If you ever read Single Dad Laughing you're going to come across some really interesting conversations. He offers a lot of thought provoking topics and a discussion follows in the comment section. He's a viral superstar of the blog world. His posts fill Facebook as everyone, including myself, share links to his blog. So a post came up yesterday about a topic near and dear to his heart, a video of a young man crying and sharing a heart tugging plea against bullying. Click Here to read
No no no... do not continue reading my post until you hop over to SDL's post and cry your eyes out. I'll wait.
waiting
waiting
waiting
waiting
oh, you need to grab more tissues? I'll wait...
waiting
waiting
waiting
Tugs at the heartstrings, doesn't it? How many of us just want to pull that little guy into your arms and rock him until the pain goes away? I sure do.
This post came on the heels of several other conversations in my world. A Facebook friend lamented being invisible, another posted the most disheartening, nearly suicidal post that I still can't shake. I told yet another friend that I'm pretty sure he was a bully in high school.
Here are adults grappling with bullying and victimhood.
I'm not going to climb up on my soapbox and preach against bullying. Today I want to talk about being the victim.
We all have been victims at some point in our lives. I was the "skinny girl" most of my life and had to entertain incredibly rude comments over something I had NO control over. I wrote about it (here) and hoped my message to "think before you spout" got through. It wasn't to feel sorry for me, no I did that enough for all of us. I just want people to think before they speak.
And isn't that the heart of the message for 99% of this anti-bullying rampage? We as a society have already started to push back against the overly-pure campaign to be politically correct. It's gotten to the point that our conversations have been stripped of any vibrancy in fear of offending anybody. I feel as though anti-bullying has become the latest witch hunt and the fallout is going to be just as devastating as the crime of bullying.
I'm not underestimating the effects of bullying. It's real and it must stop.
But let's properly define it. Just because you are a victim does not make the inflicter a bully. In fact, I would imagine a good number of accused bullies are just as much of a victim as the rest of us. What makes someone a bully is INTENT. Are they INTENTIONALLY inflicting harm? Beating up kids, shoving people into lockers, taunting... those are acts of a bully. Me being called "skinny" by old ladies? No, they were not bullies. It doesn't take the sting away any less than if I my entire high school lined up and chanted it as I walked by, but it doesn't define who was the bully, only who was the victim.
Far be it for me to blame the victim, but I do feel as though victims hold some responsibility - not that they were responsible for what happened to them or caused it any way, but they are responsible for their reactions. They have a responsibility to REACT. And that responsibility is not to lie down and continue being the victim.
Get up, leave the situation. Report the crime. Take precautionary measures not to be there again. Speak up. Advocate.
And Lord help me for the fallout over this one.......... Get over it
Yes, me, the girl who spent her entire life being told how her physique made everyone around her want to vomit. I couldn't leave the situation until I got fat, there was no crime to report, and there was no way to prevent it in the future. I never spoke up directly to the people who caused me pain. I do advocate now but I still haven't gotten over it - I'm still a victim. I'm still laying on the ground pissed off at those evil old women and their venomous tongues.
Does that make them bullies? No, it only makes me a victim.
Honestly I'm not all that pissed off. In many ways I'm grateful because it made me into the strong, vibrant person that I am today. Whoa, is that me getting over it? I think so.
So let's return to Jonah and his message. Something that hung with me was his message at the end - not a suicidal melt-down, but hope. His internal strength to survive shone through. He was on his way to removing himself from victim to victor. If you read today's post from Single Dad Laughing there is a second video from Jonah - he did survive, he did overcome.
But let's dice that first video apart...
Bullied since FIRST GRADE? I've worked with first graders. They're a tough crowd. They say mean things and are really physical, pushing each other around and such as they learn that brawn is not the socially acceptable way to resolve conflict. But there are adults, a lot of them. They may not see all or hear all, but they're pretty aware if the pack starts ripping on the runt and are supposed to intervene. WHERE WERE THE ADULTS for Jonah?
Parents? We hear again and again from parents whose kids committed suicide that they were astonished there was a problem. I think this point scares the living crap out of every single parent. We hope we would know something was wrong. But we don't. It is our job to teach our children to TELL US when they are hurting. They need to feel safe that not only will they NOT be told to suck it up, but that action will be taken. Something, anything, if only to hold conversations with teachers, principals.
Seven years of bullying? From the same kid? Really? In high school I see that sort of persistence, but not in elementary school. At some point the bully is going to get caught - kids just are not that smooth. It may not stop the bullying but it's not flying under the radar, seriously it's not. Again, parents, if your kid is reporting bullying you have to keep up your end and keep pushing back at the school.
Gay? There is not a single elementary kid out there who knows what that means. It's just an insult swung around. It's a forbidden word. Come to St. Louis and call somebody a "hoosier". That is literally an insult, nothing to do with being from Indiana, and it will result with you being punched in the face. What the term means has nothing to do with the caller's intent. I was a second grader who called another white kid a "nigger". I had no clue what the word meant, just that it was an insult.
My point is that elementary kids fling insults. Insults without meat.
We as adults are in charge of not only teaching to not toss around insults (but that's going to mean you need to clean up your own mouth - good luck) or better yet, to teach our kids that the garbage coming out of other people's mouths has nothing to do with them.
I'm saying we need to teach our kids to NOT BE THE VICTIM.
It is the reaction, the oh-no-you-called-me-a-bad-name and I'm going to breakdown, that encourages a pack mentality to tear apart fresh meat.
Get up, leave the situation. Report the crime. Take precautionary measures not to be there again. Speak up. Advocate. Get over it.
LAUGH
Yes. Teach your children to laugh at themselves. I'm not talking about self-deprecating humor, but "ooops, I made a mistake, hahahahaa" and move on. The I-put-on-one-blue-shoe-and-one-black-shoe-and-posted-on-facebook-what-an-idiot-I-am... hahaha... laughing at the little stupid things we do and not obsess over it for the rest of your life humor. Kids need to learn that we all, big and small, smart and dumb, make mistakes. They also need to learn to not point out other people's mistakes, short-comings and what-not (that would be bullying behavior). Okay to laugh at me, not okay to laugh at you. Okay to laugh WITH you, not okay to laugh AT you. These are fine lines but trust me, children are capable of grasping the concept.
Remember the friend I recently accused of being a bully in high school? He thinks he's funny, a real comedian. Everybody laughs and no one is hurt. Or so he thought, well... still thinks. At no point in his comedic career has anyone stood up to him (he's kind of a large guy) and pointed out that his blundered attempt in humor is actually hurtful. Nope, not once. I'm the lone voice of decent. And clearly I'm off my rocker. His friends adore him! Of course they do, I do too, but a) he's not funny, and b) he steps on a lot of toes. A whole lot. He is a bull in a china shop.
....aaaaaaand that's where the word "bully" comes from. Behaving like a bull. Plowing forward, getting your way.
My friend is a bull.
But he's a friendly bull. A guy who just wants to be liked and truly thinks he is funny. It would break his fragile, misguided heart to know the path of destruction his mindless humor has left. In many ways I am the bully for pointing out his shortcomings.
So where does it end? What has happenend in the past few years is nothing short of a witch-hunt for bullies. And in the end, we are victimizing a whole new set of people. That doesn't diminish the vicitmization of the first set, just adding to the death toll. And I mean that literally.
Kids who are committing suicide aren't just the ones who get shoved in lockers and have the holy hell beat out of them, they are also the kids doing the shoving and beating. It is a sad, horrible two-way street.
No one, NO ONE deserves to die. Put that in your pro-life pipe and smoke it. Oh sorry, just jumped soapboxes - but I do find it odd that the very people who smugly sit back and think "well good, that's one less bully on the street" are the same ones with a whole political agenda about the sanctity of life plastered on the back of their cars, in their front yards and all over the internet.
NO ONE DESERVES TO DIE
NO ONE SHOULD BE PUSHED TO TAKE THEIR OWN LIFE
EVER
Suicide is a sin, not for the person committing it but for those around him who allowed it to happen.
Who is the victim now?
I dated a guy a few years ago. He was a large guy, not the same bumbling comedian I just mentioned. He was tall and a body builder. He said once that he really hated going to bars. Yeah, yeah, we all hate the meat-market scene. No, he hated going because men would come up to him and try to pick a fight. They would do this to show off, to the other men, to themselves, and most of all to impress the ladies. It happened a lot. He even worked as a bouncer since he had so much experience in bar brawls and it never stopped.
He was a gentle giant who liked to romance his girlfriend, eat nice food and watch TV. He never got a break.
Do you remember the video that came out not too long ago that everyone championed as the scrawny kid tried to beat the crap out of the big apy kid? Woo hoo, the victim fights back! Right?
The truth of the matter is that we weren't there. We don't know the back story. Was it the stereotypical big kid bully tossing his weight around, tormenting the little kids? Or was it another low self-esteem kid trying to prove something? How many times does the big kid have to endure the taunting, the teasing, the comments about his size, until he lashes out and puts an end to it? He can pummel the twerp or he can go home and cry his eyes out.
WHO THE FUCK IS THE VICTIM?
It's not black and white. There is no clear line to draw. Bullying needs to stop, but better than punishing a new set of victims, why don't we start working on COMPASSION?
We need to stand up to people like my not-so-funny friend and tell them that what they say is hurtful and retrain their conversations, but we need to do it in a compassionate way. We need to teach our kids to stand on their own strengths so they don't need to tear someone else down to build themselves up. We ALL need ot learn that people are going to say rude, thoughtless, and sometimes hurtful things. Move on.
I had another similar conversation where a woman asked why kids today always use the word "gay". I confessed that I'd been saying it since high school, along with the word "retarded". Neither one was a knock against the gay and lesbian community or the mentally challenged. Ooooohhhh.... look at me being politically correct.
I gotta tell you, I'm exhausted from being politically correct. I'm tired of hearing how swear words and politically incorrect phrases are signs of not using your intelligence. Please. I love using alternative phrases. I really enjoy hearing how other cultures use full phrases as a curse instead of a single word. But dammit, I do love tossing out the random FUCK and a whole slew of other savory curse words. I am really really sad over the loss of the word RETARDED. It was dictionary-correct in so many ways that I used it. This whole issue is retarded.... backwards, not fully formed. I hate that perfectly good words are being bastardized. I'm pissed that some tiny German dictator took a perfectly beautiful quilt pattern and turned it into the symbol of genocide and arian supremecy. What a fucking jackass.
So here we are, back to the issue of INTENT. I would never want to hurt anyone by saying an issue is retarded or gay. That's not my intent. I'm a nice person with a foul mouth, good gracious. My funny friend isn't trying to hurt anyone, that not his intent! Intent.
It doesn't excuse the behavior. We are responsible for our actions and reactions.
So I'm responsible for what I say and do. I accept that.
And you know what? So is the victim.
Just because some rude, thoughtless asshole said something offensive does not make you the victim. You CHOOSE your reaction. Stand up, lay down, ignore it, fight it...
advocate against it...
report it...
do nothing...
let it fester...
let it fuck up the rest of your life.
Let's also consider that anything, and I do mean ANYTHING, can be offensive. Some people have a propensity to be offended over the most, tiny minut thing. We can tiptoe around them, but at some point it's impossible to not do something that's going to hurt their feelings. It's like being around a hypochondriac always suspecting every little sneeze or cough to be the next plague as they retreat to their couch feigning a possible heartattack. MOVE ON.
Interpretation. Words and acts have only as much impact as you, the recipient, give them. This is less effective with physical objects being hurtled at you, but words? Words and phrases only are as painful as you let them be. You were just called gay? So what. Ignore it and continue on. Oh, you ARE gay? Or you suspect you're gay or at least have some homosexual tendencies? Then being called gay could have more impact than say, if someone said it to me. We hear with our own filter. The other person's intent gets lost in the shuffle and now we're dealing with your own internal issues. Let's pull out a couch and pay the doctor big bucks as we go down the path of much need therapy. Suddenly a coworker commenting that you look happy today gets twisted into this long saga of how you've been called gay since junior high and now you hate that bitch for being a bully and you tell everyone around you how she's so immature, calling people names. Soon the rest of the office ostrisizes her, stops inviting her to lunch, creating a hostile work environment for her, even leaving threatening messages on her car.
And because she was just trying to be nice, yet again, in a new city, far away from those assholes she grew up with, it's clear everone hates her.
Pills down her throat, dead.
Tell me again who the bully was? And who was the victim? And why are we standing so smugly on our pretty white pedistals casting judgment left and right? Doling out justice in the form of a scribbled noted annonomously left under a windshield wiper?
It is our job to teach our kids something that very few adults seem to understand. Somebody can hurt you, whether or not they intended harm, YOU decide how it will impact your life.
You don't have to be the victim for the rest of your life.
Showing posts with label RLP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RLP. Show all posts
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Stolen Phone
This story is best told through interpretive dance - aka emails to Piranha...
Piranha:
Subject: Elbow Snot
Yo! I saw your post on FB last night about your iphone…that’s pretty rotten! Do you know who stole it? How did it happen? Will your work supply another one?
Are you and The Husband considering joining us at the winery this Saturday after the shop closes for the day? Just wonderin…
Me:
yes, no, yes, no, yes
Here is my long sad saga, because I'm not going to get any work done today, that's clear. Today is my Monday, said in sad, dreary tones. I like the word dreary and have been using it a lot lately. Is that an old lady word? I'm sure it is because I rock the old lady vernacular. I speak old ladyeese. Just shy of knitting, I'd say, dearie.
Soooo... (personal information deleted for privacy reasons, but it was long and detailed and boring and pointless to the whole story. It explained why Hubby and his mother were not tending the shop for the day)
During all this hooplah I took a day off work so I could cover the shop whilst Hubby and his madre galavanted around the town of Union. It was a pleasant change of pace and I was having a wonderful day, as all wistful stories go. Hubby showed up around 2pm once he was done with his mom and at that point it seemed we had rush hour in the shop, people crowding in asking questions, wanting to buy stuff. A guy comes in and is looking for a table to put a chess board on so I take him to the back of the shop and point out a few pieces that might work. Hubby stays at the counter supervising the old woman who can't decide which basket of vines she wants. The woman was oblivious to the guy who was there before her and just assumed we were going to drop everything to help her first. Somehow I juggled the two customers at the same time. He kept pulling me away from the counter to look at stuff, but she was too. Clearly this was taking too long and a second guy came into the shop and I had no indication that these guys knew each other, just happenstance that two, young (late 20's) black guys at the same time were in our predominately old white woman customer based shop. Well, rude granny completes her major purchase of a vine in a basket and goes her merry way. The guys make their way to the back of the store feigning interest in an old, oversized TV which eventually draws Hubby out of his seat. I lug out the extension cord to prove it works and the second guy wants to look at his car to see if it will fit. Woohoo the TV works, first guy says he has to show this to the second guy and leaves the shop. Other customers come in and I go about taking care of them. Hubby walks outside to help assess the size of they guys' car - not a soul to be seen, no car leaving the lot, no black guys milling around. Hmmmm... that's odd, where did they go?
I finish up with the next set of customers and want to check my email like I was doing before the big rush and the phone is nowhere to be seen. I knew immediately that it had been stolen because I know where I left it. I had lost all concept of time being in the shop but fortunately there was that old woman's purchase on a credit card that happened in the midst of all of this so I pulled the receipt to give a specific time to the cop. Neither Hubby or I can describe the first guy even though we had the most interaction with him, but the second guy did stand out because he had a line of tattoos around his neckline. Doubt I could pick out either one of them in a line-up which is unfortunate. But we did give a better description than any of the previous victims.... uh yeah, I wasn't the first.
Today is "special" because the phone system in the office is kaput so I can't call the police to give them the serial number of the phone that was stolen. AUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!
Let's see, what were your other questions?
I won't get a "new" phone a replacement as there wasn't any insurance on it, but I still have my old phone that was notorious for dropping calls. Once our office lines are up and running we'll get my old iPhone reactivated.
As long as it's not icky gross outside on Saturday, yes, we are definitely up for a little winery escapism. Hopefully it's not a hilly location that requires Hubby to do a lot of walking. He has seriously injured both knees and can barely get around.
Piranha:
Holy snot…what an ordeal! I hope they catch the phuckers…I’m tired of me, my family and my friends being on the other side of ripped off.
I, too, am fascinated with old ladyese…interspersed with a mixture of 60’s and 70’s lingo of course. I’m a dork.
It sounds like you NEED a trip to the winery! Do you need me to make an appointment with our knee guy so your hubby can start working on a knee replacement? Maybe him and Mickalicious can get a two for one deal!
It suck being old.
Me:
It DO suck being old (read your last line)
A winery sounds great to me. I'm going to try to get Numnuts to join us. She would like us very much and she would be a new playtoy for us to bat around. I like cat toys.
Oh, spicking of cats, what is the long dreary saga with your feline roommates?
Piranha:
Too long to get into here. We are taking Charlie back to the sanctuary where we got her because I can’t take her peeing on our bed anymore. We’ve tried everything within our power to get her to stop (not to mention have spend boatloads of money as well) and nothing has helped. I feel horrible but at this point I don’t feel like we have a choice. Girl-Child is upset but is taking it better than I thought. I think it will hit her harder once Hubby leaves with her Saturday. Argh!
Piranha:
Subject: Elbow Snot
Yo! I saw your post on FB last night about your iphone…that’s pretty rotten! Do you know who stole it? How did it happen? Will your work supply another one?
Are you and The Husband considering joining us at the winery this Saturday after the shop closes for the day? Just wonderin…
Me:
yes, no, yes, no, yes
Here is my long sad saga, because I'm not going to get any work done today, that's clear. Today is my Monday, said in sad, dreary tones. I like the word dreary and have been using it a lot lately. Is that an old lady word? I'm sure it is because I rock the old lady vernacular. I speak old ladyeese. Just shy of knitting, I'd say, dearie.
Soooo... (personal information deleted for privacy reasons, but it was long and detailed and boring and pointless to the whole story. It explained why Hubby and his mother were not tending the shop for the day)
During all this hooplah I took a day off work so I could cover the shop whilst Hubby and his madre galavanted around the town of Union. It was a pleasant change of pace and I was having a wonderful day, as all wistful stories go. Hubby showed up around 2pm once he was done with his mom and at that point it seemed we had rush hour in the shop, people crowding in asking questions, wanting to buy stuff. A guy comes in and is looking for a table to put a chess board on so I take him to the back of the shop and point out a few pieces that might work. Hubby stays at the counter supervising the old woman who can't decide which basket of vines she wants. The woman was oblivious to the guy who was there before her and just assumed we were going to drop everything to help her first. Somehow I juggled the two customers at the same time. He kept pulling me away from the counter to look at stuff, but she was too. Clearly this was taking too long and a second guy came into the shop and I had no indication that these guys knew each other, just happenstance that two, young (late 20's) black guys at the same time were in our predominately old white woman customer based shop. Well, rude granny completes her major purchase of a vine in a basket and goes her merry way. The guys make their way to the back of the store feigning interest in an old, oversized TV which eventually draws Hubby out of his seat. I lug out the extension cord to prove it works and the second guy wants to look at his car to see if it will fit. Woohoo the TV works, first guy says he has to show this to the second guy and leaves the shop. Other customers come in and I go about taking care of them. Hubby walks outside to help assess the size of they guys' car - not a soul to be seen, no car leaving the lot, no black guys milling around. Hmmmm... that's odd, where did they go?
I finish up with the next set of customers and want to check my email like I was doing before the big rush and the phone is nowhere to be seen. I knew immediately that it had been stolen because I know where I left it. I had lost all concept of time being in the shop but fortunately there was that old woman's purchase on a credit card that happened in the midst of all of this so I pulled the receipt to give a specific time to the cop. Neither Hubby or I can describe the first guy even though we had the most interaction with him, but the second guy did stand out because he had a line of tattoos around his neckline. Doubt I could pick out either one of them in a line-up which is unfortunate. But we did give a better description than any of the previous victims.... uh yeah, I wasn't the first.
Today is "special" because the phone system in the office is kaput so I can't call the police to give them the serial number of the phone that was stolen. AUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!
Let's see, what were your other questions?
I won't get a "new" phone a replacement as there wasn't any insurance on it, but I still have my old phone that was notorious for dropping calls. Once our office lines are up and running we'll get my old iPhone reactivated.
As long as it's not icky gross outside on Saturday, yes, we are definitely up for a little winery escapism. Hopefully it's not a hilly location that requires Hubby to do a lot of walking. He has seriously injured both knees and can barely get around.
Piranha:
Holy snot…what an ordeal! I hope they catch the phuckers…I’m tired of me, my family and my friends being on the other side of ripped off.
I, too, am fascinated with old ladyese…interspersed with a mixture of 60’s and 70’s lingo of course. I’m a dork.
It sounds like you NEED a trip to the winery! Do you need me to make an appointment with our knee guy so your hubby can start working on a knee replacement? Maybe him and Mickalicious can get a two for one deal!
It suck being old.
Me:
It DO suck being old (read your last line)
A winery sounds great to me. I'm going to try to get Numnuts to join us. She would like us very much and she would be a new playtoy for us to bat around. I like cat toys.
Oh, spicking of cats, what is the long dreary saga with your feline roommates?
Piranha:
Too long to get into here. We are taking Charlie back to the sanctuary where we got her because I can’t take her peeing on our bed anymore. We’ve tried everything within our power to get her to stop (not to mention have spend boatloads of money as well) and nothing has helped. I feel horrible but at this point I don’t feel like we have a choice. Girl-Child is upset but is taking it better than I thought. I think it will hit her harder once Hubby leaves with her Saturday. Argh!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
What were you doing ten years ago???
I have a little note about some off the wall stories I thought I would share on my blog one day. Well, this particular one has been listed for a mighty long time and it just struck me that this week is its ten year anniversary!
Have you ever wondered where "QandleQueen" came from? Well, once upon a time, like ten years ago, I called my old college friend who was a PartyLite candle representative to schedule a party which rarely ever happens in the home party world. She said, as is the procedure like upselling french fries, "have you ever thought about selling PartyLite?"
I was adamant that I did not want any part of being a sales rep. Nope. Back in 1989 I signed up to sell Tupperware and I had all sorts of problems. Not with the product, mind you, but personal issues like an unsupportive husband and two toddlers underfoot who always wanted my undivided attention the second I got on the telephone to make a sales call. It was difficult and I had a real problem juggling a home-based business and home life. No way was I interested in diving back into that world.
On Thursday before the party I had over $500 in outside sales. Something clicked and I started to consider that outrageous question. Maybe I could be a rep? My life had certainly changed and I really needed a second job. We turned my Saturday night candle party into a starter party, launching my six year career as a rep. I loved it and actually made money! Qandle is a play on "candle". **and the crowd goes OOOOHHHH!*
Now the more memorable part of the evening happened after the party was tallied. My regular drinking crew was in attendance and really aren't that keen on demonstration parties. They came for the promised after-party. We packed the candles away and headed to a bar. We drank, we danced. we laughed. We had a fabulous time!
At the table we were loud and attracted a lot of attention. The manager visited our table several times, not to tell us to pipe down, but to join in the fun. Hey, we're fun people! We tossed ice cubes into each others mouths and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Unfortunately the bouncer was not nearly as amused with our antics as we were. His grumpy scowl was cast in our direction several times. He even came over to the table and asked us to tone it down. WHAT??? Dude, this is not a fucking library, lighten up. If we were making a mess or damaging property or starting fights, we would have understood, but we were just having a good time and not hurting anyone.
Then he came over and told me how immature my friends are. REALLY? SOOOOO?????
Well, it was time to leave any way so my two bestest buds were going to show him "immature". We were told to wait at the table and hold their purses while Piranha and Booty waltzed out the door past Grumpy, waving toodle-loo.
And they each bent down
And started doing
CARTWHEELS
O.M.G.
The spectacularly tiny Booty did perfectly executed cartwheels down the length of the sidewalk and above the tiny part of the window that wasn't painted we could see her feet flip past. We roared with laughter.
The tall and gangly Piranha had never mastered a cheerleader quality cartwheel and did the strangest... flop... down the sidewalk. We only caught glimpses of her flailing legs.
That genuinely killed us DEAD
As I walked out of the bar, still laughing, the grumpy bouncer stopped me and said that his four year old daughter was more mature than my friends.
Really?
Bite me
Have you ever wondered where "QandleQueen" came from? Well, once upon a time, like ten years ago, I called my old college friend who was a PartyLite candle representative to schedule a party which rarely ever happens in the home party world. She said, as is the procedure like upselling french fries, "have you ever thought about selling PartyLite?"
I was adamant that I did not want any part of being a sales rep. Nope. Back in 1989 I signed up to sell Tupperware and I had all sorts of problems. Not with the product, mind you, but personal issues like an unsupportive husband and two toddlers underfoot who always wanted my undivided attention the second I got on the telephone to make a sales call. It was difficult and I had a real problem juggling a home-based business and home life. No way was I interested in diving back into that world.
On Thursday before the party I had over $500 in outside sales. Something clicked and I started to consider that outrageous question. Maybe I could be a rep? My life had certainly changed and I really needed a second job. We turned my Saturday night candle party into a starter party, launching my six year career as a rep. I loved it and actually made money! Qandle is a play on "candle". **and the crowd goes OOOOHHHH!*
Now the more memorable part of the evening happened after the party was tallied. My regular drinking crew was in attendance and really aren't that keen on demonstration parties. They came for the promised after-party. We packed the candles away and headed to a bar. We drank, we danced. we laughed. We had a fabulous time!
At the table we were loud and attracted a lot of attention. The manager visited our table several times, not to tell us to pipe down, but to join in the fun. Hey, we're fun people! We tossed ice cubes into each others mouths and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Unfortunately the bouncer was not nearly as amused with our antics as we were. His grumpy scowl was cast in our direction several times. He even came over to the table and asked us to tone it down. WHAT??? Dude, this is not a fucking library, lighten up. If we were making a mess or damaging property or starting fights, we would have understood, but we were just having a good time and not hurting anyone.
Then he came over and told me how immature my friends are. REALLY? SOOOOO?????
Well, it was time to leave any way so my two bestest buds were going to show him "immature". We were told to wait at the table and hold their purses while Piranha and Booty waltzed out the door past Grumpy, waving toodle-loo.
And they each bent down
And started doing
CARTWHEELS
O.M.G.
The spectacularly tiny Booty did perfectly executed cartwheels down the length of the sidewalk and above the tiny part of the window that wasn't painted we could see her feet flip past. We roared with laughter.
The tall and gangly Piranha had never mastered a cheerleader quality cartwheel and did the strangest... flop... down the sidewalk. We only caught glimpses of her flailing legs.
That genuinely killed us DEAD
As I walked out of the bar, still laughing, the grumpy bouncer stopped me and said that his four year old daughter was more mature than my friends.
Really?
Bite me
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
Just Doing My MOFO FRIGGING Civic Duty (REALLY LONG POST WARNING)
Okay, so all of this fiasco could have been averted had I done my paperwork in the first place. But in my defense, I thought I did. I should have investigated when I didn't receive my polling place postcard last week, but I didn't.
So really this is all my own fault, but PLEASE do not remind me of that. Okay? Just pat me on the head, feel sorry for my pain and congratulate me on my persistence to do the right thing. Deal?
As usual I was running late and walked out my front door at the exact minute I should have been waltzing into the doors at work. Do I vote now? Or at lunch? Or wait until after work? Yikes. My brain said get it done NOW. So I pulled my car around the corner, it would have taken less time to actually walk there, and paraded in like this was going to take five minutes. I breezed past the guys insisting on changing my vote last minute. I was relieved to see only a few people in line. Clearly this was TOO easy.
The Crypt Keeper held a magnifying glass in a shaky hand as she slowly flipped through the pages to my last name. She leaned in and looked closer. She scanned the page up and down, up and down. As she continued to fumble I could clearly see upside down a mile away that my name was not on the list. I should have turned around and left. But no, I obeyed the old woman who pointed me in the direction of another woman only a mere few years younger.
Woman Number Two wavered on what to do. She had been trained to deal with this situation, that was clear, but she wasn't sure of herself. Eventually I filled out an affidavit, but it needed some magical number that can only be retrieved from a phone call to THE BOARD OF ELECTIONS (read that with ominous tones in your head).
She would stare at the number, peck in a few digits, stare at the paper, peck in a few more, screw up, close the cell phone, open the cell phone, stare at the paper, peck in a few digits, screw up... blasted new technology. Eventually she got the number successfully entered but the damn line was busy. Close the phone and start again.
A half hour later (as much as I am prone to exaggeration, I was literally timing this ordeal along with frantic calls to work begging their understanding so I can vote in leaders sympathetic to our non-profit cause) So a half hour later, Woman Number Two, made it through to... HOLD TONES.
In between all of this, she was also performing her duty as distributor of paper ballots for chickenshits too scared to use the touch screen. This was a backassward system as Woman Number Two would point people towards another table like they should know where to go and say something about the location of the ballots, making the people think they needed to get in line with the guy checking off names P-Z. As the confused voters meandered toward the line, Woman Number Two would get their ballot, fill out the necessary spots, get a second signature from the P-Z guy and then hand them their papers and point them in a different direction towards booths with her necessary script of how to vote. Every. time.
ANNNNDDDD... P-Z Guy would intermittently come over to Woman Number Two to sign his magical book of names. And it would distract Woman Number Two from dialing or neatly stacking her slips of paper... Finally she got fed up and asked if I could listen to the hold tones of death from the Election Board (said in ominous tones) while she fiddles with the ninety bagillion other requests for her time.
45 minutes after I arrived Woman Number Two finally suggested that maybe it would be best if I went directly to the Election Board and they would allow me to cast my vote there. She was still on hold as we held this conversation.
Well Hell.
I was not pleased. I sped off to work, dropped off my computer, relayed my dramatic story to people in authority, received decent directions to an office that is amazingly close (walking distance if I were so inclined - seriously if it's more than two miles away I would be shocked).
Twenty minutes later, most of which was spent standing in line, I was properly registered by friendly, knowledgeable folks closer to my age and had VOTED!
TA DA!
There is not enough chocolate and alcohol for days like this and you know what? Some blessed soul actually brought in chocolates WITH alcohol in the center.
Sorry my stupidity took so long to read through
So really this is all my own fault, but PLEASE do not remind me of that. Okay? Just pat me on the head, feel sorry for my pain and congratulate me on my persistence to do the right thing. Deal?
As usual I was running late and walked out my front door at the exact minute I should have been waltzing into the doors at work. Do I vote now? Or at lunch? Or wait until after work? Yikes. My brain said get it done NOW. So I pulled my car around the corner, it would have taken less time to actually walk there, and paraded in like this was going to take five minutes. I breezed past the guys insisting on changing my vote last minute. I was relieved to see only a few people in line. Clearly this was TOO easy.
The Crypt Keeper held a magnifying glass in a shaky hand as she slowly flipped through the pages to my last name. She leaned in and looked closer. She scanned the page up and down, up and down. As she continued to fumble I could clearly see upside down a mile away that my name was not on the list. I should have turned around and left. But no, I obeyed the old woman who pointed me in the direction of another woman only a mere few years younger.
Woman Number Two wavered on what to do. She had been trained to deal with this situation, that was clear, but she wasn't sure of herself. Eventually I filled out an affidavit, but it needed some magical number that can only be retrieved from a phone call to THE BOARD OF ELECTIONS (read that with ominous tones in your head).
She would stare at the number, peck in a few digits, stare at the paper, peck in a few more, screw up, close the cell phone, open the cell phone, stare at the paper, peck in a few digits, screw up... blasted new technology. Eventually she got the number successfully entered but the damn line was busy. Close the phone and start again.
A half hour later (as much as I am prone to exaggeration, I was literally timing this ordeal along with frantic calls to work begging their understanding so I can vote in leaders sympathetic to our non-profit cause) So a half hour later, Woman Number Two, made it through to... HOLD TONES.
In between all of this, she was also performing her duty as distributor of paper ballots for chickenshits too scared to use the touch screen. This was a backassward system as Woman Number Two would point people towards another table like they should know where to go and say something about the location of the ballots, making the people think they needed to get in line with the guy checking off names P-Z. As the confused voters meandered toward the line, Woman Number Two would get their ballot, fill out the necessary spots, get a second signature from the P-Z guy and then hand them their papers and point them in a different direction towards booths with her necessary script of how to vote. Every. time.
ANNNNDDDD... P-Z Guy would intermittently come over to Woman Number Two to sign his magical book of names. And it would distract Woman Number Two from dialing or neatly stacking her slips of paper... Finally she got fed up and asked if I could listen to the hold tones of death from the Election Board (said in ominous tones) while she fiddles with the ninety bagillion other requests for her time.
45 minutes after I arrived Woman Number Two finally suggested that maybe it would be best if I went directly to the Election Board and they would allow me to cast my vote there. She was still on hold as we held this conversation.
Well Hell.
I was not pleased. I sped off to work, dropped off my computer, relayed my dramatic story to people in authority, received decent directions to an office that is amazingly close (walking distance if I were so inclined - seriously if it's more than two miles away I would be shocked).
Twenty minutes later, most of which was spent standing in line, I was properly registered by friendly, knowledgeable folks closer to my age and had VOTED!
TA DA!
There is not enough chocolate and alcohol for days like this and you know what? Some blessed soul actually brought in chocolates WITH alcohol in the center.
Sorry my stupidity took so long to read through
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Happy Diabetes Day
Okay, this is a really long post and I realize most of you won't read it all of the way through so I'll give you the quick version first and if you're curious about the details, read on. Deal? (By the way, I'm also posting this on my parenting blog - it's that important to me)
The bottom line is diabetes sucks ass. If you know you have it, follow your doctor's instructions. Just do it. But here's the thing, a whole lotta people are walking around with diabetes and fucked up blood sugars and don't even know it. If you are having weird symptoms that the doctor has never been able to pin point, ask to be tested for diabetes. It's a ridiculously easy blood test and for lots of reasons doctors don't think to do it. Ask. Insist.
Today is the five year anniversary of when my son, Keith, was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes - the insulin dependent type. The one that you can't control with diet and exercise. This was the single most frightening day of my life, the day unmentionable things could have happened. So, um, "happy" Diabetes Day!
******************
That nagging feeling that something is wrong. The tiny voice that screams from the darkness to persist, to keep digging despite being patted on the head and told everything is okay, even by so-called experts. The knowing something is wrong. Yes, you know if you dig far enough you're bound to find something, if you ask enough people eventually you'll find someone who agrees if only to pacify you.
But what if you're right?
There is no happy dance, no sweet vindication, no sing song "I told you so." I know because I was right, there was something wrong. It was something very very wrong and my son almost died from it. I was right and I very truly wish I wasn't.
I have long moved past guilt, but it still hurts that we didn't catch it earlier. The what-ifs will always haunt me in the quiet of night.
So here I am to stand as a warning to follow that gut instinct, especially as parents. Mother's intuition isn't reserved just for women, because my ex felt it too. Stand strong, YOU are your child's only advocate. Take that role seriously and keep digging until you have conclusive evidence showing otherwise. I scream at the simplicity of one tiny blood test that no one thought to run. When all else fails, please ask, no INSIST, that your loved one is tested for diabetes.
Diabetes? Yes. There are so many people out there with diabetes and keeping this malady at bay that we forget that it is horribly dangerous. Within a matter of hours fucked up blood sugar can literally kill you. Period.
And we never knew he had it.
The pediatrician never thought to test him for it. The gastro specialist didn't test him either before she prescribed medicine in almost placebo-esque fashion for irritable bowel. No tests, no exam, just a series of questions before issuing a diagnosis.
For ten years my son suffered upset stomachs, sudden diarrhea, vomiting and a general malaise of not feeling good. Frequently we passed it off as expert hypochondria. He did miss an amazing amount of school as he feigned illness all the damn time. He would urgently trot to the bathroom, come out looking like hell and then in hours be fine as pie. I admit to being confused - believe my child and try to shield him from pain or call him out on crying wolf. This is what held me from digging further. I wondered if he was faking it, but that morning trot wasn't made up. Could he really be THAT good at pulling the wool over my eyes? At such a young age? It just didn't seem possible. As he aged the complaints didn't change, they didn't become any more sneaky. If anything, his bouts of morning sickness became more inconvenient, holding him from activities I knew he wanted to attend. He was fourteen when I asked for a referral to a specialist, finally resolving to believe my child. That is when we were given the prescription to treat IBS.
One year later, almost to the day, we discovered IBS was not the culprit.
Keith had been sick, very flu-like sick, but without any fever. He had missed school on Thursday and Friday. On Saturday he went with his siblings to his father's house and spent the entire day on the couch watching cartoons and being pumped with Gatorade and cold-n-flu syrup (know where I'm going with this? Do you see the problem? Treating a diabetic with trumped up sugary treatments?)
On Sunday morning his father brought him back to my house as Keith didn't feel up to making the trip with the rest of the family. My ex nearly carried him into the house he was so weak. Something was wrong, little did I know just how wrong. His father and I quickly discussed the possibility of dehydration and we agreed if he got any worse I would take him to Children's Hospital, not the closer ER just down the road. He suspected something too. Our collective spidey senses were tingling.
Keith plopped down on the couch, clutching his jug of Gatorade. I returned to the computer for my regular online fun.
From here time gets garbled in my mind. What probably took just minutes played out in agonizing slow motion.
From the corner of my eye I saw Keith crawling to the bathroom. Not staggering, CRAWLING. My fifteen year old, six foot tall son was crawling to the bathroom. A weak call for my assistance came from inside, he wanted his Gatorade. I promptly slipped it in through the barely open door. A thud signaled he had dropped the jug of Gatorade. Another weak request for a change of clothes that again was slipped through the barely open door.
And then another weak request. He couldn't pull up his pants. Something is very drastically wrong if a normally shy teenaged boy asks his mom help in getting dressed. That was it, he was going to the hospital.
I made a silent agreement that if I couldn't manage to get him in the car on my own that I would call an ambulance. I did get him in the car and drove the 30 odd miles to the hospital barely inside the speed limit. God and I had a little chat along the way, mostly on my part pleading for my son to be okay. There was a calm to my frantic movements, a power beyond me that kept me calm, kept my car within the lanes, something bigger than me that delivered us to our destination.
I ran in the ER and just started talking to the first person in blue that I needed someone to help me get my 15yr old out of the car. I knew to get him on a gurney would guarantee immediate service. It took four large men to pull him out of the backseat. Somebody offered to move my car into the garage and I tossed my keys to a stranger.
From that point everything moved like a blur. He was rushed past the front desk and the official process of checking in. I never got an id tag. By the time I gave his name and basic vitals to one nurse I heard the people in the room quizzing him about the previous night ensuring they weren't dealing with alcohol or drugs. Soon they were asking if diabetes was in the family. The kid could barely speak and what he did say was severely slurred.
Like a brick they hit me with the possibility of diabetes. They rattled off numbers to me that made no sense. After two hours in ER he was admitted to Pediatric ICU at which point I received a crash course on diabetes.
The rest of Sunday and that night were spent with him getting poked every hour and trying to get him more coherent. His girlfriend spent nearly 9 hours at his side as the rest of our family filed in and out of the room. I spent the night in the room with him with very little sleep. Monday and Tuesday were spent in classes learning about diet and shots and blah blah blah blah....
I did indeed have a very sick child. He didn't have the flu, he wasn't dehydrated, he wasn't faking it. Had the doctor we visited a year earlier ran one very simple test, just one blood test, this trip to the ER and expensive stay in ICU could have been averted. There are a lot of what-ifs.
A healthy blood sugar is somewhere between 60 and 100. Diabetes is the inability of your body to maintain healthy blood sugar levels. Too low, anything below 40, the person can pass out and the organs begin to shut down. But we also have to worry about levels too high. Around 200 people usually feel a little woozy, over 300 and you ought to contact your doctor, maybe even get to the ER.
They told me at the hospital the highest they had ever seen was 750.
Keith's blood sugar that day was 1268.
He was slipping into a diabetic coma right before my eyes. His size and strength and youth are what kept him going for so long.
His diabetes may not have been caught in kindergarten when he first started clutching his gut in the bathroom, but at some point he would have tested positive. I am angry no one tested him and his pediatrician got an earful about it.
He has Type I, the sort that requires expensive daily injections and regular testing. If you don't have a diabetic in the family, you would be surprised how outrageously expensive the supplies are, particularly the test strips. It's obscene.
Keith is healthy and active and not feeling any repercussions other than carting around a little pack with his injection pens. He monitors his carb intake and adjusts his insulin accordingly. He does not suffer dietary restrictions like people have in the past due to the types of insulin and medications he takes every day.
So it wasn't so much a "happy" diabetes day, but I am ecstatic my son has a name and treatment for the beast that tormented him for so long. And he is very much alive and here.
Take care of yourself and the ones you love. Get tested. And PLEASE support the Juvenile Diabetes Association.
The bottom line is diabetes sucks ass. If you know you have it, follow your doctor's instructions. Just do it. But here's the thing, a whole lotta people are walking around with diabetes and fucked up blood sugars and don't even know it. If you are having weird symptoms that the doctor has never been able to pin point, ask to be tested for diabetes. It's a ridiculously easy blood test and for lots of reasons doctors don't think to do it. Ask. Insist.
Today is the five year anniversary of when my son, Keith, was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes - the insulin dependent type. The one that you can't control with diet and exercise. This was the single most frightening day of my life, the day unmentionable things could have happened. So, um, "happy" Diabetes Day!
******************
That nagging feeling that something is wrong. The tiny voice that screams from the darkness to persist, to keep digging despite being patted on the head and told everything is okay, even by so-called experts. The knowing something is wrong. Yes, you know if you dig far enough you're bound to find something, if you ask enough people eventually you'll find someone who agrees if only to pacify you.
But what if you're right?
There is no happy dance, no sweet vindication, no sing song "I told you so." I know because I was right, there was something wrong. It was something very very wrong and my son almost died from it. I was right and I very truly wish I wasn't.
I have long moved past guilt, but it still hurts that we didn't catch it earlier. The what-ifs will always haunt me in the quiet of night.
So here I am to stand as a warning to follow that gut instinct, especially as parents. Mother's intuition isn't reserved just for women, because my ex felt it too. Stand strong, YOU are your child's only advocate. Take that role seriously and keep digging until you have conclusive evidence showing otherwise. I scream at the simplicity of one tiny blood test that no one thought to run. When all else fails, please ask, no INSIST, that your loved one is tested for diabetes.
Diabetes? Yes. There are so many people out there with diabetes and keeping this malady at bay that we forget that it is horribly dangerous. Within a matter of hours fucked up blood sugar can literally kill you. Period.
And we never knew he had it.
The pediatrician never thought to test him for it. The gastro specialist didn't test him either before she prescribed medicine in almost placebo-esque fashion for irritable bowel. No tests, no exam, just a series of questions before issuing a diagnosis.
For ten years my son suffered upset stomachs, sudden diarrhea, vomiting and a general malaise of not feeling good. Frequently we passed it off as expert hypochondria. He did miss an amazing amount of school as he feigned illness all the damn time. He would urgently trot to the bathroom, come out looking like hell and then in hours be fine as pie. I admit to being confused - believe my child and try to shield him from pain or call him out on crying wolf. This is what held me from digging further. I wondered if he was faking it, but that morning trot wasn't made up. Could he really be THAT good at pulling the wool over my eyes? At such a young age? It just didn't seem possible. As he aged the complaints didn't change, they didn't become any more sneaky. If anything, his bouts of morning sickness became more inconvenient, holding him from activities I knew he wanted to attend. He was fourteen when I asked for a referral to a specialist, finally resolving to believe my child. That is when we were given the prescription to treat IBS.
One year later, almost to the day, we discovered IBS was not the culprit.
Keith had been sick, very flu-like sick, but without any fever. He had missed school on Thursday and Friday. On Saturday he went with his siblings to his father's house and spent the entire day on the couch watching cartoons and being pumped with Gatorade and cold-n-flu syrup (know where I'm going with this? Do you see the problem? Treating a diabetic with trumped up sugary treatments?)
On Sunday morning his father brought him back to my house as Keith didn't feel up to making the trip with the rest of the family. My ex nearly carried him into the house he was so weak. Something was wrong, little did I know just how wrong. His father and I quickly discussed the possibility of dehydration and we agreed if he got any worse I would take him to Children's Hospital, not the closer ER just down the road. He suspected something too. Our collective spidey senses were tingling.
Keith plopped down on the couch, clutching his jug of Gatorade. I returned to the computer for my regular online fun.
From here time gets garbled in my mind. What probably took just minutes played out in agonizing slow motion.
From the corner of my eye I saw Keith crawling to the bathroom. Not staggering, CRAWLING. My fifteen year old, six foot tall son was crawling to the bathroom. A weak call for my assistance came from inside, he wanted his Gatorade. I promptly slipped it in through the barely open door. A thud signaled he had dropped the jug of Gatorade. Another weak request for a change of clothes that again was slipped through the barely open door.
And then another weak request. He couldn't pull up his pants. Something is very drastically wrong if a normally shy teenaged boy asks his mom help in getting dressed. That was it, he was going to the hospital.
I made a silent agreement that if I couldn't manage to get him in the car on my own that I would call an ambulance. I did get him in the car and drove the 30 odd miles to the hospital barely inside the speed limit. God and I had a little chat along the way, mostly on my part pleading for my son to be okay. There was a calm to my frantic movements, a power beyond me that kept me calm, kept my car within the lanes, something bigger than me that delivered us to our destination.
I ran in the ER and just started talking to the first person in blue that I needed someone to help me get my 15yr old out of the car. I knew to get him on a gurney would guarantee immediate service. It took four large men to pull him out of the backseat. Somebody offered to move my car into the garage and I tossed my keys to a stranger.
From that point everything moved like a blur. He was rushed past the front desk and the official process of checking in. I never got an id tag. By the time I gave his name and basic vitals to one nurse I heard the people in the room quizzing him about the previous night ensuring they weren't dealing with alcohol or drugs. Soon they were asking if diabetes was in the family. The kid could barely speak and what he did say was severely slurred.
Like a brick they hit me with the possibility of diabetes. They rattled off numbers to me that made no sense. After two hours in ER he was admitted to Pediatric ICU at which point I received a crash course on diabetes.
The rest of Sunday and that night were spent with him getting poked every hour and trying to get him more coherent. His girlfriend spent nearly 9 hours at his side as the rest of our family filed in and out of the room. I spent the night in the room with him with very little sleep. Monday and Tuesday were spent in classes learning about diet and shots and blah blah blah blah....
I did indeed have a very sick child. He didn't have the flu, he wasn't dehydrated, he wasn't faking it. Had the doctor we visited a year earlier ran one very simple test, just one blood test, this trip to the ER and expensive stay in ICU could have been averted. There are a lot of what-ifs.
A healthy blood sugar is somewhere between 60 and 100. Diabetes is the inability of your body to maintain healthy blood sugar levels. Too low, anything below 40, the person can pass out and the organs begin to shut down. But we also have to worry about levels too high. Around 200 people usually feel a little woozy, over 300 and you ought to contact your doctor, maybe even get to the ER.
They told me at the hospital the highest they had ever seen was 750.
Keith's blood sugar that day was 1268.
He was slipping into a diabetic coma right before my eyes. His size and strength and youth are what kept him going for so long.
His diabetes may not have been caught in kindergarten when he first started clutching his gut in the bathroom, but at some point he would have tested positive. I am angry no one tested him and his pediatrician got an earful about it.
He has Type I, the sort that requires expensive daily injections and regular testing. If you don't have a diabetic in the family, you would be surprised how outrageously expensive the supplies are, particularly the test strips. It's obscene.
Keith is healthy and active and not feeling any repercussions other than carting around a little pack with his injection pens. He monitors his carb intake and adjusts his insulin accordingly. He does not suffer dietary restrictions like people have in the past due to the types of insulin and medications he takes every day.
So it wasn't so much a "happy" diabetes day, but I am ecstatic my son has a name and treatment for the beast that tormented him for so long. And he is very much alive and here.
Take care of yourself and the ones you love. Get tested. And PLEASE support the Juvenile Diabetes Association.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Social Networking - Female Style
(WARNING - RLP - REALLY LONG POST - SORRY)
It happened in 2001. I was at Girl Scout camp with my daughter for a Mother-Daughter retreat with about 50 other mother-daughter duos. Another mom was propped up against the wall, jiggling in silent laughter, tears rolling down her face.
She was reading Jill Conner-Browne's, The Sweet Potato Queens Book of Love. Days later I had an order sent off to Amazon for my own copy. Soon I was also jiggling in silent laughter, tears rolling down my face. The woman was truly funny. She had a second book out, God Bless The Sweet Potato Queens. It didn't seem possible, but I laughed even harder.
Jill offered exactly what this brand new divorcee needed - humor, perspective and a sense that I was not alone.
I'm not sure what prompted me to look her up online. I'm not the kind of person who researches products. I don't sign up for contests. I don't go poking around. But this time I did and I never left.
She had a messageboard. For many a messageboard sounds so... lame? I've used messageboards before working on my genealogy research. They've been a Godsend of information in that sense. But to discuss a book? To chat?
I was one of the early members of her messageboard. I would check in every few days and membership would constantly increase. We left funny quips about our lives, finding similarity in what Jill had written.
Soon it was no longer about the books or Jill. We grew bigger than just a messageboard of fans, we became a community. I won't dare speak for Jill, but I think she loved this fact, knowing she brought so many wonderful people together.
People came from all corners. Some by accident, some by word of mouth. We crashed multiple servers with our chatter and attracted more than a few trolls. We were mostly women but an occasional man would join in the fun, or attempt to. Within a matter of years we numbered over 1,000 members.
Our treasured messageboard was closed down in June 2006. One troll too many had shit in our playground and Jill was done playing babysitter. We went underground. We now have a private board with about 100 active members.
I've often been asked why we have a messageboard, what's wrong with a simple chat room? A chat room is much like a telephone where the participants have to be present at the same time. A messageboard allows you to post a question, respond to another and then dash off to feed the baby, grab a load of laundry, call your mom, and watch an episode of Oprah. This is the only way mature women could possibly communicate.
I have marveled at this community more than once. I knew we were an advertiser's wet dream. The way we would introduce a new product and everyone would flock to try it, this was something marketers would give eyeteeth for. We are the most elusive of demographics as most of us are busy being moms and housewives and full-time employees. It's sort of hard to capture us at any one spot, we're not known for sitting still for very long. If a commercial comes on in the middle of our favorite program that's when we dash to the dryer for another load to fold. If something falls out of our favorite magazine it's set to the side for when we have a few seconds, only to be picked up months or years later after the expiration date or the item out of production. We just don't have time to learn about new products, to toss money at something new only to find it doesn't measure up. We find what works and keep with it. That's a tough nut to crack for the old men of the business world.
Then I read one post of someone raving about Trader Joe's guacamole and BAM, suddenly, like little sheep, everyone is flocking to Trader Joe's emptying the shelves of guacamole. The TJ's guys are wondering what the hell just happened. No advertisements, no coupons, no pimply teenager in an avocado costume standing in front of the store, no matronly woman offering samples, and yet the product is instantly selling like hotcakes. What the hell is up? What changed?
Word of mouth is what happened. Word of mouth from a reliable source to a nationwide audience. Seriously, what business exec wouldn't KILL for that type of reach?
But it's more than promoting products. We are a true community. We've done the unmentionable and actually gone out to meet each other in person. You know, the thing everyone warns is super dangerous? Yeah, we've done that. *I* have done that. I have driven to Indianapolis and spent the weekend in the home of a woman I had only known through the internet. I did the same thing a few years later in Lawrence, Kansas, but this time I had previously met the women. I've also driven to Chicago for lunch, just for the afternoon and back home, again to meet up with absolute strangers. We are friends in the truest sense. We gather around in times of pain, send off blankets to new mothers, chat about goofy husbands and irritating children and whine about miserable work conditions. We talk about everything. Just like we do with our 3D girlfriends. And for some reason this stumps men, as if we were speaking in code.
So last year when one board member begged the rest of us to help her out with her Fashion Wars posse on Facebook, we flocked over there like crazy, myself included. It didn't take much to coerce me as my daughter insisted that I needed to join so we could easily share pictures. My employer also wanted me, the IT goddess, to check out the social networking hub-bub. So sign up I did. We played the games, found former classmates, and found a new way to keep up with each other's day to day lives. Our messageboard activity has plummeted. It still exists, but not like it did for so many years.
Facebook has quickly taken over and we continue to use it in the same manner - posting about every day life, discussing new products and just old fashioned playing. Executives everywhere are flabbergasted at its popularity. They cannot believe they've finally found a medium that appeals to the mothers of the world. Now they're trying to harness it.
I have a sneaking suspicion they're going to screw it up. Women don't like being manipulated. We don't have time for bullshit, we have plenty of it in our real lives.
It happened in 2001. I was at Girl Scout camp with my daughter for a Mother-Daughter retreat with about 50 other mother-daughter duos. Another mom was propped up against the wall, jiggling in silent laughter, tears rolling down her face.
She was reading Jill Conner-Browne's, The Sweet Potato Queens Book of Love. Days later I had an order sent off to Amazon for my own copy. Soon I was also jiggling in silent laughter, tears rolling down my face. The woman was truly funny. She had a second book out, God Bless The Sweet Potato Queens. It didn't seem possible, but I laughed even harder.
Jill offered exactly what this brand new divorcee needed - humor, perspective and a sense that I was not alone.
I'm not sure what prompted me to look her up online. I'm not the kind of person who researches products. I don't sign up for contests. I don't go poking around. But this time I did and I never left.
She had a messageboard. For many a messageboard sounds so... lame? I've used messageboards before working on my genealogy research. They've been a Godsend of information in that sense. But to discuss a book? To chat?
I was one of the early members of her messageboard. I would check in every few days and membership would constantly increase. We left funny quips about our lives, finding similarity in what Jill had written.
Soon it was no longer about the books or Jill. We grew bigger than just a messageboard of fans, we became a community. I won't dare speak for Jill, but I think she loved this fact, knowing she brought so many wonderful people together.
People came from all corners. Some by accident, some by word of mouth. We crashed multiple servers with our chatter and attracted more than a few trolls. We were mostly women but an occasional man would join in the fun, or attempt to. Within a matter of years we numbered over 1,000 members.
Our treasured messageboard was closed down in June 2006. One troll too many had shit in our playground and Jill was done playing babysitter. We went underground. We now have a private board with about 100 active members.
I've often been asked why we have a messageboard, what's wrong with a simple chat room? A chat room is much like a telephone where the participants have to be present at the same time. A messageboard allows you to post a question, respond to another and then dash off to feed the baby, grab a load of laundry, call your mom, and watch an episode of Oprah. This is the only way mature women could possibly communicate.
I have marveled at this community more than once. I knew we were an advertiser's wet dream. The way we would introduce a new product and everyone would flock to try it, this was something marketers would give eyeteeth for. We are the most elusive of demographics as most of us are busy being moms and housewives and full-time employees. It's sort of hard to capture us at any one spot, we're not known for sitting still for very long. If a commercial comes on in the middle of our favorite program that's when we dash to the dryer for another load to fold. If something falls out of our favorite magazine it's set to the side for when we have a few seconds, only to be picked up months or years later after the expiration date or the item out of production. We just don't have time to learn about new products, to toss money at something new only to find it doesn't measure up. We find what works and keep with it. That's a tough nut to crack for the old men of the business world.
Then I read one post of someone raving about Trader Joe's guacamole and BAM, suddenly, like little sheep, everyone is flocking to Trader Joe's emptying the shelves of guacamole. The TJ's guys are wondering what the hell just happened. No advertisements, no coupons, no pimply teenager in an avocado costume standing in front of the store, no matronly woman offering samples, and yet the product is instantly selling like hotcakes. What the hell is up? What changed?
Word of mouth is what happened. Word of mouth from a reliable source to a nationwide audience. Seriously, what business exec wouldn't KILL for that type of reach?
But it's more than promoting products. We are a true community. We've done the unmentionable and actually gone out to meet each other in person. You know, the thing everyone warns is super dangerous? Yeah, we've done that. *I* have done that. I have driven to Indianapolis and spent the weekend in the home of a woman I had only known through the internet. I did the same thing a few years later in Lawrence, Kansas, but this time I had previously met the women. I've also driven to Chicago for lunch, just for the afternoon and back home, again to meet up with absolute strangers. We are friends in the truest sense. We gather around in times of pain, send off blankets to new mothers, chat about goofy husbands and irritating children and whine about miserable work conditions. We talk about everything. Just like we do with our 3D girlfriends. And for some reason this stumps men, as if we were speaking in code.
So last year when one board member begged the rest of us to help her out with her Fashion Wars posse on Facebook, we flocked over there like crazy, myself included. It didn't take much to coerce me as my daughter insisted that I needed to join so we could easily share pictures. My employer also wanted me, the IT goddess, to check out the social networking hub-bub. So sign up I did. We played the games, found former classmates, and found a new way to keep up with each other's day to day lives. Our messageboard activity has plummeted. It still exists, but not like it did for so many years.
Facebook has quickly taken over and we continue to use it in the same manner - posting about every day life, discussing new products and just old fashioned playing. Executives everywhere are flabbergasted at its popularity. They cannot believe they've finally found a medium that appeals to the mothers of the world. Now they're trying to harness it.
I have a sneaking suspicion they're going to screw it up. Women don't like being manipulated. We don't have time for bullshit, we have plenty of it in our real lives.
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