The EX-it Interview

It's no secret that people come in and out of our lives, some without notice and some with a flourish.  If there's anything that's a sure thing in life it's that it's constantly changing, mainly because each of us as individuals are constantly evolving.  Sometimes these changes are positive and sometimes they grate on our nerves to the point when it's time to call it quits.

That hasn't happened to me often, but it has happened - sometimes I've been the person who instigates it and sometimes I've been on the receiving end of the "it's not you, it's me."  But in all cases, I've often found myself wishing that some sort of closure could take place.  Just a few minutes to say what I want to say, knowing that I will probably not have to interact with this person ever again.  Where both parties know that it's not worth getting mad at each other because they no longer have to take the time to prove anything to the other person and can choose to take what has been said as constructive criticism...or the opinion of someone they really don't give a shit about.

I am talking about The EX-it Interview.

In business, an exit interview "provides an opportunity to 'make peace' with disgruntled employees, who might otherwise leave with vengeful intentions" and it is wise to "listen rather than talk"during the discussion.

Replace "disgruntled employee" with "bitter ex-significant other" and you have the EX-it Interview.

I'm trying to picture how this might go down.  It would have to be on neutral ground like a Starbucks or a T.G.I.Fridays.  Each party would sit on opposite sides of the table and a timer would be in front of them.  The person who is unhappy to see the relationship end would start because they think that by going first they have the upper hand. 

But later they would realize that that means the other person gets the last word.

"Now," starts Person One, settling into their chair.  "What is your main reason for leaving?"

"Well," says Person Two.  "I've tried to discuss with you how I dislike the way you load a dishwasher.  But you seem unwilling to listen to my suggestions."

"I see," says Person One, making a note on a yellow legal pad.  "Why is this important, or so significant for you?"

"Because I think it speaks volumes for your stupidity as a person in general that you don't know the correct way to optimize space."

"Uh huh.  What suggestion would you make to improve conditions, hours, shifts, amenities, etc?"

"I would say that I hated walking on your clipped toenails that were stuck in the carpet all of the time, I was tired of having sex only on Tuesday nights, and you need to stop buying generic toilet paper."

"Noted."

This interview process would go on for 15 minutes at which point the timer would go off and it would be time for the offended party to answer some questions.

"What can you say about the way you were managed?... On a day to day basis?....... And on a month to month basis?"

"You're a bitch."

"Uh huh.  And what are some things I can improve on to ensure a more quality relationship the next time around?"

"You're a bitch."

"I see.  And is there any more information you'd like to share before we part?"

"You're a bitch."

The timer would sound once again and each person would pay for their portion of the check.  They would stand up, shake hands, wish each other well (even though they don't mean it), and part ways, both a little annoyed at what the other had said, but feeling better that they had gotten certain grudges off their chest.  Person Two would be forever paranoid that the way he loads a dishwasher could make or break any future relationships and Person One would wonder every once in a while if she was actually being a bitch.

And they both might be a little better for it.

But then again...maybe not.

If I Had a Million Dollars

Okay, so the things I would like, should I hit the BIG TIME would cost more than a million dollars.  But I have that Barenaked Ladies song stuck in my head.  And now, after reading that title, you will too.

I'm going to be upfront and just tell you that should I hit said BIG TIME, I will not be a nice rich person.  I have many fantasies about buying the people I love copious gifts - none of which they want.  This is because I love to go junk shopping for the simple reason that I believe ugly is more entertaining than pretty.  Sure, I get excited when I find a cute lamp or a fun piece of furniture.  But what I'm really looking for are ugly things so that, should I hit the BIG TIME, I can run out and buy them for my family and friends.

It was as I was junk shopping one day with my sister that she discovered this about me, my dream of winning the lottery and bestowing upon everyone things I know they will hate.  Her dislike of horses, after being bucked off on a camp trail ride when she was in middle school, is something that we all know about her.  (Incidentally, the bucking event was then topped off by a summer where she worked at a dude ranch in high school.  I'm still not sure how someone who hates anything that smells bad or has a "western" feel ended up with that job.)

We were standing in an antique store where I spied an enormous horse harness that had been made into a mirror.

"I'm going to get that for you someday," I said, pointing to the item.  "When I win the lottery, I'm going to buy you a mirror just like that."

She paused, looking at the dusty, dirty mirror and said, "I never thought I would say this to anyone I know...but I hope you never win the lottery."

However, when I think about the BIG TIME I don't usually fantasize about buying "things"...I think about buying services.  I don't think about having a live-in maid because that just seems too invasive and would cut down on my privacy.  I've seen Gosford Park and I know those people talk.  My need is much simpler than that.  Sure, a once a week cleaning would be nice, but what I would really like is to hire someone to come in twice a week and just put my laundry away.  I don't mind putting in the washer.  I don't mind putting it into the dryer.  I don't even mind folding it so much as I catch up on DVRed episodes of The View.  

I just don't want to put it away.

I would also like a back-scratcher to be at my beck and call.  I don't need a professional masseuse because they scare me with their pressure points and working of the knots.  No, what I need is someone who can be at my house within 5 minutes of my call to scratch that place on my back that I just can't reach.  He would have to have his nails perfectly trimmed so that they scratched (not rubbed) without drawing blood.  For this, I would pay for weekly manicures.

A professional bucket-holder would be nice to have on retainer when my kids get the stomach flu.  I can be motherly and loving when they're sick, but the moment I hear the gag reflex working, I want to run the other way.  I would like to be able to say, "Sven!  Get in here and hold this bucket!"  He would then come in, catch what's flying, clean it, and then wait to be called again.

A knot-detangler (so my girls won't hate me so much), a car-refueler (because getting gas is my least favorite activity aside from putting laundry away and holding the bucket), and a video-game-bad-guy (who will time my son and his friends and then boot them off and not give a second thought about dirty looks after they've been playing for 8 hours straight) would also be nice.

I would lend these services to all of my friends when they need them, especially my sister to make up for the harness mirror.  I will be generous with my employees, tipping liberally should the stomach flu hit the entire house or the dry season make my back extra itchy.

My needs are simple and not over-the-top.  I just hope the lottery gods are paying attention.

Facebook Through The Ages: How Your Age Affects What You Post

I'm supposed to be working right now.  I have a deadline literally staring at me in a rude and ballsy way.  But thanks to the flu I had last week, my mind cannot function past a 3rd grade level.  So here I am.

I was recently unfriended by someone on Facebook because I had the nerve to "like" a humorous picture someone else had posted on her wall.  It looked a little something like this (actually, it looked EXACTLY like this):

When I saw this, I howled with laughter.  Because it was true.  Every time this person cut her hair, grew her hair out, changed the part in her hair, changed her lip color, eye color, or aura color she posted a picture of herself on Facebook.

"That's what the young people do," someone told me recently.  "It's all about the self-portrait."

Choosing to ignore the fact that the person speaking to me was implying that I was no longer part of the young crowd and that I was, in fact, so out-of-the-loop that I had no idea the generation following me had an obsession with seeing themselves pixelated in a format that allows everyone from their 1st grade teacher to the guy they think they met in a bar once to comment on how amazing they looked at 1:20 PM, 1:22 PM, and 1:27 PM - I started thinking about how our age affects what we post on Facebook.

Let me break it down for you.

20s

When you're in your 20s, it's important for everyone to think you are having a great time no matter what you're doing and there is no better way to convince everyone of that fact than by taking pictures of yourself doing everything from drying your hair in a flirty fashion to drinking a beer near the bumper of someone's car.  You must have at least 20 pictures of yourself wearing college gear (even if you do not go to said college), 100 where you look like you're "dressed down" and just hanging out (even though it took you 20 minutes to primp for each picture), and 500 group shots with people you don't really know but have friended on Facebook just so that you can tag each person (including pets).

The 75 profile pictures you have were taken by you, with your own phone, as you stood in the mirror, sat in your car at a stop light, stood in line at Starbucks for your Peppermint Mocha, and sat in your airline seat on your way to Spring Break 2012 (woo-hoo!).  Each photo is flattering both in light and angle and it appears that you walk around with a professional staging crew to capture these Kodak Moments (if you're reading this and you're in your 20s, I'm betting you don't even know what a "Kodak Moment" is).

Your status updates go something like "having a great time with ____ and _____!  BFFs!" or "some people are just rude.  U know who u r."  You have occasional political insight and, if you're a girl, post things about the football game that's on so that you seem like you know what you're talking about when the guy you like looks at your profile.

As far as Facebook goes, life is perfection.

30s

Now, here's where things get tricky.  Depending on where you are in your 30s, you may not have had Facebook in your 20s and you're cursing all of those 20-somethings you're friends with because they have all of these adorable profile pictures you wish you had.  Now you're stuck with that Christmas picture from last year that you cropped your parents out of but figured that it hides your budding double chin the best so you'll go with it.  Most of your pictures involve your kids or one of your pets doing something cute.  And your day is made when one of your other 30-something friends posts a picture like this and you can share it:

Your status updates involve pictures of the crap you bought in your 20s that you're trying to unload so that you can upgrade or questions about why one of the kids or pets you have displayed all over your timeline is throwing up all over your house.  At least once a month, you mention how much you hate Mondays and every once in a while you try and update your profile picture but then figure out that Christmas shot is still the best you can do.  You make sure that everyone knows how proud you are of the pictured pets or kids, that last week you went to Happy Hour (just to make sure people know you still kind of have a life), and enough stuff in your profile to make things look good just in case someone you hated in high school looks you up.

In the World of Facebook, you're doing pretty well.

40s

So, now you definitely didn't have Facebook when you were in your 20s so cute profile pictures are not an option.  You choose a beautiful landscape or picture of someone else who may or may not be an actual member of your family to represent you in the world of social media.  At this point, it's very important to have in your profile where you work so that people don't think you just sit around and look at Facebook all day (when, really, that's what you're doing at the advertised job).

In 2012, you spent much of your time trying to come up with witty and life-changing political statements in order to change the minds of the three 20-somethings you're friends with and unfriended 25% of the people on your profile because their political statements didn't agree with yours and were, in fact, more witty and life-changing than you could ever come up with.  The main reason why you log into Facebook each day is to see if George Takei has downloaded any new pictures so that you can share them before your other 40-something friends.

Most of your status updates involve "Mom is finally out of surgery and Dad's back is acting up again" or "I won't say what I caught my son doing but that's the last time I bail him out of jail."

Facebook is making you look a little disgruntled.  But you really don't give a shit.

50+

You've put a profile picture up of you with your kids/grandkids but all the little square shows is your boobs because you can't figure out how to work that thumbnail thingy to get it centered right.  Most of your status updates involve pictures of inspirational quotes trying to get those 30 and 40-somethings you're friends with to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

People have started tagging you in pictures they've scanned in of holidays when they were 2 and you were 25.  So the fact that you didn't have Facebook in your 20s really doesn't matter because now you have 100 pictures on your profile of yourself with an unlined face, laughing at your crazy life, drink in your hand, and a waistline you would kill for right now.

And the world of Facebook has come full circle.

The Confidant and the Source

I am one of those shallow women who gets most of her news from either US Weekly or People.  This is not something I'm proud of - it's just a fact.  If George Clooney didn't speak on its behalf, I would have no idea there were problems in Darfur.  If Leonardo DiCaprio didn't drive a Prius, I might not know that global warming was an issue.  And if Brad and Angelina didn't adopt from it, I don't know if I would have ever heard of Cambodia.

Again.  Not proud of it.  But there you have it.

I've tried getting my news from more reliable sources, but as time goes on and I get a little older and wiser I've come to realize that there really aren't any reliable sources.  And the bonus to getting all of my news from these cheesy magazines is that, as Jeff Goldblum said in The Big Chill, they don't "write anything longer than what the average person can read during the average dump."

In other words - the news is concise and to the point while oftentimes completely pointless.

So, after years of reading these magazines I've noticed 2 people who have stood the test of time.  They have shown up in just about every article in every magazine.  They are invited to every party, every intimate dinner, and every fight that every celebrity has.  They know everything and aren't afraid to share it with anyone who will listen (namely US Weekly and People) and seem ready to spill their guts at a moment's notice.

The Confidant and the Source.

Now, the Confidant knows everything.  She was there when Heidi Montag got her breasts enlarged to a size MMM.  She was there as Adele was getting ready for her baby.  She stood by Rob Pattinson's side during the Twilight cheating scandal while simultaneously listening to Kristen Stewart about what a huge mistake she had made.  She has been there for Kim Kardashian while she sorts out her unfortunate 72 day marriage.  And she has been exercising alongside Jessica Simpson as she attempts to lose 850 lbs. in post-baby weight.

She's exhausted.  But she's in the know.

The Source isn't as involved but is still just as busy.  She is seated next to every celebrity at every restaurant, watching what they order and how many times they kiss the person they're not supposed to be with.  She somehow managed to be in the room when Prince Harry dropped trou (and every woman in the world was jealous of that one).  She has followed every contestant of The Bachelor since the show's beginning.  And John Travolta has several lawsuits pending against the Source.

I would love to be one of these people.  I imagine that the Source has logged over a million airline miles in order to be everywhere she needs to be and that the Confidant is constantly in sweats, ready to lounge around and listen to the problems of any celebrity who needs her.  They have constant job security because no one can possibly know everything they do.  When the news is slow, one of these magazines can call either one of them at any time and develop a story out of thin air.

It's genius.

In reality, I often wonder if these writers, stuck in a web of cubicles somewhere, just lean over to one of their co-workers and say, "Dude.  I need a quote about Lady Gaga" and the other guy says, "She needs to lose some weight."

This gets translated into "A source confirms that Lady Gaga is on a new weight-loss plan."  This then makes the cover where someone will snap it up at the store, wondering if her diet plan includes following the Atkins program where she will eat her own meat dress.

But who are we to doubt that it's true?  After all...it came from a Source.

Why the Christmas Spirit Now Requires a USB Cord and a Password

Throughout the years, I have learned a lot about the toys I want my kids to have for Christmas.

That's right.  The toys I want them to have.

I pretty much avoid anything that says "Assembly Required" because if it has more than 5 pieces, that's the equivalent to at least 3 glasses of wine and I'm never quite sure what the end result will be.  I try not to buy anything inflatable because I discovered last year that I don't have the lung capacity to blow up a sled the size of Mt. Rushmore.  And I have learned to stay away from anything that says "Fur Real" on it because what that really means is that it's "Fur Really Creepy."

I figured out that lesson a few years ago when I bought my daughter the "Fur Real" cat (which should be renamed the "Pet Cemetery Cat") that has a motion sensor in it I could never figure out how to turn off.  Every time I went into the closet where I had hidden the presents and that cat would turn its head and look at me, I just about soiled myself.

That was also the year my son was the lucky recipient of the "Fur Real" Macaw that he quickly discovered could record what he was saying and repeat it back to him.

All I can say is that that Macaw has a filthy mouth.

But now, I'm outnumbered by older and wiser children who really don't want to hear my helpful suggestions for Christmas.  Last night, I brought them to Toys R Us, hoping to get a little more insight into what they wanted which was big mistake because I quickly realized that their Christmas lists would be better taken care of at Best Buy than an actual toy store.

My stomach clenched with fear as my son pointed out the complex gaming system he was hoping to get, knowing that I would never be able to set it up on my own.  I tried steering him over to the stack of "retro" Atari's on the shelf (God, am I really old enough to be considered retro??) which were cheaper and something I felt sure I could handle.

He looked at me like I had Frogger growing out of my head and said, "Mom.  We can get that stuff for, like, $1 on Ebay."

Silly me.

They've pretty much outgrown the entire center of the store because most of that section doesn't require batteries, a USB cord, or some sort of password they will forget within minutes and then wail about the rest of the day until I can figure out how to reset it.  Even my youngest daughter let me down.  At 6 years old, she is apparently too old for Barbies, has no interest in dress-up, and can't stand the thought of getting something that doesn't have a port in which to plug in headphones.

My son didn't help when he led her over to the DSi selection and said, "Look at these.  Aren't they shiny?  And look at that pink one?  Isn't it pretty?"

I watched as her little face pressed against the glass of the case and I knew I had lost the battle.

Good golly, my parents had it easy.  Okay, so my dad made me a dollhouse one year, I'll give him that one.  But other than that...what did we get?  My sister got a cat one year so all that was really required was poking holes in a box.  I asked for a Cabbage Patch Kid which my mom, ever the planner, actually bought months in advance, sensing the Cabbage Patch Frenzy that was to come.  And then there was that year they gave us both sleeping bags.

Yeah.  I bet they stayed up all night rolling those bad-boys out under the Christmas tree.

It's not even December yet and I'm already feeling the stress.  It kind of makes me wish that I had started promoting a family celebration this year more like Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about in "Little House on the Prairie."  I'm daydreaming about my kids dipping into their stockings, bringing out shiny pennies for all to admire or the treat of an orange that they could enjoy later in the day.

As it is right now, I have a feeling if I put an orange in my son's stocking I would probably hear only one thing.

"Hey, Mom.  Where do you put the batteries in this thing?"

Fighting the Election Day Blues

So I've been poking around Facebook this morning and reading with extreme admiration all of my friends' posts about how truly excited they are that it's Election Day.  This enthusiasm comes from one 1 of 2 places:

1.  They're either truly excited about the election process and honored that they have the priveledge to vote.

2.  Or they're just excited that, come tomorrow, they won't have to watch any more of those political ads.

And I'm embarrassed to say that my own personal election day delight probably stems more from the second reason and not the first.

I feel very un-American as I say that but I truly feel like this year more than any other year the election process has beaten me down.  I'm weary.  I'm jaded.  I'm feeling like I know a lot of people are, after watching 2 men bash each other for months, that I'm not really voting for a great leader.

I'm trying to pick between the lesser of 2 evils.

I find that depressing because it feels like the campaigning process in general has become kind of un-American.  I'm not seeing a whole lot of ads about what a great country this is.  I'm not hearing a ton about how either candidate truly believes that we live in a great society.  All I'm hearing is what I hear in my own house day after day with 3 children.

"I didn't say that!"

"You can't believe him!"

"Mo-om!  He won't let me talk!  He keeps interrupting me!"

And, as a bone-tired parent, I hate that my vote has become a tool for settling a disagreement between 2 squabbling children.

I may be the only one who believes this, but the election process has completely lost the American spirit.  I'm not running to the polls today, hopeful that tomorrow will bring change.  I'm dragging my feet to stand in line so that someone might have a chance to get a couple of things done in the next 4 years.  Because I'm not sure if either one of these candidates is capable of bringing back America's pride.

I'll tell you this:  If one of those men had said, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, "I'm going to take my ads off television for 1 day and donate that money to the people who need it" they would have firmly secured my vote.

Because that's what America should be about.

Top 10 Things Skinny Women Shouldn’t Say

“This will go straight to my hips.”

Unless you are saying this while having a surgical procedure actually performed on your hips, I really don’t want to hear it.  You are especially not allowed to say it while eating a salad, granola bar, or drinking a latte.

“No, I hate going to the gym.  I keep in shape by chasing my kids around.”

Okay.  I have 3 children.  I have a gym membership I use at least 3 times a week.  I also have a sizeable ass.  So shut up.

“If I could change one thing about my body it would be my ankles.”

Enough said.  Bitch.

“I just had a baby a month ago.  I lost all of the weight by breastfeeding.”

Any woman who can even look at her pre-baby jeans a month after having a baby is not to be trusted.  And any woman who can model lingerie weeks after having a baby should be arrested.

"It is so hard for me to find pants that are the right length that still fit in the waist.  They just don’t make long enough jeans in the junior section.”

If you don’t have a student ID, you should not be allowed to shop in the junior section.  Go buy some beer instead.  Then you won’t have this problem.

“Can you put the dressing on the side?”

Don’t say that.  I’ve just ordered a bacon cheeseburger with extra mayo.  Seriously.  Toss that vinaigrette in.  It will be okay.

"I’m having dental work done next week and my doctor told me that I need to gain 10 pounds first.”

I never liked you anyway.

"When I’m PMSing, I can’t even fit into my skinny jeans.”

Okay, if I’ve had an extra glass of water I can’t fit into my skinny jeans.  And by skinny jeans I mean my sweats from high school. 

"Grease just doesn’t agree with me.”

     That’s why I don’t argue with it.

  “My clothes just don’t hang right.”

Hang?  What is this “hang” you speak of?  My clothes suck the very life out of me.