Hair today, embarassed five minutes from now

I went to the bank to deposit my paycheck yesterday. The bank is a respectable place: people wear suits, make disapproving glances, and handle money. The bank is a place where you should be somber and professional. The bank is not a place to make an idiot out of yourself.

However, if you are me and you are well acquainted with idiocy, especially in inappropriate places, you will sympathize with me and what occurred in the 1st National Bank yesterday.

I got off work at 5:30, so I was cutting it a little close when I waltzed in at 5:45. I knew the bank closed at 6:00, but I also knew I could be a speedy depositer, so I went in anyway. I propped my sunglasses up over my ponytail and was quick like bunny filling out the paperwork.

I went up to the desk and the lady gave me a strange look, which I assumed was because it was so close to the end of their day, so I apologized profusely about being late. Then, several other women stood around while she deposited my money, which I thought was weird, but maybe bank people are really cliquey or they work in small herds, I don't know, I'm bad at math, which is why I'm a writer.

Several minutes later, I finally left, feeling more self-concious than anyone should feel walking out of a bank. It's not like I was turned down for a loan or told my house was being reposessed - how dare those mean, suited bank ladies make me feel like this!

Only when I got to the car did I realize what they were staring at: it was a stage five twanger. And it was bad.

If you are not well-versed in hair lingo (as I so clearly am) let me tell you, a twanger is about the worst thing you can have (aside from a mullet). Imagine Alfalfa from "Little Rascals" and you kind of get the idea. However, a twanger doesn't have to stick straight up, no. A twanger is pretty much a rogue lock of hair that does whatever it chooses, in whichever direction it chooses, which is not only embarassing, it is also quite dangerous. And on this particular day, when I had so nonchalantly propped those sunglasses up on my head, the bangs that are growing out had been pushed up and to the side in such a way that a lock of my hair was sticking out above my ear, perpendicular to my head.

I had a 90 degree angle hair twanger.

I am never going to the bank again.

Yacht not waterski if you've never tried before

My aunt and uncle have a boat and belong to a private lake. The lake is so private only a few boats are ever on it at one time, which means they can feel very bourgeoise without anyone having to see them, which may defeat the purpose, but they're not the type to flaunt. Talk about the boat like a third child, yes. But flaunt about the lake, no. After all, we're descended of farmers, flaunting is just not in our nature.

However, sometimes the aunt and uncle take pity on their poor relations, ie, those of us who only have condos in Vail, not boats, and they take us out on the lake. Such was the case today, when, in the great American tradition of Father's Day, we decided to do what every American family should want to do and go water-skiing, eat ribs and strawberry shortcake, and hang out at the lake.

The key words being that these are things we should all want to do. However, perhaps not all families contain a pasty writer child who burns in the sun, cannot water-ski, and doesn't really look like she belongs on a boat. Don't get me wrong, give me enough time and I can assemble one hell of a boating outfit - navy and white stripes, loafers, a fetching head scarf, the whole thing, very Ralph Lauren - but then I'd have to actually go out on the water, and then the ensemble would be shot to hell anyway, so why bother? If I'm actually going to be forced into the water, then a black bikini under my wetsuit will do.

I'm not sure when it became the American dream to go boating and barbecuing all the live long day, but it seems to be a pervasive myth. When I told people I was "going out to the lake" they were very impressed and made envious noises about how fun that would be. What they didn't know was that "going out on the lake" means cheering for my cousins, who look like they were purchased at Abercrombie Kids, while they wake-board, and then listening to them laugh at me while I attempted to put my water-skis on. This, of course, was only a little overture to how hard they laughed at me when I tried and failed, several times to even get up on the skis. And then, when I finally did get up, they tell me "way to stay up for a whole five seconds!" Annoyingly, the exclamation point was one of sarcasm, not excitement, so I guess it should be a sarcastic point instead.

In the end, I can at least say I went on the boat - apparently, flaunting is in my nature. And come November, I'm going to kick some cousin butt on my snowboard. And when we all go to the condo, you better believe I'm going to laugh when they lock themselves in the bathroom, as they inevitably and annually do.

EMOtional baggage

After a night out with the girls, talk turned to relationships, as it inevitably does. After scoping out boys, whom I'm sure we scared off with our air of collegiate worldliness and unattainability, and eating ice-cream, we began talking about our relationships, past and present, and I had to wonder: what do we take from our relationships after we're out of them? Tragically, they don't come with a nice parting gift, a "thank you for dating" card or even the shirt that you bought him. No, all you get is to see a picture of him later, wearing the shirt, with his new girlfriend. Baggage claim is right around the corner folks, and I will definitely be getting in line.

We all have baggage. The tough guys try to hide it, the young teenagers try to laugh it off, and the emo kids just put it all out there for everyone to see. Apparently it matches their eyeliner. But what about the people who don't believe in emotional baggage? What if you're in a happy, healthy relationship? When does relationship history, turn into emotional baggage?

I know that I am carrying around some luggage, perhaps the size of a stylish Louie Vuitton carry-on? After a traumatic first kiss (6th grade, on a dare) to my actual, real, enjoyable first kiss (age 16, behind the scenes during musical rehearsal) to my longest relationship that ended with a bewildering finish (did he lie? did he love me to begin with?) I don't think I'm exactly traveling light.

But I also think that we can learn from the lessons we lug around with us. I know now never to kiss on a dare and that the costumes from "Damn Yankees" are quite the turn-on. And, more seriously, I know to be more careful with my heart, to only give it to someone who values me as a person who is real and fallible, and not just as an entity to posess and admire. And I also know that my emotional Louie Vuitton is not nearly as bad as it could be. After all, what's my carry-on compared to the duffel bag and two rolling suitcases that are divorce, plus childen, or even infidelity? Is is just a fact that the older you get, the more your suitcases weigh?

One of my friends said that relationships are history in the making, and they turn into baggage after the break ups. Others of us believe that we carry the baggage from those relationships with us forever. And some of us, the idealists, believe that a good relationship can unpack the baggage from the past and get us ready for a whole new trip to paradise, if only we have the right travel partner.

I may be getting older, and my suitcases may be getting heavier, but there's always the hope that one day, I will get off the plane, and there at the gate will be someone perfect for me, waiting to help me carry them.

Quack Attack

I think the sight of it might have scarred me for life, and yet I couldn't turn away.

You know when you're watching Discovery Channel and the cheetah is about to take that zebra down and you don't want to see it, but you can't close your eyes? It was like that. And if you don't watch Discovery Channel, trust me - you wouldn't be able to look away either.

LP and Stella and I were at the park last night. Spring makes me antsy and I really needed to expend some energy so we decided to take a walk. Stella had just had her nails done, so she was all "Do we have to go to the park?" and I was all, "You're a dog, so you have to do what we say - we're going to the park." Plus, she weighs four pounds, so we just picked up her manicured self and away we went.

As we were walking around the lake, we saw some ducks come in for a landing near where we were standing. I am always a little taken aback by birds, given my history with them, but they were far enough away that I could just look at them.

They were splashing around, doing their duck thing, having a good time, when all of a sudden these two boy ducks came up to an innocent girl duck, and well...you know. I'm not one much for PDA anyway, but it was the way they did that it was horrible! First one would hop on while the other pecked at her face! Then the other one got on, and I guess he weighed more because the weight of him held her under water! The girl duck couldn't breathe! She was being drowned while forced to have sex! If I am ever reincarnated, I sure hope I don't come back as a duck because NO ME GUSTA!

We watched her struggle, not knowing what we could do for a fellow female in need. I tried to tell those boy ducks that NO MEANS NO! but I don't think they heard me in the heat of the moment. We also threw sticks at them, but to no avail. They were very persistent.

Anyway, it was finally over when some other, more well-intentioned boy ducks came over and shooed away the rapist ducks. The female looked grateful, and also a little frantic. As they swam away together, I would like to think they went to the Victim Assistance Team clinic right away.

And then Stella was all, "This totally depresses me, can we go home now?" And I had to agree with her, so we picked up her manicured self and away we went.

Mullet Tales: part 1

I am officially coming out. It's my deepest, darkest secret, and it's one that only a few select people know about me. But I am coming out to you, Internet, please don't judge: When I was four, I had a mullet. Before you laugh and point, it wasn't my fault! I requested bangs and shoulder length hair, in sharp contrast to the 'fro that I was sporting at that time. I didn't really have any style icons - I was four! I still watched Mister Rogers and wore Micky Mouse sunglasses - but I knew enough to know that I wanted nice, shiny hair that could go in a ponytail. A simple request, no?

Tragically, a lack of style icons was also directly linked to a lack of salon finess, so when we went to my GRANDMOTHER'S hairdresser (there's a red flag for you) it seemed like any other place that one would go to get a haircut, if one went to a place owned by a woman who sported a silvery white beehive, black sunglasses indoors (which may account for all the bad hair that came out of that place) and loud, chunky necklaces that clanked against her heaving chest when she walked about in the smoke from her long, French cigarettes. Her name was Doris. There are no words.

Now, before I tell the rest of this story, I just want you to know that my mother still has guilt about this day. Well, we're Lutheran, so she has guilt about more things than this, but this particular day will always be in the forefront of her mind. And if I ever find it's made its way to the backfront, or even the mediumfront, well you can bet I will remind her of this awful, awful day.

I remember sitting down in the chair, olive green and sticky, and listening while my mom told Doris what I wanted. To her credit, nowhere in that chat did my mother ever say "And yeah, if you could give my 4-year-old a mullet, that would be great, too." Knowing this is probably what saves my mother from wandering in purgatory, if Lutherans believed in that sort of thing. Or from a lifetime of always volunteering to make the Jell-O salad, which Lutherans embrace as the third sacrament.

Then, and this is the part where I always want to rewind and pause to stay forever four so that I never have to face the indignity of public mulletation, after I was wrapped up and shampooed, MY MOTHER LEFT THE SALON. THAT'S RIGHT, LEFT. I WILL SAY IT IN ALL CAPS AGAIN SO THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS STATEMENT: MY MOTHER. LEFT. ME. WITH A SCISSORS-WEILDING CHAIN SMOKER WHO DISTRACTED PEOPLE WITH NECKLACES SO THEY WOULDN'T NOTICE HOW BAD THEIR HAIR WAS. OH. GOD.

I believe she went to a craft store just down the way. While my hair and sense of self literally fell to the floor, my mother was examining fabric samples and looking at vases or something. Needless to say, Hobby Lobby has never held any charm for her.

Contrary to how assertive I am now, the presence of a big Doris above me with choppers was too intimidating at age four, so I just sat there while more and more of my hair was lovingly feathered about my head, making me look not unlike a small Billy Ray Cyrus. I let her do it to me, but I maintain that no 4-year-old should have to defend her own hair against a Doris - it's just too much to ask.

Well, as you can imagine, the aftermath was catastrophic. My mom was yelling, I was crying (I was the one with the mullet, after all) and my grandma was trying to convice everyone that it was "very cute and trendy" because, after all, it was her Doris that screwed everything up. And remember that part when I said I had a 'fro? Try mixing hair that naturally 'fros, with a mullet. There isn't a hairstyle called the Frullet for no reason, kids: it's ugly.


There was, understandably, no Doris in my life after this. We left the salon that day, never to return. While I missed the time I spent trying to figure out just how DID her hair stay up in that alarming fashion?! I did not miss the creepy necklaces and bug-eye glasses. And to this day, I get a little shiver of fear when I go get a haircut, because there's always a moment when something could go wrong, and I could end up with another mullet. Because if that happened, I would be eating Jell-O salad for the rest of my life.

Confessions of a chocoholic

If you think I'm kidding, I'm not. It's like when I told my Orientation kids over the summer that the campus squirrels were to be feared. They laughed. I told them to laugh it up, because it's all fun and games until somebody finds a squirrel in their pizza box. That's not funny. In college, we actually call that being hungry. I know hungry and funny sound kind of the same, but they're not.

So really, I do have a problem. I am, most definitely, a chocoholic. And it's serious.

It used to be not such a big deal. I liked chocolate as much as the next person, some m'n'ms here and there, maybe a Snickers bar if I was feeling particularly needy - normal chocolate consumption. And I didn't even like chocolate cake, so that particular evil was eliminated, too. And I went through a time where I didn't eat any chocolate at all - none. It just sat on the shelf, that chocolate did, and cried sad chocolate tears because I was off at the gym or finding a cure for cancer or watching "The Bachelor" - you know, important things.

But now, something ugly has reared it's head inside of me, and the only thing that will silence it is MORE CHOCOLATE! Well, that and MORE COWBELL!, but I don't have a cowbell, so the chocolate will have to do. I don't know what to do about it. Every meal I eat has to end with a dessert of chocolate - I kid you not, I ate a bagel and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup for breakfast this morning. You can judge me later.

Short of getting rid of all the chocolate in my sight (of which there is plenty) I just don't know how to beat my addiction. I've already looked into a 12-Step, but they meet at Cold Stone Creamery, so I don't know how effective that would be.

Maybe I'll give it to the squirrels?

Evil Twins: Banking and the D.M.V.

Last night, while participating in the gluttonous consumerism that is American Christmas, my best friend pointed out that I was driving with an expired license. And had been since Nov. 11. That's neat. So, today, it was off to the D.M.V for me. And lucky me, I was there ALL MORNING LONG.

First of all, let's be clear: I don't like the D.M.V. Actually, I don't like any place that I have to wait for more than 12 minutes to get what I want (GAP employees who take too long finding the jeans, take a hint) And at the D.M.V., I am surrounded by people I don't know (a weird phobia I have) the possibility of small children being present is high (does anyone employ a babysitter anymore?) and I most definitely had to wait more than 12 minutes today. Try 47 minutes. And that's not even counting the time it took for me to get TO the D.M.V. So let's count! After all, I love math:

The time it took for me to get from my house to 88th and Wadsworth= 31 minutes
The normal time it takes to get from my house to 88th and Wadsworth= 6.5 minutes

The time I spent in the D.M.V. before I saw the "No Credit Cards Accepted" sign= 3.2 minutes
The time I spent cursing myself for never carrying anything but a credit card= infinite. In fact, I'm doing it right now. I will never learn.

The time I spent driving in circles at the bank trying to find the ATM so I didn't have to talk to a person= 2 minutes
The time I sat at said ATM staring at the screen that said "ATM BEING SERVICED" and willing it to be fixed= longer than I'd like to admit.

The time it took to explain to a real person that I normally bank in Ft. Collins but I need $20 RIGHT NOW = 23 minutes. (Part of this time was spent giving the bank clerk the stink-eye, at which I am proficient having learned it from my mother.)

ACTUAL D.M.V. time= 47 minutes.
Amount of time spent listening to racuous, running twins at D.M.V.= 47 minutes.

Number of times I listened to the a capella version of "O Holy Night" by N*SYNC to get myself back into the Christmas spirit, and also to prevent myself from calling everyone on the road a motherfucker= like I'm really going to admit THAT...

So if you add all those times up, you can come to three basic conclusions:
1. People should not have children two at a time.
2. ATMs are called 24 Hour FOR A REASON - DO NOT DECIEVE ME AGAIN 1ST NATIONAL BANK!
3. My life is so much better when I have Dana to drive me around.

In which I round-house some MATH in the face!

I haven't done math in quite some time. Apparently, neither have any of my other journalism friends, as was evident today when we took our final exam in Copy Editing and Design.

It started out well. Grammar? Done! Spelling? Please - I spell in my sleep. Sentence structure? I will structure you a sentence the likes of which you never done seen before, just hand me that pencil. Being as cocky as I was, it was probably no surprise that the MATH hit me out of nowhere. Yes, it's true - MATH (in all caps AND bolded, because it's just that scary) on a journalism exam. Oh, the humanity! Except for my professor - she doesn't have any.

Luckily though, I wasn't alone. As a group, we were whipping right along correcting those sentences, tossing gerunds and false posessives to the side in the middle of the linguistic carnage. But after this, the deluge- MATH.

You could see the devastation hit immediately. One by one, like rainfall, the pencils began to hit the desks as everyone arrived at question #35: percentages. People began looking around, afraid for their lives, eyes wide in the presence of numbers and symbols. We looked at each other, mouthing a silent scream that would do Edward Munch proud: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!!!!!!!!! OH GOD WHY???"

Well, after all that carrying on, there was little to do but carry on, in spite of the tragedy. I tried everything I knew how to do. Pie charts, colors, even reasoning with the MATH by using rational and well-thought out arguments and power point presentations. Nothing. The math would not yield its secrets to me.

After five minutes of staring at the MATH and wishing I had paid more attention in 4th grade instead of making faces at Donald Ackerman, I remembered the holy grail of percentages, and I knew that my salvation was nigh unto me: decimal points.

And then I did the MATH, and I did it good. I round-house kicked that MATH in the face. And in the end, MATH was really just math, and Munch was proud, and so was Chuck Norris. Because let's face it - I can do one mean round-house kick.

And you think your family is crazy...

I have a great aunt (who will remain nameless, mostly for the sake of propriety, and also because you just never know where she will turn up) who is, basically, that crazy relative that every family is blessed to have.

She's not crazy I-live-in-a-cabin-alone-in-the-woods crazy. More, I-live-alone-with-my-cat-who-I-named-after-a-Chinese-opera-star crazy. And don't even get me started on the hats...

So every year, this aunt sends out a Christmas letter. A nice sentiment, but you're thinking "What does a single woman in her mid-70s talk about in a Christmas letter?" Well, lucky you - I'm about to reveal:

If you want to know the order of priorities in the Christmas letter, they go like this: Convention Center, Art Museum, Southglenn mall, new siding (flip the page) her Christmas tree, my grandma, the family ( seven paragraphs down, in case you were wondering) her new digital camera (she's been having a great time) her house and 'statuary' and Cherry Creek Mall.

Here's what's worse - somehow, she manages to insult someone in the letter every year. Usually, it's just the requisite blurb about what we're up to (Hilary has joined a sorority, ha ha!) But this year, it was worse. It happened to my mom's cousin Shawn. Shawn is, quite possibly, the nicest member of the family. He didn't inherit the sarcasm gene, and also managed to escape the I-talk-waay-too-much gene. And when he lived in Denver, he drove my aunt around all the time. But here's what she had to say about him this year:

"Shawn the middle boy lives in Nebraska and is single...he has his own little house and seems to be content there."

Points of contention on behalf of Shawn, because Lord knows the man wouldn't stick up for himself:
1. Shawn the "middle boy" is now in his 40s. Can we say word choice?
2. Is single. So is she. How would she like it if we brought that up in our Christmas letter?
3. Seems to be content. How content is he going to be after he finds out he was just insulted in a two page letter where Victorian trees get higher billing?

Separate points of contention, entirely unrelated to the cousin Shawn issue:
1. Apparently I have done nothing of regard since high school (except join a sorority. Ha ha!) I don't have two jobs or a double major or anything. It's cool.
2. Spouses who married into the family get no mention whatsoever. My Aunt Donna didn't have two boys, Uncle Kurt did - a medical miracle!
3. The siding on the house is more important than the family mentions. I am calling for a story restructure ASAP.
4. The paragraph about the digital camera is entirely true. She has, indeed, been having a great time. However, the day she photographed me standing in the bathroom looking for a nail file is when I realized that I was definitely not having a great time.

But on the plus side, that bear statue in front of the Convention Center is "amazing!!!"

Ethics tangent

This ethics tangent is completely unprovoked, there is no agenda to my discussion. I guess it's just good to remind yourself why you do what you do. This is why I do what I do, even if it's on a very small scale right now.

I really like to believe in the power of the media, and I really like to believe that they make a difference. And I really like to believe that I too, will one day make a difference. Maybe not by being a Pulitzer Prize-winning whistle-blower, but by being the writer who told that story right, true. It might not be a lot, but it's something.

I really like to believe that everyone is as idealistic as I am. And even I am not so naive as to think that THAT is true. But if the idealism of one can be a spark that lights the flames of many, who's to say we can't ignite the hearts of all by finding the truth? That has to be worth something.

I really like to believe that everyone who goes into journalism is doing it for the noblest of reasons: pursuit of passion, truth telling, passively advocating for humanity by recording our triumphs, our failures, and standing up for justice when something goes awry, even if we can only scream objectively and hope that someone can read our subtext, and know that something is wrong and desperately needs fixing. After all, journalism by its very nature is not a career of activism. It's a career of quietly (or sometimes not so quietly) observing the comings and goings of our fellow man, and at the end of the day, knowing that something you said has given someone else a new context in which to think about the world. And that is definitely something.