I'll Clean it for You

I'm looking at the mess on my daughter's bedroom floor, and I can hear my mother's voice in my head: Clean this up now, or I'll go in with a trash bag and clean it for you. I generally kept my room clean, partly because I liked it that way and partly because I wasn't sure whether or not it was an empty threat. My mom, after all, would make a spur-of-the-moment threat reality on occasion, no matter how overboard a punishment it might be, so that we knew she was serious. She never changed her mind, and never apologized. I was grounded for two weeks for 'refusing' to eat stew one night, even though I changed my mind as soon as I saw the look on her face.

I was never entirely sure if the threat to clean our bedrooms with a trash bag was true or not, but I didn't worry about it. I was terribly jealous of my younger sister, however, because when her room got to be too bad—for example when the floor pile reached knee height and she needed to jump from the door onto her bed—my mother would clean it. My sister would get home from a slumber party and her floor would be visible. My sister would be wide-eyed for a brief time and then cocky about her special treatment, and I would sulk enviously.

One day my sister was gone and I was passing her bedroom to go somewhere. Our mother was crouched on the bedroom floor with a huge black trash bag and a stretched-to-the-point-of-breaking look on her face. She looked up at me with wide, angry eyes and held up some random toy.

"Does your sister play with this?"

My eyes widened as far as they'd go. My mother was not someone to be trifled with, especially when she was angry, and I didn't want any backlash, no sirree. I looked at the toy, shook my head, pointed out a couple others, and scrammed.

My sister remembers getting home that day. I must have been hiding somewhere, because I don't. Apparently the second she walked into the house she knew something was up. There were both our parents waiting for her with that look on their faces.

"I cleaned your room," our mother said, and my sister's heart skipped. "It will never happen again."

No further explanation was needed. My sister's room was spotless, she didn't know what was missing, and all I'd say was that yes, there was a trash bag involved. I didn't want to get on her bad side for my moment of cooperation, and I didn't want her getting upset about things I hoped she wouldn't miss.

It was months before she went looking for some random thing and couldn't find it. I would neither verify nor negate that it had gone into the trash bag. I'm not even sure how much our mother threw away, because my instincts said hide until they drag you out for dinner.

Back to the present. We've recently moved and my daughter hasn't unpacked anything that I didn't unpack for her. She spent two weeks playing Barbies in her room, and then when the third box of toys arrived from storage, her room got too full to enjoy and she stopped going in except to go to change clothes and sleep. I have two hours before I need to pick her up from school, and a box of black trash bags. Some of the stuff in her boxes has been in storage nearly four years, and chances are she wouldn't miss it.

I guess I'll find out.

1 Weird Trick to Looking Good in Photos

I recently read a blog post about incredible transformation photos. You know what I'm talking about; an ad for some diet aid or light food shows before and after photos of people who used to be lumpy and are now utterly svelte. I could tell you how to transform yourself, but I think I'll start off with proof directly from the source, who proved it.

Says MelVFitness:

"Check out my transformation! It took me 15 minutes. Wanna know my secret? Well firstly I ditched the phonewallet (fwallet) cause that shit is lame, swapped my bather bottoms to black (cause they're a size bigger & black is slimming), Smothered on some fake tan, clipped in my hair extensions, stood up a bit taller, sucked in my guts, popped my hip- threw in a skinny arm, stood a bit wider, pulled my shoulders back and added a bit of a cheeky/Im so proud of my results smile. Zoomed in on the before pic- zoomed out on the after & added a filter. Cause filters make everything awesome. What's my point? Don't be deceived by what you see in magazines & on Instagram.. You never see the dozens of other pics they took that wernt as flattering. Photoshop can make a pig look hotter then Beyonce."

That's right, fifteen minutes to a slimmer, fitter you, using this one weird trick.

There are other tricks. Resting your weight on one leg rather than both is one, and another is stretching your neck forward a bit toward the camera. From the side you might look a bit like E.T., but in the picture it'll smooth out your neck and jaw. Wear clothes that skim your figure instead of being overly loose or tight. If you want to play with the big dogs hire a tailor for everything down to t-shirts and sweats.

There are people who make careers out of posing people (or being posed). Models and photographers don't just stand there and take pictures, there's work that goes into it all. If you put in that kind of work, you could look amazing too. Or you could stop worrying so much.

Almost every photo of my mother when I was growing up was actually a photo of her palm facing the camera to block out her face. She was a little overweight, reasonably pretty, and somewhat obsessed with her appearance. Even on weekends she put on makeup before wandering around the house.

I read something recently that claims "Real Women Have Curves" is doing damage, and I believe it. It took me years and years to accept that my shape isn't the one that's currently fashionable, and this applies no matter your sex or gender. Even if I lose every ounce of fat on my body I still won't be shaped like someone in a magazine because not everyone is built with a broad chest, narrow hips, a tiny waist, or legs twice the length of their torso. Buying mass-produced clothing would imply otherwise, but it's not true.

Says Hanne Blank:

"Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.

"Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever."

It continues in much the same way, the point being that people aren't all shaped the same. At all.

Guess what; the models in lingerie ads aren't the same ones you see on runways. Runway models are typically tall and slender. They're supposed to look like walking hangers so you look at the clothes. They're still real people, just tall, lanky ones who may or may not be pressured by their careers to eat little and stay slim. Lingerie models are shorter and curvier than them, but still pressured to stay fit.

What you see isn't the one version of perfection that so many people think it is.

So you can hide from the camera when you're not feeling attractive or pop your hip, stretch out your neck, suck in your gut and try to look like a model, or you can decide it's just not worth it.

Take my rant and search photography/modeling tricks or give yourself a look and decide that maybe you look like a person, like everyone else.

Discussion/comments are welcome.

Enema of the State

I was driving down a long, winding road in the dark of night, work behind me and home somewhere ahead. The day had been an arguable success; I'd only cried alone in the cooler once, and no one saw. My foot grew heavy on the gas pedal. The road was empty but for me, and I was hungry.

My phone rang. I don't make a habit of answering it while driving, but the late hour and odd timing jarred me. It was my father.

"Have you left work?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I'm nearly home."

"I need something."

What he needed was an enema for Grandma, who's apparently refused to go to the bathroom for a few days and now finds that she can't. I went home (to her house, though she lives with my dad) and scoured her bathroom cabinets. Found one, brought it to her.

Things I didn't expect to be doing after work #345.

Old Age, Death, and Stories

I watched family members take away my great-grandfather's car keys so he couldn't drive across the country alone, watched the local senior center close and take with it his reason to go on a walk every day. I watched him spend more time in front of the TV because he didn't have anywhere to go anymore, and I was torn because I could see both sides.

He was in his eighties, and if he died on a three-day road trip, how long would it be before someone knew? How long before someone found him?

When he was in his nineties his independence was gone, and he was having problems. The family in general chalked it up to "old age" and decided to make him comfortable. My father told him that he should go to the hospital and find out what was wrong because "old age" isn't a condition, it's a life state. He chose the hospital.

He had surgery for a pinched nerve in his back, which had been causing the trouble talking, the clumsiness, the symptoms of "old age." Family across the country came out to visit him, and after a second surgery, he went into a coma he never woke up from.

The few who'd insisted on "old age" blamed my father for my great-grandfather's death, because of the surgeries. I believe that things worked out for the better. He could have died alone in a dark living room, but instead he died in a bright hospital, surrounded by children and grandchildren, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. He got to see people one last time between surgeries.

At his wife's funeral, some twenty years earlier, he left the front of the room to sit with his great-grandchildren in the back rows and told us that she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad, she'd have wanted us to remember her life. He told us stories about her, a petite woman who, in the 1930s, had painted her long nails red and played basketball.

At his graveside, we did the same for him. We talked about things he'd said that had surprised us, talked about the stories he'd told, talked about his life story, which had been read at the funeral, so much of which we'd known nothing about. My daughter, his great-great granddaughter, was there, and old enough to share stories with us.

We could spend our lives feeling guilty for taking away his keys, or for taking him to a hospital which gave him the anesthetic he ultimately died under. Or we could remind ourselves that the last he knew was how much he was loved, and how many generations he'd seen grow during his long life. He got to share stories, got to say goodbye.

Some people spend forever grieving, unable to cope with certain holidays because someone's missing, unable to go certain places because of memories. My memories make me want to go back. They make me want to tell stories and include people, whether they're corporeally there or not. When I drive past the graveyard, I wave to all three of the grandparents I have there. I'm sure every one of them would appreciate it.

This post was written as a reaction to this one, by rantravewrite.

Out of My Head

If you've read more than a couple blog posts, you might have noticed that there are huge variations in my mood and state of mind. I've written blog posts about self-hatred and about hope for the future, about hating life in general and about amusing things that have happened.

I want out of my head.

This has been a hard summer, and I don't even know why. For about three weeks it's been severe depression almost constantly. Severe Depression as in sitting somewhere crying until I start to hyperventilate, getting dizzy, then forcing myself to breathe just long enough for the dizziness to go away before it's near hyperventilation again.

I don't want to go to work because hell, it's work. No one wants to go. I've gone every day except two. The first day I was hyperventilating when I called in and the person who answered the phone couldn't understand me. The second day I spent attempting to calm myself so I could go back to work on the third day.

I don't want to go to sleep. I lie in bed for an hour trying not to think, or at least to think about something that doesn't terrify me. I fall asleep and wake up several times, often from nightmares. I lie awake again for a while, and eventually I get sick of trying and get up. Then I zone out because I'm not sleeping.

I don't want to eat. I don't want to do much of anything, really. I've written a couple stories, many of which were violence-themed or crime-themed because it gets the thoughts out without me doing anything.

Here are some things people diagnosed with depression can do at home to ease the symptoms:

• Get adequate sleep
• Eat healthy
• Take a walk outside/exercise

Here is how people in the throes of actual severe clinical depression might feel about that:

• HAHAHAHA *sob sob sob*
• Who cares about food? I'll grab what's closest so I don't starve myself. That counts, right? (Or, alternately, What does it matter? I'm worthless anyway. Gimme the choco-ballos.)
• What does it matter? I'm worthless anyway.

I don't know how I'll make it through the next few days, let alone another thirty years of life. There's not enough good to make up for all this crap.

Adventures at Smile Central

As you may recall, I have a job at a store I shall hereby refer to as Smile Central. That is not the store's real name, in case you were wondering, and in fact has nothing to do with the store. It is a pseudonym, because I dislike the idea of being fired and sued. Because I'm maybe going to complain about the place a little, and corporate entities don't have much of a sense of humor about these things.

But back to my job. I'm working a temporary security gig, sitting at a back door making sure construction and remodel guys don't steal anything. When the construction and remodel is done, I no longer have a job. Maybe. I have strongly hinted and pledged and vowed and sworn on my name badge that I would appreciate continued employment. At least two people have consulted the store manager on my behalf, and other employees miss me when I'm not here, so I'm doing a decent job.

So I got to work tonight and no one acknowledged my request to open the door (not unusual, actually), and eventually someone wandered back and asked what I was doing here. He told me that the remodel guys aren't using this door anymore, and hauled away their mobile office. As we debated the merits of sitting by a closed door making minimum wage and playing smartphone for four easy hours versus being sent home, someone else showed up and blew my cover.

Send Lyric to stationery.

Does Lyric know how to do this?

How about housewares?

Pharmacy?

Go see the manager.

I'm going to say I don't have to worry about being dropped and jobless in a week. Nervescitement? Lots of it. I've been waking up my daughter with somewhat noisy nightmares about work for weeks because I knew the remodel was wrapping up. I could about puke right now from the nervescitement.

I ended up talking to the store manager personally. Not a department manager. Not a shift manager. The Big Boss of this particular Smile Central. I was asked what position I wanted, to which I replied that I was open. I mentioned the departments which had expressed interest in me before. I was asked what my Goals are.

That's right. My Goals. In the blink of an eye, about a million thoughts rushed through my head. My goal for the past however many hears now has been stay alive, with a side of get a job so there's one more reason to stay alive. Before that, my goal was to move to a specific urban area where there would be job opportunities appropriate to my bachelor's degree, which so happens to be in a field I love.

So I blinked. I said that I was interested in management, that I've applied for management positions more than once, and that I have a degree in a field without many opportunities in this area. I said that when I'd graduated I hadn't intended to stay in this area, but now I do.

This is true in a way. I cannot legally leave the state and take my daughter because her other parent objects. I will not leave without her, and if I must stay, and I don't have the resources to move to a city (I don't), I may as well stay here.

Big Boss asked what my degree was in (Graphic Design), and I told her. I can't say what the smile she shared with the shift manager was about, but I said that I was thrilled that they knew what Graphic Design was to begin with. Many people don't, or they have a very limited view of what it is. Graphic Design isn't really something you do for glory.

This hasn't turned into me mocking the place. Sorry about that. Too excited and all.

Big Boss asked if I minded working in produce.

Now, that sounds bad, but what I've learned is that they shuffle people from position to position, based on what's needed, and they desperately needed someone in produce. I said that was fine. I was asked if I liked cleaning. Pfft, who likes cleaning? I said I like feeling useful, which is the truth. Approving looks all around. I was given a new schedule and sent out... to straighten shelves in housewares.

By this time I'd run back and forth answering summons to this place or that (as mentioned in paragraphs 4-8), and straightening shelves sounded pretty decent. I've got no clue how long I did that before someone walkie-talkied someone else to call me back to the remodel door. Then they paged me over the store speaker, by which time I was halfway there.

Apparently they'll need me at my door until at least Friday.

Okay, complaining time now. This place is a mess, and I don't know how they manage to keep things on the shelves. The right hand not only doesn't know what the left is doing, but is totally unaware that it should be watching its own fingers, and that there are also arms, feet, eyes, and other such things.

Earlier tonight I got paid a total of approximately fifteen dollars to sit by a closed door, listen to people bicker about what to do with me, and straighten a few aisles' worth of merchandise. I was given a new schedule, then put back onto my old one in the space of a couple hours.

For now, I'm still door security. I have no desk to rest my head heavily on, so facepalm, I say. Facepalm.

Wear Your Underpants; A Cheese Factory Tale

So one time, at the cheese factory, we had a guy who was fresh out of prison working as a janitor. He had a bushy mountain-man beard going on, but what he was really known for was the complaints about his refusal to wear undergarments. See, at the cheese factory everyone wore white, and if you didn't buy your own whites, you could use a jumpsuit deal provided by the factory. Those things were well-worn and therefore a bit thin.

People complained, especially the older women on the janitorial staff with him and the younger women who had no desire to see his hairy butt-crack. It was, indeed, hairy. My lovely photographic memory has the moment I realized what I was seeing as I followed him up a staircase burned into my brain. I was told that the front view was even worse, but cleverly kept my eyes up to at least mountain-beard level after that.

He was told several times by management to wear something under his jumpsuit, and didn't. So they fired him. Today's lesson: Wearing underpants to work is probably a good idea, unless you're a stripper.