The Great Haircutting Incident of 2016

So, earlier this summer, I got brave and cut all my hair off.
Now, mind you, this may or may not be ground breaking news, but when you chop 4 inches off your hair, all over your head-not just the ends- and you feel like you just lost 15 pounds and Cousin Itt is lying on the floor of the salon, it's kind of a big deal.
Of course, the best thing to me and my low maintenance self was the fact that once out of the shower, I could pretty much run a towel over it, slap some mousse in it, a couple of spritzes of spray gel, and I was done.
Bing. Bang. Boom.
But, such as it is, and with my thick hair, the cut lasted about 30 seconds and soon I was back to pinning it up out of my face with clips I'd had since the dawn of time-well, ok, since my early 20s.
Yeah, ok-that IS the dawn of time.
So a few weeks ago, I decided it was time to trim it up and make it pretty again. Now, they say that if you really want your haircut to turn out right, bring a picture of the cut you want and show it to the stylist. I mean, c'mon, isn't that why they have all those hairstyle books? So you can point to one and say "I want that!" and then you get to go home and figure out how to style the damn thing all by yourself???
Fortunately I had a gratuitous cheeseball selfie that I had taken the day after it was cut, with all the bells and whistles of the gel and mousse and......yeah, ok, it was a decent shot of what I wanted my hair to look like again. I showed it to the stylist, and he was nine kinds of excited. It was like the Genie from Aladdin: "OOOOH! I like it! Muy Macho!"
Yeah. We'll get to the "Muy Macho!" part in a second.
So, the stylist is gleefully cutting away, and chatting me up one side and down the other, and he's really getting excited with the amount of hair I have. For some reason, the thickness of my hair sometimes astounds people-lets just say I rarely have to use volumizer and curlers are not exactly my friend, unless they are wielded by anyone else but me that possesses some type of styling experience-namely my sister, who managed to make me into a glamour girl for my company Christmas party instead of Little Orphan Annie's long lost stepchild.
After a bit, he hands me a mirror and tells me to check and see if I like it. This is where things begin to go...south, if you will...
It wasn't quite as short as I wanted it, and, adding in the fact that my hair grows like a weed and I get super lazy about going to the "salon"-I mean, hello? I go to a place that rhymes with "Duper Putts". How much effort do you think I put into my hair??
I tell him to take a little bit more off the length.
Big mistake. Huge.
A few minutes later, I start to notice...something is a bit...amiss. And I'm trying really hard not to start hyperventilating in the chair, while Edward Scissorhands is showing off his new techniques he obviously learned under the direction of Sweeny Todd. I politely ask for a mirror, look at the back of my head...and find out to my horror, that I could now possibly pull off a 50s 'do if I wanted to.
In the style of Buddy Holly-not Peggy Sue.
I sigh as if my soul is leaving my body, and I instantly think of my friend, "She Who Loves the 80s", and the time she saw my picture on my ID-one of the first times I had cut my hair all off-and she warned me that I was never to cut my hair that short, ever, ever again. Under penalty of death.
Yeah, well, guess who's hair was shorter than that now?
"Is everything ok, love?" the stylist asks. No. everything is not ok. I am about to go home looking like the son my father never had, and you want to know if everything is ok? And don't call me "love".
"Just go on and finish it." I say, and try really, really hard not to toss the mirror onto the counter, thus shattering it into 18 million pieces and ensuring me I would have bad luck for the next millenium, not mention my somewhat non-existant dating life, but did I really expect a haircut to change that for the greater good, anyway?
But, I digress.
The stylist then adds further insult to injury by shaving my neck, along wih creating what now appear to be my new mini sideburns, while I begin contemplating how much makeup I'm going to have to put on to make sure I don't accidentally get called "sir" at the register at work. I then wonder when I all of a sudden became a Neanderthalic cavewoman, because now the stylist is shaving the lower part of my neck and appears to be headed for my shoulders. Apparently I also somehow instantly became covered in unwanted body hair, which is something the last guy I went out on a date with, "He Who I Am Kind of Sort of Dating" forgot to mention, God bless him.
Fortunately, after a really bad experience of wearing a baseball cap a little too soon (two weeks later) and having the guy at Wing Stop look at me weird when I said my name, buying what seemed to be massive amounts of mousse, spray gel and hairspray, and having a coworker call me "dude" for about a month, things have finally returned to their somewhat normal state, which is actually a relief.
Even my idea of normal.

So. What Are Ya' Wearin'? (The Sequel)
I'm starting my second year here at The Land of G&K, and I must say, I think I've got the hang of this dress casual thing.
Well, ok, there was that time I thought I'd look all cute in some of those ankle booties and wore them to work, only to find out I'm a complete WUSS and I lasted a whole freakin' four hours in the damn things....("Yeah, but they've got a thick heel....I'll be finnnnne...")
Insert the Top Gun "*cough! Bullshit!" here....
And we're certainly not going to mention that time I rode all the way to work on the train...with my dress on backwards...
Re-LAX-the back of the neckline goes up higher than the front of the neckline, so it's not like you couldn't have done it. Maybe.
But enough about my fashion faux paux...let's discuss our customers, shall we?
You know you wanna....
I never understand why people want to wear all white. I know, I know. It's a classic look. And sometimes, you have to-it's a white wedding (cue the Billy Idol here...), sometimes someone is channeling their inner Tom Hanks and they need a white tux a'la the party scene in 'Big'. And if you're that obsessed with it staying clean, what the eternal...frack are you going to do when you wear it, for God's sake? Are you going to seal yourself in a Ziploc? Wrap yourself in Saran Wrap, one wonders??
But seriously, some of them are REALLY freakin' paranoid about the white. To the point where they don't want it touching anything once they pull it off the rack. Anything. Don't let it rub up against that red shirt I'm buying-it might turn pink! Did you just God forbid breathe on it??! Ohmygod, it's ruined! Where's the manager?
I seriously had one customer who insisted that I NOT put a white ladies suit-heretofor from this point on known as The White Suit on the counter. Our conversation went something like this:
"Hi! How are you toda-"
"Could you NOT put that on your filthy counter?"
Now mind you, she was looking at the counter like we had just slaughtered a pig there and he was still resting comfortably waiting for the barbeque pit. Never mind the fact that she had just taken The White Suit out of the cart from underneath all the rest of the stuff she was buying.
"Where do you want me to put it??"
"Well, can't you bag it already?"
"I have to scan it and take off the sensor, ma'am." (Insert big, "OHMYDEARSWEETLORD" sigh here.)
I hang The White Suit and logon to the register to start my sale. In the meantime, she's eyeballing the suit like Armageddon is about to come to the store and put a direct fire and brimstone hit on The White Suit that was evidently handmade from baby cherubs with virgin choirs singing in the background. Everytime someone comes within 10 feet of The White Suit, she looks as though she's going to pee herself from the stress of it all. I scan and bag her things as fast as I can before she begins to hyperventilate herself into a stroke.
I then reach for The White Suit.
I scan the bar code...and then, I have to take off the theft sensor.
Now mind you, in order to take off the sensor, 9 times out of 10, the item will touch the counter in some way, form or fashion. There's no getting around it. She looks at me like I just threw The White Suit into a sooty chimney-one akin to the chimney sweep scene in Mary Poppins-and the second I take it off, she needs to inspect it. Like, as in: "Let me see it, I need to see it, if its dirty, then I'm not buying it! Or I want a discount!"
Fortunately, all was not lost, as The White Suit remained in it's virgin state and I thought she was going on her merry way.
She was then joined by her husband, who had picked out a black outfit-jeans and a shirt (evidently he wasn't thinking about "goin to the meetin'"), and had one of our perfume testers in his hand. I immediately knew where this was headed...and I did NOT want to be there...
He looks at the total, which is somewhere up in the lower $300 range.
He then looks at me like I took her on a personal shopping spree around the store and asks, "What she buy??!" Tha frack do I know?? It's a Saturday, could y'all just get out of my line before my manager has a hernia and ridicules me for spending the last decade with y'all??!
"You'll have to discuss that with her, sir, are you purchasi--"
"Y'all got layaway here??!"
Ohmydearsweetcheeseandrice if I went through all that with her and The White Suit and they walk out of here with nothing I will seriously go out into the parking lot and beat my head against the curb...
"No sir, I'm sorry, we don't have layaw-"
"How much this cologne cost?"
"I don't know off-hand, sir-that's a tester, you'll have to bring me the actual bot-"
"Y'all can't sell me the tester?"
Yeah, let me just make up a price and enter it into the register for you, how's that grab you?? "No, sir, we don't sell the testers..."
"We spent too damn much in here anyway. Just ring up my stuff so we can get the hell out of here. I need this tonight, and we gots to go."
Now comes the best, icing on the cake part-he then proceeds to douse himself-and the clothing-with enough cologne that made me remember a bad laundry incident with "He Who Is The Daughter's Father" and put a cloud around himself that would make PIgPen from Peanuts jealous.
My coworker, "He Who Takes No Kind of Messed Up Foolishness", looked at me-from two registers away-like "Did that man just do what I think he just did??" And all I can do at this point is just cough, nod, and get them the hell out of Dodge.
And this is why I keep wanting to keep vodka in my water bottle at work...but at least The White Suit remained unharmed, albiet a little smelly, I'm sure.

So. What Are Ya' Wearin'?
Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I am most comfortable in my jeans, tees, and Doc Martens boots. It's part of my charm. Plus the boots go well with any shirt I happen to steal from The Beloved. (For the last time, Adrian, no. I have NO IDEA what happened to your bestest, most favorite Superman shirt.... (insert evil chuckle here)) So it's been a stretch for me lately to "dress up" at my new job at The Land of G&K. I've gradually gotten used to it...after first raiding my sister's closet and then branching out on my own and purchsing new shirts and...(gasp!) skirts and dresses.
But frankly, with the oppressive heat and my having to catch the bus, the dresses have come in quite handy. I'm still standing in front of the fan a'la Marilyn Monroe when I get in, but four hours later after I've finally cooled down to a normal temperature, I kinda like the swishy feeling. Not to metion the fact that The Beloved is liking them too, though he almost died the time he noticed one dress gave me....(ahem!) cleavage:
The Beloved: "Wow. When did you get those?"
Me: "Keep asking stupid questions, and you won't ever get to see them again because I"m going to kill you."
See? I still got the tomboy charm.
Anyway, pardon me if I still don't understand some aspects of fashion. This summer we got quite a few of the "rompers"-little bitty one piece items that look like a tube top mated with a pair of Daisy Dukes and this is their love child. I know it's meant for "misses and juniors", but try telling that to the 40+ year old ladies who are chunkier than I am and still want to buy them. I learned early on in my retail career to bite my tongue and just let things be. But sometimes you just gotta step in and say "No."
Unfortunately, for me, it would come out more like, "Oh, honey, no. you. didn't."
Like the time I worked at an accessories store and I had to tell a drag queen who had hands bigger than my Dad's: "No. Honey, these white satin gloves are just NOT going to fit you." Sometimes you get thanked for your honesty, and sometimes you need to get prepared for a beat down. (He did have a nice manicure, though.)
But some of the stuff we sell...yes, I know it's "in style" but whoever designed some of this "style" should be shot. Like the seer sucker suit separates.(Say that three times fast. I dare you.) I don't know who thought fabric that intentionally looks wrinkled was a good idea, but there they were, snapping them up like it was the best thing since sliced bread. Not to mention the fact that we had all the colors available, too. Not just your standard white, black, khaki and blue, but also...(wait for it)
It's always been a dream of mine to be out on the town with He Who Shall Never Be Spoken Of Again, dressed in all my finery, smiling, walking arm in arm with a 6'2" Mexican dressed as a peppermint stick.
I had to send pictures to my friend, "She Who Can Actually Walk In Heels", to prove, that yes, we did furnish clothing for those who have a fetish of dressing like they should work for Willy Wonka.
And in case you didn't want to be left out, and really wanted to stand out, we have sport coats in a variety of colors...from a nice velour style in "pumpkin" or "eggplant" (Why are most of the colors named after foods????) Or, if you're looking to add that final touch to your spring and summer wardrobe, might I suggest the linen sport coat, featured in sky blue, Pepto Bismol Pink, and mint green..
Last week, I had two of Lancaster's finest, in full uniform and fully armed, come in and start looking around-
"Can I help you gentlemen? Is there any type of emergency I need to know about?", I joked with them.
"Nope. Just a fashion emergency. Got to see what we need to look sharp!", one replied, so I left them to browse.
As sure as the day is long, those two came up to the register later, proudly displaying their find-the mint green jacket.
Fashion emergency, indeed. He'll be festive at the Policeman's Ball....

What the Hell Am I Listening To??
I started working at The Land of G&K in December, and after slogging through the usual banality of Christmas music, the assistant manager, "She Who Loves the 80's" changed our in-store music to a station that's supposed to play hits from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Seeing how I'm going to hit the big 4-0 this year, I can relate to most of the music, and I despair when I have to explain some of the songs to our younger staff members..."The Kids", if you will, Because I sadly realized the other day that I am old enough to be their mom. All of them.
Yay, me.
So, I'm sure they think I'm terribly out of date when I have to ask them things like, "Wait. I'm singing along to this song. It's not Justin Beiber, is it?? Answer me!!" Because the sad fact is, this station sneaks in alot of (gasp!) recent Top 40 hits. (If that's even a classification for music anymore.) I mean, really. I had to remind myself once not to dance in the store after they decided to play "Shake It Off" immediately after "Vogue". There are horror stories in my family related to "Vogue", but that's something you'll have to ask my sister about. Mine is just forgetting I'm in public and dancing around like a Muppet on a sugar high.
At least, that's what my daughter says I dance like-"Heh-heh...Mama! You dance like Bert and Ernie!"
Kids. Their honesty is SO refreshing, isn't it?
*ahem!* Anyway...I've already realized that I can't really relate to some of the latest Top 40 music anymore. Not because of the obvious annoyance factor-"Let's write one verse and then sing it over and over! No one will notice if we back it with a deafening bass track!"
I'm sure my parents and grandparents each had this same thought. I told you I'm an old person.
But when I listen to some of the lyrics, I have to ask the eternal question: "Why in the name of Heaven is this person singing a song about...THIS???!"
Now, before you laugh hysterically at my outright indignation at the lack of talent, let me explain something. I started hearing this song, and the only thing that stuck in my head afterwards was:
Call your girlfriend/Its time you had the talk
Give your reasons/Say its not her fault
But you just met somebody new/And now, it's gonna be me and you
And I'm thinking, "Wow. That's kind of harsh. And sucky." But, out of sight (earshot?), out of mind, and I forgot about it, until I heard it again, and listened to more of the lyrics:
And it won't make sense right now, but you're still her friend...
...Don't you even try and explain how it's so different when we kiss
What the fruit loops?? I just want to reach through the song and slap the everliving snot out of the girl singing the song and the boyfriend in question. And when that's done, me and the other poor girl, we're gonna go out for ice cream and talk about what a skeeze the singer is and how the boyfriend is a douche.
But wait, friends and gets better. This "artist" has another song I have to endure. (Sue me. I actually listen to the music while I'm working instead of tuning it's a bad habit.)
This one I affectionately dubbed "The Stalker Song" because of this:
Somebody told me you got a new friend/Does she love you better than I can?...
...I know where you're at, I bet she's around...
Oh, and let's not forget the best line, which is sung through about 85% of the song:
I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, ohh....
Hello? Security? We've got a bogey trailing us on our six, and she's a little cuckoo for cocoa puffs...

I Feel Pretty, Oh SO Pretty!
So last week I was in downtown Dallas and I noticed that once again the Mary Kay ladies have landed.
For the uninitiated, every summer, (every. summer.) millions of Mary Kay ladies descend upon Dallas in great numerous herds to meet and greet one another of their cult...I mean, of their kind...and to otherwise terrorize unsuspecting makeup minimalists like myself.
Now, let me set the record straight. I enjoy makeup. Really, I do. Just ask my Dad-he can testify that I own at least 20 tubes of lipstick (of which I wear two) and he freaked out when my sister bought me eye shadow at Christmas.
He freaked out more when he found out I was actually using it. Poor man.
I just have the belief that it should not take me longer than three minutes to put on said makeup, nor should it take an act of God and/or blasting caps to remove said makeup. I mean, seriously-I cried the morning after prom-standing in the shower under steaming hot water and a few good scrubs with a washcloth, thinking to myself..."Oh, God, this sh*t is NEVER going to come off!!!!" (This is what happens when you take a tomboy to Glamour Shots and let them do your prom makeup for you. But dammit, I looked good...)
First of all, I don't know who at Mary Kay thought it was a good idea to come to Dallas in the middle of freakin' July when the average temperature and heat index rivals that of the sun. What, did they think the heat would be a good test of how soon the makeup is going to sweat off your face into a colorful puddle on your shirt? Yeah, that's a selling point for me-point me towards the nearest sweaty makeup representative and lets see how much time elapses before she starts to melt. Take all my money...NOW.
The other thing that scares me is that it looks like some of the ladies didn't have proper training with a color wheel, let alone finding out if they're a "winter" or if they need "cool tones". If your makeup looks like you should stop working for Mary Kay and perhaps look up the next round of auditions for Clown College, then I'm definately not going to be buying cosmetics from you anytime soon. Sheer pink lipstick with red lipliner is not going to cut it. Even I know that's wrong, and that's coming from a girl who still has mascara incidents on a regular basis. (For those of you who are wondering, I either get mascara on the bridge of my nose or on my eyelid (or both!) at least once during every's a talent.)
And when did it become appropriate to compliment (or blatantly stare) at me and/or one of my features and then try to sell me some makeup to "enhance" said feature? I met a rep on the train that kept staring at me. Hello? Freak out mode in 5...4...
Then it came-"Young miss? Has anyone ever told you, you have the most beautiful eyes and lips?" Um, no. Not since the boyfriend went out of town. And if you keep telling me this, I'm going to cry due to outright and complete embarassment.
She kept going..."I was just noticing how large your features are." Gee. Thanks. I also have large thighs and a large behind, but hopefully you're not going to start talking about those, one hopes.
Then it hit..."I have some products? From Mary Kay? That would help you with those?" Great. First my features are "beautiful", now they need help? And saying it like a question makes it seem like you're not really sure it'll help in the first place. Yay! Let me just snatch up what ever it is that you're trying to sell as you "compliment" me awkwardly.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to fulfill a middle school fantasy and try out my purple mascara and see if it goes well with my mauve lipstick....
It's going to be FAB-ulous!

Happy Feet...I Got Those Happy Feet....and It Was Scary
My sister-God Bless her-started taking me last year for our (trumpets, please) "girls day out" to get a mani and a pedi. I think she felt pity on me and my short little stubby nails that I keep cut down to the quick, but that's what works for me. And I have to admit, the idea of pretty little nails that I wouldn't have to paint myself intrigued me. Add in the fact that I work 40 hours a week on my feet, and now wearing sandals, well, the tootsies were looking a little sad. Point blank, I wanted a pedicure more than anything. Not that I would ever admit to this, though-wild horses wouldn't drag it out of me. Hello? I have a tomboy image to maintain.
The idea of sitting in the big, poofy chair, with a hot tea or a glass of wine, (bwah hahahaha! Me & wine??), someone massaging my legs and feet, the idea seemed a bit like heaven.
Until I sat in the chair.
I've never been more terrified in my life.
First of all, it's a massage chair. Now, I've never been on the receiving end of a massage. The only time I'd ever sat in a massage chair, I'd been in a car accident and the damn thing felt like a bowling ball was rolling up and down the small of my back. Then the few times I had ever received a back rub from He Who Is My Daughter's Father, it was mostly done in the "fine, I'll rub your damn back" attitude, and  I felt like the person was going to break me in half, which usually pissed off the massage-er, and the back rub would never get finished.
After sitting in the chair-I remembered WHY I never got massages. Especially on my feet.
I neglected to mention the time He Who Is My Daughter's Father decided he was going to massage my feet. I still to this day have no idea why he wanted to do it-maybe to absolve himself of any further obligations to show affection-but suddenly, there he is, taking off my sock, and trying to rub my foot.
I say trying, because I had always warned him not to touch my feet, because I suffer from the bane of all afflictions.
I'm ticklish.
Despite my warnings of "Do not touch my feet. I'm not kidding you. I'm ticklish. I will kick you in the head! I mean it! Don't touc--" BAM!! He apparently thought I was kidding. Until my foot made contact with his head.
So yeah. Massages aren't really my thing.
But here I am, trying to bond with my sister, and sitting in this chair that feels like a wagon wheel is going up and down my spine, to the point its pushing me out of the chair at times...but I'm smiling like everything is ok. Just smile and wave, and wave. I could imagine the next day at work- "Angela, what happened to you?" "I was run over by the wagon train from Little House on the Prairie..."
I began to relax, though, after my sister explained a bit about what was going to be done to me-even thought I was adamant that I just wanted the basic treatments. I mean, really? You can't just throw me in there with all the bells and whistles and expect me to be calm about it. Foot soak? Seemed pretty harmless-warm bubbly water, scented sugar scrubs...yeah. I could get used to this.
And then she brought out the foot file.
Yeah. I have calluses on my feet. I work in retail. Eight hours a day or more, in sandals, so yeah. my feet were looking a bit rough. I mean, I"m no freaking Neanderthal, mind you. I do have some pride, but yeah, a professional needed to get involved.
But she brings out this thing that looks like a freakin' cheese grater and proceeds to start sawing away at the side of my big toe. Then after a few passes, she stops and reconsiders. Maybe it was the fact that she felt she should start slowly, maybe it was the fact that I nearly jumped out of my skin and screamed. You pick. I'm gonna go with the latter.
In the meantime, my sister is just sitting there, relishing the hot towel foot rub, making really awkward noises, while I'm sitting over here wondering why the lady is using things that look like they came out of my Dad's tool kit to trim my cuticles. I mean seriously. I've seen wire cutters that were smaller. So after sucking it up and feeling like I had Fred Flintstone's feet, the lady finally felt pity on me (or gave up) and appplied more lotions and creams, and the final hot sugar scrub that concluded with my own hot towel wrap.
Oh. My. Pie. Plus, I think I made a noise that He Who Shall Never Be Spoken Of Again would've been jealous of. Sorry, not sorry.
The ordeal wasn't a total loss, though, as I emerged with ten cute little toes, painted a delicate shade of purple, for the whole free world to see. Look at my toes...look at them...LOOOOOOK!!!!
It's just gonna be a minute before I go back. You gotta handle these things slowly.

Things That Bother Me, Part III
Recently, while we were experiencing the lovely cooler temps earlier this summer, I observed a gentlemen taking full advantage of the nice weather. There he was, cruising down the interstate, top down on his convertible, wind blowing....straight over his big. bald. head.
Now, while I have nothing against bald men--two of my best guy friends are bald--it was the fact that he had the top down, and windows up. I have only seen this with female friends who don't want the wind to mess up their hair, so they raise the windows to deflect the oncoming breeze. I also had a guy friend in college who would do the same thing, but he was a little on the metrosexual side, so the reasoning behind the action was the same. For those of us who were just excited to be tooling around town in a convertible on a nice sunny day, the reaction to the action was "Are you serious?? Put the windows down already and screw the wind!!" But noooo, we had to have our hair all nice and pretty and spiffy.
So here is this man wasting a perfectly good, sunny day in a convertible, protecting his...baldness, Ayediosmio. Fun is wasted on the wrong people.
Another thng that bugged the heck out of me recently was the fact that a customer, though I know she meant well and with affection, she called me something that truly hurt and offended me.
She called me..."Honey Boo Boo".
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?? Did you just refer to me as the poster child for redneck illiteracy? When they speak on the show, captions have to be placed on the screen so that the audience can understand what they're saying. I don't even think they have to do this for the "Swamp People", but here's Mama June and Honey Boo Boo in all their glory, crucifying the English language so badly that if William Shakespeare were alive, he'd hunt them down and stab them with a quill pen. "Oh, evil one! Thou hast offended mine ears with your foul offensive tongue! Be gone!!"
Does it bother anyone else that these people are on TLC--The Learning Channel??!!
And speaking of customers, we have recently welcomed a new group into the building...fresh new faces, eager to get out there and take on the world...
I have already dubbed one of them "He Who Dresses Like a Box of Crayons".
Now, I know, I know. Judge not, lest ye be judged. And those of you who truly know me are witness to the fact that I will make fun of myself first and foremost above anything. I'm not immune to my sarcastic sense of humor.
But, let's analyze this, shall we? You come to work in those trendy new, form fitting dress shirts that look like they wouldn't fit my 4 year old daughter, let alone a twenty year old man. The buttons are straining to stay closed, and the top one can't be buttoned at all, so leave it open under the bow tie. Both shirt and pants are in glorious colors like, pink, lime, melon...chartruese, Don't forget to let the pants be form fitting as well, and ride about an inch above the ankle. If said pants are (gasp!) not high enough, be sure to roll them up accordingly so that you will be prepared in case of flood damage. Accessorize with a pair of loafers and no socks, so that all can see that blobish shaped tattoo on top of your foot. We've got a winner!!
The Miami Vice wardrobe people called-Don Johnson wants his wardrobe back, and he is pissed...

They've Got a Med For That, You Know...
I've figured out a couple of things is that I overthink somethings WAAAY too much.Maybe it's my witty, sarcastic look on life. Maybe it's the fact that I'm on two different medications may cause drowsiness, but is supposed to help me focus and clear my thoughts. The other is an anti-depressant that can cause (wait for it,,,wait for it...) sleeplessness and/or suicidal tendencies. Raise your hands now if you're confused...??? EX-actly!
If you're happy and you know it, you're off your meds.
The thing that bothers me is that how do some of these medications get put out there??? And is the cure worth the side effects? Insert deep announcer voice here : "May cause yellowing eyes, red, scaly skin, and the ability to breathe fire." Oh,, that's the dragon from Shrek... And who actually discusses these things with you, or decides putting out a commercial on them is a good idea? My favorite one that's running right now (only on the radio, thank God) is the one advertising a Viagra "substitute" at a (trumpets, please!) 75% discount!! YAY!!! This makes me laugh for the simple reason that it reminds me of the time my mom (bless her soul) thought they said "reptile disruption". And like Viagra wasn't scary enough, now this commercial is telling you to come in for a free demonstration to show you how fast it can work for you!! Um, let's Viagra, free demonstration, possibility of a 4 hour (ahem!) "problem", drop in blood pressure and/or death? Yeah-uh!!! The funny thing is, I think I know people who would actually show up for the free trial...
So, as we turn to the possibility of side effects, one medicine commercial that makes me just absolutely cringe with embarrassment is the Phillips Colon Health lady. You know, the one carrying around the little purple box, asking who's suffering from gas, nausea, bloating, and (YAY!) "tummy trouble"???!! I only wrote that because I can't bring myself to even write the "d-word", let alone discuss it with anyone. Like someone is going to sit there and let the entire free world know about their bathroom troubles? And here comes this lady, smiling about it, holding up a little box like your fairy godmother, who's going to fix everything? RIIIIIGHT...just as soon as she lets everyone in the room know what's wrong with you.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take my meds....

Things That Bother Me, Part II
Recently, we took my munchkin, Bella, on an outing to celebrate Earth Day.
Bless my little  munchkin, she takes after my side of the family-take her to a place where they are passing out free stuff, and she's a happy little kid. She gets her own bag, she fills it with goodies-free crayons, color books, fly swatters-and we've had a good day.
My problem, though, friends and neighbors, is this- it's an environmental awareness event, right? Save the earth, save the planet, and all that. I get it. What puzzles me is....the insane amount of paper these people were passing out at an Earth Day celebration. Everywhere you turned- a flyer about this, a printout about that, a pamphlet on saving trees... (I'm not kidding on that one, Really. you can't make this stuff up...) It was everywhere! My favorite though, was the hot dog stand next to the booth about the benefits of being vegetarian and vegan. Priceless!
Another thing that has just stumped me for years is Lovers Lane United Methodist Church. Now, before you take offense, let me first say that this is not a dig on any particular religion. Far be it from me to do anything stupid like that. No, the problem that I have with this particular church is not on Lovers Lane. It is nowhere near Lovers Lane. It is in fact on the very busy corner of Inwood Road and Northwest Highway. Just about a half a mile from the Fifth Church of Christ. What happened to the other four Church of Christ still remains a mystery that I don't want to get into...
Finally, one day as we were cruising down Central Expressway (at the breakneck speed of 38 miles an hour), I was looking aimlessly (that's a surprise?) out the window, and I happened to notice two stores that should never, EVER have been put next to, near, or in the same strip mall. Ever. Whoever did this, deserves to be shot at sunrise, or given a real estate award, depending on how you look at this. There is a store that sells funeral supplies. It's called Dallas Casket Company.
It's right next door to...Boxes to Go.

Scrubby Scrub!!
It's time, I feel, that I address the issue of...baths, showers, and outright hygeine.
Now, this isn't going to be some awkward, embarrassing thing, like, say the time I was down in the Dallas Stars locker room (not MY fault they were dumb enough to give me a press pass) and when I happened to glance toward Curtain #1, it lead to the showers and...Pat Verbeek's naked arse. Google him. The head shot alone will show why my brain is permanently scarred for life...
Ahem! No, I'm trying to figure out a few things that have me a bit...befuddled, if you will.
Take my dad, for instance. Bless his heart, he was a Navy man, spent time aboard ship with God only knows how many other men, so who knows what they had to wash with. But let's discuss something, shall we? I'm a girl. A wo-cough!- a woman, even, and what type of shampoo do I use? I use a $3.29 bottle of Suave. What does Dad use?? Pantene. Yeah, that's right. You heard me-the man uses Pantene. And when I tried to buy him the "manly" Pantene, he scoffed at it like I'd just asked him to go outside and wash with rain water and lye soap, and went and bought his little, $8.69 bottle of Pantene practically the next day.
Well. Aren't we spiffy?
To continue, (and you know I will) I've recently been staying with my sister. This is where I have to ask...can there be too many hygeiene products in the shower with you at any given time? Maybe it's because I'm still a tomboy and I have shower gel and shampoo. Bing, bang, boom. But now, it's seems there are bottles EV-erywhere! I know some belong to the wee one, my neice-all hail Mr. Bubble!-and I understand that. Perhaps I need to get used to the fact there ARE four adults in one apartment now (and a baby!) so it's not just me and my lowly little collection of two bottles. What I DO need to figure out is if there is a way to permanently mark your bath pouf, because with three girls in the house, there's four bath boufs, each a slightly lighter/darker shade of purple from the other. Eeney, meeney, miney... mo?
Thankfully, my sister removed the Disney Princess bath mat so I no longer feel that there are four pairs of eyes staring me down anymore whilst I bathe. AWK-ward...


Log in

No account? Create an account