Just pull the trigger

My son's backpack is falling apart. It had great reviews and I thought because it was made of canvas, there would be less chance of it coming apart at the seams. The bag itself is still intact. It is the connection to the straps that has come undone. Of course, the problem is that the purchase was for my son. He is the single most destructive force in the universe. He doesn't mean to be. He's a fiddler. Not the musical instrument type fiddler but a never-have-idle-hands type of fiddler.

I've seen him mindlessly destroy money, tickets, toys, or random things just laying in his path. It's like he enjoys the feel of something coming apart. He once destroyed a chamois that I use to wipe down the shower in my bathroom. He only showered in there once. When I came to my shower later, it was a little pile of sad chamois fragments. He didn't even remember that he had done it!

I can't fault him too much about it because I used to be just that kind of kid. Well, maybe not to that extreme. Once my brother Norman had mixed up our lunch tickets. Older kids got larger portions of food than the 2nd graders, which I was, so theirs cost a little more. He realized his mistake and by first recess came to my classroom to trade tickets. By that point (really, no more than 2 hours) I had reduced his lunch ticket into pulp. And I couldn't help it! I remember having the conflicting emotions of knowing that my brother would be furious with me if I messed up his ticket, but also being afraid that I'd lose the ticket, so I checked it multiple times to make sure I knew where it was. I also remember the amazement I had when I realized how damaged it had gotten. Like it happened all on its own. I wasn't aware that I was messing that ticket up with my frequent checking on it. The mere fact that I had it in my possession meant that it was going to be destroyed.

My boy is incredibly hard on stuff -- like the world is just not big enough for him. This is a kid that managed to break a hole in the bottom of a plastic milk jug, not notice, and proceed to put the milk jug back in the fridge. Picture that mess for a second. You try living with that.

So back to the backpack.

I decided to get him a new one. Found one on Amazon.com that had over 350 reviews and was ranked at 4.75 stars or so. Pretty great. But there were about 20 colors to choose from and nothing is worse than having your mom pick colors for you. How are you supposed to express your individuality but still allow yourself to blend in with the crowd if your mom picks your gear? So I foolishly waited for him to come home to pick the color of the backpack.

He is a worse shopper than me.

First, he dismissed my choice in back pack immediately. Said that it was ugly no matter the color. Then he went on to search for the best rated back packs out there. He managed to get his choice narrowed down to 2 different ones. Then he had to read reviews and watch the videos describing the two finalists.

o. m. f. g.

A good hour later, this was our conversation

Me: Just buy one already!

Him: No, I don't want to regret my choice. I'm just checking more reviews.

Me:  Just make a decision and suck on the teat of regret like all the rest of us do.

How many times did your mother counsel you to suck on the teat of regret? I'm guessing not a lot. But that was exasperation talking. Especially when he found out that his number one pick was out of stock so he went with number two anyway.

We'll see how long this one lasts.

 

 

 

Anything you say or do

Conversation with my son:

Me:  You should say something nice about my picture on Facebook.
Him:  Why?
Me:  It would increase your esteem amongst the mothers of the girls you might want to date.
Him:  It might not. Their mothers may not like you. So if I say something nice about you on your Facebook then they won't like me. If they like you, then probably like me anyway. I can only decrease my esteem with the moms of girls I might want to date. 

I guess he's right.

Who knew fishing for compliments could be so hard?

If you don't know me by now...

Facebook doesn't know me very well.

Not that I really want the kind of weird brain probe market research to work at all, but you'd think it would be sort of in the ball park. Like if I post about my kid's soccer game, they'd have ads about sports gear on the side bar. Or if I write congratulations on your new baby, there'd be ads for Babies R Us popping up on the side bar.

But today there was utter fail.

Earlier in the day, I was trying to look up an old friend. I entered his name (he happens to be African American) and I picked one of the results to see if it was the right guy. It wasn't. I was unsuccessful. No big. Then later, one of my friends was complaining that she bought Easter candy only to realize that she'd given it up for Lent. I responded that she should remember that you're not supposed to indulge until Easter any way.

So now, Facebook puts up ads for Christian dating services catering to older people who are African American. I get the Christian thing. I even sort of get the black guy thing. But the senior thing?

Really?

My new toy

I have always fought my hair. When I was little, I had my Lil'T's hair. It was straight, silky smooth, and I wore it long. But this was in the age of Farrah Fawcett. I wanted hair that was wavy and feathered. Growing up in Hawaii, if I attempted to curl this stick straight hair, the curls would fall instantly. Add to that the fact that my mother had no idea how to style hair. She had a curling iron but had no concept of hair product aside from Johnson's Baby Shampoo which I probably used until I was in high school.

Puberty had changed my hair only to add waves but did not implant any knowledge of how to deal with them. My father suggested I use his VO5 pomade. I refused as I didn't want to smell like an old man. Luckily, it was the age of Footloose and short spiky hair. I was able to simply avoid figuring out how to style that wavy mess and got a short spiky cut. The bonus was that it drove my mother crazy. She loved my long hair.

I've done crazy things to my hair. I did the spiral perm. I've bobbed and braided. I've lived with bangs and I've lived without. I've even done the Rachel cut (which I did rock back in the day).

Now I've got myself a flat iron with which I've achieved hairvana, but it's been tough. My hair doesn't seem to like the daily flat ironing. Can't imagine why not. I was finding that I was doing a lot of damage. I did try to embrace my waves, but no matter what product I tried, it looked like frizz to me. My only hope was to figure out a way to get the straight hair I was jonesing for without the harshness of using a ceramic flat iron 7 days a week.

This is my new toy.

 

It is the Revlon Ionic Hot Air brush. 

When I moved up to Seattle for school all those years ago, I brought with me a Conair travel hair dryer. It's travel "feature" was that you could fold the handle up against the barrel of the hairdryer and make it take up less space. It was a pos, truth be told. It didn't make it through my sophomore year. Knowing that I needed a new hair dryer, my dear friend Jenny got me one for Christmas. That was in 1988. That thing has been kicking around my bathrooms most of my adult life. 

My friend Susan came for a visit and showed me her hot air brush. She got great results and didn't need to flat iron her hair. I got hair tool envy. 

A few weeks ago, my husband borrowed my 1988 hair dryer. Not for his hair, mind you. He had spilled something on his pants and didn't want to change. It's been missing since. It's not in the bathroom anymore. That was its last known use. 

But I never forgot Susan's hot air brush. On a whim, I bought one last week. 

Being a good consumer, I actually did read the safety instructions that came with the tool. It is a good thing I did. For example, I now know that I should never use this appliance while I'm taking a shower or bath. I mean, how effective can it be as a hair dryer if I'm just going to get my hair all wet with the water in the bath tub? Duh. Also, I now know that I should not use this appliance while I'm sleeping. Probably because I would not get good results as I'd be fighting against bed head the whole time.

I love this tool. It straightens my hair while drying it, gives me great volume, and my hair frizz is at a minimum level -- to the point that I'm not even reaching for my flat iron. But the thing I love best about it is that it stores so much easier than a traditional hair dryer. It comes with the three attachments. The brushes and the funnel directional thing all sit with the rest of my brushes in my brush basket. The handle sits with my curling irons and flat iron. I had to keep my old dinosaur of a hair dryer underneath the sink for all these years. How nice to have all my hair tools in one organized drawer! 

I'm entering a new age of hairvana. Namaste!

TMI

This whole post is going to be tmi (too much information) for everybody. That's right, everybody. Consider yourself well warned. This information can be potentially embarrassing for me, but I write this as a lesson to my friends mostly. I can overshare. That's just who I am. But I'm several weeks removed from the embarrassing situations. I've gained enough distance to see the humor. Mostly.

Last month, we went on vacation. It was during the mid-winter break. Leaving the cold, dreary, wet weather of the PNW for the sunny skies of Los Angeles sounded like the perfect pick me up. Truly, couldn't have been happier to do this. Plus, visiting with my husband's family was very important. It had been about 2 years since we'd seen them last. Far too long.

I was envisioning walks on the beach, lounging at the pool, soaking in the hot tub. Instead my period came 3 days early -- on the second of the six days we were going to be there.

Swear words.

I was going to visit with one of my friends who I rarely see as he lives in a different state. We were friends in high school but recently reconnected over Facebook. We've become very good friends, skyping a few times a week. We went out on our shopping foray and I told him that I needed to go to the drugstore at some point. He suggested GNC or something else that might be in the mall. I told him that a Rite Aid or CVS would be fine. When we got there, I suggested that he wait in the car. I'd just be a second. No, he said. I'll come with you, he said.  Fine. I told him that the only way I was going to be able to get through this is if I thought of him as my gay friend. Then I'd be okay. He told me that he's not gay. He's married, so what's the big deal? Have you ever tried shopping for you favorite brands of feminine hygiene stuffs when there's a guy there that's not your kid, brother or spouse? I'm guessing not. It's not fun. Especially when they don't carry your usual stuff. You can't leisurely read the packages to see what's even close because you're embarrassed. And every woman out there has a very tried and true combination of products that work. Finding my combo with him standing there was just... well, awkward.

Swear words.

So I texted one of my best friends this:

Me: How lucky am I that my period came 3 days early? No fair. 3:56 PM

Her: Ok I will let my mom know. This is T (her 11 year old daughter) 3:56 PM

Me: This isn't J's phone anymore? Don't worry about it T. Do me a favor and delete the message. 3:58 PM

Swear words.

I should be able to commiserate with my girl friends. That's what they're for! Turns out, T was waiting in the car so J let her play Angry Birds on her cell phone, or something inane like that. So embarrassing! J assured me that T doesn't have any idea what I meant, but surely she'd figure it out soon enough. Yeah, right. I'm certain this bloody initiation into adulthood is all the tweens are talking about. I know from experience that it was a big damn deal when I was 11 years old. 

So what can we learn from my day of awkwardness?

1. If a woman asks you to wait outside a store any store, instead of go inside with her, stay outside. 

2. Don't lend other people your phone. Just don't. 

PSA over. Peace out. 

Dog owners unite

Here's the deal people. There are really 2 types of people in the world: Cat people & Dog people. There are people who have both, and I don't know how to categorize them. Invariably, they will talk about how their cats behave like dogs -- all friendly and liking their human staffers. But I think if you value the dog like characteristics of your cats, you should just accept that you like dogs.

I believe that dogs are the superior pet. Their love and enthusiasm, their ability to learn simple commands, their general cuddliness -- they are better in most ways to cats. Some cats are cuddly. Some have dog like attributes. But as I said before, if you're going to say all the ways that your cat is doglike, get a freaking dog.

There is one place where dogs are lacking though. They are dependent on their owners completely. Cats are independent. You don't train a cat. You service a cat. But a dog, you need to teach, interact, socialize, and most importantly to your community, clean up after. This is where we are failing our dogs.

Dog owners, I implore you, CLEAN UP after your dogs. The cat people of the world will forever be snooty and act superior  simply because there are douchebag owners out there who don't clean up after their dogs. You might have seen the movie Bromance. One of the main characters makes a choice not to clean up after his dog. The whole time I watched that bit unfold on screen I wanted to reach into the movie and throttle that character.

Today I went walking my dog in a friend's neighborhood. I will never do that again. I was amazed, I mean DISGUSTED, at the amount of dog poop there was not just on the grass beside the sidewalks but on the sidewalks themselves. I even encountered a large black dog with a collar walking off leash in front of his house -- no invisible fencing because the dog was on the sidewalk and street in front of the house.

Come on, people.

Would you let your non-verbal toddler outside of your house unsupervised? Heck no! Would you ever consider leaving your baby's dirty diapers in the street? Of course not! And yet, dog owners do this all the time.

Those dog owners give dogs a bad name. They need to have their licenses revoked. They need to have a sticker on their state IDs that say, "unfit to own a dog."If they want a furry creature to hug and love, but want to train it the same amount as they train their pet goldfish or hamster, then they should get a cat.

Switch sides. Please.

Ouch

I'm a total panty.

A week and a half ago, I fell. Now, saying, "I fell," doesn't seem to encompass how badly I fell. I should probably say something like, "I launched my body into the concrete." See, I was walking on PCH at night, by myself. This is not as seedy as it might sound. I mean, it is probably a lovely place. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of scary people around. It was Redondo. I think I was the only person using the sidewalk. I don't think people walk in LA unless they're working out. I was walking 2 blocks to the drugstore. But I was by myself in an unfamiliar place. So I was a little hyper aware.

All those self defense tips were running through my mind. Walk with a purpose. Keep your hands out of your pockets. Be aware of your surroundings. Watch for places where people might hide to jump you. Use all your senses.

I was walking at a fairly brisk pace. I was careful not to get too close to the hedges and buildings, and was careful to stay out of arms reach of the passing cars and the parked cars. You don't want to be inside my head. Scary things happen there.

So when I thought I heard footsteps behind me, despite my brisk pace, I turned my head to look. And I didn't notice that the sidewalk changed to grass. I felt my right foot slip. I tried to catch myself with my other foot but I think I couldn't get it forward in time. I realized that the sidewalk was coming up pretty darned fast and I had better just accept that I was falling.

Bam.

My left side caught the force of it. Amazingly, I didn't spill any blood on the sidewalk. At least not blood that seeped out of my body. The left side of my palm caught the worst of it. And my left boob. I'm a week and a half out and my left hand is still swollen. The bruise is fading, but I still have discomfort with that hand. Thankfully I can grasp. Weirdly, the back of my hand is what is swollen, and needed to be iced. I'm sure somebody out there can explain it to me, but it appears that all the bones are intact.

I've cursed my big boobs a lot in my life after puberty. Sure, they were fun to have in my teens and twenties. Got me lots of attention -- often unwanted. But it appears that they're not the shock absorbers that you'd' thing they'd be when you're slamming your body into pavement. Actually, maybe they are. Certainly somebody  out there can explain the physics to me. But they didn't protect me from rib damage. I don't think that I broke the ribs, but they sure do hurt even after all this time. Take in too deep a breath, try in any way to use my left pecs, and I'm in pain. Coughing is torture. Hell, burping is bad too. I hate this.

Maybe pain isn't the right word. Maybe it should just be the less frightening, "discomfort." Because surely, other people are truly in pain. If I don't move or use my left hand, or breathe deeply, or open the driver side door with my left hand... I'm fine.

Makes me wonder how those MMA fighters get the snot beat out of them and then get right back in the gym and workout. Surely their hands get hurt at least as badly as mine did. Remember when Rich Franklin continued to fight when he broke his hand? He didn't stop striking with that hand either. And hell, BJ Penn continued to fight with broken ribs -- I could even see the ribs sticking out at odd angles. Still he fought!

So I'm a total panty. I know I am.