O Karma, Where Art Thou?

Dear Karma,

Got a minute? I think we need to have a talk. I’ve been hesitant to confront you about this because, well, you have a lot of power over my little life. But I honestly need some answers.

The check engine lights appearing on both cars at the same time was harsh, especially since you know we’re strapped for cash at the moment. Having the air conditioning go out on my car was expected, but I didn’t see that you were going to make sure it was a leak and therefore lose the A/C again after I paid to have it fixed. That sucked.

Staying on the topic of cars, it also was a little underhanded of you to give Aaron a flat tire a month ago, and then another flat tonight while we were out of town with family. You knew we used the spare on the first flat and didn’t have the time or money to get new tires. So tonight we had to leave the car with the air conditioning 45 minutes away from home, and take the one with no air conditioning home in 90 degree heat with a cranky toddler, only to return there in the morning to have the car towed and get new tires.

We’re also a little tired of being jerked around about the possibility of Aaron’s new job. He’s jumped through hoop after hoop, like you wanted. Isn’t it time for a little payout now? We’re hoping to hear he got the job this coming week, so please don’t disappoint.

Springing a few unexpected bills on us hasn’t been deserved, either. And after I was so proud of myself for completing my first knitting project, you had to make it personal by having the knit bag felt too much in the washer and now be the size of a child’s purse.

You see, Karma baby, I know what people say about you. They say you’re a bitch, they say you’re cruel. I’ve always stood up for you, though. I believed in your justice, cautioned others to not tempt you, and reminded everyone that the karma bus travels in circles.

Apparently your current bus route is very long and winding, because we’re waiting patiently at the stop, avoiding the street so we won’t be hit. Your new driver seems to be driving on the sidewalk, though, and we’re a bit put off by that.

I know you have a lot of universal energy to work with, and sometimes the flow isn’t balanced or fair. But come on, we’ve been enduring all you have thrown at us for some time now. Don’t get me wrong, I am aware things could be so, so, so much worse. There are people in far worse conditions than us, and I am thankful we have what we have. However, it’s becoming evident we’re on your bad side at the moment – some might even say, unlucky.

We’re generally good people. I am a strong believer that doing good will bring good back to you. I care for stray kittens, I donate to charities, I hold doors for others, I say please and thank you. Even though I wasn’t so good about it in the past, I make every effort to be upbeat and friendly to everyone I meet. Oh sure, I occasionally flip off someone in traffic, or make a snarky comment to someone, but I swear they deserved it. I was just helping you out, really.

So please, Karma, isn’t it about time for an upswing for us? Or could you at least give us some clue as to what we did to piss you off? What kind of reparations need to be made to put us on good terms again?

Dude, I’m turning 30 in just a few days. Let’s not let the next decade start on a bad note, shall we? Thanks.

Sincerely,
Christina & fam.



Warning: Rant Ahead

I don’t mind the occasionally delay or slightly off customer service. But truly bad customer service really gets on my nerves. And today I got to delve into the dark, dusty, evil world of portrait studios. More specifically: JC Penney portrait studio.

In the past, we’ve taken Cordy to Sears for pictures. We had fancy pictures done once, and were quite happy with them, but unwilling to pay over a hundred dollars again for pictures. So Sears it is. They’re generally inexpensive, and the one near us usually has excellent photographers who are patient and creative with our stubborn child. Plus, in the past few years they’ve made some enormous improvements to their backgrounds and props. No longer are you limited to the light blue with wispy clouds or the mottled brown background. Now they use plain white gauze, solid black, and props that weren’t first used in the 70’s. (Although now they could be considered vintage, I guess.)

But Sears has been stingy with the coupons lately, and JC Penney had a good coupon, so we tried them today. Free 8×10, free sitting fee, and $3.99 portrait sheets. Bingo!

We arrived there at 11:45 and decided to make an appt. for 1:30. They advised that those with appts. go first if there’s a crowd, so we thought it best to eat lunch, then come back. I had an interview at 12:30, and hoped to be back with Aaron and Cordy by 1:30. We had other plans for the day as well, so we figured it would be a quick session, a few cute pics, and then be on our way.

I left after lunch, and Aaron ran Cordy in the mall play area for awhile. I called when my interview was over (about 1:45), and he said they were still waiting. It seems having an appointment doesn’t guarantee quick service. He was trying to keep her entertained, or well, at least trying to keep her contained in the waiting area.

When I arrived a little after 2pm, they had just gone into the photography room. I peeked in to see the photographer sitting on the floor with her camera, and Aaron trying to convince Cordelia to sit down. Apparently JC Penney can’t handle taking pictures of toddlers who stand up. However, the photographer was also lacking in creativity – you know, the one trait a good photographer should possess. Because not only did she want Cordy to sit down, she wanted her to sit on a small red spot on the floor! If Cordy wasn’t in the general area of the magic red spot, she would not even attempt a picture.

The problem with this is that mommy was on one side, daddy on the other, and the red spot was on neither side. She would run back and forth between Aaron and I in her version of a hugging game. If we tried to get her to sit on the spot, she jumped up right away and ran to one of us. There were several times she was standing still in the vicinity of the damn spot, but the photographer said Cordy needed to be sitting down.

(Side note: I should have known Cordelia was smarter than this photographer and just wanted out of there. She banged her forehead on the floor twice while we tried to convince her to accept the spot, causing two large red bumps on her forehead. It’s like she knew this was a failed attempt before we started and was trying to save us what was to come.)

Our so-called photographer had no ideas to help with the situation. Finally, I got up and grabbed some props to attempt to lure Cordy to sit down and examine them. It worked for a few snaps of the camera. I kept waiting for the photographer to suggest something new, now that we had a few shots of her sitting, but nothing came from her. No background switches. No different poses. Just, “Can you sit on the red spot, please?”

At the end, Aaron and I moved in closer and held her in place for a few pictures. It was the only way for it to work, and after all, we didn’t have any family pictures.

Afterwards, I expected to view our pictures, like we do at Sears. Instead, we were told “Come back in about a half hour to view them.” Aaron and I looked at our watches, then each other, sighed, and walked away to wait. It was now 2:15 (yeah, 15 minutes of pure hell in the studio room that felt like hours), so we walked around the mall, waiting.

At 2:45 we were back, and they told us the pictures weren’t finished uploading. We were asked to wait, saying it would be a few minutes. Around 3:00, I was getting impatient, and Cordy was nearing a meltdown, as it was now past naptime. I listened to the women working the portrait studio chat about what Lean Cuisine meals they brought for lunch. I gave a sympathetic glance to the woman with two children who had arrived for pictures.

We finally got to view them. Turns out that we spent so much time waiting because they had to create a ton of different “enhancement” options for us to ignore. And we didn’t get to see the plain pictures first, either. We had to look at each enhancement, listen to the so-called photographer rave about how lovely it was, then click to the next one. I was holding Cordy at this point, because she was too tired to stand anymore. The woman asked if I wanted to be able to view the photos online, and I said sure.

I showed my coupon, and placed my order of normal pictures (one was sepia toned, but that was just to hide the red lumps on Cordy’s forehead). She then took her time ringing up the order. At this point Cordy was waving frantically at her, saying “Bye-BYE! SEE-ya!” Clearly Cordy’s limits had been reached, and mine were close.

When I saw the total, I asked for an explanation. “Oh, well, your one 8×10 was free, and her sitting fee was free. You and your husband were each $9.99 for your sitting fees.”

My jaw fell open. “Wait, what? We were only in two pictures at the end, just to help keep her under control!”

“It says right here in the small print, that only the first person’s sitting fee is free.”

“But we weren’t planning to be in the pictures!”

“But you were.” She continued: “Also, the Smiles by Wire service is $4.99.”

“It costs $4.99 to view my photos online?” (Note: At Sears, this is a free service and it take 1-2 days to show up online.)

“Yes, I thought you knew that. Anyway, they’ll be available online in 7-10 days. If you don’t want the service, we’ll need to go back to the computer in the back and change your order.”

At that point, I just wanted out, so I paid and left. The woman asked me “What time would you like to pick your pictures up?” I replied that morning would be best. She then said, “No, I mean between 3 and 7pm.” Oh, sorry lady, I lack the ability to read your mind.

I should also point out at this point that the price of my photographs (not counting the one “enhancement”, which of course cost $14.99) was SMALLER than the price of the sitting fee.

The poor woman who showed up at 2:45 was still waiting with her two kids when we left. I imagine she was probably going to keep waiting, as one of the two (yes, only two!) women working the portrait studio decided it was time for her lunch break. I hope her Lean Cuisine tasted like cardboard.

Our pictures will be ready June 29, and they’d better sparkle with diamond dust for what I paid for them. Oh, and I’m so totally copying the pictures off the internet when I get my e-mail confirmation. You bet I’m getting my $4.99 worth.

My advice for the day: stay far, far away from the JC Penney Portrait Studio, or at least the Eastland Mall location in Columbus, OH. That is, unless you like spending ALL AFTERNOON there, attempting to keep your child entertained just so you can get uncreative, uninspiring pictures.



Queen of Clutter

A certain blogger (ahem, Mrs. Fortune) laid claim to the title of the worst housekeeper since Oscar Madison. She provided proof to back up her claim, although she failed to show the bedroom.

While I adore Mrs. Fortune and would never do anything to hurt our bloggy friendship, I would like to challenge her on this topic. I fully believe I am the worst housekeeper ever. Not only do I have pictures to prove it, I have references as well. My mother would gladly affirm to my title as the Queen of Clutter, and my grandmother and aunts would concur.

And now, the proof. First is the room known as my room. It’s a guest room as well as my sewing/craft room.


OK, you could argue that since it is a craft room, a certain amount of clutter is allowed. The bags and boxes are full of fabric that will someday be turned into little dresses. The tote under the bed contains Cordy’s outgrown clothing I want to put on e-Bay. And this is a room that is upstairs, out of the line of sight of the casual visitor.

But there’s more:


This is my computer desk. It looks particularly bad right now because I am a wee bit (like, say, 3 months) behind in balancing the checkbook. I used to do that every week, entering every receipt into Microsoft Money, then filing the receipts away neatly. Well, having a baby does change everything, they say.

But again you could argue that it’s a desk space – a work area – and therefore can easily become cluttered. Plus, it’s an armoire that can be closed. (or so the theory goes) OK, fine. Then here is my ultimate evidence:


This is the console table visitors see upon first entering our house. We bought it so that we could organize all the crap we tend to drop at the door. Ha. Now we have buried it beneath the crap it was purchased to conquer. Look – the lamp even appears to be crying out for help, drowning in the baskets, books, and clutter.

I could show more pictures, but I think my point has been made. And like Mrs. Fortune, I will refrain from showing my bedroom, because the site of that could eliminate my readership entirely.

While I am embarrassed at the clutter I have, I don’t even know where to begin in cleaning it up. Every few weeks, I’ll sit down and begin in a corner, but soon give up to the enormous task facing me. One day I’ll get it under control.

Is there anyone else brave enough to show off their clutter? Bad housewives of the world, unite!

(Oh, and if I suddenly disappear from here, it’s because Martha Stewart found me, ball-gagged me and is holding me hostage until I come up with a game plan to clean this place up, along with painting the walls and making origami lanterns and my own raspberry jam to serve at a beautifully decorated 4th of July party.)



Why Must She Keep Talking?

Sometimes I wonder if Linda Hirshman likes the taste of her leather Manolo pumps? She’s given another interview, once again attacking her favorite subject: the stay at home mom. She argues that any time spent at home raising your child is a waste of your precious degree. She also claims that in order to have the most power, you need to have only one child max, and stay away from degrees in art. The entire interview is here.

As someone who now works part-time and would love to stay home full-time with my daughter, I totally disagree with Ms. Hirshman. The point of feminism is to give all women choice. We have the choice to work or not to work. We have the choice to study art or study business. (And besides, Linda? Your degree was in Philosophy. I don’t see you CEO’ing any businesses with a degree in that.) We have a say in our reproductive rights. And telling women they should only have one child max, and that child should be put in daycare so you can keep working, is no better than a conservative man telling women their place is in the home, having several children and caring for them.

Yes, I am an educated woman. True, I have a Bachelor of Arts in History, which qualifies me to do little more than spout off facts about British monarchs, but it also shows I went that extra step and have a well-rounded college education. With my education, I have the power to do the most important job in the entire world, more important than any CEO of a major corporation or the president of any university. I have the power to teach my children. I will teach them about tolerance, about equality, and about the value of history and its ability to repeat itself if ignored.

My being out of the work force for a few years to raise my children will not have the catastrophic effect you say it will. I have no ambitions to be a corporate drone. And I do not see how being a corporate drone, a backstabbing, climb-your-way-to-the-top-clawing-and-kicking member of the business world will bring me “influence, honor, compensation, a way of being political and a hand in shaping the world around you.”

You and I, Ms. Hirshman, are clearly from different worlds. You scoff at volunteer work and think a fancy corporate job with a big paycheck is the only way to shape the world. Yet I could point you to thousands of volunteer organizations that, with the help of their volunteers, are changing the world for the better. What can your 3-piece suit job do to shape the world, other than inspire new heights of greed and commercialism?

And where is it written that a woman can’t do great things working part-time? There are many female professors teaching their classes, writing books and attending conferences, all part-time so they can have a greater role in raising their children. Plus, you always seem to leave out the fact that men are also finding a way to stay home with their children now. You say that women are the ones who naturally are forced to care for their children. Well, maybe the real truth is that men have been forced to be the ones who worked, and only now are finding it easier to ask to be stay at home dads. The walls of gender restrictions are coming down for both genders – let’s not limit it to women.

Finally, I pose this question to you, Ms. Hirshman. What is your advice to a woman who works at a daycare and then has children? She is clearly working as you would want her to. Should she put her child in daycare so that she can continue to work at her daycare? Doesn’t that seem just the slightest bit silly?

Linda, quit giving feminists a bad reputation.

***************

Also, please keep those ideas coming for my contest. The deadline is just over a week away, and I could really use a new logo, tagline, or t-shirt!



So Much Potential

First, I’d like to plug Her Bad Mother’s Basement today. There is an anonymous poster there today who really needs some help and advice. If you have the time, please go visit and give her your thoughts.

Second, you’ll notice over the next week that some of my posts are heavy on the introspection. I’m turning 30 on June 21, which has led to me looking back at my life so far, wondering where the turning points were, and where I want to go from here. I hope you’ll indulge me.

***************

Every now and then I complain here about my strong-willed, independent, brilliant daughter. I wonder how I managed to breed such a child, and then I think back to myself, and realize: oh yeah, that’s exactly how I was. Emphasis on was.

I was a child who could best be described as precocious. Stubborn, willful, and amazingly intelligent. I was reading and writing at three years old. I found kindergarten to be boring. I knew I was smart and I was proud of it. I was an only child, who had a large vocabulary, a vivid imagination, and a desire to converse with adults. Forget kids my age – they were too immature for me.

I have few memories of my early years, but I remember the first day of first grade vividly. The teacher told us we were going to learn to read. I already knew how to read! I was going to impress her! She passed out the Dick & Jane books, and asked if anyone was able to read the first page. My hand shot up, and I practically fell out of my chair trying to be noticed. She called on me and I clearly read the first two pages. She then asked me to read the next two pages, which I did with pride. At that point, she got a weird look on her face, stood up, and took my hand, saying “Come with me.”

I was puzzled by her reaction, and wondered if I had done something wrong. She led me out into the hall and told me, “You don’t belong in first grade reading. So you’re going to go to second grade for reading.” I was brought into the second grade classroom and left there for reading, before being returned to first grade for the remainder of the day. I was both excited and embarrassed. Excited to be told I was ahead of others and to have my intelligence validated, but embarrassed to sit there with all of those second graders looking at me funny, and then return to my own class with their weird looks as well. I didn’t feel so proud of myself now.

That year we took IQ tests, and I qualified to spend one day a week in a gifted ed program for the remainder of my elementary school years. There was talk of advancing me one or two grades as well, but my mom refused. I was already 6 years old going on 20, and she saw no reason to speed things up any more than that. I was told I had so much potential – I could be anything I wanted to with a brain like mine, and I dreamed of being an astronaut, or a vet, or a marine biologist. By fourth grade, the standardized tests said I had the knowledge of an average 12th grade student.

In my years of school, though, the primary thing I learned was this: intelligence was not a trait to be admired, and it was better to be only mediocre. My regular teachers refused to call on me often, preferring to focus their attention on underperforming students, and so I learned to raise my hand less often. I would get in trouble for finishing my work too quickly and then finding myself bored, so I learned to slow down and drag my feet.

I was teased and hated by my classmates for getting such good grades, and so I learned to intentionally put less work into what I did. My strong-willed nature was not a good trait for the playground, and so I learned to follow the crowd. The other kids were uninterested in what I had to say, and so I learned to talk about more trivial things, like who was interested in who and which boys had cooties. I had no care for make-up or fashion or girlie things, but by the end of 5th grade I was convinced I was ugly and fat.

The only days I felt like myself were the days when I was in the gifted ed program. There I was surrounded by fellow misfits from the four elementary schools in town, and I was happy to have as much knowledge crammed into my brain as I could take. These kids were easier to talk to, and the teacher, Mrs. Sager, was understanding of our plight.

The gifted ed program ended after 5th grade. I survived junior high and high school, although sadly what I had learned from elementary school stayed with me. I remained mediocre, still smart, but trying to stay out of sight or hide my good grades. My will was broken, and I was insecure, self-conscious, and unpopular, despite my attempts to be otherwise.

Around the time of my high school graduation, I received a letter in the mail. It was sent by Mrs. Sager, but it was written by me. I had forgotten that we wrote ourselves letters in 5th grade, letters to our future selves that we would get when we graduated.

I had to laugh at my poor writing skills – I never was good at handwriting. But the remainder of the letter had nothing to laugh at. My 5th grade self hoped that I was no longer “such a nerd” and hoped even more that I wasn’t “still fat and ugly.” While this person wanted to be an astronaut, she conceded that it was “probably too high of an aspiration for someone like you,” and she was right. I no longer knew what I wanted to do with myself. I had no hopes and dreams beyond getting to college. I ended my letter with, “I hope you can pull yourself together and maybe do something important someday.”

The last line gave me a small glimmer of hope. Even my downtrodden 5th grade self still hoped for something better, and knew that even though I didn’t fit in, I still had some potential in me, somewhere. I held that line in my heart, going to college with no career ideas in mind, but wanting to find my love of learning again. I graduated from college with honors, and I was proud of myself. I have yet to finish my Master’s degree, and may never finish it, since I’m now shifting gears to go back to school for nursing. The lessons of childhood are still with me: I suffer from laziness, I struggle with putting as much work into something as I should, I don’t think of myself as all that smart anymore, and my self-image remains painfully negative.

But I am making progress, trying to find that girl who was strong-willed, independent, and intelligent. Looking at Cordelia is like looking at the old me. I see her as my do-over of sorts. While I do not want to live my life again through her, I do intend to prevent her personality from being squashed by institutionalism. I am looking at alternative schooling for her, either through Montessori or private school. I want her to see the potential she has and follow it through. As long as I can help it, she won’t don the mask of a false persona crafted by the wishes of those who want her to be more like everyone else. And as annoying as her stubbornness can be sometimes, I remind myself that the alternative can be far worse, and I try hard to encourage her passions and be proud of her accomplishments.

Maybe she will teach me how to find my old self again?

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...