Get your head out of your...phone

                Those of you who know me know that I am an uncle, not a parent, and I do not take that duty lightly.  From my actual nieces and nephews, like the eleventy-foot tall Payton and the sweetest child in all of Hawaii, Hannah, and the most ardent Saints fan west of the Mississippi River, Tanner.  Hannah was recently given the Golden Heart Award by her classmates in sixth grade for being the most loving and compassionate person in her grade.  Those who knew me when I was a student at Tylertown High may remember that I was voted Most Polite.  For those of you who just started laughing, you’re just being rude, but I totally get it.  Now, I don’t know if there was some sort of conspiracy afoot, like when everybody kept voting for Sanjaya on American Idol, but I accepted the accolade.  To turn it down would have been…impolite.

                I also have a not-really-niece whom I adore, a precocious displaced Texan named Pearson Mary Eckrich, who has been taken by her handle-bar-mustachioed father to the wilds of Upstate New York.  And I only mention any of these sweet kiddoes because I am at a loss to explain how so many parents have supposedly accidentally left their children to die in a hot car.  I simply do not get it.  And I find, when you are about to pass judgment on someone, it’s good to give context.  And I am about to pass judgment all up and through here.

                Now I admit that I have done some crazy things in vehicles.  Some I cotton to and some I refuse to admit due to my lack of knowledge of statute of limitations in all 50 states.  But I can tell you that if I were transporting a PERSON, fruit of my loins or otherwise, I would remember they were there regardless of events that unfolded.  For example, if I were to visit the Eckrichs in New York and volunteer to drive Pearson to pre-school, I would not forget she was in the back seat even if Benedict Cumberbatch were to land on the hood of my car wearing Incredible Hulk Underoos, holding a koala bear in one hand and a copy of my book in the other.  And I am most certainly placing blame on any parent so pre-occupied with anything as to forget their child for the length of time it takes to die in a car.

                Based on what the media has stated, that one guy was focused on Olympic level nastiness through texts, which was surprising considering he wasn’t even remotely attractive.  Other cases have other reasons; however, it seems to me that this forgetfulness is a by-product of the ludicrous level of self-centeredness that has overtaken our society.  We don’t look at each other anymore.  We don’t talk to each other anymore.  All we do is look at those blasted phones.  All day.  Every day.

                And don’t get me wrong, I look at my phone too.  But not while entering or exiting my car.  Anyone who is my Facebook friend, and some have stated they will only accept my friend request when I stop posting pictures of my injured feet, knows that as agile I once was, I have somehow become less mountain goat and more fainting goat, in respect to agility, mind you.  I need to be focused on the getting in and the getting out of my car in a manner conducive to allowing the optimal view of each of my fantastic outfits.  My public have expectations, y’all.  True story.

                We simply don’t pay attention to each other anymore and that’s what’s wrong with this country.  We have our prejudices and our preconceived notions and since we aren’t really up to meeting new people in person, we don’t have the opportunity to hear other opinions or exchange ideas.  We simply find those with whom we agree and then we post all manner of opinion and dare someone to disagree.  And I’m aware that when I’m pointing one finger at you, I’ve got three pointing at me (hearing my Mother’s voice in my head) but we all need to pay more attention to the world around us.

                And, yes, I see the irony in telling someone to get off Facebook in a blog that is mostly shared through Facebook, but it doesn’t mean that my opinion isn’t valid.  Start caring about those around you by actually looking at and talking to them and listening to them and having really great conversations that don’t devolve into shouting matches.  A rigorous debate is a great thing. 

I recently attended a wedding in Scotland and while there, a number of us retired to the library of the castle where the event took place to escape the riotous volume of the dance band and because we were tired.  English weddings last all day and night, people.  It is just like “Four Weddings and a Funeral”.  And I’ll be the first to admit that the main reason we were feeling chatty was due to poor cell phone reception since wi-fi strength in rural Scotland is about how you would expect.  But we made friends and disagreed and heard extremely unique points of view considering there were an anthropologist, performance artist and government bureaucrats among us.  And it was wonderful and enlightening.

                And if starring in the mini movie that continually runs through my head has taught me anything it’s that you can create your own reality any way you want, but you might want to see what’s out there before you made your decision.  If I had culled my reality from my time before I left Mississippi in my early 30s, I would still be driving a purple Buick, wearing fashions from Dillard’s Big and Tall Collection and thinking Brooks Brothers was people I may or may not have gone to school with in Texas whose last name was Brooks.  And nobody needs that, am I right?

                And to circle on back to my original thought and just to make sure you don’t ever forget anyone simply ask the question, “Anybody up in here?” before you exit your car.  But keep in mind if the response is in an adult’s voice, you need to run like you are being chased, because odds are you’re about to be.

                And that is all I’m saying.

He is departing, with recliner and dog

                Unlike Diana Vreeland, I was unable to arrange to be born in Paris.  I was born in Lake Providence, Louisiana literally on the banks of the Mississippi River, a fitting start to a gypsy life lived on the periphery.  And when I say gypsy, I mean in relation to movement of people as opposed to the wearing of head scarves and bangles.  And just like in Cher’s memorable hit, there are additionally both tramps and thieves in my extended family.  The original words said, “Gypsies and white trash” and I’ve got some of them too.  I’m not saying who; I’m just saying. 

                We moved on the average of once every 18 months throughout my formative years, but always in the same general vicinity.  I call it ark-la-homa-tex-ippi.  Y’all would call it the boonies; some of my readers call it home.  In my leadership video on YouTube ("Funniest Leadership Speech Ever"), I define the boonies as “a place so far outside the city limits even animals question your presence”.  And it’s true.  The animal that is me questioned, mostly to myself, the constant movement.  Whether we were running from or toward something, we were making good time.

                From birth through high school graduation at 17, my family lived in 19 houses in 10 towns in five states.  Combining college and graduate school, I spent seven years at three schools, all mercifully in Mississippi.  If you’re doing the math, I had two junior years and that is a whole different story.  I will tell you my Native American name was “pick-a-major-already”.  Since I began working for the Department of Veterans Affairs, I have lived in 15 houses in 12 cities in 11 states.  All of them decorated to within an inch of their lives.  That’s a lot of throw pillows, people.

                And I wonder is wanderlust innate or learned?  My mother lived in the same house from the age of 2 until she married and my Dad’s family stayed in the same general vicinity most of his life.  It seems that we were the inaugural gypsies.  My siblings and I have mirrored that behavior to a degree, but with cuter outfits.  My sister has moved several times, but nothing outside of the norm.  My brother is in the Air Force so he and his family move often, but that is inherent in that commitment.  I have moved many times to get where I wanted to be in my career.  Fortunately, I have nothing living in my house except me; no pets, no plants, no children, no spouse.  In that order.

                I recently asked my Dad why we moved so much and he insisted that it was always for a better job and I have no reason to think he’s hiding something, although moving with a gooseneck trailer in the middle of the night bears questioning.  We only did that once to my recollection, so I guess I believe him.  About that, I mean.  I don’t believe him about most things, however, because he has only a passing familiarity with the truth.  It’s not so much he tells lies on a consistent basis; it’s more that he’s told the same lies so often he really doesn’t remember that they’re untrue.  And I understand that to a point.  I used to lie so much about my family’s financial situations that I forget when I now tell the truth people don’t believe me. 

                And the only reason that I’m even talking about this is The Dad is moving on again.  He is returning to Louisiana to live with his sister, the sainted Aunt Gladys, she of the peanut butter cake fame.  He has decided there is “too much town” out here in the land of the heathen and he wants to go back where they have trees and things.  The fact that “town never stops” from San Francisco to San Jose bothers him.  I did drive him out to where the trees and cows live but the fact that it took 45 minutes and I wouldn’t let him get a hot dog at the Sonic by the Tractor Supply Store, did not bolster my case.  I argued the fact there was both a Sonic and a Tractor Supply Store but he countered with “fine, we can live in this parking lot, then.”  So, you see I had no choice.  I am unaccustomed to living in a parking lot and have no desire to get outside of my comfort zone by being, well, outside.  If I could get one of these tech nerds out here to figure a way to get me to work, shopping and church through a series of air-conditioned tubes, I’d be good to go.

                It’s been almost three years since he moved in and I started this blog but take heart, the 15 of you who read this (and yes I’m bitter, share this with your friends for pity’s sake), I will continue to blog.  Now that I’ve introduced Uncle Dusty’s thoughts to the world, I can’t be silenced.  You can’t quiet a kicked mule and you surely can’t un-kick it.  Now that you’ve unleashed me to the blogosphere, I am unleashing The Dad on metropolitan Shreveport/Bossier City.  He’ll actually live at the end of a red dirt road, off a gravel road, off the main road in Bethany, Louisiana (which I am assured is actually on the map), but he has to enter the city limits for doctor’s appointments at the VA and the occasional trip to the casino buffets or Piccadilly.  So, gird your loins, folks, he’s a-coming…with recliner and dog.

                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

               

My own Phenomenal Woman

               Maya Angelou recently passed away and in her honor, many have been quoting from her poem, "Phenomenal Woman".  This got me to thinking about my mother who has been gone for 14 years.  For the first couple of years I simply did not celebrate Mother’s Day because it hurt too much.  A few years ago, someone said that those whose mothers have gone should use the day to celebrate their legacy.  And so I did but I never shared.  I know it’s late, and she wouldn’t like that one bit, but I thought I’d share a list of the things my mother taught me.

1.       Show love every day.  Every time she would see me, she’d say, “Hi, guy!” and then give me a hug or a peck on the cheek.  Even if she had just hugged me 10 minutes before.

2.       Be kind to yourself.  Whenever I would get mad for making a mistake or call myself a name, she’d always tell me, “Don’t you talk about my child like that!”

3.      Never downplay someone’s feelings.  Once, when I was having a very dramatic response to something in seventh grade (and isn’t everything dramatic in junior high) and had decided, and then apparently announced that I would run away, she listened and quite seriously asked “Where would you find the love that you have here?” Having no answer, and quite frankly no concrete plans, I stayed.

4.      Always learn.  She stopped at every roadside marker to see what historical significance it held.  My brother and sister were none too keen on learning new things in the wilds of America but I was always game. 

5.      Try new things.  One of the added bonuses of these side trips was any time we explored an area, we got to explore the food.  Her favorite phrase was, “Don’t tell and we’ll get a little snack”.

6.      Enjoy the now.  On road trips, I would sit in the middle of the back seat and lean my elbows on the console and she and I would talk the entire trip, whether it was 13 minutes to town or 13 hours to my grandmother’s.  My brother and sister usually slept, but I was up and I was chatty.  No one who knows me should be surprised by this.

7.       Find a hobby that you love.  She loved to read and passed that love onto her children.  It was a common sight to find all 5 of my family sitting and reading at home.

8.       Make time for yourself.  She would give anything for those she loved and I always wondered how she kept giving and giving without tiring.  But I remember when she needed to be by herself, she made it happen.  There was more than one occasion growing up that my siblings and I would find ourselves ushered toward the door with the admonition to “go play”, hearing the door lock behind us.  When we protested the heat or wondered what to do if we became thirsty, she’d point at the water hose and blow us a kiss.  We became adept at creating games, some as simple as the “it’s your fault we’re out here” blame game.  I always lost.

9.       Don’t wait to be asked; offer your help.  We never had much money but what we had she tithed and shared.  Her mini-van was the unofficial youth and children’s church bus for Mesa Baptist and free taxi for many others.  She was never put off by someone’s appearance, reputation or circumstances.  She simply loved.

10.   Work for what you want.  In 4^th grade I wanted a calculator.  Yes, I know I was a nerd from way back.  She told me I needed to earn the money so I took over her Amway route for a week.  She told me to make sure I told my customers why I was trying to earn money.  It worked.  I earned enough money for the calculator in one day. 

11.   Support should be felt, not just heard.  Even though I was chubby most of my life, my mother never made me feel bad about it.  She would point out healthy choices on the menu at restaurants and taught me to eat as healthy as possible in the South, but she never shamed me.

12.   Be proud of yourself.  No matter our financial situation, our house was always well-decorated and spotless.  She taught us “You are who you are, regardless of your circumstances.  Always be proud.”

13.   Don’t be late.  The only time you shouldn’t arrive early is to a dinner party, unless you are assisting the hostess.  And she usually was assisting.

14.   Take time for God.  She started each morning with a cup of coffee and her Bible.  She knew she needed God every day.

15.   Those who can should.  She taught me to pay it forward and help those you can with whatever you have.  That’s why I started the Thompson Scholarship for Student Leaders at Southwest Mississippi Community College in her honor.  If anyone would like to donate, please contact the Office of Institutional Advancement, 1100 College Drive, Summit, MS 39666.

 

My mother was a fierce protector, prayer warrior, child advocate, creator of macramé things and lover of God, books, coffee and chocolate, in that order.  Every time I watch ‘Steel Magnolias’ Sally Field’s character reminds me of my mother, Catherine Waynette Thornton Thompson.  Sometimes it makes me smile and laugh, sometimes it hurts my heart but it always make me miss her and gives me the hope to carry on her legacy, often with mixed results.  But every day I try because if you’re still here, you’ve still got work.  Can I get an amen?

Surely Doris Day Knew

               Rock Hudson died the day I turned 15.  Seeing as how I really didn’t know who he was, it didn’t make that much of an impression at first.  What I came to find out, via the Enquirer at the 7-11 next door to the motel my mother managed, was that he was an old movie star and he had died of AIDS.    This being a time before we bought our first VCR out of the trunk of some guy’s car at the Paris, Texas Wal-Mart, I was not familiar with his movies that I would later come to love, like ‘Pillow Talk’ or ‘That Touch of Mink’.  As far as I was concerned, he was simply that old looking dude who kissed Linda Evans in the barn on Dynasty and she had FREAKED OUT when he died.  And not just because of the hay he left in her coiffure.

                Living just to the left of the buckle of the Bible Belt, I didn’t have much information about AIDS other than it was bad, it had killed him and he got it because he was gay.  Thanks to the Reagan White House and the rest of the country’s seemingly mutual agreement to not educate people about this disease, I thought you could get AIDS just by being gay; like black people and Sickle Cell Anemia.  What did I know, I was newly 15 and encased in a family so far inside our Southern Baptist bubble that to this day, my parents have never actually had “that talk” with me.

                So I suffered in silence terrified that I would get AIDS and die based solely on the fact that I knew I was gay, but in title only.  I hadn’t kissed or even held hands with anyone at that point.  My family is Southern Baptist, but much more "19 Kids and Counting" than "Preacher's Daughters".  The most daring thing I did in 1985 was watch 14 of the 17 hours of LiveAid, including both of Phil Collins’ performances.  Remember, he sang in London and then flew across the Atlantic and sang in Philadelphia?  On the same day?  Partying like a rock star, receding hairline and all, y’all.  Kanye wishes he had that much swagger.

                Quite honestly I never knew, and could not find, much information about AIDS until I did a research paper in my Senior Honors English class in 1988.  I asked my teacher to “assign” me homosexuality for my topic so I could find out something about it, me; whatever, I didn’t care.  In an era before the internet, our only research options were in the local library.  And can you guess how many books there were on homosexuality in the Tyler-Vegas High School Library?  Exactly zero, unless you count Encyclopedia Brittanica.  I was forced, do you hear me, forced to do this “stupid paper, on this crazy topic by that darn Miss Boyd; what’s her problem” and finally realized that I really wasn’t the only oddball in the world; just the only oddball in Mississippi.  And God bless her way-ahead-of-the-curve thinking, she gave me a 96 instead of 100 because “you spent a lot of time focusing on equating homosexuality with AIDS and that’s not accurate”.  I will forever be thankful for Nola Faye Boyd, God rest her beautiful soul.  I wonder if she knew she was the first person I came out to, unofficially or not. 

                And the reason this is even on my mind was an article in Vanity Fair magazine about the remake of Larry Kramer's “The Normal Heart”.  The author asked why this piece?  Why now?  And as a member of the Board of Directors of Academy of Friends and living about 26 feet from San Francisco, I can tell you the average person simply doesn’t think the AIDS is a real threat anymore; that drugs and treatments have essentially the problem of HIV and AIDS.  And that’s not accurate.

                My organization raises money to award grants to groups who provide services or education for those living with HIV/AIDS in the Bay Area and this year’s beneficiaries are doing wonderful work:  PAWS (Pets Are Wonderful Support), Project Open Hand (meals for the critically ill), Shanti (HIV/AIDS support and counseling), LGBTQ Connection (Napa Valley Youth Program), Maitri (residential end of life care) and Clinica Esperanza (HIV/AIDS services for the Latino Community).  And I’m glad I can do my part to support a community that I’ve never really embraced.   Outside of the way I dress, I’ve never been very good at being gay and never been that interested or supportive of gays in general.

                I’ve been reading Philip Yancey’s book “What’s So Amazing About Grace” and I’ve realized that I haven’t offered much grace to my fellow LGBTQers and I am not proud of that.  At various points in my life, I was, for all practical purposes, a homophobic homosexual.  I was taught to hate gays and since I was gay, I was taught to hate myself; at home, at church, at school, at work.  And as someone who tried to do everything to the best of my ability I was hating on an Olympic level, y’all.

                “Love the sinner, hate the sin” is a phrase that’s been used a lot by some self-professed Christians professing to “not hate ANYbody”.  And I believe that’s true.  The opposite of love isn’t hate; it is indifference.  And it has felt to me that the Church has been, at best, indifferent toward the LGBTQ community.   I’d like to believe they have love for all, but I wonder if some say the beginning of that phrase solely to allow them to say the ending.  Why can’t we just say “Love the sinner” and then actually do it; we’re all sinners.  And as a Christian I try to do that and many of my friends and family do, too.  Not all Christians are like Fred Phelps or Pat Robertson.

                Let’s just all agree to try to love each other in this broken world, okay?  I’ll be the first one to try.  But could you people get to dressing a bit cuter, for pity’s sakes?  Especially the gays; y’all have no excuse.  If y'all just got that together we could love, love, love each other in color-coordinated happiness.  Jesus would want it that way, right?

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Fashion (for dudes, 'cause they need help, y'all)

                Yesterday, I slept late (7:00 a.m., because apparently we have cattle to feed) and The Dad had already checked the mail and placed it, as per usual, on the dishwasher.  I walked over to see what was there and picked up a magazine.  The Dad looked at me and said, “Is that a gay magazine?” 

                My first thought was, what is he talking about?  I don’t have gay magazines in my house; I am far too uptight for that mess.  When I asked the magazine he was referencing, he pointed to the Nordstrom catalog.

                I said, “Well, admittedly Nordy's is fussier than JC Penney, but I don’t think I’d call them ‘gay’.”  When I asked why he questioned it, he said it was because the models were “dressed gay”.  What he meant was they were wearing a suit and not in the context of a court appearance.  And while I don’t agree with his assessment I understand his viewpoint.  Most men don’t put much thought into their wardrobes.  The only difference between my father’s outfits while sleeping and during the day is that he takes his hat and shoes off when in bed.  Seriously, he sleeps fully clothed as if he is practicing becoming homeless.  Which, truth be told, if he doesn’t stop being so messy and loud, it might be sooner rather than later.

                But this got me to thinking about men and their clothes and I realized that I have given the world Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Fashion, but not specifically for men.  As I am including dressing for success in the management training program of my trainee James (‘sup, dude!), I thought I’d share some thoughts with you.

1. What you wear shows how you feel about yourself and the world around you.  It doesn’t matter if you want this to be true; it simply is.  Ratty t-shirts and dirty jeans connote either someone who doesn’t care or someone who is trying very hard to convince you they don’t care.  In my experience it’s usually the latter.
2. Don’t be afraid of color.  Not everyone wants to, or has the energy to, be me when it comes to fashion.  However, if you decide to embrace color (and you should), remember less is more.  If you wear a brightly colored shirt, wear more muted pants, like khaki or navy.  Even I don’t wear colored pants and shirts.  I always pair things like apricot pants with a navy gingham shirt or a blue oxford button-down.  If I wear a purple sweater, it’s with navy chinos.  One wants to look like a party, not a parade.
3. I wear colored socks and they are ubiquitous these days.  However, a good rule of thumb is to match your socks to your pants; never to your shoes.  If you’re bold, match them to your shirt or tie.  If you don’t match them to anything, people will talk about you.  And by people, I mean me.
4. Pay attention to you when choosing colors. 

1. If your cheeks are ruddy (red), do not wear shirts in that spectrum (red, pink, orange).  Your face will glow and not in a good way.
2. If you are overweight, avoid yellow.  Every time you stop walking, small children will try to board you.  Also avoid yellow if you are pale; you will look jaundiced.
3. If you have blue eyes, you’ll look great in blues, greens and purples.  Redheads look great in those colors too.
4. If you are olive-complexioned or darker, congratulations, you are able to wear most every color in the rainbow and will look amazing in bright colors like red, aqua blue or pink.  Literally, thank the Lord for His gift to you.  Those of us that are more in the lunch meat-complexioned category are jealous, even when we say we aren’t.

   5.    The color wheel can be your friend (Google it). 

1. Colors that are immediately adjacent to your color are complementary.   
2. Color that are directly opposite on the wheel are contrasting.
3. This knowledge will help you better coordinate your choices.

   6.   When in doubt ask your girlfriend; odds are she’s better at fashion than you (apologies to Neal Eckrich and Quinton Walker, but they’re alone in this category).
   7.  If you don’t have a girlfriend, then visit your local clothier’s tie department.  Look at the patterned and paisley ties.  These color combos work very well. 
   8.  Most tie designers try to help you decide the color suit you should wear with a particular tie, by using that color on the back of the tie, in the diamond shape at the bottom.
   9.  If you don’t have a lot of confidence in your fashion skills or you’re short on cash, basics are the way to go.  Khakis go with everything.  Blue or white button-downs and primary colored polos are an easy, inexpensive way to look appropriate for most occasions.  Navy suits are popular but a charcoal suit is more versatile.
   10.  Brown shoes, brown belt.  Black shoes, black belt.  This is not difficult.  You can buy your belt at the same store as your shoes.  The salespeople will be more than happy to help.
   11.  Don’t buy a red dress shirt.  Ever.  Seriously, put it down. 
   12.  Ditto for black dress shirts.  Unless you are in the mob.  Then I like your look; please don’t kill me.
   13.  Every time you buy a shirt and tie already paired in a box, a fashion designer dies.  Stop the madness!
   14.  If you’re going on a date, even if it’s someone with whom you have a relationship, you should not be wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  At the very least wear a button-down or a polo with your jeans.  Snarky tees are only appropriate when hauling furniture, mowing the yard or trying to “chill” in someone’s basement.  Experiment with wearing a sport coat on a date and see how the dynamic changes.
   15.  ZZ Top said it best, “every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp-dressed man.” Air guitar solo is allowed, because I did it too.


You’re welcome.

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Reality (Millenial Edition)

              I recently witnessed a scene somewhat sad and perplexing.  I was behind a young man in the line at Starbucks who was dressed in an odd manner.  As we were literally in the shadow of Facebook (it was about 100 yards away), I assumed this 12-year old in $300 denim was one of the acolytes of Zuckerberg, Inc. 

I guess odd isn’t the right word.  Unexpected, maybe? From the waist up he was your typical hipster nerd, complete with snarky t-shirt and non-prescription glasses.  However, below the waist, his over-priced jeans were, and I believe I’m using this term correctly, “bustin’ a sag”.  I am so street.

                Don’t get me wrong, I applaud anyone who his committed to a specific look.  I do, however, believe in giving someone a dose of reality, if needed.  I don’t think Devin, if that was his real name, was giving off the appropriate gangsta vibe.  Why you ask?  Well, for one, he was at Starbucks, for pity’s sake.  If that wasn’t bad enough, he ordered a “non-fat skinny mocha-choco-latta-ya-ya” or somesuch.  All I could do was sing, ‘Creole Lady Marmalaaade!” in my head.

                From what I gather, real gangstas, were they to find themselves in a Starbucks (evading Johnny Law, I presume) would order something like “Caw-Fee!  Random Expletive!  And a Cookie!  Subsequent Expletive!  Yes, Warm!  Final Expletive!”  What?  I watched that TV show that one time.

   

                In honor of this interaction, I’ve decided to offer Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Reality for Millenials or as The Dad would say, “young-uns”.

 
1.       Pull up your pants.  You only get dates dressed like that because women have taken pity on you.  They think they can save you.  We’ve had to start prayer circles.

2.       If you are thin, stop dressing poorly.  If you have no taste, look for a friend that does and ask for help.  Or call me.  I will literally take anyone shopping, up to and including Charles Manson, although how you accessorize with a forehead swastika would be a stretch even for my significant abilities.

3.       Never assume retail employees have good taste.  No one checks out their outfits during the interview, with the possible exception of Kate Spade.  I have seen co-workers from my days at Dillard’s tell a customer that the only shirt that would coordinate with khaki pants, would be a khaki shirt.  Yes, if you are the Roto-Rooter guy. 

4.       If you think the cashier at any store has the power to change company policy, you are special kind of silly.  This is not a bazaar in Calcutta.  You can’t barter at Forever 21. 

5.       Stop wearing flip flops with jeans.  Because it’s stupid.

6.       The cashier at Safeway is not in charge of how many lines are open at 10PM on a Saturday night.  You waited 11 hours for the new iPhone, you can wait 10 minutes for whatever cheap alcohol you’re trying to buy.  Stop being rude.

7.       Don’t be rude to servers in restaurants.  If you’re nice, they’re nice.  That’s how it works. 

8.       Please tip your servers appropriately.  They are providing you a service.  I don’t care how cheap you are, tip at least 15%; more if you’ve gotten great service.  How would you like it if you were paid based on someone else’s opinion of your work?

9.       It’s great to be passionate about your beliefs.  However, if you haven’t put much thought into why you believe what you believe, don’t get mad when someone questions you.  If you find yourself unable to defend your position, maybe you should figure out why. 

10.   If you’re not horrified by the world around you, you aren’t paying attention. 

11.   It is your right as an American to have an opinion.  Coincidentally, you have to deal with the repercussions of your opinion.  Just like everyone else. 

12.   Hard work is the only path to success; there is no other.  If you want to invent an app so you can sit around chillin’, you have to actually invent an app.  All those Facebook and Twitter guajillionaires are hard-working people.  Granted they sometimes wear hoodies and seem laid back, but they actually invented, and then aggressively marketed, a product.  You’re not a dreamer.  You’re lazy.

13.   Not every successful person is smart; but all successful people are hard-working.  If you don’t apply yourself, you’ll never succeed.  If you’re in school, that means you need to study.  I know Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg dropped out of college.  But they dropped out of Harvard. 

14.   When you’re driving and you make a wrong turn or miss your exit on the highway, just keep going.  Trying to cut across four lanes of traffic to make your exit is dangerous and stupid.  I am not dying in a fiery car crash so you can get your fix of over-priced caffeinated beverages.  And you know good and well it was something that stupid.

15.   Oh, and your music is simply a re-tread of 80s music, without the panache or hair spray.  This is demonstrated by your rap stars’ inability to a make a hit without sampling Spandau Ballet and Dead or Alive.  I know that’s harsh, but whatevs, Felicia.  Slow your roll.  Is that right?  Did I do that right? 

 And that’s all I’m saying for now. 

Would the Village People Steal Snacks?

                Exercise is universally acknowledged as dangerous; at least in my house.  However, I was never aware consuming low calorie snacks could cause pain and suffering outside of the unpleasant results of eating sugar-free cookies.  The snack in question was a 90-calorie bag of naked popcorn.  Naked in the sense of no artificial flavors; had there been a more scandalous connotation it should have been titled nekkid popcorn.  There’s difference, at least where I’m from.

                I have a drawer in my desk that holds my snacks.  I keep it filled with healthy snacks for all manner of emergencies like late nights, the 2:00 pm energy boost or bribes, depending on the situation.  Prior to yesterday, the only danger with this system was that the drawer, bottom left, if not closed firmly will sometimes slide open again, like the bedroom window of an unrepentant teen after curfew.  And I’ve hit this drawer with my chair and my leg but never with the full force of my body in motion. 

                I was sitting in my office, talking to my management trainee James (hey, dude!) and we were discussing some of the ins and outs of leadership and managing people.  It should come as no surprise that I was telling a story and a good story always needs a snack.  I had just retrieved said bag of popcorn from the drawer and opened it, while closing the drawer with my foot, which I felt was the most efficient use of time and energy, just like those dudes from Toyota.  I’m living the lean journey, people, LIVING IT!          

                After a minute or so, I rose to demonstrate something appropriately leadershippy (and if you ask James he will concur, won’t you James) not realizing the desk drawer hadn’t ever really closed, like those mattress stores that are “Going out of Business” for the better part of a decade.

                As you probably know, the desk is inanimate and stationary and my body isn’t, so it should come as no surprise when I came into contact with the drawer, I tripped over the drawer, slicing my leg, but fortuitously not my suit pants, and fell.  While trying to catch myself, I only propelled my rather large head into the wall and landing with a thud, followed by an interjection that would most certainly not have been exclaimed in that “Schoolhouse Rocks” tune.  You remember interjections show excitement (Wow) or emotion (Hey)?  My interjection had several more letters and was followed by an appropriate number of exclamation points.

                One of the measures of success, I feel, is the size of one’s office.  This hadn’t occurred to me until I looked up, all prostrate, rumpled and embarrassed, to see at least a baker’s dozen people crowded around me.  There was the aforementioned James, our student worker, two of our clinicians, one of my managers, two nurses, a cop, a cowboy, a construction worker and an Indian.  I could be wrong about the last three; I was woozy from the blow to my head.

                So, I was picked up from the pool of blood on the floor, mostly from the leg; not so much from the head.  They rushed me to the emergency room (it’s convenient to work in a hospital) , triaged me, interviewed me and took me to a room where I examined and then photographed my open wound.  James, great guy that he is, accompanied me to the ER and we sort of just stared at the wound.  No matter what sort of guy you are, you are drawn by morbid curiosity to really gross things.

                Cut to a fantastic medical team treating the wound, not laughing directly in my face when I explained how it happened and sewing me back together with 17 stitches in my right shin.  You know I’m going to try to be #1 in anything I do.  Simply fall down?  That is sooooo not me.  I will fall down with prejudice.  I will have an open wound, with possible infection.  I will not take painkillers.  Ok, maybe my head got hit a little too hard.  I’m strong-hearted (according to the book of baby names), but not foolish.  Pain pills, please.

                When I got home The Dad had fixed dinner (Pork Chops, Home Fries and Fried Cabbage; the last two items containing at least a pound of bacon between them) and I ate like I hadn’t had my afternoon snack or dinner, which I hadn’t.  Can I tell you that I needed some comfort food?  It was sooooo gooooood, I cleaned my plate, which is something I haven’t done since 2008. 

                The Dad was so pleased that he didn’t even make fun of me for falling down; at least not to my face.  I wonder what he’ll say at breakfast?  But a more important point to ponder, what happened to my popcorn?