humor

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!

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.

Crazy for Shoes

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Three years ago, while living in New Mexico, I was gainfully employed as a graphic designer, but I needed to land a part-time job to earn some extra cash. I set out on my journey to find this part-time job and fortunately found one fairly quickly at a brand new Kohls store that was just getting ready to open. I was thrilled to have gotten an offer so soon after starting my quest for cash. I filled out the paperwork and agreed to jump through all of their corporate hoops in order to start getting that additional paycheck. These “hoops” included a criminal background check (no problem), employment history check (ditto), reference check (call them up!)… and a drug test.

Here is where I should probably mention that like many other “chemically-unbalanced” Americans, I was under the influence of some prescription medication that helped me to feel a little happier… A little less like sitting in a corner and crying… and rocking… and talking to myself… A little less like setting my hair on fire… A little less like ripping everyone’s head off or crashing my Wal-Mart cart into their cars… A little more… shall we say… balanced 🙂

One would think that this medication, being prescribed by a local and reputable doctor, should not and would not pose a problem on a drug screen. But just to be on the safe side, I took my prescription with me to the facility on the appointed day that I was to—eh-hem—produce the sample. I told the girl behind the counter (who looked like she should be drug-tested herself) about my “situation” and showed her the prescription. She made a photocopy of it and recommended that I inform the store management to cover all my bases. OK. Not a problem. I called management as she suggested. Surely this would be OK. I cannot be the ONLY one out of 150 new employees taking legally-prescribed, mood-altering medication. And besides, who can argue with the virtues of honesty and openness?

However, much to my surprise, management asked me to provide them with medical and pharmaceutical records for the past 18 months! 18 MONTHS!?!?! I was beginning to wonder if that task alone was even worth the $7.35 an hour I was going to be making?!?! But I complied. The records were obtained and presented and then I waited.

And I waited…

And I waited…

Bear in mind that other people I knew and had met along this journey toward part-time-minimum-wage-retail-imprisonment (I mean employment) were already getting calls about scheduling their training and orientation, etc. And yet I waited. While I waited I began questioning the ethics of what the management team was actually doing. Were they even allowed to peer that deeply into my medical life story? And so, while I waited some more… I conducted some independent research on EEOC (Equal Employment Opportunity Commission) regulations and compliance.

I won’t bore you with what I found there… but suffice it to say that if they did NOT hire me over this prescription-drug-laced urine sample and my “questionable” medical history… I actually had a real case on my hands. And believe me I was considering it… I would have made A LOT more than $7.35 an hour and then I wouldn’t even NEED the damn part-time job. I had the name, address and phone number for the nearest EEOC office—located in El Paso, TX—in hand when I finally got the call that they were ready to schedule my orientation and training.

Lucky for them. <cue Law and Order scene change music>

I attended my orientation at Kohls. It lasted 4 hours. More paperwork. Laughable sexual harassment videos. Stupid Get-to-Know-Your-Team-Member games… Then I found out what I’d really been anxious to know: the department I’d be working in! They passed out work schedules to everyone with their name and the name of their department in the top left corner in big, bold letters. I was so excited! Would it be Misses Apparel? Accessories? Maybe Lingerie? Or Bed & Bath? I was imagining the possibilities when I got my paper and it simply read: Shoes.

Yes, shoes. I almost laughed out loud when I read that at the top of my work schedule. The people around me all had sophisticated, multi-syllabic department names on the tops of their papers like: Junior Menswear, Intimate Apparel & Sleepwear OR Jewelry & Accessories… but on my paper it just read: SHOES. And ladies, I love shoes as much as the next gal, but let me be clear: We’re not talking Prada, Gucci or Manolo Blahnik here… we’re talking affordable-practical-department-store-shoes-for-the-whole-entire-family type deal. Needless to say, I was deflated and disappointed.

Wait a minute! I see what’s happening here!

Sure, sure, Kohl’s Department Store… AVOID a potential EEOC lawsuit and go ahead and HIRE the psycho drug user… but let’s put her in SHOES. She can’t really do much damage there. It’s literally stacks upon stacks of numerically-arranged pieces of leather and rubber, held together by synthetic glues and gels wrapped in paper and encased in cardboard. I’m sure we’ll ALL be MUCH safer that way. The worst thing she can do is wing some Sketchers at someone’s head. If she comes in strung-out, hung-over, or wound-up, she should still be able to eek out the phrase: “Ma’am, can I show you something more like a wedge in, say… a size 7?”

Accessories and Apparel are too “out front.” Housewares is obviously too dangerous, for all the knives and glass that are around. The Bed & Bath Shop is out because she might figure out a way to hang herself with the sheets and towels… And Home Decor is a no go because perhaps she would set fire to the whole damn place by lighting an obscene amount of scented candles… no, no, no… Let’s put her in SHOES.

So for several months, I stood amidst towers and towers and stacks and stacks of shoe boxes for 6 hours at a time… for $7.35 an hour… occasionally fetching a different size from the stockroom and once assisting in the investigation of a shoplifting incident. At least I didn’t have to touch anyone’s feet. And I never felt like ripping a customer’s head off… well, almost never. Maaaaybe once or twice… 3 times MAX. But that was the great thing about the prescription medication… I may not have been working in a cool or glamourous department—but then again—I was probably too medicated to care.

Who Me? Territorial? Nah.

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Never let it be said that humans aren’t territorial. Otherwise, why would we have legal property lines and build fences? Why would we hang signs that label “our areas” as such? Why would we get irritated if our neighbor decides to park a GINORMOUS camper next to our driveway, obstructing our view of the street and making us feel like we live on a Hollywood set, or we’re in prison or we’ve been relocated to Big Arbs campground!?! Huh?

The following is a little internal narrative I wrote down about 2 years ago when a grumpy old fart just up and started randomly TAKING my parking spot… EVERY. DAMN. DAY. I’ve since left that place of employment for a different place … with better parking.

_______________________________________________________

My eyes narrowed when I saw him pulling into the spot.

THE parking spot. MY parking spot. I’ve never seen him park there before. Why did he decide to start now? Everyone should know by now that THAT is MY parking spot. I’ve been parking there for months ever since the layoffs started and a “prime” spot became available just outside my office window. My window. My spot.

And I heaved a heavy, aggravated sigh.

Alright. I guess I’ll just have to take the spot next to it today… and hope that this doesn’t become like a regular thing. I mean, I’d hate to have to start cutting my lunch hours short just to safeguard the spot. If I don’t… and HE starts parking there… before you know it, he’ll think it’s HIS spot. And then what will I do? I’ll have to find another spot. This really does annoy me.

So I glared at him the entire time while he squared up his car and shut off the engine and gathered his things and walked into the building.

That will show him. My iron stare. WHO does this guy think he is? I don’t even know this guy. Does he even WORK here full-time? I think maybe he’s an engineer. Oh! Look at me! I’m an engineer! I’m better than you! I make more money than you do! My job requires a lot more brains and skill and responsibility than Marketing does… I can park wherever I want to!

And I slide into the second-rate spot right beside him. Meanwhile… one of the retired guys enters the parking lot, returning from lunch, and he glares at ME!

What is YOUR problem?!? What the #@%* are YOU looking at? Why are you even here? You are retired and supposed to be coming here on a part-time, consultation-only basis. But instead, I think I see more of you NOW than I did BEFORE you retired! What is up with THAT?!? Do you have a problem with me? You don’t even KNOW me. We’ve never even spoken. Stop looking at me. Jerk.

And then it dawns on me… I just parked in HIS spot.

_______________________________________________________

Listen… when it comes to territory… the only difference between us and the animal kingdom is the fact that we don’t “mark” our territories with bodily fluids. Then again… maybe there are a few of us who do.

If there are… I really wouldn’t want to know.

Chinese Take-Out for One

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I used to eat lunch in my car. Just about everyday. Most days I’d either take something from home or order fast food from a drive-thru window. Occasionally I would sit in a restaurant and eat by myself, but there is a bit of that good old “feeling like a loser” element at play when dining alone and in public. I’m NOT a total loser… I DO have a few friends, and naturally there were days I would have lunch with one or more of them. But the vast majority of the time I found myself flying solo and therefore it seemed much more comfortable to dine in my ride. I don’t eat in the car much anymore. And perhaps the story I am about to tell you is the reason why. I would like to share with you—a cautionary tale perhaps—about why it is not a good idea to eat Chinese take-out alone in your car on a rainy day.

It was a damp and dreary day. And I felt like having something a little different. I was in the mood for something warm and substantial and maybe even a little spicy… and yes, I am still talking about food.

The previous Monday I had stopped at Subway for lunch and I noticed a Chinese restaurant next door and so on this day I thought: Hmmm… that might just do for it for me today… it’s warm and substantial and if I place my order right… it could be spicy too! To borrow a line from Elaine on Seinfeld… eating the Chinese food in my car would be quote: “better than eatin’ it alone in the restaurant like some LOSER!” So I took it to go and planned on enjoying it in the park. I could not, however, predict the avalanche of problems this would pose on a cold, rainy day.

#1. I forgot how much “stuff” there is too carry with Chinese food. The bag (that must remain level at all times), my bottle of water, the napkins, the utensils, the soy sauce, the fortune cookie… So I had to figure out a way to juggle all those things PLUS my purse, my keys and my umbrella. Luckily I carry a big purse, so I managed to dump the water bottle, napkins, utensils, soy sauce packets and cookie into my purse. But I still had in my hands, the purse, the bag of food (that must remain level at all times), the car keys and the umbrella… which I was hoping to somehow manage to OPEN before venturing outside into the torrential downpour. When I finally got everything situated (or so I thought), I had such a terrible grip on the umbrella that when I pushed the button to pop it up… it flew open, poking me directly in the eye!

<insert expletive here>

#2 So with my one good eye, in the torrential downpour, I found my way to the car and folded myself inside, purse, food, keys and demonic umbrella included and drove to my favorite park. Once settled I began assembling my meal. As everyone knows, soy sauce packets are hard to open… Even harder with a plastic shell of hot food teetering on your lap in the cramped driver’s seat of a car. So, naturally, upon opening the first packet of sauce… it squirted all over my favorite light blue sweater.

<insert another expletive here>

By the way… does anyone have any tips about how to remove soy-sauce stains from finely-knit sweater material? If so… please let me know.

#3 With one good eye and a soy-sauce-stained sweater, I began to eat my food. After a bit, I received a text message from my friend Jodi wanting to know if I’d like to have lunch with her sometime next week. Of course I would! Anything would be better than eating in the car… all one-eyed and soy-stained… ALONE! But as I attempted to reply to her message… my phone slipped from my grasp and landed… right smack-dab in the middle of my General Tso’s spicy chicken.

<insert yet another stronger expletive here>

#4 With one good eye, a soy-sauce-stained sweater and a General-Tso’s-and-rice-covered cell phone I began damage control. Since the chinsey napkins didn’t seem to be doing the trick, I desperately and ashamedly resorted to licking my phone in order to clean it off before the food was able to congeal and gunk up the phone for good. Oh… and I prayed to God that no one was parked beside me to see me licking my phone!

#5 So there I was, making out with my mobile phone, with one good eye and a soy-sauce-stained sweater when I realized that ALL of the windows in the car were fogging up from the hot food. For the second time in as many minutes I found myself praying to God that NO ONE had pulled into the lot beside me and happened to notice the windows all fogged up… just me and my LG. I wondered if there were any new city ordinances against such behavior like Public Indecency with a Cellular Device.

So this my friends, is why it isn’t necessarily a good idea to eat Chinese food—ALONE IN YOUR CAR—on a rainy day. You really are better off eating it alone in the restaurant like some loser… because trust me… you cannot possibly look like MORE of a loser than a one-eyed, soy-sauce-stained-sweater-sporting, window-fogging, cell-phone-licker.

The Back of the Closet

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Have you ever, in desperation, looked in the very back of your closet to search for something to wear because nothing you own seems good enough and you HATE all of your clothes? You push aside the tees you wore this past weekend, the blouse you wore yesterday and the top you’re saving for “Casual Friday,” all in the vain attempt to reach the bowels of your wardrobe hoping against hope that therein hangs some incredible unforeseen garment that you’ve forgotten you own and can therefore resurrect!

Aha! You find something! How in the world have you missed it in all this time?!?! This is wonderful! This is going to open you up to endless, interchangeable fashion possibilities! This is going to double, no TRIPLE your number of available ensemble choices! This textile, could perhaps… transform your entire world.

Now, of course, as you stand there… hanger in hand… arm outstretched… admiring the aforementioned “Savior Garment”… there is one thing you know you must check first. And it is absolutely imperative. It is the biggest hurdle you will have to overcome, but you MUST find out before you get too excited and mentally begin pairing things up and creating outfits that will undoubtedly turn heads. I am referring to the all important question: Does it still fit?

<gulp>

Quickly, you consider everything you ate THAT day as a peremptory justification for any minor snugness, should it exist. You try to recall the last time you’ve broken a sweat (not including this one), pushed play on that dusty Denise Austin DVD or even laid eyes on the inside of the gym. Then you begin thinking about all the morning lattes, the mayo on your sandwiches, the bleu cheese dressing on your salads, the 3 p.m. sugar binges, the weekend baseball beers, the weekly-Lifetime-movie-cookie-dough binges… and the fear begins to build.

<double gulp>

Somehow you gather the courage to slide the first appropriate appendage into said clothing item… then the second. So far, so good. Now comes the true confirmation of your intestinal fortitude: Will it button, latch, zip or close without the surgical removal of any vital organs? With your eyes squeezed shut, muttering prayers, you try it. Praise God!! It STILL fits!!! The clouds part, rays of sunshine pour into your room and in the distance you can hear the faintest sound of angels singing The Hallelujah Chorus!

Ah… now the real fun begins. What to pair with this “new” former frock for it’s reintroduction into the rotation. After trying various color and texture combinations, taking into consideration this particular item’s unique strengths and weaknesses… you finally select just the right piece with which to pair it.

You’ll wear it the very next day.

Tomorrow arrives and you’re amazingly able to jump out of bed and kick start your day just by thinking about how nice you will look in the day’s oh-so-stylish ensemble. You will get so many compliments and your envious co-workers will assume you’ve been shopping, when in actuality, you haven’t spent a single dime. In anticipation for your great day, you get dressed, leave for work early and even stop for a latte… because apparently they haven’t damaged your figure too much seeing as this item still fits.

No sooner do you get to work, pull into your parking spot and get out of the car do you realize WHY it is that this piece of clothing was SHOVED to the back of the closet… It may fit you the same as it ever did… but it is so uncomfortable you cannot STAND IT!! You spend your ENTIRE day tugging and pulling and adjusting and hiding in your office, praying for the day to be over so that you can take this freaking piece of crap and CRAM it in THE BACK OF THE CLOSET… right where it belongs.

Life by the Numbers

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It begins and ends with a number. A dreadful sound shatters the stillness of my slumber and I open my eyes to see 3 green and glowing numbers looming ominously over my rapidly-dissolving dreams. 6:00 a.m.

In the midst of a heat wave, I turn on the news to channel 3 see how hot it is actually going to get today so I’ll know exactly how much or how little to wear. 95. With a heat index of 110.

Stumbling down the stairs to my non-air-conditioned main floor, I glance at the thermostat. It says 84. I say a curse word.

With great fear and trepidation I climb onto the scale before climbing into the shower to estimate the damages from my nephew’s 11th birthday celebration the night before. XXX lbs., XX.X BMI … these numbers are for my eyes only. But I do utter another curse word.

Sitting down with a 200-calorie breakfast comprised of 8 oz. of OJ and 8 oz. of cereal with 4 oz. of milk, I obsessively check the stats on my blog page. At 7:20 a.m., there have been 23 views, 2 comments and 9 referrals. 0 new subscriptions. On Facebook, I have 1 notification, 2 messages, 1 invitation to play FarmVille and 1 friend request. I accept the friend request. I have 664 friends. Nope… make that 663. Someone just dumped me. Somewhere in the distance I hear a muffled scream as my profile goes swoosh into the virtual trash can belonging to the loser who unfriended me.

Out the door with 20 minutes to spare, I have the misfortune of getting behind 2 of the slowest-moving utility vehicles you’ve ever seen. They are doing 35 in a 55. At this rate, I will be 10 minutes late. Eventually I pass them doing 85 (I imagine my speeding ticket will cost well over $100) and wind up behind 1 even-slower moving 18-wheeler carrying 3 steel coils on a 2-lane highway. I follow him for 4 miles at 45 MPH. Make that 15-minutes late.

The word count so far is 335. In case you’re curious. Though now that I’ve used more words to tell you that… it is higher.

Miraculously only 10 minutes late to work, I have 5 unread messages and 7 projects to complete before 5 p.m. As a graphic designer, my work day is infinitely full of numbers… dates, times, account numbers, quantities and measurements. Therefore, I will spare you the details of the bulk of my day.

At 12:00 noon I call Verizon Wireless to give them $112.68. There is $XXX.XX remaining in my bank account. I utter yet another curse word.

By 5:00 p.m., there are exactly 6 hours left in the day before bedtime. Another obsessive check of blog stats and Facebook: 71 views, 8 comments and 11 referrals. 1 new subscription. Facebook offers 3 notifications, 1 message, 0 friend requests. Dinner at 7, a 2-hour phone call starting at 8 and 1 hour of reading, watching TV, writing or painting my nails before the clock strikes 11. I must get at least 7 hours of sleep a night or I’ll be a hot, cranky mess the next day. Just ask my loved-ones.

Turn off the TV, check the thermostat… 86. Curse word. Lights out. 11:03 p.m.

I wrote this account (get it… account?) as an exercise when it occurred to me how much of my daily joy and pain is tied directly to NUMBERS. Why must we quantify our value based on hard numbers… from how much we weigh to how much we earn? From how many virtual “friends” we have to how many people visited or commented on our blog today? For 1 day I’d like to ignore these “values” … and derive my worth from that which cannot be counted. Who’s with me?

Shopping for Jeans With PMS

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Ladies, we all know what a nightmare it can be to find that magical pair of jeans that somehow makes us look 10 lbs. thinner, 6 inches taller and 5 years younger without breaking the bank, or giving us a nice muffin-top or (gasp) a dreaded camel-toe. Now imagine—for a moment—what it might be like to shop for said item during (shhhh) that time of the month.

Surprisingly, it is not as bad as you would think. I have new cause to believe that shopping for that new pair of jeans while experiencing PMS may just be a great idea, rather than the homicidal-tendency-inducing-disaster that one would initially suppose.

Here are just a few of my reasons why:

  1. You are already in a pissed-off-mood with a take-no-prisoners attitude. This enables you to blow right past all of the other younger, hipper, skinnier patrons and annoyingly-chipper, SUPER-HELPFUL store employees while you search for the ever elusive “right” pair of jeans.
  2. Your patience is extremely short. Therefore you are able to cut the crap when it comes to finding that miracle pair. You are “over” lying to yourself about what size you actually wear and can skip immediately to the BACK of the rack where your REAL size hangs.
  3. If you actually locate said “elusive ‘right’ pair of jeans,” and they actually FIT you with the extra 5 pounds of water weight you are currently hauling around in your trunk, gut and thighs… then you KNOW that they will fit you even better 7 to 10 days from now.
  4. Due to the previously-mentioned extra 5 pounds of water weight you are currently hauling around in your trunk, gut and thighs… your expectations have been severely lowered. So when the mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-whose-the-skinniest-bitch-of-all moment of truth finally arrives… You are actually PLEASED with what your reflection says about you. One must NEVER underestimate the positive power of lowered expectations.
  5. If you have located the “elusive ‘right’ pair of jeans,” and they actually FIT you with the extra 5 pounds of water weight you are currently hauling around in your trunk, gut and thighs… AND you have been successful in your reflective encounter with the “mirror-of-lowered-expectations,” THEN you are ABSOLUTELY ready to proceed and face the credit-pushing cashier when she inquires about your potential interest in obtaining a store charge card. You are fully equipped to look her square in the eye and answer her with a strong, resounding and powerful “NO!”

So with your head held high, bag-in-hand and credit-in-tact, you can exit the store. You have your new jeans, the store has your money, no tears were shed, and most importantly… no bodily harm came to any of the parties involved. Mission accomplished.

Now go out and rock those new jeans bitches … and get down with your bad-ass, pre-menstrual selves.

To Be or Not To Be (Liked)

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From an early age we learn that it is good to be liked. To be liked by our teachers, neighbors, family members and especially peers. We come to understand that it is important to be found pleasing in the eyes of others and to be someone that they enjoy being around. Therefore, it is basic elementary logic to say that from an early age we ALSO comprehend what it means NOT to be liked.

Whatever your first encounter with not being liked looked like, we have all had one. And it is beyond terrible. It usually happens in the sandbox and it is tear-your-heart-out-throw-it-in-the-sand-and-stomp-on-it awful. But somehow we survive and we wind up surrounding ourselves with the people who DO like us… and we continue on our merry way toward adulthood.

As we age, however, I believe we wind up in one of two camps. The I’m-so-cool-I-don’t-care-whether-you-like-me-or-not camp OR the I-WANT-no-make-that-I-NEED-everyone-to-like-me camp. Unfortunately, my tent is firmly staked in the soil of the latter. And life is harder for people like me. Oh how I wish I could be one of those people who doesn’t give a damn what others think of them.

I am 36 years old and STILL troubled if/when someone doesn’t like me. For example, (yes, this is the whole hopefully-cathartic reason I am writing this in the first place) there is someone in my life right now who just DOES NOT LIKE ME. I have no idea why. What’s not to like? I ask myself this question. You don’t know me. How can you NOT like me when you don’t even know me?

In order to protect myself from further misguided hatred I will not say whether this person is a he or a she or in what capacity they are a “part of my life.”  But suffice it to say that they have made it abundantly clear they have zero time for me as well as ZERO interest in ever speaking to or getting to know me.

This puzzles me.

Please don’t mistake my puzzlement for a massive ego. (Puzzlement? Is that a word? Spell-check isn’t flagging it, so it must be. Cool!) Anyway, I don’t believe—contrary to what my family might tell you—that I am perfect or that the sun rises and sets on me. I just don’t think—to the best of my recollection—that I have done anything worthy of such unsolicited disdain. I’m a very friendly person. I’m a complimentary (though genuine) person, and probably the best measure of all is the fact that I make friends easily and often. Wherever I go.

Joanna plays well with others.

So what the hell then, is this person’s problem? (Heavy sighing) I don’t know. I have asked myself a million times and a million and one times I have come up empty. I guess they just don’t. I have absolutely no clue as to why, but for continued health and happiness (and lower blood pressure) I realize I must let them go. And perhaps… PERHAPS this could be one giant step toward seeking out a plot of land in that OTHER, more-desirable, cooler camp.