New Blog!!!!!!

Follow my New Year's Adventures in healthier living, parenting a toddler, and much more.

www.mybestpinklemonade.blogspot.com

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I'm back, Badger Fans!

After an extended absence, due in large part to my new-fangled (read: crazy busy) job, I am pleased to announce that the Cricket Project is back on.  2012 will mark Cricket's 3rd year in existence, and my first year with a new mission: to improve the quality of my family's life.

Stay tuned:  I'll have more details to come.

Little Miss Perfect

OK, before I start this one, I must clarify that I am completely qualified to distribute disdain and judgement on pageants, because I used to do them.  I never did the little girl ones, but I do have some experience in this realm.

Today, while perusing Craigslist, Monster, and CareerBuilder for jobs, I put some trashy daytime on TV for background noise.  As I begrudgingly scrolled through dismal job after dismal job, I happened to notice a program called Little Miss Perfect.  Have you heard of this one?  It's one of these reality shows that trails the comings and goings of the teensy little divas that participate in kiddie pageants.  Well, that's sort of misleading.  The little girls are more of an afterthought, as center stage is typically stolen by the enormous fustercluck that is a Pageant Mom.

Now, for a moment, let's discuss the disturbing amount of money that is spent to make these kids look like a Marie Osmond procelain doll on crack.  Fake hair.  Fake tans.  Fake eyelashes.  Fake teeth.  Dresses.  Costumes.  Shoes.  And, of course, props.  Oh, how these girls love their props.  On today's show, I witnessed a six year old little girl who dressed as a Marine, and danced about with a giant cardboard tank, built around her brother's dirtbike.  Don't you know he just loved that?  At the end of the day, these moms are spending $3,000 per pageant, at a minimum.  Minimum!  And for what?  College scholarships?  A new car?  A shot at curing cancer, maybe?  NO!  At the most, these teeny tots get a check for a grand, a basket of puppies, and a pat on the back.  If they even win!  I don't know about you, but that's a little something I like to call jacked up.

You may be thinking that these moms are indulging their sweet little girls who dream of being a princess for a day, all in the name of love.  You would be wrong.  The common denominator in these women, aside from an extra 75 pounds around the midsection, is this primal need to win something.  Near as I can tell, these are women who were never exceptionally successful at anything competitive in their own lives and are therefore pimping their babies for a tiara and a sash.  And the hilarious thing is that only a quarter of these little girls actually want to do the damn pageants in the first place; most of the time, moms are bribing their little ones to practice interview questions and "walk pretty" with Pixi Stix and Fun Dip.  And you wonder why they need fake teeth...

And God bless the ugly siblings of these poor little girls.  Most families have one talented little girl and one Eeyore.  Droopy eyed and perpetually sighing, the "other sister" just lacks the pizazz that Mommy Dearest sees in the shining star child, and suffers relentlessly for it.  This is the kid that hold her sister's papier mache pirate ship in place on stage while the Amazing one twirls about in her pretty dress.  The kid who spends her birthday at the dance studio watching her sister rehearse her dance for the talent competition.  The kid who gets a pet parakeet to her sister's pet pony.

I suppose what has made me so critically aware of the dysfunction in these tulle parades is the adorable-ness that is my sweet child.  Cricket is just one of those babies who will giggle raucously because I put the groceries away.  She smiles from ear to ear when she toots in the bathtub.  Basically, everything she does is hopelessly cute, and she wakes up every day blissfully pleased with herself for no apparent reason.  I know that every mother must feel this way.  I mean, honestly, what parent doesn't believe their offspring is the greatest thing since sliced bread?  The disconnect comes, however, when the parent makes the most hidious of judgement errors, and assumes that everyone else in the world agrees.  So, what is the next logical step?  A pageant, of course!  Oh God, I can hear the conversation around the Taco Bell table now... "Just think, Bobby.  If McKayla Louise is pretty in a Carter's onesie, she'll be twice as pretty in a $2,000 pink taffeta dress, with three punds of fake curly hair pasted on her head and a spray-on tan!  Surely, she's cute enough to beat out those other hobo-children and win the grand prize: a basket of semi-purebred Yorkie puppies and a $200 Chick Fil A gift certificate... We won't have to cook for weeks!"

Get real, Rhonda Jo!  Sure, your kid is cute.  Maybe even exceptionally cute, cuter than the average little rag-a-muffin.  But brace yourself, because I've got news for you: no amount of cute is reason to dress your child like something old diabetic women buy on QVC at 2:30 a.m. instead of their insulin.  None.  And do you know why?  Because eventually, she'll grow up.  You think a woman with daddy issues is bad?  You ain't seen nothin' til you've met a former kiddie pageant survivor.  Can you imagine support group meetings for these poor girls?  The multi-purpose room at the community center would be draped in chiffon and transformed into a makeshift stage, while they all compete for a busted tennis racket as a trophy....

My point, mothers and fathers, is that your child is precious enough with all the frills and the rhinestones.  Nothing in the world can compare to a simple toothless grin from a drooling baby.  Because at the end of the day, it's far better to win her love than it is is watch her win someone else's approval.

Letter to my Cricket girl

You're everything I've ever wanted, and more.  More than I expected was possible.  More than I believed I deserved.

When you cry real tears, it takes all my strength not to cry too.  And not because I can't fix it, but because I know your little world is so small right now, and whatever is making you cry feels huge to you.  That something so simple like hunger can move you to tears moves me to tears.

When I rock you to sleep, I marvel at your lovely long eyelashes.  I think about how, when you're a teenager, you'll start wearing mascara on those very lashes.  I hope that you always believe you're beautiful, even when cruel children try to convince you you're not. 

When you stretch out, long and leisurely, I think about how your body already carries what will someday make your children.  I hope that you have them in your own time, on your terms.  When you're really 100% ready, and with someone who will be your rock.  Someone who can be for you what your father is for me.

I run my fingers through your hair, and it feels like down beneath my skin.  In a few years, we'll pull it into pigtails for you so you can see while you play.  You'll chase and play, tummy sticking out beneath your t-shirt.  With skinned knees and a bright smile, you'll run free and we'll watch, amazed at how big you've become.

A few years later, you'll curl that hair and pin it up for a dance.  A night that holds the promise and potential of a first kiss, or a real slow dance.  The first time you'll hold a boy in your arms and feel your heart beat a little faster, wondering how you lived this long without something so sweet.

And a few years after that, you'll feel the comb of a veil within it, and steady your nerves as you prepare to promise your heart to someone.  You'll wonder what he's thinking, and hope that the day doesn't fly by too fast.  You'll see your face in the mirror and feel, for the first time, like everything is as it should be.

Someday, you may realize that you do not owe a single person on this Earth a relationship with you.  Even me.  You may begin to understand that motherhood, fatherhood, friendship, every relationship in your life is a priviledge to be earned, not a right to be taken for granted.  That you are unique and beautiful, and you deserve respect and caring from the people in your life.  I pray that you do not realize this because of my personal failings.

I implore God daily to give me the qualities that will make me a good mother.  To help me do everything it takes to earn my relationship with you every day.  Know that I know how special your love is.  That I know how much honor and respect you deserve.  That I know there's only one you, one me, and one chance to get it right, and getting it right is what I want more than anything.

I love you, my sweet Cricket girl.

Bus stop lady

I see her at least once a week.

She's usually sitting on a bench.  He face is ruddy, like a character in a James Herriott story that takes place in the English countryside.  Like a woman who uses her hands to care for her family.  The redness in her cheeks seems like windburn, but somehow I know it's just life.  She is in a perpetual state of just finished crying.

She always carries a suitcase.  Blue, on rollers.  It sits next to her left leg.  She's waiting.  For what?  A bus?  A ride?  A place to live?

Her hair is supposed to be a dishwater brownish blonde, but she has attempted to keep it young with blonde streaks.  It's a litle matted, short and wavy.  A soccer mom's short bob that was just never maintained.

She is overweight.  She dresses in long, 90's-patterned floral skirts in colors like navy, mint green, and taupe.  She wears short-sleeve, loose cotton knit blouses.  To stay cool?  Is it all she could hold on to from her wardrobe before she left?

Her eyes look into the disance, remembering.  Asking why.  Her face is pained, and she's unabashed in her honesty about it.  As though she deserves to be exposed.  As though she believes she deserves this.

I wonder if she was a mother.  If she mourns she mourns the children she's glad can't see her like this.

Was it something she did?  Was it something she ran away from?  Is she crazy or just down on her luck?

Every time I see her, it makes me think of someone I know, and I wonder how long it will be until my someone is on a bench of her own.

Where the blogs went

First, I'd like to apologize to those of you who have been following my blog regularly; although I am usually quite driven to write, I have recently had some unfortunate circumstances put the kibosch all over it.

On Friday morning, I was informed that I no longer have a job, as our small company is closing its doors.

So, to answer the first question: did I see this coming?  Eh, kind of.  I mean, I knew on some level that something was "up," but not necessarily anything of this magnitude.  Up until Friday morning, I had no reason to believe it was even a possibility, though; we had been operating "business as usual," so there were no real warnings or red flags.  My boss was definitely acting weird all week, spending an uncharactaristic amount of time locked in his car, talking on the phone.  But I guess I just figured that there were some confidential things going on that weren't for my ears, so although it concerned me, I never considred that it could signal serious trouble.

Next, the second question: what am I going to do?  I'm going to get a new job!  Pickins are a bit slim, but I am fortunate to live in an area that has not been as heavily mired by the dismal economy.  So, I'm going to enjoy some time with Cricket as I search for a new path, and just take it a day at a time.

I think my main goal, at this point, is to just find something stable that offers growth potential.  I have an interview tomorrow for a position that's amost entirely phone sales, and although it's not a position I could really see myself in, it'll be a good opportunity to refresh my interviewing skills.

So, I will keep you posted.  Thanks for your support; I'll keep 'em coming!

The Coffee Chronicles, Part One

I was, at one time, a dutiful employee of a major coffee chain.  And although every day had it's moments, it was, for the most part, a pretty fun job.  Every day brought in new customers, new situations.  The variety made it an interesting place to make a paycheck, and the ability to fill my hours with tasks that I could put my hands on made it a pretty sweet gig.

Working in a coffee house is similar to waiting tables, with one big exception: everyone who walks through your doors in the morning hasn't had their coffee yet.  This means that, through the course of one shift, the average barista encounters several hundred crabby, hungover, tired, pissed off people who want their drink yesterday, and will jump down some serious throat if it's not perfect.  As you can probably imagine, this gets old.  And although I myself was pretty laid back in terms of dealing with customer attitdue, I know that there are many baristas out there who were...nonplussed... by customer behavior.  So, on behalf of all of past, present, and future coffee cronies, I'd like to share with you some things you never knew, and give voice to the nameless, faceless heroes in aprons across the United States.


1.  Sometimes, if you're acting like a snot, they will write "F*CK YOU" in caramel sauce on top of your drink.  This is not done in hopes that you'll find it; rather, it's their own passive aggressive little way to tell you what they really want to say without getting fired.  It's a win/win, really; they get the benefit of speaking their minds via dessert topping, and you get to act like a brat without obvious consequence.  Simply remember that if your barista asks if you'd like a little free caramel sauce on your drink through clenched teeth, you may not want to take off your lid.  Ignorance is bliss, right?

2.  If you order a French Vanilla Cappuccino, you are correct in assuming that everyone behind the counter is laughing in you.  And why, you ask?  Because what you believe you're ordering is the powdered drink mix concoction commonly dispensed at your local 7-Eleven, rife with sugar and artificial coffee flavoring.  What you're actually ordering is a dry, lightweight drink made almost entirely of foam and espresso, with vanilla and hazlenut flavored syrup.  Simply put, if they make you what you've ordered, you won't like it.  You'll probably send it back and say it tastes gross.  So, what you'll probably receive when you order that drink is a vanilla latte, and you'll probably be none the wiser.  They would tell you that this is the drink you want to order in the future, but you probably won't pay attention, and the FVC/Vanilla Latte switch just goes without saying among coffeeshop staff.

3.  They can tell when you are watching them make your drink to be sure they're "doing it right," and it pisses them off.  You think you're being sneaky, and surreptitious.  You're really just being an idiot.  It does not go unnoticed, and it makes them feel like a fish in a bowl.  And let me just clarify something for you, to prevent you from receiving the classic "go to hell" look the next time you bar stalk: JUST BECAUSE THE BARISTA IS MAKING A DRINK DOES NOT MEAN IT'S YOURS.  You asked for no whipped cream on a medium drink, and it was written on your cup.  You, the sneaky bar snoop, spy the barista putting whipped cream in a small drink and disdainfully shout, "Excuse me, but I asked for a medium, NO WHIP."  Has it ever occurred to you that there are 30 other people who haved ordered drinks besides you in the cafe?  Is it POSSIBLE, in some small way, that the offending beverage may be someone else's?  OH!  A light bulb! 

4.  When you abbreviate the names of drinks (cap, frap) to sound hip, you sound like a dipshit.  This one requires little else in terms of explanation.  The coffee shop staff do not refer to drinks this way, and neither should you.  You are not cool just because you like coffee.  Even McDonald's is serving cappuccinos now, so the whole originality thing about being a coffee nerd is pretty much shot to shit.  Say the drinks right, and move along.

5.  If you act like a tool, they will put decaf shots in your drink.  As if you didn't know this already.  They are the almighty dispensers of caffeine, so if you cannot keep your act together, you will be punished.  This includes, but is not limited to: talking on your cell phone while you order, getting an attitude with any member of the staff, waiting in line for 20 minutes and arriving at the counter with no clue what you want to order, using the phrase "the usual" instead of ordering an actual beverage, touching the pastry case with your greasy fingers to point to the exact piece of banana loaf you want, coming in groggy and announcing you need caffeine to function, and/or handing a barista trash from your car to dispose of, because your ass was too lazy to throw it in the garbage can when you walked in.

Now, I do not write this as an attempt to educate or train people in the proper behaviors that are expected of coffee shop customers.  Stay blissfully unaware, my friends.  It is your unabashed idiotness that makes their daily jobs interesting, and provides the fodder for hours of mischievous giggles in the back room.  No, I write this for all those baristas who are too polite to go down in a blaze of glory and say out loud what they REALLY think.  For all those who remain standing after a hellacious day of standing, serving and smiling, all the while taking every ounce of attitude that's tossed their way.  For those whose aprons are drenched in spilled beverages, faithfully abstaining from vocalizing their sarcastic internal monologues, day after day.

Rachael, this one's for you.