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.

What I Know So Far

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That life picks up speed the older you get.

That no matter your real age… you’ll always be 18… in your mind.

That my parents and teachers were totally telling the truth. About most things anyway.

That I will fall down.

That I will get back up again.

That second chances are extremely rare, so if you get one… seize it.

That opportunity is not something to be questioned, but something to be grasped firmly with both hands.

That the difficult choice and the right choice are usually the same thing.

That reality and expectation never look the same.

That sometimes sadness does not have a name.

That if you aren’t paying close attention, you might miss something wonderful simply because it didn’t arrive in the package you were looking for.

That it is better to be single than to wish you were.

That there is no statute of limitations on finding Mr. Right.

That certain people will never be worthy of my time or energy.

That I can never regret something I did NOT say.

That worrying myself sick about it won’t fix it.

That “laugh lines” are only “charming” if they are on someone else’s face.

That the ones already on my face… are here to stay. And they plan on bringing friends.

That life will NOT look like it does in the brochure.

That that isn’t always a bad thing.

That “normal” is overrated.

That anything can happen to anyone, anywhere at anytime.

That I shouldn’t be so shocked when trouble finds me.

That I shouldn’t be equally as shocked when goodness finds me.

Please, dear readers, leave a comment and add to this list. I’d love to know what all of YOU know so far… Thanks for reading.

Leftover Soap and Other Random Observations

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This morning in the shower, I discovered that I had somehow managed to victoriously attach the previous sliver of soap to the new bar! The 2 bars are now one and I am mighty proud of myself for being able to “save” this tiny scrap of soap by making it part of the bigger bar.

You see… I don’t know if you know it or not, but this isn’t always an easy task. Sometimes the bars are too dry, or not the proper texture or shape and therefore do not fit together in a manner that is conducive to creating what I like to call: “THE-PENNY-PINCHING-BIG-BAR.”

But as I happily lathered up, all the while rejoicing in my sudsy little victory, I couldn’t help but wonder… Am I the only one who does this? And if not… then how many OTHER people do this too? I mean, it’s not as though anyone taught me to do this. It wasn’t a rule growing up that THIS was indeed the way we dealt with the leftover, sorry-looking scraps of Zest, Ivory, Irish Spring or Dial in order to save money. We just never threw any soap out. All of it got used up. So I guess I just learned it all by myself—this silent bathroom behavior—And I have a strong suspicion that I am NOT the only one.

Which also begs the question: How many other quirky “behaviors” do we humans share that we are neither taught, nor that we discuss? I have come up with a few of my own observations here…

How many other people …

  • Intentionally leave a few squares of toilet paper on the roll so that they will NOT have to be the one to change it? Is it that difficult to change a roll of toilet paper?
  • Purposefully do not entirely empty milk containers, OJ or 2-liters and put them back in the fridge for the exact same reason?
  • Race to put on your turn signal before anyone else can while waiting for a spot in a parking lot as a way of communicating to the other drivers that you have, in fact, CLAIMED this soon-to-be-empty space by silently “calling it” with your little blinking light?
  • Squeeze the empty tube of the toothpaste SO freakin’ FLAT that it could actually double as a prison shank… in order to get that last little dollop of tartar-controlling, cavity-protecting, whitening, minty-fresh, evergreen-goodness onto your toothbrush INSTEAD of just opening the new one? What do you save? Like 1/1000th of a cent?
  • Have 500 upsidedown bottles of lotion, shampoo, conditioner, hair gel, hand soap, etc. sitting around your house on various shelves or in cabinets (even though you are totally using the NEW ones) in the hopes that you WILL, one day, use them all up and therefore feel better about yourself?
  • Keep a drawer in your kitchen stuffed to overflowing with restaurant menus, expired coupons, dried-up glue sticks, misshapen paper clips, broken crayons, extra buttons, bobby pins, safety pins, hair ribbons, plastic combs with half of their teeth missing, pens with no ink in them, dull pencils, petrified erasers, empty scotch tape dispensers, the ace of spades, 1/3 of a yard stick, a handle from something, a key for some lock… somewhere, a piece of string, 10-year-old anti-itch ointment, nails, screws, nuts, bolts, hard candy, a bottle opener from 1967, inappropriate refrigerator magnets, a phillips screwdriver with some kind of unidentifiable gunk on the end of it (rendering it useless), chunks of sidewalk chalk, matchbox cars, plastic sunglasses with one lens missing, a rusty swiss army knife, smooth emery boards, cracked rubber bands, shredded twist-ties, and last but not least… crumpled business cards for individuals you have never even heard of?

Admit it. You have one of these drawers. And if you don’t… 50 bucks says your mother does. What are we hanging onto this crap for? Chances are, if your drawer is anything like mine… it is literally 3 feet away from the GARBAGE CAN! Aren’t we human beings interesting? Almost all of us do these things and yet, like I mentioned earlier, no one seemingly taught us how… we just kinda figured it out on our own.

These are just a few examples. Please feel free to add to this list. I know that THIS inquiring mind would REALLY like to know!

Waters of Change

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A young mother in faded rolled-up jeans, is resting on a flat, wet rock. Feet buried in the depths of the cool brook, the summer sun dances on her golden hair as water rushes swiftly by. Two small girls with pudgy bare feet and equally golden hair cautiously wade in the waters around her making their way to her out-stretched hand. She is holding something small in the center of her palm and her daughters inch closer and closer to inspect the curious find.

It is a priceless moment that my father captured on film. A rare opportunity to freeze time. The young mother is my mother and the girls, my sister and me, no doubt on a mid-summer family adventure. I can’t recall it specifically, and yet I swear I can hear the water gurgling around me and feel the chill of it lapping at my ankles. The rocks beneath my tiny toes are moss-covered and smooth… and I haven’t a care in the world.

If I had to guess, I’d say the year was probably 1977 and my mom was younger than I am now. Every time I stop and take time to look closely at the photo, I marvel at my mother’s youth and beauty. And I gaze in awe at the two innocent and precious little girls, sheltered from pain, suffering, disappointment, heartbreak and the weight of responsibility. All of those things are out there waiting in the not-so-distant future. Looking back now, knowing what I know, I might have frozen time right then and there.

But the pages on the calendar fly as the years pass by and time has its not-so-friendly-way with us. Experiences etch their marks—forever transforming us into the people we are becoming. Nothing stays the same, its true. But if we look closely through the veil of time—we might still recognize the remnants of what once was. The goodness and the innocence, the curiosity and pure unbridled passion for all things fun! Today I occasionally catch glimpses of the barefoot girls with the golden hair… knee-deep in what I now know to be the rushing waters of change. And although our outward images are constantly being altered by the passage of time—like the rocks beneath a rapid, endless current—I am grateful for all we have managed to hold onto despite the years. Easy smiles and hearty laughs, curious spirits… and hope in tomorrow.

Paper Treasures

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I adore bookstores. Being a lover of language, I’m not sure if this is the due to the rush that I get from literally being surrounded by words… ensconced in words. Or perhaps I can blame it on the sheer excitement I feel being in the presence of so many lofty thoughts, ideas and stories.

And I have a particular affinity for used bookstores. You know, the kind of stores that are bursting at the seams with so many books that there are racks and bins of them spilling out onto the sidewalk, beckoning you like paper sirens to come hither and have a look a around.

If you’re someone like me, you’re almost immediately drawn in by the countless titles that call out to you from the various makeshift shelves that are haphazardly strewn outside. You begin your treasure hunt there, wondering what little literary gem might be buried beneath the stacks of trashy romance novels with paintings of exotic women in various stages of undress on the covers. Perhaps you find one—a shiny jewel that you simply cannot fathom how anyone else could have missed—and you tuck it under your arm.

With your curiosity piqued and your wallet burning, you venture inside. Instantly you are reminded of your grandmother’s basement, as a heavy aroma of dust, glue, aged leather and ancient paper envelops you. Stretched out in front of you are endless rows of leather and fabric-bound tales waiting to be discovered by just the right person. You see… each used book already has a new owner… they’ve simply not yet been introduced.

As you meander through the narrow aisles, head tilted to one side so as to read the inverted titles, your eyes pour over both familiar and unfamiliar names. So many books! It is incredible the shear volume of words that must exist under this one roof! A person could flop themselves down in a quiet corner for hours and travel to foreign lands, soaring through time and space to witness pivotal moments throughout history and experience wild and wonderful adventures all along the way! In the small span of an afternoon one could experience love and loss, danger and deception, death and dying, murder and mayhem, treachery and treason.

But as you navigate the passageways between the shelves of bargain masterpieces, you become aware of the presence of something far more valuable than the written works themselves. These books have stories all their own. I’m not talking about the words typed on the pages inside… but rather the silent stories of their previous owners. Over time, clues about them have begun to emerge on the covers, the spines, the margins and even in between the pages.

For instance, I once picked up a book entitled The Art of Pessimism and opened the front cover to find the following inscription: “1989 – To my dear friend Patricia, this needs no explanation! Love, Anne” I chuckled to myself at the inside joke that these two friends must have shared. And this was just one book on one shelf  of one store that I randomly picked up one day. That same day, a copy of Seven Short Works of Modern Fiction (which I later purchased) had a small stack of index cards stuffed inside which came fluttering out when I picked it up. Apparently, they were someone’s study notes on the different themes of each novel.

It seems that names, dates, doodles, coffee rings, notes, inscriptions, dedications, even rips, folds and tears are present everywhere you look. To me, these parcels of paper, words, ink and glue cease being books and instead become tangible evidence of people’s lives. I consider the shelves they once sat upon, the hands that once held onto them, the eyes that once scanned these pages, the souls who were once drawn into the story. The bags and briefcases they traveled in. I wonder where they have been and what was going on in the world at that specific time? How many different people posessed this very book before it landed in my hands now? Oh, but if these pages could talk! What secrets would they reveal?

I realize that anyone can go to a museum of Natural History and see valuable icons and rare relics of previous cultures and lives lived. And perhaps you think it’s silly for me to consider such things about plain, old, used books. Either that, or you may think I just have too much time on my hands. But I actually think it is because they are so ordinary, so unremarkable in their existence that they are of such unique value! These used books… These hand-me-down narratives… These second and third-time-around stories… They carry with them the indelible marks of everyday humanity.

The Tantrum Within

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Sometimes I wish I could act out my feelings. As young adults we learn that it isn’t “appropriate” to let it rip when it comes to letting others know exactly how we feel at any given time. We are to be “mature” and “calm” and “keep it together.” And by no means, under NO circumstance is it acceptable to come unglued in front of others.

Last Saturday I was at a minor league baseball game with Lee and another couple. It was hot and humid and just generally uncomfortable. The game was running a little long (or so it felt) and I’ll admit it… I was dreaming of my pajamas, a cold drink (that didn’t cost $7), a comfy couch and the luxury of air conditioning. Yet there we sat, 4 composed adults calmly watching the game and chatting about this or that.

In front of us sat a family with 2 young girls that I would guess to be around 5 or 6. At the beginning of the game they were so cute… All neatly put together with tidy little outfits and hair ribbons to match clipped firmly in place. They were happy. They had cotton candy and fruit-slushies and peanuts. And since our seats were right behind the dugout, each girl had received a foul ball from one of the players.

However, as the evening unfurled and the innings slowly stretched from one into the next, the girls began to … how shall I put this?? … Unravel. Their hair was beginning to frizz from the heat and stray curls were sticking to the backs of their necks. The ribbons began slipping from their places and dangled limp, clinging to scraps of sweaty, unkempt hair.

The outfits weren’t so tidy anymore, smudged by dirt and food and God only knows what else. Their once-shiny little faces were now partially covered in red, blue and purple cotton-candy and slushie stains. Smiles had turned to frowns and eventually all-out scowls.

Then the meltdowns started.

Whining, crying, twisting-in-the-seats, stomping, kicking, bickering and eventually screaming became the main event rather than the ballgame. It was quite the scene, I tell ya. Eventually they did run out of steam. One of them surrendered to her seat, slumping deep down into it while turning the baseball over and over in her small hands… sort of trance-like.

The other had one last hurrah with an empty plastic water bottle. From her mother’s lap she banged it and banged it repeatedly against the concrete of the dugout before winging it as far as it would go. And I admired her for it. Hell, I envied her for it. I laughed at this wonderfully expressive tantrum, not because I thought it was cute but because I COULD RELATE TO IT.

Her little fit served three purposes: 1. It made noise. 2. It provided the opportunity to flail her arms wildly about. And 3. It showed everyone in our section her extreme displeasure with the current situation. How I wish I could do the same whenever I am displeased with my current situation… whatever it may be. Ahhh to be young again. Ultimately, she succumbed to exhaustion and passed out in her mother’s arms at the bottom of the eighth.

It was at this point that my friend turned to me and said: “It’s about that time… It’s late. It’s hot. Everyone is tired. And there is no more candy. We’re just like them, you know, except that we—unfortunately—are all grown up.”

Me and My Minus-One

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Everyone has their own philosophy when it comes to Facebook friending. Some are quite conservative with letting people into their virtual worlds, while others may “friend” every single person they met in the bar on any given night.

I believe I fall somewhere in the middle. I won’t friend everyone I meet or accept every friend request I get, but I am more liberal than many of my real life (RL) friends when it comes to “friending behavior.”

For example, if someone friends me and I don’t know them per say but we have a lot of friends in common, I usually accept. If I meet someone and we really seem to connect or they are someone I can see myself developing a RL friendship with, I will friend them.

From time to time, I get teased by my family or friends for having what they consider to be a large-ish number. I tell them it’s because I have lived and worked in several different states, and as a result, have met a lot of people from all over our 50 states with whom I wish to stay connected.

Now, I don’t think of my “number” of friends as a status symbol, personal affirmation of worth or a mark of my popularity in the world. So I don’t care WHAT the number is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t KNOW what it is. Exactly what it is. At any given time. Maybe there are some hidden, narcissistic implications in that, but I really don’t care. I’m not going to waste precious minutes with my therapist talking about “the number.”

Anyway… Over the years—since I know what the number is at any given time—I also know when I have been… (gasp)… dumped. Perhaps some of you have also experienced this. I can’t be the only one who kinda keeps track. Right? Please tell me I’m not alone. You look at your friend list from time to time and notice that the number is smaller than before. It isn’t everyday and it is usually only by one or two at a time. But still you can’t help but ask yourself: “I wonder who the one-time-friend-turned-traitorous-@$$hole is who dumped me?”

I have never tried to find out. I am aware that there is an app for this. An app for seeking out the bastard who ditched me, casting me carelessly to the curb alongside the information superhighway and right into the roadside weeds of the world wide web. But I have never wanted to waste the energy trying to find out. I mean, the higher your number, the harder it would be ferret out the little $hit anyway. Not worth the effort. Not that I haven’t wondered who it was.

In recent months, however, I have quite serendipitously learned the identity of 3 of the perpetrators. The first was in just looking for the guy. He was an old (RL) friend of whom I decided I wanted to ask a question. I typed in his name and he was gone. Just gone. I checked my friend list and he was gone. I checked mutual friends’ lists and he was gone from there too. And YES, I did a little digging into the matter. Long story short, he dumped Facebook. And YES I suddenly felt a little bit better about myself and this particular minus-one.

The second one I like to call Teflon Travis (not his real name) because I had a notification that he had commented on something that I had previously commented on and whenever I clicked on it… I got bounced right back to my own homepage. I “bounced” myself a half a dozen times before I figured out that I’d just been dumped. Another check of the friend list confirmed my suspicions.

The third one was, to me, the most shocking of all. I was reading an old “note” I had written (much like a blog entry) because that was where I used to keep my writing before starting this page. And this person, I’ll call her Disappearing Delores, used to LOVE my writing (at least she said she did). She was always one of the first to comment and made such funny contributions. She and I would go back and forth with several “comments” to one another at the end of many of my notes.

So in this note that I was reviewing, I noticed that the old comments were ALL mine and there were NONE from her. Another quick check of the friend list (I was getting good at this) and yes… she was gone too. And my comments looked so sad and silly like I was having a conversation with an imaginary friend. I would start many of them: “Haha. How true! And you know, Delores… Blah. Blah. Blah.” I didn’t cry or anything. But yes, I wondered where she’d gone. She’s still on Facebook… I guess she just didn’t want to be my friend anymore. Bitch.

I wonder what I did to piss her off? I know that’s why I dump people… because they piss me off. And that’s pretty much the only reason. I wonder if the people I have dumped ever wondered why it is that I dumped them? I guess we’ll never know. All we dumpees can do is pick ourselves up out of the weeds, dust ourselves off and move on. Just us and our now-smaller number of “friends.”

I know what you’re thinking… Maybe it’s not such a bad idea for me to spend a few precious minutes with my therapist talking about “the number” after all.