Almostgotit.com

Don’t ever have children: it’s just too damn hard to let them go.

On the other hand, if you get carried away and one thing leads to another and what were you thinking when you drank all that champagne nineteen years ago, you still have your friends.  Most of them already went away to college, so now they can stick around with you instead.  These people will accept your leftover piles of compulsively-baked cookies, as well as your grief-crazed emails re: Love, Abandonment, and Divorcing God Forever.  Instead of calling the mental health professionals they quietly nod and hand over the kleenex. 

Like a little Xanax would be such a terrible thing?

And there are crazy-fun blogger friends, too.  Laurie over at Punk Rock HR invited me to join her Human Resources Bloggers Network today. Though I nearly broke out in hives at the thought of submitting an application to something, given my pretty much -perfect -record of total rejection, they actually let me in.

Then when I found this video Laurie made and posted there a couple days ago, it totally clinched the deal.

Three cheers as well for David Rendall, who has kicked up the pace at  The Freak Factor.  I thoroughly approve, even though he clearly stole his entire blog from my own subconscious one night when I was asleep and unable to defend myself.   I think we’ve established that I love him too much to sue, however.

Finally, I enjoyed wonderful Marilee Jones flashbacks when I read this recent article in CNN.com about the amazing lies people tell on their resumes.  That rascally Marilee Jones!  She remains  my freaky hero.  What ever happened to her after MIT fired her, anyway?

My blog stats are suddenly way down again, and it’s all my son’s fault.  Instead of going to college, he should have moved quietly into our basement and taken a job at Burger King.

Really, if my life would just stand still long enough for me to become properly obsessive-compulsive about something, I would be a great blogger.  But critiquing celebrity hairdos? Blogging entirely about blogging?  Kute Catz?  Forget about it.

What I really should blog about is “how to sell cocaine.”  That’s one of my top Google links these days.   Yep, beats the hell all out of me, too.

My son was born in Canada, and not long after we’d brought him home from the hospital, another graduate student baked a tin of these and brought them over to our apartment to celebrate.   They’ve since become an Almostgotit family staple, and my son has always loved them.  Sometimes he’s even asked for these in lieu of a birthday cake, and I’m baking them for him today.

Nova Scotia Oatcakes

3 cups quick rolled oats
3 cups flour
1 cup brown sugar (packed)
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons salt
1 1/2 cup shortening
2/3 – 3/4 cup cold water

In a large bowl, mix dry ingredients together.  Cut in shortening. Add enough water to form a rather stiff, pastry-like dough.  Roll 3/8 ” thick and cut into circles.  Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes on a greased baking sheet.  Makes enough to fill your cookie jar with enough left over to send with your son to college.

• Variation: one may sneakily substitute 1/2 cup apple sauce (one of those single-serving cups is just right) for the same portion of shortening and I guarantee no one will notice; bolder folk may substitute even more applesauce and the recipe will change a bit but still work fine. 
• You may need to go to the store for more oatmeal before making these.   While there, you might pick up these optional ingredients:  fingernail clippers; first-aid kit; ear plugs; an electric kettle; instant oatmeal, cream of wheat and hot cider mix (to go with kettle)

Please don’t laugh.   I’m sure it’s just another human developmental stage that got lost somewhere between Benjamin Spock and Gail Sheehy.  

“De-Nesting” manifests as a strange sort of ache that only feels better if the afflicted parent performs certain ritualistic behaviors.

It started with the chemistry text books, which I needed to take back to the old high school.  Identical twins, the second one acquired after the first disappeared in the bedroom rubble, both of them now freshly-escavated as we sort our way through the 18 year history of This Boy Now Leaving Home. 

I went on to the department store: a zippered mattress cover, of course… who knows where that college mattress has been? A nice soft mattress cover to go on top of that, so he’ll be nice and cozy.   And since there was a sale, a bunch of towels too, all matching so he’ll know which are his.  Not DARK blue, because maybe the roommate’s mother already chose dark blue.  A sort of masculine teal, then.   And a shower caddy too, of course, also in blue.  No, too matchy — better to pick white.  No, black - definitely black.    Also another pair of cargo shorts, because even though he said he doesn’t need any more, he probably isn’t thinking about the laundry issue.  A pillow cover.  A cute lamp. 

I had to stop by the grocery store on my way home, so thought I may as well pick up a couple of things for him there, too.  Just two or three things to get him started, because he will have to learn how to do his own shopping very soon, and spend his own money too.  So I just grabbed the basics: shampoo, soap, toothpaste. Then decided to double all of those.  Deodorant too.  Well, and vitamins and chapstick and a new toothbrush, and disposable flossers… I decided he’ll floss more, if I got him flossers.  Laundry detergent, and dish soap while I was at it.  Some chlorine bathroom cleaner, because four boys (sorry!) men can get pretty grotty.   I wondered if I should get them a toilet brush, too? 

Sunscreen.  Oh, and bug spray, in case they want to go hiking on the spur of the moment.  Envelopes, so he’ll write to his grandparents.  And since I was already in the aisle: push pins, gluestick, ink pens, pencils, a pencil sharpener to go with the pencils.  Notebook paper, though maybe that’s too juvenile?  Made sure it was college-ruled.  Scotch tape, and a stapler for good measure.  Kleenex. 

I got home in time to take my daughter to a promised trip to Goodwill, where I continued to add to my supply of de-nesting materials.  Four microwave-safe plates — four, because I may as well him get the whole set, and he can use it when friends come over.  Or even take them to his first apartment — which thought made my stomach hurt.   A matching mug.  A wonderfully huge stoneware bowl that would survive a nuclear blast.  If they ever have those at college, I mean.  ANOTHER very cute lamp, which his sister will happily take if he doesn’t want it.

Did I tell you already that he’s moving in early?  Only two days away.  I’m not ready, I’m not READY.  I mean, he’s not ready.  I think we need to sit down together and make a really long list, and then I need to bake him some cookies.

Image created by Almostgotit’s 12-yr-old daughter, who thinks her mother is acting like an idiot.

Hallelujah and pass the pillow, it’s true.  We have a spanking new queen-sized mattress (with a new foundation to boot.) 

Our cancelled Tunisia plane ticket money has come through (mostly.  I am not, currently, a fan of Air France) which paid for the mattress.  And a new computer for our college-bound son. 

Who is moving into his dorm *early* as it turns out.  So I won’t have time to make him a giant flannel board, after all.

 My daughter started back to school today, leaving Almostgotit with an empty house all day again, and what to do next, she wonders?  (the local porn shop adult book store has a “help wanted” sign out front.  How much do you dare me?)

And here’s a little ethical dilemma.  My son has honored me by “friending” me on his Facebook profile, which means I can also read what he and all his other friends are saying to each other.  My policy is to be (almost) invisible, because I get much more information that way, of course!!  However, one of my son’s very active Facebook friends is the daughter of a friend of mine who has forbidden her daughter to use Facebook.   I’m not inclined to play the informer here, both because it would violate my son’s trust and because I think this girl’s parents need to make it their own responsibility to better engage, support, and monitor their daughter.  Besides, it’s only Facebook:   I mean, I would tell them if she were smoking pot.  What do you think, readers?

Nine days.  That’s how much longer we have as a family of four sharing the same house.  I’m not ready.

I still haven’t made him that giant flannel bulletin board I was planning, the one on which he could arrange little felt roads and cars and houses and trains to his heart’s content.  I still have a couple of toddler-sized overalls in my mending basket too (because, who ever actually MENDS, anyway?) 

And what about that cross-country train trip we wanted to do at some point?  We totally forgot to do that!  Never made it to Disney World, either.  I guess I’m not too broken up about Disney World, but Universal Studios might have been fun. 

Bear-bear is still wearing the pajamas I made him, though, and they still look new.  They should, as they were part of the matching set of pajamas I made for both of them just last Christmas, when my son was seven.   

This summer we’ve managed to teach him how to make a bank deposit, at least, and last year he finally learned how to do laundry.  Sometimes he even remembers to close the front door after he’s used it, too.

And today, he’s gone in to vote in the county elections.  They let seven year olds do that now? 

I guess I don’t know very much about anything, any more. 

I’ve been defending the Knoxville News-Sentinel a lot lately.  Some of my friends are on staff there, after all.  But today I read a news article written by their reporter who regularly covers the University of Tennessee, in which he referred to “sorority girls.”

I beg your pardon?

When I went to college, I learned from both professors and peers that the proper term for myself was “woman.”  Sure it felt funny at first, and a little thrilling too.  The assumption, however, was that I was becoming an autonomous adult, thus making the term “woman” both formative and accurate.

After a little online research  (Q: can things really have regressed this much?!?) I discovered that college women these days often do refer to themselves as “girls,” because the word “woman” feels too old.  But they also assert that the male counterpart for “girl” is “guy, dude, boy – whatever.”    Not “man.”

No one, still, claims that “girl” is the proper feminine equivalent of “man.”

I also doubt that any newspaper style sheet would condone the use of “Fraternity dudes” in a formal news story.

The story was written by a guy/dude/boy whose main beat is the university.  Of all people, he should know better.  Furthermore, the story itself is about campus security, and the current initiatives to protect female students, in particular. 

The only conclusion I can draw from the News-Sentinel today is that women’s vulnerabilities turn women into impotent little girls — while also turning news writers into patronizing old farts. 

Women, girls, “whatever.”  What do you think, readers?

Update: I emailed the writer, and may not have been the only one.  In any case, in the online version of the article, the term “sorority girls” – beginning of 3rd paragraph — now reads “sorority member (sic)”  Should we be forgiving??

Speaking of being freaky, a big hat-tip to Kathy, who sent me a link to an article published yesterday by CNN, Weird tactics can sometimes get you the job.  The article is terrific, but not as terrific as Kathy, who notes:

This reminded me of my sister who interviewed three times for vet school, failing the first two times because her interview went poorly. She came to Joe and me for a mock interview; my first question was, “Why do you want to be a vet?” She mumbled about loving animals. True but trite. I suggested she consider saying, “The last time I had my arm up a cow butt (she did do this as a veterinary asst.), I realized that not everyone would love this, but I did.”  She got in.

A friend of mine let me blog for a whole entire week on the subject of rejection before admitting to me that his psych lab research at Berkeley was on the topic of “rejection sensitivity.” 

There followed a rather intense exchange of emails in which I obnoxiously tried to debunk everything he said.  That’s me, an obnoxious debunker.  So no wonder, maybe, he never told me what he’d been doing for two whole years of his life?

On the bright side, he also sent me two very good jokes.  I hope he won’t mind if I pass them on:

Q. What’s Irish and stays out all night? 

A. Patio Furniture.

——-

Q. What do insomniac, dyslexic agnostics do all night? 

A. They stay awake wondering if there is a Dog.

This letter belongs to Kevin Burg , whose grandmother received it in 1938.  (click here to see it even better)  Kevin notes that despite Disney’s declaration that women aren’t to do any creative work, his grandmother eventually became an animator during WWII when women had to step up “For the War Effort.” 

To be fair, it probably wasn’t entirely sexist, in 1938, to deny women any but the most menial, low-paying jobs.  During the Great Depression, many Americans felt that only men were entitled to jobs, the logic being that men had families to support.  That logic was a little thin, of course, as many women also were supporting families, some of which included their unemployed husbands.  

Don’t you love the stationery?  So perfect to send to all the “girls” looking for jobs.  I wonder what kind of stationery the real adults received?  (and we could do all kinds of things with the witch lurking in the corner, too — hey look, it’s HR Wench’s dopellganger!)

(DRUM ROLL PLEASE) And now for the REAL hall of fame!

Many thanks to all the others who have celebrated rejection with me this week, both here and on your own blogs: (please let me know if I’ve left you out… I’m still chasing down the “pings!)

Mikael, Mikael the Mime) (who has magical bodily functions)
James, James Viscosi’s Scribblings (yes, there’s plenty enough rejection to go around)
Deb, A Little Tea or Something (for understanding what I mean)
Peggy, Career Encouragement Blog (who is going to be the best PhD ever)
Alison, Ask a Manager (one of the blogosphere’s best writers)
Truevyne, The TrueVyne (braver than most people know)
Cassandra, Ophelia Blooming (collage-maker extraordinaire)
Karen, Working Girl (there’s NO place like home!)
Rachel at The Drawing Lady  (PLEASE: What’s a Jerwood?)
Ann, Thomas Trails and Tales (hurray for you!  Only 99 more rejections to join our super-duper hall of fame!)
Linda, The Girl with the Curl (who just GOT a job, but can still remember what it is like…)
Michelle, Philadelphia Stories and Michelle Wittle’s Web log (Inspiring, she is)
Dave, Dare to Dream (The only licensed advice-giver in the bunch)
Bill, not poetry blog (for this collage of rejection letters!)
Jackson, Blue Mosaic Me (who actually LIKED his most recent rejection letter.)

As well as for my blogless-but-wonderful fellow rejectees Kathy, David, Tom R., Felicia, Keith, Pam S., Mini-Betsy, Marisa and Laura E