In the age of technology...

Some things, like handwritten letters, are nearly extinct. But, there are new things to enjoy - you do get really awesome text messages for your birthday instead! Including these top two:

• Kaa! Kaa! Swoop! Here comes the thirty bird!
  
• Ever since I've met you, you've been the perfect age. True story.
  

No bounds.

As you know, I hate throwing out consumables - namely, food. Anything that can be used up entirely SHOULD be used up entirely. And tossing a little sour milk, wilted veggie or uneaten leftover causes in me a level of anxiety inappropriate to the amount of food being thrown out.

So, it is with a laugh I share with you my delight at discovering that our bottle of Robitussin Adult Nighttime Cough, Cold & Flu has about 3 doses left in the bottle - AND it expires 11/11! It makes me so happy, even as I am sick, to know that we'll use this up before it expires, and won't have to throw out a single drop.

(And hey - I was raised by a father who put a little water in the ketchup or salad dressing bottle, to get out every last bit. At least I'm not that far gone (yet) since the gross memories of watery Ranch dressing still linger.)

Where did the series go?

The series of pre-30 posts was walloped... by a cold! I have to say, though, if what M says is true - which is "No good, no bad, all wonderful", then the thing that is wonderful about this really badly-timed head cold is that I'm thinking, 30? Sure, whatevs. I just want to be back to health!

The countdown begins.

This is the first in a series of "I'm about to turn 30!" posts.

I need a pair of jeans that fits... and I have a great pair from a ladies clothing swap, a.k.a. Naked Lady Party. They're awesome, but getting way too big. So I went to the Levi's store in the fancy part of town and realized, oh hmmm, they don't make women's jeans in the numbers-style anymore (you know - 501s, 550s, etc).

But I had parked, I was there, and so I thought I'd let the salesgirl help me out with their new Levi's styles.

Alas, my friends, I am getting old. The jeans were all either skinny-leg-style (which doesn't look good on anyone who can vote; sorry! I'll tell you they look good when you ask me, but they don't) or were so low at the waist to be obscene in the back AND the front.

Plus, they give you extra things in the dressing room to possibly try on. I hate this. I hate it at Nordstrom and I hate it at Levi's.

And a $64 sweatshirt with a screenprint of a wolf on it is not for me. I was there the first time those were cool, and THAT is the real sign of aging in our pop-driven world.

Coda #2 - ! ! ! ! ! !

Ok, the plot thickens.

We've now found out this group of kids pulled a dine-and-dash this week at the 1 of (only) 3 restaurants in my neighborhood.

And the ballroom where I dance? There is a church group that meets there on Wednesday nights. They were stolen from by the same group.

It is on.

Coda #1 - ! ! !

A coda to the theft story... as I was thunderclouding my way back home that night, I was stuck at a very long light waiting for the crosswalk to clear, with another woman. I realized I was thunderclouding her, and that wasn't very nice, so I gave a slight smile. She shivered and said, "It's cold!" I said, "I know! August, it's crazy!"

"Gonna be hot this weekend though."

"Yup, it will be nice."

"Last one probably, of the summer."

"Yeah."

Aaaaand we're still waiting on the crosswalk signal. We're leaning on the sandwich board fro the Zumba class.

"You know," I said, as I tapped the sandwich board, "I was just in this dance class, and four kids came in to join, and one of them stole $20 from the teacher!"

"Well, people need money."

"Excuse me? And stealing is the way to get it?"

"I'm just saying, working people don't have enough. You have to do stuff."

"What?! And stealing is the way to go about it?!"

As she turned the corner out of the crosswalk one way, and I went the other, she gave me a shrug, and a "well...."

I shouted something as I walked away, and I was so upset I can't even remember what.

So maybe these kids were sent by a relative, parent or guardian to thieve.

And in the sputters of my anger, I should have turned around and said, "Need money? Maybe you could try teaching dance classes for money. Or sure, just tell teenagers it is OK to steal. You know what lady, you deserve the bad day it looks like you're having and I'm sorry you're such a miserable asshole."

Tell me how to heal this.

At Zumba class tonight, 4 kids showed up a bit after it began, and stood in the back of the room. One was little, 7 or 8, with her older sister, maybe 14. They were tapping their toes. The teacher invited them in to be in the ballroom with us.

The older sister seemed to have a very sweet boy with her, who was crushing on her enough to dance Zumba with us! And the 4th one - maybe 13?, maybe 14? hard to say with boys that age - sat in the back, in the lone chair in the ballroom. Which is right behind the computer where the music is played from.

He watched, he laughed when we tried to get him come dance. I admit, my inner control freak wanted to give them the boot - what if they got hurt and hadn't signed a waiver? What about how they didn't pay, which is a loss to our amazing teacher? But I let the part of me win who respects authority - and I let the teacher, or more senior folks in the class, make the decision.

They left as we did our cool-down stretches.

I got a round of high-five's from my classmates on the 15-pound weight loss I'm now up to, combining Weight Watchers and Zumba.

And then I walked out, and picked up a water bottle that had fallen on the ground.

And another woman picked up a wallet that had fallen on the ground. She flipped it open, "Whose is this?"

And I looked at the ID. "That's R's. That's our teacher's wallet."

Sure enough, the kid in the back kept his eyes on us while he fished out her wallet and stole $20. He left her ID, her credit cards, her health insurance card - which is pretty important for a cancer survivor turned Zumba instructor.

I am enraged. This foments distrust in my neighborhood. This foments fear of teenagers, roamin' around in packs like they do. This encourages a really nice teacher, who was embracing the experience of letting some kids come dance with us - one of whom could certainly benefit from a good cardio class even at a young age, as she was rather heavy, and see that working out can be fun - to become hardened and wary.

Look, I don't care if he needed the money (and I don't believe for a second he did). I don't care if he has parents at home who ignore him or no parents at all. I don't care if he is teased for being a slow reader, a bad football player or too feminine. He came into our little fun workout world and stole money. And for the cost of $20, he sent home a room full of women with negative feelings, increased distrust and a reminder to not be kind, open, loving, or soft with the rules once in a goddamn while.

And don't you dare tell me our teacher could have made a better decision and not let them in, or made them sign their names, or not let him sit in the chair. She could have. But that comes awfully, awfully close to victim-blaming. And to use a more typical victim-blaming line: a short skirt did not a rape create. This kid stole. End of story.

So tell me. How do I heal that hurt? Sure, we students could pay our teacher back - but that's not the real loss, that's not her real pain, and if I come across that kid in my neighborhood, he better be fucking ready.

A first time for everything.

I am a person who wears her hair in a ponytail, or bun, or sloppy bun, every day. Every. Day. On my wedding day I did not; on M.A.'s 30th birthday I did not. If requested for an event, I will straighten and wear it down. I will then take a lot, a lot, a LOT of photos on these occasions, to trick you - and everyone on Facebook - into thinking I wear it down regularly.

Part two of this story: I am trying to live more in tune with my intuition. On items big and small, I'm trying to stop and check in with the soul, the spirit, the perfect little human voice inside me (that we all have), and hear what it is I should do next. Do I sense someone is in a bad mood and I should leave my question until after lunch? Done. Should I watch this documentary rather than read ten more New York Times articles, and allow some comfort and cuddle in my life, rather that sitting at a screen for even more hours? Done.

Or this week... should I go get my hair cut? On the way home from work? On a whim? Without worrying it to death for weeks? Perhaps at a walk-in salon on the way home, on this fine sunny Tuesday? I think I should. I think today is the day that I explain what I find so challenging about my hair, and explain that I wear it up everyday because I get too hot and sweaty, and because it gets too triangle-y and poufy, and then trust a professional to cut it as they wish. Let a little control go.

And guess what? I have worn my hair down, with the new cut, for two days IN A ROW. And I mean: all day. From leaving the house before 8 AM all the way until bedtime - through work, through cooking, through driving with the windows down. This, my friends, is a good haircut. Quite possibly my first one.

And no, I can't post a picture now; it is currently post-Zumba-workout hair and won't do justice to Ellie at Bishops salon on Alberta. Who was unknowingly a wonderful part of my let-it-go-and-let-intuition-guide-the-day day.

Brrrrr.

Like starting up a cold car, I am chugging back to the blog with great deliberation. The slow turnover of the engine... trying to roll down the windows, which are in half-frozen slow-motion...

Yes, like any great piece of procrastination art, the hardest part is over: I'm here on The Blog Home Page. But it is too late to do more than let the engine run for a few minutes. I'll think of something especially funny or interesting on the next post! Thanks for stopping by, I'm just warming up.

What did you learn today?

Growing up, sometimes my parents asked that question, rather than the old standby, "How was your day?"

So what did you learn today, or this week? In the last week I have learned:

• A new alternator, transmission pan and unrelated flat tire cost about $426 to fix.
• You should always, ALWAYS wait until the last week of the month to re-new your car registration. Otherwise, you might do it at the start of the month, for $124, and then end up with a $426 bill on top of that just three days later, and realize, shit. This is what John means when he talks about "sunk costs" and it is just TIME to get a new(ish) car. (Especially when said car has an $1800 problem that gets worse every day and there is no WAY you're ever going to fix that!)
  
• Car salesmen really need to make a sale these days.
• Car salesmen now use text messaging, phone calls and emails to hound you.
• Car salesmen do not have the thick skins they say they do, and when called out on their pricing, with a better deal at another dealership, they are not happy.

What has John learned in the last week? The first is a guess, and the second was his answer to that query at the dinner table.

• He is married to someone who wants more car than she can afford, and she has a very hard time figuring what should be compromised and what should be stuck to. She may well stick to desired color, logic be darned.
• "I learned that I hate cat people like conservatives hate socialists."