This will be the first post I have written where I didn't have at least a vague idea of what I was going to write about before I started typing. I have a few blog subjects floating around in that abyss I call my brain, but none of them are giving me that familiar, or you may say unfamiliar given the pathetic amount of entries I have, itch.
I hate Sundays. I don't remember always feeling this way. I think it has to do with working in a cubicle since 1998, or my excessive (albeit well hidden from most people) anxiety problems, or possibly a throwback from my Catholic school days when I probably felt guilty all day after church, or maybe I'm like President Bartlett on West Wing, plagued with the constant "what's next" disease.
Whatever the cause, I do find myself afflicted with a kind of incurable dread on Sundays. Sometimes it's worse than others; for example, I didn't find myself in this crappy mood when I was on vacation and facing a week of fun instead of a week of work. Therefore, I often attribute the cause to dread for work and "real life." It's not just that though. It's almost as if Sunday is the day my mind has assigned to wander to that land which is no good for anyone: regret for the past and worry for the future. It would be almost ok if this was the only time I did this to myself, but I do it often enough during the week that I don't actually need an entire day assigned to it.
I woke up in a great place, made breakfast for dear friends, ran 4.5 miles, took a long bath and read for a while, all things I love. Yet here I am, back to the same old pointless spot, feeling like I'm stuck here, letting every little thing set me off down a road that will only dead end, thinking about things I really have no control over. Funny how I know this, yet I find myself coming back here over and over.
Bygones. I think I said something in my last post about making my next post more upbeat and funny, so I'll end with a joke:
What did the zero say to the eight?
"Nice belt."
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Pink is for Boobies
I'm going to preface this rant of mine with the following:
- I hate cancer, I have many relatives who have died from it
- I'm proud of anyone who does anything to help create positive change
- This is by no means a rant against people who fight breast cancer
- If you are easily offended, stop reading
- Constant readers, this one isn't as funny as my other posts...I'll work on something more entertaining!
My grandmother died after having a few heart attacks when I was only 2. At the time, my mom was in her late twenties and had to face losing her mother. I can't imagine what that must have been like, since having my mom around my 4-year-old is one of the few things I really enjoy. Given the advanced state of my ennui, there's not much I enjoy more. My mom has the same heart issues and is only alive today because she is taking advantage of modern advances in medicine which help to unclog her arteries...for the most part.
I myself have high cholesterol, despite being of a relatively healthy weight. Yes, I'll admit I like my liquor and cheese, but I've had high cholesterol since the first time I asked for it to be tested, at 24 or so when I ate better and exercised much more. So, I have the telltale medical sign which points to the same fork in the road, or, better put, blockage in the road. That's 3 generations in a row, probably more I don't know about.
On to the boobies. I am a marketer by trade, and the movement to fight breast cancer impresses me. The whole thing kills me: use of the color pink, which I despise but would have chosen too, the use of fun little phrases like "save the boobies," which I love, is really quite smart. It draws attention to what is, in most cases, a woman's disease. It's an awful thing, taking grandmothers, mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, etc. This is therefore a uniquely "pink" cancer. Loving the marketing genius who came up with this pink ribbon stuff.
It bugs me though.
I often ask people (I'm sure they think, as they do often, "Christ, here goes Jen again") what they think the number one killer of women in the good ol' USA is. Their answer is often breast cancer. In fact, the number one killer of women is heart disease. See for yourself: http://www.cdc.gov/women/lcod/. All other forms of cancer combined make up the number 2 slot.
It bugs me because I see pink everywhere and all I can think is that we are extremely pre-occupied with saving boobies, when really we are trying to save women.
We often actually cut off the boobies in order to save the woman. I suppose the sentiment is that in order to save said boobies, we need to find a cure for this disease. I guess it bugs me because my mom and grandma had something else that is just as contagious to their offspring and actually kills many more women. It probably also bugs me because I think that if the disease my mom and grandma had involved a boob, it might get a better marketing campaign, any marketing campaign really.
It bugs me because in surveys, women say they fear breast cancer more than heart disease. This could be because of the excellent marketing campaign I discussed earlier, or it could be because of simple vanity. Both bug me, and it's probably a little of both, but even the not knowing as the result of a pink campaign is a tough one. I hate, almost more than anything, people who choose to be ignorant.
It bugs me because I need to do more, and I wish I had a nationally advertised 3-day walk to show support for my mom and grandma. It bugs me because I know I need to do more...although this is the best way I know how.
- I hate cancer, I have many relatives who have died from it
- I'm proud of anyone who does anything to help create positive change
- This is by no means a rant against people who fight breast cancer
- If you are easily offended, stop reading
- Constant readers, this one isn't as funny as my other posts...I'll work on something more entertaining!
My grandmother died after having a few heart attacks when I was only 2. At the time, my mom was in her late twenties and had to face losing her mother. I can't imagine what that must have been like, since having my mom around my 4-year-old is one of the few things I really enjoy. Given the advanced state of my ennui, there's not much I enjoy more. My mom has the same heart issues and is only alive today because she is taking advantage of modern advances in medicine which help to unclog her arteries...for the most part.
I myself have high cholesterol, despite being of a relatively healthy weight. Yes, I'll admit I like my liquor and cheese, but I've had high cholesterol since the first time I asked for it to be tested, at 24 or so when I ate better and exercised much more. So, I have the telltale medical sign which points to the same fork in the road, or, better put, blockage in the road. That's 3 generations in a row, probably more I don't know about.
On to the boobies. I am a marketer by trade, and the movement to fight breast cancer impresses me. The whole thing kills me: use of the color pink, which I despise but would have chosen too, the use of fun little phrases like "save the boobies," which I love, is really quite smart. It draws attention to what is, in most cases, a woman's disease. It's an awful thing, taking grandmothers, mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, etc. This is therefore a uniquely "pink" cancer. Loving the marketing genius who came up with this pink ribbon stuff.
It bugs me though.
I often ask people (I'm sure they think, as they do often, "Christ, here goes Jen again") what they think the number one killer of women in the good ol' USA is. Their answer is often breast cancer. In fact, the number one killer of women is heart disease. See for yourself: http://www.cdc.gov/women/lcod/. All other forms of cancer combined make up the number 2 slot.
It bugs me because I see pink everywhere and all I can think is that we are extremely pre-occupied with saving boobies, when really we are trying to save women.
We often actually cut off the boobies in order to save the woman. I suppose the sentiment is that in order to save said boobies, we need to find a cure for this disease. I guess it bugs me because my mom and grandma had something else that is just as contagious to their offspring and actually kills many more women. It probably also bugs me because I think that if the disease my mom and grandma had involved a boob, it might get a better marketing campaign, any marketing campaign really.
It bugs me because in surveys, women say they fear breast cancer more than heart disease. This could be because of the excellent marketing campaign I discussed earlier, or it could be because of simple vanity. Both bug me, and it's probably a little of both, but even the not knowing as the result of a pink campaign is a tough one. I hate, almost more than anything, people who choose to be ignorant.
It bugs me because I need to do more, and I wish I had a nationally advertised 3-day walk to show support for my mom and grandma. It bugs me because I know I need to do more...although this is the best way I know how.
Monday, October 10, 2011
The Walmart Hell
I just took my daughter to the Walmart (I like to put "the" in front of places like Walmart because it makes them sound even more backwoods than they are) and boy was it epic in its madness. Don't get me wrong. It was a normal trip to the Walmart. All my trips to the Walmart are epic in their madness.
I think it's possible that something about that place turns me into a lunatic. Maybe it's that I'm surrounded by lunatics and ludicrously placed items in a shed the size of 20 football fields, designed to make me walk by the most crap in every shopping trip. Could be. But hey, I had a gift card.
I had the Walton family jackpot of a list tonight too, from candles to shower curtains to milk and laundry detergent, I hit every blasted corner of that place. I knew I was in trouble when I was halfway through the trip with a cart half full of said items and my daughter said she had to go to the bathroom. The first parenting failure was when I let her have a toy so she would be occupied for a while. The second parenting failure was when I told her she needed to wait to go to the bathroom. As we all know, 3 year olds wait for no one. If they tell you they have to go, they've likely already waited a while.
We continued to shop and eventually we had to make our way to the bathroom. Sure enough, after parking my cart outside and making our way to a stall, she had waited so long the stream of pee rivaled that of a male...only she was sitting like a girl. So it ended up on her pants, my toes (I was wearing flip flops) and on the floor. Let's just thank the inventor of those annoying hand dryers for a moment, as he or she (or heshe for all I know) saved my ass tonight. I just realized now that my toes probably still have pee on them.
That crisis averted and pants back on, we made our way back out to the cart. I put her in the cart. She wanted a drink. I took her out of the cart. The water fountain didn't work. I put her back in the cart. She wanted to look at something. I took her out of the cart. I put her back in the cart. Halfway back to our location pre-bathroom trip, she had opened her toy, which she knows is against the rules. She tries to put it back together...while stepping on the candles and putting the bread next to the fabric softener.
I think I had more stuff on the list...but who knows or cares at this point. Gift card balance depleted, sanity not even close to intact and I'm sure I'll be back next week.
I think it's possible that something about that place turns me into a lunatic. Maybe it's that I'm surrounded by lunatics and ludicrously placed items in a shed the size of 20 football fields, designed to make me walk by the most crap in every shopping trip. Could be. But hey, I had a gift card.
I had the Walton family jackpot of a list tonight too, from candles to shower curtains to milk and laundry detergent, I hit every blasted corner of that place. I knew I was in trouble when I was halfway through the trip with a cart half full of said items and my daughter said she had to go to the bathroom. The first parenting failure was when I let her have a toy so she would be occupied for a while. The second parenting failure was when I told her she needed to wait to go to the bathroom. As we all know, 3 year olds wait for no one. If they tell you they have to go, they've likely already waited a while.
We continued to shop and eventually we had to make our way to the bathroom. Sure enough, after parking my cart outside and making our way to a stall, she had waited so long the stream of pee rivaled that of a male...only she was sitting like a girl. So it ended up on her pants, my toes (I was wearing flip flops) and on the floor. Let's just thank the inventor of those annoying hand dryers for a moment, as he or she (or heshe for all I know) saved my ass tonight. I just realized now that my toes probably still have pee on them.
That crisis averted and pants back on, we made our way back out to the cart. I put her in the cart. She wanted a drink. I took her out of the cart. The water fountain didn't work. I put her back in the cart. She wanted to look at something. I took her out of the cart. I put her back in the cart. Halfway back to our location pre-bathroom trip, she had opened her toy, which she knows is against the rules. She tries to put it back together...while stepping on the candles and putting the bread next to the fabric softener.
I think I had more stuff on the list...but who knows or cares at this point. Gift card balance depleted, sanity not even close to intact and I'm sure I'll be back next week.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
It's Minnesota
I was born in Menomonie, Wisconsin. When my age was still measured in months instead of years, we moved to La Crosse, Wisconsin, where we lived for a few years and then we moved to Rochester, Minnesota. I've lived in Minnesota ever since. I'm telling you all of this because I feel it's relevant to share how long I've been a resident of the state. I swear, it becomes important soon.
Every year about this time, I hear a lot of whining about the weather. There's lots of talk about the cool temperatures coming, about winter or some other Fargo-esque talk. It's not too bad this time of the year, many people (like me) are happy to see the change in season and are ready to break out that Minnesota tried and true piece of clothing: the sweatshirt. It's to be expected to a certain degree, as we live in a state where we really do have to pay attention to weather forecasts.
However, the stupid talk is coming. The lamenting about the snow and the ice and the ice rain. God forbid we see a "wintry mix." I'm here to remind you: it happens every year. The shock and awe all of you display is really starting to wear on me after 30 years. Here's a tip: it's Minnesota. It does this every. single. year. Sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse, but it always gets pretty cold from November to about April.
Here's another tip: it doesn't happen in every state! There are other states in this crazy, amazing, huge union where it doesn't get cold. Ever! Many of them have very low unemployment rates too, and I'd be willing to bet they'd love to take your Midwestern attitude and sell you a cheap house that doesn't need a furnace.
I, for one, realize that it will get cold. I live here because I kind of like it. I have this obsession with people who embrace their climate. I loved going to keggers in the winter in someone's shed in the middle of nowhere, warmed only by the alcohol, masses of people and the occasional space heater. Conversely, I loved going to a bar in the middle of the desert when I visited Arizona. Put me on a back country road and point me in the direction of that insanity any time.
Yes, sometimes I complain about the weather. Usually around February I start to think, man, I'd really like it if I could spend more than 10 minutes outside or hey, it would be dandy if it wasn't dark out when I left for work AND when I come home. Then I go outside and look at the sparkles in the snow and listen to the insulated quiet and think, wow, I'm lucky to live here.
Every year about this time, I hear a lot of whining about the weather. There's lots of talk about the cool temperatures coming, about winter or some other Fargo-esque talk. It's not too bad this time of the year, many people (like me) are happy to see the change in season and are ready to break out that Minnesota tried and true piece of clothing: the sweatshirt. It's to be expected to a certain degree, as we live in a state where we really do have to pay attention to weather forecasts.
However, the stupid talk is coming. The lamenting about the snow and the ice and the ice rain. God forbid we see a "wintry mix." I'm here to remind you: it happens every year. The shock and awe all of you display is really starting to wear on me after 30 years. Here's a tip: it's Minnesota. It does this every. single. year. Sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse, but it always gets pretty cold from November to about April.
Here's another tip: it doesn't happen in every state! There are other states in this crazy, amazing, huge union where it doesn't get cold. Ever! Many of them have very low unemployment rates too, and I'd be willing to bet they'd love to take your Midwestern attitude and sell you a cheap house that doesn't need a furnace.
I, for one, realize that it will get cold. I live here because I kind of like it. I have this obsession with people who embrace their climate. I loved going to keggers in the winter in someone's shed in the middle of nowhere, warmed only by the alcohol, masses of people and the occasional space heater. Conversely, I loved going to a bar in the middle of the desert when I visited Arizona. Put me on a back country road and point me in the direction of that insanity any time.
Yes, sometimes I complain about the weather. Usually around February I start to think, man, I'd really like it if I could spend more than 10 minutes outside or hey, it would be dandy if it wasn't dark out when I left for work AND when I come home. Then I go outside and look at the sparkles in the snow and listen to the insulated quiet and think, wow, I'm lucky to live here.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Cilantro Rant-a-roo
Oops, sorry legions of loyal readers (legions might be pushing it...I admit) but I haven't lived up to my promise on this here blog thingie.
Sometimes the shit just doesn't come. Sometimes it does and I just don't feel like putting it onto the Interweb. Today I shall rant about cilantro.
Did cilantro exist before the last, oh, 5 years? I mean, I know it must have. It's a plant after all. Unless! Unless it is a genetically engineered plant created by the government and only people who are not prone to mind control hate it. Because I hate it. I hate it with the fire of one thousand itching and burning herpes outbreaks. Not that I know what that feels like.
Let me tell you a little something about this lady. I like food. I grew up in a household where being a picky eater was not an option. We had to try everything at the table, every single time it was served. "But I know I hate peas Dad. I had them yesterday." Didn't matter. I had to take at least one of each thing or my Dad would serve me a generous helping that I was then forced to finish. This made me able to try and eventually like almost every food. Even if I hate the food, I keep trying it. For example, cilantro. I can take it in very small doses, but I always know it's there. Like when the herpes lies dormant. Again, the herpes stuff is just from Wikipedia. No first hand knowledge here. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
My point is, I'm not a picky eater. Never have been. I make fun of picky eaters. I laugh in the face of it. But this cilantro craze has gone way too far. I was annoyed when it turned up in salsa. I was super annoyed when I went to Chipotle the first time and realized it's in EVERYTHING there. Today was when I tipped into rant land. I ordered an Asian sesame chicken salad at Panera, and there, hiding amongst the lettuce was cilantro. I was blindsided as I can usually sniff out the dishes they put that trendy crap on to make it seem more, oh, trendy.
I just wanted to spread the word: you zombies who like it are just being controlled by the government. My bet is that the government created it, made it addictive and is the only supplier, thereby funding some mind control experiment. Do you also sleep eat and have blackouts? Don't say I didn't warn you.
Sometimes the shit just doesn't come. Sometimes it does and I just don't feel like putting it onto the Interweb. Today I shall rant about cilantro.
Did cilantro exist before the last, oh, 5 years? I mean, I know it must have. It's a plant after all. Unless! Unless it is a genetically engineered plant created by the government and only people who are not prone to mind control hate it. Because I hate it. I hate it with the fire of one thousand itching and burning herpes outbreaks. Not that I know what that feels like.
Let me tell you a little something about this lady. I like food. I grew up in a household where being a picky eater was not an option. We had to try everything at the table, every single time it was served. "But I know I hate peas Dad. I had them yesterday." Didn't matter. I had to take at least one of each thing or my Dad would serve me a generous helping that I was then forced to finish. This made me able to try and eventually like almost every food. Even if I hate the food, I keep trying it. For example, cilantro. I can take it in very small doses, but I always know it's there. Like when the herpes lies dormant. Again, the herpes stuff is just from Wikipedia. No first hand knowledge here. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
My point is, I'm not a picky eater. Never have been. I make fun of picky eaters. I laugh in the face of it. But this cilantro craze has gone way too far. I was annoyed when it turned up in salsa. I was super annoyed when I went to Chipotle the first time and realized it's in EVERYTHING there. Today was when I tipped into rant land. I ordered an Asian sesame chicken salad at Panera, and there, hiding amongst the lettuce was cilantro. I was blindsided as I can usually sniff out the dishes they put that trendy crap on to make it seem more, oh, trendy.
I just wanted to spread the word: you zombies who like it are just being controlled by the government. My bet is that the government created it, made it addictive and is the only supplier, thereby funding some mind control experiment. Do you also sleep eat and have blackouts? Don't say I didn't warn you.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Book Club Haikus
I have the coolest book club. I know, the terms cool and book club seem like oxymorons, but man are we fantasmagoric. We (the MOJOs) are thinking about franchising our book club model and making money off of its amazingness. Book rating spreadsheet and formula + secret meeting ingredient + themed parties + annual trip to Red Lake to shoot guns = recipe for success. Ok, fine, the secret meeting ingredient is alcohol. Mass amounts.
Still, I love my book club friends. The minority in a world of women who love drama, I am often short on female friends who don't care that I don't wear nail polish and actually want to hear what I think about a book, world event, or, let's face it, their dip recipe.
This week, our oldest and wisest member shared the 3 rules for life she came up with while in college:
1) It's better to be smart than to be cute
2) Boys are stupid
3) Girls stick together
Wow, such concise wisdom. Really, what else does a girl need to know? I decided it was the perfect inspiration for a haiku contest! Honestly, my book club friends often pretend to entertain my nerdy leanings and mostly just make fun of me for said leanings, so I really didn't think they would go for it, but jump on the bandwagon they did. I'll keep them anonymous to protect the lame, the non-innocent and the haiku rule breaker/highest comic relief award winner(Jill).
The following is one entry (several stanzas that remind me of the sorting hat songs from HP):
Still, I love my book club friends. The minority in a world of women who love drama, I am often short on female friends who don't care that I don't wear nail polish and actually want to hear what I think about a book, world event, or, let's face it, their dip recipe.
This week, our oldest and wisest member shared the 3 rules for life she came up with while in college:
1) It's better to be smart than to be cute
2) Boys are stupid
3) Girls stick together
Wow, such concise wisdom. Really, what else does a girl need to know? I decided it was the perfect inspiration for a haiku contest! Honestly, my book club friends often pretend to entertain my nerdy leanings and mostly just make fun of me for said leanings, so I really didn't think they would go for it, but jump on the bandwagon they did. I'll keep them anonymous to protect the lame, the non-innocent and the haiku rule breaker/highest comic relief award winner(Jill).
Brains over beauty
Boys and men are stupid
Girls stick together
Achieve smart not cute
Men are eternally dumb
Stick with the MOJOs
The following is one entry (several stanzas that remind me of the sorting hat songs from HP):
A girl's rules of life
Are a simple trifecta
No matter your age
You must remember
It is better to be smart
Than simply be cute
No matter the guise
Or age of the offender
Boys are just stupid
Above all the rest
Stick with each of your sisters
Always at your side
And, finally, my favorite:
Brilliant not Bimbo
Boys are turds in a punch bowl
Xs cross whereas Ys divide
Monday, June 6, 2011
Jumping in: Be The Fern
I'm jumping in. Here goes.
I've been talking about starting a non-family happenings blog for quite some time. I occasionally feel moved to be silly, opinionated or just share stories from my wacky existence and am ready to start doing this in earnest. I hope to write something fun, share something stupid, make you laugh or at least rant or complain once a week.
So, welcome to Be The Fern. I hope to find at least a few people who want to listen to my brand of crazy.
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