Monthly Archives: June 2013

Pin Rage *Cursey*

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I’ll be honest, I’m a total Pinterest addict. Me and practically every other 35-45 year old wife/mother. Wine, yoga pants and Pinterest are what define my social strata.

Damn it, but that is some depressing shit. No wonder I need meds.

Anyway, I like Pinterest a lot. But there are some things about it that make me homicidal. I call them Pin-teases, because it’s just a glimpse of heaven, with no satisfaction in sight.

You know when someone has pinned something you really love and actually want to buy, so you click through to see how much it is or *gasp* just buy that sexy little bastard? Only when the site loads, it’s just some curated site like Obaz or Haute.com that you have to sign up for to actually see what you want? I really hate that. Because I don’t want to sign up and let you foul my inbox with your e-diarreah. I just don’t. I want to buy that gorgeous pair of shoes/owl bookend/coffee cup with a pithy saying that is just so freaking funny it would make the crappiest Monday brighter. But I can’t. Because when I sign up for the fucking site, just so I can give them my money to get this gorgeous little object that is the most abso-fucking-lutely perfect gift on the planet? Your damned site is no longer offering it. The pin is days old and deader than a doornail. It’s the fruit-fly of pins. So I’ve seen Nirvana but the gate is locked and the key is swallowed. Damned Pin-tease.

How about the recipes that are linked to a blog home address, not the actual page with the recipe? Irritating as HELL. I have to search for the recipe, but half the time, some Pinner in a long chain of Pinners has re-named the recipe, so I have to guess at what the recipe might be called, which is like trying to guess a stranger’s name with no hints what-so-ever. It’s made with chicken. That’s what I know. Fucking Pin-tease. Closely related are the people who recreate the entire recipe in the description of the pin. As a blogger, that bugs. Pinterest is a great way to get traffic to your site, but if people have the recipe, they also have no need to click over to you. I don’t get revenue from my blog, but a lot of people do, so it’s a little like taking money out of their pocket. I’m not bitching at you if you have pins like that. I’m bitching at you if you CREATE a pin like that. Knock it off. Unless the link is dead. Then knock yourself out.

I saved the best (worst?) for last: Non-existent tutorials. ARRRRRRGH! I do stuff I find on Pinterest. It’s a resource for me. But anymore, the site is so littered with dead links, spam and blank sites that it’s easier to just google what you need. Though not really, because half of Googles links are Pinterest anyway. It’s Escher-esque. Take this little beauty:

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That’s exactly what I want to do in all three of our bathrooms. There are a lot of tutorials, but this is the first I’ve seen that incorporates lighting in the frame. I’m desperate to get rid of the dressing room lights that are in every single one of our bathrooms. Can I figure out what they did, just by looking at it? I think so. Sort of. Maybe. But a good tutorial is like mace. It gives you a sense of safety when venturing into a scary unknown. I want to learn from the experience of others. It limits my unpleasant surprises and eases the strain on my liquor budget. So when I clicked on this and landed on a hosting site that only compiles screen shots – NO links – NO text – NOTHING BUT THE FUCKING PICTURE? The worst of the Pin-Teases. It’s like giving a virgin half a blow job, then telling them to figure the rest out themselves. Remodelaholic.com is but one of these stupid dead-end sites that compiles pictures with no links. I hate them, because when I see the ads littering their sidebars, I suspect that someone is making at least a little coin from the screen views. Gah. It makes me crazy; mean, ranty, curse-filled crazy.

Not my default setting, despite certain defamatory claims.

Am I quitting Pinterest? Hell no. It’s an excellent way to ignore my family and procrastinate. I’m just indulging in some impotent complaining. I’m as guilty as anyone of perpetuating these Pin-teases. The beauty of Pinterest is in the ability to quickly save these ideas for later perusal. But I sure as hell am going to start commenting on that shit, whether or not it makes me a troll.

I’ll be under my bridge. Pinning.

Dance Mom

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I hate the place where my daughter takes dance lessons. I didn’t at first. I found the teacher wearing mismatched socks instead of dance shoes to be charming and unpretentious. I liked that it was close and cost a fraction of what a studio would charge.

But now I’m just pissed.

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email saying there were no classes this week, because of the gymnastics shows. Okay, great. I had a slip saying we had a Friday dress rehearsal for the recital, so that cemented itself into my head. Apparently, I also got an email saying that there were dance classes after all. I don’t remember it, but it has been scientifically proven that I got the email and also that I suck.

My daughter was 20 minutes late to tonight’s class and only made it because she was SO insistent that there was class tonight that I called. On speaker, so she could hear there was only Friday’s dress rehearsal.

There was class tonight.

I assumed it was the dress rehearsal. Because there was no class, now there was class, so surely this is the dress rehearsal. Right? No, but I didn’t realize that, so she arrived in costume, only to find her classmates in their motley assortment of dance gear. Oh shit. I was steamed now and muttered something about communication needing work. This sent one of the teachers to get reinforcements, in the form of a burly and pissy man whom I am  assuming is the owner. I can tell you without assumption that he is an asshole.

He waves a paper and asks me if my email is correct.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Well here’s the email we sent out and here it is on our log as sent at 12:15 on 6/12. So check your junk mail.”

“Well, that does me no good, now, does it?” I replied, because what the hell, dude? I’m here now. Going back and rooting through my junkmail, just to prove you were right and I was a big old wrongy wrong-pants is a fat waste of time.

“Well, you can’t be mad at us if we did nothing wrong” he exclaims.

“Um, I wasn’t mad until just now. Now I’m mad.” I assure him. And I am. There are a handful of smug moms who didn’t misunderstand and who diligently check their email boxes watching with eyes shining. The fuck-up in their midst makes them feel good about themselves. He walks off, shaking his head and I sit, stewing watching the snotty teacher who is an email wizard make sarcastic cracks at a bunch of 6-9 year old girls. She’s a peach.

I’m not saying the email wasn’t sent. I’m saying that sending it the day before class, when you’ve sent 2 out stating there will be NO class is confusing. I made an assumption, but it wasn’t out of left field. It wasn’t dumb. I was already irritated with myself and embarrassed, but to have this guy come and wave his paper in my face to be sure I knew what a loser I really was, put the fucking cherry on it.

And because they are crap heads, I had to BUY fucking tickets to this show. There was a $25 recital fee and a $45 costume charge. Which I can be okay with, even though I’m paying $60 a month for an hour long weekly lesson. But then you make me buy fucking tickets? I almost bought them and set them on fire, right there in the gymnasium. Unfortunately, I left my matches at home and my sonic screwdriver does not emit flames. Damn it.

So there will be no dance class after this recital. She wants to do gymnastics, but I think 4-H can be our thing for a while. Mommy isn’t very good at organized lessons.

Closing The Door

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A heavy front door, solid oak, with a brass medallion door knob nestles in a small brick entry  and waits, an invitation to the past.

Kachina dolls, some very good amateur oil painting and portraits of my aunt, uncle and father in their younger years greet me fondly as I come inside. They are old friends, as familiar as any I’ve known.

A low slung sofa, white with turquoise cushions, looking like it was nicked from the Mad Men set. It wasn’t. I spent many a Thanksgiving/Christmas/occasional weekend curled in it’s corner, reading Eight Cousins, Trixie Belden and the occasional Nancy Drew. It was an unholy temptation to rest my feet on the kidney-shaped birch coffee table, but fear of my grandmother kept me honest.

The kitchen with it’s goldenrod walls, copper appliances and formica counters, the origin of many a holiday feast. I can almost smell the turkey. The breakfast table and wheeled chairs, where I would share an occasional bowl of granola with my grandpa sit empty now.

The portrait of John Wayne in the hallway still smiles enigmatically.

It’s all being packed away now. My aunt and uncle, short a sibling, sort through the remains of their parents long life together. We laid my grandfather to rest this weekend, a short year after saying goodbye to my grandmother. They both outlived their youngest child, and as is usually the case, it cost them greatly. Neither were the same after my dad died. Their grief aged them in a way time had failed to achieve.

It was a beautiful ceremony. The memorial was a testimony to his influence in the small town of Taft; the graveside, in honor of his long military service. It was heart-breaking, especially when my brother struggled to eulogize a man that deeply influenced him. We all cried, for the loss of the man himself and the remaining shadows of grief we felt when his son and wife left our lives.

The house has remained virtually the same since I began having memories of it. Pictures older than I tell me it was like that long before I came into their lives. I walked through it this weekend, remembering my grandmother having a cocktail and laughing about a bridge night anecdote. She was a society wife in a town with no society to speak of, but they made their own. Everything the same, except the minutiae. I ducked into my grandfather’s bathroom and cried a little when the tin of Bag Balm that had always graced his counter was absent. That stupid green tin was the final straw. He was really gone, his final flight complete.

I’ll miss that house, with all it’s memories, almost as much as I miss the people that made it so special.

Grocery Secrets of the Frazzled

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I spend 62% more on groceries when my children and/or husband is with me. Where that extra comes from depends on what combination of family is with me.

Just my husband: meat and snack stuff.

My husband and my kids: cereal, snack stuff, frozen foods.

Just my children: liquor and “secret” desserts.

Don’t even pretend you don’t know what are “secret” desserts. The sweet stuff you hide in your cart and when your kids ask about it later, you:

a) feign ignorance,

b) tell them you put it back when they weren’t looking, or

c) pretend you left it the cart because you were too busy yelling at them to get in the effing car and  buckle their g.d. seat belts and oh my hades, quit bickering before I duct tape your mouths shut

Okay. I’m okay. I’m off to the garage to snarf a secret cupcake and drink a beer.

 

 

That Thing Where An Uncomfortable Reality Pimp-Slaps You.

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My oldest graduated from high school this weekend.

Marinate in that for a while. I sure the hell am.

She’s 18. And she wants to take a road trip to Oregon with a friend.

 

 

 

Holy hell.

 

I want to say no. I don’t know the girl she’s going with all that well, but what I do know, I’m not wild about. No red flags or anything, she’s just not my favorite. So when Kate asked (she asked, you guys), I said I’d talk to her dad about it.

I REALLY want to say no. She asked. I ought to be able to say uh-uh, no way, jose, not a chance. But I really can’t. Because she’s 18 and graduated. She can afford it. She doesn’t need to ask permission, and she’s going to realize that in a week or two.

I’m going to need another prescription for lorazepam.