Younger Years

20 Years

July 15, 2011

My 20-year high school reunion is this weekend, a mere 25 minutes from my house.

And I’m not going. Other than the fact that we have too many things going on this weekend already, I really had no desire to go. The people I have any desire to see from high school are all friends with me on Facebook, so I have been able to keep up with them, see their families, know where they work, and probably more info than I even knew about them in high school.

I think back to when I was in high school, and how I thought my life was awesome. I didn’t think it could get any better, except for when I turned 21 and could legally drink. Priorities, people.

My senior year of high school was (at the time) the highpoint of my life. I had great friends, I had a job I liked, and I was having an absolute blast. Parties every weekend, guys that wanted to go out with me… what more could a girl ask for?

I sit here today, twenty years later, at the wonderful age of 38. And I wonder one thing: WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?

That wasn’t the highpoint of my life, and it doesn’t even rank in the top 10 of the highpoints in my life. Not even close.

I think about all of the blessings that God has given me over the last 20 years, and I am amazed at how much more “awesomeness” is around me each and every day. Obviously, I’ve given up the parties every weekend and I’m sure the only guy that wants to date me is my wonderful husband. Given the bills and the stress of raising teenagers and the petty arguments my husband and I sometimes have, I wouldn’t trade places with my 18-year old self for any money in the world. While I may have wished over the years I could back and re-do some things in my life, I know that “God blessed the broken road” and things happened for a reason, leading me straight to where I am today.

There’s ~~25 lbs.~~ ~~50 lbs.~~ a LOT more weight on my body now, which happens to all of us (except those girls from high school that haven’t changed ONE FREAKIN’ BIT–ewww). But while I may have tried several times over the years to get back to that size, I know that it wasn’t healthy, and I wasn’t living right.

So I sit here today, in the year 2011, twenty years after my 1991 graduation from high school, and I am blessed. I am happy and healthy. I have a wonderful hard-working husband that adores his wife and kids. I have a job, andwe have good health insurance. I have a church I attend, and I have friends that help me be a better person. I have amazing kids that have their hearts and minds in the right place, making good decisions because of how we have raised them.

Most importantly, I have a bigger heart for God and all He has given me. I read more, think more, and see more about the world around me. I am not only smarter, but I am wiser. I am now reading through the Bible in 90 days, something I never in a million years thought I would do. I read all kinds of books now, and that love for reading has rubbed off on my children.

I have a house which I have turned into a HOME. I go to bed at night knowing that this is the way my life was meant to be. I know there are things about myself that I can improve on, and I am thankful for the people in my life that would support anything and everything I want to do in life.

Eighteen-year old self… EAT YOUR HEART OUT.

Sincerely, Jenni (at the awesome, amazing age of 38.)

Filed Under: Younger Years

Paul and the Driver’s Ed Instructor

April 7, 2011

I don’t even want to think about what year it was, because I’m in no mood to calculate math– eh, it was probably 1988. It was the first semester of my sophomore year, and my parents had signed me up for Driver’s Ed through the Des Moines School System.

I was unlucky enough to get stuck taking my classes after school at the old Central Campus building in downtown Des Moines. Most of you readers won’t be familiar with this, so I will just say that when I had to drive for Driver’s Ed, it involved pulling a HUGE whie Chevy Impala out of a busy school parking lot in the middle of a 5-way downtown intersection at about 4:00pm on a weekday.

Transalation: Dude, there was hella traffic.

There were three of us grouped together in one driving group, and one instructor. My group consisted of:

Me, 15 years old– quite a bit of driving experience with my parents
Shonda (17-year old girl) — quite a bit of driving experience.
Paul (15-year old boy) — NO FREAKIN’ DRIVING EXPERIENCE WHATSOEVER.

I did fine driving throughout the class, and the only problem I ever had was one time I tried to go through an intersection on a yellow light. My crazy driving instructor (and I wish I could remember his name) slammed on his passenger-side brake, and we skidded to a halt. I was then reprimanded for not stopping at a yellow light. Embarrassing, as all the traffic stopped around us saw what was happening, and also I am sure heard the screeching of my tires as we skidded to a stop.

Anyway… back to Paul. Poor Paul had no business being in Driver’s Ed yet. Obviously, his parents had not taken him driving through the neighborhoods like mine had. They had not let him practice maneuvering a vehicle through the mall parking lot like my dad did with me on Saturday mornings. He really acted like he had NEVER BEEN BEHIND THE WHEEL.

So whenever it was Paul’s turn to drive, Shonda and I sat in the backseat, scared for our lives. We cringed as he curb-checked at every turn, we white-knuckled the door handles as he tried to stay in his lane and not brush up against the cars in the lane next to him.

Then one day, our instructor told us we would each take a turn driving on the freeway. He let us choose who would go first. I volunteered quickly, because I knew that the earlier I went, the less traffic there would be. And, it wouldn’t be dark yet. I drive the route he instructed me to take, and passed with flying colors. Then Shonda went next. She was a little nervous, but still– she did it.

Then there was Paul. Oh, Paul. When will you ever learn?

Paul was nervous, and it could be seen by the little beads of sweat on his forehead. The sight of this might have made Shonda and I buckle up our seatbelts just a bit tighter.

Now because we were taking our classes after school, and it was late fall/early winter, by this time, it was dark outside. Traffic on the freeway was getting pretty heavy. It was probably a little after 5:00, and considered heavy rush hour traffic in Des Moines. People were leaving work and wanting to get home, and here we were– toodling along in the big white Impala.

Then we heard the instructor tell Paul, “Get in the far left lane.”

Oh my God– the PASSING LANE. That’s the lane my Dad always used to go around people. That’s the lane you were supposed to stay out of unless you were going faster than everyone else.

Paul maneuevered the Impala into the far left lane, and then the instructor said, “Keep your speed at 55.”

Paul drove at 55, and actually was doing a good job of staying in his lane. Shonda and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking today might NOT be the day we meet our maker.

But after a minute or two, I realized just how angry Des Moines drivers can get when they are on their way home from work.

Shonda and I sat in the backseat, and kept peering over our shoulders to see cars right up on our bumper, honking. Cars flashed their headlights as a signal for us to get over and get the hell out of the fast lane. We got flipped off by people, yelled at out of car windows, and honked at some more.

We noticed Paul getting more nervous, as he finally asked the instructor, “Should I get out of this lane?”

The instructor’s response? “No, Paul. The speed limit is the same in every lane. If they don’t want to follow you, they can go around you.”

Needless to say, we lived through that day. But, if I took one thing away from Driver’s ed, it was this:

I don’t ever want to be the slow car on the freeway.

Now I have a tendency to drive a good 10-15 miles over the speed limit on freeways and interstates. Any slower than that and I feel like I am literally crawling.

I blame it all on Paul…and my Driver’s Ed instructor.

Filed Under: Younger Years

I Can’t Even Think of a Title for This, but Call Me Judgy McJudgePants

March 14, 2011

The year was 1997. I was twenty-four years old, and I had just broken up with my boyfriend of five years. At the time, our daughter was 20 months old. I was terrified of becoming a single mom, because I knew it was going to be hard. I moved out of the house we had purchased together the year before and rented an apartment. I was working full-time, paying for daycare, and still managing to pay my bills. To this day, I still am in awe as to how I made it through those years.

During the first couple months of living on my own, my parents convinced me to look into government assistance. While I was making a decent living, there was a possibility that I would qualify for some sort of help based on the fact that I had a dependent. I completed the necessary paperwork and found out that in fact, I did qualify for WIC — a food program for women, infants, and children. It helped me out a TON with my groceries, but I felt like I was undeserving of the help. The assistance came in the form of checks every month, and they had to be picked up in person from the downtown Des Moines office– which was a royal pain in the ass. As I said, I was working full-time and had my daughter in full-time daycare, and the WIC office was only open certain hours of the day, so I would have to spend my lunch hour navigating my way over there, waiting in line for these checks, and then rushing back to work. It was a hassle, but hey– free food, right?

The checks were basically broken down into weekly groups, and could be used all at once or weekly, at my discretion. They were good for foods such as peanut butter, milk, eggs, cereal, 100% juice, fruits & vegetables, and cheeses. It was wonderful, and I was lucky to qualify. I think I just fell under the income limits by about $500 annually. Another raise from my employer and I would be off the program. I didn’t qualify for welfare or food stamps because I made too much money. Oh, the irony.

I lasted about 4 months on the WIC program, and stopped picking up my checks. I felt guilty because I didn’t feel like I was poor and I felt like I was taking advantage of the system when there had to be people more worthy of this program than me. Not only that, but I hated having to separate my groceries out, having the people behind me in line giving a knowing glare– knowing that my purchases would not only take longer, but that I was now being deemed a “poor person” as I was seen pulling those WIC checks out of my purse. I resented that stigma being cast upon me, and I swore I would NEVER rely on the government for assistance again. I would take care of myself, and I refused to become a statistic.

I wasn’t a single mother for long, as it was only two years later when I met my husband. But those two years of single parenting were hard, and it taught me something about myself. It taught me I can do anything. It taught I can take care of myself, it taught me I am strong, and it taught me that I matter.

Why do I tell this story?

Because those looks that I got from those people in the grocery store? Yesterday, I became one of those people that I used to despise.

I was in the grocery store yesterday afternoon picking up something to make for dinner. I got in line behind a very dirty-looking lady, with four very small children, all dirty. None of them were wearing coats, even though the temperature was in the low 40s.. They didn’t have socks on. Two of them had bath slippers on, and other two had very worn tennis shoes on– one without laces. Their clothes were dirty, their hair was messed up, and they all looked in dire need of a bath. The mother smelled of cigarettes and body odor. I actually pulled my cart back a few steps because the smell made me catch my breath. She was taking FOREVER in line, and it was starting to get very frustrating because her kids were running all over the place, grabbing Easter candy off the shelves and plopping it down on the counter. The youngest one kept rolling these plastic Easter candy eggs under my cart and then picking them up and putting them in her mouth (Ewwwww!)

I couldn’t see everything they were purchasing at that moment, but I could tell even the cashier was getting frustrated as the line was growing longer in this small town grocery store.

That was when I noticed it.

In her hand, was an Iowa Food Stamp card. Instead of paper checks, Iowa now uses a debit card that gets loaded with funds each month. I had seen these before, and I recognized it right away. It was at that moment that I looked down to see what she was purchasing, and when I saw her “loot” it made me very angry. On the counter was five bottles of pop, piles of Easter candy the kids had thrown up there, several individual bags of chips, candy bars, Beef Jerky… it was all JUNK. She was using her Food Stamp money to buy junk.

And I immediately passed judgment on her. She must be a bad parent.

I looked to her cart to see if maybe I had missed something– ANYTHING– that could be considered healthy. Something worthy of MY TAX DOLLARS being used. But there was nothing.

I was so disappointed. I know the disappointment showed on my face as the cashier put the bags in her cart and the lady swiped that food stamp card through the reader to pay for her purchases loaded with calories, fat, and preservatives.

I hurried and paid for my groceries and walked to my truck. I got in and sat there for a minute thinking about what I just witnessed. Was she just buying them a one time treat? Maybe. But if so, why spend over $40 on that much junk? (Yes, I heard the total… it was a LOT of junk food.) I know how much regular groceries that could have bought for her family, and it made me sick. It also made me very ANGRY. Angry that there are flaws in our system, and angry that people abuse the system like this.

Mostly because people like her that have abused the system for YEARS are the reason that I got those dirty looks in the grocery store all those years ago.

Filed Under: Mah Money, On My Soapbox, Politics Schmolitics, Younger Years Tagged With: food stamps, Iowa, single mother, WIC

Have you ever bought something, worn it, and then returned it?

October 8, 2010

So how many times have YOU touched someone else’s poop?

I’m not talking about anyone in your family, because it’s kind of a given that sometime in your life, that shit’s gonna happen. (Pun intended.)

I’m talking about other people’s poop. Stranger’s poop.

Probably not the lead-in you thought you were going to see based on the title.

But I’m getting to that, I swear. TRUST ME.

Yesterday, it was retail slobs. Today, we’re talking about return whores. Or basically, people that just return some nasty shit. (Again, pun totally intended.)

The first time I had my first experience with a poop return was when I worked at Target in my teens. I was behind the Customer Service desk when this lady walked in. I had seen her in the store before, as she was a regular customer. She was very nicely dressed and she was always very polite. She handed me a bag and without even looking me in the eye, handed me the receipt and said “I need to return this.”

I pulled the item out of the bag, and it was a girdle. One of those bodysuit/bodyshaper things that you wear to “suck it all in.” It still had the tags on it, and so I didn’t think anything of it. Except the bag and everything kinda had a funk smell to it. I went to fold the bodyshaper and I noticed that THERE WAS A SKID MARK IN THE BUTT OF IT. A big, brown poopy skidmark right up the crack of it.

Trying so hard to keep my gag reflex under control, I very sweetly told the lady that the item could not be returned because it *clearly* had been worn. (Notice how I was not calling attention to the HOLY HELL OF A POOP STAIN GOIN’ ON IN THERE?)

This lady, who in the past had always been very nice, immediately got red in the face and became very defensive. She insisted that the big poop stain was already there and thats why she was bringing it back. I looked at her receipt and noticed she had bought it on a Thursday, and today was Tuesday. (Typical of retail returns. People buy something to wear over the weekend, then they bring it back after they’ve worn it… usually the Monday or Tuesday after).

Anyways, had I bought something, got it home and obviously seen and SMELLED the funky turd stain plastered in there, I would have immediately brought it back. NOT hung onto the darn thing for FIVE DAYS! Plus, she never mentioned why she was returning it when she handed me the bag. Wouldn’t she have been FURIOUS for our store having something like that on our rack for sale–something that was clearly USED? Heck, had it been me, I would have been on the phone asking for the store manager, yelling and screaming about buying something that clearly had someone else’s fecal matter on it!

I ended up processing the return and simply giving her the money mostly just because the situation was embarrassing enough for both of us and I wanted her out of the store, and I wanted to hurry up and get that bag out of the Customer Service area. Actually, I wanted someone to take it out back and BURN IT, but my gag reflex was getting ready to take over any minute. She exited the store practically before I was done counting her change, and I didn’t think I would see her in the store again for a long time.

I got the bag of poop clothing out of there, and was in the middle of disinfecting the counter when I still smelled something poopy.

OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, I HAD POOP ON MY HAND. That poopy lady and her poopy clothing got POOP ON MY HAND!!!!!

I think I went back and washed my hands with soap and HOT HOT water for a good 5 minutes. Then I found some Pine-Sol in the employee break room and poured some of that on my hands, then washed them again.

I still saw that lady every so often in the store after that, but she would never come through my check-out line anymore when I was a cashier. And I never waited on her again at the Customer Service desk.

But every single time I saw her, I kept picturing that big poopy skid mark and the poop on my hands and I would gag.

I should have asked for a raise.

I still can’t figure out how they gave me a diploma

February 2, 2010

You should all be surprised to hear this. Really. Sweet young innocent ME, the one who skipped through freshman year without taking a PE class.

Well, not only is my high school diploma a sham because of it, but someone might want to call my entire senior year into question. With the exception of P.E., I had enough credits to graduate from high school at the end of my junior year. But because I was more interested in still being able to party it up with my friends, I decided to stick around for another year and take some EASY classes.

Just for the record, “partying it up” in my senior year meant getting together with friends, chugging down Bacardi Breezers, $2 bottles of Boone’s Farm wine, and 2-liter bottles of Purple Passion, all while puffing away on menthol cigarettes.

Cuz we were cool like that.

Since I already had the credits to graduate, there were no science, math or English classes I “had to” take. So I went the easy route.

Period 1 – Intro to Computers
Period 2 – Volunteering in the counseling office
Period 3 – Study Hall
Period 4 – Spanish
LUNCH
Period 5 – Child Development
Period 6 – Tues/Thurs PE, Mon/Wed/Fri Study Hall
Period 7 & 8 – Study Hall

Yes, folks. I took THREE whole classes my entire senior year.

Luckily my best friend, Heather, and I had the exact same schedule, with the exception of our 3rd and 4th period classes being flipped. She was in Study Hall when I was in Spanish, and vice versa. We both worked in the counseling office, which you will soon learn was the key to our whole plan.

Our plan of being in school as little as possible.

Let’s take a typical day, shall we? The sun is shining, the TV weatherman is forecasting 80 degree temperatures, and its just too darn nice out for an 18-year old to be sitting in a high school classroom. Right?

On one of those nice days, we would breeze through computers class, creating Word Perfect documents and learning the proper way to address a letter. Who knew that eventually we would have Microsoft Office to do all of that for us?

On to 2nd period. The Counseling Office. Now as I mentioned before, I was a smart kid– a good student. I flew under the radar, because no one expected me to do anything wrong. Because of this, when Heather and I “worked” in the counseling office, we were pretty much left unsupervised. With a full box of hall passes, PRE-SIGNED by the guidance counselors.

The morning would start out by writing out several hall passes for each other. We would write out a hall pass for each of us to get out of Spanish class to go meet with the counselor, with the ruse of meeting them for college planning, or working on scholarship paperwork. We would write a pass to get out of study hall, with the excuse that we needed to make up a test or go to the library. Essentially, because of some teachers that just didn’t really care or didn’t bother to notice, we were free and clear for 2nd through 4th period everyday.

In our school district, the seniors were able to leave the school campus at lunchtime, so that meant Lunch period was clear, too.

So almost every single day of my senior year, from morning to after lunch, we had a routine. We got breakfast at the Burger King drive-thru, and headed over to the lake to lay on the hood of the car, working on our tans. We ate our breakfast, soaked up some sun, smoked a few cigarettes, and stopped to get lunch before heading back to school.

On the days when it was too cool or too rainy to sunbathe, we still stopped and got breakfast. But then we either headed to Heather’s house for a nap, or we drove around Des Moines smoking cigarettes and listening to music.

Another perk to being a senior in our school district, was that if you had a study hall (or two) at the end of the school day, you were free to leave. From looking at my schedule, you can see I pretty much had to come back from my day in the sun long enough to go to one class and sometimes PE, before heading home for a nap.

What a rough life.

That, my friends, was a quality education.

Filed Under: Younger Years