The iPad is ruining my life. 

Maybe "ruining" is too harsh a word. 

The iPad is further complicating my life.

Who am I kidding? I appreciate complicated.

I cringe to tell you this. Cringe. But Oprah made me do it. Oprah made me buy the iPad.

After my 80's involvement in the crimes of frosted lipstick, Aquanet bangs, and pinch-rolled jeans (the worst), I vowed never to be a blind follower again. And, until last week, I've made good on my promise. 

I've purposely never watched an episode of Oprah's Favorite Things. Sorry, Oprah, but bah humbug. If you jumped over a cliff, would America go with you? Methinks yes. And if you were pinch-rolling your denim, peg legs, here we'd come.   

But if you think I'm not an Oprah fan, my DVR begs to differ. As we speak, it's 68% full. Full of Oprah. The Oprah Show, Season 25: Oprah Behind the Scenes, Oprah Presents Master Class...with just a peppering of Ellen, Shatner's Raw Nerve, and The Goodbye Girl to make things interesting. Variety, as you know, is the spice of life. But it's Oprah who currently claims approximately 60% of my Moxie box and heart. So when she broke down in nationally televised tears about her favorite Favorite Thing, the Apple iPad, on Behind the Scenes...I was swayed.  

So, off to acquire Major Apple Product #4 I go. Major Apple Product #1 was my first bite of Apple...the Formula One of computer racing...the 17" PowerBook G4. Which I've guarded like the Pope's ring. No one is allowed to touch my now obsolete aluminum encased technology. Once (taking a deep breath), I discovered a scratch on the bottom. I immediately (i.e. when the doors opened the next morning) took it in for repair. The woman behind the service counter scoffed and handed it back - "You don't want to replace the case. It's just a scratch." To which I replied, 7% verbally, 93% non-verbally, "Fix it. Fix it now."

Then came Major Apple Product #2. The iPhone. Which has actually become a permanent appendage. And my favorite child. Once, I lost him in Target and ran screaming through the aisles, something to the effect of "A dingo ate my baby!" I retraced my steps and found him sleeping in bedding.

Then I really did lose him. To a tragic accident. When I tried to sneak a 32 ounce iced tea into an afternoon matinee. I drowned my baby. And don't even say Otterbox to me. He was drowned in a Otterbox. I guess nothing protects you from 32 ounces of moral turpitude.

Needless to say, Major Apple Purchase #3 was iPhone #2.

Which brings us back to speed...my fourth Apple infant, the iPad. Thinking I could never love another child like I loved my second, I was worried. But Oprah freakin' cried about it. I wanted to weep, too. To feel the love of new technology just one more time. Or at least be able to say to my children's children, "Yes, I had the first iPad." I wondered if that would be, to them, like owning the first abacus. 

So I bought and brought the newborn home. Imagine that, my iPhone didn't even seem jealous. I think he knew he would still be the one sleeping next to me at night.

But you can't just buy the iPad. It needs, first and foremost, to be hermetically sealed and protected from all potential scratches with a perfectly positioned layer of Zagg InvisibleSHIELD. The stuff, if you don't know, is magic. Well worth the $29.99. But not easy to put on. Still, as I've coated everything but my Shih Tzu with it, I could qualify as a professional installer.

Next comes the skin. I mean, a girl's gotta personalize. I may have the same 9.7 inches of cutting edge technology as a million other people on the planet, but I want to be the only one sporting it in matte finish black wood grain. Very hot. But there's a kink...the skin looks AMAZING on the back of the iPad, but not so great as a frame on the front. So I decide to ixnay the front and just keep it on the back. Well, guess what? That's right. As I slowly start to peel the skin off, along comes the Zagg. The expression on my face looks remarkably similar to the one on the nurse's face in the original V, when the mother gave birth to a lizard baby. Now ask me how many attempts it took me to successfully apply a second Zagg layer. Four. That's 4 x $29.99. But I was determined not to be defeated. Determined! And it paid off...I am now "Elizabeth Jones, writer and professional Zagg installer." I could rock your world. If you're into clear coat. 

The moral of the story is...sure, I caved. If Oprah went over a cliff, I guess I would have, too. Note to self: "You're just beginning to find your own voice, to think your own thoughts. That's huge. Stick with it." Still, I'm glad she cried me into buying. I wouldn't trade Baby #4 for anything. He's sleeping now, next to his brothers, in his glossy white crib. He has the cutest little baby snore.

Why do I love technology? Always and forever.

I don't remember the precise moment I discovered there wasn't enough love to go around, but I do distinctly remember the look of panic on every woman's face in the room that day. Even in my prepubescence, I got the picture. If what my informant was saying was true, and there was a man deficit in America, I better get mine. Even if it meant clawing my way to the man pool.

The "Women Outnumber Men" statistic has been around as long as I've known where babies came from. Which my mother attempted to explain, to my horror, one fateful 4th Grade day. 27 years later, the statistic is still circulating. And it changes depending on who's doing the circulating. Sometimes women outnumber men 7:1, sometimes 4:1, sometimes 3:1. But the message is the same. Someone's getting the shaft.

It's a subtle but pervasive message. I remember Bob Luman telling me with his Billboard topping hit: "Lonely women make good lovers. They're all at the mercy of a good looking smooth talking man." God, I hoped I wasn't gonna be one of those women. Because, according to Bob, if "my lips were wet with wine when it came to loving time, I'd trade my pride for something warm to hold."

Horrors! My pride, Bob? 

When I was a little older, I found out "all the good men were either gay or married." Wait...what? They're already taken? I don't even get to take a number and wait my place in line? 

And now the landscape of dating has changed dramatically. Gone are the days of the organic meet and greet. And in its place - Internet dating. Don't get me wrong...I personally know about 27 people who have met and married their others via the laptop of love. They are all happily married. And I have to admit there is a certain allure to the candor and selectiveness online dating affords. But nothing makes me feel more like there's a man famine than having to write my own advertisement. It's the underlying message that worries me: 

Dating Feast says love will find me. Dating Famine says I've got to go out and find love. And don't be surprised if it's hiding. 

Dating Feast says God/The Universe will pick the moment when I'm least expecting love to surprise me with it. Dating Famine says I might be too busy in today's fast paced world to cross paths with anyone if I don't sign up now. Right now. 

Dating Feast says there is a lid for every pot. Dating Famine says I'll need a freakin' national database to find mine.  

But what if the man famine is a myth? What if it's like Close Encounters of the Third Kind? When everyone is convinced there's an invisible fog of poisonous gas threatening Wyoming. Until Richard Dreyfuss rips off his gas mask. And discovers it's just aliens. Only to be rewarded by said aliens as the one member of the human race selected to accompany them to infinity and beyond. Who was laughing then, huh?

I'm with Richard. Enough with the gas masks.      

PS...according to INED, a French research institute in the field of international demographics and population trends, there are more boys than girls born into the world. About 105 boys to every 100 girls. And at a certain age, the sexes become numerically equal. Roughly around the age of 35.

Perfect timing.    

Alex Trebek: "The now ubiquitous expectation of monetary reward for every little thing."

Jeopardy Contestant: "What is tipping, Alex?" 

Since my days waiting tables in college, I've been a heartfelt tipper. A waiter who does nothing more than master my ice to liquid beverage ratio earns an easy 15%. If said waiter makes my drink and pasta e fagioli to perfection, 20%. And a waiter who can do all that AND make me guffaw at least once during my visit walks away with 30-50% (depending on the ticket total). I've even gone back into a restaurant after my party leaves with better tip for the server if I felt he or she didn't get what they had coming to them.  It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's a touching moment shared between waiter and me. We run towards each other in slow motion, arms open wide.

And then there's the Korean Body Scrub Messiah, Miss Kim, who gets a $27 tip every single spa visit. What she deserves is the title to my car. But I've got to pay it off first.

But now you can't go into a car wash, coffee house, or carry-out without being accosted by a tip jar. And I'm left to scramble for some arbitrary offering of cash above and beyond the fee I'm already paying for any given good or service. And now...NOW...you can't just divert someone's attention with "Look, there's Matthew Perry!" while running out the door. Now, you must specify "tip or no tip" on your credit card receipt. With a glaring line or a big fat zero, you are now forced to publicly declare to the face behind the Domino's window, in writing, that you will indeed not be tipping them for handing you your pizza pie. Without, by the way, even a half-hearted smile or attempt at "Have a nice pizza."  

Permit me to take you on a journey, if you will, deep in the heart of Texas. To the birthplace of Buddy Holly, Prairie Dog Town, Texas Tech University, Elizabeth Jones...and United Grocery Stores. Those three words are grossly inadequate to describe the sacred space within. Imagine James Earl Jones saying it..."United Grocery Stores." Much better.

Across the street from my mom is a United Market Street. Imagine a grocery store the size of a high school football field and a parking lot twice that size. Inside are immaculately clean polished concrete floors and aisles so big you could do a full cartwheel from shelf to shelf (hypothetically, of course). There's a coffee shop (complete with leather sofas and big screen TV), restaurant, bakery, deli, gift shop, florist, concierge (yes, concierge) and, during holiday seasons, a piano player. If you can't find what you're looking for, just ask any employee in the immediate area and they will walk you, not point you, to it's exact location. I'm convinced they're using some form of echolocation, as they always go right to my impossibly obscure grocery item. 

And here's what happens when you round the last aisle to head for the checkout stand...a "checker" meets you halfway to take your cart. Unloading your own groceries onto the conveyer belt? Never! Your United checker greets you with a warm smile and an actual "How are you today? Did you find everything alright?" as they unload your wares. And (here's the part you may find hard to believe)...there is a sacker to sack your groceries at every.single.check out. They inquire as to your bagging preference - paper or plastic - and actually wait for your response before proceeding. Then, they personally carry your groceries to the car. There's no question about it...it's automatically done. Unless you can outrun them. I tried that once, but they're pretty fast. On the way to your awaiting chariot, you engage in delightful conversation with your personal and quite personable United sacker. And as they load every last bag into your hatchback and bid you adieu, you can't help but feel a pang of regret that they're leaving and your grocery shopping experience has officially come to an end. Luckily, you live just across the street and can come back 17 times tomorrow.

PS...a United sacker cannot and will not accept tips.

You might think this kind of service comes with a price. Nope...you can still buy a box of cereal here for $2.50.

You might think the employees are disgruntled. Let me say...I'm willing to bet most of the starting employees at United make little over Texas minimum wage. And yet I've never seen a friendlier, happier concentration of people in my life. It's a business model unequal to any I've seen, and one every business in America should be scrambling to understand and emulate. If you ever find yourself driving through Lubbock, Texas, it is a place you MUST visit. The Buddy Holly Museum, Prairie Dog Town, Texas Tech University, Orlando's Italian Restaurant. And United Market Street. Ask for Cirby Gill (pronounced Kirby), the store's service manager, to carry out your groceries...and you'll spend two minutes with the most endearing man you've ever met. A local treasure. A man who would strap on a pair of snow boots to carry you and your groceries across a parking lot in a snowstorm. And who doesn't accept tips.     

And while I AM available for hire as the Token Obnoxious Texan at your next event, party or shower, I am the first to concede that exceptional service is not a uniquely Southern invention. Case in point: The Container Store. Have you ever seen a cranky Container Store employee? Or one that wouldn't go out of their way to find the last gray Cable Turtle in the store for you?

The Container Store is celebrating its 12th year on FORTUNE magazine's list of “100 Best Companies to Work For." The company's CEO describes it as "a company full of heart and soul with what I like to call our "yummy" culture. We put our employees first, strive for excellence every day; we want to be special, to be different, and most importantly, we want to provide for our customers a retail experience unlike any other." And although the company first opened its doors in Dallas, Texas, I have found the same delightful service in every Container Store in every state I've been to. And not a tip jar in sight.

My friend Cooper said it best...we've become a nation where tips are expected instead of earned. I have to agree. It's like those tedious line graphs from 8th grade algebra (and you thought we'd never need to know math). The x-axis (customer service) is steadily going down. While the y-axis (expectation of monetary reward for mediocre or minimal exertion) is steadily going up.

I'm also available to recall random mathematical equations. Gratuities not accepted.   

You don't know what you've got till it's gone. Here's to you, Jack LaLanne. I was a fool to think you were just that guy who did those fingertip pushups and juicer infomercials. Shame on me. I'm just beginning to realize your brilliance. Thank you for being so ahead of your time. For opening the doors of this nation's first health club in 1936. For having the longest running television exercise program, and using that program to inspire the 1950's American housewife. For all your passion in making every one of us feel like our best selves. And for the fabulous jumpsuit. I heart you.   

Here are just a few clips of Jack. I hope there will be a day when his show is available on DVD. Until then, YouTube will have to suffice.  

And, of course, you know I have to throw in the dog clip! 

Now I know why Victoria Beckham never smiles in photos. Because smiling, apparently, causes wrinkles. 

I don't know how many of you reading are "middle-aged," but I bet you remember where you were the moment you felt so. Maybe it was the first time someone called you "ma'am" in the grocery store. Or the moment when you were caught in the crosshairs of a brutally honest 6-year-old. Who publicly declared 27 was, by every definition, "old." Maybe it was the afternoon you caught a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror and...what is that?...a gray hair???

For me, it was last Tuesday at 3:11 in the afternoon. When I looked in the mirror and smiled big to see if I had anything from lunch caught in my braces. Only to discover...(gasping in horror)...w-r-i-n-k-l-e-s. And lots of them. The phrase "crow's feet" takes on a new form of nastiness when it suddenly applies to you. They don't look so bad when my face is in it's relaxed state. But when I smile, it's like a whole gaggle of crows. Cakaw, cakaw!!!

So I wish you could see the faces I've been making in my mirrors the last few days. Suddenly grinning like a lunatic every time I pass one to see if they're still there. Yep...still there, lunatic.

I remember my first gray hair. And where I was when I found it. But it didn't bother me one little bit. In fact, my mother has, and my grandmother had, the most gorgeous silver hair...evah. I can't WAIT until my hair goes all silver. It means no more tint jobs and highlights, thank you very much. And I'm looking forward to the day I can break out my inner Heloise (as in Hints From). Vixen Heloise. 

But wrinkles...that just can't happen. I still feel like the 11-year-old little girl who went to Baskin Robbins with her Daddy Tug after a hard day at Emerson Elementary. 

I wonder what Betty White would say to me. It's like WWJD, except WWBWD. I dreamed about her and Jake Gyllenhaal last night. I was walking in between them holding both their hands, like a little girl. It makes me laugh. Can you see that on an eHarmony profile? "Looking for Betty White in Jake Gyllenhaal's body."