a morning of rage

This morning was a domino effect of frustration.  Like 10,000-spoons-when-all-you-need-is-a-knife, kick-Dave-Coulier-in-the-face, Alanissy kind of morning.  

Running late for work, I walk out the door for my 15 minute walk to the metro wearing a dress that kept riding up my legs (into Crotchtown) and making me terribly uncomfortable since it was already a short dress.  I was going to work, after all, not to a place where women wear really short skirts and dresses.  What would you call a place like that?  

Walking to work in this dress put me into a slow-building rage.  Rage Level: Subdued Jack Nicholson

I'm so annoyed with my outfit that after I get off the metro, I decide to go to the nearby H&M before I go into work to buy pants or a skirt or something to put over my dress.  They're not open yet, even though they are supposed to be.  So I run over to Whole Foods to buy snacks, spend a stupid amount of money for "natural" reduced fat, low sodium popcorn and unsweetened organic applesauce.  I almost get run over by a 40-something Type A lady with a cart full of dairy products.  Anger rising.  

Rage Level: Lars Ulrich (When he's playing the drums, not whining about Napster)

I finish at Whole Foods and finally make it into H&M and look at my watch and it is LATE O'CLOCK in the morning and I'm like fuuucckkk I need to get to work but I can't go with my dress up my ass.  I search around and grab whatever clothes I can find and try them on.  Now I'm in the dressing room and starting to sweat in my sweater (I know, I hear it)  and coat.  The 1 pair of pants I picked up that actually fit will have to fucking do.  I pay for the pants, go back into the steaming sauna of a dressing room to put them back on before I leave the store.  

Rage Level:  Alec Baldwin yelling at his daughter in a voicemail or beating up a photographer.

As I'm walking toward the office, my ankle is THROBBING.  The shoes I'm wearing today keep rubbing on the bone of my ankle, starting a small fire of agony, causing me to limp.  I haven't even gotten to the office yet.  

Rage Level:  Bill O'Reilly shouting DO IT LIVE

I finally get into work, a basket full of hate sitting at my desk.  Happy Monday, mother fuckers.

spiderwhatever

I really, big time, huge time DO NOT CARE about the new Spiderman series.  Nobody is going to make me care.  Not even Sally Field being in it can make me care.

Andrew Garfield?  Don't Care.
Emma Stone?  Dontcare.com
All of it?  Not Do Care.

And I think Jamie Foxx is on my side with this one.

Teaching Computer Stuff to Middle-Aged People

A [fortunately small] part of my job at the moment involves teaching a group of my co-workers how to use a new computer program that's been designed to help communication between them and the health clinics they work with on a daily basis.

THE PROBLEM IS:  the group I'm teaching is made up of 4 individuals over the age of 40.  Not only do I have to teach them the steps to a complicated process that I struggle to understand, I have to do it while they're being over 40 and very much void of computer knowledge that I grew up learning from a young age.  I'm no expert, that's for sure, and I know one day I will be 40 and frustrated with how difficult new technology is as 20-somethings run circles around me, but that's the future.  RIGHT NOW I want to light my clothes on fire out of frustration after every session I have with each of them.

For one hour at a time, I sit down one-on-one with each of them to review a few pages at a time of a 30 page user guide.  It's mostly one hour (times 4) of situations that goes like this:


Co-worker:  So I should type in the first name, last name and date of birth to search for the patient?

Me:  No, that's not necessary, you can just put in the last name.  In fact, you don't even need to type in the full last name, the name will appear in the box below and you can select it.

Co-worker:  *looking at keyboard, pecking one letter at a time, types in full first name, last name and date of birth anyway, spells last name wrong, searches for 'Smmith, Pual' instead of 'Smith, Paul', enters date of birth as '13-02/1890'*

.......

Me:  Okay, so, if the patient isn't in the system, you click the button that says "Add this patient"

Co-worker:  *searches with cursor for the clearly marked "Add this patient" button despite it being the bigger of two buttons on a blank screen* Where is that?

Me:  Right here.  *puts finger on the screen right next to the "Add this patient" button*

Co-worker:  *clicks the other button on the page that does not say "Add this patient," the screen returns to the home page*  Oh no what did I do??!

......

Me:  Alright, now that you completed the demographics and household income information [which took 10 minutes for them to type] you click "Save."

Co-worker:  *clicks Exit* Ay!  Uh oh, how do I get it back?

Me:  *dies inside* You can't, we have to open it again and re-enter all of the data.



For one hour at a time I try to maintain my composure, but I'm pretty sure I come off like Tom Hanks in this scene of A League of Their Own:

)

more of my mom

Seeing my mom is always a joy, a frustrating, baffling, spectacular joy.  Whenever I go to stay with her she's always prepared to keep me as comfortable as humanly possible.  This Christmas was no exception.

Mom:  Now, Jenna, if you get cold I normally keep the thermostat at about 68 degrees, so please feel free to turn it up in the middle of the night if you need to.

Me:  No problem, mom, I'm sure I'll be fine.

Mom:  I'm serious, just turn it up and don't worry about me, I like it cold but I don't want you to freeze.

Me:  I'll be fine.

Mom:  Do you know how to work the thermostat?  You just push the up or down buttons--

Me:  I know how to use it, I'll adjust it if I need to.

Mom:  --cause I just hate the idea of you being cold if you'd rather just turn it up.

Me:  Mom, I'll be fine.

Mom:  What temperature do you normally keep your apartment at?

Me:  I normally keep it at about--

Mom:  --I'm going to just go ahead and turn it up to 70.

Me:  *head explodes*


And, of course, no visit to her house is complete without her showing me where all the necessary documents and trinkets of inheritance in her house are located.

Mom:  Now Jenna come here, I just want to make sure you know where everything is when I go.  *opens cabinets*  

Here is where the power of attorney is and all the paperwork on my retirement and my will.  It's all divided up between you and your brother and sister.  Your brother and sister are getting 33% but I'm giving you 34% because you're the youngest and you don't have any kids (?).  

Now come in here and I'll show you the lock box where I keep the uncirculated state quarters.  The quarters are hidden throughout the house, this is just one set.  Make sure you check throughout the house for them, I don't want them to get into anyone else's hands.  And they are for you, not for a husband or significant other, they are YOURS.  I had a set for your father but he's not getting them now.  

I also have the marbles you used to play with as a child, do you want those now?  I think your brother might fight you for them so why don't you go ahead and take them home with you?


And there was the time she tried to take a picture of my boyfriend and I in front of the tree with his phone and she mistakenly turned it backwards so we saw a screen full of her puzzled face searching for the view finder.

Jenna, I don't see anything.  I can't find the hole that I look through.  I can't see!


The worst part?  As I said before, I am just like her.  I'm on a 35 year delay, but soon enough I'll have my house guests rolling their eyes and begging me to stop.

Jenna, please JUST STOP (interrupting the movie they're watching to talk about the time I got into a fight with my brother at a Wendy's / showing them things they don't need to see or things I've shown them a million times before / trying to make them comfortable while ironically succeeding in making them uncomfortable).

Fucking heredity.

death to WA

I've never claimed to be a sane person.  Overall, though, I think I come across as relatively normal and composed.  But this post isn't about those typical, stable moments of my life.  This is specifically about one of those moments in my life where I have looked truly, absolutely and most splendidly insane.

I'll set the scene.

2003.  High school.   Chemistry class.

I hated Chemistry.  Of all the classes, Chemistry is where I felt like I couldn't find my ass with both hands no matter how hard I tried.  So I spent most of the 50 minutes of class doodling on one specific sheet of notebook paper that I had contributed to over a span of weeks.  The page was entirely covered with little trees, or bug drawings, or random phrases, or stick people, or whatever I could think of that was not related to Chemistry.

Behind me sat a gum smacking, chair kicking, loud talking, ditz of a human being.  I  may sound like a bitch to describe someone like this, but hear me out.  Let's call her "Wendy Anderson."  She was like the type of person that was a  member of every esteemed academic club a school had to offer, Student Government Association, National Honor Society, Good Job Kids You'll Get Into College But This Shit Doesn't Actually Matter or Make a Difference in Your School or Life Club.  Even if she asked questions like "wait, for years I thought the Japanese were the good guys in World War II, but now we can confirm that I was wrong about that, right?" she somehow aced every AP test.

Day after day I would doodle on my paper like the angst-ridden quiet psycho I truly was, and day after day she would kick my chair as she readjusted her feet to rest under it as she talked to the guy sitting next to her who looked like Skeletor, saying something like "yeah, but Mr. Holmes said we can work in groups for the project, Skeletor, didn't you say that, Mr. Holmes?" *loud laughter, gum smack, chair kick, repeat*

I couldn't take it anymore, I wrote "Death to WA" in a tiny corner of my notebook paper amidst the chaos of doodles.  Nobody will notice this, I thought, like a fucking idiot.  Brace yourself, folks.

One day, Skeletor got a wild hair up his ass and noticed me and my Ted Kaczinski-inspired sheet of notebook paper.  "Hey what's that?"  He said as he grabbed it from me.  "Whoa, this is weird, you've been at this for a while!"  I turn around, and watch in disbelief.

*loud laughter, gum smack, chair kick* "Hey let me see that," 'Wendy' said. *snatch*

"....wow...this is....Death to WA.....is that me??"

Now, I'm not one to think on my feet all the time.  I never anticipated her finding this corner of my twisted brain.  I'm always the last to react in an emergency situation.  If Leatherface came running toward me from 50 yards a way, it would take me until he was 5 yards a way to even realize I was in a potentially dangerous situation.

"Yes," I said.

"Uuuuuhhh....whoa...I didn't realize you felt this way..." she said, laughing nervously.

"You always kick my chair..."  I said, shrugging it off and sweating profusely.

I don't remember exactly what happened after that, the shock of the situation and extreme embarrassment that followed shifted to instinct and survival as my mind went blank.  Like when you get hit in the head with a baseball and it hurts like hell but you just keep smiling and pretending like nothing happened and you're okay. Even as you're slowly dropping to the ground, you give a little wave to everyone standing around you to let them know everything's fine, demonstrating that primal need to save face.

To this day I don't think I've ever looked crazier to another human being, and that's saying a lot coming from a girl who once swept spilled sugar from a conference room table into her hand as she was having a one-on-one meeting with the director and founder of an Architecture firm.

Wendy Anderson has gone on to what seems like a fantastic life, Facebook tells me (she friended me, probably to keep track of my state of mind and geographic location).  I have no doubt she's still laughing loudly, smacking her gum and kicking the world's proverbial chair, but that won't stop her from acing every "real world" AP test, which I guess would be promotions and 401Ks and other indicators of a successful life.  I haven't changed much, either.  I'm still that psycho, doodling and just a few chair kicks from a minor meltdown.  But at least now when someone asks if I want to kill them I'll have a better answer than yes:  "...No."

that southern maryland look

If you grew up in Southern Maryland, as I did, you know there is a certain look among Southern Maryland men that is easy to recognize.  If you did not grow up in Southern Maryland but would like to achieve this look, I have created the diagram below to help you:

A.  Gel bangs.  Hair must be properly gelled with "bangs" combed flat against the forehead.  It is necessary to piece out the bangs in order to show separation, however the most important part of this hairstyle is the blunt line across the forehead.  Like a modern-day, redneck Julius Caesar, you are going for timeless style that says "not only is my hair immovable, you can also use it as a level when hanging up your 8 x 10 of Joe Gibbs in your family room."

B.  Diamond earring.  You shine.  You sparkle.  Everyone knows it, because they see a diamond earring in one or both of your ears.  Elizabeth Taylor was right.  These have always brought you luck, as well.

C. Facial hair.  This is absolutely necessary.  If you do not have a thinned mustache, soul patch and centralized chin beard you cannot be a true Southern Maryland man.  I'm sorry, you just can't.  I didn't make these rules.

D.  Gold chain and Redskins* jersey.  You may choose to wear one gold chain, or several, but it is important that you have at least one.  Depending on your preferences, they can be plain, or come with a pendant of some sort to show off your personality:  #1 Dad  or Yankees or Shart, however you decide to express yourself, the choice is yours.  The oversized jersey is also a key piece to remember.  Please note: It has to be oversized.  If people can look at you and have a general idea of the size of your torso, you're doing it wrong.  It has got to be at least 2 sizes larger than your actual size.  For example, if you comfortably wear a medium, you need to buy an XL.  You get the idea.
*If you do not have access to a Redskins jersey, in a pinch, a Ravens jersey is also an acceptable piece to include in your SoMd ensemble.  In select cases, a Cowboys jersey will also suffice.

E.  Keys to a lowrider truck.  If not a lowrider, an F-150/F-250/F-350/F-CHRIST WE GET IT YOU HAUL SHIT SOMETIMES, ENOUGH ALREADY.

F.  Flat brimmed sports cap.  Put it on your head.  Loop it on your belt.  Dedicate a room in your house to your collection of flat brimmed sports caps.  Take pride in that cap.  Spend a lot of money on that cap.

G.  Oversized jeans.  See D. Redskins jersey.  If a person can look at you and know the size of your lower torso/legs, this is incorrect.  For best results, go to St. Charles Town Center or your local Burlington Coat Factory to find the latest Marc Ecko and/or Sean John styles.

H. Basketball shoes.  You haven't played basketball since you were in high school, possibly not even that recently.  But it is imperative that you have a pair of white basketball kicks.  Please try not to be concerned with the fact that the right shoe in this diagram is facing the opposite direction it should.  This is not necessary to achieve the style.  It's just that I'm lazy and didn't feel like making this drawing 100% accurate.


So there you have it.  With these accessories, you too can look just like a Southern Maryland man.  Bonus points if you are related to someone named Buck, Sherry, Cheryl or Crystal, if you live on Cobb Island or if you own and wear Bud Light swimming trunks.

you are your mother

Life is funny sometimes.  You're a kid, glaring at your mom, swearing up and down you're going to be nothing like her when you're her age.  You're going to be way cooler and so much more put together.  You're not going to do awful and embarrassing shit to your kids if you have them.

And then you wake up and your 27 years old.  And you are your mother.  It happens so slowly, so gradually, you don't even realize at first.  But you are your mother.

You're choosing from 50 similar shades of pale-to-medium pink/fuchsia nail polish even though you would always say "Mom! Christ, is this the only color of nail polish you own?"

You're defending yourself when people ask you harmless questions.
"Is that a new skirt, Jenna?"
"No, why?  Should I have worn a new skirt?  Is this dinner supposed to be fancy?  WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" 

You are sitting in a restaurant, asking the person across from you if you have anything in your teeth, and if they say yes you are remaining at that table, trying to get the broccoli or gummy candy out of your molars using your pinky finger.  You're not going to the bathroom to do this in private like you swore you would ten years ago.  You're taking care of your business right there in front of the whole restaurant.


When I was in middle school, to get to the bus stop I had to walk about 0.2 miles from my house to the top of a hill.  I was often joined by 3 or 4 of my neighbors and friends who were all about my age.  I had to be at the bus stop by 6:50 am because something is seriously wrong with the school system in this country that makes kids get up that goddamn early.  During the wintertime that often meant it was dark and foggy when I stood there in the morning.  While I was there, my mom was always at home, getting ready for work.  Running around upstairs in her pantyhose.  Slip on, curlers in her hair, Fruit of the Loom underwear pulled up just below her breasts.  Panicking, assuming I was at the bus stop by myself, thinking of all the terrible things that could be happening to me while she was putting on her foundation in the bathroom.

I stood at the top of the hill, at the bus stop with my neighbors, trying my best to be a cool middle school kid, which was all but impossible for a middle school kid.  I was in my wide leg jeans and Airwalks, it was still kind of dark, the sun had barely come up and it was foggy, I couldn't even see my house from where I was standing.  But through the fog, I heard a voice.

"Jeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa??"

I knew exactly where it was coming from and exactly who it was.  And one of my neighbors asked, "is that your mom?"

She yelled again, from her second story bedroom window that faced the bus stop, this time more desperate, "Jeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaaaa????"

"....yes.  That's my mom."  I responded to my neighbor quietly.   "MOM I'M HEEERREEEEE!!!!"  I called back to her, mortified.

"Okaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy!!" a voice called back from the fog.

I know now that she was just worried.  I know that she loved me and didn't want me to be scooped up by a hillbilly volunteer firefighter or eaten by a fog monster.  But that took time to learn.

If I have a daughter, I know that that will be me screaming from that bedroom window.  Just Quit Tryin Fuschia painted on my nails, gummy candy in my teeth.  And my daughter will curse me under her breath and yell back "MOM I'M HEEEEEEEEERRREEE."