I’ve Had it Up to HERE With People
Filed under: Things that get my gi all in a bunch
Sometimes I get really crappy comments on my blog. As a blogger, it's pretty much a fact of life. The longer you blog and the more your blog grows, the more idiots show up to try to bring you down with nastiness. Some people just weren't raised right, and on the internet they are given a free pass to say whatever they please. A couple weeks ago, I received a really crappy comment. Last night, I got a really craptastic comment on my review blog of all places. My review blog. . . where I give stuff away. . . to readers.
The comment on my review blog was juvenile and ridiculous. It basically said this: "Wow, this giveaway must be worth a whole $5 or $6." It then went on to call me a turd in multiple ways. Nice.
I'll admit it. It doesn't compare to the last giveaway on my blog where one lucky winner got $150. But let's be honest; companies aren't exactly lining up to hand out $150 a pop to random blog readers. Personally, I'm fresh out of free money to give away to people; all my money is already going to swimming lessons and physical therapy. However, I don't know a mom or dad of a school-aged kid out there who wouldn't appreciate a backpack loaded with school supplies. For one, it saves money and more importantly, that backpack arrived just in time to save me from having to run another errand. I'll take anything that eliminates an errand for me these days. I barely have time to breathe.
So, I did what any review blogger with a crappy comment on her blog would do. I logged into my secret spy software, logged the IP address of that nasty commenter, and labeled them within the program as a jerk. Actually, I labeled that commenter as something else. Use your imagination.
Then, I took the next logical step. I logged into my blogging software and blocked that commenter's IP address for all eternity. Guess who won't be entering the next giveaway I host for $150?
What irritates me more than the administrative steps I had to take to make myself feel better is this: why log in and leave a stupid comment for something you clearly don't want to win. Isn't that even more a waste of your time? Shouldn't you really be off looking for blogs that are giving away new personalities perhaps? Because geez, I mean, you could surely use one if you're so easily offended by free hi-lighters, glue sticks and floppy calculators.
I also spent a couple minutes looking up the value of that backpack. It's actually closer in value to about $35-$40. So, whatever, let someone else win it.
The mean people aren't limited to living inside my computer this week though. They are everywhere; the world is crawling with them. The other day I was driving home from the store on a back road where the speed limit is 25 mph. I was driving exactly 25 mph. As I came up the hill, I noticed a school bus approaching me from the opposite direction. The yellow flashing lights came on.
In my head, I thought, "What do those yellow flashing lights mean? Am I supposed to stop or is that only for the red ones?" I wasn't sure what to do, but then I saw a couple parents standing off to the right up ahead and I figured the bus was slowing down and turning left into the development. It made sense for me to just keep going since the stop arm wasn't out and the red lights weren't yet flashing; but I had a moment of panic and thought, "Maybe I am supposed to stop!"
So I did. I'll admit that I stopped a bit abruptly because I was having an internal monologue at the time; but how abruptly can one really stop when only going 25 mph? I mean, really.
As I stopped, I noticed one of the parents off to the right waving his arms around wildly and gesturing at me with gusto. He was also yelling in my direction. I couldn't hear what he was saying because I was listening to Nelly; I didn't want to hear what he was saying because I could instantly tell he was suffering from short bald-man's syndrome, a rather severe case of it.
Thirty seconds after I had stopped, the man was still wildly conducting the ticked off orchestra and finally the red flashing lights came on the bus and the stop arm extended. I was at a complete stop well before this happened. I was also a good 25-30 ft. away from the bus.
The children exited the bus and ran across the street to their waiting parents. The short cranky man embraced his son as if he had just been released from the evil clutches of the Taliban or something and continued to yell and gesture in my direction, while trying to engage this bus driver in his quite obvious irritation with me. I wanted to yell back at him, but I controlled myself and turned out one of my famous evil glares, threw up my hands in mockery and mouthed quite clearly, "What is YOUR PROBLEM?"
The bus driver pulled the stop arm in, the man continued to gesture wildly, and I slowly continued on my way. I normally don't let crazy people get under my skin like that, but I was a bit upset. Had I done something wrong?
I came home and consulted the school bus laws in my state. They state the following:
- When you meet or overtake a school bus with red signal lights flashing and an extended stop arm, you must stop. (The lights were still yellow when I stopped and no arm was out.)
- You must stop at least 10 ft. away from the school bus. (I was a good 25-30 ft. away when I stopped.)
- You must wait until red lights have stopped flashing and stop arm has been withdrawn before moving. (I continued to wait and get berated by the crazy man until the bus was also moving on.)
- Do not move until all children have reached a place of safety. (The child was clearly in the arms of his psycho father before I ever touched my gas.)
Clearly, if there is anything I'm guilty of doing incorrectly, it's stopping when I didn't have to yet stop since the lights were still very much yellow. What I'd really like to do is print out those school bus laws, form them into a paper airplane with an uber-pointy nose, and go throw them at that dude's head while he waits at the bus stop.
I have just about had it with mean and ignorant people this week. They're rampant in the 4th grade as my daughter has certainly encountered her fair share of them in recent weeks; they're standing at bus stops; and they are all over the internet. And they can go pick on someone else; I've reached the mean person quota for September, thank you, and I can't be held responsible for what I may or may not do with some pointy school bus laws.
Disclaimer: Not all short bald men have short bald-man's syndrome. I am aware of this. Thank you for not pointing it out, because like I've said, I've reached my quoto of crazy this month.
Let’s Hear It for the Boys
Today I received a really crappy email from someone who doesn't know me, has poor reading comprehension skills, and is obviously completely and totally intimidated by a woman who speaks up and out. I'd love to publish the email contents, name of the sender, his website, home address and his email address; but I won't do it. What you should know is that I spoke out on the website Violence Unsilenced a few weeks ago about an attempted rape that happened to me when I was 18 years old and the email directly related to that.
My pet peeves are many, but what tops the chart for me are men who are threatened by women who speak up and out about things. I can't tell you the number of craptastic emails I've received over the years telling me that because I'm a woman in the martial arts, I must be a "man hater," "lover of violence," and that I have "anger issues."
Actually, I have a very healthy respect for my art, and I know when it is appropriate to use and when it's not. I recognize that there are people out there who seek out training so they can be bullies and beat people up. But that's not me. I think of it as a life protection skill and art, and if I should have to protect my life or the lives of my family, you better believe that I am not at all afraid to use what I know.
When I get emails like this, I have to laugh. Ask any man who has trained with me over the years and I am pretty sure they will tell you quite the opposite. In fact, many of my best friends are men. So instead of complaining about guys like the pathetic one who emailed me today and all those who have in the past, I thought I would do the opposite. . .
I'd like to thank all the guys in my dojo who treat me, first and foremost, as a "training partner," not a "female training partner." I'd like to thank every guy who ever let me throw him around in the dojo so I could learn something that could one day save my life.
I'd like to thank all the guys who are perfectly content to have me on their team, because they realize that girls weren't born to be spectators, and that girls can be great teammates and competitors.
I'd like to thank all the guys who talk sports with me without saying stupid stuff like "You like football?" They know that watching a game with me is as good as watching a game with their guy buddies, and that testicles aren't required to love and know about sports.
I'd like to thank my Dad for slamming hockey pucks around with me in the basement as a kid and treating me like a hockey player, complete with checking me into the walls and smacking pucks at me with force. It made it mean more when I scored a goal against him. I knew I had earned it. I'd also like to thank my dad for line-driving baseballs and softballs at me until my hand was stinging in my glove. He didn't treat me like someone who needed to be handled with kid gloves. He treated me like a person who enjoyed sports and could be good at them. And I am.
I'd like to thank my husband who puts up with my competitive nature on a daily basis and is not at all intimidated or upset when I beat him in something, whether it's a swimming race at the pool, a round of beer pong, or a game of Scrabble.
I'd like to encourage all of the wonderful guys out there in the world to speak up, because trust me when I tell you that the guys who think the opposite of what you think are often louder. They speak like they speak for every man and they try to give you all a bad name.
For every crappy email I get like that, and for every chauvinistic and obviously threatened guy I come across, it makes me even more determined to be as strong as I can possibly be. It makes me appreciate, even more, all of the really fantastic men in my life.
Owning Your Title, Derogatory or Not
Filed under: Board of Directors, Things that get my gi all in a bunch
There is something disturbing about a woman who's pushing 85, sitting just three seats away from you at a table during a meeting, mouthing the words "She's a bitch" to another one of her cronies while you're speaking. I guess I'm happy I found this out many hours after the meeting had ended, because I'm afraid that if I saw her doing it during the meeting, I might have become an even bigger one.
It is absolutely amazing to me that a generation of women who fought so hard for equality would try even harder to keep one of their own down. We may have 50 or 60 years between us, but we were both born with ovaries.
It's difficult for me to understand their line of thinking because I was blessed so many years with a grandmother who was quite progressive. She chose to wait until the age of 27 to get married. She was the one who made the first move to pick up my Pop-Pop in a bar. Forget the old-fashioned courting; she knew what she wanted. She spent all of her young life working in factories to support her family. She was a classy woman, but she was no one's doormat. She wasn't your typical woman of that era; she was that and so much more. It's times like this that I miss her even more than usual, because I know she would be clicking her tongue, shaking her head in disgust and preparing to go to battle for me.
Historically, ladies auxiliary groups were formed in support of an organization, because women were not allowed to be on the Board of Directors. They weren't permitted to have any type of influence other than a role that supported a club or group, almost like a charity within the group. Now, there are women in positions of leadership in corporations and groups worldwide. Our own board of directors has five women out of 15 positions; and two of the four executive committee members are women. One would think that this would be a real positive for the women at the club who have been there for decades, but more times than not, it seems their only interest is in self-preservation and keeping one of their own down. . .
"I didn't have that opportunity, so you shouldn't either."
It puts a 30-some-year old woman in quite a conundrum. Raised to respect my elders, what does one do in this situation? When a woman 50 years your senior is treating you no better than that catty 8th grader who was ticked that Joey asked you to dance instead of her, what should you do?
What's even more disturbing about the entire situation is that during this meeting, there were several men who were much more outspoken than I was, yet no derogatory comments were uttered about any of them. It was during my two minutes of professional but stern questioning about a legitimate issue, that I reinforced my title of "bitch." If you are an outspoken man, you're a leader; but if you're an outspoken woman, you're a bitch.
It's a double standard that I've learned to accept, because it's been that way as long as I can remember. The troubling thing for me is that this stereotype isn't perpetuated by a man in this case, it's by a group of older ladies, our country club's equivalent to an unruly biker gang. Our "biker gang" doesn't go out and start fights in bars; they just want their tuna melts served piping hot or else all hell is going to break loose. And for the love of God, can someone please put duck back on the menu?
I guess I should be happy because I have held several titles during my months on the board. I started out as the "little blonde," moved quickly to "scary blonde" despite the fact that I had dyed my hair brown for a bit, and now I guess I should feel that I've arrived. Bitch it is. At least they're now noticing me for what I say and do, not my hair color. That has to be a positive.
The shame of it is that there are some wonderful women in this group; they are just overshadowed and out-voiced by a few who have given their entire organization a reputation fraught with negativity.
To that sub-set of women though, I'd just like to point out that resorting to the word "bitch" when your back is against a wall, because that "bitch" just so happens to have called you on the carpet, doesn't hurt my feelings. It just makes me realize how outdated the whole "respect your elders" standard really happens to be. I'll respect those who respect me. Age doesn't give an individual carte blanche to say whatever you want and do whatever you please; and frankly, I think your mothers and their mothers would be ashamed of you. I know my grandmother is, and I'm pretty sure Susan B. Anthony would think more of the same.
As far as my "title" goes, I'm going to own it. To me, it says I'm doing a good job of speaking out instead of shrinking into the background. It says I'm making people uncomfortable, as well they should be, when they've done something reprehensible. Frankly, having them call me names and hate me so much is affirmation that I'm the opposite of them, doing the right and smart thing, and that alone is enough to satisfy me. A good friend of mine says, "people either love you or hate you and there's no money in the middle." I don't think anyone has ever accused me of hanging out in the middle. Now, that is something that would offend me.
Fending Off The Know-It-All
Filed under: Mental Strain for Mama, Things that get my gi all in a bunch, Work it out
I considered live blogging the Flyers game tonight. But then I realized that I would probably be writing a string of obscenities, followed by an occasional "YES!" and then a bunch of hair-raising, "No! NOO! NOOO!" chants and I figured that wouldn't be very entertaining. Also not entertaining? That stupid doodle-doodle song that Chicago sings every time they score. Mute button on the remote? Check.
Instead of telling you about how wonderful it's going to be for Philly to take the Cup in Game 7 in Chicago (because you already know how awesome that will be), I'll tell you about how I went to the gym twice this weekend and how I can barely move, laugh, breathe, walk or blink without being in pain because of it. I seriously hate that I had to stop working out because getting back into the shape I was in before is going to be no small feat. I will also tell you that I am currently trying out a different gym for a three week time period to see if I like it. Mr. BBM has joined with me as well.
On Saturday, we walked into the gym and there were only about five other people there. Sweet! No one was going to bother me. I put on my mean face, stuck my headphones in my ears, turned up the volume and got to work. I decided I would try out my new prescribed knee sleeve to see how I liked it.
About half way through my work-out, a rather overweight and out-of-shape looking older dude started talking at me. I tried to look away but he kept at it and stood right in front of me. I pulled out my headphones, obviously irritated, and he started on this whole tirade of, "I saw you over on those two machines a while ago and I see you have knee issues. What did you do? The reason I ask is because I have knee issues too and my ortho told me those machines are bad for you. You're not supposed to use them. You're supposed to do natural movements like deep squats and lunges, not extensions." He continued on for a while and I glared at him with my most irritated look I could muster.
I then told him that I'm not allowed to do deep squats (not to mention deep squats and lunges are the most natural movement I can think of-I mean, I practically walk through the grocery store doing lunge, deep squat, lunge, deep squat, because that is oh-so-natural, GRR), that I spent 8.5 months of my life working with a physical therapist under the direction of an ortho surgeon and that I also worked out with a personal trainer for about a year who was also trained and personally experienced with ACL issues. I told him he should continue to do whatever his surgeon told him, and "I'll continue to do what mine told me." I stuck my headphones back in my ears and turned away, 180 degrees so there was no question our conversation was now over.
As we were leaving, I told Mr. BBM that my workout had been great, minus my little know-it-all knee man encounter. Mr. BBM told me the dude could have cared less about my knee. He was trying to open up a line of communication with me. I would say he failed pretty miserably. Opened and closed in a matter of about 30 seconds. Score 1 for me and my headphones.
I can not stand guys who go to the gym and interfere in my workouts. I truly wish they would mind their own business. I give off the "leave me the hell alone vibe" plenty, avoid any and all eye contact, and still, it happens whenever I go. Maybe I need to check out the gym during the "soccer Mom" times, or maybe I should just pretend I don't speak English next time.
Or perhaps to let him know I'm really not conversation worthy, I should start singing that Chicago doodle-doodle song thing. I guess it might be good for something after all.
Check out The BBM Review for the latest reviews! There are a bunch up and there are chances to win some serious cash too! Check it out!
Chuckie Disease
Today I went to Chuckie Cheese with Lil C, and another Mom and daughter. We were having a nice lunch and getting ready to play when an extremely pregnant woman and her young son walked in. I normally wouldn't even take notice, but it was kind of hard not to notice this particular woman (if you could call her that).
From the looks of her face, she seemed to be about 17 or 18 at the most. She was wearing tight stretchy white see-through pants and no underwear. I wasn't looking for it; but it's hard not to notice when someone bends in front of you with their very see-through pants right in your face. To top it off, she was wearing a stretchy white and black tube top which made her look like a deranged snake that had swallowed a basketball. Did I mention it was 40 degrees outside today?
She looked like she was about to give birth any second, but that didn't stop her from dragging her son around like he was a rag doll and screaming at him every two minutes at the very top of her lungs. She struck me as the abusive type, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for the little guy. I shot her dirty looks every time she did it and tried to control my breathing. I wanted to smack her around, especially after she threw her arm high above her head and then slammed it down on his butt. I figured it wouldn't look very good though if I physically assaulted a pregnant woman in Chuckie Cheese. I decided glaring at her and shaking my head disapprovingly would be better for me.
As we walked by her later, I joked with my friend, who happens to be pregnant, that I hoped she wouldn't be wearing a get-up like that the next time I saw her. As she stood there in black sweatpants and a turtle-neck, she couldn't help but laugh.
As we left an hour later, we stood in the parking lot and let the girls say goodbye. It was as my friend pulled out that I saw the crazy tube top girl again. There she stood, at the edge of the parking lot, with her son about two feet from a busy road that serves as the point of entrance for a busy shopping center. She wasn't paying any attention to him. She was too busy watching for her bus and puffing on a cigarette.
A cigarette. . . while pregnant.
I shook my head with disgust and then I started getting angry. Here she is, a woman who obviously has little appreciation for the little life she already brought into this world and there she is smoking a cigarette. I thought back to the video I had seen once, about how babies in utero actually don't get oxygen while their mothers puff away, that the umbilical cord tries to protect the fetus when the mother doesn't give a crap, by lowering the amount of blood allowed in to the baby. This is where the damage takes its toll and why babies of smokers have issues. For most people, it's a choice to smoke or not, but for babies? There is no choice.
Then I started getting really mad, thinking about the fact that my tax dollars are probably helping her to pay for her hideous tube top and that the damage she's doing to her unborn baby will probably be paid for by tax-payers in the form of our insurance premiums and taxes. I thought about all the people I know who have lost babies, those who've tried desperately for months and years to have babies and those who would cherish each little life as I continued to watch her.
I thought about driving over and telling her off. I wanted to tell her what a stupid idiot she is, and tell her to get some anger management classes and some smoking cessation classes as well.
But I didn't. I drove away seething instead.
It's a good thing I went to karate this week and got some frustrations out. It's a really good thing.
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