I don’t like it, sam I am…

Self Help books/gurus/etc, that is.

You see, part of the plan in my other other other job revolves around self-improvement. Now, I’m all for that concept on a general basis, improve yourself all you want! There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. I just… don’t like the force feeding heavy suggestions of how to go about it. Its not just this one group though, it’s the entirety of the self-help-dom as a whole.

It may boil down to my hatred of cheerleaders. Who knows. (Yes, I’m fully aware that I WAS a cheerleader for a year, but I’m also aware that it was in a tiny school where there were little choices and also we wore football sweaters indoors and knee length skirts and had to be careful twirling so that our skirts didn’t lift and show the back of our knees lest those dirty, dirty boys get any naughty ideas by that little flash of flesh….) It just seems so… forced happy, filled with wanting to force me happy too. What if I WANT to be a cranky ole bitch, huh?

The standard book is all about the forced happy. Or maybe they really hare that happy. Or have the good drugs. Whatever. But the books are COLORFUL AND FUN! You can tell by their covers. The one at the left there is one I was recently given to try and stomach, once I admitted that these types of books put me to sleep. JN has good intentions! He does! He wants me to succeed, and I like him for that. He just doesn’t realize that I’m a snarky ole bitch who is set in her ways and will succeed anyway just to spite them and their little how-to books, too!

Ahem.

I’m having problems getting into the book. It’s not a difficult read, but there’s something right on the front cover that gives me pause every, single, time. No, not the cheesy graphics and fun colors and Smiling Happy Successful Cartoon! It’s something far simpler then that…

…the author’s name. You can’t see it in the picture, but the book is Escape to Prosperity, by Wes Beavis.

BEAVIS!

Maybe it’s my age, and the decade I grew up in, but I honestly cannot see that name without wondering where Butthead is, and doing the stupid laugh and snicker about saying “butt”… Heheh. Heheh. Heheh.

I know. I’m really in touch with my inner 16 year old boy. (heheh.heheh.heheh. I said ‘touch’.) But at least I’m HAPPY about it… right? Isn’t that the point of the whole exercise? To be fair, I’m sure that Beavis has a lot of good points, telling me things I already know and have realized and I will continue to wade through it all while I’m in my reading space (…is it bad form to borrow a book then read it in the bathroom, even if it’s the only place you really have to read? Yeah? Whoops…) or before bed where it can send me off into dreamland. And quickly, if last night is any indication.

Until then. Beavis.
BEAVIS, PEOPLE.
Sigh.

Oy!

In the “I’m not old enough for this” file…

..Guess who has suddenly decided work isn’t so horrible a thing after all?

Since his one day of work on his first paycheck he got today got him $60 bucks, he’s suddenly a-ok with the whole concept of dishes and mopping… I took him into my bank, got him set up with his own account, bank card, savings account all rolled into one, and talked to him about how we were going to start saving for the big stuff with his next check.

Then, he treated me to some french fries. Awww. I’m still not old enough for this…

Though on the other hand, with him wanting to finish fixing his car, get his license, and with gas prices at $4.14 a gallon today… HURRAY! HE HAS A JOB!

When he came home from work last night, I discovered he had been taught the drive-thru window, which amused me because that was MY spot for all the years I worked there. I could walk in that store today and still rock the DT Handout window like nobody’s business. Some things, you never forget. He’s becoming more comfortable there, with the job and the folks he is working with, and it’s a joy to see his confidence bloom every day.

Though I’m not above making him blush at the bank. When I told the teller my name would be on the account too, he asked why, and I said in case I need to access the account. He asked why again, and I arched a brow. “Oh, I dunno. Your insurance, car parts,” pause… “…bail money…”

He blushed, then nodded. “You raise a good point, mom.”

Get used to it kid - I got a lot of good points stored up.

Impatient…

She couldn’t wait another second to sleep in her new room, so The Girl dragged her mattress off her bed and placed it in her room so she could sleep there tonight. Too cute, seriously!

I get that look a lot, by the way - the “gosh mom, AGAIN with the pictures? WHAT are you DOING?” - look. Sigh. Teenagers!

It smells like…

…teen spirit! Of course!

It started like this. Back in the day, The Asshole and his friends would take over my living room and drive me insane. So the “Man Space” was born, and we built him his own room to destroy at will. A 9×12 space, we put a tv, cable, couch and chairs, a drumset, and a bar -complete with keg and tap kit - inside. Color the Asshole and his friends happy!

Fast forward to the past years since Kevin’s death: The boy spent a LOT of time in the ManSpace. We got a new heater, and he continued to spend time there, and then he got friends who love the idea of the ManSpace with their whole teenage little hearts. I’m the cool mom -I have cup of soup and the ManSpace!

Soon, the boy was spending the night in the ManSpace, leaving his room neglected and empty. You can see where this is going, right? The boys asked me if they could get some of the storage boxes out of the manspace and into the garage. I said sure - clean the garage, and work with me over the summer, Boy, and you can make the Manspace your room (though we have some things we have to finish according to Papa before winter sets in again - as well as the fact they had to keep it clean in case we had visitors that needed a place to stay, he’d have to give up the room and couch surf). OH the GLEE in his little eyes and his not so little heart! Only thing better would have been handing him the keys to a brand new Mustang or something…

So move he did. He got all of his items from the room, and enter The Girl. Oh how her eyes gleamed at the thought of an empty room. I, of course, being the mean mommy that I am, told her that I was going to reclaim it for my office, as it once was before she was born. Hahahah! She gave me that wide-eyed pitiful look that she’s so good at, and I confessed to thinking one of the girls could take over the Boy’s old room. GLEEFUL CHILDREN! She shocked me by claiming the smaller room recently vacated by the boy, instead of kicking her sister out. Then she asked if she could paint over the old icky marked up blue walls. I agreed. SHE could paint over whatever she liked. After all, I firmly believe in avoiding manual labor letting a child learn by experience.

On her shopping day, The Girl and Nana picked out paint, and curtain material for Auntie to make up new curtains, and toothpaste to be used as cheap spackle. (Yes, Toothpaste. It was recommended, and it works! There’s your tip of the day!) They also got a basic painting kit, with rollers and edgers and all that good stuff. Nana loves her muchly, it’s true!

So, this weekend, she and her BFF cleaned out the rest of the room, washed down the walls, and then toothpaste spackled. I only peeked on occasion to be sure they were allright - after all, it’s manual labor a learning experience and there was a LOT of giggling going on. A lot. Giggling like that scares me, so I sat here and listened from afar. They then had to wait for the toothpaste to dry completely. And wait. And wait. and Wait.

Until there were only a little bit that wasn’t dry, and The Girl decided she had waited LONG ENOUGH and she wasn’t going to wait any longer and she’d just paint around the couple of still damp spots and dammit her room would be PAINTED!

Then came the question “…mom? how do I do it?!” As if she hasn’t watched all the episodes of Trading Spaces WITH ME. Harumph. You get your NEIGHBOR to do it. But, barring that, I gave her the basics I had gleaned from my considerable experience sitting on my ass observing, and let her loose. I did a little, but she honestly wanted to do it all herself - all the paint spills and glops and pink spots on the ceiling and all. We’re not about perfection here in Casa de Lessa, after all! We’re in it for the EXPERIENCE.

See more after the cut!

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FINE! HERE! GOSH!

So, my lil blog crush, Adri, (who’s probably blushing already since I called him my blog crush again) he’s been insisting that he get to see something that I’ve written, since I’ve been bugging him relentlessly about his own writing and he finally caved and posted excerpts. At which time I totally wanted to hide because OMG he’s good, and I can’t ever hope to compare with THAT… AND he’s actually submitted something that is under consideration and holy wow.

*Inhales*

So. Because he asked so nicely (cough) and insisted, and even offered to read my bits of fluff that is totally not his usual style and offer crits for me if I could ever manage the guts to send him AbO and have him look it over… I shall relent and post a little ditty I wrote one day after seeing a sparrow - I think. I don’t remember why it came, it just did. Likewise, I dunno where it was headed, if it was going anywhere, or if it was simply all told in the 500 or so words that I pounded out one day last year. All I know was it was a story to be told, so I told it. Sorta. *g* He wants to read a bit of my first person memoirs of memories not my own… so… after the cut!

Be kind. (Rewind. hahah!)

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