Google Search Saves Me From Hiring a R.S.O.

Here is the lastest from my endless hunt to find a good candidate for an opening in the company I co-own...


I posted an ad on a local help wanted website. I get an applicant with a very good resume...had been a vice president of a company doing work in a similar field. I set up an initial phone conversation which goes really well. I am slightly surprised to find that he had been laid off from his previous company but alas, it's the economy, right?


I get ready to schedule a phone interview with the two other business owners and, out of curiousity, Google the candidate's name. I started this practice after I Googled a previous candidate and a hit came up referencing a rape/murder by someone of the same name. Turns out it was a distant cousin with the same first and last name but a different middle name. Sometimes I find out about previous bankruptcies or Facebook pages.


Well, this particular candidate, whom I will call "Matthew Small" so he can't find that I blogged about this, had a hit on his name referencing an arrest on suspicion of child solicitation. Evidently a Matthew Small had yelled very crude comments out the window of his minivan to a 14-year-old girl. I won't repeat the comments but suffice it to say, it involved him wanting to do something with a part of her female anatomy that is named after a cat.


He has a fairly common last name so I look up the size of the town he is in to find out if it's possible that there are multiple people of that same name. The town size is 596 people. This is not looking good. I do another Google search using additional search terms and find that he was indeed convicted of child solicitation and lost the appeal.


I do an inmate search in the state prison records (this is all free to search online) and find he spent 5 months, 27 days in prison. I use Switchboard.com to confirm there are only two Matthew Smalls in the town...a Matthew C. Small and a Matthew J. Small. And the C. one is 96.


This is not looking good. I am not sure of our candidate's middle name so I now do a search on the registered sex offender website. And there is a mug shot of a 40-year-old man in a business suit with a very morose expression.


Finally, I look up his professional licensing and lo and behold, it has his middle name of J. and the same email address as the one he used to email me.


I shudder to think I nearly interviewed and hired a registered sex offender. Naturally he was not forthcoming in his interview. I train the new reps all by myself. Can we all give a "hallelujah" for God? And Google.

Racing for Hooter "Cancel"

I had a surreal conversation with the Squirrels tonight on the eve of the local Susan G. Komen "Race for the Cure" event to raise awareness and support for breast cancer research. The women on the outlaw side of my family all run or walk each year and normally Mama F takes everyone out for breakfast afterwards (a major incentive). This year, Mama F took a tumble and is recovering from a hip replacement so we are sans a matriarch this year.

Before all this transpired, I decided, since I was finally back in the area, I would join the family team and bring along the Squirrels (walking, of course. I don't run unless I am being chased by a knife-wielding man). About three weeks ago our racing tags and t-shirts came in the mail.

Tonight, I set everything out in preparation for tomorrow. The girls asked what "Breast Cancel" was. I explained that it was when you get lumps in your breasts and the lumps need to be cut out and sometimes the whole breast has to be cut off. This led to Kate's eyes widening and asking, "How do they cut them off?"

Rather than go into the whole scalpel issue, I very tenderly (ha!) told her, "They lop them off with a knife."

Eli looks at me skeptically and says, "I sure hope they put you to sleep for that."

I assure her they do to which Kate asks what being "put to sleep means". I tell her it's when the doctor gives you some really good drugs so you don't have to feel the hurt.

Kate then asks how you get a new breast back. I realize this conversation is probably going to be repeated verbatim at an inopportune time, like at Kindergarten story hour, so I have a brief moment where I think it's probably time to stop talking but alas...I delve into explaining silicone implants to a five-year-old. I tell her that they are kind of like squishy balls that get put behind the skin.

She brightens, "I have a squishy ball! I keep it at school to squeeze so I don't fiddle with things at my desk." (a teacher-inspired aid to curb the ADHD).

I assure her that "stress balls" probably aren't what doctors use. Although I am sure there are plenty of men who would place hooters in that same category.

Declaring War on the Wattle

Nothing inspires weight loss like seeing a really bad photo of yourself. The latest was a picture from the church picnic taken of my profile when I was busy trying to get two Squirrels to eat more than just their cookies before running off to play (and coming back five minutes later declaring they were STARVING and needing a SNACK).

I discovered that I had developed a WATTLE! YIKES! What is a wattle? The clinical definition is "a fleshy growth hanging from the neck of certain animals". Well, this "certain animal" is mortified to have what amounts to a double chin (I am the one in the aqua long-sleeved shirt...it doesn't help that I am sitting by Mister Buff Man of the Universe named Josh and his delightfully cute Down-to-Her-Pre-Pregnancy-Weight wife named Jill).

Granted, I knew I was no longer my high school size 6 self. I finally gave up that illusion when I moved down south (to the land of fried foods and sweet tea) and the pair of Levi 501 jeans I had kept from high school no longer made it up past my thighs (despite my efforts to unhinge my hips and wiggle in...much to the amusement of Husband). I slowly crept up into double digit dress sizes and told myself that I would begin exercising tomorrow...

But truth be told, I absolutely hate all forms of exercise. I lose hearing in one ear and start feeling asthmatic when I run, I biked across Iowa and only lost three pounds (See "Post Traumatic Butt Disorder" post), and yoga and belly dancing, while fun, aren't real calorie burners.

But seeing the wattle in the picture has put me on the war path! Between that and knowing that there will be vacation pictures posted of me with the F family out at the Outer Banks (think brain scarring pictures of me in swim wear), I am motivated to at least walk a few miles each day.

And maybe...just maybe...someday I may even be motivated to actually change the weight on my driver's license to match somewhere closer than the 30 lbs off my current weight (which is what is currently recorded on my driver's license). Unless I have soaring success and get down to that weight again. FAT CHANCE!

From Super Aunt JoJo to Momzilla

So many of you get dreamy looks on your face and ask me how parenting is going. I feel slightly inclined to lie to you because I know you expect, since we went through the whole infertility experience and have since adopted, that I should shout with glee that it completes me and it's the best job in the world.


But truth wins out in the end...because I could never be one of those 12 page Christmas letter of nauseating bragging kind of mom.


So in the spirit of truth, let me just say...I really thought I would be a better mom. No, really. I had motherhood all pictured in my head. And since I am the Consummate Aunt Jo Jo (i.e. every nieces' and nephews' favorite slumber partying, snack bribing, back scratching, non-sloppy kissing aunt), I really thought I had a leg up.


Instead, despite my fervent prayers in the morning before I go down to greet the Squirrels, my day unravels and the ugly monster MOMZILLA emerges. Momzilla tends to yell. She'd like to say it's because that is the only volume at which two ADHD spazzoids will even blink and show a shred of hearing but in the spirit of truth, it's probably because she has lost ALL CONTROL.


I was not going to ask them if their brains fell out when my kids did stupid stuff.

I was not going to tell them to do something just because I said so.

I was not going to spank out of anger.

I was not going to issue a silence order because all the toe tapping, finger drumming, humming, whining chaos had reached epic decibels.

I was not going to issue "mandatory recess" outside and feel a strong urge to lock all the doors and drink a quart of tequila (before you chastise me, notice I said "urge"...not actually doing it...at least that is the story I am sticking to).

Nobody warned me about the "mom guilt" of knowing you said and did the wrong things and your kids will carry on your bad habits...and how you just know someday they will be reclining on a couch at their therapist's office blaming YOU for how their life has unraveled. I will be labeled the "baggage" they are carrying (sigh).


But, in the spirit of truth, I now realize why God referred to the His chosen people as "the children of Israel". Because that is how they behaved when they disobeyed and God said He'd rather have obedience than sacrifice. And how God loved them even when they broke His stuff. And why He continues to love them even when they have all the world in their hands but yet want more.


And this Momzilla hopes God can create spotty amnesia in the Squirrels when they reach adulthood so that the only thing they remember are the movie nights with popcorn, tramping in the woods, and snuggling around a good book. Because otherwise, I'll never earn Mother of the Year (still waiting on my crown and sash).

Rejected by Locks of Love

My hair is going to drive me insane, if my kids don't beat me to it.

I am chronically lazy about regularly scheduled haircuts so I end up with a shaggy, mousy blah hairstyle every year. It gets to a length where I start to consider doing something noble like donating it to locks of love. Only you need 10 inches of hair...and my hair grows at a snails pace.

Undeterred, when my sister Renee decided she was going to donate her hair in honor of her daughter Grace, who suffers from alopecia areata (hair falling out in places from time to time), I decided I would be charitable and donate as well. It seemed to take forever to barely get to 10 inches but one September morning, I was there...at least the longest few hairs were. I printed off the donation instructions, grabbed my ziploc bag, and headed to a nearby beauty salon. When my stylist found out I was donating, she had this haughty, sniffy look like "THIS hair?" but she took a look at the picture of the cute Meg Ryan post-donation cut I was going for and adamantly vowed she could pull it off.

One ponytail shorn off, and many clippings later, she started in to the layering, then mega amounts of product, then blow drying. All the while, she is murmuring how cute this is going to be and how she loves this cut, yada yada. She finally pronounced that she was finished and spun my chair around and asked those dreaded words, "How do you like it?"

There, staring back at me, was the largest Bump-It space helmet hair bouffant seen since the beehive met its demise. I mean to tell you she had backcombed the crown of my hair to within an inch of its useful life and I could have had a career on Trinity Broadcasting Network (if I added in copious amounts of costume jewelry and eye makeup...and an unnatural shade of pink lipstick).

I lied...like I always do to hair stylist when the cut doesn't match the photo and I figure I can go home, re-wash, and bring my hair down from the heavens...and said, "It's quite something!" Then I remembered I had driver's license photos later that day and scurried home so that this horrible haircut would not be recorded for the next 10 years (picture below was after getting home and "fixing" the damage).

I already had that "lingering bad hair" experience in first grade when my oldest sister Beth gave me a home perm. Well, actually, it was two home perms. She thought the first one didn't take but really it was like priming the pump because the second perm took enough for both home applications. And since I thought the curl would come out if I combed it, I ended up with hair that looked like the clown wig sans the rainbow coloring.

But I digress....

I did send my paltry ponytail in to Locks of Love with a delivery confirmation attached. I was chatting with my sister Renee several weeks later and she mentioned that she had gotten a thank you note from Locks of Love for her hair donation.

Yeeeaaahhh...they never sent me a thank you. And the delivery confirmation came back complete so I know they received it. I realized my mousy thin, pathetic hair was REJECTED by kids that don't even HAVE hair.

How do you like them apples?

The Evolution of the "Mom Purse"

In my last post, I mentioned the purchase of a mini-van being the irrefutable sign that I was no longer cool. In today's hearing, we review evidence that I have also sunk to a new low...

The "Mom Purse"

Let me 'splain...

For years, I refused to carry a purse at all. I thought it was so nerdy. But alas, sometime in my early '20s, I finally relented and adopted a small little dainty girl purse. The dainty girl purse was only big enough for my car keys, a tube of lip gloss, and a check book (barely). I could carry it three out of the four weeks in the month (girls, you get my reference) and it looked so feminine and young. Ah, but alas, sometime in my mid-twenties, I became married...and moved on to...The married woman's purse. This one had to hold a bigger checkbook (now, I had a mortgage to pay) as well as multiple cell phones (no longer had the briefcased-size "mobile phone" in my car, though...so guess that was a plus), business cards, and a bigger lot of make-up...couldn't count on my fresh youthful skin holding out past, oh, say, 9 AM, without multiple touch-ups. I still felt fairly chic in my Liz Claibourne model of red until I had kids...and then...Alas, the Mom Purse has arrived (or, as Husband calls it, my SUITCASE!). I call it the "black hole" because it carries everything but I can never find anything in it. My cell phone rings and goes to "missed call" status as I frantically dive headfirst into the Mom Purse to try to uncover it. I can carry 14 library books, a spare pair of socks, Band-Aids, sunscreen, lotion (black skin always needs more), a wallet roughly the size of Kentucky (hey, I have to afford to keep black hair looking nice...which is about the same as a second mortgage), and an even bigger make-up bag (forget dewy youthfulness...I mean, I still have the acne of a teenager but now it is mixed with the beginnings of laugh lines and crows' feet..."Why, God, why?").

This purse is large enough to carry a newborn. I could tack it on top of the van to become a luggage carrier. If I held onto the straps and turned it upside down, I am fairly certain it would be a trusty parachute. So there you have it...big, bigger, biggest...good, better, best. Laugh all you want, but if you get pushed out of an airplane, you are going to wish I was in the air beside you!

The One-Armed Blue Bus Bandit

A rather familiar sight was beheld barreling down the interstate en route between the Cabin of the Squirrels and Iowa Hometown of Mama last week. Mama was seen navigating the blue minivan otherwise affectionately (and most likely, embarrassingly) known as "The Blue Bus".

What is this wonder, you ask? The Blue Bus is the irrefutable sign that the last shred of coolness has fled from Mama. She never thought she'd sink to this level but found herself exclaiming, "Oh, wireless headsets to the DVD player...and 12 cupholders...so we can have 12 times the number of bathroom stops. Sign me up!" While Husband got a welcome break to stay home (and indulge in some Final Four action) over Easter weekend, Mama bravely packed up the two squirrels - complete with pink polka dot suitcases, and headed to Iowa.

The squirrels seem to believe that Mama can both navigate the car and attend to all things they ask. I mean, why shouldn't I be able to change out the batteries in their Leapsters, put straws in their drinking cups, find the flip flop that fell on the floor, and figure out why the el crappo plastic watch that came in their kid's meal is still blinking "4 10" instead of the correct time. They seem to think the Blue Bus has an autopilot I can switch on, and then turn around and be at their beck and call.

I think my right arm has come loose from it's socket. I finally had to bellow that "Mama is off limits until we arrive at our destination!" to which they then asked every 30 minutes how many more hours it was. That's 16 hours of pure torture I don't plan to repeat without Husband's help again.

But alas, I am not the first One-Armed Blue Bandit Bus Driver. That title belongs to my papa...and an ode to the 1978 Blue Ford Econoline full-sized van that turned over more times than your distant relatives in their graves. This was from the era before seatbelts took all the excitement out of sudden stops. We fit 8 kids in that van and were mesmerized that it had a back "couch" that could turn into a "bed".

This was also before Leapsters, DVD players, and satellite radio. We thought we were IT when we got a tape player and could play Louis L'Amour tapes for all to hear. Mom also would pick up new Archie comics for vacation (which we had read before the van left the driveway). Dad would dutifully mount our luggage carrier (and all our "hardside" luggage) into the van. We always joked he could fit a queen bed in a music box. He would have made a killing working for UPS!

The treasured seats were the two middle buckets seats...which had close proximity to the air conditioning. The rest of us piled in back unless you wanted to try to sleep on the floor - which ultimately led to third degree burns on your stomach due to the heat from the engine (or whatever was underneath the car).

For fun, we'd play the "House" game where we'd pick out houses along the highway and assign them to different people in the car. Or, one time Mary and I made "Honk" sign and would hang it out the back window. If the car behind us would honk, we'd stick our hands out the back window and wave. I think we ingested too many exhaust fumes to think that was fun, but Dad never caught on to why everyone was honking at him.

We'd invariably stop and eat at Perkins (although we desperately wanted McDonald's) and would stay at a Holiday Inn. Not sure if the Priority Club was in operation then but my parent's would have reached Multi-Platinum level if it was. We'd all race into the hotel and turn on the one thing we always wanted at home - THE TELEVISION - while Dad would sigh and bring in load after load of suitcases.

I have many fond memories of family vacations...and most of the pictures Mom took have Dad's hairy arm resting on the steering wheel in the foreground. His hairy arm made it to the East Coast, Michigan, the West Coast at least three or four times, and various and sundry points in between.

The original Blue Bus died sometime while I was in high school. By then, the horn had the sound of a cow in labor, the buckets seats had been removed to accommodate Doug and Lisa's return to the Midwest from California, and the bed in back could no longer fold up into a couch. The cooler and cabinet had been removed, and the carpet was worn through in most places...even one spot where I could see the road whirring by underneath the van.

Give me a few years, and we'll be at that point again with Blue Bus #2.