Repeat After Me: "Duuuuhhhh...."

Ever have those moments that just make you want to cringe and hide under the sofa with the loose change and the leftover Lil' Debbie snack cake crumbs?

Ever have those moments on a daily basis?

I'm feeling that way of late. I can't seem to get it together, which is very unlike me. Normally I'm queen of the checklist. Task, do it, check. Task, do it, check. I love an orderly life.

Now my head is I don't know where and it's a major accomplishment if I remember to rinse all the conditioner out of my hair. I can't seem to focus. I have a number of great ideas for books, for promotion, for classes, for new teaching exercises, but none of it is going to be realized if I don't get a grip and just get something done.

Not helping matters is I made an ass of myself yesterday. Not so out of the ordinary or a big deal, but this time I was an ass while on the phone with a pretty big-deal New York agent.

(Oooh...doesn't that sound sweet? Let's write that again, just for fun. I was on the phone yesterday with A NEW YORK AGENT. The only thing that could make that more fun is to be able to say MY New York Agent.)

We'd met at a speech she gave me writer's group back in November, had talked on the phone a few times, and I'd sent her a holiday card for which she was calling to thank me. All good until, for whatever reason, "fake woman" appeared.

Fake woman is apparently some as of yet unrealized part of my personality who feels the need to chortle (I swear to God, I heard myself chortling on the phone to this agent) and laugh wittily at every thing an agent says.

I could hear the little voice inside my head screaming, "Stop it! Shape up! Act human!" and then watched helplessly as I laughed and chortled like a jackass. What's up with that?

Maybe it's the Creature Under the Stairs that's affecting me. It's still there, alive and kicking. In fact, it was chirping happily earlier today as it gnawed on wood and probably some major electrical circuiting. I've got a critter control service coming out tomorrow and I'm going to urge nuking the furry little rodent.

I've had it. I've tried to be humane. I set out bait and release traps. I politely asked it through the walls to take its young and leave. No more Ms. Nice Guy now. It's time for Armageddon. I want the squeals and the chirping and the growling and the pitter-pattering and the gnawing stopped. I told the receptionist who made the appointment to tell the critter contractor to bring a drill and poison. Let's get it on.

I'll leave on a bright note. I've finally learned the rudiments of how to use my cell phone. I am no longer cursing while trying to figure out how if I have a message or not, and I actually received a call on it the other day.

Look out world. Here I come.

(Just as soon as I remember to rinse the conditioner out of my hair).

Dentists

I had a dental appointment this morning.

My dentist does a great job and his staff is terrific. Almost too terrific. Like, scary-terrific. There is definently some sort of "Stepford-wives" dental hygenist thing going on here.

First off, these dental hygenists are just waaay to happy to see me. Even my family who loves me dearly and hasn't seen me in months doesn't greet me with the pep-squad enthusiasm this team shows.

Then there's the memory game. These women must take notes when I'm not looking. I see them only every six months yet they recall with shark-like precision every word of our last conversation.

Hygenist: "So, you had that big presentation coming up the last time you were here. How'd that go?

Me (with tools in my mouth): "Aargh, aumgh da."

Them: "And didn't you just celebrate an anniversary? What is that now? 10 years, 4 months and 3 days?"

Spooky.

But they show a greater interest in my life than the majority of my extended family. How can one not be flattered? Plus, they are obviously buttering the clients up for when they come at us with the drills, scrapers, scalpels, and other deadly instruments found in the common dental office.

It amazes me the trust I put in these people. Today, for example, my hygenist informed me I had one small area of plague.

"I'm going to use the ultrasound ray-of-death to treat it," she said. (Okay, maybe she didn't really say "ray-of-death," but I can't remember the actual name and I'm pretty sure "ray-of-death" is close). "Let me know if you feel any discomfort."

She stuck something in my mouth and I heard a squealing and humming and felt vibrations and thought I saw an odd purple light being cast on my bottom lip and it never occurred to me this wasn't perfectly fine. That's just weird. Later she draped me in a lead apron and took x-rays. Pointing cancer-causing rays at my face? No problem, and hey, can I get some take-home floss?

Sometimes I ponder messing up their copious note-taking by making things up about my life. So when I pop in for my next 6-month visit they'll greet me with a cheery smile and a "So, how's house arrest been?" Or, "Did that retail sex-toy site you were going to start work out for you? Was the leather whip the big seller you thought it would be?"

At least I won't have to talk back to them with appliances in my mouth. I'll be too busy laughing.

Bad Hair Days

The worst has happened. I had a haircut gone bad on Thursday of this week and have yet to appear in public since.

Men have no idea the power of the bad hair day. I almost managed to explain it once to my husband. I was in a foul mood because it was raining out and my hair looked like road kill after a storm. He was, to say the least, not sympathetic.

"I don't understand why you place so much value on your hair," he said. "Hair doesn't say anything about your values or who you are as a person. Why does it matter?"

I dropped the brush and comb and turned to glare at him. "Because women are judged much more than men on their appearance, and hair is a big part of that."

"I think you do it to yourself," he said smugly.

I walked a step forward. "So are you telling me," I asked, "that how your hair looks plays absolutely no part in your day."

"Yes, that's right," he said.

"So you don't think people judge you by your hair, and you're not at all affected by what your hair looks like?" I asked again.

"Exactly," he answered.

"Fine," I said. "You're telling me that if I asked you to shave both sides of your head and dye the top bright red, you'd have no problem with it because how your hair looks doesn't matter one little bit to you and doesn't affect at all how you're seen?"

"Um," said my husband.

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him.

"Okay, in that very extreme example, yes, I probably would feel uncomfortable."

"Well that's what women feel like daily," I said. "A bad hair day is like going out in public with a reverse purple mohawk and waiting to see what people think."

We don't talk much about hair anymore.

Still, Thursday's haircut was a bad one. Well, I shouldn't say bad. My hairdresser is very skilled and even though the cut is much too short for my liking, it's still a good cut in that it has some style to it. It's just WAY shorter than I wanted.

Think of Sharon Stone's spikey little haircut and go about 1/2 an inch shorter all the way around and that's what I'm dealing with.

Plus, I don't look like Sharon Stone.

Luckily, I like short hair. I flatter myself that you have to have a certain confidence to pull it off. Short hair, styled right, is very sexy-looking. Again, I think it's because you have to radiate a confidence that says, "I have hair the length of chipmunk fur but I'm still a woman."

And my hair grows fast. Two weeks, and it will probably be at the length I wanted in the first place. So all is not lost.

But that doesn't mean you may not hear, just for a short while, quiet weeping sounds coming from behind the bathroom door.

Bathroom Etiquette

Ladies, we need to talk.

Auntie Dena is here to listen to your woes and make you a better person. But you have to work with me on this. And many of you are working not for me but against me, specifically when it comes to bathroom etiquette. I apologize for my bluntness, but some of you out there are not getting the message, so let me be crystal clear:

WIPE THE SEAT OFF WHEN YOU'RE DONE PEEING.

It astounds me this is a behavior that must be pointed out to people. Are there really households out there where it's acceptable to leave a spray of urine across the seat for the next person to come across? I think not.

I understand what's going on, and I applaud your efforts. I too, squat and hover, thigh muscles clenching in protest as I beg my trembling legs to hold on for just a moment more as I scramble for toilet paper that has no beginning and no end, but rather just spins on its cylinder, never giving me a starting point to start ripping.

My derriere has not touched a public bathroom seat in the last twenty years. But if, after the hover, I find I have left a drop or two behind, I show common courtesy by WIPING IT UP. Yes, it's gross, but if I don't want to clean up after myself, I more than understand why the person after me would want to even less.

So show some decency, common courtesy, and what has to be considered pretty much the lowest baseline of manners, and wipe it up.

You're ticking the rest of us off.