What To Do When You Find Yourself Accidentally Almost Bald

So, the faux hawk wasn’t growing out well. Because of my cowlicks, it wouldn’t stand straight up without looking like Kid ‘n Play. And if i tried to lay it down, it looked oddly lumpy. Still not time for my next hair appointment. So i grab the clippers that i got to clean up my back hairline. I strap on the #8 guard (Which is an inch and a half). Mind you, the hair on the sides and back is short enough that the blades don’t even touch it. But as i get further up to the top, it starts coming off with a pleasing buzzy sound.

When i get to the front, i don’t push the clippers all the way to my head and instead leave a bit of a forelock.

I look down in the sink, and realize exactly how thick my hair is. Even just this trim has a HUGE ball of hair sitting there, staring at me like something from a Sesame Street sketch. I half expect it to jump out and shout “Mah-na! Mah-na!” I leave the almost-muppets be for the moment and hop in the shower to wash off all the scratchy little hair bits.  Then i break out my makeup mirror so i can see the back of my head better. Oops! there’s a bushy spot. Gotta fix that.

Plug the clippers back in and take them to my head. One stripe. Two.

Ut oh. That wad of hair looks way too big to be what i was aiming for. I mean, it was only a little uneven, and this looks like a granddaddy dust-bunny.

Oh, no. I couldn’t have. I mean, did i? Please, God, no. Hesitantly, i look at the clippers.

I had taken the guard off.

Oh, shit.

Oh, SHIT!

I run back and grab the mirror again. Too hard to see for sure…. Or maybe i just didn’t want to believe it.

Grab my phone and try to take a selfie of the back of my head. After 20 or 30 tries, i finally get something usable.

OH, SHIT!!!!

The back of my head looks like there are two well-used slopes open at Telluride.

To keep myself from hyperventilating, i close my eyes and take a couple deep breaths. I imagine my happy place: A cafe in Palermo, Sicily. Cannoli, Arancia candita, Sigaretti, Cassatelle, Marzipan…. Aaaahhhh. I open my eyes and look in the mirror again.

Any takers on the next word to come out of my mouth?

I allow myself a few seconds to mourn. Then i pull myself together because, really, the only thing i can do now is even it up and paint it purple so it looks somewhat intentional.

I snap the number one guard on and buzz the back of my head and around my ears. Then i jump up to the three guard and do the sides and top, pulling it longer in the front. Back into the shower to rinse off.

My scalp can feel the breeze of the ceiling fan.

A moment of truth as i take a peek at the back of my head again.

The scalp streaks are still there, but not quite as noticeable. There are still a  couple spots that i would like to touch up, but i’m afraid i will make it worse if i keep messing with it. I mean, i’ve only got 1/4″ of hair left on most of my head… I can’t risk cutting off more!

Please, God, let tomorrow be national cowboy day, so i have an excuse to wear a hat.

Pleading for a good response, i take a picture of myself and send it to a couple of select people. They tell me i look like a pixie. Because i only showed them the front. From the back? It’s more like a pixie that went to boot camp, and unfortunately got the new barber…  The day after he graduated from Trump Barber School.  I got some “Whoa”s, and some “Oh, wow”s. My stylist was less than pleased, and i don’t blame her, but even she  came up with some positive remarks. And everyone reminded me that my hair grows really fast.

Then terror sets in, because tomorrow is Friday and i have to work.

I send a note to my closest coworkers and forewarn / threaten them not to laugh.

**********

The next morning, after deciding that it wasn’t work-appropriate for me to show the amount of cleavage it would take to make the hair unnoticeable, i put a little extra effort into my makeup and pick an outfit on the more feminine side (Well, for me, anyway). I practice my casual everything-is-coming-up-roses walk to fake some confidence. I am trying to own it, but i am failing miserably.

I should have gone with the cleavage.

At first, nobody says anything. Then a couple of the women tell me they kind of like it. Not so much praise as to make me think they are lying thru their teeth, but enough to let me know it isn’t stylishly apocalyptic.

Man, i love my coworkers!

**********

Two days later, and the bald spots are starting to fill in. I’ll bet i can #1 guard the back tomorrow and it will at least all be even. This isn’t a style i’m likely to come back to. I mean, i scared the crap out of myself walking past the mirror this morning, because i thought i was a maniac burglar.

But hey, i set out a couple weeks ago to spice things up a bit. A mostly shaved head is the style equivalent of scotch bonnet peppers, so at least i exceeded my goal.

And really, if i can learn to rock the accidental shaved head, i’d be one hell of a badass, now wouldn’t i? Maybe this is God/Goddess/Universe’s way of telling me that i have more strength than i thought. Maybe this is to help me learn to command myself. Maybe she is telling me to worry less about my looks.

Or maybe She’s just trying to tell me to stay away from sharp objects.

I Am the Codfish

Hold it in.

Hold it back.

Until you can bear it no longer.

Take as much as you can.

Til you’re about to burst.

Then take some more.

It’s Tantric.

Like sex.

But without the enjoyment.

This.

My stress life.

More relevant than my sex life.

And certainly more abundant.

My work,

Like stress porn.

Pushing me farther to the edge.

Closer and closer.

So close. So close.

But the cliff dive has no bliss.

Only jagged rocks.

And a reasonable paycheck.

What kind of yoga is this?

The manipulation of the sacred mind

For the benefit of the trumped up guru.

Swallowing heap upon heap of

Garbage and rhetoric.

Tantric, my ass.

This is my stressful revolution.

Like the 1970s, with less bush

And more growth.

Cue the music.

Bom chicka wow wow.

End scene.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adventures in Renovation – The First Bite

It’s easy to get excited about home renovations. Even those of us resistant to change can’t help but get caught up in the quest for the calmest shade blue paint or the perfect pattern of floor tile. Since, as you know, i’m passionate about color and texture, i have boxes full of paint chips, counter top samples, and bits of flooring taking up an unseemly amount of space as i plunge headfirst into a gradual makeover of my little beach cottage in the wood. Even knowing what the eventual end will look like, there are still so many options to choose from. You make lists of the few jobs  that are too difficult or important-to-get-right for you to do yourself, and align them with lists of contractors and specialists. The rest will be a bunch of fun weekend projects. The excitement builds.

And then you start the work, and you remember why you don’t do it for a living.

I was starting with a simple thing this weekend – The inside of the kitchen cupboards. The cottage is 100 years old, with a kitchen that was added on around the time when the idea of a kitchen inside the house became more commonplace. The cabinets are good, solid, and heavy; so i decided to update them rather than replace them. The original state was old-wood wiff and that funky Crayola mahogany color that  hasn’t belonged in a  home since 1975. The hardware is fake copper colonial.

Not exactly Martha Stewart.

I wasn’t sure what the cabinets were stained with, and i couldn’t even begin to guess since i have no idea when they were put in, so i did some research online and with my local paint guru before deciding that i was going to have to start with  the basics and prime the hell out of them.

I thought priming would be step one. But it turned out to be step five, six, and seven.

I woke early Saturday full of the energy that comes with a new, desirable project. I go to my kitchen and start removing the contents of the cupboards. Easy enough, right? Ummmm…. Nope. First of all, it is my son’s task to put away the dishes after i wash them, and apparently he failed “stacking” in pre-school. There was literally nothing in the lower cupboards that i could move more than a single item at a time. Big squares on top of small circles, things upside down, and the plasticware…. Oy vey! None of it stacked with any sort of commonality, so i had to sort it as i was removing it just to keep it from heaping on the counter.

Oh, and the corporate people who think it’s a good idea to make each brand non-compatible with the others’ lids? You can kiss my ass.

Once all the “stuff” was out, i started on getting rid of the liners. One of the cabinets had contact paper so old, it flaked apart as i was removing it – which took a putty knife and more of a positive attitude than i actually possessed . The others all had leftover linoleum. It was a bit wiff from age, but not too nasty underneath…  til i got to the cupboard under the sink…

I think it was originally wood under there, but it looked more like a science project.

There wasn’t going to be any way to salvage it, so i had to pull it up. I was grateful to find that the subfloor underneath was neither rotted nor harboring creatures. I had some leftover plywood in the shed, so this should be an easy fix, right? But i don’t own a power saw of any kind, so i make a few calls to see if any of the hardware stores in town can cut out the pieces, including the allowances for the pipes. No such luck. Looks like another trip to the store for tools, but for now, i keep on.

I eventually get all the bottom cabinets unloaded and decide, just to keep myself interested, i will complete these before moving on to the upper ones. Having prepared the night before by purchasing tri-sodium phosphate, gloves, safety goggles, and a bucket (among other things), i set to work washing down all the inside surfaces of the cabinets to remove any grease or residue. A few things become apparent:

First, none of the inside surfaces are sealed. Second, these cabinets must have been hand-made because none of them is the same size, nor are the grain of the walls all going the same way. Third, whoever did the making didn’t know much about the physics of construction, because all the drawers are made with end-to-end corners, secured by penny nails. As a result, they are starting to come apart. Fourth, whatever the stain is made of, it makes a bigger mess than cheap lipstick. I have to make a new TSP solution for each cabinet because the water is nasty and orange by the time i finish with each one. Crimey.

Once everything is washed down well, i leave it to dry while i go buy the tools to fix the undersink. This required making friends with a somewhat questionable group of men at Harbor Freight, as i have never owned a jigsaw (Well, i have had quite a few jigsaw puzzles, but as it turns out, that has little relevance). They help me pick out something that is reasonably priced for the few times i will need it, and they were also smart enough to check that i had the proper safety equipment and medical insurance.

I head home and go to the shed to find that none of the wood pieces i have is suitable for what i need.  (Insert your favorite string of cusswords here)

By now it is past dinner time, and i am more frustrated than a gigolo at a convent, so i break for the night and make myself some of the best Irish-style vegetable soup i have ever made. Or maybe it was just great in comparison to the issues of the day. Whatever. It made me feel better.

Up this morning and off to get the wood. That part was actually pretty easy. It was early enough that i was the only one needing help and i was in and out faster than i expected, even including a detour to get Gorilla Glue for the drawers.

I admit, i cheated and had the guy at Lowes cut the boards to the right size. After all, my cheap little jigsaw would have had a much harder time of it, especially with me at the wheel. But i had to do the pipe cut-arounds myself. I used the old pieces as a template and then set to taking the jigsaw out of the box. Now, being female, i did actually look at the directions, but i admit, i mostly just read thru the safety points and glossed over the rest.  Had i been a little less assured that my common sense would get me thru, i would have read the entire thing, and my day might have gone better.

Just getting the blade into the blasted thing turned out to be a trial. The screws that hold it in place were in between sizes (At least for my screwdriver kit), so i couldn’t tighten them down as much as i should have.  I jerry-rigged supports and weights to hold it in place. The blade went thru about an eighth of an inch before it came out, stuck in the cut. As a testament to my lack of experience, i tried to pull the blade out of the wood by hand.

Five minute break while i wash the wounds and super glue them closed.

Unplug the saw, reset the blade. Saw another eighth of an inch. Swear as the blade falls out. This time i used pliers.

Repeat that about 100 times.

When i got to the point where i was cursing in languages that i didn’t realize i knew, i took a lunch break. I decided to read the manual while i ate. Then i cursed myself in all those languages again.

It was easy enough to find the custom hex wrench, since it was in a nice little strap made just for that purpose at the top end of the power cord. And now that i knew you were supposed to have it at full speed before  it touched the wood, i didn’t need 50 pounds of bricks holding it down before i started. Since i had cut and cursed my way thru 2 1/2 of the pipe holes,  it took me all of five minutes to finish the job with the properly tightened and wielded saw.

The prayer of gratitude that i made when the pieces actually fit like they were supposed to was both heartfelt and strong.

Next step: The actual priming. Stripped down to cutoffs and a sports bra (Getting paint off skin is a whole lot easier than getting it out of clothes), I start on the first cabinet. When i tell you that the wood sucked up the paint, i mean it sucked it up like a PMS Queen at a chocolate factory. There was no wet residue on the shelving before i even had my brush reloaded. But i kept at it until each surface had a good first coat. Then i had a cup of tea while it set.

The fact that it needed a second coat wasn’t a surprise. After all, it obviously hadn’t been sealed, there was a lot that came off when i washed it, and i knew i didn’t get it all. But after the second coat, when there was still stain seeping thru, i was getting more than irritated.

Coat three is almost dry, and there are still a  few spots where stain is seeping thru. I’ve used most of a gallon on 10 feet of cabinets, and that’s just doing the inside. In spite of this, and the cuts on my thumb, and the ache in my shoulders, and the consumption of a weekend for something that should have taken a day, i’m glad i did it. Even without a coat of the actual paint, it looks cleaner and brighter. The removal and replacement of the nasty wood makes me feel accomplished. I learned some things that will help when i do the outside of the cabinets (The inside of the upper ones might just stay as they are!) And now i have a chance to sort thru and organize all the mis-stacked pans, buy all new plasticware of a single brand, and make everything a bit more neat.

It might not exactly be a “win”, but it is a job completed. Yes, there are many more jobs to go, but like the man said when he was asked how he managed to eat an entire elephant, you just have to take it “One bite at a time.”

 

 

Next Time, Nasal Spray

For those of you unfamiliar, Chattanooga, Tennessee is the capitol of the allergy world. More kinds of pollen, mold, dander, and other crap than anyplace else. It is nearly impossible to live here and not suffer during the transitional seasons – Which, in Chattanooga, is 12 months a year.

Growing up on the beach in New England, there wasn’t much grass, or leaf mold, or hay. Pretty much, we had pine needles and beach plums (If you have never smelled a beach plum rose, you haven’t smelled heaven.) But neither of those things really sets you to sneezing or anything. If it came flying out your nose, it was either from a cold or from laughing too hard.

So when i moved here to Chatt getting close to 20 years ago, i was confounded by the way my schnoz spent so much time swelled up and juicy. It makes me acutely paranoid of stalactites in my nostrils, and makes me snore (worse). And not for nothing, as a middle-aged woman with three kids, sneezing becomes an exercise in strategic pelvic contortion.

I have tried all the different antihistamines to little relief. There are just too many allergens for the bod to battle. But it sucks being stuffy and swimmy-headed and prone to drippiness. So what’s a gal to do?

Well, in my case, i mentioned it to my doc. He suggested a compounded steroid shot. Not a bad idea, considering it could potentially  replace the deluge of other meds i was taking on a daily basis to no effect. So i drop trow, and the nurse stabs me in the arse. I didn’t really expect to feel better immediately, but when i went to bed that night, i was still plagued by snot.

Fast forward to 3 a.m. I am woken out of a sounds sleep by a sensation of flames. My body is on fire. I turn on the light to discover that i am red as a poker from neck to knees. And i itch.

Well, shit.

I pop a couple of benedryl and stand in front of the freezer, fanning the door in my general direction, til the meds take hold and i get sleepy. Back to bed til morning and i have to switch to the less  drowsy allergy pills. Work was torture that day, as it was impossible to stay focused while my skin was aflame. And to add insult to injury, i was still sneezing.

I knew it would pass, which it did sometime during the following day. As it passed, the benefits started coming thru. My head was getting clearer, the sneezing was less frequent, and i no longer felt stuffed.

But i did feel some other stuff.

Ask anyone who has to deal with a 14 year old girl on a regular basis, and they will tell you that hormonal balance is a precarious thing. It has been a long time since i was 14. I think my body forgot how to deal with it.

I am well on my way to eating my cabinets bare. I have been unusually angry and emotional. I can’t sleep. I can’t shut my brain off. I can’t focus. And lets not even talk about the randy-factor. Basically, i’m me on steroids.

Ha! That’s funny! And truthful, both literally and figuratively.

It would be comical if it were happening to someone else.

But instead, it is frustrating. I know why all these feelings and urges are swirling, i can visualize it from an outside perspective, but i can’t stop it. As if i had Tourette’s, i can’t stop the “Fuck”s from flying out of my mouth any more than i can keep my hand out of the candy bag.  And it’s only my undesirable age  and pathetic single-ness that keeps me from making a bathroom-stall name for myself.

Bloody hell! All i wanted was a booger-free nose! Is that too much to ask???

I feel like the punchline in one of those jokes where the man asks a genie for…

Never mind. You get the picture.

Now, you yummy, sexy thing… Come here before you piss me off. And bring those cookies with you…

 

Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned

Yup. I did it. And i won’t apologize and i don’t feel guilty. Well, maybe a little bit guilty. But, damn it, isn’t that one of the best parts of being an adult? Isn’t that our silver lining for having to pay bills and get wrinkles and be responsible? I mean, lets face it… Adulting sucks a lot of the time. Most of our day is taken up with work and chores and bills and staving off the crypt-keeper. It’s these frivolous, foolish, and counter-productive things that enable us to smile.

And before you judge me, let me say that you are no angel either. You, over there… Don’t think i don’t know that you lied your way out of boxing class last Friday night so you could eat ice cream in your undies while watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons.

And you, Miss Cosmo… I know you’ve got a Harlequin Romance in your nightstand, tucked under that copy of Gloria Steinem’s biography.

Keep laughing, Terry… I know you pour chocolate milk on your Reese’s Puffs in the morning and call it “breakfast”.

And Jaime, I know you were watching the Kardashians on your laptop when i walked into your office.

We all do it. We drink from the carton and put it back in the fridge. We say cusswords and we don’t even whisper them. We pee in the shower. We fall asleep with our makeup on. We flash truckers. (Please tell me i am not the only one who has done that!)  All kinds of stuff we were warned not to do, but we do them anyway. Because they are fun. And because we know we aren’t supposed to. And our parents can’t ground us for it. (Thank God!)

(Dad, if you read this, i was only kidding about the truckers.)

So when i admit that i ate nothing but two helpings of tiramisu for supper, you can’t say anything. You’d have done it, too.

So there.

 

 

 

Leave the Reindeer, Take the Cannoli

So, over a decade ago, when i was still married to my second, and my weedlings were still little, my ex and i used to put a lot of effort into decorating the house for the holidays. We strung up lights, suspended a star, and, for a while, had lit-up deer for the yard. Now, maybe it was because we bought them on clearance. Maybe it was because we got one that had been dropped. Or maybe it was because we are Italian. But one of those deer could never keep his head on.

The very first night we put them up – One curled up like a momma, and one standing and animated to bob his head up and down like he was eating – we were delighted at how pretty they were. Fancy holiday decor for a young family! And flashier than anyone else on the street! We were so proud! We left them aglow all night… And woke to a decapitated Prancer with his head still moving on the ground beside him. It was the stuff of childhood nightmares.

We turned them off and spent most of an hour reattaching Prancer’s noggin.

Back then, we had a lovely tradition of spending an evening driving to various neighborhoods to look at other people’s holiday displays. We would make up little papers that said “Elf Award” and stick them in the mail boxes of people who had especially good decorations and lights. Christmas carols blaring and hot chocolate in hand, it was always a good time. And that year, we made sure to leave our winter extravaganza up while we went around admiring others’.

While we were gone, Prancer apparently got an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Again on the lawn, Prancer’s head was dancing next to his body. It seems silly to say so about a lawn ornament, but it really was an unnerving sight. We stuck the head back on and turned off the lights. Next morning? You guessed it… Sleeping with the fishes.

We were starting to get seriously creeped out by the Reindeer Godfather’s visits. It was time to get inventive. Using wire, we twistied and sewed Prancer’s head to his body, leaving just enough wiggle room to allow for the animation. MacGyver himself couldn’t have done a better job. That night and the next few, we were able to sit outside and enjoy the prettiest decorations Lowe’s had to offer. It snowed, and the movement of the lights became all sparkly and magical. This was a winter lawn at its finest. Then Marlon Brando paid another visit.

I half expected to see bloodstains on the snow where Prancer’s head lay twitching. It was horrifying.

It became ritual: We would light up the yard every night, and in the morning, go out and reattach Prancer’s head. It was a running joke and the subject of family bets, how many nights would his head stay on before the Godfather would visit. When, in January, we took the decorations down, we kept the deer. We figured we’d come up with a way to keep Prancer’s head on by the next year.

We never did.

We re-headed Prancer regularly for many years. It became a holiday tradition (Certainly no worse a tradition than plum pudding.) And it also became part of our family mythos.

Many years later, while cleaning out the garage, my ex decided to finally throw in the towel and gave Prancer away. Since he was free, there was no need to disclose Prancer’s embarrassing secret. As it turned out, the deer had a different idea. He outed himself. As his new owner was driving off with him tucked into a pile of finds in the back of a pickup, he lost his head yet again. As we watched with equal parts horror and humor, Prancer’s head bounced down the street at the end of a string of lights, makeshift wire fasteners dangling in the breeze.

We still talk about poor Prancer every Christmas. We laugh and shake our heads. We do impressions of his head going ‘plop’ in the snow…

And then we watch cartoons so we don’t have nightmares.

Hashtag Ambien

I keep a list of ideas that float thru my head at night. Some weeks they become starting points for blog posts. This week, i could find no thread to tie them together, but there were exactly 20 of them. That seemed like a sign. So here you go, the things on my “thought list” this week. Maybe they will make you laugh. Or maybe they will just make you grateful that your brain is less scattered than mine:

1. Retail managers are always genuinely surprised and pleased when you go out of your way to give a compliment to the staff. I need to remember to do it more often.

2. I got PIF’d at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning. The person in front of me paid for my order. I paid for the order behind mine. Maybe, at some point, someone who needed a break got one. I need to do this more often as well.

3. Because i knew my son would be looking thru every closet in the house (All three of them), i wrapped all the holiday gifts and put them under the tree the same day i brought most of them in from the car (They had been living in my trunk)… None of them have tags. I have the wrapping paper coded to each weedling, but i won’t tell him which weedling has which paper. It’s driving him nuts. The evil part of me takes pleasure in that.

4.  People may argue over who was the best James Bond, but no one ever picks a Doctor other than David Tennant.

5. No matter how meticulously i clip the birds to the holiday tree, they always end up hanging upside down.

6. Cat’s in the Cradle is the saddest song ever written. And the older my weedlings get, the more i cry when it plays.

7. In which circle of Hell do the makers of cheap, industrial toilet paper live?

8. Apple brandy is wonderful in Celestial Seasonings’ Gingerbread tea.

9. It is proof of God/Goddess/Universe’s sick sense of humor that a woman can have more acne at 50 than she did at 15.

10. Listen to the news here in Tennessee – severe drought followed by vicious wildfires, followed by even more vicious storms – and it’s hard not to think that Mother Nature is pissed.

11. If time is relative, and our measure of it man-made and imperfect, then why are specific dates so important? Why do we feel deprived, for example, if we can’t celebrate Christmas on exactly December 25th?

12. Who was the first person to look at some milk that had gotten old and gone hard and thought, “Well, that looks tasty. I think i’ll eat it and call it cheese.”

13. And why do we call hokey things “cheesy”?

14. I am pretty certain that any kid who only got two front teeth for Christmas would be both grossed out and disappointed.

15. Imagine the immeasurable amount of awesomeness if you could have a casual dinner with Eleanor Roosevelt and Maya Angelou together.

16. A baby ferret is called a “kit”… So  the food, cage, and accessories for said ferret would be a kit kit.

17. I will never understand how i can find myself halfway to work and unable to remember if i put on deodorant, but i can still recite the “Friends, Romans, Countrymen…” speech, and i haven’t read Julius Caesar in over 30 years.

18. A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but if its name was “mucus”, no one would stop to smell it at all.

19. Is there anyplace creepier than an abandoned mental hospital?

20. Am i the only one who lays awake at night thinking about these things?

Don’t answer that last one.