Now that I am an expert on all things social media, I have decided to take the time to answer all of the pressing questions I never receive on its use.
You are always so busy - why would you take the time to answer our unasked questions?
You're right. I am really busy. But it throws off my entire focus when I see you making huge mistakes, Internet. Mistakes that could cost you your reputation, your career, even your entire future. Possibly your life. But the life-losing mistakes aren't funny, so we won't discuss those here.
What is the number one social networking mistake?
Angry posts, my friend, angry posts. I guess it's evolution, but there is a new chemical, called psychopostaragenum, that is released in the brain during moments of extreme rage. It causes humans to go straight to their favorite online public forum and say everything they think. The problem here is that humans have never been known for their clear-thinking during moments such as these. Other effects of psychopostaragenum are typing in all caps, atrocious acts of violence against grammar and spelling, and passive-aggressive use of the "like" button.
How do we combat the effects of psychopostaragenum?
It is very difficult for most people to have any control over this. Keep a note on your computer monitor that has this mantra printed on it: Don't whine on Facebook. Don't yell on Twitter. Everyone hates that and I sound like a total jerk. It doesn't matter if I'm right if I look like a moron. Repeat this line over and over to yourself when you begin to feel angry. It probably won't work, but *I* feel better now that you've been called the proper names.
When is it ok to sneakily photograph a stranger for the purpose of laughing over that person with your friends?
I'm so glad this question got asked, Internet. So. Glad. It is always ok to do this - you will not go to jail for it. You will, however, show all of your friends that you are indeed made out of dog-farts. Think about what this says to the general public. You may as well post a status that says "I am so insecure that I am still teasing others to feel better about myself. Not only did I not learn in kindergarten that bullying is wrong, but I feel the need to make it public so that you may all see the exact extent of my dog-fartness." So go ahead. Do that. Just remember that future employers, your parents and grandparents, your love interest, and possibly even your clergy are watching you, and you've just begged for a karma-kick.
At what point is it acceptable to complain about my job?
At the exact moment that you wish to be unemployed.
Hashtags: Yes or No?
No. Just stop this. Hashtags only work on Twitter. You may use one - two under extreme duress. A funny hashtag on another site is acceptable only if it passes the hilarity test (three likes in three seconds). If it does not, remove that thing. Right now.
Social networking rules are so thorough and changing all the time. Is there anything we ARE allowed to say?
No.
Now shhhh.....
Showing posts with label I don't get along well with others. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I don't get along well with others. Show all posts
Dec 28, 2010
Oh yes, another smoking rant
Here's the thang, yo...I frickin smoke.
I know it's bad. I know that people die from cancer and heart problems and other crap that may or may not have been worsened by smoking. You probably know someone with some sort of anti-smoking story that you could tell me, but guess what? I don't want to hear it. I know someone, too. And anyone born after 1960 knows someone and can give me all the reasons cigarettes are bad for you.
One thing that isn't plastered all over cigarette boxes or coming out of the mouths of smoker-haters is the danger of living my life "smoke free".
WARNING: This is a rant and if you are reading this to be cheered up tonight, you may want to go here.
:::inhales deeply::: :::as in breathing, not smoking, get off my back:::
I don't need passive-aggressive comments about how I shouldn't smoke because it'll mean certain death (and won't I please think of my children?) because certain death is pretty much a certainty as far as I'm concerned and at this point in my life, smoking cigarettes is keeping me from driving over a cliff, which I may be wrong about but am quite sure is going to kill me faster than smoking and if you say anything else about it you are quite possibly putting both our lives at extreme risk or maybe just yours but then I'll go to jail and won't anyone think of the children????
Is this a little passive-aggressive? Absolutely. How do you fight passive-aggression, anyway, if not with it's own kind?
:::catches breath because that was a lot of things to say in a row for a smoker::: :::coughs::: :::lights a ciggy:::
Ahhh....thank you, I feel better.
PS: I have had the worst month of my life. Please don't give me advice, especially about quitting smoking. I'll quit. Just not right now. Thank you.
I know it's bad. I know that people die from cancer and heart problems and other crap that may or may not have been worsened by smoking. You probably know someone with some sort of anti-smoking story that you could tell me, but guess what? I don't want to hear it. I know someone, too. And anyone born after 1960 knows someone and can give me all the reasons cigarettes are bad for you.
One thing that isn't plastered all over cigarette boxes or coming out of the mouths of smoker-haters is the danger of living my life "smoke free".
WARNING: This is a rant and if you are reading this to be cheered up tonight, you may want to go here.
:::inhales deeply::: :::as in breathing, not smoking, get off my back:::
I don't need passive-aggressive comments about how I shouldn't smoke because it'll mean certain death (and won't I please think of my children?) because certain death is pretty much a certainty as far as I'm concerned and at this point in my life, smoking cigarettes is keeping me from driving over a cliff, which I may be wrong about but am quite sure is going to kill me faster than smoking and if you say anything else about it you are quite possibly putting both our lives at extreme risk or maybe just yours but then I'll go to jail and won't anyone think of the children????
Is this a little passive-aggressive? Absolutely. How do you fight passive-aggression, anyway, if not with it's own kind?
:::catches breath because that was a lot of things to say in a row for a smoker::: :::coughs::: :::lights a ciggy:::
Ahhh....thank you, I feel better.
PS: I have had the worst month of my life. Please don't give me advice, especially about quitting smoking. I'll quit. Just not right now. Thank you.
Oct 19, 2010
Rich People and Their Traffic Jams
I have been trying very hard to not hate the money-town in which my children attend school. I mean, just because I'm so very typical doesn't mean that people who are super-typical (Better Than Most) are bad people. I try to remind myself of this a few times a week, and try not to frown at the other moms at school, but I screw it up on occasion.
During my son's fourth grade music program, I sat between two moms whom I immediately judged to be snobs, and had to have a little talk with myself about playing fair. Then, they noticed each other, and one hopped over the aisle to sit by the other and they literally talked through the entire program about how much they only cared about money and status, until someone read me the definition of "literally", and then they talked about Very Important Crap: going to the gym, going to the coffee shop (:::GASP!::: MY coffee shop!!! UGH!), going to lunch, and which corrective surgery to have first. That little list I did not make up.
Anyway, I find myself wondering if I will ever really fit in here, and the answer is no, and the other answer is thank goodness. And the other answer is, guess what? I'm the freakin snob, because I don't want to be their friend at all. I'm a bad bad mommy.
When I was a kid, a new neighborhood went in and it was like a zoo for money. They had a fence all around it to keep all the money in, and a nice golf course so that the money could graze and hit balls, and a little country club so the money could...do whatever you do at those, I guess.
I get to drive by that exact neighborhood twice a day because it's right next door to the kids' school. I'm ok with it. I'm even ok with the fact that I have to slow down in front of it, because the people who live there don't have to obey stop signs and they all bought the insurance against the laws of physics that surround car wrecks. What I am not ok with is their "staff". "Keepers" if you will.
You know how people who have money have a lot of stuff? And then, since they don't really have time for their stuff, they have to spend a bunch of money storing, keeping and updating that stuff? Keepers are the people who maintain the stuff. They tend to drive large vehicles, and guess what? They aren't allowed into the money zoo without passing through the guard at the gate. So every morning as I'm trying to get my kids to school, I have to stop at the money zoo because there is a huge pile of COM VEHs trying to get through the gate so they can mow the lawns, change the oil, clean the gutters, feed the pets, drop off the groceries, nanny the kids, and clean the pools.
And every morning, there is at least one of the people who lives at the zoo who thinks "Hey, I live here and my car doesn't have to follow the rules, so I'm just gonna' turn in and everyone will get out of my way", only there isn't anywhere for anyone to go, so nobody can get out of the way, and the zoo resident's car is blocking both lanes of traffic while he waits for his handlers to get access to the zoo. Poetic justice? Perhaps. Severely annoying to regular people? Absolutely.
So, zoo people, will you please install one of those rude "service entrances" so that your keepers can get in and the rest of us can use the public road that your tax dollars paid for?
During my son's fourth grade music program, I sat between two moms whom I immediately judged to be snobs, and had to have a little talk with myself about playing fair. Then, they noticed each other, and one hopped over the aisle to sit by the other and they literally talked through the entire program about how much they only cared about money and status, until someone read me the definition of "literally", and then they talked about Very Important Crap: going to the gym, going to the coffee shop (:::GASP!::: MY coffee shop!!! UGH!), going to lunch, and which corrective surgery to have first. That little list I did not make up.
Anyway, I find myself wondering if I will ever really fit in here, and the answer is no, and the other answer is thank goodness. And the other answer is, guess what? I'm the freakin snob, because I don't want to be their friend at all. I'm a bad bad mommy.
When I was a kid, a new neighborhood went in and it was like a zoo for money. They had a fence all around it to keep all the money in, and a nice golf course so that the money could graze and hit balls, and a little country club so the money could...do whatever you do at those, I guess.
I get to drive by that exact neighborhood twice a day because it's right next door to the kids' school. I'm ok with it. I'm even ok with the fact that I have to slow down in front of it, because the people who live there don't have to obey stop signs and they all bought the insurance against the laws of physics that surround car wrecks. What I am not ok with is their "staff". "Keepers" if you will.
You know how people who have money have a lot of stuff? And then, since they don't really have time for their stuff, they have to spend a bunch of money storing, keeping and updating that stuff? Keepers are the people who maintain the stuff. They tend to drive large vehicles, and guess what? They aren't allowed into the money zoo without passing through the guard at the gate. So every morning as I'm trying to get my kids to school, I have to stop at the money zoo because there is a huge pile of COM VEHs trying to get through the gate so they can mow the lawns, change the oil, clean the gutters, feed the pets, drop off the groceries, nanny the kids, and clean the pools.
And every morning, there is at least one of the people who lives at the zoo who thinks "Hey, I live here and my car doesn't have to follow the rules, so I'm just gonna' turn in and everyone will get out of my way", only there isn't anywhere for anyone to go, so nobody can get out of the way, and the zoo resident's car is blocking both lanes of traffic while he waits for his handlers to get access to the zoo. Poetic justice? Perhaps. Severely annoying to regular people? Absolutely.
So, zoo people, will you please install one of those rude "service entrances" so that your keepers can get in and the rest of us can use the public road that your tax dollars paid for?
Sep 28, 2010
Guest Post: Redneck Woman
Breaking up is hard to do, or at least that what some song says.
Tonight, I am fed up. I have been breaking up for a year, now, and you know what? It's freakin' hard, because you can't just break up and have it done with, now, can ya?
When I broke up with the guy I dated before my future ex husband, he told me I couldn't break up with him, because we were both in the relationship, so we both had to break up. He wasn't breaking up, so neither could I.
And life just comes full circle, huh? So now, I am being serenaded by the little noise my phone makes every time I get a text message, because some people just don't understand the words "leave me a-freaking-lone".
I'm done answering messages. I'm not accepting anymore phone calls. I'm putting all emails into the "show the judge" folder without reading them first.
I am not going to give you one half of the children any more than I would give you one half of one child.
I am not going to "lean on you" when my friend is ill.
I am not going to give you helpful friendly advice the same day that DHS shows up at my house because you called them.
I don't care if you managed to get yourself on the VIP list at DHS. Of course your house is clean, you live with your mom, and she has a staff. And no kids live there. (Nor will they ever.) I am one adult living with six children, so I am completely positive your house is cleaner than mine. But that's not what makes a home.
The number one thing that makes a home is love. The number two thing that makes a home is not being a complete asshole. The number three thing that makes a home is get a freaking job. The number four thing that makes a home is I hope you get paid for sending text messages, and if so, you owe some child support. The number five thing that makes a home is you don't teach your kids to talk back to police officers. The number six thing that makes a home is you don't tell your kids they're too dumb for school so they should sing. The number seven thing that makes a home is yes, I'm using this list to bring up an infinitesimal number of things you have done to piss. me. off. The number eight thing that makes a home is if my dog doesn't eat you, there are more vicious things inside, and only six of them are the kids.
Finally, the number nine thing that makes a home is I will fight tooth and nail for my kids. Not to keep them. Not to prove a point. Not to get you back. But for them to have an opportunity to develop and grow into the men and women they are supposed to be. Don't get in my way. Do. Not. Get. In. My. Way.
To my readers: I am sorry. This is a rant. I hope it's out of my system. It's probably not. It takes a lot to make me mad. It takes a lot more to make me mad enough to say anything about it, especially on the Interwebz. But you know what? It's been more than a lot, and I've had it. My inner redneck has kicked her way to the outside, and I'm afraid she's here to stay for a spell. Please be nice to her. She isn't even a decent writer, but she doesn't know that, and she's quite outspoken, so just bear with her, please. Her expected departure is October 26th, please pray that nothing delays it. She's kind of a bitch.
Tonight, I am fed up. I have been breaking up for a year, now, and you know what? It's freakin' hard, because you can't just break up and have it done with, now, can ya?
When I broke up with the guy I dated before my future ex husband, he told me I couldn't break up with him, because we were both in the relationship, so we both had to break up. He wasn't breaking up, so neither could I.
And life just comes full circle, huh? So now, I am being serenaded by the little noise my phone makes every time I get a text message, because some people just don't understand the words "leave me a-freaking-lone".
I'm done answering messages. I'm not accepting anymore phone calls. I'm putting all emails into the "show the judge" folder without reading them first.
I am not going to give you one half of the children any more than I would give you one half of one child.
I am not going to "lean on you" when my friend is ill.
I am not going to give you helpful friendly advice the same day that DHS shows up at my house because you called them.
I don't care if you managed to get yourself on the VIP list at DHS. Of course your house is clean, you live with your mom, and she has a staff. And no kids live there. (Nor will they ever.) I am one adult living with six children, so I am completely positive your house is cleaner than mine. But that's not what makes a home.
The number one thing that makes a home is love. The number two thing that makes a home is not being a complete asshole. The number three thing that makes a home is get a freaking job. The number four thing that makes a home is I hope you get paid for sending text messages, and if so, you owe some child support. The number five thing that makes a home is you don't teach your kids to talk back to police officers. The number six thing that makes a home is you don't tell your kids they're too dumb for school so they should sing. The number seven thing that makes a home is yes, I'm using this list to bring up an infinitesimal number of things you have done to piss. me. off. The number eight thing that makes a home is if my dog doesn't eat you, there are more vicious things inside, and only six of them are the kids.
Finally, the number nine thing that makes a home is I will fight tooth and nail for my kids. Not to keep them. Not to prove a point. Not to get you back. But for them to have an opportunity to develop and grow into the men and women they are supposed to be. Don't get in my way. Do. Not. Get. In. My. Way.
To my readers: I am sorry. This is a rant. I hope it's out of my system. It's probably not. It takes a lot to make me mad. It takes a lot more to make me mad enough to say anything about it, especially on the Interwebz. But you know what? It's been more than a lot, and I've had it. My inner redneck has kicked her way to the outside, and I'm afraid she's here to stay for a spell. Please be nice to her. She isn't even a decent writer, but she doesn't know that, and she's quite outspoken, so just bear with her, please. Her expected departure is October 26th, please pray that nothing delays it. She's kind of a bitch.
Aug 30, 2010
Forgo-ing
I got to go to my kids' school today for "Parent Orientation". This has been the final straw for me on any type of orientation. I hate it. A lot.
When I started school (this time around), I spent the first two weeks on orientation. I got two handbooks. Then I had to take a class on what was in the handbooks. Then some tests on what I learned in the handbooks. Then four videos in which they pretty much read the handbooks word-for-word. Also a couple of PowerPoint presentations, again, word for word what was in the original handbooks.
When I put my son in daycare, I had to watch two more videos on daycare policies, and received two more handbooks.
When I put my kids in school this year, I got five handbooks. When they started classes, all five of them came home with another class-specific handbook. Tonight, I got to go listen to each teacher read the handbook.
DO PEOPLE NOT KNOW HOW TO READ?!?!?!
Sorry.
But really.
Can those of us who know how to read just sign something that says we have read and understand the stupid handbook, and we are willing to accept the consequences if we chose to forgo having it read to us? Please? Because I've wasted nearly three weeks now learning things I already knew because I had already READ the information GIVEN TO ME.
Also, forgo is a word we really should use more.
"I'd like to forgo informational videos, please."
"Can we just forgo being read to if we're not in Kindergarten?"
"I'm gonna' forgo this ticket, officer, but thanks!"
"I would like to retroactively forgo the last ten years of my life, please. Thanks so much!"
When I started school (this time around), I spent the first two weeks on orientation. I got two handbooks. Then I had to take a class on what was in the handbooks. Then some tests on what I learned in the handbooks. Then four videos in which they pretty much read the handbooks word-for-word. Also a couple of PowerPoint presentations, again, word for word what was in the original handbooks.
When I put my son in daycare, I had to watch two more videos on daycare policies, and received two more handbooks.
When I put my kids in school this year, I got five handbooks. When they started classes, all five of them came home with another class-specific handbook. Tonight, I got to go listen to each teacher read the handbook.
DO PEOPLE NOT KNOW HOW TO READ?!?!?!
Sorry.
But really.
Can those of us who know how to read just sign something that says we have read and understand the stupid handbook, and we are willing to accept the consequences if we chose to forgo having it read to us? Please? Because I've wasted nearly three weeks now learning things I already knew because I had already READ the information GIVEN TO ME.
Also, forgo is a word we really should use more.
"I'd like to forgo informational videos, please."
"Can we just forgo being read to if we're not in Kindergarten?"
"I'm gonna' forgo this ticket, officer, but thanks!"
"I would like to retroactively forgo the last ten years of my life, please. Thanks so much!"
Aug 16, 2010
When I Asked You to Stock Me, I Wasn't Serious
First of all, let me tell you that I do know how to spell stalk, but I find it extremely funny that Internet thinks you spell it "stock". So, now that we have that cleared up...
Dear Stalker,
I thought it was weird when you followed me home the other night and did a u-turn as soon as I pulled in my drive. I was slightly concerned when you showed up in my driveway at 5 on a Sunday morning, sat there for a second, then left. But when you didn't come in and stab me or steal my trash, I let it go.
When I saw you creeping down my dead end road last night, after I knew all my neighbors were locked down for the night, I started to worry. When you parked your car behind the trees near my house and turned off your lights, I knew I was right to be a little freaked out. When I saw nothing for a few minutes except for what looked like someone lighting a cigarette, I started to think I was a little full of myself and maybe I just wanted a stalker so badly that I imagined one. But I called my brother anyway. Actually, I called my mom, and said "Send Brother and his gun over, please...don't worry, probably just some kids making out in their car, but just in case."
When my dad, my mom and Brother showed up, and after I attached the dog's leash to my jeans (with the dog on the other end, of course) (because I couldn't let him eat any chickens when I was expecting him to save his appetite for stalkers) and stuck my Giant Killer Super Dangerous Gun in my back pocket, I finally got the nerve to go outside and see who those rascally teenagers were and if they were indeed making out or if they had any pot they wanted to share in exchange for not getting eaten by Shucks. Lo and behold! It wasn't teens at all. I do have a stalker. It's you. Ass.
Let's get this straight. When I asked for stalkers, I only meant to please follow my blog, and, if you're really feeling crazy, comment every once in awhile, because blog comments are like crack for writers. I did not mean to literally show up in the middle of the night, scare me to death and make me invite armed relatives over for a little family reunion. Dude, seriously.
So, stalker, please go home now. Please leave me alone. In case you haven't heard, my dad is crazy and likes to shoot at stuff. Also, Brother is very angry, and I once defended him from Scary Old Dude, so he owes me one. If you happen to get past them, you'll have to deal with My Mom, and she's a pretty bad mama bear when someone messes with her babies. And Shucks hasn't had chicken in a veeeerrrry long time, and also has Death Bark. Last but not least, I'm not dealing with it any more. This is my town, yo. I have surrounded myself with rednecks for a very good reason, and son, you're that reason.
Very Sincerely,
Me
Dear Stalker,
I thought it was weird when you followed me home the other night and did a u-turn as soon as I pulled in my drive. I was slightly concerned when you showed up in my driveway at 5 on a Sunday morning, sat there for a second, then left. But when you didn't come in and stab me or steal my trash, I let it go.
When I saw you creeping down my dead end road last night, after I knew all my neighbors were locked down for the night, I started to worry. When you parked your car behind the trees near my house and turned off your lights, I knew I was right to be a little freaked out. When I saw nothing for a few minutes except for what looked like someone lighting a cigarette, I started to think I was a little full of myself and maybe I just wanted a stalker so badly that I imagined one. But I called my brother anyway. Actually, I called my mom, and said "Send Brother and his gun over, please...don't worry, probably just some kids making out in their car, but just in case."
When my dad, my mom and Brother showed up, and after I attached the dog's leash to my jeans (with the dog on the other end, of course) (because I couldn't let him eat any chickens when I was expecting him to save his appetite for stalkers) and stuck my Giant Killer Super Dangerous Gun in my back pocket, I finally got the nerve to go outside and see who those rascally teenagers were and if they were indeed making out or if they had any pot they wanted to share in exchange for not getting eaten by Shucks. Lo and behold! It wasn't teens at all. I do have a stalker. It's you. Ass.
Let's get this straight. When I asked for stalkers, I only meant to please follow my blog, and, if you're really feeling crazy, comment every once in awhile, because blog comments are like crack for writers. I did not mean to literally show up in the middle of the night, scare me to death and make me invite armed relatives over for a little family reunion. Dude, seriously.
So, stalker, please go home now. Please leave me alone. In case you haven't heard, my dad is crazy and likes to shoot at stuff. Also, Brother is very angry, and I once defended him from Scary Old Dude, so he owes me one. If you happen to get past them, you'll have to deal with My Mom, and she's a pretty bad mama bear when someone messes with her babies. And Shucks hasn't had chicken in a veeeerrrry long time, and also has Death Bark. Last but not least, I'm not dealing with it any more. This is my town, yo. I have surrounded myself with rednecks for a very good reason, and son, you're that reason.
Very Sincerely,
Me
Aug 12, 2010
It Started to be About Manners, but Ended Up with Hair Dye
I had to take the kids in to the school to be "evaluated", because they are going into public school this year after being home schooled. Apparently, public schools are racist against parents who like their kids. Anyway, I live in a snobby town. It was kind of difficult to sit there for two hours in the lobby with all the kids because they were hungry and bored. I was slightly frustrated, but I was trying to be smiley and nice to people, because I figure I'm stuck with them for at least one school year. They weren't nice back.
While I was carrying two screaming (and rather large) children, a woman came in with a box of cookies and two boys about ten years old. I held the door, expecting one of her boys to get it, so that I could juggle my kids. They didn't. My kids would have, or they would have at least said thank you. Hers didn't. Ok, not everyone teaches their kids these things, and even if they do, kids don't always notice this stuff, so I was all right with that. Then she walked through the door. I looked directly at her, smiled and said hi. She just walked by. She didn't say thank you or anything. Um, excuse me? I know she noticed me...the door didn't open by magic...it was being held by a woman holding two children/tornado sirens. I wanted to yell at her, but I talked myself out of it. I'm glad I did, because apparently, she works at the school. I don't want to start off being psycho-mom. (That will come later, but I try to hold off for the first month.)
(PS This same woman left her kids out with mine while she went to work, but as soon as our kids started playing together, she came out and made them go around the corner....??? What was that?)
So I sat there forever. I noticed that every woman working there or coming in with paperwork looked exactly alike. Their hair is the same shade of blonde. Same cut. Same body, clothes, shoes....wow. I mean, it was like someone had a cookie cutter shaped like elitist-Stepford-wife-snob-no-manners and made lots of them and dumped them all into one spot. It kind of freaked me out.
Maybe that's why none of them could hear me when I said hi? Like, maybe the hair dye messes with your hearing and you can only hear people who look just like you? I have to go back to meet with them today, but I'm worried they won't know I'm there unless I bleach my hair and lose a few pounds (ok, more than a few, shut up).
I am not sure I'm going to fit in here at all. But that's ok, because fitting in isn't really my thing. It is a little intimidating, though. There were a few women who were nice to me, but they weren't made from the cookie cutter. So I'm really going with the hair dye/hearing theory.
The meeting today is to go over whatever they learned about my kids during their evaluation. I don't want to go, and I'm a little afraid of the reputation I'm going to give myself if they start telling me what to do with my kids. On the upside, I may be able to snap a picture to show you guys how much they all look alike. I'm sure they want to be internet famous...although it probably won't work out for them because nobody will be sure who is who.
While I was carrying two screaming (and rather large) children, a woman came in with a box of cookies and two boys about ten years old. I held the door, expecting one of her boys to get it, so that I could juggle my kids. They didn't. My kids would have, or they would have at least said thank you. Hers didn't. Ok, not everyone teaches their kids these things, and even if they do, kids don't always notice this stuff, so I was all right with that. Then she walked through the door. I looked directly at her, smiled and said hi. She just walked by. She didn't say thank you or anything. Um, excuse me? I know she noticed me...the door didn't open by magic...it was being held by a woman holding two children/tornado sirens. I wanted to yell at her, but I talked myself out of it. I'm glad I did, because apparently, she works at the school. I don't want to start off being psycho-mom. (That will come later, but I try to hold off for the first month.)
(PS This same woman left her kids out with mine while she went to work, but as soon as our kids started playing together, she came out and made them go around the corner....??? What was that?)
So I sat there forever. I noticed that every woman working there or coming in with paperwork looked exactly alike. Their hair is the same shade of blonde. Same cut. Same body, clothes, shoes....wow. I mean, it was like someone had a cookie cutter shaped like elitist-Stepford-wife-snob-no-manners and made lots of them and dumped them all into one spot. It kind of freaked me out.
Maybe that's why none of them could hear me when I said hi? Like, maybe the hair dye messes with your hearing and you can only hear people who look just like you? I have to go back to meet with them today, but I'm worried they won't know I'm there unless I bleach my hair and lose a few pounds (ok, more than a few, shut up).
I am not sure I'm going to fit in here at all. But that's ok, because fitting in isn't really my thing. It is a little intimidating, though. There were a few women who were nice to me, but they weren't made from the cookie cutter. So I'm really going with the hair dye/hearing theory.
The meeting today is to go over whatever they learned about my kids during their evaluation. I don't want to go, and I'm a little afraid of the reputation I'm going to give myself if they start telling me what to do with my kids. On the upside, I may be able to snap a picture to show you guys how much they all look alike. I'm sure they want to be internet famous...although it probably won't work out for them because nobody will be sure who is who.
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