PSA: QUIET! PLEASE!

Since last Thursday, my internet has been busted in my apartment. Due to my lack of job situation, I have to utilize the free WiFi at my neighborhood library instead of paying to work out of Starbucks (which I did one day and ended up stinking like a Colombian brew house).

I'll start this post off on a good note by saying I'm happy that the WiFi is free (or that our tax $ is covering it). Also, my branch has a great spot to sit and use your laptop, complete with power strip so my battery doesn't die.

BUT. And this is a big BUT. I recall learning that one must be quiet in a public library as not to disturb the other people doing research/reading/working. I mean, we had a library class in grade school where we learned this. My hometown had signs that reminded people to be quiet.

Apparently that is not the case at the Columbus Branch here on 10th Ave. Here are some things that have happened to me in total of 5 hours I have spent here:

1. Sat down to a woman talking to herself, loudly. Seems she and her other personalities were having a disagreement.
2. Sat across from a man working on his laptop. This would seem normal, except he was hacking up chunks of lung all over everyone.
3. Teenage/Tweenage boys sat at the public computer next to me and started to read MySpace pages out loud. At one point one started talking about this young woman's "boobs." He had obviously never touched one.
4.A young woman called her friends over to a public computer and read aloud her IM conversation. She did the voices and everything. At full volume.
5. Today, another young woman is browsing MySpace pages. People have songs on their pages. She is listening to the songs. They are bad, loud, disruptive songs.

This is just a taste. All of this goes on while I try to get my freelance assignments done so I can (maybe?) get paid and make rent without dipping into my savings. So before I go all crazy Ghostbusters library ghost on these people, I like to go with a little Carl Winslow and say to myself "Three, Two, One. One, Two, Three. What the heck is bothering me?"

It's not working. What's bothering me is the screeching of chairs and the slamming of books and bags and the bad disruptive music that this girl is listening to AS I WRITE THIS. And I have my iPod on.

Any tips on not going crazy on these people? Because I'm a few seconds from standing on my chair and screaming profanities.

An Open Letter to Angelina Jolie

Dear Ms. Jolie as you like to be called because you live in sin,


Why is it you always have effing bitch face? You are effing Brad Pitt, have 9000 of his babies and have like the best life ever.

STOP LOOKING SO LES MIS PLEASE. It's rubbing off on Brad and we don't need another Billy Bob on our hands. Maybe people would stop calling you a homewrecker if you started to smile evry so often.

And why do you insist on dressing Shiloh like a boy? Take a note from Katie Holmes (never though I'd say that) and dress her like a girl please. She looks dirty like Kate Hudson's child.

Oh, and eat a morsel of something, I don't care what...just something. You look like a fucking praying mantis you maneater you.

Thanks,

Jones

Babysitter's Club: A PSA

As many of you know, my first job was as the friendly neighborhood babysitter. I love kids, always have, always will. I love that they are little people that have their own sense of logic. Word got out at how awesome I was and my client base would make Kristy from the BSC cry to Maryanne.

Now, part of my awesome extended from the fact that I knew how to have fun with kids but still kept them in check (I am not afraid to distribute a time out). I mean, I was 14 and the kid had to be in bed by 8 pm so I could watch friends.

There was one family I grew really close with and I watched their son from the age of 6 months until he was around 6 or 7 (would have been longer but I went away to school). In those years, I was around for the birth of his sister and I met all of his friends and would watch other kids in his neighborhood.

He was adorable. A perfect little Irish kid who was sweet and precocious at the same time. We got along famously and I watched him grow from Barney to Power Rangers to the early Harry Potter books. We spent a lot of time together (including one whole summer when I was 15) and I have many stories.

Here's where my public announcement comes in. When he was about three, he started to potty train. I was elated because it meant no more poopy diapers for me to change. So you can imagine I was excited when I arrived one day and his mom told me that he was going on the toilet! Yay!

That morning, his mom left and I put on the TV while I set out some coloring books for us. My little man told me he was going to use the big boy potty so I took a break from coloring Cookie Monster to catch up on a soap for a few. Mind you, the bathroom is four feet from where I was. Five minutes later I hear his angelic voice exclaim, "I'M FINISHED!" Since he was new to the whole potty thing, I clapped and shouted a supportive "Good for you! Yay!" and continued to watch my stories. Two more minutes go by.

"I'M FINISHED!"

I gave another supportive yell and some more applause.

A few more minutes go by: "JONESY! I'M FINNNNNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDDDD!"

Lightbulb. "Um, do you need help?"

I open the door and homeboy is chilling on the bowl, little legs dangling. "I'm finished," he said like I was supposed to do something. What his mom had neglected to tell me was that while he could drop a deuce on the big boy bowl, he had yet to master the art of the wipe. He had been shouting for me to wipe his ass. Since I had been doing that since he was a baby, I had no problem helping but I couldn't understand how someone would teach their kid to poop and not show them the wiping process. Like really, they go hand in hand! Needless to say, I learned my lesson and from then until he learned how to use TP, I was on hand when he needed his heiny wiped.

Sadly, this was not the last time this would happen to me. I was a camp counselor for years. My first year, I had self-sufficient 12-14 year-olds (including Spanish's sister!). My second year, I had kids going into first grade, most of whom were five or six. We hung around most of the day with the kids in Kindergarten (my sister was the head counselor in that group). By this time, my teenage alcoholism had set in and my sister and I (and 90% of the rest of the counselors) would roll into work everyday hungover. On those days (everyday), we would ask for movie time, which meant air conditioning and quiet for an hour. On this particular day, I was exhausted and movie time was lodged between lunch and swim time. This meant that after the movie, every single kid had to pee. I took my kids to the bathroom. One of the quietest and sweetest kids went in and immediately farted. I knew she was going to poo. We were in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. After asking her about five times if she had needed help, she finally said, yea, I think I'm done. I asked her to open the door so the next girl could go.

As if she were the Queen of Sheba, she swung open the door (still sitting on her throne) and said "I need you to wipe my heiny first."

Now, when you work with little kids at a licensed summer camp there are STRICT rules about touching kids. Especially when you are alone with them. I feel bad, because I laughed at this girl in the face while I sent my CIT (who was nearby with the girls who were waiting) to get some baby wipes from my sister. I took one and realized that there was no reason I should have to do this. I didn't really know her parents well (not like I was the trusted family babysitter or had ever changed her diaper). So I did the only thing I could think of. I held the babywipe up to my shorts and acted out how she should wipe. I taught the girl to wipe her ass through effing mime.

So parents and future parents of America, I implore you. PLEASE TEACH YOUR KIDS TO WIPE BEFORE LEAVING THEM IN THE CARE OF AN UNSUSPECTING TEENAGER. Thank you.

My past still haunts me. I confess: I was a cheerleader.

Yes, it's true. There was a time when running around in nothing more than midriff-bearing tops and teeny skirts made me happy. I loved poms. I owned Kappa sneakers. I took private gymnastic lessons. I carried a megaphone. I suffered injuries (and think I have the early signs of an arthritic knee and wrist). There were no qualms about wearing warm up suits. I did spirit fingers and made rock and roll signs with my hands. Sponge curlers are a useful hair styling tool and I know how to use them. Never dropped a Spirit Stick and yes, I brought it on.

Okay, so it's out there. I started in the 4th grade and was hooked. It was girly and it was fun and by 5th grade, I was a captain and my sister was my coach (At the time, I didn't think one thing had to do with the other, now it's sort of obvious, although I was pretty damn dedicated). We cheered during the fall for boys basketball and in the winter we competed. Hard core. We didn't mess.

By high school, Spanish and I were all but drafted as freshman onto the varsity squad. Our talent was sort of benched for year since we were the newbies but we went to Nationals, hit the big blue mat, and watched the seniors choke. Whatever, we had three more years. Oh, and we weren't allowed to cheer for the boys school since they had thrown condoms at squads in the past. We cheered for the girls basketball team.

Sophmore year, at one point, I had to tumble five times in our routine. I coined the term "backheadspring" since would sort of flop over on my head and stand up. I'm sure I had concussions and looking back, I am thankful I never broke my neck. Nationals again, we were better this time but not good enough.

Junior year, at this point, most of my friends were on my team. Coincdentally, I hated the rest of our team. Florida again. More choking. I got in trouble for flirting with ugly male cheerleaders. It was retarded and we sort of sucked. But we got new uniforms. I remember this because I had a 22 inch waist a 6-pack at the time. Ha! I became the girl who showed up in her uniform reeking of ciggies.

Senior year, Spanish and I defected to an All-Star team. At this point I was sticking with it for college and secretly wanted to be a coach/instructor. We got uniforms that showed our stomachs. We had a fat girl on our team. That was mean. At one point, I slept through the SAT II's because I was awake from a practice and was stressed about a competition the same day. I drove in a blizzard, visit several doctors for my wrist injury, and finally got on a squad that didn't choke. We rocked every competition. Until nationals, when due to an injury that happened 5 minutes before we hit the mats, Spanish's base couldn't really perform well. Boo. I hung up my shoes that day. Literally, on my wall.

There were camps (retarded because I could never find a place to smoke) and clinics and bake sales and pep rallys. I loved it. Until it stopped being fun. By college I was done and I just wanted to drink and smoke. I went to a meeting to see what our team was about. They didn't compete and they sucked so I bailed. Although, if I knew then what would happen to my teeny taut body then what I know now I would have slapped the smile on and picked up the poms.

Okay, all that boring shit aside, I stumbled on this website yesterday and found this:

REALLY? How old are these kids, 5, maybe 6? And the kid bellys are in full effect ('cept for my girl in the middle, she's ripped!). Full makeup and hair too! Since when is something that requires extreme agility, strength, and flexibility, a training camp for TEENY WHORES?

If you look at pic of me when I was 9, my skirt is clearly down to my knees. Our tops were sweater material. Not all this silver polyester sparkle and baby belly. This just makes me angry. My mom would NEVER let me rock this gear. I hope these poor kids don't lose their viriginty under the bleachers after the big game.

I pray I have only sons.

JUST SAY NO TO BJ!

Like I felt obligated to warn all men against murses or man purses, I am officially making a new PSA. It is geared towards all mother's with new baby girls. Now I know that not all little ones are born with flowing locks and that it can be hard to determine the sex of your baby while wearing a white onesie. But please, please, stop putting jewelry on your babies. Stay away from BJ (baby jewelry). Don't pierce their ears, don't put a bangle on them and for the love of our lord baby infant Jesus Christ, do NOT give them rings (even Spanish who is pro-BJ admitted this is just a choking hazard).

That's right. Step away from the baby jewelry counter. Put down the ice cube and safety pin (which is how Spanish said her baby ears were pierced).

source

This baby is having BJ nightmares.

Why am I so against BJ? Because: 1. It's just tacky. 2. It makes baby girls look like little hookers. 3. Your daughter will be a whore if she wears BJ...I mean c'mon, BJ leads to BJ's. 4. It's really effing ugly.

Also, please refrain from putting those elastic on your baby's head so it looks like she has a bow on. She just looks like a groom missed when he threw a garter and it landed on you babys dome.

All you need to do:

1. Dress the baby in pink, preferably a dress of some sort.

2. Give her a "Thank Heaven For Little Girls" bib.

3. Stick a baby doll in the carriage.

THE MORE YOU KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's raining men...with purses.

Attention all men. Please stop carrying man purses. I don't care who you are, you look like an idiot. Lap top cases, cool. Those canvas messenger bags, passable. But those leather monstrosities that you carry like a frickin Louis Vuitton Damier Alma, really now. Stop it.

Leave the purses to us ladies and we'll all be just fine.