Tubas and Letters to Playboy: The Resolution

At long last: a resolution to the story of the mystery letter!

For those of you not following along, a brief recap:

On April 11, while walking home from work, I found a letter on the sidewalk at UT. The letter was addressed to Playboy and had not yet been mailed. I picked it up and took it with me, unsure of what to do about it. I was wildly intrigued and found this to be an extremely exciting situation. Friends offered various suggestions on what to do with the letter. I was shocked at how many people wanted me to open it. Though I had no problem kidnapping a random found letter, I refused to open it. It just felt too naughty.

Okay, now you're all caught up.

Because I am a lazy slowpoke, I took a while deciding what to do, and it took me a while to take action. That, and I kept forgetting about it, then I'd see it on my desk and slap myself in the forehead and say, "Mystery letter! What am I going to do about you?"

The best suggestion that didn't require me to potentially put my life in danger (after all, it would be weird just to show up and someone's doorstep with their unopened mail, right?) was to drop the mystery letter in another envelope and mail it back to its rightful owner.

To protect the identify of the sender, the sender's name will be called "H" from here on out.

Here is the letter:

Dear "H",

This is perhaps one of the oddest letters you will ever receive! Bear with me while I explain.

Several days ago (actually, Thursday, April 11), I was walking in the UT campus when I saw the enclosed letter on the ground. At first, I snapped a photo of it, then wondered if perhaps it included a check, so I was a bit concerned about leaving your mail unattended on the sidewalk. I looked around for an owner (or a hidden camera!), and didn't see either. I was unsure what to do – I tried finding you online to give you a call, because I felt unsure about dropping it in the post (what if you didn't want to mail it until a certain date, changed your mind, etc.?)

Given the rather “sensitive” address, I considered bringing your letter to your address, but wondered if you might want this private – who knows?! Knowing that opening someone else’s mail is a federal offense, I kept the mail with me in safekeeping (though my husband did attempt to peek inside and I stopped him!)

I’m a writer, and curious by nature, so I took the letter home with me, and wrote about it. You are welcome to check this out on neverwearanyoneelseshat.blogspot.com. To protect your identity, the information was hidden in the photo. You must admit this is a curious story and quite hilarious!

I am sorry that I have had it with me for nearly 2 weeks, but I simply didn't know what to do until one of my readers suggested that I mail it back to you. Brilliant!

I have one small favor. I would love to know the actual story if you are willing to share it. There are obviously many theories here – is it a simple subscription renewal, job application, hate letter? – I’d love to know the real story here if you’re willing to share it.

Best regards,

Amy Arndt,

Austin

I included my email address and the return address of my office, just in case the letter writer got really angry at me for kidnapping their mail, I would have a security guard at my disposal. Except our security guard looks like he works halftime as our building security guard and halftime as the tenor member of a barbershop quartet, so I'm unsure how much he could protect me if it came down to that.

By this morning, I had given up hope of ever hearing back from "H." And then, this afternoon, an emailed response!

I will not disclose the identity of the writer, but I will tell you what I suspected all along -- it was a woman! That tell-tale girly handwriting gave it away! Also, it's evident that this Miss "H" is not my age, because these young whippersnappers bust out with a lot of "lols." I would peg her to be in her early to mid 20's, as my cousins are this age and they do a lot of "lol"ing as well. Just an observation.

Here is the response. I changed one minor area to protect the workplace of the writer and the type of car they drive. Otherwise, here you have it:

Amy,

I must say, I am absolutely amused by the fact you found my letter to Playboy and even bothered to return it to me. I also found your blog about it absolutely hysterical! (I will also be following your blog now, if you don't mind.) :)

I don't wish to disappoint you, but all it is is a subscription with a check enclosed. I found a coupon for a year's worth of Playboy for $12 (and you returned it to me just in time, too, as it expired at the end of April! lol). Who could turn that down?! I could save face here and say that I was subscribing to it for my fiance, but I'm rather blase about such topics and will totally own to the fact that it was for my benefit, as well. I do enjoy the articles and find the beautiful, au-natural ladies gracing the pages to be an added bonus, as does my fiance too, I'm sure. lol 

I do actually work here at UT and park along where I assume you were taking a walk. I had the letter in my hand when I walked to my car so as to not to forget to mail it and didn't realize until I got home that I had lost it. (And to think I was being all efficient that day. Dammit! There went that! lol) When I realized that I must have lost it somewhere on campus, I had a vision of someone finding it and wondering about the Playboy address. Lo and behold, I get your package in the mail a few weeks later! 

Feel free to blog about my response if you wish for those that may want an update on the situation. 

Thanks for returning the subscription/check to me. If you want, I can send you a complimentary issue for the trouble you took to return the letter to me. ;) LOL
____

As you can imagine, I love this girl. She had me at "I'm rather blase about such topics," and won further admiration for being that type of gal who can subscribe to Playboy as a heterosexual female and not feel weird about it in the least. I have another friend who used to subscribe to Playboy before she started popping out babies. I always admired that, because the raciest thing I subscribe to is Bazaar. Not that I don't get a little tingle at the "Bath of the Month" section in House Beautiful, but I have a thing for huge showers.

The past few weeks have brought me several random adventures - the tuba incident, the mystery letter, and the girl I accidentally pocket friended on Facebook who accepted my friend request after we realized we already have a ton of things in common. I figure that's just the Universe delivering me things to write about, and that makes me happy.

So I suspect, and I hope, that I will someday meet this "H." Given that she's engaged to be married, at the very least, I hope "H" shares this story with her wedding party, and that someone tells this story in a toast at their rehearsal dinner. And that the happy couple has Playboy subscriptions in their future for years and years to come.

Tubas and Letters to Playboy

It's been a very unusual week.

Wednesday over lunch with colleagues, one of my coworkers told us that a neighbor in her condo community called her the other day, apologizing for practicing the trumpet. Lucky for the neighbor, she called a wildly open-minded person, who happily offered to get together with the trumpet-playing neighbor and have her over for a jam session (my coworker sings and plays the guitar). This resulted in a lot of trumpet-music-based questions such as, "What happens if she comes over and only knows the complete works of John Philip Sousa?" and "What if she only knows how to play 'Taps?'"

As those kind of conversations go, this led to another coworker telling us about when he was growing up, a neighbor kid was learning to play the tuba. The kid was around 10, and his mother made him practice the tuba on the back porch. Not that I blame the kid's mother, but this took place in West Virginia, so I can't imagine that kid had warm fingers when he was pounding out bass lines in the dead of winter.

I put all talk of trumpets and tubas behind me, and went on about my week. And, despite the fact that my father played the trumpet, we own a trumpet (and I don't actually remember why), I don't go around thinking about brass instruments on a regular basis.

Yesterday, while walking home, I was deep in thought. I was asking myself why I keep procrastinating on a book I'm trying to write, when I looked far down the sidewalk and did a double take. Coming towards me on the sidewalk by the stadium at UT was this guy:

That's pretty random, right? What is even more random was that I was completely okay with stopping him and asking to take his picture, while breathlessly telling him about the boy who was forced to practice the tuba outside. He's laughing in this pic because I asked him to play a few notes for me. While he played, I did a little dance that one does while listening to an outdoor tuba solo. Not exactly sexy.

I walked on, looking down and texting the picture of Tuba Boy to my coworkers, laughing to myself like the crazy person I am.  Because I was focused on looking down, I happened to see this:

I'm sorry that the picture is blurry, but I wanted you to see the proof. Sitting proudly on the sidewalk was this plain white envelope with a fresh stamp, addressed to Playboy.

On my walks, I've found lots of interesting things on the sidewalks of the fine institution known as the University of Texas at Austin. One morning I found a huge pair of grey flip flops, as if the owner just took them off, set them neatly on the sidewalk and said, "Flips, it is time we part ways." That same huge pair of flip flops stayed there for a good two weeks. So weird. Where WAS that barefoot guy? Another morning I found -- in this order -- an empty bottle of cheap whiskey, an empty Red Bull, an empty condom package, and an empty package of Cheetos. I wanted to photograph it and title it "A Good Time Was Had By All." Except that I wasn't sure that everyone in that scenario had a good time.

The letter to Playboy was, by far, the best find to date.

I looked around for a camera crew, figuring this was some kind of "What Would You Do?" taping. When the coast was clear, I bent down to snap a photo and thought I'd move along. Except I didn't. I picked it up, looked around for a possible owner, and carried it with me. I'm not always up on the current laws, but a few laws have been ingrained in me for a very long time: Don't speed in a school zone. Don't pick bluebonnets in Texas (we'll shoot you). And for the love of God, don't open anyone else's mail. So I kidnapped someone else's mail, which may also be a federal offense. But I took my chances.

From there, I had a strong urge to talk to someone. A UT student, or possibly young professor type, came walking down the sidewalk. I walked toward him cheerfully and said,

"I'm sorry to bother you, but something very strange just happened and I'm hoping you can help me decide what to do."

"Okay.." he said, looking skeptical.

"I'm a mom," I said, feeling that would make me appear less mentally unstable, "and I walk this route almost every day. I was just minding my own business when I found THIS on the sidewalk."

I displayed the letter for his review while pointing to the sidewalk where I discovered it. Also, I often find that in random situations, if you tell someone you're a mom, it makes them feel comfortable. I don't think this was the case this time.

"Okay..." he said, twisting his wedding ring uncomfortably.

"I know! It's crazy! Did you see the address? It's to PLAYBOY!" I said excitedly, "It was just sitting there, and the owner is nowhere in sight! Now, I bet you think you're on some kind of reality show right now, right?"

"Um, yeah." This guy was quite the conversationalist. He looked around for cameras.

"Don't worry, you're not," I assured him, "Unless of course we both are, because I just found this letter a few minutes ago and I have no idea why I picked it up. But I have some choices to make here. I could leave it where I found it, but what if it has a check in it? Or, I could drop it in the mail, but what if the owner wasn't ready to send it just yet? Or, I could track down the owner, but it's not like it's just an everyday letter. I mean, it's kind of awkward subject matter. Like is it a subscription renewal? Or maybe it's a hate letter. What should I do with it?"

By this point, the guy was fake laughing like he was laughing at his father-in-law's bad joke. He was not catching my drift, or even remotely excited about this awesome situation.

"Yeah, I don't know what you should do," he said, clearly walking to safety, "Good luck with that."

And with that he was off. I walked on, still clutching the letter, wishing I'd come across someone with more personality and gusto for life and its random happenings, and wondering why this letter was suddenly in my care.

I walked quickly home to share the story with my family, who all found the letter to be extremely entertaining and mysterious, thank goodness. My husband Tim tried to hold it up to the light to review the contents. Then he wedged his finger in the corner of it and blew, trying to peer in, until I got very protective and ordered him to stop. After all, I am the temporary guardian of this strange letter. I need to guard and protect it. (Some of you will get that reference, which makes me happy.)

Tim doesn't like it when I'm bossy, so he quickly lost interest, adding sarcastically that it could be filled with anthrax. I suggested that his decision to blow in a stranger's anthrax-filled letter was probably not a great idea, and he better watch himself.

From there, I spent entirely too much of my free time researching the letter writer's name. Because they only put a first initial and last name, tracking this individual down was nearly impossible, and I am very good at research. I tried the UT staff listing. I did all sorts of name searches, tried LinkedIn, Facebook, and even tried tracking the return address to the home owner. Right as I was identifying the owner of the home (a different name from the letter writer), my stepdaughter came home, and I told the story again.

To set up the mysterious letter story, I started with the tuba story. From yesterday. It's just how I tell stories.

Over dinner, we considered the options:

• I could drop the letter in the mail. Except somehow I've missed the memo on the fact that you can't find a simple mailbox anywhere anymore unless you go to the post office, and I feel a little weird about showing up with a letter I didn't write addressed to an establishment that features naked ladies. And I know, I know, people subscribe for the articles, but I am unsure of the intentions of my mystery letter writer, so this is an unusual situation.
• I could mail it from home, but again, do I want to be associated with this letter if it's in any way threatening?
• Also, if I mail this letter, what if the sender was debating whether or not to send it? What if it was an application for employment, or some kind of private letter to an employee? What if! What if!
• I could drive to the address on the envelope (the one in Austin, that is) and tell the person who answers the door that I found this letter. Except what happens if the letter was written by a male (with girly handwriting), and the person's wife or girlfriend answers, and is then upset at the fact that their partner subscribed to an adult publication without their knowledge?
• I could go and put the letter back where I found it. No. That's even weirder than picking it up in the first place.
• There was brief discussion about putting the letter in the freezer, a technique that evidently opens letters? I'm not sure how my stepdaughter knows this technique. Hmm.

Decisions, decisions.

I hope you're not waiting for a climactic finish to this story, because I still have the letter in my possession, and I have still not figured out what to do with it. I slept restlessly, dreaming about driving up to middle school band on a motorcycle, a tuba on my back, and all the while, worrying about a missing letter.

Rest assured, I'll keep you posted on what happens next!

In Support of Marriage Equality

Today, like many others, I changed my profile picture on Facebook to the symbol for the Human Rights Campaign. I live in Austin, a delightfully open-minded place, so pretty much everyone I know did the same - from my gay friends to my gay relatives to my straight friends and my straight relatives -- all the way to my fearless 65-year old mother who lives in my otherwise conservative home town. I'm proud to be part of a vast network of people who support our friends who don't yet have the legal right to marry the person they love.

When my husband Tim noticed I changed my picture, he replied with a perplexed, "????" 

Now, before you start thinking I married a homophobic man, you haven't met my husband. The man sews. He wears cuff links. Long before I married Tim, I worked with him, and I thought he was gay because he owned and boldly wore a mustard yellow linen suit. But lucky for me, he's a boob man, so we're all good. It wasn't that Tim was questioning my support of marriage equality; he simply didn't recognize the symbol and was momentarily baffled by it. I joked on Facebook that for a brief moment, Tim thought I was moving to Sweden. 

I then explained that I also wasn't familiar with the symbol until a few months ago, when I spotted a blue and yellow sticker on the car next to me at our neighborhood grocery and actually wondered if it had something to do with Sweden. The kid driving the car was an Austin hipster in skinny jeans who smiled at me.

"What does that sticker mean?" I asked.

He explained that the sticker was the symbol for the Human Rights Campaign, and that it was connected with supporting marriage equality. 

My 9-year old daughter was with me, and since he was getting in his car and I wanted him to know I wasn't just your typical straight SUV-driving mom, I said enthusiastically, "Rosie and I support you! We watch Glee!"

And then, I snorted a big fat nerd snort and got in my car and drove off while he rolled his eyes at me. 

Okay, so I failed to adequately convey my support at that point. I made a huge, important human rights issue seem silly by comparing it to letting my daughter watch a prime time show with gay jokes and characters. So today, I'd like to try again. Or, better yet, let some somebody more qualified do it for me.

Enter Jean Podrasky, cousin of Chief Justice John G. Roberts, Jr., who was present at today's US Supreme Court hearing on Proposition 8. This is what Podrasky had to say on the matter of marriage equality:

“Everyone in this country has a family member who is part of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community…,” she wrote. “As a Californian, I want nothing more than to marry my wonderful girlfriend. And as a tax-paying citizen, I seek basic fairness.”

I'm one of those people who has a family member who is part of the gay community. And I agree with Podrasky, chances are, we all do (whether we know it or not, or whether that person has felt safe enough to share that often difficult reality with their loved ones). Lucky for me, my mother raised us to be open to all kinds of things that society deems as "different," so having a gay relative was, and always has been, a non-issue. Until now.

I want my relative to be able to have a legally-recognized marriage with his partner of 20+ years. I get to marry my partner, why can't he? I want my dear, childhood friend -- a boy I spent most of 7th grade trying to get to kiss me and who caused me to develop a complex until I learned he liked boys -- be able to marry his partner of 16+ years so that they can grow old together. 

If nothing else, I want my LGBT friends to have the same rights to get married, so we can all share the same jokes about marriage. Like, for example, when Tim and I tell people that when we got married, we said, "Divorce is not an option. But homicide is." Or, when Tim says, "The only thing worse than being married is being single."  After all, shouldn't we all have the same rights to be miserable when our spouses don't shut the kitchen cabinets or leave the salad dressing lid just a little bit loose? Every time? (And, for the record, that's me, not Tim. I leave salad dressing lids loose. I am sorry. We won't mention who leaves kitchen cabinets open..)

There are some who feel passionately that the institution of marriage is strictly for a man and a woman. While I personally think that is utter hogwash, I am also very sorry they feel that way. I am especially sorry for people who feel that way, marry a member of the opposite sex, and then decide to have a child. And then, that child grows up and finds the courage to say that they are in love with a person of the same sex, and is faced with having to figure out how to tell their parents the truth. Because it happens all the time, and only the tolerant survive those situations, look back, and wonder what all the fuss was about. The one thing that gives me hope is that I know people have the ability to grow and change, and to be more accepting.

I simply cannot understand people wanting to put restrictions on love. We should all be free to love and marry whomever we want. I personally don't care if you want to marry a guinea pig as long as it makes you happy. 

So I'll close with this, a quote from the lovely Cynthia Nixon of Sex and the City fame (because by now you know that I have a certain need to associate important issues with gay-friendly TV shows):

"When women got the vote, they did not redefine voting. When African-Americans got the right to sit at a lunch counter alongside white people, they did not redefine eating out. They were simply invited to the table. That is all we want to do; we have no desire to change marriage. We want to be entitled to not only the same privileges but the same responsibilities as straight people." 

Chapter One on Judgement

A few months ago, one of my girlfriends was in the waiting room of her vet's office with her children in tow. She has three of the yummiest, most fantastic kids ever -- a 3-year old girl, 2-year old boy, and an infant boy. As she describes it, her infant was in his car seat, being an infant and doing nothing, and the two older kids were playing quietly beside her. Everything was cool. 

My friend goes out with all three kids all the time, never batting an eye. It's not always a calm scene, like the other day, when her 2-year old was at the top of a playscape and decided to remove his pants and Pull-Up and sit naked on his older sister's face while the infant began howling for his bottle. Yet my friend handles it all with the greatest of ease.

On this particular day, on top of three kids, she had a large dog in the mix. An older woman in the waiting room observed my friend and her children, looked at my friend and said, 

"I think it's time you stopped having kids."

Wow.

When I heard this story, I was absolutely livid. The nerve!

"What did you do!?" I asked,  "How in the world do you respond to something like that?"

My friend is polite to a fault and simply smiled and said nothing, probably the best way to handle a bitter old bat like that. And while she surely came up with a lot of responses after the moment, in the end, she simply ignored it and went on with her day.

This reminded me of when my daughter was an infant. Though I'd had lots of practice with children because I have two stepchildren, I didn't enter their lives until they were 4 and 5, so going out into the world with a newborn was extremely intimidating to me.

When my daughter was about 2 months old, I was shopping and minding my own business when she began to cry. Never one to let a baby cry it out, I grabbed her out of her car seat and began to pat her back and try and comfort her. A woman (perhaps the exact same woman my friend encountered at the vet's office), approached me and said, 

"She's hungry. That's the kind of cry they cry when they're hungry. You should feed her."

What this ballsy woman didn't know was that I had been having a terrible time with breastfeeding, to the point where our daughter was actually losing weight instead of gaining. It was scary. She was born right before Mother's Day, and to this day I will not show anyone the photographs my husband took of  my exhausted, overwhelmed fake smile as I held our frail, underweight baby. It's just too painful.

What this ballsy woman also didn't know was that I was unknowingly moving around in a pretty serious state of postpartum depression. So when she came to me and gave me instructions to feed my daughter, I didn't respond with the grace that my good friend used at the vet's office.

"Really?" I asked, biting and sarcastic, "She's hungry? Well breastfeed her yourself, then!"

Looking back, I'm kind of proud of myself for being crazy and quick enough to respond in that manner, but at the time, her remark struck a painful chord that just made things seem worse. And now that it's been nine years and I can reflect on how difficult that time was, it makes me realize just how much judgement awaits us when we become parents.

I label this post "Chapter One on Judgement" because I can't address all of the levels on judgement in one piece because there is so much of it out there. So for today, let's just consider the judgement placed upon the parents of infants.

I read very few parenting books before having my daughter for a variety of reasons -- time, fear, stubbornness -- but the primary reason was because there was so much information out there it felt overwhelming. So when the baby came, I ventured out on walks in the neighborhood, and learned a lot about parenting from other mothers with babies. One of my neighbors was that enviable kind of mother who pops out a kid without drugs (I had a scary emergency C-Section), loses her baby weight the same day she delivered (I have baby weight 9 years later), and produces enough breast milk to fatten up her happy little baby and have enough left to donate to the Mother's Milk Bank so 16 other babies could eat as well. I kind of hated her.

One muggy afternoon at the park, I sat with my friend and some of her other marathon-running moms, cross-legged and sweaty as my baby cried the "I'm hungry" cry. My friends gracefully whipped out full, non-sagging breasts ripe with nourishment, and their plump babes ate peacefully while my daughter screamed and grimaced as I shoved an empty boob at her red, angry face.

"You're having a tough time with breastfeeding?" my neighbor asked, concerned.

I nodded shamefully as I fought back tears and my daughter wailed, and briefly considered begging her to breastfeed my baby just to give us both some relief. She gave me some tips, suggesting that I try to relax first (yeah, right), and invited me to join her at a mommy meet-up group. I know that she could see I was desperate for help.

I put off going to the meet-up group until I worked out the breastfeeding issue, and after several lactation consulting home visits and doctor's appointments, learned that it simply wasn't in the cards for me and that formula was a better solution. Though I felt like a failure in the breastfeeding department, things were getting much better at our house, and the baby was gaining weight like a champ. So I decided to venture out to the meet-up group and spend some time with some moms. I didn't ask questions before hand. 

I should have asked questions.

I won't reveal the name of this particular group, because that's ugly, but I learned quickly that I was out of place in a big way. I arrived with my daughter in her car seat, completely unaware that nobody else had a car seat in sight, as if their babies flew there on magic hippie love clouds. After settling in, I noticed that everyone wore a sling. I'd already given up the battle of the Baby Bjorn, so a sling was nowhere in my vision of how to schlep a baby. 

The topic of the day was toys, with tips and advice on where to find wooden toys. I swiftly buried the plastic teething ring underneath a blanket in the carseat and listened while I learned how terrible plastic toys are. Don't get me wrong; I knew very little about BPAs and the dangers of plastic then, and if I could go back I would make some different choices, but at the time, my biggest concern was getting my baby to eat, so banning plastic toys was really low on my priority list.

While I learned about wooden toys and resisted the temptation to ask, "But what about splinters?" I looked around to see all sorts of full breasts feeding all sorts of rosy-cheeked babes. And toddlers. And kids that might have been a little old for the breast? But if I'm discussing judgement, I guess I shouldn't be judging.

I prayed that my daughter would wait to cry her "I'm hungry" cry until the meeting was over. Of course that didn't happen, so I sheepishly whipped out a plastic bottle full of formula and began feeding my happy baby.

"Oh," said one of the moms, eyeing me with a mix of sympathy and distate, "You don't breastfeed?"

"No," I said, "It just didn't work out for me..."

And with that, I began to cry. I apologized for crying, scooped up the baby, carseat, plastic teething ring and bottle full of formula, and excused myself and left. And I never returned. And for me, that was a good thing.

It's so easy for all of us to judge. I do it constantly. In the car the other day, I told my husband that more than one bumper sticker on a car is a good indicator of a crazy person. But the problem with rushing to judgement? I have one school bumper sticker on my car now, and another one waiting to go on for my stepdaughter. As soon as I start judging, I have to turn around the finger I'm pointing and point it at myself.

So what became of the frazzled mother, riddled with postpartum depression, guilty for turning to formula and plastic toys?  Once she gave up breastfeeding and stopped worrying about what other people thought of that, she turned out just fine. And most of all, so did the baby.

A Professional Makeover

My entire career - which has spanned several decades and has included a wide, random variety of jobs - has been spent in a customer-facing role.

In my early 20's, I worked as a cashier at my hometown's local music store. The store is family-owned, run by a traditional, hard-working East Texas family, and has always been a bit of a time capsule. The male employees dominate one side of the store, selling guitars, drums and joking around with the customers, while the women on the other side of the store wear aprons and sell sheet music to the legions of piano teachers who live in East Texas. My mother is one of those teachers, and I would never have gotten the job without her connection, so I'm not complaining, but I was never a great fit there, mainly because I was a distracted, often overwhelmed employee, and one of the youngest people who worked there. There was nothing I could do to avoid looking elderly wearing that stupid apron. But while I didn't mind helping my customers, I was much more interested in the teenage boy customers who came in to murder "Stairway to Heaven" on every guitar in the store.

I would have been a great employee if it weren't for the cash register and a little thing they used to call making change. Our boss, a painfully shy and serious red-faced man, felt it was extremely important for his employees to know how to count change. When a customer would come up to pay, I would carefully key in their items and pray they would write a check. (For you who kids under 30 who don't know, people used to write checks and pay in cash.)

"That will be $19.52," I would say, beads of sweat forming at my hairline, "Will that be cash today?"

The customer would hand over a crisp $20, and I would start counting with my fingers (math is totally not my thing), frantically trying to figure out the proper change, when out of nowhere they would shove a nickel in my hand, and throw a complete wrench into my change-counting. It was torture.

To keep my job and thwart a nervous breakdown, I avoided the register whenever possible. Then I discovered a switch on the register that would tell you how much change to give back. Amazing! This system worked flawlessly for about a day, until our boss discovered that someone had messed with his register. I fessed up, and he became so angry he clenched his teeth, flushed into an unhealthy maroon shade, and promptly wrote me up.

Those extra pennies and nickels ultimately marked my decision to leave retail for good. Yet, somehow, despite my inability to count out change correctly, the customers loved me. I would patiently listen to endless stories of their little students, and go out of my way to find back copies of books we thought were out of print. At an early age, I learned that to win a loyal customer, the key is to win that customer's heart.

The same went for waiting tables. I've said this before, but I believe firmly that anyone who dines out should have a restaurant job at least once in their lives. For starters, it will make you a lifelong good tipper, but it will also give you the right to have an opinion on the level of service, because let me tell you, that job is not easy. It will earn you the right to judge if the server did a great job, or if they were terrible.

For the most part, I was beyond terrible. I required assistance constantly. My skinny spaghetti arms weren't strong enough to carry large trays of food, so I had to get the busboys to help. I had to write everything down in my illegible handwriting because I could only retain a few orders without spinning into a mental frenzy. I couldn't open a bottle of wine without shoving it in between my legs and yanking on the corkscrew until I turned purple. Because of this, I convinced the owner, a beloved Chinese man named Tommy, that I needed him to present the wine to the customers because they enjoyed the attention. And the customers did love it, which was great, because it helped my tips.

Yet somehow, even though I was the worst server in the place, I figured out how to keep the customers happy. I had a trick where I would remember the salad dressing and adult beverage choices of the regulars. That way, as long as I got those two things right, the rest would work itself out. Mrs. Lanier, for example, a woman who lived next door to my parents, will forever be associated with Parmesan Peppercorn on the side, and a glass of White Zinfandel. And even though my service was less than adequate, the regulars began to ask for me.  For some reason, the personal touch made a difference.

Through the years, no matter what the job, I would work hard to ensure that my customers were happy. Then somewhere along the way, people became angrier, and more vocal with their frustrations, and I was forced to learn how to handle unhappy people.

My first experience with angry customers was when I was in my mid 20's, and worked as a telephone operator at a medical answering service while I was finishing up my degree. The hours were flexible, the pay was good, and we got discounted Six Flags Fiesta Texas passes, one of the most hilarious perks ever.

The job sounds easy but was definitely one of the most challenging of my life. Medical answering service operators spend their days fielding calls from worried, frazzled parents calling pediatricians, mentally ill patients calling from the day rooms at state mental health facilities, begging to be released, petrified husbands calling their wife's obstetricians when the first signs of labor appear, and the occasional country bumpkin who saves their bowel movement in a Mason jar to show to their family practitioner. That really happened! Once, a woman called in and asked to page the doctor because she had a "shadow in her panties." Don't ask me; to this day I still have no clue what that was about.

The nature of a medical answering service job is that your day has stressful peaks and valleys. Office opening and closing times were the busiest. These were the days when doctors wore pagers only, and few carried cell phones, so we paged the doctor with the telephone number they needed to call. For medical answering service operators, your customers are the patients,  but your customers are also the doctors and nurses who rely on your service as well. 

One particularly stressful day, I had many calls on hold and was struggling to keep up with the pace, and in the chaos, paged an incorrect number to a doctor who specialized in critical care. Unfortunately, he had a reputation for being a bit of a hothead, and it was no wonder, given that his job was tremendously stressful. He called in, asked to speak with the person who paged him, and proceeded to cuss me out while I sobbed/begged for forgiveness.

Months later I was promoted to supervisor, and one of the operators on my shift made a mistake with the same doctor. Stepping to the operator's rescue, I offered to take the angry call, and listened while he cussed and yelled. But this time, I didn't let him get to me. I knew by that point that when you encounter an angry customer, the best thing you can do give is them time to say what they need to say. Angry customers need to feel heard.

After the doctor stopped yelling, I calmly apologized and assured him that I would speak with the employee. He said another few choice and unpleasant words, and hung up the phone.

A few days later, the same doctor called in to pick up a page. By this time, he remembered my name, and after he jotted down the notes, almost meekly asked,

"You must really think I'm an ass, huh?"

I resisted the temptation to shout, "Totally!" Instead, I admitted that he could be intimidating, and that his strong reactions were not easy to take. I also added that because we had a phone relationship, that we should all be reminded that a human was on the other side of the phone. I was pretty candid. From there, we had a pleasant conversation. The doctor apologized, and admitted that his job was hard because he saw so much death. After that, our relationship was a much better one. By the time I finished my degree and put in my resignation, the doctor offered to write reference letters for me.

Fifteen years later, I'm still working on fine-tuning my customer service skills. I recently switched roles from a sales position to a customer success role at my company. My job is to ensure that our customers are happy, and that they remain customers for life. I love this job, because most of my day is spent helping educate customers on why our product, a sales enablement software application, can make their jobs easier. I'm constantly being challenged by unique situations, different customer needs, and I get to problem-solve and help companies discover strategies to meet their goals by using our product.

The other day, I spoke with a customer who wanted to cancel his service. Because I was new to the account, it was a unique situation, because we didn't have an existing relationship. The customer wanted to set up a call to discuss the cancellation that Friday, and no later, as he wanted to finalize things, had upcoming travel, and was unwilling to drag it out. As luck would have it, I was fully booked with scheduled customer meetings, and was therefore in something of a professional pickle. I managed to cut one call short and shuffle things around to accommodate the customer's schedule, and holed up in a conference room, prepared for a tense conversation.

My goal was to listen more than talk, and given that I am chatty, this is always a challenge. But I bit my tongue as the customer explained the various reasons for his decision to cancel. The reasons varied -- some were legitimate frustrations, and others were more of a misunderstanding and lack of communication on the part of both parties. I waited for the customer to finish, and channeled the energy of one of my former sales managers, a woman who had a unique talent for disarming even the angriest customer by using her smooth Texas drawl.

"Do you know what I like to do in my personal time?" I asked. "You're going to think this is silly, but I like to watch makeover shows. I absolutely love to see a transformation."

He sat silent. I could feel him rolling his eyes through the phone.

"So here is what I'm going to propose. I would like to make-over your company. I want to help transform this experience and do everything I can to help your team see the value in our product. I want to hear about their frustrations, and help offer advice to make their experience a better one. I commit to taking great care of them, if you will give me a chance to makeover this situation."

This cheesy makeover analogy certainly wasn't planned. I must admit, it's actually quite goofy, and I wondered if I was going to make the tense situation even worse by using such a silly comparison. However, by the end of the conversation, the customer had agreed to take the weekend and sleep on it. By Monday, he emailed me with plans to let me speak with two of his sales reps about their experience, with the hopes that I can help work on a solution to their problems.

For me, this was a big victory. My job title - Customer Success Manager - is a perfect description of what I'm tasked to accomplish. I want my customers to be successful. But most of all, I want them to experience excellent customer service, because more and more, I find that customer service is on the decline. I believe firmly that our product is the best solution on the market, but I also believe firmly that part of why we keep our customers is because we take such great care of them.

I'm not really offering up a big moral lesson here, but perhaps the way to deliver stellar customer service is actually quite basic. To some level, we all have customers - whether they are external or internal ones - so perhaps it's worth noting that even if at some point in your career you're just a few levels above being a mediocre employee, that if you focus on allowing the customer to feel heard, that customer is likely to stick around. 

Keep on the Sunny Side

A few weeks ago, the unimaginable happened at the Albuquerque International Airport.

My mother, sister and I were on the final day of a fantastic girl's trip to Santa Fe to celebrate my sister's  college graduation, acceptance into grad school, and my recent 40th birthday. While we were there, the temperature in Santa Fe hovered around 14 degrees, so we were bundled up like Eskimos as we approached security. We somehow split into two lines, Mom on one side, my sister Emily and me on the other. Emily and I passed through our checkpoint with flying colors, charmed by an ancient TSA clerk with a freshly-dyed jet black comb-over.

Meanwhile, we were completely unaware that Mom was digging frantically for her driver's license in the other line. While we approached the tables to begin stripping down for the metal detectors, we heard Mom's name paged overhead. My first inclination was to worry that something had happened to one of our family members, and that somehow the police were calling our mother overhead at the airport. We soon realized, with some help from another TSA agent, that Mom had dropped her license somewhere between ticketing and security. We watched as Mom went to a strange wall phone and received instructions on how to find the lost and found. She took off to what she later described as an endless maze of hallways, where she knocked on a door and someone stuck their hand out and handed over her license. All the while, Emily and I waited in a self-made TSA holding area where I flirted with an agent young enough to be my son. In other words, we were a big help to my poor mother, who was navigating a concrete maze and fretting about where she'd left her license.

By the time Mom got back in line, she was understandably frazzled, so she asked for some time to gather her thoughts and her belongings, and went ahead of us through security. Emily approached the security table first, and began shedding layers of Eskimo garb. I followed behind. A young, pimply-faced female TSA agent motioned for my sister to go through the metal detector. As I finished up unloading my gear to the table, the agent looked at me and said, 

"So you're the mother?"

Let me repeat that. The female agent looked at me and said, 

"So you're the MOTHER?"

In other words, this girl thought I was my sister's mother. Her mother!

I will resist writing the rest of my thoughts on this in bold print with italics, because it's hard for me to accurately describe how upsetting this was to me.  For those of you who don't know, I'm four and a half years older than my sister. When I tell this story, everyone says, "Oh my GOD, what did you say?" 

I'm not sure how I delivered it, because my jaw was on the ground, but I said something sarcastic and biting like this,

"No, I'm her SISTER," I said as the agent began to look fearful for her life, "But thanks for ruining my day! You know, you really shouldn't say that to anyone....."

Poor Mom and Emily had to deal with the aftermath of this ugly little scene. They patiently sat through my sudden need to plop down on a bench and cry large, dramatic tears. I believe I said the big "f" word several times, loud enough for others to hear. Classy. While I put on my shoes and cried/cussed, I considered going back in line to sock the poor unsuspecting agent in the jaw. Emily, who possesses an incredible gift of taking a terrible situation and softening it, noted that surely the girl wasn't even paying attention and it was all a misunderstanding. Mom sat wisely on the sidelines until I got my act together, probably wondering how in a matter of seconds I was able to out drama her driver's license ordeal.

After processing this tragic event, I have come to a conclusion. People should never assume. People should know better than to make assumptions about people's age, relationship status, pregnancy status, and in some cases, even the sex of the person. When in doubt, do yourself a favor and do not ask.

I spent the plane ride home in self-pity misery, wondering if I should submit my photo to one of those companies who guesses your age by how you look, then smartly reconsidered. I wondered about my wardrobe, as I work hard not to be the kind of 40 year-old who looks like Steinmart is her only option. I thought about how I've gone on and on about not wanting to try Botox, then wondered if I should jump on the bandwagon. I avoided mirrors for the rest of the day. 

And then I thought about Sunny.

Sunny was the mother of my Mom's dear friend Claudia. She was one of the most beautiful women I've ever met, and I never once thought of her as old, even though she was in her 80's. Her full name was Mary Sunshine Davidson, perhaps one of the most fantastic names ever, but her nickname "Sunny" fit her perfectly. She radiated a positive glow that's hard to describe. She embraced life with an energy that was contagious to those around her. If you were talking to her, she listened as if you were the only one in the room. The first time I met her, I was captivated by her energy, and at that moment decided that I wanted to age like Sunny. 

I mean, look at this woman! Wasn't she a beauty? And even though she was certainly blessed genetically, I can assure you that her beauty was magnified tenfold by what radiated from her soul.

Certainly part of Sunny's outlook on life was that she wasn't a whiner. I realized by thinking about Sunny that the experience that took place in the Albuquerque airport was a moment I could have blown off, or taken less seriously, and not spent valuable time with my mother and sister whining about it.

For me, this is about how we choose to age. Do we take on aging with a groan? Do we choose to look at aging as something to face with a strained expression, with resistance and negativity? Or, could we consider aging as a beautiful process, one that we handle with grace? 

I am totally not there yet, just so we're clear. I strive to age like Sunny, because she did it so fabulously, but since I just hit 40, I get the feeling that this aging thing is a process that I'll need to constantly revisit, learn from, and embrace. And I am slapping on moisturizer like a maniac, trying to walk every day for my health, and forcing myself to drink more water. It's all a process.

Lucky for me, the Universe sent me a gift this week. I went to Central Market to buy wine to take to a girl's night, and while in the checkout line, the clerk, who looked to be in her 60's (though I certainly wouldn't have asked!), saw the wine, looked at me, and said, 

"Are you 30 yet?"

"No," I exlaimed, elated, "I'm 40!! But you have NO idea how great you just made me feel!"

The mere idea that a stranger made an assumption - believed or not - that I was not yet 30 completely undid the damage done in Albuquerque. It did wonders for my confidence, which had been suffering for a few weeks. I nearly went around the counter and kissed her. But instead, as the young bag boy asked me if I needed help to my car, I happily declined, flashing a Sunny-like smile at him, elated that at this point in my life, I'm young enough to carry my groceries without help.

Two Kinds of People in This World

Children have an uncanny ability to need a bathroom when one is farthest from reach. This was the case one dark night several years ago when we were on a family road trip, miles from the nearest town. Our daughter Emily Rose was about four, and announced from the back seat that she needed to go to the bathroom. Knowing we were at least fifteen minutes from a viable option, we explained that she could either wait it out, or we could pull over so she could go outside. Her response was quick and decisive.

"There are two kinds of people in this world," Rosie said,  "People who go to the bathroom on the side of the road, and people who don't. I am the second one."

Once we recovered from laughing until our sides ached, I began to think about how Rosie's philosophy could apply to many different situations. From that point on, I have mentally created all kinds of categories about people, narrowing them neatly into two buckets, those that do "X" and those that don't. People who will clip their nails at their desk. People who won't kill spiders. People who will tell you if you have black beans in your teeth. People who won't.

Up until today, I fell under the category of "a person who will not do crafts." I'd rather drink a glass of clumpy milk than set foot inside a Hobby Lobby. It's hard for me to even say those two words together without faking some kind of weird, Fargoesque accent where I say, "Habbie Labbie" and make a gagging signal. The few times I've been inside a Habbie Labbie, it's been due to a school project meltdown, or a sudden urgent need for a glue-stick, but it's never because I'm there to bedazzle a sweatshirt. The few times I have forced myself to enter the terrifying doors of a Habbie Labbie, I've been thoroughly overwhelmed by it. Between the mysterious wooden cutouts of cats and the like, to the unnecessary amounts and sizes of easels, to all of that scrap-booking nonsense, I have to practice deep cleansing breaths of foul potpourri and eucalyptus just to get out of there without a full-fledged panic attack.

And then you have the women with curious choices of accessories (hair and otherwise) who actually go there for sport, dragging around little bedazzled kids hyped up on Sour Patch Kids. Those women sniff me out, scanning me from head to toe, wondering how I had the audacity to enter their place of worship without a single bit of bling on my person, or at the very least a baseball cap with a glittery cross on it.

So I keep my head down and wander the aisles, humming along nervously to the canned contemporary Christian/patriotic music, winding my way through aisles of fuzzy pompoms and fluorescent poster board, clueless to the whereabouts of the gosh-darned glue-sticks. Finally I locate a spinster wearing a Habbie Labbie apron and flashing, four-leaf clover earrings, and she carefully leads me through a sea of craft crap to the vast selection of glue-stick options. By the time I check out, I've developed an eye twitch that lasts for days, reminding me never to return.

So this morning at breakfast, as I retold the story of a good friend who's boyfriend made home-made sugar scrub for her for this Christmas, Emily Rose, now 9, perked up.

"Oooh, let's make some!" she said, clapping her hands.

Inside, I cringed, fearful that this journey would land us inside a crafts store, searching for gingham jar covers. But it's the holidays, and what I felt I missed out on this year was enough travel-free, tv-free, noise-free time with my daughter, so I took this as a sign.

We started poking around online and found a few simple recipes, all easy enough to make, and presented in simple jars with simple labels. Hmm. Getting a little ballsier, I ventured over to Pinterest for a quick peek. I'm terrified of this Pinterest. The last thing I need is another thing to suck away more of my time and, God forbid, invite me into the dark world of crafting. Yet, we found some extremely cool salt scrub photos. Things seemed doable and even - dare I say it?- cute. Hmm...

I ventured out to our neighborhood grocery store and purchased 3 huge boxes of coarse Kosher salt, a large bottle of olive oil, and several lemons. Rosie stayed home with my husband to prepare our work station, and when I returned, we walked across the street to snip rosemary from our neighbor's massive rosemary bush, vowing to return the favor of stolen rosemary with our first batch of salt scrub.

Exhibit A: Emily Rose grates up lemon zest like a pro, having the time of her life. For those of you observant enough to notice that she's wearing a shirt with a glitter heart on it, please note that the glitter heart was not a result of a Habbie Labbie t-shirt project. You love it? I love it. I got it at Ross.

Exhibit B is the finished product. Emily Rose made the labels, which read: "Cozy Rosie's lemon rosemary salt scrub." At this point you're probably wondering if Rosie is wearing a glittery hair accessory. No, friends, that is our Christmas tree, which we may just leave up all year. (My husband actually suggested that today, and I think he was partially serious).

We took the first batch across the street to give to the two girls that we steal rosemary from on a regular basis. I strutted like a proud mother hen, instructing Rosie to be careful with the glass jar as if she had a mason jar filled with liquid gold. I sort of regret not walking over in an apron.

One of the neighbor girls answered the door as we were about to leave the jar at their doorstep. Her hair was wet and she'd just hopped out of the shower, a little startled at our random visit. Rosie explained what we'd made, touting the benefits of skin-softening while also making one's house smell wonderful, while I considered Rosie's promising future in Mary Kay sales. When the girl asked Rosie where we got the recipe, Rosie proudly said, "The Internet!" before I could answer, "Oh, it's an old family recipe we've been making for years." We strutted back home, my chest still puffed up from the Norman Rockwellian feeling of it all, and proceeded to make several more batches until we drained the house out of olive oil and lemons.

At one point during our assembly-line production, I asked Rosie what she liked about our project.

"It's an exercise in bonding!" she said, then scrunched up her brow and laughed. "But wait, we've been bonding for the past nine years. It's not like we need it!"

But we did need it. We had a wonderful time working together, and figuring out something new. Not to mention, I was the first to sample our finished product, and my before and after elbow softness test tells me I should have been salt scrubbing a long time ago.

There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who will dip their toe carefully into the world of home-made projects, and those who will not. While you won't see me prancing through Habbie Labbie any time soon, you may see me poking around a little on Pinterest.