeah, i knew that--and that i should try to visit when i got off work. this, i was planning to do. but when mom said that i should try to get there asap... as in, leave early... i balked a little. that would require leaving the girl i was working with alone to close up shop. and really, what was two more hours? grandpa had been sick for days. for years. he would be ok. he was always ok.
then she said that doc told them grumpa had hours. mere. hours. you better bet that i barely even said goodbye to the girl i was working with. i was out of there.
i was already crying by the time i got to the hospital. that's how big of a baby i am. the orderlies didn't stop me--i came rushing down the hall, and they must have been able to tell from my horror-struck face that i was with the jensens, so they let me right in, no questions asked. i was struck by how sad the room was. in there were my aunts, my parents, my two younger siblings (my older brother hadn't been able to make it out of work yet), and all of my cousins who had been able to make it. not a single one of them wasn't crying.
time for some background history. grandpa had been struggling with a rare blood cancer (multiple myeloma, i do believe), which had resulted in an amputated leg. for obvious reasons, that put a serious damper in his seriously active lifestyle. he struggled with pneumonia and a handful of other infections. lung tumors. what landed him in the hospital this time was a heart attack--on top of the pneumonia. the topper? the cardiologist said this actually wasn't his first heart attack. he'd had several over the years. proof of how much pain he was in 24/7: he didn't even feel not one, but several, heart attacks. two arteries were completely blocked, one was 90% blocked. grumpa had seen better days.
there were surgeries that could be done, but given grandpa's now-weak state, there were incredible chances that he wouldn't even make it off the operating table. eventually, we decided we had to at least try. so that day i got that awful, awful text from mom, he had gone in to have a stent put it. long story short, it didn't go well.
so here i am, crying. with 31083740183 other people in the room, also crying. there were moments where every labored breath--remember the pneumonia--was a cause for panic. what if this was it? what if this was the last time we ever saw him? the family noticed me in the corner, and encouraged me to say hello, let him know i was here for him.
i almost didn't want to. i didn't like seeing the grandpa that demanded i smile for him so i could be pretty so sick in his creaky hospital bed. he had a tube sticking out from his neck; the hole was massive. there was blood matted around the incision. the rest of him didn't look much better. he kept complaining that he was hot, but his skin wasn't warm to the touch. but i knew that when i walked away from that room, for the last time, after he was gone forever, i would regret not telling him i was there, and holding his hand, and telling him i loved him.
so i walked up, painfully aware that everyone in the room was watching me, and grasped his hand. he barely held mine back, but didn't open his eyes to see who was touching him.
'dad? jade's here...' my aunt sharla told him, nudging his stub gently. i say stub, because that was his amputated side.
'jade's here?' he asked faintly, and spared me a one-eyed glance, keeping the other closed. 'glad you could make it,' he said with his old familiar sense of humor. it's hard to keep guys like grandpa down. they're just too damn...good.
of course i was sobbing, but i couldn't help but laugh a little. at least there were parts of grandpa that were still there, even without a leg, a whole heart, lungs that would breathe for him, blood that worked the way it was supposed to; he still had his dry, witty personality, his family, his faith. 'glad to be here.' and i let grandma reclaim her spot at grumpa's side.
i'm told that earlier, he had told grandma that her fingernails were dirty. also without opening his eyes. that was grandpa for you. anything to draw attention away from the pain--and i have the most hideous suspicion that he did it to take our minds off our pain, not his mind off of his. he was one of those people who gave and gave. even on his deathbed.
eventually, we kind of stopped crying. we had it resigned--this was it, he was dying...he'd be angry if he were coherent enough to realize how upset we all were. so we might as well make the best of it. it is what it is. there were even jokes cracked every now and then. all the stragglers who needed to get out of school, tests, and work had made it to say their goodbyes and express their love for the greatest man any of us have ever met.
eventually the time came where breathing was harder. not the normal pneumonia-breaths, but the kind where you know that he's not getting air, his heart isn't working. sharla was watching the monitor all night, being a nurse and all, she knew what all the numbers and lines and beeping meant. she said we needed to get grandma, who had stepped out to go to the bathroom, asap. his pulse and oxygen levels were dropping at an alarming rate. he was dying.
mom pushed through all of us who were by the bed. we were in her way, and she had something she needed to say before he passed. she leaned over, gave her father-in-law a hug, and whispered something in his ear. i now know that what she whispered was 'thank you.'
it's amazing how much two words can say, in so little time, sometimes with so little effort.
there was a bit of mass confusion, as i noted strange things, and sometimes thought too coherently given the circumstance. i thought to send my sister out of the room, who was having a hard time handling her first brush with death. but i noticed the color of the straw of my coke--a cheery blue, with red stripes. i noticed all of grandma's turkey had slid out of her sandwich she sent for. i thought to grab grandpa's hand, even if he couldn't feel it, so at least i would know i was there for him in the end. i saw my dad truly cry for what could have possibly been the first time in my life. i watched as the heart rate went flat, my grandma lost what had been left her raw composure, and noticed that the time on the machine didn't match the time of the clock on the wall. the fact that it was a little funny that his second-to last statement in this life was 'ah...shit.' and his final words were, 'oh, i'm sick.'
i couldn't stop crying. i was in near hysterics. everyone grouped into their own families, hugging and giving support, occasionally walking up to grandpa and giving him a kiss on the cheek while his body was still warm; while it still felt like he could get up and walk out of this room like he had so many times before.
the most heartbreaking thing you'll ever see is the look on your grandmother's face when she just loses the man she's been in love with over 50 years.
the words were the same 'this is a nightmare.' 'what am i going to do without you?' 'why didn't you tell me you were sick'. we hugged her, offering her support, while trying glean some of her strength for ourselves. breck--my sister--needed to leave. now. she couldn't handle this anymore. so i offered to take her home. i needed to leave.
i hugged grandpa for the final time. i whispered in his ear things i was too scared to say out loud. things that didn't need an audience. things that probably didn't even need words. things like i love you and thank you so much for raising that guy that is my father, for making him so wonderful and thank you for being there for me. i needed to pull myself together. i needed caffeine. i needed to get the next couple of days' shifts worked out to allow for personal grieving, funeral preparations, and the actual proceedings. i needed to handle this like a big kid.
i said all the right things. i gave breck the pep talk: grumpa was in a better place. he had his leg back. he wasn't in pain anymore. he had gone surrounded by the people he loved, who loved him just as much. we were honored to have him as such a strong role model, to have him looking out for us.
it helped.
we held hands on the way home. we were uncertain what to do with the music, having it on seemed too cheerful, having it off was too quiet. so we settled for having it so quiet that you had to strain to hear it. we did well until part of the radio offered a 'goodnight kisses' segment, where people could call in and give 'goodnight kisses' to those who meant the most to them. the girl who got through offered hers to her grandpa--the greatest grandpa in the world--and she loved him so much, thank you for everything, blah blah blah. didn't she know that MY grandpa was the best in the world? sure, hers is probably great. but mine is, was, and always will be better. that's how grandpa worked--go big or go home. don't sweat the small stuff. a job worth doing is a job worth doing well.
i lost it. completely lost it. i wailed. like i would imagine a banshee would sound like had she just lost her grandfather. breck lost it when i did. she tried to be brave for me, expecting me to be brave in return, and i let her down.
cars behind us at the stop light were honking, because i couldn't seem to remember how to steer and push the gas pedal at the same time. i flipped them off because i didn't care where they needed to be. didn't they know that something life-altering had just happened to me? i wasn't on the phone, i wasn't talking to a car full of friends, i wasn't in the bahamas. i was sad. so, so sad.
finally we got home. i took care of my dog. i took a shower. i cried until my throat hurt and my nose gave rudolph's a run for its money and i was choking. the sounds coming out of me shouldn't have even been possible. every little thought did it--that he wouldn't be able to check his facebook page anymore (not that he really knew how to work it), that if i left him a message (not that i had been caring enough to ever do it before), he'd never read it. that he was probably making fun of me for being so soft, which made me cry harder. because i wanted him THERE to make fun of me for being soft, to tell me that it is what it is and i shouldn't sweat the small stuff. grumpa would consider him dying somewhere in the category of 'small stuff.'
dad came home. how sad he was almost compared to how sad grandma was. dad was the only son, so he'd had a particularly strong bond with his daddy. not unlike my bond with my daddy. he laid on his bed, and i laid with my head on his stomach, and he comforted me while i cried. he was strong for me, even though i hadn't been strong enough for my sister. dad had been prepared for this. had prepared for years. it took me by surprise. i had truly expected grumpa to walk away from this. like normal.
but life isn't normal anymore.
i weeped harder when i realized sometimes i'd have to do with my dad. and that it would be a million times more difficult for me than this was. i'm not convinced that i'm going to be able to handle it. Daddy is now fully aware that he isn't allowed to die. not anytime soon. not ever. i forbade it.
but what i've learned from my first life-altering experience with death? life goes on. the ambulances and police cars that whizzed past me on the freeway on mine and breck's escape home reminded me of that.
i'm not the only one out there. other people's lives are still happening. mine isn't the only one who's been turned upside down. and i wasn't alone.
you are strong enough to deal with God dishes you. grandpa did it every day. i can too. all i have to do is remember what he did, occasionally ask for help, use the resources he gave me, like a fantastic daddy, and follow his example.
Dear God,
I hope you realize how lucky you are to get to hand out with the great LaVell J Jensen every day from now on. He's easily one of your better creations.
Love,
Me
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
a little rant...a little rave
did my parents make the wrong choice when i was smacked upside the head when we were in a public place (namely, a shoe store...such as the one where i work) and left my crap all over the floor? did they make a mistake by refusing to buy me those shoes that i threw a complete, embarrassing, and immature temper tantrum over? am i in the minority here?
of course i don't mean literal, human feces. i mean, say, shoes that would have taken .02 seconds to put back in the box, or just boxes in general, with the shoes three aisles over, and neither shoe nor box is even in the right aisle. or when they shove it all under a bench to...hide it? from us? or other customers? newsflash dumdum, a bench isn't gonna do it. especially since we run through every couple hours and pick that stuff up because it's a) in the way, and b) 98.6% of the time, we can pretty much bet that you're never coming back for it anyway.
for that matter, what is it about the human mind that thinks, 'oh this person left a mess, therefore it's ok if i leave everything i've looked at today on the floor for the associate to pick up; after all, isn't that what they're paid for?'
let me answer that question for you, mister. no. nowhere in my job description does it list 'personal maid' as a duty.
i can maybe understand if you're a single mom, have 5 kids running around, and are truly trying your hardest. but when you sit there and watch your kids terrorize the place, drive every single other customer to the brink of strangling the little snot that you get to take home with you (hopefully...or maybe secretly you're thinking about dropping him by the dumpster to be someone else's problem too. like the rest of us) with nothing more than a benign, 'honey don't do that.'
yeah. like that would stop me. i bet every victim of homicide in the world escaped with their lives with that one. boy, you really know how to command respect. i know that's a voice i would listen to. i'd be scared of being chained to my bedroom wall for the rest of all eternity with a threat like that: on no! please don't say please! anything but that! that little statement right there gives me all the motivation i need to quit being the little shit that you raised me to be. woo. you showed me!
the absolute worst? when you watch your child deliberately treat me like i'm...well, i don't even know what; certainly not even your maid, butler, servant, or even freaking robot deserves to be treated like this. i'm not just spouting steam here. true story:
i'm walking down the kids aisle, picking up shoes, finding where they're supposed to go, and putting them away, right behind this little girl who cannot be any older than, like, 3. she's starting out the whole 'spoiled brat' thing real young. she turns around at one point, sees me picking up everything she has thrown helter-skelter all over the place: random empty spots on the shelves, boxes that already have both shoes in them, under the benches (popular spot, that one), or just all over the floor. wherever the eff she felt like it. and i see on her face this registration of, 'oh wow...she's picking up EVERYTHING! MWUHAHAHA!' and she experimently--i make up new words, bear with me here--throws one on the floor, right in front of me.
i do the thing i do with my dog. i pick it up, staring her down the entire time, put it away and give her that do-it-again-i-dare-you look.
*note* this woman should be ashamed that her daughter is not as well trained as my dog. my dog that was a lost cause to the professional trainer i paid hundreds of bucks to help me out with. mother of the year award goes to you, ma'am. congrats. your daughter's a peach. a babysitter's dream.
this girl looks at me, smiles like, 'i'm onto you, servant girl. you have to do everything i say.' even though this chick can't even talk yet. she looks over at this bench where her mom has this stack of shoes that she's (hopefully) planning on buying sitting. she sits down. smooths out her skirt. a pink sparkly one, which tells you everything you need to know about how this girl is practically being bred to be high maintenance. looks at me. smiles. pushes the stack over.
what else can i do? i stand up, and go to walk away. no way am i giving this mini-cow the satisfaction of being her servant-girl. i'm not paid enough for that. six figures wouldn't be enough for me to sacrifice that kind of dignity for a three-year-old snot.
but wait. something stops me. the mom...is laughing. direct quote: 'oh, haha! isn't she such a brat??' only, her voice is dripping with adoration, so you know she means, 'oh, haha! look at her, isn't she cute? now pick up her stuff, obviously she tipped it over.'
sometimes, i can't contain the attitude, even though i know i need to curb it. i smile, just as sickenly sweet as her, and go, 'yupp, haha! she sure is!' and walk away.
mom picked the stack up--nothing else, mind. but i'll take it where i can get it. little girl left me alone. i guess i ruined her fun. so i guess that was a win (ish) for me.
the point is. when did it become ok to do stuff like that? your child will not be hurt in the long run by learning how to pick up after themselves, NOT hide the other customers' shoes, throw umbrellas at me, demand stickers, accuse me of stealing my own merchandise because i'm wearing shoes that i bought there, tell me i look like her grandma who's dead, ask me for hugs and kisses (hello? not even legal!), tell me how i'm doing my job wrong, or propose to me.
ok so that last one was actually cute and made my entire day. but the rest. how will your child be harmed by being oh, i don't know...human? civil? likable? not unto the devil himself?
bottom line kids: i realize my job is to pick up the store to an extent, but it is not your job to deliberately terrorize me. bottom line parents: i know you weren't raised that way, so why are you raising your children that way? there's no way you enjoy being in my shoes (get it? shoes? i work in a shoe store? :] ) in your own home. so easy way. tell them no. if they don't live them, give them a consequence they don't like: take them home without their freaking shoes. just once, and i promise they'll be good.
no. big. deal.
life would be better for everyone involved.
but hey, who wants better, easier, more civilized, kinder? it is the age of entitlement, after all.
of course i don't mean literal, human feces. i mean, say, shoes that would have taken .02 seconds to put back in the box, or just boxes in general, with the shoes three aisles over, and neither shoe nor box is even in the right aisle. or when they shove it all under a bench to...hide it? from us? or other customers? newsflash dumdum, a bench isn't gonna do it. especially since we run through every couple hours and pick that stuff up because it's a) in the way, and b) 98.6% of the time, we can pretty much bet that you're never coming back for it anyway.
for that matter, what is it about the human mind that thinks, 'oh this person left a mess, therefore it's ok if i leave everything i've looked at today on the floor for the associate to pick up; after all, isn't that what they're paid for?'
let me answer that question for you, mister. no. nowhere in my job description does it list 'personal maid' as a duty.
i can maybe understand if you're a single mom, have 5 kids running around, and are truly trying your hardest. but when you sit there and watch your kids terrorize the place, drive every single other customer to the brink of strangling the little snot that you get to take home with you (hopefully...or maybe secretly you're thinking about dropping him by the dumpster to be someone else's problem too. like the rest of us) with nothing more than a benign, 'honey don't do that.'
yeah. like that would stop me. i bet every victim of homicide in the world escaped with their lives with that one. boy, you really know how to command respect. i know that's a voice i would listen to. i'd be scared of being chained to my bedroom wall for the rest of all eternity with a threat like that: on no! please don't say please! anything but that! that little statement right there gives me all the motivation i need to quit being the little shit that you raised me to be. woo. you showed me!
the absolute worst? when you watch your child deliberately treat me like i'm...well, i don't even know what; certainly not even your maid, butler, servant, or even freaking robot deserves to be treated like this. i'm not just spouting steam here. true story:
i'm walking down the kids aisle, picking up shoes, finding where they're supposed to go, and putting them away, right behind this little girl who cannot be any older than, like, 3. she's starting out the whole 'spoiled brat' thing real young. she turns around at one point, sees me picking up everything she has thrown helter-skelter all over the place: random empty spots on the shelves, boxes that already have both shoes in them, under the benches (popular spot, that one), or just all over the floor. wherever the eff she felt like it. and i see on her face this registration of, 'oh wow...she's picking up EVERYTHING! MWUHAHAHA!' and she experimently--i make up new words, bear with me here--throws one on the floor, right in front of me.
i do the thing i do with my dog. i pick it up, staring her down the entire time, put it away and give her that do-it-again-i-dare-you look.
*note* this woman should be ashamed that her daughter is not as well trained as my dog. my dog that was a lost cause to the professional trainer i paid hundreds of bucks to help me out with. mother of the year award goes to you, ma'am. congrats. your daughter's a peach. a babysitter's dream.
this girl looks at me, smiles like, 'i'm onto you, servant girl. you have to do everything i say.' even though this chick can't even talk yet. she looks over at this bench where her mom has this stack of shoes that she's (hopefully) planning on buying sitting. she sits down. smooths out her skirt. a pink sparkly one, which tells you everything you need to know about how this girl is practically being bred to be high maintenance. looks at me. smiles. pushes the stack over.
what else can i do? i stand up, and go to walk away. no way am i giving this mini-cow the satisfaction of being her servant-girl. i'm not paid enough for that. six figures wouldn't be enough for me to sacrifice that kind of dignity for a three-year-old snot.
but wait. something stops me. the mom...is laughing. direct quote: 'oh, haha! isn't she such a brat??' only, her voice is dripping with adoration, so you know she means, 'oh, haha! look at her, isn't she cute? now pick up her stuff, obviously she tipped it over.'
sometimes, i can't contain the attitude, even though i know i need to curb it. i smile, just as sickenly sweet as her, and go, 'yupp, haha! she sure is!' and walk away.
mom picked the stack up--nothing else, mind. but i'll take it where i can get it. little girl left me alone. i guess i ruined her fun. so i guess that was a win (ish) for me.
the point is. when did it become ok to do stuff like that? your child will not be hurt in the long run by learning how to pick up after themselves, NOT hide the other customers' shoes, throw umbrellas at me, demand stickers, accuse me of stealing my own merchandise because i'm wearing shoes that i bought there, tell me i look like her grandma who's dead, ask me for hugs and kisses (hello? not even legal!), tell me how i'm doing my job wrong, or propose to me.
ok so that last one was actually cute and made my entire day. but the rest. how will your child be harmed by being oh, i don't know...human? civil? likable? not unto the devil himself?
bottom line kids: i realize my job is to pick up the store to an extent, but it is not your job to deliberately terrorize me. bottom line parents: i know you weren't raised that way, so why are you raising your children that way? there's no way you enjoy being in my shoes (get it? shoes? i work in a shoe store? :] ) in your own home. so easy way. tell them no. if they don't live them, give them a consequence they don't like: take them home without their freaking shoes. just once, and i promise they'll be good.
no. big. deal.
life would be better for everyone involved.
but hey, who wants better, easier, more civilized, kinder? it is the age of entitlement, after all.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
perspective
what if everything we've been conditioned to believe is wrong?
what if our perspective of darkness changed, and instead of it being something that creepers and scaries hid in, it was something beautiful, something to be embraced, something we ourselves could hide in--not for frightening, or less-than-honest intentions, but for protection? maybe the dark could be the silk we called our childhood blankie, we could run to it for comfort, hide our emotions and deepest hurts in it, hide the truths about ourselves we didn't want anybody to know.
what if instead of craving light, we perceived it as something to shy away from? it's impossible to hide away from your nightmares in the light. there's no masking scars and pain and the ugliness that comes with human life. in the light everyone can see you for who, or what you are. in the light, there are no secrets. you do not see mere shadows, as you do in dark, of what might be there, but you see in actuality the demons that lay at the end of your bed or in your closet or down the stairs.
as long as we're dissecting perspective, what if dark was really light? what if everything we've been taught about wrong and right, good and evil, bright and colorless, light and dark is wrong? dark could be getting the raw end of the deal; be the misunderstood brother. maybe light is the gloating sibling who nobody sees wrong in and really causes all the trouble that life brings.
maybe darkness is what we should find comfort in, hiding in the woods, climbing into bed, having the power unexpectedly go out. should those be the things we look forward to, instead of waking up to sunshine, nightlights and the comfort of always having a lightswitch to turn to in times of need?
isn't it possible that 'wrong' could be right, 'evil' could be good, 'dark' could be light, and we just don't know it--we're kept in the dark--because of what storybooks and our grandmothers have always told us?
really, what's to be afraid of in the dark? all there is to hide in the shadows is the unknown. but the unknown does not become known by shining a flashlight on it. you can just as easily be ambushed in broad daylight, just as easily be stabbed in the back by a good friend, be blindsided by a life-changing--or ending--accident, and just as easily suffer a broken heart on a beautiful day.
light doesn't change anything. it doesn't ease the pain, it doesn't help anybody by showing off your hurts and scars and flaws, it doesn't comfort you when all you want is to curl in a ball and hide.
darkness comes with beauty; stars and the moon, secrecy and mystery, the ability to decide for yourself who you want to be, because no one there is to see something different and tell you it's wrong. true, unpleasantries can be hiding in the shadows, but it could be better to not always know something terrible was coming and remain blissfully unaware for as long as possible, sometimes not seeing what's coming makes it painless, and ensures that you cannot blame yourself for those i-should-have-seen-it-coming moments.
so. the question remains. what would change of we saw things differently? what if what we were taught to believe, conditioned to perceive, and liked to believe was wrong?
should we continue fearing the dark, or, in reverse, fear the light?
what if our perspective of darkness changed, and instead of it being something that creepers and scaries hid in, it was something beautiful, something to be embraced, something we ourselves could hide in--not for frightening, or less-than-honest intentions, but for protection? maybe the dark could be the silk we called our childhood blankie, we could run to it for comfort, hide our emotions and deepest hurts in it, hide the truths about ourselves we didn't want anybody to know.
what if instead of craving light, we perceived it as something to shy away from? it's impossible to hide away from your nightmares in the light. there's no masking scars and pain and the ugliness that comes with human life. in the light everyone can see you for who, or what you are. in the light, there are no secrets. you do not see mere shadows, as you do in dark, of what might be there, but you see in actuality the demons that lay at the end of your bed or in your closet or down the stairs.
as long as we're dissecting perspective, what if dark was really light? what if everything we've been taught about wrong and right, good and evil, bright and colorless, light and dark is wrong? dark could be getting the raw end of the deal; be the misunderstood brother. maybe light is the gloating sibling who nobody sees wrong in and really causes all the trouble that life brings.
maybe darkness is what we should find comfort in, hiding in the woods, climbing into bed, having the power unexpectedly go out. should those be the things we look forward to, instead of waking up to sunshine, nightlights and the comfort of always having a lightswitch to turn to in times of need?
isn't it possible that 'wrong' could be right, 'evil' could be good, 'dark' could be light, and we just don't know it--we're kept in the dark--because of what storybooks and our grandmothers have always told us?
really, what's to be afraid of in the dark? all there is to hide in the shadows is the unknown. but the unknown does not become known by shining a flashlight on it. you can just as easily be ambushed in broad daylight, just as easily be stabbed in the back by a good friend, be blindsided by a life-changing--or ending--accident, and just as easily suffer a broken heart on a beautiful day.
light doesn't change anything. it doesn't ease the pain, it doesn't help anybody by showing off your hurts and scars and flaws, it doesn't comfort you when all you want is to curl in a ball and hide.
darkness comes with beauty; stars and the moon, secrecy and mystery, the ability to decide for yourself who you want to be, because no one there is to see something different and tell you it's wrong. true, unpleasantries can be hiding in the shadows, but it could be better to not always know something terrible was coming and remain blissfully unaware for as long as possible, sometimes not seeing what's coming makes it painless, and ensures that you cannot blame yourself for those i-should-have-seen-it-coming moments.
so. the question remains. what would change of we saw things differently? what if what we were taught to believe, conditioned to perceive, and liked to believe was wrong?
should we continue fearing the dark, or, in reverse, fear the light?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
when it comes down to it, I let them think what they want. If they care enough to bother with what i do, then i'm already better than them anyway
So. this marilyn monroe quote kind of explains me to a T.
I'm a little bit snarky--this isn't just me talking; i'm told so all the time. other common words used to describe me are 'feisty,' 'spunky,' um...dad refers to me as a 'fireball' when trying to describe me to new people...and occasionally, i get 'bitchy.'
In case you're wondering, i'm really not. I'm just sarcastic and (i think) really funny. Others just can't take a joke, that's all :) those who know me, realize that i'm just a teddy bear. i'm always down for giving you a hug and a cookie (if i like you well enough to let you into my bubble, anyway) and i like just chillin in the living room with my very bestest friends.
i love movies. i love my family. i love my bed. i love my puppy. i love writing, hence the blog where i can write and people are forced to read it--sort of. i love to read. i like photography, but it's just a hobby vs. hardcore technical stuff. i love dancing and music and rocking out in the car.
i truly don't care what people think of me. i do what i want to. don't get me wrong, intentionally hurting people isn't in the realm of 'what i want.' but i won't do something i dont want to or don't enjoy doing because someone else thinks i should. i'm painfully blunt. and these aspects are where the 'bitchy' comes into play, i guess. if someone asks, 'am i bugging you?' and they are, i'll tell them so. i'll never understand why this is: why ask if you don't want the legit answer? riddle me that, batman.
anyway. that's the bare basics about me...i'm sure we'll get to be great friends over my rants--which i do a lot--and my semi-philosophical moments where everything is kumbaya and world peace.
basically. i'm a piece of work. get ready for the rollercoaster.
I'm a little bit snarky--this isn't just me talking; i'm told so all the time. other common words used to describe me are 'feisty,' 'spunky,' um...dad refers to me as a 'fireball' when trying to describe me to new people...and occasionally, i get 'bitchy.'
In case you're wondering, i'm really not. I'm just sarcastic and (i think) really funny. Others just can't take a joke, that's all :) those who know me, realize that i'm just a teddy bear. i'm always down for giving you a hug and a cookie (if i like you well enough to let you into my bubble, anyway) and i like just chillin in the living room with my very bestest friends.
i love movies. i love my family. i love my bed. i love my puppy. i love writing, hence the blog where i can write and people are forced to read it--sort of. i love to read. i like photography, but it's just a hobby vs. hardcore technical stuff. i love dancing and music and rocking out in the car.
i truly don't care what people think of me. i do what i want to. don't get me wrong, intentionally hurting people isn't in the realm of 'what i want.' but i won't do something i dont want to or don't enjoy doing because someone else thinks i should. i'm painfully blunt. and these aspects are where the 'bitchy' comes into play, i guess. if someone asks, 'am i bugging you?' and they are, i'll tell them so. i'll never understand why this is: why ask if you don't want the legit answer? riddle me that, batman.
anyway. that's the bare basics about me...i'm sure we'll get to be great friends over my rants--which i do a lot--and my semi-philosophical moments where everything is kumbaya and world peace.
basically. i'm a piece of work. get ready for the rollercoaster.
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