***Ah the mounting moments to expose***
The other night Ryan says he gets thirsty in the shower. I said that was a perfect place to get thirsty. He looked at me like I was crazy. As if drinking shower water were equal to drinking toilet water? Poor kid. He may not catch snowflakes with his tongue, either.
I was standing in line at Kohl's the other night with 20 disgruntled customers. There were only two registers open on the women's side of the store and they were extremely slow. When you are one of twenty people, that kind of line feels like the DMV. While others cursed under their breath, folded their arms across their chest and sighed, and made eye contact with other line-waiters and said, "well this is just ridiculous isn't it," I thought to myself, "why get mad when I can get smart?"
Thank God for the therapist who taught me this line.
The employees paged for back-up numerous times, but no one was coming. So the non-twitter, non-facebook, non- technology queen decided to pull a very techno-savvy move. I simply took out my iPhone, looked up the store's number, called, and asked to speak to a customer service representative. I kindly told her that there were 20 of us waiting in line in the women's department and I was wondering if there was anyone in the back that might be able to answer the pages for back-up because people were getting a little hostile. The people around me said this was a brilliant idea. It wasn't brilliant; it was just a conscious choice not to waste my anger on a long line.
Within a minute there were two managers up front apologizing and checking us out themselves. I smiled at my cashier lady and left happy that I implemented all that shrink-therapy for the common good of my local Kohl's shoppers... don't get mad, get smart.
The worst thing I did last year was leave a mean letter on somebodies car who had parked in not one, not two, not three, but FOUR parking spots. We were in Nashville trying to park at a busy restaurant and some guy (is it sexist that I assume it was some guy? Not a man. Not a woman. Not a teenager. But a punk twenty-something year old guy) took four spots to park his Yukon. He centered his car in between two rows, pulled in from behind, and parked squarely in the middle of his little box. We ended up parking in the back and walking around a cold building with a five month old. I didn't think much about it until the guys started saying what a jerky thing that was. Our conversation quickly changed and dinner progressed, but there we were an hour later leaving the building and his car was still there, and all of a sudden I was struck with anger.
They're right. What a jerk. I have a freaking baby. What's wrong with this dude taking up so many spots. So I wrote a note. I know. I wasn't thinking smart, I was just thinking angry. I said, "It was incredibly rude of you to take up 4 spots. I have a five month old baby and would have loved one of these spots next to the building. Get over yourself and your car."
I stuck it on his windshield and walked away. The guys were dying from severe fear of conflict and they were convinced I was going to get caught (looking back, I think they were probably just embarrassed by my actions). But then they decided we should drive to the back of the parking lot to see if the owner would come out and find his note. Sick entertainment, I know. At first this was pretty funny. We would try to guess whose car it might be as people came out. But the longer I sat there, the longer I felt bad about leaving such a nasty letter for one of those people. They all looked pretty nice.
I told the guys I wanted to go take it off his car. Maybe he had a good reason for taking up that many spots. Or maybe the letter would really hurt him. Or maybe it was a she. But taunting me, they drove off, and the letter stayed on the car and I still feel guilty. Very guilty. And this was a wake up call (I need a solid ten a year): I stand by my underlying belief that justice isn't nearly as sweet as you intend for it to be.
My thrifty nature is becoming overwhelming. My friend bought me some fancy-shmancy mineral powder make-up for my birthday. It cost $40. She said it would be perfect for my skin on stage and during photo shoots. She said some other things too, but I didn't hear her, all I heard was, "forty-dollars." I could start a little chicken farm with $40. I could buy two entire outfits. Or pay half of the electricity bill. $40 is a small fortune and here it is all naked and exposed in a tiny dish? This made me nervous and I immediately enacted (in my head) a little-dish-security-detail. I treat this Petri dish of miracle powder like it's fairy dust from Tinkerbell herself.
I hate this powder.
Every time I open it up I see little plumes of powder disappear in the air and I freeze in horror. That's .75 cents flying away. It must be caught. CATCH IT!!! CATCH IT!!!
I get my little powder brush, bob my head from side to side, up and down, and then flail about the bathroom trying to catch my .75 cents worth. I run my finger along the sink where it settles and put the powder straight on my face. I find little flecks on my shirt and insist on transferring them to my finger so that I can place them on my nose. I refuse to let these minerals go anywhere else but my face. I will use Every. Single. Mineral.
If you were watching me, I am sure I would look insane. Waving my hands around to try and fan something invisible onto my face, focusing on nothing, and then aiming my powder brush in mid-air and smiling a smirky, money crazed smile, as I capture the renegade minerals... You can't give me anything nice or expensive. I spend way too much time trying to make sure I take full advantage of its value. Like the way I treat my toenails after a pedicure. Walking around on my heels with a horrible look on my face as I try and keep my toes separated so I don't mess up the paint... and that goes on for days. Let's face it. Expensive things make me a crazy-o.
In a recent TV show recording we were discussing our Alma Mater, Baylor University, and I was explaining that the school was a bit of a culture shock for me because I grew up in the semi-ghetto and I had never been around so many rich, white people. I then said, "It was so weird to be in that environment. Coming from such a multi-ethnic community and high school and I just wanted to scream 'Where's your black people?"
Well, apparently it is not politically correct to say that because everyone got quiet, the guys diverted their eyes to the floor, the interviewers laughed a nervous laugh, and I got flustered because I felt like I embarrassed everybody and it was a small train wreck.
But can I just say, I hate that I have to be so "politically correct?"
I count it the best blessing in the world that I grew up in such a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic community. I love that Ryan and I live in a neighborhood that has more Indian markets than grocery stores. I love that I can go to the park down the street and let Annie play side by side with an African-American, Hispanic, Indian, or fill in the blank, child. I love that she will know people of different faiths, cultures, languages. I am not a racist. I have both dated and had dear friends from numerous ethnicity's; the color of someones skin is equivalent to the color of their eyes for me.
I rarely know what color eyes someone has.
I'm pretty sure my friends from back home, both black and white and everyone in between, would have stepped foot on the Baylor University campus ten years ago and said, "Where's your black people???" too. That's just real. It's not polarizing, categorizing, or anything else. People freak out when you say anything that might be politically incorrect. But those are usually the people who haven't been around those who are different from themselves. They are being careful to avoid being offensive, but what I think is truly offensive is a Christian institution that lacks diversity. That people don't seek change when isolation plagues our communities. That's not what the world looks like. So I stand by it. I love all people. And if a place is full of white people, I'm gonna ask, "where's your black people?" Or if I must be PC:
Excuse me? Could you please point me towards the diverse section of your student population? Where, pray, are your African-American students? Hispanic students? Or Native Americans?
Finally, I cut my own hair again. I was trying to save money. See, I told you, my thrifty nature is becoming my nemesis. The haircut that I gave myself was awful. I mean, huge, horrible, blunt chunks all in the front. About four inches off the back that ended up all uneven (and way too short). And layers. Lots and lots of horrible layers. I wore it up in a hair tie for two weeks straight. I knew I needed to get it fixed, and if I know it has to be fixed with real money, that means it is really, really bad.
So I got it fixed. Three days ago. And my hairdresser, Rob, had to cut it all the way up to my chin to redeem it. I lost about 7 inches. My hair hasn't been this short since the 4th grade. I look mousey. I look like a librarian. I did what I always swore I would not do... I got a short haircut after having a baby.
Look. No matter why you get your haircut after having a baby, men decide to call it the "mom hair." And I hate this. As if short hair and an interest in photography after giving birth automatically puts you into a new category of existence that is dorky. Mom. They say it like I am about to bust out the Lee jeans with the prolonged zipper and mom pouch built into the front for the extra baby pooch. That is not what a short haircut means. I am still Jenny. I just happen to enjoy taking pictures now (of the cutest little squirrel in the whole world) and I had a haircut gone bad. I have to have short hair now. So sue me. But please don't tell me I got the mom cut... I did not get the mom cut...