On one restroom door was the word “barley,” on the other, “hops.”

Uncertain from these words which door housed the restroom meant for the female gender, I stood in front of both doors, perplexed. Yet despite my unfortunate situation, I was too proud to approach a restaurant employee to request a hint as to whether, as a woman, I more resemble barley or hops.

And desperate though I was to use the restroom, I simply couldn’t risk the fatal error of entering through the wrong door. I was also too far from my car to potty-dance my way to the emergency bedpan that I reserve for long-distance road trips, like when I drive across the street to pick up my mail. Thus, I had no option but to meditate on my gender as well as everything I’ve ever learned about the beer precursors of hops and barley and identify and explore similarities and differences between each and how they relate to our existence as masculine and feminine beings in the universe.

At least, that’s absolutely what I would have done had I not been too submersed in an urgent need-to-go-NOW haze that I couldn’t actually think clearly.

So instead I called my friend who has never been spotted without his trusty iPhone. He uses it to call people, check the internet, read his email, and shampoo his hair (it’s the new feature: the iFoam), and it’s always nustled in his pocket, ready for action.

Friend: Hello?

Me: Oh thank goodness, you answered! Do you have your iPhone nearby? I need you to look something up for me.

Friend: Um…..it’s my iPHONE. If I answered it, of course I’m using it. Are you joking?

Me: (I wasn’t.) Okay, I’m stuck in front of two restrooms. One is labeled “barley” and one is labeled “hops.” Which restroom do I choose?

Friend: Is this one of your riddles, because I have to tell you, it’s sounding pretty lame.

Me: I’m serious! This is an emergency!!

So, after I convinced him that this was not simply a prank call and that I was, in fact, in dire need of solving my conundrum, my friend investigated my inquiry. It is most unfortunate that we discovered that hops are dioecious, which means that the plans could be either male or female. And barley heads are composed of spikelets that consist of two husks, enclosing both male and female floral parts. In other words, they’re androgynous.

These findings were most distressing.

As you can see, my blog has no happy ending. Yet while it does not contain a happy ending, it does have a moral. The moral of this blog is that you cannot judge a book by its cover, if its cover is obscured by inane references that were thought amusing by an idiot who doesn’t use public restrooms and doesn’t appreciate the predicament he put me in. So, Mr. Public-Restroom-Guy, please cover future restrooms appropriately so that I can judge them and enter accordingly.

–Troi out

*Editors note: While Troi was not intelligent enough to determine the answer to her restroom door dilemma, we at the editor’s desk know inherently that barley indicates the female restroom, and hops indicates the male restroom. We are sure you knew that, too.

Of course any 28 year old female should know that there are “preferred” places to groom one’s eyebrows.  Not I.  No, I am deficient in such nuisances as common sense.  I brilliantly went to the mall and discovered a salon that offered eyebrow waxing for only $10.  In the midst of my extensive student loan repayment, I felt this was the perfect affordable solution to my overendowed eyebrows. 

What might have been my warning signals at this time?  Perhaps that I didn’t even have to make an appointment?  Perhaps that when the lady who was to perform the wax (what do you call these people?  Eyebrow stylists?  Brow professionals?  Eyebrow therapists?) walked her previous customer out, I observed that this customer had no eyebrows to speak of???  But indeed I made no such neural connections.

So as my “eyebrow stylist” walked me into the “waxing room” I made a point of telling her I had never been waxed before, that I wanted very natural eyebrows that were just neatened up a bit.  My “eyebrow stylist,” a short lady with a thick accent, seemed to understand me, which I gathered from her repeating my comments, “Oh yes natural.  Never before?  Oh yes, natural good.”  Yes, natural is good.  So we were on the same page. 

She had me lie down, and before applying the wax she commented that I had very beautiful eyebrows.  In retrospect it’s hard to say why she then chose to remove almost every hair from them!!  Nevertheless, after being waxed and tweased (tweasing which caused bleeding I might add!), my eyebrows (or what was left of them) were so eager to run from this place that some of these questions remain unanswered. 

So, in summary, I find that my experience has taught me some valuable lessons that I would like to share with my friends in hopes that they may learn from my mistakes:

1) Don’t wax your eyebrows.  God gave them to you.

2) If you choose to ignore my advice and wax them anyway, don’t do it at the mall.  The extra $5 to go to a reputable facility is probably worth it.

3) If you forget suggestions #1 & #2, it may help to recite the 11th commandment:  “Thou shalt not wax thou’s eyebrows at thy mall.”

–Troi out

Speaking of beer drinking tree shrews, I decided last week to get a manicure. At the age of 28, I’ve actually never gotten one. And I hear that it’s one of those things you have to do before you turn thirty, like, you know, going to Vegas, or reading a book. I’ve resisted this female beauty custom because I was concerned that the nail specialists who work there would take one look at my thumbs, which are half the height and twice the width of the average woman’s thumb, and ridicule me right out of the salon. But more about my deformed digits later.

I bravely entered the nail salon and approached the lady at the counter.

“Hi,” I started out tentatively, “I want…..um…..fake nails, please.”

“A set? Acrylic, gel, or silk wrap? Color? French?” she responded.

Once she defined all of the adjectives and I chose my Acrylic French Manicure, I followed a cranky Asian lady (who I’ve named SAL, which stands for Scary Asian Lady) back to the manicure desk. She looked at my nails in disgust.

“You never have manicure before?” She said it accusingly, like she took it as a personal affront that I hadn’t spent my hard-earned money on increasing the asthetics of my fingernails.

We spent the majority of the manicure in silence, with her scrubbing away at my nail beds (that’s where the nails sleep when they get tired), occasionally muttering in Asian what I’m sure were criticisms of the sheer unattractiveness of my previously un-beautified hands. I sat in silence, even when another employee decided to clean the wall right next to me and Windex vapor drifted onto my arms, bathing me in a nice Windex shower. (I didn’t even have to pay for the Windex–it came free with my grumpy manicurist!)

Then my manicurist got to my thumbs. “Those your REAL thumbs?” she asked in horror.

It’s true. As previously mentioned, my thumbs are twice as wide and half as tall as the typical thumb. In order to fit an acrylic nail on my thumb, my angry manicurist had to dig into the colossal acrylics pile generally set aside for, I imagine, Hagrid the giant, and maybe The Rock. If they were into getting manicures.

But yes, they are my real thumbs. You just can’t fake something like that.

“How long you want?” asked Sal, my manicurist. I explained that I wanted very short acrylic tips, since I play piano. She nodded curtly, and proceeded to give me nail tips that appeared long enough that I could actually touch the opposite wall six feet away just by lifting a finger. Or maybe the Windex was getting to me. At any rate, I looked ridiculous. Long nails fit in with me just about as well as I would fit in with beer-drinking tree shrews in the rainforests of Malaysia.

But you don’t argue with Sal when she has a sharp cutting tool in her hands. She grasped those fingernail clippers like they were weed wackers, and I could just see her plotting to wack off the better half of my thumbs so that they better blended in with the rest of my digits.

For those manicure virgins out there who have the urge to dash to the nearest salon after reading my blog post, I’d like to offer a piece of advice. No matter what, do NOT ask the question, “So how long do these things stay on before they fall off?”

Not that it’s not a valid question. Nine out of ten of my acrylic tips have already found their way off my fingers (I think that my hands repel them–I think they’re looking for a more prim and proper owner). But the question will unequivocally offend your manicurist, and she’ll suddenly remember how to speak English again.

“The nails don’t fall off!” Sal screeched when I asked the fatal question. “They stay put, they good nails!”

And they did stay put. Nearly four days.

All in all, I would have to give my manicure two giant deformed thumbs up.

Please stay tuned for next week’s beauty blog:

Eyebrow Waxing: Not Just for Eyebrows Anymore

–Troi out

Not so, according to this article on the beer-drinking tree shrew. This tree shrew spends his evenings slurping up his major food source: beer from flower buds (yeast has invaded the buds, fermenting the flower’s nectar).

That’s right, you heard me correctly. His major food source is beer. Beer counts as a food for the tree shrew. His mom has never said to him, “Baby Tree Shrew, finish your dinner before you dig into that beer!” Instead, she says, “Look, Baby Tree Shrew! More free alcohol! You take that flower bud, and I’ll take this one!” As the tree shrews like to say, there’s nothing quite as refreshing as a Bud.

But there’s more. At the end of the evening, after completing their own personalized pub crawl through the rain forest flower buds of Malaysia, imbibing what has been judged by biologists to be the equivalent of nine glasses of wine, the shrew shows no signs of being drunk. He passes a breathalyzer at the local Malaysian police station, walks the tree branch without stumbling, and touches his tail to his nose while holding his claws at arms’ length.

Are you jealous yet??!

Reading this article, I was reminded of one of my college roommates, who told me one summer that we should go on the beer and ice cream diet.

“It works great,” she told me, “The ice cream drops your body temperature, so you expend a lot of energy to bring your body heat back up. And beer is full of vitamins and nutrients, and fat-free! We’ll lose weight in no time!”

“That makes NO sense,” I insisted to her.

And then I went to the grocery store to buy beer and ice cream.

But back to the lucky son-of-a–oh, excuse me, I mean back to the tree shrew. The shrew that would smoke you in a drinking game. The shrew that re-joins the Century Club every night. The shrew that doesn’t even attend the parties where he could win these games, because he’s too busy guzzling beer at the local rainforest to drop in and show off his talents.

If anybody could pull a moral out of the derriere of the beer drinking tree shrew, it would be me. So let me remind us that we should never judge a book by its cover. I remember the last time a beer drinking tree shrew joined me at a party and asked me for a beer, I laughed in his face. I had no idea that tiny creature could drink me under the table. Even though he was so tiny that he was already under the table. We should never underestimate people based on their outward appearance. It is not size that makes the person, but the alcohol tolerance. I mean, the character.

I would write more, but I have to go finish booking my flight to the rainforests of Malaysia.

**The author of this blog would like to remind you to please drink responsibly if you’re not a Malaysian tree shrew.

–Troi out

I know you’re angry, and wishing I’d written this blog a few years ago ago, before you settled on Pluto and bought a Pluto house and sent your children to Pluto school, but I’ve been busy. The least I can do is share with you what I know of this tragic planetary demotion. As I understand it, the IAU (International Astromical Union) met recently to propose a finalized definition of the term “planet.” The IAU determined a planet to be “an object that orbits the sun, forms itself into a sphere, and has enough gravitational pull to clear its path of space debris.”

Unfortunately for the Planet Formerly Known as Pluto (PFKAP**), Pluto apparently “does not sweep its neighborhood clear and has an orbit that is much more eccentric.” Now hold on just a minute! If I am to understand that quote correctly, it appears that there are some strong prejudicial tendencies spilling over into this IAU convention. So Pluto does not sweep its neighborhood clear? Excuse me, but I hardly think the fact that Pluto is a messier planet than the others necessitates its removal as a planet! Did the IAU consider sitting Pluto down and asking it nicely to clean its neighborhood? Perhaps giving Pluto a few hours of community service? A class that teaches the importance of recycling? I’m not going to name names here, but I have to wonder if the IAU is being influenced by anyone on planet Earth in that one country, the United States, with this philosophy that reasonable communication should at all costs be avoided in favor of removal of the problem entirely.

But it gets even worse! The IAU continues on to suggest that Pluto should not be a planet because its orbit is eccentric. According to my American Century Dictionary, eccentric means “odd or capricious in behavior or appearance.” (Sure, there are other definitions, but my time is too valuable to read on.) So Pluto’s demotion regards its unique behavior and appearance? Could we BE any more prejudiced against this poor, innocent, but apparently WEIRD former planet?? All Pluto wanted was to be different, to seek out an orbit that went against the crowd, and we have to BAN it from planetary status? Are you outraged too? (I thought not.)

Well, I’m having a hard time letting this planet go. I have fond memories of playing with the electronic geography toy from Natural Wonders my parents bought me as a child, happily clicking the planets, which included Pluto, into order and receiving a reassuring happy BEEP from the toy when I correctly identified each planet. I”m sure you all have similarly fond memories of Pluto. I’m sure you are also having a hard time pronouncing the term “PFKAP” without spitting on your neighbor.

Thankfully, you don’t have to call the Planet Formerly Known As Pluto by the term PFKAP. A name has been chosen already, and PFKAP has now been christened “asteroid number 134340.” (I know, I think it has a nice ring to it too.) Please don’t concern yourselves that in the near future human beings will also be referred to by numbers rather than names, or that messy or eccentric humans will be demoted from personhood status.

I would write more, but I am heading out to get my new government-approved Person ID number imprinted into my wrist. Maybe I’ll see you there.

**The author of this blog, the Person Formerly Known As Me (PFKAM), coined the term PFKAP for purposes of this blog only, and assumes no responsibility for blank stares from readers’ friends when using the term PFKAP in conversation.

–Troi out

I would like to respond to a comment from Theron regarding this post addressing the notion that only 7% of communication is verbal. In my post, I offered a thorough, research-based explanation of those communicative acts that compose the remaining 93% of communication (yawning, bodily noises, dancing & singing, and thumb wrestling).

Theron writes, “What about kissing? Don’t we also communicate through touch? I think your percentages are flawed.”

Ignoring the fact that the information contained in my blogs is never flawed and always fact-checked through a variety of rock solid methods (only one of which includes asking myself if I think I’m right, and it always turns out that I do), Theron has, coincidentally, stumbled upon an insignificant point here.

It’s hardly even worth mentioning.

But the frequently quoted “Only 7% of the message is communicated verbally” is, it turns out, a misquote. In fact, this myth is based on the research of Albert Mehrabian, who was investigating only the communication of attitudes, and he himself observes that obviously in the communication of specific messages, such as physical relationships or technical information, 100% of the message is verbal.

That is to say, allegedly, if I am giving you directions over the phone to my apartment for my fabulous party tonight (which I’m not, because you’re not invited), I will not successfully communicate my location through the exclusive use of facial expressions nor via a delicately-placed bodily noise. Supposedly, verbalizing the directions will be the most effective means of conveying my apartment’s position in space.

So, Theron, while I acknowledge your comment, I have to point to the above evidence that has mounted against your kissing claim. I absolutely cannot explain technical information nor give specific directions while kissing you. In fact, I daresay that kissing you would make verbal explanations even harder, as kissing tends to utilize the mouth, which is the very member allotted for speaking. Therefore, Theron, while I hate to prove you wrong in front of all of my Readers, you can kiss me or you can speak to me but you cannot do both simultaneously without running the risk of choking.

Moreover, I must point out that there is really no need to communicate through kissing when we use the act of thumb-wrestling, as described in this post, which satisfies our human need for touch through more sanitary means. Thumb-wrestling also carries a low level risk of choking as opposed to the simultaneous speaking-kissing effort described above. As I believe passionately in practicing “safe communication,” I may be recommending to my Readers in the future that abstaining from more traditional communicative acts in favor of frequent thumb-wrestling should be implemented worldwide.

I hope that this additional information has enhanced my Readers’ understanding of communication, kissing, and the risks involved in each. For more information, please order my elaborately-entitled book, “Communication: Should It Be Permanently Discontinued And Should Thumb-Wrestling Take Its Place, Or Is There A Way To Safely Reconcile The Two?”

–Troi out

Have you ever tried on a pair of jeans in the store that looked just so good that it was worth all tlhe money in your checkbook, as well as your credit card, your other credit card, your laundry machine quarters, your snack machine PMS emergency quarters, and the pennies under the mattress that you were saving to put toward your next 1/8 gallon of gas; but upon arriving at home you find that the jeans don’t look quite so good in your mirror? Thus sending you spinning into a panic about how you could have possibly gained 10 pounds in the short car ride home from the mall??

Me neither. But it happened to my friend.

She told me the other day that upon a recent trip to the Gap there was something stretchy going on. And I’m not talking about the type of jeans. I’m talking about the distorted, funhouse-esque mirror image reflected back at her, an image that was stretched to nudge unsuspecting consumers into admiring their taller, thinner reflections, thereby increasing their likelihood of buying the product!

I know, I maintain a sentiment of shocked disbelief as well. After all, I imagine the companies marketing their brand are too virtuous to resort to such cunning deception.

So I decided to investigate my friend’s preposterous claim by doing some investigation, Troi-style.*

*Investigation that is Troi-style is like sushi that is rotary-style. Quick and affordable but not as good.

I hopped on the internet, typed “mirrors at Gap store distort body” into Google, and I took the first result that pertained to my topic as undeniable fact. This result was this blog site in which the author contends, “…There is more trickery, department stores have a little something called the “skinny mirror”, and it distorts your image in the mirror to give the allusion of flawlessness.”

In keeping with my topic, I will attempt to resist the temptation to make an allusion to the fact that the writer spelled “illusion” wrong.

The SKINNY mirror!! I KNEW it!! Evil upon evil!! But why??! Why would they DO this to us???!

The answer is simple: There is a little thing called the “thigh-space continuum.” Perhaps you’ve heard of it. And as we get older, the thigh-space continuum begins to shift. Let me simplify this complex concept for the less scientifically-inclined readers in the audience. When we are younger, our thighs take up less space. As we get older, they slowly begin to take up more space. This is due to the shifting thigh-space continuum.

When the shift nears completion, rendering the average adult woman’s thighs so large that they no longer fit into the tiny space allowed by the brand name jeans designed for small children and actresses being spoon-fed carb-free shakes by their nutritionista-of-the-hour, these adult women stop buying brand name jeans. Instead they begin to favor the Geriatric Jeans. These are the formless, shapeless jeans that are the equivalent of a burlap sack made out of denim.

But department stores don’t WANT this! To make the most profit, they need women on both sides of the thigh-space continuum to buy their brand-name jeans! Therefore, they must buy these “skinny mirrors” about which the abovementioned blogger writes, so that no matter where we exist on the thigh-space continuum, we look POSITIVELY FABULOUS in the dressing room. Who cares how we look once we’ve returned home, as long as we’ve taken off the tag??

Thank you to my anonymous friend (I mean, she’s not anonymous to me. I know who she is. But you don’t.) for alerting us all to this serious problem afflicting department stores. It is truly the mirror image of exactly what’s plaguing this consumer-driven society and its members caught in the shifting thigh-space continuum.

–Troi out

You may have recently heard that words only comprise 7% of communication. You must be worrying about what we do to communicate the other 93% of what we want to say. As a speech-language pathologist, or as I call myself, “Communication Expert,” I am delighted to have the opportunity to enlighten you regarding the percentages of each modality of communication that we use in a given conversation.

41% yawning.
Yawning may indicate fatigue. The average American gets less than seven hours of sleep per night, yet research indicates an ideal amount is closer to eight hours. Bats sleep twelve hours a night, and they have some of the sunniest personalities of anyone I’ve ever met. Christian Bale is very amicable. To sleep more like a bat, try hanging yourself upside down from a heavy overhead fan. Make sure that the fan is off first.

Yawning also sometimes communicates boredom. A well-placed deliberate yawn communicates the same message that the words “You are the most boring professor in the history of academic excellence and I want my money back for this class immediately” would also communicate, if one were not concerned about the consequences.

28% bodily noises.
These often communicate that one has eaten too much. For a comprehensive list of bodily noises and their specific communicative functions, please contact The Ex.

21% dancing and singing.
This type of communication works best if you’re in a musical, or in any movie that was produced before the 1960s. It can communicate happiness, pleasure, disappointment, sadness, fear, or psychosis.

7% words.
When we string these words together in a coherent manner, this is referred to as “talking.” Sometimes “talking” is important, such as when you need to communicate something urgent, such as “Don’t hang upside down from that ceiling fan yet, it’s still ON!!”

3% thumb-wrestling. (Can sometimes be interchanged with arm-wrestling.)
Nothing says “I’m tough!” quite like thumb-wrestling. A thumb-wrestler knows what he or she wants out of life and isn’t afraid to go for it with only one digit. Having been born with misshapen thumbs that resemble ping-pong paddles, I can personally attest to the silent but strong “I’m tough!” message that I’m sending each and every time I challenge an opponent to thumb-wrestling.

And there, Readers, are the most prominent forms of communication that you will witness, conveniently adding up to 100% of all communicative acts. I hope that this resolves some of your questions. If any questions remain, please ask me, and I will answer your questions through the highly useful communicative acts of yawning, dancing, and thumb-wrestling. I”m sure you’ll get my drift loud and clear.

–Troi out

We all know the importance of getting an education, and furthering our academic knowledge throughout the entirety of our lives. That’s why, upon receiving a recent community college brochure, I dedicated myself to carefully studying each page to identify those academic subjects in which I could enhance my knowledge.

And it’s a good thing I did. It turns out that there are many vital topics about which I know very little. Having identified the most crucial classes, I would like your advice, Readers, on which class I should take first.

Urban Chicken Keeping
If I take this class, I will gain knowledge on the delights of keeping an urban flock for enhancing my gardenscape and harvesting fresh eggs. More importantly, this class will guide me on “…raising chicks into happy hens and cover their husbandry.” As I like to offer indispensable dating advice to humans on my blog, it is excellent that I will now also be qualified to offer this advice to happy hens in search of a good husband!

Planning Your Own Funeral: Having the Last Word
I think you’ll agree with me that there is nothing worse than dying. Except for dying WITHOUT having planned your own funeral. Sure, I’ve planned other people’s funerals, but it’s just not as satisfying. I don’t know everything that will be covered in this class, but I hope it will cover the basics I’ve always wanted to learn, such as grave-digging, casket-decoration, and affordable funeral catering. Because I’m sure I’m not the only person who attends funerals for the free food.

Soap Making
In the case of an apocalypse, I want to stay fresh and clean. After all, it is likely that at some point in my life, I will be stranded in a bomb shelter with a handsome member of the opposite sex, and I will discover that we are the only two people left on earth and that we must mate to ensure the propagation of the human race. Being stocked with frivolities such as “water” and “food,” there may be a soap shortage, and I’ll want to freshen up before the requisite repopulation of the earth. The apocalypse is never easy, but knowing that I will have soap-making capabilities at my disposal will definitely offset any losses the apocalypse brings.

Readers, please vote on which class I should take first. Please know that I value your opinions, all six of you, and will take your recommendations under careful advisement.

–Troi out

Have you ever been given bad advice? For example, when you had the hiccups, somebody advised you to hold your breath until they stopped, and you passed out? And then, when you came to, you were STILL hiccuping?? (Um, me neither. That never happened to me either.)

A person who gives bad advice is known as an A.S.S. (Advice that Sucks Specialist). It is bad enough to be the recipient of suggestions given by an A.S.S. It is much worse to live with the knowledge that there are A.S.S.es out there giving bad advice, and profiting from it.

Luckily I am in the T.A.G.* (Terrific Advice Giver) program and I give really excellent advice. For example, just tonight, as a good friend bemoaned his single life while driving me back to my apartment after a movie, I assured him that life in the single lane (which means if you use the left carpool lane during peak traffic hours, you’ll be ticketed) is far superior to codependent coupledom.

As a T.A.G. member, I was eager to dispense my advice to my forlorn friend. “Look at it this way,” I told him, “in the long run, there’s really no difference between a single person and a person in a relationship. In a relationship, there are one of three possible inevitable conclusions. One, a break-up. Two, marriage and subsequent divorce. Three, death. See? When you look at it that way, there’s really no reason to be sad; we’re all going to end up single anyway!”

I’m not sure what my friend thought of my helpful advice, because he opened the car door and flung himself out into the road. I hope he’s okay. More importantly, though, if he is okay, I hope he doesn’t seek advice from an A.S.S. Only qualified advice givers (T.A.G.s) such as myself can be trusted to cheer up the lonely singles out there.

For more advice, please visit my website. Wait, if you’re reading this, you’re already there.

-Troi out

*The university from which Troi received her T.A.G. licensure and certification was unable to be verified and her T.A.G. degree was not available for review at the time of this blog posting.