Month: August 2011

Red Flags

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Flipping through some old journal entries, I was reminded of a horrifying misadventure that took place a few years ago. The mere recollection of it still sends shivers down my spine… as I’m pretty sure that I spent the better part of the following year trying to recover from it. In an attempt to exercise the demons that still haunt me after this dreaded event AND perhaps provide you readers with a few laughs… I’ve chosen to share it.

I am aware that many of you have (at one time or another) experienced a similar horror. If so, my heart goes out to you. Hopefully yours wasn’t as bad as mine, and if it was… I hope you’ve made a full recovery, or you are actively seeking help. Perhaps yours was worse, or perhaps—and I understand that this is rather uncommon—your experience was quite positive and may have even had a happy ending.

The event that I am referring to is the single person’s worst nightmare: The Dreaded Blind Date.

Up until the fateful night, I had never been on one of these. Since my divorce I have been set up a time or two, but even then, I always had the good fortune of meeting the person in a nice, neutral setting along with the setter-uppers beforehand. I’m not even sure if I ever would have gone on a blind date, had I not been TRICKED into it. That’s right, my friends, I said tricked. And that, should have been the FIRST of MANY red flags that I would soon see…

Rather than tell you the whole story of the ill-fated evening, I thought it best just to hit the highlights by chronologically listing the events of the date in the order in which the “Red Flags” appeared.

Red Flag #1 – You are TRICKED into this rendezvous by an ornery neighbor who has a penchant for lying.

Red Flag #2 – Your “date” is good-looking, has two college degrees, a great-paying job, has custom built his own home in a fancy sub-division, drives an expensive, tricked-out SUV, is 38 years old… and STILL SINGLE.

Red Flag #3 – Aforementioned date (let’s call him Max) decides that instead of meeting at a nice restaurant in a nearby metropolitan area (from which there are many to choose), you should meet up at a BAR in the middle of nowhere. And I mean cornfield-and-cattle-middle-of-nowhere.

Red Flag #4 – After meeting “Max” for the first time at said bar-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, he spends more time talking to the regulars (who he claims NOT to know) than he does to you.

Red Flag #5 – Of all the empty tables in the place, Max chooses the only one that has a severe downward SLOPE, making everything on the table slide toward the floor, hence causing you to chase after your food and beverages the entire night.

Red Flag #6 – When Max DOES finally sit down and talk to you, he cannot seem to talk about anything other than the fact that he was the quarterback of the football team and basketball team captain in HIGH-SCHOOL!

Red Flag #7 – Max reveals to you that he is somewhat of a “neat freak” who feels compelled to MOP his GARAGE floor every single night so that he’ll never get his socks dirty should he decide to venture out there without his shoes on. Every NIGHT. Freak.

Red Flag #8 – Max all of the sudden takes a notion to just get up, LEAVE the table and WALK away without ever saying a word or excusing himself.

Red Flag #9 – Max orders another beer, and another beer, and another beer (you get the idea) and finds it amusing to keep SLIDING the bottles DOWN the table—due to the previously noted slope—WHILE you are speaking.

Red Flag #10 – As multiple beers begin to take effect; Max begins referring to himself in the 3rd person. Examples: “Max liked his dinner” and “Max is going to have another beer” and “Max needs to go to the bathroom”… Seriously people, I am not making this shit up… he actually did this. All of it.

Red Flag #11 – As additional multiple beers begin to take effect; Max now refers to himself as “Uncle Max.” Examples: “Uncle Max is tired” or “Uncle Max wants to know if you’re having a good time” or “Uncle Max wishes he didn’t have to work tomorrow.”

Red Flag #12 – After a brief inquiry, it is revealed that, in fact, “Uncle Max” has no nieces or nephews. That’s right. You can figure that one out on your own because I’m still trying.

Red Flag #13 – At the merciful conclusion of the date, Uncle Max insists on driving home while extremely intoxicated, and actually PEELS OUT of the parking lot after walking you to your car… never asking if you know your way home or feel comfortable driving yourself out of this “cornfield-and-cattle-middle-of-nowhere” and back to civilization.

Of course, I never heard from OR called Uncle Max again after that Terrible-I’m-Going-To-Need-Therapy-If-I’m-Ever-Going-to-Date-Again-Evening. However… the universe, being as ironic (and sometimes) benevolent as it is, gave me the opportunity to meet not one, but TWO of Uncle Max’s ex-girlfriends about a year later. And I have since learned that he has a reputation in at least 4 counties for being quote: “A little-off-his-rocker” and “A total whack-job” as well as “Unable to make a commitment” AND “A Recovering alcoholic”—who oddly enough, still gets drunk on a regular basis.

Needless to say, I have learned from my terrible experience that one should proceed with EXTREME CAUTION when going into a blind-date situation. Because unfortunately, the crazy ones don’t show up surrounded by yellow caution tape, bright orange cones or flashing red lights.

Since the whole dreadful-date-night-debacle, I have been seeing someone very special (in addition to my therapist). He is a wonderful guy and my best friend. He is also the most grounded, kind, thoughtful and selfless man I have ever been in a relationship with. So apparently the “good ones” ARE out there… even if they can be a little tough to spot.

Stormy Seas

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“Calm seas don’t make good sailors.”

I read that once on a sign that I used to pass everyday on my way to work. I took a second to absorb it and then nodded my head in agreement that it is not the good times or the quiet times or the all-is-right-with-the-world times that make us who we are. It is the tough times that ultimately develop and define us.

That concept doesn’t exactly leave one with a “warm fuzzy” feeling. It kind of stinks to know that in order to be a better person, I am going to have to face difficulties and trials. But it is so true. And my not liking it won’t make it any LESS true.

So after I’m done lying down crying, kicking, screaming, yelling and feeling sorry for myself about how NOT FAIR (insert name of said trial or tribulation here) is… I usually pick myself up, dust myself off, and try to move forward while considering what valuable lesson can be gleaned from the unfortunate circumstance.

But sometimes it isn’t always that easy to just “learn our lesson” and move on. Some things are going to be SO big, so earth-shattering, so knock-you-on-your-ass devastating that it isn’t possible to simply alter our behavior, adjust our attitude or modify our thinking.

I have learned that sometimes we will have to sit in the dark while the storm rages all around us, knocking things down and forever changing the landscape of our lives. Sometimes we will have to cling to whatever vestiges of peace we can find when the sky overhead cracks open and the rain falls and thunder rattles our very foundation. Sometimes there isn’t going to be an easy way out. Sometimes we will just have to WAIT it out.

And that waiting can be the hardest part.

But I guess in those times—in those waiting periods—we can take heart that something IS happening! We are silently changing, growing and being refined. We become acquaintances of Sorrow. We have developed relationships with Patience, Perseverance and Stillness. So when the winds cease, the waters calm and the sun shines down on us again, no matter how long we remain in the center of that storm… we will be forever changed… for the better.

And when we open our eyes, we will find that we are not empty-handed. Rather, our arms have been filled with tools. Tools that will help us build a shelter for our friend when it is their turn to ride out the storm.

The “But” of Consequence

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Life gets a whole lot less interesting the moment you’re able to comprehend consequence.

When I was about 2 or 3 I was in the tub with my sister who was 3 years older. My mom trusted my sister with me because she knew that a responsible big sis wouldn’t hold her little sister’s head underwater or smear soap in her eyes. What my mother didn’t foresee was the potential threat that this arrangement posed for my sister.

I distinctly remember my sister lying on her stomach in the tub and me looking down at her little peach bum sticking up out of the water. Now I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I do know that I still laugh hysterically when I think about it.

I very intentionally laid my washcloth across her butt and then proceeded to bite her as hard as I could. Like I said, I can’t tell you why because I have absolutely NO idea what was running through my mind. But, I CAN tell you that for some reason, I thought it was necessary to place a washcloth over her first so as to bite her THROUGH the fabric. I’m not sure if that cloth barrier was for her or for me. But that’s the way it went down.

My sister yelped and cried and my mom pulled me out of the tub. And our whole family has laughed about it for years … save for my sister, who I suspect is still harboring some bitterness over the whole thing. To my knowledge, I never got in trouble for that. I think my parents probably thought I was just an innocent child who was “exploring her world” by biting her sister’s butt. I never did it again. And that’s all I remember. So you see, no consequences = pure, unbridled joy and fun!

My first exposure to suffering consequences for my less-than-stellar behavior came in kindergarten. It was a day just like any other day as I carried my lunch tray to my spot at the table and sat down. I saw my friend Kristi coming to sit next to me and I remember that in a split second a brilliant idea flashed through my deviant, little mind…

Wouldn’t it be interesting if Kristi—with her tray of steaming-hot food—comes to sit down next to me, fully expecting a chair on which to rest her butt, and it isn’t THERE? That would be kind of a funny and unexpected surprise! I think I’ll yank her chair out from under her as soon as she tries to sit down.

So I did.

And she fell.

Hard.

I remember the visual like it was yesterday. Not because it was funny, but because I hadn’t thought my actions through. I didn’t connect the dots that my friend might get hurt or feel embarrassment or have hot food spill all down the front of her. Nor did I connect the dots that within 15 minutes of the “incident,” I’d be sitting in “time-out” in the kindergarten room while the rest of the kids frolicked on the playground and my teacher paced back and forth in a state of utter shock and confusion at my violent disruption and my parents searched frantically for child psychologists and clergy to help make some sense of their crazed, demon-possessed daughter.

OK, I made up the part about my parents searching for psychologists and clergy. But the rest is genuine fact. You can ask Kristi. She is somehow, by the sheer grace of God, still my friend. BTW… Thanks for still being my friend, Kristi!

I learned that day that an impulsive, ill-conceived action on my part had the ability to cause some rather large ripples afterward—like throwing a boulder into a tiny, shallow pond. Sometimes people get wet. But the other valuable thing that I learned was that because of “consequences” and “ripple effects” life would never be the same.

It would NEVER be as much fun as it was “pre-chair-incident.”

The Mysteriously Missing Section in the Cosmetics Department

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There is a section missing in the skin care aisle of all cosmetics departments. I’m serious. Check it out next time you are in one. It goes straight from the teenage pimple creams, gels, cleansers, exfoliators, toners and masks right to the anti-aging serums, lifting lotions, wrinkle creams, eye illuminators and lip plumpers.

During a recent trip to the drug store, on a quest to find something that would clear up my skin, yet NOT suck out every ounce of moisture—thus causing my face to look and feel like an old catcher’s mit before I’m 40—I discovered this suspiciously absent section.

WHERE I ask, is the section for the women in between puberty and menopause? Are you with me on this, people? Because many of you are here with me now, or you remember having been here, or you will one day GET here. You’re barely beginning to see some laugh lines and little “chick’s feet” (not yet full-blown crow’s feet) yet you still break out once a month like you did back in high school. Now I ask… What is up with that?! I thought we outgrew acne and blemishes? But no… apparently these 2 delightful skin conditions are going to OVERLAP. Wrinkles PLUS acne. Score.

So I ask you, skin-care manufacturers, where are the products for me and my pals deeply submerged in the throes of the Thrisis?

Do cosmetic manufacturers think women go suddenly from sweet sixteen to senior? Because it sure looks like they do by simply cruising down the aisle. Their marketing message initially goes a little something like this: “Hey, look at you! You’re a teenager! You’re skin is disgusting! You suck. Use our product and you will have beautifully-flawless skin just like the pre-pubescent 11-year-old girl in this airbrushed photo.”

Then you walk a few paces, and the message totally changes. It goes a little something like THIS: “What-up Grams! You’re a hag! You have wrinkles, crater-sized pores, dark circles under your eyes, age spots, sagging lids and thin lips. You suck. Use our product and you will have beautifully, wrinkle-free, airbrushed skin just like the surgically-altered-mature-woman in this doctored photo.”

So I beg of you Roc, Olay, Garnier, Biore, Mary Kay, Noxema, Neutrogena, Clearasil, Clean & Clear and Oxy… please get together and create something for us “Skinbetweeners,” because right now, as it stands… you are the ones who suck.

The Rolling-Ruler Concept

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When I was little I loved to draw. My mom and dad, wanting to encourage this activity, were always getting me different types of “supplies” that I might use to create my masterpieces. One of the things they bought for me when I expressed some interest in it (after watching the TV Infomercial of course) was the “Rolling Ruler.” That was its name… and that’s exactly what it did. It was a ruler with a roller inside of it so that you could not only make perfectly straight lines, but perfectly SPACED straight lines.

In high school I took this nifty little tool with me to my art classes and I began using it on quite a regular basis. Before long I was using it for ALL of my art projects. Everything I drew was black and white and comprised of straight lines. I’d draw lines closer together and with heavier pens or markers to make things appear dark and then I would draw light, spaced-out lines to make certain areas appear lighter.

One particular day during my senior year, my art teacher was watching over my shoulder as I created a cityscape with my rolling ruler. It was then that he uttered ONE sentence that would set a course for the rest of my life. He said: “Joanna, you really should consider going into Commercial Art since you seem to like things so clean and precise.”

That was all it took. I was a senior. I knew I would be going to college. But I had NO idea what I should study once I got there. So I looked for a reputable school that offered Graphic Design as a major. (Graphic Design was called Commercial Art at one time) I found a school—Bowling Green State University—I applied, was accepted and started the Graphic Design program in the Fall of ’93.

I graduated exactly 4 years later, moved out west, got married, secured a great job in my field, bought a home, and began building a life. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but I was no longer using the Rolling Ruler as merely a drawing tool… I had begun applying what a dear friend of mine would later call the “Rolling Ruler Concept” to all facets of my life.

You see, what attracted me so much to the Rolling Ruler as an artistic device… was the control. Hello, my name is Joanna, and I am a control freak. I love precision and I crave perfection. With evenly-spaced, parallel straight lines everything ALWAYS makes sense. There is neatness and order, and I am the one making it happen. I am the one drawing the perfectly straight lines with the help of my handy little tool. Nothing EVER goes wrong, nothing is EVER crooked, everything is ALWAYS as it should be. As an aside, do you notice the use of all of the superlatives here? Heavy use of superlatives is another characteristic of textbook control-freakism.

At this point I should mention that if you are one of those go-with-the-flow-totally-not-a-control-freak-type-people… good for you! I envy you… but this writing will have little meaning to you whatsoever. On the other hand, if you’re anything like me, you understand exactly what I’m talking about.

There is a real problem that arises when one tries to apply a RULER of any kind to their life. Trust me, I know. For awhile I had the ILLUSION of being in control because things pretty much went the way I had planned them to… until they didn’t. And when they didn’t, my ruler went flying… and I was lost. I learned that the ruler didn’t work on other people’s behavior, it didn’t work on biology, it didn’t work on medical science’s intervention, it didn’t work on matters of faith and it didn’t work on external influences.

It was inevitable that at some point in time that ruler was going to get wrenched from my tightly-clenched fist and cast into the wind. Why is that? Because Life is messy. And since we’re talking about art, I would say that if Life were a painting, it would be a Jackson Pollock. All colorful and noisy and chaotic with spatters of paint, shards of glass and grains of sand and dirt tossed this way and that.

I’ve learned the hard way that Life doesn’t follow straight, evenly-spaced parallel lines. Life’s lines are crooked and bent and swirly and jagged and they cross over one another and collide unexpectedly and they are usually too wide, too thin, too short or too long. But even more important to note is the fact that WE are not in control. Many times I have exhausted myself trying to MAKE this “Rolling Ruler Concept” work in my life, but it won’t matter how hard I try… I have discovered that much of life was and is and will continue to be beyond my control… though I still fight it… A LOT.

One of the most difficult things I have to do on a regular basis is lay the ruler down… take a deep breath, step back, say a prayer and watch as the masterpiece that is my life reveals itself to me. Crooked lines and all.

“Shoulding” On Ourselves

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There is a little-known occurrence reaching epidemic proportions and running rampant through our culture these days. This problem may be affecting you or someone you know in some very harmful ways. Perhaps you’re already familiar with it… it’s called “Shoulding,” and it is a dangerous thing. I was first introduced to this concept by my mother who was frequently telling me that it is never productive to “should” on yourself. And even though she reminds me (almost daily) NOT to SHOULD on myself… I still do it.

It starts out harmless enough… with a few benign statements such as: I should clean my house. I should do some laundry. I should pay some bills. I should balance my checkbook. I should wash the windows. I should wash the car. I should wash the kids. These statements in and of themselves aren’t harmful. They can actually serve in a helpful manner by prompting us to take care of those things in our lives which need to be taken care of. However, there is a much darker side to “shoulding”… and this is the side that we ought to be concerned with.Let me demonstrate by sharing some personal “shoulds” I have dropped on myself over the years… I should be happy. I should be married. I should be a mother. I should be a successful graphic artist making more than enough money to meet my monstrous suburban mortgage payment. I should bake brownies and change diapers. I should be shuffling kids off to soccer practice and swimming lessons in between power lunches and networking dinner parties.

And I’m just getting warmed up…

I should be a size 2. I should have 8-minute abs. I should have Madonna’s arms, Angelina’s lips and Jennifer Aniston’s flawless skin. I should have thick, lustrous wash and wear hair (in the trendiest style of course) I should arise in the mornings looking like I have just stepped out from the pages of Vogue. I should start each day by running 6 miles and eating nothing but fiber, lean protein and organically-grown produce. I should wear fabulous clothes and drive an equally fabulous, environment-friendly, hybrid car. I should have a perfect mate who looks like Prince Charming and treats me like a queen. He too should earn an obscene amount of money… and together with our beautiful and well-mannered 2.5 children, we SHOULD be the poster-family for happiness and domestic bliss.

This process of “shoulding” can also work in another way… for there are just as many things that fall into the “Should Not” category. A few of my personal favorites are: I should not be divorced. I should not be single. I should not be childless. I should not struggle to pay my bills with a college degree. I should not have any debt. I should not feel the need to constantly defend or explain myself. I should not (occasionally) wish for a different life.

As you can see, “shoulding” is a lose/lose activity. An exercise in futility. Nothing productive or good can ever come from “shoulding on ourselves.” The moment the word “should” leaves our mouths, we are damaging our current and future happiness. This is what my mother is always trying to get me to see. As a woman of 60 she tells me how much time she wasted “shoulding,” when she could have just chosen to be happy and content with who she was and what she had in THAT moment. She hopes that by telling me this while I’m in my thirties, it might save me a great deal of heartache and disappointment and it might allow me to enjoy what I have right now.

So I guess if there is anything, ANYTHING that I SHOULD do… the singular exception to the “Thou Shalt Not Should” rule… it would be to stop all of this “shoulding on myself” RIGHT NOW and start accepting, embracing and enjoying the reality of what IS and what IS NOT.

Get It In Writing

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“If you love a thought, set it free. If it comes back to you… It was meant to be.”

There’s more to this quote but I don’t remember what it is.

It has begun. Forgetfulness. I am only 36 years old and I am asking myself… how can this BE?! Of course, if someone has told me the answer, I already forget what it was so who cares. The point is, it is happening… whether I like it or not.

I used to make fun of my parents for their uncanny ability to “misplace thoughts.” Or laugh hysterically at my mom while she furiously searched for her reading glasses when they were right on top of her head. But I’m NOT laughing anymore.

I am amazed at my relatively new ability to think of something while in one room and then completely forget what the hell it was by the time I get to the other room to take care of it. I will literally walk into the kitchen and NOT remember WHY I am there.

I would love to think that this is happening because my head is SO FULL of valuable information, ideas, facts and figures, but alas, I know that it is not due to a brain that is bursting with priceless knowledge. It is because I am (gulp) getting OLDER.

Now, I CAN still remember stuff. If I write it down. That is why I write everything down. I keep notepads, pens and slips of paper tucked away in every nook and cranny of my house like an 85-year-old. For example, if I am in the bathroom and notice that I’m running low on toilet paper or lotion or soap… I do not trust my brain to remember this. So I write it down then and there—in the bathroom—even if I am dripping wet from the shower and wrapped in a towel.

I also write everything down at the office. Especially the office. Where there are frequently impromptu meetings, shortened deadlines and frantic phone calls… and I do NOT want to be the one to drop the ball simply because I FORGOT something critical that someone told me while I was getting my morning coffee.

I take some serious heat for my constant note taking from another woman that I work with. She is 23. Need I say more? I remind her that MY mind was as sharp as a tack when I was 23 too. I guess this is payback for making fun of my parents when their “forgetfulness” started to set in.

Oh well, I have no choice but to accept this as another reality of The Thrisis, and move on. But to little miss Twenty-Three and her flypaper memory I say: Watch out… I am what you have to look forward to. And when I retire, I will hereby bequeath to you my sharpie and extensive collection of multi-colored Post-Its.

A Life of Convenience?

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I bit the head off of the girl at the Circle K convenience store yesterday morning. OK, I didn’t bite it completely OFF… but I’m not gonna lie… I did leave a mark. In all seriousness, I snapped because she didn’t have Cherry Pop Tarts AND she couldn’t do a cash-back transaction at her register, which would have enabled me to purchase future Cherry Pop Tarts out of a vending machine on campus.

Upon realizing what I’d done in showing her my “dark side,” I immediately and profusely apologized to her and said that I was having a terrible, horrible, awful, no good, very bad day and it was barely 8 a.m. And then I said that I hoped that SHE had a great day today (extra emphasis on GREAT)… and I smiled just a bit too wide to show her HOW MUCH I meant it.

I settled on some strawberry pop-tarts instead and drove to work like Andretti on crack. As I drove, I began pondering the potential speed bumps in the life of the Convenience Store Clerk (bad pun intended). Please understand, I mean no disrespect to anyone who currently is or has been a convenience store clerk. Nor do I mean to offend anyone who knows or loves a convenience store clerk. I am merely presenting my take on why I think THIS particular profession would be a toughie.

  • Creatures of the Night – You most likely work odd hours and therefore interact with odd people. Aside from shift-workers, I personally don’t want to know who is roaming about at 4 a.m. in desperate search of a Twinkie, a Ho-Ho or a slushie… nor do I want to know why.
  • Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s – You deal largely with people who either ARE Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s or whose diets consist largely thereof.
  • Midnight Heist  – You probably live in consistent fear of the “hold-up” for the “less than $50” you carry in your drawer. Anyone else ever notice the 7-foot, vertical rulers framing the entrance and exit doors and how the place is lousy with not-so-cleverly-hidden cameras?
  • Lotto Lady – You have to put up with the daily blue-haired ladies who insist upon scratching their scratch-offs AT the counter (despite the ever-growing line of impatient customers chomping at the bit behind them) and if they win even one freakin’ dollar, they will use it to buy yet another scratch-off from you and continue standing there while they scratch that one too. This cycle could continue indefinitely perhaps taking up the better part of an afternoon.
  • The Conversationalist – Every store has at least one of these losers who are clearly one-can-shy-of-a-six-pack and they love, LOVE, LOVE to hang around and talk to you… about everything. And where can you go? Nowhere. Even though you are clearly NOT interested OR listening, they’ll talk about the weather… about their sister spending 2 hours straightening her hair every morning…  about their mother’s psycho ex-boyfiend and a detailed account on why he belongs in prison… about the government’s conspiracy to monitor our every move through jars of Jif peanut butter… and about Stella—their goldfish—and her third nipple.
  • Road Warriors – If your store happens to be attached to a gas station (which they often are) you inevitably deal with a vast amount of misguided wrath over the current price of gasoline.
  • Tobacco and Booze Police – Anytime after 2 p.m., on top of doing your regular work, you must be hyper-vigilant in your efforts to keep illegal substances out of the backpacks, pockets and coats of minors and/or would-be thugs.
  • Breakfast of Champions – Each morning there is a decent possibility that you will be greeted by an angry, I-hate-mornings and the-world-revolves-around-me bitch, running late for work, who throws a fit when you run out of cherry pop-tarts.

The Woman Inside My Phone

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I hate the woman who lives in my phone. You most likely know her, as she is probably the same one that lives in YOUR phone. She tells you what to do and often her instructions are wrong. She misunderstands your voice and touch commands constantly and sometimes cuts you off when you’re in the middle of leaving a message. Like she thinks she knows when I’m done talking? Who the hell does she think she is?

She is also an easy target for the role of scapegoat whenever my phone pisses me off for any reason. If I have a bad signal, no signal, bad reception (whether on my end or the other person’s), a low battery or God forbid—a dropped call—it is all her fault. And I tell her so. Usually really loudly. And my hatred for her grows.

My drive home from work is riddled with shitty and spotty cell reception. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation and… GONE. The call has ended. Abruptly. And usually at a really crucial or pivotal point too. There are at least 4 places that I KNOW a call will drop. I can predict with almost 95% accuracy when this will happen but for some reason that doesn’t stop me from trying to communicate with people. If I have something to say, dammit, I am going to say it! Even if it means calling back 50 times and getting dropped 49 of those times.

While I am driving—for safety sake—I do not wish to use the keypad (I’m such a good and conscientious driver) so I utilize the voice-command feature. Well, I should say that it is a safety measure for myself and the other drivers maybe… but for HER… not so much. She never gets the commands right. For example, I will clearly say: “Call Jan.” And she will reply: “Did you say: Call Ham?” <pause> “Did you say: Call Jam?” <pause> … my anger is building … “Did you say: Call Spam?” <pause> … I’m gonna lose it … “Did you say: Call Dan?”  And I snap. First of all bitch, I don’t have any friends named after food and I don’t even know anyone named Dan. To which she sweetly replies: “Please try again.”  Then she hangs up on me.

That’s when I let loose with a blue streak that could rival any sailor.

As a result of the terrible reception combined by her pure inability to UNDERSTAND ANYTHING THAT I SAAAAY… I cannot even impart to you the abuse this woman inside my phone has had to endure. Let me put it this way… If she were a real person, I’d be in prison by now.

I have been known to scream until I’ve lost my voice while raging at her. I have repeatedly smacked and poked her so HARD that her touch screen flashes all kinds of wild colors. I have thrown her. Also repeatedly. It is a miracle I have not tossed her out the sunroof and into a cornfield by now. Sometimes, after I have exhausted myself from violently cursing at her, I just leave her lying on the floorboard of my car—wherever she last landed—while the blind spots caused by my stroke-level blood pressure clear from my field of vision. I take a few deep breaths, loosen my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, crank up the radio and yell at her: “We’ll try again later. After I no longer want to rip out your circuitry!”

An End to Bad Hair Days?

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It seems I spend an exorbitant amount of time messing with and fussing over my hair. And anyone reading this who KNOWS how much energy I waste worrying about my hair can stop laughing now… because I know I’m not alone in this. Any trip to the hair and beauty section of Wal-Mart, Walgreens, Rite Aid or Target will prove that there are huge profits to be made from the paralyzing fear of the infamous and dreaded bad hair day.

It’s too short, too long, too flat, too big, too curly, too straight, too thin, too thick, too coarse, too light, too dark, too gray, too fine, too frizzy or too fried. We’re never happy with the hair we have and all too often we look at the woman next to us and wish we’d be born with HER perfect locks instead of our own. Although I know plenty of my money has contributed to lining the pockets of some stylists, colorists, and product manufacturers… I am trying, these days, to worry less about “bad hair days,” as I was recently reminded of an encounter that I had during college.

During the summers of my college years, I worked on a dude ranch located in the heart of the gorgeous Colorado Rockies. The ranch was situated between two 14,000 ft. peaks at the base of some beautiful white, chalk cliffs. I woke up each day surrounded by blue skies, majestic mountains and a wilderness of evergreen. It was called Deer Valley Ranch and it was a little slice of heaven right here on earth.

Deer Valley drew in guests from all over the world who would come and stay for a week of horseback riding, fly fishing, mountain climbing, whitewater rafting, fantastic, western-style, home-cooked food and fresh air. It was part of our job to interact with them on a regular basis, ensuring that they enjoyed their stay. This was a fairly easy task, given that Deer Valley attracted some wonderful and interesting people. One of the ways we were permitted and encouraged to interact with the guests was to go on horseback rides during our breaks if there was room for an extra rider or two. In an attempt to get the most out of my time in Colorado, this activity was something I took part in as often as I could. The landscape was absolutely breathtaking and conversation with the other riders always came easily.

One particular afternoon ride, I was making conversation with 2 female guests who were friends and who I would guess to be in their early 40’s. They had husbands and children back at the ranch but these ladies were out enjoying some girl time. Inevitably, at some point on the ride—as often happens with women—our discussion led to the topic of hair. My hair was long that summer and I often styled it with large hot rollers every morning in order to give it some much-needed, I-wanna-be-a-cowgirl oomph. And looking back at photographs taken of me during that time in my life, my hair was actually rather pretty. It was shiny, wavy and blonde. HOWEVER, on the ride, during our discussion about HAIR, I began complaining about how much I hated my hair and how today was an especially “bad hair day” because it wouldn’t do what I wanted it to do that morning, blah, blah, blah…

When I was done with my rant, one of the women (who had chestnut-brown hair, cropped  in an adorably-short cut) very kindly and gently shared with me something I have never forgotten. Riding up alongside me she softly, but matter-of-factly said: “Ever since my battle with breast cancer a few years ago… Every day that I have hair on my head, is a good hair day.”

And I swear you could hear the pine needles falling from the trees it became so quiet.

Talk about an awkward silence.

We never stopped our horses. We just kept heading down the trail. And I felt both ashamed and grateful all at the same time. Ashamed I had made such a fuss in front of this woman who knew what it was like to be greeted by the reflection of her bare scalp every morning in the mirror while waging war on a disease that was trying to kill her. Yet grateful to her for gently liberating me from the ridiculous good-hair-day / bad-hair-day world I was living in. So now, whenever I’m in the bathroom, cursing my hair and pounding the brush into the countertop out of frustration… I sometimes hear her quiet words of wisdom: Every day that I have hair on my head, is a good hair day.