Uh… I think I’d prefer to be a guest…

by Keith Yancy

When it comes to family roles, I’ve been, in order, a son, brother, cousin, boyfriend, husband, son-in-law, brother-in-law and father. 

But, in one room of my house, I’ve decided that I want to be a guest. 

In my house, my daughters are obliviously lucky enough to have their own bedrooms.  This allows them to have their own space, their own messes (though they sometimes try to blame each other anyway), and their own doors to slam.  As such, they have their own little “corner of the world” in which they generally control who does what and how people behave.

This has led to a bit of a “Lord of the Flies” type situation.  I wrote in a post long ago how one daughter created an intercom out of a microphone and speaker to not-so-secretly keep her younger sister from coming in her room.  As the years go by, however, such technology-based solutions appear to have been abandoned for the less subtle “lists” posted on their bedroom doors.  Here’s a more recent one, slightly edited to remove the name of the owner:

Oooo… now THIS is a place that sounds fun, huh?  Of course, if you’re a guest, apparently anything goes.  For those of you who may have a little trouble understanding the writing of my home’s Camp Commendant, here is the list reprinted (with my observations) below.

Rules of __________’s Room

1. Knock before you enter.  This doesn’t always work, and is dependent upon whom is doing the actual “knocking.”  I have learned that a combination of knocking and loud talking through the door seems to work for me, but others seem to never gain admittance, depending upon the circumstances.
2. Leave when asked.  Just when you might have thought there was a “welcoming feeling” somewhere on this list, it only took until #2 to establish the concept of ejecting you from the room if/when desired.
3. Be polite.  A bit of an odd one, as I’m not witness to an abundance of “politeness” anywhere else in the house, but if it occurs behind this person’s door, terrific.
4. Do as _________ says.  Well, now… this one could have been #1, and #2-10 would have been completely unnecessary.  But hey… sometimes, repeating your message is the only way it sinks in, at least as far as siblings are concerned, apparently.
5. Do not enter unless you have permission.  This really should be right after #2, as this rule usually kicks in once #1 takes place.  Permission is really the critical part of the process, I suspect.
6. No arguing.  I’d be willing to submit to this list of rules just to witness THIS rule successfully implemented.  Hell, I’d PAY to see this rule successfully implemented.
7. No stealing.  Sigh… this one seems so straightforward, until you get into the “BUT IT’S MINE!” ownership claims, the who-had-it-first battles, the “taking back” of items given….  Just to ensure that no items leave the room unless approved, however, we move on to…
8. No taking.  I triple checked this one to make sure it wasn’t “no talking.”  If it was, I would force everyone into the room during the writing of this blog (at least).  But, it doesn’t.  Which makes it really, really, TRULY clear that no one is to steal or EVEN TAKE anything out of this room.
9. Don’t be gross.  I’ve learned that “being gross” can range from the old stand-bys of flatulence and nose-picking to simply describing brains, goo, zombies, bodily fluids, select illnesses, etc.  Regardless, this rule feels like it was meant for Dad as much as anyone else.  Somehow doesn’t seem fair to me.
10. Don’t be annoying!!  Ah, yes.  The “coup de grace” of the list, placed appropriately last as a real crusher.   She even leaves us with a cheerful, “smiley face” under the exclamation points as if to say, “Hey, I mean this in the nicest possible way!”  This rule not only pretty clearly rules out everyone who shares the house with this person, but the owner of the “rules” herself. 

UNLESS… you’re a guest.  Because, apparently, being a guest is like drawing a “Get out of jail” card — youre free to steal, be rude, argue, be annoying, enter at will, and — my favorite — be “gross” whenever and however you wish.  Jackpot!

The funny part of this is, the person who owns this room/rules list is probably the most outgoing, friendly, socially adjusted kid in our family.  This is not a mean kid, or a brat, or someone who is naturally difficult… this is someone who is trying hard to control and manage one person, and one person only: her sister.  The same sister she regularly plays with, and is playing with — happily — as I type this. 

I hope that these two wind up close when they grow up, and that they can look back at lists (and posts) like this someday and laugh.  I laugh now… knowing that, long ago, I had similar fights with my sister.  Except back then, the list was written for me, not by me.  And I know the childhood anger of looking at a list like this — and being determined to break every single rule listed on it.  Just because.

In the meantime, I think I’ll stick to being an occasional guest that a) knocks/yells before entering, b) tells the owner to clean her room, and c) vacuums the floor on the weekend.  And while I make no promises on whether I’ll be annoying, I’ll do my best not to be gross.  Unless no one is looking, I suppose.

Until next time… 🙂

POSTSCRIPT:

After writing the post above, I found another note (in the same handwriting):

Who the heck is "The Custodian"??? And why doesn't he/she do any chores around here???

I cannot WAIT to meet whomever “The Custodian” is.  My wife and I have been doing this guy’s job for over a DECADE, and it’s high time for “The Custodian” to get some things done around here…

🙂

Stealth Photos at the Christmas Store!

 by Keith Yancy  

Whether or not you’re into pre-Thanksgiving or “Black Friday” sales, it seems like there’s always a large number of people who like to get started on Christmas shopping early.  I am not one of these people.  In fact, while I do like giving gifts, I simply can’t stand the process of shopping for them.  

It was with this spirit that, together with my wife and three daughters, we went to a famous Christmas store, Bronner’s, while on a recent weekend getaway in Frankenmuth, Michigan.   A brief note about Bronner’s: it is an absolutely HUGE store.  It’s very much like Wal-Mart for all things Christmas, and has a large enough following and reputation that it sells Christmas items year-round.  The late owner, Walter Bronner, is a legend in Michigan, having met seemingly everyone during his long life, and having donated to an incredible number of charitable causes and events over the years. 

So this post isn’t about making fun of Bronner’s… a store that brings joy to thousands of people.  It’s a post that chronicles one bored guy’s walk through this near-madhouse, and the pictures and observations he took while doing so.  Think of this as more of a reflection on the non-holiday spirit of the photographer (me) and the need to poke fun at people, objects, and virtually anything else possible to pass the time while my wife shopped for Christmas ornaments.

So… here we go.  The picture quality is due to fact that they were taken with a camera phone… the poor skills of the photographer… and the need (in many cases) to take the picture without the object KNOWING I was taking their picture, which isn’t always easy to do.

Nothing says Christmas like gigantic fake ornaments, laying in a pile next to the parking lot. Reminded me of the last scene in the god-awful movie "Tommy."

The Christmas Clock just outside the entrance. It accompanied the fake giant ornaments, and a manger scene, and a giant Santa on a hill, and reindeer, and some Christmas trees, and just about every other symbol of Christmas there is...

The best way to impress your rivals: have your face on a 3-foot-round Christmas ornament, and suspend directly in front of the front door.

The crowds. My heart began to sink rapidly at this moment. And the store only got busier while we were there.

This was PART of the stocking selection. We were standing in front of this for a surprisingly long time. A long, long time. LONG.

The merchandise was literally displayed virtually everywhere -- including 20-30 feet off the floor.

Found "Keith" cups in the "Christmas Cups No One Really Wants" Department. Felt good for a moment to find my name, then not-so-good when I found about 300 more "Keith" cups nearby, doomed to a future in the "90% off" bargain bin.

Christmas... bugs?

"Hey, honey! I found this awesome life-size Christmas Grizzly bear to scare the kids into a coma on Christmas morning! It'll be GREAT!"

Insane Clown Christmas Bunnies

"T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except the giant, creepy King Kong Santa Claus throwing presents at people..."

Why settle for making a typical Christmas ornament when you can make one out of vegetables? It's a... Christmas cauliflower sheep! Which, on the bright side, you can at least recognize...

... as opposed to this one, which I guessed was a Christmas lime. Proudly labeled "NEW," I had to turn it over to discover that this was meant to be some kind of 'hen'." Sure to inspire puzzled looks for years to come.

Might just be me, but there's something very, very impersonal about the "Personalization" line. Hmm...

Look closely... and check out the trumpet-playing, tie-wearing Christmas Carrot. This hot item is about 5 feet tall and waiting for some lucky customer to take him home. Sure to be a favorite Christmas family heirloom!

Like a hunter who spots his quarry wandering into his line of fire, I was actually trying to take a picture of something else when a rare, NASCAR-jacket-wearing Mullett Man wandered into view. Who knew it was mullett season?

What I was actually trying to take a picture of -- a basketball-themed Christmas tree. I learned that people actually like "themed" trees, and Bronner's has tons of 'em.

Tired of Christmas? No problem! Invest in your very own Halloween diorama and train set, complete with a wide range of zombies, skeletons, haunted houses, and even the Grim Reaper. Oh, and the large glowing plastic pumpkins. Can't forget those.

Nothing... I mean NOTHING... says "Christmas" like camo. The perfect holiday ensemble for the man who wants the world to know he's tough... while shopping for Christmas ornaments. Rrrriiiighhhttt.

From the "Not to Be Outdone By Camo" file, this jacket is... what? Scottish Camo? Camo from Linens & Things? EXTRA: Check out the admiring look from the checkout girl, who can't take her eyes off that schnazzy coat. Now THAT's priceless.

By this time, we were pretty well char-broiled with Christmas shopping. I stopped outside as we were leaving to take this picture. Did they have to make their fake donkeys look emaciated?

What looked like an amusing diversion going in became a beacon of hope coming out. Is there a direct flight from Frankenmuth to Manila?

Of course, these photos were just the ones I could get without being discovered and (possibly) attacked.  The best photo was the one I couldn’t get, as the guy seemed to be on to me and watched me like a hawk.  He was sitting in the waiting area, a menacing look on his face, arms crossed over his Powerhouse Gym sweatshirt, trying desperately to look like a bad-ass in a Christmas store with giant trumpet-playing carrots.  And he almost pulled it off.  Almost.

So do I need an attitude adjustment?  Or am I just a normal, average, bored guy at a Christmas store?  Drop me a note and let me know… I can take criticism.  Feel free to make fun of my photographic skills, if you want.

Until next time… : )

I figured out how my brain works. On Yahoo.

 

 

 

by Keith Yancy

 

Not long ago, an article on Yahoo News caught my attention.  This article was titled, “5 Ways To Understand Him Better,” and despite it being under the “Dating Tips and Advice” category, the article showed up in the news section of the site (so no — I was not looking for dating tips).  This article intrigued me because I’m always secretly thinking that I’m special and unique from everyone else, even though my logical brain knows it’s probably not true.  So, I clicked on the link to the article and began checking to see if I was just another guy — or if I was as unique and special as my mom used to tell me.

The article was divided into five sections, based on five ways women can understand men better.  After somewhat careful study, I’ve determined that I’m pretty typical — damn! — with a couple of exceptions.  The exceptions aren’t really good ones, either.  Let’s review the results of my brief study of this article.

1.  “Be patient with his memory.”  Ooo, I like the sound of that.  Apparently, men and women remember things very differently, because women have a bigger hippocampus in their brains than men do.  Duh.  Compared to my wife, I can’t seem to remember much of anything.  At least nothing very useful.  My wife typically is the one who remembers everything, with the odd exception of movies and movie stars (the only area that I have an advantage).  Having three daughters isn’t helping either.  They have a special gift for remembering things I said, or did, that I’d just as soon they’d forget.  Every song I’ve re-worded inappropriately (just ask them to sing Sammy Davis Jr.’s “Candy Man” and they’ll start laughing), every smart remark, every broken object can be instantly recalled — and shared — by my daughters.  This fact, among others, reminds me that the Almighty does have a sense of humor, and I’m the butt of a joke he never seems to grow tired of.

2.  “Don’t expect him to get hints.”  Two for two!  I’m abysmal at all hints!  According to the author, “men aren’t as skilled as women at reading subtle emotional cues.”  REALLY?  The article goes on to describe a bunch of scientific-sounding brain functions, but the “emotional cues” line gets to the heart of it well enough.  I’m appallingly stupid at this.  My wife had to practically rent a billboard when we met to convince me to ask her out (she remembers vividly; ugh), and I’ve not improved one bit in the years since.  Me trying to read emotional cues is a lot like driving a race car through a china shop — lots of activity, but lots of carnage in the end.  This emotional deafness extends beyond my wife, however… I’m the guy who is invariably oblivious to office romances, divorces, breakups, makeups, quarrels, political games, etc. etc. etc.  This stupidity is profound, pervasive, and evidently incurable.

3.  “Don’t take conversation lulls personally.”  Again, the article goes to great pains to try to educate me about the smaller cortex in my brain compared to women, but I don’t need to feel the warm glow of science to get this one.  And I’m not quite tracking with it, either.  While I agree that I don’t sustain conversation as well as, say, another woman might with my wife, I absolutely hate ponderous silences — even with someone as familiar with my wife — when we’re together and not doing anything.  Sitting across from anyone in a restaurant in pained, awkward silence is to me the most painful of situations.  I’ve learned to be a decent conversationalist not because I’m terribly interested in either myself or anyone else, but because I’m deathly afraid of awkward moments, and will stop at nothing — NOTHING — to prevent them from happening.

4.  “Appreciate his naturally upbeat nature.”  Right about now, anyone who knows me just burst out laughing.  The article claims (I suppose it’s true — the author is terribly scientific) that men have significantly more serotonin in their brains than women.  Thus, when life kicks us repeatedly, we guys can put on a happy face and keep on keepin’ on.  Right.  I must have missed the serotonin helping back when I was in the womb, because few people can out-melancholy me.  Not that I’m proud of it — I’m definitely not — but the idea that guys are naturally channeling Norman Vincent Peale doesn’t apply in my case, and I suspect in a LOT of other guys’ cases. 

5.  “Don’t expect his take on your relationship history to match yours.”  Okay, I’m back on track.  The article veers into a sleepy analysis of something called the amygdala in my brain, and according to the author, I organize emotional events differently than my wife (and other women, I guess).  Yawn.  I’m not sure I could spot my amygdala on a brain scan, and frankly, I’d just as soon keep my amygdala to myself anyhow.  Whatever… it’s true, of course.  My wife can quote stupid or thoughtless things I said back in 1989 — 1989! — word for word, with expression and a detailed account of setting, wardrobe, time of day, etc., etc.  I invariably lose any such debates about what happened in the past, because it’s as if I’ve been ambushed by some sort of supercomputer.  I don’t stand a chance, and my wife knows it.

So, when it comes to this list, I’m not really all that special or different from the other guys.  (Try to ignore that 1 and 5 are darn close to the same thing.)  The only exceptions are that a) I apparently will talk about anything to avoid awkward silences, and b) I’m not nearly as happy as other guys.  Not exactly ways you want to stand out from the crowd.  But, looking on the bright side, I’m as forgetful and clueless as most men, and the smaller parts of my brain are comparable to the smaller parts of other guys brains too.  Size is always important, even when comparing amygdalas… and I’m pleased to discover I’m normal in this regard. 

Whew.  Looks like I’m willing to exchange “special” for “normal.”  At this point, I guess I can accept that.

Until next time… 🙂

I’m A Car Slob… And I Don’t Care

by Keith Yancy

Ever get your car washed?  Vacuum out the interior?  Keep your car spotlessly clean?

If you do, you’re officially not a car slob.  I do none of those things — or don’t do them often enough — which, unfortunately, makes me a true, should-be-ashamed-of-myself-but-I’m-not car slob.

I probably should keep my car clean, considering how many hours — and how many miles — I drive each week.  Two hours a day minimum during the week, 500 miles… and that’s if I do nothing but go to and from work every day.  Running errands, taking my daughters around town, going bowling — and I’m in my car even longer.

So, you’d think I’d keep it cleaner.  But, I don’t.  Oh, I clean out the clutter from time to time — I’m not that bad, I guess — but when it comes to going to the car wash or breaking out the vacuum, I just don’t seem to get around to it.  New or old, whatever car I’m driving is probably dirty on the outside and dusty within.

I’ve paid for this laziness more than once.  A few examples:

The Mexican Food Incident: During the heat of summer while in college, I made the mistake of taking home leftovers from a Mexican restaurant.  Only problem is, I rarely take home leftovers, and immediately forgot that I put the leftovers — contained in a styrofoam box — in the backseat.  This box then slid under the seat, where it stayed for about 4 days.  These  four days were all above 90 degrees, which quickly created a stench in my car that grew so progressively bad that I could barely stand to drive anywhere without all  the windows down.  When I finally found the box, the smell was so overpowering that I nearly became physically sick.

The Crayon Episode:  During another summertime much later — after I was married with a child — I again didn’t keep the inside of my car clean.  This time it was my minivan, and my daughter had left a crayon on the cloth seat.  Given that she (like most kids) made a gargantuan mess back there with Cheerios, gum wrappers, Cheez-its and a large number of small toys, I didn’t have the time or energy to pick it all up.  That is, until I noticed that the purple crayon had melted in the sun all over the light gray car seat.  I wound up having to peel off the purple crayon, leaving a large purple stain that never, ever came out — despite several cleaning attempts. 

The Breath Mint Discovery:  Lest you begin to assume these disasters only occurred during the summertime, I learned during the winter that my second daughter didn’t like those red-and-white mints you get after dinner in restaurants.  I’ve never liked them, but she would invariably take one when we went out to dinner.  I didn’t think much of it until one wintry day, when I finally broke down and began cleaning out the car.  I discovered that she would (apparently) try to eat them, and then spit them out onto the floor carpeting, where they would fuse themselves like iron onto the carpet.  In fact, I had to resort to chipping them off the floor with an ice scraper.  This caused me to go through two ice scrapers (yes, they both broke) before I could finally get them off the floor.

Nowadays, my kids are slightly better (at least they aren’t spitting food onto the floor that I know of).  But I’ve not really learned my lesson.  The other morning, as the warmth of summer turned into the chilly mornings of autumn, I got into my car and was surprised to notice how dirty my windshield was.  Not only on the outside, but on the inside too. 

As I drove to work, I looked closely around my car.  Dust was thick on my dashboard.  Dust was on my radio screen.  Dust was on everything, quite honestly.  Lacking the motivation to actually clean anything, I searched for an easy alternative… and then it struck me.  I would BLOW the dust out of my car by simply rolling down the windows while I drove on the freeway.  I immediately rolled down my windows and waited for the cleaning to begin.

Things didn’t go like I thought.

Almost immediately, I turned the interior of my car into a kind of Dyson cyclone vacuum cleaner — with me inside of it.  The dust not only stayed right where it was (and yes, it’s still there now) but MORE dust swirled around my face and all through the inside of my car.  I actually caused my eyes to begin stinging and burning as my car hurtled down the freeway, dust  swirling everywhere but out of the windows.  Dust was absolutely everywhere, and when I finally closed the windows in failure, dust was not only everywhere it always had been, but was now covering my clothes, burning my eyes, and distributing itself even deeper on all the inside surfaces of my car.

So, my car is still dirty.  But there is a bright spot — my car’s interior is gray, which goes quite nicely with dust.  I’m now considering whether to clean it out the old fashioned way, or simply wait until my lease is up in March.  I’m leaning toward waiting… and just making sure not to disturb the dust any further.  After all… I’m not particularly good about cleaning my glasses either.

I’ve included a few photos below.  I wonder if anyone else out there is as bad as I am… or if they’ll admit it.

Until next time… 🙂

My dusty, grungy dashboard.

My lame attempt at cleaning off the dust the old fashioned way.

Note the broken windshield and the permanent film/muck where the wipers don't go. A fixture on my ride.

This silly air freshener is the only consistent effort I've made to keep my car interior pleasant. I only have it because I found an unopened pack of these air-freshener things on the ground.

Clearly, no vacuum has been used in here in a long, long, LONG time. I really should do something beyond taking pictures.

Winter Camp — Part 1 of 2!

by Keith Yancy

When it comes to the subject of “camp,” it seems like there’s camps for anything and everything.  Horseback riding.  Art.  Computers.  Some even lack any specific purpose, which means — for parents — it’s a “Restore Your Sanity by Parking Your Kids With Us For Awhile” camp.  I like those.  As long as you give ’em back alive and undamaged at the end, whatever activities you want to do are negotiable.  

Of course, these camps usually happen during the summer.  I don’t remember going to any of these when I was a kid.  What I do remember is going to camp in the fifth grade for a week — not in the summer, but in the dead of winter.  The camp I went to was the camp everyone at my school went to in the fifth grade, and it was a rite of passage of sorts — the first time kids got to spend an entire week with their classmates outside the classroom.

I remember a lot about that trip.  Among the highlights was “Handicap Awareness Day.” 

“Handicap Awareness Day” meant having to spend an entire day with a handicap.  Assigned by one of the camp counsellors, everyone was assigned a physical limitation they had to live with for an entire day.  Looking back, this was a pretty cool idea, but at the time, there was much grumbling among the troops.  The unfortunate news of your individual affliction was announced out loud for all to hear, then some half-hearted attempts were made to ensure you lived with your affliction during the course of the day (i.e., blindfolds, earplugs, crutches, etc).

I considered myself lucky to have lost the use of my fingers.  Not too bad, really, because I learned I could eat a hot dog without using my fingers, and while I can’t recall how I managed going to the bathroom (I probably cheated), I got through the day relatively drama-free.  Other kids didn’t have it so lucky.  The kid that didn’t have legs had to be carried/dragged/pushed everywhere, including through the forest to make a campfire, and he complained non-stop.  The blind kid required a lot of group maintenance too (nobody wanted to have this “boat anchor” attached to him/her), and the kid without arms had to hope somebody would feed him (without throwing food at him).  The kid who had to be deaf seemed to not suffer at all. 

We marched/limped/dragged ourselves and each other into the forest to make our campfire, and, in retrospect, what I learned that day is that kids really can take whining and complaining to nearly unimaginable levels.  We had to work together to make a fire and cook hot dogs, despite the fact that the temperature was well below freezing.  I was able to gather sticks.  Legless Kid just sat there complaining.  Blind Kid declared that he could do nothing and stood around peeking out from under his blindfold to see if anyone brought any candy.  Armless Kid threw a massive temper tantrum and wound up “quitting” — which meant putting his arms back into the sleeves of his jacket and attempting to storm off back to the cabin.  Problem was, he didn’t know how to get back, and wound up sitting by himself about 30 feet away from everyone else, sulking and secretly hoping the counsellors would give him a hot dog (they didn’t). 

We eventually did get a fire going and cooked hot dogs.  This meant that at various points, we all cheated in one way or another, but we understood the point of what we were being taught, and felt limited enough and miserable enough for the lesson to sink in.  The counsellors (why anyone would do that job is beyond my understanding, by the way) tried to have a discussion about how we overcame our limitations by working together, having a new respect for those who have physical challenges, etc., but we were all so obnoxious and miserable that they eventually cut the activity short.  All the meaningful points of the lesson were overshadowed by everyone being cold and fighting about who’s handicap was the worst.

I have no doubt in my mind that the counsellors hated all of us at that point.  I would have.  Our march back to the camp buildings was our own mini-version of a “death march” — counsellors yelling, kids snivelling, Legless Kid blubbering, Blind Kid intentionally getting run into trees, One-legged kid breaking her crutch, snowballs, slipping on ice, bathroom jokes, etc.  When we finally got back to the camp lodge, everyone laid around “recovering” as if they’d survived some horrible ordeal.  Of course, the entire activity probably didn’t last 3 hours, but we acted like it was a week-long torture session.

Our counsellors chose this point to remind us that we had to live with our handicap for the rest of the day.  While all of the kids groaned and complained with renewed enthusiasm, the camp counsellors all seemed to thoroughly enjoy sharing this news.  Dinner was more of the same, with plenty of griping and whining (especially when it came time to do dishes).  In the end, the counsellors got the better of this experience, because all the kids went to be early, allowing them to have a nice long evening to themselves.

It was, in retrospect, a great way to teach kids about living with limitations… and demonstrating how miserable kids can be. 

Like I said — not having fingers was a pretty good deal.  I’ll share the story about the sunken bulldozer and the carnage that followed in Part 2.

Until next time… : )

Blogging: What I’ve Learned After 50 Posts

by Keith Yancy

Well, it’s certainly been fun.

I started this blog back in February, almost as a stunt: I had written a poem teasing a friend, and decided to simply create a quick blog and post it online.  In fact, I made up a blog title and domain for it while standing at my kitchen counter, with a kitten (with claws) perched on my shoulder (perhaps a story for another time).  Forty-nine blogs later, I’m having a lot of fun with it.

Of course, it’s changed since I began.  I had intended only to write about humorous topics, but that quickly changed, for a lot of reasons.  First, I realized after making that commitment that my blog is really more about sharing my thoughts and creating dialogue, rather than simply functioning as an outlet for one type of writing.  Second, writing humorous blogs when you are not in a humorous mood is not only very difficult, but usually produces really non-funny, boring, and flat-out bad blog posts.  I have a great deal of respect for people who can control their moods enough to be funny whenever necessary; comedians, for example, can’t take the night off because they had a bad day or are feeling down — they have to be funny for a living.  It’s tough enough to be funny, but even tougher when you don’t feel like being funny.  Try it sometime.

I’ve had a great time, even though I’ve considered ending the blog several times.  I’ve worried that I’d run out of topics.  I’ve worried that I was “preaching to the choir,” that is, only writing to a few people who’ve read my blog out of a sense of obligation.  I’ve worried that the quality of writing wasn’t good enough, or the posts were too long, or that certain topics could offend people.  I’ve thought about whether I’d expressed too much of my personal beliefs (religious, political, etc), or if I’d appeared foolish for having the courage/stupidity of writing poetry (admittedly poor poetry) in a time where poetry is sometimes relegated to about the same level as street miming.

But, obviously, I did it anyway.  And while I’m glad that a few people have told me how much they enjoy my writing, I ultimately wrote all those posts because I genuinely enjoy writing them. 

So, what have I learned?  Here’s a few things:

1.  Topics come from anywhere.  I’ve written about a vacation that happened 38 years ago, and I’ve written about a dead plant that was in my yard last week.  I’ve written about funny and serious topics, religious and political topics, life and death.  Past, present, future — I’ve written about all of it.  Some were more popular than others, i.e.,  people still read “The Froot Loop Incident,” which I wrote several months ago.  And the more I write, the more I realize that topics are limited only by my imagination and awareness.  And while I’m not the smartest man alive, I think I can come up with new topics in the future. 

By the way… not every blog I write gets published.  A few posts were permanently shelved, usually because I changed my opinion about the topic; a post about a teacher who was photographed at the local “Jobbie Nooner” boat party is an example.  I felt one way when I wrote it, but my conscience kept urging me to wait… and when I had thought about the incident later, I found I was too ambivalent about it to publish what I had written with a clear conscience.

2.  Timing is a challenge.  This is true on several levels.  It takes time to write blogs (though not as much as I thought).  I was writing three posts a week in the beginning, but have now settled into a twice-per-week routine that works with my busy schedule.  Some blogs take 30 minutes to write (depending upon the topic, my attitude, etc), while others take a couple of hours.  I’ve also learned that the time of day I post makes a big difference whether people read it or not.   And publishing a blog on a weekday morning or afternoon generally ensures that few people will see/read it. 

And yes, I can see when people access my blog (thanks, WordPress!) but I cannot see who those people are, so you’re anonymity is safe.

3.  Length “is what it is.”  I’ve had people whom I respect tell me my posts are too long.  They probably are, but I don’t write for length — I write until I’ve felt I expressed what I wanted to say.  And, for whatever reason, that usually is between 900-1200 words.  I’m told by one editor (I asked for his opinion) that my blogs are probably twice as long as those you’d read in the newspaper.  While I appreciated his advice and suggestion to reduce them, I haven’t… and probably won’t.  Not sure why, but that’s just my preference.

4.  I like reactions, even when they’re negative.  Any blogger (or writer, for that matter) worth their salt had better get used to criticism and feedback.  And while not all of it is constructive, it’s good to have it.  Most of the feedback I’ve received has been positive, or at least has suggested a few alternative interpretations/viewpoints on a topic. I think that’s great.  (I actually got a “wake up” call from a women’s hairdresser that pointed out a false assumption I’d made about their profession.  Good stuff.)   I enjoy all of it — even the negative comments — because at least I’ve engaged people to think.  My only regret is that I’ve not had time or opportunity to respond to all of it as much as I’d prefer.  Still, I take it to heart, and read every single comment I get. 

5.  I’m sticking with it.  I had no idea how much fun and satisfaction I’d get from this blog.  It’s been great fun to do, and when people mention to me that they’ve read it, I’m happy to hear it.  Truthfully, I enjoy writing it far more than I anticipated, and intend to keep writing. 

Nerdy Statistics

• 50 blog posts (to date), starting in late February
• Average views per blog: about 82
• Number of words written (total): approx. 52,000

What’s next?

I think that in the next few months, I’d like to increase my readership a bit… and improve the look/treatment of my blog page.  I also am considering how to increase the amount of feedback I get from readers.  In general, I’m going to continue to improve my blog in a variety of areas.  

If anyone has any suggestions for how to improve my blog — topics, style, expanding my audience, whatever — I’d love to hear them.  Iappreciate all the feedback I get, and I’m interested in what others think. 

Thanks for reading.  I hope you’ve enjoyed a post or two.

Until next time… : )

Friends Make Perfect Targets…

by Keith Yancy

Friends.  Some people love them because they can confide in them, or spend time with them, or remember shared experiences; all worthy reasons, for sure, but I think the reason I like friends so much is sharing laughter with them. 

Of course, that means that, in my case, most of my friends like to tease me.  This is because, I suspect, I teased them first… and kept on teasing them every chance I got.  In some cases, for years.  Even decades.  Men, women, young, old, rich, poor, I’m lucky enough to have friends in all shapes and sizes, all races and religions, and I’m smiling even as I write this now because I’m grateful for every single one of them. 

I’ve often pointed out (in some cases, for the purpose of self-defense), that I only tease people I like.  This is probably one of the most truthful comments I’ve ever made, and I have complete faith in the truth of this statement.  For whatever weird reason, I almost never tease people I don’t care for.  I’m sure there’s some deep, disturbing psychological defect that causes me to do this, but I’ve settled for this being part of my personality, and I’m content with it.

There are quite a few examples.  You may, in fact, wonder how such an obnoxious person as myself can HAVE friends, after you read this, but I attribute it to my irresistable charm and rugged good looks.

1.  Jim B.  Great guy.  Funny, intelligent, but frugal.  Really, REALLY frugal.  I’ve basically teased him about his penchant for short-sleeve plaid shirts and the price of tuna fish for the last 10 years, after he once mentioned he’d driven to a store further from his house to save several cents on tuna.  Still one of the funniest guys I know.
2.  Sue P.D.  I’ve known Sue for over 15 years, and after losing touch for a decade, was glad to re-connect via Facebook.  Sue and I would — literally — trade one-word insults with each other for long periods of time at work, almost always for no reason whatsoever.  Perhaps no one in this world is more fun to tease, because Sue’s reactions and comebacks are more entertaining than most of the comedians I see on television these days.  Once wrote an entire quiz (10 questions), in which every question (and most of the answers) teased Sue, and distributed it around the office.  She yelled, laughed, yelled, and left laughing.  She’s called me an ass more times than I can count.
3.  Ron K.  My bowling buddy.  Ron is both a dentist and a bit of a stud, so not only does that give me all kinds of material to work with, he’s got to endure my brother too — who is every bit as good as I am at teasing people.  Much of what we tease him about isn’t fit for inclusion in a family-friendly blog like this, but most of it generally falls into the category of unneeded (and unwanted) relationship advice. 
4.  Heather J.  Perhaps the most dramatic and emotional of all my friends, we’re friends (in part) because we’re almost complete opposites.  It was endless fun second-guessing her art direction instincts, as she would invariably get disgusted with my complete lack of taste.  She, in turn, loved to point out that I have the worst color-choice ideas EVER (is brown and yellow really that bad?), and may have been the first to label me the “Color-Blind Creative Director.”  Also inclined to be both liberal and eccentric, which made for a “target rich” teasing environment.
5.  Jim L.  My quiet rebel buddy.  Great co-worker, not afraid to speak his mind, can take a joke with the best of them.  I’ve spent the last several months pelting him with asteroid squish balls at work.  Wardrobe is the obvious target with Jim, as he wears a variety of colors ranging from black to gray to charcoal.  Has a head of hair that may have never been touched by a comb, but we like him anyway and he’s a guy who would do anything for someone in need.
6.  Debbie I.  And then there’s Deb.  Getting her to explode was both incredibly easy and incredibly fun.  I used to regularly shake baking sprinkles on her desk, which got into everything everywhere and drove her nuts.  Inspired her on numerous occasions to strike me, which I’m sure I deserved.  Over eight years ago, provoked her into attacking me when she was about 14 months pregnant, which co-workers still talk about in hushed tones to this day.   Wrote song lyrics teasing her, which I sang aloud at my staff meeting.
7.  John L.  Even though John’s only about 6 years older than me, I’ve called him “Old Man” for over 10 years.  Even found a silly picture of an old guy wearing a railroad conductor outfit, labeled it as “Old Man L____,” and distributed it to everyone.  We regularly play painful jokes on each other, just for the fun of it.  I would email love notes from him to female (and male) co-workers when he left his computer unattended, while he would arrange for boring people to stop in at my office for endless , stupifying conversations he knew I didn’t want.  Still do this to each other now.
8.  Tracy R.  Tracy once told me that she wore a shirt to work that — she claims — I described as “looking like a hippie threw up on it” (whatever that means).  She never wore it again, and I can’t remember what it looked like.  Liked to tease her for always applying alliteration across all assignments (and antagonizing and annoying the author!).  I would send her to meetings that I knew were mind-numbingly dull, just to hear her complain about it afterwards.  Fun!
9.  Mike B.  Another Art Director friend.  His talent as an art director is obvious.  His really bad spelling ability is also obvious — so bad, he once misspelled the word “football” as “fooball” on a poster, which I promptly had mounted and hung on my office wall (and used for countless “Fooball Friday” jokes).  Once was demonstrating a bowling technique with him using a giant rubber band ball in the office hallway, and wound up smashing a rubber-band-ball-sized hole in the wall.  The laughter alone was worth the trouble we got into.
10.  Sarah M.  Probably my most liberal friend, who is my wife’s good friend also.  I’ve occasionally taken a conservative viewpoint just to keep her blood pressure elevated.  She’s endlessly fun to debate with, because she often cares more about important issues than I do.  Sometimes, I pretend to argue in favor of George Bush, just for the reaction and remarks I get from her.

Of course, for all of these friends, there’s another 10 that I could easily have included in this list.  Greg’s perpetual sunburn, Jan’s riches and eye for hot pool boys, Kevin’s sweaters, Liz’s toughness with contractors, Joe’s muscles… it never ends.  I’ve teased people about virtually everything, and while some may think it’s a form of latent hostility, I believe that — along with a consistent habit of self-depricating humor — it’s a great way to find the humor in each other and shared experiences.  My friends know they can call me “Father Keith” when I wear a black dress shirt, “Golden Boy” when I successfully request something from my boss, and “the Yanster,” “Yancy Fancy Pants” or “Sir Yancelot” for no reason at all.  I’ve even been called a “little sh–” by my HUMAN RESOURCES friend!     

And if you think those names are rough, you should hear what my brother and sister call me.  Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Until next time… : )

My Unforgettable Plane Trip

by Keith Yancy

Ever have a trip that was a nightmare worthy of The Twilight Zone?

I’ve been lucky enough to travel for my job, but one of the strangest and most bizarre trips I’ve ever taken was a plane trip I took as a vacation.  It provided me a rare combination of physical discomfort, public humiliation, social commentary, and — believe it or not — partial nudity (thankfully, not my own).  And it all happened in about 4 hours’ time.

While I was in my early 20s, and dating the girl who would eventually be my wife, we decided to plan a vacation in Florida.  I was to fly down to meet her and her family midway through their winter vacation.  Sounds easy enough, right?

It began with the first part of the flight, which had me flying from Detroit to a brief layover in Washington DC’s Dulles International Airport before flying to Tampa.  It was wintertime — cold and snowy — and, since I was going to the airport straight from work, I wore my dress clothes for the flight down.  My outfit consisted of light gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer… which, believe it or not, actually matters in this tale.

The weather was bad — snow and sleet — when the plane taxied out to the runway.   But, unbeknownst to me, this was when my trip to The Twilight Zone began.  We stopped.  We learned we were sitting in line to take off.  A long, long line.  We sat, and we sat, and we sat.  Early into this experience two things happened: 1) The large business guy in the next seat took off his dress shoes, creating what can only be described as an industrial-strength stench in our row; and 2) the pilot got on the intercom to let us know that the plane had been de-iced before we left the gate, and there was nothing to worry about. 

As I gasped for breath (those shoes were the worst smelling shoes I’ve ever smelled — ever), I looked out the window and noticed ice forming on the wings.  This ice buildup outside served as a temporary distraction from the cloud of smell inside, leaving me both nauseous and scared.   By the time we eventually took off, the idea of a crash landing — and the slim but possible chance of escape from Mr. Limburger Feet next to me — was looking pretty compelling. 

After breathing through my mouth for the duration of the flight, my fears were realized when we landed at Dulles: my connecting flight was nearly gone.  As I stared at the information screens breathing air that didn’t smell like moldy feet, I learned that I had about 18 minutes to make my flight.  I also discovered I was standing next to two Marines who had the same flight itinerary as me.  I decided that, since I didn’t know where I was going, I’d risk it by following them. 

That meant, to my horror, a full-on sprint through the airport.

The good news was that these Marines were in uniform, and no one got in our way.  The very, very bad news was that I was forced to keep up with these two guys, in dress clothes, while carrying my carry-on luggage, after gasping for breath for the last 90 minutes.  We made the flight (I was the last aboard), and I still remember how we looked when we got to the gate: two Marines who looked crisp and proud, breathing easy, not sweating, nodding politely to the attendant; I, by contrast, was sweating like a pig, rumpled, and sucking wind like I just finished a marathon.  I was too breathless to say anything to the attendant.  I quickly sat down in my plane seat and hoped to rest between Washington and Tampa.

Up to this point, the trip was bad, but not bad enough to remember 20 years later.  But things were about to get much, much worse.

After we took off, the attendant came by and offered cold drinks.  I almost never drink soft drinks, but since I’d had it pretty rough (and was still hot and sweaty) I ordered a 7-up.  I took exactly one sip, put the cup down, pulled my arm over to check my watch, and caught the lip of the cup with the button on my jacket sleeve.  This maneuver flipped the cup — and the pop — neatly into my lap… my still-buckled-in lap.  SO… I had to flip up the tray, unlatch my seat belt, and grab the cup — all before I could stand up. 

That’s a long, long time.  More than enough time to have the pop completely soak parts of my body that should never be soaked in pop.

The flight attendant saw me, and, trying to help, came over quickly with a can of ginger ale.  She instructed me to go to the lavatory to use it to “clean up” (how do you “clean up” with ginger ale?), and that’s when I realized I had to walk nearly the entire length of the plane — a full flight — wearing light gray dress slacks with a large, round, wet stain in both front AND back. 

Holding my head high, I walked to the back of the plane, with the flight attendant walking behind me.  I heard the laughter spread through the plane like ripples across a pond.  It was bad.  Painfully bad.  Men, women, children, young, old, all trying not to laugh, and all failing completely.  (I suspect the attendant was laughing too, but I never turned to look.)  The endless walk to the back of the plane also gave me time to notice that the pop I’d spilled was ice cold, resulting in my feeling hot and sweaty everywhere on my body except the area in which I’d spilled my drink, which felt nearly frozen (and sticky; sorry).  My friends, take it from me: that feeling, along with extreme embarrassment, is something that sticks in your memory. 

Sadly, this wasn’t the worst of it.  It got WORSE.

That’s because, when I finally got to the back of this plane, I was faced with a choice of two lavatories.  Both lavatories had the green door latch sign showing, and, already completely humiliated, I was just looking for a place to hide.  I grabbed the door and pushed it open, letting go of the door handle.

There was a woman standing there.  In the dark.  WITH NO PANTS ON.

At that moment, several things happened at once, in that same “slow motion” sequence people experience at times like these. 
1) Ms. No Pants began screaming in French.
2) The stewardess behind me began screaming at Ms. No Pants about how “this is what happens when you don’t lock the door.”
3) I, wearing pants with a completely wet crotch and standing between two screaming women, desperately tried to grab the door handle and close the door.
4) Nearby passengers positively erupted with laughter.

Almost in slow motion, I eventually managed to grab the door handle and slam the door shut again, presumably leaving Ms. No Pants in the dark (again!).  I then made the stewardess open the other door, which was of course unoccupied, and went inside to ponder the incredible sequence of events that just took place.  This took me several minutes… followed by a few minutes of trying to clean myself up with ginger ale, which — while making my situation slightly less sticky — made the stain about 50 percent larger.

This story is getting long, so I’ll breeze over such items as: finding the courage to leave the bathroom when two women were still shouting at each other outside the door; returning to my (wet) seat to more laughter from other passengers; watching a near fistfight break out later in the flight between two drunk morons, requiring the pilot to come out and threaten them both; listening to a screaming infant for about 30 continuous minutes; and finally, after landing, discovering that we were going straight to a dance place to dance, and I had to go.

With sticky pants.  And sticky underwear.  Take it from someone who’s lived it: whatever you do, do not go dancing when in this situation.

In the end, the vacation was pretty nice.  But that flight, and all that took place on it, will be burned into my memory until my dying day.  I’m grateful I’ve never had so much bad luck in one trip before or since then, and that I can look back on it now and laugh as hard as everyone else seems to.  It was an experience that definitely taught me that laughing at yourself is sometimes the only thing you can do.

Until next time… : )

“Shopnesia”: Buying The Same Stuff, Over and Over Again

by Keith Yancy

The older I get, the worse my memory becomes.  While I’m still decent about some things, like knowing where my car keys are and remembering that I should kill the bees in my house, other things just will not stick in my brain.

This can get expensive.

Have you ever found yourself purchasing the same thing, over and over, because you can’t remember whether you bought it or not?  This happens to me on occasion, and the diversity of these items suggests that it’s not a problem of unmemorable marketing as it is a chronically distracted and memory-less buyer.

While I think everyone is good at forgetting to purchase stuff, I’ll bet most of us are also guilty of buying the same stuff, over and over, whether we need it or not.  Here’s a few of my chronic multi-purchase items:

Parmesan cheese.  I have no idea why I do this.  Every time I venture into the supermarket, I buy Parmesan cheese.  Once, we had 3 full and 1 half-full container of the stuff, and we don’t even eat Parmesan cheese that often.  (Fortunately, I don’t hit the grocery store that often, or it would have gotten ridiculous.)  I have recently cured myself of this one by refusing to buy it, then complaining about not having any when we run out.

Shoelaces.  Don’t know about you, but I’m too lazy to replace both shoelaces when one breaks.  So, I put away the extra shoelaces for later.  Think I can find them when I need ’em?  Nope… not until I buy more.  THEN I find them.  I now have a pretty healthy collection of shoelaces, which disappear like Brigadoon until moments after I purchase more of them.  I have a broken shoelace right now on my shoe, and I refuse to buy more shoelaces until AFTER I find the ones I have collected. (And yeah, I complain about this too.)  It’s been two weeks… and while I haven’t yet found any trace of them, I absolutely refuse to buy more. 

Lumber.  This is one particular to me, but I tend to purchase extra moldings, lumber, etc. than I need to finish a project, in the event that I screw up and need to buy more.  This has resulted, over time, in a pretty large collection of lumber in my basement workshop.  Of course, I can’t find the right stuff I need when I need it, which means I go to the store, buy more lumber, take it down my basement, then discover I had more than enough of the EXACT THING I bought.  It got so bad a year or so ago that I wound up burning some of it in my fireplace just to get rid of all the extra lumber.  This mistake I continue to make, no matter how much I try not to.

Light bulbs (the wrong ones).  I run out of normal light bulbs constantly.  You’d think I’d learn, and I have — a little.  I buy a ton of the outside landscape light bulbs — you know, the kind that rarely if ever burn out — and I now have a large collection of these little bulbs in the event one burns out.  They hardly ever do.  Meanwhile, three of the five light bulbs over my kitchen table have been, and continue to be, burnt out.  I chalk it up to mood lighting.

Self-help books.  A personal weakness.  I’m basically convinced that my faults are so chronic, and so numerous, and so close to being fixable, that any modestly compelling self-help book quickly becomes part of my vast collection.  And, most of the time, I do read them.  Problem is, the “help” part of the equation — the part where I learn to eradicate my problems, faults, issues, etc. — never seems to happen.  Think more clearly?  Get more confidence?  Live with stronger faith?  Become a better debater?  You name it, I’ve read just about all of it… and not applied any of it.  One day, I’ll re-read one of the approx. 17 Bibles I have around the house, and validate the conclusion I’ve already arrived at: I had the best book at home the entire time.  BUT… knowing me, I know I’ll keep picking these stupid books up.  It’s a true addiction, in search of a support group.

Ceiling paint.  Weird, I know… but my ability to judge the amount of paint I need is somewhere in the same neighborhood as my ability to resist Parmesan cheese.  Thus, I have gallons and gallons of this stuff, which eventually goes bad, leaving me with gallons and gallons of bad ceiling paint… stacked neatly in my basement.  Sitting silently waiting for more ceiling paint to join the collection.

Pruners.  There are only two adults living at my residence, and the three children don’t count because they wouldn’t dream of actually working outside (see below).  For reasons unknown, I own more pruners than we have adults.  I have at least three of these tools — all exactly the same make and model.  Hey — at least I’m consistent about something.

Lawn rakes.  I am the owner of FIVE lawn rakes.  This one wasn’t all my fault, though.  I purchased two of the five thinking that two of my girls, who begged to help me rake leaves one autumn, would — get this — actually RAKE LEAVES after I bought them each a rake.  This happy family work moment lasted no more than four minutes (no exaggeration).  The girls discovered that raking leaves was not a recreational activity, but actual work… and thus immediately and (at present) permanently ceased to do any leaf-raking.  If they ever change their minds, of course, I’m ready and equipped… but we all know better than to expect that.

Of course, there’s a lot of stuff I buy all the time, but these items don’t make the list because they actually get used.  Milk and coffee, for instance, are on nearly every shopping list we write.  Mysteriously, toilet paper is consumed in such mass quantities as to suggest a sinister force at work; I’m currently convinced that, after ruling out theft and poltergeist activity, the daily consumption rate of toilet paper rolls is equal to the number of bathroom visits my daughters make in a day.  I’ve threatened to make them purchase the toilet paper themselves, but they know it’s an empty promise and basically ignore me.

Well, I’ll keep trying to stop buying self-help books, tiny light bulbs and lumber.  If I can do it, I may save enough to invest in the toilet paper industry, which I suspect is growing at an alarming rate (in my part of the country, at least).

Until next time… : )

The Most Depressing Job in the World

 

 

 

 

The stage for The Most Depressing Job in the World.

by Keith Yancy

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about jobs.  How hard it is when you don’t have one… how grateful people should be when they DO have one — especially when they like it… and, thanks to shows like “Dirty Jobs,” what some of the really hard jobs there are in the world.  While doing all this thinking, I came to a conclusion: If there’s one job out there that deserves the title of Most Depressing Job in the World, its being a women’s hairdresser.  

I can’t fathom why anyone would EVER want this job. 

Now I’m out on the thin ice, so to speak, because not only am I not a woman, but I don’t know any woman’s hairdressers personally.  But I’m pretty convinced I’m right.  My limited credentials include having a wife, three daughters, a mom, two sisters, and lots and lots of friends who are not only all female, but — not surprisingly — all have hair.  And, through the years, I’ve seen what happens after women go to the hairdresser.

So, after all this deep thinking, I’ve put together three reasons why cutting women’s hair is the Most Depressing Job in the World.

1.  Pressure.  I’ve presented to hundreds of people.  I’ve written for CEOs and company Presidents.  I’ve had to appear on camera.  But when it comes to cutting women’s hair, I wouldn’t last a day.  Almost every woman I’ve ever known is very, very, VERY particular about how their hair looks.  And, it seems like no matter what hairstyle they have, they’re never quite satisfied with it. 

Granted, most women seem to have a lot to worry about — it’s color, length, style, sheen, and a bunch of other stuff (split ends, fly-away hair, etc.) typical adult men find incomprehensible.  I’m sure that occasionally, some women out there like their hairstyle.  But too often, it seems, they don’t.

And when that happens, it’s bad.  BAD.  WAY, WAY BAD.  And that’s because women could, depending upon the situation, either a) burst into tears when they see their new hairstyle, or b) burst into a rage when they see their new hairstyle.  Like most men, I would rather chew off my own hand than have some woman sobbing uncontrollably because of something I did to them.  Worse, being on the receiving end of an angry woman with two handfuls of what used to be their hair qualifies as a nightmare. 

Honestly, I don’t know why anyone would want to risk this.  Worse, they may have to risk this several times a day, if they have a lot of customers.  Yow.

I’ve watched the What Not To Wear show a few times, and I get extremely uncomfortable when they turn the poor woman around in her chair after her color/curlers/aluminum foil-and-goo/washing/haircut/blowdry experience.  (NOTE: I do not know any man, anywhere, who would voluntarily go through this long of a procedure, unless he was allowed to sleep through it.)  Some women know they’ll be devastated, while others are taken by surprise… but even with the celebrity/expert hairdresser guy, typical reactions are rarely positive.  He seems to be grateful if he can get a mumbled “I guess it’s okay” from the victim… and then ducks out quickly as their facial expression turns to horror, their lower lip starts to tremble and the deep, deep sighing begins.    

2.  It’s really complicated.  Okay, the obvious: guys’ haircuts are way simpler than womens’.  Period.  With a guy, you can either a) shave it all off, b) tell the barber/hairstylist a number and let ‘er rip, or c) say a few silly cliches like “take a little off the top” or “taper the sides” and you’re done.  (Most guys don’t really even know what these phrases mean.  It’s just what you say so you can avoid having to say the truth, which is “Um… I don’t know.  Do what you want, just don’t block the TV.”) 

Women, though, have all sorts of procedures and stuff done that men typically don’t.  Let’s see… we have highlights.  Lowlights.  Bangs.  Streaks.  Extensions.  Braids.  No bangs.  Layers.  Straight.  Curly.  Relaxed.  My personal favorite, the “wiglet.”  On, and on, and on.  And other than a suspicion of what “bangs” are (I think it’s when they let some of your hair cover your forehead, right?) I have no idea at all what any of those terms mean.  And then women go in, have hours (?) of various chemical procedures done, get their hair cut and styled, then play the roulette of whether they like it or not.  No thanks.

3.  No job security whatsoever.  Honestly, most women’s hairdressers seem to be like Old West gunslingers… do some damage, try to be tough, and get out of Dodge before the posse comes ’round.  Hairdressers seem to frequently go from place to place, sending notices to their clientele with every move.  But that’s just for starters.  Women seem to feel very little loyalty to their hairdressers in general, and usually are looking to move on themselves.  And that’s if things went well. 

If the reaction was lukewarm or bad, however, the hairdresser can pretty much rest assured that he/she will never cut that woman’s hair again.  No warmup, no grace period, no second chances… better be awesome with the first pitch, or you’re through.  And once you ARE through, the hair dresser should try not to think about the bad press he/she is getting from their former customer.  Because believe me, you aren’t just geting fired by one woman… you get dumped, then shunned, by her whole circle of female family and friends.  Ouch. 

So I ask you: why would anyone want to do this job?  On top of these reasons, it’s not an easy job in the first place — I can’t cut hair in a straight line, much less do all the stuff they do.  Are they making good money?  Tips?  Why risk it?

Whatever motivates people to do this job, it’s clear the world needs them.  So the next time you meet a hairdresser, have a little respect.  Because, in my opinion, their job is not only The Most Depressing Job in the World, they’ve faced more angry, sobbing women than the most prolific womanizer… and lived to tell about it.

Until next time… : )