Sunday morning brain freeze

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I can't write anymore.

Don't you hate it when you wake up before your brain does?

Brump Brump Brump Brump.

Perhaps I will look at some Avon stuff. I am almost out of bubble bath for the kids.

Brump Brump Brump.

Maybe I should crochet some granny squares and sew them into the shape of underwear and market them as granny panties. But with all those holes they would hardly be practical. Or stretchy. Nobody wants to see a woman with granny panties around her ankles by the water cooler at work.

*Suckles pinky finger*

Or I could eat.

Oh no, I hear Dennis in the other room firmly asking Joe to, "Give me that!" I wonder what he's got? Sharpie? Disposable razor? Blow torch? Hmmm...

*Inspects fingernails*

I really need to clip them. Why do fingernails grow at different paces? The nail on my ring finger is shorter than the nail on my middle finger. I wonder if it's designed that way for a reason?

*Stretches and almost locks up back*

I want that Touch N Brush. That's a good idea. But it's $19.99 and I can expect to wait 2-6 weeks for delivery. Two to SIX weeks? Quite a spread. What's that all about? I wish I could say, "Your dinner will be ready in two to six hours."

*Picks at lip*

Perhaps I will hang some pictures today. I keep putting it off because I can't locate a laser picture hanging helper device like ever. Where do they go? We only have like fifty of them.

*Publishes post*

A Hair Affaire

Well folks, it seems we've turned another page of the tome that is my quest for a decent dye job.

At the salon on Monday:

What I Said: Hi! Please correct the unsightly off-center blob of white bird poop highlights on top of my head. I'd like to go brown. Maybe all brown. What do you think of that?

What Stylist Said: Hmm... I think you need some highlights to add dimension. *rakes fingernails through my hair*

What I Said: Okay then, but I want my hair to be mostly brown with a few subtle, natural looking highlights - and just on the top.

What Stylist Heard: I want you to make me look like Cruella De Vil.

I should have payed attention in the Earth to Hair Stylist communications course the college semester I turned 21, instead of pounding Keystone and dancing until even my toes were sweaty at Popeye's in Old Sacramento.

Regardless of who I turn to for coiffure 411, I always get the same assistance: ridiculousness. One hair genius even managed to deposit white spots all about my crown, effectively leoprifying me. That was the one and only time I called back, hemmed, hawed, coughed, gurgled and eventually managed to choke out a correction request.

I've been to the Aveda Salon in Palm Springs, a fancy place in the back room of a florist shop in Downtown Sacramento, SuperCuts, StupidCuts, the office of a Chinese deli in San Francisco, and a place I saw advertised on tv that promised to make me look like a rock star. Not just my hair, me.

Do I look like a rock star yet?

A Hair Affaire

Well folks, it seems we've turned another page of the tome that is my quest for a decent dye job.

At the salon on Monday:

What I Said: Hi! Please correct the unsightly off-center blob of white bird poop highlights on top of my head. I'd like to go brown. Maybe all brown. What do you think of that?

What Stylist Said: Hmm... I think you need some highlights to add dimension. *rakes fingernails through my hair*

What I Said: Okay then, but I want my hair to be mostly brown with a few subtle, natural looking highlights - and just on the top.

What Stylist Heard: I want you to make me look like Cruella De Vil.

I should have payed attention in the Earth to Hair Stylist communications course the college semester I turned 21, instead of pounding Keystone and dancing until even my toes were sweaty at Popeye's in Old Sacramento.

Regardless of who I turn to for coiffure 411, I always get the same assistance: ridiculousness. One hair genius even managed to deposit white spots all about my crown, effectively leoprifying me. That was the one and only time I called back, hemmed, hawed, coughed, gurgled and eventually managed to choke out a correction request.

I've been to the Aveda Salon in Palm Springs, a fancy place in the back room of a florist shop in Downtown Sacramento, SuperCuts, StupidCuts, the office of a Chinese deli in San Francisco, and a place I saw advertised on tv that promised to make me look like a rock star. Not just my hair, me.

Do I look like a rock star yet?

One more day

RIP, thirties. Turns out I am not forever your girl. One more day and I'll finally be free of you. You ushered in many gifts, but all in all I found you to be a predominately transitional decade.

Older age and its impending lessening of relevance has freed me from the burden of racing with the rats, and of pleasing the common man. I wish I'd let go of other people's notions of perfection in my twenties. I regret my focus on the moment rather than on what I might accomplish if I stood still long enough to let my inner voice flood into my consciousness and propel me.

Tomorrow I shall awaken and trumpet in forty. I am ready to aim for higher goals and to entertain more foolish impulses. The lines on my face won't seem as deep, my thinner skin not as tragic.

A pleasant appearance is not always good for one's character.

That said, it's high time for my self-saboteur to stop uglying me up as punishment for wasting my youth and as defense against my tendency to make bad decisions.

I am strong enough to live among you without a cushion of fat to protect me.

I can be pretty and not hurt those that I love.

My voice carries a weight of its own.

My vision is not flawed.

Tonight I will cast my parasitic notions toward the fire and incinerate them into obscurity, then stoke their cinders until they blaze forth into faith and possibility.

Good Morning,Toilet!

My husband Dennis left me a sweet note this morning on his way to work.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, sunshine and flowers and toilets and mittens, these are a few of my favorite things!

Gratuitous shots of Joe and Lily:

The other night at bedtime, like most kids, Joe wanted me to read him a book about tooth decay . There I was acting it out and really getting into it, "Meet your guests! Weeee're called Bac Tee Reee ah! YOUR mouth is our Cah Feh Teeeer e ah!" when...

Joe: Mommy!!!!! *points to bloated lavender blue-haired pucker-faced fat Elvis if-he-were-a-warlock bacteria*

Me:

Me: Where's Mommy??

Joe: ...

  

Me:  Are you sure you didn't mean here? *I point to a jovial, more comely-faced bacteria*

Joe: ...

I swear off red lipstick and vow to get a chin tuck.

The next day I emerge from my closet ready to paint the supermarket red. Joe smiles and points and says, "Beach!"

Apparently my ensemble brings to mind a giant beach ball, a two-dollar beach towel, or a giant beach ball resting upon a two-dollar beach towel.

I vow to stop clothes shopping at Wal-Mart.

It's just that sometimes when I'm there to pick up a mop or some other perfectly socially-justifiable Wal-Mart prospective purchase, I pass a really cute shirt and think to myself, "Seven bucks? That's madness! Who wouldn't buy this for that price? Nobody will know." I look around to see if anyone's glowering, then shove the offending item under a 250 pound bag of Pedigree hoity-toity small dog niblets and skulk away.

I'm so glad I ended up in this family, with these children. I spend my days laughing. Even situations sparked from irritation, frustration, and massive food cravings are likely to be chuckled at for their ridiculousness before the last flame sputters to a puff.

Last night my husband and I were debating the exact date of purchase of a now-absent small plastic container of dark chocolate-covered almonds. He swore up and down it was three days ago, Friday. I insisted that it had been at least week and a half, certainly enough time for each and every last one of them to have been eaten, that I would know because I did all the shopping. He let it be known that I was wrong, very wrong, and that I purchased them on Friday. When I admitted I thought maybe he didn't like them so it seemed right and natural to dispose of them by manner of consumption, his eyes widened and he said without speaking, "Chocolate? Almonds?"

Without giving an inch, he snatched something from behind the tub of I Can't Believe it's Not Butter Light, and proceeded to huff and puff his way down the hallway on crutches in the most theatrical and self-righteous manner possible. Tink, tink, growl, tink, tink.

After he disappeared around the corner, I opened the fridge to procure a bottle of water. He had left the last mini Snickers bar for me.

Link to post at Textual Medium

Hidee ho!

No, I'm not calling you a "ho".

What do you mean if anyone's the "ho" it's me? I'm not the one galavanting around in flashy turquoise Nike short shorts kicking leaves into the faces of passing bikers just to get them to turn and notice my ass!

Oops, I said "ass". Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Christian friends. Sorry, common decency. Ugh.

I can't help myself. I also almost took the Lord's name in vain over at my other blog. I know it's wrong and I know why it's wrong. These things sometimes bubble to the surface and make themselves known. They're pesky, impish, nasty little profanities that lull me into mini-naps, type themselves, then giggle their way back into my fingertips.

Anyway, I wrote a post at Textual Medium (click click click) that explains the location of my brain and my writing and social networking schedule going forward. I thought I'd point it out to my readers here not because I think you live and die according to my posting schedule and Facebook status updates, but out of respect for your attentions. I don't want you to think I'm not writing or that I've tired of your company.

Quite the opposite is true! In fact, I find your company so stimulating that I'm inspired to try new things.

I hope you're having a good weekend, and that you and yours are well. I hope you'll spend a little time this afternoon stoking your passions, whether they be cooking, painting, singing, people-watching, writing, finding new ways to entertain and educate your children, running, biking, reading, networking, mocking or knocking boots in a Donald Trump wig. Peace out.

I should probably post something

Image by .chourmo. via Flickr

Here's a cool little tree.