I’m not feeling the blog today, people.

In truth, I haven’t been feeling it much lately. Every time I sit down to write it, I ask myself why? I average about 700 readers a month, but only 150 of those are return visitors. (The rest, for some inexplicable reason, read just this one post. Thanks to whomever out there first forwarded it.) And no offense to those 150 of you, but every Sunday night or Monday morning when I sit down to write my next blog post, I groan and grumble and tell myself that it’s a waste of time. Well, not quite. My internal dialogue goes something like this:

Split Personality 1: I should stop this.

Split Personality 2: Why?

SP 1: Because it’s a lot of work.

SP 2: Really? Three hours per week qualifies as lot of work for you? Wow. I’m surprised the migrant farm workers haven’t contacted you about forming a union.

SP 1: Shut up.

SP 2: You shut up.

SP 1: No, you shut up…

[this goes on for a while]

SP 2: So explain to me how three hours is a lot of work to you?

SP 1: Well, first of all, it’s rarely just three hours. I usually spend a good hour wondering what the hell I should write about. Then the three hours of writing usually turns into four. I should be doing other things.

SP 2: Right. Like checking Facebook?

SP 1: [silence]

SP 2: Like riding your horse?

SP 1: Suck it.

SP 2: Okay, I’m sorry. But I’d like to know. Really. Tell me, what else should you be doing?

SP 1: I do WORK for a living, you know.

SP 2: I’m not sure writing is really considered work, but, okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.

SP 1: And I’m trying to finish a book I’ve been working on for the last year.

SP 2: Ah, yes, I forgot: The Book.

SP 1: And I have kids and a husband who, believe it or not, would like to spend time with me when my face isn’t illuminated by a computer screen.

SP 2: Then why don’t you spend the time that you typically spend with your horse with your family instead?

SP 1: [Silence.]

So most of me hates the blog. It is the albatross hanging limply around my tired and aching neck. I curse the day I started it! What was I thinking?! I blame my neighbor Jennifer. It was all her idea. “Laura, you need to write a blog!” She’s so convincing, with her kind smile that makes you believe she really wants what’s best for you instead of yearning for your self-destruction, which is clearly her true intent. Effing blog!

But, but, but…

Part of me loves the blog. Having so few readers (and being close friends with half of them) is actually freeing in a lot of ways. I think if I were writing for a broader audience, I’d be more circumspect about what I post. But knowing it’s this intimate little crowd, I let my guard down. I’ll write about the most personal parts of my life without worrying that someone will post a comment telling me what a horrible mother I am, or what a horrible writer I am. (Not that there aren’t people out there who believe both…but they’re quiet about it. God bless their merciful souls.)

And the blog forces me to write, which is good for me, who tends to find too many excuses not to. It’s become a readymade portfolio: I’ve written a lot of stuff here that I’ve been able to use elsewhere (either in parts of The Book or as stand-alone pieces). Plus, the weekly chore of it has helped improve my writing. It keeps me thinking thematically and metaphorically. And I’m beginning to recognize my habits—both good and bad—and trying to nurture the former and slit the throat of the latter. Well, maybe not quite so violent. Maybe I’ll challenge the latter to a dance-off?

Lastly, the blog is a great way for my mom to keep abreast of what’s going on in my life. (I’m not very good with phone calls.)

So the pluses outweigh the minuses. Right? I think so.

Thus I’ll keep writing the blog. But that doesn’t mean I’ll do it happily. Oh, no. Not by a long shot. I’ll keep groaning and grumbling. I’ll still glare at my neighbor Jennifer when I see her. I’ll still say it’s a waste of time and tell myself I should be doing something better with my life. Like checking Facebook. Or riding my horse.

I noticed while I was washing my hands that the toilet paper roll wasn’t on the toilet paper holder. The empty cardboard roll was still there instead, stark in its nakedness. And I realized that this was the case in every bathroom in the house: all of the new rolls of toilet paper sat perched on the skeleton of the last roll. I had a sudden urge to go through the house and correct this—to discard the old and put the new in their proper place. Because it’s not about just the toilet paper. (It’s never about just the toilet paper, is it?) It’s this life that so often feels like it’s flying faster than I can manage it…

Today I ordered new underwear for the kids (and, yes, I ordered it because I refuse to go to the mall unless under the threat of death—so the $5 shipping is absolutely worth it) and I asked Noah if he wanted the kind with patterns and pictures or plain white. “Plain white,” he said.

He’s seven, and he wants plain white underwear.

At that moment I wanted to freeze time and tell him he couldn’t grow up anymore. I, who have dreamed of my children’s eighteenth birthdays since the day they were born, wanted to stop the clock and maybe even turn it back a few clicks to a time when Noah would have wanted trains or cars or aliens or footballs on his underwear.

But I can’t, of course. Every parent wants to do this at some point in their children’s lives. It’s the occupational hazard of being a parent, I suppose…the knowledge that these small creatures will keep growing and slowly shed the accoutrements of childhood. We know that it’s just a matter of time before we ask them if they want to snuggle on the couch and are met with eye rolls and a shudder that starts at their earlobes and ripples down to their toes. Babies grow up. Old people die. It is the same as it ever was.

I can’t change that.

But I can change the toilet paper rolls. So I do. One by one, I go to each bathroom and slide the cardboard tube off its plastic spring-loaded cylinder and replace it with the new roll. It’s a mediation of sorts and I’m ashamed by how satisfying it feels. And after I’m done, I go to my office and I make a list of all the things I need to do this week. And I pay bills. And I answer emails. And I file paperwork.

And for a fleeting moment I believe that I’m in control of it all. I’m holding my finger on the second hand of the clock and daring it to tell me otherwise.

During a dinner party with friends a couple weeks ago, a conversation ensued about whether Dave (husband) thinks I’m the funniest person he knows.

This was a set up. Or rather, a distraction from the issue at hand…which was that I made the mistake of saying in front of our friends that I thought Dave was one of the top five funniest people I know.

Top five.

Seems like that should be good enough for most people, but not Dave…who rightly observed, “Top FIVE?! That’s not even a bronze medal!”

To which I replied, “How do you know? Maybe you’re in second place.”

“Because,” he said, “then you would’ve said I was one of the top two funniest people you know. If you say ‘top five,’ you’re implying fifth.”

To tell you the truth, I don’t know why I said this. I’ve proclaimed many times over the course of our almost 14 years of marriage that Dave is the funniest person I know—because he is. And, yet, that night, for some reason I still don’t fully understand (but am blaming on the copious wine), I decided to demote him.

When I could feel the flames licking my feet, I decided to turn the question around. “Well, what about me? Am I the funniest woman you know?”

“Yes,” Dave replied, without even stuttering.

Crap. “Okay,” I said, trying to gain at least some semblance of ground, “but am I the funniest person you know?”

Pause.

Dave stammered for a moment and then managed to sputter out, “You’re in the top five.”

“Ha!” I said victoriously.

While Dave and I were arguing, much to the delight of our dinner guests, our friend Juan leaned over to Derrick and said, “But I thought Laura was a dude.’”

This elicited howls of laughter from the group, particularly from Derrick, who I think nearly choked on his steak.

So this is an ongoing joke among pretty much all of my friends—particularly the guys: that I’m really a man. The reasons for this, from what I can gather, are the following:

1. I have a very crude sense of humor. Much like a 12-year-old boy, jokes involving bodily functions and “that’s what she said” make me laugh. Every.single.time.


2. I don’t like most stereotypically “girlie” things…spa days, shopping, The Bachelor.


3. My wardrobe consists of jeans. And T-shirts. And more jeans.

I’ve been this way most of my life—and the “I thought Laura was a dude” jokes have followed me since high school.

I’ve often wondered why this is. I mean, I’m not the only woman with the qualities listed above. I know plenty of women who are just as crude, who don’t like shopping, and who wear jeans—yet are not teased constantly about being a guy. It’s enough to give a girl (?) a complex.

But, okay, I don’t mind. Really. I think it’s funny and I actively play into it. What does bother me is how frequently I feel like I’m more man than woman…that I might have two X chromosomes, but my second X leans heavily toward the Y.

Before you start worrying that this blog is going to be about my pending sex change operation, let me put your mind at ease. I don’t feel that conflicted. I am very much a woman. It just sometimes bothers me that I can so much more easily relate to (stereo)typical male feelings, including:

1. A reluctance to have children: As many of you know, I really struggled with the decision of whether to have kids. Dave absolutely wanted them; I wasn’t so sure. Although I know in theory there are women who share my experience, I don’t know any of them. Among my couple friends who have kids, either both wanted them, or the wife wanted them more. This might be because women are more likely to have the final say in this matter—so for those women who were, like me, in the maybe-to-no camp, the “no” prevailed and they are now childless. I’m not sure. But it bothers me that more often than not, when I hear couples having the Great Children Debate, the father-to-be is the more hesitant one—and I more closely identify with him.

2. A disinterest in most things domestic: I don’t really care what we eat for dinner or whether you put your feet on the coffee table. I advocate putting all clothes in one load in the washer under the pretense that it saves water and electricity, but really it’s just because I’m lazy. Beyond a very basic desire for things to look nice (decent art on the walls, attractive furniture) and a strong tendency toward OCD-like tidiness (not cleanliness—I can tolerate the balls of dog hair rolling across our hardwood floors like tumbleweeds in the desert; but I can’t tolerate stacks of paper on the table), I don’t care what the house looks like.

3. An affinity for sophomoric comedy—mostly cartoon-based, like The Family Guy. I don’t think I need to say any more than that.

I’ve wondered more than once if someone were to describe me to a stranger without identifying me as male or female, would they think I was a man or a woman? I suspect the former.

While this frequently makes me feel like a freak of nature, I have to remind myself that it’s actually a healthier way to be. I read once that the more androgynous a person is, the happier they are. It seems that when we’re able to shrug off traditional gender roles, we free ourselves up to become more complete human beings—ones who are governed by our own needs and desires, and not by the vagaries of culture.

I often think of this with my own children, when I discourage them from getting sucked into the “boys do this” and “girls do that” mode of thinking that predominates the early years. And I’m proud that I can be a living, breathing example of how people don’t fall into neatly defined categories. Because few people do. The fact is, most everyone I know—both women and men—cross gender boundaries: I know men who love romantic comedies and cooking, and women who love football and Howard Stern. I know men who define themselves first and foremost as fathers, and women for whom their careers are paramount. I know women whose sex drives eclipse their husbands and men who wish their wives would cuddle more.

So while I might share more traits with men than the average woman, I take comfort in knowing that pretty much everyone falls somewhere along what is a very long and messy continuum. And we’re a much more interesting species because of it.

But all that being said, I’m not willing to give up my womanhood just yet.

This past weekend I volunteered at the Fun Fair at my kids’ school and was able to talk my neighbor R.J. into attending for a while (a victory given he hates crowds and things with the word “fun” in them). My volunteer shift was spent in the beanbag toss room, where I handed tokens to kids who successfully tossed said beanbags into three baskets. The other volunteer was a man who said to one of the children who won, “The lady over there has a token for you.”

When R.J. heard this, he burst out laughing. “Lady?” he mouthed to me.

Yes, lady. Maybe I’m not such a dude after all.

At dinner the other night, I was telling my friends Derrick and Lee Ann about the new dawn simulator I had just purchased.

Lee Ann did a double take. “What did you say?” she asked.

“I bought a dawn simulator.”

“Oooohhhhhh,” she said, looking a little relieved. “I thought you said ‘dong simulator.’”

“I already have one of those.”

Ba-da-bum.

So, yes, I’ve bought a dawn simulator. If you don’t know what this is, think alarm clock with a bunch of LED lights stacked on top of it. I set the alarm for whatever time I want to wake up and then pick a sunrise length of either 15 or 30 minutes. So, for instance, if I want to wake up at 6 a.m. and have picked a 15-minute sunrise, the lights start turning on at 5:45 and are full bright by six.

I bought this for a few reasons. First of all, after years of suspecting that I had seasonal affective disorder (SAD), I finally took the plunge and got an expert medical opinion—by way of a self-diagnosing tool on the Internet. There I learned that SAD is kick started by the shorter days of winter and characterized by depression, difficulty waking, fatigue, and carbohydrate craving.

Okay, to be honest, aside from the depression, I pretty much have these symptoms year-round. I love to sleep. No, really. I.love.it. I’m one of those people who can sleep ten hours at night and still take a two-hour nap. And I have never, ever in my life been a morning person. It almost always takes an act of Congress, a marching band, and a 21-gun salute to wake me in the morning, and even then I trudge through the first two hours of my day as if it’s the Bataan death march.

As for craving carbs…suffice it to say that I could live happily on a diet of pasta, pizza, doughnuts, cookie batter, mashed potatoes, and Wonder bread. As a kid, when I heard that prisoners got only bread and water to eat (and I actually believed that for way longer than I care to admit), I was mostly just really jealous.

All of this is compounded during the winter months, especially on the east coast, where light disappears behind a featureless gray sky for days at a time. Beginning in October, I want to take my loaf of Wonder bread and crawl under the covers until spring or the Apocalypse, whichever comes first.

As I read about SAD, I also read about the treatment: light therapy (my knowledge of which stemmed exclusively from an episode of Northern Exposure I saw about a dozen years ago). Supposedly, sitting in front of really bright lights for 30 to 60 minutes each morning fools your brain into thinking the days are longer and the hibernation period has ended.

Here’s a confession: I have a very western approach to medicine. I like pills. And chemicals. And stamps that say “FDA approved.” And studies with charts and numbers and pie graphs showing me that what I’m taking has actually been proven to work.

I’m highly skeptical of any medical treatment that doesn’t have these things. This is the reason I don’t take vitamins or do acupuncture or drink herbal tea. The most unconventional medicinal thing I do is go to a chiropractor, who, I must admit, has worked miracles on my back.

Most of my friends are into alternative medicine and I believe them when they tell me about the amazing results they’ve had. But I just can’t bring myself to try them. Not that I never will…I just haven’t yet.

So when I read about light therapy it sounded like something a witch doctor deep in the sub-Saharan bush would prescribe. I mean, really? You want me to sit in front of a lamp for a half hour a day and all my problems will be solved? My suspicions were heightened when I looked into ordering one of these lights and saw that the prices ranged from $60 to $300. I thought of all the poor saps who forked over their money for one, basking in its artificial glow, waiting for some miracle. These are the same people who buy ShamWows.

But the fact was, the days were getting shorter and I was having a harder time getting up in the morning (often dragging myself out of bed at 8:30—just a half hour before the kids had to leave for school) and feeling more and more lethargic and depressed. So I asked my doctor about light therapy, expecting her to roll her eyes and say, “Sure. And after you buy one I have some real estate investment opportunities in Florida I’d like to talk to you about.” But to my surprise, she didn’t. She told me that, yes, light therapy had been proven to be effective for most people who suffered from SAD, and the results were almost immediate.

I bought a dawn simulator that same afternoon.

I’ve been using it for two weeks now and I have to say: I’m a believer. Since waking up with the dawn simulator, I’ve been getting out of bed no later than 6:30 each morning and writing for two hours before the kids wake up. I feel more creative and more productive and more in control of my day. In a word, I feel more awake.

I’m willing to admit that some of this could be the placebo effect. I’m very prone to suggestion. Several years ago I was at the dentist to have a cavity filled. I asked for nitrous oxide because I hate getting my teeth drilled so I figured why not use it as an excuse to party. The dentist placed the mask over my nose and said, “You’ll start to feel the effects of this pretty quickly.”

I nodded my head. “Yeah,” I said a little dreamily. “I already am.”

He paused and looked at me. “I haven’t turned it on yet.”

Yes, ladies and gentleman, this is the embarrassment I call my life. I’m probably one of those people who wouldn’t need anesthesia for open heart surgery. Just put a mask over my face and pump in oxygen and give me an injection of saline, and I’ll be good to go.

So it’s possible that this dawn simulator is nothing more than an over-priced nightlight. But I don’t think so. Not when we’re talking about something so dear to me…sleep. I might be able to talk myself into not feeling the pain of an invasive medical procedure, but I really don’t think I can talk myself into being a morning person.

And so what if I am just fooling myself? Does that really matter? The reality is I’m feeling less depressed and more in control of my life. If it took a $150 alarm clock to make that happen, so be it. I want to shout from the rooftops: “I, Laura Ann Mullane, am a convert!” Just you watch. Pretty soon I’ll be drinking herbal tea, going in for acupuncture, and ordering a ShamWow. But not just yet. First I’m going to order my dong simulator.

I’m sitting on the couch with Dave and “The American President” is on HBO, so we’re watching it, because it reminds us of when we lived in DC 14 years ago and they filmed parts of the movie down the street from our friend Kelly’s apartment. And, ok, I like it, so there. Anyway, I was reminded while watching it that I LOVED Annette Bening’s haircut. In case you don’t remember it, here’s a look:

Let’s keep in mind: I was 24 years old when this movie was released. Why was I hell bent on looking 40?

And, fyi, I’ve decided to keep my hair in its longish, perpetually frizzy state for the time being. I already did my time looking 40ish when I was in my 20s. Now I’m going to spend some time looking solidly in my late 30s.

(If you didn’t read my original post about my hair quandry, you can find it here.)

My friend Colleen posted this quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson in response to “The Parenting Olympics”:

“To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.  This is to have succeeded.”

I’ve always loved this quote and was glad to read it again in its entirety. But, it’s funny, as I read it, part of me thought, “Well, sure, easy for him to say. He was a success.”

Oh boy. I can already tell you this post will be filed solidly in the “neuroses” category.

Because here’s my dirty little secret: I, who deplore how we push our children to material success, totally have my panties in a wad when it comes to my own success. I agonize on pretty much an hourly basis about whether I will ever achieve all I want to achieve as a writer.

This was hammered home last night, as I read The Year of Living Biblically by A. J. Jacobs. It chronicles a year in the author’s life when he, a devout agnostic, tries to follow the Bible as literally as possible—including not wearing mixed fibers, stoning adulterers, and playing a ten-string harp. In it, he talks about the commandment not to covet your neighbor’s house, nor his wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything else. (And, yes, I laughed a little when I wrote “nor his ass.”) And the author talks very candidly about how difficult this is and all the things he covets—including the success of other authors.

This got me thinking about my own jealousies and everything I covet. Here’s a brief list:

1. I’m jealous of A. J. Jacobs for writing this book. It’s funny and interesting and a really brilliant idea.
2. I’m jealous of Jhumpa Lahiri, whose second book of short stories I recently read and was literally slack-jawed in amazement at her talent.
3. If I list all the writers I’m jealous of, we’ll be here a while, so let me just sum it up this way: I’m jealous of pretty much every successful writer. And I define “successful” as anyone who is widely read and admired.
4. I’m jealous of Jill and Kevin’s wedding entrance—not because it was viewed on YouTube by about a billion people, but because I didn’t think of it first.
5. I’m jealous of all of riders (equestrian) who are better than me.
6. I’m jealous of everyone who lives in the mountain west.
7. I’m jealous of visual artists because I really wish I had their sensibility and view of the world.
8. I’m jealous of people who eat healthily and shop at farmer’s markets. I’m too lazy to do either.
9. I’m jealous of people who live a nomadic life—who travel the world taking odd jobs here and there (or who write about it or photograph it), but can move from one place to the next with little more than a backpack and a passport.
10. I’m jealous of anyone who dances and/or sings really well.
11. I’m jealous of mothers who seem to parent effortlessly.

I’m going to stop there. Not because it’s the end of my list. Not by a long shot. I could fill pages. But I think you get the idea.

When I read that list, I’m a little ashamed. Jealousy is such a petty emotion. Just the other day I gave my kids a big lecture on the futility of coveting. “There will always be people who have more than you and people who have less,” I told them. “There will always be someone smarter and better looking and funnier than you are. But there will also always be people who have less of those things than you do.” At this point, Noah’s and Gwyneth’s eyes had glazed over, but I was on a roll. “The trick is not to compare yourself to other people. Do what you want to do as well as you can. Don’t worry about what other people are doing.” Then I go on to tell them that life is not a pie (by now the kids have probably left the room, but I’m still talking). “When someone else gets something you want, that doesn’t mean there’s less happiness for you. Another person’s accomplishments don’t diminish your own.”

Someday my kids will have the wherewithal to say, “Oh, really, Mom? Is this how you live your life?”

In truth, I do. Or I try to. I’m genuinely happy for my friends and family when they find success in anything—even the things I really, really wish I found success in, too. I really believe that life isn’t a pie. And the most miserable people I know live as if it were…convinced that anyone else’s achievement means a big hunk of life’s potential happiness has been carved out and is gone forever—to be enjoyed only by the person whose plate is full.

And I also have seen enough to know that material success (and I don’t just mean money—but prestige, awards, recognition) does not equate to happiness. Those who have achieved much always want to achieve more. And those rare few who really have achieved everything they can—who are the undisputed “best” in their sport or career or academic discipline—usually languish, wandering around in a sort of fog wondering, “What next?” It’s why Lance Armstrong returned to cycling, and why Michael Jordan took up baseball.

But despite the fact that I know all this, I can’t live my life as if I do. A big part of me still lives according to the “if only” principle: “If only I could write a bestselling book, then I’d be happy.” “If only I won the Pulitzer Prize, then I’d stop striving.” “If only Oprah would have me on her show, all my problems would be solved.”

I come by this honestly. My dad was an astronaut and I heard this same lament my entire life. “If only I get to fly in space, then I’ll be happy.” “If only I get to fly in space again…” “…and again.” Then, after he retired, he began public speaking and writing—two things he’s done very successfully—yet still he’s plagued by “if onlys.”

And I look at him and say, “Dad, stop running. You’re fine just where you are.” But he’s not, because that’s not who he is. It’s not who I am either, as much as I desperately want to be. And I doubt it’s who my kids are. Already I’m seeing the signs of over-achievers-in-the-making: Noah disappointed when he got a “G” on his report card for “good” instead of an “O” for “outstanding; Gwyneth asking me to sign her up for a ballet class with older kids because the younger girls in her class distract her and “don’t take it seriously.”

Maybe that’s okay. Maybe this is who we are, at our core, and trying to change it will meet with as much success as Glenn Beck trying to develop a conscience. Because I realize, as I write this, my life has been dictated by another “if only”: “If only I would stop thinking ‘if only,’ I’d be happy.”

Maybe it’s time for be fine just where I am. I think Ralph Waldo Emerson would agree.

It’s a vlog, people. It’s a vlog.

This afternoon I was driving back from a farm in Maryland where I went to interview a racehorse trainer for an article I’m writing for the Washington Post Magazine. (All of that is irrelevant…I just wanted to find a way to work “horse” and “Washington Post” into this post. The former because I like to annoy my non-horsey friends by talking about them incessantly. The latter because it makes me sound legit…you know, like I actually work for a living instead of just writing a self-absorbed blog.)

I was starving so I got some McDonald’s, which I really don’t like—believe it or not—but I was really, really hungry. And then I turned on NPR because I have this thing when I’m driving: if I’m just driving, I exclusively listen to my iPod. But if I’m driving and eating, I listen to NPR. This is a hard-and-fast rule. There are no exceptions. Unless “Car Talk” is on. But luckily, being in the DC area, there are about 50 public radio stations, so I can always find one that’s broadcasting something of interest.

So I turned on NPR and it was a local show and the guest was comedian—or, I should say comedienne—Tig Notaro. I’ve seen her on cable a couple times and she’s very funny. If you don’t believe me, watch this.

And it turns out there’s a comedy festival in DC this weekend and she and Sarah Silverman and a bunch of other comics are going to be doing stand up. As she was rattling off the names of the other performers, I noticed that there were a disproportionate number of women comics, which made me happy because I think too often stand-up is dominated by men. But simultaneous with that happiness came jealousy because, you see, I’ve always secretly wanted to be a stand-up comedian.

I actually tried stand-up. Twice. And that’s the story I’d like to share with you today…

In the fall of my freshman year at DePaul University in Chicago, where I was an acting student—nay, a theatre (with an “re”) student—my dorm, Corcoran Hall, had an open mic night. Corcoran was populated with mostly performing art students, so it was actually a pretty talented bunch. As I watched someone do their best to emulate Bruce Springsteen and someone else do their best to emulate Indigo Girls and someone else play the cello, I thought, “I should do a stand-up routine.” Brilliant. I’d never done it before, but who cared? I usually made my friends laugh, why couldn’t I make these 60 or so people laugh—most of whom were already high? The odds were totally in my favor.

So I put my name on the list, ran into the bathroom, and prepped for 20 minutes. My name was called and I took the stage—which wasn’t really a stage, just the front of the lounge where the TV usually sat.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been as nervous as I was at that moment. What if I bombed? What if I made jokes and heard nothing in return except the mouth-breathing of that dude in the front row with the Bears cap on backwards?

But I was already on stage and there was nothing to do but go, so I plunged in and did five minutes of material. And to my delight, people actually laughed. Some quite hard. Afterwards total strangers came up to me and told me how much they enjoyed it. Others who knew me told me they thought I had found my calling.

It was a high unlike any other. Holy crap, I thought. This is it! This is what I’m going to do with my life! I couldn’t wait to do it again.

The next open mic night was scheduled for February. That gave me plenty of time to amass a veritable treasure trove of comic genius. And I did. From that point forward, everything in my life—every interaction, every relationship, every event—was potential material. Nothing was too insignificant. I became what I liked to believe was an astute observer of human behavior. And, boy, what I collected was funny. I knew funny and this.was.funny. Like the entire routine I created based on the train ride I took from Chicago to Albuquerque that Christmas? Think that doesn’t sound like good material for stand-up? Boy, are you mistaken!

The day of the show dawned cold, gray, and miserable, but nothing could dampen my spirits. I was, as Katrina and the Waves so aptly described it, walking on sunshine. I had my material. I was prepared. I was ready.

My name was called. I walked on stage and started belting them out—one joke after the next. And I think you know what happened…

I bombed.

Big time.

Hearing the mouth-breathing Bears fan would have been a relief. Instead, there was nothing. Just silence—or, worse than silence, the occasional pity laugh. But dammit, I wasn’t going to give up. I kept going. So what if no one was laughing? I had a good 20 minutes of material that I had put together. If they didn’t laugh at the first part of the set, maybe they’d laugh at the second? I had saved my best material for last anyway. So I kept plugging away.

Until I heard, “Laura!” and looked to the corner of the room from whence the voice came, and saw the organizer of the show with his oh-so-superior clipboard, giving me the little whirly sign with his finger that, I believe, is show-biz-speak for, “Wrap it up,” or, more bluntly, “You suck; get the hell off the stage.”

So I did. I wrapped it up and got the hell off. I wanted to cry. No, more accurately, I wanted to go into the corner, ball up into the fetal position, and bawl like a baby. After I did that, I wanted to change dorms. Better yet, I wanted to drop out of college and move to a town where no one knew me and I could live out my days manning a hot-dog vending cart by day and, by night, writing letters to the newspaper editor complaining about the sewage treatment plant that was just up the street from my basement apartment that I shared with six cats named after the Brady Bunch children.

But I couldn’t, of course. I had done enough acting to know that, no matter how badly something goes, you hold your head up high and walk off the stage with dignity.

I took my place in the audience and watched the other acts, but I didn’t really pay attention. I just kept going over my sucky routine in my head, convinced that everyone was staring at me wondering what in the hell made me think I could do stand up.

That night, my friends and I gathered in my dorm room. They bucked me up. “It was good, Laura! You just went over the time limit, that’s all,” they lied…and I was eternally grateful to them for it.

But no matter what their placating words said, the shame I felt was deep and actually physically painful. So I did what I always did to deal with situations like these: I got drunk and streaked the dorm in my underwear. Now, that’s walking off the stage with dignity.

To show you the depth of my vanity, after posting the article below and all the humiliating photos, I turned to Dave with a gasp and said, “What if people who don’t know me really think I’m that unattractive?” So here I am today, with long-ish hair…

So I’ve got this idea that I should cut my hair short. I go through this about once a year—this sudden urge to remake myself…you know, like I’m Madonna. The only problem is: I’ve had short hair before. In fact, I’ve had short hair most of my life. The only times in my life that my hair hasn’t been short are: 1980, 1988, 1991 through 1993, 2000 through 2003, 2005 to present.

You’ll notice the last stretch has been the longest—because I finally figured something out: I don’t look good in short hair. I’m kind of amazed it took me so long to realize this. I mean, wouldn’t you get a clue after the first or second or, I don’t know, FIFTH haircut that short really isn’t your look?

I blame my ignorance on my mother (sorry, Mom). She’s had short hair practically her entire life and it looks really good on her. But she made a fatal error in thinking it also looked good on her daughters. So, as soon as my sister’s and my hair was cuttable, it was cut. Short. Actually, my sister could pull it off. Her face was feminine enough that she still looked like a girl without the flowing locks. I, on the other hand, have always had more masculine features. Imagine Don Johnson without the stubble. Thus from the time I was a very young girl, I grew up hearing, “Well, hello, young man,” and “What a handsome boy!” more often than is healthy. Whenever I would play house with my friends, I was forced to play the husband. When we’d play Charlie’s Angels, I was always relegated to the dreaded role of Sabrina.

I’m probably walking proof that sexual orientation isn’t a choice because if it were, I would have been a shoe-in for being a lesbian.

Yet still, even when I was older and had a choice in what my hair would look like, more often than not, I would go for the sheared look. Here’s a pictorial tour of my bad short haircuts through the years:

I’m the young man in front, on the pony:

Third grade. No one had the heart to tell me that the feathers weren’t helping:

Seventh grade. It might be hard to look past my smokin’ hot bod to see that that’s a permed mullet under my painter’s cap:

Eighth grade. Hot rollers helped achieve this look:

Ninth grade. The precursor to Kate Gosselin’s do. By the way, the one-strap overalls? That was my idea. Edgy:

Tenth grade. It seems by this point I’ve just given up. Oh, and the Von Trapps called, they want their curtain clothes back:

1996. Please note the high-waisted jeans that make me look heavier than I am now, when in fact I was probably 10 pounds lighter. And that “come hither” look? Really?:

1997. I was 26 years old here, but the haircut easily puts me at an even 40:

And the sad thing is, I found these pictures when I was looking through my photo albums for proof that short hair looked good on me. You’d think I would have learned by now.

I remind myself of my dogs. When we lived in New Mexico, our property was adjacent to public land—miles and miles of open desert. Every day we would walk the coyote trails and every day—every single day—my dogs would chase the Harvey-sized jackrabbits that made their homes under the juniper bushes. And each time, they would fail. In the five years we lived there, they never once caught a rabbit. And yet that history was lost on them. Every day they would try as if they had never failed. Every day held the promise that maybe, just maybe, this time would different.

I know exactly how they feel. I think this time will be different, too. I really do.