Tag Archives: Molly Rossiter

January 1, 2013 · 5:29 pm

Resolutions for all of us for 2013

NewYearsEve1As 2012 closed a final, slow, methodical close with no sign of zombies, Mayan ruination or other earthly implosion, I set about making my annual New Year’s Resolution list. Sure, there’s the one about weight loss (I view that one as more of a perpetual goal – aside from a few years post-divorce, that one’s been on the list every year since I was 12), there’s one seeking financial stability, then one for health and happiness.

While I fully plan to work toward my own resolutions, there are many I hope we as a collective can accomplish as 2013 passes.

1. Forget about Lindsay Lohan. I don’t mean as a person; if we see her sick and homeless on the side of the street, by all means, stop to help and give her a couple bucks or give her a ride to a shelter or doctor’s office. But really, the only “celebrity” she has anymore is due to her bad behaviour. Seriously, take away a few mediocre made-more-for-younger-audiences movies from her youth – “Mean Girls,” “Parent Trap,” and “Herbie Fully Loaded” – and what does she have, really? I mean, why do we even care? It’s bad enough that we pay attention to the misbehavings of Mel Gibson and Charlie Sheen, but loathesome as their behavior may be they’ve both earned a name in the entertainment industry by being top-dollar actors and directors. (Although I really am no longer a fan of either man …)

2. Let’s just live and enjoy life without worrying about the ‘end of the world.’ I know there are a lot of superstitious people out there, but absent a group of scientists alerting the world to an incoming monster meteor or some such thing, no one really knows when or how the earth will end. Even those studying global warming say it’s nothing our generations will see. So can we all simply relax and enjoy life and work to make things better, instead of preparing for a mythical end?

3. Flash mobs are soooo 2008. Like any good thing, too much of it can ruin it. It happened with “Rocky” and “Karate Kid” (c’mon,  admit it – the first one was good), the more you do it, the weaker it gets. There’s still a surprise element with flash mobs, but the uniqueness of them has gone the way of diet soda and online banking – they’re everywhere. Let’s give it a rest for a while, maybe it will come back.

4. Stop viewing single parenthood as the downfall of American society. Sure, it’s not ideal, but it’s a common fact of life in this age. And there are many of us who, quite frankly, do a pretty damned good job. We not only hold down jobs but have thriving careers. Our children not only stay out of jail but they work and volunteer and do good things. We pay our own way. We don’t “milk the system.” And we have brains and voices and opinions that deserve to be heard.

5. Stop caring about who is sleeping with whom and who is married to whom. Seriously. It’s none of anyone’s business. Period. And this goes for everything – celebrities, politicians, same-sex couples. There are so many more important things to worry about than anyone’s sex life.

6. Start a movement to get the word ‘ginormous’ removed from the dictionary. It’s not a word, it’s a goulash of letters, two words mixed together to make one word that means the very same thing: gigantic + enormous = ginormous. It’s idiotic + stupid = idiopid.

7. Give more. Help others in need. Give more time. Give more money. Give more ideas. Volunteer. Brainstorm.

8. Be happy. You may not always be able to control the circumstances, but you can always control how you let them affect you.

 

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August 16, 2012 · 3:08 am

Dear Father Time: Bite me

For the record, I love my 40s. I’ve been saying it for, well, five years now, and it’s still true. I was a little intimidated by them before they got here, but once I turned 40 I realized the number isn’t the same as it was – or how I thought it was – when my mother was 40.

That was, until recently. Suddenly I feel old. Not put-me-in-a-nursing-home-so-I-can-chase-birds-with-my-walker old, but old all the same.

It started in March and seems to have made a monthly progression to now.

March – My son, then 19, started looking at apartments and for a roommate, found one of each and made plans to move out the first of April. <ding>

April – I met a great guy on Match.com, we started talking and decided we should go out. I was 44, he was 49. Both in the same decade, I didn’t think anything of it. Two days before we went out, he went and had a birthday. Suddenly I was going out with a 50-year-old man. Am I old enough to date a 50-year-old man?? (For the record, I am – and he’s fabulous. Even if he is 50.) <ding>

Oh! And Man/Boy moved out as planned. <ding ding>

May – The then-19-year-old son turned 20. TWENTY. <ding>

June – The then-44-year-old turned 45. Any time there’s an age that ends with a “5” that means you’re halfway to the next decade. So there I am. Halfway through my 40s. <ding>

July – July almost went without a hitch. Usual summer activities, got with friends, hung out with the Manfriend (hey, he’s 50), lived life and enjoyed it. Then my then-16-year-old daughter and I went on a whirlwind trip to Chicago, where she met with several modeling agencies and had three express serious interest. Suddenly, I saw her as her 3-year-old self living in Chicago – and wondering if she’d know what to do. <ding>

August – Now we’re here. Tomorrow morning that same daughter starts her last first day of high school, her senior year. She’s giddy, has spent the last week wondering what to wear (she actually contemplated sweats so it wouldn’t look like she thought it was a big deal) and is ready to get the year over with and start her life. <ding>

I, on the other hand, am ready to go whimper in a corner and wish the clock back 12 years.

Or maybe just five. Because I really do love my 40s.

**Disclaimer: Because I have guilt (hey, I’m Irish. Guilt is what we do). I by no means think 50 is old. I have many, many friends who are 50 and older, a few who will hit that magic number this year, and well, it’s just not old. Thinking of myself dating someone who was 50, though – that just seemed odd. Because I am, after all, still in my 20s. And 30s. And … well, you get it. Don’t you?

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April 17, 2012 · 2:52 am

You just can’t hide from Karma

They say karma will always get you. It may not happen today, or tomorrow, or next week or next year – but it will happen. At some point, when you least expect it, karma will come around and bite you in the ass.

Karma’s a bitch.

For the last five years I’ve often retold the story of how I truly discovered my word snobbery – that I  went on a date with a man who was quite proud of being an aff-eh-KON-dee-oh of weapons, how I giggled at what I thought was his deliberate mispronouncing “aficionado” and how appalled I was to discover that no, that’s how he really pronounced it. And that I didn’t go out with him again. Oh, the horror, to mispronounce a word!

You know what’s coming.

The other night I was out on a date and we went to an Italian restaurant for some pasta and wine. While I’m not a wine “aficionado,” I don’t think I’m an idiot, either. I looked over the wine list and made my selection. When the waitress came to take our wine order, I asked for a Bolla chianti. Make that a Bolla chee-AHN-ti. Heavy on the C-H.

As soon as it was out of my mouth I knew I’d screwed up. It’s not CHianti, it’s KEE-ahn-ti. I knew that. But it was already out there. I stole a quick look at my date and saw a slight smirk (or was it a grimace?) and an “Oh, you poor thing” look from the waitress.

I slouched just a little lower in my seat. I wanted to take it back, to say, “Wait! I know this! I know how to say it!” Actually,  I think I really did say some of that …

Then it hit me. This was karma. Sitting right there next to me in that booth, helping me read the wine list and nudging me to that particular glass. Karma helped me find a wine that sounded appealing and then, quietly, sat back and watched it happen.

So, to the unnamed guy whose future date offers I declined because of the way you mispronounced a word, I’m sorry. So, so sorry. That doesn’t mean that it won’t still make a great story (I’ve forever ruined the word “aficionado” for many of my writer friends), but it does mean that I’ll be a little more gracious in telling it.

Damned karma.

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March 31, 2012 · 2:31 pm

The nest is thinning

It’s moving day.

I’m not the one moving, but I am, of course, the one packing. In just a few short hours Man/Boy – er, Justin – will be moving into his first apartment. We’ve worked on a budget, done a little pre-moving shopping (“Yes, I do think it’s a good idea to get a can opener … and hangers … and a garbage can.”) and have all the utilities switched over to either his name or his roommate’s.

Yet here we are, day of the Big Move, and there are still piles of dirty clothes, empty boxes and a countertop filled with things to be packed.

I interrupted a game of something-or-other on Xbox last night to ask Justin if it was time to pack.

“Eh,” he says.

“Should we get all of your clothes and towels and dishes and start putting them in these boxes, or are you going to just take things to the apartment by the armload?”

“That last one, that’s how I’m going to move.”

Of course it is.

Fortunately he’s not moving far. And by “not moving far” I mean he’s moving into the next apartment building. We could look out our respective living room windows and wave – or stick our heads out and have a conversation. Yeah. That close.

This morning, as he’s at a training conference for work, I’m packing. And doing laundry. And washing the new silverware and cooking utensils.

Given this somewhat disorganized method of moving, I can’t help but wonder – because I am a Mom, after all – how he’s going to do. Yes, he’ll be close, but that’s just geography and circumstance. It’s a decent apartment at a decent price – good enough for a first place. I have no doubts that this is just as much the “changing of an era” as it would be if he’d moved across town or even across the state. We’ll run into each other in the parking lot, he’ll occasionally come over to sit with the dogs – but for all intents and purposes, he’s moving out.

Will he know how to load the dishwasher or will he let a disgusting pile of dishes pile up? Will he remember to pay his bills on time? Will he and his roommate get along?

It’s a bittersweet day for me. I’ve been responsible for his care and well-being for more than 20 years if you count the time I was taking care of myself while he was waiting to be born. I’ve applied Band-aids, helped with homework, held his hand to cross the street and celebrated his victories.

But I’d be lying if I said there were a few things I won’t miss: the new roll of toilet paper put on top of the empty roll; the breakfast/lunch/dinner dishes sometimes rinsed out placed on the counter, even when the dishwasher is empty; the giant bags of cereal on the kitchen counter (because 2 minutes after getting it out he’s forgotten where it goes?); and the piles of dirty clothes and empty Diet Mountain Dew bottles on the living room floor.

He’ll be fine. And if he needs me, I’m just a sidewalk away.

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March 20, 2012 · 5:58 pm

Make new friends, but keep all of the old? Maybe not …

From Dreamstime.com

There are always two sides to every story.

When I was 16 and my brother – my younger brother – pushed me into the couch and I hit it in just the right spot to break three ribs, what never came out when I told the story to my friends was that I had patiently waited for him to get off the couch so I could steal his seat. When he came back we argued –  because we were teenagers and that’s what we did – and when I stood up he simply pushed me back down. Crack.

When my daughter, then 3, would come crying to me because her brother pushed her or knocked her down, I didn’t know until I went to talk to my son that it was because she stood in the middle of the area where he was playing blocks or driving his Matchbox cars and then kicked all of his toys around.

Little Red Riding Hood would most certainly have a different version of what happened that day in the woods than would the Big Bad Wolf.

And when you hear, “People come into your life for a reason,” you never think that people also leave your life for a reason.

But they do.

Anyone who knows me or who has been a regular reader of this blog (or both) knows that we moved around a lot when I was growing up – and by “a lot” I mean that by the time I graduated from high school we had lived in 13 different houses in five different states. We weren’t gypsies or transients or, as one friend often accuses, in witness protection. My dad simply got bored sitting in one place too long. As a result I went to two elementary schools, two middle schools and two high schools. And while it was tough leaving friends behind, it was always good to make new ones.

I’ve carried that with me through my adult years. In college I think I lived someplace new every semester, and in the (gulp) 23 years since the longest time I’d spent in any one house was the one I bought after my divorce in 2002 – and we moved out of that one two years ago.

I’ve never really had a problem making friends – again, those who know me know I’m not shy. Growing up it was never really hard to “clean out the bad,” either, because if I waited long enough we’d move and those I didn’t want to keep in touch with just faded into the sunset. (Unfortunately many I did want to keep in touch with faded, as well, but thanks to Facebook and social media  I’ve reconnected with many of them.)

As an adult, cleaning that closet is a bit more difficult. I can’t sit back on my laurels and wait for Dad to get bored and move (which, by the way, he stopped doing once we three kids graduated). When I need to cleanse, it’s got to be a decision I make, and it’s not always an easy one. How do you tell someone, “thanks, but it’s over.” Breaking up with a friend is harder than breaking up with a boyfriend, I think, because the relationship is different. When you make a romantic break, there’s the possibility you can be friends, or maybe without the romance there’s not much reason to be around each other so it doesn’t matter. With friends, it’s different. There is no, “but we can still be friends” – that defeats the whole process.

I’ve only made that cleansing move twice in the last 25 years, both because it is so damned hard and because, well, I generally love my friends. I don’t get to spend as much time with a lot of them as I’d like, but I do still like having them. What usually drives me to that point is how that person makes me feel. I don’t need to be coddled and given warm fuzzies by any means, but if I’m constantly left with a negative self-image after talking with the friend or just feeling badly about myself because of them, I don’t need them nor do I want them around. In many cases, these are the friends who use a revolving door – they come into your life for a while, then leave for a while, then they eventually resurface.

I do believe people come into our lives for a reason, but I have to remember that people leave our lives for a reason, too – and sometimes that reason has to be because we tell them to leave.

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February 24, 2012 · 1:47 am

Online dating is for the birds – and my wings are getting tired

I’m not a slow learner, really I’m not. I learned how to drive a stick (read “vehicle with manual transmission”) in less than an hour. I learned how to swim as a toddler when one of my dad’s friends tossed me into the pool. I could easily maneuver the roads in Mario’s ghost house on Nintendo 64 and I’ve pretty well mastered Angry Birds.

So why, why, why do I just not get online dating?

Oh, I understand the concept well enough. People who are too busy or too insecure or too something to get out and meet someone – or simply don’t know where to go – get online, fill out a profile and meet people with the purposes of dating (although some purposes are for a time commitment even shorter – and with a much more casual dress code – than an actual date).

What I don’t understand is the thought process some people use when introducing themselves to someone, or when actually taking the time to meet someone.

Whether it’s an online dating site or a singles site on Facebook, I am still surprised at how often I’m approached for a casual sexual encounter, or by “men” who are slightly older than my son (seriously – a 21-year-old this week told me to “ignore the age thing and just give it a try”), or who are still married (no, “separated” does not mean the same as “divorced”) or who just start conversation in a way that, really, just makes me laugh and delete.

One man sent me an email telling me he was “tired of the five-knuckle shuffle and decided to try online dating.” Um, ew. Another, in explaining how nervous he was about our first date, told me he’d been having stomach issues all day but he thought he had them under control – and was on his way to the Mexican restaurant where we’d agreed to meet. Yet another sent me an email asking if I’d ever considered dating a couple.

A couple of what?

And today, just a few minutes after being invited to a singles group on Facebook, I was sent a message by a man wanting to know if I was interested in having some naughty fun.

Really? While I’m glad I’m not sending out prude vibes, I’ve really got to wonder what kind of image I really do have out there. What about me says, “Hey, I’m bored and lonely so yeah, let’s have sex”?

I’m no prude, nor am I easily offended but really, really, let’s start with some normal conversation and get to know each other a bit.

I’d like to say I’m giving it up, but I’m sure there’s always going to be something that lures me back. Comic relief, if nothing else.

 

 

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January 10, 2012 · 3:53 pm

Excuse me?

It’s amazing how easily things taken out of context can be pretty darned offensive.

The other day I came in late to work (the morning after taking my daughter to the ER). Not wanting to add to my tardiness by parking in my assigned lot and being at the mercy of the university’s Cambus I opted for the public parking ramp across from the hospital.

As I rode down the elevator (I didn’t want to delay my arrival by taking the stairs, either) I looked across the street at the survey crew preparing the area for eventual demolition and construction, and laughed at the construction orange-fenced area which was apparently a hole, as indicated by the spray-painted “Hole” on the plywood (I really should have taken a picture).

I was still chuckling about the sign when I crossed the street, until I heard a low whistle. I have to admit I smiled a little to myself because it’s been a while since anyone’s whistled at me. The whistle came again, this time followed by a low, “Spread your legs!”

What the hell?

I refused to turn my head – both because I didn’t want to acknowledge it and because I could only imagine the look on my face – when I heard it again.

“Spread your legs!”

I was just about to stop and lay into this crude and obnoxious oaf about sexual harassment when he yelled, “Dan! Spread the legs on your camera – I can’t get a signal!”

Oh yeah. SO glad I didn’t say anything …

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January 5, 2012 · 2:49 pm

There’s a name for that

It’s no secret that I’m a word snob. Whether you’ve known me for 10 years or 10 minutes, chances are pretty good you’ve been corrected, glared at or snubbed if you’ve used an incorrect word or mispronounced it in such a horrific manner it’s caused me pain.

Think I’m kidding? Ask my niece. She posted this on Facebook earlier this week: “I don’t want to go back to school tomarrow!” My response: “You need to go to school as least as long as it takes you to spell ‘tomorrow’ correctly.”

No one is exempt. I’ve mentioned this before, but the truest example is the poor soul who dared date me and then proceed to explain that he’s an aff-eh-KON-dee-oh of weapons. Huh? He meant aficionado, of course, but he looked at me, confused, when I giggled (I couldn’t help myself) and then proceeded to use the word again – three more times. That was our last date.

I’ve taken my fair share of taunting and ribbing, had several friends chide me when some silly person thought “ginormous” needed to be a word and I launched a verbal campaign against its use, and have even been scolded by my teenagers who, by default, have become word snobs-in-training. I’ve tried to relax, I really have.

Today I have been given justification – if not vindication – for the aforementioned word snobbery. It’s a disease.

Well, not a disease as much as a disorder. It’s called migraine disorder and it’s a lot like OCD, apparently.

I was visiting with a neurologist this morning to determine whether I had a much more serious disease (I don’t, thankfully, but spent the last two weeks thinking I did, thanks to an overzealous ER doctor and then family doctor) and learned that I do have a migraine disorder.

The doctor’s first question in making the diagnosis: “Are you a perfectionist when it comes to things like spelling, words, numbers?”

Um …

(Actually I thought he was kidding at first – I had corrected the physician assistant when she made a typo when entering my history, and I thought they got together to pull a prank …)

Take a look at my apartment, my desk or, God forbid, my car and you’ll see the OCD is not “Monk”-like – I do get bothered by a messy kitchen or newspapers strewn about, but right now my bedroom looks a bit like an episode of “Hoarders” (I blame that on the craziness of the weather – what do you pack away when it’s 55 degrees in January?). As the doc explained it, my OCD has more to do with words and letters and math and having to know why everything happens and how do you feel about it? My friends who have accused me of having to overanalyze everything will totally get that part …

So feel free to mock me all you want when I ask you to use the proper “your” or “you’re” when writing or beg you to remember that “could’ve” is a contraction for could have, not could of. If that makes you feel better, then have at it.

But I’ll still point out the error and give you a correction.

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January 2, 2012 · 3:38 am

Customer service? What customer service?

OK, call me a whiner, but it’s got to stop somewhere. I’m pissed off about the loss of customer service and I’m not going to take it anymore!

Somehow in the rush to grow bigger and better and offer more for customers in the name of competitive rivalry, some businesses have lost – or given up – the art of customer service. And really, it’s a shame.

Ask any independent contractor in sales – a Realtor, Mary Kay consultant, Tupperware, Pampered Chef or Tastefully Simple salesperson – and they’ll tell you referrals and repeat customers are the heart of their business. Sure, they can mine new customers every day, but by treating a customer well they have a better chance of getting word-of-mouth promotion. Which carries more weight with you when making a purchase decision – an ad purchased by someone who stands to profit from you taking them at their word, or someone you trust telling you they had a really good experience? Ads are important for businesses to get their names out there – but referrals are just as important for them to get their reputation out there.

In the last few weeks I’ve had several encounters with local businesses who could use a refresher course in customer service: an officer at a locally-owned bank was looking into something for me the week before Christmas and promised to call the next morning – I didn’t get to talk to anyone about the issue until three days later (after calling daily); I had a telephone conference set up with another businessman, arranged by his secretary, on a day that he was apparently on vacation; and a local pizzeria has buy one-get one coupons that are valid until Dec. 31, 2012 but because they just lowered their prices, they’re charging customers who use the coupon the old prices – which are $7 higher for a large pizza.

While there are hundreds of people across the country “occupying” different streets and raising awareness at political events, I am starting an protest of my own. I’m calling for the return of customer service.

Businesses aren’t wholly to blame, of course. In most cases we reward bad behavior – we tip the waitress who lets our water glass go empty and doesn’t come back to the table except to bring the check; we continue ordering from the places that deliver the foods we like best; we return to the gas station on the corner because it’s convenient, regardless of the fact that it may be dirty or the clerks are often on the phone or talking to each other rather than the customer.

Convenience has become more important than being treated well. In response, businesses stop making the extra effort – why should they? We apparently don’t need it.

Well, I need it. Or at least I want it. We deserve it – those are our hard-earned dollars going to help them keep their lights on, their furnaces hot and their phones working. Being courteous is the least they can do.

I am in the process of changing banks from the one I’ve used since I moved to eastern Iowa 10 years ago – the earlier incident wasn’t the first time I’ve come up against poor customer service there but it’s going to be the last. I’ve waged a Facebook quest with the pizza place to get them to acknowledge their service was lacking – they’ve made some responses but no real progress (the latest was a note from the owner asking me to call him – with no time or date listed – and yet when I did he wasn’t in and wouldn’t be until tomorrow).

My challenge to you is to join me. Stand up for your right to good service. Thank people when they do well, but don’t just take it when they don’t.

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January 2, 2012 · 1:42 am

New Year’s Resolutions? Hmph.

New Year’s resolutions are overrated.

Everyone posts grand plans for the new year – to lose weight, become more active in the community, save money, be smarter – and yet by about mid-February, the same time we’re buying Conversation Hearts and celebrating dead presidents, they’ve already fallen by the wayside. By June we’re wondering whatever happened and why we even bother.

My No. 1 resolution of last year was as it’s been for the last four years – to lose weight. My body either revolted or got confused and I ended the year a size larger than I started.

I also resolved to save more money and be more organized with my finances. That worked so well that I discovered in one month I had spent $300 at WalMart and Target on unnecessary things that added little to no value to my life. (Of course, box stores are evil so I partly blame the magnetic affect they have on me – I now drive out of the way around them to avoid that magnetic pull.)

Another goal of 2011 was to write a book. OK, that one was accomplished, making me three for three when it comes to years in which I’ve had a book contract. But because I’m an independent contractor when those contracts do come around there are no taxes taken out of my checks. Because I fail miserably at the saving money resolution, tax time means an IOU to the IRS – and you really don’t want to mess with those guys.

This year I’m making it easy: I resolve to get rid of junk.

All that extra “stuff” I let take up my time? It’s junk – and it’s gone. That garbage I continue to think about and never do anything about, either because I can’t or I won’t. Erased. And yeah, I’ll still address that junk in my trunk – hopefully this year with better results.

 

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