Tag Archives: 30 Days of Truth

November 18, 2010 · 8:00 am

This Time It’s For Real

So, remember that time I gave up smoking? And really and truly meant never to smoke again? I caved. I am a cavegirl. I gave in to an emergency cigarette here. Then a drinking cigarette there. Then a bunch of drinking cigarettes here and there. And now, I feel bad. Yes, I feel guilty for semi-un-quitting. But I actually feel bad. Physically. My throat hurts when I smoke the next day. And I hate the way my hair smells. I actually woke up from a dream with the words “Your hair smells bad,” ringing in my ears as if some spectral force wanted me to feel gross the minute my eyes opened.

So, since today is the Great American Smokeout, there’s no time like the present. The patch goes back on. Even if I’m cocktailing. The lighters go in the garbage. The eerie spectral voice can leave me alone from now on. You hear me, eerie spectral voice! I quit! Again! And my hair smells pretty fantastic.

Today’s 30 days of truth post is “something you can definitely live without.” I can live without smoking. In fact, I can live longer without it. And richer. And far, far away from that creepy voice guy.

In the meantime, if anyone else is ready to jump on the bandwagon with me, may I recommend Jim’s Guide to Not Smoking? I know I’ll be re-reading until I can make this thing stick. That and re-thinking a tweet I came across a few weeks ago (whose? I can’t even remember) and it’s been haunting me ever since: “Smokers: It’s 2010. Do you realize how stupid you look?”

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November 16, 2010 · 8:48 pm

No More Cold Turkey

I’ve lingered over my “a hero that let you down” post for a while now, but I still don’t feel clear about where it’s going, so I’m making my own 30 days of truth new rule: if it means not posting for a few weeks, you can skip around and come back to it. There. With that accomplished, moving on to the next day:  “someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried.”

BC, my pal extraordinaire, and I met in the summer of 2000 when we were both camp counselors. Spending nine weeks in the middle of nowhere surrounded by children makes for some serious bonding – the kind hostages and Siamese twins experience. Being outnumbered by children at around 10 to every one adult means the grown-ups have to stick together for sheer survival. On top of that, we worked in the same department and he had an eerie ability to keep me from wringing the necks of the most irritating children and to make me laugh when I was teetering on the edge of sanity.

When the last day of camp came and he drove away, I wept. He headed back to Pittsburgh and I was off to Atlanta for a theater job. I guessed we would probably never see each other again. Ha ha. After two months in Atlanta, after lots of emails and phone calls, I decided to try my luck in Pittsburgh. The rent was cheaper. It was an adventure. And my best friend was there. (OK, and the evil snow that falls every winter, but it still had its plusses). I drove up with all my worldly possessions, sight unseen.

We started out as roommates for a little over a year. I didn’t know anyone else in the city. I was, let’s say, a little emotionally needy. OK. I was a hot mess. I had a job folding jeans at the mall. I was broke. I was more than a little homesick. I was not an ideal roommate. But he put up with me. Then I started dating and decided that it would be brilliant to move in with a cop-to-be and settle down. Because I love authority so much. And if BC didn’t understand my super-urgent looovvvvvve … then he just didn’t care about me.

I smuggled my stuff out of the apartment while BC was at work and left a note.

I know. I suck.

BC didn’t speak to me for three years. We don’t really talk about it.  It was probably justified. But, the thing is, the whole time I just missed my best friend. The older that I get, the more I realize how lucky I am to have exactly one person in my life so far who really gets me. And shortly after I moved out, I started my campaign to talk him back into being my friend. I left voice mails. I sent letters and postcards every few months- first to our old apartment and then care of his parents when he had moved on. I sent emails every now and then. And all of them resulted in nothing. But I kept it up. For three whole years of silence.

And one day five years ago, in Washington, DC, my phone rang. And it was BC.

All of a sudden, I had back that one friend who really understood me. And after three years living without that safe place to land, I don’t care to go without it again. I tried. He was there the night I got engaged to The Ex and when I called it off. He drove me to get my gall bladder out and kept me company after the surgery while I enjoyed some really good pain medicine. We’ve talked about good boyfriends and bad boyfriends and job headaches and books and trashy MTV reality shows.

And along the way, in figuring out how to be a good friend, which I hope I am most of the time, I’ve learned a lot about myself. I’ve learned that all friendships come and go in cycles, but that you can trust the best ones to cycle back around eventually. I’ve learned that admitting when I screw up can go a long way. I’ve learned that listening matters more than talking. I’ve learned that the more someone means to you, the less worth it little fights and arguments become in the big picture. I’ve learned roughly how many drinks I can hold before I behave badly enough to get driven home. And I’ve learned that it is possible to trust people that aren’t blood relations – to believe that they will stick around. And that they do it for no other reason than because they want to.

So, no, I would not choose to live without that friendship in my life. Because I’ve tried. And it sucked.

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November 10, 2010 · 11:57 am

My Truly Freaky Side

I knew the time was coming when I’d have to make this confession. The 30 days of truth weren’t going to let me off the hook and I couldn’t skip the topic- truth being the key piece of this series. Today’s topic- “a band or artist” that got you through some tough times. I’ve mentioned this briefly before, but here’s the truth.

I’m not much of a music person.

I know, I know. Everyone loves music. Everyone has a favorite genre or band. One of the first questions people ask when they meet new people is inevitably, “What kind of music do you like?” There are entire high school cliques based on music – punks, metal heads, goth, hip hop, etc. Online dating sites match people by their favorite artists. And then there’s me.

I listen to music. Occasionally. I have 500 or so songs on my phone and some ear buds. I put Pandora on the laptop while I do the dishes. But, truth be told, I don’t live or die for music. Without a car, I don’t ever listen to the radio and I only keep up with new songs by hearing them on the jukebox at happy hour or while I’m out dancing with BC. If you ask me who sings any song, I will not know. I don’t buy CDs or pay for downloads on iTunes. I don’t have cable anymore, so I don’t watch MTV or VH1- not that either of them have shown actual videos for a decade or so.

I don’t hate music. I enjoy it when it’s on. But I don’t seek it out either. If you put it on, I will gladly listen to whatever your heart desires. But, I don’t even own a radio, much less a fancy sound system. I can’t sing well or play any instruments. And if you are into really cool underground hipster tunes, I assure you, I’m not going to have the slightest clue what you’re talking about. I don’t own a single Beatles CD. I haven’t purchased a CD since the 90′s. I don’t go to concerts unless I have free tickets or bought them as a gift for a friend.

Not being obsessed with music like the rest of the human race has its downside. Those first date conversations where the other person goes on and on about their favorite band … I just nod. I read enough celebrity gossip to stay up on who’s doing who, but there are probably artists singing songs that aren’t embroiled in scandal that I have missed entirely. I missed the first wave of iPod mania because I just didn’t see why I would need to carry music with me on the bus.

So, I can’t honestly thank a band or artist for getting me through tough times. If you see me in headphones, I’m probably listening to an odd accumulation of 90′s indie stuff from high school, gay bar dance music, 80′s hair metal, the blues, and pop country songs that remind me of my sisters. I have not heard the new single by anyone. I can’t name that drummer.  And yes, I will go completely blank if you ask me what kind of music I like.

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November 8, 2010 · 9:34 am

Do Me a Favor

Actually, don’t. I am notoriously awful at asking for help. On anything. If I can do something all by myself, even at the risk of great misery, suffering, and potential physical injury, I will. I admit it.

I try to think of this as an endearing independent streak. And thinking about “something you never get compliments on,” for the 30 days of truth, it would be a biggie. Well, and no one ever compliments me on being tall or deeply tanned… but at 5’0″and redheaded, those are to be expected. It seems that other human beings in this world are capable of asking for help when they need it without hemming and hawing for weeks and making everyone else guess what they need. Odd.

For example, when my giant television died, in all its 200 pound glory, it needed to go out the curb on trash night. I know lots of menfolk. And muscle-y womenfolk for that matter. All of whom, had I bothered to ask them, would have come over for the ten minutes it would take to help me drag the beast out the front door. But instead, I developed a complicated maneuver with a throw rug and dragged it out, rolling it down the steps, despite its being bigger than me. I didn’t want to bother anyone. Even if it meant possibly ending up under said television just out of reach of my cell phone waiting to be rescued by my newspaper guy and sucking water from a houseplant to survive for several days.

The thing is, I like to do favors for other people. If you need something last-minute and at midnight and that involves personal sacrifice, I will show up with bells on and a bottle of champagne. Gladly. Without thinking twice. And I’ll never mention it again once it’s done. But I have an impossible time asking others to do the same for me. I guess I worry that they’ll resent helping me, or god forbid, say no when I really need it. I don’t want to be disappointed, any more than I want to be a burden.

The time has come though, for me to learn to ask. To give people who love me a chance to help me out once in a while. So, if there’s such a thing as daylight savings time resolutions, this is mine: ask for help when I need it.

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November 5, 2010 · 2:06 pm

Gimme A Head With Hair

Today, now that I am back from a frantic two weeks spent bouncing all over creation to DC and Phoenix and back for work, I’m picking back up the 30 days of truth where I left off. Today’s topic? Something people seem to compliment you the most about.

Growing up, I hated my hair. It was a constant irritation, an ever-evolving experiment in progress on my head. It is thick and curly, which you would think is wonderful if you judged by shampoo commercials alone. However, my mom, bless her heart, is possessed of the baby-finest, pin-straightest hair you’ve ever seen. She had no idea what to do with it. When I was small, she would blow it dry with a round brush, creating a lovely mushroom cloud around my head. With bangs.

By age ten, I’d gotten sick of the cloud and asked for a short pixie do. The stylist clearly thought I’d look better with something even shorter, and gave me a functional crew cut. Nothing makes a ten-year old girl’s day like a crew cut. It looked great with my giant plastic glasses and I’m-a-little-teapot frame. And my mother got to field lovely compliments from strangers about how cute her son was.

Once it grew out again, it passed through a giant bangs and mullet stage. At which point, my mother, once again leaving me to my own devices, let me get a perm. On top of my natural curl, the perm gave me a senior citizen secretarial look that kept me un-kissed until age 14. Hair as a chastity belt.

Then I started the dyeing. Adding sun-in to my strawberry blonde gave me a traffic cone color. Trying to dye it back to match my roots brought it to black. College saw it hot pink, burgundy, long, short, bobbed, banged, and un-banged.  My hair was like a super-spy, unrecognizable as itself from month-to-month.

I’m not sure when I finally figured it all out, but thanks to some strict hairdressers and a good few rounds of sensibly-colored dye, it finally settled down. Now, it’s shoulder-blade length, curly, and a human color of red. If I want to spend two hours with a straightening iron, I can get it shiny and flowy, but I’m just not that vain.It’s sort of like the picture below (but a little longer and without the crazy-eyed stare…)

At least a few times a week, when I can be bothered to take it down from a bun or ponytail, I get complimented on it. And after everything I put it through to get here, I feel like the poor hair deserves it.

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