Jana Says

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Tag Archive: confessions

Hump Day Confessions: She’s got a lot of rage

someecards.com - I don't have pet peeves, I have major psychotic fucking hatreds!
This is my first time participating in Kathy’s Humpday Confessions and I’m so excited because I’m using it as a chance to air a few grievances. So grab a drink, friends, because here we go:

  • I confess that people with bad grammar send me in to a blind rage. Seriously, it’s “our” not “are” and it’s “a lot” not “alot” and yes, the thing with the line and the dot is an exclamation point. It makes me sad that you don’t know that, it makes me sad that you choose to share your sheer ignorance and stupidity on Facebook, and I can’t help it that I see red every time you show up in my newsfeed which is perhaps why I no longer see what you have to say. G-d bless the “hide from timeline” feature. Am I ignoring you? Yes. Yes, I am. Because it’s better for humanity if I do that.

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  • I confess that I become irrationally angry when someone says to me “I have something to tell you but you can’t tell anyone”. A) thanks for the trust and B) who am I going to tell? Do you really think I’m that gossipy? Also, I’ve probably forgotten what you’ve said 10 minutes after you told me. I’m getting old and my memory’s not that good and my brain is full of other information like “remember to pay the mortgage” and “feed the child today”. And just so we’re clear, if I do remember, I will tell my husband. Particularly if it’s something really, really good. 
  • I confess that it makes me want to spit fire when someone who has never had kids dispenses parenting advice. Guess what? Babysitting is not the same as being a parent. Owning a dog is not the same as being a parent. Having a younger sibling is not the same as being a parent. You know how I know that? Because I’ve babysat, owned a dog, and have a sibling substantially younger than me. Absolutely none of that prepared me for being a mother. So unless you’ve been a parent, shut the fuck up and keep your advice to yourself. Or you will get face full of my fist. Metaphorically, of course. I’m not going to jail because you can’t shut your mouth.
  • While we’re talking about parenting, let’s address helicopter parents for a moment. I confess that want to body slam those assholes and while I have them pinned down, I want to shout loudly that hovering is not the same as advocating and you are doing absolutely nothing to help your child by smothering them, doing everything for them, and kissing ass with teachers and coaches to get your kids special favors. It’s one thing to be your kid’s champion and fight for them when they need it it. It’s another thing to swirl around every moment of their lives and never letting them do anything for themselves. They will not fall apart if they lose or get a bad grade on a test. I promise. Let them live and fail and win and make decisions and choices on their own.
  • I confess that sometimes I hate people so much that being a hermit sounds like a wonderful, viable option. Being a hermit means I don’t have to deal with entitled assholes on the road, in parking lots, in stores, at restaurants, or any other place where people might be. I can no longer hide my contempt for how rude and disgusting society has become. Manners are almost nonexistent, and forget about someone even extending common courtesy like saying “bless you” when you sneeze. It’s horrid and if the fact that I’m raising my child to be polite and have manners means I’m strict, then so be it. I can live with it. I’m not adding to the asshole parade if I can help it.

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  • I confess that every time someone says “I forgot to eat today”, I want to take a sandwich and stuff it down their lying, underfed throat. You forget keys. You forget a birthday. You forget to call your grandmother. You do not forget to eat. And if you do, you’re fucking stupid. I am almost 37 years old. I have never once forgotten to eat. In fact, some days, I start thinking about lunch while I’m eating breakfast. Food is a basic necessity of life. You don’t “forget” it, asshole. We know you’re lying so just stop it. If you don’t want to eat, don’t. But don’t pretend like you forgot. 
  • This is the last one and it’s a big one so I hope you’re sitting down and not too tired. I confess that the overuse of the word “Nazi” makes me spit nails, steam shoots out of my ears, and I go to red faster than Spaceball One goes to plaid. Let’s be clear–the Nazis were an army of murderous soldiers assembled by a psychopathic, homicidal dictator who committed genocide. When people flippantly attach the word “Nazi” to the end of something as trivial as “grammar” or “cleaning” or “homework” simply because a person happens to be a stickler about those things, it cheapens and demeans what happened to the Jews, Catholics, gays, and everyone else Hitler decided he didn’t like. Wanting a clean house or for people to use proper grammar does not make one a Nazi. Killing people for how they were born or what religion they practice does. It’s an extremely powerful and emotional word, and it should be because as long as that word stays in our lexicon, people will be forced to acknowledge that the Nazis did (and still do) exist. By using it in a cavalier manner, it strips away its power. And I don’t think we’re ready for that yet. Or maybe ever.

So there you have it. Just a few things that make me angry. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest (and I have a pretty big chest which explains why this was so much). Next time, we’ll talk about what makes me irrationally happy. Because it’s all about balance.

What about you? What makes you so angry you want to punch a baby dolphin? 

 

Linking up with Kathy from Vodka and Soda

 
Vodka and Soda

Pity party, table for 1

So it’s only Wednesday and this week pretty much sucks. In addition to some personal stuff, I’m battling the onset of a depressive episode, I’ve had my debit card number stolen, and yesterday, I found out that I need reading glasses. That last one not particularly hard because as if I wasn’t already feeling old, that sealed the fact that I am, in fact, closer to 40 than 30. Even if I feel maybe 17 on a good day.

But we’ll talk about my birthday and feelings on getting older in June. When I was born.

20140409-172225.jpgAll of this has me feeling really bad for myself. In a “woe is me, my life sucks, and this is the worst week EVER” type self-pity. And as much as I want to crawl into bed with a book and sleep until the week is over, I need to get over this shit. I mean, when Pa Ingalls lost his entire wheat crop to grasshoppers, he didn’t cry or act out; he cleaned up and moved on. When Mary went blind, she didn’t stop sewing or learning; she just went about them differently.

And quite frankly, losing your entire source of income or your site is way worse than what I’m dealing with.

I’m not religious but I have several close friends who are, and I’ve heard them talking about finding what they’re thankful for in the midst of bad situations. I feel like this is something that the pioneers would do–being grateful in a shitty situation. Given my week, I think I’m going to give it a shot.

Here goes.

  • Instead of being pissed off that my debit card number was stolen, I’m grateful that my bank is so vigilant about that stuff and I received an email notifying me of the suspicious purchase within 30 minutes of it happening. I’m grateful they have a 24 hour customer service line and they were able to freeze my card immediately. I am also grateful that all of the bills I paid using the card went through and none of my accounts are delinquent as a result. And I’m grateful that my husband has a different card number so we still have access to our money.
  • Instead of being upset that I need reading glasses, I’m grateful for our health insurance that affords me the ability to have a yearly eye exam so my deteriorating eyes could get help before it became a major problem. I’m grateful that we have an FSA that had enough money in it so we could pay for the glasses because this was not at all a planned expense (so no accrued debt for the glasses). And I’m grateful other than needing glasses, I have no other issues with my eyes.
  • The depression thing is a little harder. I’m not particularly thrilled about it, but I’m grateful that I know what the symptoms are so I can ward them off as best I can. I’m grateful that I have friends I can talk to who understand what this feels like, I’m grateful I have a blog where I can vent about it, and I’m grateful that I have the kind of schedule that allows for the type of self-care I need.

Gratitude is hard, yo.

But.

Having written all that out, I can’t say that I feel 100% better but it definitely did help to see how much worse it could be. I have a lot more to be happy about than I do to be upset. And wallowing in self-pity, while it feels good, isn’t going to improve anything. I own big girl panties for a reason. I think with them, and my new, healthy does of gratitude, I can make it through the rest of the week.

And, if none of that works, I can always look at this picture of Hank, the baseball dog. Because he is my favorite thing of the year so far.

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Confession: I’m a blanket hoarder

For the most part, I live in a clean, clutter free environment. Too much clutter makes me anxious and my anxiety attacks trigger depressive episodes and honestly, it gets ugly. Plus I don’t like to clean and when there’s clutter, that means cleaning. 

It’s just smart housekeeping, really.

But I have a secret. Lurking Hiding inside most of the closets in my house are blankets. Dozens of blankets. 

That’s right, friends. I. Hoard. Blankets.

I call this "Dogs with Blankets (and one cat lurking in the background)"

I call this “Dogs with Blankets (and one cat lurking in the background)”

I’m not really sure why I do it. It’s not as if I have some sort of blanket fetish or I’m a purposeful, avid collector of blankets. And most of the ones that I have, I haven’t even bought. They just keep winding up in my house. And I don’t get rid of them because…well, I’m not sure why. I know they’ve come in handy on several occasions and I think I’m afraid that as soon as we unload the blankets, our house it going to be infiltrated by 46 people who all need a place to sleep and therefore need blankets. 

So I keep them. 

I fear I may have some issues to work through. 

In my defense, though, my hoard is mostly organized and no dead animals are buried inside any blankets. I’m not in need of an intervention, although a purge is probably imminent. And my collection is categorized, meaning no blanket is without purpose. In case you’re wondering, and I know you are, my categories include:

  • Our beds
  • Guests 
  • The dogs (old ones that serve no other purpose)
  • Naps (these are my favorite. Soft, fuzzy fleece)
  • My daughter’s toys (converted from her baby blankets)
  • Handmade blankets that are too itchy for general use but I feel like a terrible person throwing away or getting rid of
  • Outside use (separate from beach towels. Think impromptu backyard picnics or lining an outdoor cat house)
  • Sentimental (handmade ones that are not too itchy but serve no real purpose)

Looking at that list, I realize I might be excessive. However. In my defense (again), my blanket reserves have: helped when our heat has gone out, saved me from having to remake my bed when I take a nap, enabled me to cover my daughter when she puked all over her comforter prompting a 3AM laundry session, created a mock soft foam pit for living room tumbling sessions, become fort making materials, and so much more. We’ve had hours of sleep, fun, and saved money as a result. 

So, really, my hoarding is completely practical and not at all crazy.