Sick to death

Facebook makes me the tiniest bit nuts. Don't get me wrong: I love it. I see no circumstance under which I would abandon it. But there are some things that make me crazy.


It's not the platform itself so much as the people who use it that are making me batty-bats. And before you even point it out, let me say that I realize all of my fascinating updates, i.e. the one I just did this evening: Eden is officially sitting up. She's a genius . . .


. . . are not for everybody. I am fully aware that MY updates are collectively, to someone else, one of those Christmas cards they get that makes them roll their eyes/laugh themselves silly/write a parody for SNL. I GET IT. 


But I still have my own pet peeves that have nothing to do with people whose children are just too precious for words--like mine. (Shut up. THEY ARE.)


So here we go. And if you want to know if I'm talking about you, yes, I am. And I say that because even if I said I wasn't, you would still think I am, you narcissist. So go ahead and assume I mean you (even though I don't).


You know who gets paid a lot of money to sit around and listen to health complaints? A DOCTOR. You know who doesn't? ME. So why inflict a list of ailments on everyone day after day in a never ending stream of status updates?


Seriously, do you know this person? The one who, out of ten updates, will include at least eight about aches, pains, sniffles, gas, burps, sneezes, and other minutiae related to their plumbing that no one BUT THEIR MOTHER cares about, and oh-my-gosh-by-now-even-SHE-is-sick-of-it? Because you know these people have been at it their whole lives. You know little Meg* (that's made up--insert your offender's name here) spoke her first words in this order:


"Dada."
"Mama."
"I have this blinding stabbing pain that is just killing me behind my right eye. And my bowels! Don't even get me started. Actually, that's the problem. I'm so constipated. It's like you're putting cheese in my sippy cup."


I firmly believe the reason that these people keep up a constant stream of this on Facebook is because they have exhausted all their real life friends.


Unfriend them! you say. No. That's mean. Complaining about them on my blog is much nicer.


I hide them. Then I'm not bugged and their feelings aren't hurt. (You still think it's you, don't you?)


I don't mind if you're not feeling so good every once in a while and you report on it. "Cold today. Ugh." I will say, "Bummer." And I'll probably check with you tomorrow to see how you're feeling.


But if you're news feed looks like this:


Jane Doe is sick again.
Jane Doe has a headache.
Jane Doe feels nauseous.
Jane Doe needs a good poop.
Jane Doe stubbed her toe.
Jane Doe got a paper cut.
Jane Doe's paper cut really hurts. Guys, I think I'm getting lockjaw.
Jane Doe just got back from the ER. Doc says it's not lockjaw. What a quack.
Jane Doe realized the doctor isn't a quack. It's not lockjaw, it's GANGRENE.
Jane Doe desperately needs someone to comment on my multiple pity grabs.


Well, then YOU have a problem.


But I don't any more. Because I hid you, remember?


P.S. I have no idea how this fits with my recent resolution to become a much kinder person, but I can't tell you how much better I feel for saying it.

Peace of Mind for Fifty-Eight Cents

It is one of those moments where my children don't realize they are one screech away from being snatched bald-headed by their sleep-deprived mother. One of those moments where none of the six people in line behind me at the check out stand had better even THINK about rolling their beady eyeballs or I will snatch those out, too. It is one of those moments that is one snide comment away from becoming a story on the local evening news.


One of THOSE moments. Yeah.


I should have known better. The baby was a tad fussy and my oldest had decided he would have one of his split personality moments where he goes from being Mom's helper to his brother's tormentor because it's fun. But I thought, "No, we're by the Michael's, I have a gift card, we need those magnets and I have no idea when my children will allow me to leave my house again."


So we went to the craft store in search of magnets for a project I (optimistically) planned for James. Within seven minutes I had grabbed the cheapest magnets I could find and made for the cashier like a hooker for the church exit because two of my children were wailing like banshees. The line was short so I tossed my magnets up on the counter and whipped out my merchandise credit. We only had to keep it together for a minute longer. . . .


But that minute was stretching my last nerve to the snapping point. I wondered if it was too late to stick the two screaming little ones in the Halloween display as part of some hideous nightmare tableau. You know . . . two screaming babies with a sign painted to look like dripping blood: Welcome to Hell.


Anyway, we were almost done when there was some kind of problem with the store credit. The machine wouldn't read it and the cashier couldn't make out the numbers to type them. She huffed and puffed and I nearly blew her house down (I don't know what that means) because the line behind me was suddenly getting longer and I don't know if you know this or not, but THEY ARE NEVER IN A HURRY AT MICHAEL'S.


Just when I really thought I was about to lose it, the huffy puffy cashier got the register to take the card and I held onto my sanity with a tiny shred of a fingernail. Then the total came up.


I was fifty-eight cents short.


I didn't have any cash. Not even two pennies to rub together. So with the very last ounce of my willpower, I gritted my teeth and began digging for my credit card to put the stupid fifty-eight cent charge on it.


Then the lady behind me, a woman who clearly had children and grandchildren of her own, reached over and handed me a dollar. "Let me help," she said.


I did. And she did.


And just like that, fifty-eight cents turned my entire day around. Not just because something finally went right or because someone who could have huffed and puffed and rolled her eyes and shifted from foot to foot in annoyance over my screaming children and cash register issues . . . didn't.


It's because she took it a step further and she showed kindness and understanding.


And I felt so happy. I wasn't braced for the disdain of the people behind me anymore. My problem was solved with a simple little gesture and knowing someone wanted to do something nice for me . . .


Helped.


And I was kinder and more patient with my children for the rest of the day.


I keep trying to remember to pay it forward. Turns out fifty-eight cents pays off pretty big dividends.

Pleased to meet you

I got the best compliment EVER on my writing a month or so ago. I was meeting with my newly formed critique group (there are three of us and the other two are awesome) and we were still feeling out each other's writing styles. I was going through a new chapter in my manuscript, reading aloud, when Rachel stopped me and asked, "Do you watch Gilmore Girls?" 

I laughed.

Um, yes. In response to one of Karen's posts on the first blog post I ever did, I dug mine up to discover that it was about the Gilmore Girls and how it influences my writing. I kind of love that show. And own all the seasons on DVD. And watched it every day for two years. 

So, yeah . . . it's reflected in my writing. I try for a lot of sharp, clever banter. Banter is just kind of what spews out when I write dialogue. It's fun. I guess when my first book comes out in March you can see whether I hit the mark or not. Anyway, Rachel (my critique partner) says, "Your stuff totally sounds like Gilmore Girls."

I thought that was pretty cool but Kristine, the other part of our trio, jumped in. "Yeah, I can see that. But the difference is that Gilmore Girls was on at the salon the other day and if you can't see it, you can't tell who's talking. They all sound the same. With your stuff, I can totally tell who's talking even if you don't identify them."

How COOL IS THAT?

It's an overstatement, sure. But I sure liked hearing it.

Anyway, part one of my post today is that compliment because it totally made me happy and I was thinking about it again today.

Part two is that Karen commented that she thought it was funny that my very first blog post just dives right in. No introduction, no this is who I am, no small talk.

I'm sure doing it that way made sense in my head at the time. Like maybe I figured I had just filled out my profile for Blogger so I didn't need to put it in the post. I don't know.

But I guess I better rectify the oversight now. Allow me to introduce myself:

Hi. My name is Melanie Jacobson. I'm a wife, mother, and writer, in that order. This blog is a slice of my brain. I thought I was going to write about writing and review books I read, but I only do that a little. I get kind of bored if that's all I talk about. Mainly, I ramble. I talk about my kids and my husband. I talk about my friends and my philosophies. I don't talk about crafts unless it's to whine because I'm craftarded. I blog to hang out with grownups. I do that less now because I have one more kid than when I started and she's little and likes to be held and loved. It's just a change of seasons and they'll change again. I love my life. I hope I reflect that even when I'm complaining about poop diapers or grocery shopping. I'll be around your blogs often. Thanks for coming around to mine.

It ought to be a crime

My kids are little thieves. To date they have stolen:


My girlish figure
My sleep
My peace of mind
Entire chunks of my budget
My quiet time


And (this is almost unforgivable) sometimes they snitch from my chocolate stash.


I ask you, what do I get in return?


Hugs.


Hm.


Fair trade.

In which I feel smart. Or dumb?

I'm a little cheap. I should be cheaper, but I'm definitely getting there.


Lately, my grocery bill has been giving me a heart attack. Seriously, there's a myocardial infarction on check stand 3 every Wednesday night. It goes like this: $160? What the . . . how did this happen? I tried so hard . . . I can't breathe . . . I'm seeing stars . . . Wait, now I can't see anything . . . I'm going to die, aren't I? I'm going to die right here in the check out lane and everyone will know that I partake of too many artificially sweetened foods when they go through my cart. Oh, the shame. THE SHAME!


You guys, I don't even buy formula. And this ridiculous grocery bill DOESN'T EVEN COUNT COSTCO. (I'm sorry, Nancy, but) what the crap?!


It does not help that Albertson's, my highway robber of choice, has me playing a 1950's housewife right now. They've got this deal where you get a sticker for every $10 you spend and then you can earn stickers toward the purchase of a fancy cook pot of your choice. My choice is (of course) the most expensive one, the roasting pan. Won't my turkey look nice flapping its legs in that come Thanksgiving? And I speak metaphorically because I buy my turkeys dead and if it flapped anything, I would pass out and instead of a heart attack in the check out aisle it would be a stroke in the kitchen that did me in.


Wait, did I digress?


Oh, so Albertson's and their stickers. I need 110 stickers so I can buy my roaster for a penny. So after every trip through the check out stand (after my weekly shock from the defibrillator they keep under cash register 3 especially for my visit), I hustle out to the car, throw the groceries in the back of the minivan, and then I sit and stick my little stickers in my little book, delighted as I approach the 45 mark. I need 110. Let's do the math. I need to spend $1100 in groceries to earn my roaster.


(Sorry, Nancy) What the crap?! 


So I decided to take the bull by the horns. And by "bull" I mean salavering pile of beef that becomes my pot roast every Sunday so I guess I mean "cow."


And that's the first casualty. Instead of a pot roast every Sunday, we'll do it every other Sunday and alternate with a baked potato bar (like we did every Sunday when were kids--hey, look at that! My mom was smart.) But then I had another brainstorm. I felt brilliant until I realized I should have figured it out approximately three years ago. Then I realized I was dumb.


Anyway, a large-ish portion of our budget goes to diet-friendly foods. Pre-sweetened Kool-Aid, 100 calorie portions of snacks, etc. And instead of buying the 5 pack (5? Really? Inflation is that bad?) of baked Cheetos, I bought a big ole family size bag of them (ditto Cheez-Its) and a box of snack sized Ziplocs. Then I busted out my food scale and made my own 100 calorie portions. For a dollar more, I got FOUR TIMES as many portions. 


Between changing up Sunday dinners and being smarter about snacks, I just saved us $700 a year. 


Time to go to the mall.

Uh-oh

You guys . . .


I think TAMN is in my ward. 


And I think she has five-year-old boy she's never told anyone about.


And guys .  . . he's the WORST one in his CTR class.


Oh, my heck.