On Turning 30 Part II: The Adolescent Part

I suppose when you become 30 years-old, you're officially embarking on "middle aged." I'm not so sure about that. I think if this is true, then where do all the 'mid-life crises' come from or why do people like me still get acne? To me, I think turning 30 years-old is the equivalent to being back in middle school or embracing yet one more of life's adolescent, pubescent stages. You're faced with the merging together of a young past and an impending older age phase where you have to start considering the value of your 401K and if you're super fortunate like I am, AARP already has you on their mailing list. Talk about the compression of two reality checks!

First of all, people turning 30 are starting to realize that 'the party's over.' It's not nearly as cool to dress up like a skank and troll the bars until 4 am. Now when you hit the club, you're the old marm sitting at the bar and not the one getting your swerve on on the dance floor. And really, the bars you like are now the seedier, quieter ones where you can hear a good band, talk to your closest friends and wear comfortable clothes, even if it does feel a little like 'don't touch me armor.'

And let's face it, you're now a beer snob. Or a wine snob. Or a whiskey snob. Keystone and Ice House don't taste like they used to (did they ever taste at all?) and you're well past drinking an un-reciped concoction out of garbage can - who cares if Harry Buff brought the stuff? Boxed wine and Boon's Farm is now a perpetual joke and you can rib-poke your buddies laughing about how you used to drink Mad Dog 20/20 and how at one time it was 'good sh*t.' (No, it never was either.)

Instead you're sipping cabernet from a real wine glass (not a plastic one) or full flavored import out of the bottle because it tastes much better than what comes in the can.

And when I say the party's over, I don't mean the 30-somethings don't have fun, but we all understand the value of sleep now. Staying up all night or getting less than four hours of sleep is no longer possible. It yields a late shift or a sick day, or if everyone is unfortunate, your day to make others miserable at the office.
Eye bags can't be helped at this point and no amount of 'roid cream can tame them. Without your 6-8 hours, you're puffy, raggedy, and a real nasty ass to be around. It's that simple. So if you care about your family, friends, peers, colleagues...you try to 'call it' before midnight when possible.

Your body is kicking into a new gear right along side the party changes too and this is where it gets super complicated. For women, if we have kids, we have resigned ourselves to perpetually hating what that birth process put there forever, be it chunk in the trunk, or cellulite or a fat pack. Whatever. The cool thing about this change in life is that you have your children and can transition from body-image beast to doting mother.
(No seriously, I think this is how it should be if that's your case.)

Those of us without children, yet have the scars, the fat pack, the cellulite, the extra 20, well...we're just plain pissed because we earned it the selfish way. Or the lazy way. And it's more frustrating because those starvation diets that worked ten years ago don't apply now because your biological core has said, 'time's up for crazy fad crap. You lifestyle change or it's over - double digit sizes for good.'

And for women, the whole experience is compounded by the merging of biological phases and both aren't quite ready to give up yet. For instance, this is the time for hag hairs and dark circles, even the beginning of forehead wrinkles and yet you still fight acne, brush oily hair, and have to shave your legs. (unless you're a man and just don't need to do those things) :) And to make matters worse, your reproductive cycle is now out of whack and you're going through what every man went through back in high school when it comes to sex. How this transitions to cougar status, I don't know yet.

How are we supposed to feel? Men have their own issues, I'm sure. I just know the woman part a bit more intimately.

And if you're a woman, this clashing and thrashing of physiological and social changes makes you a walking, talking bomb of emotion. You need only light a match in a thirty mile radius and it's 'go time.' Suddenly, the littlest incidents and matters become cataclysmic and wait for it, you make irrational the newest fashion state.

It's the battle that will wage over the next 20 years, "I'm too young to be old, but I'm too old to be young" phase. We near-30s can't really hang with the young 20s and fit in yet we're not ready for 4 pm dinners and if you're a professional, you're not gonna be the CEO yet.

If you're in college, you're positioned in what I consider tantamount to that "I have no desire to talk in class so I'm going to pretend to take notes to fit in" part. You revert from the enthusiasm of discussion or ass-clowning that made you popular before and really, you're not ready to tap out yet either. However, your position in life has forced you to become a part of not one, but two generations and you have very little bandwidth for hearing at all, let alone making class lectures a priority.
You're too busy balancing your work load, children, and social life. The rest of your time is spent worrying about the former three along with your physical and emotional state which you constantly have to check against what everyone else is doing.

Unless you're 30 year-old expert. And if you are, call me.

The 30s and near-30s are smack dab in that crevice that separates the family people from the professional people and the 'both people' really don't weigh in until 35 when all the emotional crap is starting to subside and the path has been somewhat smoothed by those who fell before them.
(Note - this is my unchecked, unsolicited perception, nothing more.) :)

I gotta say, this whole turning 30 thing scares me to death. I have the emotional tolerance I had at 15 or 16 and yet, I have the responsibilities of a 40something. I feel like I'm perpetually playing dress-up and can't really find a costume or outfit that fits perfectly. It's reminiscent of those days in middle school when I still wasn't quite sure I was a girl until someone smacked me on the behind or whistled in my direction. At the time, I was still considering tomboy as a lifestyle which by the way, isn't the decision I made.

And I'm glad for that.

Turning 30 is a rocky time. You start questioning your decisions and yet you challenge every decision and option you had up to this point. It's the pivot point on the see-saw, your second shot at puberty. And you better make up your mind before you wake up and it's 40. (Ladies, that's the last biological tick time by the way.)

I have to tell you, honestly, I didn't think turning 30 would be a big deal for me. I can laugh about a lot of the indecisive, push-pull situations I encounter as I age, but I have found that it affects me a lot more than I'd like it to affect me. Conversations about children and careers and home life take on a heightened meaning, but that heightened state doesn't make much sense yet. I find myself questioning every decision I make, even the right ones. (Do I eat the rest of the M&Ms? Yes or no....NO.) :)
And I've started re-evaluating how people perceive me, if I am giving off the right vibes or the best impression. I've become suddenly introverted and quiet where I used to be more of a live-wire. Hmmm...

My goodness, when is it really okay not to care what other people think?! Ha ha.

And so I'm hoping that as my 30th approaches, that I'll get some of this figured out. Maybe figure out where I'm headed in a grander scheme, not just "after work, then yoga, then dinner, then study,..." and so on.

I'm at the place where the To Do list has to expand and yet, I'm not ready to change my insurance policies or buy a Buick. :) I also don't want to watch The Hills or Twitter much either. Hmmm...wait, stop...what lies between?

To me, it seems a bit of a chasm awaiting fodder for fun, discussion, and memories. And most of us are just poised to make it happen.
:)

On Turning 30: Part I - Reciprocity

In less than one month, I will turn 30 years-old. I have decided that now is the best time to write a series coined "On Turning 30." Appropriate? I think so. Over the past several months, turning over this milestone blasted to the forefront of my brain and has made everything in life seem just a bit more poignant. I remember last year saying "Thirty? No big deal. Age is a state of being." By the way, that's crap.

When a woman is about to become 30 years-old, it sets off a mindset that can somewhat shadow everyday experiences - rather - sheds a little emotional cast on things like getting groceries, going to work, driving, relationships, friendship, etc... Part one is dedicated to what I call relationship reciprocity. I've discussed this before, but as I age, my position on its necessity and importance is more serious.

Reciprocity? For those new to the concept, this means sharing, a balance set amongst or between people. It's at the core of the feng shui in any given circumstance. Let's start at the beginning...

In life, there are givers and there are takers, the latter being the easiest to define first. Why? Well, they TAKE. Whatever energy exists out there by opportunity, they seize it. Find a dollar on the sidewalk? It's theirs. You have five minutes? They'll talk. "Anyone want the other half of my sandwich?" Gone. It's that simple. These are the carpe diem people. To a degree, self-motivated and self-centered, they have to be respected because they have the innate ability to prioritize themselves, and to their credit, near or at the top, of their responsibility list. They're not out there waiting for an offer, they're just flat-out taking it. Takers aren't necessarily jerks, they're just tuned in to what they want and make that priority number one.

The yang of this equation are the givers. (Christian upbringing? You're more likely to be a giver unless some friendly atheist steered you oppositely.)

Givers are a breed of people who well, don't take. Or if they take, they take infrequently and usually take the smallest piece. The dollar on the sidewalk? They've turned it in or donated it. Your five minutes? They're all ears. Other half of a sandwich? Nah, they're not hungry. Givers are out there taking pride and joy in donating parts of themselves all over the place for the 'greater good' or the 'good of someone else.' They tend to live simply, require little of people, and take their time earning achievements. They pride 'fairness' and 'justice' and 'peace.' Unfortunately, the "I" in this equation is so far buried on the 'to do list' that givers tend to neglect themselves. They don't sleep, take personal time, or really say 'stop' when the time comes.

They make shitty managers, by the way. They're too busy worrying about how to help everyone else on the team.

What's the point? Every relationship - be it friendship, romantic, work, etc...is comprised of givers and takers. What has struck me as I approach 'middle age,' is just how much this affects whether or not any imbalance works or doesn't work in any given situation. Allow me to use an example that's close to home...

My sister and I are born and raised 'givers.' Told at an early age, "You don't hate anyone," and "Do unto others," we have both prided ourselves on being conscientious and the first to 'rush in and save someone' when needed. In school, we were the counselors for our friends. (I made this into a career, by the way.) As adults, we've found that always being reliable and responsible has gotten us, well, about 1 foot ahead of where we both were in high school. We're still the ones people want to talk to about their problems; still the ones who order the least expensive menu items; still the ones who hold our tongue for the sake of a situation...and so on. Know what? All that's earned us is one big whopping pound of resentment and frustration.

You see, givers have 'taker tendencies' only they're waiting the 'big pay off.' They're waiting to win the lottery; get the big promotion; have the rock star life by waiting patiently and doing for others, hoping it will, as they say, 'go around and come around.' Well dammit, I'm still waiting.

Does that mean the takers are perfect? Well hell no, but I have to respect their natural instinct for caring for themselves first and foremost. What my sister and I have both learned is that in doing for others our entire lives (up to this point) is that very few people really know us. People aren't compelled to ask us questions, we're too busy listening and they're too busy talking. They're not compelled to help us out with projects because well, we've already done them and submitted the finish product to everyone else for approval.

Do I have a point? I thought so when I started this blog entry, but what I have learned is the importance of balance. It becomes more significant as we age. We all want to be loved and accepted and treated as we would treat other people. And it doesn't always happen. What I've found as I reach 3.0, is that it's better to have fewer friends and more rewarding, balanced relationships than anything else. I don't' care if I do have over 300 friends on Facebook or Myspace, there are less than 100 that know me well. Less than 10 I'd call in an emergency or rely on for help. It's less about fitting in than it is about what you can get and give in relationships as you become an adult.

As I age, I'm more concerned with respect and reciprocity in relationships than anything else. I want the support of my peers and the balance in the three primary relationship facets of my life. To me, this starts with spending quality time with me (alone) and quality time with those upon whom I can depend. Perhaps you go through this yourself? I think we all do, despite age.

And I'm finding, the less I fit in, the better. I still like to give, but I now make a concerted effort to do so when I feel good about it, not just to help someone who is just going to ask me again, for help.

And for takers, it hurts a little when someone isn't there to accommodate. And for givers, it sucks that much more when you realize that once you stop giving, a relationship ends completely because the other party, well disappears.
Quick anecdote:
I had a friend once, someone I genuinely cared for and respected. I was on her speed dial for emergencies. We shared fun times. We had a blast at parties and shared mutual interests. Thing was, I made all the social plans. I set up all the conversations. I asked all the questions. One day, I stopped. Just to see what would happen.

She hasn't called me since.

C'est la freaking vie, as they say. :)

But we learn from it. Ideally, we're all a little part-giver, part-taker. We all contribute and we all take away. Check yourself.
What's your percentage?


I'm curious.

Part II to come...soon. :)

The Lunch Room's Back: Adult e-Drama

When I was in middle school, finding a place to sit during the lunch hour was the most socially awkward and difficult task during the first week of classes. As a sixth grader, I realized quickly that my elementary school pals were in different lunch periods and when gaping at a room predominantly mixed with older schoolmates, trying to find a familiar face and in turn, a seat, was a challenge.


Back then, I was five foot going on gangly and equipped with a full mouth of silver braces. I had bangs, bad clothes, and a backpack full of books that I was afraid I wouldn't have time between classes to leave behind in a locker. I was relieved when a table of seventh graders took mercy on me and beckoned me over.

These girls became my lunch pals for a semester and allowed me to adapt in a sea of unfamiliarity so that later, when I was in eighth grade, I could return the favor to another pal in good faith knowing that this positive cycle of friendship and acceptance could indeed, transcend all the nasty that can be junior high. (Mind you, this was the early 1990s so this particular breed of nasty is somewhat nostalgic.)

So forgive me if I grew up thinking one good turn deserves another. My ideological and romanticized interpretation of 'do unto others' is perhaps not the norm in today's instant gratification society (I waited 2 1/2 full years to return the favor!? What?!), but I have to say that as an adult, nothing can quite prepare you for eDrama.

The Internet, via social networking sites, has become an adult's virtual playground in which he or she can reenact being a bully, a puss, or a wallflower from middle school. We don't have the luxury of class times and teachers and principals with paddles long ago embossed and framed (when capital punishment officially died), to reign us in - keep us off each other. Can't slap your coworker or your friend for something nasty in person? Hit 'em on Myspace. Discredit them on Facebook. Blog about it. Hate a bit a more? Submit an Urban Dictionary definition just in case they ever want to date again.

Pissed because someone's more popular than you are? E-stalk them on Facebook and dig anything you can to obliterate them at work, in school, at parties, in church,...you name it. Because my goodness, someone's 'e-mood' certainly confirms what he or she is thinking second-to-second. (Hello - We have Twitter for that!)

It's bad enough that employers and potential employers plow the social networking sites, eliminating the 'chaff' from their stacks of resumes, but it's far worse to watch adults abuse one another in such a passive-aggressive manner when a simple "let's talk about it" would suffice.

Couples over-analyze daily status reports in hopes of catching one another in some misdemeanor in the relationship. Friends backbite one another and de-friend and befriend each other as the seasons change. Have an ethical issue you want to challenge your coworker about? Blog the hell out of their Facebook wall when you see political commentary. It's Facebook afterall, you can "like" anything you like and "delete" whatever you don't. Right?

Wrong. Some of these antics online are akin to shoving someone off the balance beam or giving someone a wedgie. All relegate you, as a person, to what we called at Carlin Park Elementary, "the bad box."

Have an issue with someone at church? Why tell them?! Read their Facebook or Myspace long enough and you'll achieve fodder to obtain their excommunication - get 'em thrown down from the pulpit, by God. Want to have someone excused from a committee? Look at their Myspace photos and pray for drunk ones.

It's all juvenile and pre-pubescent activity to me. And it's hilarious. Hysterical actually.
Daddy no longer needs to buy a BMW Z3 at 55 years-old, he can just get Facebook and troll the web for $75,000 less. He can spend the extra cash on a new head of hair or calf implants. (Though I beg him to take caution when the country finally, FINALLY, moves away from dial up and gets high speed. Mama's gonna have a laptop too.) They will eventually duke it out by whether or not they post "married" on their profiles.

Want to spy on your kids? A host of parents are now trolling the Internet to catch their children in the proverbial "act" all the time. (note - I think some of this is okay, frankly. It's a jungle out there!)

Not a bully by nature? Social networking sites are perfect for being a victim too! You can spend hours reading into Facebook posts hoping or thinking they're about you. You watch as two people converse and leave you out of the cyber conversation. Better yet, read into a survey your friend writes and see if the "Who's your best friend?" answer doesn't read YOU.
It's easy to hate the world when your view exists only between your seat and the 19 inches in front of you.
(computer screen, hello!)

And I have to laugh, because I've fallen into this before a few times and though I'm incredulous about how social networking has in many ways, replaced the phone, replaced email, replaced sharing in person, I see how it gets popular.
It recreates grade school for those of us who didn't quite survive it unscathed or without a few bridges left to burn.

When I was in fifth grade, someone shoved me off the balance beam. I fell off, arching wildly, slapping my back on the beam before hitting the ground in a heap. At the time, a few kids stood by and watched as I struggled to breathe before a recess monitor rushed to ensure I lived. I think today, I'll post on Facebook: "Dana Barrett got shoved of the balance beam."

Wonder how many will respond with "I like this."

Guess we're all still working on growing up a little...

:)

Goin' My Way?

Since the age of 18, I've been battling a disease commonly known as road rage. Inherited from my paternal grandfather and father, it's just one of those illnesses that sticks no matter how much incense you breathe; yoga you take; or sedatives produced. It's just there.

And I didn't get my driver's license at age 18, but to me that's when my time became way more valuable and I needed point A to yield point B far more quickly.

Over ten years later, I'm still struggling. I live in Fort Wayne, Indiana - a perpetual traffic nightmare compared with the burgs around it where you can calmly break the speed limit and only a corn stalk or a rusted out trailer will see you. That is, unless it's the end of the month, then the coppers are everywhere making quotas.

Fort Wayne driving isn't nearly the level of nerve-wracking that say, Atlanta or Chicago are, but what adds insult to injury is that it ISN'T Atlanta or Chicago. It's FORT WAYNE. An extra-large town rather than a metropolitan behemoth, Fort Wayne doesn't have the street cred for the traffic problems it has year upon year upon year upon year...

One issue that resurfaces (pardon my pun) is the construction. People will hear me complain for days about Fort Wayne's lack of construction control. My motto: do it right the first time and you don't have to redo it as frequently. Apparently Fort Wayne INDOT doesn't subscribe the same way. For proof, check out U.S. State Road 14/Illinois Road some evening if you're jonesing for Bandito's. (Which you should never jones for Bandito's.) I challenge you not to be disgusted. This project has taken nearly two years and it seems the engineers didn't "account for" the big man-made pond. Nice. Needless to say, that artery has been clogged and a consistent auto-wrecker for a long time.

Every downtown street needs a repair due to flooding, poor roadwork, or overuse. Not to mention, we've placed a traffic light at nearly every intersection save the ones where we actually need one to keep people from killing themselves (ex. Rudisill and Fairfield).

Drivers have resorted to running red lights three to four vehicles at a time as frustration levels rise with delays caused by poor-planning road work groups.

Don't start me on train tracks. Taking Thomas to Target or Jefferson Pointe? Forget it. You have to slow to 5 mph (which is damn near impossible) so that you don't lose a wheel or rattle a filling out of your mouth trying to cross. Note, there are two there in a row for you - both poorly maintained and both rickety as hell. Bonus points for catching the train there.

And you know, it's not even the road work that causes me the most frustration. It's that I can't seem to get anywhere quickly. Lunch hours are an exercise in futility. "Ma'am, I'm sorry you drove twenty minutes to get home, but we've blocked the entrance for the next four hours." Gotta tell you officer, that pisses me off. Where would you have me go? I left the stove on and in those four hours, the whole show's gonna blow. You want that on your hands?

Grandpa, I know it's Friday afternoon and you have a phone book booster seat slipping off your bum, but gas your Buick. You got a big car with a big engine that has slipped into geezer status because men like you refuse to gun the hell out of them. Try it. It's exhilarating. Blow your hair back; go 40 mph on Bass Road. I dare you.

I have to concur with BLeave on this too. Why does every 20-50 year old mom have to a) drive an enormous SUV and b) text while driving it. I mean, you're the mother bear - your cubs are in the back and here you are slowing down to send a text forward that sings Jesus Loves Me to your girlfriend back at the office who didn't take the day off to go to Von Maur. Meanwhile, your kids are getting a free amusement park ride in the back as your Escalade or Excursion swings its ass all over the freeway. Listen to the hospitals: Don't Text and Die. And your children are simply innocent victims to your mindless, MarioKart way of navigating the city. I swear if your back panel swings any closer to my car, I'm going to lose it.

So you don't know where you're going. I hear you. I still get a little turned around here in Fort Wayne because of the rivers and the constant street name changes. (Most recently, Huegenard and Hillegas) I get it. Fort Wayne's a little tricky especially if you grew up in Angola and you're panicked because you see Creighton coming up on your right. May I suggest a navigator, a map, or good old fashioned directions? This helps. Please don't crawl from block to block and then stop at intersections where you're not quite sure. You can ALWAYS turn around. Promise. Everything's gonna be alright.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! We've sat here waiting for the longest light ever to change to green and you're still sitting. Nearly forty-five seconds later, you finally get this "oooh, my turn!" gun to the gas and by the time you and the poor sap behind you get through, the rest of us are in for another long stretch of waiting. (ex. Anthony and Coliseum) To me, if you have an army of cars behind you and it's after class or after work, it's in your best interest to step on it.
(Note - soccer mom missed the light and took it red because she was texting and checking her nail polish.)

How many cops does it take to patrol one city block? I rue the day I come up behind a few police officers ( as much as I love their contribution to our city) and every driver slows to just shy of the limit to prevent being arrested. (*laughs) Worse than that, the drivers slow so they have no chance of passing a patrol car because heaven forbid we pass one. I've never seen so many drivers actively fearing the cherries and berries.
But I get it.
You don't have insurance or had three brews at lunch. Stakes are high right?
Phhhsssst.
Drive.

Farm vehicle, eh. You have an errand to run. Maybe you ran out of seed or need a specific tool from Harbor Freight, but it's a nice day so you're driving the combine to town. Dammit. Tractors are sexy, but not when they're plowing pavement at 10 mph between 5 and 6 pm.

Don't start me on mopeds. Gasoline cost is ridiculous and you got a DUI. You still have to drive to work and it's a little far. But do you have to take the fast lane and the middle? It's not fair. You'd make better time and be less of a traffic risk if you had a Big Wheel and a backpack.

Bicycles. I love biking. It's fun and allows you to get some exercise en route to and from work. But know the rules. Know where you can and cannot ride. Stay outta my way! If you're pedaling across US 930 full human speed when the light's red, I am telling you, I have the right of way. Not you. Which reminds me, where are all the kids coming from who are riding along highways on their BMX bikes?! That just doesn't seem safe to me.

Pedestrians, do me a favor. If I'm letting you and the gaggle of shoppers behind you walk through before I park at lease, LEAST, pick up your feet. I may be compelled to knock out a few stragglers if I have to wait too long. At least pretend your hurrying up because our time is mutually valuable. I wasn't put on this earth to watch you strut your stuff. I'm being courteous by not running you over. You really wanna go by Dodge Stratus? I wouldn't.

And I admit it, I'm not very nice behind the wheel. This is one of my own character flaws that causes my passengers immense discomfort as I honk the horn, yank the wheel and yell "dumpers!" and "hurry up!" and "big sh*tter!" en route to our destination. (note - the first and last phrases are shared with one of my best friends and more humorous than anything)

And I apologize to those of you whose horns I honked for you and whose passenger brakes I've squeezed. It's not you, it's me.
You have the right to be a little mad at me sometimes. I can be downright embarrassing and I've once, twice, three times earned my comeuppance. (Like the dudes in Huntington who tried to follow me home; or the old guy who tried to squash me against a guardrail at 85 mph heading north on I65 around Louisville)
I'm Sorry!

I'M SOOOOORRRRRRRRYYYYYY!

It's just me.

Anyone going my way?

On Modern Domesticity...Part 1

With Love to ACR.

One of the most intriguing and challenging, not to mention beautiful social phenomenons is the union of two individuals (or more) under the same roof - to be specific, the relationship between a couple who has just decided to move in together, be it for advancing the relationship or marriage or any other relatively interesting purpose.

What makes me laugh and sometimes makes me want to tear my hair are the little, unsuspecting 'housekeeping items' that suddenly leap from the mundane to the near-catastrophic. So to be fair, I'd say my interest here is the merging of two routines.

Love conquers all, they say.

But can Love decide if the glassware goes rim-side up or rim-side down in the cabinet? Love didn't send me the memo on peanut butter, that's for sure. I've been refrigerating mine blissfully for over ten years and didn't know that that act was 'weird.' (I have since learned only two people in the entire universe refrigerate peanut butter,...me and my mom. Go figure.) And let's be clear, Jiff is peanut butter. Skippy can take a hike. And is it creamy or chunky? What kinds of jam go with it? Seriously...you can write the blog on peanut butter alone! But I digress...

I would also like to know if Love put the word out that toilet paper goes under and not over. The jury's out on that one, I think.

Where do pans go? In the drawer beneath the oven? In the oven? In the cabinet next to or near the oven? In the pantry?

Seriously! The things you don't think about until you're...well standing in the kitchen with the Jiff or the pan in hand going "What the...?"

(*laughs)

Ah, the beauty of it. When couples decide to move in together, sure, they think about change. Change is inevitable. Thoughts shift between "I love this person so much," to "I hope she doesn't plan to bring THAT table with her," to "What if he still has that laundry pile every day," to "Oh my god, we both...have...cats."

Those things are important. You have to organize - who manages laundry the most; who cleans the disgusting cat messes; where do we store the table; how do we blend the furniture; etc. However, the issues that tend to go undetected are the tiny, personality indicators, like well, peanut butter.

Or sleeping patterns. Do you sleep with the TV on or off all night? Do you have a comforter? Do you sleep nude or in PJs? What time do you get up? Who gets the bathroom first? How many outlets does a woman really need? Why does it take her over an hour to get ready? How can he possibly be ready in ten minutes? Oh my God, is that a MUD MASK?!

And so it goes...

I have to laugh at all this realizing that most of this is reflective of my own current life at home. And frankly, I love it. The little challenges are hilarious at times and at others, well,...a step outside the comfort zone. I swear, I didn't mean to put the porcelain toothbrush holder in the dishwasher. I know it says not to on the bottom....well, now I do.
(Ha ha ha.)

And I'm fortunate to have a fun-loving boyfriend who is quick-witted enough to handle the issues even when they are a bit volatile. When I'm Fe-motional,
Me: "Are these eggs in the fridge fresh?"
His reply: "ARE YOURS?"

It's too funny.

Tempers light, words exchange, relationships are questioned over silliness like bed sheets, trash day, pets and pet behaviors, and all other such nonsense that we often take for granted daily until our loved ones point out "What the hell are you doing?"

Do you need to clean the lint trap every time?
YES!

Shower curtain open all day or closed?
You decide.
The jury's out in our house.

Bread? White or wheat?
Protein enriched or fiber enhanced?
Salted or unsalted butter?
Is bacon a food group of its own?!

Don't even start me on toothpaste. I'm a habitual squeezer and my boyfriend's a roller. Honestly, I need that controlled chaos for survival.
And yes, I'm serious.
And even our regular server at Henry's knows I'm loony tunes on that one.
But it's me.

And I reflect on these items humorously and seriously because it serves not only as the indicator of relationship strength between two people, but also indicates the willingness to compromise. Nothing is more precious than one's daily routine.
To each man or woman, that routine MAKES SENSE.

Even mine, which I acknowledge readily is a bit, well...crazy.
But I will never part with my cold peanut butter.
It's lovely and doesn't have the oily film on it.

To me, how a couple merges their daily routines is key number 2 or 3 on the relationship priority. It's the cog to the wheel phenomenon that allow couples to merge as a force, if you will, on a day-to-day existence. Sure, many will say meeting emotionally, physically, and intellectually is priority one, and I agree, but consider how much weight rides on the amount and temperature of water in your morning shower and whether or not you can or can't park in the garage.

And my goodness, what if your partner sees you in your granny panties or your real face after the make-up is completely off? What if she finds your porn collection, guys? Or how will she feel about watching Spongebob and eating cereal for dinner? What will he say when your cat rips his $2,000 sofa or jumps on his face at 3 AM?

These are all very significant and hilarious instances as you come together as a unit and move your relationship up a notch. This is the real stuff, the life stuff, the we-grow-in-love stuff that honestly makes life worth the tumultuous ride.

Sure, it's romantic and for me, a wonderful life. But what makes the dynamic between two newly merged individuals is how it's not about the rent or the lack of date nights, but whether or not the peanut butter is at its most perfect consistency.

Happy Co-habitating!

"We've decided to start trying..."

One thing I've always had difficulty understanding is the social conversation that goes a little something like this...

Person 1: "So, when are you two going to have children?"

Couple: "We've talked about it a lot especially now that the wedding stuff is over."

Person 1: "And?"

Couple (shared look, googly eyes): "Well, we've decided to start trying."


I. Don't. Get. It.

"We've decided to start trying," conjures up a host of meanings that exceed the realm of child-creation; however, for the purpose of staying on task, let's explore this particular topic first. Really folks, what you're telling the audience - presumably friends, parents, family members, random people in the grocery store - is this: "We're having more sex lately. It's with each other. We're also adding a schedule, position regimen, and have eliminated all forms of birth control."

*Shudder.

WHY does anyone have to know this?! To me, the important fact that seems press-worthy is the ensuing pregnancy or birth. You know, something short and fun like "We're pregnant" or "We're going to have a baby." Yeah, that seems appropriate.

Not "We're trying."

Eeeew.

It strikes me as something as regoddamdiculous as a Persian princess cat wearing a lime football helmet. WHO CARES?

Perhaps I'm a little too results-oriented, but frankly, when couples say they're trying to conceive, all it does is broadcast a mating ritual unique unto itself. It's like saying "We're having sex, more lately, and it's very different from what you're doing. I mean, we're trying."

Uh huh. Sounds like white paper sheets and sample cups to me.

Why not just share the happy news when it gets to that point? And please, don't show me your ovulation monitor. It ticks off my feminist ovaries who are somewhat timid of today's technology.
(and child birth, to be honest)

I don't know want to know if it's 'that time' and you need to leave our lunch date to go home and get your 10 minute swerve on and I certainly don't want to know if your man is now wearing boxers instead of briefs.
(Sorry guys, she tells.)

I have to say, I love children. I think they're great. I even think motherhood and parenthood is cool. I just don't understand this one particular socially accepted topic of conversation. I mean, it just seems so...PRIVATE - perhaps an experience best shared between the two, like-minded individuals with the same objective at hand. Or well....you get the idea.

All I hear when "We've decided to start trying" is "We're doing it more, likely more than you are, and it's a lot more prescribed and kinky than ever before."

Yikes.

Call me old-fashioned or even a bit prude, but honestly, most of us have the know-how (not always the resource depending on health). What we'd rather hear about is the progress after conception to say, year 18 or more.

Sometimes, I feel like an alien...

This blog is itemized for convenience.
Sometimes, while living in Indiana, I feel like an alien in my own community for the following reasons...

Justified or not, I believe it's indicative of quickly approaching "I'm turning 30 countdown."

In the Midwest I can be classified as alien because...

1. I'm nearly 30 and am not married.

2. I've never had a baby and unlike some I'm not "working on it." (A future blog will be about the phenomenon of "We're trying.") :) (Giggles- I can't wait to write that one now!)

3. My career and education have become an almost obsessive compulsion which freaks me out sometimes.

4. I don't have a minivan or an SUV.

5. I don't own a home.

6. I don't tan well.

7. I can't play euchre.

8. I don't have a Wii or a game system.

9. I just learned to play Corn Hole and Hillbilly Golf.

10. I've never been to The Brass Rail or the Shang.
(Yes, I'm laughing.)

11. I drive a Dodge Stratus. (This makes me weird all by itself.) Hee hee.

12. I only have one credit card and hate online banking.

13. I do not harbor any affections for Dale Earnhart, Jeff Gordon, or Peyton Manning.
Don't care. Just...don't...care.

14. I HATE Budweiser.
Worst beer EVER.

15. Car seats for children intimidate me. Seriously. I am afraid I'll do it wrong.
Everytime.

16. White bread makes me feel like throwing up.
Wonder Bread....eeeewww gross.

17. I am not a Wal-martian. Let's be clear.

18. I didn't vote for Obama.

19. I won't read manuals for things like cars, cell phones, cameras. I can't use any appliance or technology trinket to its full potential because of it.

20. I'm beginning to loathe Country music.

21. I don't think your tractor is sexy.
And I realize just how old that saying is.
I don't dig Kenny Chesney either. See #20.

22. Twilight didn't do it for me.

23. Bachelorette parties scare me to death. Dead serious.
I mean...why does everything have to be made of wieners!?

24. I don't drink Oliver wine.

25. I see now need for a 'souped up' Chevy, Dodge, or Ford truck.
Why the wheels have to outsize the frame, I will never know.
:)

Until next time, Nah-noo, nah-noo.
Beam me up.

:)

Why Most Women Make Me Mad: Part II

Greetings from Planet Indiana! I thought I'd continue in the spirit of my previous blog today. My disclaimer here is that a) I am a woman and thus more frequently than not, piss myself off, and b) well, this blog is meant to be a tad tongue-in-cheek and by no means are men exempt from my path of consternation and frustration. (*winks)

What bothers me about Midwestern women this week is nothing short of the trivial. In my previous blog, I touched on our tendency to predatory protectiveness; our nasty back-biting, gossipy, middle school politics; and inability to just plain be direct. Bottom line - we're competitive, like it, but are conditioned to be ashamed of it be it by our mothers, or this lilac-scented doctrine we all believe exists, but likely doesn't. (Barf.)

Anyhoo... the following things I've noticed about Midwestern women (think tri-state area specifically) that make me crazy are as follows. Enjoy! It's meant to give you a laugh...

1. We ACTUALLY buy floral-printed, obnoxiously loud, cloth handbags and call it fashion. We literally fight one another (the only time I've been hit with a 2-ton garbage bag) at this flipping annual sale so we can buy fifteen Cherub Pink duffel bags. I've seen more brutality and cat fighting here than any small town, biker bar.

And to the woman who informed me that the 'display table' items were ALL HERS? Oh...My...Gosh. Take 'em. They're yours. I'd rather keep my fingers and eyes in place, thank you. Eeek.

2. We paint our toenails, talk on our cell phones, text, brush our hair, read a book, and change our iTunes channels while driving. Sometimes we have children in the backseat. And we wonder why our husbands, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, all yell "I'll drive," when we're about to go out together. HELLO!

(Please note, I have clinically self-diagnosed, unbridled road rage. Take that for what it's worth.)

And when we're over 80 years old, we try to multitask and drive with cataracts and six phone books under our rears so we can hope to view oncoming traffic.

3. We pierce our belly buttons. Still. That's so 1998.

4. A Coach bag is a somehow an Indiana status-symbol. Ladies, we have outlets for that up here. A $250 purse is nothing in LA or New York. Buy for style, comfort, and function. Otherwise, you're shortchanging yourself over the letter C. And the cool Coach bags are the ones that don't have Cs emblazened all over them.

5. We constantly talk about diet and exercise like we're experts, just haven't 'gone jogging' or 'been back to the yoga studio' in a long time. Ladies, admit it. We sometimes sit in front of the TV and eat Oreos by the handful. It happens. Quit justifying the dimples in your thighs. The men aren't even looking there yet. (Ha ha!)

6. We actually watched Twilight.
Now, I'm SORRY, but that movie was a dumper. I can't speak to the books and I know lots of women love them, but the film...come on! That movie is class A high school stuff and if you're over 18, well... (Moms who watched Twilight with their children are exempt.)

And no, I DO NOT feel I have to justify my appreciation for Spongebob Squarepants. Now THAT's middle of the road, adult and child-friendly fun!

7. We scoff at each other for stupid reasons. "She doesn't have kids." "She's a stay-at-home mom." "She gained weight." "She had the most hideous shirt on." "She actually took him back." Etc Etc.

Why do we hate on each other all the time? That's right!

We're insecure.

And honestly, I'm guilty too. WE REALLY NEED TO BE EMPOWERED and quit comparing ourselves with other women. Think of all that time lost and the wrinkles earned!

8. We start sh*tstorms amongst each other.
More of us should take yoga, meditate, go to church, pray, or self-evaluate.
I have a list going...

9. Sometimes, we smell bad.
(Come on! Laugh!)

Ever been to a ladies' room? Ever smelled about six of us coming straight from the Macy's perfume aisle? (and note-we likely got hosed against our will) Ever been to Bath and Body Works for more than ten minutes?

Yep. We smell bad sometimes.
Workout smell doesn't count. That's just not fair. Guys get that too.

10. We try to be like our daughters. Or we think we're on The Hills. Or The OC. Or Friends. Or My Super Sweet 16.

WE ARE NOT those women.
We do NOT want to be those women.
Those women have a whole other set of issues we don't.

11. We think the guys are the only ones responsible for birth control. Wrong. Yeah, we have the short end of the stick (pardon my language), but it takes two to either make or not make a baby. (And babies are wonderful too!) Don't get me started on the 'man trap' philosophy.

12. On the flip side, we let guys be the boss of us.
STOP THAT too!

13. We are too delicate to kill a bug, change a tire, climb a mountain, play a game, or eat ribs.
That's just insanity.
Just do it.
(Thank you, Nike.)

We can make the money; climb the mountain; get the job; volunteer; eat the bug; change a rib (ok, maybe not); etc. Self-reliance is awesome. And hot.

14. We pout.
It's cute for about five minutes.
It gets ugly when we call three of our friends to spread it.

15. We wear granny panties.
Now this is one I can't fathom. Those are of the 'mom jean' and 'toe-truck' fame. No woman can rock grannies, real grannies, well. Invest in some cute, comfortable underthings. Guarantee you can feel sexy while cleaning up mashed Cheerios or doing payroll. You don't have to buy 'em in celophane 6packs anymore. I promise.


Wishing you a beautiful weekend, ladies! Laugh with me. We have a lot to be happy about too!

Why Most Women Make Me Mad: Part 1

I hate to say it, ladies, but in 1920, we won the right to vote for President. Along with that right came a flood of others that, if you really put your mind to it, make us the equal counterpart to men.

What does that have to do with anything?

It's simply this: The time for punching each other in the face and getting disputes over with has arrived and has been overdue for many years. Sure, we're the more delicately featured and attractive sex, but let's face it, when it comes to arguing and disagreeing amongst ourselves, well we just plain suck at it.

And we usually take down a lot of innocent bystanders along the way.

The advent of the social networking site compounds the already traditional 'lunch table mentality' we adhere to by making your online status the equivalent to whether you do or do not have the coolest pair of jeans (Guess or Breakers, in my childhood era) or your period at the time of transmission.

It's shit.

And it's horribly addicting. It's a female social experiment gone horribly wrong. We're so confused between being socially acceptable and polite and our natural urge to stand up for ourselves that we breed passive-aggressiveness all over the GD place.

For example, on Facebook:

Gwen feels like smiting.

Looks harmless enough, though Gwen knows that her friends know that this 'smite' remark revolves around something that someone supposedly said to someone else behind someone's back and around the same time that someone told so-and-so that same thing, but differently.

Well Gwen, go smite someone you mighty mighty smiter. Smote them!
Frankly, go smite yourself.

Or, on Myspace,

Michele thinks everyone should just get along and take the high road.

This was my path at one point, trying to be the proverbial cyber-yogi that I aspire to be, but honestly, all it does is piss off the angry women.

So what makes us angry?
Let's look at that shall we?

-Don't touch 'our men' or bake them cookies, smile at them, look in their general direction, text them, wear anything relatively provocative around them, and above all, don't add them on your online social site. Note - we've already peed on them and they are OURS.
(*laugh with me here)

-Never look better than I do in public. It's almost okay if we're hanging out just the few of us, but never in public like a club, restaurant, concert, etc. It guarantees you more attention than me.

-Don't talk above me. If you know bigger words or better sentence structure, tone it down. It's mocking.

-Always agree.
If you don't, hold it in until you find someone else to agree with you and then never tell me you feel differently.

-If you lose any weight, I'll murder you in your sleep or will acne on you. It's that simple.

-You really shouldn't have more or better than me: property, children, assets, etc.
I mean, envy is a sin, but if we joke about it then it's not really a slam, see?

-Never 'friend' anyone online that I wouldn't. And NEVER talk to them!

-Never be "one of the guys." If you are, then you have an 'in' the rest of us don't have and we can't compete with it.

These are just a few slights not to mention the 'near-slights' and the 'she-might-of-saids' over the years that tear us up and down and spit us into the mouth of girl world and right out the ass of 'this is a piece of crap.'

Women piss me off sometimes. I'm sorry, but it's true. And we're all guilty of it sometimes.
I tend to take the 'holier than thou' approach with the canned "I'm not getting involved; and Oh, I totally understand, but I'm not going to take sides," etc. Barf.

Newsflash - I typically have a side.
Most people do.
Accept it.
It's just likely not the side anyone wants to be on. (Muah ha ha ha...)

And to get back to what I mentioned earlier, if we were guys, we'd get mad, punch each other, and then go have a beer.
Isn't that how we were all designed? Why can't we just do this?!
But we're too caught up in this battle of the 'right thing' versus the 'in thing' and it's someplace between "oh no she didn't, I'm gonna post this on Facebook" and "see if I invite her to my bachelorette party."

When I say women, I mean, WOMEN.
Adults.
Real ones.
Ones who are moms, professionals, caregivers, wives, girlfriends, counselors, public servants...Yep...we're caught up in the B.S. of gossip which gave us a bad name way back when when the equivalent to whore was 'hussy' and 'floozie' and dried up old bag equated to 'old marm.'

You can bet your ass Ma Bell stirred the shit back then.
"Elsie, you will not believe what just came through about the Gilberts' third boy. He has a boil on his butt and you know what that means!"

You get my point.

And then we sit around with our martinis and rum-n-cokes and cranberry vodkas (or if you're me, a bottle of red) and wonder why the hell men go on 'man dates,' wanna fly to Vegas; wanna spend hours in the garage or studio; or have 'boys night."
It's because we are horribly mean to one another...ON PURPOSE.

I don't get it and I'm a woman too. And we target the women who are successful and happy most when we're hormonal and feeling sour. Self-improvement, ladies; self-improvement.

I'm not saying when we're mad or feeling catty that we should just go up and swat the offender and take off - rather, how about a conversation or a discussion, or even a direct argument to close the lid on this stuff? So she said something about me behind my back, well, I want to hear it from her, not ten other people with a version they found on the web and edited for content!

The root of our anger - our inability to communicate without a) fearing hurting someone's feelings and b) wanting to hurt someone's feelings. Ultimately, we do both. Honestly, we just don't want the rap of someone who 'did that' to someone else so we sugar coat, lie, talk around, and back-stab to avoid 'blame' or retribution.

WHY?!

It destroys our ability to trust each other and it places us squarely in the patriarchal conundrum we had before - reliant on approval and support from men who most times, can get along all on their own.

Perhaps we are the weaker sex sometimes?

On the other hand, if you had your period 12 times a year for what feels like three weeks at a time or have experienced childbirth (or both), well you might be pissy too.

Laugh a little. This stuff we do sometimes can be funny.
:p

Familiar Rant: What is with Women & Public Bathrooms!?

If I've said it once, I've said it a million times...

Women are gross.

Rather - they can be and prove to be on a regular basis, particularly when it comes to public restrooms.

I simply don't get it. We stand together, united in misery, as we endure long lines at ballgames, malls, museums, concerts, bars, etc...all complaining in unison about the wait and ultimately the disgusting condition of the bathroom once we 'get in.'

And yet, we do this to ourselves.
Note - not every single woman does or has the propensity to destroy a public bathroom, but frankly, enough of us are doing it that it's just plain ruining the experience for everyone - to the point where we're spending the entire time nose-plugging and delicately attempting to avoid skin-to-surface contact with damn near everything.

I've witnessed it first-hand and it's not always who you'd think it'd be.

About a year or so ago, I went to Snickerz Comedy Club in Fort Wayne with friends. While waiting in line to use the bathroom with about twenty other lady hopefuls, I watched as two well-dressed (think evening wear) and well-coiffed women exited their stalls and began to wash their hands in the sink.
Get this- rather than using the paper towels readily available near the sink (or maybe it was an air dryer), these two holier-than-thou fashionistas stood together, in front of all of us, and playfully made a show out of shaking their wet hands all over the sink, the mirror, the counter, etc.

What in the barbarity is that all about!? Why does anyone think that's okay!?

Now, when you wonder how any woman can get water and soap ALL OVER EVERYTHING so that there isn't a clean surface on which to set your purse, well blame it on these two. They make a sport of making a GD mess - laughing and flinging their filth water all over the place. And may I also add, that Snickerz is an over-21 club and these two exceeded my age (judging by wrinkle to style ratio) by about ten years!
(Sigh - I'm nearly 30 years old now.)

So there's answer number one. Some women think it's actually okay to splash everywhere despite being of mature age and competence. Think kindergarten in stilettos.

Secondly, WHAT IS WITH THE WAY SOME WOMEN USE THE BATHROOM!?
I want to know how in the world women can well, do their business, everywhere but in the toilet.
I hate using our office bathroom where it takes me anywhere from one to five attempts at a stall to find one remotely sanitary enough to use.
Women miss the waste basket placed especially there for their delicate use; miss the 'hole' where, I'm sorry, even in 'hovercraft mode,' you can still do it; or just plain leave their stench or mess for the next person.
Note - if it doesn't go down on the first kick to the flush handle, DO IT AGAIN!

Hovering is difficult a task enough and it's far worse to do so fearing a weakening calf muscle and plummeting in horror onto the excrement below. I mean, what happens if one actually does fall!? *Shudder.

And seat covers? Yeah right, that's good for a stray hair or two (which I don't get at all, but whatever), but does a lady really want that foulness seeping through the paper onto her rear?! NO!!!!

Seriously. I hate to be crass and rather open about this topic, but frankly, it's got to stop! If every woman took care to clean up after herself and by default, any of her children, then these bathrooms wouldn't be the modern day equivelant to an outhouse.

Or worse.

As Susan Powter once screamed, STOP THE INSANITY!

It's bad enough that we ladies have the eternal 'tough love' when it comes to bathroom-related procedures and by making a stanky, barbaric mess we only compound the natural issue it already is. (I mean, the divine powers did dictate that we sit rather than...!? Well?!)

I don't get it. I don't get bad manners in public in general, especially restroom behavior, and I certainly don't understand poor hygiene. I almost feel a sense of maternal responsibility when I observe women defaming the public bathroom. If we're truly the more feminine and delicate sex, then ACT LIKE IT dammit.
Quit flinging bodily whatevers around and throwing trash on the floor. Quit stuffing feminine hygiene products where they certainly don't belong (who is doing this!?) and masterfuly wash your hands, in WARM to HOT water!
Carry sanitary wipes in the event that the sink is a disaster as a back up plan so you can keep from infecting the world with the dissentary.

To add - to the woman (women) who keep feeling it's appropriate to bathe yourself in cologne or perfume in the bathroom - Just Don't.
We don't all like your scent and honestly, hosing down in Clinique Happy amidst the stench, well it just complicates an already torturous experience.

*Eyes water, tears emerge.

So, stop. Right where you are. Wash your hands. (I've seen some of you escape and return to work without doing this and yeah that's right, I sent my salad back because of it.)
Throw the diaper in the garbage can, NOT on the floor behind the toilet.
Sanitize the diaper changing station or hell, go do it in your car because we both know it's cleaner.
That is, if you can.
Flush 'til the water runs clean again. (Some gas station bathrooms, well...you do what you can.)
Wash your hands and gently shake them dry in the sink before drying them.
Maybe even try wiping up your own mess if you miss the sink.

Keep your purse on your shoulder if possible. Or hold it between your knees. Ever see that 20/20 about how much grime and bacteria live on the bottom of your clutch? Yep. True.

Flush the toilet seat cover or throw it away. I DON'T WANT YOURS.

Well, this is where I stop, because now I'm getting all worked up and realizing that my break is coming...and the bathroom here progressively growing stinky as the day goes on.

Ladies, act like the women we are designed to be or don't go at all. Hold it 'til your home or regress to potty training. I've seen toddlers handle the bathroom a lot better than you do!

Happy cleansing.

On particular relationships...

Most of the time we tend to focus on the relationships "that matter most," particularly when we use that term in conversation. You hear "relationship" and typically you think - spouse, boyfriend/girlfriend, family, friendship, spiritual, etc.

But what often gets lost in the fray are those relationships, that until you step out of bounds or are reconnected with them, you tend to not think about all that much.

In the past 24 hours, I've noted three relationships that I certainly play a partner in that I too often take for granted until presented with something outside the bounds of 'the norm.'

First, I had dinner with a friend at Henry's last night. Instead of my usual table, where I sit nearly weekly now with my boyfriend, I joined my pal at the bar for dinner. To my surprise, the waitress (or server if you're socially conscious) rounded the corner of the bar and exclaimed: "Dana, you're cheating on me? With another bartender?!"

Our server at Henry's is awesome. She makes a point to remember our names; is conversational; and often interjects some valuable humor or insight into each dining (or drinking) experience. Truth is, I kind of love her for that. :) But it never occured to me that within that relationship exists a loyalty (ie. Dana at Henry's = always sit in her section).

She was very good-humored last night and we joked a bit about my sitting in another seat; but it got me thinking about relationships and how sometimes we aren't cognizant enough of our own roles within them.

I still love her a little. :)

Today, I got my hair trimmed up and lightened. Recently, I've been visiting a salon in Angola only when I'm up there and particularly because the stylists there are hometown acquaintances I feel know my hair and style likes/dislikes. I also go to Namaste salon for two other reasons: the cost/quality ratio and it gives me a great reason to visit my hometown and family.

However, I do work with stylists at home, here in Fort Wayne. I love them too. They do a great job and are friendly, just like those I visit back in Atown. Unfortunately, when the economy tanks (note - not 'this economy' as my phrase) I have to factor in cost as well.

But my relationship to my hair stylists is one of loyalty as well. For one, I feel a sense of guilt, say 'cheating,' every time I don't go to my familiar stylist in Fort Wayne or vice versa. I feel like I'm cheating, or worse, "seeing someone else on the side," when in fact, my whole goal is to still treat myself within the confines of my budget.

I've also changed stylists in the past or they've left for other opportunities and I recall feeling a sense of loss each time akin to "now who will I open up to?"

Getting your hair, nails, brows, etc. done is definitely much like dating. You go out in public with your hair done knowing that if you run into another stylist, he/she will know you've strayed. There's anxiety, risk, guilt, and of course the trust placed in the relationship that yields those feelings. (These professionals have irons and blades to your head and neck!)

You trust in them to not cut you, not wax too much, not burn your scalp, or accidently slice your neck moles off - so inevitably, the relationship is a serious one.

And the guilt and anxiety is most often on the customer because we want to please our stylists and make them our friends - not only because we don't want to be maimed (lol), but also because they become wonderful people with whom to share anywhere from 30-130 minutes of great conversation each time.

Ever get a bad haircut and fear telling the stylist? Did you tip her/him anyway? Bet ya did. Not only is the relationship sensitive enough that you harbor guilt and shame for not liking the end result, but that you actually feel compelled to over-compensate despite wanting your hair shaped up, a different color, or bottom line - it just doesn't look like what you'd hoped.

Relationship scenario here? "Do these pants make me look fat?" The answer is always "no" to this and when getting your style on, the answer is always "I love it." And you say so, because you like your stylist and want them to be just as happy with their work as they are you.

I know, sounds crazy, but it's true. :)

Lastly, after having my hair done last week, I went to my hometown dentist who I've been seeing for checkups since I was probably 12 years-old. Dr. Williams and his staff ALWAYS does a good job and I have what I would call a set of healthy, pretty chompers. Last fall, my employer changed dental insurance plans and my provider now covers less-to-zero with Dr. Williams' group. Hmmmm...I thought this through. I put off my annual checkup for nearly six months only to 'give in' and go back to his office despite the risk of added cost.

I mean, how can I switch dentists now?!
I owe Dr. Williams for my big smile and lack of gingivitis right? I can't cheat on the guy that always gave me an extra-soft toothbrush (which by the way, is damn near impossible to find in mainstream stores) and the shortened fluoride treatments. He's also the guy who tells me "You don't have yellowing teeth...you're just fair-skinned." How can you not appreciate a guy who says that when you know full well you drink a pot of full-flavored, dark roast every morning!? :)

I have a little anxiety about the impending bill.
But I never strayed in this relationship and I feel good about that.

So think about it...relationships are out there in various shapes and forms and sometimes it takes a little thinking and reflecting to realize just how many relationships you have! I've built relationships with car dealerships, non-profit organizations, work colleagues, nail technicians, sports teams, and on and on and on...

It's hard work you see, being faithful all the time in this respect.
Particularly when it crosses that line so often referred to as "the customer is always right."

Methinks no.

Two sides...

There are two sides to this coin - the incredulous commentator who posts here and the creative writer who documents life a bit more uniquely.

Just as a sidebar and for those who want to put 'two and two' together...

http://serendipityspirals.blogspot.com

A little more perspective the unnaturally curious mind.

Bon apres-midi.

Why Buying Bathing Suits Makes Me Sweat...

Like most women my age, I love to shop. I frequent the outlet malls, boutiques, and all locally famous merchandise monstrosities just like everyone else in hopes of landing a bargain - say a pair of name brand jeans for less than $20 or a bag-full from the Victoria Secret Semi-Annual Sale.

But...

Nothing makes me boil more than having to shop for swimsuits. (I nearly wrote swimming suits only to delete it thinking it's bad form to counter the normal Midwestern lingo.)

After my morning appointment, I stopped by Von Maur at Jefferson Pointe hoping to find a well-made swimsuit at a decent price before heading off to work. (Note - I had the luxury today of getting a lunch hour before 11 AM.)

My body temperature began to rise just in noting that Von Maur (and all other JP stores with exception to Barnes & Noble and Bed, Bath, and Beyond) doesn't open until 10:00 AM. That's a story for another day. By 10 AM, I had roamed the permimeter of the mall twice in 88 degree heat awaiting a precious 30 minute period in which I could buy a suit for an evening swimming date.

Yes, I know I'm crazy. I'm nodding with you here.

I entered the store promptly at 10 AM set on my mission and headed directly to the women's swimming section. As I perused the clearance rack (note: Von Maur clearance = GAP or JCrew full price cost), I realized that one reason this section was marked "Clearance" was because NONE of the tops and bottoms matched. Figures.

I grabbed a few that "would work" and glanced at the full price bathing suits. (Note: full price at Von Maur = $100+ per suit/top & bottom, priced separately.) I snagged a basic black one from this area noting the price only of the top and headed for the dressing room.

I think this is the part of the story where I should insert obliging and compassionate notations about the benefit of loving one's body "as is" and how "all women are beautiful in their own way" etc.
But I'm not going to do that. We've all heard it.

And none of us buy into that crap, particularly when we're shopping for bathing suits.
(I'm risking lumping the female gender into one note here, but forgive me if it's 'not you.')

Bathing suits suck no matter how you slice 'em. Inevitably, the top is too small or the bottoms too big or the fabric too stretchy or not stretchy enough or too revealing or too marmish or too lumpy or too stringy or there's too much boob or too little bum or too much belly to nonexistent fabric to flabbity arms to leg jiggle versus back fat versus thigh jiggle compounded by boob popping and....well you get the point.

Bathing suit shopping sucks. Especially in a 30 minute window.
Makes me wonder how men get off so easily (pun not intended here) by only having to wear 'swimming trunks' which are realistically big baggy shorts. Who made baggy shorts hot on men and hideous on ladies? I dunno.
Then again, we all cringe (despite cultural acceptance) at the occasional 'banana hammock.'

After trying on two suits - JUST TWO - I had a perpetual drip coming from my hair line and visible only to me. The dressing room was hot; my body noncompliant; and my deodorant too fresh to avoid white-washing every dark fabric that came into contact with my general upper arm region.

(*insert over-dramatic sigh)

Four suits later, I came out and greeted the old marm who had been waiting on me to select something. (I gathered that she heard me huffing and stomping in my dressing room for twenty minutes.)
I showed her one suit with deodorant already on it, proclaiming it was not mine (which I can't really say for certain) and asked if I could buy it anyway, perhaps with some help on how to get the marks off.
She obliged me.

I also bought the fully priced black ensemble, because of course that one fit - perfectly.
Go figure.

The bill came out to...well, I'm not going to say. I have the receipt. I have two bathing suits - one sans deodorant marks, one with. Both fit - I think.
Neither make me look 'hot' or what I would call remotely feminine, a term reserved only for the string bikini wearers out there.
(I graduated to tankini three years ago.)

Sidebar - the "tankini" is the fashion industry's answer to the nightmare that can be the "one piece" suit though honestly, depending on cut/style/approach, the impression is the same.


Ultimately, I made my purchases within the 30 minute time frame, but not without ruining my hair, my scent and sense of smell (Von Maur was unnaturally warm inside.), and a unprecedented 'delete' in my checking account. (I typically buy swimwear at www.JCrew.com)

Why does it make me sweat? You mean aside from inconvenience, range of difficulty, temperature, and cost? Frankly...it's the fact that we ladies have to wear them at all.

But more on that another time when I wax poetic on being pigmently challenged and women's body images. (*maniacal laughter)

Happy Sunning!

Greetings from the Brink...

Welcome to the brink, friends!

This is my first honest, unadulterated, and focused blog since Myspace circa 2007. Consider it a revival with a little more "snap and pop" than the first one. Gone are the sentimental niceties applied for placating scorned Myspace friends and here to stay are my tried and true perspectives on life as some of us live it here in Fort Wayne, Indiana and the surrounding communities.

And more realistically, you get a no-holds-barred depiction of what it's like to be a 29 year-old (aka damn near 30) professional woman living on the fringes of the conservative Bible belt and ultimately surviving - marginally scarred. (*insert nervous laugh)

So welcome friends, colleagues, family members, critics, nay-sayers, arch-nemesises, etc! Enjoy!

To kick this off, much as I've done in the past, I leave you with this quote:

"Women who behave seldom make history."