A few weeks ago, I joined a new Facebook group. I’m not calling it out by name because many of the things said in this group are quite personal and I want to respect that. I’m even going to avoid giving the basic stats of who is in this group, as a matter of fact.
So in this group, there was a thread I found really interesting. It was prompted by this post. I enjoyed following the thread that ensued and started thinking about the specific things I myself don’t do. It was a challenge for me, as I’ve been so focused these days about what I “do” do (and writing blog posts about that). So I decided to mix things up a bit for today’s post.
Here’s what I came up with:
Things I don’t do (that I’m probably supposed to, according to societal norms of white Gen X ish middle aged females, with a few random “dont’s”mixed in for shits and giggles):
I don’t exercise on purpose.
I don’t get manicures.
I don’t clip coupons.
I don’t sew. That’s Hubs’ forte.
I don’t clean up dog puke. Again, Hubs’ forte.
I don’t have my work email linked to my cell phone.
I don’t have my very own car to drive. Hubs and I share one and I’m cool with that.
I don’t put a strict limit on my daily carb intake.
I don’t scrapbook.
I don’t wear Spanx.
I don’t drink decaf. Fully loaded, dark roasted coffee is my jam.
I don’t cook foods for my loved ones that I don’t like to eat.
I don’t poop in the presence of Hubs.
I don’t (and won’t) throw my family members or friends “under the bus” with my blog posts. They deserve my loyalty and respect.
Now, you may have noticed that there is little explaining on my above list. That’s because I think it’s a shame that we, as women in this world, due to largely manufactured societal pressures which are reinforced in a bajillion ways on the daily (the “perfect” photos of your Facebook friends, commercials on t.v., magazine articles, etc.), feel guilty for not doing the things we’re “supposed” to do. I think we need to cut that shit out. Who’s with me?
For the love of God, people, please add a few of your “dont’s” in the comments!
Just a few, unrelated and utterly irrelevant thoughts I have had recently….
I’m kind of a sucker for those sites that post decadent dessert recipes on Facebook. It infuriates me, however, when “Easy” is in the title, however. Thing is, if I’m going to make and then of course consume said dessert, it is not in my belly fat’s best interest for it to be “easy” to make. The recipe should include ingredients you have to work for, like a specific kind of berry only found on the top of the Rocky Mountains. Or honey that has to be tapped from a specific maple tree located deep in the forest. Or corn meal that you have to grind yourself.
I might want to grow my hair out and see how long it can get. This notion was inspired by seeing Megan Mullally’s beautiful hair while watching Summer of 69, the big hearted and smartly hilarious comedy show she and her husband Nick Offerman created. Also, she played the ukulele during the show so now I want to do that too.
I love Pinterest but recognize that it can be a black hole. Or like the kettle corn I can’t seem to get enough of, despite feeling sick to my stomach and hyped up at the same time. Or like when my cousin and I, as kids, would spend hours upon hours gazing through the JC Penney Christmas catalog with calculators in hand, pretend shopping for things we wanted to buy.
Hubs recently shared that he had to “drain the lizard”. As in, he had to pee. Use the lavatory (wasn’t that weird how the bathrooms in school were called this back in the day? Such a weird, unused word today). Hubs told me this was one of his favorite euphemisms. I prefer when he tells me (seriously, even in public) that he has to “go potty”. Weird, right? But I find it endearing. It reminds me that he was once the daddy to our no longer little spawn, and our charming 3 year old grandson. The daddy and “Papa” who said/says “make sure to go potty before you get in the car” and “do you need me to take you to go potty now?”
One goal I have in life is to be able to sing through the entirety of R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World”. While undoubtedly frenetically paced, this is a classic song, amiright?And once I’ve accomplished that goal, I should easily be able to get work as an auctioneer. Maybe I could add that to the list of possibilities for my job search.
I am a big fat sucker for those inane personality tests on Facebook. I am surely not alone in this. Otherwise, those smarty pants techno wizards behind Facebook would not continue to come up with them. Loads of suckers are out there, just like me, simply dying to know what color their “aura” is (mine is pink. I am certain you needed to know that).
So I am nearing a point in my “gap year” (that one year when you have graduated from school-or in my case, my job as a social worker, and you have all these big great life altering ideas and you spend far too much time reading, blogging, gorging on MSNBC, drinking craft beer, watching Seinfeld reruns and taking important Facebook tests), where actual paid employment is quickly becoming something that I best achieve, if for no other reason than I simply must have more financial resources to start seriously knocking off some items off my travel bucket list.
So, that said, what if I turned all of that flipping valuable knowledge of myself gleaned through these perfectly scientifically based Facebook personality tests into the most EPIC cover letter or resume for the job I will obviously get?
It might look something like this:
Dear future employer (see how confident I am? I am telling THEM that they will be my employer. Turning those tables around. Go me!),
Hi, my name is Rhonda and I’m pretty awesome (bam! did it again). Facebook has assured me of this, and as you know, Facebook is the. Ultimate. Authority. On. Everything.
First off, let’s be clear that I shall not work for your organization/company/publication past the age of 61, because Facebook told me that is the age at which I will retire. That gives you 11 years of my personal awesomeness, thankyouverymuch. At the age of 61, my assets will be no less than 98 million U.S. dollars. Facebook is certain that I will amass $66,999 per month. I’m no mathematician (though I’m sure there’s an app for that), but I think it’s safe to assume that making $66,999 per month will equal to at least 98 million bucks by the time I’m ready to say “take this job and shove it” and drive my Bugatti
over to my country villa with my 7 dogs). Facebook really gets me. Thank the good Lord someone does. Sheesh.
I would be remiss to neglect mentioning what it is exactly that I can offer you as your next employee (see-did it again-I’m on a flipping role here). I have it on very good authority (Facebook, duh!) that my IQ is 198. So I’m basically a genius. And my EQ (emotional intelligence-not sure why Facebook uses a Q instead of an I here, but I can overlook this one small error) is 179. And not only that, I am 193% precise. Precise at what you ask? I may have to do another Facebook test for that, but it’s probably safe to assume I am precise at doing doctorly things like open heart surgery, circumcisions, and popping blackheads. Because the job that most suits me is being a Doctor, according to official sources at Facebook.
Heads up dear bosses-I require a minimum of 88 days of per year, not including weekends, holidays, birthdays (mine, family members, and all my Facebook friends or course), and sick days (even doctors get sick sometimes), to allow me the time required to write my autobiography entitled “How I learned to Dance in the Rain”. I have to credit the geniuses of Facebook for coming up with this title. Somehow they learned of my tremendous dancing skills and that I know a lot about rain because I married a meteorologist. Damn they’re good.
In conclusion, I’d like to point out that if you make the poor choice of not hiring me right now, I am 99% Bitch. Actually, to be more specific, I am the Queen Bitch. That means, according to the psychics at Facebook, that I always get what I want because I go after it 100%. And obvs, no one messes with me as a result. You’ve been warned.