Why do you taunt me so?

I'm pretty sure that I would never write a blog post about such a ridiculous subject in normal life, but being 9 months pregnant, this seems to be a topic worth addressing.  Of course it's about food so. . . Wait a minute, that would be pretty normal to discuss in normal life as well but there would be no paper trail.  Either way, I'm taking this train and going full-steam ahead.

It's called the vending machine taunt and I hate it.  It's not hard to explain because I'm sure at least 75% of the population has suffered it's wrath; the other 25% of you are eating Paleo or Jenny Craig or something similar so I'm not sure why you're on my blog in the first place.  Anyway, I digress. . .

Sometimes I just want a treat from the vending machine.  You can call it gross and that's fine.  But sometimes I get desperate and those Pop Tarts don't actually look that bad compared to the alternative. . . a gut-wrenching nothing!  Thank heaven that our work vending machine has a steady supply of Pop Tarts. . . or does it?  See, that's the issue.  I never know.  So in my mind I've built up this processed-brown-sugar-and-cinnamon obsession only to get upstairs (which is WAY more of a hike now than ever) only to find that the regular Pop Tarts have been temporarily replaced with some other (and might I add NOT CLOSE) substitute like, I don't know, fruit snacks.  Dear Vending Machine Guy: just because the package is roughly the same size, fruit snacks are not a suitable substitute for Pop Tarts!  One is a baked good (sort of) for crying out loud!  There is nothing even remotely "bready" about fruit snacks.  What are you thinking?

The only other vending machine tragedy that is equally offensive is what I like to call Flavor Alternating.  Once again, we go back to the Cinnamon and Brown Sugar scenario.  Still climbing the vicious flight of stairs, I see that blue Pop Tart package as I reach the summit.  But what is this?  It's not Brown Sugar Goodness - it's Strawberry!  I could (at this point) settle for the fruit-filled pastry if it was all there was but noooo.  There, immediately behind the Strawberry concoction, is my real craving - Brown Sugar and Cinnamon - followed by another Strawberry and another Brown Sugar. . . you get the point.  It's taunting me and I don't appreciate it.  I, again, have come to a crossroads.  Do I want the Brown Sugar bad enough to buy a pack of Strawberry as well and save it for a later date?  Sidenote: please keep in mind that this would require another trip down said stairs to try and dig out more nickels from my desk drawer since the first round nearly left me bone dry to start with.  Do I make camp next to the vending machine and try to coerce the next patron who likely won't buy anything with me standing there because vending machine food is "gross" to purchase the in-the-way Strawberry pastry?  Or do I settle and pray that sheer vending machine embarrassment, though it haunts me currently, will allow me access to the better part tomorrow since nobody eats this stuff anyway.

The point is this, bad vending machine loader man:

First, don't replace the steadfast.  If you come and all of the (insert candy of choice) here are gone, it's probably because that's what people eat so don't replace it with fruit snacks; no, it's not the same.  No.  It's not.  Stop buying the Bit-O-Crappy candy bars that still occupy a full slot in the machine and only buy the good stuff.

Second, don't alternate flavors.  There are very distinct audiences for these types of food.  Regular M&M people aren't the same as Peanut Butter who aren't the same as Pretzel.  You can't ask them to cross over.  You are messing with nature.  'Tis better that you just don't HAVE one option than alternate options in a line in the machine.  That's just cruel.

The only time either of these replacements are acceptable is if there is CLEARLY a better alternative.  Food is really subjective so this is hard to prove.  You may (in my book) only do some sort of vending machine replacement if you are a) replacing my flavor-changing-agony with a $5 bill or b) replacing it with a breakfast burrito that is fresh and warm.  No exceptions.

I know most of you are thinking that I can put a stop to this charade by just not eating out of the vending machine or by bringing my own delicious snacks to my desk.  You're probably right.  But I'm also not likely to win 'pregnant lady of the month' at anytime soon and I'm coping with both realities.

PS - if your husband or brother or nephew loads vending machines for a living, please don't send me a PDF on 'Vending Machine Etiquitte' and why they do what they do.  I'm sure there are reasons. . . they are just impossible to explain to my taste buds.

Dear Mr President. . .

President Obama is going into a LinkedIn Forum on Monday and they are allowing users to submit questions for him to answer.  I figured it was my duty (and a snowballs chance) to get my question in front of him.  I would hope more people do the same.  Here are my thoughts for the P-Rez.  Don't get mad. . . it's my blog!

"Mr President - We spend a lot of time talking out how to solve the issues of outlying groups: the extremely wealthy, the extremely poor, those that are in foreclosure and those without residency.  What about me?  I go to work every day and pay my taxes in full but I don't own a jet or a fleet of them for that matter.  I pay for health insurance for my family on my own dime and have never burdened the system.  I bought a house that was within my budget and have never been late on a payment; I've never 'needed' a bailout.  I vote, I serve and I try to be a productive member of my community yet it seems to be harder and harder for me to keep living the 'American Dream' these days.  Gas is expensive, milk is expensive, health care is expensive.  What are you doing for me?  How can you make life just a bit easier on me like you're trying to for all of these extraneous groups?  When do I get your focus?"

Sounds selfish, yes?  Please know that all of the "I's" and "Me's" in this statement are meant to represent a lot of Americans. . . and I know they exist because they are my friends and family.  It's like being the kid in school that ALWAYS got good grades - hundreds of kids get help and recognition for improvement every term when they go from Ds to Cs but what if you didn't need improvement?!?  What if you were doing what you were supposed WITHOUT promise for reward? 

Short blog, my story.  What would YOU ask the President if you had 2 minutes?

Trust me. . . she's amazing.

OK, so you are all aware that I don't like to use this blog for promotion. . . unless it's shameless self-promotion then it's a totally different story!!  In fact, most (if anything) I write about products or people on here is either weird in nature or not what the average person would call 'positive.'

Well, today I'm breaking away.  This blog goes in the Shorty McGee club because it's Friday afternoon and rather than read, you should just listen.

This girl is magic.  You know that old adage 'She could sing a phone book and it would sound amazing'?  Well they made that up to talk about her. 

Sara B. . . thanks for all the road trips.

Videos from a favorite. . . happy listening.

Classic tune.  Otis would be proud.

Great recovery in the middle. . . made me giggle.

And last but certainly not least, the song that I've had in my head for the last three days.  Weezer is good but Sara B makes it better.  Go ahead and dance.  For this there is no shame.



Social me this, will ya?

Did you know that I do Social Media as part of my job?  I know you'd never guess it by how infrequently I update my blog these days; call it the world's greatest irony.  So what.

This morning as I was doing my normal social perusing (aka snooping into other people's lives that they've chosen to discuss online), I saw this video that politely explains why we all need Google+.  (I was a skeptic at first too but no, the video wasn't produced by Google and it's actually mildly entertaining. . . especially the part where the 'Social Media Guru' comes in.  Just so you know, all gurus ARE bald.  What up, David?!)

Needless to say, in all my anxiousness, I got totally overwhelmed with the thought of signing up for yet another social network.  Seriously?  Do I really need to do this for another hour a day?  I can't even be funny frequently enough to keep my Facebook and Twitter updates fresh once per day let alone bringing on the 500 pound gorilla, Google.  I just can't do it.  I can't.

The part that is frustrating (as I'm sure you also were drawn to if you watched my easily-embedded video - thanks Blogger, ahem, Google) is that there is some great functionality in this new interface, stuff that is pretty dang useful.  It has left me sitting at my desk re-enacting a scene from a horribly dramatic movie where the girl gets married and then realizes that she's in love with another man: "Whhhhhyyyyyy?  Whhhhhhyyyyy?  Where were you when I needed you four years ago, Google?  It's too late!  How can I choose?"

As of late, I've been pretty negative Nancy about the whole Social Media thing anyway, leaving me to wonder why I'm having a Jessie Spano-sized freak out over Google+.  I complain all of the time about how sick I am of Facebook - not necessarily about the functionality of it but the lack of candor, maybe, that people exercise when choosing to update.

As I said earlier, I make a pretty conscious effort to be at least a little amusing in my status updates on both Twitter and Facebook (if not before, the pressure is certainly on now); adding value (I choose entertainment) is always important when publishing Social Media content.  I have noticed as of late though that reading Facebook updates parallels watching the nightly news immediately following September 11th - it's nothing but depressing.  Somewhere along the Facebook timeline, the general populous has decided to use Facebook's power for evil rather than good and it's getting pretty old.  If you fall into this category, my apologies but this conversation is long overdue.

I've made a list of all of the things that drive me crazy about the use of Social Media (namely Facebook) and why they are no-nos in my book.  Agree or disagree, it's fine.  But at least now you'll know why you maybe didn't make it off the cutting room floor next time I clean house on my "friend" list.  Here we go:

• Location, location, location.  It's an old real-estate mantra that apparently the FB community has taken to heart.  If you are going to be at dinner for an hour and want to check in some place, good on ya.  If you are planning to be gone for a week to a remote village with no cell phone access and you left your pearls (I know, it's a mystery novel cliche) on your nightstand, don't announce it.  You might as well tell me where the key is so you won't have to pay for a broken window in addition to your now missing pearls.  (Please note that when I say "me", I don't actually mean me.  I'm not a thief.  But someone might be.)  I've said on several occasions that a great date night activity would be to spend an hour gathering a list of all of the people you know are out of town, look up their addresses on the trusty interweb and go to their houses and leave a post-it note saying "Knew you were gone.  Lucky it was us and not someone shady.  Love, The Facebook Bandits."  Good times, right?  That would scare you straight.

         These updates are most dangerous when paired with the next FB over site:

• How do we know each other?  If I can't (within 20 seconds. . . and that's stretching it) process how we know each other and recall the gleaming status of said relationship, you're not making the cut.  Don't add people that you think you saw at Smith's once to your friend list.  It's not safe.  You know that guy who you saw at that one sweet party that you talked to/asked to move his car so you could make curfew?  He's not your friend.  And he might be a creeper.  (Please note that when I say "he", I totally mean he because generally, and the incarceration numbers can back me here, men are more of the PHYSICAL creepers.  I will not, however, disregard the fact that you boys need to be equally as careful with adding the ladies so you don't end up with a bucket of crazy on your hands; she likely won't physically hurt you but she could destroy you otherwise). 

         All I'm asking is for a little caution.  I know it's everyone's dream to have the most "friends" on FB and the most followers on Twitter but I'm going to just lay this out - you aren't Ashton Kutcher and you never will be so let go of the dream, man.  Let it go.

• Drama, anyone?  Have you noticed that Facebook has turned from a narcissists bragging playground ("Got a new truck!", "Had a hot date!", "Man, I'm amazing!") to the most heart-wrenching complaint fest of all time?  I can't even log into Facebook without a box of tissues;  (OK, the old me would have been sympathetic and had a box of tissues.  The new, more seasoned me just gets really annoyed by it.  I'm just being honest.)  It's become the one place that you can get mass amounts of sympathy about the most ridiculous, "This happens to everyone" kind of stuff.  (It's basically reminiscent of this blog post. . . complain, complain, complain.  See what you're doing to me!?")

         Not that Social Media isn't a great place to get support for the trials in your life or to offer condolences to those that have trials, I'm just saying "Enough already!" with this kind of stuff:

1. Worst day ever. . . I hate Monday.  (we all do.  Monday is the official end of what we call the weekend - a time for relaxation and enjoyment.  Who wants that to end?  Nobody.  We all hate it.)
2. I hate bad drivers! (Again, we all do.  never once have I heard someone say "I love bad drivers!"  Never once.  Plus, you just entered the "bad driver" category by being on Facebook while you're behind the wheel.  Knock it off.  Someone is likely Facebooking about you right now.)
3. Why me?!?  (I don't know.  None of us actually do.  And, just as a side note, God isn't on Facebook.  I checked.  Perhaps another mechanism for asking that question might be appropriate?  Just sayin'.)
4. I can't sleep.  (Here's a thought: get off this glaring box called the computer and do something a little more soothing like reading a book.  Besides, how could anyone sleep once they get fired up reading all of these negative things on Facebook!)

You get the point.  As a general rule of thumb, if you were to say your complaint to someone's face and their only response would/could be "Oh.", don't post it.  That's life.  We're all going through hurt arms and bad days and tired feet and broken lights.  Crap happens. . . but I don't want mine to be published for ever and ever. . . except maybe in my blog.  :)

Kids these days. . .

I've found myself over the last several months having conversations that end in me saying "How old AM I?"  I ask this because these conversations generally revolve around youngsters and how messed up their lives are becoming.  Am I THAT old?  Have things REALLY changed that much in 15. . .ish. . . years?

I started thinking about my fondest memories from when I was young and how if a kid tried to pull of now what we did then, they would either be to tired to keep up or bored after about seven seconds because there are no text keys.  I'm sad that my kids won't have the same crazy fun that I had. . . and at the same time, I'm more sad that my kids won't get the discipline I got growing up (you know, the kind where the neighbors mom wasn't afraid to teach you manners).  Kids need that.  Ugh, see, I sound old.

Anyway, in honor of my days of yore, I've decided to make a list of some of the "That would never happen today" activities of my yester-year.  This is good times.  I hope you can relate.

• Micromachine races down the driveway.  I always wanted the monster truck because it would make it over the cracks.  Because I was the only girl, I generally got the Porshe with no lift and got stuck every 8 feet.
• Baseball in the street.  Tag in the street.  Roller skates in the street.  We did everything in the middle of the street.  We'd yell "Car!" on the rare occasion that one of our mom's would pull in after getting groceries but generally, the street was a safe place to be.
• When mom pulled in with the groceries, we helped.  We were expected to.  My schedule was never more important than my mother's and my dad made sure we understood that.  We helped bring in groceries and then we stayed and ran them down into the storage room or the bathrooms or wherever they needed to go.  Bottom line, we helped.
• We had sword fights every year with Christmas wrapping paper tubes.  Kids now would think that is "lame and boring" but it was quite fun.  We beat the tar out of each other every year for about 30 minutes (that's about how long all of the paper rolls would last until they we annihilated).
• We had camp outs in our backyard.  My dad would humor us and set up a tent and there wouldn't be TV or phones so we played outside until it was time for bed.
• We had to pick up the phone without any idea who it was.  It was actually kind of a treat when the phone rang.  We didn't get called or contacted nearly as much as kids do now and when the phone would ring, we really hoped it was for us. . . but that's the great part, nobody knew!
• We were on time.  We had to be.  It was completely inconvenient to stop and find a pay phone and (assuming you had your day planner with the person's number written down) call them to tell them you'd be 20 minutes late.  So, we just weren't.  We scheduled things, left plenty of time for travel and didn't bail out at the last minute when something better came along.  We showed up, on time, and with everything that we needed.  Otherwise, we were a waste.
• We read and wrote our own material.  No Internet to copy from, no sir.  We had to go to this building called the library and go through card catalogs and find books related to homework.  Then, we had to read.  A lot.  We could photocopy but that does nobody any good.  We researched and read and it was actually kind of difficult.  I would say that it paid off.  We will always be more resourceful than ChaCha.
• We played Kick the Can and Sardines a lot.  If you don't know what that is, go to the library.
• We got hurt.  We had fights with neighbor kids, we wrestled in the front yard.  We got bloody noses, bloody knees, scratched faces and bad sunburns and not one person ever called protective services.  Kids sometimes get hurt. . . and it's no body's fault.  And parents, know that it's OK if your kids get hurt.  It'll make 'em tough.  Look at you.

Taking the "option" out of Adoption. . .

Stay with me as I make my point, please.  Don't bail out half way through this one because I don't need you parading around saying that I'm a heartless crazy.  (Unless you were doing that before this blog post then, proceed).  I'm hoping we can start a good discussion about this so if you have information that I may "clearly" not be aware of, make it known in the comments.  I'd really like to better understand this topic. So obviously the best way to do that is to blog about it first, right? 

I'm at a point in my life where I am, as people would say, "not getting any younger."  My clock is ticking and prime time is coming to an end and all of those other cliche comments about the female reproductive system are rearing their ugly and only partially-accurate heads.  I'm not ancient, but I'm not that spring chicken that everyone references when it comes to talking about having babies.

That said, I'm also not planning on having a baby tomorrow (a biological impossibility) but hopefully, sometime in the not-so-distant future a little one will grace our home we'll have the family we've always hoped for.

So, I think this is clear but in case it isn't: babies are on the brain.  Right now, all of them are cute, all of them are fun, all of them scream ridiculously loud!  (Isn't it funny how you really start to notice that when you're thinking about having one in your house?  It's like noticing how much puppies pee the second you decide to get one!  Crazy!)

As we've been thinking and talking of kids, we've (like most people) started thinking about all of our child-having options.  We're hip.  We're "with it".  We realize that not all babies come into a family the same way.  So our discussions always, of course, include adoption.  As I've looked around and read a little (I can't emphasize the LITTLE part of that enough - I'm no expert), one thing continues to come to mind: Why is it so dang difficult. . . expensive. . . difficult??

I'm a strong advocate of adoption for two very important reasons; two of the brightest spots in my life were adopted by my brother and sister-in-law and I couldn't imagine our family without them.  Dallas and Sarah did what so many are desperate to do - bring two incredible and smart kids into their home and offer them a life they wouldn't have had otherwise.  I watch these kids and see the lives that they are being provided in a loving, caring environment and my heart jumps into my throat!  I'm so grateful for my fam and for the mothers of these incredible kiddos for giving them the opportunities that they might not have had otherwise.  My gratitude knows no limits.

While my exposure is limited to my sphere, I have seen enough to know that there are a lot of kids that aren't as lucky - they don't have moms that are thinking about their futures and decide to place them in homes where they can flourish.  There are thousands of kids out there without moms and dads, without homes and without choices.  These kids (sometimes multiple siblings at a time) are abandoned or parent-less for a variety of reasons and still, desperately, need homes just like their counterparts.

So I know you're thinking "Car, I know why adoption exists. . . I didn't come here for that."  I know.  I'm painting a picture - some would say for dramatic effect, I say because I don't know any better.

Here is my point: Why, with thousands of kids in this predicament from all over the world and hundreds of good families willing to give at least some of them homes, is it so hard to make the two sides pair up?  I know families that have been on lists for YEARS waiting to be able to adopt a child and I also know that there are thousands of kids that need good homes - need, supply, need, supply.  This system isn't meeting the basic economic formula! 

In addition to the time these people are waiting to be found, the expense associated with processing fees alone is enough to put a person into years of debt - that's before you even start clothing, feeding and providing shelter for these little faces.  In addition to that you have multiple week-long trips abroad (if applicable, of course.  Don't go buying a ticket to Guam if you are wanting to adopt in Kansas - that's just silly.) to sit in a hotel room and wait. . . the list could go on.

I'm not naive.  I know that work costs money - I work at an ad agency for goodness sake and we bill by the hour; adoption takes work, and rightfully so.  But I look at the expenses associated with these adoption services (which can vary greatly by country, by the way, which confuses me even more) and I wonder how families can afford time and time again to pay these astronomical fees that can go toe-to-toe with a down payment on a large house. 

Should the adoption agencies continue to do thorough background checks on people submitting for adoption?  Yes.  Should they be able to prove that they will provide adequate love, living space and life to these kids? Absolutely.  Visas, legal fees, transportation, all of it costs and I can't imagine that any of those things could or should be cut out of the process but I also wonder how many more families would get involved in this incredible process if it weren't so intimidating??

I know that there isn't an adoptive parent out there that wouldn't do it again and I'm positive that every kid has been worth every penny that's needed to change hands and every hour sitting in a hotel room.  At this point, I've only reaped the benefits of the system in my niece and nephew, without any of the work.  I may need a navigation lesson, I suppose.  Or a ticket to Guam?

Words of Wisdom. . .

Dear Super-Fast Phone Number Guy,
Thanks for leaving a message on my machine.  I got most of it, except that pesky phone number part.

You see, you spoke very clearly throughout most of the message, enunciating your words and using impressive vocabulary.  That is until you asked me to call you back "ASAP" (which, just as a sidenote, is generally considered the "urgent red flag" of the phone world) and then rattled off your phone number like you were Tom Cruise diffusing a bomb; all I actually heard was 415-shma-shmeeeeh-smah-extension smeh-smah-2.  While it was impressive that you have your phone number THAT memorized, I don't.  If I tried to dial that number, I am as likely to reach you as I am to order some delicious Chinese takeout in your same area code.

In the future, if you really need me to call you back "ASAP", hurry up your message and use the two seconds that you shaved off to actually tell me your phone number at a speed that I might be able to dictate.  I'm not a court reporter, man.  I'm a girl with a pen that occasionally needs a scribble to get moving.  Breathe your way through that phone number part and I promise you, I'll call you back next time.

Don't feel sad.  Your friend, The 10 min Message Guy who Didn't Bother to Leave a Phone Number After all of That!, is getting his letter as we speak.

Sincerely,
The Girl with Too Many Messages

Old habits die hard. . .

I'm a creature of habit, that's the truth.  I don't deal well with change.  In fact the idea of making a major life shift makes my heart rate jump just enough to mimic a slow jog.  It's weird though because I love adventure.  The problem is that it better be planned-for, packed-appropriately, scheduled-in adventure or I'll have nothing to do with it. 

That's just how it's always worked. . . we planned for everything.  Us Hamblins have all had planners or date books or calendars ever since I can remember.  (One of my favorite things still to do each year is to go and find next year's planner. . . same exact model and layout as last year please or I will hyperventilate, I promise you.).  We grew up knowing where we were to be at what time and in what clothes.  I promise you that if you need to know how much a gallon of milk cost in 1997, my mom has it on a grocery list somewhere in her planner (it's basically a Mecca of information and I have zero doubts that the cure to cancer is hidden somewhere in those leather-bound walls).

Anyway, the point is that this is the way it was. . . and continues to be today.  My name is Carlee and I am a plan-aholic. 

Does this neurotic 'planning' thing sound familiar?  Does it feel 'comfortable' and 'good'?  It does to me too because that's what I'm used to and frankly, couldn't even SEE life any other way.  I'm like a Clydesdale with Franklin Covey blinders on.

So, I shocked my system a little bit.  What did I do?  I got married.  The therapy that it has brought to my twisted mind is worth all of the extra laundry, promise.  Living with someone else and sharing everything with them has surprised. . . no shocked. . . no STUNNED me as I've seen how many other ways there are of doing things.  Trev is more of a fly-by-the-seat of his pants kind of guy than I've ever been a day in my life.  (I'm too busy figuring out which pants and why those pants and will flying by them make them rip?).  He's organized and responsible but he certainly doesn't own a planner. . . and, I'll admit it, probably shocked by the number of "to-do" lists a single person can have - four at once.  I know, I'm embarrassed for me, too.

Just looking at our two ways of doing things got me thinking. . . I've always been a big planner because, as previously stated, that was my world.  Mom and Dad had planners so it was only right that I had a Fisher Price one, right?  Right.

This relentless love affair with to-do lists and planning got me thinking about how many things I do in my life just because that's. . .well. . .that's just how you do it!  Call it being afraid to venture out or call it naivety for just assuming that it was the only way to do things.  The bottom line is that I'm looking at my legacy and wondering how much of it is Carlee and how much of it is Pavlov. . . simply a learned habit. 

Let's take steak, for instance.  My parents eat their steak medium-well.  So do I.  I have all of my life.  I never ordered it any other way because that's how we order steak.

Or banking.  Where do I bank?  We'll I wouldn't put that on the web, silly.  But it's the same place that parents bank.  Why?  Because that's where we bank!  Who needs a better reason than that?

My point is that I'm a lemming sometimes; it's easier to assume that other people know all the right answers than to have to research it myself.  The problem is. . . how will I ever know what my tastes are if they are always based on the tastes of others?  Confucius say: he who can't find his own tastes will never eat tomatoes. . . or something like that.

I successfully broke one of these habits some years ago and it was totally liberating.  I used to use my online banking to verify that my checkbook tracking was correct.  Read that last sentence again, slowly.  Yes, I was a checkbook believer and couldn't imagine ever swiping my debit card without recording it in the book of life. . . er. . . my checkbook.  I saved receipts for days on end and wrote them all down and then verified that I got them all through the power of the Internet and online banking.  Does that seem silly?  Well, it's what I knew.  So, I decided to be brave and only write down the actual checks that I wrote (which amounts to about two per month) and just verify my purchases and balances online.  It was tough at first but man, there was nothing more liberating than changing a habit that did nothing but inconvenience me to start with. 

So I'm on a mission to change things up.  I'm aiming to find things that can be done a better way - different isn't good enough, it needs to be BETTER or why change?  I'm going to break some habits and improve some schedules. . . maybe tone it back to two "to-do" lists.  The thought of this makes me really excited I should celebrate!  Maybe eat a steak. . . and I think I'll take it medium.