Advice for Aspiring Writers

I haven't written in a couple of months.  I didn't know if I'd ever write again.  (I still don't.)  I was just done.  I was bored of writing about myself on here.  Done assessing the risk that writing on certain topics could have on my personal life.  Done being rejected by every agent and publisher for my novel.  Done fronting the costs both financially and emotionally for self publishing a novel I believe in, but also believe will be a bit challenging and confrontational for some.  Done believing that the risk is worth the reward.  Because I've also come to terms with the fact that I'll never break even writing.  (If you only knew the costs of my first book.)  So, I decided to switch careers and got certified to be a Grief Recovery Specialist.  (Which of course is exactly when I realized that I wrote a whole novel about grief.  Because I'm slow like that.)

This is when I get an e-mail from a local high school inviting me to come in and talk about writing.  I immediately feel like a fraud and an imposter.  Even though I wrote the books by myself and worked my ass off to publish them by myself, creating my own publishing company to do it.  I'm just a self-published author after all.   And the last thing I have to share with anyone is anything inspiring about a having career in writing.  In fact, my best advice would be to do anything else.  The writing market is flooded and journalism as we know it is dead.

Then I started to think of what I would say to high school students (if I didn't have social anxiety and an inferiority complex) if I did go to speak about my experiences after eight years of writing a blog and publishing two books.  And it would go a little something like this...

So, you want to be a successful writer?  Start networking now.  Build your social media empire.  Connect and interact constantly with strangers on the internet.  Establish your brand.  It doesn't really matter what your brand is.  Only that you have one and that you promote it.  You can do that any way that feels authentic to you.  Too much information?  Nah...people love that.  They say they don't, but they really do.  Look around and you'll see that's true.  Everyone loves a good train wreck, so go ahead, what's stopping you?  Don't worry about spending all your time in front of a screen or that you don't have a social life.  No one likes you in real life anyway because you spend all your time promoting your brand and neglecting your friends.  Oh and don't forget to write now and again.  It doesn't matter what you write.  Don't worry about content; it can be total crap.  What's most important is that you're popular.  And popularity is what sells books.

Or maybe you want to be an unsuccessful writer.  No, it's not any less work to be an unsuccessful writing if you do it right.  But first, you'll need to have another source of income because you're not going to make enough money to support yourself, never mind a family.  You'd have a better chance of winning the lottery than supporting yourself soley off your writing.  In fact, you should probably go out and buy a lottery ticket right now.  After you do that, spend your time writing things you believe in.  Have a message.  Be unique and heartfelt.  Don't set out to write the next Twilight because that's already been done.  (Even though all the agents and publishers are looking to sign the next author that copies the formula of Twilight's success.)  Remember, to just be yourself on social media and in real life.  Interact selectively and authentically, so that you can make time to do the things you love that feed your soul and in turn, fuel your writing.  Sure, you might be unsuccessful, but you're much more likely to be happy.  And who knows?  You could win the lottery.

For me, I'll choose being happy every time.  I'm just not sure if there's going to be a next time for me.  Because I still haven't decided if I'm going to keep writing.  But, I do know that I'll always have work in the grief field, because there's more than enough of that to go around.  At least I know how to cope with my grief now.  And I can help you out too if you need it.

Catfished

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Fear of Commitment

I have a deep-seated fear of commitment.  Sure, I've been married for 26 years.  And I have a 30 year mortgage.  And very intentionally adopted 4 children.  Not to mention 2 rescue dogs.  But trust me,  I'm no fan of committing.

I've thought long and hard for years about getting a tattoo of a tree on my back.  But, have you ever seen a horrible tattoo?  I remember over 10 years ago being out in public somewhere and a young woman was walking toward me.  She was wearing a sun dress with what appeared to be polka dots around her knees.  And I couldn't stop staring at her knees.  Which is quite possibly the ugliest body part we all have, besides elbows.  Turned out, the polka dots were bees.  She had bees tattooed on her knees.  And while it's not the ugliest tattoo I've ever seen, it is the most memorable.  Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of stunning tattoos out there.  I've even dipped my toe in some ink in the form of a toe ring.  But, I've come to the conclusion that tattoos are a bit too permanent for someone who can't even commit to using the same brand of shampoo consistently.

Speaking of shampoo, I would never dye my hair blonde.  First of all, I don't have the personality of a blonde to pull it off, so it'd seem like a really big lie.  Even though, I know I could simply color over it if I don't like it.  But, that just fries your hair.  And then it's all damaged and you have to cut it off.  Oh, I know that hair grows back and all that and it's not really a "big deal" in the grand scheme of things.  That is unless you've ever had a really bad haircut that you've had to grow out.  And then you know it's an excruciatingly big deal because it takes forever.  On top of that, your hair is one of the first things people notice about you.  It defines you in a way.  Unless of course you have bees on your knees.  In which case, no one is looking at how atrocious your hair is because they're looking at your hideously, ugly knees.

At this point in my life, I can't even commit to watching a TV series.  I don't care how good it is.  I can't  do it.  The problem is I can't remember the story line from the previous show.  Hell, I can't remember what I ate for breakfast or where all my kids are anymore.  I can't be bothered to keep track of fictional characters.  I tend to watch shows that are self contained because I have the attention span of a gnat.  Like Portlandia.  And a couple of years ago I started watching Black Mirror.  Although it's fantastic, it was too ominous for me to watch.  I can read things that are dark, scary and sad, but I can't watch it.  So, I have to watch an episode (or two) of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee to make me happy again.  And that's just way too much of a commitment for me.

I have an easier time committing to books, but there are boundaries.  It was in my 30's when I started reading War and Peace on a trip to Russia because it seemed to befitting.  I was on that same trip when I stopped reading War and Peace.  I'd never given up on a book before that one.  I'd stay committed until the end even if I hated it or it confused me.  Seriously, how can you have that many characters who's name starts with an "L"?  How am I supposed to remember who's who?  Couldn't Tolstoy have called one of the characters Bob?  And my other problem with books?  Don't coax me into buying your #1 New York Times bestselling book (in hardback no less) with an extremely intriguing story line, with testimonials that it's "intelligent, suspenseful, provocative" only to find out that it's not any of those things.  It's horrible and I should've gone the low commitment route by getting it at the library for free.

Oh there's lots of other things I can't commit to.  Like remodeling the master bathroom where it's still 1987.  It's like a time capsule in there.  It's not that I don't want it updated, it's just that when I commit to doing that, then I'll need to redo the master closet.  And then the kids' bathroom.  Then before you know it,  I'm going to have to redo the kitchen we had re-done 10 years ago.  No thanks!

 The good things is... 

my fear of commitment is saving me both time and money. 

Post Labor Day Survival Guide

Labor Day is the most depressing holiday.  After all, you're celebrating being a working adult and the end of summer.  Both of which suck.  The good part is, you won't be covered in greasy sunscreen and gritty sand anymore.  You don't have to worry about bees when you eat lunch outside to bask in the sunshine.  And your co-worker won't be complaining about how ungodly hot it is in August anymore.   Because it's going to turn cold and the days are gradually going to get shorter.   Which just means your co-worker is going to transition into her seasonal complaints about how chilly and bleak it is outside.

While you're busy bracing for the return of your seasonal depression, don't forget to stock up on some important essentials.  Like moisturizer, Chapstick and a cute woolly hat that keeps you warm while hiding your staticky hair.  Preferably one that isn't itchy that you can wear all day because once you put it on your head, you'll have to commit either wearing it all day or wearing the hat hair you'll be left with all day.  But even more importantly, you'll need to have an arsenal of Kleenex, cold medicine and hand sanitizer to prepare for cold and flu season.  Which starts exactly the day after your kids go back so school.  However, the real essentials you need to have on hand are comfort foods (mac & cheese and ramen noodles), snacks (chips and chocolate), a fully stocked bar and a Costco sized pack of batteries for the remote control.

There is an upside to life post Labor Day though.  I mean sure, you can't wear white, but come on....who can wear a white shirt or better yet pants, without staining them anyway?  It's impossible really.  So, you'll get cozy in that adorable sweater you never wear.  You know, the wool one that will shrink if you put it in the wash.  Until you remember you don't even have to wash sweaters.  It's true.  Especially because you're not going to last 20 minutes in that sweater because it's itchy as hell.  But, that's why you've kept that raggy old sweat shirt with all the stains on it that you've had since college.  Oh, you tell yourself that you won't wear it out of the house, but you'll forget about that and go to pick up some ice cream at the grocery store.  Where you will see every person you know.

Ok, so maybe that was just a continuation of the less negative downsides of post Labor Day life.  There really is an upside.  You have a lot of completely valid post Labor Day excuses for cancelling any obligatory social engagements you don't want to attend.  The weather, the flu, frozen pipes at your house that have sprung a leak, pulling a muscle scrapping the ice off your windshield.  It doesn't matter if they are true or not, they will still work.  It gets even better though.  The best part is you don't have to shave after Labor Day.  Not until the following Memorial Day.  But you may need to invest in a weed whacker come spring.

Skin Deep

I've never had good skin.  In fact, I had acne until I was 40 years old.  Now, I know beauty is only skin deep and all that.  That there are much bigger things in the world to be concerned about.  And I'm concerned about all of them and contemplating them keeps me up at night.  But apparently I'm greedy and vain so...I'd also like good skin I don't feel like I have to hide...you know, before I die.  Which, let's face it, is getting closer every day.

So, last year when I went to the dermatologist concerned about a asymmetrical brown spot above my lip, I feared the worst.  Skin cancer.  That's when she told me it was "just an age spot".   And I was horrified.  How can I be old enough to have age spots?  And then I thought about it.  My mom, who was a grandmother at my age, lamenting that her once pale, youthful skin had turned ruddy and started to sag.  Which is exactly where I'm at minus the grandmother bit.  Even so, it's weird how my mother seemed so much older than me when she was my age.

What was also horrifying is that the dermatologist suggested laser treatment.  Really, it's so bad that shooting a hot laser beam at my face is my best option?  I don't think so.  Which is why I opted for the lowest concentration of Retin-A, the least invasive treatment, instead.  Except, Retin-A is expensive.  Like $100 a tube.  And even the lowest concentration dries out your skin and makes it flaky.  Which counter intuitively, only makes your skin produce more oil.  So, then it's dry and flaky but covered in as much oil as the Exxon Valdez spill.

Last winter when I was in Mexico at a pharmacy scoring cheap drugs for the eye infection I'd contracted on vacation, I had a brilliant idea.  Why not buy the stronger concentration of Retin-A because it's only $25 in Cancun.  I mean if the low concentration isn't working (because I stopped using it altogether because of the side effects...although that seems a minor detail) why not take it up a notch?  Of course, that's exactly what I did and I started using it diligently once a week on Sunday nights.  Monday and Tuesday my blotchy, sun spotted skin looks fairly normal, but on Wednesday it starts to get really wonky.  My face turns red, flaky and goes all Exxon Valdez on me.  And it lasts until Saturday.  Then on Sunday, the whole process starts over again.  It kinda seems pointless to continue.  But, I'm no quitter, so I keep repeating the cycle hoping things will get better.  Which is really stupid.

Recently, I was at the spa buying a gift card for a friend and I was perusing through their brochure of services.  Including skin treatments.  The spa offers free consultations with a specialist on which procedure would work best for your skin.  So there's microdermabrasion, where I imagine someone takes a circular sander to face, which sounds painful.  And then there's, of course, laser treatment.  Which is sounding more appealing by the day.  Especially if it's the same laser they use for hair removal.  Like it's a two-for-one deal, and it will remove blotchy age spots and chin/moustache hairs.  In which case, I might actually consider it.

The Burning Question

Recently my husband asked me a burning question.  I don't know how long he'd waited before he finally did.  Just when you think you know someone, you find out you don't.  That they have secret desires they've never told you about.  Because they know that you'll be shocked and maybe even horrified at the thought of what they want you to do.  Which of course was exactly what happened.

So what did my husband ask me to do that I found so repulsive?  Did he want me to try something kinky in bed?  Get a boob job?  Want us to join a cult?  Move to Florida?  No.  None of those.  My husband asked me if I'd go to Burning Man with him.  For those of you who don't know what Burning Man is, it's an annual event celebrating art and community held in the middle of the desert in Nevada.  People travel from all over to camp out for nine days and when it's over they leave no trace that they were ever there.  Sounds kinda fun, right?  After all, I really like art and camping.  I tried to be open minded.  I did.  But, did I mention 60,000 people go to Burning Man every year?

When my husband met me he knew I was a socially anxious introvert's introvert.  He knew exactly what he was getting into.  I'm not going to miraculously change thirty years later and suddenly love being around crowds of people.  In fact, I think I've actually gotten worse in that respect.  And I'm pretty sure I'm well on my way to becoming a full on recluse.  But, I really did consider the question, because I know it's something my husband has a burning desire to do.

But, then I considered all the people that would be there.  ALL OF THEM.  And the fact that I wouldn't be able to get away from them.  Because they'll be everywhere and they'll be loud.  Blaring their music until all hours of the night.  Have I ever mentioned how much I love sleep?  On top of that it's held in August in the desert, so not only is it going to be sweltering hot, but no one's going to be showering.  But, they are going to be eating.  Which means all 60,000 people are going to be using the porta potties.  Which is precisely why I have a burning desire to stay home.

But, I have a burning question of my own...

does anyone want to go to Burning Man with my husband?

My Favorite Jeans

I love jeans.  And I wear them just about every day.  So when your favorite pair has little hole right by the back pocket that you know is going to turn into a huge, gaping hole when you bend down to get the cheap laundry detergent off the bottom shelf at Target, that's when you know you need to get some new ones.  And that's when you find out that they don't even make your favorite jeans anymore.

I have a whole system for buying jeans.  I buy them in a dark wash, a size too big so they shrink to just the right size with repeated washes and then I wear them until they are absolutely indecent.  The problem is, now they make most jeans with that stretchy elastane stuff in them.  So, your jeans aren't going to shrink at all, in fact, they're going to stretch.  Which means if you put your jeans on in the morning and they fit you perfectly, an hour later they're going to be hanging down to your knees.  Which means you actually have to buy jeans a size too small for you and then look indecent for an hour until they stretch to accommodate you.  (Not that I've tried this, but I assume it would work.) Then there's that weird 'thwacking' sound that stretchy jeans make when you walk.  No thank you!

I just want regular jeans.  Not high rise mom jeans.  Not ones that are pre-ripped because I'm very capable of doing that on my own.  And definitely not ones with the back pockets bedazzled.  (No one looks good in blingy jeans, by the way.  NO ONE. )   I want my favorite low cut 524 Levi's in a boot cut (because boot cut makes my short legs look longer).  Although 518s would also do the trick.  Because once you find jeans that look good on you, you don't give up on them.  And by 'look good on you', I mean that they flatter your ass.  Because that's what jeans are all about.  Everyone on the planet knows this.

So, I've looked at the Levi's website.  Because I'd even pay full price + shipping & handling for my favorite jeans.  That's how desperate I am.  And that's when I confirmed that they don't even make 524s anymore.  Everything is a stretchy mid rise or high rise skinny jean.  To which I'm just going to say, skinny jeans are the least flattering cut on basically everyone on the planet, so I don't even get why they're popular.  But, then again, I don't get why most things that are popular are popular which is probably been why I've never been popular.  Because I think trends are stupid and I like to stick to the timeless classics.  Like cotton.

In my quest to find my Levi's, I looked on Amazon, where they do list having 524s, but not in my size or the wash and cut I'm looking for.  Plus, I really hate to buy from Amazon, the overlord of the free world, even though I do it all the time because they have the stuff you can't find anywhere else.  That's when my husband suggests e-bay.  BINGO!  I find 3 pair in the correct model/size/wash and snatch them up.  At least I thought I did.  Until they arrived in my mailbox.  And I discovered that I ordered one pair with a short inseam.  So they're like capris on me.  Which kinda makes me feel like I have long legs.  Which has never happened before.  Which is precisely why I kept them.  That and my ass looks good in them.  

Pack it in

My husband I have different packing styles.  I'm a minimalist.  And he's a maximalist.  I want to pack only the necessities.  But, my husband likes to pack for the possibilities.  I'd say I'm this way because I've become an expert packer.  And while I've gotten pretty good with all the traveling I've done over the years, that's not the reason.  The reason is I'm lazy.

So, I generally don't look up the weather of where I'm going before I go there.  I like to imagine the ideal weather, depending on the season of travel, and pack for that.  Because looking at a weather app is way too much work.  Plus, being cold and shivering burns calories.  The thing is, I get pissed if I don't wear and/or use everything I pack at least once.  So if I pack a rain jacket and it didn't rain it seems like a complete waste of space.  Oh, I know I should be grateful it doesn't rain and I don't need the jacket, but that's not the way my brain works.  And when the trip is over and it's time to repack everything?  I don't neatly fold or separate things, the way my husband does.  I shove and commingle.  Because, if I packed correctly (which come on, I obviously did), everything in my bag is already dirty (ok...extremely funky) and it's all going to get washed anyway.

There is an exception to my minimalist ways though...

Food.  When we're camping, I never skimp on food.  In fact, that's when I become a maximalist.  Not only, do I grossly overpack the amount of food that we will need...I also grossly overeat the food that I pack.  I don't know why, but there's something about sitting on my ass in the middle of nature watching the wind blow through the leaves of aspen trees, that leaves me famished.  And I have a running inventory in my head of exactly what food I packed.  Which I run through constantly to determine what will satiate my appetite.  A ham and cheese wrap with chipotle mustard and a pickle?  A family size bag of Chex mix?  Peanut M&Ms?  Marshmallows?  Yes.  ALL OF IT.  Washed down with an Arizona iced tea.  And I don't even like marshmallows or Arizona iced tea.  But, I do when I'm camping.  Because apparently when I travel I'm an egalitarian omnivore, packing it all in.  

And before you know it, I've gone and  maximized the size of my thighs and I'm no longer travel size.

My Love Language

We all have a love language.  Things we need from our partner that demonstrate their love for us.  It's usually fairly easy to decipher the language of someone else because we tend to give love the way we want to receive it.  But, it can be tricky if you have different love languages.  Like me and my husband do.  It's like I need to learn how to speak a whole other language in order to love him.  And I'm not even particularly good at English.  And now I have to learn Mandarin or Swahili.  I don't know which because that's how foreign and unnatural his love language is to me.

They say there's five love languages.  The first is words of affirmation.  These people like to be showered in compliments.  Next is quality time, which is pretty self explanatory.  I can't even believe that receiving gifts is a love language, but yet apparently it is.  Acts of service totally makes sense to me.  Like fixing a leaky faucet.  And the last one, of course, is physical touch.  But, none of those is actually my love language.  Although, acts of service is a close second.

No, my love language is being heard.  Which is weird because I'm a soft spoken quiet person who isn't much of a talker.  Even with my husband.  But, when I do speak, it means I have something to say and you should STFU and listen because it's important to me.  Now, my husband is extremely aware that this is my love language and has been really good at lending me an ear when I need one.  At least until recently when things started to change.

I found myself repeating myself constantly.  Now, I already repeat myself all day long with my four kids.  So, it really pisses me off when I'm talking to my husband and he asks me a question that I just answered.  I knew he wasn't listening to me anymore.  It's been over a year now since he started to tune me out.  I don't understand it.  What's changed?  Because I haven't.

It was a little over a month ago that I found out the answer.  My husband told me he had a ringing in his ears.  He had tinnitus.  And there's nothing that can be done about it.  While I was losing my patience with my husband, he was losing his hearing.   What kind of a selfish jerk am I?  And what do we do now?  He's not at a point where he needs a hearing aid.  Yet anyway.  But, I do find myself making a conscious effort to talk a bit louder to him and to try not to get pissed at him when he asks me to repeat myself.  Which is harder than it sounds.  And, I did mention that leaky kitchen faucet to him several times and he still hasn't done anything about it yet.  Which can only mean one thing: he doesn't love me anymore.

Scene Stealers

I love summer.  Sunshine and long days.  Camping, hiking and tubing in mountain streams.  Outdoor concerts and friends.  But, the thing is most people love summer.  So they're out doing all the same things I'm doing.  And that's what I hate about summer.  The damn crowds of people crowding at all the sights. You know, the scene stealers who are always getting in the way of me taking a photo of what I came to see.

The first kind of scene stealer is relatively benign.   Oh they're completely annoying though.  Because they are completely oblivious.  They seem like pretty happy go lucky people really.  They like to talk and chat it up with complete strangers even.  And they'll stop anywhere to have a conversation. On the middle of the stairs.  Or the pathway.  And definitely in front of whatever you want to take a picture of.  And, as luck would have it,  they're usually loud talkers too.  I don't know why that is, but it is.  Now, I don't like who are unaware of their surroundings or loud conversationalists, but I get that they are living in the moment.  I just wish they took their moment to a completely different location far away from me so I can have a moment to get the picture of the thing I traveled to come and see.  At least they're oblivious and not self absorbed.

It's the self absorbed scene stealers who are the worst and most obnoxious scene stealers.  Because they don't give a shit that they're in your way or that you also want to take a shot of that thing without them in it.  They feel entitled to take as long as they want to take 500 photos from every angle because they got there first.  And they don't care that you're waiting.  Or that there is a unwritten rule that you take your photos in five minutes or less when there are other people waiting on you.  And I'm being generous with five minutes.  Because we all know you can take 200 photos in 2 minutes and then crop, photoshop and filter the hell out of them to them and make at least one of them look incredible.  It's not the 80's anymore. Where you either got the shot or you didn't.

So, I'm on spring break in the middle of the barren Mojave Desert hiking through a lava tube when we run into them.  Two self absorbed California girls on an Instagram photo shoot.  One of the girls is taking pictures of her friend standing looking up at the the beam of light streaming in from above the lava tube.  It's a great shot.  I'd like to take a picture of it too.  So, I stand off to the side to give them a minute to finish up and get a few different poses.  I get it.  Or I thought I did.  But, the first clue should've been that they didn't acknowledge my presence.  I mean, we're in a tiny lava tube together, breathing the same air.  It's not like they didn't see me.  Then the girl taking the photos with her phone instructs her friend to pick up the dirt and throw into the beam of light above her face.  Ok, really?  Of course once was not enough.  About twelve times was enough apparently.  But, it looks like they're wrapping it up so I'll wait.  Except they weren't finished.  They switched places so the photographer could get her photos taken.  Are you even kidding me?

Now by this point,  I'm irate.  But, I was raised by Canadian parents who put being polite and not to inconvenience anyone else above everything else.  Which is much too polite for today's world where what you need is to be assertive because it's chock full of so many entitled, self absorbed assholes.  The only thing I could think to do was to say fairly loudly (which for me is just above a whisper in a quiet cave) to one of my kids "I'm sure they're almost done."  To which one of the the California girls finally acknowledged my existence and said...."almost".  Not I'm sorry for taking so long and making you wait.  Because they didn't care we were waiting or inconvenienced by their 15 minute photo shoot.  Because they were consumed with getting their 15 minutes of Instagram fame.

When they were done, I didn't say anything to them.  Although I regretted that later.  I just couldn't figure out a way to tell them how rude they were, but in a polite way.  I don't know, maybe I should've just started taking pictures of their photo shoot to get their attention.  But, that would've made me feel like an asshole.  So, I simply took a picture of the empty cave and then stepped aside and left.  Still ruminating on what I should've said or done.  For the next time it happens.  Because you know it will.

Vulnerable

The thing about working in a creative field is that you constantly feel really exposed.  It's unavoidable.  Because you put so much of your heart and passion into your work.  The job of an artist is to provoke emotion. You start with an idea.  Alone in your own private fantasy world. You foster and mold it.  Not only do you love what you do, but you need to do it.  Because it's feeding your soul.  Until your  idea takes on a life of it's own.  And then it's time to put it out there into the world.  Which is nothing short of terrifying.  Because that's when you lose all control over your creation.  Your art is open to interpretation and misinterpretation.  You're vulnerable.

Before my first book came out, I thought I felt vulnerable because I'd written a memoir.  Which meant that if you didn't like the main character of my book, you don't like me.  Ultimately, that was a chance I was willing to take.  But, what kind of narcissistic asshole writes a memoir anyway?  I know this is going to sound completely ridiculous for someone who's on 3 social media platforms with a blog and book, but I'm a very private and guarded person in real life.  Opening myself up doesn't come naturally to me.  But, it does come with benefits.  Over the years, because I've put myself out there,  I've had the good fortune to meet some incredible people through my writing.  And I'm always worried I'm going to disappoint them.  After all, I'm not funny all the time.  In fact, for the most part, I'm not very funny at all.  What I am is heartfelt and empathetic.  But, I'd much rather you think that I'm funny and intelligent.

Now that I'm near completion of my second book (which is my first attempt at writing a novel),  I'm scared.  Because what the hell do I know about writing fiction?  I spent years avoiding sitting down to write it out of fear.  Fear of failure.  Fear of success.  Fear of mediocrity.  Fear of judgment.  I feel as vulnerable as the first time.  Maybe even more so.  Even though I've had two amazing friends help me edit and proofread it who really liked it.  Which is so great to hear.  But, I still feel really vulnerable.  Because there's a darkness to this book.  It gritty and raw.  Not everyone's going to like it.  And if everyone did, I wouldn't have done my job writing it.  Because I wouldn't be saying anything worth saying if everyone did.  That's the nature of art.

Being courageous enough to be vulnerable is it's own art form.  

The Worst Part of Camping

I love camping.  But, I don't love packing or unpacking from camping.  Or all the laundry.  And the camp toilet is no vacation either.  I always worry that either my phone or the key fob for the car will slide out of my pocket and down into the putrid, fetid, noxious abyss.  Then there's the threat of wild animals.  I've given it a lot of thought and I still can't decide which would be worse...getting mauled by a bear or a mountain lion.  But, none of these things is the worst part of camping.

When I arrive at camp I hurriedly set everything up so I can relax and do nothing.  But first, let me check my phone.  I was looking forward to a mandatory reprieve from checking my phone because I was positive I wouldn't have service out here in the middle of nowhere.  Except I do.  I have better coverage in a valley next to a mountain stream than I do in my kitchen.  Dammit.  What now?  I turn my phone to airplane mode to force myself to appreciate the chipmunks stealing our food and breathing in the smoke and ash from the nearby wildfires carried by the wind, setting off my asthmatic cough.

Thankfully, there's enough water in the stream next to us to tube down.  But, there was a family with at least eight little kids (they all looked the same, dressed in only underwear which made it hard to count them) wading in the water.  They got locked out of their van and were waiting for the locksmith to arrive so they could pack up and go home.  Although I suspected from the looks and sounds of things that they might be feral.  Finally, the locksmith arrived, the feral family left and we got to tube down the stream in peace.  Which, of course, is the absolute best part of camping.

Before you know it, it's time to cook dinner.  But, not over a campfire like I'd normally do because there's a fire ban.  Then there's the dishes to wash.  Then cleaning up every ounce of food and locking it all in the car, which is on the other side of the mountain stream, for the night.  Cause wildlife. Also,  it's more challenging to make sure you've gotten every trace of anything edible when you're searching for it in the dark after a few margaritas.

Finally, I settle into my sleeping bag convinced I'm going to have a good night's sleep.  After all, I haven't been on my phone and I've been breathing in (and coughing out) the fresh mountain wildfire filled air.  And it's fantastic for the first hour or two.  Until the coyotes start yipping.  Of course, first I needed to identify that the sound was indeed coyotes and not the feral children returning.  Because that's exactly what a pack of coyotes sound like.  After that, I'm awake.  Worrying about whether I moved all the food or if one of my kids has some in their hammocks they're sleeping on strung between the trees.  That's when I realize I have to pee.  But, it's gotten cold outside.  And there's a pack of coyotes out there.  I'll just hold it...for a few hours.  It's not like I'm sleeping anyway.  Cause have you slept in a sleeping bag on the ground lately?  It's not exactly conducive to sleep.

Now here comes the worst part of camping.  The sun comes up and I'm awake.  Not because I want to be awake, in fact, it's probably because I never actually fell asleep.  But, I don't want to get up, because once I start unzipping the tent, I'm the asshole who wakes everyone else up in the campground.  So, I've got to wait until someone else gets up, so they're the asshole.  And I really, really have to pee at this point.  Finally, when I hear someone else in the campground is up, I make a bee line back across the stream to the toilet.  With the key fob so I can take the cooler out of the car to schlep it back across the stream with me on my return trip, worried I'm going to drop it in the shitter.  Miraculously, I don't.  That would definitely be the worst part of camping.  But, right now the fact that I'm exhausted and achy from trying to sleeping on the ground at nearly 50 years old and there's still 10 more steps until I get my first sip of coffee....that my friends, is the worst part of camping.

Natural Instincts

All your natural instincts are wrong.  Ok, "all" is a bit of an exaggeration.  Let's say 90%.  And by "your" I mean "my".  Because your heart and the hope that lies there is an idiot.  Listen to your head.  And your head will tell you...natural products never work.  (Which is why chemicals were invented in the first place.)  I know because I've tried all of the them.  Ok "all" is a bit of an exaggeration.  Let's just say 90%.

Remember the herbal supplements I bought for my hair loss a couple months ago?  It's no surprise that they didn't work.  Well, it's not that they didn't work.  They might work if you actually take them.  Fact: 100% of the dietary supplements you don't take don't work.  Oh, I took some of them, but they  made me nauseous.  But, not nauseous enough that I didn't want to eat though.  Which is unfortunate.   Because then I could've had fabulous hair and maintain my weight with one magic pill.   But, since that wasn't the case,  I just threw them out.  Throwing my money away with it.  Again.

Lesson learned right? 

 Well, no.  

Of course not. 

Lately I've been thinking about my teeth.  Basically, everything I drink stains my teeth.  It starts out first thing in the morning with two very large cups of coffee.  Talking about going natural, did I mention I finally gave up coffee creamer several months ago and now drink it black?  Let me assure you, that was a hard won battle.  Anyway, after coffee, I switch to iced tea.  And then red wine.  Which is why I need to whiten my teeth. Because not having perfectly white teeth is unAmerican and can lead to deportation.  Making this a matter of urgency.

Now, I've done this all before.  Going to Walmart to buy white strips for my teeth that "may cause sensitivity".   "May", my ass!  My teeth are so sensitive to begin with that they cry at Lifetime movies.  And I don't even get the Lifetime channel.  What taping a strip of bleach to my teeth does is cause an unbearable searing pain that makes me remove the strip immediately.  Thereby doing nothing to whiten my teeth.  Throwing my money away with it.  Again. Which is why I've tried almost every hokey natural way (and some unnatural) I've heard of in an attempt to whiten them.

Swishing with hydrogen peroxide?  Tried it.  See searing pain above.  I've tried oil pulling, where you put a tablespoon of coconut oil in your mouth and swish it around for 10 minutes.  Was my breath any fresher or my teeth any whiter?  I don't think so.  But, I worried I was going to have the cheeks of Louis Armstrong, so I didn't keep that up very long.  Then I tried brushing with turmeric mixed with coconut oil and baking soda.  I know brushing your teeth with a yellow spice to whiten your teeth sounds counter intuitive.  But, let me assure you, it also tastes completely disgusting!  Plus, I only did it once and everything (besides my teeth) was stained yellow.  My lips, toothbrush, the sink and my shirt.

Then like a jilted lover given a second chance, I went back to white strips.  Oh...I knew perfectly well how it was going to end.  I've done this before.  But, my instincts told me to do it anyway.  Why do I listen to my stupid heart?  Which is why I have have of a box of white strips underneath my sink and my teeth still aren't the color of copy machine paper.  Because they're too harsh, bordering on abusive.

That's when I saw an ad on my IG feed.  How creepy are the ads that are targeted specifically to you on social media?  Marketers have so much information on you.  They know you better than you know yourself.  Because I told myself I wasn't going to buy anything that a marketer was manipulating me into thinking that I needed.  But, of course I did.  That's why I ordered this from Amazon.

Yes, brushing your teeth with black charcoal powder is supposed to whiten them.  Yup, it's also supposed to turn everything else, except your teeth, black.  I kinda feel like I'm back at the beginning again buying hope in a jar.  Wasting my money.  But, I don't even care because I'm just following my heart and it's stupid natural instincts.

Exposed

It's summer.  It's exceptionally hot already and it's barely even started yet.  You'll do anything to get cool.  Including taking off layers of clothes and exposing yourself in public. Well, your skin anyway.  Your pale, pasty skin from spending a long winter inside.  With stretch marks, cellulite, that tattoo you've come to regret and the razor burn you got from shaving in preparation to wear a swimsuit to go cool down at the pool.

There's nothing quite as horrifying as wearing a swimsuit in public, especially for the first time of the season.  Because being in a swimsuit feels a lot like just wearing underwear.  Which is essentially what swimwear is; water permeable underwear.  So, if you're anything like me (which I bet you are) when you arrive at the pool, you peek down under your clothes to check (several times) to make sure that you do in fact have your swim suit on underneath.  Even though you know you do.  Before you strip down into your swimsuit.  Which feels like you're getting naked with a big spotlight on you.  You're sure everyone's staring at you.  Unless they're just staring at your tampon string that's sticking out of your bikini bottoms.

You think once you're in your swimsuit the worst part is over, but it's not.  You haven't even tested the waters yet.  And you got a new swimsuit this year.  Does it fill with water and bunch up in weird places requiring you to tug at your suit and burp it like a Tupperware container?  Or does it get kinda see through when it gets wet?  And everyone knows what cold water does to your nipples.  Surprise, you're in a wet T-shirt contest now.  But, what's even worse than that is wearing a bandeau bikini top (you know the one without the straps) and having the clasp break leaving you standing there topless at the pool.  Which is exactly what happened to me about five years ago.  (For that story click here.)

Then when you're cooled off and go to exit the water, remember that water is heavy.  And that you're risking your bottoms dipping down to expose your butt crack or falling off completely if your thrusting yourself up from the side of the pool.  Using the ladder or stairs is the best option.  When' you're safely out the pool with your bathing suit intact, that's when the deluge occurs, running down your legs.  Oh my god, did I just piss myself?  Cause that's what it feels like.  Funny thing about feeling like you're pissing yourself... that's when you're like oh my god, I need to piss!  So you urgently need to find a toilet and then try to get your wet suit off.  Try is the key word here, because you can't get a wet suit off quickly, it's impossible.  So you just slide the material over to the side instead of pulling your suit down off while trying not to pee on your swimsuit or your hands.  This is also impossible.  But, what the hell...your suit is wet anyway, no one's going to know you peed yourself.  Because everyone's going to be looking at the tampon string you forgot to tuck back in.

How to be Unpopular

Be yourself.  In all your authentic awkwardness.  Don't try to fit in with the crowd.  Follow your passion without fear of judgment.  Ok, you can have some fear of judgment, but don't let that stop you from doing it anyway.  Be friendly, but keep your circle of friends small and intimate.  Think before you speak. Or write.  Make what you share meaningful.  And your actions and comments genuine.  Be humble.  Do things that feed your soul.  Remember numbers and statistics are bullshit.  Take time to disconnect and be alone with your thoughts.  You'll be unpopular, but you'll be happier.


Pretentious reading recommendations:

Everybody Lies: Big Data, New Data and What the Internet Can Tell Us About Who We Really are by Seth Stephens-Davidowitz
A Field Guide to Lies: Critical Thinking in the Information Age by Daniel Levity
Willful Blindness: Why We Ignore the Obvious at our Peril by Margaret Heffernan

Distressed

Everything in my house has the distressed look,

especially me.

It's the beginning of summer, which is always distressing when you have kids.  But, that's not what I'm talking about.  I'm talking about my husband making new friends.  And getting an invitation to go over to the new friend's house for the first time.  As a socially anxious introvert, meeting new people stresses me out.  Especially, when it's a large party filled with people I don't know.  And the hosts don't have a dog that I can hide in the corner with.  Of course, I didn't know that last part until I went to the party.  Which left me even more distressed.

We pull up to the house and there are tons of cars parked out front on the street.  Dammit, this is an even bigger get together than I thought.  Luckily, the house is huge so it can accommodate such a gathering.  And then we step inside.  

The thing about being a socially anxious is, you tend to notice everything around you.  All the small details there are so many of that it becomes overwhelming for me to process everything.  And I get so lost in the minuscule that I miss social cues.  Plus, small talk is like speaking a foreign language to me anyway.

The house is immaculate and sparse like a museum.  There's no clutter to be seen anywhere.  The furniture is elegant and there's not one piece from Ikea.  The white walls are filled with art. (And again, it's not Ikea art.) The baseboards are dusted.  The windows in the living room are 20 feet tall and free of streaks, bird poop and cob webs. The kitchen is no less perfect with granite counter tops and cupboards that are upgraded from your standard oak without any signs of wear and tear.  I've walked around enough to scope out the joint and pretend to be social without actually talking to anyone.  But, walking around and smiling at strangers still counts as social in my humble antisocial opinion.  So, I check out the catered food and get a drink and find a place to sit.  I don't see any coasters anywhere, so I decide it's best not to set my drink down on anything because everything is simply too nice and I have a penchant for ruining things.  

This is when I start comparing their house to my house.  My house where everything in it has the distressed look.  And I didn't buy it with that look.  We earned it the old fashioned way with 4 kids, 2 dogs and a laid back lifestyle.  Sure, I have a nice house if you see it in a photo.  But, if you come over to my house, you'll see it's extremely lived in.  There are dog fur tumbleweeds floating through the hallway.  There are dings and nicks on everything.  And I mean EVERYTHING.  If it's not dinged, scratched, marred or maimed, it's broken.  Like the ice maker in the freezer.  It stopped working a few months after we got it.  No, I didn't bother to get it fixed.  And I don't have coasters in my house either, but just because you can't ruin anything in my house, because everything's already ruined.  

This is when I decide I can't be friends with my husband's new friends.  I mean, sure, they seem nice and all that.  But, I'd be way too embarrassed to have them over to my house.  Or I'd have to hire a cleaning crew to do a deep clean, buy all new furniture, kennel the dogs and rob an art gallery to decorate the walls (which are really going to need a fresh coat of paint too while I'm thinking about it).  And I'm way the hell to lazy to do all that, which is why I live the way I do.  It's enough for me to try to keep these kids and dogs alive.   And I think the dust and germs in my house actually help to strengthen our immune systems.  Or so I tell myself anyway.

I've resigned myself that 

being distressed isn't just a look, it's a lifestyle.  

In a Snap

I have a complicated relationship with my face. I'm in hate with my huge forehead.  I wish it was smaller and smoother without the hereditary wrinkles my dad passed down to me. But, not enough to get Botox and rob my asymmetrical face of expressions.  I'm not a fan of the dark circles under my eyes or my blotchy skin.  Then there's my long face devoid of bone structure.  While I like my nose (it's the only thing besides my curls that I got from my mom), I think it's too wide for the rest of my face.  And what's with the off center mole on my pointy chin?  Not a fan.  

What I look like in real life without filters.

But, I'm even less of a fan of having my face altered by an app, not because I don't think my face looks better that way, but precisely because I think it does.  And what's the point really?  Seeing a better version of me is just going to make me more critical about how I look in real life.  Especially as I get older and my face gets more hollowed, droopy and wrinkled while I make the transition into a Bloodhound because I refuse to get work done. But, before I fully commit to growing old gracefully and swearing off apps that digitally alter my face, let me see what I'm missing out on. 

So, I signed up for Snapchat because I heard that they automatically modify photos of your face to make you appear more attractive, even without the extra added weird filters.  Which I don't understand why anyone would want to look like a dog or puke a rainbow anyhow.  It just doesn't make sense to me.  And then the pictures disappear within a few seconds?  I just don't get it at all.  Anyhow, with my teenagers unavailable for consultation, it took me far longer to download the app, sign up and navigate the site than I care to admit.  The truth is, I have a terrible sense of direction, so I didn't "navigate" anything so much as I figured out how to take a selfie and then screenshotted it because I didn't know how or where to find the photo if I saved it.  Because I'm an old fashioned, untech savvy kinda girl.  In other words, I'm old.   

Me with a Snapchat filter.

In a snap my skin was perfectly pale and near flawless.  And my forehead, nose and chin were narrower just like I'd always wanted them to be.  I have to admit, I prefer the Snapchat version of me to the real me, just like I knew I would.  Which just really pisses me off!  Why would I want an app that validates that I'm flawed and need to be fixed?  That's my job!  And I'm really good at it too. What's wrong with us as a society that the real us isn't good enough?  So, I deleted my Snapchat account.  Which took me far longer than it did to create the damn thing in the first place.  You either get the real me or you don't get me at all.  

Cheap Sunglasses

If there's one thing you're going to need lots of this summer, besides sunscreen, it's sunglasses.  You'd think you only need one pair, but that's not the case.  Oh, you'll have a favorite pair of sunglasses that you'll wear all the time.  But, you know that'll end in disaster because they get so much use it's highly likely you're going to scratch the lenses, lose them or just straight up break them.  So, you'll need back up.  This is why you get cheap sunglasses.  And let's face it, everyone looks better in sunglasses.    They are the original filters for your face.  So it's important to choose the right pair.  

Aviators are probably my favorite type of sunglasses.  They're universally flattering on pretty much anyone's face.  Plus, they're casual and sporty but they still have an intimidating CHIPS vibe at the same time.  But, not the mirrored ones, they just make you look like a douchebag.  I don't know why, I don't make the rules, they just do.  But, the thing about aviators are those the little pads that rest on your nose.  Not only do they fall off, but when I push my glasses up to sit them on top of my head, they get tangled in my hair.  And do you know what looks really uncool?  Having both hands above your head desperately trying to untangle your hair from your sunglasses, which takes at least 5 minutes and usually another set of hands (and eyes) to do.  That's why I never actually wear aviators in real life.  But, I keep them as back up just in case I lose my six other pairs of sunglasses.

If you see me wearing sunglasses, chances are they are wayfarers.  They're both classic in design and plastic, which is important when you're accident prone like I am, but you still want to look Johnny Cash kinda cool.  Bonus, I can push these up on top of my head pulling my hair back away from my face because they double a headband.  This comes in handy if it's windy and you have hair blowing in your face and sticking to the chapstick on your lips.  Or if you have a dramatic moment that needs to be accentuated by looking someone in the eye, like you just solved a murder.  The problem with these sunglasses are if you get a pair that's too tight on your head.  And of course you won't know you've bought a pair that are too tight until you're wearing them and get a headache.  I bought two pair recently that did exactly that until I finally found this pair (see above photo).  And I'm positive I'm going to break these soon because they're absolutely perfect.
 

I hate to admit this, but the most perfect kind of sunglasses are the ones that make you look like a total bitch, they way Victoria Beckham does.  I know, I don't like it anymore than you do, but it's the truth.  First off, they kind of wrap around your eye, so no light gets in through the side.  It's almost like an eye patch, really, but one you can see through.  But, the best part is...you don't have to maintain your eyebrows.  You could have overgrown Drake eyebrows going on under there or maybe you had an over plucking mishap and now they're uneven.  No one will ever know!  And no one even wants to know because you look like such a raving bitch in those glasses that no one even wants to get to know you. Now, you could say that that's the downside to these glasses.  Unless you're an antisocial introvert.  In which case, these are best glasses ever because they provide built in people repellent.

Whichever sunglasses you chose, just know that people are judging you in direct proportion to how much you're judging them in theirs.  So, choose wisely.  

Now Showing

I'm going to say something shocking here: I'm not really into seeing movies. I only go to the theater to see one semi-annually.  Trust me, I know it's weird.  The thing is... movies permeate so much of our culture.  Which makes me an outsider.  You know that time during a party when it turns into movie references and quotes?  I'm completely lost.  Also, if you ask me if an actor is hot chances are I'll have no idea who you're talking about.  Unless it's Channing Tatum.  I don't know how I know who he is because I've never seen a movie with him in it.  But, I do know I don't find him the least bit attractive.

Anyhow, it was Friday and I saw an interview with Amy Shumer talking about her new movie, I Feel Pretty and decided to go see it.  Bonus, everyone else is going to see the new Avengers movie, so  won't even be crowded at the one I'm going to. But, first I'd have to cancel my usual Friday night plans with my couch.  Then make sure that all my kids have rides so that my plans to go out don't ruin their social lives.  (Which would be another reason I don't go out very often.)   To my shock, the stars aligned and I put on my leather jacket (that's how much of an occasion going to the movies is for me) and headed out to the theater.

Now, I haven't been to any other theater besides the small independently owned one that's downtown and extremely small and outdated (but just so happens to serve wine) in years.  So, when we got to the ticket booth I was shocked that we had to choose a seat there at the box office.  Since when is there assigned seating at a movie theater?  What if I choose a seat next to a loud eater or a slurpper?  Or even worse...people who talk through the movie.  And now I'm committed to a seat.  A seat, I found out when I walked into the theater, that reclines. The recliner is nicer than anything in my house.  And cleaner because there's no dog fur covering it.

So now, I'm waiting to see if anyone is going to take the seat next to me while I eat all the popcorn and Milk Duds before the movie even starts.  Then, he arrives with his girlfriend, who brought a blanket.  They're professional movie goers.  Note to self: bring a blanket next time.  On second thought, I'd definitely fall asleep in a reclining chair snuggled with a blanket.  Bad idea.

After a half an hour of previews for prequels, sequels and remakes of movies, the movie I came to see finally starts and I'm enjoying it.  Amy Shumer is really good in it.  But, who gives a crap about her?  Because who is the hot guy in this movie?  I wait to read the credits at the end of the movie to find out his name and I google him when I get home.

Tom Hopper.  

(I posted a photo as a public service for the other 2 people in the world who don't know who he is.)

Apparently he's been in a bunch of movies and Game of Thrones.  

I might have to watch them.  

Who am I kidding? 

 I won't.
Because I'm pretty lame.

Happy Trails

I live in Colorado Springs, which is the second largest city in Colorado. We're nestled into the foothills Rocky Mountains, have little traffic, 300 days of sun a year, pot is legal (although recreational weed has to be purchased outside the city limits, don't worry it's a quick drive over to neighboring Manitou Springs) and there are lots of gorgeous trails to hike. Which probably accounts for why Colorado ranks in the top 10 happiest states to live in.

I like to get out and hike at least once a week, preferably not on a trail that is infested with rattlesnakes or where there's been a recent mountain lion sighting.  The truth is, it doesn't matter if anyone has seen a cougar or not, because they're around and they'll see you long before you see it.  Then there's the bears.  Sure, you can hike with bear spray to protect yourself in case of a bear attack.  But, it's really a false sense of security.  One of my kids "accidentally" sprayed my youngest with bear spray a few summers ago.  She wasn't even 100 lbs. at that time and it didn't even take her down,  but it did piss her off.  So, I can't imagine it would do any good with a 350 lb. bear.  Basically, I like to live in denial and pretend these threats don't exist and go out on the trail anyway because hiking is my happy place.

 On some of the more remote trails, you won't run into another living soul.  

But on the more popular trails, you're bound to run into other people.  

And that's when things get weird.  

Because people ruin everything.

There are the people who don't pick up their dog's shit.  People who think they take priority on the trail and that you should go out of your way to give them the right of way.  Like they think they're better than you because they're running the trail training for an Ironman competition.  And everyone is training for something here because it's also one of the fittest states.  Then there's the mountain bikers who come out of nowhere and sneak up behind you.  Or the people who are on their phone.  I don't want to hear your phone conversation when I'm shopping at the grocery store, so I sure as hell don't want to listen to it while I'm hiking.  

But, I think the worst trail offense comes from other hikers who don't acknowledge your existence at all.  Common American trail etiquette says that if I'm hiking in one direction and you're hiking in the other direction and we cross paths, some kind of cursory salutation is in order.  It could be "hi", "beautiful day isn't it" or just a smile.  But in my experience, this exchange of basic pleasantries only occurs about 60% of the time.  The other 40% of the time the other hiker, walking quietly on a path, walks right past you (stepping off to the side to avoid any chance of accidentally swinging an arm into you), careful to avoid eye contact so they can pretend they don't see you.  And this is what happens in one of the happiest states in America.  What the hell is it like hiking in Mississippi, Kentucky and West Virginia?  Which are three of the least happy states.  And do people even hike there?

Awkward Moments With Teens

I have four teenagers.  Yes, F-O-U-R.  I didn't realize how much easier it was when they were toddlers.  Because back then I was just so exhausted from entertaining them and trying to be the perfect parent, trying to cover up the fact that I'm a flawed human being.  It's a relief in a way when kids get to be teenagers and you can stop pretending you don't swear.  But, it comes at a cost.  And that cost is a lot of awkward moments with your teens.

It starts in the tween years before they're even teenagers and you tell them about sex.   Trying your best to be honest, direct and make eye contact with your kid, who can't look you in the eye because they are so grossed out by the thought of you, they're old, embarrassing, disgusting parent doing that.  But, what's even more awkward than that is when you get a new king size mattress for your bed and you go to give your oldest (who has a crappy mattress) your old queen size one because it's still in good condition.  And then you think about the things that have happened on said mattress (I'm sure that thought gives my kids nightmares) and hope that your teens don't do that for a long, long, long time (the thought keeps me up at night).  

The truth is, I kind of resent my kids in a way.  I know that sounds really bad, so let me explain. It's their fast metabolism and that fact that they can eat whatever they want without consequences.  (Except for dairy products, I've got a couple kids who need to avoid those or we all suffer.)  That and the way they know everything.  I remember when I was a teenager, when everything was so black and white before I realized I didn't know a damn thing. Not one.  Because you only realize how stupid you truly are when you have kids of your own to raise.  And then you're like...."Who the hell let me have kids? I'm a complete idiot!"

Of course your teenagers only reinforce the notion that you are an idiot.  Like when you can't help them with their algebra homework.  Or when you're teaching them to drive and they call you out on all your everyday traffic infractions.  Then suddenly out of nowhere, they start to think something you're doing is cool.  So they start borrowing (stealing) your sneakers (chucks) to wear to school. And you're like oh my god, I'm cool.  My kids think I'm cool!  But, they don't.  They think they are cool wearing your chucks, but they think you look as old, embarrassing and ridiculous in them as you are wearing or doing anything else.  Then one day they return your chucks to your closet (all molded to their foot) because now vans are way cooler.  And now it feels like you're walking in someone else's shoes. Because you are!

Then there's the whole social media thing.  As if I don't embarrass my kids enough in real life, social media and my blog take it to a whole other level.  I think the stuff I put out online is PG, at most, but it doesn't matter.  My kids are absolutely mortified by it just the same. Especially when their classmates find my blog. Which is exactly what happened with my youngest recently.  She told me so-and-so from her 7th grade class reads my blog.  Even though I try to tread carefully with my writing, especially where my kids are concerned, I have an underlying guilt that what I share publicly effects them.  So, I asked the important question: "Does he think I'm funny?"  

Loss

Buddha says, "The root of suffering is attachment."  Think about it, everything that brings you some semblance of happiness will have an end eventually.  Everything is temporary.  Be in the moment.  And when things end, send them on their way with your best wishes.  I try to live my life this way.  With one notable exception.  My hair.  I will not give up to hair loss without a fight.

This whole aging gig is really sexist.  If a man gets wrinkles it makes him look rugged. Grey hair makes him look distinguished.  And a guy going bald can look really hot.  But, none of these things are true for women.  Having shaved my head once upon a time for charity I already know exactly what I look like without hair.  And that I have a really weird shaped head which is why I'm fighting this fight to keep my hair so hard.

It started a few years ago.  I noticed when I was in the shower that there was more hair clogging my shower drain than there was on my head.  The thing is, I have thin hair to begin with.  On top of that, I just finally figured out how my hair looks best. When my daughters complain about hating their hair, I always tell them they'll love it when they're about 40, which is the age when self acceptance really begins. (I leave out the part about losing it. Because some things are better left unsaid.)

I've tried thickening shampoos and conditioners; they only made my hair look frizzy.  I tried expensive serums, which made made my hair look greasy.  Then I found an inexpensive root stimulator spray at the drugstore.  What did I have to lose except more hair?  Except, now it's harder to find.  I scour the store shelves, but most times it's just not there.  So, I did what every American woman would do, I found it on Amazon and ordered a shit ton of it.  But, I've come to the realization that it's just a matter of time before this product is discontinued.  And I'll suffer a loss all over again.  Do you see what a vicious cycle attachment is?

Now, I've got to up the ante.  I think I'm ready for the hard stuff: drugs.  And by drugs I mean herbal supplements.  So, I did my research to find just the right weapon to wage my own personal war on hair loss.  Then, I found it.  According to Consumer Reports, it's the top rated herbal supplement for promoting hair growth.  Making it my weapon of choice.

But, I'm skeptical.  The question I have is...does it promote all hair growth?  Like all over my body? Because when you're a woman in your forties, you start to get hair sprouting from weird places.  So now, are my random, scattered chin hairs going to turn into a full on beard?  There's only one way to find out...my package from Amazon is supposed to arrive later today.