Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, children, communication, employment, humor, jobs, Middle-Age, office, office etiquette, preschool, south, southern, subourbonmom, teaching, work
Hey? Did you hear that flapping sound? That’s me, flailing around in my new job. Yep, I did it—I stopped teaching 5-year-olds so I can work with much taller 5-year-olds in the grown-up world of business.
I won’t go into all the boring details, but suffice it to say (who says “suffice it to say” anymore?), I am having to re-work some of my mental processes as I make the transition from teaching to having a “big girl job,” as my teacher friends like to call it. One of the things I decided would help me through, is to make a list of things to remember while I’m sitting in my cube:
- Do not talk about poop at work….or pee, or green boogers or vomit.
- You don’t have to get someone to stand over your cube and make sure nothing happens while you go to the bathroom.
- Crayon and markers are not acceptable modes of communication.
- Do not display your finished work on the board outside your cube.
- People can hear you if you’re whispering on a conference call (found that one out yesterday).
- You cannot tell irritating people to take a time out.
- Do not send back edits with smiley faces on them.
- There is no “Question of the Day;” there hundreds of questions (usually asked by me) every day, and the answer usually involves three emails and trying to figure out how to work the phone that has no labels.
- You don’t have to write everything in words of one syllable for the beginner readers…usually.
- Don’t expect the supply closet to be very inviting—there are no paints, stickers, glitter or construction paper, even though every office in the working world desperately needs these things.
- Sitting on the carpet to sort out your papers just looks…odd. Sit in the chair whenever possible.
- Do not spin in the chair just because it’s fun. People will look at you funny.
- Relax—no one is going to look under the bathroom stall door to see which teacher is in there with them.
- It is now safe to talk about The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy without the fear of damaging a child’s imagination—but Santa’s still real, right? (In our house the rule is, “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.”)
- Seriously, don’t talk about poop at work…ever.
Filed under: Middle Age, Posts | Tags: adulthood, boxers, dating, humor, Marriage, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, Panties, sex, sexy, shopping, Soma, south, southern, subourbonmom, thongs, underwear
Recently I was in the “library,” thumbing through my Bathroom Book of Facts, when I came upon one that sparked my interest:
“The average American woman has 27 pairs of underwear.”
I thought, that can’t be right. There’s no way we have that many, even if you include Date Night panties, the inevitable Granny Panties, and the “Hell no, I’m not wearing those. I don’t care if you got them in Vegas.” Since I like to do research, I decided to
1) survey my own stash of underwear;
2) survey how many my friends have; and
3) see if there’s a difference in the number men and women have, since the book didn’t mention it.
Surprise! I have exactly 27. Nice to know I’m perfectly average. But when I counted up the three categories, I was surprised to find I only have 8 cotton everyday Jockeys, and 2 Granny Panties; but, I have 17 Date Night pairs (I’d already gotten rid of the “Hell No” panties years ago). Very strange (and depressing) since I pretty much only wear the cotton Jockeys every day.
Taking the advice of many women’s magazines, I made a decision to try and wear a Date Night pair every other day and see if I felt sexier, even though nobody else would know. (I didn’t say anything to Hubby, since I knew he’d never leave me alone if he knew what I was wearing). The result? I didn’t really feel sexier, since I instantly forgot about them unless they started crawling up, which they inevitably did. Polyester and Lycra are not my friend. (Side note: The Hanky Panky thongs are still the only ones I will ever wear, and they didn’t crawl up, since they were already there.)
When I asked my friends about their supply, I learned four things:
1) most of my friends are around the 25-30 mark—I like to think of this as a sign of optimism, unless the Granny Panty pairs are outnumbering the Date Night Pairs;
2) the younger the women, the more they had (teens-25 had pairs numbering in the 40’s)—I attribute this to the number of times they change clothes in a day;
3) men have significantly fewer pairs—also attributed to the number of times they change in a day, and the fact below;
4) men and women categorize their underwear very differently.
Apparently, most men only have about a dozen, no matter what their age or athletic/work habits. And they categorize them into Regular and Exercise groups. No mention of how they want to look in front of the ladies…hmmmm…no Date Night pairs, fellas? Just a shave and some cologne and you’re all set? Well, at least you’re not being presumptuous.
So, I’ll continue to wear the Date Night underwear, if for no other reason than now I won’t have to do so many loads of whites to keep the cotton stash at the ready for gym days. For those of you with a disproportionate number of Granny Panties, don’t give up! Just because your hips have spread out to balance your bottom, which dropped somewhere below Antartica in recent years, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to wear sexy underwear. It does mean you need to get properly-fitting underwear with the sticky stuff along the edges to hold it in place—check out Soma for those in regular woman sizes.
For you men, thank you for keeping the laundry loads down with your minimalist purchases; and thank you for buying that “Hell No” underwear a few years ago, even though our bodies were clearly past looking good in them–it might have made us mad initially, but secretly, we were pleased you still saw us that way at all!
PS–when I was looking for pictures of underwear online, I came across some that were hysterical, but that I could never publish here. If want a giggle, just search for funny underwear pictures.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts | Tags: adulthood, children, dances, Dancing, dresses, family, high school, humor, kids, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, prom, shopping, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens
Ahhhh…spring. Cheers and whistles ripple across athletic fields as the sports season winds down. Pollen hangs in the air like a miasma, and prom dresses fly off the racks at all of the local stores faster than the NBA punished Mr. Sterling.
Looking at prom through parent goggles is a strange odyssey.
Let’s start with dresses. Our newspaper listed some numbers associated with prom. Apparently, the amount spent on average for prom dresses: $250 to $500. I was floored—until I went prom dress shopping. (Word to the wise—waiting until three weeks before prom is not a good idea. There are only size 00 and size 16 left.)
For a mere $100-$200, you too can own a cheaply-made dress with plunging neck- or backlines that would make Christina Aguilera blush, and enough fake jewels sewn on to make Cher look like a Quaker. God help you if you want something else—which is (thankfully) what Daughter #1 wanted: something less flashy but still long, and in a regular size.
We found a great resource, “Rent the Runway,” where you pay a minimal amount ($25-$150) to rent a brand-name runway dress for a week. While none of those dresses appealed to Daughter #1, I’m keeping it in my back pocket for the next event I have to go to. (If anybody ends up using this catalog, let me know how it works out!) In the end, we bought a beautiful dress (for you women who care, it’s a glorified maxi) that she will be able to wear a dozen times, and not get stuffed into the closet as a precursor to all the bridesmaids dresses she will be wearing in her twenties.
The average amount guys spend on a tux these days? $120.
As for transportation, I don’t think many of my friends took limos to prom. These days, the amount many teens (i.e. their parents) spend on transportation: $400.
Seriously? What’s left for the wedding?
My generation was the first (I think) to instill the school-sponsored after-prom party, which we attended for the least amount of time required before going out on our own to a party at someone’s house, and usually with a fair supply of “social enhancers” to go with us. Lately, I’ve heard some parents talking about what their kids are doing after the prom, and a couple of them mentioned the kids might be getting hotel rooms.
Um, maybe I’m out on a limb here, but I’m pretty sure nothing good ever came from a bunch of (or two) teenagers renting hotel rooms.
And of course, there’s the increasingly popular “asks” to prom: signs on overpasses, messages on car windows, and a bedroom filled with balloons, just to name a few. It sure makes my wedding proposal, which was perfectly romantic and in no way public, seem like we were Ward and June Cleaver. I would hate to be a guy and have to ask someone to prom these days—talk about pressure! It seems that if you don’t do something spectacular to ask your date, you’re just not really trying. And, if you do something spectacular, God forbid she says no. Talk about humiliation! I don’t know if I’d ever recover.
As long as we’re skirting the prom/wedding border, why don’t jewelers come up with a “prom ring?” For a mere $100 or so, you can rent a specially-designed ring for your date, which indicates she has been asked and accepted—it would help eliminate any questions or guesswork. Plus, it’s just anther step closer to an actual engagement ring.
Or why stop there? Why not just schedule spring break right after prom? Since so many kids go to the beaches or other exotic places on spring break, why not just make it a practice honeymoon? It would probably be cheaper than an actual spring break trip, since many of the Caribbean locales are just starting their off-season in May.
So again, I ask, what’s left for the wedding? Just sayin’….
Oh, and no, I didn’t forget that I promised the underwear post this time…it just had to take a backseat to prom–some rituals just need to be commented upon.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, celebrations, humor, national high five day, news, office etiquette, south, subourbonmom, work
Apparently, today is National High Five Day.
Seriously. Somebody made that a day of national recognition.
We’ll, if we’re going to give a celebratory gesture it’s own special day, I think we should also have “slap your team mate on the butt” day; or “dance in the end zone day;” or, for those who like to celebrate the stupidity of others, how about we make note of some of our most-used hand gestures?
Naturally, I Googled it. One website claimed the high five originated in the University of Virginia. Somehow I doubt that—I can’t really picture a bunch of Hoos in their khaki pants and blue shirts spontaneously jumping up and slapping hands—those hands would have been busy holding a bourbon bottle and a cup.
As a preschool teacher, I’m all about the high five, even though when I do them, the kids’ hands are usually sticky and covered in snot. What a simple, concrete way to show a child they did a great job on something!
I don’t, however, have any use for the high fives that sports teams make the players do with the opposing team in a conga-line at the end of their games. Several times, my kids have complained that the other teams have spit on their hands before doing the walk–classy. If leagues are going to make the players have contact after the game to show good sportsmanship, I think the players should have to shake hands and say “Nice Game” with the opponent they were lined up against—one at a time, in front of everybody. A little eye contact never hurts anybody, and it might just make some of these kids with bad sportsmanship think twice, either before the game or after.
Of course, if I didn’t like that team, I would do the dead fish handshake—nothing grosser than holding a limp, sweaty hand.
I’m not good at high-fiving. I often miss, which is awkward; and, because I have funky shoulders that dislocate, I tend to pull back at the last second—also awkward. The other person must either think they are freakishly strong, or that I suddenly didn’t like the way they smell. It’s even worse when I have my suitcase, er…purse, on that arm. Sometimes it cuts loose and swings forward, almost knocking the other person over. Then my high-five looks more like an assault.
But the worst part of doing a high five is when you’re left hanging.
-
Tom Brady Can’t Get A High Five PSA – YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=72jydDzzyLQ
YouTubeJan 17, 2014 – Uploaded by coreman1017
Jan 17, 2014 – Uploaded by coreman1017
According to that bastion of truth, Wikipedia, this could be interpreted as an insult, friendly joke, or form of enlightenment, depending on the context of its use.
Form of enlightenment? What on earth does that mean?
Here’s what I picture:
(Worker, waving one, ignored high five hand in the air): “Hey! Don’t leave me hanging!”
(Colleague): “High fives are for children and have no place in our exceptionally stuffy office. You should be mature enough not to need physical acknowledgement of a job well-done. It would be better if you meditated on your achievement instead—if you found your center and breathed through your success.”
I high five (mostly little) people every day, and every day it makes us both smile, but I don’t think we need a national day to remind us to do it. Everyone needs encouragement and to celebrate a victory now and then. Patting one’s team mates/co-workers isn’t always PC, so why not high-five? Just don’t leave someone hanging, especially if his name is Chad. (Ba-dum-bum—silence…crickets…)
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Animal Planet, animals, Fears, flying, flying snakes, humor, news, reptiles, Scary, Science, snakes, subourbonmom, travel
Every now and then God throws an animal into the mix just to mess with us. One of His favorite things to do must be to mix up combinations of animals that don’t make sense, and see what happens. The platypus comes to mind first, and then maybe the mole, or even the jack-a-lope.
But I didn’t see the flying snake thing coming. Apparently I haven’t been watching the right Animal Planet shows—no one ever went into some piece-of-crap hoarder’s house and found snakes soaring among the rafters in Animal Cops, Houston.
Scientists have been studying how certain snakes can fly—not just drop down onto people from trees like a drunk teenager toilet papering somebody’s house. These things deliberately jump from a tree and land on another branch, or their prey.
Now, I’ve heard of flying squirrels—shoot, our local baseball team has it as their mascot (How intimidating—“Yep, I’m a big fan of The Squirrels. They’re pretty fierce this year.”)—and sure, I knew there were water moccasins that would drop out of trees onto their prey. Definitely scary-movie enough to make me stay away from all overhanging trees when I’m fishing.
Sorry, if one of those things came winging at me through the air, the last thing I’d be thinking about is “Hey, I wonder how they do that?” I’d be freaking the f**ck out!
As I said, scientists have been studying the physics of how these snakes manage to fly without appendages. They used big science terms like “vortex,” and “lift forces,” but what I took away from that is, these reptiles look a lot less like dragons flying through the air than the snakes my preschoolers cut out of paper plates.
Eeeeewwwwwww…
I’m sure Darwin would make some rational explanation about adapting and being an evolved species, but on this one I’m leaning toward creationism: I think God looked at the snake and said, “Not only are you going to make them eat the apple, little snake, but you’re going to make them soil their cute little fig leaves afterward by flying at them. That’ll teach my pesky children to disobey Me.”
So where are these snakes? They are found in lowland areas of Southeast and Southern Asia. That may be their natural habitat, but if Lionfish and those monster pythons can get to Florida via hurricane and pet stores, I’m not taking any chances. I’m thinking of moving to Arizona. At least rattlers are courteous enough to warn you before they strike.
Subourbon Mom 