I use Surf Hair from the Garnier Fructis product line and this overwhelming fascination started when I first bought it several months ago.  (I know that using a non-salon product could potentially cost me points on my Gay Card, but I tend to think that I make up for it with my facial cleanser and scrub.)  Every time I open the container I am greeted by this delightfully fruity scent which is paired with a texture and color uncannily similar to Yoplait’s custard style yogurt.  Somewhere between the combination of the scent, the texture and maybe the early morning fogginess and its all I can do to keep from eating some.   Last time I checked, I thought this would be something I was supposed to grow out of maybe 20 years ago?

As a grown adult, I have this internal struggle nearly every morning.  To eat, or not to eat my hair product, that is the question!  Would just a little bit be okay?  No?  Maybe just a taste…

There is this unmistakable “crunch” sound that drivers know, it’s a sound that tears through you and always makes you cringe, even when you are involved. This sound is a sound that can make grown people cry and make even-tempered men and women everywhere seriously loose their shit. This sound is generated when plastic and metal parts of one car engage with the plastic and metal parts of another car. My car made this sound and it did with gusto.

The vehicle in front of me pulled forward, making the turn and stopped about a hundred feet down the road, I pulled over just behind them and waited. Time slowed and I pondered the innumerable possibilities of how this would go down. My mental inventory triggered and I knew exactly where my license, registration and insurance card all were and I braced myself for the worst. I started calculating the out of pocket expense, the premiums that would go up, possible ways to negotiate my demise and so on. Looking ahead out the window the other driver began to get out of her car and I got my first glimpse of who I had just dragged into what I was anticipating to be a potentially very unpleasant experience for me. She was a shorter woman and seemed to be a very plain, unassuming person. She slowly approached my car, apparently looking for signs of damage on my vehicle and I opened my door and started to get out.

Now, when faced with situations with this, I have this annoying trait that kicks in full force: I become very, very polite and guilt-ridden. I blame this to a degree on my Mormon upbringing. The Mormon culture in Utah is very effective at helping children and adults develop very acute guilt complexes. As I walked forward from my door, the first words out of my mouth to this woman were, “I… am soooo…. so sorry!”  Now pair that with the pained facial expression that you might witness on someone who just found out they just single-handedly destroyed any chance for peace in the middle-east, and you might understand what I looked like.

The woman was still looking at my car and I very quickly asked her not to look at my car at all and informed her that I was exclusively concerned about her vehicle. I saw very quickly what I had done. On her rear bumper I had mushed in the plastic on the corner in the shape of a small book, it had compressed and the paint was rippled further in on the bumper. She reached down and brushed away some of the paint my car had left on hers and she looked up at me and said, “It needs to be repainted anyways.” My stomach fell, thinking that she was announcing her plans to have her entire car repainted at my expense. I slowly looked up to meet her gaze, saw that she was smiling kindly, and realized that I may have just been given a very gracious gift.

“I’m not even worried ’bout it,” she said, “There’s a dent in the bumper up front and if it had been a new car, I would have said somethin’ differ’n, but its not.” I looked at her and studied her face for a moment. This small, slightly frumpy woman was a saint. I asked her if she was absolutely sure and she said, “…don’t worry ’bout it at all,” and I felt my heart break with gratitude. I told her she had just made my week and that I could just hug her. She again told me not to worry about it and seemed to cautiously angle in closer for a hug and I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her.

There are amazing people all over this world. I work really hard to be a nice person and to share that kindness with others. A lot of the time, I’m sure, I come across as a cast-iron bitch. But I do try and go out of my way to be a good person and to spread positive energy. Its moments like these when I am refreshingly reminded that people can be fundamentally good: that they, like me, are not looking for trouble but are merely just trying to get by and have a good life. One of my mottos is that karma is a bitch, and indeed it can be. Positive actions and deeds are returned just as much though, oftentimes in subtle ways and on the rare occasion, dramatically.

In the immortal words of Jacobim Mugatu, “TODD! are you not aware that I get farty and bloated with a foamy latte!!”

I had, in past, only ever briefly made a mental connection between certain body functions and the consumption of specific kinds of foods. I had never really connected the dots between feeling a little extra pressure in the belly region and consuming quantities of dairy products. Not until this evening. I had consumed, in a fit reckless abandon and in violation of every one of my new rules for food consumption, an enormous latte… Not just any enormous latte, mind you! My second latte of the day, my favorite latte in the world, the iced caramel macchiato.

I was hanging out with a friend this evening and we stopped by the local coffee place for some refreshing beverages. I had previously allowed myself a very rare “venti” caramel macchiato earlier in the day when I was on the verge of being seriously un-cool at work and needed a little pep. I figured that a second round would not do any harm, as a very rare exception to my generally well-portioned eating habits. I was wrong.

My lovely coffee creation was light on actual coffee and heavy on the whole milk, which I had blithely requested. Just a couple hours later, I found myself doubled over on the floor of my kitchen experiencing some of the most acute gastrointestinal drama I have ever witnessed outside of food poisoning. I very shortly saw my guest out and proceeded to wish that I could just die of embarrassment and end the multiple levels of suffering I was experiencing. After a quick game of connect the dots, an extended trip to the loo, and a quick visit to wikipedia to confirm my findings, I realize that I’m lactose intolerant.

It’s astounding what amazing learning experiences we can have at any age, especially at the expense of any shred of dignity we may have had. And rather than pretend that it didn’t happen and wish that I could silently will this memory into non-existence I have chosen to share it with the universe. Why? Because humor is the best medicine.

It’s always less humiliating when you trip in public and smile and laugh it off, its more easily forgotten and lost in the mundane details of life. Allowing myself the luxury of privately mulling it over and obsessing about the embarrassing details would only serve to further kill whatever sense of dignity I had left. One of the key elements of becoming a classier person is to learn to roll with the punches and take them in stride. Some people may disagree with the strangely public nature of this stride, but I find it oddly therapeutic to get this one out in the open.

I HAVE SERIOUS DIFFICULTY USING MAJOR APPLIANCES.

There, I’ve said it.  It’s really hard for me because i’ve a very intelligent person.  I passed AP physics in high school (I mention that because its pretty much the geekiest thing I can think of).  I can code basic HTML.  I can whip up a lean, mean Excel spreadsheet that will automate the socks off your budget.  I can reprogram cellular phones to do tricks and sit up and beg.  But god help me if I need to re-heat a bowl of soup in the microwave.

Back in the day, ovens and microwaves and all of these great, mighty appliances, were simple affairs with a knob.  For example, I need to re-heat ANYTHING in the microwave back in the day I could just turn the knob to that golden spot in-between the two and three minute marks and voila! I’ve just reheated pizza, or cooked a frozen turkey.  It always just worked right there.  But now, its like I need a PhD in Button Pushing-ology to be able to do anything.  I’m reduced to pressing that one button that makes it turn on for 30 seconds at a time and testing whatever inside for the right done-ness.

Let us also not forget the disaster that inevitably happens each time I try using one of these new ovens with the push buttons.  Because apparently I’m not intelligent enough to decipher the difference between “Cook Timer” and “Timer Cook”.  Every time I try to use the oven at a friend’s house or wherever these new ovens live I end up making the damned thing very cross with me.  The range starts beeping at me in a degrading manner, insisting I get someone over to help me out before i accidentally launch nuclear arms at an unsuspecting country.

I’m all about the super-modern kitchen.  I love gadgets and stainless steel everything and enough watts and btus of energy to incinerate small planets.  But for whatever reason, I’m reduced to the IQ of Malibu Barbie whenever I’m left alone with any sort of modern kitchen installation.  I figure that its a very subtle hint from the universe that I should eat out.  One day, I will master the major appliance, I will be able to microwave soup and eat it too.  And when that day comes, there will be no stopping me… from making soup and sandwiches.