Happy Holidays!
I hope everyone is having a good holiday and doing the things they love with the people they love. We're off on vacation this week, so I won't be around much. I've left a few photos from Christmas for you to enjoy. Cheers!
The musings of an aspiring novelist...
I hope everyone is having a good holiday and doing the things they love with the people they love. We're off on vacation this week, so I won't be around much. I've left a few photos from Christmas for you to enjoy. Cheers!
My parenting acumen was put to the test last night. The results are not in yet, but exit polls indicate that I did not fare well.
It turns out that I have two of the worst board game losers in my charge. (To hear about another, check out Jennie’s post on the topic here). We were playing Candy Land and all was fine. Little Benjy Mouse, who was within spitting distance of the finish line, pulled the dreaded Sugar Plum card and had to go back to nearly the beginning. She exploded, threw her man on the table and stormed off, wailing all the way. In the typical fashion of our family, Frankie and I laughed and kept playing. This has always worked on Frankie; it helps him grab some perspective on his reactions. Apparently, laughing at the emotions of a sensitive four-year-old girl is, shall we say, akin to slapping her in the face. She crumpled in the hall and had a good, long (and loud) bawl, lamenting her unfortunate situation and her ruined destiny. Arthur coaxed her back to the game, but she inevitably lost, causing another torrent of tears.
Junior Monopoly didn’t go well either. Both she and Frankie showed their true colors during some tense land deals, with much protesting and whining. It ended with Frankie victorious and Benjy dejected. She was only partially cheered up by the fact that she had, at least, beaten me.
The night steadily degraded from there. Benjy (heavy with cold) began a coughing fit that ended with her vomiting over most of her bedroom furniture and much of the bathroom. When a torrent of pent-up slime exploded from her nose while vomit shot from her mouth, I failed my last test as a parent: I vocalized my disgust and ran from the room. That was an unfortunate mistake, as there was no one to hold her hair, which ended in a very late, very disgusting bath.
I’m hoping to somehow redeem myself later in the week, but for now, Arthur is winning in the popularity polls.
Coincidences often make me wonder if there isn’t some kind of greater cosmic energy at play on the planet. Here’s an example.
On my third glass of red wine, I sat on the couch and took out my frustrations. "If this happened to anyone else in the family, it would be a big deal. But it happens to me, and no one cares. Not your mom, not any of our siblings, not even my mother has acknowledged how cool this is. If this happened to your brother, your mother would have taken out an ad in the paper. Apparently an article about me isn’t as big a deal as I thought it was." Poor Arthur.
I was starting in on a crying jag, when my mom called (unusually late, for her) to ask how the party had gone. At the end of the call she said, "Oh yes, I meant to tell you that I read the links you sent me and that’s pretty neat that you've got your names in lights like that. You must be very proud. Good job!"
I smiled. Arthur swears he didn't put her up to it. I guess Moms just know when you need an ego massage. Well timed, Mom. Thanks very much!
Well, tonight is my office’s Kid’s Christmas Party. It’s an event that my children always look forward to. And with good reason – this company puts on an amazing event every year. Our CEO really knows how to party. Tonight they will be having pizza, making cookies and crafts, getting a custom-made T-shirt and loot bags, and participating in the “Snake Guys” show – they cart in a whole bunch of reptiles, snakes, and large spiders, and the kids get to learn about them and pet them.
I've made up a short list of important things women should know (in my opinion anyway). It may also be useful for men. I doubt that I'll enlighten anyone, but at least there's something new for you to read today:
I can’t believe that this post is warranted, but based on office conversations with staunch pet owners, it appears to be. While explaining that they were putting off buying a home in order to pay for their very old dog’s hip surgery, my co-worker tried to equate it to a child needing surgery.
First of all, let me start by saying that I am not anti-pet, or pro-child. I have both pets and children, and I like them both. But, I also have an opinion.
And here it is. As obvious as it should be to most people, I think it bears saying, that owning a pet is not the same as parenting a child.
I will concede that there are, in fact many similarities. Pets and children both have to be taught correct behavior. They both need to be fed and bathed regularly. They both do cute things, are generally cuddly, and warrant a picture of them on your desk. They have to be cleaned up after and, on occasion, they break your heart. They are both loved dearly by you.
But, that’s where it pretty much ends. Pet-ownership does not entail the level of responsibility, risk, and consequences associated with child-rearing. If you mistreat your cat, or fail to teach him good values, you don’t really have to worry about whether or not he will grow up to be maladjusted, a menace to society, or a mass murderer. If you’re unable to help your dog pass her obedience class, it doesn’t affect her future options for employment. If you had to choose between saving your horse’s life or your own, for most people it wouldn’t really be a difficult decision. Your children really are the future, so how you raise and protect them is truly important to society
You can love your pet with all your heart, bond with them very closely, and provide them with all the things you would your child (i.e. daycare, expensive, life-saving medical treatments, and premium health food) but the consequences of you not doing this are not the same as if it were a child, no matter what you tell me.
Pet-ownership is Parenting-Lite. It’s like going on a roller coaster in lieu of sky diving. The risks and consequences are lower. Which is fine. I’m not saying you should have kids, and I’m not implying that you shouldn’t spend thousands of dollars to replace your aged dog’s failing hip. Would I? Likely not, but that’s just me. You can do whatever you want with your pet.
Just don’t tell me that your dog is equal to my kid. And do not say, “If it were your son you’d give them the surgery!” You’re right, I would. Because, as remote a possibility as it is, my kid can grow up to shape the world, but your Great Dane cannot.
You know, I was done with political posts. But then I used Next Blog (bad, Trillian, bad!) and I stumble upon fear-infested pseudo-patriotic, America-as-the-underdog drivel and my blood boils.
The weather is pretty bad today, so I'm working from home in my pajamas. I love working at home, and not just because of the pajamas. I also get to spend the day with Sweetie and Zora, our beloved polydactyl kitty twins.
I'm going to have to start sharing parts that don't involve my main character crying all the time.
This is just before she gets a job offer with another tech company (which actually turns out to be about the same, but she doesn't know it then). She's looking for some help from HR to get her obscene work-load reduced.
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I walk into the HR office. I’m a bit early for my appointment, but the HR Co-ordinator’s door is open and she doesn’t appear to have anyone else in there. So, I knock tentatively and walk in. As usual, Karen is dressed to the nines in tailored clothes and costume jewellery. Every time she moves she either glimmers or makes a metallic tinkling sound.
“Oh, hi Mel!” she squeals in a delighted tone. She grabs my right hand in both of hers and gives me a pretend half hug.
I haven’t been to HR a lot, and I was hired before we really had an HR department, but it seems like whenever she sees anyone, it’s as though they’re her best friend in the world, and she hasn’t seen them since they moved to the coast. “Sit, sit!” she commands, gesturing her sharp red nails towards the stylized chairs in front of her desk.
I take a deep breath. I’m composed and determined to deliver my case to her without emotion or tears. “What can I do for you?” She asks, fluffing her giant mass of orange hair.
I start crying almost immediately. “I can’t take it,” I stammer, “it’s too much, what they’re asking me to do. It’s stupid there’s so much work, and not enough time, and no one is giving me any resources to help my clients resolve their problems. And they’re all yelling at me. It’s just ridiculous! I need help! I need a job description! They’ve got me flying all over the place selling stuff and kissing clients’ butts, and it’s not what a project manager is supposed to be doing! No one can handle this many projects and then sell stuff and renegotiate contracts, and shmooze people at trade shows. I don’t think that’s what I should be doing, not when I have all these projects to finish. I’m so stressed right now, I can’t think straight. I think I’m going to lose it very soon.” I sort of half smile in attempt to regain my emotional control.
She sits and stares at me. I’m guessing that I’m not her best friend in the world after all. I sniffle loudly. The tissues are out of reach, and she doesn’t seem like she might pass them to me, so I casually wipe my nose with my sleeve.
She gazes at me steadily, her red claws entwined in one another. She’s quiet for a moment, then takes a deep breath and says, “Have you considered Tai Chi? I’m told it can be very relaxing.”