The Lost Generation Looks for a Job

I'm concerned.  No, I'm down right worried about the 20 somethings who are looking for work right now.  I have two in that category so I know first hand what they are experiencing.  They have the misfortune of starting their work careers in a sucky labor market.  Hell, it's not even a market.  It's more like a yard sale.

This young man, who looks a bit like my oldest, is dutifully scanning the papers, which would never happen since everyone their age group searches on-line.  Newspapers are so old school, ya know.

Ahhhh, the old days.  You got dressed in your Sunday best and went door to door, filling out applications and using your Miss Manners, uh, manners.  My youngins crawl out of bed and plod off to the computer, the new human resources/personnel office.  Do they even have people in HR anymore?  I'm just seeing a computer randomly selecting applications and then shooting them in the air.  The ones that land on a desk get picked up in passing by a manger who needs some new peons.  The rest of the applications get used for cat litter boxes and bird cages.

When my oldest son graduated from college, he had one interview at a car rental agency...one of the biggies.  He had two interviews and didn't make the cut.  Having rented from this particular company, I figured that he didn't fit the profile.  He didn't chew gum, yawn in anyone's face or have limited interpersonal skills.  At least that's the experience I had with one of their "customer service" people the last time I rented a car.

And so, a dozen on-line applications later, he settled for a job with an office supply chain.  He had to take a personality test for that one.  Really?  Was the fate of the free world on his shoulders?  Did they really have a commitment to hiring just the right person for this minimum wage job?  I think it's more a test of endurance.  If you can sit at the computer for an hour and answer all of the questions without putting your fist through the monitor, then you're the one for them.

Poor kid.  He wore the silly red polo shirt that didn't fit his 6'5" frame.  He reported to work at 5:30 a.m. to unload the truck.  He answered questions about which pens were on sale.  He patiently waited on senior citizens who just wanted someone to talk to.  And every two weeks, he stared in dismay at his paycheck and wondered, "What's it all about?"  Heck, I've wondered that over paychecks that were a lot bigger.

 The younger son had the same experience...minimum wage, random work hours, silly uniforms, no advancement jobs.  And to add even more insult to the situation, some jobs are "seasonal" which is corporate gobbildy gook for a job that ends right before you are eligible for unemployment.

Out of desperation and with an added bonus of adventure, they both worked jobs at Yellowstone National Park.  These jobs are considered seasonal, but if you complete the contract, approximately a six month commitment, you get a bonus and unemployment.  Having worked there myself, I can tell you that even though many people work in parks to enjoy nature, it is also a refuge for young adults who cannot find work in their states.  Quite a few people move from one park to another, living a nomad life of sorts.

My sons went back for a second season because they couldn't find work in Ohio, other than the above mentioned minimum wage jobs that do not provide benefits, dignity or advancement.  The oldest son has decided to pursue his dream of finding a job with a minor league baseball team.  The pay is low but he is willing to give it a shot before he gives up and thinks about graduate school.  The younger son is planning to go back to college to get a degree in Criminal Justice and possibly go to police academy.  I don't know where that came from, but maybe he got just a teeny bit of my social worker genes in a more macho version.  Don't tell him I said that.

None of my sons' friends have careers or anything close to it.  I don't think any of them have health insurance.  And I know that none of them have a clue about what to do.  Some day, in the far, far future, the economy will improve, I have my fingers crossed on that one, and these young men will be closed out of the job market.  Those faceless human resources people will toss their resumes aside with disgust because they don't have the experience they want.

How can you get experience when there are no jobs!!!!!!!!!  Would the HR people be happier if they had just stayed unemployed instead of waiting tables or stocking shelves?  I know this will happen as well as I know that useless lap kitty will barf in my shoe sometime this week.  The companies will forget that little unemployment disaster that was in all the headlines for a couple of years.  They will go back to asking questions like "What is you worst personality trait?"  They won't understand that working minimum wage jobs does build character.  Any job that you show up to day after day, especially if you hate it, builds character.

I don't want to be right about this one.  I would love to see the doors of opportunity open up for these young people, my lost generation, but I'm worried.  I think we're going to have them in our basements for some time to come. 

You Say Wikileaks, I Say Wookileaks

Has anyone else been thinking the same thing?

Wouldn't Wikileaks be a lot more fun if it was Wookileaks?

And couldn't we all relate to this better if it was about wookies who need Depends?

Or how about Kon Tiki leaks?

I could understand the problem if your boat leaks.

And who wouldn't be interested in Mikileaks? 

This is a Mi-Ki.  I bet it leaks when you come home from work.





This is what I've been thinking about today.

I haven't been out much lately.

Sleepless in (Where Am I?)

You know that giving a drunk coffee only gets you a wide awake drunk?  The same applies to giving a tired person gallons of coffee.  All you get is a jittery, blabbering idiot who can't sleep.

This is my prime time sleeping season.  I love to sleep in a cold room. I leave my window open and go into some kind of hibernation mode.  Little frost pellets form on my face.  But, last night or this morning or whatever you call 3 a.m., all systems failed.

My oldest son is staying with us...who doesn't have one of those in the house?  He was heading to bed at 3 a.m., using his cell phone as a flashlight and ran into hubby just getting up, using the same light source.  O.K., so I don't understand either one of these life styles, and even if you choose to keep unnatural hours, we have electric lights.  So they have some sort of giggle fest out there in the hall which is better than screams and a fist fight I suppose, but I'm confused, I'm dazed and I'm awake.

You know, you can't try real hard to go back to sleep.  It's like trying to push a hard boiled egg through the eye of a needle.  It doesn't work, it's frustrating and you get egg all over the place.  This analogy doesn't seem to make much sense, but I'm barely coherent right now.  Just try to follow along and fill in the blanks when I leave them.

Here I am...it's 9 a.m., I've been awake for 5 hours, I've had breakfast, I've checked my email, I've watched CNN, I'm already watching reruns of NCIS, it's snowing (yikes), my heart is skipping along on a caffeine high, and I'm thinking about signing up for a sky diving class.  No...no...do not make any decisions in this condition.  Hide the credit cards and sharp objects.

I promise not to handle anything today that could dismember me or a loved one, including Useless Lap Kitty.  I remember Thanksgiving two years ago when I almost sliced the end of my thumb off with a handy dandy food slicer, and there was this trip to the emergency room, and there was crying and fainting but hubby recovered when the needles went away, and then I had to fix dinner with this big honking bandage on my thumb, and now the end of my thumb is permanently numb, and I threw the slicer away as soon as I got home, so I'll probably just stay in my comfy clothes and hope that eventually I just fall over into a coma but right now I think I'll do some laundry and alphabetize my recipes and clean out the dryer vent and paint the bathroom...........

Walking in Hunting Season: It's a Jungle Out There

I'm a simple soul.  Not simple in gazing vacantly at lint on my pants, but I have simple needs.  I need to sleep in a cold room, I need to read, I need chocolate and I need to take walks in the woods.  The first three are covered nicely.  As of yesterday, the walking has taken a deadly twist.


Hubby and I live a semi-hermit like existence in the country.  We have five acres of woods and weeds as high as an elephant's eye.  If I want to walk on our property, I would have to carry a machete.  Since I'm not yet committed to building my upper body, I walk on a neighbor's property.

See the picture?  He has it mowed for just that purpose.  "Come on neighbor," this path says to me. But there's some wee, tiny fine print and you should always read the fine print, you know.  



IT'S HUNTING SEASON FOR DEER!  I was on my third loop of the path, breathing the crisp air, enjoying my privacy and communing with nature, when neighbor shows up in full hunting regalia.  Actually, he sort of looked like the Cookie Monster in camouflage...with a gun. It seems that I was not alone.  I was being observed by men in trees...with guns.

Neighbor informed me, in a sweet way, that it probably wasn't a good time for me to be out walking.  It seems that my orange vest was a nice touch, but my gray hooded sweat shirt sort of looked like a deer tail.  I'm thinking he was being polite about the gray sweatshirt.  They probably saw my gray hair bobbing above the weeds.

He reassured me that deer hunting season, the one where the hunters use guns, would be over next week.  "And what can they use after that?" I asked. " Let's see," neighbor said thoughtfully, "there's seasons for muzzle loading, bow and arrow, sticks and stones, table knives, nerf guns, and Nancy Sinatra tunes."  So I exaggerate a little, but hunting doesn't stop, just the weapons change.

I am currently vewy, vewy afwaid of taking a walk next week or any other week.  I don't think this a good look for me.

I don't know what the bag limit is for my species, but let me say one thing to my predators.  I am a stringy, bitter tastin' critter and my head won't look very impressive on your wall.  Let me walk in peace and the spirits will look kindly on your hunting.  Deal?

And by the way, I hear the deer got their hooves on some claymore mines.  Be vewy, vewy afraid.

Working Retail Sucks!

I have to get something off my chest besides the remnants of the coconut cream pie I just foolishly ate.  I have a scrub business located in a flea market.  That's not my big confession but it is subject to some eye brow raising, I'm sure.  If you are a connoisseur of flea markets, you know that I am surrounded by discount socks, used video games, basement junk, puppies, dented canned goods, etc.

I'm there because it's cheap, so don't judge me.  What I really have to tell you is that retail sucks hugely!  I can't tell you how good it feels to say it out loud.  It's not just me.  If you haven't had the pleasure of waiting on people yourself, find someone who has.  We are everywhere in your life...lurking behind bushes, insanely babbling to ourselves.  For heaps of fun, Google "Retail Sucks" and settle back.  You'll see language from previously normal people that will just blow your hair back.

When we started our business I had no idea that working retail would be worse than being a social worker.  I apologize to my readers who are in that noble profession, but let's face it.  Social workers are notoriously underpaid, misunderstood and overworked. " We get no respect" to quote a famous American.   And you know what?  Working retail is at the bottom of the respect scale. 

Why has retail turned me against the human race?

See this child?  I swear she was in my store yesterday.  While her pregnant mother attempted to shop, she and her little brother ran amuk through the racks.  Every ten seconds she stopped and shrieked at the top of her lungs.  I mean the sound was at a level that could break glass.  Her face was flushed, her hair was disheveled and 666 was peeking out from under her bangs.

Fortunately for my hearing,  mother grabbed the demon seed and left the store. I have had clones of this little girl in my store for what seems like hours while the mother shops.  Sometimes there are a whole pack of them terrorizing my merchandise while the parents placidly ignore them.

My scrubs are on racks with wheels.  Can you see where this is going?  Children climb through the racks, push them around, and use them as weapons against their siblings.  Little girls love to grab scrub tops off racks and drag them over to their mothers.  Do the tops get back to the right place?  No.  Children pull tags off scrubs.  Aren't the little tykes cute?  What's even uglier are the parents who let this happen.  Why are you having more of them when you can't control the ones you have?  Thank God I don't sell glassware. 

Let's move on to cell phone addicts.  Brittany or Tiffany stroll through the store, ear glued permanently to their rhinestone encrusted cell phone, trashing your merchandise.  "OMG, I can get this top cheaper at Walmart.."  Hello!  I'm standing right next to you!  I own the store! They pull at the clothes with long painted nails.  Their tats and piercings are flaunted to the world.  "OMG!"  These girls are in health care somewhere.  Think about it.  Frightening.

Since I've mentioned Walmart, let's go there.  I'm standing behind my counter, a sweet sappy smile on my face, and customers start the "I can find it cheaper at..." routine.  First of all, this is just plain rude.  It's a flea market which means the owners are running the stores.  These aren't retail outlets or corporate businesses.  You talk trash about my store, you are insulting me.  How about I go to your job and criticize your work?  "Wow, Brandi, you didn't use the proper technique for lifting Mrs. Jones off her bedpan.  Oh, yea...your hair looks like hell too."  How does it feel, Brandi? 

Speaking of Walmart and other evil corporate discount chains, I cannot offer you, ugly customer, the same prices that they do.  Try to pull together the few brain cells you have and think this through.  Walmart has a gazillion dollars to spend on merchandise.  They buy huge quantities of products at ridiculously low prices and make you believe that they pass the savings on to you.  Actually, my prices are similar to the discount giants and lower than the chain uniform stores.  Think this through and I will speak slowly for your benefit.  My profit margin is low.  I do not own a vacation home.  My car is seven years old.  Do I sound like a corporate giant?  Do me a favor....keep on moving down the road to the nearest Walmart.  I'll even draw you a map.

Of course, we cannot forget the rack wreckers who put items back wherever they happen to end up.  And the women who leave make up all over the scrubs they try on.  And customers who won't speak to you when you ask if you can help them.  And customers who ask if you have scrubs with iguanas on them...really?  And customers who ask if I make the scrubs...really again.  And customers who ask if I'm here every weekend...no I pack up a thousand items and take them home so I can play with them.

To be fair, there is the flip side.  I have many regular customers who treat me with respect and I look forward to seeing them.  Their mothers raised them right.  I'm venting to relieve the pressure on my blood vessels.  Just know that the clerk who waits on you at the department store or the convenience store is mentally plotting your death when you walk in.  They may be smiling, but they have many fantasy scenarios involving your untimely demise.  Be nice.  Be very, very nice. 

I Am Not My Mother!

Do you know that you can feel you sons' eyes roll over the phone?

"Hello, mom, I have a job interview tomorrow." 

Screech.  Gasp.  "Are you going to wear a shirt with a collar?  Make sure there's no dog hair on it."

"I know m-o-t-h-e-r." 

"You're rolling your eyes at me, aren't you?  Stop it!"

This is such cruel punishment from my own flesh and blood.  I spent most of my life cringing at the things my mother said and I'm certainly not my mother.  I AM NOT MY MOTHER!  Come over here closer and say that. 

"Why don't you ask Tiffany out?  Her mother told me that she broke up with her boyfriend, and she seems like such a nice girl."

"M-o-t-h-e-r." 

"So I suppose that just because I suggested it....Stop rolling!"

No, I'll say it again.  I am not my mother!  I'm way cool and she wasn't.  When she suggested guys they were the pasty faced, choir boy, closet gay types, and when I suggest women they are hot blondes.That makes us different, right?

I don't fare any better in person.  If the two of them are together, they show no mercy. I get the full frontal eye roll, the pat on the head, and the threat to put me in my mother's nursing home.  I'm only 61 and I don't have dementia yet!  What?  What do you mean I bought you the same present last Christmas?  I couldn't have.  Shit, yes I did.  Why didn't I remember?  Yes, I know that my mother unwrapped the same presents about a dozen times one year.  Well, she enjoyed them every time she opened them.  What's wrong with that?

I also talk too much to strangers, which my parents did and their parents before them.  It's a family tradition.  I also sing along to songs in the car, I dance in the house, I check out their friends on Facebook, I tell off color jokes and just basically breathe which are all reasons for my sons to roll their eyes. 

I know.  It's just a matter of time before they have their own children, blah, blah, blah.  They'll get the same treatment, but that is weak revenge at this point.  At the rate I'm going, I won't be mentally sharp enough to be in cahoots with my grandchildren. Hopefully, I will be able to raise my gray head off the bed, hairs sprouting all over my face, and give my sons a big fat eye roll.  I gotta time it right because they might just think I'm having a stroke or something. 

O.K., so I'll stop now before I embarrass you and myself anymore.  At least until tomorrow.

Job Hunting: Victory!

It's a Winston Churchill kind of day here in unemployment land.  I'm doing this little victory dance, kinda of old school, but Winnie would approve.  Here's the scoop.  I'm typing away, venting about how uncivilized the job search is in this economy and I get a call.

Flash back to last week.  I interviewed for a social work job I actually wanted.  I was convinced that it was my worst interview ever.  Other than no booger hanging from my nose, I was spectacularly unimpressive.  Hang on here, it's a bumpy ride, but back to the present.  The call was to offer me the job.  Actually, they offered me a part time job, but I'm good with this.  I'm going to need some adjustment time anyway.  I'll be in withdrawal when my "Law and Order" afternoons are disturbed.

If you think this is the end of my ironic story, it gets better.  The next day, I got a call about a job that I had applied for a month ago.  OMG!  It gets even better.  About an hour later, hubby got a call for a second interview.

So my foot is stuck so far in mouth it is finding another exit.  How is this happening? This should be the worst time of year to find a job.  Nothing ever happens at the holidays. I was planning to move under the bridge sometime around Christmas Eve.  My trash bags were packed, but great balls of fire, the phone is ringing off the hook!

Have I jinxed my good luck by talking about it?  Of course not...uhhhh...I hope not.  Just let me say that unemployment is at 15.8% in my area.  I am extremely grateful for a chance to get back in the job market.  I promise to make you all proud.  I promise to not blog about my job or to insult my boss or to get in any trouble of any kind.  For the first time in my work life, I shall follow the rules.  Oh please, please keep your fingers crossed for me.  Being good isn't one of my strongest traits.  I'll need your support or a support group.

Good luck to everyone still looking for a job.  If I can give you a reference, just let me know.  That's what friends do, you know. 





 

Happy Thanksgiving

I'm not going to say much today because I know that everyone is busy.  Personally, I'm waging mortal combat with a turkey.  Wish me luck. 

I'm feeling light headed because there is a job offer pending...I think I have the job...and I actually might enjoy it....but if I talk about it, I'm afraid it will go away.  So for now, enjoy Thanksgiving.  Eat, drink, be merry.

Can anyone tell me how to get all of those left overs in the refrigerator? 

Job Hunting: It Ain't Pretty

Job hunting...colonoscopies...water boarding...choose one.  Personally, I'll take a colonoscopy Alex, for $1200.

Have you looked for a job lately?  What am I saying.  Everyone is looking for a job. And since everyone is looking, employers have stored work place etiquette on the top shelf along with livable wages.  They don't have to be polite now that accountants and recent law graduates are applying for entry level positions.

Here's the first scenario.  You see a job that interests you, which is a miracle in itself.  Anything that doesn't say "earn big bucks and work from home" is a viable job. (Those people should rot in Hell along with the Nigerians who send you emails about keeping their money while they fight a coup in their homeland.) You redo the resume, write a killer cover letter and fire it off.  You haven't actually lied about anything...nothing that will put you in jail, where come to think of it, you get three meals a day and a bed.  Maybe crime does pay.

Sometimes you're lucky and can actually drop your resume off at a real office.  Back in the day, being able to walk in the door and schmooze the receptionist got you a few extra points.  "Hey, boss.  That stunning woman who just dropped off a resume would be a perfect fit for the job, and she thought my cross stitch computer cover was just the cutest thing she ever saw.  Can we hire her?  Please?"  You think I'm joking?  It's worked before.  Now the receptionist won't even make eye contact.  Job seekers are a pathetic bunch of desperate people.  I wouldn't look either.

Now, most resumes end up in the internet Bermuda Triangle.  Did they get it?  Will I get a generic response?  Hello!  Is anyone out there?  Why did you advertise?  Do you really have a job or is this some cruel joke?  Did you already hire your wife's cousin because your sex life depends on it?  I don't know.  When you aren't working, you have time to make up outrageous and sometimes true situations.

Another scenario, that doesn't happen often, is lining up outside a business to get an application.  Moooo.  Something smells familiar.  An employer may try this tactic once and only once.  You know what?  Maybe all applications should be handed out this way.  You hear that hundreds of people apply for one job, but it would make an impact on the sanctimonious politicians and business owners that the numbers are real people.

The final insult and a sharp kick to the tookus is the dead silence after an interview.  You remember interviews, don't you?  An employer calls, sets an appointment, gets your little hopes and ambitions in a tizzy, and off you go in your Sunday best to make that great first impression.  Please don't let my palms be sweaty.  Don't let there be a booger hanging out of my nostril.  And then....nothing.  They don't call.  They don't email.  Just a big, black NOTHING.

Let me be the first to volunteer to torture these people for all of eternity.  No, wait, I want to get paid for this because I am looking for a job.  I would force them to fill out applications 24 hours a day while bagpipers played behind their chair.  I could do this.

I'm not bitter.  No, I'm just pissy mad.  I'm sitting by the phone and I ain't getting any prettier.

Health Care for Dummies

I don't know if I'm up to taking on the health care dilemma.  It would seem counter-productive to talk about health care and end up with a headache, but I'll risk it.

Let's make this simple.  We need affordable health care.  Let's have a show of hands.  How many people think that a for profit company with greedy CEO's and stockholders will provide that for us?  No hands up?  I see Bob's hand over in the corner, but I think he owns some stock in Blue Cross or he has to go to the bathroom.  I'm not sure.

Why do so many Americans dig in their heals about a universal health care plan?  Maybe, to keep it simple, the 200 people who still have jobs with benefits don't want changes, and the rest of us with no jobs are too weak to answer the polls correctly.  Living on stale bread and ramen noodles can impair your judgment.

Now, I don't know how this health care plan would be funded.  That's not my job.  I can point out an obvious reason why the government is busy clipping coupons and looking for money under the mattress.  Want to add up the money we've spent in Iraq and Afghanistan?  Want to add up how much we have to spend on health care to take care of the soldiers coming home with physical and emotional problems?

Oh, excuse me.  We need to be in those countries because....uhhhhhhhhhh.  Does anyone remember why we're there?  Moving on.  Let's be creative about finding the money.

How about some big ass bake sales?  I'm thinking that our politicians have some culinary skills.  They must be able to do something.  Maybe baking is a hidden talent they should explore.  John Boehner brownies anyone?  Newt Gingrich ginger snaps?  Stop me, please.

How about a government run movie studio?  That Avatar movie made heaps of money.  Arnold Schwarzenegger isn't doing anything right now.  He could run the program. I'm open for suggestions about the types of movies they should make, but since the government has access to weapons of mass destruction, I'm leaning towards war movies.

Now that I've made some suggestions, how about the rest of you pitch in with some ideas?  Once we get our list together, I volunteer to make a nice power point presentation for our leaders.

Just let me sum up.  I want health care for everyone.  I'm out of work so if anyone in Washington wants me to consult, I'm available at any time.  They will have to pay my expenses to get there or wait until I can hitch out there from Ohio. I'll be waiting for the call with my bowl of Ramen noodles.

Explain Male Honor To Me Cause I'm Pissed

I'm feeling Pissy, perhaps as a result of a bad day selling scrubs.  I've got this struggling little medical uniform business at a flea market which is bad enough for my ego, but when sales are down, I just get Pissy with a capital P in case you didn't notice.  What better excuse for lashing out at everything I don't understand which also pisses me off.

I was listening to NPR the other day which usually doesn't Piss me off.  I adore intelligent people, but they were talking to a sweet elderly man who was sharing stories of World War II with his grandson.  He talked about being a Lieutenant at the age of 19 and having to follow orders that haunted him.  Every night, he had to pick two men who had to get in a small boat and then attempt to row across a river.  Every night, the Germans killed the two men.  Sounds like there should be a punch line here since it sounds too ridiculous to be true. 

I don't know how long this went on, but I would say one time was one time too many.  And yet, every day, he picked the men and they got in the boat.  This is where my hubby tries to explain to me that this is what male honor is about in the time of war.  Paleaseeeeeee!  Doing the same thing over and over with the same disastrous result is a sign of insanity.

I don't even know what to say next because this male honor thing just gives my mind a wedgie.  Lucky for me  women weren't drafted during the Viet Nam War.  I'd still be in the brig.  As I understand it, you don't get to ask "why" in the military.  "Why are we risking out lives to take that little hill, sir?"  "Why exactly do we want this country, sir?"  "Are you sure we're going in the right direction, sir, cause that rice paddy looks just like the one we passed an hour ago?"  Nope.  I'd be writing my memoirs on toilet paper and trading Tampons for cigarettes
.
Let's look at male honor in another situation.  Let's say, dad, that your six year old son is being bullied by that Neanderthal neighbor's kid.  Let's call him Eugene.  Eugene wants your son to eat a dog turd.  "My son will not eat a dog turd if I have anything to say about it," you sputter.  "Get over here Junior and let's talk about standing up for yourself."  So you lecture mini you about not doing stupid things just because some big moron is telling you to do it. 

Flash forward thirteen years.  Eugene is telling your son to get in the boat and go across the river.  Hmmm.  Sounds like eating a dog turd to me.  Let me tell you something about female honor.  I didn't raise my boys to be killing machines, and I certainly didn't raise them to follow Eugene's orders.  I taught them to not pull wings off flies and to help short people get items from the top shelf in the grocery.  I taught them to think for themselves so that the Eugene's of the world wouldn't force them into eating unsavory items.  As Forrest Gump would say, "And that's all I have to say about that."

I'm not sure how having a bad retail day pushed me into this rant, but it did.  If tomorrow turns out to be miserable, I will be attacking our health care system.  Stay tuned.      




 

Phun Phriday and Bison Poo

My buddy, Scott, at scottlawphotography.com., does this Phun Phriday thing which is lots of phun.  Of course he's a prophessional photographer.  I'm not, but that won't stop me.  I'm phearless.  I should stop the "ph" stuff, but I can't.  I'm phrankly powerless.

Since I haven't done anything phun today, I thought I would do a photo retrospective of my phascination with bison poo in Yellowstone.  If you're new here, I did a semi-disastrous work trip to Yellowstone Park a while back.  The result...a broken tooth and lots of pics of bison poo.

Let me explain that I'm not usually interested in scat, poo, excrement, etc.  It's just that there was so phlipping much of it.  Bison roam freely, in large numbers and honestly, they are just big scary cattle.  If you grew up on a pharm, you know that you don't walk around randomly with your head in the clouds.  If you do, you will walk with your feet in the poo.

Now this is your rather phresh bison poo.  It's about the size of a cantaloupe. 

This is the dried out version of bison poo.  At this point, one could consider trying a poo toss.  Not advisable unless one is heavily gloved or totally wasted.

This is the artsy photo of bison poo.  The snow on top adds the needed contrast.  What do you think, Scott?  Is it prize worthy?

I've titled this one "Pen in Poo."  It speaks for itself.

And finally, a Christmas ornament made out of bison poo.  You can buy this for yourself at dunganddunger.com.  I am begging you to buy some Christmas presents from these pholks.  I truly believe that if someone doesn't come up with some new uses for bison poo, we will be up to our necks in the shit.

And when the volcano lurking under Yellowstone phinally blows, there will be poo phlung from coast to coast.  Not that it will matter at that point, but if I'm going to be wiped out by a volcano, I don't want to be covered in bison poo while I'm waiting to die.

Sorry, Scott.  If you were expecting something a little classier, I've phailed you.  But it was phun!

If you are really bored, you can still see my Yellowstone adventure at yellowstonedreaming.blogspot.com.  I haven't been sued yet by my phormer employers, so I think it's safe.  Happy Phun Phriday to you all and to all a good night!

Nursing Home Blues Revisited

O.K., I was way too nice yesterday when I blogged about Thanksgiving at my mom's nursing home.  There were things I wanted to say, but I always get in trouble, and I'm so tired of getting called on the carpet at my age.  Am I going to let that stop me?  No.  So here goes.

Things that make me sure I'll just crawl out into the back acres, swallow broken glass and die before I go to a nursing home:

1.  Shower time.  As far as I know, they put you on a chair in the shower and hose you off.  Showers are personal because, well, you're naked for heaven's sake.  I'd shower with my clothes on now if I could.  There are parts of my body I never want to look at again.  I'm glad I can't turn my head far enough to check out my ass.  Unfortunately, I can see my front but if I look at the shower ceiling, all is well.  So, you get hosed off by someone who should return the favor by being naked themselves because that would take away a little of the humiliation.  And this extreme fun only happens once or twice a week.  I shower every day.  I can't imagine making do with sponge baths in between.  No wonder every nursing home resident's hair looks like they just woke up from under the bridge.

2.  Stray hairs.  I pluck those little suckers off my lip every day.  I can't see most of them but I give it a good try and in the privacy of my bathroom.  I looked in my rear view mirror one day right before I was heading to the dentist and in the harsh daylight I found four or five that just jumped off my face.  I actually went to the drugstore to get some tweezers before my appointment. I know it's vanity, but I don't want my children visiting me at the home when I'm sporting a full mustache.  Knowing them, they'll buy me mustache wax for Christmas.  Who can you ask to pluck those suckers anyway?  The nursing home staff will shave you if you ask, but...sputter, gasp...I really don't want to get shaved right after old Mr. Grimes and grumpy Mr. Jones.

3.  Privacy or lack thereof.  Most of the time you share a room, divided by a curtain.  If you fart, you hope your roommate is deaf.  If you cry, because you're so damn miserable, someone sees you and stuffs another Ativan down your throat.  Well, maybe being drugged up isn't a bad plan if you're in a nursing home.  Of course you can throw in number 1, the shower, and add assistance with getting on the john.  No one at this point in my life has had access to the state of my toilet deposits.  I prefer not to share.

4.  The staff.  Let me just say, I love the people at my mom's home, but I have to be honest.  There are folks working in nursing homes I wouldn't let near a dead plant.  Remember, I sell medical uniforms and I wait on them in my store. They give their infants Mountain Dew in baby bottles and they scream at their children like fish wives.  They don't strike me as patient, compassionate, or even remotely literate.  Yes, these are minimum wage jobs, which I find appalling because it's extremely hard work, but if I'm stuck in a home, I can't do much about their working conditions. 

5.  You have to be a nice patient.  This one will be hard for me.  Naturally, everyone likes the pleasant resident who never asks for anything and plays the sweet little old lady role. Think about it.  Do you want to wear a smile all day just to get extra special treatment?  I can feel little blood vessels exploding in my head just thinking about it.

6.  Do gooders.  Church groups love to visit nursing home residents.  They lean over them with their condescending smiles and syrupy sweet talk.  They pat and hug and hand out little church pamphlets.  Sometimes they drag their frightened toddlers with them because old people love to see the children.  I don't want to be patted.  I don't want to frighten children with my sprouting face hair. 

I'm stopping here but I haven't even touched on the food or the wacked out behavior of the other residents.  Let me sum it up.  Living in a nursing home is a cross between "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and "Groundhog Day."  Need I say more.  Be nice to your children. 

Nursing Home Blues

That's exactly how I feel mom.  Let us out of here.  But we can't leave because your wheelchair is trapped between two tables and a dozen other wheelchairs.  We have to stay until everyone else down the table leaves.  Can I really chew my leg off?  How long would it take?

It's the morning after the nursing home Thanksgiving dinner. I'm wondering if  the high carb meal we had will successfully pass through my system or will it just migrate to my thighs?

At least my meal wasn't pureed.  Picture your Thanksgiving dinner in a blender... ahhhh...green bean casserole, turkey, dressing.  Seconds anyone?

Mom and I have been doing this for seven years.  This year was a little different.  She looked at me pleasantly and said, "You look familiar."  Stop right now if you are going to say "poor baby" and ask me how that makes me feel.  I know you are all sensitive souls, but let me reassure you that this is better than the way it used to be.  She doesn't complain any more about imaginary illnesses, and she doesn't know that she has no short term memory.  She loves the people who take care of her so if she thinks I'm just a nice, slightly familiar person who comes to visit her, that's fine with me.

Oh yes, mom is 89, soon to be 90 and she's in better shape now than she was a year ago.  Anyone else out there afraid their parents will live longer than them?  Her nursing home is full of ladies in their 90's whose daughters drag their arthritic bodies there for visits.  The mothers still rag on them and order them around.  That's why I'm not horribly upset about my mother's lack of recognition.  Being an only child, I've paid my dues when it comes to taking the brunt of parental interference.  I'm just a friendly visitor.  My record is wiped clean.  Mom doesn't remember the things I did when I was younger.  I'm off the hook forever.

Enough about me.  How are the rest of you doing with the aging parent scenario?  The sandwich generation metaphor isn't accurate.  Sometimes it's more like two elevator doors slamming in on both sides of you.  Having teenagers and elderly parents at the same time is not for the weak of spirit.  I made it through without medication, so can you.

I still have the Christmas party at the nursing home to look forward to.  I'll be sure to share the pictures. 

Car Repair in a Bad Economy

No, I didn't hit a deer or break down on the highway.  My youngest son pointed out that my car had a bald tire.  That's never good.  It's never just a tire.  It's never just a tire and a realignment.  And it's never under $500.

We don't have an extra $500 in the sock drawer, but I have this weird thing about driving a car that could send me careening into oncoming traffic.  Very reluctantly, hubby and I went to our local good old boy tire shop to get the verdict.

Now I have no idea what this means, but the struts have to be replaced and I need two new tires.  Yes, it's expensive.  Can anyone loan me $600 until two weeks from never?  I'm good for it.  Why am I telling you this?  I know you aren't sending me the money.  Unless you really want to.

There is a point to this story bigger than my inability to eat for six weeks and here it is.  Hubby and I chatted with Steve, the owner of the tire place cause that's what we do here in rural Ohio.  He told us that several times a day people leave his shop with cars unsafe to drive.  They can't afford the repairs.  He told us about people driving off with steel poking through their tires.  Their shocks are shot.  The tire rods need replaced and this is dangerous because bad ones cause erratic steering.

Steve worries because he knows that his customers are driving their families in these cars.  They are also creating potential hazards to everyone else on the road.  One of his customers didn't even make it out of his lot before the tires folded up.  I'm trying with difficulty to picture this, but I do know that I don't want to be driving down the highway with one of these cars in front of me.

Things are really bad out here in the real world.  It's hard to see because people are still eating at restaurants and shopping at Walmart.  Reporters are telling us that jobs have been added this quarter.  Retailers are advertising for Christmas with images of happy, well-dressed people loaded down with their bargains for the family.  But in reality, people are choosing to not repair their cars or to not see the doctor because there is no money for it. 

Steve told us that everyone else in the car business has told him the same thing.  They worry about the ethics of letting people drive off in lethal weapons.  On the other hand, they worry that the government will force them someday to report these people.  If that happens, he will need to hire an armed guard to protect him from angry customers who need their cars to get to their minimum wage jobs.

Steve also pointed out that buying a good used car is very difficult right now.  People are not doing routine maintenance which means you could be buying a time bomb of repairs.  So you don't have the credit rating to buy a new car, and your used car options are slim.  I'm seeing a horse and carriage in my future.

Isn't it interesting that a trip to the tire store can turn into a discussion of the economy?  It's another indicator of where we are right now, and it isn't going to get better anytime soon.  There aren't any jobs being created in my neck of the woods. 

I've pretty much given up on flying...can't afford it...don't want to be patted down...worried that my pilot is making less money than my garbage man.  Now, I can worry about the cars racing toward me on our two lane country roads.  Will their tires fly off as we pass each other?  It reminds me of a home visit I made many years ago when I worked for hospice.  The patient told me that her husband was legally blind.  I didn't see him in the house and innocently asked where he was.  "He drove into town," she said.  I lingered there until he came home.

I'll try not to obsess.  I have to drive and agoraphobia is not in my future.  It just makes you think.  Maybe a little too much.  

When a Small Ohio Town Dies

I wasn't going to talk about.  It's too sad.  It hurts.  But not talking about it hasn't made it go away.

Wilmington, Ohio, is just a tiny spot on the map.  You would zip right past the exit on I-71 heading north to Columbus or south to Cincinnati. 

But when you take the time to look closer, you see a town of 13,000 people.  Part of the town is historic.

Part is agriculture.


But all of it is people.  All they wanted was a decent paying job and a safe place to raise their children.

And then this happened.  The biggest employer in the county and surrounding counties just pulled out.  DHL decided that their shipping hub in Wilmington was no longer profitable.  Approximately 8,000 jobs were lost.

It didn't stop there.  Many of the businesses that built up around the air park left too.  I have no idea how many jobs that eliminated.

The local hospital started to have problems.  Most of these unemployed people eventually lost their health insurance which left the hospital dealing with Medicaid payments or no payments at all.  This is the hospital where both of my children were born.  My mother had her hip replaced there.  My father died there.  It matters to me.

The hospital has been sold to an out-of-state group.  The employees are hoping that there will be very few changes.  We also thought DHL would never leave.  Time will tell.

Of course, houses are abandoned.  If you need to leave the area to find work and your house won't sell, you have to leave it all behind.  That goes against how these people were raised.  You pay your bills.  You fulfill your obligations.  And you don't leave your memories behind. 

Other things happen when a town dies.  Drug dealers know where to find the weak and the lost.  I have friends with children who are heroin addicts and prescription drug addicts.  The front page of the local paper covers the drug bust of the day.  Meth labs are in the house next door.  When there is no hope and no money, people resort to ugly ways to make a living.

A friend's husband was a mechanic at DHL.  They just built the house of their dreams.  He has been working out of state for the past year.  After 25 years of marriage, they are seeing each other on the occasional weekend, holiday and vacation.  They are the lucky ones.  They still have a home and they still have an income.

Perfect strangers are willing to tell you their story.  Yesterday, I was shopping at the local clothing store and started a conversation with a clerk.  She lost her job at one of the companies located near DHL.  She is currently working three part time minimum wage jobs.  Her husband works at the hospital.  She is worried.  Everyone here is worried.

If you want to know more, here is a youtube video that says it all.


This is happening all over the country, but this is where I raised my children.  This is where I worked for many years.  It matters.

Selling Scrubs in Ohio

In case you stumbled upon my site looking for excitement in Ohio or you were just plain bored, I wanted to let you know where I'm hanging out.

We have a medical uniform business...two stores and a website.  I decided that blogging about scrubs would potentially put more money in my pocket. 

Oops.  Did that sound crass?  Well, I don't know about you, but I need money more than I need followers on a personal blog.  I loved my followers and I still follow some blogs, but this is business.  I need to put on my serious face and get down to flooding the market with blogs about scrubs.

Oh yes, this is Elvis.  He was at Caesar Creek Markets in Wilmington, Ohio, this weekend.  We sell scrubs there.  My life is full of amazing things.

So...if you are interested in the wild and wacky world of flea markets, there will be a little of that at my new blog findohioscrubs.blogspot.com.  And, everyone knows someone who wears scrubs, so send them my way.

I'm also available to blog about your business....for a fee, of course.  Call, write, send a carrier pigeon.  We'll talk. 

Back Yard Walking in Ohio

It was cool enough this evening, finally, to take a walk on our neighbor's property.

It was a solitary walk.  Hubby's favorite walk is from the couch to the refrigerator.  Unless he can get me to fetch for him.

As you can see, Queen Anne's Lace has taken over the field.  Want to know a little more about my favorite weed and why it is called a "wild carrot?"  Check it out http://www.fcps.edu/islandcreekes/ecology/queen_annes_lace.htm.

We can all use a little education.

I love these purple flowers, weeds, whatever they are, but have no clue what they are.

They're right in there with the Queen.

If you are in  Ohio and want to hang with some people who can answer all of your questions about native plants, you should attend the Midwest Native Plant Society Conference.  It is being held at the Bergamo Center in Dayton, Ohio, August 6, 7 & 8.

You can get more information at http://cincinnatibirds.com/mwnp/. 

I got home just as our festive lights came on.  We like to keep the party going here in Ohio.

That little bit of exercise felt good.  For a reward, I poured myself a gin and tonic.

The tonic is for medicinal purposes.  I hear that it helps malaria.  Just in case.

The Queen is Working In Ohio

I went to a palm reader at the flea market a couple of weeks ago.  Now that may not sound like the best idea, but genius can be found in the strangest places.  And the flea is a strange place.

He grabbed my hands, gave a little squeal, and said "Oooo, you were major royalty in a past life!"

The irony didn't escape me.  I'm sitting in a flea market, with the smell of deep fried food wafting through the air and I'm holding hands with a gnome like man. 

"A lot of good it's doing me now," I replied.  He was quick to reassure me that it was all a part of the master plan.  So if I was Cleopatra or some other fine ancient queen, I hope I had a good push up bra like her. 

The girls should always look their best.

Today, I took off the crown and got to work.  My minions seem to have disappeared which requires that I try to make some money on occasion.  Hubby and I had a medical uniform show at Villa Georgetown, in Georgetown, Ohio.

It's a real sophisticated operation.  We pack our two cars with medical uniforms and toodle on down the road. Then we unpack the car and sell, sell, sell.

The employees buy a lot because their employer offers payroll deduction.  They have four paychecks to pay for their purchase. 


God bless corporate America (sometimes.)

We always set up on the front porch of the home.  But we don't always sweat as much.  Have I mentioned that I've been sweating way too much lately?  And now that I know I was a big somebody once, well, it really yanks my chain.

Relying on my queenly dignity, I did my part, without complaint, I might add.

And then we had to pack it all up again and load our cars.

Just another day, another dollar or two and another reason to eat a large bowl of ice cream out of my gold bowl, surrounded by young, muscular slave boys who are fanning me....oops....flashback.

Those were the days.

Trouble Brewing in Little Ohio

This is my brain after too many hours on the internet.

I started down in the bottom left hand corner looking for something.  Not sure what now.  And I got lost somewhere in the middle.

I think I wanted to find a blog directory.  Then I got distracted by Facebook.  Then I looked at social work jobs.  Had a panic attack.  Then I tried to find writing jobs, but I found a recipe I liked.  Now my head hurts.

As you can tell, I don't have an Ohio topic today, unless it's about a local blogger who went beeeeezerk and set fire to her laptop.

My topic for the day is about the elephant in the middle of the room.

This one is outside, but it's hard to find a picture of one sitting in the middle of an actual room.

I've been walking around this elephant for too long.  I don't dust him so it's even worse than you might think.

I am having a blogging melt down.  A "Come to Jesus" meeting with myself.

I have been asking myself "Why?"  Why am I spending so much time blogging?  Why have I decided to drive all around my county and surrounding counties looking for that offbeat place, that quirky old guy, that giant ball of string?

I don't think I've ever used so many question marks in one post!  There, I used an exclamation point.

Here's what I'm getting at and I'm looking to you all, my blogging friends, to provide some insight.  We blog, we take pictures, we comment on other blogs, we try to be creative and witty....and.  This is where my wheels come off.

In reality, the only people who read blogs are other bloggers.  We love each other.  It's one big humongous love fest.  It's pen pals on steroids.  I do love that part of it.  I love hearing from you.  If it wasn't for you, I'd have nothing but emails about penis enlargement or fortunes waiting for me in Nigeria.

The problem is, I'd actually like to make some money as a writer.  I always have.  I've been doing a superior job at procrastinating for 40 years.  Back before the internet, my excuse was, "Who in the world would print the snippy, sarcastic essays of a frustrated Ohio woman?"  Erma Bombeck already had a corner on that market, although I am her darker twin.

I'm throwing in a nature picture just to add some interest.

So I had renewed hope when the internet bloomed from the middle of Al Gore's forehead.   There was writing everywhere.  It just spilled off the monitor.

You didn't need a publisher anymore to get your message out.  My goodness....you could start your own blog!  And people did in droves...in stampedes...in landslides...in obscene amounts.

People are writing about their new shoes, blind dates, bad in-laws, hang nails, cures for warts...Do I really care?  To be fair, I only follow blogs that speak to me.  If you're on my list, you're my peeps and I'll follow you to the gates of Hell.  Not through the gates.  Just up to the them and then I'm running the other way.

The only people making money are the scam artists who sell us books about blogging or who have their own blogs about blogging.  They tell us how to drive traffic to our blogs, they design new templates for our blogs, they conduct workshops for blogging, and blah, blah, blah.  I have spent countless hours lost in this maze.

Blogging helped me get through my Yellowstone adventure.  I knew you were out there rooting for me.  Ultimately my blog got me in a lot of trouble at work.  It seems that not everyone thinks I'm funny.

I'm asking you all for input before I commit blogger hari kari.

Damn...I accidentally published this post and I'm not done.  Bear with me.

One more thing that gives me a mental wedgie.  Have you been to one of those sites like Helium.com?  I'm not even giving the link because it sucks.  Thousands of sad people write articles so that other sad people can read them and rate them.  If you write ten articles a day and rate another ten articles a day, you can earn 50 cents an article.

It becomes an obsession like any addiction.  Thousands of people sitting at their laptops checking to see if their article has been rated.  Did they make it to number one this week?  Are they sitting on top of the manure pile?  They even have a poetry section.  And all of the poems rhyme.  Shudder.

I haven't decided what to do.  I need a big group hug, then a slap, then a big dish of ice cream with chocolate syrup.  That always makes me feel better.  There's a novel floating around in my brain.  Should I just hunker down and work on that?  Would you all forget about me? 

Oh lordy...here come the question marks again.  Time for me to go.

Tales From the Ohio Flea

Another weekend at Caesar Creek Markets has come and gone.  My scrub store, scrubsdirect.com, (shameless plug) pretty much looked like this all weekend....empty.

Have you ever worked retail or owned a business?  If you have, then send me lots of pity!  Or a large check would be nice.

I can understand why no one was here today.  It is Ohio and the residents were home counting their unemployment money.  For the other 23 hours and 59 minutes, they played corn hole.

Alright, I'm being dramatic.  And in case you live on snob hill, corn hole involves a board with holes, bean bags and beer.  It's a toddler's game on alcohol.  If you want to try it, they sell the gear here.  In every other booth.

I wanted to take a lot of pictures of the side show characters passing by my store, but the angel on one shoulder told me to behave.  "Be tolerant," she said.

She turned her head long enough for me and my little devil to get one shot of the lady in the t-shirt.

Yes, it's a woman...I checked when she turned around.  No bra, late 60's sequined hat, all decked out in her Sunday finest.

Our friends across the way sell remote controlled helicopters and other manly items.  There's always a crowd of men and small boys (same thing) standing there with their mouths open.

I know it's hard to see the helicopter but it's in the upper middle of the picture.

This is one of the baby ones.  The biggest one they have blocks out the sun and knocks my mannequins off the wall.

They also have a Bruce Lee, Ninja thing going on over there.

The highlight of the day was seeing a customer who bought a Coors Light hat made out of the cardboard box.

She paid $10 for it.

Doesn't she look happy?







And wouldn't you know.  You Tube has directions for making one.  Don't bother watching unless you're serious about it.


All in all, it was a typical weekend in an Ohio flea market...my flea market.

One of my customers told me about her sister's "granddaddy seizures."  She meant grand mal.  I didn't say anything.

People say they can get cheaper scrubs at Wal-Marts. (Remember, we add an 's' here in Ohio.)  Then go to freakin Wal-Marts and get out of my store!

I saw tattoos and piercings in places that defy explanation.

I saw mullets and Mohawks.  They are alive and well.

But, sigh, these are my peeps.

Time to close up the circus.

Put away the socks.

Cover the treasures.

So stay tuned until next weekend for more "Tales From the Ohio Flea."

I need a gin and tonic.