So, my dear followers, there's good news and bad news. The bad news is that I have been slacking. The good news is that I have FANS!! Apparently, I have at least three whole people who have been trembling with anticipation for me to finish Part Two my Walmart series. Well, maybe they aren't "trembling," but they did ask about it. With a special dedication to Jeromy, Stacy, and Tina, may I present:
PART TWO: THE CUSTOMER
I am sure that many of you are familiar with the website, The People of Walmart that highlights the often outrageous appearances of those who shop at the popular discount store. However, the creatures that shop at Walmart, are not just aesthetically ridiculous. Most of them meander through the aisles, usually with a chip on their shoulders, waiting to run into a jaded associate. It's not a pretty sight. And since the last thing that an Associate wants to do is to actually help someone, it makes for an interesting (and sometimes violent) interaction. In order to help you understand the dynamic, let me describe a few of the key types of customers, who shop at Walmart.
The Tattletale: These are customers who like to go to management for every little thing. I have had quite a few issues with Tattletales. The most memorable, occurred when I worked in Ladies Wear. A particularly annoying customer asked me where the Fitting Room was. I pointed behind me and said, "It's underneath that big red sign that says, "Fitting Room." She told my Store Manager that I had an "attitude." I told him I was just telling the truth.
The Cliche: These are usually cheerful customers, who truly believe that they are the only ones who have ever shopped at a Walmart. Surprisingly, while friendly, they are the most annoying of Walmart customers. Cashiers usually have to deal with this type. They are the people who remark, "Slow day, huh?" after waiting in a line of 25 people. They also inevitably ask, "Is is hot enough for ya?" which makes it quite difficult to not respond, "I wouldn't know, because I am STUCK inside this God-forsaken store, while YOU frolick in the sunshine all day and throw it in my face." Perhaps this group is at it's best, when given their total for their merchandise. Whether their total is even ($15.00 on the dot) OR repetitive ($8.88) OR famous ($17.76), they will ALWAYS excitedly exclaim, "I bet that's the first time that's EVER happened!!" Actually, I have been working here for five years, and have rung up millions of transactions. It's happened twelve times. TODAY. You aren't that special.
The Passive Aggressive: This one makes me angry, just writing about it. These customers refuse to "ask" for help. They want the Associate to come to them. This customer is the man who stands in the shampoo aisle, while I stock shelves two feet away, and says a series of statements to himself.
"I wonder where the Head & Shoulders is."
"It was in this aisle the last time I was here."
"I wish I could find it."
"I think it has a blue lid."
Nope, sorry, Dude. If you can't look me in the face and acknowlege my existance, you can find your own shampoo.
The Criminal: I'm not talking about shoplifters. All stores have those. I am talking about the teenager who brings in a three year old broken stereo, expecting to exchange it for a newer model. I am talking about the man who brings in an electric razor filled with hair and says it never worked. And most of all, I am talking about the woman who brings in a half full gallon of paint, that only Lowe's sells, and requests that her refund be given in cash. The worst part, is that most of the time, a Manager will give them what they want. The only difference between these people and shoplifters is that sometimes shoplifters are arrested.
The Needs a Friend: These customers share too much. They come to Walmart because they need someone to talk to. True Story: I was working as a Cashier on my holiday break from college, when a man came through my register, buying one big Rubbermaid container. "This is for my son," he said, wanting to chat. I took the bait. "Oh, is he in college?"
"No, he's in jail. He went to college and got hooked on drugs. He shot his girlfriend a few weeks ago."
"Oh. Here's your receipt. Have a Merry Christmas!!"
Blogger's Note: Never EVER take the bait!!
The Angry Mom: Anyone that has ever worked at Walmart will tell you that people bring their children to Walmart to beat them in public. Walmart is full of screaming kids and angry parents. Once I saw a woman shreik to her crying child, "STOP IT! STOP IT! YOU ARE MAKING ME LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT!!" Um, no, Lady... you're doing that all on your own.
If you are in danger of becoming one of these customers (or already are), let me give you a few guidelines that will help you improve your Customer/Associate relations. These are things I wish I could post on the door, for people to read, before entering the store.
1. If you need to use the restroom, please use the designated areas that are clearly marked, RESTROOM. My brother (also a former Walmart Associate) has had to clean up fecal matter that was found in the CD aisle. I met my husband while mopping up urine in the Cosmetics Department. For those of you who are potty trained, keep in mind that if the store smells like a toilet, there's probably a reason for that. I suggest always wearing closed toe shoes, while shopping.
2. Pay attention to the Associate who answers the phone. She greets you and then asks a very specific question, "How may I direct your call?" This means, "In what department is the item, in which you are inquiring, located?" Contrary to popular belief, there is not a "Big Book of All Things Walmart," sitting next to the phone. So, when you call and ask the Phone Associate, "Hi, how much is an 8oz bottle of Elmer's Glue?" please understand that she cannot give you an answer. She can, however, direct you to the Stationery Department.
3. Walmart is not Santa's Workshop. We are not little elves in blue vests who make every item in the store. Don't ask me how an electric razor works. I did not make it. I am not working for the manufacturer. I am the person who gets paid minimum wage to unlock the razor case and hand you an electric razor, so that you may read the box. And no, you cannot open and try it out. That's gross.
4. Please know what you want and what it's called, before you enter the store. Do not tell me, "I'm looking for a lotion in a white bottle, that has a pump," because you have just described 85% of the lotion aisle. I do not have time for this.
5. I work at WALMART. I am not a TV Repairman. I am not a doctor. And I am not a babysitter. I don't know why your television doesn't have sound. I do not know what will work for your painful bunions, and I will not watch your baby while you try on a dress. The qualification that landed me this job was my availability to work on Saturday nights. Please treat me accordingly. I also do not work at Home Depot, so don't ask me when they close, or how much they charge for refrigerator installation.
I haven't even begun to scratch the surface, when it comes to the time I spent working at Walmart. But I think you get the point... for now. Perhaps I will blog again one day about the wild, wonderful world of Walmart. I could go on for days about the parking lot alone. To conclude this series, however, I would like to share my all time favorite Walmart story, ever.
In the Toy Department, there is a tall "cage" that houses the giant bouncy balls. When a customer wants a specific color, it means that an Associate has to be paged, so that a ladder can be used to reach whichever one the customer need. I was working diligently one day, when an announcement came across the Walmart speaker system, made by a Cashier, who should have chosen her words more carefully:
"Attention Associates, I have a customer by the balls in Toys, who is in need of assistance."
I bet he was.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
If It Ain't Broke...
In today's economy, a lot of things are broken. He's broke. She's broke. We're broke.
Being "broke" myself, I get very offended when people claim to be broke who aren't. I mean, really, it's not like it's a status we all strive to be, so give yourself more credit. Lord knows I don't have any to give you. *BA-DUM-BUMP-CHH* : )
When our boys started their medical treatments, we wiped out our savings and credit cards and went to one income. We are the definition of "broke." We have nothing to pull from. We have no back-ups. If our checkbook shows $3.87 the day before payday, then all the money that we have access to in the world is $3.87. So, if you tell me, "We went to the movies and didn't even buy popcorn, because we're so broke. We even had to decrease the amount of money we're putting into the kids' college funds," I will probably punch you in the face. In an effort to weed out the fakers, I feel it is my duty to clarify what it really means to be poor.
And these are not made up to be funny, these are true stories of life in the trenches of the lower-middle class.
To the tune of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck," here are my qualifications of being broke:
If you sit down to do the monthly bills and make three piles: "Pay Now," "Pay Next Month," and "Must've Gotten Lost in the Mail"....
you might be broke!
If you consider "Date Due" as the date that you know they send the shut off notice....
you might be broke!
If you know how to siphon gas....
you might be broke!
If you can't remember the last item of clothing that you bought that wasn't purchased on ebay or at a yard sale...
you might be broke!
If your child receives a check from a relative for his birthday and you tell him his present is keeping Cable for another month...
you might be broke!
If you've ever held a yard sale in January...
you might be broke!
If you have ever needed gas in your car and looked around your house for something to sell on Craigslist....
you might be broke!
If your strongest investment is the $1.00 you spend on a Powerball ticket each week...
you might be broke!
If you've ever been tempted to cash in your child's Savings Bonds, fifteen years early...
you might be broke!
If you use hospital stays as an opportunity to stock up on bandages, thermometers, and baby wipes...
you might be broke!
If you can make an entire meal out of four slices of bread, and a little bit of butter...
you might be broke!
If an appliance in your home breaks, and you head out to a yard sale with $1.50 in your pocket and a heart full of hope...
you might be broke!
Most of you who read my blog probably have money and find no amusement in this whatsoever. But believe me when I tell you that while each one of these statements are true, I giggled as I wrote each one. And I am sure that those of you who know what it's like to struggle will laugh as hard as I did. Poor people are happy people, because we appreciate the little things and are proud of what we have. Don't feel sorry for us. We live with the hope that things will get better. We know how to fend for ourselves and we know what to do to take care of our children. We do what we have to, to survive. And one thing I can tell you, it certainly makes life interesting.
Being "broke" myself, I get very offended when people claim to be broke who aren't. I mean, really, it's not like it's a status we all strive to be, so give yourself more credit. Lord knows I don't have any to give you. *BA-DUM-BUMP-CHH* : )
When our boys started their medical treatments, we wiped out our savings and credit cards and went to one income. We are the definition of "broke." We have nothing to pull from. We have no back-ups. If our checkbook shows $3.87 the day before payday, then all the money that we have access to in the world is $3.87. So, if you tell me, "We went to the movies and didn't even buy popcorn, because we're so broke. We even had to decrease the amount of money we're putting into the kids' college funds," I will probably punch you in the face. In an effort to weed out the fakers, I feel it is my duty to clarify what it really means to be poor.
And these are not made up to be funny, these are true stories of life in the trenches of the lower-middle class.
To the tune of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck," here are my qualifications of being broke:
If you sit down to do the monthly bills and make three piles: "Pay Now," "Pay Next Month," and "Must've Gotten Lost in the Mail"....
you might be broke!
If you consider "Date Due" as the date that you know they send the shut off notice....
you might be broke!
If you know how to siphon gas....
you might be broke!
If you can't remember the last item of clothing that you bought that wasn't purchased on ebay or at a yard sale...
you might be broke!
If your child receives a check from a relative for his birthday and you tell him his present is keeping Cable for another month...
you might be broke!
If you've ever held a yard sale in January...
you might be broke!
If you have ever needed gas in your car and looked around your house for something to sell on Craigslist....
you might be broke!
If your strongest investment is the $1.00 you spend on a Powerball ticket each week...
you might be broke!
If you've ever been tempted to cash in your child's Savings Bonds, fifteen years early...
you might be broke!
If you use hospital stays as an opportunity to stock up on bandages, thermometers, and baby wipes...
you might be broke!
If you can make an entire meal out of four slices of bread, and a little bit of butter...
you might be broke!
If an appliance in your home breaks, and you head out to a yard sale with $1.50 in your pocket and a heart full of hope...
you might be broke!
Most of you who read my blog probably have money and find no amusement in this whatsoever. But believe me when I tell you that while each one of these statements are true, I giggled as I wrote each one. And I am sure that those of you who know what it's like to struggle will laugh as hard as I did. Poor people are happy people, because we appreciate the little things and are proud of what we have. Don't feel sorry for us. We live with the hope that things will get better. We know how to fend for ourselves and we know what to do to take care of our children. We do what we have to, to survive. And one thing I can tell you, it certainly makes life interesting.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
A Letter to Mountain View Ob/Gyn...
To the physicians, nurses, and staff of Mountain View Ob/Gyn:
On November 29, 2010 at 1:00pm, I came into your office for a routine obstetrics visit. At just over eleven weeks pregnant, I was very excited to soon be moving into my second trimester. When my nurse was unable to hear a fetal heartbeat, I was sent over to Hanover Hospital for an ultrasound. At the hospital, I was given the most painful internal ultrasound that I have ever experienced. The technician was so rough and inconsiderate, I felt as though I had been violated. After I regained my composure and had gotten dressed, I was told that Dr. Neiswinder was on the phone for me. Over the phone, in the ultrasound room, Dr. Neiswinder informed me that I had a missed miscarriage, that my baby had no heartbeat. She told me to come back over to the office, to discuss our options.
My husband and I drove back over to the Mountain View office, for the second time that day. When I arrived, I was told that there was no room available for me, and that we would have to wait. We waited in the weight/blood pressure room for twenty minutes, before we were taken to an exam room. It was there that Dr. Neiswinder discussed our options, and I chose the surgical option, which would take place the following morning. She said that scheduling and paperwork needed to be done, and but that we could not stay in the exam room. We were moved again to the "Video Room," a tiny room that looked as though it also served as a utility closet. Only one metal chair could fit into the small room, so my husband had to stand. After another twenty minutes, a nurse finally arrived, but only to move us again. We were finally placed in a slightly bigger Video Room (this one had two chairs), where we waited with no privacy. For over thirty minutes, I sat in the room, while nurses came in and out to get things that they needed. I listened, as the nurse on the other side of the thin wall made calls to schedule my surgery and loudly complained to her coworkers about the large amount of paperwork that I required. She then came into the room, apologized for my wait, and explained, "I have to do double the paperwork, because there's another patient here, like you." When all of the forms were signed and dated, she informed me that I had to go back to Hanover Hospital, immediately, for my pre-admission workup, which I did.
On November 29, 2010 at 1:00pm, I came into your office for a routine obstetrics visit, and learned that my baby had no heartbeat. And at 6:00pm that evening, I was finally able to sit down at home, exhausted, and weep in mourning for the loss of my unborn child. It took five hours to diagnose me with a missed miscarriage, and arrange my D&C. Almost two hours of that time was spent waiting, in your office, juggled from one room to the next. Over a half an hour was spent traveling back and forth from the hospital to your office. I was made to feel as though there was no longer a place for me at your practice, because I was no longer pregnant.
I am writing this letter, because I think you need to hear the perspective of one of your patients. I think it is clear that due to the high volume of cases you see everyday, your staff has become desensitized to the emotions and humanity of your patients. When explaining my procedure, Dr. Neiswinder told my husband and I that "the clump of tissue would be removed" from my uterus and discarded. To us, it was not a "clump of tissue." It was a baby... our baby, that I was going to nurse, and rock and love. It was our baby, that we had begun to prepare a room for. It was our baby, that we thought was alive and well, until earlier that afternoon. When the nurse told me that there was "another like me," my heart ached for the fellow mother. I wondered if she, too, had been shuffled from room to room, sitting alone in her sadness, staring at a blank wall. I am certain, in all your years of service, we were not your first miscarriages.
I write this letter with a suggestion. Perhaps, somewhere in your office, you could have a "Grieving Room." It could be a room with a couch, flowers, soft music, and a box of tissues (which I was never offered). It could be a place for "patients like me" to wait for options, for scheduling, and for paperwork, in private, able to grieve and mourn as they need. It could be a place that would provide comfort in the saddest of times.
I would like to say, how much I appreciated the work of Dr. Naymick, who performed my surgery the following morning. The warmth that he showed my family and I was the first sign of compassion that I had received from your office, since my ordeal unfolded. I am eternally grateful to him, for that. The staff in the Same Day Surgery ward at Hanover Hospital were kind and supportive, as well.
I beg of you all, at Mountain View Ob/Gyn, to open your eyes and hearts to the tragedies that your patients face, and treat them accordingly.
Thank you,
Anna Corbin
On November 29, 2010 at 1:00pm, I came into your office for a routine obstetrics visit. At just over eleven weeks pregnant, I was very excited to soon be moving into my second trimester. When my nurse was unable to hear a fetal heartbeat, I was sent over to Hanover Hospital for an ultrasound. At the hospital, I was given the most painful internal ultrasound that I have ever experienced. The technician was so rough and inconsiderate, I felt as though I had been violated. After I regained my composure and had gotten dressed, I was told that Dr. Neiswinder was on the phone for me. Over the phone, in the ultrasound room, Dr. Neiswinder informed me that I had a missed miscarriage, that my baby had no heartbeat. She told me to come back over to the office, to discuss our options.
My husband and I drove back over to the Mountain View office, for the second time that day. When I arrived, I was told that there was no room available for me, and that we would have to wait. We waited in the weight/blood pressure room for twenty minutes, before we were taken to an exam room. It was there that Dr. Neiswinder discussed our options, and I chose the surgical option, which would take place the following morning. She said that scheduling and paperwork needed to be done, and but that we could not stay in the exam room. We were moved again to the "Video Room," a tiny room that looked as though it also served as a utility closet. Only one metal chair could fit into the small room, so my husband had to stand. After another twenty minutes, a nurse finally arrived, but only to move us again. We were finally placed in a slightly bigger Video Room (this one had two chairs), where we waited with no privacy. For over thirty minutes, I sat in the room, while nurses came in and out to get things that they needed. I listened, as the nurse on the other side of the thin wall made calls to schedule my surgery and loudly complained to her coworkers about the large amount of paperwork that I required. She then came into the room, apologized for my wait, and explained, "I have to do double the paperwork, because there's another patient here, like you." When all of the forms were signed and dated, she informed me that I had to go back to Hanover Hospital, immediately, for my pre-admission workup, which I did.
On November 29, 2010 at 1:00pm, I came into your office for a routine obstetrics visit, and learned that my baby had no heartbeat. And at 6:00pm that evening, I was finally able to sit down at home, exhausted, and weep in mourning for the loss of my unborn child. It took five hours to diagnose me with a missed miscarriage, and arrange my D&C. Almost two hours of that time was spent waiting, in your office, juggled from one room to the next. Over a half an hour was spent traveling back and forth from the hospital to your office. I was made to feel as though there was no longer a place for me at your practice, because I was no longer pregnant.
I am writing this letter, because I think you need to hear the perspective of one of your patients. I think it is clear that due to the high volume of cases you see everyday, your staff has become desensitized to the emotions and humanity of your patients. When explaining my procedure, Dr. Neiswinder told my husband and I that "the clump of tissue would be removed" from my uterus and discarded. To us, it was not a "clump of tissue." It was a baby... our baby, that I was going to nurse, and rock and love. It was our baby, that we had begun to prepare a room for. It was our baby, that we thought was alive and well, until earlier that afternoon. When the nurse told me that there was "another like me," my heart ached for the fellow mother. I wondered if she, too, had been shuffled from room to room, sitting alone in her sadness, staring at a blank wall. I am certain, in all your years of service, we were not your first miscarriages.
I write this letter with a suggestion. Perhaps, somewhere in your office, you could have a "Grieving Room." It could be a room with a couch, flowers, soft music, and a box of tissues (which I was never offered). It could be a place for "patients like me" to wait for options, for scheduling, and for paperwork, in private, able to grieve and mourn as they need. It could be a place that would provide comfort in the saddest of times.
I would like to say, how much I appreciated the work of Dr. Naymick, who performed my surgery the following morning. The warmth that he showed my family and I was the first sign of compassion that I had received from your office, since my ordeal unfolded. I am eternally grateful to him, for that. The staff in the Same Day Surgery ward at Hanover Hospital were kind and supportive, as well.
I beg of you all, at Mountain View Ob/Gyn, to open your eyes and hearts to the tragedies that your patients face, and treat them accordingly.
Thank you,
Anna Corbin
Monday, November 22, 2010
Tidings of Great Joy...
It's that time of year again, when I hate going to the mailbox. Normally I dislike getting the mail in anticipation of bills or late notices, but none of them compare to the most dreaded mail of all...
The Christmas Letter.
No offense to those of you who write them. I know it is a nice way to keep loved ones informed of the past year in your lives. But, really... embellish much??? As I read these multiple page sagas of promotions, straight A's, trophies, and family sing-a-longs by a warm fire, all I can think is, "What a load of crap!" No one's life is that perfect. Just once, I'd like to read a truthful Christmas letter, one that keeps it real.
So, in honor of the holiday season, when you are supposed to be pure of heart and tell the truth, I thought I would write my version of an honest Christmas letter. This is what I would say, about the past year:
Dearest family and friends:
I hope this letter finds you all in good spirits. 2010 has been quite a year for the Corbin family. It began with New Year's Day, which was spent in the Emergency Room. My constipation had finally gotten completely out of control, resulting in a severe hernia. The doctors repaired it with surgery and a mesh patch, but alas, I still can't poop. We are hoping things move more smoothly for me by next Christmas. We'll keep you posted.
Michael has been the most successful of our clan. He received a promotion at work, but that didn't compare to the joy and pride that we felt, when he finally beat "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2" on the Xbox 360. A tear came to my eye as I watched him complete his final mission. But, that may have been because my ears were bleeding from the high decibel gunshots I'd been listening to for three months.
Our boys, Jackson and Henry, are doing well. Jackson started preschool this year and seems to be making lots of friends. We are trying to learn all of their names, so that we know who to blame when Jackson does something wrong. Henry has even made friends at Jack's school. In fact, the woman who he threw his clogs at on the first day, says "Hi" to him each morning. The boys are very close. At Preschool Drop-Off for Jack, Henry bids good-bye to him, in the same loving way, every morning by shouting, "Bye-bye, Poopy Head Jackson!!" It warms my heart, to witness their bond.
The other night, after we put the boys to bed, Michael and I lit candles, and sat on the couch, curled up under a quilt, reflecting on the past year, and how blessed we are. After all, we made it one more year without needing Welfare! As we high-fived each other, we realized that the Med-Ed bill must have arrived on time, because the electricity wasn't really shut off. We quickly blew out the candles, turned on the lights, and settled in for some "Call of Duty." Yes, we most certainly are very blessed. Here's wishing you and yours, the Merriest of Christmases.
Love, The Corbin Family
The Christmas Letter.
No offense to those of you who write them. I know it is a nice way to keep loved ones informed of the past year in your lives. But, really... embellish much??? As I read these multiple page sagas of promotions, straight A's, trophies, and family sing-a-longs by a warm fire, all I can think is, "What a load of crap!" No one's life is that perfect. Just once, I'd like to read a truthful Christmas letter, one that keeps it real.
So, in honor of the holiday season, when you are supposed to be pure of heart and tell the truth, I thought I would write my version of an honest Christmas letter. This is what I would say, about the past year:
Dearest family and friends:
I hope this letter finds you all in good spirits. 2010 has been quite a year for the Corbin family. It began with New Year's Day, which was spent in the Emergency Room. My constipation had finally gotten completely out of control, resulting in a severe hernia. The doctors repaired it with surgery and a mesh patch, but alas, I still can't poop. We are hoping things move more smoothly for me by next Christmas. We'll keep you posted.
Michael has been the most successful of our clan. He received a promotion at work, but that didn't compare to the joy and pride that we felt, when he finally beat "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2" on the Xbox 360. A tear came to my eye as I watched him complete his final mission. But, that may have been because my ears were bleeding from the high decibel gunshots I'd been listening to for three months.
Our boys, Jackson and Henry, are doing well. Jackson started preschool this year and seems to be making lots of friends. We are trying to learn all of their names, so that we know who to blame when Jackson does something wrong. Henry has even made friends at Jack's school. In fact, the woman who he threw his clogs at on the first day, says "Hi" to him each morning. The boys are very close. At Preschool Drop-Off for Jack, Henry bids good-bye to him, in the same loving way, every morning by shouting, "Bye-bye, Poopy Head Jackson!!" It warms my heart, to witness their bond.
The other night, after we put the boys to bed, Michael and I lit candles, and sat on the couch, curled up under a quilt, reflecting on the past year, and how blessed we are. After all, we made it one more year without needing Welfare! As we high-fived each other, we realized that the Med-Ed bill must have arrived on time, because the electricity wasn't really shut off. We quickly blew out the candles, turned on the lights, and settled in for some "Call of Duty." Yes, we most certainly are very blessed. Here's wishing you and yours, the Merriest of Christmases.
Love, The Corbin Family
Monday, October 11, 2010
Letter to the Editor...
Part 2 of my Walmart Series will resume later this week. For now, here is a Letter to the Editor that I submitted to our local paper this morning.
Editor:
I have been following the local story of the unspeakable tragedy of Jonathan Nodine, the 11 month old child who lost his life as the result of child abuse. I pray that there is justice for his death. There is one part of the story that I cannot ignore. Jonathan was seen at the Hanover Hospital emergency room and released, only to suffer from cardiac arrest a mere 12 hours later. He died five days after that. I have spent time in the same ER. The last time was when my son was very ill and, like Jonathan, he was discharged despite my insistence that something was wrong. Each of my cries was ignored with lack of concern. It was only after we traveled to York Hospital that my son’s condition was diagnosed and treated and that he was able to make a full recovery. Jonathan’s family took him to the hospital expecting doctors to exhaust all efforts to make him well. Doctors take the Hippocratic Oath to care for patients. That means giving time, attention, and consideration to each patient. Instead, they discharged Jonathan Nodine, putting the final nail in his coffin. He deserved better.
Recently, in Tennessee, a family did not pay a required fee to their local fire department. When the family’s home caught fire, the fire department came only to protect the neighboring houses. The firemen stood with the resources in hand and watched a home burn to the ground. The family lost their home, their valuables, and even their pets, while trained firemen watched. They deserved better.
Everyday children are bullied. Classmates, teachers, and school officials stand by without offering protection. These bullied children have to suffer alone, sometimes until it reaches the point of murder or suicide. They deserve better.
Catholics celebrate “Respect Life Month” in October, which is commonly known as a Pro-Life campaign. I think that respecting life goes even deeper than the sanctity of the lives of the unborn. We live in a world where doctors, firemen, and teachers are not doing their jobs. Their jobs are to perform acts of humanity. Yet that seems to be too much to ask. All people, especially those who make a commitment to serve the community, should learn to Respect Life. We deserve it.
“And as you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.” Luke 6:31
Anna Kruk Corbin
Editor:
I have been following the local story of the unspeakable tragedy of Jonathan Nodine, the 11 month old child who lost his life as the result of child abuse. I pray that there is justice for his death. There is one part of the story that I cannot ignore. Jonathan was seen at the Hanover Hospital emergency room and released, only to suffer from cardiac arrest a mere 12 hours later. He died five days after that. I have spent time in the same ER. The last time was when my son was very ill and, like Jonathan, he was discharged despite my insistence that something was wrong. Each of my cries was ignored with lack of concern. It was only after we traveled to York Hospital that my son’s condition was diagnosed and treated and that he was able to make a full recovery. Jonathan’s family took him to the hospital expecting doctors to exhaust all efforts to make him well. Doctors take the Hippocratic Oath to care for patients. That means giving time, attention, and consideration to each patient. Instead, they discharged Jonathan Nodine, putting the final nail in his coffin. He deserved better.
Recently, in Tennessee, a family did not pay a required fee to their local fire department. When the family’s home caught fire, the fire department came only to protect the neighboring houses. The firemen stood with the resources in hand and watched a home burn to the ground. The family lost their home, their valuables, and even their pets, while trained firemen watched. They deserved better.
Everyday children are bullied. Classmates, teachers, and school officials stand by without offering protection. These bullied children have to suffer alone, sometimes until it reaches the point of murder or suicide. They deserve better.
Catholics celebrate “Respect Life Month” in October, which is commonly known as a Pro-Life campaign. I think that respecting life goes even deeper than the sanctity of the lives of the unborn. We live in a world where doctors, firemen, and teachers are not doing their jobs. Their jobs are to perform acts of humanity. Yet that seems to be too much to ask. All people, especially those who make a commitment to serve the community, should learn to Respect Life. We deserve it.
“And as you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.” Luke 6:31
Anna Kruk Corbin
Monday, October 4, 2010
Thank You For Choosing Walmart (Part One)...
For those of you avidly following my blog, you will know that I am a devoted wife and mother who loves her children unconditionally. You will also know that I am in no way, shape, or form, what you would call a "People Person." It may come as a shock to you, then, that I once spent five years at a job that forces one to eat, sleep, and breathe customer service. That's right. For five (long) years, I worked at Walmart.
I always say that you should not be allowed to enter a store unless you have worked in the retail industry. You need to know what it is like to work in the trenches, before you are allowed to shop in them. I have decided to give you all a glimpse of what it is like to work in an environment such as Walmart. I have divided this entry into two parts, as to not overload you with the vital insider information I am about to share. Keep in mind, I worked at Walmart when I was between the ages of 17 and 22. My store, at the time, was not a Supercenter and did not have a Grocery section. It was just a plain, old Walmart. I am sure that much has changed since I worked there, but this is how I remember things.
PART ONE: THE ASSOCIATE
Walmart employees are known as "Associates." There was an understood hierarchy. Not among the managers, but among the Associates, themselves.
Cashiers were the low men on the totem pole. Little respect was given to Cashiers, because they only had to run the registers. They weren't very important to anyone, but the Customers, and everyone knows that the Customers are the enemy. They were considered a nuisance if they had to page a Floor Associate for something as trivial as a price check. After all, the Floor Associate had important work to do, like stocking shelves, making price changes, and answering stupid questions. It was customary for a Floor Associate to make clear to the Cashier how much he/she was inconvenienced by a price check page. The Floor Associate usually did this by finishing his/her soda in the Break Room, before answering the call. Plus, Cashiers were coddled. They had their own highlighter wielding managers (CSMs), who made sure that they all took their breaks at the proper time. All Floor Associates secretly resented them for that. As a Floor Associate, you were lucky to scarf down some Butterscotch Krimpets from the vending machine in the middle of an eight hour shift during the Christmas season. On slow nights, the CSMs, would send Cashiers to help the Floor Associates "Zone" (clean up their departments). This was always more trouble than it was worth. The Cashiers were fresh meat on the floor, not knowing where anything was located or how to help the customers. And they were always so excited to have their shackles removed from the register, that they were too perky and energetic. Floor Associates were jaded and hard and that helped them get through their day. Floor Associates had no time for "perky."
Floor Associates were divided into two sections: Softlines and Hardlines. Softlines consisted of the clothing departments - Mens, Ladies, Boys, Girls, Infants, Lingerie & Accessories, and the Fitting Room. Hardlines was everything else. While equally respected, the two sections were very separate. I spent a good bit of time working in Softlines. When it was decided that I would move over to Health & Beauty Aids, in Hardlines, I was all but given a going away party by my friends in Softlines. Sure, I was still working at the same store and was moving to a department only fifty feet away, but we all knew that intermingling between Hardlines and Softlines just wasn't done. It couldn't be done. They were just two very different worlds.
Stockmen were your multi-purpose Associates. They were really there to push in the carts, but they were so much more. They were good for getting things off of the very top shelves in the Stock Room by using the big ladder that scared me. They had the best jokes in the Break Room and were always there when you needed them... unless they were out smoking weed in the parking lot. But the main job of the Stockmen was to be eye candy. They were tanned young boys within my age group at the time. To this day, I can't see a college boy in a fluorescent orange shirt without my heart going all a-flutter.
And, finally, there was Lawn and Garden. The Lawn and Garden Associates were like their own exclusive club. They all hung out together and spoke their own language. They worked weird hours, half of their department was outside and they got to wear shorts in the summer. The coolest of the cool worked in Lawn and Garden and that was without question.
There is something interesting that you may not know, about the employees of Walmart. Walmart Associates do not have last names. Like the Men In Black, it is a privilege that you surrender the moment you put on that Blue Vest. You become your first name, followed by your department. Frequently overheard in the Break Room:
"Did you hear that Anna in Ladies Wear is dating Nathan in Electronic, again?"
"No, that's funny, because Karen the Cashier told me that Anna in Ladies went to lunch with Dan in Pets yesterday!"
(Yeah, that's right. I didn't change names. There are no secrets in the World of Walmart.)
The Break Room was our only solace. It was a place to vent, ignore pages, and, most of all, gossip. The gossip was out of control. The stories that were told, made-up, and exaggerated in the confines of the Break Room were the stuff of legends. I've witnessed firings, fights, nervous breakdowns, and nasty breakups, all while standing at the vending machine, deciding between Doritos and Krimpets for my seven minute dinner break. However, the drama was necessary. The harsh reality of fanny pack wearing moms beating their screaming kids were just beyond the swinging double doors behind Layaway. We had to keep our World of Walmart interesting, to maintain our sanity.
Well, that's it, for now. Hopefully, you have gotten a better understanding of the inner workings of a Walmart Associate. Be sure to tune in to my next entry, when I discuss the most ridiculous of all creatures: The Walmart Customer. (If my blog had a soundtrack, now would be when you'd hear the ominous "Dun-dun-DUN!")
I always say that you should not be allowed to enter a store unless you have worked in the retail industry. You need to know what it is like to work in the trenches, before you are allowed to shop in them. I have decided to give you all a glimpse of what it is like to work in an environment such as Walmart. I have divided this entry into two parts, as to not overload you with the vital insider information I am about to share. Keep in mind, I worked at Walmart when I was between the ages of 17 and 22. My store, at the time, was not a Supercenter and did not have a Grocery section. It was just a plain, old Walmart. I am sure that much has changed since I worked there, but this is how I remember things.
PART ONE: THE ASSOCIATE
Walmart employees are known as "Associates." There was an understood hierarchy. Not among the managers, but among the Associates, themselves.
Cashiers were the low men on the totem pole. Little respect was given to Cashiers, because they only had to run the registers. They weren't very important to anyone, but the Customers, and everyone knows that the Customers are the enemy. They were considered a nuisance if they had to page a Floor Associate for something as trivial as a price check. After all, the Floor Associate had important work to do, like stocking shelves, making price changes, and answering stupid questions. It was customary for a Floor Associate to make clear to the Cashier how much he/she was inconvenienced by a price check page. The Floor Associate usually did this by finishing his/her soda in the Break Room, before answering the call. Plus, Cashiers were coddled. They had their own highlighter wielding managers (CSMs), who made sure that they all took their breaks at the proper time. All Floor Associates secretly resented them for that. As a Floor Associate, you were lucky to scarf down some Butterscotch Krimpets from the vending machine in the middle of an eight hour shift during the Christmas season. On slow nights, the CSMs, would send Cashiers to help the Floor Associates "Zone" (clean up their departments). This was always more trouble than it was worth. The Cashiers were fresh meat on the floor, not knowing where anything was located or how to help the customers. And they were always so excited to have their shackles removed from the register, that they were too perky and energetic. Floor Associates were jaded and hard and that helped them get through their day. Floor Associates had no time for "perky."
Floor Associates were divided into two sections: Softlines and Hardlines. Softlines consisted of the clothing departments - Mens, Ladies, Boys, Girls, Infants, Lingerie & Accessories, and the Fitting Room. Hardlines was everything else. While equally respected, the two sections were very separate. I spent a good bit of time working in Softlines. When it was decided that I would move over to Health & Beauty Aids, in Hardlines, I was all but given a going away party by my friends in Softlines. Sure, I was still working at the same store and was moving to a department only fifty feet away, but we all knew that intermingling between Hardlines and Softlines just wasn't done. It couldn't be done. They were just two very different worlds.
Stockmen were your multi-purpose Associates. They were really there to push in the carts, but they were so much more. They were good for getting things off of the very top shelves in the Stock Room by using the big ladder that scared me. They had the best jokes in the Break Room and were always there when you needed them... unless they were out smoking weed in the parking lot. But the main job of the Stockmen was to be eye candy. They were tanned young boys within my age group at the time. To this day, I can't see a college boy in a fluorescent orange shirt without my heart going all a-flutter.
And, finally, there was Lawn and Garden. The Lawn and Garden Associates were like their own exclusive club. They all hung out together and spoke their own language. They worked weird hours, half of their department was outside and they got to wear shorts in the summer. The coolest of the cool worked in Lawn and Garden and that was without question.
There is something interesting that you may not know, about the employees of Walmart. Walmart Associates do not have last names. Like the Men In Black, it is a privilege that you surrender the moment you put on that Blue Vest. You become your first name, followed by your department. Frequently overheard in the Break Room:
"Did you hear that Anna in Ladies Wear is dating Nathan in Electronic, again?"
"No, that's funny, because Karen the Cashier told me that Anna in Ladies went to lunch with Dan in Pets yesterday!"
(Yeah, that's right. I didn't change names. There are no secrets in the World of Walmart.)
The Break Room was our only solace. It was a place to vent, ignore pages, and, most of all, gossip. The gossip was out of control. The stories that were told, made-up, and exaggerated in the confines of the Break Room were the stuff of legends. I've witnessed firings, fights, nervous breakdowns, and nasty breakups, all while standing at the vending machine, deciding between Doritos and Krimpets for my seven minute dinner break. However, the drama was necessary. The harsh reality of fanny pack wearing moms beating their screaming kids were just beyond the swinging double doors behind Layaway. We had to keep our World of Walmart interesting, to maintain our sanity.
Well, that's it, for now. Hopefully, you have gotten a better understanding of the inner workings of a Walmart Associate. Be sure to tune in to my next entry, when I discuss the most ridiculous of all creatures: The Walmart Customer. (If my blog had a soundtrack, now would be when you'd hear the ominous "Dun-dun-DUN!")
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Letter to NBC...
This is a letter that I am currently sending to any media outlet who will listen. It's pretty self-explanatory.
To whom it may concern:
On September 22, 2010, I tuned into NBC for the highly anticipated season premiere of Law & Order: SVU. Imagine my surprise when I began to view a show that fights for the rights of the violated and had to watch as my children and I were the ones victimized.
In the episode, “Bullseye,” a character was featured with a severe mental disability who, because of his disability, had urinated in public and subsequently had been placed on the sex offender registry. When his speech became vulgar as he talked to the detectives, his mother asked for forgiveness. She explained that he didn’t know any better because he has Noonan Syndrome.
I am to assume that you have no experience or knowledge concerning Noonan Syndrome (NS). Most do not. You have no idea what it is like to speak to friends, neighbors, teachers, and even medical professionals who have never even heard of NS. They have to be told that NS is characterized by short stature, delayed puberty, specific facial features, bleeding tendencies and most importantly, heart conditions. They also have to be told that NS very rarely affects cognitive function.
I have longed to raise awareness for Noonan Syndrome, to give it national recognition. Being labeled as having a “syndrome” brings with it the unfortunate stigma of stereotypes and assumptions, fueled by the ignorance of others. On Wednesday, September 22, over eight million people tuned into NBC and heard the words, “Noonan Syndrome,” for the first time. Those eight million people watched a character whose portrayal of one with NS was so exaggerated, so grossly inaccurate, it was offensive to those of us who do have Noonan Syndrome.
I have Noonan Syndrome. Both of my children have Noonan Syndrome. We have a mutation of the PTPN11 gene, the gene mutation that accounts for over 50% of the documented cases of NS. I would like to make clear that I did not find your portrayal of NS offensive because it implied a cognitive disability. I am offended because the portrayal was incorrect and you randomly chose a disorder without doing any research, not realizing the damage that could do. If you had made the character look younger than his age, be significantly smaller than his peers, or have a heart defect, at least you would have been on the right track. But, the large bulky man who attempted to fight two detectives, had none of the qualities of one with NS.
It is too late to ask for an apology or any kind of redemption. What I do ask, is that in the future you do better research when tackling the responsibility of portraying a disability or disorder in the media.
My children are much smaller than other children their age and look a little different. They have bleeding disorders associated with NS and they both have heart defects. They have been hospitalized more than once for their issues and are extremely brave. I can only hope that as they get older, they never see the Law & Order: SVU episode, “Bullseye.” I hope that they never see what NBC thinks personifies Noonan Syndrome. I hope that they will never see one of the seeds that was planted to contribute to the stereotypes, assumptions, and adversities that they will eventually have to face. Fortunately, they will never see it in my home, as I have watched Law & Order: SVU, for the last time.
Thank you,
Anna Corbin
To whom it may concern:
On September 22, 2010, I tuned into NBC for the highly anticipated season premiere of Law & Order: SVU. Imagine my surprise when I began to view a show that fights for the rights of the violated and had to watch as my children and I were the ones victimized.
In the episode, “Bullseye,” a character was featured with a severe mental disability who, because of his disability, had urinated in public and subsequently had been placed on the sex offender registry. When his speech became vulgar as he talked to the detectives, his mother asked for forgiveness. She explained that he didn’t know any better because he has Noonan Syndrome.
I am to assume that you have no experience or knowledge concerning Noonan Syndrome (NS). Most do not. You have no idea what it is like to speak to friends, neighbors, teachers, and even medical professionals who have never even heard of NS. They have to be told that NS is characterized by short stature, delayed puberty, specific facial features, bleeding tendencies and most importantly, heart conditions. They also have to be told that NS very rarely affects cognitive function.
I have longed to raise awareness for Noonan Syndrome, to give it national recognition. Being labeled as having a “syndrome” brings with it the unfortunate stigma of stereotypes and assumptions, fueled by the ignorance of others. On Wednesday, September 22, over eight million people tuned into NBC and heard the words, “Noonan Syndrome,” for the first time. Those eight million people watched a character whose portrayal of one with NS was so exaggerated, so grossly inaccurate, it was offensive to those of us who do have Noonan Syndrome.
I have Noonan Syndrome. Both of my children have Noonan Syndrome. We have a mutation of the PTPN11 gene, the gene mutation that accounts for over 50% of the documented cases of NS. I would like to make clear that I did not find your portrayal of NS offensive because it implied a cognitive disability. I am offended because the portrayal was incorrect and you randomly chose a disorder without doing any research, not realizing the damage that could do. If you had made the character look younger than his age, be significantly smaller than his peers, or have a heart defect, at least you would have been on the right track. But, the large bulky man who attempted to fight two detectives, had none of the qualities of one with NS.
It is too late to ask for an apology or any kind of redemption. What I do ask, is that in the future you do better research when tackling the responsibility of portraying a disability or disorder in the media.
My children are much smaller than other children their age and look a little different. They have bleeding disorders associated with NS and they both have heart defects. They have been hospitalized more than once for their issues and are extremely brave. I can only hope that as they get older, they never see the Law & Order: SVU episode, “Bullseye.” I hope that they never see what NBC thinks personifies Noonan Syndrome. I hope that they will never see one of the seeds that was planted to contribute to the stereotypes, assumptions, and adversities that they will eventually have to face. Fortunately, they will never see it in my home, as I have watched Law & Order: SVU, for the last time.
Thank you,
Anna Corbin
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Welcome, Fall...
I love summer. I love wearing tank tops and flip flops. I love to feel the sun on my face while getting the mail. I love to feel the wind in my hair, riding on my stepdad's boat. I love to feel the sticky skin on my boys' cheeks, as I kiss them goodnight, after a sweaty day at the pool. Summer is my favorite season. However, oddly enough, I am never sad to see it go.
There's just something about Autumn.
Autumn brings warm colors, bulky sweaters, blue jeans, and evenings with wide open windows. As a child, Autumn was synonymous with the start of school - a happy time, for me, because I loved school. This year, things have come full circle. Jackson, my oldest, started preschool and began a new phase in the lives of all of us. When he carried his book bag across the threshold of his classroom, he shook the "baby" dust off of his shoes. I have heard that mothers cry when their children start school. I did not grieve. Jackson starting school is a wonderful thing. It has been exciting for our entire household. It gets us all up and moving in the morning. It gives Henry and I some alone time. Dinnertime is filled with joyful stories of new friends and finger painting. It has been an amazing new chapter in our lives.
I have always found it interesting, that Autumn is a season that completely revolves around death. The leaves change and fall to the ground. The crunching of the dead leaves under our feet becomes the soundtrack of the Fall. People flock to corn mazes, chasing each other in and out of dead corn stalks, loving every minute of it. Neighbors fill their yards with artificial gravestones and hang skeletons from trees for Halloween. November second marks the Feast of All Souls, when we pray for those who have gone before and honor the dead. However, knowing that each Autumn from now on will signify that my boys are blooming and growing, I can look past these underlying themes.
Because for me, Fall is not about death. It's about rebirth.
Summer is over, but it will return. The flowers are drying up, but they will bloom again. My boys are getting older, but they are growing and learning and using the values and lessons that we have planted in them. Being a part of that transformation is a beautiful experience. I have come to realize that as my boys are prospering and flourishing, I am as well.
This evening, I put on a sweater and stepped out into the cool air to hang a red, gold, and orange wreath on the door. I stooped down to pull a few brown leaves off of what is left of my front porch plant and I smiled at the irony. This year, beginning a season that is shrouded in death, I have never felt more alive.
There's just something about Autumn.
Autumn brings warm colors, bulky sweaters, blue jeans, and evenings with wide open windows. As a child, Autumn was synonymous with the start of school - a happy time, for me, because I loved school. This year, things have come full circle. Jackson, my oldest, started preschool and began a new phase in the lives of all of us. When he carried his book bag across the threshold of his classroom, he shook the "baby" dust off of his shoes. I have heard that mothers cry when their children start school. I did not grieve. Jackson starting school is a wonderful thing. It has been exciting for our entire household. It gets us all up and moving in the morning. It gives Henry and I some alone time. Dinnertime is filled with joyful stories of new friends and finger painting. It has been an amazing new chapter in our lives.
I have always found it interesting, that Autumn is a season that completely revolves around death. The leaves change and fall to the ground. The crunching of the dead leaves under our feet becomes the soundtrack of the Fall. People flock to corn mazes, chasing each other in and out of dead corn stalks, loving every minute of it. Neighbors fill their yards with artificial gravestones and hang skeletons from trees for Halloween. November second marks the Feast of All Souls, when we pray for those who have gone before and honor the dead. However, knowing that each Autumn from now on will signify that my boys are blooming and growing, I can look past these underlying themes.
Because for me, Fall is not about death. It's about rebirth.
Summer is over, but it will return. The flowers are drying up, but they will bloom again. My boys are getting older, but they are growing and learning and using the values and lessons that we have planted in them. Being a part of that transformation is a beautiful experience. I have come to realize that as my boys are prospering and flourishing, I am as well.
This evening, I put on a sweater and stepped out into the cool air to hang a red, gold, and orange wreath on the door. I stooped down to pull a few brown leaves off of what is left of my front porch plant and I smiled at the irony. This year, beginning a season that is shrouded in death, I have never felt more alive.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Sing, Sing a song...
People always say that it doesn't matter if you aren't good at something. They say that as long as you try your best, put effort into it, and give it your all, that's what matters.
That is, unless, the "it" in question is singing.
If you aren't a good singer, things like, "trying," "effort," and "giving it your all," mean nothing. You are either a gifted vocalist or you aren't. Sometimes lessons don't even help, as American Idol has proven year after year.
I have a terrible, terrible singing voice.
At parties, I mouth the words to, "Happy Birthday."
I have never even attempted Karaoke.
I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
I will never be a rock star.
Despite these facts, I perform two sold-out shows a night. On nights that I cannot appear, riots have broken out. My encores are so in demand that I barely get to my second venue on time.
Fortunately, for me, my stages are right across the room from each other.
My first gig is usually performed in Henry's bed, just before 9:00pm. My set usually opens with a little "Wheels on the Bus," followed by some, "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes." Sometimes Henry likes to switch it up and requests that I make up a song, based on a topic of his choosing. Inevitably, I close with "Over the Rainbow." It's Henry's favorite and puts him right to sleep.
I then creep over to Jack's bed. Jackson is a little more predictable. He prefers a repetitive set. I sing an old family lullaby, "Dear Little Dolly," to him eight or nine times in a row. Sometimes, I throw in "Jesus Loves the Little Children" to break up the monotony.
My audience is always pleased.
My husband, on the other hand, likes to shout words of "encouragement" from the next room. He gets particularly critical on nights when I'm really feeling "Over the Rainbow."
"Oh wow, Honey! That last note was so awesome, I think you broke three glasses... and I can hear some dogs howling!" And then he laughs manically.
Humph. I've heard him warble through "Country Roads," to the kids on nights I have taken a break and I think Mr. Two-Cents should keep his mouth shut. Literally.
The important thing is that talent or no talent, howling dogs or not, I sing to my children. They love it and they are too little to know that I am not any good. It's their mommy's voice and even if it sounds like a screeching cat, it has been a comfort to them since they were in the womb. It's the love behind the voice that soothes them. The best part about babies, especially, is that they don't even care what you are singing, as long as it's sung. I've dictated grocery lists, given instructions for dinner, and had entire arguments with Michael to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," while rocking my newborns.
Anyway, even if it's only for a half an hour a night, I guess I get a taste of what it would be like to be a rock star. I have two adoring groupies who cheer wildly when I enter the room, are always thrilled with my performances, hug and kiss me as much as they can, and have even thrown their underwear (and diapers) at me. (But, we'll save that story for another blog.)
Little do they know that it's the two of them who are the true rock stars. There is nothing that they do, that I do not find extremely fascinating. Just being in their presence makes my day. They provide constant entertainment to our household. So, if it makes them happy for me to sing to them each night, even if it's embarrassing I don't mind doing it.
It's my way of showing them, that I am their biggest fan.
"....Don't worry that it's not good enough, for anyone else to hear. Just sing, sing a song."
That is, unless, the "it" in question is singing.
If you aren't a good singer, things like, "trying," "effort," and "giving it your all," mean nothing. You are either a gifted vocalist or you aren't. Sometimes lessons don't even help, as American Idol has proven year after year.
I have a terrible, terrible singing voice.
At parties, I mouth the words to, "Happy Birthday."
I have never even attempted Karaoke.
I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
I will never be a rock star.
Despite these facts, I perform two sold-out shows a night. On nights that I cannot appear, riots have broken out. My encores are so in demand that I barely get to my second venue on time.
Fortunately, for me, my stages are right across the room from each other.
My first gig is usually performed in Henry's bed, just before 9:00pm. My set usually opens with a little "Wheels on the Bus," followed by some, "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes." Sometimes Henry likes to switch it up and requests that I make up a song, based on a topic of his choosing. Inevitably, I close with "Over the Rainbow." It's Henry's favorite and puts him right to sleep.
I then creep over to Jack's bed. Jackson is a little more predictable. He prefers a repetitive set. I sing an old family lullaby, "Dear Little Dolly," to him eight or nine times in a row. Sometimes, I throw in "Jesus Loves the Little Children" to break up the monotony.
My audience is always pleased.
My husband, on the other hand, likes to shout words of "encouragement" from the next room. He gets particularly critical on nights when I'm really feeling "Over the Rainbow."
"Oh wow, Honey! That last note was so awesome, I think you broke three glasses... and I can hear some dogs howling!" And then he laughs manically.
Humph. I've heard him warble through "Country Roads," to the kids on nights I have taken a break and I think Mr. Two-Cents should keep his mouth shut. Literally.
The important thing is that talent or no talent, howling dogs or not, I sing to my children. They love it and they are too little to know that I am not any good. It's their mommy's voice and even if it sounds like a screeching cat, it has been a comfort to them since they were in the womb. It's the love behind the voice that soothes them. The best part about babies, especially, is that they don't even care what you are singing, as long as it's sung. I've dictated grocery lists, given instructions for dinner, and had entire arguments with Michael to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," while rocking my newborns.
Michael, Michael, please come here,
I am going to punch your face.
I need help with the laundry,
I am going to punch your face.
I need help with the laundry,
I am not your freaking slave.
Anyway, even if it's only for a half an hour a night, I guess I get a taste of what it would be like to be a rock star. I have two adoring groupies who cheer wildly when I enter the room, are always thrilled with my performances, hug and kiss me as much as they can, and have even thrown their underwear (and diapers) at me. (But, we'll save that story for another blog.)
Little do they know that it's the two of them who are the true rock stars. There is nothing that they do, that I do not find extremely fascinating. Just being in their presence makes my day. They provide constant entertainment to our household. So, if it makes them happy for me to sing to them each night, even if it's embarrassing I don't mind doing it.
It's my way of showing them, that I am their biggest fan.
"....Don't worry that it's not good enough, for anyone else to hear. Just sing, sing a song."
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Love and Gore...
A little late in the game and with much resistance, I have jumped on the Twilight bandwagon. I am reading each book in the series and following it immediately with the corresponding movie. While watching New Moon tonight, I became as giddy as a schoolgirl when Jacob Black, sensing Bella was in danger, jumped over the railing of his porch, took a flying leap into the air, and turned into a werewolf before hitting the ground.
It was so hot.
My husband was watching with me. My husband. My love. My soul mate. I sighed, knowing that he will never do what Jacob did. I don't mean I'm upset that he'll never turn into a werewolf. That's ridiculous. I mean that I don't think that Michael could gracefully hop over any railing to come to my rescue. Ever. If a pack of wolves cornered me outside of our house, he would probably hide inside, call 911, and cross his fingers. And in the event that he HAD to come outside, he would still ignore the railing shortcut and walk gingerly down the steps, being cautious enough to not stub his toe, or snag his flip flop.
There was a time when vampires and werewolves were the main characters in horror stories. Now, they are the main characters in love stories. These creatures have become representatives of romance and of true love.
At first, I didn't get the appeal of the Twilight Saga. Now that I have given it a chance, I am obsessed. And I totally get it.
The franchise makes vampires and werewolves become the sexy heroes.
The entire concept is genius. No one cares about romantic comedies anymore, because they are "real" people doing unrealistic things. Men do not ever interrupt weddings to steal the bride away from the groom. A man wouldn't stand in the pouring rain embracing his lover, oblivious to the weather. Men don't travel miles and miles to profess their love to someone they just met. Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, has done the perfect thing. Since men will never live up to our romantic expectations, she has given us something that will: the supernatural. She has made every tween, teen, middle-aged, and elderly woman in the world who have read her books, stop wishing for Prince Charming and start yearning for Dracula. She made unrealistic, romantic dialogue acceptable, because the creatures speaking the words aren't real in the first place.
Vampires aren't real.
That's why it seems totally plausible that a vampire would utter the words, "Bella, you give me everything just by breathing."
If I heard Hugh Grant fumble that line, I'd change the channel while gagging. Robert Pattinson says it, with his pale skin and amber eyes, and I swoon.
There is nothing remotely attractive about Robert Pattinson, in my opinion. But, as Edward Cullen, the love struck 109 year old vampire who jumps between his soul mate and a minivan, smashing the van to smithereens, he's a dream come true.
Werewolves aren't real.
That's why it seems plausible that a sixteen year old boy, dressed in nothing but some frayed denim shorts, would jump twenty feet over his lady love's head and transform into a werewolf in mid-air, to protect her.
My friend Chrissy says that Taylor Lautner, who plays Jacob, "looks like someone hit him in the face with a frying pan." And she's absolutely right. But, his tan, flexed abdominal muscles, glistening with sweat while he pleads with Bella to choose him... *sigh*. Those sixteen year old abs, alone, transform me into a dangerous creature myself - a Cougar.
Some women read romance novels and dream of a pool boy or fireman who will come sweep them off of their feet. These fantasies leave them drowning in disappointment when searching for their perfect mate. However, women know that they will never find a mate like Edward Cullen or Jacob Black, because not only are they fictitious, they are mythical. There can be no comparison to regular men. Stephanie Meyer has created her characters to be romantic, compassionate, thoughtful, protective... and as far from human as possible. And therein, lies the appeal, and the perfect fantasy.
So, it's okay that my husband is not the bravest of the brave. It's fine that he is not very athletic. And it's completely understandable that his belly is shaped more like a small keg than a six pack. Of course, he's not the "perfect" man.
He is only a mortal, after all.
It was so hot.
My husband was watching with me. My husband. My love. My soul mate. I sighed, knowing that he will never do what Jacob did. I don't mean I'm upset that he'll never turn into a werewolf. That's ridiculous. I mean that I don't think that Michael could gracefully hop over any railing to come to my rescue. Ever. If a pack of wolves cornered me outside of our house, he would probably hide inside, call 911, and cross his fingers. And in the event that he HAD to come outside, he would still ignore the railing shortcut and walk gingerly down the steps, being cautious enough to not stub his toe, or snag his flip flop.
There was a time when vampires and werewolves were the main characters in horror stories. Now, they are the main characters in love stories. These creatures have become representatives of romance and of true love.
At first, I didn't get the appeal of the Twilight Saga. Now that I have given it a chance, I am obsessed. And I totally get it.
The franchise makes vampires and werewolves become the sexy heroes.
The entire concept is genius. No one cares about romantic comedies anymore, because they are "real" people doing unrealistic things. Men do not ever interrupt weddings to steal the bride away from the groom. A man wouldn't stand in the pouring rain embracing his lover, oblivious to the weather. Men don't travel miles and miles to profess their love to someone they just met. Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, has done the perfect thing. Since men will never live up to our romantic expectations, she has given us something that will: the supernatural. She has made every tween, teen, middle-aged, and elderly woman in the world who have read her books, stop wishing for Prince Charming and start yearning for Dracula. She made unrealistic, romantic dialogue acceptable, because the creatures speaking the words aren't real in the first place.
Vampires aren't real.
That's why it seems totally plausible that a vampire would utter the words, "Bella, you give me everything just by breathing."
If I heard Hugh Grant fumble that line, I'd change the channel while gagging. Robert Pattinson says it, with his pale skin and amber eyes, and I swoon.
There is nothing remotely attractive about Robert Pattinson, in my opinion. But, as Edward Cullen, the love struck 109 year old vampire who jumps between his soul mate and a minivan, smashing the van to smithereens, he's a dream come true.
Werewolves aren't real.
That's why it seems plausible that a sixteen year old boy, dressed in nothing but some frayed denim shorts, would jump twenty feet over his lady love's head and transform into a werewolf in mid-air, to protect her.
My friend Chrissy says that Taylor Lautner, who plays Jacob, "looks like someone hit him in the face with a frying pan." And she's absolutely right. But, his tan, flexed abdominal muscles, glistening with sweat while he pleads with Bella to choose him... *sigh*. Those sixteen year old abs, alone, transform me into a dangerous creature myself - a Cougar.
Some women read romance novels and dream of a pool boy or fireman who will come sweep them off of their feet. These fantasies leave them drowning in disappointment when searching for their perfect mate. However, women know that they will never find a mate like Edward Cullen or Jacob Black, because not only are they fictitious, they are mythical. There can be no comparison to regular men. Stephanie Meyer has created her characters to be romantic, compassionate, thoughtful, protective... and as far from human as possible. And therein, lies the appeal, and the perfect fantasy.
So, it's okay that my husband is not the bravest of the brave. It's fine that he is not very athletic. And it's completely understandable that his belly is shaped more like a small keg than a six pack. Of course, he's not the "perfect" man.
He is only a mortal, after all.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
"Short" Stories...
Four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches.
Since I was fifteen years old, I have been four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches tall. I have found a few ways around this. (My license reads 5' thanks to clever shoe choices, and some overly fluffed hair styles.)
I have learned to accept the fact that I am vertically challenged and I believe, as my mother always taught me, that "Short is beautiful." But it wasn't always easy. I thought it would fun (and therapeutic), if I would share some amusing (or sad) moments in the life of one with little height and how they affected me.
In Kindergarten, I came home from school everyday with wet pants. I had been potty trained since I was two, so my parents were concerned. After some interrogation, I admitted that the bathroom door was too heavy. I was too small and weak and could not open the door. I was also too shy and too embarrassed to tell the teacher. So I peed in my pants. Everyday. It was finally decided, after a meeting with the school, that when the designated teacher would take the children who were in Special Education to the bathroom, she would take me, as well. I still remember that the Special Education van would arrive a half an hour after school started and it would "beep." Upon hearing the beeping through the window, the other children in the class, who were cruel, would giggle, because they knew that Jenny, the little girl with braces on her legs, would be entering the classroom soon. I never giggled. I smiled a smile of relief. With that beeping, I knew I would get to go to the bathroom. Besides I loved Jenny. She was just like me and couldn't open the bathroom door, either. She was also very nice and ended up becoming my friend.
Being small taught me tolerance.
I entered First Grade in a new school, in a new state, with no kind Kindergarten teacher and no Jenny. My parents again became concerned when I began arriving home with cuts and bruises everyday. I explained that the second graders loved to play "House" and because I was so tiny, I had to be their "baby." They carried me around the playground at recess. Only these second graders liked to drop me when their arms got tired. My parents told me that I was nobody's baby but theirs. They told me to go to school and tell the second graders not to touch me and if they did, to tell the nearest teacher. I marched to school and told the only "friends" that I had that I did not want to play with them anymore. It resulted in many lonely days on the playground, but I didn't care. My bruises healed.
Being small taught me to stand up for myself.
After two years of unsatisfactory supervision at public schools, my parents decided to transfer me to Catholic school. My favorite way to participate in the Mass was to lector - to read the readings for the Mass on the altar. Of course I always had to request that a stool be placed at the pulpit for me. My parents told me, "You are further away from the microphone than everyone else. Be sure to read in a loud, clear voice, so that the people in the back can hear." Lectoring developed into a love of public speaking, leading to success and national rankings for me on my high school and college speech teams. As an adult, I am still a lector at St. Vincent de Paul Church and every other Sunday, I loudly and clearly proclaim the Word of God. And now, if I wear high heels, I don't *always* need a stool. I love when my fellow parishioners say, "How does such a little girl, have such a big voice?"
Being small taught me to compensate for my size with my other strengths.
Looking back, I wouldn't want to be any taller. Sure, there were bullies who called me names, but they never hurt my feelings. I had so much positive reinforcement at home that nothing anyone else said mattered. I learned to see myself as "big" when I looked in the mirror. And I didn't care what anyone else saw. And, of course, I am teaching my boys the same principles, that I have learned.
I took Jackson, who's four, to the pediatrician a few months ago. There was an 18 month old boy in the waiting room who was a head taller than Jack. When the diapered bully, gnawing on his binky, took a toy out of Jack's hands, Jack shrugged and picked up another. He looked UP at the child and said, "It's okay, you take it. I know that you're just a little baby, who doesn't know any better."
I smiled behind my magazine. The cycle continues...
Since I was fifteen years old, I have been four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches tall. I have found a few ways around this. (My license reads 5' thanks to clever shoe choices, and some overly fluffed hair styles.)
I have learned to accept the fact that I am vertically challenged and I believe, as my mother always taught me, that "Short is beautiful." But it wasn't always easy. I thought it would fun (and therapeutic), if I would share some amusing (or sad) moments in the life of one with little height and how they affected me.
In Kindergarten, I came home from school everyday with wet pants. I had been potty trained since I was two, so my parents were concerned. After some interrogation, I admitted that the bathroom door was too heavy. I was too small and weak and could not open the door. I was also too shy and too embarrassed to tell the teacher. So I peed in my pants. Everyday. It was finally decided, after a meeting with the school, that when the designated teacher would take the children who were in Special Education to the bathroom, she would take me, as well. I still remember that the Special Education van would arrive a half an hour after school started and it would "beep." Upon hearing the beeping through the window, the other children in the class, who were cruel, would giggle, because they knew that Jenny, the little girl with braces on her legs, would be entering the classroom soon. I never giggled. I smiled a smile of relief. With that beeping, I knew I would get to go to the bathroom. Besides I loved Jenny. She was just like me and couldn't open the bathroom door, either. She was also very nice and ended up becoming my friend.
Being small taught me tolerance.
I entered First Grade in a new school, in a new state, with no kind Kindergarten teacher and no Jenny. My parents again became concerned when I began arriving home with cuts and bruises everyday. I explained that the second graders loved to play "House" and because I was so tiny, I had to be their "baby." They carried me around the playground at recess. Only these second graders liked to drop me when their arms got tired. My parents told me that I was nobody's baby but theirs. They told me to go to school and tell the second graders not to touch me and if they did, to tell the nearest teacher. I marched to school and told the only "friends" that I had that I did not want to play with them anymore. It resulted in many lonely days on the playground, but I didn't care. My bruises healed.
Being small taught me to stand up for myself.
After two years of unsatisfactory supervision at public schools, my parents decided to transfer me to Catholic school. My favorite way to participate in the Mass was to lector - to read the readings for the Mass on the altar. Of course I always had to request that a stool be placed at the pulpit for me. My parents told me, "You are further away from the microphone than everyone else. Be sure to read in a loud, clear voice, so that the people in the back can hear." Lectoring developed into a love of public speaking, leading to success and national rankings for me on my high school and college speech teams. As an adult, I am still a lector at St. Vincent de Paul Church and every other Sunday, I loudly and clearly proclaim the Word of God. And now, if I wear high heels, I don't *always* need a stool. I love when my fellow parishioners say, "How does such a little girl, have such a big voice?"
Being small taught me to compensate for my size with my other strengths.
Looking back, I wouldn't want to be any taller. Sure, there were bullies who called me names, but they never hurt my feelings. I had so much positive reinforcement at home that nothing anyone else said mattered. I learned to see myself as "big" when I looked in the mirror. And I didn't care what anyone else saw. And, of course, I am teaching my boys the same principles, that I have learned.
I took Jackson, who's four, to the pediatrician a few months ago. There was an 18 month old boy in the waiting room who was a head taller than Jack. When the diapered bully, gnawing on his binky, took a toy out of Jack's hands, Jack shrugged and picked up another. He looked UP at the child and said, "It's okay, you take it. I know that you're just a little baby, who doesn't know any better."
I smiled behind my magazine. The cycle continues...
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A place for everything...
Not long ago, I was chatting with my mom on the phone, having my morning cup of Coca-Cola. I was looking pretty stunning that particular morning, wearing a pair of Betty Boop pajama pants that were purchased at a yard sale, one of Michael's old, grey fraternity t-shirts from his Penn State days, and my dirty hair was pulled up on top of my head in a loose, floppy bun. My mom said to me,
"I'm so happy for you, for getting just what you wanted out of life. You are right where you've always wanted to be."
I stepped over the boys, who were laying on the floor, fighting over an action figure (one of twelve thousand that were scattered all over the living room) to peek at a mirror.
I giggled.
"Mom, please tell me you are being sarcastic."
She began to explain. I was a bit socially awkward, growing up. Any school dance I ever attended, I attended because my parents forced me to go. I was a bookworm and a home body. I was also a late bloomer, who was still playing with Barbies when my friends were getting their first boyfriends. Because of my late development, late puberty, and small size, my parents always wondered if I would be able to have children. Although, they'll never admit it, I am sure that they also wondered if I'd ever get a boyfriend, much less a husband.
Lo and behold, I came out of my shell and met Michael. First came love, then came marriage, then came... well, you know the rest. I am an ambitious, competitive person. I have many years left to get the most of life and to settle myself into a successful career. And I know that good things are in store for me, because I have a desire to achieve. But, first things first. I have done what everyone doubted I would ever do. I have a loving husband. I have two beautiful boys. I have a home and a family, and that is my primary focus right now. My mom was right. I am a very lucky girl.
This past week, for the first time since the boys were born, Michael had to go away on business. At first, the boys and I celebrated having a break from the family neat freak by leaving dishes on the table, letting crumbs fall to the floor, and not putting DVDs directly back into their cases. But by the third day, I began to miss having someone to share a smile with when Henry told a new knock-knock joke or when Jack said something only a forty year old woman would say. Thursday night I had trouble sleeping. Why was it so quiet? Why could I hear every creak that the house made? Then I realized that for six years, Michael has been in bed next to me, sleeping, breathing, snoring. I've gotten used to him being... there. That's not to say that half of the time I want to whack him with a frying pan when he's not looking. But the other half of the time, our life, as a family, is awesome and it makes me thrilled to know that it's "forever."
Yesterday afternoon, excited to see my husband, I took a shower, shaved my legs, applied some makeup, and even flat ironed my hair. I put on a cute sundress and the boys and I headed to the airport to pick up Michael. We had a joyful reunion at the airport, and then the four of us came home. It was nice to all be together, again. Through the baby monitor, I listened to Michael read to our giggling boys, putting them to bed, while I went upstairs to change. I washed the makeup off of my face and took off the cute sundress. I put on my Betty Boop pajama pants and Michael's old, grey ATO shirt. I twisted my hair up to its comfortable position on top of my head and went downstairs to join Michael on the couch. We shared some milk and cookies and started watching some DVR'd "Attack of the Show." As Michael drifted off to sleep halfway through the episode and began to snore, I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.
Everything is as it should be and just the way I want it.
"I'm so happy for you, for getting just what you wanted out of life. You are right where you've always wanted to be."
I stepped over the boys, who were laying on the floor, fighting over an action figure (one of twelve thousand that were scattered all over the living room) to peek at a mirror.
I giggled.
"Mom, please tell me you are being sarcastic."
She began to explain. I was a bit socially awkward, growing up. Any school dance I ever attended, I attended because my parents forced me to go. I was a bookworm and a home body. I was also a late bloomer, who was still playing with Barbies when my friends were getting their first boyfriends. Because of my late development, late puberty, and small size, my parents always wondered if I would be able to have children. Although, they'll never admit it, I am sure that they also wondered if I'd ever get a boyfriend, much less a husband.
Lo and behold, I came out of my shell and met Michael. First came love, then came marriage, then came... well, you know the rest. I am an ambitious, competitive person. I have many years left to get the most of life and to settle myself into a successful career. And I know that good things are in store for me, because I have a desire to achieve. But, first things first. I have done what everyone doubted I would ever do. I have a loving husband. I have two beautiful boys. I have a home and a family, and that is my primary focus right now. My mom was right. I am a very lucky girl.
This past week, for the first time since the boys were born, Michael had to go away on business. At first, the boys and I celebrated having a break from the family neat freak by leaving dishes on the table, letting crumbs fall to the floor, and not putting DVDs directly back into their cases. But by the third day, I began to miss having someone to share a smile with when Henry told a new knock-knock joke or when Jack said something only a forty year old woman would say. Thursday night I had trouble sleeping. Why was it so quiet? Why could I hear every creak that the house made? Then I realized that for six years, Michael has been in bed next to me, sleeping, breathing, snoring. I've gotten used to him being... there. That's not to say that half of the time I want to whack him with a frying pan when he's not looking. But the other half of the time, our life, as a family, is awesome and it makes me thrilled to know that it's "forever."
Yesterday afternoon, excited to see my husband, I took a shower, shaved my legs, applied some makeup, and even flat ironed my hair. I put on a cute sundress and the boys and I headed to the airport to pick up Michael. We had a joyful reunion at the airport, and then the four of us came home. It was nice to all be together, again. Through the baby monitor, I listened to Michael read to our giggling boys, putting them to bed, while I went upstairs to change. I washed the makeup off of my face and took off the cute sundress. I put on my Betty Boop pajama pants and Michael's old, grey ATO shirt. I twisted my hair up to its comfortable position on top of my head and went downstairs to join Michael on the couch. We shared some milk and cookies and started watching some DVR'd "Attack of the Show." As Michael drifted off to sleep halfway through the episode and began to snore, I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.
Everything is as it should be and just the way I want it.
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