And I’m acknowledging that the men reading this post right now either have a hard on or are utterly repulsed by my most prominent childhood memories.

I also remember the day I got my first email address. It was 1998 – I’d just fallen in love with the man who would become my second husband. An entirely lovely man named Scot – a Naval officer stationed in Japan. He was headed back to Japan and I wanted a way to stay in touch. He suggested email.

Email? Shit. I didn’t really know what it was. So I called my mom and asked her: How do I get an email address? PRESTO! My mother to the rescue (she’s a career senior systems analyst and has built every computer I’ve ever owned up until I defected to The Dark Side aka Apple products in 2010). I was set up with a Hotmail address in no time and was communicating over thousands of miles with the man I loved. Sickeningly sweet, yet needs must and this was my first foray into the digital communication age.

Hello, 2012

Today, I live in a digital world. I’m tethered to  , plugged into Twitter and Facebook. I think Path’s UI is so sexy that I’d be willing to give it a handjob if it were remotely possible. I’ve got folks on LinkedIn, three email accounts, and a PO box that only gets the good stuff: checks from clients and my subscriptions to Rolling Stone and Entrepreneur Magazines.

Back in December, I took issue with the way a few of my friends (actual friends – not imagines digital ones) were conducting discourse on my personal Facebook profile. That incident led to a jettisoning of over 240 people from my “friends” list. And this week, my friend Merredith and readers Annie and Brian from my Facebook fan page have reinforced something I’ve been feeling for quite some time: through all of this digital communication, we’re breeding a culture of lazy and rude.

And it’s time for a slap.

It’s Apalling

The way we communicate these days – and the vehicles we choose to deliver certain messages even moreso. Back when I published the post that got Facebook to rate-limit my hosting company aka Is Facebook Hiding Your Messages? , the comments section was filled with tales from people who had received Facebook messages informing them that a relative or friend had died. Just yesterday, a long-time reader shared that his two-year girlfriend decided that a Facebook message was the most appropriate way to break-up with him (and I know that’s not the first time).

Fucking seriously?

While I understand that we all don’t have everyone’s phone number, there are certain events in this life that warrant a bit more emotional commitment (and balls, quite frankly) to deliver than a Facebook message. Or even a text for that matter. Jesus on toast – where do I begin with the text messaging?

The Wall Our Fingers Built

What better excuse have we as a culture had to unplug from the emotional aspects of human interaction than the rise of text messaging? While inarguably convenient for sharing short, concise messages, I’ll just offer this example for the complete detachment of onus – thanks to text messaging.

Back in November and December, I’d gone on a few dates with someone whose company I enjoyed. Fun, intelligent, attractive – yet seemingly completely incapable (or unwilling) to pick up the phone. The day after a rather awkward lunch date where I felt like I’d been crammed into an opening in his schedule as opposed to someone that was a pleasure to make time for (it ended up being my birthday, coincidentally), I received a three-window text message from him explaining that he thinks I’m swell but just not what he’s looking for in a relationship but he’d be more than happy to accompany me as a date to any professional functions I might need to attend that I felt might interest him (blah-blah-blah).

First off, there’s no arguing that we shared the same sentiment.

Secondly, it took him three windows on my iPhone to explain this to me.

Third, that text was sent to my phone number.

Finally, we won’t go into the skewed logic that given this display of failure to engage that I would even consider him as someone with whom I’d care to present as some sort of partner in public – but hey…thanks for taking pity on a single gal.

When did we forget that there are human beings on the other end of the messages that our fingers so furiously type on impossibly small screens on device with capabilities of similar impossibilities?

I feel that a significant portion of what’s going wrong in this world is a byproduct of what we’ve come to accept as acceptable in the realm of communication.

I’m Growing Detachment in My Digital Laboratory – Care to Step Inside?

There’s an exchange from a favorite feel-good movie of mine, You’ve Got Mail, that sums it up best.

Joe Fox: It wasn’t… personal.

Kathleen Kelly: What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s personal to a lot of people. And what’s so wrong with being personal, anyway?

Joe Fox: Uh, nothing.

Kathleen Kelly: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.

Personal. Communication between human beings – especially between ones whom we consider friends, lovers, and treasured colleagues – used to be overwhelmingly personal. Folks had to sit down and write letters. Pick up the phone. God forbid, drop by a friend’s house with a bottle of scotch or a bundt cake when the shit had really hit the fan. Our current age of digital communication has somehow granted permission (and falsely) for us to treat everyone with the same casual disregard and borderline contempt as the jackass on the sidewalk in front of us who doesn’t understand that we’re trying to get somewhere and can’t seem to step it up a notch.

And that’s no way to treat people.

We’re continuously cultivating a garden of detachment through all of these digital means of communication. We’ve become entirely lazy when it comes to the emotional commitment it takes to cultivate relationships (of any sort) and instead, accepted that sending a text/email/Facebook message is an appropriate way to develop a connection – and at our worst, unplug completely.

What happened to the adolescent anticipation we felt waiting for the phone to ring? Where did we lose the excitement we felt when we saw the flag down on the mailbox which told us we could run outside to see what stamped-and-canceled treasures lay inside? But more importantly, what happened to the stark honesty it takes to use our voices and share what needs sharing – over the phone or (god forbid) in person?

So Let’s Talk About Facebook For a Moment, Shall We?

It’s an election year. Lines have been drawn in the sand and friends and foes alike aren’t too ashamed of spouting off on what they think and feel. But when did Facebook’s invitation to Write something become license for assholian behavior of incomprehensible levels?

I’ll say that it has a lot to do with the total perversion of our collective definition of “friend.”

On my Facebook fan page and blog comments alike – I have but one rule: you can say whatever you feel needs saying and in the vernacular of your choice, but you will do it with respect, goddammit.

And we need a severe infusion of Aretha Franklin up in this joint, because R-E-S-P-E-C-T has gone right out the window by and large in the Land of Facebook.

The Land of Facebook isn’t some mythical place where we can say whatever the fuck we want on other people’s walls without consequence. Facebook is a tool that supposed to help us develop relationships with more people than we ever thought possible. And there’s a reason that our connections on our personal pages are called “friends.” We’ve forgotten that the audience on Facebook is vast – and that most of the time when interacting with friends, we’re putting our thoughts up for review to their audience not ours. Stop and think for one frog’s fine ass hair-sized moment whether you’re acting like a dick.

Facebook doesn’t offer anyone a cloak of invisibility. Start conducting yourself as if the people who were seeing the shit you post and spew were standing right in front of you – and were able to throttle you (or even hug you). There is nothing I post on my personal OR fan page that I wouldn’t say live – and that’s because that while RedheadWriting might be part persona, I know that people keep coming back to read for the person behind her.

There’s a person behind every word you see on Facebook. Including you. And there’s no excuse for the lack of respect that’s plaguing the walls and pages across this great digital tool that’s supposed to fun – yet as of late, has become exhausting for many.

And So We Come Back to Humans…

We’re breeding this culture of lazy and rude – each of us play a role. We continue the email thread, we reply to the text message, we drop what we’re doing to reply to a Facebook thread when we should be doing shit that runs our respective businesses. We type things with knee-jerk reactions, we use language we wouldn’t use in front of someone we respect and love, and we think that people don’t have a right to be heard because we’re the letter of the law and can’t possibly be bothered with ideas other than our own.

We stare at our phones with contempt when they have the fucking audacity to ring.

What happened to the humans in all of this?

I’ve been smacked down by friends on more than one occasion for using a digital crutch to communicate – especially when the device also acted as a phone. And so today, I’m passing that smack on to you.

Things should begin by being personal – whatever they are. As even the smallest business decisions elicit an emotional response. I’ll speculate that there’s a special circle of hell that Dante would allocate to those who feel that digital communication is the best way to break up with a lover, end a business relationship, or otherwise take an arm’s length distance from the message that needs conveying.

I understand that we all communicate differently. I’m a writer, for fuck sake – this post is nearly 1900 words. Digital communication allows us to be extremely efficient in many cases and we’re endlessly frustrated when the batteries in our phones and laptops die, putting a crimp in our nonstop pursuit of productivity.

But never forget – with all of the blessings and mind-blowing innovations of digital technology that humans eventually run out of batteries, too.

And wouldn’t it be especially splendid if, when that time came, we felt that we’d used our own batteries to plug into the people who matter most in our lives with every ounce of energy we had, instead of being lazy and letting technology create our memories for us?

You’ve been slapped.

As a complete aside, I’m also sporting a bruise on my left thigh that is roughly the size of Tanzania. I know this first-hand, as I’ve been there. I took a teensy spill on my track bike on Sunday (hit a slick spot on the track) and well, I’m living in Hey, Hey, It’s Hematomaville for awhile now. But I digress. At least I started this paragraph by telling you I was going to digress.

Onward.

You are making my ears bleed.

I Bust My Ass…

Even when I’m not ditching my bike with one gear and no brakes, I’m busting my ass to make sure that companies I work with speak English. And people keep fucking this up widestyle. Maybe not you. But definitely you for sure. Why are you not speaking English?

When did we start making up words and phrases to describe what we do? When did the words we had become not good enough? Here are some examples:

• Drive results (because if you’re not, you shouldn’t have a fucking job)
• Create results-oriented strategies (because there are people who create strategies designed to tread water? Puh-lease.)
• Shift paradigms (keep your hands off my damn paradigms – they are fine where they are)
• Develop overarching concepts (as the only thing overarching is the Gateway Arch in St. Louis – used to live there. Seen it. It’s definitely overarching.)

I’m invited to connect with numerous people each week on LinkedIn and I see this bullshit every day. Why are you selling yourself short by using terminology that’s not only meaningless but makes your target audience – a potential client or employer – feel like they’re either not smart enough to understand what you do or being bamboozled about your actual level of proficiency in your trade?

Just Stop. Please.

The English language has been around for centuries. It’s a perfectly good language. And you know what? I’m not immune to buzzspeak, either. I have colleagues who threaten to install a sort of “swear jar” every time I get too full of myself in a client report or proposal and lapse into speaking buzzspeak-laden nonsense.

Just use English. It’s good stuff. All buzzspeak does is make you look lazy. Ditch the MBA-ease, because really – I’m not that bright. Stop being fancy, as plain vanilla gets the job done (and doesn’t waste anyone’s time). There’s a time a place for flourish, and you should know the difference between flourish and total horseshit.

And if any of you have the above phrases, or phrases like them, in your profiles, websites, or corporate mission statements consider the alternatives:

Instead of “driving results,” state what you achieved. “During my 18-month tenure as the Director of Social for Company XYZ, I led a team of 6 staffers and we achieved the following (bulletpoint, bulletpoint, bulletpoint).”

Instead of those bullshit “results-oriented strategies,” tell us about what you created. “At the inception of my role as Director of Paint Peeling at Company XYZ, I created a 24-month plan designed to help the company’s marketing department (bulletpoint, bulletpoint, bulletpoint). As a result of the strategy’s components, the department demonstrated a 34% decrease in expenditures and a 63% increase in profit. This allowed us to increase our team by a headcount of two and add an additional executive to the Marketing team to head up sales in our Mid-Atlantic region.”

Stop talking about shifting paradigms. If you truly did that, you should be able to find clients and customers who can speak to its truth. None of us are Steve Jobs, nor should we aspire to be. And not even Jobs shifted paradigms. He built teams that planned and then executed on those plans. The products that resulted? The consumers of the world would attest that Apple’s creations “shifted paradigms.” Get my drift?

We’re all victim to this right now, especially as the New Hampshire primary kicks off today. Politicians make a career out of using 83 words to say nothing at all, and I know it annoys me. It probably annoys you. Speaking English is about honesty – with yourself and your clients/customers. It’s about respect and not making people spend time they don’t have figuring out what the hell you’re saying. It’s also about confidence. Buzzspeak is linguistic wood putty for those who lack confidence, as the truth never seems good enough.

Now, my gimp hip and I must pack. So little to do, so much time. Wait – strike that. Reverse it.

And for those who wonder how I dispel with the buzzword bullshit speak in my own business? I keep companies from looking like assholes online.

Concise. Short. Makes you want to hear more. And more importantly, no one wants to look like an asshole.

English: It’s good enough.

Disclaimer: I’ll admit it – this post wasn’t really all that short.

Not 15 minutes later, I was sitting on my sofa with tears rolling down my cheeks.

My readers only have access to the parts of my life I choose to share while certain people in my life have access to me. And that’s because (to be quite frank about it) many of you haven’t earned it. But it’s the same for me – I haven’t earned the right or privilege to sit at your family’s table and share in your news and memories.

But today, you’re going to get a straight-up shot (not a glimpse) of The Girl behind RedheadWriting. And that’s because I’m growing a pair and finally saying something I should have long ago:

Stop talking to me that way.

Let’s Start at the Beginning

Facebook. It’s the place where I stay connected with family and friends, new friends and old. It’s where my audience shares in my life (what I reveal) and I can keep up with what the people in my life are up to – and choose to share.

On Saturday, this is what I chose to share:

Innocuous. And not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I’d spent the day hiking. With my dogs. I love to go hiking and loaded up Beatrice Olivia the Mini Cooper with Big Dog, Small Dog, and a Camelbak and headed out for 3 hours in the hills of Boulder, Colorado. The weather was perfect. The dogs were soooo great, especially considering their off-leash adventures have been limited, and I got to spend a few hours with me – someone I’ve been missing (a lot) over the past year. I always seem to find her outside.

And Then It Goes Left at Albuquerque

The comments on the thread start rolling in. And suddenly – people who are supposed to be my friends just fuck it up. Some of the comments were deleted after I posted my response (which you’ll find below).

And Here is Where I Cry

You can think I’m a big ol’ pussy all you want, but when I came home from the gym and looked at all of this again, I just started to cry. The last comment in the thread got me thinking about “being dressed that way” and being a bawdy femme. Do I invite this? Do I grant permission? Am I telling people it’s okay to talk to me that way? So I sat there on my sofa wondering, as this wasn’t the first time it’s happened. So what did I do?

I grew the pair that I tell all of you that you should be growing on a regular basis.

So Don’t Fucking Talk to Me That Way

Do you know why I make jokes about my tits? So you won’t. Why does a woman say she has a big ass? So you won’t say it first. I fully own the fact that I am a foul-mouthed, no-holds-barred writer along with every ounce of whatever that comes out of my mouth. I own it. And even if I walked around dressed like a hooker, it doesn’t give the people in my life the right to talk to me that way. I sat on my couch on Sunday morning and cried. I was late to brunch because I had to pull my shit together and de-swell my tear-stung face because people who were supposed to be my friends thought it was okay to talk to me like that.

Well, It’s Not

I think poop jokes are funny and I can never get enough of Archer. I have been known to use the word “fuck” as a comma, adverb, and noun – and all in the same sentence. But given that information, it does not give you the right to shit on my life. And in return, it doesn’t give ME the right to shit on anyone else’s, either. It’s all fun and games until someone pokes an eye out – and I got mine poked out on Saturday and Sunday.

I think the world was possibly a better place when men wore hats and people danced – where there was a certain amount of decorum and respect that ruled (at least) our public-facing lives. While I can’t speak to the other social norms of those days and fully admit that, from a woman’s perspective, they were less than diverse or ideal, there’s a certain amount of validation in a woman being able to haul off and issue a gloved-hand slap to someone who’s disrespected her. And it all goes back to the perceived level of permission granted in the online space…and who you think you know versus who people really are.

Permission: What You See and Who I Am

I created RedheadWriting. She’s a persona. She’s a lippy broad and that’s why people love her – or hate her. She says what many wish they had the balls to say and riles-up others when certain topics arise. She takes a great professional photo and welcomes any opinion to be shared on her blog and Facebook page (so long as you identify yourself – there are no anonymous comments welcome). She swears enough to make a sailor blush and has an inexplicable affinity for hedgehogs (in the non-Ron Jeremy sense).

But do most of you know who I am? Apparently I have to share this information with you so you realize that there’s a person behind this persona the next time you feel entitled to haul off and make a comment on my life:

• I put up my first Christmas tree in over 9 years this past weekend. It’s lovely.
• I love kids and hope to have some of my own someday soon – and you can go fuck yourself if you want to chime in about me being a certain age and how I should write that shit off. I wrote a book about it. Holler. And last week when I included a linkbait headline alluding to being pregnant (in jest), thanks to all of you who sent me emails through my contact form expressing relief when you found out it wasn’t true. Because apparently, the idea of me becoming a mother at some point is terrifying to you. Whether you meant it or not, that hurt, too.
• I slipped and fell in love in late 2010. His name was Jason. He died unexpectedly from surgical complications on October 31, 2010. And I miss him. But my life is better for him having been in it and there’s not a day that goes by that the thought of him doesn’t make me smile.
• The last time I tried to date, the guy showed up drunk at my house with a gun. I don’t really know if you know the terror of hearing a round being chambered or chamber being cleared behind you. But I do. And maybe you don’t know what it feels like to have someone digitally stalk you for a month, calling you every name in the book for breaking up with them. But I do. And y’know what? There’s a certain humor to the entire situation. A certain bone-chilling terror as well to know that all of that crazy relationship shit you read about ? Yeah – you’re not immune to it. And no – I don’t hate him.
• I miss my brother. We were best friends growing up – geeks in unison. He’s on his own path right now and chooses to not connect with our family much. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in life is respect that it’s his path to follow. Even though I miss him.
• I have a niece and nephew. My niece is the spitting personification of me (my entire family says that by all rights, she should have been MY daughter so I’d have to raise her ) and my nephew is autistic. He’s amazing and autistic and my sister is the biggest hero in my life for doing all she’s done to ensure he has a path equipped with tools he can use – and in his own way.
• I love getting dressed up, and not because I get to wear a push-up bra. Because I love dresses and skirts and the way I feel in them. I’m not so much a jeans or shorts girl. You’ll find me in a sundress before shorts and a dress before slacks. Every time.
• I struggle with my business and chosen career every day, not unlike many of you. I love what I do and am damn lucky I get to do it. It’s just an ongoing struggle to separate the “easy” path from the one you know you really should be taking.

I’m human – just like you – and while I might have a pair of balls, it doesn’t mean I’m immune when people are less than respectful of me and the person that’s behind this site that you keep coming back to time and time again (for which I thank you).

So, Who Are You To Talk To Me That Way?

When it comes to my blog and my Facebook page, they’re all about persona. Really – have at it. If I initiate the blue streak, you’re welcome to join in. But when it comes to my personal life, do the same as you’ve had done to you: don’t hijack someone’s life for your own amusement.

Because it hurts.

And I’m telling you – you don’t have the right to talk to me that way. I don’t have the right to talk to anyone that way, either.

I even asked someone I was with last night if this is something that men encounter, to which he responded no – not really. I’d love to hear from the men who read my blog (as there are many of you) on how you set the guidelines for speaking to the women in your life. I certainly hope I don’t talk to the men in my life in such a manner. Mostly because doing so would send the wrong message. Which leaves me wondering about the message of permission that I send. Madonna/Whore complex is a brilliant explanation when it comes to psychoanalysis, but why am I left always wondering if I’m seen as one or the other…when neither is optimal?

And Please Don’t Give Me the “Dressed in Such a Manner” Argument…

It won’t hold up in a court of law and it won’t hold up here.

What sucks is when you’re placed in a position – by the people in your life, no less – to consider the type of people who are in your life.

And it’s something I’m doing a lot of thinking about right now. Because I’ve let people talk to me like this for…well, ages. Something told me that it had to be okay, even though it made me feel sick to my stomach sometimes. I realized it was time to take the advice I’d recently given to a friend’s daughter when she was made extremely uncomfortable while visiting a local business (who shall remain nameless) by what the proprietor assumed (incorrectly) were some innocuous remarks about her chest-region gifts (WTF – who SAYS things like this to a female patron?).

It doesn’t matter how you’re dressed, honey. You still deserve respect. It’s our obligation, however, to think about what we say so as to not invite conversations we don’t want to have. But sometimes, it doesn’t matter if we invite people or not. They’re going to have the conversation that they want to have. And that doesn’t mean it’s okay or you have to put up with it.

We won’t go into the phone call I made to the local proprietor. I will say, however, that I handled it professionally.

Game On or Move On?

So the next time you want to say something off-color or twist someone’s line of conversation, understand that there’s a person behind that digital persona. A keyboard and a screen doesn’t lessen the impact of words thrown around in what you perceive as “fun.” And regardless of whether you perceive someone’s words as being “dressed in such a manner” as to invite a bawdy return, maybe think twice. Permission once doesn’t mean an open-ended line of consent. And now, not that you’ve earned it, you know a little bit more about me. What’s private. What wasn’t yours to know in the first place. But what else is going to let you know that I’m human – that I have feelings – and they’re not yours to twist into some fucked-up bendy straw variety of amusement?

So please don’t talk to me that way – and whether you believe it or not, I am a goddamned lady and should never have to ask to be treated like one. And the only reason you’ve been slapped today is because you slapped me.

And it hurt. Fuck, did it.

Your ball, my friends. I’ll be over here holding the two I just re-discovered.

Never forget, dear lady, that the nation that allows you the privilege of protest is the one represented by the flag you're dragging on the ground. People die for this flag - Pick it. The fuck. Up.

You’re all such jokesters. I adore you.

But seriously.

Yesterday’s rant stemmed from an article on Bloomberg about Target employees protesting hours for the impending Black Friday consume-a-thon. I won’t rehash the article here, but I’ve kept my mouth relatively shut about my views on Occupy Wall Street and the voices of economic dissent  long enough. And I have a few things to say, as there are a few pervasive arguments with which I have a fundamental problem. I’m sure you have a problem with some of these things, too, and nor do I expect (by a longshot) that all of you will agree with me on the following statements. But grab a latte or a Snickers. I’m going in.

Sweeping Generalizations are Bullshit

It’s really easy to use words like all and every and them. What’s hard is crafting concise arguments that specifically identify (1) a party to be accused, and (2) a defending party who has arguable grievances. That’s why it makes me sick to my stomach to see signs of protest in the Occupy Wall Street movement that want to “taxidermy the rich” and point a finger in the general direction of anyone who has done well for themselves financially in the U.S. economy. While signs like this might have an inkling of truth to them from a mathematical standpoint, it all speaks to a bigger issue.

The System is Broken

I can yell until I’m blue in the face about GE paying less in taxes than I did in 2010. We can scream about corporate bonuses. Healthcare remains an unattainable goal for many. But those things have nothing to do with “the rich.” They have to do with the systems that allowed them to accumulate their wealth from out-of-control corporate machines.

When you point the finger at the wealthy as a whole (and it doesn’t matter how you define wealthy – as the guy who makes $100,000 next door to someone who is unemployed could potentially be perceived no differently than the guy who owns a $1 million home next to a $4 million one), you’re missing the point. The people in my life are the most precious assets I have and y’know, some of them happen to have done quite well for themselves. They’re business owners who made good – and sometime lucky – decisions over time and profited from those decisions. That doesn’t make them the enemy – it makes them an asset to our communities. As by and large, these are people who spend and give freely in the community. They give (as do many of you, regardless of financial status) to charity. They spend at local restaurants. They pay taxes – city, state, county AND federal. So again, the “rich” aren’t the problem. Capitalism isn’t the enemy.

The system and the unethical leaders that have poisoned our country’s financial system – they are the problem. And perhaps our anger would be better directed, and more influential, if we directed it at the systems which allowed all of this pervasive jackassery to happen. We need to look at the systems, as therein lies the source of our discontent.

Did I Mention the System is Broken?

Medicare is broken. Social Security is broken. Healthcare is broken. The tax code is broken. We’re deluding ourselves if we believe that these things are “fixable.” Solutions aren’t going to come with an election or (for fuck sake) more legislation to layer on top of the already broken machine. It’s like trying to glue something back together that’s already been glued 12 times before – it isn’t going to “fix” anything or for very long.

If you’ve ever built models, you get to be pretty familiar with how glues work. For women, I’ll equate it to artificial nails. When something breaks you can only glue it back together so many times before you have to sand or otherwise strip the existing layers of glue off and start over.

As a nation, we’re at a start over point, and we need to brace ourselves and consider structuring our lives so that we don’t rely on what we’ve been told to perceive as the norms.

“If You Don’t Like It, Quit Your Job”

THIS was the response to a thread related to the Target article on my Facebook page that drew my ire the most. There are people who are reading this who are unemployed or underemployed, and I’d love to know how YOU feel about that. But I’ll tell you how I feel about that. While I might walk down the pathways of my local mall and see numerous Help Wanted signs, quitting a job – even a shitty one that makes you work shitty hours - isn’t a reality for many people. How about we QUIT telling them that if they don’t like it, they can quit and get another job. With our national unemployment rate hovering at 9%-ish, you probably know someone who’s had or is having a tough go of it in this economy. How about we collectively cowboy the fuck up and have some compassion for people who – for more reasons than we are privileged enough to never be able to understand – CAN’T QUIT?

Let’s be part of the solution instead. Here are some things we can ALL do when we know of someone who is out of work:

• Resume reviews: I’ve made the offer before on this site and it still stands – if you are currently unemployed and would like me to review your resume, I will happily do so. You can email it to mark [at] redheadwriting [dot] com. Why not tell your friends you’ll do the same for them?
• Tap your network: Quirky though it may be, I connect more people who end up doing business with one another than do business with me. There’s something pretty cool about this. If you know someone who is out of work or otherwise looking, make the ask. All I can say is that my best hires have always come from the recommendations and introductions from others. Regardless of what you think, it’s not imposing.
• Keep our eyes open: When we see or hear about opportunities, share them. Post them on Facebook. Take a picture of the Help Wanted sign and text it to a friend. Of you want to get old school, dial your smartphone and CALL THEM. Or better yet, pick up a job application for them (since you’re there).
• If you’re a company hiring, say so! I can’t tell you how many hiring notices I see in the social media world every day, especially from the startup community. Companies are looking for talent! If you’re a company hiring, get the word out and ask your online friends to spread the word. The more people who see your notice, the more resumes you’ll have to choose from when it comes down to decision time.

And just like the “quit one job, get another” isn’t a viable argument in today’s economy…

Radical Swings Aren’t the Answer

In 2008, we as a nation made a radical choice. When the votes came in, we swung from a Republican President to a Democrat. From a caucasian to an African American. From older to younger. As we move into an election year, can we keep our heads about us and avoid the knee-jerk reaction to automatically choose something that’s merely different or the opposite of what we currently have? Heaven knows, it took a fair share longer than 4 years to fuck this country up. It’s going to take a fair share longer than 4 years and one administration to get it headed in the right direction again.

Many of the decisions we have entrusted to the government can be addressed in our own backyards and WE can begin to stimulate our immediate economies. Perhaps think less about for whom we will vote than where we will spend our dollars. Will be spend them with the giant corporations whom we blame for all of our current woes? Or will we spend them with local retailers who live and pay taxes in the communities in which we live? A good question to ask on the brink of the holidays.

And a Bit About Black Friday…

With numerous national retailers opening in the late evening hours of Thanksgiving Day in hopes of hitting a meager 2.8% increase in sales (per the Bloomberg article cited above), let’s think about how, where, and why we’re spending our money. Certainly – you’re free to spend where, how, and why you choose, but as Shelly Kramer stated when she posted the Target article for her network on Facebook, we are the ones who create this. We’re fueling the corporate machines that people all over the country are saying they hate!

This year, I’m not able to travel home to Houston to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my family. So how will I spend it? In the company of friends, connecting with family in every way I know how, as I really and truly have everything in this life that I need. I don’t need a 50% off sale. I don’t need the stress. And if I can’t get what I’d like to give from a local or online retailer that isn’t among the corporate behemoths, then it won’t get gotten this year.

We’re wound-up in the fact that these corporations have “ruined our lives” and all we do is continue to feed them. That is what makes Black Friday the darkest of all, in my world. To all of you reading who work retail, thank you for what you do and the hours you give to your employer in exchange for hours with family and friends. And if for some reason you’re not happy at your current job, start mapping a course for an exit and let the people in your life know how they can help. If they refuse to or can’t help, find new people. It’s not easy. It’s a process. And I know because I’ve been there.

But the greatest gift I get for the holidays each year doesn’t come in a box or a stocking. It comes from the people in my life who I’ve earned the privilege of keeping in my life.

And you can’t buy that shit at Target.

You’ve been slapped.

But I digress.

Locked up in an emotional shitstorm since Monday (which demarcated one year since Jason died), fueled by the joys of not sleeping and some pervasive stomach virus that’s made solid food an elusive pursuit, I really needed to see those words this morning. You – the lady who sent ‘em to me – you know who you are. So thank you.

I’m slapping myself.

I’m a huge fan of lists (which is causing my literary agent an undue amount of consternation), so there are two lists I’m going to make today. It’ll make the slapping easier to administer. THINGS THAT ARE EASY and THINGS THAT ARE HARD. Let’s go.

THINGS THAT ARE EASY

• Wallowing
• Whining
• Pissing
• Moaning
• Complaining
• Blaming
• Hiding
• Sulking
• Avoiding
• Following
• Denial
• Shame
• Liking
• Missing

THINGS THAT ARE HARD

• Changing
• Smiling (especially when there’s no reason)
• Fixing
• Owning
• Facing Truths
• Leading
• Acceptance
• Crying (you would think this would be in the EASY column, but it ain’t)
• Burning Things to the Ground
• Loving
• Forgiving (especially ourselves)
• Celebrating
• Honoring

Go ahead and put the word “ourselves” after most of those phrases.

And the different between the EASY stuff and the HARD stuff? Everything on the HARD list requires that you give yourself permission to do it.

So what’s the deal with permission? Seems to me that everything on the HARD list is pretty awesome. And yeah, I even like crying. I’m a sap. I will cry at sappy movies, viral videos, and kitten pictures on the internet. Go figure.

Anywhoo – permission. Why the fuck aren’t we giving ourselves permission to do the things we need to do? Why are we wallowing in places filled with Cheetos and bad porn when we could be out in the real world where brie and sex live?

Grant. Yourself. Some fucking. Permission.

That’s all I’ve got. I know what I’m doing today – and it involves moving a metric ton of things out from where they don’t belong so I have room for the things that really matter.

Me? I’ve been slapped. Maybe you have, too.

PS: Enjoy the koala bear having a bath. Can I get a non sequitur up in this joint? Holla…

The destination was a place called Canvas & Cocktails, which (you guessed it) lets you consume alcohol AND play with paint – color me tickled. Nearly forty of us offered a donation of $65 and then gathered around our easels with our allotted paints, brushes, and libations of choice and got to work on a step-by-step guided lesson on painting an owl.

Here’s the owl:

The instructor guided us first to create the box in the lower left hand corner. I mixed some paint, hit the canvas with my “medium brush,” and well…that’s about where I got frustrated. Fuck this owl. Fuck the owl, the leaves, and its stupid little curly-q decorations.

So we’re getting slapped: you need to own your fucking owl.

When we wake up every day, we pay the price of admission to life. No matter where we are or what we’re doing, we’ve paid. We’re in, and anyone who wants to tell you differently can get bent. Every day is your goddamned owl and it’s entirely up to you what you’ll do with it.

There are some things I know and own:

• I am a shitty artist. I can paint the walls in my house but I have no “vision” – the Sistine Chapel ain’t coming from my brushes.
• I have never done anything that someone told me to do (especially that I didn’t want to do) WELL. I did it adequately (and reluctantly).
• Life is too short to live someone else’s vision, much less paint someone else’s owl.

Own your fucking owl. Over the next two hours, I had one helluva good time painting Apathetic Hipster Owl (complete with horn-rimmed glasses and social statement letter in scarlet hues). Someone else painted what I dubbed Acid Owl.

And then there was the Anti-Owl.

While tons of people in the room opted to go through the instructor-led owl creation process, there were plenty who said fuck that owl and set out to accomplish their own vision. And it’s fine for those who wanted to create a paint-by-process owl. Sometime’s it’s just fun to go through the steps. Yet I think most of us are better suited to our own rendition of whatever our owl might be on any given day.

We live in a world that’s ripe with people who will line up to tell you what you should be doing and just how you should go about doing it. Which I think is precious, because these are the people who I just want to kick in the junkola. Except they’re not worth a kick in the junkola because they’re never going to understand that they have to own their fucking owl. Owning your owl is about living life on your terms and embracing the process. There is no X-step program that can get you to being a self-actualized human and there’s certainly no two-hour process that can turn you into an artist. When you own your (fucking) owl, you embrace the responsibility to pick your colors, choose your path, and if you very well feel like it, you tell the owl to beat it and you paint something else entirely.

I think we all forget way too often that upon waking up each day, we’ve paid that price of admission. The fund I chose to help raise money for didn’t make any less money by my choice to color outside the lines. In fact, its importance in my mind was reinforced by the fact that I decided to own my fucking owl and experience the evening on my terms. It doesn’t matter three fine frog’s ass hairs if I painted an owl that looked like the one the instructor was demonstrating. I had fun, I laughed, the fund raised some money, and I left knowing that I didn’t phone it in.

Quit painting someone else’s owl. And remember – you don’t have to paint a fucking owl at all. I spent the past six months of my life writing a book where I was bound and determined to NOT be that “should” author. You know, the one that makes it sound easy – like every goddamned thing is a step-by-step process and once you follow the steps, BAM! Instant success! Life’s not like that and since business is but a mere subset of life, business sure shit isn’t either. I figured that the best I could do in this book is offer readers:

• Who the hell I am
• Why the hell there’s a book with my name on the cover
• Here’s what I’ve experienced and know to work
• Here are people JUST LIKE YOU (real business owners, not the Zappos and Southwest Airlines and Disney jackwads we’re exhausted hearing about) and how they got things done

There are no juvenile workbooks, but there are suggestions you can take or leave. It’s a book designed to help you own your fucking owl because god knows – I’ve never done well with the shoulds and other associated orders. I’m thinking most people who will pick up what I’m putting down aren’t much a fan of the paint-by-numbers Owl’s Guide to Life, either.

So, yeah. You’ve bought your ticket and there’s no one who can tell you what you should or shouldn’t be doing and what fruits your labors will produce. Whatever your destiny in this life, whether rock star, owner of a dry cleaning shop or any iteration in between, it’s your fucking owl. Wake up, pet the sonofabitch, don’t let it get away with biting you, and most importantly FEED it. We’re pussies if we let the owl own us and tell us how it’s going to turn out in the end. And y’know what? If the owl isn’t right, trade it’s ass in on a hippopotamus. And then own your fucking hippopotamus.

You’ve been slapped.

Of course it is. People buy into extremes. Brands commit, and that’s where RedheadWriting comes from. It’s my alter ego that slinks off to the Bat Cave and gets shithoused at the bar while Alfred’s working on the Bat Mobile. It’s 80% me and 20% titanium balls…a devil-may-care version of a 5’3” redhead who, in all actuality, cares quite a bit about the people in her life. It’s also a defense mechanism – a protective outer coating. The chocolate on my Ding Dong. No one in his right mind would send a Ding Dong to market without that coating. It’d get beat to shit in 3 swings of the lunch box flat.

Enter, The Persona – the protective chocolate coating for public souls worldwide.

So what can Personas do that The Person can’t (or shouldn’t)?

Our brains like to conjure up retort after retort. We talk in the car, in the shower, in front of mirrors and to friends and colleagues about all the things we wish we could say if we had the balls. Enter the 20% of The Persona (remember? Titanium balls). Persona’s got balls covered. So, for every 10 shitty things we think of saying, The Persona says all 10.

The Person is more 9 out of 10. And here’s where we commence slapping.

I’m as guilty as the next person of taking snark one step too far. Ranting. My persona flies off the motherfucking handle like Ari on Entourage. But when it comes to my personal life, which includes every interaction outside of my Persona, I try to err on the side of leaving that one shitty thing left unsaid. Some days I succeed. Others, I fail miserably. But I do try.

And maybe I’m killing whatever illusion you had of my Persona – and that’s okay. Everyone has some level of illusion they conjure to protect them from the world knowing 100% of their shit. When you put yourself out there, you have to hold something back for yourself and the people dear to you. But before you get sideways that there’s a gal behind the curtain making the Big Red Head talk, think about your own Persona for a moment. What do you share? How do you share it? What makes you feel safe? Pot, meet kettle. You do the same thing. And it’s not about not being “authentic” (which I have no fucking idea what that means anyways). It’s about saying – Hey, I’m here, but here’s what you get. This stuff? It’s mine. Why? Because you haven’t earned a place in my life to share those things with me, just like I ain’t coming to your house for Christmas, ‘aight?

Personas can go to item #10 safely. But having been a person that used to always have to have the last word, to win, to conquer…I can say it’s a better life erring more toward the 9s. Having watched every season of Entourage, everyone fell in love with Ari Gold. I’ll say it: he made angry sexy. And he always went to #10. We all wished we had the balls to say what he said, and we cringed/laughed/felt embarrassed every time he long jumped over 9 and took the game-winning (and in many cases, losing) shot.

And it’s also why in the final season, he became human to us. Because we saw a man who stepped out of his Persona and left #10 alone and instead, started to say the things he should have been saying all along and to the people who mattered most.

This entire post was inspired by an email I received last night and couldn’t find the words to respond with until an hour or so ago. Filled with apologies and words I know to be sincere, it was from someone who always went to #10. And I’m here to tell you – #10s hurt. They make you doubt and lose faith in yourself; they make someone else’s issues your responsibility. They quickly turn what could have been love into remorse and take things that you wanted to remember as beautiful and tarnish them. Someone feels like they win. The Person on the receiving end loses. And neither of you are any better off than before #10 flew through the air.

Maybe Meatloaf’s math is better with the whole two out of three thing, yet I know my mind doesn’t work that way. My brain runs at 203MPH from the moment I get up until the moment I can convince myself to go to sleep (and god help me if I wake up in the middle of the night). And the 9 out of 10 rule serves me well.

I don’t argue, if nothing good’s going to come of it (and for all parties involved).

I certainly don’t fight anymore, unless it’s for something that I believe in. Life’s filled with small shit that we can waste our time bickering about or we can save that energy for the big shit (which is where we’ll need the extra energy anyways).

And when #10 flies every now and then, I still feel like shit. Because I remember how it felt when someone hit me with #10.

So, yeah.  I slap myself, having been on the receiving end of some #10s over the past few months. Maybe you know what it feels like. The next time you see The Redhead take it to #10, it’s the Persona talking – the one people say, “Oh, I wish I could say that!” about, when in actuality, you really don’t. Just like Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail – the one time you get the gumption to say what you really, really think (and not in a nice way)… it’s probably about the same time you wish you could eat those words like a bowl of fucking tortilla chips and RoTel queso dip at a Superbowl party.

Having the upper hand? Doesn’t win you anything most times.

Saying that shitty little thing that creeps in? That should leave you feeling shitty after the words are spent.

And sometimes, the most compassionate thing we can do – for others and ourselves – is to find a way to be more Ari in the series finale than Ari first-season.  And if you’ve never seen an episode of Entourage in your life, just go with the 9 out of 10 rule. Some days – the days where you feel less like the guy on the Wheaties box and more like the box – shoot for 3 out of 10. While I promised myself I’d never leave unsaid things I felt needed saying after losing Jason last year, we could all use a lesson on dialing back the snark and turning up the soul.

Or maybe I’m an idiot and that’s just me – if you’ve got this mortal coil all figured out, hats off to ya. I just feel pretty lucky every day where I can go to bed knowing that I did good work, spoke from my convictions and learned something in the process.

Carry on. Smartly.

I sat down to finish a blog post I’d started on yesterday morning and the further and further I got into it, the shittier it got. No, really – it was shit-TAY. So shitty, in fact, that I deleted the entire thing and proceeded to post THIS on my Facebook wall:

So, I guess you guys are cool with me being a whiny little bitch about not being able to write. I’m on deadline for two books and all I could do yesterday was lament about my can’ts and chug endless quantities of Vitamin Water Zero. And while I did actually get some editing done on Book Number One, the day was a colossal waste with regards to productivity.

And this Bitch Slap is on me.

Can’t. What the fuck is up with that? Since when have I been a can’t person? If I don’t, then it won’t get done. If I don’t do it, then who the hell is going to? Apparently I’ve led myself to believe that a mythical elephant is going to soar across the skies and crap Do It Fairies into my backyard…and in such case, the dogs wouldn’t eat them and they’d fly into my house/office and start DOING? Read that sentence again. There is so much wrong with that sentence, I don’t know where to begin. (The most glaring error being that my dogs would definitely eat the fairies and would eat them on the sofa so I would have to wash all of the cushion covers three times to get the fairy juice out.)

During what’s probably been the most incomprehensibly screwed-up ten months of my life, I’ve had days where I can’t. Where breathing was a chore and I didn’t have enough hands to pick up the pieces…the kitchen was too far away so I didn’t eat and the garage was even further, so leaving my house was out of the question. But today, I sit in the midst of one of the most incredible years of my professional life, wondering when the personal is going to catch up. So when the professional gets all screwy, I pull a can’t maneuver?

Bullshit.

I believe, if in no god or no single political party, in the beauty of human resilience. I bounce, goddammit. And when I short-change myself by pulling a “bank’s empty!” move and let the can’ts take hold, well…what the hell is all of this for then?

What can’t I do?

Of all the things I can come up with to put on a list, there is only one out of my control: changing the past. All of that shit’s done and gone and might as well be in boxes in the basement with all those stuffed koala bears and bowling trophies and a spider or two named Bob. But if I tell myself I can’t change things, then I might as well quit now.

There really is nothing out of my influence. I think control is an illusion. When we spend all of our time trying to control things, the most beautiful things in life pass us by – those that just happen. And it’s possible that if I step back and put on my big girl britches from Frederick’s, I might find that I have some kickass influencing to get started.

So if you, dear readers, find you can’t, the odds are you won’t. And if you don’t, no one else will. Stop it with the ongoing cycle of pity parties (and I do commit to joining you in abandoning these soirees as well).

So what are you waiting for? Tell the contractions to stick it. Can’t, don’t, won’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t, haven’t, aren’t, isn’t and any of the other fuckers that they keep company with…

Beat it. Because I could. So I did – I just wrote an entire blog post about it.

You’ve been slapped. (and so have I…)

Like many internet destinations, this site has images, thoughts and words that not everyone will like and I own that – lock, stock and barrel. What I hope I’ve built is a place where people who love what I do and pick up what I’m putting down can air their feelings and thoughts and do so without feeling like their comments will be deleted and I’m only looking for a herd of sycophants carrying redheaded Barbies parading in a line behind me like some fucked up centipede, undulating in and out of a digital mushroom maze in 80s video game fashion.

*Announcement: that is possibly the longest sentence I’ve ever typed. W00t.*

It’s called branding. It’s called free speech. I invite you to enjoy what I’ve prepared to share and I open the doors for your feedback. If you would rather be pelted by thousands of angry bees than read what I write, you can block my website, unsubscribe and vow to never partake in my musings again. I’ll call that the Off Button. It’s yours for the turning or pushing. You can also use the Off Button on the TV, your radio, your local or national newspapers, books and any business of your choice.

Today’s Bitch Slap was prompted by an article I stumbled across yesterday.

Headline: Parents Television Council Up-in-Arms Over NBC’s ‘The Playboy Club’

Their argument (according to the article): “Citing statistics that 200,000 Americans are “porn addicts,” and 56 percent of divorce cases can be blamed not on lack of love but on “one person” having “obsessive interest” in pornography, the PTC blames Playboy, and NBC for supporting it, for the demise of the American family.”

Their argument (according to their “file a complaint with the FCC” call to action about the series): ”

The Playboy Club is the latest and most obvious example of the way the entertainment industry is mainstreaming and even glamorizing pornography. While episodes of the program have not yet been screened, the mere fact that the show uses the word “Playboy” in the title, and that its stories take place in an exploitative, sexist setting demonstrate that the show’s creative staff – and the NBC network – are eager to push a pornography-based show into every home in America.

This isn’t a pay-per-view program available only to HBO or Showtime subscribers. The Playboy Club will be beamed into every living room in the nation, in prime time, over the publicly-owned airwaves. Do YOU want to explain to YOUR channel-surfing children what a “Playboy Club” is?

If you want to learn more about the Parents Television Council, yeah…just click. You might also find amusing that on their Current Campaigns page where they encourage parents to take action against programs that aired (gulp) in 2003. (I can’t make this up.) When they catch wind of this post in their Google Alerts, I’ll be written off as a foul-mouthed hussy that their children need protecting from as well. Esssokay. I’ve been called worse. You can also learn more about The Playboy Club from NBC.

So, here’s where I’ll begin with a few concepts I use in my own daily media consumption. Yours might differ, and hey – that’s the beauty of the American media, right? We consume by choice.

ARGUMENT #1: I might not agree with your point of view, but I defend your right to have it and express it…unless your simply being an asshat and jumping to conclusions based on your own erroneous assumptions. The episodes haven’t been screened, but you’re jumping to conclusions, calling the show pornography-based? I’m going to help you out here and offer to rephrase your argument so that sheepish and educated parents alike can follow your argument with some sense of intelligence: “We are reticent to believe that there can be value in our children viewing a program based on a brand empire built on the distribution of ‘pornography’. While Hugh Hefner and Playboy were at the forefront of the civil rights movement, ignoring racial segregation and offering multiracial bands a performance venue along with offering black standup comics their first venue to perform alongside caucasians during segregation, we choose to ignore those points (and many others in the vein of civil rights) in favor of playing the “pornography-based show” card. Nudity preempts all reasonable arguments and we can’t condone it under any circumstances, even though the network broadcast program is highly unlikely to broadcast any sort of nudity at any point in the programs (the ones we haven’t seen). Oh, and we won’t be viewing any of the programs once they air, either, out of fear of breaking up our American Family via porn.”

ARGUMENT #2: “…the mere fact that the show uses the word “Playboy” in the title, and that its stories take place in an exploitative, sexist setting demonstrate that the show’s creative staff – and the NBC network – are eager to push a pornography-based show into every home in America.” This is ignorant on so many levels that I’ll have to begin on the first and work my way further down the stairs until I arrive in Dipshit Alley. The use of a brand name like Playboy elicits different responses from different people. For me, it elicits thoughts of wondering what it was like to be a struggling writer like Ray Bradbury, sitting around with a story no one wanted to buy, only to have it published by Playboy Magazine. That little story? Fahrenheit 451. You might have read it (but you probably burned it). For others, especially during the time the magazine was up and coming in the 50s and 60s, it meant access to musical acts (like jazz) that could be seen and heard nowhere else if it weren’t for the magazine and events it recorded and promoted. And I can assure you – the creative folk at NBC aren’t looking to push a “pornography-based show” into every home in America. They took an icon from American history – the Playboy clubs and their requisite bunnies – and shaped a storyline around it. It’s not a 13-episode documentary.

ARGUMENT #3: “Do YOU want to explain to YOUR channel-surfing children what a “Playboy Club” is?” I would venture to guess that many parents wouldn’t want to be burdened with this task, while others would handle it begrudgingly. Others, I’ll bet, would take to the task with fervent honesty. Here’s an idea: be a fucking PARENT and stop asking the networks and public schools to do it for you. If there’s one thing I know, there was NOTHING on that TV in my house while growing up of which my parents did not approve. And guess what: they’re divorced. Why? Not because of pornography. They just didn’t get along. And that’s fine. Dear god, I WISH porn had broken up my parents. At least I would know they’re sexual beings and I wouldn’t have had to spend my adolescent years wondering if I was the product of immaculate conception.

Maybe if we lived in a culture that didn’t treat everything with an inkling of sexual undertone as taboo, we’d have fewer fucked up kids who felt the need to hide their diddly-doos from their parents. If you don’t want your kids to watch something on television, be a parent. Tell them no. Set up parental controls. Take the TV out of their bedroom. And while you’re at it, you should probably take away their computer access because they’re just going to stream it online. And when the computer’s gone, they’ll go stream it at a friend’s house. Or watch it on their friend’s DVR. The more we treat things as taboo, the more desirable and tempting they become. And what’s so bad about explaining what a Playboy club is? Here’s the simple answer: In the 50s and 60s, these were clubs where men and women alike went to listen to jazz and standup comedians. They were entertainment clubs and the waitresses wore costumes to make them look like bunnies. (And if you want to get a little deeper with your middle and high school aged kiddos) These clubs were the some of the first during the segregation era to allow black musicians to appear onstage beside white ones and also were the first place that let black standup comics perform for white audiences. Membership was a status symbol and it’s reported that only 21% of members actually ever visited the clubs.

There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

ARGUMENT #4: “…its stories take place in an exploitative, sexist setting…” Subjective at best. Do you want to know what I find exploitative and sexist? Corporate America. Recent reports from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics show that female executives earn 29% less than their male counterparts. I sit around and watch Mad Men and think – wow…a secretarial pool…such subservience…few women in positions of power. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. It means I can be proud of where our country has come in the past 60 years. The TV show you’re complaining about is set in the 1960s. That was an era where women were still new fixtures in the workplace and generally took service-oriented roles: secretary, waitress, receptionist, counter clerks, sales girls at department stores. I’m pretty sure that no one ever put on a little bunny outfit and felt it was their last resort. And here’s the thing: women continue to do it today, and by choice. Who are you to insult their choices? Your parameters above and current labor statistics indicate that we should also be protesting all legal and corporate-themed shows and any one in which both parents work (because the wife is almost certainly earning less than her husband). Be a parent. You’re entitled to your ideas of how your daughters and sons should grow up. Use them. Be honest with them. If you raise kids to be afraid of certain words and actions, you’re priming them for a life of fear. The more they know about the world, the more they’ll come to appreciate your honesty with them about it. It’s big when they walk past your front doors – prepare them. It’s a pretty rude awakening.

So you’re kindly invited to fuck off. Exercise the Off Button.

I’m not a parent, though I do hope to be one someday. I’m the person who looks around a restaurant and shuts down my mouth when kids are around. I’m also the person who walked up to three loudmouthed teens in the San Francisco airport not so long ago, introduced myself, and asked them to keep the f-bombs dialed back. WAY back. Especially since there was an entire junior high school basketball team sitting at the gate with us. While I might get paid (and well) to brandish certain terms, it doesn’t mean I use them all the time and in every situation. It means we should all be adults, use our heads and respect a few things:

• Parenting (not unlike friendship) is an active role, not one that you can delegate to other people.
• It’s up to us what we consume, from whom we consume such, and the frequency.
• You’re not going to like everything you see. (Believe me – failure to understand THIS concept destroys more marriages than porn.)
• And as the late George Carlin said – there are two knobs: one to change the channel, and one (d’oh) to turn it off.

It’s Branding 101: the consumers choose. If you don’t want your kids to eat Frosted Flakes, you simply don’t buy them. You don’t go on a whole letter writing campaign to tell Kellogg to stop production because they’re poisoning our youth with high fructose corn syrup and fantasies of talking tigers (which we all know lead to porn addictions). If you don’t like what’s on the TV for your kids, set up parental controls and play an active role in their viewing habits. Don’t subscribe to cable TV. Hell – get rid of the TV altogether (I lived without one for the past two years – it was lovely). When you’re angry by choice, it’s difficult to gain sympathy or even empathy. And that’s why I’m inviting you to fuck off. Stop the yelling and start the parenting. And if you’re not a parent, put your own boundaries into place. Start owning your roles and responsibilities. It’s not up to everyone else to stop doing what you don’t like. It’s up to you to figure out how to coexist with those things, beliefs and decisions.

We don’t live in the United States of You.

We consume by choice – and just because it’s on doesn’t mean you have to tune in. That goes for parents and non alike. You know what’s on your kids’ bookshelves. You see their cell phone bills. You get their report cards. You check their homework. At least, I hope you do those things, because I’d love to have such opportunities. It’s not everyone else’s responsibility to be parents to your children. It’s yours. And one day, I hope it’ll be mine, too. We are an economy that votes with our wallets. If viewership sucks, ads get pulled and those things you hate die on the vine. And if it goes on for another season, well, you’re just going to have to find something to do at 10pm EST/9pm CST…when your kids should probably be in bed anyways. I’m old – I’m usually in bed by 9:30pm, but that’s what DVRs are for.

You’ve been slapped.

PS: When that parenting day comes for me, I think I’ll dedicate a whole day to Hugh Hefner, bunnies in various forms, and American History. What kids learn in school is sanitized and they deserve to know the truth so that the bad shit has less of a chance to repeat.

PPS: And I’d love to hear from the parents – how do YOU manage the wilds of the interwebz, movies, literature and whatnot in today’s society? My parents had a cable TV lockbox but the good sense to let me wander the bookstores of the world in an unleashed fashion. Lay it on me.

PPPS: Damn, this was a long post. Thanks for hanging in there!

I’m 38. I likely won’t admit that I’m 39 until I inadvertently lie to someone when they ask my age and I eke out “38″ followed by a surprised stare, heart palpitations and the subsequent, “Fuck – I’m 39.”

Given certain events that have graced (?) my life in the past ten months or so (and some in the past few days), it’s a wonder to me that I still find ways to procrastinate given:

• Life is short (and in many cases, shorter than need be)
• We’re lucky enough to actually have shit to do (y’know, beyond simple survival)
• We find ways in all of that shit to ignore the things that are the most important in favor of little shit.

It’s a Bitch Slap of colossal proportions – and I’m the first taker.

Procrastination makes things worse.

If it sucks now, it’s not going to suck any less when we get our asses in gear and get it done. It will probably suck more because you’re now time-crunched and faced with having to delay things you actually want to be doing in favor of getting things done that should have been done long ago. Definitely a winning strategy.

Procrastination doesn’t fix anything.

Yup – that thing you didn’t want to do? It’s still there. Look at it. Beady eyes, drooling jawline worse than an overexerted golden retriever. It’d be prudent to cowboy the fuck up and just get some shit done, dontcha think? Procrastination ruins things: your quality of work, your quality of life, quality of relationships with other people (and those you love). It’s not worthy of classification as a tool and sure as hell doesn’t belong in your tool box. Getting things done is a killer adrenaline rush – procrastination, while a producer of the same adrenaline rush, feels incomparably shitty and leaves us worried, anxious and unable to make decisions that will actually benefit us. It’s the line at the post office on April 15, the parking lot nightmare at malls worldwide on December 24 and the reason we can’t find a fucking turkey over 3 pounds the night before 17 people are due at our home for Thanksgiving dinner.

Procrastination doesn’t foster growth.

Because we keep doing it. It keeps Grudge Drawers full of memorabilia from relationships past, crappy clients hanging on, bills unpaid, taxes lingering and the people we want in our lives most at bay. It’s a rabid Keebler elf, gnawing its way through the meaning of your life (and he doesn’t even leave any Toll House goodness in his wake, the fucker). We can’t move forward if we’re too busy holding a grudge about what’s happened, why it happened and what we need to do in order for it to keep happening again. The United States is a nation adept at procrastination – we foster it through our legislative and political process. We live in four-year cycles of blame instead of taking ownership of the fact that it took hundreds of years to fuck this country up and it’s going to take more than four to get it straight (when it was never straight in everyone’s eyes to begin with).

So whaddaya gonna do?

How about some shit that needs to get done? I have no idea what’s on your list, but kicking procrastination’s ass is both a physical and emotional task. The fact that it took me 2 days to write this blog post is a testament to the power and pull of procrastination. Shit that needs to be done is at odds with shit I want to do. And then there’s the shit I don’t want to do but somehow, it finds itself being done in advance of the needs AND wants, and that’s pretty much bullshit.

Are you afraid of getting the bullshit out of the way so you can actually start living?

Are we terrified of the prospect of getting “caught up” and making room for some downtime?

Do we shudder at the prospect of not chasing the rabid Keebler elf around the office because we’re so used to the routine?

Just think of the people in your life who would love to be able to kick you in the <insert anatomical expletive> because you’re squandering your chance to do something because they can’t do something – because they’re dead. There are people all over this world who spend every resource they have on surviving and we persist with these first world problems (like procrastination) like they’re the DaVinci Code. It’s time that we (me included) started:

• Getting things done
• Letting go of things that do us no good
• Serving those who pay us for our attention
• and making ourselves emotionally available to the one thing that can make this life a roller coaster worth riding: other people.

None of that involved procrastination. It involves sacking up and owning our own shit. And I acknowledge that this post has had more instances of shits, fucks and whatnots than in general days passed, but it’s hard to call bullshit anything but bullshit and maybe if we stopped calling bullshit “issues” or “challenges,” we’d find a way to deal with those things instead of letting them fester in a bubble-wrapped existence.

So yeah – procrastination can suck it and this is a Bitch Slap. It’s time to stop putting off the things that mean the most in favor of the things we know we need to do, are being paid to do and always knew had to be done. YouTube can wait. The kitchen can stay a mess for another half hour.

Go bang something out and give yourself a high five. Throw away that box of things that brings you nothing but misery every time you open it. Stay up another hour and work. Tomorrrow? A damn fine day awaits and you can start making it happen today. The elf? He can go fuck himself.