Lunch Lady Union or Another Job Bites the Dust

I've recently posted about my job search.  Here's an update:

I had two interviews for a "Floating Nutrition Services" position (meaning, Traveling Lunch Lady) in the last seven days.  The first interview was over the phone and consisted of the interviewer asking me a bunch of (mostly) generic questions.  She assured me that every person applying for a job with our school district has to answer the questions.  Here is a sample of the questions and my responses (I dare you to try to figure out which ones were my "real" answers and which were the answers I wanted to say).

Do you believe humor is important in the workplace? Yes. Humor is important in life.
Why? Really? If you have to ask that, you don't have a sense of humor.

Do you believe that your co-workers should be highly skilled and competent? Yes.
Why? Because I don't like stupid people.

If you noticed a co-worker was having an emotional day, what would you do? Tell them to "Suck it up and get to work."

Your supervisor seems to disregard high-priority tasks. What would you do? Tell my supervisor that I'm not getting paid the big bucks like s/he is, so s/he can get crackin' and get his/her job done, because I'm not paid enough to be doing both my job and his/her's.

A large food order comes in which includes large bins. What would you do? Try to lift the bins, hurt my back and file a worker's comp claim.

A new piece of equipment is delivered, which you are not familiar with working. What do you do? Ask someone to train me on the equipment or find a manual.

Do you need to be liked by your co-workers? Yes and no.
Why? It is in my personality to be liked by people. However, sometimes, I really don't care. Especially if my co-workers are not highly skilled and competent.

Those are only a few of the very random questions I had to answer.  I told tMotH, "Well, I bombed that interview," and then proceeded to tell him all about the questions.  We had a good laugh, and I wrote off that job possibility.

Monday, I was called for a second interview, so I guess I didn't screw up the questions as much as I thought.  On Wednesday, I put on my "interview outfit" - the only pair of black pants I own that currently fit, a black sleeveless mock-neck shirt, a fuchsia deep-necked sweater, my pearls and the only heels in which I can currently stand to walk - and headed to the District Offices for the interview.

The person with whom I was interviewing found me in the lobby and led me back through a brightly lit cubicle area, which she called "the dungeon" (I've always thought of dungeons as dank and dark which this area was neither) to a small conference room.

"This second interview really shouldn't be called an 'interview' as we've already checked out all your information and have determined that you would be a great fit for the Nutrition Services Program. Which, really, we all call ourselves 'Lunch Ladies.'" She began as we sat down. "Basically, what I want to do today, if you're still interested in the position, is go over what we do and how it all works. Would that be ok?" At my nod, she then went into all the various duties lunch ladies do, how the "floater" position works and then added, "Of course, per our union rules, if we don't have anyone absent at any of the schools, we'd still have you come in and work so you could continue to train."

"Huh? Union?" I stuttered.
"Yes, we are a union district, so everyone who works for the district must be part of the union." She replied.
"Even the part time lunch ladies?"
"Yes. Actually, all but two of our employees are part time workers."
"What if I need a day off? How does that work?"
"Well, days off are hard because as a union, all the day off requests go by seniority."
"Seniority in a part time job?"
"Of course. It's how the union works.  Now, does all this sound good to you or do you want a few days to talk to your husband and figure out what you plan to do?" She smiled. She really was a nice woman.

I told her I needed a few days and left the interview.  All the way home all I could think was "Seriously? Union for part time workers? No wonder why our schools don't have any money. I am NOT working for a GOVERNMENT UNION and giving them my money so they can give it to people intent on destroying the country. Nope. Not happening."

This experience has been more of a testing of principles than a job search.  I can't wait to see which one of my principles gets tested with my next job offer.

Swim Meet Rules of Etiquette

MNHockeyMama's Swim Meet Rules of Etiquette

1. Never ever block other parents' view of the pool.  If you cannot find a seat, then please, at the very minimum, kneel down or sit on the steps in order to remove your fat butt from obstructing the view of the pool.  (If you choose to stand in front of me and block my view, you can be sure that you will be told to sit down. Arguing with me and swearing at me will only serve to make you look more foolish. Most swim parents are pretty laid back and as Minnesotans, are more likely to whisper with one another about their irritation with you. Not me. I am a hockeymama at heart and have no problem telling you "SIT DOWN.")

2. When the sign states: "No Parents Allowed on the Pool Deck," that is exactly what it means.  No coach wants a helicopter parent hovering near little Billy, making sure that he knows to put on his goggles before he steps up on the block. 

3. Saving seats: STOP IT. The meet is four hours long. Your child will swim maybe about five minutes of those four hours. Find a seat, watch your child swim and leave. There are places to hang out at every swim meet outside of the pool area.  It is not necessary for you to watch every event of every meet just because you are worried you will lose your "prime" seat in the bleachers.  If you choose to put a blanket, jacket or other personal items on a five foot section of the bleachers in case you do leave or your "friends/kids/parents" finally choose to show up, don't expect other people to respect that "reserved area" and not push blankets/jackets/personal items aside when they need a place to sit for the few minutes they are in the pool area to watch their own children.

4. Swearing at all, but especially at someone kindly (loudly) telling you to sit down, is absolutely forbidden.

5. Memorizing your child's best times is encouraged. Memorizing the best times of all the kids in his/her age group is creepy.

6. Cheering for your child and/or their relay team is also encouraged. Cheering, screaming and loudly proclaiming that your child's relay team just "Obliterated the record for ___________ event for 9-10 year olds" is also creepy.

7. Talking with other parents about swimming and other topics is encouraged. Talking loudly to other parents or on your cell phone about surgical procedures, bodily functions, gossip about other parents, etc. is wrong and shouldn't happen.

8. Getting antisocial toward other parents when they discuss topics with which you disagree should be discussed, i.e. politics/religion, and insisting on horning in on their discussion to voice your disapproval will cause you to be ostracized from the other team parents and therefore is discouraged.

9. Talking loudly during the start is forbidden. Respect the swimmers need for quiet so they can actually hear the start.

10. Talking smack about the other swimmers on your child's relay because they didn't perform as well as you think they should have is very wrong and therefore, forbidden.

11. Encouraging friendly competition between swimmers on the same team to get them to do their best is good. Asking other parents how their child swam ______ event only so that you can "one up them" by bragging about your child's massive time drop is rude.

12. Encouraging your child to cheer on teammates is strongly recommended. Condoning your child telling their teammate "good job" when he/she knows his/her teammate didn't come near a best time in ________ event, so that he/she can be smug about his/her own performance is in poor taste and is strictly forbidden.

13. There are no "Refs" in swimming, only "Officials." Yelling at the Official for disqualifying your child is never okay.

14. Do not show up to a 6am warm-up dressed like you just came off the pages of Vogue. Comfortable clothes are acceptable and encouraged. (Pajama pants are strongly encouraged.)

I Want a Wife

When the snow was falling on Sunday, it was beautiful and serene (other than the four times we had to shovel, that is).  With a fire burning merrily away in the fireplace, football blaring on the TV, the newspaper in my lap and the kids off at the sledding hill, I was reminded why I love Minnesota.

Not so much now.  It isn't the cold or the endless gray sky days.  It is the fact that as soon as the snow comes, it becomes impossible to keep my floors clean.  Even if I insist that everyone walking into the house take off their shoes before getting past the foyer, the floors still are covered in nasty dirt brought in by my dogs and/or husband (or, admittedly, me sometimes) who don't have the capacity to be trained to wipe their feet or choose to walk wearing giant, snow covered boots directly into my kitchen in order to refresh a mug of coffee.  I've tried covering the bare floors with numerous rugs or putting slippers near the door to entice new behavior, but those measures always fail.  My floors are only clean for about five minutes after they've been swept and mopped in the winter months.  Add the dirty floors to my family's penchant for leaving whatever is in their hands on any available surface and you have a recipe for absolute chaos in a charming Tudor-style suburban home.  (Add to that the "hidden" candy wrappers constantly discovered behind the couch when a garbage is two feet from said couch and there's a recipe for a parent's head to explode.)

It's not that we're inherently dirty people.  Generally speaking, the kids are decently dressed in mostly clean, neat clothes.  They're bathed (or bath themselves) on a regular basis (although in the summer a dip in the pool sometimes substitutes for a bath), their hair is brushed, their teeth are clean (the little ones are required to give me a "breath test" if I think they haven't properly brushed) and usually, their clothes pretty much match. (Although I did let Buttercup leave the house yesterday in a rosy-red sweater paired with a hot pink leopard print skort and black and white leopard print leggings; I figured that I couldn't wear that outfit, but at six? Who's going to complain?) But we have a problem with clutter.  The usual clutter that accumulates in any family: school papers, newspapers, random mail, receipts, toys, electronics, knick-knacks, etc., seems to cover much too much of the available space in our home.  (If I really want to scare myself, I watch "Hoarders" and freak out with the fear that eventually we'll be carving pathways from the bathroom to the living room and eating on our beds because we can't find the dining room table or kitchen island.)

When I visit my friends' homes, jealousy flows through me as I gaze in awe at their well-ordered rooms.  The craziest thing I ever saw in one friend's home was when she and her husband decided to buy a bunch of ammo and it was stacked on her dining room table.  This wouldn't be an unusual sight at my BFF from Up North's home: they're hunters and her husband is a taxidermist.  But in one of the "best" neighborhoods in my city, in a very beautiful expensive home, encountering a dining room table loaded with ammo was pretty surprising (and very entertaining!).  Another friend of mine has a house that looks like it could be a model home, it's so clean and beautiful.  She has two kids and a husband (who works from home) and other than the dozens of family photographs hanging on the walls, you wouldn't know that a family lived there.  I'm totally jealous by the motivation it takes to keep one's house in such cleanliness.  (For all the spotless beauty of both these homes, they are by no means cold in any way - always cozy, warm and welcoming are my friends and their homes.)

I have the desire to have a spotless, orderly home.  I regularly dream of a home where I'm not freaking out if someone calls to tell me they're stopping by in a few minutes and worrying that I'll die of embarrassment when they arrive and see the state my house is in.  However, I don't seem to have the attention span to do what it takes to get the house spotless or to keep it that way.  That actually is a big part of the problem: I can get the house clean (especially if I have some empty totes in which to shove all the crap covering the counters), but I can't seem to get it to stay that way.  This I blame on my family's inability to put anything back where it belongs or to actually get their shoes into the boot box in the foyer (or to hang up their coats or put their backpacks someplace other than in the middle of the hall or to wipe up the eyeliner shavings from the foyer bathroom's counter...).  Considering that I am the one home alone most of the day, though, it probably isn't fair that I put the blame all on them.  And supposedly, since I am home all day, it is my job to clean up the house and keep it nice along with doing the finances and making sure that everyone has what they need every day.  That's what being a "Home Executive" is, right? And if I didn't have the option of being a home executive, then I would have a job and STILL be dealing with every one else's crap when I got home from the job.

In order to combat the disorder of my house, I make lists of all the "projects" I need to complete so that I can have the joy of marking each one off the list.  The problem is, making the list usually overwhelms me, so by the time I finish the list I'm already feeling defeated and discouraged.  The current list is as follows:

1. Clean the floors.
2. Clean off the kitchen counters, get rid of the newspapers and other random papers.
3. Clean - ok, CLEAN EVERYTHING. (That actually takes up a big a chunk of the list.)
4. Sort and toss the crap in the multitude of bins in the house, beginning with the ones in master bedroom.
5. Clean out and organize the "sun porch" (which is what it would be if it didn't end up being a place where everything without a real home gets tossed).
6. Dust all surfaces and wash windows and patio doors.
7. Bathrooms=disgusting. Git r dun.
8. Buttercup's bedroom, painted in September, still hasn't been put completely back together and organized. Get that done.
9. File all "keeper" paperwork.  Clean out "office-area" bookshelf, replace bookshelf with one that has shelves that aren't constantly threatening to dump contents onto floor.
10. Clean out three (yes, THREE!) junk drawers and one misc. cupboard in kitchen.
11. Finish putting up inside Christmas decorations (no, the stockings cannot just stay on chaise lounge in front of the tree).
12. Declutter Declutter Declutter.
13. Organize and find home for all crafting supplies.
14. Finish Christmas craft gifts (time is counting down).
15. Design and order Christmas cards.
16. Send Senior Portrait into Yearbook company so SwimGirl is not excluded from her Senior Year Yearbook.  (This also includes scanning in SwimGirl's baby picture and getting her to send me her 60 word quote. Hard to do when she isn't currently allowed on the computer.)
17. Clean the floors. (Again.)
18. When list is completed, start all over again.

Number 18 defines the real problem: keeping a house clean with four kids, two dogs and a non-inside-an-office working husband is a gross example of the guy who got stuck pushing the boulder up the hill in Greek Mythology: the house can be cleaned, sparkling and beautiful, all clutter stowed or tossed away, the floors shiny and dog-hair free, the bathrooms sanitary and smelling of lavender, but it only lasts about a day.  Then we're back to the same old behavior that puts us into the house of chaotic mess.  Frankly, I get BORED with doing the same thing day after day, cleaning and cooking and driving them to and fro.  Am I grateful to be able to stay home and maybe work on writing? Absolutely.  But seriously, is it too much to ask to have them put their darn shoes in the boot box and hang up their coats and not drop candy wrappers behind the couch? Is it too much to ask the man to take off his flipping boots already before he stomps across my kitchen floor?

After several years of "just" being a home executive, I'm more understanding of the housewives in the '50s who turned to Valium and speed to get through their days.  At least nowadays, I'm not also required to wear a dress and pearls while I vacuum the floor for the 80th time that week.  (If I met my husband at the door with a kiss and was wearing something other than my cozy fleece pants, he'd wonder where I'd been that day or where I was planning on going later.)  Now, instead of Valium, we have Facebook, Words with Friends and Angry Birds to numb our brains and RockStar and Red Bull to get us moving out of the video-gaming induced haze.

I have to believe that I am not the only woman (or stay at home dad) that feels this way.  When people talk about "Angry Housewives" they usually seem to be referring to the women who go off and cheat on their husbands for lack of something better to do or as revenge for whatever slight they're feeling at that moment.  In my honest opinion, that's exactly the dumbest thing any woman could do: Why on earth would you want to add one more person to the list of people who already are asking for everything from you in the first place? Good grief, I have trouble keeping one man and four kids happy as it is.  Why would I add another man to that group?  If anything, I want A WIFE. Not like "Sister Wives" (although, seriously? Other than having to get over the whole jealousy "I-am-going-to-freak-out-on-you-if-you-touch-my-husband" thing, how bad would it be to be able to say "No, honey, not tonight. Go ask one of the sister wives..."?) where there was sharing of one man going on, but someone who actually enjoys cleaning and cooking and driving duties and could do those things so I could write all day.  I guess that is also called a "Housekeeper" and/or "Nanny", isn't it?  Unless we win the lottery, that'll not be happening anytime soon.

Off to clean the floors.

Random Thoughts

12.5 inches of snow fell on my house over the weekend. It's great that we'll have a white Christmas. Hopefully we'll get a January thaw on the 2nd and all the snow will melt.

Receiving one of my kid's grades recently made me realize how strongly I feel about failure. Basically, I believe that failure isn't an option. I believe that so strongly that I won't even start something if I feel like there's a chance that I might fail in my attempt to succeed.  (This is good in some ways but has also caused me to miss out on trying something new because my fear of failure is so bad.) Unfortunately for my daughter, she's having to come to the same understanding the hard way.  Nothing like having to crack down on a kid the last Christmas she'll be home before she starts college next year.  The frustration I'm feeling as parent is unbelievable. The saddest part is that she doesn't seem to get that she's the one with the power here: follow my plan and privileges will come back; fight it and suffer the extended consequences.  Sometimes having to be a good parent really stinks. (I'm naturally a forgiving person; I prefer to get whatever issue is there out in the open, talk about it - sometimes really loudly - and let it go. Or just sort of forget about it.  So having to follow through on consequences for an extended period of time is really hard.  Especially when my child looks at me with her big brown eyes full of tears.  However, the tears will be forgotten when she opens her mouth and says something totally irresponsible and out-of-line.  That's what's helping me continue with her consequences. Still hard to do, though.)

How is it possible to lose a book in my own house? Oh hey, there it is. Right next to me. Good grief.

Made a double batch of rosettes today. The oil got to the smoking point. Now my house smells like a giant fish fry. I'm not sure if it is a good or bad sign that I didn't set off the smoke alarms.  The rosettes, however, ROCK.

15 days left til Christmas.  Even with our house Griswolded out and the tree (the prettiest tree ever, btw, even though it has a slight case of scoliosis and seems to be doing a peepee dance) is up and decorated and all the white crappy snow on the ground, it doesn't seem like it is really Christmas time yet.  Maybe I need to get more face time with the Hallmark channel movies?

Speaking of Hallmark Channel Christmas movies: I watched one with Tbone over the weekend.  He was scoffing at it at first.  Then he got into it. He was amazed by my powers of prediction - I was telling him what was going to happen (hadn't seen the movie before, I swear!) and he was shocked when I was right.  I then had to explain to him that the Hallmark movies basically follow a formula that begins with two people meeting, falling in love, having their love tested in some way, then ultimately getting married, usually about 2 weeks after they meet and usually on Christmas Day.  Even with all that, he still liked the movie.  I love it that my 16 year old son is still sweet and innocent enough to not have become jaded and cynical yet.  Which can't be said about all kids his age.  For example, I perused my daughter's friends' Twitter posts the other day and discovered that the boy with whom she was supposed to go to the last dance is a very sick-minded individual.  (The fact that her grades caused her to be grounded and unable to attend the dance with the disgusting boy was one little glimmer of happiness for my husband and I in what is a very unhappy situation.  Now if the attraction wears off during her time of groundation, life will be very good.) It does make me wonder what is going on with my daughter's head that would cause her to be attracted to this boy, too.

What would cause kids to think that using the n-word or the c-word in their tweets is acceptable behavior? Is it possible that they don't understand that unless their account is protected that ANYONE can read their tweets? Honestly, I don't get it.  I'm waiting for his next tweet to be Anthony Wiener-esque. Why would anyone believe that their 140 character thoughts on masturbation is something the whole world should see?  It is a sad commentary on what has become acceptable in our society.

Finally, conversations between my children that I recently overheard:

Buttercup (6): "Tbone, was that your stomach?"
Tbone (16): "Nope."
Buttercup: "Huh. Must have been mine."
Sparkles (8): "Yep, she gets gassy sometimes."

Sparkles: "Today I tooted and it smelled just like Daddy's toots!"
Buttercup: "I know because you made me smell them."
Sparkles: "Didn't they smell just like Daddy's?"
Buttercup: "Nope. They were worse."
Sparkles: "They smelled great!"

(I have an idea now of what my kids will be posting someday when they have Twitter.  Why are bodily functions funny anyway?)

All I Want for Christmas is a Pink Daisy Red Ryder

"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Kid..." ~ A Christmas Story

On a recent visit to Walmart (I love Walmart.  Where else can you get a new car battery, razors for the swimmer, bananas, toilet paper and craft supplies all in the same store?) I discovered my Christmas Wish:
A pink Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun.  Anything pink generally catches my eye, but a pink Daisy Red Ryder? Oh man, that stopped me in my tracks.  At first, I thought about it for 8 year old Sparkles, but quickly realized putting a weapon, even a BB gun, into Sparkle's hands was a recipe for disaster, exceeded only by the idea of putting weapons into Sparkle's, Buttercup's AND TBone's hands - we'd have an all out war in our backyard where someone would have their eye shot out in about 30 seconds.  But, to pass on such a glorious item as a PINK(!) Daisy Red Ryder seemed almost as crazy as giving it to one of my wild monster children.

I stood in the middle of the aisle, gazing longingly at the powder pink gun, imagining myself ripping into the present (wrapped lovingly by me in the wee hours of Christmas Eve), finally revealing the BEST. CHRISTMAS. GIFT. EVER.  My revere went something like this:

Kids: What'd Santa bring you mom?  Let us see!
Me: It's a PINK Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun!  I'm so excited!
Kids: Wow! You are so lucky! Better watch out: You'll shoot your eye out, kid! (A Christmas Story is a family favorite any time of the year.)
Me: I'm going to take it outside RIGHT NOW! Maybe there's a squirrel that needs shooting? (PETA: don't come after me, I'm not that good of a shot, and those squirrels are fast. Just ask the hyper Huxley and geriatric Bella dogs.)
Donning my Grandpa's old down-filled coat (a puffy jacket he owned before they were even cool!), my old Ugg boots over my hot-pink camo fleece pajama bottoms and tossing my pink plaid "Elmer Fudd" hat on my head, I troop out the door, my pink Daisy Red Ryder in my hand.  Plopping down on the bench on our front step, I lovingly caress it's pretty pinkness as the next-door neighbor steps outside to fix a dangling Christmas light.  I smile and wave the pretty pink gun at her.
Me: Look what Santa brought me for Christmas! Isn't it lovely!  What, wait, where are you going? 
My neighbor dashes back into the house.
Me: It's not that cold out here. I wonder what's wrong with her? Her California blood must still be too thin for 25 degree temps.
I happily sit for a few more minutes, my unloaded gun in my lap, enjoying the early Christmas morning, when suddenly, a city police car slowly drives past my house and then backs up and pulls into my driveway.
Me (Grinning like a fool): I wonder if it's one of our cop friends, stopping by to wish me a Merry Christmas and admire my new pink Daisy Red Ryder?
Police Officer: Morning, Ma'am.
Me: Merry Christmas, Officer! (Fortunately, I hadn't delved into my Christmas morning bloody Mary causing me to call him "Occifer" instead...)
Police Officer: What's that in your hand? We had a report of someone brandishing a firearm in this neighborhood. Is it loaded?
Me (holding up my new pink Daisy Red Ryder BB gun, causing the officer to duck): This is my Christmas present.  Isn't it lovely?
Police Officer: Yes ma'am, it's nice.  You didn't happen to wave it at anyone this morning, did you? Such as a neighbor? (Nods his head in the direction of my neighbor's house where a slight movement of their drapes reveals that they're intently watching the exchange.)
Me: Oh no sir. I wouldn't brandish my new BB GUN at anyone.  I was simply enjoying the morning. It's not even loaded.
Police Officer: We were told that there was a person brandishing a large gun in this neighborhood, making threats to her neighbors.  Are you sure that wasn't you? I might have to charge you with "terroristic threats."
Me (snorting back a laugh): Sir, you do realize that the people in that house who are currently cowering behind their curtains while watching you and I chat are the same people who were afraid that birdshot would suddenly be able to travel over a mile and go through their 6 foot wooden privacy fence and kill them, right?  I assure you, I have not brandished my "weapon" at them in any way.  The wife came outside as I was sitting here with my Christmas present, that isn't even loaded with the BBs it requires, at which point, I waved "Hello" and wished her a Merry Christmas.  I can only assume that she dashed back into her house and called you with the speed of Santa's seven reindeer.
Police Officer (smiling): Ok, I just had to check.  Be careful with that thing: You'll shoot your eye out...

(The only thing better than my neighbor freaking out over an unloaded BB gun would be reading about it in my local paper's "Police Report" section the next week.)

Update: Hubby heard me talking about the PINK Daisy Red Ryder and took it upon himself to buy FIVE of them for Christmas.  Not five pink guns, 3 pink and 2 regular brown fake wood.  His idea was that three kids, himself & I all needed these cool guns for when we go up north to our friends' cabin.  I convinced him that 5 of these guns were not necessary and took them, the BBs and targets he also purchased back to Walmart yesterday.  My fear of the neighbors calling the police when Sparkles is spotted wielding a pink BB gun over-rode the entertainment caused by the looks on their faces when they realized we had given her and Buttercup each weapons.  (Even though Hubby said he'd hide the guns except for when we went up north, knowing that these are the same children who kept disappearing to friends' homes 6-7 blocks away no matter what the consequences - until Hubby took the front wheels off all the bikes - gives me faith that they'd probably find the guns' hidey-spot and if they didn't succeed in shooting out their own eyes I doubt the neighbors' kid would be safe.)