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A banker said millionaire CEOs ‘literally weep’ due to stress, and Twitter users pounced.

A former bank boss tried to justify inflated CEO salaries because the job is stressful. The people of Twitter were not having it.

There’s no doubt that running a company is a tough job. Holding the fate of hundreds or thousands of employees and the weight of success or failure of a business on your shoulders is definitely a big source of stress.

But how much more valuable is one person’s stress than another?

That’s the question Dr. David Morgan, former CEO of Australia’s Westpac Banking Corporation, inadvertently addressed in an interview for a new biography. According to The Age, Morgan told the book’s author, Oliver Brown, that the reality of CEO life is “seldom openly discussed.”

“Most people don’t talk about it honestly,” Morgan said. “Yes, CEO life is very glamorous. You’re recognized, you’re given the best seats in restaurants, and you’re ridiculously overpaid. But you need stamina. As the leader, you rarely play the grand final, but more an endless succession of semi-finals.”

“You can hardly ever relax, and that creates intense strain,” he added. “Behind closed doors, some CEOs literally weep.”

And that was the straw that broke Twitter’s back.

People who have ‘literally wept’ over stress at jobs where they made under $40K a year showed up by the thousands.

Dr. Morgan was the CEO of Westpac from 1999 to 2008. In 2007, his annual pay topped $10 million. That’s $833,000 a month, $192,000+ a week, or assuming a 7-day work week, $27,000+ per day. If he worked 16-hour days every single day (which is surely not the norm, but let’s go with it for the sake of the stressful argument), that’s $1,700+ per hour.

But sometimes they weep in private, right?

At least Morgan admitted that CEOs can be “ridiculously overpaid.” But trying to justify that with multimillionaire tears totally falls flat for the multimillions of people who work in stressful, underpaid jobs every day.

Twitter user Frankie Zelnick illustrated this point with a simple tweet in response to The Age’s article share.

“Raise your hand if you’ve ‘literally wept’ from stress at a job that paid you less than 40 grand a year,” she wrote.

The responses rolled in like thunder.

There is zero evidence that the more stress you have in a job, the more you get paid. In fact, as several people pointed out, the less they got paid at a job, the more they cried.

An entire thread could have been dedicated to the pay/tears ratio of teachers.

Unless you have tried to educate a classroom full of kids, it’s hard to understand the amount of stress that goes along with the job. I started out as a teacher and while it’s a rewarding career in many ways, it’s also the hardest job I’ve ever had—and one of the worst paid per actual working hour. Every teacher I know has “literally wept” over their jobs, many while working other jobs to make ends meet.

What stressed out millionaires don’t recognize is how much stress is caused by not having financial security.

Some users shared stories of how they couldn’t afford to take time off work, even for medical reasons.

Others pointed out the ocean of difference between crying over a stressful job when you have more than enough money and crying over a stressful job when you’re poor. There’s just no comparison.

When your work includes business meetings over rounds of golf and tables at 5-star restaurants, followed up by going home to a luxurious house that you can afford to pay someone to clean, and a retirement account worth more than most of us will make in our whole lifetimes, it’s hard to feel sorry for you, no matter how hard your job is.

Running a company is stressful, but so are millions of other people’s jobs that pay a tiny fraction of what most CEOs make—and without the perks. Dr. Morgan easily could have retired in comfort after his 9-year stint as Westpac’s CEO. Most of us have to work our butts off for our entire adult life to be able to stop working and still have food on the table.

So yeah. We know CEOs have tough jobs, but the teachers, social workers, non-profit employees, retail associates, and other underpaid, overstressed workers aren’t going to lose any sleep over anyone’s $1,000+/hr tears.

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/a-banker-said-millionaire-ce-os-literally-weep-due-to-stress-and-twitter-users-pounced

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How a giant cabbage eventually helped this girl feed hundreds of thousands of people.

The average cabbage weighs between one and eight pounds. In 2008, a nine-year-old girl grew a cabbage so large it could have come from a fairy tale about enchanted vegetables.

Photo by Clint McKoy on Unsplash

Katie Stagliano never meant to grow a cabbage that would’ve made a fairy godmother proud. She was just a third-grader bringing home a school project that was meant to inspire her green thumb.

She tended to the cabbage every day. And every day, the tiny seedling she’d planted got bigger. It quickly surpassed one pound, then two, and then 30. By the time the cabbage finally hit maturity, it weighed 40 pounds.

What to do with a behemoth cabbage? Once harvested, Katie decided to donate it to a local soup kitchen where it would feed more than 275 people.

Turns out the cabbage really was magical. It inspired Katie’s love of gardening and — more importantly — her desire to give back.

Photo courtesy of Katie Stagliano, General Mills.

Seeing how much of an impact one cabbage got Katie thinking. At only nine years old, she realized how important it was for everyone to have access to fresh and healthy food. At the same time, it was clear that not everyone had such access. The statistics, in fact, are sobering: one in eight people go hungry in America each year. That’s 40 million people, 12 million of which are children.

That clinched it for Katie. Before her age reached double digits, she’d made it her mission to end hunger in America.

While it started from a gargantuan cabbage, Katie’s nonprofit that she leads today has grown bigger than any cabbage ever could. General Mills is a big part of that.

Photo courtesy of  Katie Stagliano, General Mills.

Katie’s Krops started with one garden and a few volunteers. Today, the organization boasts over 100 gardens all over the country. Katie’s Krops provides the volunteers who run them with small grants to help those gardens flourish and yield plentiful produce for the food insecure.

In California, a young man named Joey has provided Shepherd’s Gate, a women’s shelter, with the only fresh fruit and vegetables the shelter gets.

In Ohio, the students at West Carrollton High School are growing fruits and vegetables for more than 450 homeless people right on campus. It was the first time many of the students had ever learned about agriculture.

Thanks to this incredible chain of agricultural efforts, in 2018, Katie’s Krops donated 38,342 pounds of produce across America.

Photo courtesy of  Katie Stagliano, General Mills.

In 2018, Katie was the winner of General Mills’ first-ever Feeding Better Futures scholar program. The contest, which was designed to give today’s youth a chance to make an impact on how we, as a society, fight hunger, reduce food waste and grow food more sustainably. It perpetuates General Mills’ decades-long commitment to both philanthropy and making sure that all people, everywhere, have enough to eat and love what they’re eating.

Katie was awarded $50,000 to continue developing her organization so she can feed even more people. She was mentored by industry experts and presented her project at The Aspen Ideas festival.

And business is still booming. Volunteers have given more than 1,000 hours to ensure the success of Katie’s flagship garden in South Carolina. The produce grown their goes has been donated to food banks and cancer centers. Food is also given directly to families and individuals in need and used for Katie’s Krops Dinners — regularly scheduled events where anyone in need can eat a free, hot meal in the company of their community. Volunteers also prepare care packages, distribute books, toys, school supplies, and clothing to those in need.

Katie doesn’t think anyone is too young or too small to make a big difference. She doesn’t see obstacles — only opportunities. That’s the way that General Mills looks at the problem of world hunger, too. It can be overcome with passion, empathy, and innovation.

Are you ready to take on the fight against hunger? The world’s waiting for your ideas.

If Katie’s story has inspired you, then it’s time to take action. If you’re between the ages of 13 and 21, now is your chance to be a part of keeping future generations fed. Submit your creative ideas for ending hunger to General Mills by February 26th, 2019, and you could win $50,000, life-changing mentorship from industry leaders, and an even bigger platform through which to share your ideas for change. Two additional finalists will receive $10,000 to kickstart their projects. The deadline is quickly approaching, so now’s the time to get cracking on your entry!

Solving global issues like hunger takes innovation. It requires us to work together. Katie’s ending hunger one vegetable garden at a time. How will you make a difference?

To learn more about Katie’s story, check out this video:

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/how-a-giant-cabbage-eventually-helped-this-girl-feed-hundreds-of-thousands-of-people

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The Internet was supposed to save dating. Instead, it’s ruining it.

Photo illustration by Joe Raedle/Getty Images.

Is Ghosting The New Normal?

It was our second “first date.”

Two and a half years ago, Steve hit me up on OK Cupid. Not my usual type––he had very long wavy hair, close-shaved beard and mustache, and tats, seemingly everywhere.

Substantially younger than me, he looked older, almost Willie Nelson-ish. Rock girl though I may be in moniker, and in sensibility, that look has nary been my leaning. But, there was something in his eyes, a softness, which softened me. Loving pictures with his young children added to his charm.

They also threw up a big red flag.

My youngest had just left home for college weeks before, and my oldest, although still living with me, was of age, and independent––and, any man who posts pictures with his kids on his dating profile, admirable in so many ways, doesn’t exactly scream ready for romance.

I answered him anyway.

Coming off yet another long dry spell, figuratively and literally, there’d been a succession of matches which led to either no communication, conversations which evaporated into cyber air, or, men who did––even after a fun first date.

There was an intense brief romance with a sexy Parisian who said we were soul-connected until he very swiftly disconnected.

He kind of said goodbye before he checked out, which is more thanI can say for Don. His last text invited me to talk. That was three springs ago. He’s yet to return the call.

Paul sent me a lovely message saying he wanted me to know he was interested in me but he was leaving the country and that’s why he’d be temporarily MIA. Define temporarily.

Post my separation 8 years ago, after a 20-year marriage, I had no clue what dating was about. I’d never done it.

Back in the day, before the internet, and cell phone apps, we met in person. Eyeball to eyeball. Or, at least, eyeball to cute ass. Almost without exception, it was all in for both of us, from the get-go.

My business requires me to leave the sanctity of my kitchen and computer to attend social events; I’m sober, and attend meetings to remain so; I’m blessed to have some wonderful friends who invite me to do stuff with them. I enjoy being out in the world, in spite of my inclination to lazy out and isolate. So, I go.

And, yet, I was meeting no one. It seemed everyone who piqued my interest was either taken or too cool for the room. Or, at least, my room.

After four years of too many nights, weeks, months, alone, with a few dalliances sprinkled in between, my therapist encouraged––badgered me, to get on the dating sites.

I must have had beginners luck because pretty much everyone I matched with reached out and wanted to meet. I had no idea at the time what an anomaly that was. I consumed enough Starbuck’s to drown a rhinoceros. Of all the men I connected with, I discovered without exception, all of them had lied about at least one thing in their profile. And none yielded or warranted a second date.

Seeking substance, Tinder led to OKCupid, where profiles were more in-depth and there were questions to match compatibility. But, unlike Tinder, OKCupid, not linked to Facebook, or corroborated by anything, quickly proved to be filled with men who either stole their pictures from others, or, were involved with others, and were just looking for some online intrigue––like maybe some naked pictures, or, a playmate to sext with.

After innumerable connections with men who upon being asked the most basic question, like, “What’s your name?” disappeared into the night, I decided to focus elsewhere. Not before being blindsided by a seemingly real, genuine good guy who romanced the shit out of me before pulling a Houdini whenI asked to switch to text.

Doing a reverse Google Image search (I amassed a few tricks after being repeatedly burned) I learned that he was a Mormon, dating a gorgeous 19-year-old who clearly assumed she had his undivided attention. When I messaged him on Twitter, he panicked, claimed someone stole his pics, and within a week, proposed to said girl.

OKCupid, I decided, was stupid.

Back to Tinder, which at least connects to one’s Facebook, and eliminated the total imposters. Except Ryan, who was actually Patrick, discovered accidentally when he said he was in one state but the app disagreed and placed him in another. He was gone faster than a box of Krispie Kremes at an AA meeting.

Photo by Jewel Samad/Getty Images.

This time around, matches either never begat a word, ceased after a hello or so, or, they’d provide an unsolicited dick pic within moments.

I was schooled by my male friends that “What are you looking for?” is code for hookup. When I wasn’t game for that, they were gone into the ether.

Granted, I lean young, but even when I made a conscious effort to make more appropriate choices the results remained pretty much the same.

It’s me. Right?

Speaking to just about every single and seeking person I know––not so much.

When Steve, the single dad appeared, in spite of his hair and tattoos, he was a successful creative businessman and he seemed relatively normal.

After a few days of intense text exchanges, I pushed away a few warnings of deviancy, encouraged by his seemingly sane life, and his dogged appreciation and pursuit of me.

We met at a park on a cloudy afternoon. From the first moment, any reservations I’d had were gone––a bolt of connection and attraction struck hard and fast. We talked for hours, without breaking eye contact.

When he had to leave to pick up his kids, he kissed me, gently, briefly, yet it was sparky and memorable. He said he’d like to take me on a proper date––at night. I was thrilled and yet, without thinking or taking a pause, I asked how this could work with his full-time responsibility to being a dad and my newfound freedom. He assured me that he could work it out, that’s what babysitters were for.

I left him, hopeful and high-flying, my gut nagging, “Why did I pose that question when things felt so damn good?” Fear? Self-sabotage?  Nah! The way he looked at me. It was ok. As if to confirm that, a lovely text exchange followed.

When days later, the texts we’re becoming frequently less inspired, and less, period, I was still shocked when without notice, they ceased completely, except mine to him which went unanswered.

I blamed myself.

I obsessively checked his Instagram seeking an answer, garnering none. Eventually, I stopped looking. When I’d scroll past his posts in my feed I’d get a pang of WTF and move on––until this one night two and half years later. An artful, ridiculously sexy image of a man and woman kissing appeared. Without intending to, my mouse lingered a bit too long over the photo and somehow Liked it without my knowledge or consent. Mortified, I instantly reversed it.

Too late. A moment later he private messaged me as if a few days had passed since our last date.

Still, somehow, liking the guy, wanting answers, and not wanting to kibosh it again (because of course, it was my fault last go ‘round), I made no reference to the passage of time or his vanishing act. We went out again, this time on that proper date for dinner; making out like teenagers on the sidewalk afterward, maybe not so proper. So, we took a drive. If we had heat the first time, this time we had fire. When we said goodnight, we talked about picking it back up soon, not before I again brought up his kids. Oh yes, I did.

For the next couple of days, there were a few lame texts, initiated by yours truly. Then silence. When a few days later he reached out, I was ecstatic, this time was different.

That was the last I heard from him.

Boo.

Three weeks ago, Jon asked me out the very day we matched.

I was freshly smarting from a painfully abrupt break up with a guy I’d actually been seeing for a few months. I was determined to get back on the dating horse and not suffer. This was quick, but Jon was intelligent, funny, accomplished, and like-minded. Why not?

Over dinner, we talked about online dating, and ghosting. He admitted I was his first physical date after months on the app. He said he’d ghosted more than a few women after messaging them.

When pressed, he explained his reluctance to start anything––it seemed more effort than it was worth––or he was willing to take after a messy divorce. He said I was different. Walking me to my car he asked permission to kiss me. That’s kind of weird, and not very sexy, but he said he’d been thinking about it throughout dinner and wanted me to know this wasn’t a friend thing. He added, “No ghosting, ok?” He wasn’t kidding, there’s no friend thing, there’s no no-thing.

It’s been radio silence ever since.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks talking to everyone I can think of who online dates in an attempt to understand what the hell is going on.

Is ghosting the new normal?

It appears to be sadly more true than not. I’m not the only one having these kinds of experiences. And yet, there seem to be plenty of stories of people who meet online and not only date but mate––some even partnering for the long haul.

Is it a numbers game and I picked a really high one?

It seems in part to be a Mars/Venus thing. Some men swipe every single woman, and then, after they match, look at her pictures. If they like her, maybe then they read her profile. I don’t know these men personally, or at least none of the ones I do will cop to that behavior. But I do know quite a few who’ve said that matching alone is the conquest, and once that’s done they lose interest and it’s on to the next.

What?

Or, they’re so interested that fear takes over and worry about money, their car, career, their sex, and whether they’ll measure up, drives them to give up before they start. And yet, one friend admitted that if he connected with a woman who really rang his bell he’d push through.

So it’s true, he’s just not that into you.

Or me.

I know women have ghosted in kind. Myself, included. But I can explain mine. Can too. If a guy’s creepy or inappropriate, I feel justified in not responding. And, a few times I realized I’d made mistake and it was easier to just drift away. Shoot me. From the left. It’s my good side.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves me ghosting my machines. I’m done. Finished. I can’t take it anymore.

I’ve said that at least 37 times.

Then I get stuck in traffic, or in line at Ralph’s, and while the cashier swipes my groceries, I’m back swiping my next future ghost.

Could he at least look like Patrick Swayze? Please.

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/the-internet-was-supposed-to-save-dating-instead-it-s-ruining-it

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Young people started ‘ghosting.’ But has it become the new dating standard for everyone?

Photo illustration by Joe Raedle/Getty Images.

Is Ghosting The New Normal?

It was our second “first date.”

Two and a half years ago, Steve hit me up on OK Cupid. Not my usual type––he had very long wavy hair, close-shaved beard and mustache, and tats, seemingly everywhere.

Substantially younger than me, he looked older, almost Willie Nelson-ish. Rock girl though I may be in moniker, and in sensibility, that look has nary been my leaning. But, there was something in his eyes, a softness, which softened me. Loving pictures with his young children added to his charm.

They also threw up a big red flag.

My youngest had just left home for college weeks before, and my oldest, although still living with me, was of age, and independent––and, any man who posts pictures with his kids on his dating profile, admirable in so many ways, doesn’t exactly scream ready for romance.

I answered him anyway.

Coming off yet another long dry spell, figuratively and literally, there’d been a succession of matches which led to either no communication, conversations which evaporated into cyber air, or, men who did––even after a fun first date.

There was an intense brief romance with a sexy Parisian who said we were soul-connected until he very swiftly disconnected.

He kind of said goodbye before he checked out, which is more thanI can say for Don. His last text invited me to talk. That was three springs ago. He’s yet to return the call.

Paul sent me a lovely message saying he wanted me to know he was interested in me but he was leaving the country and that’s why he’d be temporarily MIA. Define temporarily.

Post my separation 8 years ago, after a 20-year marriage, I had no clue what dating was about. I’d never done it.

Back in the day, before the internet, and cell phone apps, we met in person. Eyeball to eyeball. Or, at least, eyeball to cute ass. Almost without exception, it was all in for both of us, from the get-go.

My business requires me to leave the sanctity of my kitchen and computer to attend social events; I’m sober, and attend meetings to remain so; I’m blessed to have some wonderful friends who invite me to do stuff with them. I enjoy being out in the world, in spite of my inclination to lazy out and isolate. So, I go.

And, yet, I was meeting no one. It seemed everyone who piqued my interest was either taken or too cool for the room. Or, at least, my room.

After four years of too many nights, weeks, months, alone, with a few dalliances sprinkled in between, my therapist encouraged––badgered me, to get on the dating sites.

I must have had beginners luck because pretty much everyone I matched with reached out and wanted to meet. I had no idea at the time what an anomaly that was. I consumed enough Starbuck’s to drown a rhinoceros. Of all the men I connected with, I discovered without exception, all of them had lied about at least one thing in their profile. And none yielded or warranted a second date.

Seeking substance, Tinder led to OKCupid, where profiles were more in-depth and there were questions to match compatibility. But, unlike Tinder, OKCupid, not linked to Facebook, or corroborated by anything, quickly proved to be filled with men who either stole their pictures from others, or, were involved with others, and were just looking for some online intrigue––like maybe some naked pictures, or, a playmate to sext with.

After innumerable connections with men who upon being asked the most basic question, like, “What’s your name?” disappeared into the night, I decided to focus elsewhere. Not before being blindsided by a seemingly real, genuine good guy who romanced the shit out of me before pulling a Houdini whenI asked to switch to text.

Doing a reverse Google Image search (I amassed a few tricks after being repeatedly burned) I learned that he was a Mormon, dating a gorgeous 19-year-old who clearly assumed she had his undivided attention. When I messaged him on Twitter, he panicked, claimed someone stole his pics, and within a week, proposed to said girl.

OKCupid, I decided, was stupid.

Back to Tinder, which at least connects to one’s Facebook, and eliminated the total imposters. Except Ryan, who was actually Patrick, discovered accidentally when he said he was in one state but the app disagreed and placed him in another. He was gone faster than a box of Krispie Kremes at an AA meeting.

Photo by Jewel Samad/Getty Images.

This time around, matches either never begat a word, ceased after a hello or so, or, they’d provide an unsolicited dick pic within moments.

I was schooled by my male friends that “What are you looking for?” is code for hookup. When I wasn’t game for that, they were gone into the ether.

Granted, I lean young, but even when I made a conscious effort to make more appropriate choices the results remained pretty much the same.

It’s me. Right?

Speaking to just about every single and seeking person I know––not so much.

When Steve, the single dad appeared, in spite of his hair and tattoos, he was a successful creative businessman and he seemed relatively normal.

After a few days of intense text exchanges, I pushed away a few warnings of deviancy, encouraged by his seemingly sane life, and his dogged appreciation and pursuit of me.

We met at a park on a cloudy afternoon. From the first moment, any reservations I’d had were gone––a bolt of connection and attraction struck hard and fast. We talked for hours, without breaking eye contact.

When he had to leave to pick up his kids, he kissed me, gently, briefly, yet it was sparky and memorable. He said he’d like to take me on a proper date––at night. I was thrilled and yet, without thinking or taking a pause, I asked how this could work with his full-time responsibility to being a dad and my newfound freedom. He assured me that he could work it out, that’s what babysitters were for.

I left him, hopeful and high-flying, my gut nagging, “Why did I pose that question when things felt so damn good?” Fear? Self-sabotage?  Nah! The way he looked at me. It was ok. As if to confirm that, a lovely text exchange followed.

When days later, the texts we’re becoming frequently less inspired, and less, period, I was still shocked when without notice, they ceased completely, except mine to him which went unanswered.

I blamed myself.

I obsessively checked his Instagram seeking an answer, garnering none. Eventually, I stopped looking. When I’d scroll past his posts in my feed I’d get a pang of WTF and move on––until this one night two and half years later. An artful, ridiculously sexy image of a man and woman kissing appeared. Without intending to, my mouse lingered a bit too long over the photo and somehow Liked it without my knowledge or consent. Mortified, I instantly reversed it.

Too late. A moment later he private messaged me as if a few days had passed since our last date.

Still, somehow, liking the guy, wanting answers, and not wanting to kibosh it again (because of course, it was my fault last go ‘round), I made no reference to the passage of time or his vanishing act. We went out again, this time on that proper date for dinner; making out like teenagers on the sidewalk afterward, maybe not so proper. So, we took a drive. If we had heat the first time, this time we had fire. When we said goodnight, we talked about picking it back up soon, not before I again brought up his kids. Oh yes, I did.

For the next couple of days, there were a few lame texts, initiated by yours truly. Then silence. When a few days later he reached out, I was ecstatic, this time was different.

That was the last I heard from him.

Boo.

Three weeks ago, Jon asked me out the very day we matched.

I was freshly smarting from a painfully abrupt break up with a guy I’d actually been seeing for a few months. I was determined to get back on the dating horse and not suffer. This was quick, but Jon was intelligent, funny, accomplished, and like-minded. Why not?

Over dinner, we talked about online dating, and ghosting. He admitted I was his first physical date after months on the app. He said he’d ghosted more than a few women after messaging them.

When pressed, he explained his reluctance to start anything––it seemed more effort than it was worth––or he was willing to take after a messy divorce. He said I was different. Walking me to my car he asked permission to kiss me. That’s kind of weird, and not very sexy, but he said he’d been thinking about it throughout dinner and wanted me to know this wasn’t a friend thing. He added, “No ghosting, ok?” He wasn’t kidding, there’s no friend thing, there’s no no-thing.

It’s been radio silence ever since.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks talking to everyone I can think of who online dates in an attempt to understand what the hell is going on.

Is ghosting the new normal?

It appears to be sadly more true than not. I’m not the only one having these kinds of experiences. And yet, there seem to be plenty of stories of people who meet online and not only date but mate––some even partnering for the long haul.

Is it a numbers game and I picked a really high one?

It seems in part to be a Mars/Venus thing. Some men swipe every single woman, and then, after they match, look at her pictures. If they like her, maybe then they read her profile. I don’t know these men personally, or at least none of the ones I do will cop to that behavior. But I do know quite a few who’ve said that matching alone is the conquest, and once that’s done they lose interest and it’s on to the next.

What?

Or, they’re so interested that fear takes over and worry about money, their car, career, their sex, and whether they’ll measure up, drives them to give up before they start. And yet, one friend admitted that if he connected with a woman who really rang his bell he’d push through.

So it’s true, he’s just not that into you.

Or me.

I know women have ghosted in kind. Myself, included. But I can explain mine. Can too. If a guy’s creepy or inappropriate, I feel justified in not responding. And, a few times I realized I’d made mistake and it was easier to just drift away. Shoot me. From the left. It’s my good side.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves me ghosting my machines. I’m done. Finished. I can’t take it anymore.

I’ve said that at least 37 times.

Then I get stuck in traffic, or in line at Ralph’s, and while the cashier swipes my groceries, I’m back swiping my next future ghost.

Could he at least look like Patrick Swayze? Please.

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/young-people-started-ghosting-but-has-it-become-the-new-dating-standard-for-everyone

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This stay-at-home mom’s post about ‘not working’ has been shared over 400,000 times.

The number of stay-at-home moms is on the rise in America. From 1967 to 1999, the country saw a gradual decline in moms who stay home, but over the past nine years, the trend has reversed.

A Redbook study found that 90 percent of stay-at-home moms are happy with their domestic career, but that doesn’t mean their work is any easier.

Florida mother and tattoo artist, Ryshell Lynch, wrote a Facebook post on the incorrect perceptions surrounding stay-at-home mothers, and it’s been shared over 400,000 times.

The post is a hypothetical conversation between a psychologist and a father who complains that his stay-at-home wife, “doesn’t work.”

During the exchange, the psychologist uncovers the unbelievable amount of work the mother does, even after the father comes home and rests after his full-time job.

Conversation between a husband (H) and a psychologist (P):

P: what do you do for a living Mr. Rogers?

H: I work as an accountant in a bank.

P: Your wife?

H: She doesn’t work. She’s a housewife.

P: Who makes breakfast for your family?

H: My wife, because she doesn’t work

P: What time does your wife wake?

H: She wakes up early because it has to be organized. She organizes the lunch for the children, ensures that they are well-dressed and combed, if they had breakfast, if they brush their teeth and take all their school supplies. She wakes with the baby and changes diapers and clothes. Breastfeeds and makes snacks as well.

P: How do your children get to school?

H: My wife takes them to school, because she doesn’t work.

P: After taking their children to school, what does she do?

H: Usually takes a while to figure something out that she can do while she is out, so she doesn’t have to pack and unpack the carseat too many times, like drop off bills or to make a stop at the supermarket. Sometimes she forgets something and has to make the trip all over again, baby in tow. Once back home, she has to feed the baby lunch and breastfeed again, get the baby’s diaper changed and ready for a nap, sort the kitchen and then will take care of laundry and cleaning of the house. You know, because she doesn’t work.

P: In the evening, after returning home from the office, what are you doing?

H: Rest, of course. Well, I’m tired after working all day in the bank.

P: What does your wife do at night?

H: She makes dinner, serves my children and I, washes the dishes, orders once more the house, makes sure the dog is put away as well as any left over dinner. After helping children with HW she gets them prepared to sleep in pajamas and the baby is in fresh diapers, gives warm milk, verifies they brush their teeth. Once in bed she wakes frequently to continue to breastfeed and possibly change a diaper if needed while we rest. Because she doesn’t have to get up for work.

-This is the daily routine of many women all over the world, it starts in the morning and continues until the wee hours of the night… This is called “doesn’t work”?!

Being a housewife has no diplomas, but has a key role in family life!

Enjoy and appreciate your wife, mother, grandma, aunt, sister, daughter… Because their sacrifice is priceless.

Somebody asked her…

You are a woman who works or is it just “housewife”??

She replied:

I work as a wife of the home, 24 hours a day..

I am a mother,

I am a woman,

I am a daughter,

I’m the alarm clock,

I’m the cook,

I’m the maid,

I am the master,

I’m the bartender,

I’m the babysitter,

I’m a nurse,

I am a manual worker,

I’m a security officer,

I’m the adviser,

I am the comforter,

I don’t have a vacation,

I don’t have a licence for disease.

I don’t have a day off

I work day and night,

I’m on duty all the time,

I do not receive salary and…

Even so, I often hear the phrase:

“but what do you do all day?”

Dedicated to all the women who give their lives for the welfare of their families

The woman is like salt:

Her presence is not remembered, but its absence makes everything left without flavor.

Share with all the beautiful ladies of your life.

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/this-stay-at-home-mom-s-post-about-not-working-has-been-shared-over-400-000-times

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Want healthy, happy, confident kids? Throw some dirt on them.

Every parent knows getting dirty and messy is practically part of a kid’s job description.

Whether they’re playing outside, coloring on the floor, or just eating, they’ll definitely get covered in something grimy.

Given that inevitable result, there are at least two ways parents can react — obsessively clean their child and scold them for their actions or simply embrace the mess.

And while it may seem strange to do the latter, it actually can be beneficial for everyone involved.

Letting kids have the freedom to get dirty encourages a level of confidence around the unknown world out there. And such an attitude can make them much more capable of navigating their life ahead.

Harley Hawkins getting up close and personal with dirt. Photo via Zoe Hawkins, used with permission.

Plus, letting kids revel in the dirt actually helps boost their immune systems.

“If we are overly sterile and don’t expose the immune system to the germs it’s supposed to fight, that skews the immune system to an allergic and self-reactive response,” explains Samantha Lin, assistant professor of medicine in the Division of Allergy, Immunology, and Rheumatology at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

That’s why Lin lets her own son play and explore uninhibited.

“I don’t jump to stop him if he wants to get in the sand, dirt, mud, leaves, water running out of the waterspout, etc.,” Lin says. “If your immune system is working correctly, then these exposures should not make you sick.”

And best of all? Being pro-dirt can make parents’ lives less stressful since they don’t feel compelled to police their kids’ behavior as much.

Via iStock.

We spoke with six parents to learn why it pays to give kids the freedom to get dirty.

Their answers are as enlightening as they are hilarious.

1. Zoe Hawkins from Arizona encourages her daughter, Harley, to play with food.

Harley digging in at mealtime. Photo by Zoe Hawkins.

“Using their hands, babies learn to feed themselves, learning the difference in taste and texture between a piece of toast and a spoonful of yoghurt and a wedge of cheese or meat,” Hawkins writes on her blog.

“No force feeding, no ‘here comes the airplane,’ just letting the little one figure out food in a positive, fun way, hopefully setting the tone for a future of wonderful dinner-time experiences and discoveries.”

2. Minnesota native Emily Conigliaro made a mud kitchen, and now kids from the neighborhood play there.

Experimentation in the mud kitchen! Photo by Emily Conigliaro, used with permission.

“My daughter really loved to dig in the garden and get muddy,” explains Conigliaro. “I poked around on Pinterest and saw the idea for a mud kitchen. So I dug stuff I had out of the garage and found pavers and bricks. Then took a trip with her to the thrift store to pick out what tools she wanted.”

“The mud keeps her, as well as most of the other kids in our neighborhood, very busy! They all really love to get dirty,” she continues. “They will even sometimes paint themselves with mud. This year we planted some wildflowers next to the mud kitchen so the kids can pick flowers and plants to add to their masterpieces.”

3. Living in the infamously dirty city of New York, Andrew Dahl has relaxed into letting his daughter touch most everything.

“She loves grabbing subway poles, and I let her go to town,” Dahl says. “She undoubtedly gets far, far more germs at day care, so it’s not worth getting too concerned about some subway gunk. She’s also all about putting rocks and dirt in her mouth.”

Believe it or not, city kids tend to have stronger immune systems because of their exposure to busy public spaces like the subway.

4. Los Angeles mom Diana Metzger lets her baby get messy for the same reason she lets her dog do it — it makes them happy.

Izzy Metzger playing in the sand. Photo by Diana Metzger, used with permission.

“When Izzy was about 1 and a half, a bunch of milk got spilled on the floor, and we let her slide around in it and move it all around with her hands,” Metzger recalls. “She was a total mess, as was the kitchen floor, but she was laughing and having so much fun exploring that, so why stop her?”

Metzger continues, “Also I have the same motto about Izzy at a playground as I do for my dog Harper at the dog park (or Izzy at the dog park for that matter). Dirty equals happy, which equals tired.”

5. Julie G.’s experience cleaning her daughter’s car seat is probably one that many parents can relate to.

Julie G’s daughter on the playground. Photo via Julie G., used with permission.

“I use ‘dirt is good’ to justify just about everything,” Julie G. explains. “Most recently, we’ve had a lot of rain, and my daughter got muddy footprints on her car seat cover. I decided to wash it yesterday for the first time in a year and a half. I was shaking it out over the grass outside first to get rid of crumbs. A Twizzler fell out into the grass, and my daughter ate it. Not too bad except she has only had Twizzlers once, on a road trip, in May.”

It may sound gross, but hey, that sort of bold eating might help her be less picky when she’s older.

6. And Carol Berkow from Pleasantville, New York, knows her daughter’s messes are just part of the building blocks of life.

Helen Berkow enjoying a meal. Photo by Carol Berkow, used with permission.

“She likes to squish things between her fingers, rub them all over her face, stick her face into bowls of food, rub food in her hair, throw everything, and feed the dog,” Berkow says. “As much as I’d like things to stay neat at mealtime, and not to have to wash the baby, the table, and the chair three times a day, she needs to learn to feed herself, and she won’t learn any other way.”

As you can see, dirtiness can have so many benefits, most of which would never be realized if parents force their kids to stay clean.

Of course, getting dirty often requires regular laundering, and some families don’t have that luxury. Without easy access to a washing machine, cleaning clothes takes time, energy and money — things some families can’t always afford.

The good news is that there are companies like Whirlpool who created the Care Counts laundry program – installing washers and dryers in schools to give families in need access to clean clothes. That way, every parent can let their kids get dirty without worrying how they’re going to eventually get their clothes clean.

Via iStock.

Learn more about how the simple act of laundry is helping improve attendance by visiting Whirlpool’s Care Counts™ website.

Having the freedom to get dirty should be something every child enjoys. Not only is it fun, it allows them to explore their world with reckless abandon and learn about themselves. This is just one way to help turn what’s become a privilege into every child’s right.

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/want-healthy-happy-confident-kids-throw-some-dirt-on-them

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A BBQ rig appeared outside a wildfire shelter. A famous chef was cooking inside.

Turns out, Guy Fieri is a pretty righteous neighbor. Even in the worst of times.

On Oct. 12, the “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives” host set up a mobile kitchen outside Veterans Memorial Building in Santa Rosa, California, to help feed thousands fleeing deadly wildfires.

“This is the least we can do. We’re so happy to do it,” Fieri told KTVU. “We’re so sorry for friends who have lost homes. There’s a lot of really good people coming together.”

According to Fieri, the menu included pulled pork, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, and bean salad. The celebrity chef also sent a batch of roasted chickens to firefighters battling the wildfires several miles away. (Update 10/17/17: Fieri is currently raising money to support the efforts in the wake of what he describes in a statement as “growing” need.)

Like many of their neighbors, Fieri and his family were forced to abandon their home at 2 a.m. as the fires swept into town with little warning early Monday morning.

The Food Network host told KQED they, “grabbed what [they] could,” including family photos and pets.  

He added his barbecue rig to a coalition local chefs and restaurants who have been pitching in to aid the relief effort.

In addition to Fieri, Sonoma Magazine reports that nearly a dozen restauranteurs from the affected area have been serving free meals to locals displaced by the fires, including Dustin Valette of the upscale Valette restaurant, Damien Gault of Springer’s Tap Room, and Mark and Terri Stark, whose restaurant Willi’s Wine Bar burned down on the night of Oct. 8.

Fieri estimates he served 1,200 meals for lunch and 2,500 for dinner that day.

He continued to cook over the weekend, joining forces with Operation BBQ Relief, which recently brought thousands of meals to shelter residents evacuating Hurricane Harvey in Houston. While Fieri has faced criticism for seeking the spotlight, the Food Network star countered that his primary aim is getting food to those who need it.

“This isn’t a PR stunt,” Fieri told KQED. “You don’t see my banners up. I’m not promoting anything. I’m just here cooking. This is feeding people. People need help, and I’m here to help.”

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/a-bbq-rig-appeared-outside-a-wildfire-shelter-a-famous-chef-was-cooking-inside

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A cop picked up a donated helmet on 9/11. Months later, he found a note inside.

At 4:30 a.m. on Sept. 12, 2017, Roy Guill woke up to a Facebook message from a man he’d never met.

The man, Eric Delman, explained that he’d been going through some stuff from 9/11 for the previous day’s anniversary. He wanted to know if Guill was from Staten Island.

But it wasn’t Delman’s message that struck Guill. It was what Delman was wearing in his profile photo: a yellow, coal miner’s helmet with a bracket on the front where the headlamp used to be and a dent in the brim.

“It was a picture of him at Ground Zero on the pile, and I looked at the picture for a second and I thought, ‘Holy shit. Is that Papaw’s helmet?’

Photo via Eric Delman.

In the wee hours of Sept. 11, 2001, Guill was passed out on his boss’s couch in their midtown Manhattan office.

He was still asleep when his boss woke him with the news of the attacks a few dozen blocks away.

“The first thing I thought was, ‘But it’s such a beautiful day,'” he recalls.

Like thousands of other New Yorkers living and working in the city that day, Guill’s account is one of having “just missed” being swallowed up in the carnage. He had stayed the night at work after pulling a long overnight shift. Otherwise, he might have been stranded on the subway under the towers when the planes struck.

Instead, he and a colleague fled the city in a minivan they had rented the previous day.

Guill traveled nearly 200 miles that afternoon: north to Westchester County, south to Perth Amboy, New Jersey, north again to the Tappan Zee Bridge, east to Queens, and south to Brooklyn. When he finally rolled across the Verrazano, it was just after midnight on Sept. 12.

“By that point, the smell had hit us. We rolled down our window to talk to a cop, and you could smell the fire,” he says.

The next morning, he and his wife Julia lined up near their Staten Island home to give blood. A nurse turned them away. “There was no one to give blood to,” he recalled on Facebook.

Instead, they stocked up on soap, deodorant, and socks from a local dollar store — the only store within walking distance — and prepared to drop them at a collection point near the ferry terminal. On their way out of the house, they stopped at a coat rack by the door. The rack was covered in hats, scarves, jackets — and an an odd item that caught Guill’s eye.

A yellow coal mining helmet.

He picked up a pen and a piece of paper.

When Eric Delman, an NYPD officer, arrived downtown Manhattan the afternoon of the attacks, the area was already a ruin.

“It was horrible. That stench of a lot of smoke, and that very bad — the smoke and the smell and the death,” he recalls.  

The following day — or maybe the day after — Delman reported to a supply tent. It was full of respirators, work clothing, boots, and helmets. He picked out one that he liked, an “old-style” yellow miner’s cap.  

Delman worked on a bucket brigade. He cleared stones. Rebar. Eventually, body parts. He would come home with his clothes covered in a thick gray dust. His wife washed them every day. He seemed haunted.

The yellow miner’s helmet stayed with him the whole time. As he dug through “the pile,” the mass of rubble left behind when the towers crumbled, the helmet was there. As the news of dead friends trickled in like bilge water, the helmet was there. After Delman’s tour at Ground Zero ended, the helmet made its way to a shelf in his garage. Sometimes, he would take it down to look at it. One day, as he was turning it over in his hands, he gasped.

“There’s a note!”

Photo by Eric Delman.

A small, creased tab of white paper was stuck to the inside. He had never noticed it before.

“To whoever wears this,” it read. “This was my grandfather’s helmet in the mines of Kentucky. I hope it protects you well. You are all heroes.”

The note was signed, “Roy and Julia Guill.”

Guill’s papaw, Roy W. Guill, was born, grew up, raised seven children, worked, and died in Carrsville, Kentucky.

One of the few pictures of Papaw that remains was taken before his brief detour to the Pacific theater of World War II, where he served as a combat engineer. He never talked about it.

Roy W. Guill. Photo via Roy Guill.

Papaw wore bib overalls. Some nights, on his way home, he would save his granddaughter Angi a treat leftover from his lunchpail. When Guill told him he wanted to chew tobacco, Papaw tried to dissuade him by giving him a pinch of Prince Albert. He warned him not to swallow it — about three seconds too late.

When Papaw woke up at 5 a.m. to go to work, Guill would sit with him, nodding off between bites of pancake as his grandfather suited up in a side room near a potbellied stove. When he went off to the mine, the helmet went with him.

Papaw passed away at age 81, when Guill was 14. After the funeral, Guill’s father gave his grief-stricken son the helmet.

It was the only physical reminder of his grandfather Guill possessed.

Or, it had been.

On Sept. 11, 2017, Guill took the day off from work — as he occasionally does on the anniversary of the attacks.

He rarely talks about what he saw that day 16 years earlier.

“It’s so hard, and emotionally it’s such a slog, but we were so lucky,” he says.

The Facebook message from Delman was like a bolt out of the blue.

After Guill confirmed that, yes, he was from Staten Island, Delman sent a photo: the same photo Guill had seen in Delman’s profile picture.

“Does this look familiar?” Delman wrote. “This is me at the time.”

Photo via Eric Delman.

The photo of Delman wearing the helmet had been taken by a fellow officer shortly after the attacks. When that friend fell ill 10 years later, he found and sent the photo to Delman. This year, Delman made it his profile photo to commemorate the anniversary.

Guill had often wondered what happened to Papaw’s hard hat from the mines. He worried it had been thrown out, that it hadn’t been up to code, or had been overlooked in a vast sea of donated tools and gear. Here, finally, was proof: Not only had someone — Delman — used it, it had meant enough to him that he kept it.

“Honestly, I sat here in my dining room and bawled my eyes out,” Guill says.

Delman is now a lieutenant who oversees the 88th Precinct’s Special Operations Unit. His time at Ground Zero left him with nodules in his lungs. He gets them checked every year. So far, so good.

He told Guill to expect the helmet on his doorstep soon.

“There’s a box on my kitchen table for me to send it back,” he says. Before he does, he wants to add a few touches. A T-shirt, perhaps, with some patches. Some coins. Maybe both.

It may take a while to reach its destination. Guill left New York 13 years ago. He lives in Las Vegas now. He imagines it will show up in about a week.

Guill doesn’t know if he’s prepared. But his papaw’s helmet is coming home.

Read more: http://www.upworthy.com/a-cop-picked-up-a-donated-helmet-on-911-months-later-he-found-a-note-inside

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