Wipeout

My brother Bryan and I had so much fun on the "FlowRider" at Maverick's in Sunriver. This is a surfing simulator. While I can't say we are ready to catch a tube in the ocean, it was a unique experience and I definitely recommend it!

Here is the FlowRider at rest and when they first turn on the water. The entire surface and all the walls are padded. At the top is a rubber grate to drain the water but keep your mangled body afloat. You'll see what I mean.

The bottom 2 photos show the lifeguard demonstrating how to surf the fake wave. Looks pretty easy!

This is the first picture I took of Bryan:

You can see his head at the top of the wave...he wasn't on the board long enough for me to even capture. 

Bryan demonstrates the whole process:

1. Get set up

2. Push off

3. Momentary thrill

4. Wipeout 

5. Regain your spatial bearings and hope (in my case) your swimsuit is still on

There were about 10 other people participating, so we had to take turns throughout the 90-minute session. I tried the wakeboard first: you start at the top and kind of leap face-first onto the board on your belly.  Somehow I messed it up and instantly lost the board, leaving me face down with water forcing my swim top off my chest. So after one attempt I chose to focus on trying to master the surfboard. 

Here are a few more pictures of Bryan wiping out before we get to some video action!

The pictures of him surfing look pretty good! Too bad he was usually down after only a few seconds. 

Each of us on an early attempt:

We look so awkward!

Two of my better rides, including a gnarly wipeout:

I was the only girl out of about a dozen participants (except an 8-year old who mostly did the boogie board), and I am PROUD to say I held the record for the longest ride! Based on Bryan's counting, I almost mastered the bull ride, at 7 seconds. (I think one guy may have reached 8 seconds toward the end, but until then, I was their idol, ha ha.)

The whole thing was tons of fun, and much harder than it looks! I have no idea how similar that is to real surfing, but it must be very challenging. Also, I think I got whiplash because that night I could not lift my head off the pillow without using my hands for support, and my neck was quite sore for a few days afterward.  Bryan and I agreed: it was totally worth it!

And now, just because WOW, here's that kid showing off:

In the second clip he's shirtless (you're welcome!) but it must have distracted him because he falls. One thing I didn't catch on video: he fell but the board kept "surfing" on its own on the wave. Bryan and I goaded him to walk through the water and jump on it, and he did it! It looked so cool, and we were awestruck nerds. :)

Be careful what you wish for

Having one and a half pregnancies behind me, I can say that I am one of those lucky women for whom gestation has been relatively pleasant.  For the most part, I actually like being pregnant. I find it absolutely thrilling to have a new, tiny LIFE growing inside of my body. And in everyday situations, a pregnant girl is kind of a novelty which can draw attention, and let's face it--I'm not generally uncomfortable with positive attention.

The problem is that for the first 3-4 months (at least, depending on her physique) no one can tell a gal is pregnant just by looking. Then for another month or two (or, again, often longer) no one would dare comment or ask for fear of the utter humiliation of being wrong.  So for half or more of my pregnancy, I wish I could wear a T-shirt like this:

I've never had washboard abs or anything, but I take pride in maintaining a fairly slender, athletic figure. So I start feeling "chubby" early in pregnancy.  In the first couple of months, the uterus may not yet have grown higher than my pelvis, but it is pushing everything else up and out.  My uterus pushes up my other organs which in turn push my layer of "soft tissue" (read: fat) which usually conceals itself pretty well by lying flush with the rest of my body out over my pants. So that's why long before people compliment that cute baby bump, I (and presumably many newly pregnant women) am struggling to button my jeans and can't stand to look down when seated.

For several months I pine for my flabby belly to round out and look pregnant so the world will know that I am intentionally knocked up instead of carelessly filling out. Of course my ever-rational husband wonders aloud why it matters what anybody else thinks. A valid query, certainly, and one for which I do not have a rational answer without exploring intense psychoanalysis and social commentary. And this is neither the time nor the place for such nonsense.

About three weeks ago I had three ladies ask me on the same day, in different words, if I was pregnant. These were all members of my Curves who know my pre-pregnancy shape, so they felt comfortable with the assumption.  Pleased that familiar people finally felt comfortable enough to ask, I still would not have expected a stranger to be so bold at that point. I don't mean any offense, but the fact is there are many women who carry the soft tissue around their midsection in much the same way that my abdomen was presently protruding.

Then, I swear over the course of about 48 hours, my belly popped out.  One day a couple of weeks ago I  suddenly looked officially pregnant.  I was thrilled at first to not feel so self-conscious and for maternity-type clothing to not look and feel so awkward. But now I'm wondering if it was too soon. Have I gained too much weight for the halfway point? If my belly is already this big, how uncomfortable will I be four months from now? And I am not so naive to think that the fetus is taking up the entire space in there, so I'm feeling a little bit guilty about the excess girth.

I gained about 60 pounds during my first pregnancy. Thankfully I was able to lose all of that weight, but it did take me 10 months and during the first few I felt very uncomfortable.  My intention was to reign in the weight gain this time around--but then I haven't made any concerted effort to do anything differently. And  at times I found myself rationalizing an extra helping or sweet indulgence with my desire to look pregnant! Can you believe that? I would justify eating more because I wanted my belly to show.

Granted, I love food and struggle with willpower any day of the year. When weight gain and major changes in my physique are as inevitable as in pregnancy, making the choice to limit calories or choices becomes even more challenging and I almost rebel against the idea. There is rarely a drawn out internal monologue, the doireallyneedthisbutyumiwanttoeatitandi'mgoingtogetfatanywayandicanlosetheweightlatersowhat'sthedifference thought process occurs instantaneously. 

I'm enamored by the idea of being one of those adorable pregnant chicks who wears her regular jeans through the seventh month and whose belly you might wager was just a volleyball tucked under her shirt. That just is not me. The question is whether that is due to a pre-determined physiological difference or, more likely, the choices that I make. Could I be one of those skinny preggers? Who knows. Maybe. Probably not. And why does it matter? It doesn't.

When my cylindrical reflection in the mirror mocks that area where a waist used to live, I am a little disappointed in myself.  Right now I've got that cute baby bump I longed for earlier, I'm just afraid it will be way too soon when people start quipping that I must be about to pop.  Or that when someone hears my due date her expression will betray to me her surprise that it's so far away.  Or that I will be miserably, uncomfortably large in three months, give birth to a giant baby (with only my body's natural pain relief mechanisms), or be unable to lose this weight afterward.

But I am aware that I am being unfairly critical and hard on myself. The most important thing in my life right now is nurturing the tiny future person growing inside.  It does no good to concern myself with such vanity. I share these personal feelings with you in case you can relate and wish to share insight or encouragement.

A measly 200 friends

I got started on Facebook much later than most people I know. Of course I still occasionally run into someone who continues to resist; my husband is one of those.  From the beginning, I mainly interacted with my Facebook profile when it interacted with me: if someone "friended" me, I responded; when someone wrote on my "wall" or sent me a message, I viewed it. I made only a few efforts to find people from my past, and quickly grew weary of the superficial "OMG how are you?" posts that rarely progressed beyond those few words. So even though I was "on" Facebook, I just didn't spend very much time on Facebook. 

For reasons I can't quite identify or recall, I've clicked over to Facebook more often recently, and as much as I would have preferred to remain oblivious, discovered that I am deficient in friends. I've always found the implicit pursuit to collect the most "friends" on a social network to be a ludicrous paradox, so I never meant to get involved. But I accidentally noticed on a few of my (real) friends' profiles that they have over 300, 400, even over 500 Facebook friends.  That day I had 183. 

Pretend that you don't care how many friends you have if you want to, but there is no denying that personal connections make us feel liked. Also, it's easy to pretend you don't care if you are one of the ones with many hundreds of friends. Now, we all know that Facebook friends do not equal real friends. They aren't all people you'd invite to your birthday party, even if they all lived nearby. I started out very selective about my Facebook friends, but lightened up about it as time went on.  The truth is, I don't have copious opportunities to make acquaintances like some of my church-going/world-traveling/bar-hopping associates.  So many of the people I know are my business clients, and it makes me nervous to think about them viewing photos of my private life or clicking on the link to my blog. But I got a little fire under my butt for some reason to boost my friend numbers (my ego), and have been actually clicking some of the "people you might know" suggestions. I still have a hard time sending a friend request to someone I was never close to in the first place, it makes me uncomfortable. 

My half-hearted endeavor has grown the list to 190 friends so far. Two hundred is within reach! 

I am pathetic. 

Just CARD me.

Since two days ago I alluded to having personal experience with a hangover, and am about to write about going to a bar, I feel the need to reassure you that I am not some kind of alcoholic party animal. Last night I took my good friend Sarah out to celebrate her 30th birthday, and we happened to sit belly up to the bar for dessert because the restaurant was full.  And we had a really fun time. Happy Birthday Sarah!

I recently turned 29 years old. I see the same face in the mirror today that I did ten years ago. Is it because the changes are so very gradual that I don't feel that I have aged? Will I feel the same when when I turn 39 or 49? When do you look in the mirror and not feel 19 years old anymore? 

The Oregon Liquor Control Commission mandates that servers check ID for any individual who looks under 26 years of age. And it's not uncommon to see signs posted in establishments announcing that they card anyone under 35. So how do you think it makes me feel when you don't card me, huh?!?

It's not so much that I am offended by not getting carded. After all, I occasionally got away with hanging out with my older friends in bars when I was 18. If some bartenders thought I was old enough to be there back then, perhaps it's only logical that I have a naturally "mature" appearance. But I am genuinely curious about how old I look to a stranger and why. Last night I came home and scrutinized my face in the mirror: pushing and stretching and trying to figure out what has changed in the last decade. I don't see crow's feet or bags. My smile lines don't seem overly defined. So what gives, Stupid Bartender? 

It's all but impossible to find two photos with exactly the same expression/angle/lighting/haircut for a truly accurate comparison, but here's the closest I came up with after a quick hunt through the archives. I went with my hair back in the recent photo to more closely match the short 'do from my younger days. 

   

2 days after my 21st birthday 

  

   

2 weeks before my 29th birthday

Have I really aged enough to be un-cardable? There are definitely darker creases under my eyes...or is that a matter of different lighting? Does anyone else experience the same odd sensation of being blind to your own degeneration? I don't like getting old. Especially when I don't even realize it's happening. 

Flashback Friday: Fear is not a factor

On this Halloween-Eve edition of Flashback Friday, I'd like to tell you about one of my favorite past Halloween costumes.

A few years ago I entertained a short-lived obsession with the television show Fear Factor.  I watched all the syndicated episodes on TiVo, and loved every thrilling minute.  The adventure stunts are so creative and often involve meticulous execution of details. Fear Factor is most often recognized for making contestants eat coagulated blood balls or lie covered in African cave-dwelling spiders, but I always appreciated the extreme feats more than the grossies.  Inexplicably, I even had a little crush on the not-extremely-attractive host Joe Rogan.

But even more mind-boggling is the fact that I legitimately contemplated submitting an application to be a contestant on the show.  I actually printed out the paperwork from nbc.com and began brainstorming ideas for my audition video before I realized that my well-developed fear of falling might give reason for pause.  There are certain types of stunts I think I would skillfully complete and even enjoy in an adrenaline-junkie sort of way.  But as much as I want to believe I would be tough enough to leap from the top of one speeding gas tanker to another, I wonder if any amount of safety harness and helmet could make me to do it.  I nearly freaked out at the top of the New York New York coaster in Vegas, so I really don't know what I was thinking.

Accepting that I would be unable to select cool stunts over truly terrifying ones was only part of the cause for my ultimate verdict against applying.  The other element of import was the realization that I didn't have "the look" for Fear Factor.  Not tan enough, not thin enough, boobs not big enough. I decided to remain content watching the bikini babes and muscle men perform stunts like these from behind the comfort of my remote control:

I was, however, able to live a little piece of my dream on Halloween that year when I chose to masquerade as a Fear Factor contestant. I dressed in the show's black and yellow motif (how lucky to find that sports bra at Goodwill!), attached spiders, mice, and snakes to my clothes and hair, and even printed the Fear Factor logo on my homemade pennant flags--just like the ones contestants often have to collect or transfer as part of various formidable challenges. To complete the look, I showed plenty of skin (like a true FF contestant), including inflatable chest-pieces for maximum accuracy.

I wore this getup to work out at my Curves club, which is where this indelicate photograph was taken.  Considering I would have probably been the one crying like a little girl and demanding to get off whatever contraption from which I was pathetically dangling, I'd venture to say that I had more fun dressing up as a Fear Factor contestant than I would have had actually being one.

The drawbacks of losing weight

Yes, you read the title correctly. And perhaps you think that aside from underweight individuals and eating disorders, there couldn't possibly be any drawbacks to weight loss: it improves cardiovascular health, decreases a person's risk for a myriad of deadly conditions and diseases, enhances physical appearance and self-confidence, and more.

It is a well-documented phenomenon that individuals who lose a significant amount of weight (often through surgical means) are faced with unexpected emotional and social side-effects, and struggle with a persisting poor self-image, even after body normalization.

Of course, I don't have personal experience with the psychosocial effects related to extreme weight reduction. For that I am tremendously grateful. But my most recent deliberate efforts to improve my body composition have been successful, with drawbacks.

After gaining 67 pounds growing a seven-pound fetus, I returned to my pre-pregnancy weight exactly 9.5 months after giving birth. I easily maintained that weight for five more months, until I stopped breastfeeding, at which time the pounds crept back on. When I noticed I had regained 12 pounds in a year, I got serious and lost it, but not serious enough to maintain the result. Sigh. It is hard work, and my heart goes out to those with much more weight to lose, who could easily become discouraged by the prospect.

This past July I reached my highest weight since losing the pregnancy pounds. I have been exercising seriously and consistently throughout all these fluctuations. I do strength training and cardio at Curves, I run several days a week, I had been walking my hilly neighborhood pushing a stroller, and more. Since working out 6 days a week wasn't doing it, I committed to a generic calorie-counting plan using an online food journal at Livestrong.com. I lost about 6 pounds in a couple of months, and then in September joined my Curves staff in my challenge to complete a cycle of the Curves Weight Management Plan. This program was not only much easier to follow, but more effective as well.

I have now lost a total of 16 pounds in less than three months and weigh a couple of pounds lighter than I did when I got my driver's license at the perky-bodied age of 16. But here is the first major disturbance: My body looks nothing like it did at 16. The scale might give me cause to celebrate a number I haven't seen since before puberty, but the mass of uncooked pizza dough hanging below my rib cage speaks to me otherwise. Sometimes I gather it all up into my hands and fantasize about just slicing it right off with a knife. Of course there are doctors who will do that without such a bloody mess all over my tile floor. And if I can ever get approval from my sweet, loving husband, I might just be wearing the paper gown under those bright lights.

Why can't I tell my body from where to burn the fat? Why does my body think that breasts are less of a necessity than a muffin top? I've always had an average-sized chest, nothing to write home about. While I was expecting, however, I got to enjoy a set of Double-D's for a few months. My hopes of keeping them were dashed, though, as they shrunk to A-cups by the time I was finished nursing. That was small enough, thank you very much, but as I've lost weight recently, I feel like I might need to buy myself a few Hannah Montana and High School Musical training bras! Seriously, it's getting ridiculous. Maybe during my next pregnancy we'll have a few special months with boobs once again. (Yes, I said "we'll," don't you think I'm not the only one who misses them?)

Speaking of pregnancy, that's the next issue. I often wonder why I am making these sacrifices to slim down now when it's only a matter of time before I put my body through that most traumatic of physical changes, including weight gain, again. I guess I've worked with too many women who retained just 10-15 pounds after each pregnancy, compounded until they were 40 pounds overweight. I figure it's easier to return to where you started than it is to lose more than you gain during pregnancy. Also, I'd prefer to be in peak condition when embarking on that journey again, as I believe my physical fitness and body composition affects the entire experience and outcome. Lastly, I don't know exactly when the time to expand our family will be right, and I don't want to suffer the discomforts of flabbiness until then.

Another drawback, which is kind of a catch-22, is the way my clothes fit now. I am physically disturbed when my clothes don't fit right. It is an indescribable sensation, like nails on a blackboard perhaps, and is one of my primary motivations for losing weight. I just can't stand my clothes being too tight or a shirt that is too short exposing the flab above my jeans. The discomfort also applies to sleeves or pants being too short, so it's not just about my fatness. It's also about my longness. Anyway, I still have the awkward flat tire and muffin top to cover around my middle, above where my jeans sit, but the jeans themselves are now looking sloppy and loose. I don't like the way they feel or look, but I'm not sure the next smaller size would quite fit yet. And I don't want a tighter waistband to accentuate the "curves" above it.

(That's not me. Her boobs are way bigger.)

I am moving on with determination to conquer "Phase 3" of the Curves plan, which involves a higher calorie diet alternating with lower calories in order to raise metabolism (which slows during any diet--that is why weight loss eventually plateaus) without regaining the weight lost. After Phase 3, I'll be mentally prepared to make the commitment again after taking the "break" from dieting, and my metabolism will be revved up and ready to burn more. I just hope that what fat remains in my chestal region will be mercifully spared, while that around my belly is finally sacrificed appropriately.

Flashback Friday: Almost popular, again

Last week I flashed back to third grade, when I was left feeling as though my chance to be Popular had been whisked away because of one silly err on my part. Now I'll recount the next time my chances of joining ranks with the "in" crowd were smashed. Only this time it was all my brother's fault.

Since moving away from the elementary school where I had once been destined for Popularity, I had hovered around the middle rungs of the social ladder in upper elementary and junior high school. I wasn't the most popular girl in school, the one lusted after by boys and envied by girls. But I didn't get stuff thrown in my hair on the bus either. I played soccer with lots of Cool Kids, and was occasionally even invited to join them at birthday parties or other social events throughout middle and high school. But my closest friendships were mostly formed with the girls with whom I went to church, and we wouldn't have been considered among the top-ranking in Popularity as far as those labels go. I enjoyed my brief moments rubbing elbows with the pre-teen elite, and regrettably struggled at times with the desire to be considered "one of them," instead of being satisfied with my more meaningful friendships or the idea that I could be well-liked and even respected without being "Popular."

Certainly it's a pathetic way to view the world, in terms of Popularity--whatever definition that word might wear.

But at any rate, that's Junior High. And this is where our story begins: at the Eighth Grade graduation party. Yearbooks are being passed around for the standard "your cool" and "have a gr8 summer" sentiments. Students are shedding tears over all the special memories they have created and the fact that they might not see one another for TWO WHOLE MONTHS over the summer. !!! What a blissful life.

Polaroid photo taken at 8th Grade Celebration. Oddly enough, almost all the peers pictured were Popular Kids. How did I get in this picture? Maybe I was cooler than I thought. Or maybe I snuck in like a 13th wheel. In case it isn't obvious, I'm the ugly one with braces on the far left.

This guy who goes by Butch strikes up a conversation with me at the party. I didn't know him well enough to be considered a friend. He was just a guy I knew, one who I would look up to from my place on the middle of the proverbial popularity ladder. He was a Cool Kid, from my vantage point at least.

In my yearbook Butch writes:

Imagine being a 13-year-old girl, and see if you can identify each nuance that might be scrutinized with delight (the misspelling of "lose" not among them). Butch also asked me to go to a movie with him in the summer. Wow. I could feel it already: Ninth grade was going to be different.

We made plans to meet at the movie theatre for our date a couple of weeks later. Yes, the proposal was genuine and the plan indeed executed!

Butch said he would buy our tickets and wait for me at the front doors. Such a gentleman, considering this was a few years before he would be old enough to pick me up on my doorstep with a dozen long-stemmed roses. Give him a break, okay?

All I had to do was procure my own ride to the theatre. For some reason my parents were both not at home this day. I was left to rely on my oldest brother for this most crucial element of what might be considered my first date. I literally cannot remember the details surrounding this life-altering quarter of an hour, but I do remember distinctly pleading with Richard to hurry up and take me to the movie so that I would not be late, and him being otherwise occupied, unwilling to relent. He finally, and with a frighteningly disgruntled sigh I'm sure, gathered himself and the keys and I hopped anxiously into the passenger seat.

Since we left our house somewhere around the time (or possibly even after) the movie was scheduled to begin rolling, it was a tense three-mile drive. I was nervous, mortified, and really at a loss for what to do. In 1994, cellular phones were still quite uncommon, and certainly no one who just finished middle school had one. I kept visualizing my soon-to-be new friend sitting outside the theatre on a concrete bench, his face lighting up when we finally pulled in, and us skipping hand-in-hand down the dark hallway toward our seats just as the opening credits concluded.

Instead, we pulled alongside the curb in front of a deserted ticket booth. Butch was nowhere to be seen. I asked my brother to wait while I checked inside, and I hope that by the time I emerged from the lobby onto the pale, desolate concrete alone that he felt sorry.

I don't have the kind of relationship with my brother that would have allowed me to air my frustration and blame the way I wanted to. Which would have involved ear-splitting yells and possibly some PG-rated violence. Instead I shrunk back into the Camry seat and stared out the window while we drove home, hiding my shameful tears from Big Brother.

I spoke to Butch once more after that, attempting to explain over the phone the humiliating circumstances that forced me to stand him up unintentionally. He said he enjoyed the movie, and didn't seem interested in forgiving me and trying again.

Maybe I could have salvaged my chance at Popularity by going inside and finding the boy. But I probably would have needed a ticket to get past the teenager guarding the hallways. And I didn't have any money. And my brother sure as hell wasn't going to give me a ride AND six bucks. And then I would have felt as though Butch had wasted his money on the other ticket. Which in essence, he had already done, so why would that have mattered? I probably also wondered if perhaps Butch had even shown up in the first place, and I didn't want Richard to leave until I confirmed his presence, and then how would I come back out and tell him it was okay to leave after successfully getting in to the movie 15 minutes late? It was all so complicated and my immature self just didn't know what to do at the time.

It's probably best that I wasn't Popular anyway. Here's to my REAL friends:

Julee, Kristen, Mikael, Bridget ~ June 1993

True friendship is fun. And forgiving.

(Like each will offer me for posting this lovely picture on the internet)

Flashback Friday: I could have been popular

Lines between the Popular and Unpopular kids are drawn early, and mostly in permanent marker. The determining factors, then, are anybody's guess, since in second and third grade the idea of beauty is a non-concept, and the seeds of personality traits, senses of humor, and intelligence are only beginning to germinate.

But in third grade at Phil Lewis elementary school, I was somehow fortunate enough to be included on the Popular side of the line. I know this because it was abundantly clear that Makai, Jeffrey, and to a lesser degree, Brandon were the popular boys, and they would always chase me at recess. The ultimate goal of the chase was to plant a scandalous kiss, usually on the top of a girl's head, as odd as that might sound. In addition, when we all shuffled into the next-door classroom for joint movie-viewing, the three of them fought over who would get to occupy the seat on either side of mine. I held these clues in high esteem.

Various Rules of the Playground apply at every school I suppose. Some are the unwritten, naturally occurring type, while others are enforced by the almighty Recess Duty teacher. At our school the swings must have been a highly coveted commodity, because a rule was created which allowed a student awaiting his turn to stand by a swing in use and count to a specified number, at which time his turn would commence.

On this fateful day, the three Popular Boys were swinging, and I wanted to join them. There must have been more than three swings, but I made the lamentable choice to "count on" Brandon, which effectively forced him to alight and allow me to have a turn alongside the other two boys. There was no question that I preferred the suave Hawaiian and funny red-head over their more stout and spiky-haired friend. But what I failed to realize was that their friendship did not take kindly to my preference. Bros before Hos, dude.

So in one fell swoop my status as their friend and object of pursuit was shattered. Of course in third grade, alliances are made and broken and repaired over the course of a few days. Seemingly life-altering quarrels are magically resolved before the weekend. So this altercation and resulting hurt feelings could have easily been patched given time and carefully spoken apologies.

That afternoon, however, my parents made the staggering announcement that we would be moving away. For the few remaining weeks of school, things were never quite the same between me and those boys.

I have a very distinct memory of a discussion in the car with my parents several months after the move. They were wondering how I was doing in fourth grade at my new school. I was the 'new girl,' and those hideous LINES had already been drawn before my arrival. I wasn't being invited to cross over to the Popular side of the line. And my nine-year-old self cried miserably as I explained that if I could have stayed at my old school I would have been a Popular Kid, but now I was nothing.

My parents gave me the usual rhetoric about how unimportant being Popular is, and that it is more important to be nice to everyone. They proceeded to ask me what "being popular" even means, and I didn't want to admit that I couldn't conjure up a good definition. I just knew who was and who was not. And I was not. But at my new home I made good friends with whom I still remain close. Thankfully I grew out of that irrational desire for Popularity, but there was one other time that I watched the opportunity to be one of the Cool Kids slip through my grasp. I'll tell you about it next week.

Declaration of intention

I have blogs in my head. Some seeds of ideas, some partially written out in my mind. Most bloggers have this, I'm sure. I need motivation to get these ideas from my cerebellum through the keyboard and into the universe.

The idea that somebody out there might enjoy the writing doesn't motivate me. Probably because there are too few people who read my blog and too many people whose writing far surpasses mine in abilities to entertain and engage. It's discouraging.

I'm not motivated by the personal satisfaction that I do often gain after completing a decent blog post, since I know self-criticism and doubt will be more immediate.

What does motivate me is deadlines and purpose. I am a task-oriented individual, and so when faced with opportunities to choose the next activity to fill the moments in my day, I always go straight to my to-do list. I find it quite difficult to sit on the couch and read--even if I am engrossed in a great story--when necessary responsibilities are hanging over my head. I use the personally fulfilling activities like reading, and even some of my more enjoyable work tasks, as "rewards" for accomplishing the less-appealing "have-to-do's." And making the representative check mark next to a task on my list fills me with joy.

Because I don't always feel a genuine or significant benefit from writing on my blog, it is not usually the activity of choice when I do find free time.

But by giving my blog deadlines and purpose, I am more motivated and find the writing more enjoyable as well. The more I write, the more people read, which feeds the entertainment value, which is all it's about, really. I did glean a "lousy sense of accomplishment" (see sidebar) after completing NaBloPoMo last November, and even kept up with frequent posting for quite a while after that. Challenging myself to blog every day really did motivate me, and the positive feedback from my enthusiastic reader kept the excitement alive (okay, there might be enough to make it plural).

So, as I learned last year that National Blog Posting Month does not occur during any one month in particular, I've chosen to take my 2009 NaBloPoMo Challenge in October. It wouldn't be as much fun to blog daily in the same month each year; a new month provides new topics. Plus I'll be out of town during November. Here is my October NaBloPoMo badge, but don't expect too much related to the suggested theme for this month:

To my blogging friends and family, I issue an invitation to join the endeavor: 31 posts in 31 days! Come on, don't let me go it alone. And keep the comments coming, or I just might pout myself out of contention.

Unfunky

Is there a better way to cure a case of The Funk than a fresh new hairstyle? I suppose an all-expenses-paid tropical escape would do it, or maybe a truckload of new clothes that actually fit me properly and which are not T-shirts.  But for practicality's sake, a wild hair-do will have to...do.  

This rockstar color scheme's appeal to me must be another manifestation of my early mid-life crisis.  To be candid, I do yearn for some aspects of my more carefree youth, I miss my 20-year-old childless body, and sometimes I wish I stood out in a crowd.  The Funk was more than just a gray day, and although it's not entirely gone, at least now my hair has electric purple highlights. 

I try not to say things that aren't truthful.  If a friend shows up in an outfit that I find atrocious, I may sincerely shriek, "I love those shoes!" Greeting a customer with a new, unflattering haircut, I might say, "Hey! You got your hair cut! Short hair will be great this summer when it's hot."  When a mother is showing off a baby that I don't feel particularly compelled to coo and cuddle, perhaps I'd offer a relatable, "Aww, aren't babies fun?"  I just don't like to feign sycophantic praise where it's not heartfelt.  I'll either focus my praise where it is genuine, or make neutral remarks. 

Before you think me a black hearted monster (because I don't lie to my friends, I guess), take note: It has been amusing to recognize how many people follow the same principle when encountering my neon streaks of hair.  Between a small handful of genuine compliments, I have primarily heard observational statements such as:

"Oh! You colored your hair! ... Huh."

"Your hair is purple! ... When did you do that?"

"Is that permanent? ... What made you decide to do that?"

No one dyes his or her hair purple unless wanting to be noticed, but weirdos like us have to understand that not everyone is going to like our weirdness.  There is no doubt that my own mother is not a fan.  But I am having fun with it, and needed a way to enjoy my hair while I commit to growing it out--a process I despise. 

The cherry (or grape? ha ha ha) on top of this little story is that I think I have finally found the hairstylist to whom I want to establish a loyalty, after 9 years of searching. I'll tell you why in an upcoming blog post. 

DIY hair

It seems that my hair dilemmas will never fully be resolved. I recently concluded that I was not ready to endure the awkwardness of growing out my hair, thus committed to a cute, short haircut. I was happy with said haircut save two regrets.

I wish I had asked her to do something fresh with my long bangs (I don't think she even touched them and I felt like they needed some style), and I wanted to do something bold with the color. Since I had not requested this service beforehand, there wasn't enough time.

This is how my hair recently became a do-it-yourself project. I'm not sure that hair is a project well-suited for DIY.

When I left the stylist with her next appointment, I was suddenly latched on to the idea of dyeing a purple or red streak in my hair. Spontaneous impulses such as this are difficult for me to repress, so I drove to another salon a few blocks away (I think there are 3.1 salons per capita in my tiny town). The stylist there could see me right away, only it would take about an hour and I had to be at another (non-hair-related) appointment in half an hour. Who runs to a salon expecting significant service with only 25 minutes to spare?

She convinced me to make an appointment for the next day, but I was already pretty sure I would cancel it. I was there because I wanted it done now, and when I learned that she would charge $35-40 for ONE STREAK of color, I started re-calculating my plan. I figured if I was going to have to wait a day or two anyway, I could return to the stylist who had just cut my hair and get a better deal since my friend got a full weave from her for only $55.

In the meantime, I spent my 25 free minutes going to Safeway, where I purchased a box of Garnier soft black hair color for all of $4.99. I had hoped to get the materials to do my own colored streak from the grocery aisle too, but apparently it isn't sold to the public in a convenient box at the local supermarket.

The next day I called my stylist to see about coming back for some color (and some work on my bangs, I would ask at the appointment). Unfortunately, she was taking the rest of the week off for her upcoming wedding, and was booked the entire following week. When I set my mind on a change like this, I want it done. Now. Plus, she was going to charge the same amount as the new lady. So it became time to take matters fully into my own hands. Although I did give up my desire for a $35 purple streak. For now.

A few days later I finally had time to work on my project. I started with the bangs. I know most stylists will cut bangs for less than ten dollars. But I didn't want to pay more money when I had just paid to get a haircut, yet was too impatient to wait two weeks for my own stylist, who would probably have fixed them as part of her original service.

A lady in my Moms Club recommended watching YouTube to learn how to do your own childrens' haircuts as a way to save money. I had never really thought of YouTube as serving a practical, educational purpose. Of course it is more than just bicycle stunts gone hilariously awry, but I hadn't thought of using strangers' videos for instructional purposes. However, I tried her advice last week in preparation for my daughter's first haircut. I simply showed Madelyn a video of a toddler getting a haircut before we went to the salon. I think the images helped her understand and remain calm.

That process gave me an idea. So I tried a new search: "how to cut your own bangs" and came up with hundreds of video results, of course. I spent about 30 minutes perusing the clips, watching different techniques until I felt like I had a good grasp of the process to achieve the style I desired. Of course I had to wade through copious ditzy girls in front of mirrors, but there were a few useful ones.

Then I draped a towel over my sink, pulled out a pair of dull scissors, and started sculpting. I am not very good at cutting hair, or following directions, it would seem. Like a painter who ruins his masterpiece by adding too many strokes, I find it difficult to STOP cutting. Thankfully I did not end up with a spiky tuft of hair where my bangs used to be, but they are definitely not the picture of trendsetting style that I was going for. My punishment for trying to save a few bucks.

Next I worked on the color. Since I wasn't able to get a colored streak, I decided that my bold style would come from a two-toned look. I colored only the bottom layer of my hair with the soft black, so it would peek out from the shorter layers. The dark color is really beautiful, but my hair is already dark, so the difference in color between the layers was not as striking as I wanted.

So I went back to the store the next day and bought a lighter color for the top half of my head. It was a very dark blonde, which I knew on my dark hair would result in a light brown. Doing this color job was very tricky, because I had to keep the color away from the bottom layer that I had already dyed, and I had this wild idea to leave the my bangs naturally colored.

After rinsing out the dye and blowdrying my hair, I was disappointed. The color wasn't ugly, it just wasn't noticeable. After all my hard work, I didn't want it to look plain and natural, I was going for bold and fun. So I took a chance and dyed the entire section AGAIN, and left the color on twice as long as instructed, since it had already been sitting mixed up in the bottle for about 45 minutes. I didn't care if it came out almost blonde--that would be better than the dark brown it currently was.

After the second rinse and blow-dry, and the color is much more noticeable. But it isn't really the right color; too red. Oh well. If I keep going like this, I'll have spent more money than I would have for what I originally wanted at the salon.

Now I'm mainly struggling with styling my bangs. They are a little too short to look right with the side-swept style, but that is what I usually go for. Now I am insecure about my hair, noticing everyone else's pretty bangs and hoping no one is internally criticizing my self-serve job. C'est la vie for the hopelessly self-conscious.

I do actually like this picture; it is the better side of the 'do. Thanks to my friend Barb for working some camera magic to make me (and even my hair) look decent.

Here you can see the red tones overpowering the color, and also how my bangs look as though I am wearing a helmet.

This is a new style I tried today, flipped out with the bangs pulled straight forward. I'm not really feeling it.

Aaaaah! I hate my hair.

Hair dilemmas

I tend to be a "grass is greener" type of person. When my hair gets long, I wish for a more creative, edgy, short cut. But after having it short for a few weeks, I pine for the flexibility and femininity that comes with luxurious length.

I absolutely hate growing my hair out. Short hair is cute. Long hair is pretty. Medium-length hair is not for me. And a short haircut doesn't look good while it's trying to get long. So after I tire of a drastic cut, I suffer through a year of ugliness while my hair slowly grows. Sometimes I give up on waiting and just chop it off again, so the ugly time is not even fruitful.

When it comes to hair, I love the freedom of style that length affords. My problem with long hair is that I eventually stop styling it. I usually skip the blow-dryer so it's limp and unintentionally wavy. When resorting to a bland ponytail or claw clip is nearly an everyday routine, I know it's time to make the cut.

My major damage with short hair, on the other hand, is that forgoing the primp and style ritual is not an option. If I let my short hair air-dry, it would be in my best interest to forget about entering the public eye for the day. So if I happen to be in a hurry, short hair is less convenient. However, most of the time I actually appreciate the compelling motivation to do my hair. Of course, it's more expensive to keep a short haircut looking right.

I used to do some fairly drastic things with my hair; my favorite was playing with the colors. Color is easy to change, and hair always grows back, so there's no reason not to have a little fun with it. Gary prefers natural looks, so I usually respect his aversion to bold haircolor and styles. This is why I was pleasantly surprised when he complimented this American Idol contestant's hair as a style I should emulate (I chose to crop the picture because her skanky outfit is an unfortunate hot mess):

I actually like it. Personally, I would leave the bangs blonde, and never consider wearing purple eyeshadow to match the hair. With those details corrected, it's funky without being over the top, in my opinion. I figured Gary would roll his eyes and consider me childish if I ever expressed interest in a style like Ms. McNamara's (now a top 36 contestant). I figure he's offered his approval now. Excellent.

Mayeb I won't dive right into the purple and blonde thing quite yet, but the pressing question I pose to you now is: shall I postpone the ugly growing-out year for a while longer, and get another A-line cut? Or just accept my cyclical desire to return to long hair and find a stylist who can give me some semblance of panache while I endure the inevitable? Does short hair or long hair seem to suit me better? Either way, more vigilant upkeep and care is necessary, as I discovered by perusing photos of myself to compare the styles. I decided not to post any for that reason. Maybe a splash of lavender would be just what I need to feel excited about doing my hair.

How do you deal with hair dilemmas?

Mt. Hood Photojournalism

I rarely post photos of current life events. Here is a somewhat photojournalistic journey through our Valentine's Day Getaway to Mt. Hood.

Madelyn packs her suitcase full of the necessities for two nights with Grandma. Apparently, she wasn't in the mood for pants at the time.

When we arrived at Cooper Spur Mountain Resort at about 4:30pm, it was snowing. Good news for the ski resort a few miles up the hill which we planned to patronize for the next two days. It took us a few minutes to locate the resort office, which closed at 4:00. An envelope with our name on it was clipped to the bulletin board outside their door. There was no key inside, just directions to our condo. And while the envelope had once been sealed, it had very obviously been ripped open before we found it. Curious.

The mysteriously opened envelope containing no room key

We hoped (and simultaneously feared) that they had a system of leaving the key inside the unlocked lodgings. We drove to our lodge condo and found our hopes to be false. The door was locked and bolted. It's a small resort, and practically deserted mid-week. We decided to drive back to the office, clinging to the optimism that perhaps we had missed something there, or the key had inadvertently fallen out of the open envelope, or it was pinned to the cat's collar. Something like that.

As we drove back toward the main office, a red Jeep emerged from a parking area designated as "employees only." It was a miracle. We flagged them down, and Yvonne, the assistant manager, returned to the office to help us. She found our key in a back room somewhere, and then in her thick Hispanic accent offered us a free box of firewood for the "eencohnveenyen." Inconvenience now, sure. But what if we had missed her exit? A few extra moments lingering at our locked door or a more hasty retreat on her part would have left us stranded in the snow. Yvonne even mentioned that she came back to the office because she had left her cell phone inside.

The weird part is, she never mentioned why the key wasn't inside the envelope, or what mistake led to her having to find it in a back room. I need closure on this point.

Our complimentary five-dollar box of firewood, with appropriately heart-shaped log

The condo itself was rustic and comfortable. Not fancy, but not entirely falling apart.

There was, however, no dishwasher. And the oven was just for looks. There were TWO small fridges though.

Little nuisances like a faulty toilet handle were not enough to ruin the vacation or make me not want to go back.

Playing games is a staple component of any relaxing vacation.

The Directions Nazi (that's me) gets her read on amidst impatient observers

Diana's Lucky Leprechaun Yahtzee Dance

Kristen and Randy Canastafy it up

Snack Basket. Most of the good stuff appears to be buried.

Diana, Gary, and I snowboarded Tuesday and Wednesday. Randy stayed back and studied for his Master's program, uninterested in risking an injury that would prevent him from bringing home the bacon. As divulged last week, I am a skier-turned-snowboarder. I tried boarding a couple of years ago, and sensed, in spite of my novice ability, that I would be more comfortable on a board than skis. I've only been able to go a couple of times each season, which is a huge bummer. But this year (thanks partly to my mom's birthday gift to Gary) we purchased Mt. Hood Meadows' "Three Time Learn to Ski/Snowboard Package." This is a disgustingly good deal: $99 for three days, each of which includes a lift ticket, 2-hour lesson, and rentals. Now, the first two days it's the bunny slope only, which for a true beginner is fine. Gary learned fast when we went for our first day in January, and I had a few times under my belt, so we upgraded to a full-mountain ticket for our 2nd day (the days don't have to be consecutive). In case you're not familiar with ski resorts, a regular lift ticket is around $59 at Meadows. They have a lift ticket and rental package (one day) for $79, and a group lesson would be another $60. So you can see that this is a spectacular deal. Until we get our own equipment, anyway.

We were lucky to get the first big snow in over a month!

Sisters on a VERY cold and snowy day at Mt. Hood.

Handsome Husband poses GQ-style in the perfect snow conditions

What a fun way to celebrate with my Valentine

Kristen rips up the slope (ha)

Gary is a natural

Three snow bunnies

The four of us nearly polished off a 42-oz. bag of peanut M&M's in two days. And that is far from the only thing we devoured.

Socially Networking

Honoring my sacred tradition of being one of the last humans on earth to accept and appreciate newfangled technology, I recently joined the cyber world of Facebook.

I have been avoiding passage into this new frontier for a few reasons:
1. Arrogance. I rather like being different, which may at times include watching the proverbial bandwagon smugly from the sidelines.
2. Time. Maintaining relationships with real friends is difficult enough.
3. Fear. It may surprise you (or maybe not) that there are people out there who are not my friends. I don't mean strangers. I mean the opposite of friends, though the word "enemies" may be a bit strong.

Look, I am an employer. If you have ever had a boss, then you realize that sometimes I have to play that necessary role of the person that people love to hate. It's not my fault. And I feared that a disgruntled employee, or mean person like the one who made a nasty comment on my blog might peep into my private life and laugh. Or worse.

So when, after enjoying some tasty Thai food with a group of girlfriends, the knowlege was bestowed upon me that one's Facebook profile is inaccesible to anyone unless you approve them as your "friend," that fear was eliminated. I'm not sure how I missed that important detail. So when my new BFF Barb (aka Polly Pocket) e-invited me to join the Facebook Elite, I shrugged and clicked the bright blue link.

Getting started was ridiculously easy. The feature which searches your email account for people you already know on Facebook was both frightening and exhilirating. I didn't invite any of them yet, though. I want to get my feet wet first.

And the feet-wetting has been a bit tricky. I consider myself very computer- and internet-savvy. But it is taking a concerted effort to orient myself with the Facebook layout. I am surprised at how cluttered and ill-organized the pages appear. It's probably just a matter of time before it will be second nature to me and I'll wonder how I ever thought that.

I must also admit that I had no clue what actually went on inside the gated Facebook community. I've never been on MySpace either, and always assumed these were simply personalized web pages. Post some photos, write little blogs, display how many "friends" you boast. I was not aware that such an interactive community existed within. Now I can remain abreast of what each friend had for lunch, and where he is taking his dog, and what she found under her couch cushions. And respond appropriately to such breaking news in real time. How did I ever do without this?

Kidding aside, I think it will be fun to stay in more immediate touch (ha, the irony) with nearby friends and maybe reconnect with some old friends (methinks I'll have to be a little more careful about what I write in my flashbacks). And now I can start using the word "friend" as a verb, as in, "You'll never guess who friended me yesterday."

If you're lucky, I just might friend you, too.

The anti-Flashback Friday

Here we are. Tomorrow is Flashback Friday, but I haven't added any fresh insights to my blog since the last one. My fear in initiating FF was that I would at times neglect or be unable to post Saturday through Thursday, and as a result turn my blog into one flashback story after another without the more intellectual musings holding them together. After successfully conquering NaBloPoMo, Flashback Friday remained the motivating force encouraging me to write 3-4 posts per week so I wouldn't have a loser blog. Up until this point, it has worked, but I have also realized that I often write to fulfill my obligation to maintain this self-imposed "schedule." I find myself trying to think of something to say so I can write, rather than writing because I have something to say. Big difference.

Then, I read Bridget's list of 65 books she read in 2008. By my calculation, that's one and one-third books per week! One reader mentioned in a comment that she read 97 books in 2007. That statistic, for me, is more frightening than impressive. For a long time I just haven't had much interest in reading. Running multiple locations of my own business took so much of my time, and now having a toddler leaves me cramming an 8-hour workday to-do list into a 2-hour nap [Note: it does not work, and I constantly feel a day or two behind].

Recently the urge to read has reappeared. I suddenly recall novels that gripped me years ago and long for that melancholy stupor that lingers after the last page of a really good book. When I learn of literature that intrigues me of late (often reviewed by Bridget as well), I find myself yearning for time to investigate them. When asked by another reader how she manages to read so much, Bridget responded that she has always been a fast (while still thorough) reader, and she chooses to spend her "discretionary" time reading, as others might choose to knit, watch TV, scrapbook, etc.

I am not a fast reader. I never have been. The wiring in my brain requires me to read each word as if I were reading it out loud. Imagine how much longer it would take you to read a novel aloud to someone else than reading it to yourself, and that's about how long it would probably take me. If I try to read faster, I end up having to go back and re-read a whole paragraph either because I actually missed a word and get confused, or because my obsessive-compulsive concern that I might have missed a word demands it.

We all choose how to spend our discretionary time, and some of us have more of it available than others. I feel like I have very little, and wondered why that is. And so I did what any self-respecting nerd would do: put it to research. For five consecutive days, I analyzed how I spent my time. I basically punched a proverbial clock each time my activity shifted, recording what I was doing and labeling each segment under broader categories. I tried hard to avoid reactivity, genuinely going about my day as I normally would. This was a very interesting exercise, and I learned some weird things. For example, I spent an average of 2 hours per day just preparing and eating meals, and an additional, equal amount of time "getting ready" (for the day, to go somewhere...).

Pertaining to discretionary time, I realized that when I am not specifically engaged in a necessary task such as getting my daughter dressed or making dinner, I am constantly trying to work. I try to sneak work in whenever I can. When Madelyn is distracted, I'll make a few phone calls. I'll let her watch TV so I can work on my computer. And as soon as she is asleep or under my husband's care, I am immediately drawn to check my to-do list and accomplish work-related tasks before anything else.

What this discovery revealed about my priorities was unsettling. But as I mentioned above, it is very difficult to fit a full-time job into a few hours a day, and this is the way I have grown accustomed to managing my predicament.

When I do feel satisfied enough with my productivity to put my work aside, I am enticed by blogging (as well as reading several others). At the risk of humiliating myself, I will disclose that a coherent post takes me about 2 hours to write and edit. On one of the days in my "study," all of my discretionary time was spent updating my two blogs. But Bridget blogs more than I do, and she has two kids, not one and finds plenty of discretionary time on top of it all. I'm not trying to compete with her, or anyone else, I am just trying to understand why I don't have time to read five books a year, let alone 65. My day-to-day analysis did not reveal any obvious "here's where you're wasting your time" activities, and believe me, I was looking for them so they could be eliminated.

So this leads me to the reason for this Non-Flashback post. I want to read. I want to blog, but only when there is a matter I feel compelled to write about. And therefore I am demoting Flashback Friday to a bi-weekly feature. Most likely no one would have noticed or cared, but I wanted to talk through my process of justifying less frequent posts. I'm sure there will be spurts of creativity when I'll be writing more. But when presented with the little bit of "me" time that I am afforded, I don't want to decline an interest I would rather be pursuing because I am pressuring myself to write a certain number of posts each week.

Right now, for example, New Moon (second in the Stephenie Meyer Twilight series) is propped up behind my laptop screen, begging fiercely for me to crack it open and start. I read Twilight last week instead of writing 3 blog posts, and I can't say I regret it. Now I'm off to continue the saga, feeling better that I have at least touched base with my devoted fans.

Ahem. That's you.

Did you miss me?

I cannot believe that it has been over a month since I have contributed to my own blog. I was out of town for ten days, and greeting me upon my return was an unusually large and stressful Mountain of Urgency. While chipping my way through the to-do list (its nature to acquire new tasks more quickly than the old are checked off), I not only found myself having to choose between blogging and sleep, but also in the throes of dis-inspiration.

Maybe it's just the extra strain on my psyche, but I am struggling to form ideas into coherent sentences fit for entertainment or enlightenment. And if not for one or the other (or both), then what is the use in writing?

One roadblock I had in starting this blog in the first place was determining its "voice." What did I want to say, or not say, in such a forum? What tone should the writing take and how important would it be to maintain it for continuity? Who will comprise my audience and to what extent should I care about what they think?

Some of the subjects that I want to write passionately about are of the controversial variety. As a business owner, maintaining political and religious ambiguity is a necessary and delicate art. I would like to believe that true friends could respect differences of opinion. But I have too few true friends to risk offending the remaining friendly acquaintances who might discover the unveiling of my oft non-mainstream views.

There is one type of blog I did not want to emulate. So as not to offend anyone, you can check out this uber hilaralicious parody called seriously so blessed. Just be careful that you don't lol too hard or you might P your cute li'l panties. Now, I would be happy to have thought of that particular website (cha-ching), but the real-live fairy-tale-land brag-fests like that make me want to hurl my cookies, if you know what I mean. I don't wish to add 'strained eye-rolling muscles' to the list of crap that happens in my real life by reading about your perfect one. There are websites that I do admire, and I had fleeting visions of making a very healthy living and taking exotic trips courtesy of banner advertising, until I realized that I'm just not that talented nor interesting.

So I accept that my blog will simply be something fun for me and maybe a handful of amigos, yet at times I still feel paralyzed with self-doubt, if not just plain Writer's Block. I have a list of topics to formulate into posts, and I expect that one by one they will take life. So I hope you keep checking back, in case I come up with anything worthy of a big fat paycheck from Google. (I'll need you to tell them about it.)

My book got published

My book is now a published best-seller! Unfortunately, I won't be getting any portion of the profits, because I did not write it.

In 2001, I had the idea to write this book:

My work-in-progress title was The Psychology of Dining Out: Observations of Social Customs and Quirks, plus 15 tips for getting the best service in fine restaurants. But truthfully, that was simply a fancy way of luring people to read my Waiter Rant! I believed too few people would actually want to read my jaded commentary on the human condition from the perspective of an apron-clad worker. Wish I hadn't doubted myself. The book got its humble beginnings from a sarcastic waiter's anonymous blog. I discovered Waiter Rant's existence for the first time listening to the author discuss it on an evening radio-show interview. I felt just slightly sick to my stomach, a specific emotion that was faintly familiar to me. Soon it dawned on me: I felt precisely the same way when my car was broken into and my stereo and CD collection stolen. So my brain likened the publishing of this book to a thievery of my imagination. Of course that isn't true, and when you snooze, you lose, right?

I didn't follow my idea far, but it was more than a fleeting thought. I scribbled my inspirations in a spiral notebook, including a pocket-sized version that I carried in my servers' apron to jot those hilarious and poignant moments that frequently punctuate a waiter's shift. Here are just a few of those gems that I scrawled before losing interest and allowing a smarter man to abduct my brainchild:

Say PLEASE. Servers are not exempt from civility.

Your food gets touched. By people's hands. Many of them.

Taste the fish before you ask for tartar sauce.

Don't request the dressing "on the side" if you don't want it at all. Just say "no dressing." We won't be offended, and you won't be wasteful.