Smells Like Teen Spirit....and Maybe Some Other Stuff

When I was a teenager I took it upon myself to defend all other teenagers on principle alone. My mother regularly made, what I considered baseless accusations. She'd see a car speeding down the street and say, "Those teenagers need to slooooow down." To which I'd snappishly reply, "You don't know how old they are." Ok, I never said I was clever, just defensive. It seemed to her, at least in my mind, the root of all shenanigans began with teenagers.

It's funny how over time, things change. 

The way I feel about teenagers now is pretty much the way I feel about cats. I might really like you if you weren't so shifty, unpredictable and up to something I probably don't approve of. And of course pretty and taut, cellulite free, and fast approaching expert status in eye rolling -- I'm back to people in case you were still on my cat analogy. 

On a recent trip to the mall, I was buying a gift card at one of those overscented, overpriced stores Gen Y'ers love and here's the verbatim conversation I had with the teenage female employee (who had an amazing French manicure) upon checkout.

Her: How much do you want on the gift card?

Me: $40

Her: Please swipe your credit card. And what's your email address?

Me: Why do you need that?

Her: To complete the transaction.

Me: I still don't understand why you need my email. 

Her, all attitude-y: Then don't give it if you don't want.

That's where the verbal, out loud conversation ended. But in my mind I said" Soooo.... you don't need it to complete the transaction after all.

She hastily shoved my receipt at me and welcomed the next customer who might be pleased as punch to blindly hand over any personal information she requested.

But really why should Checkout Chickie care? She was just doing what she was told, right? And maybe that's fine for now. But still, I wanted to say -- stand up for yourself, sister. Tell your boss that you aren't going to mislead customers anymore. Tell us you want our email address so your corporate headquarters can send a daily useless message that will join its brethren in the inbox onslaught that occurs before our eyes even focus at 6am.

The irony, of course, is I used to be you -- we all did. Well, you with an abacus instead of a fancy cash register. You with giant foam shoulder pads, a middle part and 'wings'." 

But the more I think about it I realize here's a high schooler with at least some drive and ambition. After all, it's Friday night and she's at work; not hanging out at the McDonalds on the corner of New Hampshire Avenue and Randolph Road with 25 friends and a rent-a-cop trying to track down a field party with a trashcan full of grain punch.

Props and unspoken apologies to all the teenagers I have misjudged and will misjudge for lesser crimes than this. I used to fight your plight, but now I'm older, wiser and more crotchety. So this one-way conversation happened in my head. Plus I need all my stamina just to corral the three that fall under my care. And if I'm going to embarrass myself and anyone in public, shouldn't it really be my own daughters?

Love Language: A Stupid Ass Name for Sure, But...

As you undoubtedly know, today is Valentine's Day. The day we are supposed to tap into our love language. Can you even say those words without sounding like a complete douche? I'm not really sure what it means since all the love advice I get is from Bravo and everyone on there is nuts, but I do have an opinion.

My personal love language is most evident when discussing a recent shopping trip.

Friend: Oooh!! I love that jacket!
Me: Thanks, $80 at Nordstrom Rack.*
Friend: Wow! That's awesome.

Did you see what happened there? It was quick and subtle and you might've missed it. That's why I cleverly dropped in the asterisk. *My friend did not ask where I got my awesome new threads or how much I paid. But I provided that information automatically. It's the implied next step.

Have I lost you or are you nodding your head in agreement? I thinks it's evolutionarily innate in women, however my husband thinks we're a little nuts. Why on earth would I volunteer these details and who really cares? My answer: anyone who considers me interesting or their friend probably understands and participates in this ritual. It spews out involuntarily as if I were blinking or hair flipping.

Boiling it all down: I want you know to know that I hunted and scored an amazing and fashionable kill. You want to know if the store has any more and do I care if you get one too. I'm just saving you the step of asking. I have a side theory that the better the deal, the faster and louder I share it, but I have no scientific evidence to back this up. It's a match made by cupids's arrow and dropped out of retail heaven.

Even though this unprompted communication is foreign and weird to my husband, there is a love language involving food that he does understand. What do you think of this one?

Setting: any restaurant...
Him: How's your meal?*
Me: Great...do you want to try it?
Him: Sure.

*Notice he didn't come right out and ask me for a taste, but by asking if I'm enjoying my food, I magically offer it to him. Of course I'd have given him a taste if he asked directly, but you gotta test it out. Works every time.

Happy Valentine's Day no matter what your love language is!

Love is Not in the Air, Yet...

Valentine's Day is just a few days away. And because Hallmark says so, love and affection (and overpriced, underyummy meals) become the focus for 24 hours. So why not dump off some negativity in the form of a list. You may notice I left the "S word" off completely. I don't even want to think about the impending forecast, salt (unless it's on a margarita rim) or not hearing the beautiful music of the last schoolbus pulling away at 8:26am.

Here they are, six pretty unimportant things that might be preventing me from embracing Valentine's Day:

1. when i have to type using uppercase letters. i even spell my name (in real life) with all lowercase. lazy, yes. but do i type faster than you? probably. 
2. when you thank someone and they reply "not a problem". it totally diminishes the sentiment.
3. when i go to wash my hands at a sink with an automatic faucet and it doesn't turn on. i wonder if i'm actually invisible. luckily frantic waving and cursing seems to get it running.
4. when i'm driving down the road minding my own beeswax and someone on a side street suddenly cuts in front of me. without exception there are never ANY cars behind me. why???
5. when sponge bob speaks
6. when someone says "should have went" or "should have came". nails on the chalkboard to this journalism major. 

so, now that i've vented and typed most of an email without caps, i do feel a little better. will i be cutting out little paper hearts or baking cupcakes for friday? of course not, but i'll definitely be digging into whatever treats my husband brings home for all the girls in his life. i might be a little lackluster when it comes to this holiday, but i'm no fool.

Oh No You Di'-int: Adding Insult to Injury

Hey, did you notice the weather is pretty godawful? If you didn't, just check Facebook and I'm sure some of your clever friends will be posting clever photos of snow piling up on their deck furniture.

But those photos -- I'm assuming there are numerous shots out there (although would we really notice if all our FB friends just kept reposting the same pic?) -- got me thinking about my own house and how two years ago, after 8 years of redneck grilling on the driveway we finally decided to build the thing that would eventually collect snow all winter and bird crap all summer.

Sitting around our kitchen table on a Saturday morning a couple of Augusts ago, my husband and I conducted the first of three construction company interviews. We were discussing possible layout ideas when our three daughters walked in the room. The owner of the company looked at the kids, looked at me and back to the kids. Then he said with a big smile, "Oh, I had kids later in life too."  Wha-wha-wha-what?? Is this some cockamamie attempt at bonding? My husband started shaking his head and knew there was nothing left to be said. Buh-bye and get out jackass dude who works in sales and should be saying (lying) that there's no way I could possibly be old enough to have a teenager.

The good news is we found a great company that did an excellent job. And should I ever encounter that charmer again, I'm prepared to marinate, skewer and conveniently grill his ass right out back. Now that might be a FB-worthy deck photo.