About mid-way through the ceremony there was a mysterious “Special Diploma Presentation” listed on the program. So the superintendent of schools hops up on the stage and announces to the room that she is presenting a diploma to a man (whose name escapes me; I’ll do some research and get back to you) who attended the high school many years ago but dropped out early to fight in ‘Nam. The catch: the man died nineteen years ago. So his grandson took the stage, talked about his Pop-pop a little bit and then accepted his grandfather’s post-mortem high school diploma.

This story fills me equally with happiness and sadness. It makes me so happy that the family and the community respect this man enough to honor his memory and recognize his achievement of (more or less) completing high school and therefore thirteen years of education. It’s just that… why did they wait until he was worm chow to do it?? I might have actually shed real saline if an old man in an army uniform had hobbled to the stage on a walker and accepted a diploma, his eyes shining tears, but the fact that they waited so long makes my heart hurt a bit. I wish he had been there to see it.

Anyhizzle, just an interesting little tidbit for you there.

Granted, my article could use a re-write, but it exemplifies some of the more insane directions plastic surgery mania has taken over the last handful of years. It used to be bored rich ladies getting their faces lifted; now it’s middle-class eighteen year olds getting their bellybuttons “fixed.”

I generally keep the plastic surgery issue gently simmering on a waaaayyy back burner in my mind, but I’ve just read something that has brought it right to the forefront and turned up the heat. I was article-surfing on msnbc.com and found this article. It’s really great because it showcases some of the more ridiculous fast-growing surgery trends, like freaking TOE-LENGTHENING SURGERY, warns of the common complications, like YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO WALK, and suggests simple alternatives, like PAINT YOUR DAMN TOENAILS INSTEAD.

Okay, yes, so what’s the big deal. So a couple of ditzy rich chicks had their toes lengthened. A lot of people can say, “Hey, if they want to blow their money on something so stupid, that’s their choice,” but I just can’t even begin to blow it off like that. I am bothered by toe lengthening surgery (and its companions like labia sculpting and shoulder lipo) on so many levels:

Level 1) To even think that enough people are staring at – or even noticing – your toes in quiet horror and disgust shows an enormous amount of conceit (genuinely freakish toes notwithstanding). Listen to me honey: your dream date is not grimacing at those toes thinking, “God, if those little buggers were just a quarter of an inch longer, I would shag you to within an inch of your life!”
Level 2) Even if you’ve got the conceit to think the world revolves around your toes, you have to be one deeply scarred individual to feel the unshakable need to change them. If you’re so worried about one of the most insignificant details on your body, I don’t even want to know about the battle you’re waging on your nose or your midsection. As one doctor says in the MSNBC article, you don’t need a surgeon; you need a psychiatrist.
Level 3) Surgery is not a magic button that’s going to change your life and leave you strolling out of the in-patient’s ward in Jimmy Choo’s to double takes and cat-calls. Surgery is SURGERY. It’s men in scrubs taking a very very sharp knife and slicing you the way you slice pizza. You’re going to leave crippled and in pain. You’re going to be out thousands of dollars. No one is even going to notice the difference. Though everyone will notice your super-sexy crutches, ask you what happened to your feet, and think you’re a shallow idiot when you tell them what you paid someone to do to you.

So! Now that I’ve alienated my entire audience, I would like to point out that I can TOTALLY related to body image problems, and fat-pinching, and disappointment with self, and the whole shebang. I’ve wanted to vacuum the fat out of my butt and take a pill that would make me grow some discernible cheek bones over night, but to actually go so far as to pay a lump sum to get some plastic shoved up inside my boobs, plastic that’s going to go rock hard in five years and need to be replaced? That, to me, sounds like a case of more money than brains.

I just hate it all. I hate attention-seekeing, I hate excessive and unnecessary expenditure (Louis Vuitton luggage sets chap my ass too), I hate conceit, and I hate stupid. Elective cosmetic surgery – surgery to fix something that was never broke in the first place – is the most glaring and overwhelmingly popular form of all four rolled into one.

Excuse me while I go set fire to a Barbie doll.

I would wear a sandwich board that says, “I’m not dumb, I’m just drawn that way,” but it doesn’t fit the dress requirements at my job.

So my question is this: If you appear, to the general population, to be a certain way… does that mean that you really are that way? That is, if what’s inside your head remains quite safely in your head and doesn’t make an appearance, then does it really count for anything?

Are you what you are perceived to be?!

I’ve got a sinking feeling the answer is yes.

For those who don’t know what SLS or ALS are, they’re very cheap and very effective surfactants (in other words, they make bubbles happen). They’re also very dangerous poisons.

So you’ve got your SLS, which is Sodium Lauryl Sulfate, and you’ve got your SLES, or Sodium Laureth Sulfate. SLS is an irritant that can seriously mess up your eyes and skin. The American College of Toxicology published a report which states that concentrations of SLS as low as 0.5% cause irritation, and concentrations of 10-30% cause severe irritation and skin corrosion (remember, this is the second ingredient of my body wash!).

Ok, that sounds a bit like scare mongering. The thing to keep in mind is that this report isn’t advising against the drinking of body wash; it’s not like saying “Smoking ten packs a day is bad!” Many soaps really do have an SLS concentration of 30%, which the report calls “Highly irritating and dangerous.” (Key word: dangerous.) Not only that; you can keep your eyes and mouth squeezed shut while you’re sudsing up in the shower and it will still get into your body. SLS is absorbed through your skin, which kind of makes me wish I hadn’t scrubbed quite as vigorously in attempt to exfoliate all those times. Once it’s in your body, SLS mimics estrogen which causes problems ranging from PMS to male fertility loss to breast cancer, where increased estrogen levels are involved. Additionally, SLES (which frequently contains dioxane, a known carcinogen) can’t be broken down by your liver, so it sticks around in your body longer. Think about that next time you’re lathering up with your Caress Exotic Infusions “Moroccan” Ultra Rich Cream Oil Body Wash! (Yeah, I might have that in my shower too.)

What I find disturbing is that the report was published in 1983. 1983!! That was over two decades ago and huge companies like Unilever, which is probably close to monopolizing your bathroom, are still pouring generous amounts of this dangerous toxin into their products; products that go into your hair, over your skin, leak into your eyes and mouth… you see the problem?

One more thing: SLS can be found in sections of your local Wal Mart other than bath and body. It’s also used in car washes and engine degreasers.

So that’s my little PSA. It’s not the whole entire story… there’s much more scary stuff to know about SLS and ALS, but you can look that up on your own. I’m just kind of pissed that I’m going to have to dump all my soaps down the sink and go buy all new ones! In case you’re taking me seriously here are some reasonably priced SLS-free shampoos and soaps to stock up on. You don’t have to thank me.

Here’s an experiment: stick a bottle of Snapple’s new “Antioxidant Water!!” or Sobe’s “Life Water!!” or Glaceau’s “VitaminWater!!” in a room with a pre-schooler, some Poland Spring, and a Minute Maid. Explain to the child which drink is juice and which one is water and have her put the Snapple/Sobe/Glaceau with the matching drink. The kid is not going to hesitate to place the faux-H2O with the bottle of juice, and she would be correct! However, adults… the same adults who are put in control of cars and airplanes and young peoples’ minds on a daily basis… go “OOO look! Pretty colors wrapped in a trendy label that says water! Can I buy it in bulk?”

If you cock your head toward Westchester, NY and listen carefully you can almost hear Snapple’s CEOs laughing their asses off.

Dictionary.com defines water as “A transparent, odorless, tasteless liquid.” If you pick up a bottle of Aquafina and read the nutrition information on the back, you’ll see a lot of zeros and one ingredient: water. The back of a bottle of Sobe’s Antioxidant Water reads:
Serving Size: 1 cup (240ml)
Servings per Container: About 2.5
Calories per serving: 50
Total calories per container: 125
Total Fat: 0g % Daily Value (Fat): 0%
Sodium: 0 mg
% Daily Value (Sodium): 0%
Total Carb: 12 g
% Daily Value (Total Carb): 4%
Sugars: 12 g
Protein: 0 g
% Daily Value (Protein): 0%
Niacin (B3): 20%
Vitamin B6: 20%
Vitamin B12: 20%
Pantothenic Acid (B5): 20%
Vitamin A: 10%
Calcium: 2%
Vitamin E: 10%
Magnesium: 2%
Zinc: 2%

Water does not have calories!! And it certainly doesn’t have twenty percent of your recommended daily intake of Pantothenic Acid. Snapple saw how well “VitaminWater” et al were selling and wanted a piece of the action, so they watered down some juice, hired a well-paid label designer, and stuck their new money-maker on the shelves.

Consider this: where I work, a bottle of Snapple brand iced tea costs $1.59. A bottle of their “water”? $1.79. A bottle of regular old, tasteless, odorless, colorless, REAL water costs ninety-five cents. Tap water is free.

So I say again, with a hint of derision: suckers.

Wait. Did I just say that? I’m still technically a teenager! I’m still young enough to remember (in a grasping, clinging to the memory kind of way) what it was like to be told I thought I knew everything. To be honest, I didn’t think I knew any more than I do now. Of course, I suppose I didn’t think I knew anything less. But thats the thing, isn’t it. You never feel like you’re young enough to be looked down on until you’re old enough to look down. Even then, *you’re* not to be looked down on anymore because you’ve got the wisdom and maturity that comes with your age! Until five or six years down the line when all those pretty little pre-pubescent middle schoolers are now college sophomores and they still just don’t seem like they “get it” yet.

And then before you know it you’re dead. I think I’ll go use my time wisely now…

Today a man I had never met came in to order a sandwich. As I was taking his money I noticed his shirt advertised a tattoo parlor or something similar in South Dallas. Having lived in the Dallas area for almost a year, I was intrigued. I debated whether I wanted to ask him if he was from Dallas, and decided, what the heck, I’ll bite. I asked the man, “Are you from Dallas?”, nodding at his shirt. He told me he was actually from Ohio, and we had a discussion which mainly revolved around me explaining why I had lived in Texas, whether I preferred it to my home state, and the concrete of big city vs the greenery of small town. As he smiled at me and turned to walk away, wishing me a good day, I noticed his shirt actually said “South Dakota.”

I am an idiot.

So please just bear with me as I continue to regale you sporadically with tales from my life. Like this one:

As you may or may not know, my income is generated by the dedicated bagel-following of a local community. Kinda random, kinda mundane, but very tasty. Until now I’ve never been particularly loyal to one kind.

Garlic bagel + pizza sauce + a dash of Parmesan cheese = ohmigod heaven. I’m thoroughly addicted.

Now we don’t serve pizza sauce or parm at the cafe I work at, so at the end of the day if there are any garlic bagels left, I bring one home for my after-work snack, and oh do I look forward to that.
This is what happened today:

12:30 pm: There’s one lonely garlic bagel left in the basket. I say to co-worker #1, “Oh, I hope no one buys that bagel before the end of the day so I can have it for a snack!”
2:00 pm (Closing time): I’m rejoicing on the inside because there it sits, untouched, mixed in among the salt bagels. The doors have been locked (though one is still propped open with a chair so we don’t roast while we’re cleaning up), so there’s no hurry to claim it and put it in a bag away from the others just yet.
2:01 pm: A lady comes to the propped open door and asks if we’re still open. We’re not. Co-worker #2 generously lets her come in anyway. She mentions her love for garlic bagels. I begin to fear for my snack.
2:02 pm: I run into co-worker #1 in the kitchen and relate my fears to her. We go investigate the lady’s order; she’s standing at the register ready to pay and my bagel is still untouched!
2:02:30 pm: Co-worker #1 exclaims loudly about the situation, prompting the lady to inquire as to why co-worker #1 is exclaiming. Co-worker. #1 says, “Oh, it’s just that we had a bet about the one garlic bagel that’s left……..” Lady cuts in with, “Oh there’s a garlic bagel left? Can I have that one instead of the onion?”

Foiled. The late-coming thief gives me the biggest smile as she buys MY BAGEL and then leaves. With my bagel.

2:03 pm: I am reduced to shambles and have a left-over cookie instead.

Cloudy days make me want to fly away and go somewhere. I’m impartial as to where, I just want to go. On the cloudiest, raniest, horrible weather-est days, once you’re up above the clouds you can see that the sun is still shining.

I do so love traveling. Yes, I know, everyone says that. But it’s not just the ‘being somewhere else’ that I like; I love the actual act of traveling. Loading all your luggage into the car, checking in at the airport, the adventure of finding your gate and the opportunities to dawdle and browse through the shops once you’re there… I love it all. I love how everything gets minuscule as soon as the plane takes off, and you look down at this tiny little planet that was once life-sized, the one you used to live on, and really finally realize just how much of a speck you are.

And then you snuggle back in your seat and wait for the snacks to be passed out. I don’t know what it is, but airplane travel makes me ravenous.