Dude is obviously single

I'm watching Sunday news show, which I accept is more relaxed and has a bit more fluff. Of course they've got a guy from AT&T hawking Valentine's Day gifts. 

Dude classified his items into those for "new relationships," "long term relationships," and "serious relationships." How the last two don't overlap is a mystery, but that's not my big giggle today. 

In the "new relationships" category Dude had placed something called a "Fit Bit" to wear and communicate all your physical activity to your smart phone or computer. 

Let's think about that. Dude is saying it would be an awesome gift for your new maybe love to open up a device that might as well say out loud "hey, you could stand to lose a few pounds." I don't know who this dude has dated, but I'm fairly certain he's single. In fact, I'm betting he's one of those guys who breaks up with his significant other before any gift giving holiday. The women I know, if given that gift in a new relationship, let's just say Dude might be missing a limb. 

This has been your gift-giving PSA. 

Apparently, we found the local KKK chapter

Something happened to my husband and I a few months ago that has prompted me to identify my actual location and use actual names here, which I'd avoided for those who don't actually know me in real life and are just internet noodlers.  But something has me so overwhelmed, ashamed, saddened, I feel I have to.

In September, my husband, Scott, and I found ourselves with a rare situation--a kid free weekend.  We NEVER have these, but my son was at a Boy Scout event, and my daughter had a sleepover. We RAN with it, dropping the girl off, then heading for a movie and dinner. After those blissful kidless activities, I decided I wanted to karaoke.  I know, it's lame, it is, but occasionally, I need a stress release.  Some people run, some people turn to art, me, I like to belt out a Melissa Etheridge song.  Don't judge, I rock. On a Friday night, there aren't too many places that serve up karaoke, but there is one only a few minutes away. It's called Dan D Jack's, and it's a dive bar sometimes listed in Tinley Park, sometimes Orland Hills, IL, as it's on the boarder. I'm no stranger to dive bars and their usually blue collar, often rough around the edges clientele.  But we'd been there a few times, and nothing seemed out of sorts.

We arrived and were informed there was no karaoke going on that night, because there was a band. Knowing the clientele, we figured we'd stay for the band, thinking it would probably fall into a classic rock or blues genre, which we both like. For an hour, until the band started, we watched a man we figured to be the front man greeting every single person in the bar VERY warmly, including a table of bikers and their ladies, all wearing distinct and worn colors on their jackets.  Listening to conversation, we surmised he pretty much personally knew everyone but us. Weird, but it's a small place, we enjoyed our beers and continued observing.

Then the first song started. It was a song that bashed gays and women, openly and loudly. I let out a loooooong breath, thinking we finish our beers, and we're gone.  That was the silent communication that Scott and I had. In the interim between songs, when the lead singer "welcomed" everyone, he said at the end, "oh, and I'm glad there's no *iggers in the audience tonight, so I don't have to explain the next song." My face went about 80 shades of red, and I could feel my pulse in my ears.  Scott put his hand on my leg and said "we can't leave yet." Scott, as my husband, knows I am a mouthy, mouthy woman, and it only gets worse as I age. His single best quality is that he ALWAYS has my back, even when I'm mouthy. He looked around at the near familial to the lead singer crowd, and bikers, and quickly gleaned that my mouthy nature could get us into very serious trouble, even though he knew we needed out, and quickly.

See, we had no idea what would really happen.  While I'm sure some will say "oh, but the bikers I know are really NICE" and that may be true, but Scott's cousin was literally killed by a band of bikers, so we don't mess.  Add to that a bunch of obviously like minded individuals all. around. us. and if I said one word, it could have erupted into ugliness, because like I said, my husband always has. my. back. Scott decided I should leave first, acting like I was stepping out for a cigarette or something, and he would follow me in a few minutes. His fear was if we left together, the lead singer might say something from the stage, small place, could happen, and again, things would erupt. I just hoped the doorman wouldn't say anything either to me on my way out.  But by that point, the garbage I'd heard, I wanted to puke, so I might have a believable reason to go anyway.

I made it to the car, where I came close to bursting into tears, and Scott followed after us.  We were parked further down from the bar, near a gas station, and we could still hear the "music" being played.  Scott called the police department that night and said, watch for trouble. We were both so shaken, it was difficult to settle down. This incident has stayed with me, near the front of my mind for months.

Why did it stay with me so? I don't have my head in the clouds, I know racism exists. But in my backyard? So open and careless? I couldn't believe that. It stayed with me, because for 20 years I've made it my mission to educate mostly minorities, helping them to find their way along a difficult educational terrain.  I've helped many be the first to graduate from college.  This evening was a slap in the face to everything I've done professionally. It stayed with me because I pictured in my mind my godchildren, my children's friends, my friends of color and how all of them were reduced to a nasty little lyric in some sick, twisted person's mind. It stayed with me because I love music.  Music has gotten me through difficult times in my life, and it's better than that shit it was turned into. But I think most of all it stayed with me because I'm ashamed.  Ashamed I didn't stand up, without concern for my safety, as so many have in the past, and said "this isn't right." I apologize openly and unreservedly for that.

It might be from a point of safety I say this, but I want it to be clear now, even if I couldn't make it clear that night, and I want it to be clear to everyone I know, not just some dive bar:

1. If you are a racist/misogynistic/homophobe, get off my page, unfriend me, don't make contact with me in any way.  I don't have the patience or the stomach for it.
2. If you judge someone based on the color of their skin, their gender, or who they love, see #1.
3. If you think someone is or isn't capable of doing a job because of the above, you ARE #1.
4. If you have preconceptions of people based on the above criteria, you are an asshole of epic proportions, and I want nothing to do with you.

So there we go, let the unfriending begin.

February 4th

Today my mom would have been 70. Even after 12 years gone, it's rare I don't want to ask her a question. How did you do this working parent thing by yourself? Did I give you that same lip the girl gives me so early? Did you want to ship me off to another planet like I want to do with the tween these days? Do you see me in my kids? Those are just the ones I can remember from this week.

Every day I hate that she was cheated out of being a grandmother. Even worse, I hate that my kids were cheated out of a grandparent who would hang on their every word and think they were the center of the universe. 

We happened to be talking about family structure today and what affects it in my Critical Strategies class. That meant we talked about parents, extended families, single parents, etc. I almost lost it in front of my class thinking about my mom. 

It just never gets easier. Miss you always, Mom. 

We Will ALL Work for Her Some Day

In fourth grade financial news, my daughter Brownie is building her empire.  She's already the saver in the house, and once she stops telling her brother where she hides her money stash, it's going to show some real growth.

Last weekend, I had one of my Origami Owl jewelry bars, and Megan came with me, handing out catalogs and order forms, helping people make lockets.  One of the women present was complaining about having to get the new hot kid item, the Rainbow Loom.  If you don't know what this is, grab a kid age 8-14 and ask.  You'll learn more than you ever wanted to know.  They're sold at Michael's and other stores.  The main complaint of parents is Michael's won't allow use of their 40% off coupon on this item.  They buy it anyway, and their second complaint is "how do you MAKE these &$#!*@ things?!" Then they are sent to youtube by parents in the know.

This mom found out Brownie knew how to make these horrific little things, sent her daughter down to her house to get the loom, and Megan taught two girls how to make them.  Fast forward a couple days, and my kitchen has been overrun with these accursed bands, as she taught her brother how to make them too.

Hubbster asks me yesterday if I saw the notebook on the table.  I had not.  Apparently, it had about eight names with colors listed next to them and $2 next to each one.  It seems Brownie is making and SELLING these things at school to kids who can't figure it out.  I asked why she didn't teach them to make them like she'd taught others.  She leveled me with a look and said, "then they won't PAY, Mom" and rolled her eyes at me.

Whenever she's taking applications, I'm putting mine in.

A Day of Mixed Emotions

Today is the beginning of Suicide Prevention Week.  It's fitting, as it's also the birthday of someone we lost to suicide.  Every year gets easier, but that doesn't mean this young man is any less missed. While he took his own life, and I think of him whenever I hear of someone doing the same, he was SO much more than that one act. 

Denny's favorite character was Spider-Man, and that was later his nickname.  He could climb wall jambs all the way up to the top.  He had this funny little way of running where his legs would piston and rush, but his back would be ramrod straight.  His karate bag when I drove him to practice weighed almost more than he did, and watching him heft it in the car was funny.  He was caring and generous to my son the way pre-teens rarely are. He was surrounded by music his whole life, and he found his own ways to express himself through music appreciation and playing.  Art was another of his loves, and his drawings were everywhere in his home.  But in the end, he was still at the mercy of his inner demons, as so many young men and women are today. He had a host of people who interacted with him lovingly on a daily basis, which makes his choice so much more difficult for the rest of us to bear.  So many young people today don't have a support system, and that means they don't even have a sliver of a chance. 

I'll always think of him as Cubby's idol and wish he was still here. 

Happy Birthday, Denny.  We still miss you.  I hope you've found the peace you never had when you were with us. You deserve it.

Words You Don't Want to Hear

In walked Brownie after school yesterday.  She immediately said, "Mom, can I ask you a question?" These words are part of her minute by minute questioning, so I wasn't concerned yet.  She continued, "What would you say if I told you I had a staple in my foot?" Of course, my response was "DO you have a staple in your foot?" She said no and burst into tears, clear indication she HAD a staple in her foot, but she's a drama queen, ya know.

After much crying and general ballyhoo, she allowed her dad to look at her foot.  Yep, there was a staple.  She'd been walking around with it all day, because she's not fond of the nurse who works at the school now, and she didn't want to tell her teacher, because it's FOURTH grade now, and she didn't want to look like a baby.  Ugh.

According to Hubbster, he could pull it out, but what if a piece was still in there?  I agreed.  Know what I was supposed to be doing?  Going to work.  I nearly gleefully handed him the insurance card, told him the numbers to call, kissed my little dramatic petunia on the head and went (ran) to work.  Immediately after, I went to the open house for Brownie's school where I was recruiting for Girl Scouts, then met with Brownie's (long winded) teacher.  Then I drove at breakneck speed to my first sales meeting for my new direct sales venture.  All during this, I was getting texted updates, pictures of Brownie in a wheel chair, with her roll of stickers, as they picked up dinner at McDonald's because the clinic took so long.  I didn't miss any of the experience.

When I came home, Hubbster was all TIRED from waiting and bath and homework.  Hmm, maybe there is an advantage to him being out of work.  But that doesn't mean I wouldn't kick him out into that cold cruel world at the hint of a job offer.

So! It was a full day round here.  It was also almost exactly a year after Brownie had to have stitches in her other foot from stepping on glass.  I told her she needed to mix it up next year and injure an arm.  She was not amused.

This seems off

I'm sure everyone has seen the commercial for this product Rev by now. It features a young man awaking in the dead of night, committed to his sport, reaching into his parents' stainless steel fridge for a package marked "REV" in bold letters. He opens it, and inside is a fresh looking wrap with chicken or turkey, a little lettuce hanging out.  The boy eats it as inspirational narration plays, something about possibilities, even when others say it can't be done.

Now, I'm not an exerciser for the sake of exercising. I know I'm supposed to, but I just don't like it. Hiking around a lake to appreciate beauty, walking or bike riding as a mode of transportation, sure! But if you see me running, someone is chasing me.  So acknowledging this is not my foray, I take issue with this commercial. I'm under the impression, as a non-athlete, that a pre-made, in the refrigerated aisle for God knows how long, then toted home to lounge in the fridge for even longer CANNOT be a good thing for a working hard body. Wouldn't it be better to buy some deli meat, fresh tortillas and lettuce, take two extra minutes and have at least half the preservatives? Doesn't it seem like a message at odds to physically push one's body while filling it with crap?

Ah, advertising can make us believe anything is good.