I Turned Down A Dinner Date With An Ex-Con
I live in a strange neighborhood. I engage in running narratives about my neighbors stemming from my over-active imagination and my lack of social life coupled with my tendency to snoop and their odd behavior.
Brian, let’s call him, is the man I sometimes refer to as Creepy Neighbor Number Two. For a long time I suspected that Creepy Neighbor One might be a serial killer, but I digress . . .
I Feel Compelled to Include A Much More Flattering Depiction of a Nosy Neighbor
Michelle Pfeiffer, What Lies Beneath
Brian is more odd than creepy. I found it suspect that he and his wife, let’s call her Nancy, had a baby that we rarely saw, nor did we see evidence of said baby. On the couple of times when I saw either Brian or Nancy with the baby, they didn’t seem to know what to do with him. On one very cold day they had the baby in the stroller at the grocery store. He had on a hat and jacket, but nothing on his feet. Nothing at all. I hoped they’d get him home soon. Then other times, for weeks at a time, the couple would hold weekly yard sales, selling antiques, and though both were home, the baby was not.
Huh.
Remember when Chandler on Friends was too skinny?
When I was in the midst of exterior renovations and landscaping, Brian used to walk behind my home at least once a day, say hello and sometimes chat. He was painfully thin, with short-cropped hair, had bad knees and sometimes walked with a cane. Brian was always friendly and gregarious. I admit I’d go in the house when I saw him out and about. He made me uncomfortable.
But then, he was gone.
After Brian dropped off the face of the earth, I’d seen his wife Nancy from time to time, but not the baby. One fine afternoon she was walking a seriously drunk and belligerent friend home. On another occasion my kids witnessed her having a heated argument with a guy on a bicycle in the alley behind my house. My kids thought it was a drug deal gone wrong. Clearly, they’ve inherited their mother’s tendency to fill in the blanks. The last time I saw Nancy was at a convenience store — she didn’t acknowledge me and was very jumpy and very, very thin.
Drugs, it had to be drugs. Plus, she had no baby with her.
Courtney Love, during skinny times
Then in the Spring Brian reappeared in the neighborhood after having been gone for at least a year. His appearance had changed. At first I didn’t recognize him. His hair is much longer and he’s put on a few pounds. He seemed healthier, had no cane and often was on a bicycle.
Brian actually reminds me of the heavy Chandler Bing (Matthew Perry), you know, after Rehab.
Plus, he’d taken to going shirtless — most of the time. He is not cut. I mean, on a beach or in his yard this would have been fine, but every day walking or biking around the neighborhood? No.
On Friday evening Brian knocked on my door and invited me to his home for Saturday night. He wanted to cook me dinner.
“Hi Diane. How are you?”
“Good, It’s Roxanne.”
“Oh all this time I thought it was Diane.”
“No problem.”
“Well, I have the house fixed up and I wondered if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night, I’ll cook for you.”
“Oh wow, tomorrow? I don’t think so, not tomorrow.” I was caught off guard.
Awkward silence, which I then felt compelled to fill, bad Roxanne, bad Roxanne.
I added,
“I’ve had a rough week,” and after another awkward pause, “and plus I have plans with friends that may or may not happen.”
“Oh, well, if you’d like to come another time, just let me know.”
“Okay, I’m glad you’ve got the house together.”
“Yes, well, it’s coming along.”
“Okay, well, see you later.”
“Okay, Bye.”
Ouch, right? Why didn’t I say yes? Did I actually have plans?
Well, I had plans with old college friends I rarely see that were never confirmed so no, no real plans. It is true that I’d had a hellish week and didn’t want to have dinner with him — or anyone else.
But let me paint a picture. Three of my kids were standing or milling about behind me and heard the whole conversation. I was mortified. He saw that the kids were there and asked me out anyway. The invitation did not include the children. It was painfully awkward. Plus, the kids knew that I had been avoiding this guy and that while I don’t think he’s a bad or menacing guy, I do think he’s strange. If I’d said yes, they would know either that I was lying about not liking him all along, or that I agreed to have a date with him out of pity. Not good either way.
To be fair, I’ll admit that I knew the invitation would be forthcoming. He’d told me weeks earlier that once he got his house fixed up (his wife had trashed it) he would have me over for dinner and tell me all of the horrific things that have happened to him. In true overly polite and dating challenged Roxanne fashion, I’d said, “Sure,” thinking, hoping it would never happen.
Should it ever become a reality, I had decided that I would not accept his dinner invitation.
When Brian made a followup nonspecific dinner suggestion more recently I’d given him the classic girl response,
“We’ll see.”
He had not been dissuaded, however, and he had showed up at my door.
This time, I just had to say, “No.”
Though I’m single and I need more purely social interaction with adults, I don’t have to date the guys that walk by my house, just because they ask.
Plus, he’d previously turned me off by saying stupid things, like;
“We should get together sometime. Wait, how old are you?”
Dude, no, seriously?
And repeating the same statements to me. “Did you know you can get free mulch?”
One week later: “Did you know you can get free mulch?”
Another week later: “Did you know you can get free mulch?”
And he’d stopped by to chat on one of his walks, reeking of liquor. He’d done the same with the workers at my house, reeking of liquor. Though this was before the disappearance.
More recently he knocked on the door and asked to borrow DVDs from my son, though we had never had a previous conversation about sharing movies.
Just the other day he waved at my house even though no one was outside.
He’s just not quite right.
Call me shallow, but these are red flags to me.
People can get down on their luck, I know I am. But my instincts told me to say no.
And let me add more color and texture to the picture I’ve painted. The last time I had a conversation with Brian he confirmed some of my suspicions, telling me that his estranged wife is indeed a drug addict– a coke-head actually, and she’s crazy, that his child is in foster care (hence no evidence of a baby), that he’d been in prison for the last year for trespassing on his own property. Ahhh this is why he’s been, as the lawyers at the firm used to say, “out-of-pocket.” But for trespassing? Really? Now, given my experience with my own War of The Roses situation, I know that absent physical abuse or a restraining order one cannot be arrested for being on a property that one owns jointly with a spouse. So it must have been something else, or there was indeed a restraining order against him, which opens another can of worms. Brian also told me he used to make a lot of money in computers but is now unemployed and that Nancy and her mother had scammed him out of everything he had, including his unemployment checks. He also offered that he had recently called the police to have his wife removed from the house when she showed up uninvited. This information did not make me want to pass a pleasant evening at his home.
What if his drug addict wife showed up again?
Yet, even given all that, Brian seems like an “okay” guy, and it sounds like he’s trying to get his life together. If he has an addiction of some sort, it’s always a good sign when a person puts on weight. Truthfully, I’d been worried about the baby and was relieved to hear that the child has been removed and is in a safe, temporary home. But I didn’t want to hear any more of his stories, not over dinner alone at his house.
Maybe he needs someone to talk to and is reaching out, but he has always made me uncomfortable. Plus, I just wasn’t in the mood. Thanks to some of my own problems, I probably wouldn’t have dated any of People’s Sexiest Men Alive last weekend. So the usually shirtless Ex-Con didn’t have much of a chance.
“I want to be alone.” Greta Garbo
I wanted to be alone, truly.
Still, when I refused him, he looked so sad I and I felt guilty. I hadn’t meant to hurt him.
It’s okay to say, no, though. It is. I don’t have to date the guys who walk behind my house unless I really want to. This I know. This, I’ve learned. See Not Digging the Landscaper Guy – Part I, Landscaper Guy and the Female Chandler Bing, Part II, The Landscaper Guy and The Phone Smarter Than Me – Part III and The Snowman.
Just Me With . . . no date on a Saturday night. And that’s okay.
Damn, this is an unusually long post that I apparently needed to write to convince myself that it was okay to say a very short word, “No.”
I had Another Encounter With The Ex-Con which confirmed my decision. Even the dog knew something wasn’t right.
Referring to Fifty Shades of Grey as “Mommy Porn”? Stop it!
Fifty Shades of Grey
You know those posts, reviews, rants or raves about a topic the author knows nothing about?
Well, this is one of them.
Actually this is only inspired by something I know nothing about, “Fifty shades of Grey.”
I haven’t read it, all I know is what I happen to see written or said about it in passing. I know that it’s very popular it’s been critiqued for it’s literary value or lack thereof. Reportedly, it is very sexually explicit . . . and adventurous? Is that right?
Whatever. I haven’t read it only because it doesn’t interest me — not my cup or tea right now.
My problem, however, is that I’ve heard it described as “Mommy Porn.”
“Mommy” Porn? Seriously?
I take offense. People need to stop inserting the word Mommy in front of an otherwise serious, established or even, dare I say, “respected” genre in an attempt to diminish or qualify its meaning. In other words, don’t use the word “Mommy” if the topic has nothing to do with mothering!
Porn is Porn. I don’t know if Fifty Shades is actually Porn. But I know it’s not “Mommy Porn.”
What does “Mommy Porn” even mean? Does it mean that mothers are aroused, as opposed to women who don’t have children? (Because, guess what, not all women have children — shhhhh!!!!)
This woman is reading. I don’t know whether she has given birth. Is this “Mommy Reading”?
Whether or not Porn is enjoyed by “Mommies” as opposed to “Women” is a distinction without meaning. I’m no porn historian, but I think that I can confidently say that historically, mainstream porn was directed toward heterosexual men — largely pictures of naked ladies or depictions of male conquests. Then someone figured out that women might enjoy porn more or differently with some tweaking (heh heh heh). Hence, the birth of erotica or “Porn for Her” — Porn that is engineered specifically for the arousal of women or hetero or lesbian couples — i.e. for WOMEN! Does it matter whether the women have given birth? Uh, no.
I can live with identifying pornography created for a particular gender or sexual preference when it’s descriptive — i.e. gay porn which features gay sex meant to arouse gay people. Duh.
But what is Mommy Porn? Mommies having sex with each other with their babies in the next room?
I don’t think that’s what’s they mean.
Is Fifty Shades of Grey referred to as “Mommy Porn” because it’s sold in Target?
Because it has no pictures? By the way, I was in Target yesterday and paged through it. No naked men. hmmph
Do the people who use the phrase “Mommy Porn” believe that there is a genre of work that appeals only to the prurient interests of women who have given birth? Is a mother’s sexual appetite or fantasy different from a woman who has not had a child? Well, that’s just stupid. Hence my rant.
Yes, yes, I know, I’m being too literal. It just irks me.
If there was a true thing as “Mommy Porn” — something that turns only mothers on, wouldn’t it be something that gave, especially a mother of a newborn, maybe six hours of uninterrupted sleep? Now wouldn’t that be a turn on?
Or for the mother of older children — having a day where her children don’t ask for or expect a damn thing from her all while doing whatever she said without so much as an eye roll? hmmmm oooohh ahhhhhh
“And the child left the room silently, robotically picking up the toys strewn about the floor, and quietly closed the door behind him. Hearing the screen door downstairs slam shut she knew she was left alone, and was expected to do . . . nothing. The child knew, instinctively, that “Mommy” needed to be alone. She was left to lay in her bed, taking in the smell of the freshly laundered linen. Her eyes strayed to the clock. No, she had nothing to do, no reason to get out of bed, yet she wondered if her package would arrive today. Would the UPS man need a cold drink or a place to rest between deliveries? The last time he came had been unplanned, unexpected . . . unbelievable . . . ”
. . . but I digress . . .
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. I don’t know what the “Mommy Porn” people mean; I think they just mean that it’s sexually explicit material that “real” women — who they think would not enjoy “real” porn — read.
Once again, “I call bullsh*t.”
No one knows what’s on our computers, phones, or in our underwear drawers or our shoe boxes. We don’t have to go to Target for the real deal. And guess what, given how our minds work, we can concoct full fledged porn scenarios in our minds while grocery shopping — without assistance from a book, magazine, DVD or battery operated device.
So please don’t call Fifty Shades of Grey “Mommy Porn.” It’s an insult to Porn and Mommies. It’s a book about sex. And even acknowledging that it’s largely women who are eating these books up, so be it. If it turns women on, their reproductive history has nothing to do with it.
Don’t even get me started on Mommy Blogs or Mommy Wars.
Just stop it . . . Daddy.
Just Me With . . . a little attitude. Next I’ll discuss the timely and important topic of using bears to sell toilet paper.
Road Trip Entertainment — Our Music and Movies
I just finished a road trip with my five children. I know no one asked, but I thought I’d share what we listened to and watched on the ten hour drive home.
1. Rachmaninov 
Piano Concerto No. 2
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini
2. Prokofiev
Piano Concertos 1 & 3
3. “The Foundation” by The Zac Brown Band
Because you know I like my chicken fried . . .
4. Soundtrack to West Side Story
Can’t believe I almost forgot this one!
5. The Radio — remember that?
6. Adam Sandler’s “The WaterBoy” 
“Momma said, ma ma ma momma said . . . ”
7. Les Choristes — A beautiful French language Film about a music teacher for troubled boys in 1940’s France.
8. Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo — Comedic Japanese (manga) Anime.
(I don’t really understand Bobobo, but there was lots of discussion about nose hair.)
For the most part, each of the choices were approved and enjoyed by all of the tween and teen kids
. . . and myself.
Just Me With . . . an interesting collection . . . of children.
Suck This! Mr. Dyson
James Dyson
I bought a new vacuum cleaner over the weekend. The heavy-duty big fancy one I’d had at “The Marital Home” never worked as well as I’d liked and it was a mess to empty. I tried to sell it at a garage sale and ended up just giving it away. In my down-sizing frenzy for my small home, I bought a little stick , cordless, bag-less number that only worked a short while before dying in a corner, unloved, unused.
I’m embarrassed to say I’ve been sweeping my area rugs.
But I broke down and went to the store to get a vacuum cleaner this weekend because that’s how I roll. Don’t be jealous, it was one of my more exciting outings lately, but I digress . . .
Once I arrived at the store I felt visually assaulted by the displays of the bright yellow Dyson vacuums. You know, the state of the art industrially designed models that cost between $300 and $700. They are different from other vacuum cleaners because they have that fancy ball thingy — and maybe something new with the motor? I don’t know, but I bet they work like a dream. They should for that amount of money.
I will never buy a Dyson, however. And it’s not because of the price (though I could/would not pay that much for a vacuum cleaner at this point in my life).
No, it’s because of the commercial, the first commercial that introduced the product and that has always just pissed me off. I’m not going to link it here because it still irks me. If you know what I’m talking about you’ll know what I’m talking about.
The commercial features James Dyson himself with his gorgeous English accent, which to us Americans automatically makes him smart. Well, according to the advertisement, Sir Dyson’s wife had asked him to vacuum. Dutifully, he took out their vacuum cleaner —- but he didn’t vacuum. No, he examined the device and decided that it had serious design flaws. So instead of vacuuming, he took their vacuum cleaner apart, analyzed it and eventually designed a prototype for a new vacuum cleaner to which he gave his name — the Dyson.
The rest is history.
Now, the wife’s perspective. Though I’m sure she’s reaping the benefits of the Dyson vacuum cleaner’s wild success, I think that on that day, in that moment, she just wanted her husband to vacuum the freaking rug. That’s all. Just vacuum. No analysis necessary. No deconstruction, no prototypes. Just vacuum the freaking floor!!!!!
Imagine her surprise when she walked into the room and instead of finding a clean floor she found her husband — on the floor — surrounded by vacuum cleaner parts, dust and debris. Anyone who has ever tried to take apart a vacuum cleaner knows that it makes a bloody mess. (Note the English vernacular? Yes?)
All that woman wanted was for her husband to vacuum the carpet. It’s a simple request. But instead, he likely retired to the garage to begin to build his prototype for the best freaking vacuum cleaner ever invented, because what men and women — and his wife — had been using for ages was woefully insufficient, malformed, mis-designed, inconvenient and just not up to par.
But for all of his superior, nay, grand design plans which revolutionized carpet maintenance as we know it, Dyson did not vacuum the freaking floor when his wife asked him to!!! Instead, he picked that moment to take their vacuum cleaner apart.
And we’re supposed to buy his Rolls Royce of vacuum cleaners?
What a pile of bollocks!
I say to Sir Dyson, I know you are brilliant, but:
Just freaking vacuum the floor. Then, after you are done, design your fancy, superior, super-expensive, ball-having, yellow vacuum cleaner.
That’s all Dame Dyson wanted. I don’t think she was asking for too much.
Just Me With . . . a Dirt Devil.
Dirt Devil
Of course Mrs. Dyson can probably afford a golden vacuum cleaner and a maid and butler to do all of her floors, but it’s the principle of the thing for me.
The Summer of Cleavage
Okay, so I know I’m no Halle Berry, but I’ve long maintained that she’s on the short list to play me in the movie of my life.
Like Madonna, I like to reinvent myself from time to time. Last year, it was accessories and tight tee-shirts. This year?
The Summer of Cleavage
Yeah, I said it.
I declared it online just last week. Two days ago, as if heaven-sent, a former neighbor dropped off a bag of gently used or brand new mostly designer duds her fashionista adult daughter didn’t want. As it turns out? Many of the clothes accentuate the girls.
The Universe is telling me, yes, yes, it is indeed, The Summer of Cleavage. [insert the appropriate sound effect]
I’m not talking about the ta-tas being completely out. No, I don’t want to be tacky. I do believe there is a time and place. However, I’m blessed to still have a nice swell of a bosom, and I should let it out. Let’s face it, I won’t be able to do this forever. Anyway, breasts can be absolutely regal if done correctly.
Perhaps releasing the girls, letting them see some sunlight (instead of keeping them under wraps until/unless I’m out at night or on special occasions) might boost the ego and mood and put me further in touch with my femininity. Hell, it’s worth a shot.
So, with some occasional help from “our friends at Victoria’s Secret” (channeling Jesse Eisenberg/Mark Zuckerberg from “The Social Network”), bring on the V-necks, the scoop necks, the sun dresses and say “Heyyyy!” . . . to the girls.
Just Me With . . . boobies.
Bonus, it freaks out my kids. Ha!
Vanessa could play me in the movie too. Have her people call my people.
What Have I Done Since My Divorce?
So this is the anniversary of when my divorce became final. Well, well, well. The divorce process, from filing to finality was almost three years to the day. It was litigious and expensive. I still have outstanding legal bills and there is retirement money yet to be transferred. Regardless of the loose ends, the divorce itself has been final for a year. Happy freaking anniversary to me. See, Don’t Congratulate Me On My Divorce . . . Not Today.
It was my husband who was the litigious one, though I’m the lawyer. But suddenly, after his multiple filings, hearings, and mediation and him threatening to prolong the process, as in, “I don’t care how long it takes. This can go on forever. I’d rather pay my lawyer than you,” when he got this last girlfriend, he couldn’t get divorced fast enough. Huh. Even after the settlement was agreed upon and we were waiting for signatures, he filed yet another costly petition because it was taking too damn long.
Huh.
Let me be clear: we aren’t wealthy people, so unlike Kobe Bryant and his wife, we weren’t dividing mansions and millions. Not even close. No, my Ex-husband had another “M” word in mind.
In the year since our bonds of matrimony were broken, My Ex-husband has remarried.
Now they are expecting. Huh. Guess he had plans. Plans which necessitated a divorce. Because the ability to remarry — that is the true power and magic of divorce. That, and being able to sign up for eHarmony.com . . . but I digress.
Poof!
Well, that particular magic hasn’t happened to me. (And that’s okay, really.)
What I Have Done Since My Divorce . . .
1. I got Netflix;
2. Having never watched it before — ever, I started from episode one and got caught up on Grey’s Anatomy right up to the current episode;
3. I bought an iPhone;
4. I got on Twitter, and
5. I started this blog.
That’s right. Apparently I had plans, too, damn it. So maybe I haven’t traveled the world since I became legally single. Maybe I haven’t found someone to whom to publicly declare my love “until death do us part” (yeah, no comment) and started a brand new family . . .
but Dude,
I’m texting and tweeting like a champ, #hashtags and all.
Just Me With . . . Meredith and McDreamy, my Tweeps, my Apps, and my Readers.
She’s Gonna Make It After All
Thank you! See also: The Twilight Zone — Again, Seriously?
An Argument Against the Open Floor Plan
Taking down the wall . . .
On every home makeover show, every real estate show, they talk about how everyone loves the open floor plan. It’s the new black. Homeowners are forever busting through walls to open the kitchen to the family room and eliminating the dining room altogether.
There are two main reasons why the open floor plan is so so popular:
1. It is great for entertaining. People always end up in the kitchen anyway, right? This allows the cook to be in the kitchen puttering around and interact with guests.
2. It is great for parents of young children. It allows the parent to be in the kitchen and still keep an eye on the little ones in the family room. No more baby in a playpen or high chair in the kitchen while you make dinner.
Do you see the theme?
“STAY IN THE KITCHEN!“
The open floor plan negates any reason to actually leave the kitchen.
But there is a third reason: knocking out walls creates space, or at least an illusion of space within the same square footage.
When you think about it, the open floor plan has been common in apartments for years. Walk into an apartment and you can see everything except the bedroom. It was supposed to be a move up for an apartment dweller to buy a house and actually have separate rooms. This new open floor plan trend has essentially turned high-end palace homes into nothing but super-sized apartments, with a second floor.
Monica and Rachel’s Apartment in Friends
For those of you who don’t have the open floor plan, before you take out all the walls in your house, and before you feel badly because you have a wall that you can’t take down, consider this:
1. Your children won’t be toddlers forever.
Children tend to grow. And there will come a time where you don’t want to and don’t have to watch every move they make.
2. Yes, you can see your toddlers, but your toddlers can see you, too.
My husband and I used to go into the laundry room to shove a snack into our faces so that the babies wouldn’t see and start wailing for some. Sometimes, I’d drop down behind the island like I’d heard sudden gunfire in order to have a cookie.
3. You can see your school-age, tween and teen kids, but they can see you, too.
With an open floor plan, you can forget coming down to sneak a snack over the counter in your jammies late at night, or reading the paper at the kitchen counter/table in the morning before your shower. There’s nothing like hearing, “Hi. Mrs. Peterson!” when you’re bra-less in a vintage tee and boxers drinking coffee in your kitchen. And if you dare talk on the phone while cooking or cleaning, you will be shushed by someone — or perhaps worse, a child will be listening in on every word. And it is a truism, a simple fact of life, that as kids grow, parents spend a fair amount of time hiding from them. The open floor plan is antithetical to the natural course of child-rearing in this respect.
4. Your kitchen must always be spotless . . .
There’s no door to close. When unexpected guests pop in — yours or your children’s — and you haven’t unloaded and reloaded your dishwasher — everyone can see it. Suddenly you’re a slob. The rest of your house could be spotless, but under these floor plans, no one ever sees the rest of your house.
5. Your family (TV) room includes a kitchen– a noisy, smelly kitchen.
Imagine sitting down in a darkened room, ready to watch a great emotional or talky movie and — oh hello, there’s your kid or spouse or whatever, in the kitchen, talking on the phone, repeatedly opening the fridge, making bacon, arguing with someone. Go ahead and click pause, because you can’t hear whatever George Clooney is saying, not that you need to . . . . but I digress. Your quiet moment has been ruined.
6. Children’s Programming/Teen programming/Sports/News — Anything you don’t want to watch at any given time.
Your little kid is watching Dora. Again, and again, and again. You can’t get away from it. iCarly? I get it, but I’ve had enough. People are enjoying the big game, snacking, yelling at the screen, having a good old time. You are wiping the counter after having loaded the dishwasher and setting out food for them. Worse, you can’t even mutter to yourself or roll your eyes at the unfairness of it all, because you are on display.
Essentially, the open floor plan allows you to be in the kitchen and watch — other people watch TV. Humph.
7. “Oh my gosh I dropped the chicken!”
In a perfect world, no one would know. Open floor plan? Well, it’ll be tweeted in minutes.
8. When entertaining, sometimes you need a minute.
The Mary Tyler Moore Show: Guests in the next room are expecting dinner; Mary and Rhoda panic in the kitchen because they have no food.
Your mother-in-law is driving you crazy, your boss is bored, your husband/wife is saying something he/she shouldn’t, you need yet another drink, you just said something really, really stupid. With an open floor plan, THERE’S NO PLACE TO GO!!! I love all the classic TV shows where people could say, “Can I see you in the kitchen” or “I’m going to check on the food,” followed quickly by, “I’ll help you.” (This is all code for “We need to talk.” ) With an open floor plan I guess you have to hide in the bathroom, and that’s just plain icky.
How many times did characters in Frasier run off to the kitchen to plot against some misunderstanding happening in the living room?
One big room is fine, it can even be intimate when you are alone or coupled up. But once there are people of different ages, interests and responsibilities, well let’s just say that all this open living can be downright oppressive.
I speak from experience.
I knocked out a kitchen wall in my old house and built a family room addition. Instead of looking out my kitchen window and seeing trees, I created a view of my family room. I had young children at the time. I fell for the “I can be in the kitchen and see the kids” trap. Well, the children grew, the husband left, and I downsized to a much smaller fixer-upper home.
When it was time to do the kitchen, the contractor asked,
“You gonna knock out this wall?”
I said, “No. I want my wall. I need my wall.”
Truth is, I need some division in my life.
Sometimes I watch a little TV or listen to music while cleaning or cooking. Sometimes I sit at the kitchen table on my laptop or the phone while my kids are in the family room watching something that literally makes me ill. I’ve even been known to channel my inner Beyoncé and dance to my heart’s content in my kitchen. With my wall intact, I can be unseen but close by, and still opt in or out of the children’s entertainment at will.
It’s the little things . . . Sometimes a wall is a good little thing.
Just Me With . . . a divided floor plan and a bit of, well — if not sanity — at least a bit of privacy.
See also:
My Refrigerator Broke. Do I Really New A Fancy New Stainless Steel New One?
Double Sinks in The Master Bath — Must We Have Them? Really?
Piss, Puke, and Porn — my new old house.
Toilet or Kitchen Sink — Who Can Tell?
My Panty Drawer, Your Panty Drawer — My Adventures in Home Staging and Carpet Installation
How to Get Rid of That Hoarder’s Smell
If We Were Honest on Resumes
Simon Cowell used to say it on American Idol, “If I’m being honest . . .” then he would insult the very being of some wannabe pop star.
Sometimes, honesty hurts. Consequently, in decent society (and by decent society I mean not reality TV) we make nice-nice while expressing our opinions of others to avoid causing them emotional injury. Other times we choose not to be honest about ourselves to avoid the appearance of being (gasp) boring. We lie, omit information or engage in puffery (ha! I got the word “puffery” in a post) so that we seem fun and important. It’s expected, really. It’s the secret of success.
I once had a job where I had to screen law school students for professional positions. My best work friend and I used to love reading through their resumes and laughing at the obligatory “Hobbies and Interests” section, you know, that last part of the resume when candidates try to make themselves sound well-rounded and interesting, giving the interviewer something to talk about other than grade point averages. Call me cynical, but I never believed even half of it. My friend and I would sit back with the pile of resumes, go straight to the “Hobbies and Interests” section, and read between the lines to reveal what we thought could be the, well . . . truth.
We had a system:
- Avid sports fan = Watches TV –ESPN, all the time
- Enjoys hiking and exploring the outdoors = Owns a bicycle but not a car, doesn’t shower on weekends
- Crafting, knitting and scrap booking = Lies — and often
- Dancing and spending time with friends = Possibly a slut (probably knows Avid Sports Fan, above– from the bar)
It’s not that there is anything wrong with how people actually pass their time, we just can’t put it on our resumes. So my friend and I amused ourselves by trying to crack the code.
If job candidates were being honest, the hobbies and interest section on resumes would state things like:
- I watch TV from the minute I get home until I go to bed.
- I look for split ends; I hate my hair.
- Electronic stalking.
- Hair removal, ‘nuf said.
- I like to have staring contests with my dog.
- I spy on my neighbors.
- Shopping. I look nice, don’t I?
- I meet strangers in public places, aka — online dating.
- Plus the ever popular, “Social Media” for six hours a day — usually while watching TV or at work. (Readers say, “Amen.” )
If applicants were being honest, maybe they’d omit the “Hobbies and Interests” section entirely (I always did, but I’m a rebel) .
They could simply tell the interviewer:
“I need a job so I’ll have some money to buy equipment for a real hobby but have no time to actually do it.
And wouldn’t it be refreshing if a stellar candidate just said:
“Look, I have a 3.9 GPA. I’m President of every club at school. I study all the time. When I’m not studying or at some meeting, I’m drinking, eating or sleeping. If I’m lucky I do my laundry. My primary interest is maintaining my GPA and getting this job so that I can make a lot of money. Then maybe I’ll buy a boat or something and can put sailing on my resume, but I won’t need a resume then, because I’ll have your job — if I’m being honest.“
For a hilarious example of an honest interviewee, check out the movie “Office Space.”
In Office Space, Peter tells the Bobs:
“Yeah, I just stare at my desk; but it looks like I’m working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch, too. I’d say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work.”
I love Office Space, but I digress . . .
And by the way, as I write this, I’m not doing a damn thing, . . . except writing this.
Just Me With . . . Hobbies and Interests: I enjoy reading, writing and meeting new people. And by that I mean . . . Twitter. 
Blowing Off The Holidays
My daughter recently asked me if she could fake being sick to get out of spending Thanksgiving with her Dad’s new wife’s family. Of course I said no. She’s a kid, and basically she has to go with the grown-ups. But it got me to thinking. For an adult, who, for whatever reason, wants out but doesn’t want to offend, here are some excuses to use to get out of the holiday dinner.
1. Fake illness.
Yes, my daughter is a genius. A stomach virus works best, because no one wants the prospect of developing diarrhea after sharing a big meal with you. But food poisoning is perfect — it only lasts 24 hours, so when you show up at the stores on Black Friday after having skipped Thanksgiving with the family, you won’t be “outed.” Ladies, just don’t use blush the next day. You’ve got to look a bit pale when seen in public again.
2. I have to study.
Students, you are very, very lucky, you’ve got a built-in excuse. The higher the education, the easier it is to use. When I was in law school, all I had to say was — exams. People pretty much left me alone. I would imagine a simple word like “dissertation” would send people backing slowly out of the room. I used the “exams” excuse once. Actually, it was true, and effective. I ate a convenience store turkey sandwich and studied at home alone. Very relaxing, and productive.
3. Fake or exaggerate your child’s illness.
Okay, this one seems creepy, but even if your kid is on the mend with barely a sniffle, you could rock the “I don’t want to expose him/her to everybody,” excuse. Then you sit home, watch movies and cuddle. Again, very relaxing.
4. Pick a fight with your significant other.
You really have to want to skip the dinner to do this, but let’s face it, we probably all know how to do it. Then, tell him/her to figure out what to say because “I’m not going!” The offended significant other can consult this same list. Bonus, your significant other may bring you back a plate.
5. For those expected to travel, say you just can’t afford it this year.
It’s tough out there. You can’t afford a ticket, gas, car needs repair, whatever. You do run the risk that someone will offer to pay your way. If that happens, carry your butt to dinner, you’ve got good peeps.
Just Me With . . . a holiday opt-out plan.
Tales from The Bar Exam
I have always prided myself on my test preparation and test taking abilities. Not just knowing the material, but the little things that help with preparedness, like getting on a sleep schedule that coincides with the testing hours, eating brain and energy foods, avoiding things that cause stress, dressing in comfortable clothes, mapping out and timing the route to the test location, even listening to Mozart! Then there’s the superstitions: I firmly believe that sleeping with books under my pillow or next to my bed helps. I don’t care what anyone thinks about that. I believe it.
Crash: If you believe you’re playing well because you’re getting laid, or because you’re not getting laid, or because you wear women’s underwear, then you ARE! And you should know that! – Bull Durham
The bar exam is one pretty big test, at least two full days, depending on your state. Accordingly, one must be prepared. And ironically, having graduated from law school has little to do with being prepared for the bar exam. After graduation there is a period of two and a half months of bar exam study for would-be lawyers.
In my infinite arrogance, I decided that unlike EVERYONE else, I would not pay for and take the bar exam prep course. My thoughts were, it is stressful to be around anxious pre-lawyers all day, the course itself is ridiculously expensive. Plus, what do the courses do? They give out materials, go over them, teach and practice test taking strategies and offer practice tests. I can do this myself, I thought. I have always (until now . . . but I digress . . .) been extremely disciplined. I credit my musical training for this. I reasoned that I don’t need a class to give me daily study structure. I can, all by myself, put myself on a study and practice test schedule, every day for eight hours a day, plus a couple more hours at night. I truly thought I would do better by myself. I had never taken a prep course for any of the other standardized tests I’d taken, why start now? Plus, I resented the way in which the companies that sponsor these bar prep courses (not law schools) profited from the insecurities of pre-lawyers. These companies know that we have to pass the test and we would do almost anything to pass the test. No one wants the embarrassment of failing. No one wants to take it more than once. One Tweeter @CriticalA aptly noted: “I’d rather suck Satan’s d*ck than take the bar exam again.” That pretty much sums it up.
So partly out of arrogance, taking a stand against corporate greed, and, well, I had no money, I decided: No, I’m not going to do it. I will buy the books, but I will not take the course.
Not one other person I knew made that choice. Not one.
But it was all good. I did put myself on a schedule. I never missed a day of studying, except for the Rat In My House incident, all went well. I felt prepared, ready.
Mine was a two-day test. The first multiple choice, the second essay. If the test taker scores high enough on the first day, the second day is less important, so most of the prep courses and study focused on the first day of testing. I prepared for both.
As planned, a week before the exam I put myself on a simulated test day schedule for sleeping and eating. I was well rested. I actually felt good. I had passed my practice exams well within the allotted time.
I was ready. Nervous, but ready.
Day One
On test day, I successfully avoided my stressors, got a good seat. And . . . go!!!!
At some point during the exam, however, I apparently decided that it was time to take a nap.
A nap!!!! I freaking fell asleep.
I fell asleep on the bar exam.
I freaking fell asleep DURING the bar exam.
There was no reason for this. I was rested, nourished. All I can think is that my mind had been so focused on getting ready, that when the day finally came, my brain said — “Okay, I’m done now, right?” and checked out.
I don’t know how long I was out. I woke up with about a half hour left and a lot more than a half hour of questions to answer.
I wanted to die.
I finished when they called time, but not with well thought out answers and with no time to spare. I’d always had time to spare in my practice tests. But then again during my practice tests — I WAS AWAKE!!!!!!!
CRAP!!!!!!
According to my finely tuned text taking strategies and rigid rules, I must not discuss this monumental blunder with anyone. I would only go home, eat, rest and sleep in order to be ready for Day Two. Because I FELL ASLEEP on Day One, Day Two became much more important.
I put myself in denial and robotically followed my plan. I spoke to no one, except my husband, and then only out of necessity.
Day Two
I always liked law school essay tests, but since I HAD FALLEN ASLEEP on the previous day’s multiple choice test, I had to do more than “like” these essays on Day Two. I had to ace them.
Pursuant my test taking techniques, I scanned all the essay questions before beginning. There was one that I absolutely did not know that answer to. I would still answer it, of course, but it would take some reasoning. No need to panic. And as I recall there was another that was a bit difficult as well, but at least I knew the answer, though crafting the reasoning might be tricky. I did what has always worked for me, I knocked out the easiest ones first, to reserve time for the harder ones later.
In the end, I finished in time, actually with a little time to spare, proofread my answers and tried to put the whole experience behind me.
On the way home, however, I realized —- to my horror:
I’d answered the one question I was initially concerned about but I’d FORGOTTEN TO GO BACK AND ANSWER THE OTHER ONE!!!
I HAD NOT ANSWERED ONE OF THE REQUIRED ESSAY QUESTIONS ON THE BAR EXAM!!!!!!!!!!!
For the second time in two days, I wanted to die.
Let’s recap, shall we? I didn’t take the bar exam prep course that everyone else took, I fell asleep on Day One of testing, and I simply neglected to answer a full essay question on Day Two.
It wasn’t good. Not good at all.
And now the wait . . .
If you don’t know, there is a four-month delay between the date the exam is taken and when the results are published. It was a long-ass four months. By this time, I was working for a federal judge. My co-clerk was a snobbish double ivy league golden boy son-of-a- judge.
The results day came, finally. This was before discovering your fate could be accomplished alone, via the Internet and without human contact. The snobbish double ivy league golden boy son-of-a- judge and I decided that instead of participating in the law clerk tradition of walking to the county courthouse to publicly read the results, we would call the designated a hot line at the State Bar. Good. For the reasons above, I had convinced myself I had failed. I figured that receiving the inevitable news over the phone would limit the witnesses to my embarrassment to just one: the snobbish double ivy league golden boy son-of-a- judge. That would hurt my ego, but it would be better than public humiliation followed by the long walk of shame back to my desk — and my judge.
Snobbish double ivy league golden boy son-of-a- judge and I called the hotline. He entered his identification number and got word of his Passing score. He handed the phone to me.
My head was spinning: Why was I so arrogant? Why didn’t I take the course like EVERYBODY ELSE? Why did I fall asleep? Why did I decide part of the exam was optional? Why can’t I just lay down and die??????? I entered in my identification number, waited, then . . .
I PASSED!!!!!
Despite it all, I had passed. I had passed. I had passed. Damn, I must have done something good.
(Yes, I see the typo in the image text, my apologies, it’ll have to do for now.)
Just Me With . . . the ability to say . . .Yeah, well, I passed the bar exam in my sleep.
And here’s a bonus, much to the utter shock and dismay of my snobbish double ivy league golden boy son-of-a- judge co-clerk, not only had I passed, but my numerical score was . . . wait for it . . . higher than his. (I didn’t say a word, on the outside.)
And here’s yet another bonus. Years later, I ran into my snobbish double ivy league golden boy son-of-a- judge co-clerk, who actually gained some humility over the years. He apologized to me for his arrogance (which is beyond the scope of this post). Then he started telling me how busy he and his wife were:
Him: “You’ll never believe it! I have twin girls! Yeah, it’s crazy!”
Me: “Really? Twin girls, huh? Wow. Crazy. So . . . you have . . . just . . . the one . . . set of twin girls?” . . . wait for it . . . “I have two.”
We had a good old laugh about that.
Him: “You always manage to one up me, don’t you? I guess I’d better just shut up.”
See:
A Rat In My House – Unscheduled study break …
Just Me With . . . 