I expect few have trouble recalling their first.

Age 15. Long-time crush. Same school project. His living room. Burnt orange shag carpet, sectional couch. Members Only jacket, Izod shirt.

His dad in his chair, newspaper in his lap. Wet-looking comb-over. Professor glasses, riding low on his nose. After dinner, but necktie still on. Mom perched on her chair, back stick straight, hands on knees. Smiling hard. Smells like fresh perm.

We’re done for the night. Waiting for my ride.

He sits close, but doesn’t touch. No one talks. TV is on. They’re waiting for their show to start.

 And then it happens. One of those commercials. Girl in tight, white pants frolicking in the park. Riding bike. Doing cartwheels. Even though it’s–wink, wink–her time of the month.

It was my first commercial cringe moment. The first time I wished a couch could open and swallow me whole. And the first commercial I truly, deeply hated.

There have been many others since then. So very many.

Enzyte is high on my list of obnoxious commercials with their demented-looking spokesman, Smiling Bob. It seems Bob left his happy missus back at the clubhouse so he could play Santa at the mall, and he brought along his announcer with his highly italicized script of words to emphasize.  

“This is Bob. Seems to be a lot of rumors going around about this chubby Santa. That’s because Bob made a call to Enzyte about natural male enhancement. And what did he get? Why, a sleigh full of confidence. A sack full of pride. And the one thing every lady likes — the joy of a gift that keeps on giving.”

And then there’s the Cialis commercials featuring the couple holding hands while sitting in separate claw foot bathtubs in the middle of a field. Most troubling to me is that neither of the tubs have faucets. How do they fill up the tubs? The poor guy probably wouldn’t need a pill if he hadn’t been hauling buckets of water way the heck out into the middle of a Kansas cornfield just so the two of them could bathe.

For a long time, Herbal Essences shampoo ran a series of ads for the “totally organic experience” women would have when using their shampoo. The commercials were something of a takeoff of the famous restaurant scene from “When Harry Met Sally.”

Every time that commercial came on, I could be completely alone and still cringe. Who comes up with these ads? Don’t any of them have children who watch television and ask lots of questions?

Then there’s the commercial with the mother and daughter holding hands as they walk by the seashore and the daughter asks Mom what she should use when she’s, you know, not feeling fresh. The girl apparently didn’t watch much television or she would’ve seen another mom in a rowboat answering that same question from her daughter. (If I asked MY mom what to do when I didn’t feel fresh, she’d tell me to check my expiration date.)

Still, the television commercial that most makes me cringe these days isn’t one for any sort of sexual or sensitive product. This one makes me cringe simply because it’s so stupid.

I’m talking about the Secret deodorant commercial with the pit-obsessed woman-the one who flags down a taxi by waving both arms over her head, then when a taxi pulls over, she sneaks a whiff of her pit then says, “No thanks, I’d rather walk.”

I can’t recall a time when I’ve seen a police car parked in an alley and wished I could fling my arms in the air and proclaim my innocence, yet held back because my pits caused me shame. Those commercials have me feeling anything but compelled to buy their product.

I’m afraid it might cause me to start bopping crazily around town snorting my underarms like there’s a fresh cinnamon bun tucked under each one.  

There are a few things I don’t like about West Virginia.

I don’t like how some have no qualms about discarding their trash along riverbanks and roadsides.

I don’t like how the many who aren’t racist must suffer the embarrassment brought on by those here who are.

And I don’t like the way we can’t resist flaunting our superiority over Ohio. (Or is that just me?)

Beyond those few things, though, I’m impressed by how often our state seems to defy national trends. Recent stories about how Charleston is one of the top five real estate markets in the country, for instance. Or how, when the rest of the country is suffering vast numbers of foreclosures, our state doesn’t seem to be hit nearly as hard.

It sometimes seems to me as if West Virginians neither enjoy the feast, nor suffer the famine. Sure, we still suffer some, just not the same way. Or perhaps our suffering doesn’t seem as bad because our past has prepared and toughened us.

Over the past few decades, our nation has grown increasingly hands-off, and people are increasingly disdainful toward those who do labor-type jobs. But not here.  The rest of our country has been overindulging, defining success by the wrong standards-by how much someone makes, the cars they drive, the brand of purse they carry or shoes they wear. There’s been a quiet movement to hire out, to get others to mow our lawns, clean our homes, prepare our taxes, raise our children. It’s almost as though the concept of doing it ourselves ceased to extend beyond calling someone else to do it for us.

But not here, where those who work construction- or physical-type jobs are viewed as the real workers. Perhaps more so than those who wear suits.

A realtor friend told me it’s harder to flip homes for a profit in our state because fixer uppers aren’t as unappealing here as in other states since more of us are capable of doing the work needed ourselves. Homes don’t have to be move-in perfect to move.

Perhaps the timing of this latest financial disaster won’t be such a bad thing. We’ll be forced to learn how much we can actually do without, or do ourselves.

Perhaps this will be the impetus that gets this country to be hands-on again.

New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman recently wrote, “We need to get back to making stuff, based on real engineering, not just financial engineering. We need to get back to a world where people are able to realize the American Dream-a house with a yard-because they have built something with their hands, not because they got a ‘liar loan.’ . . . The American Dream is an aspiration, not an entitlement.”

Many of those in our state still have a do-it-yourself mindset, which is going to again become an essential life skill. Our state is different from the rest of the country in a number of ways, and one of those ways is that we seem to be more practical and resourceful.

Change is coming, whether we want it or not. Instead of ducking under the covers and hoping it passes, we need to meet the challenge head-on. We need to make do with what we already have, finding ways to fix it up and make it better instead of casting it aside in favor of brand spanking new. 

We need to remember that our children are watching to see how their parents react to tough times. Do we crumble under pressure and cry woe is me, or do we struggle and scramble and refuse to give up? Do those unaffected by the turmoil spend their time greedily guarding what they still have, or are they finding ways to help others who haven’t been as fortunate? 

We’re at the very beginning of a time of adjustment, of being forced to shift and reevaluate and change.

West Virginians are lucky. We’re already pretty tough. That gives us a head start over the rest of the country. 

Especially Ohio.

Starting last Saturday, as my NaNoWriMo group members were hard at work at their desks; I was hard at work on mine. They were all starting novels, with one month to finish. I was starting my desk, removing its finish. 

You see, much like athletes, writers often have pregame rituals they observe. Lucky socks. Lucky pens. Brand new notebook. Sharpened No. 2 pencils.

It just so happens my ritual involves beginning a biggish project that has only some vague connection to the actual endeavor I should be starting instead.

In this instance, a desk.

For years, a folding table has served as my desk at home. As folding tables go, it’s not bad, but if I get to typing faster than 85 words a minute, it starts swaying side to side. If I were writing a sea adventure, such ambiance would be awesome.

But I’m not, and it isn’t.

And since I’ve committed to write a book in November, I figured I could either stock up on a month’s worth of Dramamine, or refinish the desk. Had the weather been foul, I’d have gone the pharmaceutical route, but it was too warm and pretty to be working indoors.

Which is how, while my fellow group members were diligently accumulating their daily quota of words, I was deglossing my desk, envisioning how it would fit in my office, how solid it would feel. I understood that redoing the desk would put me a few days behind everyone else, but surely a new old desk would inspire me to produce something great.

For the past several years, I’ve been sporadically whapping away at two different novels in what I once considered to be the right way, but I was forever getting waylaid by structure, intimidated by characters, sidetracked by research. And most of all, interrupted by life.

That’s where NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - comes in. Every November, NaNoWriMo participants challenge themselves to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. There’s no cash prize for the winner, just the satisfaction of having met a goal. It’s an exercise in persistence and creativity that can demonstrate what you’re capable of. 

Those who work or have small (or midsize) children or a bunch of animals or one of those needy, attention-seeking houses that’s forever coming up with reasons you and it must spend time together, well, they generally aren’t able to commit the time necessary to write a novel. But just 30 days is a fairly doable span. Other things can be back-burnered or reasoned with, since it’s only a month. And after November is over, it’s back to being Joe Citizen, except now Joe has thousands of words under his belt. Words they can edit and hone and polish a little at a time if they want.

In just 30 days, the novelist dream can become tangible, can be using up space on the hard drive or filling a notebook or two. 

The truly cool thing about doing NaNoWriMo is all the drama you get to attach to your project, the messes you can justify making, the excuses you’ll have for locking yourself away and being antisocial and smelling bad and getting all wild-haired and maniacal-looking. 

For some, there’s a magical power in deadlines, in having a goal attached to a specific date on the calendar. Regardless of whether that novel is publishable, setting a challenge for your self and coming through it is a positive thing. You’ll have something to show for it. 

And I really need something to show for it. Since I still don’t have a desk. 

After deglossing and sanding and staining; after rubbing down the first finish and adding another; after tightening the legs, re-gluing a loose drawer, waxing the drawer-slides and oiling the hinges, there was still one thing I forgot. To measure the desk. 

It was too wide to fit up our stairs. 

If the dining room set is still there when I go back tomorrow, it’s mine.

There’s something about barely-still-usable furniture that draws me. The attraction is not something new. It started ages ago, after I experienced the thrill of finding an antique dresser for $20 at a yard sale.

“Does it just have the one coat of brown paint?” I remember asking the seller. She assured me it did.

Excited about my purchase, I quickly hauled it to my garage and applied paint remover. Off came the brown paint.  Beneath it was green. I was more amused than upset. After all, I’d only asked the seller about brown. Since the brown had come off easily enough, so should the green. Except under the green paint was tan. Then yellow. Then cream. Finally, though, there was oak. A gorgeous, wavy grain that drank in the stain and wax ’til it glowed.

I put in so many hours restoring that dresser, but the funny thing is-when I was finished, the dresser felt like even more of a bargain. Worth every minute, and more.

From then on, I was hooked by the challenge of trying to find the potential in dilapidated or dull-looking pieces, feeling proud that I was able to see what most others did not. Nothing pleased me more than to have someone question my sanity at the outset of a project. It added to the challenge, made it taste that much better.

Then along came my daughter, who had other plans for my time. The needs of my little one were so constant that I rarely had time to finish the most necessary-to-keep-the-house-standing type projects, much less refinish furniture. Many years passed before I began to dabble again. At 11, she’s old enough now that she can either work alongside me or entertain herself somewhere else, and I’m finding myself once again being drawn to those places where barely-still-usable furniture abounds.

Seldom does a piece in great shape catch my eye. Instead, I’m drawn to the ones thick with paint, missing parts, rotting boards, peeling veneer. A gasp away from the dumpster. Seeing beyond what’s there to what could be there.

Sometimes, it isn’t just damaged furniture that draws me, but anything damaged. One of our cats was once a gasp away from the dumpster. I’m not sure how we saw his potential through all his spitting, scowling, growling and blood-letting. It took a few years to completely work over his harsh exterior, but beneath it was one of the sweetest, most affectionate cats I’ve ever known.  

And then there’s our foster dog, Roo. In spite of her panphobia (fear of everything), something about her persuaded us to give her a chance. Although the jury’s still out on the wisdom of that decision, the glimpses of the dog she can be are becoming a little more frequent, lasting a little bit longer.

I can’t imagine there will ever come a day when I search out perfection, when I forget the satisfaction to be had from investing some time. The destination isn’t always the best part of the trip. Challenges make life interesting. And meeting those challenges make it special. 

The table, chairs, and buffet that I’m hoping to bring home aren’t in good shape. A person doesn’t have to know much about restoration to recognize the amount of work it will take.

Yet I can’t stop thinking about them. Can’t stop seeing how they could look.

And if they’re still there tomorrow, they’re mine.

(Postscript:  THEY WERE STILL THERE! And I ended up with a desk, too.)