How Marilyn Monroe Almost Sold Me a Cruise to Europe.

Picture this. My kids in bed.  Husband in the other room studying the night away. My bath is taken, my room is clean and I have a pint of super-duper brownie ice-cream waiting for me in the freezer.  It's mommy's night, and since that usually means quiet night at home, so I rented myself an old movie to watch.

It was Gentlemen Prefer Blondes starring Marilyn Monroe. 

See, at the beginning of the movie, I was content with my sleepy husband and outspoken children while living in my rented room and driving a leased car. I was perfectly satisfied with eating chicken on most nights, and pretty okay with my home perm and un-acrylic nails.  My little show dog is as scruffy as a mutt, but he doesn't bark or bite, so I guess he's okay.  My laptop is old, and my television still looks like a giant computer monitor from the eighties. 

My faded pink flannel pajamas lay limp against my plump legs as I pressed play. I dug into my Ben and Jerry's chocolaty concoction and took a bite.

About half way into the movie, the strangest thing happened.  My room looked small, all of the sudden. My wedding ring that I often admired with love, suddenly looked like a piece of glass set in tin.  My carpet looked cheap, and my pajamas felt large and unlady-like. My fingers looked chubby and I lost my appetite for the chocolate. I stared at Marilyn, mouth agape. I wanted to be her! Everything about this movie screamed," You can get any thing or have anyone you want with the right figure and a blonde wig." What happened?

I watched the screen become bigger than life.  I was taken on a journey through diamonds tiaras and a plush cruise to Paris. I rode a platinum blonde ride through a wardrobe of the most beautiful clothes I have ever seen.  By the end of the movie, I hadn't even noticed my husband walking in the room.  I hopped on the internet and started googling international cruise prices and best times of years to go.  By the looks of it, I would have to save up for about five years before I could actually take one, but if I went by myself, I could go in two! 

Parrish the thought, I told myself. I have realized that Hollywood can make anything look grand and beautiful.  Hollywood can sway our thoughts anyway they want to, most of the time.  I am quite content with my life.  I love my family.  I love my job and I love my two mini vacations that my family takes every year, on the Mainland, no less. However, a movie that I sat down to enjoy, just to say I saw it, suddenly made me consider breaking myself to try and buy a glimpse of a life most of us only wish we could have.

In conclusion, I am the public; For a second I allowed the media to dictate to me whether or not my life was good enough, and I have decided to shake it off, and deny Hollywood the pleasure of turning me into a mindless dummie that allows the media to tell me what to wear, where to go and how to live my life.

 Movies are fun, but believe me when I tell you, if you don't know how to draw the line between real life and fantasy, you may not want to watch them for a while.

Facebook: The Era of Acceptable Stalking

There was a time where the actions that we take on Facebook were socially awkward. Reaching out to a long lost pal. Looking up, then staring at a profile picture of your ex, who was now happily married, proud parented and is successfully putting your ideas about how you are better off without them to shame.

 Myspace and Facebook have not only changed the way we catch up; It has changed the way we get together, vacation, go to school, look at school, how we date, how we bully, how we vent and and even how we lose weight. (Ever see obnoxious, real-time-all-the-time updates to the point where you have to hide someone because, ENOUGH ALREADY!?)

Even larger than life corporations are using the social network as a way to cut corners with the background check. ( “Screw paying for a background check! Check Facebook, Bob! Well looky here…..this person finds the government bailout despicable and they hate corporations that take advantage of the small people. Well, we took advantage of the bailout, therefore this idiot isn’t the right fit for our organization. See ya, Jerry No Job!” )

Yes, this is sadly happening everyday to some ding-dong that hasn't figured out how to use the privacy settings.

Yet, what about us self-proclaimed normal people, that out of the blue want to check up on an old bestie from like, seventh grade? Or let curiosity get the best of us and decide to check up on an old boyfriend or girlfriend from a time where Casey Kasem was announcing a new single by a fresh new face named Vanilla Ice? (Doh-doh-doh-doh-doh- doh-dum) What about that crazy person that everyone knew would end up in trouble or dead? Were you right? How did they turn out? We can now take passing curiosity to the next level, thanks to social networking.

In the past, going through the trouble of finding these people was weird. We used to have to wait until high school reunion time to find out our burning questions.  We are now becoming obsessed with finding our past and even worse, leading them to believe we have these perfect lives that look just like our profile pictures. Anyone we think of from the popular cheerleader to the technerd from chemistry class, we will look them up, and then request them as a friend. With Facebook, it really is the more the merrier. I almost feel like I have to be embarrassed that I only have 60 friends. I mean, out of those 60 people, two are celebrities I don’t know, and a handful of them I speak to on a daily basis. Others, are my grandparents, that help make up the small population of "friends" that I have on my page. 

Oh, but Whoah! I see some of my friends with three and four hundred people on their page. It’s unreal to me! I mean, I have moved around a lot, and I am not really the keep-in-touch type, but four hundred friends? How do you keep up? Good grief, how many feelings do you hurt around Christmas time? Where did you have time to cultivate all those relationships? Is it now normal to keep in touch with every person you have ever come in contact with? I don’t know. I always felt like I had just enough friends, as I am some what of a loner, but thanks to Facebook, I certainly feel like I am doing something wrong.  May be I should have brought some cookies to the office meeting.  May be I could have been a little nicer to the kids in band. I mean, compared to some people, sixty friends is below standard.

Facebook has also become the ultimate Diss-Machine.  The worst feeling in the world is to be deleted off a “friends” page. It is the highest form of insult. A slap in the face. Delete or be deleted, if you are in a tiff with someone. Oh, you don’t want to get deleted first. There is no acceptable retaliation for it.
See, on Myspace, the ultimate insult was getting moved from a top spot. The value of your friendship was based on how many pictures down the row you were, and if you got moved, heads were gonna roll! You know I moved someone down from first to third place on my top friends list once, (hello, we are talking adults here) and the next day I was completely deleted from their account and they wouldn’t talk to me. HELLO! When we made up, we accepted each other as a friend again, but it was never the same. I never made it to his top twelve, and I was too stubborn to let him be on mine. Needless to say, the friendship totally changed. Facebook?  You simply get deleted.  Enough said.  And there is nothing you can do about it.

I experimented last week, and decided to find some old friends from eighth grade. That’s right. I got caught up. Well, to my surprise, the one I thought hated me not only wrote back but she added me as a friend. The ones that I was really close to never replied. Go figure! Was I insulted? You bet your mama I was! My feelings, my tangible, grown-up and sophisticated feelings were all butt-hurt because my eigth grade buddies didn’t write me back! I mean, it could have been because my last name is different, my face is a lot clearer, more defined or may be they plain just didn’t remember me. It is also a possibility that they thought it was completely weird for me to contact them after, um fifteen years, to say hello, remember me? Let’s be friends! Well, I will tell you, I ain’t doin’ that again! I have learned, thanks to the Facebook experience, that I do not handle cyber-rejection well AT ALL. I mean, I’m over it, however I do still wonder if they do ever get back to me, will I retaliate by not replying? Will I resist the urge to start looking for more people to contact through their lists? Am I becoming a Facebook stalker? I think not! I have learned my lesson, honey! I am going to stick to using Facebook to blast out random thoughts and talk to my cousins and family members that live elsewhere, and keep it at that. Case closed. Until next time……………

The Hair

Picture it. Dallas, 2010 on a cloudy and muggy June morning. A young woman with a hot mess of a bird’s nest on top of her head walks up to me, and in a deeper than Barry White’s voice, she asks me ”Who does your hair?” Her accent sends out a microburst of Russia.

Of course, I am flattered, as my extensions are soon to expire and my quirky mixed girl style is slowly transitioning in to the Baby Jane, where my curls creepily stay still like old Barbie doll hair.

I look at my desk, mounds of paper piling up, my phone ringing off the hook with clients asking the same obvious questions day after day, then saying things like,”Oh, that’s right. I’m such an idiot! Hah. Sorry to bother you!”

Really? They aren’t sorry at all. They believe my direct line is for their personal use so I can bail them out of a stupid mistake that they don’t want their bosses or clients to find out about. Just another day at Big Huge Bank of Nunya.

Anyway, I took a sip of my coffee, which at that time felt like a warm cup of hug. I don’t drink, so there is no after work martini for me. My coffee is the drink that puts me back on track, and boy you wouldn’t like me if I don’t get it in the morning. There have been times where my husband drove like his grandmother to get me to work, sacrificing Starbucks on the way leaving me a choice of break-room sludge or nothing. I wouldn’t dare touch the coffee in the break room. Not after seeing Busted and Disgusted, that creepy TV show that just gives us all more stuff to worry about while eating in our day to day environment. Just the thought of one of our many disgruntled workers peeing in the Joe or something worse keeps me from trying the coffee.  I ended up going a whole six hours, head ache and all, without my coffee. I think that was the day I made a bee line for the parking lot exit, cutting off one of my co-workers, who has been giving me stink-eye ever since.

Twelve instant messages, five files and twenty one sips later, I see Deep Voice, purposely walking by my desk several times before I notice MY hair on her head!   She just ran out and bought the closest thing she could find to my weave!  On top of that, she was wearing it all wrong.  She didn't even bother blending the faux hair with the real hair. She just kind of threw it together even thought the sleek and shiny new hair contrasted with her dull and frizzy mane. She didn't seem to mind that you could see all of the tracks.  So wrong. Tracks and bonds that show are a no-go. An absolute don’t.

She kept walking past my desk and flicking it off her shoulder like a little black girl that is obessed with her newly permed hair. I remember my first hair relaxer, so I have been through that phase, where I couldn't beleive my hair actually moved and swung with the breeze(at least until the new growth came in.  At that point, I was back to  looking like  Janet Jackson when she was Penny on Good Times.  Thanks to my mother’s lack of maintenance skills, as she had good hair, and didn’tunderstand my nap-factor, my locks didn’t even make it a week before they began to look like shredded wood.)

Moving on; this heifer was prancing around the office, new outfit, my hair and way too much make-up on totally attempting to outdo my Do! Now, this may be immature, but no matter how old or how classy you think you are, a girl/lady/woman/elder/duchess/queen/empress/Condoleezza Rice never takes it lightly when a woman steals her style, then attempts to make it better. Even if they don’t succeed at making it better. Look, I don’t care who you are, the little child in you will moonwalk its way into your head causing you to get extremely annoyed. Now, nothing is more flattering than imitation, right? However, that is only if the imitation is a gesture of a compliment, not a result of spying on someone’s digs, then duplicating and pretending it was your own! I will be straightening my hair, or cutting it all off ala Halle Berry cirque Boomerang. Hah! I would like to see you pull that one off, Miss Barrywhite!

Then a small, still voice says,” Is it really that serious? I mean, what is the matter with you? Are you on something? May be we should skip the coffee today. “

And I realize, I was thinking out loud, and the voice is real. It was my husband, who on many occasions has caught and rescued me from my vivid daydreams before I cross over into insanity.

My Worries about the Food Guys.

Is there anyone else who, for crying out loud, who is worried about the Foodies on the Travel channel and Food Network?  You know the ones; Charismatic, funny and bold?  They are all about the attention, and even more so: THE FOOD.  We sit back, with our American mouths watering, envying every moment that one of these Foodies gets to taste the sweetest, most savory, crispiest or some other extreme form of grub.  We promise ourselves and those who are watching with us, that one day, we are going to travel down to Fay's Diner in Chatmookansas to taste her world famous, hole in the wall, cherry-cream-spicy-bacon cake.  As the Foodies tell us how much we "gotta try it", we eat up every word, go to the kitchen and get something to snack on.  Hey, if we can't get our hands on Delia's Famous Fried breakfast wrap, at least we can have a crunchy bowl of chips to pass the time. 

I do this.  My husband and I sit during dinner, with our children, and watch the Foodies tease us with dreams of pineapple turnovers and barbecue that will make you slap your knees because it's just that great.  We all wonder if there is a location here in our own state, and can we possible make a trip there for the weekend.

Well, today while I was eating my homemade beef stew, Adam Richman joined me for dinner by taking on the Great Taco Challenge at Uncle Julio's or Mama Tia's or wherever he was.  I lost my appetite.  It wasn't because it was disgusting to see him shoveling mounds of dead meat and cheese into his mouth, his eyes glazed over with insanity. It was because I wondered how much can the human system take before it begins to break down?  I mean, I don't know all the details as far as how long this guy has been eating mounds of greasy fried stuff for a living or how many laxatives he takes to get the stuff out.  I just know that I see at least three or four episodes everyday, where he tackles challenges that include pounds of fried meat, smothered in globs of thick and creamy sauce and then washes it down with....vitamins? Celery? Fresh spinach? Nah. How about another challenge, where even the pigs are looking in the window asking him to slow down?

  I mean, I can see if once a year, he ate a whole turkey or polished off a rack of lamb, without any help. I don't see how it is humanly possible to go on and make a living from inhaling enough meat to feed a lion for a month, on a regular basis.  You would be delusional to think that if this guy keeps on, we will not see him on the news because he landed himself in the hospital while choking on a piece of livestock.  Now, of course I don't want to see that happen to the poor goof ball, but we tend to not think about television personalities as real people.  They are just entertainment. Not so.

 I think about what that guy goes through on the toilet after a round of habanero chicken wings with no chaser. It's unimaginable.  Do you see what I am saying?  Dear Adam,  I think your show is great, however I would like to see you on a quest to look for the most savory, scrumptious and biggest orange or banana once in a while.  Yes, it would be boring, but I bet you need a colon cleansing like nobody's business.  Does anyone else agree? I mean, I wouldn't watch it, but I would feel better if I knew at least one episode was dedicated to a vegetable rather than doing another pursuit of the tastiest artery-clogger on a stick.

Diet by Default

             

                                                     
So today, they were having a going away party for a beloved member of the staff who is starting a new adventure. Good for her. I only met her a couple of times, but she was pleasant enough, so I decided to support her by having a piece of her cake.


Well, I had a load of work to do on my desk. Literally, my cubicle looked like Chicago skyscrapers of paper. About this time, I usually get attacked with a sweet-tooth and can’t get to the vending machine fast enough, so this good-bye cake was perfect.

I walked over to crowd of people hovering around the guest of honor and her massive cake. She was slowly opening presents and reminiscing about the good times and how excited she was about moving on to a new adventure. I thought it was sweet, however , I really wanted a piece of cake, and I could feel the tug of waiting emails and impatient clients needing their Friday answers to whatever deadline they had and yada yada.

I stood there in the background, no one noticing me, as I literally sit in my tiny corner of the world, an occasional gust of wind and a tumble week passing by. I liked the quiet, but for as much work as I do, you would think they would at least remember my name. If I wore a different wig to work, I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked for my ID. That is how popular I am.

I waited and waited for the cake, starting to feel like I was in a soup line. Great, she finally finished going through her gifts, and was now cutting the first piece for herself. Aww. That’s nice. Very sentimental.

Then it was on to the next lady who took over cutting bite sized pieces for everyone. She cut slowly, dipping the knife in a lukewarm cup of water every single time. Ok, eew. She didn’t even wipe it off. May be it was just water, but it looked weird and cloudy. It’s like when Starbucks stirs your drinks for you with a spoon they took out of a bowl of sanitizer. Ok, thanks for being clean, but about a teaspoon of sanitizer went into my drink because you didn’t wipe it off, idiot.

At this point, my stomach started grumbling, as I have had this cake before, and it wasn’t half bad. They got the same cake for birthdays and any other celebration that happened in the building. I watched in agony as Slowpoke continued to cut and dip and cut and dip. Then came the turning point, my good manners threatening to walk out on me.

She laughed and giggled directly over the cake, not only making her cut even slower, but allowing her laughing-bi-particles to fly right on top of the frosting. Okay, forget it! I didn’t even want it anymore, after that. Just forget it. I will pretend I had some willpower to say no to this carb-a-licious treat, when in actuality, I just didn’t feel like torturing myself with every bite, wondering if Slowpoke’s drool was on it!

Attack of the Man with Ice Cream Cone

I was driving on the freeway, coffee in the console, radio blasting the Good News and my air conditioner gently reminding me that I am quite fortunate to have it.


I get to the bottle-neck, where my exit turns into yet another freeway, and out of the blue, some idiot with an ice-cream cone zooms by to pass me on the shoulder, almost swiping my car. Apparently he had ticked off some of the other drivers because all of the sudden this Dallas traffic jam turned into New York City during rush hour.

I turned off The Good News, as I didn’t feel worthy to listen to it as all kinds of crazy thoughts flew through my head. I wanted my own revenge, hopefully getting a chance to cut him off or drive by and wrinkle my nose at him in disgust, but that’s all. I moved here from L.A., and even I know not to get too involved in road rage drama, as it can turn deadly at any given moment. Oh, and I could never yell out of the car window. No way! I just think screaming out of a car window is so tacky. You can’t even hear what the person is saying, especially if your window is up. People who scream out of car windows look like angry Mimes with no make-up on.

So as this maniac proceeded to try and get in to where the bottle neck was becoming wider, he took a dramatic lick from his tiny ice cream cone! What? Is he serious? I had a good enough look at him to see that he was a large, hairy, dark man, like Stromboli from Pinocchio. The windows on his big, stupid pick-up weren’t tinted. Everything about him was Huge. Huge tires. Huge hands. Huge head. Huge beard.

Tiny ice-cream cone.

Finally, the traffic crowd rebelled and refused to let him in. It was my turn to get my revenge. I planned to speed up so there was no space between me and the other car. You know; not let him in as he pathetically sat on the shoulder of the freeway wondering why he was getting the cold-shoulder (pun intended). I decided to turn my radio back up, as I wasn’t angry anymore because apparently this idiot was getting what he deserved. I calmed down just as Pastor Christopher asked his congregation where the love was. Now I really felt bad, so I decided to let this ice-cream licking bandit go ahead of me. The people behind me beeped their horns in disgust as I betrayed them, but I didn’t care. Stromboli learned his lesson, I thought.

I watched him get in front of me, didn’t even waive me thank you. Jerk.

Then I watched him obnoxiously speed up and cut someone else off and he flung the ice-cream cone out of the window! Well, if this isn’t justice I don’t know what is; the ice-cream cone landed right on the windshield of a Dallas police car. Telling from how fast that police car pulled that moron over, I can tell you, he probably wasn’t listening to Pastor Christopher on the radio!

How to Deal with a Difficult Boss | eHow.com

How to Deal with a Difficult Boss eHow.com

Tell it like it is, Sister! Honest or Hurtful?

By The Sour Cupcake, Formally Known as Patilla the Hun.

I used to believe I was the original rebel. In my head, I was the only person in my circle of associates that could really “Tell it like it is”. I used to have a very thick skin, or at least people thought so. I breezed through life accidentally offending at least 75% of the people I came into contact with. The other 25% didn’t take me seriously because either they were related, or they really didn’t hear what I had spewed out.

Years of losing friends, debates over nothing and losing my voice defending the horrid comment I let crawl out of my mouth, I realized that there may be some confusion as to what “telling it like it is”, is really about.

I used to pride myself on being a tough chick, able to verbally spar with anyone who comes my way. I was ready and willing to voice my opinion without weighing in the consequences of my choice words. My bad habit caught up with me, but not without devastating casualties and severances I still regret.

Soft skills. Soft skills. Soft skills. Yuck!

I loathe those words used together with a passion; because I feel like my whole life, I have been told I really need to work on my soft skills. That is until I started working on them. Soft skills began to allow me in to a world that I had no idea know was there. Holding back was a new form of making friends, for me. People that knew me from my fight years really don’t believe I am capable of taking a different approach to adversity. They have never seen that side, and won’t even give me a chance to show it, but I can’t blame them one bit. They do, and might always view me as a brute out to conquer anyone that has an opinion that may hold more water than mine. It is a repercussion of having such a big mouth.

The Bible says,” Keep reminding them of these things. Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value, and only ruins those who listen.” (2 Timothy 2:14).

Well that sucks for me! I can’t even begin to think about all the damage I had done by not getting my mouth under control. How far I could have been by now had I just not had to have the last word. I had to be brutally honest and prideful to the point of pure insanity.

Ah, but this new discovery I have come across, that was always right in front of my face and in the words of my loved ones who on more than a million occasions have tried to tell me the truth about what it was really like to be on the receiving end of my wrath. I discovered that my definition of fake was wrong, too.

I tried smiling for no reason. Saying “hello” to people as they walk by. Striking conversation with people in line at the grocery store instead of huffing and puffing the whole time because the old lady in front of me is slowly writing a check. I had no idea how much more pleasant a day could be from just being nice. It wasn’t fake. It was congenial.  I learned fake is a word that should be reserved for faux furs or Paris Hilton's reality shows. Not for people that know how to hold their tongue and smile even when they are in a hostile environment or around people they don’t like. What an art it is to be around someone you don’t care for, but still smile at them and ask them how they are doing? How could I have mistaken that as a weakness? It’s actually a very underestimated strength!

The other view on this subject is how the other Brutes and Brutettes look in my eyes.  I certainly don’t want to call the kettle black, because I have been the Brutette almost my whole life, but as I began to calm down and see the light on this subject, say less and listen more I realize that force feeding others with my dislikes, my irritations and my opinions not only made me a very hard to get along with, but they outright put me on offense with everyone. People automatically expected to have an unpleasant situation arise when I was around, so they tailored the guest list when I was invited. They planned around me or they simply stop inviting me so there is no “drama”. That is another word I absolutely can’t stand because in my world, it never applied to the theatre. Only the theatrics of the aftermath of arguments or wars with the old me.

I detest Karl Marx and everything he stood for, however he made one comment that I believe sums up my opinion of the lesson I have learned, and continue to learn on a daily basis. “Last words are for fools that haven’t said enough!”

That statement is just so profound. I don’t remember the last time I was able to walk away from a challenge. I think I have always gotten the last word, and I have always felt empowered for a little while. The harsher the words, the better, I always thought. I went for the jugular, not really caring about the last word, but wanting to see the emotions that my own words could stir up, the last words usually being something so hurtful that the other person so shocked that I would even go there, that they couldn’t say anything, making it seem as feel like I got the last word. How awful is that? Having to rip someone’s heart out so that you can feel instant gratification, then inevitable remorse later on when you realize the destruction you have caused. How atrocious!

That is the worse about the “Tilii” (Tell It Like It Is) type. Being real doesn’t have to be that person who has no tact or no feeling on what they blurt out or who they blurt out, for that matter. That is a straight up Brute. A Real person is one who doesn’t sugar coat, but says no more than needs to be said. They speak to help, not for effect or reaction. They say things because they feel that what they are saying will create a solution without cutting corners or taking too much time. Are you the Tilii type? If so, ask yourself this question: When is the last time some good came out of you Tiliing it?”. If nothing but arguments, dissension and bad blood come from your comments or back-handed compliments, it’s time to re-evaluate your position and get a new personality. I did, however I still feel the backlash of my word-throw up days and sometimes I have to get downright defensive to defend myself as an outcome once in a blue moon, but as I heal move forward and make new friends, I realize I never want to go back to that time where I was the girl that didn’t get the invite because I had no balance and no tact, and almost no friends.

A Sour Discovery as I Test Myself as a Real Writer

                                    

There is nothing worse than having Writer’s Block, especially when there is a deadline due. Recently, an editor from an independent publisher contacted me and asked that I write an article about something simple. No more than 500 words. Not a big deal. I am half way through with finishing a novel I am working on, so I can safely say, this small article shouldn’t be a big deal. Well, not only do I have Writer’s Block, but I have tunnel –vision because I am sick of staring at the computer screen.

When I was growing up, I would scribble and doodle in my journal, no problem. I would beg the teacher to give me Language Arts homework, as it was my favorite subject. I would ask other kids if I could finish their homework (probably so they would be my friend, but also because I loved Language Arts). I love the art of writing. It’s not just a hobby to me. It is my soul passion that I am trying to turn into a full time career. I admired the work of fiction authors like Charles Dickens and Judy Blume as a child. Those were writers that had nothing but brains and paper to work with. Their ideas were original and they had voice, and they did research the old fashion way with dictionaries, encyclopedias and of course, life experience. They had talent that brought them great recognition in the world of literature and beyond. The writers of those days had to literally go through something to write well about it, not just look it up on Bing, and then re-word it to avoid plagiarism. Things have changed so much. Just about anyone can write, blog or even publish a book if you have three grand and a finished product.
When I began getting serious about my writing, in my young adult years, I realized I only really needed half the effort, as search engines like Google became a wealth of more information than I could have ever wished for. If I wanted to sound smart, I could simply go to Dictionary.com and snatch a synonym.

 If I wanted to write a biographical article, I just needed to read enough of Wikipedia to get the information I need to start a base and “work” my way from there. I wondered; Was I a real writer or a talented SEO artist?
I am a real writer and I wanted to prove it! I decided to go to the library and get information the old fashion way, then go sit in a field and journal my findings. I was going to get the information I need to write about what I was asked to. You know what happened? I realized how spoiled I was, and my journey to proving to myself that I was in fact, a real writer, started to get tiring. I actually didn’t mind forsaking the quest to figure out whether I was a real writer or not. I will call myself a writer and save my ankles a few tick bites. Let me at least explain why I gave up so quickly.
First of all, the library smells. It doesn’t smell like paper and ink, like you hear in the movies. It smells like people and children whose parents brought them directly from the playground into the library. Librarians aren’t mousy little women with horn-rimmed glasses. They are uptight, silver haired conservatives itching to charge you a late fee and give you advise on taking more books than you can handle.
Dictionaries? Boring! My hands got dry just from turning the pages, and I wouldn’t dare lick my finger in public while touching a public book that someone probably sneezed in.
I got writer’s cramp from trying to journal and take notes, and the stupid little pencil I was using started to get dull. I was used to my trusty Notepad application on my laptop. That never ran out of ink. I finally settled down to do my “research” for the article, so I could proudly say that I was a real writer that liked to do things the old fashion way. I got antsy and couldn’t stop thinking about googling up a couple things to make it easier. I just sat there, turning pages and half way reading what I would find, my brain not retaining one ounce of information. Writer’s Block had completely taken over my session, and I had no creativity of my own to put down on the paper. When I did build a little momentum, it quickly diminished as I attempted to brave my way through physically writing it. My eyes were getting heavy and I was getting cold from sitting right under the air vent. The sound of people whispering was so loud they may as well have been talking. I tapped the pencil on my head, played with the glasses on my face, and started thinking about what I was going to make for dinner and how time was running out for me to get my article done.

I finally decided it was not the time to get all noble to make a point that I was quite sure that no one cared about anyway. Face it, times have changed. I may not be Dickens, after all. I am accepting that I am a modern writer that knows what a real typewriter looks like only because I can easily pull up the images online. I don’t have to paper-cut my way through the dictionary to get the meaning and spelling of a word I don’t really know how to use. I can simply right click, and not only get the correct spelling, but about ten other words that sound better. I may have a laptop instead of a legal pad, and a voice-recorder instead of a journal, but I am still a writer, and I always will be. I seem to have it easier than the writers of old, but I certainly won’t take away from the fact that they not only worked harder than writers today, but they thought harder too, and their Writer’s Block was well deserved.

That Hot Guy is With the Fat Chick?

Day four of my jog-regimen almost didn’t happen. I have been in Texas almost three years, and I still get unsettled by clouds that don’t look white and cottony. I begged my husband to turn around as I swore I could see a funnel.

He refused and pulled in to the lot of the park. As usual, the storm wasn’t really a storm. My imagination was working overtime as I began to look for places I could take shelter in case the tornado came out of nowhere and I was still jogging. It ended up being just a little good morning shade that passed about a half hour into my work out. The sunshine came through, and I thankfully huffed and puffed along the trail, wondering why I am still so paranoid about the weather.




I started feeling a sense of accomplishment as I actually ran more than walked this time. My husband passed me by twice, gleefully throwing in my face the comment I made last week about him laying around, eating chips and watching movies. I had bet he wouldn’t last a minute on the track, blah-blah. Well, he proved me wrong, and was now on track to hit his goal of literally running circles around me on the field.
Fast forward to the end of my lap, where ahead I could see him stretching near a tree, because all of the sudden, he is Flo Jo. I admit, I was annoyed as I remembered how he thought going to the park to work out was lame and wasn’t too in to it, and now he was bending and reaching for the stars like my old P.E. teacher. Well, as I was looking, I also noticed a pair of cougars prowling nearby. They walked and babbled until they got to his tree, where they made it extremely obvious that he had their attention. They slowed down, and then slowly kept walking, but this time backwards. I mean, how clear can you make it that you outwardly wanted this man’s attention? May be I was more sensitive because it was my oblivious husband they were honing in on, but did they not realize that they were literally acting like east coast construction workers? Did they care? I continued to walk forward, a little more pep in my step as I felt the adrenaline begin to come back in an immature attempt to get my body ready for a fight, when I silently coached myself to calm down. There was no need to make a scene or anything. After all, they didn’t know he was with me. It’s not like they were trying to be disrespectful. Him and I don’t even walk together, so how would they know? They were simply acting like they normally would if a handsome and virile man were to pass by their den. Like he was the last man on earth, I suppose.



My next question was what in the world were they doing here, anyway? I purposely came to this park because it was Old People territory. I could walk in peace and no matter how chubby I am, I am still cute in Old People territory. May be because I had come by myself or with the kids before, I didn’t notice how many apparently desperate woman come in the morning as well. I was wrong. Maria Shinypants ditched her Richard Simmon’s get-up, and came to the park today in Daisy Dukes. And now, I have the Cougar Twins, who don’t look too much older than me, trying to ESP their mating calls to my husband. This is insanity.

The bright side is, I will seriously be making a point to go to this park everyday with The Popular One, to keep the cats at bay. The downside is that I can’t believe I still get mad about something I should actually take as a compliment? I genuinely felt bad as we left that I would even fathom the thought of provoking an altercation with two women, who were in much better shape than I, let me say. I mean, who gets mad about that stuff at my age? I sometimes wonder why this “fight” in me doesn’t leave as I have gotten older. I swear, society and age has calmed me down quite a bit, may be even left me a little less honest than in my hay-days where nothing would get by without me making some brutal comment about it, then daring anyone to challenge me. Yet sometimes, that “fight” still rises up, and I will use any excuse to execute it. Some people are naturally calm, like my dear and fabulous husband. Some people have to talk themselves out of doing really stupid things, because that is just their first reaction, like me. I guess it's just how I am built, and I work on getting better everyday.

Those are just my thoughts. For now, I would like to keep my dignity and stay out of jail, so I have decided to do myself a favor and lose some more weight so they won’t be so shocked when the fat chick gets in the same car as Don Juan.
(Please refer to my article, “Insecure or Self Aware", if you feel that I have an issue with self-esteem.  I'm just being honest.)

The Text-Messaging Jogger

I often go to the park in the morning. Okay, I am exaggerating. In a month or two, I will be able to say that. For now, today is the second day I have gotten up at the crack of 7 to go jogging. My husband reluctantly agreed to go with me, but only after watching me try to squeeze in to a pair of stretch pants. Bah-Dump-Bump.

Well, we chose a park that is gorgeous to look at and even more beautiful to walk through. In the morning, an eclectic group of patrons walk the park trail that is exactly one mile around. Along the way, the wildflowers harmonize with the emerald green field covered with crystal morning dew. The trees are tall and mature, and provide shaded canopy along the way just in case you need a break. Older couples sip fresh coffee as they power walk together, and Aqua-Blue-Shiny-Pants Lady who doesn't speak English breezes by me, but slows down a little when she passes my husband up ahead (Didn't think I noticed that, did you, Maria?!)

It is like exercising in the land of OZ without those annoying little Munchkins all around. You can almost hear the wild life all around singing,"You're out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night...."

The route is breath-taking. There are three small farms along the trail. I make sure I say good morning to the horses and ponies in the nearby field. I can hear the sheep try and answer for them, even though they are usually hiding behind the chicken pen. Roosters boldly walk out of the pen, hoping one of us can spare a few corn kernels. Then there is me. And Text-Message Guy.

So, this man, Text-Message Guy, walks at a fast pace, fully dressed for a marathon. At first, from behind, I thought he had a cup of coffee in his hand. Upon catching up with him, I realized it was one of those iPhones. He decided to slow down to my pace, making it look like we were walking together, which was pretty irritating, but he never looked up from his phone. No matter what my pace was, I couldn't get away from this guy. You know what? He never put the phone back in his pocket. Never looked up. Never even made a call. He just walked the entire mile, smiling and giggling to his screen. The last quarter, I was forced to actually run, because I was tired of co-piloting with him. My husband, who can run a mile in under eight minutes, impatiently waited for me near our car as I realized I had spent my entire run wondering why Text-Message guy had so much activity going on. I was annoyed, but it became a game as I wondered when he was going to come up for air. He never did.

As I came off the course to get in the car with my more than annoyed husband, I stared as Text-Message guy continued on to do another mile. I bet he never knew I was there! As for Maria Shinypants, oh, I will be watching you, my pretty. And your swingy, little pony-tail, too!

25 Things that Only a Born and Raised New Yorker Would Understand.

Here's for you, Rad-Pa Mike. :)
1.  Alley cats and alley ways.  Good for baseball, racing and red-rover.
2.  Steamy pot holes and rusty fences.
3.  Women dressed to the nines until you get down to their feet, where they are wearing the latest pair of running shoes.
4.  Stick Ball and Hand Ball
5.  Dancing and jumping around in the middle of the street, enjoying high-pressured water from a broken fire hydrant.
6.  Sitting on a strangers stoop with the crew, occasionally moving over to let the resident in.
7.  Older ladies in colorful lawn chairs sitting along the sidewalk, every day until dusk.
8.  Candy stores that smell like Curry and sell more magazines than candy.
9.  Neighborhood rivalries and rumbles.
10. Hearing "Shut up!" and "Make me!" yelled out of random windows over the constant honking of the taxi cab.
11. Illegal merchants boldly selling beaded jewelry and black market tapes, Cd's and DVDs on the street. 
12. Everyone knows at least one guy named Jimmy, Joe or Mikey.
13. The Botanic Gardens in Brooklyn.  Paradise in the middle of the concrete jungle.
14. Apple juice and Popsicles during hot summer days at Central Park.
15. Christopher Street and Gay Street
16. Jewish men dressed in black suits with perfect curls respectfully bouncing under their black fedoras.
17. Everywhere else, you have black, white and Hispanic.  In New York, you have Jamaican, African, Italian, Greek, Jewish, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Costa Rican, Cuban, Irish, Iranian, Lebanese, Japanese, Chinese, Korean and so on.  People keep their very identities in New York.  It is a salad bowl rather than a melting pot.
18. Cab drivers that are willing to run someone over to get you where you need to go, and aren't ashamed to ask you for a tip, then let you know if it was good enough.
19. Coney Island and Astroland! Ride at your own risk.
20. Entire apartment buildings that smell like Spanish rice or spaghetti and meat balls.
21. YO!
22. Hanging out in "The Village" on the weekends.
23. Being jealous of the rich girls from Long Island
24. Money doesn't get any older than The Hamptons
25. No one calls Roter Rooter.  They call the "Supah" or the "Plumbah"







Good old New York. I lived in Brooklyn for a long time, and I cherish these memories.  No tourist could possibly understand them.

Insecure or Self-Aware? I Say Self-Aware!

Call it insecure, immature or whatever other label you want to throw on it. I call it self-aware. Can you or can you not tell when you are annoying others? Am I the only one that knows when I have over-stayed a welcome, or when I don't click enough to invite myself to dinner?

Look, I have been able to read people all my life. It’s a gift. My sister has it. My mother has it. It runs in the family. Some call it “discernment”. Some label it as being “self-aware”. Too many call it “insecure”. So who’s right? It’s my blog, so I am going to give it to you the way I see it.

Picture this: You call a friend or relative you haven’t talked to in a while, and they don’t pick up. You leave a message. You wait for a call back. They probably didn't feel like talking. Fine. Everyone hates to answer their cell phones these days unless it has to do with money. Text messages are a little more welcomed, but day by day those go unanswered as well. Until someone invents ESP Messaging, texting will have to do.
The friend never calls back. You send an email. No reply. A week later, you get some lame one-liner telling you “sorry, I am so busy I didn’t have time to send you a two second text message to tell you I can’t make dinner.”

May be the message doesn’t really say that, but that is how I read into it.

You feel a little insulted and the next time you see that friend, you are a little colder than before. They ask what’s wrong, you say nothing, and then start explaining anyway. Once you are done and the tiny violin stops playing, they look at you like you missed the short bus.



“What do you mean? I was totally going to call you, why would you think I was avoiding you?” They ask this, knowing you may or may not buy it.

In short, they have manipulated you into thinking you are the insecure one and they are the victim, thus throwing you back into the cycle of doubting yourself when you can clearly see the verdict: You were not important enough to reply to. Period.

Now, was that hard? It’s the same thing when your friends and don't send you don’t get an invite. Constantly planning things with out you and hanging out behind your back. It’s not because they don’t have room. It’s not because they forgot. Here’s my favorite: they did text you but you must not have seen it. I’m sorry, but are we in the 90’s, where cell phone calls dropped like a pregger’s stomach and text wasn’t even heard of? We are in the new millennium where you just can’t use that excuse because it’s a lie. The truth is, you weren’t invited because you're annoying or boring or loud or too honest or whatever. It’s certainly not because they could’t reach you. Whatever the reason is, do you know why, and can you be honest with yourself about it? If you can, you my friend, are self-aware. From here, you can admit it, then change it.

I am that person sometimes. The one that doesn’t get the invites or the calls. The one that is always defending my right to be honest with myself, call myself fat or unlikable, but it’s not insecurity. On the contrary, I have been accused of being arrogant, pushy and anything else that has to do with being too direct for my own good. It just doesn’t bother me. I am somewhat of a loner, and don’t have much patience, to tell the truth. What bothers me, is when I call it out for whatever reason, and I get backlash. For example, a friend of mine invited everyone to a movie. Not me. I asked her how the movie was the next day. She got defensive and said she didn’t want to disturb me or take me away from my kids. Now, how lame is that? I am so sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I told her she should wax her eyebrows more often because she was starting to look like Frida Kahlo. Instead, of telling me I had no tact (and I have worked on this: Love more. Offend less. God is still working on me) she made up some ridiculous excuse when all she had to do was tell me I was a little too abrasive for her taste and we both could have moved on?

You may be that person. It’s okay. Who says being popular is easy, or fun, anyway? I have been that person, too. You know what? There is more stress in being popular. Much more. People expect you to entertain them. They expect you to excite the party. They expect you to not have problems and they secretly pine after the idea that you may not be perfect. Then, when you prove make a mistake, they point disheartened fingers at you because they “expected more”.

Why argue with someone that has had a sudden revelation about themselves? It's a good thing. Here is another example. A girl doesn't want extra butter on her popcorn, and says it's because she is already overweight. Her friends immediately calling her insecure. She knows she is fat wants to do something about it. It’s called not wanting to have an early heart attack, not low self-esteem. And it’s always the pretty ones that want to convince you otherwise. Most Puffaplumps know what they can and can’t wear, as do you. You ever see a large chick at the mall and wonder who told her it was okay to wear zebra stripes? One of her scaredy-cat skinny friends, that’s who. Instead of telling her to put on a beautiful black blouse with some flattering not-too-tight jeans, you told her she was fierce and let her stomp her way out the house looking like some circus side-show. Shame on you! She knew she looked bad, until you convinced her otherwise! (Again, this has been me. I called myself a Puffaplump before, and someone had the nerve to tell me I had low self-esteem!)



I had a friend once that had a voice like nails on a chalk board. Not only that, but she was obsessed with me, always wanting to hang around, wanting me to check in with her, and planning trips for “us” I never agreed to. I felt sorry for her, as she was lonely, but she was lonely because she was annoying. I kept mum, but I silently began to resent her. I ended up blowing up at her one day because she was chewing potato chips with her mouth open, allowing me to hear every detailed and greedy crunch. It was the final straw, but to her shock, she had no idea why I ended the relationship over it. She was hurt, and I felt bad, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her it was because she was irritating the life out of me. To this day she thinks I have Turrets because I wasn’t woman enough to be honest with her the first time she asked me why I hadn’t called her in a week. So guess what? I have been on both sides of the fence.

I’ll tell you what. Let’s all agree, if someone is bugging you, deal with it I am totally for being pleasantly honest and using tact, but if someone can be honest with themselves so they can change for the better, can't you meet them half way, and find a solution to resolve the issue together? Don't deny the issue possibly torching any chance that they may change something that is holding them back.

How to land a job at a Fortune 500 company | eHow.com

How to land a job at a Fortune 500 company eHow.com

Hum Drum Harry's Big Surprise

Once upon an eight hour period, somewhere in Corporate America, where the tie never goes out of style, there was a man named Hum Drum Harry. Hum Drum seemed to not realize that there was a world outside of his cubicle. There were other things to talk about other than paperclips, meetings, bottom-lines and Fico-Schmico.




I walk past Hum Drum every day, hoping he will give me eye contact so I have a reason to spark up a conversation about something other than work. Nothing inappropriate, but anything that proved that he ran on food and not fuel. I needed to know if he was human, or if he was some cephalapod-iRobot corporate mole watching and recording every time I get up for a bathroom break and don't come back until I feel guilty.



Well, one day Hum Drum asked me if I attended the corporate Christmas party. I, of course was startled, and intrigued, and after I composed myself, I answered that I must have missed the email because I wasn't invited. I stared at him waiting for an answer or another comment. It was like watching a game of chess.



"Well, that makes two of us. You know I spend all my time in this @#$#@ place, and no one gives a @#$#$@ about how I feel or if I have a family or @#$#@ and you know what? I'm sick of it! No one appreciates anything I #$#@#$@ do and they'd probably be pretty sorry once I quit!"



Hum Drum turned in to Mo-Joe in like six seconds flat. I was beyond shocked. I was astonished at him! So astonished that I jumped up and gave him a hug. I don't know what I was thinking! It was pure innocence. I was in the moment! He was talking to me and I didn't know how to handle it. This morning, I wasn't sure if this man was a mammal, and come to find out he was ticked because no one invited his droll tail to a party, even though I wasn't sure exactly why he was surprised.



"What are you doing?" he asked, all flabbergasted.



Great, how was I going to play this off? I mean, why couldn't I just answer the question? I am not a touchy-feely person, so I am not sure why my first instinct was to sucker-hug him.

"Harry, I just am so glad....that you were not invited.  I was going to kill myself.... because I thought I was the only one." Where did that come from? Not only did it sound completely psychotic, but it was a lie and I don't lie.  It just came out so dog-gone easy; that's the part that really gets me!

"Harry, I hugged you because you saved my life, Harry." At this point I had repeated his name too many times.



"Well...now, there there," he said. "I need to get back to work, but it was nice talking to you."



And I never spoke to Hum Drum Harry again. He really did quit and I found out he became a bartender at the Spearmint Rhino.

The moral of this story is that if you sit and ponder about a strange and quiet person long enough, you will find out they may not be strange. They may actually be crazy.

Doting Parents: Can you say FPH? (Forced Picture Harassment!)

It has been said that having children is narcissistic. Having little versions of yourself running about like tiny, innocent mirrors. We try and brainwash them with hopes and dreams of becoming President, because they got in trouble at school for being bossy. “He’s a leader!” we exclaim. We see them singing along to a song in the back of the car, we then believe she will be the next Beyonce. They grab a pair of scissors and try and cut the cat’s tail off, and all of the sudden you think the child is destined to become a plastic surgeon. To your surprise, ten years later, the kid is actually the poster-child for the “No kid left Behind” program or some other program that forces teachers to pay a whole lot more attention to the kids that don’t listen in class.


Personally, I think it’s fantastic for a parent to have dreams for their children. If we don’t, who will? Seriously, I am all for putting a positive spin on your child’s life. Raising them with good Christian values and drilling in them the balance of studies first and fun later. I also support an occasional shout out when your child does something great like winning a the science fair or becoming class prez. That’s wonderful, really. What gets on my nerves are obnoxious parents that want everyone else involved in their child’s life. Sending picture after picture to my email about their first steps, their first bite, their first tantrum, their first poop. I don’t really care about when their tooth comes in. That is something only the parents of the child care about, and may be grandparents that have figured out how to use the internet properly. Cousins, distant relatives and friends don’t need a Facebook update every time your child burps the alphabet.

I have seen it time and time again, when a new parent begins to bombard everyone with daily updates on their brat. Do I not have a life? Hey, I popped out two kids, too. I don’t need a cookie and you don’t need to be reminded every ten minutes that my husband and I might do more than just watch movies on Saturday nights. I just don’t think anyone besides my mother or in-laws would really care to be interested in all of the droll details our children’s lives.

I understand you are proud. May be it was a hard conception. May be an immaculate conception. I understand that children are the future, teach them well and yada yada. I just don’t understand why I have to endure boring home videos and countless iPhone downloads of your kid, Miss Co-worker or Mrs. Stranger-in-the-Long-Line-At-Whole Foods. One or two times is okay, even better if the request was on demand, meaning they are not unsolicited. Not okay every time you invite me over, we go out or chat at the water cooler. Am I the only person against FPH (Forced Picture Harassment)? I’d bet anything somewhere out in cyberspace, there are tons of single people that are cheering me on because I have finally stood up for your right to not have to look at other people’s boring family lives.

Let me stress again, I am a mother. My husband is a father. We have kids. It’s a part of life. I love that part. I wouldn’t change it for the world, but an incentive for taking on this mom as a full time friend: No FPH! In the kind of-sort of words of the older George Bush, “READ MY BLOG! NO MORE FPH!”

California is Such a Tease!

Very recently, I was blessed with a four day weekend in Los Angeles.  I sat on the beach and enjoyed candy apples.  I woke up  to fresh eggs, ham steaks and coffee all set up for me in my mother-in-law's perfect, cantina-styled kitchen.  The sound of the waterfall in the back and the smell of the peppermint plants took me back to a time where I thought I would never leave California.  My husband, looking relaxed and happy came bouncing down the stairs all showered and shaven and ready to transform back into a child around his parents.  With our kids at my sister's, it was pure bliss and would only get better as my father-in-law's day-long marinated steaks would hit the grill at dusk for a candle-lit dinner next to the tiny pond in the backyard.

By day three, I dreaded going home.  I got up early and googled apartments and the job market in Los Angeles, quickly being reminded why I left in the first place.  Unless you are a self-made guru of some sort, a starving artist or a professional with an extremely competitive edge (or you know a big importatant someone), you ain't gettin' a job in Cali. 

By day three, the beaches, the Ramen, the sushi and the Boba (oh man! the Boba!) were clearly perks to a perfect vacation, and that's all.  Moving back to Cali is not an option. To make it work, I would have to quit my job, convince my husband to quit his job, enroll my children back into that horrible L.A. school district and I would have to live with my in-laws for a few months to save enough for a deposit for one of the over-priced apartments in the valley somewhere.  Laguna will have to wait until next year.   The only other suggestion I have is for someone to hurry up and give me a book deal, pay me an extravagant advance and sell me a house in Laguna.  Then, I can move back. 

All joking aside though, I would really like to see those commercials with Arnold and his wife enjoying a glass of wine on a sunset dressed mountain-top taken totally off the air.  "When can you stah-hot?", he asks in his pea-soup thick accent.  Really Arnold? Come on Maria. California is a tease!  It's become an untouchable paradise for anyone that moved away or doesn't already live there. For now, twice a year vacations will have to do.

Jot this down: If anyone knows where I can get a decent bowl of real Japanese ramen in Dallas (and if you suggest Pei Wei, I'll hunt you down!) let me know.

Get Rid of The Mustache!

So, my husband is slowly letting what used to be a sexy barely-there mustache grow in to an out-of-work porn star, bar-handle!


I noticed it last night. I usually take forever to notice obvious things, especially if my mind is somewhere else. We will be traveling to California shortly, so that is where all my thoughts are going for the moment. Unfortunately, I am not thinking too much about seeing family. I am thinking more about actually getting some REAL Ramen into my stomach. You know that no one here in Texas has ever had REAL Ramen? It’s insane. I wish someone would open a Ramen restaurant out here.

Anyway, my thoughts have become a phantasmagoria of women that are skinnier than me, ramen noodles and in-laws. Occasionally a Netflix envelope and a bill work its way in to the thoughts, but so far, that’s it. Needless to say, I didn’t realize that he hasn’t shaved in like a week.

As I was taking a collective list of things that need to get done, toiletries that need to be bought, a shirt that needed to match the only pair of flattering pants that I have, and I look up and there it was: “OH! No way! Your last name is Sanchez, which makes it that much worse, so there is no way we are traveling together with that ferret under your nose!

Why do men grow those things anyway? I mean, it wasn’t cute in the seventies, and now a few leading men are bringing it back, but I have no idea why. They throw mustaches on television characters that have grown up or become cops. They throw goat-T on characters that play assassins and guys that are moving up in the ranks in prisons. For the real life, man at home, SHAVE! In fact, for my man at home, SHAVE! The only man in the world that looks okay in a mustache is my Grandpa Mike, and that is only because he really has had it since the seventies. He rocks the Welcome Back Carter look. It’s a comforting. Now, if he shaved, I think the world would come to an end. I have never seen my Grandpa without a mustache, and I don’t want to see it! It’s the only thing from my childhood that hasn’t changed besides my mother’s pea-soup thick Brooklyn Accent.

Look, I work hard. I have a million things that I deal with; my kids, my bills, feeling guilty because I am a devout Christian, but FAAAAAARRR from perfect. . What I don’t want to deal with is my husband slowly beginning to look like he should own a donkey with a sack full of coffee beans slung over his back.

Shave it off, Edgar! I beg you from the bottom of my cynical little heart!

Shave. It. Off!

Diary of a Disgruntled Customer Service Rep

When you call the 800 number on the back of your credit card, or the top of your phone bill, where do you think your call goes? It goes to the community of the Customer Service Reps. First, let me show you a few of the common traits.
This will begin the series of Diary of a Disgruntled Customer Service Rep- Article 1.
The Newbies, Freshmen in the Nest: These representatives are still in their three month probation period, taking a six to eight week training class in a school-teacheresque setting no doubt. They are getting their user ID’s set up, proudly displaying their security badges around their necks, and on time everyday. They tend to be upbeat and excited to “get on the phones!” The senior reps silently reminisce about their own early days, and laugh at the hell the new reps are about to endure. They all have bets on who will last once they hit the floor. (that’s call center talk for going live on the phones).
The Brown Nosers: They came with an agenda based on what they learned in high school, college or from a wise old family member; Get your foot in the door at any Fortune 500 company, and work your way to the top. These reps will agree with anything upper management has to say. The become tattle-tails for supervisors that are too busy with their smoke breaks to actually watch the floor, and they are for sure the go-to guys up for any challenge, always offering to stay late and learn new things, gathering as much information as they can to worm their way into the corporate lime light. Fortunately for them, they will be noticed. Management will notice, and take total advantage, and co-workers will notice and avoid them at all cost. They are the real-life Dwight Schrutes of the corporate world. Inside their manipulative little minds, they believe all the hard work and dealing with arrogant supervisors will be worth the big payoff. Good luck, Dwight. Few and far between have made it past getting promoted to supervisor, because the manager ain’t goin’ nowhere in this economic climate. It may take a while, but before long, you will be sick and tired of the antics of your co-workers and all of your hard work being rewarded with nothing but more responsibility, hence becoming disgruntled.
The Diva: This call-center personality will either serve to irritate you and everyone around you, or to simply make the time fly by constantly making spectacles of themselves and nothing more. A Diva will never, I repeat NEVER, get anywhere in a call center unless they are related to a decision maker. These are the girls (and sometimes guys) that need their hair and nails did, every week, come in to work wearing colors used to flag down airplanes and have a tendency to complain because time-off that was not approved, amongst other things. They too, can be nice at first, but don’t be deceived. If you tick a Diva off, which doesn’t take a lot, you may hear rumors around the office about yourself, HR may give you a call about some form of harassment, and then it will be virtually impossible to get rid of them. Diva’s usually come with buckets full of drama, so you can chose to either get involved or sit back and be entertained. A Diva always puts on a good show. Sometimes, if you sit close, you can get front row seats to a temper-tantrum because they were told they have to work a holiday which will cut into precious “Baby-Daddy-time.”
The Old Betties: These senior citizens come from the old school. These are my favorite call center personality; they have great stories to pass the time, you can tell by the way they dress, they probably started off as operators back in the day where they actually flipped through the phone book for you. Clean cut, solid cotton pants with a flowery, embroidered top. They usually sit together to eat lunch to talk about furniture, gardening and how these young kids don’t really appreciate a good job. I love old people. I just do.
The “Real” Rep: This person tells it like it is, because they constantly have a point to make, no matter how miniscule it is. They confuse “keeping it real” with tactful honestly. They don’t seem to understand or care that no one around them cares about what they think or have to say. Telling it like it is went out with Howard Sterns exit from free radio. It’s rude and annoying, and the boldness wares thin after a while. It’s good to be honest, but there is no need to be honest with call-center friends. You walk in, you play nice and you go home. Unfortunately, for these brutes, their mouth often lands them in the hot seat and tends to bite them in the butt during evaluation time. The tell it like it is type has issues with their self-image, so instead of finding their true niche in life, they shove their made up personalities down everyone’s throat because they read some book or watched some old school hero do it. Please Johnnie, everyone is over it. Take off the leather jacket and stop it already.
Ok, let's wrap up with the types of managers:

The Book, The Sleaze and The Chum.
The Book follows everything to the T. They don’t break rules and bending is not an option. They know that HR handbook like the back of their hand. They have their mind set on one thing, and that is whatever good for the company. No one can stand them…not even their compadres. They probably started out as a Schrute Brown Noser.
The Sleaze: I have dealt with enough of them to know that there is more sleaze than not. This manager is more than willing to help you sleep your way to the top. They are usually married and bored, and run a call center full of fun an exciting opportunities to get their kicks. The sleaze usually plays it low key, but will slowly try to turn you out priming you with a dirty joke here and there to test the waters. The first time you giggle, your done. They will soon begin to move in for the kill, at least until someone goes to HR to report their infamous behavior. ( I have so many stories about The Sleaze, stay tuned). Finally, we have
The Chum: Um, to say the least, the friend is our favorite kind of managing personality, but they are often tortured souls, never being able to fire anyone or address serious issues before it gets too late. They want to please everyone. They look past tardies and turn the cheek at chronic call-ins. They squirm during evaluations and don’t want to be involved in bickering that happens between co-workers. Please don't ever expect them deal with a hygeine issue.  They would rather fire someone than ask them to put on deodorant.  They are loved, but usually put themselves in a bad position and get talked about because they can’t “control” their group. Poor bastards.

In conclusion, I say I have to write more about the behind the scenes setting in a call center. I have seen things you can’t even imagine, including the security guards dragging two people out of the bathroom because of a nooney that obviously couldn’t wait until they got home. I have seen managers walk off the job, FBI escort money launderers out the building, and my personal favorite, the infamous letter that went to the entire company (one of the biggest companies in the World, might I add) from the CEO to the janitor. It contained awful secrets about almost everyone, and insults that would even put Simon Cowell to shame. Even though we were all advised to delete the letter, some printed it and framed it on the wall at home.
May be I will share some of my call-center stories. I have ten years worth of them….Deep down, may be I am the disgruntled Customer Service Rep, after all.  Until next time........

The Ignorant Bliss of a Severanced Fool.

Let me tell you.

I got laid off eight months ago and I thought I had it made. I didn't hang on to my severance and count pennies. I had no intention saving or going back to work for "The Man" right away. I decided to move on to the next phase of my life and enter into a phantasmagoria of crazy get rich-quick schemes- all of which didn't seem that way at first.
First, I ran out and got my insurance license. Then I started writing a book. Or two. Afterwards, I signed up for every in-home, work-in-your-PJ's operator job I could find. I even called Avon but they thought I was a little too cheeky (no pun intended) for the job.
I started a small insurance business out of my house, and with the rest of the money.......I went extrava-impractical. I think even Obama would have told me I was out of line with my spending.

I had the time of my life. My children thought we'd won the lottery. It was the first time I had not worked since I was sixteen and I loved every moment sleeping until noon. I vaguely listened to the news with talks of high unemployment rates, foreclosures and new terrorist threats. When I felt myself getting scared, I changed the channel and watched the Golden Girls and broke out the cookies and milk. Gas prices high? No problem. Hubby's job was up the street and I had no where to go; except Disney World. Literally. I didn't have a job, so I went on ahead to Disney World. Doesn't that sound like an oxymoron?

Well, I thought my insurance business was going to take off like prom dress in Los Angeles. Do I need to say I was wrong? In no time, I found myself floating checks and yelling at my husband for wanting to buy lunch instead of taking it to work.
From far away, it looked like my French tips were still fresh. In reality, My nails started forming their own canals as I couldn't afford the fill and just didn't want to let it go. My extensions were becoming dry and stiff instead of gently floating piece by piece with every bounce of my steps. That's when I realized my little fantasy world was crashing down all around me. I wasn't Paris Hilton after all. (Am I the only black girl on the planet who wanted to be Paris for a day? Or a year? Whatever, okay? Don't judge me)I will say, towards the end of that blissful yet extremely naive era, I got used to eating breakfast with Blanche and Dorothy while Sophia made wise-cracks about Rose.
I got used to taking naps for no reason and cooking tasty meals just because I had nothing but time. I got used to looking forward to Mondays with the Bachelor, and Friday's with Ugly Betty. (You know ABC sucks for moving her to Fridays! Now the dog-gone show is cancelled!) and of course cashing in that great unemployment check.
What I wasn't used to was the shock I felt when I realized I'd had enough fun and needed a steady paycheck. I had to go back to work. I still had a sense of responsibility that was coming out of hibernation. We are still in somewhat of a Bear market, aren't we? Things were becoming tighter, and the money was running low.In the past, I would put in a resume, get a phone call within a week, ace the interview and land a job. I never had a problem. I was in for blow.
People are just not hiring like they used to. Companies were and still are laying off people by the masses, and the media is not helping. The companies that are doing well are being brainwashed into thinking they need to cut back as well, so they are. Just like drones. It's sickening.

In my job search, no one called. I even got letters from employers I didn't apply for telling me, " Thanks, but all positions have been filled."
I'll tell you what. At the last minute, I landed a job at THE BIG HUGE Bank OF NUNYA. (obviously I can't tell you where, people). I absolutely love it and I am in my element. I am still new so I tend to have a little more patience than I ever remember having. Like, EVER.
Give me a break. I just finished a piece of humble pie and washed it down with a glass of abasement. I went from jumping up and down like "Idols goin' to Hollywood" about getting a huge severance then getting paid to stay home (unemployment: I was just so ghetto about it) to getting scared out of my mind when my insurance business didn't take off. It humbled me to a point of insane niceness. I couldn't afford to speak my mind and offend the wrong person like I could with my last job.

On my last job, I made my assistant drive back to the office on her day off just because I forgot to record a vacation message on my voicemail and I didn't want a bunch of unnecessary calls, so I needed her to change it because I was already leaving the parking lot. No I'm not trying to be Jen Lancaster, I am just letting you know she isn't the only reformed and regretful Diva that walked the earth. Believe me, anyone who knows me from any previous job, school or church I have ever attended in my life at any time except now, will tell you: "PJ? Nice? We can't be talking about the same monster, and if I ever see that little tramp again......."

If I think about how I would do things different I would go crazy, so I just don't. I now have a job, these people have no idea who I am or what I used to be capable of nor do they care. I am a nobody in a sea of worker-bees, and I kind of like it this way. :-]

As I work, I often think of the glory days when I walked my kids to school and waved to the normal stay at home moms like I was one of them.

May be next time. At the rate this country is going, there may just be a next time, you know what I mean?