A Trip Amid a Pandemic

My brother decided to move. In the middle of a pandemic. He had been renting in the DC area for the last 10 years and finally decided to buy. Good news, right?

Riiiiight. 

Because guess who got to go to DC in the middle of a pandemic to help him move?

Riiiiight.

Listen, any other day, I'd be the first one to offer my services. I did go to Dallas to help my sister (big help that I was) and I helped my other brother when he moved. It's what we do. But, I couldn't go this time. Besides the dog causing problems, my 15-year-old has been sick, and all these things were piling up in my brain and I couldn't bring myself to want to go. But, my sister really wanted to go.

My mother decided to help. But, we're in the middle of a pandemic. And she's at risk. So, again, guess who went with my sister to DC in the middle of a pandemic to help our brother move?

Riiiiight.

But, that is not the point of this post. 

Honestly, I love DC. My BFF has lived there 20 years now and it's always been a home away from home for me. It's a (most of the time) quick 6 hours from here and then you're in a whole new world. I mean, politics aside, it's a great area. This time was no exception. Even during a pandemic. 

I'm not one to get all wrapped up in the political landscape, nor am I one to politicize a pandemic, but dang, DC seems to be doing it right. 

Living in Ohio, we were, in the beginning, a leader in our response to the coronavirus. People from all over the country were talking about how well our governor and health director kept us safe. But, something happened along the way... the economy tanked and people lost jobs and got tired of staring at each other (from afar, of course) and wanted to drink in bars so there were more and more critics. In these last few months, the director quit and our governor has gone soft. When, back in March, he was all, "STAY HOME", now he's all, "eh, stay home if you can, but I understand we all have lives to lead." (I still love you, Mike.) Even though we are required to wear masks whenever we're out in public, nothing really happens if you don't. As a result, we're seeing a surge in cases. 

Again, this isn't a political thing. I don't think masks infringe upon my freedoms. And I am the first person to tell you I don't like being told what to do. But, it's like my friend's dad always said: "I don't know if there's a God, but it's better to err on the side of caution." The same applies here. I don't know if masks will save the world, but I'm pretty sure the lack of masks won't either. So, wear your damn masks.

The mayor of DC has also mandated masks. And, I'm not sure why or how, but... people are listening. We didn't go anywhere without seeing people in masks. Walking their dog, walking by themselves... if they were outside, they were in masks. The movers were in masks. My brother was in a mask in his own home. And, if you believe the mayor's graphs, DC is showing sustained low transmission. Ohio can take a page out of their playbook.

My 12-year-old was going to run cross country for the first time for his school. But, our county board of health said, "yeah, no sports", so our school postponed all sports. Again, I'm all for the greater good. If my kids are safer at home, they're going to stay home. But, even though we have had a nice quarantine at my house, we are getting tired of staring at each other and we all want to go back to normal. I want my kids to go to school, I want them to play sports, I want them to see their friends. I don't want them to have anxiety and lingering fears once this is over. So, the sooner we can all do the right thing, be safe, and wear our damn masks, I really believe the sooner this will all be over.

So, listen up, Ohio. I don't know if masks will help, but I certainly know that masks can't hurt. I want this stupid virus to be over already, so get your shit together. I'm over it. 

The Joy of Puppies

Here we are. Week 6 with the puppy. In some respects, things are getting easier. In others...they are most definitely not.

Where things are getting easier:

1. He sleeps in his crate. Like, we put him in and he doesn't make a peep. The first time it happened was the single greatest day of my life. I mean, to not have to hear him whine and bark for however long he would whine and bark? Pure bliss. It is also nice to be able to sleep in my bed and not on the floor next to a friggin' dog crate.

2. Potty training is getting better. We *almost* never have accidents. The times we have had accidents have been a) because we're dumb or b) he was sick. Or, I suppose there was also a c) he was mad at me.

3. He knows his name. It's pretty great that he comes when called. I feel like I win the lottery any time anyone listens to me. I mean, sure, he associates his name with treats. Whatever. He comes.

4. He's not teething as much. Sure, he's recently discovered unopened wine bottles to gnaw on, but hey, at least it's no longer my hand! 

5. We *mostly* have a rhythm. In addition to sleeping in the crate, he will wake at a normal time (meaning, it's light outside). I get up with him, we do our business and then he does his business (outside) and then we chill or play for a few hours before the rest of the world wakes up. I don't mind the time I have just the two of us, but I will state again for the record: If these assholes want him to love them more, they really should consider getting up with him in the morning. Rocco and I have lived an entire day before they even see him. That ain't my fault.

And this brings us to where things are either the same or worse...

1. He can now climb on things. We have a leather couch. He likes to jump on it to chew on the fake plant on the table behind the couch. He has also had the zoomies on the couch. Did I mention the couch is leather?!

2. He refuses to play fetch. I blame the 12-year-old for this one. They made up a game where Rocco grabs a toy and the 12-year-old chases him around and around saying, "I'm gonna gitcha!". Rocco loves it, we think it's adorable, and so, well, we don't change it. The only bad part is when people actually want to play fetch with him. They throw a ball, he goes to get it, but then never gives it back. And if you try to get the ball from him, he just plays the "I'm gonna gitcha" game. Truthfully, it makes me laugh, but I guess it was kind of annoying when my mom just wanted to play fetch. She wasn't interested in running around the house. Go figure.

3. He continues to eat things he shouldn't. Like the fake plant above, he has now found toilet paper, decorative grass (I guess it's considered grass?) in our ficus tree, cardboard boxes, and decorative flowers (are you sensing a theme here?). This leads us to...

4. He keeps getting diarrhea. He was sick most of yesterday and woke up at midnight, 2am, and 4am last night to go to the bathroom. To add to that, he came with me to pick up the 12-year-old from practice (he loves car rides) and threw up in the car. I suppose the only upside to that is that he cleaned up after himself... by eating what he threw up. Blech.

5. He learned to hump. This was a horrifying revelation. He started humping his snuggle puppy, which was weird enough, but then humped our neighbor's puppy. Last night, he humped our other neighbor's (grown) golden, and our neighbor basically told his dog to not expect our dog to call her the next day.

6. He loves only me. Listen, I love that he loves me best. It's a nice feeling, especially when a) the kids don't need me like they used to and b) our last pet was my husband's. She loved him so much, she tried to kill me numerous times so she could have him all to herself. But now, this pet is mine. The problem is I am the only person who exists in his world. If I leave, he constantly looks for me. This past weekend, I went to my book club and didn't get home until late. At 11:00, my 12-year-old called to ask when I was getting home. Apparently, Rocco would not stop barking in his crate (which, you'll see above, we had fixed). So, I had to leave (and make my other friends leave since we all carpooled). When I got home, I got into bed and Rocco promptly laid down to sleep. I must admit this made me giggle maniacally, but it's not good for us. Am I never going to be able to leave the house again?!! To add to that, the next morning, he both peed and pooped in the dining room. That'll teach me, I guess.

---------

BONUS: (Shh, don't tell anyone, but...) I might love him more than anyone else in my house. He doesn't talk back. He has an opinion and sometimes lets me know it, but in the end, he does what I want. He's the very best snuggler. And he seems happy here. Which makes me happy. 

Next up - teaching him English!

#DogLife

So, we've had Rocco now for 4 weeks. Four weeks of joy, frustration, exhaustion, and love. Let me break it down for you.

JOY
To start, he's adorable. Just looking at him brings a smile to anyone's face, he's that adorable. And that's not just me being biased. Take a look at this picture and try not to smile.

Can't do it, can you?

To add to his general adorableness, he lurves me best, so, of course, I'm overcome with joy all the time. He sits next to me, he lays next to me, he listens to my commands... and no one else. Pure. joy. Heh.

FRUSTRATION
As mentioned in a previous post, he eats EVERYTHING: shoes, grass, mulch, hands, the plastic part of his harness... it's very frustrating. Especially when he now has diarrhea mixed with a little blood (sorry, TMI). I called the vet today and I had to drop him off to get an X-ray. (Stupid COVID for not letting me stay with him.) I broke him. I hope I'm still his favorite when it's all over.

EXHAUSTION
He hates his crate. I've read all the articles, I've talked to my dog friends, nothing is working. He's pretty stubborn. The only semi-solution is to lay on the floor next to his crate until we both fall asleep. It works for him, and sorta works for me. I mean, I can fall asleep anyway, which is half the battle.

LOVE
I just said I sleep on the floor next to his crate almost every night, right? Love. I always want to be with him. Love. I'm sitting here, so worried that I broke him, I couldn't think of anything to do except write about him. Love.

It's possible I've jumped ship and become a dog person.

Yes, Wear a Mask, but No, Don't Be a Dick

We have the annual festival at my church this weekend. Due to stupid, horrible COVID-19, the festival was altered, offering a limited menu via drive-thru only. And, honestly, we were lucky that we were able to have anything at all. If it were up to me, I would've shrugged and said, "eh, maybe next year". But, really, I'm not trying to pay the mortgage and utilities on a large facility like a church, so what do I know?

Festival, it is!

And just like a good steward of the church, I volunteered. Mostly, I've worked in the kitchen, putting dinners together - socially distancing and wearing PPE. We are doing everything we can to make this event as safe as possible, both for our volunteers and our guests. And I'm pretty freaked out about this disease, so if I say we're being safe, we're being safe.

Today was my first time in front of the public. And my first experience seeing how freaked out other people are. It's not as if I didn't know. I have social media, after all. But I thought we were all decent human beings at the core. We all want to be safe and healthy. And this is a church function, so it'd be reasonable to think people might be nice.

Wrong.

I was taking orders. It was hot. I was wearing a mask. I know that I was. And it was never off my face. However, I admit I can't say that the mask was properly secured at all times for 3 reasons:

A) We were outside
B) It was hot and I was sweaty
C) The mask would slide off my nose

I DO know for a fact that I would reposition the mask when I would get to a new car. And, I maintained social distance. Because, as I said above, I am freaked out about this disease and I will (selfishly) admit, I don't want to get it. So, I'm pretty sure I would do what I can to keep myself safe (even though I know I know, the mask is for other people, not me). But whatever.

When it all came out and our state shut down, I didn't leave the house for 8 whole weeks. We didn't have our weekly family dinner with my parents and siblings because we would be over the 10 people limit. When my neighbor and I walked the neighborhood, one of us was in the street and the other was on the sidewalk.

I've been playing by the damrules.

But today, someone questioned my commitment to playing by these rules. I had just left a car when a woman in the car in front of me yelled out her window that I wasn't wearing my mask and that she had taken 20 pictures of me not wearing my mask and she was going to shut us down.

I was speechless. I mean, who does this?

Look, I get it. We are living in a horrible nightmare of a time. I am afraid for everyone I know. I have mini panic attacks when my husband leaves the house and want to spray him down when he walks in the door. My kids don't see friends. I yell at my parents to stay the fuck home. And even though the lockdown is over, I don't feel safe.

So, she took these 20 pictures and showed them to one policeman who was working security. From what I heard, she showed him, he told her I wasn't breaking any rules (the guidance is "should" wear a mask, not "shall") and to have a nice day. So, what did the lady do? She took his picture, too, for not wearing a mask (he was off duty, btw).

I don't know, maybe it's my type of anxiety that won't allow me to just roll my eyes at the crazy lady and let. shit. go. (Obviously, if I'm thinking enough to write about it.) But, I wasn't breaking any rules, we were at a church function, and this woman now has 20 pictures of me sitting on her phone because it made her feel important. I wasn't even anywhere near her, so it wasn't as if she was afraid for her safety.  To add to that, she ordered food and took it home, so she must not have been too worried. She just wanted to stick her nose in someone else's business.

Was it always this way? Were there always entitled, yet ignorant people in the world, letting everyone know their every feeling at every minute? I know social media has given people a sort of power to say whatever they want to whomever they want. But I'm wondering if everyone was always like this, it is just more obvious nowadays?

Someone at the festival told me that this lady is the epitome of a Karen. And, of course, I know that term, but I decided to look it up. According to Wikipedia (the epitome of truth on the internet, I know), a Karen "demands the world exist according to her standards with little regard for others, and she is willing to risk or demean others to achieve her ends."

This woman is TOTALLY a Karen. I mean, who is she to tell me what I did wrong? She doesn't know me, doesn't know how I feel about keeping people safe. She doesn't really care about that. As long as she gets to do and say whatever she wants.

So, fuck you, Karen. I hope you feel better, you nitwit. And next time, YOU wear a mask.

(Oh, did I forget to mention she wasn't wearing a mask herself? Soooo, yeah, there's that.)

Things I've Learned About Dogs

We've had Rocco almost 2 whole weeks. I think that alone makes me a puppy expert, so I thought I'd impart my wisdom onto the world. If you are thinking about adopting a puppy, this should help make your decision. And remember, you own the puppy, the puppy does not own you.

Yeah, right.

So, here are some things to keep in mind:

1. The liquid on your floor is almost always pee.
2. This is true even if you had just taken your dog outside to pee.
3. Twice within 30 minutes.
4. Puppies have the most energy at 5:30. A.M. 
5. Just like with infants, mothers are somehow the only people who hear when the puppy awakes at 5:30. A.M.
6. Puppies do not allow you to make coffee in the morning.
7. If you try, you will get pee on your floor.
8. Puppies think your hands (feet, clothing, hair) are their own personal chew toy.
9. What's considered "playful" by puppies is actually "painful" by humans.
10. Everyone in the world will want to pet your puppy. Even in this COVID-19 world. 
11. My sister says I am not allowed to Lysol a puppy.
12. Until you housetrain your puppy, you will clean up pee and (ugh, sometimes) poop no less than 5 times a day.
13. Cats are not the only assholes who pee all over the house. Go figure.
14. You will take a million and one pictures of the puppy, in various positions:
• Sleeping
• Sleeping upside down
• Sleeping on its side
• Laying down
• Sitting
• Sitting in your lap
• Eating
• Slow-motion video running (that never works out because he's too fast)
• Playing with your children
• Biting your husband (that one is pretty funny)
15. The cuter the pose, the faster they move from it when you sloooowly reach for your phone. It's like they know.
16. There is a thing I like to call "puppy psycho time", but is actually called "the zoomies", that happens every day around 8 in the evening. No idea what prompts it. 
17. There is also a thing called the "puppy pass-out" that happens right after "puppy psycho time".
18. The person who cleans up after the puppy and, more importantly, feeds the puppy becomes that puppy's "person". 
19. That's me. I'm the Person. 
20. I will not apologize for being the puppy's Person. As soon as one of these assholes I live with wants to take over these duties, they are more than welcome to become the Person. Until then, bugger off.

Oh and one last thing: A puppy who loves belly rubs is the single greatest creature on the planet.

I hope this information has helped as you make your decision to adopt or not. And if you have any questions about how to clean up dog urine, don't call me. I've already had my fill for the day.

So We Got a Dog

As you already know, I am a cat person. Our sweet sweet crazy Zoe went to kitty heaven last March. Since then, we have enjoyed new carpeting and no responsibilities, but also missed the joy a pet can bring. The boys have been asking for a dog for years and since we're in the middle of a pandemic and home all the time, we figured why not?

Meet Rocco. He's 50% Labradoodle, 50% Goldendoodle, and 100% adorable. At 8 weeks, he's a fluffy bundle of energy and joy, with a side of chill. I fell in love with him the moment we met.

#dogmom

But, boy, is he different than a cat. With a cat, you need to give him food, water, and a place to do his business (hopefully, not on your carpet). And then you can basically fuck off for all he needs you.

Not dogs. Dogs are like children. And not necessarily the good part of children. Instead, dogs are the not sleeping, not listening, constantly chasing after them so they don't make a mess/break something/hurt themselves part of children. But, he's damcute, so I will deal. And, just like any child stage, I know this is only for a short time.

We've had him 5 (whole) days. In those 5 days, he has ridden in a car every day, sniffed his doggie cousins, met the neighbors, been manhandled by small children and bullied by big dogs, visited the vet, and been hugged by every single person he's come into contact with. He has that way about him.

The first 4 days were kind of magical if you can believe that. He slept through the night, only had accidents because his owners were stupid, and was basically the chillest dog on the planet. But then something happened on night 4.

He became a toddler.

Now, he doesn't sleep nearly as much, he chews everything, including, but not limited to:

• Appendages
• Hair
• Clothing
• Furniture
• Blankets
• Carpeting
• Shoes
• Shoes
• Shoes
• Mulch
• Grass
• Leaves
• Dead bird carcasses
• Dog. treats. that. he. has. thrown. up.

Last night, he ran around in circles for 10 full minutes. Scared the crap out of me. Especially because he tried to do it underneath the armchair. 

Honestly, I have never had a dog, so I don't even know if this is normal. I'm new to training, I'm new to grooming, I'm new to what type of sniffing means what. I mean, who put me in charge of a dog? I love him so much and would never let anything happen to him, but dang. He is a pain in the ass. To quote my mother, "If he wasn't so cute, he'd be dead."

Juuuuuust kidding, all you PETA people. I love animals more than humans most days.

I'm kind of excited to see how he learns, though. Zoe acted so much like a dog, I feel like a part of this is familiar. So, we'll keep him. And learn to love to redirect his bad habits every 5 minutes and clean up pee and poop every 10 minutes (because his owners are stupid). 

Welcome to the family, pup-a-lump!

"But those weren't my plans." (AKA, when your teenager gets his own life)

So, tonight is New Year's Eve. Every year, since the boys were little, we've hosted a small get together with friends. We spend the evening, in our PJs, eating nothing but cheese and playing cards, while our children run wild in the basement. It's been nice.

But now, my oldest is in high school. And apparently wants his own life.

Back story, one of our closest friends has a son our son's age. And, although they moved a while ago, we have (and the boys have) always been close friends, spending NYE and other evenings together. But, this year, the 15-year-old decided he has other plans.

A few days ago, he asked if he could go to a party. At first, I said no. I am not ready to unleash him into the wild of NYE, I didn't want to figure out how to get him there and home, and his friend was going to be at our house. So, I told him no, we already had plans.

His response: "But those weren't my plans."

This got me thinking. Yes, it's true, he's getting older and has started making his own decisions. And I suppose I have to let him, even though I think I do a much better job. I mean, I would've chosen his friend over the party, obviously. But OK. I get that he doesn't see this friend as often as he sees his other friends and I can kinda-sorta see why he'd want to go to this party. But, we had plans. And he broke them. And when I had to tell my friend, she was rightfully annoyed that, two days before the holiday, her son had to make other plans.

In the end, it all worked out. Her son had been invited to several parties, so switching gears was easier than we'd thought. But she had mentioned to me that it's the end of an era. And I guess I'm sad about that.

2020 is just around the corner. This coming year, my son will be 16. He'll be getting his learner's permit and probably getting a job and a girlfriend and we'll see him less and less. And, even though he refuses to boil his own damn water for pasta (he once said "never mind" when he asked for pasta and I asked him to get the water going), he is going to start doing things for himself.

Mark my words.

I don't really do the resolutions thing. Mine have always been too wide-reaching (e.g. "be better") and I never ever stick to them (apparently, "better" is just too hard to achieve). But this year, I resolve to let my son grow up. He's going to be leaving my house in 3 years; it's time he learns some real independence. Not the "I wanna do what I wanna do" kind of independence, but the "I can survive outside of my mother's house" kind of independence. So, he's going to:

• Do his own laundry (actually, he already does that)
• Change his sheets
• Boil his own damn water for pasta if he wants pasta
• Clean. his. own. bathroom!

Now that I think about it, it's going to be a great year for me. Not for him, for sure, but hey, we can't have everything.

Happy New Year to me (and all of you, of course)!

Healthcare Industry: Get Your Shit Together

About 2 years ago, I went to the doctor. I had been having one pesky little issue (that I had been having on and off for a few years by then), and while the doctor told me (again) I was fine, I asked him to make sure... medically. I wanted to make sure he wasn't just treating a symptom of something else. So, he agreed. And said (and I quote): "Just remember you asked for this."

Now I know what he meant.

He ordered a CT scan. This test, of course, found all kinds of things unrelated to my one symptom. There were spots on my kidneys and liver and hip. That meant more tests: an ultrasound for the kidney, an MRI for the liver, a PET scan for the hip. Honestly, I had so much radiation running through me, I glowed in the dark.

The children were highly entertained.

The tests were whatever they were. I saw a urologist for the kidneys (more tests; everything was fine). The MRI found the liver to be fine, too. But then came the PET scan. The thing on the hip was nothing, but they found a spot on my neck. My doctor who ordered these tests is a specialist. Because this was out of his realm, he suggested I see my PCP to then find another specialist.

More appointments, more doctors.

My PCP sent me to an ENT. This guy took a biopsy of my neck (thyroid, really); results were inconclusive. But then he said that thyroid cancer grows slowly and even if it was cancer, it probably could wait another 6 months before we tested it again.

Aaaand here begins my rant.

First off, don't tell someone that you might have cancer, but oh, don't worry, it can sit in your body for a while longer. I decided this man was not going to be my doctor.

I saw an endocrinologist. She told me she could see the lump right away, just by looking at me. We did another biopsy; it, again, was inconclusive. She suggested I see a surgeon anyway because it was a big nodule that shouldn't be there.

So, I saw a surgeon. He seemed nice enough, agreed I needed the surgery to remove the left lobe of my thyroid. He happened to be the inventor/director of this robotic technology that would make the incision under my arm instead of across my neck. And I was vain enough to agree to that surgery.

That'll teach me.

Surgery was a year ago December (there was a little bit of cancer). Since then, I have had nothing but problems. Arm numbness, neck pain (remember when I threw out my back/neck moving my sister?) and a host of other things. I had a few follow-ups with the surgeon; he, of course, said my symptoms had nothing to do with my surgery. I was all, I'm not going to sue you, dude. I just want to know if this is normal. And forever.

Bloodwork showed I needed thyroid meds, so I went on them. I never got an answer from the surgeon about my arm, so he sent me to a neurologist. I didn't have nerve damage, which was good, but also didn't solve that problem. He suggested physical therapy.

In the meantime, I was having horrible womanly issues. I called my OB/GYN first. She said it wasn't her problem, it sounded like my thyroid. I called the endocrinologist; the nurse told me she had never heard of the thyroid affecting that part of a woman. (FYI, a quick Google search found the correlation in 2 seconds, but whatever). After a lot of back and forth, and a lot of them telling me it was not their problem, I made my endocrinologist up my thyroid med dosage.

After a few months, I started having bad side effects: dizziness, lightheadedness, heart palpitations. I went back to my PCP for a physical. I just wanted to know if this was all normal... rather, if this was my new normal.

My physical was fine. And yet, I still wasn't. I went back to the PCP, who ordered me to wear a 24-hour halter monitor. The monitor found something, so a cardiologist called me to see him. I, of course, had to wait 2 months to get in. Do you know what waiting does to someone who might have a heart problem who also definitely has anxiety?

While waiting, my symptoms were bad enough that I had to do something. I saw the endocrinologist again last week. I just couldn't believe this wasn't all related to my thyroid. Heart palpitations are one of the top symptoms of hyperthyroidism, how could it not by the thyroid? She told me that my levels were normal, so it wasn't my thyroid. And that I must have a heart problem. Basically, she said: it's not my problem, see someone else.

(Sidenote:. In all my life, I (thank God) have been relatively healthy, up until now. Cholesterol has been good, I have low blood pressure, low heart rate. Nothing to suggest a heart problem in all this time. Isn't it a funny coincidence that my "heart problem" started the moment my thyroid stopped working?)

Anyway, against her advice, I stopped taking my thyroid meds. And, (not) surprisingly, the heart palpitations stopped. Lightheadedness was still there, but it was not as bad. Funny how that happened.

So, yesterday, I finally saw the cardiologist. And, guess what? My heart is fine. And guess what else? It's not his problem, see someone else.

And here I am. I still don't know what's wrong with me. I feel better being off the meds, but I still have the lightheadedness, which only amps up my anxiety. And I need the meds to keep my thyroid working, so we still have to solve that problem. But who is going to solve it when no one takes responsibility?

Here lies my problem. Where is my patient advocate? Who is finally going to accept responsibility for my care and get me the help I need? Why aren't any one of my eight (8!) doctors helping?

When I was bleeding so much I thought I might bleed to death, why wasn't anyone helping? Why couldn't I call an advocate-type person, one who knows medical jargon, but isn't affiliated with a doctor's office, get me to the right people? It happens in cancer care, why not elsewhere? And my problem is small, relatively speaking. What happens to people with chronic diseases?

I feel like your PCP is supposed to be that person, to an extent. And I love mine, I really do. But, is he not doing his job? Why didn't he follow up with me after he ordered the halter? Why isn't he following up with me about any of the problems I've seen him about just this year? I get that he has hundreds or thousands of patients and can't possibly have time to do this for each and every patient, but how else is this supposed to work?

I know, I'm supposed to be my own advocate. But, how are you supposed to advocate for yourself when you don't even know what you need?

Funnily enough, I write marketing materials for the healthcare industry. I know enough about all kinds of conditions to be dangerous – or *this close* to becoming a doctor myself. I'm constantly talking about a "multidisciplinary approach to medicine" and "patient-centered care". And I'm calling bullshit on my bullshit. There is no multidisciplinary approach. There is no time. Doctors don't even look at their patient files before they see a patient. How do these people, who have the tremendous responsibility of a person's life, get away with this? My company expects the respect of people's time; I could never go into a meeting not even the slightest bit prepared. Isn't this the same thing, more important even?

All of this is to say: healthcare industry, get your shit together.

A Step-by-Step Guide to Helping Your Sister Move

My sister has lived in Dallas for the past 11 years. But, we got lucky this past fall when her husband accepted a new job... it meant they were coming home!

While my BIL began the job in November, she stayed back in Dallas to sell the house, pack up their stuff and move it all here. After the house sold, I offered to fly down there, spend the last week packing up the rest of their stuff and driving it back home.

I know, I'm a great sister, aren't I?

Anyhoo, I flew down there last Sunday. And you all know how much I love to fly – that alone should earn me bonus "great sister" points! Since I never eat before a plane ride and took my happy pills, I was starving and sleepy by the time I got down there. So, even though the Golden Globes were on and I love me some awards shows, Sunday was spent scarfing down food and falling asleep in front of the TV. The real work began on Monday.

Here's my step-by-step guide to helping your sister (brother, friend, etc.) move:

1. Wrap tiny breakables in paper.
(Sidenote: My sister had all the supercool accoutrements for moving: big rolls of bubble wrap (it took everything I had not to pop every damn one of those); packing paper; boxes of all kinds – small, medium, large, extra large, mirror/picture... it was amazeballs.)
2. Fill small box full of tiny breakables in paper.
3. Test weight of said box by bending at waist and lifting (potentially heavy) box.
4. Throw out back.
5. See stars.
6. Lay down on floor.
7. Get better and pack more boxes.
8. Wake up with stiff neck that makes you want to vomit.
9. Make sister go to Wal-Mart at 6am to buy heating pad.
10. Sit with heating pad for rest of day while sister packs alone.

I mean, good grief. She was probably wondering why she bothered with me at all!

Even though I was completely useless to her, I'm glad I went. She didn't have to drive 2 days all on her own and it gave us something to talk about at family dinner last night.

You're welcome, Mar.

The Crud

As you all know, school is back. And with that comes The Crud. You all know The Crud. The runny nose, sneezing, post-nasal drip that makes your throat hurt and you spend 20 minutes hacking/choking as you furiously rummage through your purse for a cough drop... while you're in a room full of people... who are all trying to listen to a speaker.

Oh, is that just me? Yesterday?

Anyway, The Crud first started with the 12-year-old within the first week of school. Typically, it takes about a month or so for The Crud to enter our house, so it was a little surprising to see that little bastard so fast.

I blame middle school.

His runny nose/cough lasted only a few days and then we were in the clear... until last weekend when I got it and the 9-year-old got it. And, somehow, my mother.

That's a wicked Crud.

So, since Saturday, we've been weathering the storm. Most of my colds start and end the same way. I spend the first day sneezing my life away (did you know your heart stops every time you sneeze? I could be dead by now!). I've been "bless you"ed enough times this week that I'm a sure thing for heaven. The rest of the days alternate between runny/stuffy nose and sore throat. It ends within a week or so and then we go about our lives.

Can I admit that, when I was young, I actually enjoyed the occasional cold? I'd gather a box of tissues, a glass of orange juice and a blanket and veg in front of the TV. It was kinda nice to pamper myself while I practically sneezed up a lung.

But, nowadays, ain't nobody got time to be sick. I have to manage the lives of little people. And work. And, you know, life. And, for whatever reason, illnesses take longer now that I'm old. The 9-year-old got through it in 2-3 days while I'm still sneezing. I mean, what the? Sneezing is only supposed to be day 1! I'm supposed be done by now! I shouldn't have gone through an entire box of Kleenex 5 days in!

But, I suppose I can look on the bright side. To quote the great "Sixteen Candles":

"They'll feel some massive guilt. It could be highly profitable."

It's not working yet, but I'll hold my breath... it might stop the sneezing.

Ugh. Middle School.

Today's the first day of school in our district. Normally, I'm ready for the boys to go back to school, if only to get them out of the house for the day so I can watch bad TV for 8 hours straight (Grey's Anatomy binge-fest? Why, don't mind if I do!).

But, this year, I'm just not feelin' it. It could be because we didn't do much this summer. We renovated our kitchen and played on 3 baseball teams that, while fun, pretty much sucked the life out of us for 2 whole months. The 12-year-old got to go to camp, the husband and I took a trip to Napa and the 9-year-old spent a week with grandma, which, let's face it, is better than any stinkin' vacation.

So, they should be ready to go back. However, I don't know if time speeds up because I'm old, or if, in some alternate universe, a month or so was taken away from us without our knowledge because? It just seemed to have gone by way too fast.

Or my reluctance to accept the beginning of the school year could be that the 12-year-old started middle school.

Do you guys remember middle school? Do you look back and wonder how we survived? Because, dang. Those were some awful years.

For me, those were the years I got braces and glasses, and, if that weren't tragic enough, a series of terrible haircuts. The boys started noticing the girls (not me, of course, because of the aforementioned braces-glasses-haircut combo), the girls started kissing the boys (again, see above)...

I'm sure it wasn't awful for everyone. My girlfriends certainly had a fine time kissing all those boys. But, for an introverted, slightly awkward, slightly emotional girl like myself, it was pretty bad. And I just don't want my son to go through it.

I'm hoping because he's a boy, he won't have to deal with the stupidity I did.

Story time... when I was in 7th grade, pegged jeans, matching socks and loafers were all the rage. My mom wasn't a big fan of, you know, "style" or "being cool" or "just trying to survive middle school", so buying me clothes from the Gap wasn't at the top of her list. But, every once in a while (read: a birthday or holiday), I would get something cool to wear to school.

I had these gray pin-striped pants, paired with a peach (oh yes, peach) top and peach socks (of course). I wore this outfit pretty regularly, which meant the outfit was washed.  A lot.

My mother, bless her, was (and still is) a big fan of bleach. She bleached everything, from bathrooms to kitchens to, you guessed it, our clothes. And because I am was the awkward person I am was, I wore whatever was mine without protest, including my now-yellow peach socks.

(In an alternate life, I would've just asked for new socks or begged my mother to not bleach the socks I had, but, of course, hindsight and all that.)

One day, I was in choir, wearing my peach outfit and the mean girl who lived across the street from me said, "Lea, why are you wearing yellow socks?"

Me: Well, this is my peach outfit and these socks were once peach, so...
Her: Well, they're not now.

It's funny the things you remember, isn't it?

She also asked the choir teacher if she was pregnant (she wasn't), so she was just being a bitch to be a bitch, but still. My middle school existence can be summed up in that conversation.

You're not cool. You won't be cool. Wear white socks.

High school brought contact lenses, a perm (which was cool back then) and no braces, so life significantly improved.

Good luck in middle school, kid. I promise I won't bleach your socks.

Life is better with a cat?

You guys all know I have a cat. I’ve talked about her here and here. And, despite all those stories, I love her. Like lurrrrve her love her. Like hate her lurrrve her love her.

But, she’s not without her issues. We “joke” all the time that we’re going to get rid of her whenever she pulls her shenanigans (aka peeing on the floor, peeing on the carpet, peeing on the wall, pooping on the carpet [right next to the litter box, btw], vomiting on the floor, vomiting on the carpet, hissing or swatting at every single person who walks in our door). In a nutshell, being a cat.

But, as I said, we love her. She’s been with us for 14 years now and we’re beginning to wonder how much longer she’ll be with us. We recently renovated our kitchen, so you can imagine how that might have gone over with our anxiety-ridden kitty.

Read: not well.

She’s been acting kind of funny lately. Cries a lot, not really eating much and basically being a real pain in the ass with the pooping and peeing.

So, we took her to the vet yesterday. Because she’s anxious, it never goes well. So, they thought they’d sedate her to examine her.

The vet: How far are you willing to take this?

Me [to myself]: Is she really asking me if I want to treat the cat? Isn’t that why I came?

Me [out loud]: Well, I want to know what’s wrong with her.

Vet: OK, great. We’ll get started then.

That made me wonder. Do most owners come in and say, “I only want to treat if it’s the $20 special”?

I get it. Treatment can be expensive. Especially for a furry friend who may or may not have spent years trying to kill you by sleeping around your neck.

But, I like to pretend think that she does it because she loves me, so we went ahead with the sedation.

After her exam, the vet told me she looks good, but that she is constipated.

Constipated, really?

We know constipation in our house. My son has spent years suffering from it; I, myself, have had these issues. It now makes me wonder if she’s trying too hard to be a part of this family or if maybe we need to check our water.

Anyway, the treatment for constipation in cats is… Miralax. Just like with humans. She gave us some Miralax to take home (which, no need, I get the industrial-sized bottles, but hey, free Miralax!). She sent us on our way, with the warning that Zoe would be a little woozy for a while, so don’t let her play on the steps.

Noted.

For the rest of the day/evening, I watched her like a hawk. She definitely was out of it, almost comically so. Her eyes were glazed, she couldn’t close her mouth, and when she wasn’t walking sideways, she was staring at the walls for hours on end. Funny not funny.

This morning, her meows are back. She’s no longer walking sideways, but she’s certainly not very forgiving. She would walk towards me, but then remember she was comatose yesterday because of me and give me the cold shoulder.

I suppose the cold shoulder is better than the furry neck. At least I’m alive.

Work/Life Balance Does Not Exist

I have always marveled at how lucky I've been to work part-time.  I get time at home with my boys and I get time outside the home with adults.  The perfect combination.  No one suffers because I give equal attention to both.

What a bunch of horseshit.

My boss once told me there is no such thing as work/life balance.  Something always suffers.  At the time, I was all, oh, sure, maybe for others.  But, it turns out he's right.  Something always suffers.

It sucks.

A couple weeks ago, we had our work holiday party.  Because I'm part-time (and old...with children), I don't get to hang out much socially with my co-workers.  But, they spend a lot of time together outside the office and know each other pretty well.  Even their significant others know each other.  So, there we were, my husband and I, kinda watching everyone else know each other.

Okay, so it made me sad for my youth.  My first job out of college was at an ad agency.  We wore jeans, drank beer at lunch (only once), happy houred every Friday... it was the best time of my life (well, a different "best time of my life" anyway).  My current co-workers, while a bit older than I was then, do this a lot.  At that moment, I wished I worked full-time with them and was able to hang out with them socially whenever the mood struck.  But, as it is, I have to plan weeks in advance for the stars to align in order for me to work a full day, go to happy hour, and still make it home in time to put the boys to bed.

Alternately, because my job is demanding, I don't get to enjoy my home life much.  I love what I do and don't really want to not work, but sometimes, I just want to say, "Fuck this shit."  How many times have you ever pictured yourself throwing important papers in the air and saying, "Fuck this shit, I'm out!"?

I have friends who don't work.  If I didn't work, I'd be able to see them more often.  We could lunch.  I could spend my summers at the neighborhood pool with the boys.  We could take excursions.  But, because my work schedule changes all the time, I constantly make-and-break plans with pretty much everyone I know.  And, don't get me started on volunteering at the kids' school.  I don't even offer anymore because I know you can't count on me.

The other irritating part is you can't complain about this situation.  I have the best of both worlds.  I can't whine to my working mom friends because they never get to spend time with their children.  And I can't bitch to my stay-at-home mom friends because they're so bored to tears and up to their armpits in dirty diapers, they dream about throwing those diapers in the air saying, "Fuck this shit, I'm getting a job."

So, where is the balance?  Does it ever get easier?  I guess I'll just have to drink a little more wine every night and hope that losing my balance will help me find it again.

  

  

It's That Time Again!

It's the holiday season, which means I'm covered head to toe in glitter and glass shards and at a complete and total loss what to get anyone for Christmas this year.  Welcome to Christmas 2015!

As in typical fashion at my house, we came late to the holiday party.  While everyone else had their tree up the day after Thanksgiving, we finally decorated this past weekend.  Which means, of course, James the Elf is back.

I'm not against the elf.  When we're being creative, he's actually a lot of fun.  But, if you don't already know, we are procrastinators.  Which makes us forgetters.  Which makes us next-morning panickers and rushers.  Which makes us failures.

The 11-year-old doesn't believe anymore (heart. breaking.), but the 8-year-old does.  And, for weeks now, he's been asking after James.  Unfortunately, James had a wee bit of an accident last year.  He was left somewhere a little too close to my sister's dog and... ended up headless.  Somehow, we were able to put him together again, but he's looking pretty beat up.  He's fraying at the neckline, I didn't do a very good job removing the black eye he got from the Nutcracker last year, his smile is just a little less bright.

I'm hoping no one looks too closely.

So, we're on Day 2 of Elf Watch.  Yesterday, he was in the Christmas tree and was thoughtful enough to leave a note, explaining his absence.  (Basically, he thanked us for finally decorating so he could come back.  Yeah, thanks for pointing our our failures, James.)  Today he moved to another Christmas decoration.

We're awesome at this thing.

I'm hoping we'll get a little more creative.  Last year, the husband created a zip line for James to hang from, we've had him have some "fun" (not fun for me) with toothpaste, and there's always Pinterest for inspiration... or to make us look worse.

Can't.  Wait.

I Saw You Before You Got Up This Morning

Here's the thing about kids:  they have needs.  And you, as the parent, have to fulfill every. single. one. of those needs. Until they're old enough to be kicked out fulfill those needs themselves.

Most of the time, it's a joy to help my boys.  They are good boys (bless them) and I am glad to be there for them.  Although, I recently read an article about what my 11-year-old should be doing by this age and am failing.  Miserably.  I actually noticed it the other day when I was cutting up his meat.  I mean, really?  He's 11.  Pick up a damknife and do it yourself already.

Anyway, my 8-year-old hasn't been feeling well.  He has had a cough for what seems like months and came home from school yesterday complaining of ear pain.  We know where this is going.  Luckily, I had enough time to call the pediatrician and secure an appointment for 8:00 this morning.

Btw, if you ever are ever offered the first appointment of the day?  Take. It.  It's amazing.

Most days, I try to be awake and ready to go before the children get up.  This allows me to focus on them, ensuring we don't forget anything.  Like homework.  And lunches.  And, on the rare occasion, the child himself.  There have been mornings when I'm running around like crazy and my oldest son has to remind me (5 minutes before we're ready to leave), "Lunch?"  Crap!

This morning, we left the house at 7:30.  I have to give myself props for getting out of the house on time.  Because?  I'm Greek.  "On time" means "at least 15 minutes late" in our world.  Our pediatrician is about 15 miles away.  She made sense when we lived in the same city, but, now that it's a good 30 minutes to get to her, I wonder if we should switch.  But, I love her and switching requires work, so... 30 minutes it is.

We got to the doctor at 8 on the dot (woo!), saw her for about 5 minutes, got our script and left.  Best appointment ever.  There's vindication when you get a prescription, isn't there?  Like you didn't just spend 60 minutes in the car, another 30 minutes in the waiting room, and 5 minutes with the doctor for nothing.  Somehow, I was able to get my 8-year-old to school on time, too (double woo!), and me to work at a reasonable time (well, we can't have everything).

However well this morning went, I can't help but fondly remember what it was like before kids.  When I used to get up in the morning and only have to get myself ready.  There was no yelling, no rushing (well, maybe there was rushing [Greek]), and no stress.  While I may have been a rock star this morning, this is not typical.  Which is why I had to write about it.  For posterity.

See, kids?  Mommy was on time!

So, Your Kid is Taking Sex Ed? Mine, Too.

My 11-year-old is in the 5th grade.  5th grade in our school district means APL, or Art of Personal Living.  Let's just call it what it is, OK?  It's sex ed.  With a tiny focus on,"Clean yourselves, yo.  You will stink more as you age."

I took APL in 5th grade, too.  It was all thrillingly awkward.  I wanted to know, but, also, didn't want to know.  You know?  Lord knows my parents weren't going to tell me a damthing.  And I was right. When I asked my mother about it later, she just said, "I figured school would take care of it."  The only advice I got from my mom in that area was, "God doesn't want you to do it until marriage."

Aaaaand, end scene.

Anyway, my experience wasn't traumatic.  They glossed over anything remotely interesting.  You know, what to actually DO when you do it.  And, in hindsight, I'm perfectly fine with that.  A) I was eleven and shouldn't know anyway and B) it means my children won't know either.

They had a parent meeting before our children's class began.  I was unable to make it, but my brother went (his daughter is also taking the class).

Sidenote:  Can I just say, once again, how entertaining it is (for me) that my brother got the girls?  As awful as he was to girls growing up, including me, I find it deeply satisfying that he now has to worry about boys like him hurting his beautiful, beautiful daughters.  Not that I want them to hurt either.  I just kinda wish he could go back in time and be this guy instead of that guy.  But, I digress.

So, the class.  With bleeding ears, he listened to them talk about periods and acne and various other horrifyingly hormonal happenings.  It all seemed very vanilla to me.  I mean, yes, periods are uncomfortable to talk about, but, well, whatever.

Fast forward to the afternoon of the first class.  All day, I knew my son had this class.  I had learned my lesson about oversharing, so I had decided that I would play it cool and not ask a damthing.

Turns out, I didn't have to.

He came right home and said, "So, we had our first APL class."

Me (side-eyed, pretending to be doing something else):  Oh?
Him:  Yeah.  She gave us a pretest to find out what we knew.  We had to answer, 'yes', 'no', 'not sure'. I said 'not sure' to a lot.
Me:  Like what?
Him:  I don't remember all of the questions, but one was (small, embarrassed smile), 'Do you know what a penis is?'
Me (to myself):  OK, a necessary evil.
Him (continuing):  Semen...
Me (again, to myself):  Oh, God.
Him:  Wet dream...

I blink.
He blinks.

Me:  Oookaaaayyy... do you want to know what these things are?
Him:  NO!  I'm going out to play!
Me (to myself):  Oh, thank God.

I'm not sure if I should be horrified or proud that he doesn't know these things yet.

I'm going with proud.

What to Do When a Girl Breaks Your Son's Heart: A Tutorial

A few weeks ago, my 11-year-old was mopily (yeah, it's a word.. to me) playing Legos at the kitchen table.  I could tell all was not right in the state of Denmark, but I didn't want to pry.  Like most parents, engaging a pre-teen in conversation is like trying to capture a cat in order to take him/her to the vet.  You have to creep up on her all stealth-like, get her to trust you, maybe even pet her once, and then BAM! Attack! Wrestle all 4 limbs to the ground! Shove headfirst into the travel carrier! Run like the wind!

Is that just me?

Anyway, so I engage.

Me:  Hey, kid.  What's going on?
Him:  Eh, nothing.
Me:  You OK?
Him:  Well, I just found out [girl's name] likes someone in her class.
Me (side-eyed):  Oh...
Him:  I thought she liked me.

I could hear the pitter-patter of his little heart breaking a little.  Or maybe it was mine.  What do I do in this situation?  I know what it's like to have a crush not reciprocated.  That was me for most of my formative years.  Crushes suck.  To quote the dad from Sixteen Candles:

"That's why they call them crushes.  If they were easy, they'd call them something else."

Dang, 80s movies are so, like, poignant.

So, to help all the mothers out there with similar stories, I have put together a tutorial.  You're welcome.

1.  Try not to wring the girl's neck.  This should be a no brainer - no one wants to go to jail.  But, you have to be reminded of this when you next see this person who has (knowingly or not) stomped all over your son's feelings.  In our situation, the girl came over almost immediately after he told me, I had to hold myself back from drop-kicking her out our back door. Instead, she got the stink-eye. Take that!

2.  Allow your son to share his feelings without going all mama bear on him. As I watched him struggle with grown up feelings, while playing a child-like game, I wanted to grab him, hold on for dear life, and say, "I know how you feel!  I've loved, too!!  Allow me to tell you about ALL of them!  In detail!!!"  Which then leads you into #3.

3.  Share your own painful, and extremely personal, stories of heartbreak.  In retrospect, this is probably bad advice.  As I walked him through my many stories of unrequited love, he looked more and more alarmed.  He really should know better than to talk to a mother of sons.  Who else am I supposed to share my wealth of knowledge with?  I know better now!  Let me teach all you girls of a certain age!  Boys are dumb!

If these words of wisdom don't send your son running for the hills, ensuring this is the LAST TIME he'll ever come to you for advice, you obviously did it wrong.

In the end, it all wound up OK.  The girl is a friend of his, she continues to come over daily and I just have to get over it. He seems fine with it (really, he seemed fine with it less than 10 minutes after it happened).

That's boys for you.  



Disclaimer:  I am in no way, shape or form a person who should be giving actual parenting advice.  Please do not attempt any of the above.  Especially the wrestling of the cat.

The Story of an Unlikely Hip Hop Girl

For as long as I can remember, I've loved hip hop & R&B music.  I don't even know how it happened.  I grew up in a fairly "Top 40" kind of town, where would I have learned the awesomeness that was LL Cool J? Ice T? The Beastie Boys?  Keith Sweat?  Granted, a lot of their songs were mainstreamed, but I continued to listen to (and memorize) ALL the songs on their albums.  I was hooked.  And, an excellent rapper [read:  no, not at all].

In high school, it was more of the same.  Sure, I ran with the crowd. I knew the words to Madonna's "Vogue" or (shudder) memorizing the "rap" to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire".  But, rap, hip hop, R&B?  That was my thang.

In college, I had more freedom to listen to what I wanted at higher decibels.  As you know, I love to swear, so swearing because the song called for it was the peanut butter to my chocolate.  I met similar-minded people in college.  My roommate was devastated when 2Pac was killed.  We listened to him all night long.  She called her long-distance boyfriend to make sure he was okay.  We mourned when Biggie was killed, too.

So, we spent our weekends dancing at clubs and overtaking the DJ booth at our favorite bar.  We danced and sang and rapped and hip hopped all the livelong day.  It was pretty fucking awesome, G.

These days, I still listen to my music.  A white girl.  In her minivan.  Driving down her predominantly white street.  Because SiriusXM has created a station called The Fly. Hip hop from the 90s.  That shit is playing in my car 24/7, yo.  To add to that, I have become a sideshow at book club.  My friends and coworkers are always amazed and, yes, amused when I tell them my favorite songs.

And then they make me rap.

Listen.  Just because I know the words by heart doesn't mean I can perform them well.  I'm a small, white girl.  I don't even have swagger.

And, you know, grammar is important to me.

But, it doesn't matter.  Because I'm such entertainment, my one girlfriend downloaded a bunch of music to her Kindle so I could perform for her yet again at this month's book club.

My once considered hard-core rap existence has become an opening act (or closing act, if I've had a lot to drink) for all our parties.

What do I care?  I get to listen to my music!  Bring it!

Running

I ran another stupid race this past weekend.  I ran this race last year, too.  Last year, I came with 4 people, but, after the race began, it was pretty clear I wasn't going to keep up with them.  This year, I didn't even pretend to try.  I kept their pace the first 1/4 mile (and almost died), but then I was all, Fuck it!  Save (gasp!) yourselves!  I'll be (gasp!) over here by the (gasp!) water tent!

So, cool.  I ran by myself.  It's what I do most days anyway.

Last year, I came in almost last place.  I beat the 90-year-old man (who almost passed me until I elbowed him in the throat).  And the walkers.

Woo hoo?

Because I kept my insane friends' pace for a bit, I had a good head start in this year's race.  Even though I gave up and ran my comfortable pace, I had a decent chance not coming in last place (it's good to have goals, right?).

Yay!  I was on fire!  I was going to medal in my age group this year!  Woo hoo!

So, the course has a turnaround at the halfway point, right?  You end up running next to the people who are way ahead of you and you realize how far behind you actually are.  I flipped off waved to all my friends (and my 9-year-old niece who beat us all [jerk - she said she'd wait for me]) and kept going.

I'll admit, it was a little disheartening to see how far everyone was ahead of me.  So, even though I shaved 3 minutes off last year's time (another PR!), I still felt like such a failure.

Is it wrong to want to run fast?  Like, why can't my body just do it?

I vented to my Zen-like friend this morning and she assured me that running fast isn't everything.  It's about the love of running, accepting your limitations and running in spite of those limitations.

To that, I say, BULLSHIT.

Running is a constant battle with yourself.  You're constantly battling your previous times, your stupid brain, your knees, the elements and, in our area, the potholes.  So, you have to be a fighter.  You have to want to beat your time, tell your knees to be tough, shut off your brain, fight through humidity and hop over potholes (take that, bitches!).  And, when it's over, you celebrate.

The celebration is the best part.  BAM!  I just ran!  Have a burger!  And fries!  And milkshake!

So anyway, I'll get over it.  And run another race.  And be pissed (but celebrate) about it later.  Running is awesome!

Hashtag This

My day job requires me to write.  This week, I've been tasked with promoting next summer's internship.  Writing the job description, describing our company, that kind of thing.  My target audience is second and third year college students.  The content should be hip.  Fresh.  Da bomb.

That's not how young people talk anymore, is it?

Last week, on Spotify's Throwback Thursday Hip Hop station, it showcased all my music.  I refuse to believe that I'm a dinosaur.  Or have finally made the complete transformation into My Mother.  But, I admit I can't relate to kids these days.  Texting acronyms?  Instagram?  Hashtags?

#forgetit

So, I did some research.  How do you reach college kids these days?  I came across a website, explaining college lingo.  I realize it's been 20 years since I attended college, but really, have things changed so much?  We drank alcohol, too.  And went to class hungover (hey, at least we went!).  We mashed with inappropriate people.  We skipped classes on the first beautiful day of spring.  

But, here are the things I noticed:

- What the hello is an ABC (Anything But Clothes) party?

- We didn't make up nicknames for everything we did.  If we hooked up (I guess that is slang) with a dormmate (not that I ever did that, Mom), we didn't call it Dorm-cest.  It was just a hookup.

(Sidenote:  when I was in 6th grade, we started "going with" the opposite sex.  My mom used to always joke, "Where are you going?")

(pause)

(I can totally see myself doing that to my children.)

- I was thrilled to see Natural Light is still the college freshman beer of choice.  Go Natty Light!

- Reading Day is apparently a day the college sets aside for last minute studying before finals.  The hello?  We didn't get special treatment like that!  Every day should be reading day!  Stop coddling these bitches!

- Sexiled is a term used when your roommate kicks you out because they're "entertaining".  My second-year roommate didn't bother.  One night, I dreamt I was in an earthquake, woke up and realized my bunk bed was, in fact, moving!  But... oh.  It wasn't an earthquake.

- The 15-Minute Rule has been reduced to 10 minutes.

- There are dictionary entries for Ecstasy (X) and Venereal Disease (VD).

#iweepforthefuture