I can look at my home screen and right there, a beautiful icon smiles back at me: A gleaming pad of yellow ruled paper, ready for my must-remembers to be inscribed. It’s a gift, really. We’ve all fallen victim to the soul-shredding

I HAD A BRILLIANT IDEA AND I CAN’T REMEMBER IT TO SAVE MY LIFE

situations. Those are the moments where — while you’d never really do it — you could almost see yourself punching a little baby penguin. But I’m finding that those moments are less frequent now that my iPhone is back in my life. I can indulge in digital scribbles at any time of the day, as — who am I kidding? — it’s a rare moment when my iPhone isn’t within a few steps distance away.

So today’s post is the first installment of Digital Scribbles.

I ran a poll on my Facebook page, asking you folks what you’d like to see more of here on the blog. There was an overwhelming number of you who wanted more of my personal posts (nosey fuckers). And that’s what Digital Scribbles are. They aren’t necessarily thoughts that warrant 1700-word Bitch Slaps, but they are…me. While a fair majority of RedheadWriting IS a persona, here’s the person — for better and worse. They are unedited.

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.

image via Creative Commons

Having read more rah-rah posts at both the close and beginning of the year than my red head can handle, today’s missive will be devoid of a few things. Here’s what you won’t find in today’s post (with a h/t to Amber Naslund for her thoughts on “shipping”):

• Requests to get on board
• Directions leading to the outside of the box
• Instructions or demands to ship anything (especially “it”)
• Buzzwords used in context
• Links to a Huffington Post article
• Pictures of penguins
• Lies other than the one included in the above bulletpoint
• The use of the word “passion.”

What you might find, however, is that it’s filled with bullshit. Which is surprising, considering how much I loathe it.

I’m not good at bullshit. I suck at small talk. I’d rather sit in the passenger seat of a car and stare with wonder at the world around me than ask how my date feels about his mother. And while every conversation does not need to be of earth-shattering import, I believe that there’s entirely too much bullshit floating around in the ether.

The Taste and Smell

Yeah. You know it. Stringing people along. Avoiding difficult but definitive conversations. Things that should end, others that should begin. The time wasters. The jackwads. The shit you put up with, refuse to address, and then bitch about to your friends. Your money woes, your relationship turmoils, the dog crap you haven’t cleaned up in the backyard.

You can smell it from sixty-three paces. Sometimes we wake up with the taste of it in our mouths. We have sandwiches made of it for lunch.

You know what it smells and tastes like.

So you have a few choices.

Step Over It OR Step In It

I love shoes. Consequently, there is nothing more demoralizing than finding that I have inadvertently placed one in a position where it is adorned with a turd. And even though it’s recently come to light that I have a habit of leaving shoes neatly arranged next to the toilet, your shoes really don’t belong anywhere close to bullshit. Or the toilet. But at least mine are neatly arranged. I digress. We come to our choices:

Stepping in it: Is there a single one of you who can tell me that, faced with a steaming pile of bullshit that you’re going to deliberately make the move to submerse your shoes in it? Doubtful. Yet it’s something you do all the time. You piss and moan and then walk foot-first right into the motherfucker and then have the audacity to piss and moan about having stepped in it. THIS IS BULLSHIT. It is also bullshit on top of bullshit. Entirely too much bullshit.

Stepping over it: Ah, the logical choice, right? Yet one we seem to refuse to make more times than not. Stepping over the bullshit involves a few things. First, acknowledgement. This involves us being honest with ourselves, and frequently, with others. It’s not about hurting other people’s feelings or being an asshole. It’s about refusing to submerse one’s self in a pile that sits before us. But first, we have to acknowledge the pile instead of bitching about it and then acting all surprised when someone points it out to us (and most of the time, after it’s already all over our shoes). Secondly, it involves growing a pair. Stepping over the bullshit involves refusing to engage in situations that don’t serve us and waste our time. Your relationship, business, financial, and other woes? Bullshit. Stepping over it involves addressing the situation’s existence and then resolving it or refusing to engage, period.

Bullshit Controls Power

Bullshit is a quirky yet powerful little sonofabitch. It has the ability to rob you of power if you allow it, making you (or making yourself) feel helpless and fall victim to less-than-OMFGCrackalacka life experiences (thanks to @Merredith for the gift of the phrase “crackalacka”). On the other hand, bullshit has a sneaky little ability to empower you. There’s a metric ass ton of power derived from acknowledging, processing, and then dealing with the bullshit in your life. When you’re the one in control of your feet and stepping over and around the steaming piles the universe places in front of us during our time on this big blue bouncy ball, just think of what you can accomplish. And with that power comes a greater level of honesty.

Honesty with yourself. Your colleagues. Friends. Lovers. Partners. Hot baristas.

All those things we’re not supposed to say – we usually never do. And they’re the things that need to be said most. Why? Because they dispense with the bullshit. Not saying them? Well, that’s bullshit, too. The greatest gift I’ve given myself over the past 13 months is saying what I feel. Acknowledging and then stepping over the bullshit. And being even more honest with myself and using the presence of bullshit in my life for good instead of allowing it to capitalize on its inherently evil nature like that “friend” who always has a left-handed compliment that you seem to keep around for…no reason whatsoever.

So today, give it up for bullshit. A round of applause, if you will, to begin the New Year. We’ve shipped nothing, and that box? Fuck the box. I’ve never seen the box and really have no use for one that doesn’t contain a new pair of ski boots or faboo pair of pumps. And if you’ve gotten this far in the post, you’ve done something appreciable:

You’ve acknowledged the bullshit that fills this post. And you’re probably ready to do something about it.

<Wednesday evening, December 28>

Somewhere between 9AM and 12 noon today, I went from zero to see-you-next-Tuesday in about six seconds flat. I don’t know if this happens to anyone else, but I know one thing to be true above all others when I’m facing Crimson – the name I’ve taken to calling my less-than-famous, cut-a-bitch moments: The last thing I need to do is speak.

Not a single word.

And on top of it all, there seemed to a completely unauthorized Occupy Sinuses movement going on by a baby elephant in my head. Definitely a fucked-up way to be going about one’s day.

So I headed home, threw on my cold weather running gear and bolted out the front door. A few things happened.

First, I queued up a playlist fueled by the likes of Ratt, Metallica, and White Zombie. Seemed fitting.

Then, about 300 yards down the road, I busted my ass something fierce on the ice. Fuck it – got back up. Ow, ow, ow.

And then…it all just fell away. Seems that I ran just about 4 miles in about 35 minutes – pretty much a land speed record for me, ass-busting and all.

Given that the baby elephant was still taking up unauthorized residence in my sinuses, I headed to the grocery store to grab something with a ‘D’ in the product name. An eviction attempt. Putting the elephant on notice.

Sidebar: To all of the fuckups who have snorted or utilized over-the-counter medications designated as “decongestants” in an off-label, non-prescribed manner, I’d like to thank you. It’s rare that I’m given the opportunity to see what my life would have been like if I’d opted for a career on the pole snorting blow off a coworker’s ass and getting umpteen free rides in a black and white cab. It’s because of you that I’m made to feel like a criminal every time I need to evict a small baby elephant from my sinuses, as the pharmacies now keep these (fictional) elephant-killing medicinals under lock-and-key behind The Counter. I have to stand in line, show identification, sign a form with my name, date, and for some fucking reason – the time – in order to pay my $7.29 and get my damned decongestants. So, I have a request that you start huffing the fumes from smoldering Glenn Beck books and Justin Bieber CDs, as if it’s this hard for me to get decongestants, shitty literature and music should have the same controls placed upon them for the good of the American public.

But I digress.

I procured my D-drug redemption card because we can’t trust you with the box of choice and took my place in the six-deep line at the pharmacy. I was freezing, truth be told. Funny what happens to your body temperature when you go from an 8-mile-per-hour pace to dead still with a breeze kicking off the linoleum.

And then I saw him.

I thought that perhaps I’d cut him off, the old man who towered at least a foot above me who stood to my left. But another glance told me no, he was standing over to the side of the aisle with his cart. Waiting. For her. The lines that time had carved on his face scrunched up when she approached. A smile unhindered by the constraints of teeth – defined by gums alone.

She stood there.

Didntcha need makeup? Powder? Sumthin’? he said

Oh, yes! (she shuffled off, shuffles back)

She dropped something in the cart with a thuck

Thank you dear said this Weeble of a woman who stood next to the towering man with the toothless smile.

Yup. Yup. Need soap? he asks

No… she sings

Toothpaste? Shampoo? he queries

No… she sings

Vitamins? Lotion?

No, that’s all taken care of. That cabinet in the hall – open it up and it’s all right there. But thank you she gleams.

She gleamed. Just stood there and beamed up at him – her big, toothless, gummy-smiling man who must have been more than two feet her senior.

And he smiled – still – down at her Weebles-wobble-but-they-don’t-fall-down self.

For the second time in the day, it all fell away.

I almost expected him to scoop her up and put her in the kid part of the shopping cart. Instead, he put both hands on the handle of the cart and said grab on. She adjusted her purse and set her right hand on top of his left on the handle and they rolled off towards the checkout at the front of the store.

My turn at the counter finally came and with much fanfare and great ordeal, I procured my D-drugs with no fewer than three cards, two signatures, and just over seven dollars. Bag in hand, I floated to the parking lot and headed towards my car.

Sploosh

Snapped me out of my reverie. A boy of about ten or eleven was bounding through the parking lot into every pool of melted snow, and I’d caught some of the backsplash. He looked at me with a wide-eyed stare and I stood there.

Staring back at him.

My run was soggy, sloshing through sidewalks filled with melted snow and runoff. I was sweaty from my run. And now, I was pretty much drenched with freezing, filthy, grocery store parking lot water on the left side of my body. Fucking hell.

So I laughed. When I opened my eyes, he was smiling and I guess his mother was yelling at him (something about getting his ass *up here*) so he ran towards the front of the store and I walked to Beatrice Olivia the Mini Cooper. Opened the door, sat down, shut the door…and laughed some more. And somewhere between starting the car and pulling up in front of my house, I turned on the seat heaters (praying I wouldn’t be electrocuted).

Maybe it doesn’t mean much to you that I had a shit day today, but maybe the next time you have a shit day, you’ll remember mine. You’ll thank the fuckups who made buying decongestants a criminal act so you have to stand in line and see people like Towering Gummy Smile Guy and Weeble-Gal. We miss them when we’re too bloody busy in our own shit to stop, look, listen. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have some fearless kid drench you with a heaping splash of parking lot puddle just top top it all off. Remind you that you’re human. And that while you might have been ready to cut a bitch a few hours prior and busted your ass on ice not even an hour ago…

That there’s really nothing than can’t be fixed by seeing someone else — even complete strangers — smile.

If you imaging that said in a Kermit the Frog or otherwise Muppets-style voice, it’s much more impressive.

Exactly 365 days ago, I wrote about blue balls and lighting fires. The next day, I gave you a holiday-flavored Bitch Slap about truth as I prepared to set out on a mobile phase of my life. And on December 22, 2011, I find myself at a bit of a loss for words, which pretty much sucks since I’m supposed to deliver something pithy to your inbox today before I close for the holidays at 2pm today. Shit, shit, shit.

The only thing that comes to mind is the phrase “without hope or agenda.” It’s from the movie Love, Actually — a film that finds its way into my DVD player on occasion. Aside from the part where a member of the Prime Minister’s household drops the f-bomb, there’s something about this scene that just makes me think…

what will you endeavor to do today without hope or agenda?

We all have some sort of agenda and are whores for something. Self-interest begins at the genetic level, as we’re built to survive. But with the holidays looming, isn’t now a fine time to realize that the best things in life the ones we undertake without hope or agenda?

Over the past year, I’ve had some of the most enjoyable days, blissful dates, and otherwise memorable moments because I said fuck it and let go. Without hope or agenda, I jumped in (with equal parts smiling and skepticism). And you know what? Coming out on the other side was a goddamned riot. There hasn’t been once where I walked away from a sans hope/agenda moment and gone Well, that was about as memorable as Paris Hilton in a spelling bee.

So, all I’ve got today is a question for you: what will you endeavor to undertake without hope or agenda?

And that’s all I’ve got today. So happy fuckin’ holidays – without hope or agenda. Thanks for reading and even more importantly, thanks for commenting and all of the emails I get in response to my blogs every week. They really are the best part of what I’m lucky enough to do for a living.

So this week, I’m going to throw out some fucking awesome ideas for how you can do that this holiday season on your own terms and to benefit folks in your local community.

But Let’s Start With This Guy in Boulder, Colorado

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, I took my dogs hiking in the hills and when we were done, I hit up the local Whole Foods for a snack and grocery run. On the way out of the parking lot, there was a young man standing at the traffic intersection with a sign to the effect of “Anything Helps.” I rolled down the window, knowing I had a bag of food in the passenger seat next to me and asked him if he’d like a sandwich.

He asked, “Is it vegetarian?”

I blinked. No, I replied. It’s not.

He said, “Oh, yeah, well, thanks anyways.”

I rolled up the window and scooted on my way. The first thought that came to mind is that apparently, beggars can be choosers. It’s the new paradigm of Need. As a friend mentioned when I shared the story – this guy in Boulder wasn’t truly hungry. And hunger is something I really understand.

When You’re Hungry and Want Something

It rules you. You’re willing to do most anything to get it. Just think about the toys of your childhood and how you’d save your allowance for the day you could walk into a store and blow it all in a single ka-ching of the register. Think of your business and all of the soul-sucking, ass-busting, sleepless nights and exhausted days that you trudge through with your eyes on a goal you wouldn’t give up for a pet meerkat that crapped gold bullion and did laundry.

And none of us ever sated our hunger without a little help from others. We go through the year feeding one another’s minds – so let’s take a minute and figure out how we can feed another type of hunger this holiday.

The one that makes us keep our windows rolled up. Makes us feel guilty for having a bag of groceries sitting on the seat next to us. Makes us lower that hamburger we’re eating below window-level when That Person walks by our car at the intersection holding a makeshift cardboard sign. The kind that makes us stare at shopping carts filled to the gills with every odd and end – and topped with a sleeping bag – with a scrunchy look on our faces.

Roll the Fuckin’ Windows Down

Really. What are they going to do – bite? Yes. Those people who have less, who bring themselves to stand before us and ask. The ones who stand in line outside shelters each night hoping for a bed as we tweet and Facebook about our Christmas tree lights. And the worst? Those people who have the fuckin’ nerve to stand there and ruin our time to jam out to some unintelligible, moronic Nikki Minnaj-do-you-know-who-the-eff-I-is crap pop tune while waiting for the light to turn green at the intersection.

The fuckers, right?

How about this holiday season, you roll the fuckin’ window down? Here are some ways to do it:

• Buy an extra sandwich the next time you’re at the deli. Grab an extra bag of chips.
• Go to your closet and pull out every winter coat you haven’t worn since…oh, forever.
• Go to your linen closet and grab those blankets you’re saving for “company,” yet truth be told, you’d go out and buy a new blanket before putting those on a bed for your guests.
• Pick up some cans of soup with pull-tab tops at the grocery store (I enjoy Progresso and find it’s a very reasonable $1.49 a can at Target these days)
• Those “Magic Gloves” – you know, the teeny tiny ones sold in two- or three-packs you see at the checkout line in every department store? Grab a handful.

Throw all of this shit into the backseat or passenger seat of your car and do nothing except keep on keepin’ on.

And the next time you come to an intersection, turn down the radio and roll the fuckin’ window down. You’ve got everything you need sitting in the seat next to you.

GAH! TOO HUMAN!

I know. You could drop all of that stuff off at a food bank or a local shelter, right? Avoid getting the “human” on you that happens when you roll the window down. But why?

They always say thank you. Which is more than I can say for many of the people I come across who don’t push chopping carts or sit at intersections holding cardboard signs.

We need more Human. Git sum.

So…Get Hungry

No matter what you have or how you hurt, there is someone with less and who hurts more. It doesn’t make our situations any less meaningful but we are all hungry in some way – who are we to judge and say one hunger is better than another? And yes, if there’s someone who has a Dexter Morgan-like “hunger,” I’ll just say that’s bad. But since most of us aren’t hanging out with serial killers, maybe we can shift how we look at hunger this holiday season and use our own – for whatever it might be – to do the one thing that every one of us should do more often:

Roll. The Fuckin’. Window. Down.

There’s a human outside. Waiting to tell you thank you.

And THAT, my friends, is a thought worthy of a mention on Fuck Yeah! Friday.

PS: If there’s something going on in YOUR community that you’d like to share with the RedheadWriting community that’s along the lines of this week’s FYF, share it in the comments. Can’t wait to hear. And if you have more ideas for things people can load-up on to have on hand when they roll the windows down, let’s hear those ideas, too.

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.

At this time last year, I had little to be thankful for save my family and friends. While they are the ones that always matter above and beyond all, Jason had just died less than a month prior and I was walking around in some zombie-ish haze. Trust me – being devoured by something in the “undead” category would have been welcome.

Yet this year, I’m sitting on my sofa, blinds open and sunlight pouring in, having been greeted this morning by a rainbow sherbet-flavored sky and Puppy Kisses. Not as good as People Kisses, but I’m working on that part of my life. I’m plotting a vacation, which would be fucking grand since I haven’t abandoned the country since 2008, and looking forward to a day tomorrow filled with friends, food, and the laughter that accompanies all.

Which is Where I Should Probably Tell You…

About the whole pregnancy thing. Well, I announced yesterday (first) that I was carrying Justin Bieber’s love child. I then revised that (in a second iteration) to announce that the baby was not, in fact, Justin’s, but rather Clive Owen’s. This was met with much more widespread approval (not that I have to clear with any of you whom I fuck). And this has nothing to do with me fucking anyone. It’s pretty much just linkbait to get you to (1) open this email/click through from Facebook and Twitter, so that (2) we can talk about what’s important. I’m a bitch like that. Sneaaaaaaaaaaaaky in a non-unfavorable female Republican Presidential candiate kind of way. So let’s talk about This Life and the three ways we can go about things: running cold, lukewarm, and fucking ON FIRE.

Running Cold Isn’t Even Worth the H-tag

Fuck running cold. Fuck it like anyone who would fuck Justin Biber in the first place. Running cold is nowhere to be and you know it. You’ve been there. And if you’re there right now, WHY? Those days where your life runs you, your friends are distant memories, and everything that comes out of your mouth is prefaced by, “I hate” or “I hope.” Quit hating and hoping. Neither of them get anything done. EVER.

Lukewarm

It’s the Meh of life. Do you really and truly want to look at either yourself or anyone in your life and think, “Meh”? Holy purple turtle shit, Batman – lukewarm is, in my opinion, even worse than running cold. (And credit where credit is due, “lukewarm” came from a conversation I had on a date this week – not about the date itself, which was quite lovely. And yes, I go out on dates. Sometimes. And sometimes I don’t even write blogs about them.) But I digress.

Being in a lukewarm place robs of you of power. There’s nothing to grab onto and infuse with your passion…for anything. It’s a place where we wait for the Next Thing to come along and no one involved in the situation is invested in anything. And lukewarm? Well, it gets cold. And fast. So quit putting yourself into a place where you start things in a half-assed fashion. Where you stay in things that rob you of your Ossum (which is like a possum but more awesome). You’re the only one who can sign-up for living in a lukewarm place. And life is entirely too short for you to do anything without being ON FIRE.

BURN MOTHERFUCKER, BURN

I’m not the only one who thinks being ON FIRE is a great place to be. FAKE GRIMLOCK and Brad Feld are fans of living in the hot place. Every entrepreneur I know understands and hunts down the opportunity to singe their eyebrows in the flames of ON FIRE. So why, for all that is holy, aren’t you living ON FIRE?

If this guy can sing



If this kid can play basketball



What is your excuse for not living ON FIRE?

We’re walking into a holiday weekend that can be more about a big ass bird than the people you’re sharing it with. So here are some ways, if you’re not already doing it, to start living ON FIRE this weekend:

• HOLY FUCKING SHIT – UNPLUG. The iPad, the iPhone, the iPhoto – how about iWON’TTURNTHISON? Plug into the people who will make your day. People make memories. Gadgets can’t.
• Get Rid of the Meh. Hate to cook? Order your Thanksgiving dinner. Hate/are indifferent about your boyfriend or girlfriend? Ditch ‘em. Surround yourself with people who are ON FIRE. Flames are contagious (and it’s cold outside – get warm and stay warm.) Skip the Lukewarm.
• GIVE. When you’re at the store today, grab a bag of fruit and some pre-made deli sandwiches. Drive down a street where all of those people who have it far worse than you are standing with their “tacky” cardboard signs. Give them a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a $5 bill. Wish them well. Go to a local shelter and drop off a bag of canned goods. Buy a bunch of $5 McDonald’s gift cards and hand them out. And give even if it hurts. Because THAT’S how it feels to live ON FIRE.
• Cry. Once. Crying isn’t bad and contrary to urban legend, it won’t shrivel a man’s balls. Whatever prompts it, let the tears roll. Tears of joy are one of life’s greatest gifts and feel better than the best orgasm (yeah, I said it), unwrapping the most expensive new toy, or ones cried when Loss decides to move in and set up a pup tent in the living room of your life. The best part? No one has to see it. Pop in a movie. Think about potential instead of the Will Never Haves and the Had It/Lost Its. I especially like the crying when it comes with a hug and a smile and shared with someone who won’t make you feel like an ass for crying. (Pro Tip: If you end up crying with or on someone who makes you feel like an ass for doing so, resist the urge to snot on their shirt. Instead, give ‘em a titty twister. THAT, my friends, is definitely an ON FIRE move.)
• Forgive Yourself. How much bullshit do you carry around with you every day? How much of other people’s bullshit and business-related bullshit do you carry? Take a minute this holiday to forgive yourself. And I know it’s not easy. But we carry a ton of stuff along with us out of burden and obligation. Stop feeling guilty about putting it down for a minute and PUT THE BAG OF BULLSHIT DOWN. See how it feels. If you really miss it so much that your life won’t be complete without picking it up again, trust me – it’ll be there waiting. We walk around life waiting for other people to offer us validation that what we’re doing is okay when the one we really need to be receiving permission and validation from is the big ol’ ME. You can’t be ON FIRE until you burn all of that bullshit you’re carrying to the ground.

And A Closing Note on People and Things

We make room in our lives for what’s (and who’s) important.

Humans: When someone won’t make time for you or is just “too busy,” that means you’re not important enough to them to be made a priority. Plain and simple. And the same goes for your decision-making process. There is no secret message. There is no hidden agenda. In fact, the agendas are quite clear. If you are too busy for someone, they are not a priority.

If you truly want to catch up with a friend, go on a date, meet with a colleague, or just go throw a football with your kids, MAKE THE TIME. When you want something badly enough, it’s amazing how many hours you find in the day.

Things: Things deserve to be our lowest priority, as they are incapable of love. Incapable of giving. When things are attached to people (like a child’s dance recital or your wife’s birthday gift), those are still HUMAN decisions. When life and business become more demanding (as happens on occasion and usually right when you’re trying to live life), that’s when we need to find the human side of those demands and make sure we’re not leaving behind the people who would still be there for us if it all burned to the ground, in a very non-ON FIRE way, tomorrow.

So yeah, there IS something growing in mah belleh, and it ain’t anyone’s love child. But it is a renewed commitment to living my life ON FIRE. How will you live today?

Well, as people who have been with me on the wild ride that’s been the last couple of years – makeups, breakups, deaths, and other roads I never thought I’d take – it’s only right to let you know about why I really took the trip to Atlanta last week.

I’m a traveler and have never lived in one place for any great length of time since I left Houston back in 1996. I spent 16 years there, which was more a factor of not having a fucking car and having to do that whole “education” thing than actually wanting to be there. (Damn adolescence and the associated driving laws, right?) This year marks my third year in Denver, Colorado which is pretty weird in and of itself, as I’m well on my way to passing up Las Vegas on the list of Places I’ve Lived the Longest (3.5 years). The moral being, when I have the chance to get the hell out of dodge, I do. And last week had a bit of an ulterior motive. I hopped a plane to go see Ted.

I’ve spent the last year or so getting to know Ted and the process has been one that’s encompassed everything from unbridled hilarity to heartbreaking moments that have left me weeping. But none of it has been bad. Rather, it’s been a journey that left me with a better sense of who I am, what I want and more importantly, what kind of crumbs I’m willing to clean-up on the other side of the bed. Since losing Jason around this time last year, it’s been an ever-present question: what do I want in the person who will help me rise above myself? Who will challenge me and refuse to let me sink into that hole of complacency? Who will call me on my bullshit and make me own everything about myself instead of letting me make excuses?

The answer is, it’s Ted.

Ted – My New (Giggle) Boyfriend

Ted won’t mind if I tell you that we’ve never been intimate for more than 18 minutes. Ted also won’t mind if I tell you that he’s a fucking genius in every sense of the term and looks great naked. You can strip him down to the bare minimum or dress him up and he simply looks incredible.

And most importantly, he’s compassionate, caring, and doesn’t get embarrassed by the fact that I want to tell everyone I know about him (which is a fair departure from those in my life who felt that I was useful for “fun” and not meant for “sharing” or other modes of public consumption).

I went to Atlanta to spend the weekend with Ted.

I Can’t Believe You Haven’t Already Met Ted!

Yeah, I’m pulling your leg. I don’t have a new boyfriend, but I have built an incredibly meaningful relationship with TED. It boggles my mind when people tell me they haven’t heard of TED, which is why I’m writing this post today to get you introduced to one of the most meaningful relationships in my life.

What is TED? Launched in 1984, TED is a nonprofit organization dedicated to ideas worth spreading. No, it’s not a relationship that will give you the clap or anything that requires an ointment or single-dose antibiotic to fix. The organization brings together people at its various conferences on local, national, and global levels and challenges people the world over to deliver the talk of their lives – and do it in 18 minutes or less.

WTF – only 18 minutes? Yeah, but I’ll tell you…unlike anything in the back seat of any car, this is 18 minutes you’ll remember. And if you’re really riled-up and ready for seconds (or even thirds – you saucy minx, you…) TED will be waiting. All you have to do is press play.

What can I expect to find at TED? Well, everything. TED talks are available translated into 82 different languages and span topics ranging from science, culture, design, sustainability and everything you can think of in between. You can expect to be moved. To laugh. To commiserate and cry. And you can expect to leave each TED talk with a perspective you never thought you would have on the world that surrounds you.

Explore a pianist who will take you on a journey through the creative process. HERE.

Gain new insight on how schools just might be killing (instead of fostering) creativity. HERE.

Understand why leaders become great – even when surrounded by those of exceeding talent and greater resources. HERE.

What I Was Really Doing in Atlanta

I was invited out by the organizers of TEDx Peachtree, an independently organized TED event, to cover the event and participate from a media standpoint. This meant that I got to meet many of the speakers and more importantly, spend an entire day in the midst of brilliance. TED was my guide for the entire trip and I left Atlanta with so much more than I had.

Here’s a sampling of what my 8.5 hours spent with TED yielded:

• A primate researcher demonstrating how beings truly do want to collaborate and share – animals are amazing and the talk inspired me to seek more ways to collaborate and leave “selfish” behind.
• A life long autism researcher who took the audience on a journey through autism in terms that everyone can understand, dispelling the myth that it’s a psychological disorder. I met him after his talk and thanked him with tears in my eyes, as my nephew is autistic and I felt that he was the first person who had ever explained my nephew’s struggle in an accessible way. It also reinforced what an incredible person I see my sister to be, having guided my nephew on his journey so far.
• An immigrant who gave a startling speech on her perspective of the American Dream, smashing myths of entitlement and replacing them with perspectives on gratitude that are clearly missing from much of today’s American culture.
• A PhD who shared insights on how our minds truly can control things outside of our bodies. If you know of Randy Pausch, she’s one of the many who was fortunate enough to be one of his students. I spoke with her after the event and can I just say day-yum? What a smart cookie – and on top of that, she’s vibrant, human, and passionate about what she does. And it shows.
• An education researcher out of Northern California who discussed how education needs to change and that more technology in our classrooms isn’t the answer. As a girl who was always bored in school because I was a nontraditional learner, this really hit home and I look forward to seeing what inroads they can make in changing the way our classrooms welcome children of all learning types. As today, we mostly only accommodate one type, which leaves entirely too many lost in the din of “traditional” education.
• A former FEMA leader who demonstrated how hyperlocal focus will be the most powerful tool for future disaster-stricken communities to recover. FEMA’s resources are limited – the onus is on us to help our communities instead of asking how the government can help.

So, yeah – these were all ideas worth spreading and I wish I had the bandwidth to share everything I heard last Friday. But every talk at TEDx Peachtree reminded me why I’d made the trip to go hand out with TED, even if we only got to spend 18 minutes a pop with one another until the next talk came along.

So Now, You’ve Met TED…

Maybe you’re a little pissed that I linkbaited you into today’s post by saying I had a new boyfriend. If you are, you really should know better, as I’ll write anything in that damn subject line to get you into my world (and you know this). But what I’ve hopefully done is introduce some new people to TED, a very meaningful relationship in my life, and give you a new source for inspiration.

I’ve committed to myself to watch no fewer than two new TED talks each week. This week so far, it’s been a neuroscientist’s journey through her own stroke (made me cry) which I mentioned above and a Portuguese woman’s talk on how legal documents should be written in “plain English.” Next week? I can’t wait to see what I discover from TED.

Sure, TED isn’t just mine, but he has helped me in incredible ways through my journey over the past year. TED helps me better understand what kind of crumbs I’m willing to clean up on the other side of the bed someday and what I want in that magical person who will share my life’s journey with me. So, yeah – TED’s my boyfriend. For now. Inspiration, compassion, laughter, and challenge – TED gives me everything. And I can’t thank the TEDx Peachtree team enough for making me a part of their event and for every one of the speakers and participants – including the Atlanta Music Project and CORE Performance Company – for giving their time and sharing ideas that were definitely worth spreading.

PS: If you’re bummed about not having made it to a TED event yet, why not bring one to your community? Check out TEDx – your chance to bring ideas worth spreading to your community.

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…