Monthly Archives: January 2012

I got my hair cut today.  Seriously cut.  It WAS more than halfway down my back, and now it’s barely past my neck.

This particular change in me all started around last Thanksgiving.  A beautiful little asian woman, who was giving my crocodile feet a pedicure at the time, had told me that I was too old for long hair.  I smirked condescendingly at her when she said it.  I quietly rolled my eyes at her lack of enlightenment.  My self-confidence was not a bit worried about her head-on attack on my self-image.

But, and I hesitate to admit this…apparently she was too sly for me…. her ridiculously frank tactic had actually hit the mark after all; the damage was done.  She’d planted the seed in my psyche, and ever since then, more and more I’ve seen my long hair as a desperate grasp at my youth. Each long strand mocked by every silver strand.

So I did what any other delusioned 44 year old woman would do, and I bought a cheap box of temporary hair color.  Chestnut brown, if you must know.  Actually, I bought 2 boxes, figuring if some is good, more is better.  And I slathered that stuff on my hair like it was some kind of nasty smelling elixer of youth.  (I also got some on the bathroom sink, the linoleum floor, the bathtub, the shower curtain, and my ear.  But I didn’t figure that out until it had had a good long time to set.)

So now I had this seriously long, excruciatingly, impossibly perfectly mono-hued chestnut colored head of hair.   I looked like I had fallen head-first into a vat of Sharpie Ink.  Or dog-poo, depending on who you asked.

I don’t know what made me actually crack this morning, but I was at CVS, and Images Hair Salon was across the parking lot, calling out to me like a Siren to a sailor.  “Come to me, old woman, and cut your hair before you make an ass of yourself.”  “Come to me, granny, before you trip on your delusional tresses.”  “Come to me, before another tiny asian manicurist hits you below the belt.”

“Alright,” I thought, “If I’m meant to change my hair, they will have an immediate opening.  If not, I’ll forget the whole thing.”

They had an immediate opening.

Turns out, we had enough hair to donate to Locks of Love, a charity that makes wigs for children going through Chemotherapy.  I felt good about that…..until the sylist informed me that she believed Locks of Love doesn’t take hair that is either 1) gray or 2) colored.  Mine was both.  ***sigh***

Snip. Snip.  Edwina Scissorhands went to work.  And before I knew it, the deed was done.  My new hair-do felt significantly lighter. I liked it! As I left the salon, my step was a little bouncier.  Everyone I met “ooohed” and “aaahhed.”  I felt lovely.  Birds were singing.  The sun was shining.

My son, Garrick, saw it when he came off the bus and simply asked, “What happened to YOU?”

Daughter Gwen, my sweet, painfully honest peanut, saw it when I picked her up from Drama and said, “It looks good.  Not great, but good.”

And all of this because I got a Pedicure around Thanksgiving.

I wonder what chain of events I would start off if I got a Manicure?

We have an old refrigerator.  But it works.  And in the age of “oh crap, where did our investments go?”, an old, working refrigerator is our friend.   It beats the heck out of NO refrigerator.   A few months ago, the Ice Maker in the freezer of this old Jalopy of a fridge, konked out on us.  “We’ll make do,” I thought.

I hate drinking warm water. I REALLY hate drinking Warm water from a well.

Then one of the arms in the door of the freezer broke.  I duct taped it.  It lasted a little bit, then it too, gave up the ghost.  So we cannot store much in the door.  “We’ll make do,” I thought.

Then one of the drawers in the bottom part of the fridge broke off.  I still store stuff where it used to be, but instead of pulling out the drawer and gently placing food within, I just cram it all back in the drawer-less void and hope I’ll remember what is back there later….before whatever it is procreates.

Forget “We’ll make do!”.  I’m starting to hate my fridge.  As a cook and a foodie, its one of my most important tools!

BUT….it’s better than NO fridge.

Last week, Troy and his Beer Brewing Partner (see One-Eyed Dog Brewing) Dutch picked up a fridge they got for free from a construction site. It’s in pretty good shape. And you know what they did with it? Did they come replace my old jalopy? Did they use its parts to fix my poor broken down warhorse of a fridge?

Nope.

They plan to stick a keg or two into it, filled with their home-made brews, and then drill a place for spiquets on the outside of the front door and make what is called a “kegerator”.

Men have their priorities.

At least I have a fridge.

As I said, it’s better than NO fridge. And, for the time being, the old Jalopy is still chugging along.

Sometimes I can comiserate with it.  My own personal icemaker (in the form of a metabolism) broke years ago….Parts of me are duct-taped together….and parts of me are missing entirely.  But in the same vein…it may be a broken down body, but its better than NO body.

And, as Garrick would say, “At least it isn’t puke.”

We were sitting at dinner earlier this week, Troy, Grandma Jane, Daughter Gwendolyn, Son Garrick, and I, listening to Garrick regale us with a story that happened at school in Mrs. Brown’s third grade classroom.  He finished the story with the sentence, “Well, at least it wasn’t puke!”.  (Mind you, this is when we are all eating chicken Pot pie and vegetables in a creamy, puke like sauce.  Normally my homemade pot pies’ gravy looks creamy white, but I had run out of white wine for my sauce and so used red.  This resulted in a pinkish gravy for the chicken and vegetable lumps to lay in.  It did, indeed, resemble puke.  Thank the lord for camouflaging Pie Crust.)

ANYWAY…”Well, at least it wasn’t puke!” was the attention getter for all of us.  There was a moment or two of silence, and then we all burst out laughing.  Yes, I know, I know, this is no way to instill table manners into a rambunctious 8 year old boy.  But, he is so dang funny with his inflections and his facial expressions, and the stuff that comes out of his mouth is classic.  Troy, being the quick thinker that he is, verbalized how that phrase would end just about any sentence well.  Then hot on the heels of verbalizing that thought, he realized his mistake.  Because the rest of that night, and still on through this latter part of the week, my adorable critter is finishing people’s sentences with “At least it wasn’t puke!”

Me: (as I’m shaking the rain off of my bathrobe and the mud off of my shoes) “I forgot to take the trash to the street last night and just had to do it in the rain!”
Garrick:  “Well, at least it wasn’t puke!”

Gwen: “I don’t want to scoop the catbox today!  Its got too much in it!”
Garrick: “Well, at least it wasn’t puke!”

Troy: “There is a cat hair in my coffee”
Garrick: “Well, at least it wasn’t puke!”

Grandma: “I bought you all some fantastic eggs from Hedgeapple Farms!”
Garrick: “Well, at least it wasn’t puke!”

Do you have the idea yet, or shall I continue?

And here is the thing…. I don’t want to squash his sense of humor.  Inappropriate?  Maybe.  Obnoxious? Most certainly.  Funny?  Absolutely!  And if you DON’T think so, your funny bone is in SERIOUS need of a tune-up.

Now then, THAT all started at the beginning of the week. Today, I received a kind thank you note from my friend Peggy Miller, which had a picture of a ridiculous MOOSE on the front of it, chewing on some grass.  It read “Moose Chews Grassias.”  I made the mistake of trying to explain the pun to Garrick (Gwen got it the first go-round, being the MUCH older – by 18 months- and wiser sibling if you listen to her tell it).   It took a bit to explain why the spanish phrase “Muchas gracias”, and the MOOSE eating the grass was a pun; and he was perplexed about the ‘ass’ part of it.   It spiralled downhill into an explanation about how ‘grassy – ass’  was not the intention of the note’s pun.  That explanation then caused him to roll around in a peel of laughter envisioning a Moose chewing grass out of someone’s butt.  It’s all very convoluted, but the point of it is, we now have two new constant additions to anything we say around Garrick this week.  Either it’s, “Well, at least it wasn’t puke!” or it’s “Moose chew grassy butts!”

My apologies extend to the following:
Mrs. Brown.
Peggy Miller.
The parents of all the 3rd grade boys at Monocacy Elementary School.
All my Spanish-speaking friends.

And to this apology I would add a huge thank you to the heavens that gave me such a spirited and funny little guy.  He makes me smile. I don’t care if that DOES mean my own sense of humor is stunted to that of an 8 year old boy’s.  I love that kid!  I think I’ll keep him.

So there you have it my friends.  More tools to make you smile.   Duck Butts, puke, and moose eating grassy butts.

Yesterday I had a woman tell me I was fat.  Today I had a doctor tell me if I cut back on the McDonald’s Sausage Burritos, it “wouldn’t be a bad thing, if you know what I mean”.

Seriously?

Seriously, folks?

Do I look like this is something I don’t already know?  Do you think if you point out that my girth is impressive, I might look down and have some epiphany that “Oh GOOD LORD, when did THAT happen?”.  Come on.

Why do people feel the need to point out other people’s weaknesses and say they are “just trying to help”?  Wouldn’t it be better served to point out someone’s strengths instead?

Of course, if we are going to try to spin the positive on this, maybe my girth IS my strength. I mean, just as ADD isn’t necessarily an evil, maybe fat isn’t either.  I won’t blow away in a gale-force wind.  I am harder to kidnap than your average soccer-mom.  You can take one look at me and know I can cook like nobody’s business.  Obviously my hugs are nice and soft and squishier than my bonier counterparts.   You can bet my longevity will be cut short, and therefore I’ll use up less of this world’s resources.  My husband can rest peacefully in the knowledge that the dogs aren’t going to come sniffing around his mate. If someone is hungry, you can bet there will be a munchie somewhere in my purse on any given day. And my car.  And my coat pocket. (I don’t like to take chances.)

Fat is Fat.  So what?  So because my thighs rub together when I run, or jog, or walk, or even just cross my legs when sitting, they create enough friction heat to start a fire, does this make me a lesser person?  So what if on the rollercoaster my side of the seat tilts precariously on the turns?  Aren’t we confident in the abilities of our amusemant park engineers?  So what if anytime I get into bed, everyone who is already in it…from Troy, to the kids, to the cats, roll towards me?  Isn’t togetherness a good thing?  Who doesn’t love a good cuddle with a fat woman?

“I want you to be healthy” says my loving husband.  He wants me to live longer, and be by his side longer.  I say I don’t want to live longer if I can’t have my Lindt Truffles, or my Rum Balls, or my McDonald’s sausage burritos!  They give me joy!  So what if I run out of breath coming up the stairs?  Maybe I just need to pace myself!

So to the opinionated lady yesterday, and the doctor today, I say, I’m happy just the way I am, thanks.  I’m not out to hurt anyone (unless they come between me and the food listed above).  I’m just living my life.  There is no need to be concerned if you see me coming.  I won’t eat your lunch, or your children, or your pets.  I can almost promise you that.  You walk your road, I’ll walk mine, and we’ll get along just fine.  And my road resembles a Candyland Board Game, which, in my opinion, ROCKS.

There is nothing in the world cuter than, or more likely to make you smile, than a wiggly Duck Butt.

Most people don’t really think about it, but I do.

Have you ever been watching ducks in the water, and then they plunk their adorable little heads under the water to feed, and FLOOP! up comes their wee little butts, tails a wiggle-waggling?  OH LORD are they hilarious!  I can’t stop smiling when I think about it. My kids and Troy are well versed in catching the sweetness and humor of a Duck Butt, whether they want to be or not.  I share, you see.  Vociferously.

But(t), upon further thought, just about any butt would make you smile.  Certainly high up on that list would be Moose Butts.  Followed closely by Baby Butts.  Elephant Butts. Hippo Butts.

Cat Butts are not really the kind of butt that would make you smile.   Usually they are presented to you in an aloof, “Screw You, you are beneath me, Talk to the Tail” kind of attitude.

Human Butts CAN be funny, but, they can also be very very sad.  Tragic, really.  Why, just tonight, I caught a glimpse of mine in the mirror after my shower, and I was ready to cry.  Fortunately, I have a short attention span, and up until I typed this, had forgotten all about it.  Now I want to cry again…..

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, Duck Butts.  You gotta love them.

And now that you have wasted several minutes of your life on this subject, minutes that you can never ever have back, I will further inject the topic into your psyche by ordering you to pay attention to the next Duck Butt (or any other butt) that is presented to you.  See if it doesn’t make you giggle, or at the very least, smile wryly.  It will.  I’ve just inserted it into your subconsciousness.

My work here is done.

You’re welcome.