Those who are familiar with me, know that I am not really a tv-watcher by nature. To me, an avid reader, time spent in front of the television screen seems a waste of perfectly good creativity and imagination.
That being said, occassionally I get caught up in a TV program... either intentionally (as in I read about it on ew.com and can't resist checking it out for myself) or accidentally (as in, I happen upon it on my night off and get hooked in).
Monday nights are a free night for my husband and I. There's no small group, or youth group or American Idol (aside: during American Idol season, the show actually becomes more like an activity... like riding a bike or taking a walk... its MORE then just a tv program). We've actually been at a bit of a loss as to what to do with ourselves on Monday nights. This is how I discovered "How I Met Your Mother" on CBS. Its on at 7:30 central time, after some weird nerd show and before "Two and a Half Men" (which I hate- sorry for those who rave about it, but Charlie hit his prime for me in Major League and has never really recovered his position at the top).
"How I Met Your Mother" has the premise of working backwords. The narrator is Ted, 25 years from now. So he's telling his kids the story of how he and their mother met. Which I suppose you can get from the title, but whatev. Each week you get closer and closer to the revealing of the future "Mrs. Ted" and clues are constantly thrown your way... causing those with T-Vos and DVRs (honestly, this is the first time I've ever wished that I had one!) to constantly review each episode searching for accidental/not so accidental meetings with all sorts of women. Its such a great concept. I just spent my lunch (half) hour lurking on message boards filled with postings from people all over the planet completely over-analizing every detail. For example, the last episode (preBritany) ended with the narrator stating that "your mother was at the same st patricks day party, but luckily, we never met that night... " And he loses his phone but picks up a yellow umbrella....
Will she return his phone? Will they meet randomly and one day she sees that yellow umbrella in his foyer and is like, "oh, I've been looking for that..."?????
The possibilities are endless. Anyhow, now that I am officially hooked, I have read online that this show is in danger of being cut off... hopefully the guest starring of Britany Spears and Sarah Chalke (Scrubs) will have gotten lots of attention, because I plan on seeing this one through!
So... if you've nothing better to do on a Monday night, allow me to make a recommendation. The characters are hilarious and cute, the story line- intriguing, and its only a light hearted half hour... which is rare and precious in these days of hour long scary psychopath dramas.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
What you don't know about me...
I've been working in the customer service industry for several years now. I worked as a waitress for two years, as a rec supervisor for 2 years, a sales person and manager at a health club for two years and most recently I work in medical billing.
I've dealt with lots of people in various degrees of anger and frustration and usually am pretty capable in terms of coming to a "mutually satifactory resolution" (seriously, that is what it is called, I've gone to workshops and conferences and the like). Its what I do. Its what I am paid for. And I like it. I really do.
But I have to say something, and since my blog is entitled "Anything worth saying"... here it goes. I understand what it is like to be on the other end of the phone. I know that feeling that you are being ill-used and taken advantage of. I can sympathize with the frustration of being at a stranger's mercy. I get that. I've been there.
Something that I have come to practice in my own life is this, however. I try my hardest to remember to give the service person on the phone the benefit of the doubt.
I spoke with Sheila today. Shelia was angry. Livid, actually. And she didn't care who I was, or what part I personally played in her current distress. To her, I was public enemy number one. She screamed at me so that I had to hold the phone away, questioned my character and threatened to call the police on me (which, since I have had the pleasure of growing up the daughter of a police sergeant, I inworldy giggled at that particular threat). She made me feel less then human. Less then subhuman, even. As she verbally spat in my face, I found myself riling up in anger- my hackles raising. Hot tears formed in the corners of my eyes, and my hands shook uncontrollably. My heart pounded in my ears and I could feel my face burn. Here I am sitting at my desk- Harry Potter calendar on the wall, a cute little kitten picture with a bible verse from my fav gospel, Matt taped to my computer screen, pigtails in my hair and tennis shoes on- teetering precariously on the verge of losing it.
She doesn't know me. She might think she does... but she doesn't. She doesn't know that my husband just called to ask me to babysit for his friend's two little boys in a few weekends (and how I can not wait). She doesn't know that my best friend just emailed me a picture from vegas of the fountains at bellagio because I asked for it (due to my love of oceans 11 and brad pitt). She has no idea that my mom and I spent the afternoon yesterday getting all teared up over the lack of true love in jane austen's short life. she doesn't know that after work today I plan to take my dog on a 3 mile run, something that has recently become a favorite pasttime of mine (and his). She doesn't know that I spend every Thursday night opening my home to highschoolers and that I get as much a kick out of having them over as they do in coming over. She doesn't know that every morning before I work I check a miscarriage support posting that I participate in. She doesn't know that just this morning I received an email update for my "congrats you're now 26 weeks pregnant" calendar from ivillage that I can't figure out how to turn off since I lost my baby.
Nope. She knows none of this. She only knows that she was angry and it was my fault. She didn't want to hear reason. She didn't want to "please stop shouting at me". She just wanted my supervisor, and I gave her to them. Actually, the joke was on her, my supervisor is out of the office today, and since I fugured she wouldn't believe that line, I gave her to one of my coworkers who pretended to be a supervisor for me. A tiny consolation for me, at least.
No, Shelia knows nothing of the "Erin" she spoke to on the phone, and that's okay. In fact, in light of her crazy anger, I probably prefer it that way. However, what if she had taken just a moment to consider who she might be talking to? Asked herself what I might have been going through? Would she have treated me the same way as she did? Maybe. But I'd like to think not.
What if every phone was a video phone? Or like a mood ring phone? Like you pick it up to call someone and the phone could read their current mood... "sad" "deafeated" "hopeless" "thrilled" "ambitious" "hurt". Would that change the way we spoke to strangers.?
I think that I am going to say a quick prayer for Shelia today. And maybe a slightly longer one for whomever she was calling next... I think that they might need it.
I've dealt with lots of people in various degrees of anger and frustration and usually am pretty capable in terms of coming to a "mutually satifactory resolution" (seriously, that is what it is called, I've gone to workshops and conferences and the like). Its what I do. Its what I am paid for. And I like it. I really do.
But I have to say something, and since my blog is entitled "Anything worth saying"... here it goes. I understand what it is like to be on the other end of the phone. I know that feeling that you are being ill-used and taken advantage of. I can sympathize with the frustration of being at a stranger's mercy. I get that. I've been there.
Something that I have come to practice in my own life is this, however. I try my hardest to remember to give the service person on the phone the benefit of the doubt.
I spoke with Sheila today. Shelia was angry. Livid, actually. And she didn't care who I was, or what part I personally played in her current distress. To her, I was public enemy number one. She screamed at me so that I had to hold the phone away, questioned my character and threatened to call the police on me (which, since I have had the pleasure of growing up the daughter of a police sergeant, I inworldy giggled at that particular threat). She made me feel less then human. Less then subhuman, even. As she verbally spat in my face, I found myself riling up in anger- my hackles raising. Hot tears formed in the corners of my eyes, and my hands shook uncontrollably. My heart pounded in my ears and I could feel my face burn. Here I am sitting at my desk- Harry Potter calendar on the wall, a cute little kitten picture with a bible verse from my fav gospel, Matt taped to my computer screen, pigtails in my hair and tennis shoes on- teetering precariously on the verge of losing it.
She doesn't know me. She might think she does... but she doesn't. She doesn't know that my husband just called to ask me to babysit for his friend's two little boys in a few weekends (and how I can not wait). She doesn't know that my best friend just emailed me a picture from vegas of the fountains at bellagio because I asked for it (due to my love of oceans 11 and brad pitt). She has no idea that my mom and I spent the afternoon yesterday getting all teared up over the lack of true love in jane austen's short life. she doesn't know that after work today I plan to take my dog on a 3 mile run, something that has recently become a favorite pasttime of mine (and his). She doesn't know that I spend every Thursday night opening my home to highschoolers and that I get as much a kick out of having them over as they do in coming over. She doesn't know that every morning before I work I check a miscarriage support posting that I participate in. She doesn't know that just this morning I received an email update for my "congrats you're now 26 weeks pregnant" calendar from ivillage that I can't figure out how to turn off since I lost my baby.
Nope. She knows none of this. She only knows that she was angry and it was my fault. She didn't want to hear reason. She didn't want to "please stop shouting at me". She just wanted my supervisor, and I gave her to them. Actually, the joke was on her, my supervisor is out of the office today, and since I fugured she wouldn't believe that line, I gave her to one of my coworkers who pretended to be a supervisor for me. A tiny consolation for me, at least.
No, Shelia knows nothing of the "Erin" she spoke to on the phone, and that's okay. In fact, in light of her crazy anger, I probably prefer it that way. However, what if she had taken just a moment to consider who she might be talking to? Asked herself what I might have been going through? Would she have treated me the same way as she did? Maybe. But I'd like to think not.
What if every phone was a video phone? Or like a mood ring phone? Like you pick it up to call someone and the phone could read their current mood... "sad" "deafeated" "hopeless" "thrilled" "ambitious" "hurt". Would that change the way we spoke to strangers.?
I think that I am going to say a quick prayer for Shelia today. And maybe a slightly longer one for whomever she was calling next... I think that they might need it.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
the original three
How cute are we? This is now almost 3 years old! I can't believe its been that long! I've always called this my picture of the "original 3". Me, Kyle and Cassie. Step siblings and half siblings, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and the like have been added to the family over the years, but no one could ever take the place of the original three. :) Kyle was my hero on my wedding day, walking me down the isle, and Cass did me the honor of standing up as my bridesmaid. When it came time to join my life with someone else, it was all the more sweet having them behind me when I did it.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
my little idea for a so called "better tomorrow"
I think that it should become a government sanctioned rule that everyone should have to wear uniforms. To work, to school, to the mall. Actually, I suppose that if the wearing of uniforms were enforced, malls would become kind of not necessary. Wouldn't they?
Anyhow, the reason I bring it up is that I truely hate clothes. Don't misunderstand me, I feel they are absolutely necessary... You won't see me lobbying for mandatory nudest colonies or anything crazy like that. But I absolutely abhor picking out clothes each and every morning. I am pretty sure that the only time that I feel like I really look good is when I am wearing something brand spankin new, and that is just not economically feasible. There is something about wearing a new outfit that makes you feel like a million bucks.
No wonder celebs are constantly shopping. Every time you see a paparazzi shot taken in hollywood or new york, the celeb in question is caught bustling in or out of some fancy shmancy overpriced boutique with a skim latte in hand... an exorbitant credit line at the ready! It makes perfect sense to me! The reason why they all look completely at ease and confident in their own skin is their new clothes!
Well, a constant supply of new and fashionable clothing is, as previously stated, not economic. Therefore, I nominate uniforms. I don't know what they should look like, maybe there should be some reality tv fashion show contest where aspiring designers could create something comfortable, practical and of course flattering.
Think about it, gang warfare would drop drastically. Okay, perhaps not. They would still have all those hand gestures and banadanas and what not to go off of.
Alright. So nothing drastic and state-of-the-world-altering would happen if we instated uniformality. And really, the whole idea is pretty reminiscent of a socialist dictatorship. Right, I know. I get it. But I, for one, would approve heartily.
Anyhow, the reason I bring it up is that I truely hate clothes. Don't misunderstand me, I feel they are absolutely necessary... You won't see me lobbying for mandatory nudest colonies or anything crazy like that. But I absolutely abhor picking out clothes each and every morning. I am pretty sure that the only time that I feel like I really look good is when I am wearing something brand spankin new, and that is just not economically feasible. There is something about wearing a new outfit that makes you feel like a million bucks.
No wonder celebs are constantly shopping. Every time you see a paparazzi shot taken in hollywood or new york, the celeb in question is caught bustling in or out of some fancy shmancy overpriced boutique with a skim latte in hand... an exorbitant credit line at the ready! It makes perfect sense to me! The reason why they all look completely at ease and confident in their own skin is their new clothes!
Well, a constant supply of new and fashionable clothing is, as previously stated, not economic. Therefore, I nominate uniforms. I don't know what they should look like, maybe there should be some reality tv fashion show contest where aspiring designers could create something comfortable, practical and of course flattering.
Think about it, gang warfare would drop drastically. Okay, perhaps not. They would still have all those hand gestures and banadanas and what not to go off of.
Alright. So nothing drastic and state-of-the-world-altering would happen if we instated uniformality. And really, the whole idea is pretty reminiscent of a socialist dictatorship. Right, I know. I get it. But I, for one, would approve heartily.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
From another perspective
I am currently reading a book that came highly recommended through several friends named "The Glass Castle" by Jeanette Walls. It is an intriguing memoir of the author's bizzaar and completely facinating childhood. At least, that is what it is so far... I've only made it about half way through.
I won't give anything away, but I will pass on my recommendation to anyone and everyone. This book is fantastic. The author's parents, and most especially her creative, imaginative, alcoholic father, bring to mind the lyric "some of the most intersting people didn't, at 22, know what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds still don't." As interesting as her childhood may have been, there were certaintly elements of the traumatic throughout, though the author doesn't exactly present it that way. Her tone is quite matter of fact, actually. She opens the book at the age of three when she accidentally caught herself on fire while cooking hotdogs for dinner for her family. She spent over 6 weeks in the hospital covered with severe burns. She talks about it being the first time she tasted chewing gum.
It causes me to wonder. I mean, it's really all a matter of perception, isn't it? Did you ever have one of those moments when you are reliving a story to someone and they look at you completely agog- like they can't comprehend how you emotionally survived to tell the tale? Like "I can't even believe that you are telling me like this- aren't you upset by this? I am!" And you just shrug, and think to yourself, well it wasn't THAT big of a deal. I lived it, so obviously I'd know.
This, of course, has happened to me, and one time in particular is sticking out in my memory very vividly. My Christmas break, sophomore year of college, I was sitting around catching up with a group of my old high school friends. We were reliving traumatic high school memories (very emo, you could say) when someone said that they had once contemplated suicide- they had had difficulty coping with the pressure of unobtainable scholastic ecpectations. They asked if anyone else ever had. I shrugged and told them the story of a time in my life, when at 16, I slipped into a severe depression and after a boyfriend dumped me (the last straw) I flipped out while putting away dishes in the dishwasher one afternoon after school, and I held a super dull and completely impractical butter knife up to my wrists. Hands shaking and heart racing, I thought to myself that "this would show them all that I wasn't just this cute little floor mat that they could walk all over- that this would make them feel bad for all they had put me through". Pretty dark stuff, for someone who listened to the Dixie Chicks and took ballet, but it just goes to show... you just never can tell. And everyone, I mean everyone, has a breaking point. Anyway, I didn't cut, not even close (I mean, really, a butter knife? How far would I have gotten?), but the thought crossed my mind, as I had assumed it crossed everyone's mind at one time or another in their lives.
But apparently I was mistaken. Apparently not everyone has felt that desperation. I got over it. I found the completely soul-filling love of Jesus and I have never ever felt that way since then. And now, being so far removed from that point in my life, I can speak of it like it was nothing. Because it really was nothing.
But to others, I think it might be something. To some, maybe those who've never allowed themselves to fully appreciate and experience the trauma that life can often hurl at you (and therefore haven't been able to experience the thrill of "survival"), to those people, I suppose a heartbroken teenager's experience with a butterknife might seem harsh.
To me, it was an awakening. And I suppose a tad on the comically ridiculous side.
Just like, to Jeanette Walls, it was just her childhood, and the first time she tried chewing gum.
Interesting, huh? Okay, one more reference, this time from Harry Potter. I know, I know... how many more HP references can she possibly have up her sleeve? Folks, my mind is a steel trap of all things JK Rowling.
In the final book, Ron Weasley, Harry's BFF, saves Harry's life. And kills one of Voldemort's horcrux and overcomes his greatest fear all in one moment to basically "save the day, perhaps the world"... and Harry congratuates him and compliments him for all that he just accomplished and Ron's response was "That makes me sound a lot cooler then I was." and Harry's response was something like "I've been trying to say that for years."
Things always seem more intersting, impressive, traumatic, heroic, heartbreaking... when it happens to someone else. Don't they?
I won't give anything away, but I will pass on my recommendation to anyone and everyone. This book is fantastic. The author's parents, and most especially her creative, imaginative, alcoholic father, bring to mind the lyric "some of the most intersting people didn't, at 22, know what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds still don't." As interesting as her childhood may have been, there were certaintly elements of the traumatic throughout, though the author doesn't exactly present it that way. Her tone is quite matter of fact, actually. She opens the book at the age of three when she accidentally caught herself on fire while cooking hotdogs for dinner for her family. She spent over 6 weeks in the hospital covered with severe burns. She talks about it being the first time she tasted chewing gum.
It causes me to wonder. I mean, it's really all a matter of perception, isn't it? Did you ever have one of those moments when you are reliving a story to someone and they look at you completely agog- like they can't comprehend how you emotionally survived to tell the tale? Like "I can't even believe that you are telling me like this- aren't you upset by this? I am!" And you just shrug, and think to yourself, well it wasn't THAT big of a deal. I lived it, so obviously I'd know.
This, of course, has happened to me, and one time in particular is sticking out in my memory very vividly. My Christmas break, sophomore year of college, I was sitting around catching up with a group of my old high school friends. We were reliving traumatic high school memories (very emo, you could say) when someone said that they had once contemplated suicide- they had had difficulty coping with the pressure of unobtainable scholastic ecpectations. They asked if anyone else ever had. I shrugged and told them the story of a time in my life, when at 16, I slipped into a severe depression and after a boyfriend dumped me (the last straw) I flipped out while putting away dishes in the dishwasher one afternoon after school, and I held a super dull and completely impractical butter knife up to my wrists. Hands shaking and heart racing, I thought to myself that "this would show them all that I wasn't just this cute little floor mat that they could walk all over- that this would make them feel bad for all they had put me through". Pretty dark stuff, for someone who listened to the Dixie Chicks and took ballet, but it just goes to show... you just never can tell. And everyone, I mean everyone, has a breaking point. Anyway, I didn't cut, not even close (I mean, really, a butter knife? How far would I have gotten?), but the thought crossed my mind, as I had assumed it crossed everyone's mind at one time or another in their lives.
But apparently I was mistaken. Apparently not everyone has felt that desperation. I got over it. I found the completely soul-filling love of Jesus and I have never ever felt that way since then. And now, being so far removed from that point in my life, I can speak of it like it was nothing. Because it really was nothing.
But to others, I think it might be something. To some, maybe those who've never allowed themselves to fully appreciate and experience the trauma that life can often hurl at you (and therefore haven't been able to experience the thrill of "survival"), to those people, I suppose a heartbroken teenager's experience with a butterknife might seem harsh.
To me, it was an awakening. And I suppose a tad on the comically ridiculous side.
Just like, to Jeanette Walls, it was just her childhood, and the first time she tried chewing gum.
Interesting, huh? Okay, one more reference, this time from Harry Potter. I know, I know... how many more HP references can she possibly have up her sleeve? Folks, my mind is a steel trap of all things JK Rowling.
In the final book, Ron Weasley, Harry's BFF, saves Harry's life. And kills one of Voldemort's horcrux and overcomes his greatest fear all in one moment to basically "save the day, perhaps the world"... and Harry congratuates him and compliments him for all that he just accomplished and Ron's response was "That makes me sound a lot cooler then I was." and Harry's response was something like "I've been trying to say that for years."
Things always seem more intersting, impressive, traumatic, heroic, heartbreaking... when it happens to someone else. Don't they?
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