Dear Jordan Creek Mall kiosk employee,

Happy Holidays! I was enjoying a stroll through your lovely mall with a friend of mine the other day and feel compelled to discuss a few things with you.

Firstly, while I am totally aware that you may have been presented with some pretty challenging sales goals, I must tell you that it does not give you the right to ignore my very pleasant “no thanks.” When you continue advancing toward me with your spray bottle/hand lotion/other crap, I do not want you to think I am going to change my mind and decide I WANT to hear what you have to say or sample whatever the hell you are holding.

Lastly, if you continue to ignore my response, I will be forced to release my inner bitch and she WILL cut you.

Peace out,

Tracey

Dave and I built our house in the ‘hood about three years ago. There were a few families already living here but mostly there were empty lots. Luckily most of those lots now have houses sitting on them and we are close to being done with all this construction nonsense. It’s something all of us have to tolerate because, well, our houses were once under construction too but I think I speak for everyone when I say we’ll be glad when our street is finished. I know our bus driver J.R. will be and frankly I’m surprised that he has not yet suffered a brain aneurysm while trying to navigate the big yellow bus around all the dump trucks and cement mixers on our street. He is really pissed!

And while I’m thinking about it, there’s something I need to get off my chest:

Dear Construction Worker,

Quit speed – burning down our street at 45 mph in your Toyota Celica. We love our children and want to keep them safe. And remember, hell hath no fury like a bunch of pissed off housewives. Hurt one of our kids and we WILL fuck you up. Thanks in advance!

News travels fast in the ‘hood. The backhoe will have barely broken ground on the next new house and we already know more than a normal amount of information about the people who will live there. Mostly it’s because we’re nosy.

Then, when the house has been framed and the roof is on, we all stroll around in it whenever it gets dark and we can be reasonably certain construction has halted for the day. Surprisingly no one has encountered the owners during one of these forays.

When the house is getting close to being finished and is locked up every night, we get real curious and call in the pro. Lisa has been able to get into every single new house on this street (including mine I’m sure – she was here before me). We are all perfectly happy letting Lisa do the B & E. Seriously, she could burgle for a living if she wanted to. Plus she’s really skinny so she can squeeze into tight spots like a crack in a sliding glass door if she has to.

A collective cheer goes up when we see Lisa’s head pop out the front door because she has made it in and now we can check out the interior of the home. And before you start thinking we have no manners whatsoever I want to point out that we usually take our shoes off and lock up when we’re done.

Which brings me to the reason I chose to blog on this topic today. There is a house on the corner of our street that has everyone rubber-necking when they drive by and is, quite frankly, the source of lots of speculation here in the ‘hood. Mostly because no one can figure out what the hell these people were thinking when they started building this house because it is an architectural shit-storm of massive proportions. I almost don’t even know how to start describing it. Word on the street is that it started out as a two story but then the owners decided to add a THIRD story as well. Who does that? It is a wind tunnel on our street so I really hope they anchor that thing well because it is WAY, WAY taller than any of our houses. The back of the house looks like something you could downhill ski off of if you started on the roof and got good and drunk first.

And I have to mention the front door and window. When they first cut the outline for them, I thought it made the house look kind of sinister. I mean, they look like something you would find in a crumbly abandoned 16th century monastery. The door and window both have a point on the top and then curve down on both sides before straightening to the bottom. Everyone was all like “oh it looks like a church” and I’m all like “doesn’t anyone see devil house when they look at it?” No one but me did so apparently they are all pious and holy and I am the anti Christ. I don’t know. Maybe I was channeling Hansel and Gretel or something but the house does not look like a church to me.

Dave and Matthew walked through it the other day and said the layout is quite strange. The rooms are really small and smashed together on the main floor and then the upstairs (third floor?) has a really big empty room that everyone thinks the owners are planning on using as a big rec room. Which I think is funny because even though we know they don’t have children yet (see, we know everything) I see that man-lair full of plastic playskool toys in a few years and then when they decide the house isn’t very kid friendly and they want to move they’ll find out just how impractical their real estate roulette turned out to be.

However, I noticed the dumpster they are using has a sign on it that says it is the property of the Chitty Garbage Service Company so I have to give kudos for their sense of humor which bodes well for them here on our street. Maybe we’ll get to know them and find out they’re really fun people. Maybe we will do a lot of laughing with them instead of at them. Meanwhile, it’s almost time to call in the pro and have a look around.

Last Saturday our good friends Tom and Amy and their kids came over for one of our bi-monthly get togethers. The kids are always happy because we pretty much give them whatever they want and we adults get to drink as much wine as we can hold. For a while Matthew was collecting corks but there were so many of them I got embarassed and threw a lot of them away when he was at school. He’s still looking for them.

Anyway, we sent the kids downstairs to the playroom and got ready to get our drink on. We were having a great time talking and catching up while we waited for the pizza delivery guy to show up with our dinner.

About a fourth of the way through our bottles of wine, Amy and I amused ourselves by perusing urbandictionary.com. Amy was not familiar with the site so I spent a few minutes showing her my favorite dirty words and phrases. Neither of us knew what an Alabama Hot Pocket was and now that we do? Neither of us will ever be able to enjoy a REGULAR Hot Pocket for lunch ever again. Also you may want to click on Cincinatti Bowtie, Birmingham Booty Call, and Strawberry Shortcake because you will not believe what people will do in bed. And if you don’t need the urban dictionary to tell you what those mean? You seriously scare the shit out of me.

Meanwhile, the boys were talking about the boring old economy and how shitty it is. We started talking about how Dave’s job was in jeopardy and that we better come up with a back up plan to get us beyond the six month’s of severance pay he would receive. Dave mentioned off-handedly that we needed to invent something and sell it to make money. Having now polished off half our wine we came up with the following: stinky candles. You know, like those Bertie Bott’s every flavor beans from Harry Potter that come in flavors like vomit and booger. Except our candles would smell really bad when you lit them and would sweep the nation as the best gag gift EVER. You could totally take them to birthday parties and instead of showing up with some queer beer mug that says “Lordy, Lordy, looks who’s 40″ you could say, “dude, I brought you a candle that smells like ass.” And you know everyone would rush to light it to see if in fact it did smell like it said it did. But alas, a quick google search pissed on our parade as we discovered WE WERE NOT THE FIRST TO HAVE THIS IDEA.

However, their idea of a gag candle is one that smells like beer, urinal cake, or stripper. Hold onto your hats folks ’cause we’re almost done with our bottles and we are a whole lot raunchier than that.

Presenting the top ten list of smelly candles our endeavors would produce (if we could just find a willing chemist).

#10 Whiskey and feet
#9 Armpit
#8 BO
#7 ‘taint
#6 VO
#5 Wet ass
# 4 Sweaty balls
# 3 My old French whore
# 2 Toe jam
#1 Wang, dang, sweet poontang!

(Patent pending) Jealous?

I’m thinking about getting a job”, I told Dave.
“Why do you want to get a job?” he asked.
“Uh, because we keep discussing how thanks to this shitty economy you may lose yours. And because they’ve already laid off 45 people in your department. And they’ve taken away your holiday gift boxes, summer ticket to fun, and no one will get a merit raise in 2009. Ringin’ a bell yet?”
“Well at least I have 6 months of severance. We’ll be OK for a while.”
“Yeah I know, I just thought I’d get my resume out there so if something happens, I’ll be prepared.”

Once upon a time, before babies started coming out of me, I used to work as a headhunter/IT recruiter. For the most part I enjoyed it. I’ll be honest though, I’m not (gasp!) very career driven. I always had to stop myself from rolling my eyes in meetings when someone would get all passionate about whatever lame thing we were there to discuss. I almost always doodled or daydreamed during these meetings. I think it’s safe to say that being a stay at home mom was something I liked a whole lot better than corporate America.

But last spring I thought it would be a good idea to start doing some freelance headhunting for no other reason than I could work from home and the potential income is pretty lucrative. I designed some cute little business cards on the Internet and bam! I was in business. It went OK for a while but then school let out and I got tired of making marketing calls in the bathroom because it was the only place I could sort of guarantee whoever I was calling wouldn’t hear my offspring trying to kill each other in the next room. I decided it was better for everyone, and certainly for the kids’ safety if I just tabled everything until school started.

But when school started I didn’t really have the drive I had before. For the first time in 9 years I could do whatever I wanted. And apparently I wanted to do, well, anything other than work. Plus, when I started making a few calls again I found I was treated slightly worse than your average telemarketer. Even though I’ve always felt I have a pretty thick skin, I really hated how bitchy they were to me.

So I decided to visit a headhunter (which was really weird because my business cards say I AM A HEADHUNTER) to see if there might be a contract IT Recruiter position available and I could work during the hours the kids are at school. And I read somewhere, or made it up, that former stay at home moms who wanted to return to the work force were a very valuable part of a previously untapped labor pool. Just like senior citizens! Remember those McDonald’s commercials that used to air a long time ago where they tried to convince senior citizens that retirement sucked and they should really work part time at McDonald’s? And they showed this nice little old man and he was all smiley about getting the chance to work there? However I feel it necessary to mention that my husband, my sister, and my BFF Amy all worked at McDonald’s and all three of them will tell you it was the worst job they’ve ever had. In fact, 2 of the 3 of them may have stormed out in a big hissy fit (one was Dave) while wearing their fugly polyester uniform. ***As a side note I did not work at McDonald’s. I chose instead to work at the cool Scoops Ice Cream and Potato Bar (preen). My only uniform was a stupid hat that I refused to wear. I may or may not have gotten some of my hair into your food. I am not sorry.

Oh Christ what the hell was my point and what was I talking about? Possibly I have housewife ADD from being forced to multitask endlessly over the last 9 years.

So I made an appointment with the headhunter, shoved my resume into an old portfolio, and went off to see what my options were.

She kept me waiting for a good 20 minutes in the lobby. When she finally came out she introduced herself and took me back to a conference room. She then tried to tell me again about a job she already told me about on the phone when I called to make the appointment. I had to tell her again that I was probably not qualified for the position considering I didn’t have the amount of experience they were looking for. Which, since I had already e-mailed her my resume I thought she might have figured out.

I told her that I didn’t really want to go downtown (because of the longer commute and the fact that Dave already drives downtown every day and it would be nice not to give all our money to the oil companies) and I hoped to find a contract position that would allow me to start early enough so that I could be done in time to beat the school bus back home. She asked if she should still call me if she had an opening that was downtown and didn’t have flexible hours and I said “sure.” Because frankly, you just never know.

So one day this week it was brought to my attention (by my friend Paige) that my headhunter’s firm had an opening on their web site for a contract recruiter. Right away I e-mailed my headhunter to see if I was qualified for this position and if so, to let her know that I’d like to hear more about it. Four days went by and since she still hadn’t responded to my e-mail I called her office and asked to speak with her. I got her voice mail, told her I was calling to follow up on my e-mail, and asked her to call me at home or on my cell phone. I called first thing in the morning and waited all day for her to call me back, and so far I haven’t heard from her. I called again the following week and she still hasn’t found it necessary to call me back. And P.S.? That pisses me off. Maybe I’m just flat out not qualified for the position (but, seriously, just call me and tell me) or maybe my headhunter has bad time management skills and she’s planning on calling me back around the 12th of never. Whatever. But when she does call me back? I’ll tell her McDonald’s was hiring.

My motivation and efficiency is at an all time low. How is it that I get less done now, with both kids in school, then I did when I had a toddler and a newborn clinging to me for the better part of a day? I could nurse my daughter on my left boob, turn the pages of my son’s book with my right hand, get dinner on the table, pay the bills, pick up the dry cleaning, buy the groceries, work out, and shower but I cannot accomplish even half that now? It just goes to show that if you want something done you need to ask a busy person. And right now? That person is not me.

Lately my slovenly habits include blowing off the gym and settling in on the couch after I put the kids on the bus to read magazines, newspapers, and books while simultaneously watching DVR’d episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I’ve started jumping off the couch after an hour or two looking around in a panic wondering if Dave’s installed a housewife – cam and is in fact watching streaming video of me sitting on my ass.

However this morning I got all “efficienty” and announced I’d take Matthew’s bike to the bike shop for repair and would replace the water filter on our refrigerator. But sadly there’s not enough meth in Iowa to get me to hustle right out for those errands.

So, finally, at noon I decided to shower and get going. First things first, I need to get Matthew’s bike off the hook thingy it’s hanging on in the garage. I lift it up and promptly get smacked in the face with the tire. An F bomb may or may not have been dropped. I manhandle the bike into the back of my mommy – mobile (SUV not minivan) and off I go.

When I reach the bike place I inexplicably morph into one of those women I hate. I start talking to the bike guy and I’m using phrases like “the gear dealio isn’t working because something might have poked through that spoke right there and done something bad.” I tell him I don’t know for sure because it was my husband on the bike ride with Matthew and not me (so now he also knows I’m lazy). Then, for the piece de résistance as he’s trying to decipher my psychobabble I triumphantly pull my cell phone out and announce “I can call my husband at work if you want me to.” Luckily he was a very nice senior citizen bike shop owner and he sent me on my way with promises to call very soon and let us know about the bike. And I’m thinking he’ll probably ask to speak with DAVE and not me.

So, off to Lowe’s for the other exciting errand on my list. I find a really close parking spot so God forbid I don’t even have to accidentally exercise today and head in. I congratulate myself on finding the right department without having to ask someone and I march up and interrupt the conversation of the three Lowe’s employees who are standing around chatting.

I pull the old filter (which I’ve intelligently stuck inside a big Ziploc bag so as not to get the inside of my purse icky) out and tell the Lowe’s employee (who obviously got the short straw) that I need one JUST LIKE THIS. I figure they will totally appreciate my visual aid and will not have to listen to me blather on about serial or model numbers.

He immediately takes me to the display where I question him briefly about the fact that this filter does not look EXACTLY like my filter and in return have to hear some drivel about Kitchen Aid and Whirlpool. When he’s convinced me I have the right filter I head to one of the only two checkout lanes with their lights on at Lowe’s.

Ahead of me is a very senior citizen (what, is Tuesday senior citizen day or something? I actually think it might be) with a big old flatbed full of shit. He’s really old and looks like he might have trouble with the checkout process so I’m all (sigh) this is going to take forever (sigh). Now I know what you’re thinking. Why in the world am I complaining when I clearly have all day? But that’s where you’d be wrong because instead of leaving the house right after my shower I sat down on the couch to read some more and now mama’s on a deadline to make it home before the school bus.

I cleverly and efficiently leave the checkout lane to go to the one next to me, figuring this one will move along faster. I am wrong. The senior citizen in this lane has bought something that has “Kathy” the cashier in a big lather because she keeps scanning his shit and making big old sour lemon faces. She also has a huge rose tattoo on her neck that I CANNOT STOP LOOKING AT especially because Kathy is at least 55 years old and didn’t anyone warn her when she was 19 how stupid that would look in her middle age? And even though this is Iowa our turtleneck season is still not that long.

So anyway, I decide to dash back to my original lane where yet another senior citizen is writing a check. Who writes checks anymore? Oh yeah, all the senior citizens. So I stand there, foot a – tapping, waiting for him and the equally s-l-o-w Lowe’s employee to complete the transaction.

As my business is finally completed and I’m getting ready to grab my stupid filter it occurs to me that the real dumbass here is me. Not only would I have been out of Lowe’s days ago if I’d stayed in my original lane, if I was really smart I’d have bought two filters so that I wouldn’t have to repeat this shitty errand again for 6 months instead of 3.