Monday, March 29, 2010

free and frolicking

Yesterday, I went for a run. I went for a run that was meant to be leisurely, but when my iPod died two miles in, the last seven miles weren't as leisurely. But my misfortune did force me to be more attentive to everything around me. I saw leaves that should have been raked up back in the fall but were instead trapped under a thick blanket of snow. Finally, they were freed and were frolicking in the wind. Finally they were free. And they were frolicking.

Today, I'm blogging from a hotel in Scottsdale, Arizona. I'm on a work trip, but got an afternoon free of work. My co-workers are lounging poolside. We are all free - if only for an afternoon, to do what we love. I have plans to run and to read and to write and to take a nap. And to eat out. I am free, if only for one afternoon. And don't interpret this to mean I don't like working, because everyone who knows me knows how thoroughly I enjoy it. But I do think everyone needs an afternoon off here and there to be free.

To remember what it was you loved before you were tied down to your job. To remember who you are. And best of all, to re-evaluate what it is you'd like to become.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Business or pleasure

I can finally say, "for business."

Not that they ask anymore, but back in the day, when you traveled via air, they asked the purpose of your flight, "business or pleasure?" I remember as a teenager wanting to add a third option of "mission trip" because I really wasn't sure which category that fell into. Anyway, up until now, all my travels have been for pleasure (or visiting people). But Monday, I will be leaving on my first business trip.

I'm going to sunny Phoenix once again (as some of you remember, I was just there in January running a torturous race they call a half marathon). We are opening a new center for a branch of the company, so a few colleagues and I will be interviewing and then laying by the pool (the pool just for them - not me: as you also may remember, I sunburn five minutes into sunrise). I'm glad to be going south again (although it is warming up here pretty rapidly). But I'm most glad that I am finally traveling for the purpose of business. I honestly didn't think that would ever happen. It makes me feel like I have a career.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

pink, library, huck finn

Confession: I like Pink. Not the color, but the pop rock girl that acts dikey but has a husband (or an ex-husband, I'm not completely sure). I know everyone hates her, so it might surprise you that I closetedly (up until this point) enjoy her. I know, I know, I hate everything. Not Pink. When one of her songs come on the radio I start bopping my head, which is the extent of my dance moves repertoire. Today I got cut off three times within a mile on Harrison, but it was all good because Pink was on.

Another confession: I do enjoy reading. I'm a nerd, what can I say. But I also believe in finishing what I start (my dad instilled it into all of us - thus seven years of piano lessons which I loathed). I have a library that cases all my books. Awhile ago, I thought to myself, what is the point of having books if you never read them a second time? So I began reading them for a second time.

I read Good Earth, which was great, then the Bell Jar, which never gets old, then I came across Huck Finn. Two months ago. I've come to realize I hate Huck Finn. I think I actually enjoyed this book once upon a time, but now I can't see why. I've been forcing myself to finish it. Steve tells me not to bother with it, but I have to finish. And I hate myself for it. I could have read six other books in this time, but I am still on a raft on the Mississippi River. If this isn't finished by my trip on Monday, I'm giving up.

I have quite the growing list of books I want to get to one day...when these terrible dialects have finally ended and they sink that raft or whatever happens. I honestly don't even care anymore, I just want it to end. I'm not going to enjoy reading anymore as a result of Huck. Damn you, Mark Twain, you're such a killjoy.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

wings, pits, epilepsy

Tonight, we went to Buffalo Wild Wings for what used to be 25¢ wings. It wasn't that long ago: I was in college. Well, this shows you how out of control inflation has become: wings now cost 45¢ each. As a special price on Tuesday nights only. I am becoming that old woman who says "in my day, a candy bar cost a nickel." But in actuality, in my day they cost a quarter (although you could find them 5 for $1 at Walgreen's once a month).

Aren't you glad BWs put what they consider to be a catchy marketing phrase on the wet naps? It made me imagine a giant sweaty guy wiping down his pits underneath his cut off T-shirt after polishing off two dozen hot wings. Then proceeding to wipe down his face with the same wet nap. Disgusting. Nothing turns me off wings like this wet nap cover. Except wing sauce. Actually, I hate wings regardless of this new wet nap packaging, but this makes me hate them even more. Oh my God, it's happened. I hate everything already so all I can do from here is start hating current hates even more. This is out of control. I'm an über-hater.

We were at this wings place with a guy who is epileptic. I noticed over his shoulder an arcade game behind him with an "Epilepsy warning" listed across its screen. Now I know he couldn't just turn around and break into a seizure, but it felt like I was living on the edge regardless. Like he was just 25¢ away from it and I could finally witness a seizure. My brother had one when I was in high school, but I was away at a track meet and have felt this whole time like I missed out on something.

Steve finally got our garage lights put up. It's been nine months of nagging by me. And what I mean is he bought Mr. Epilepsy's his friend's dinner in exchange for handyman services. I don't care what method he uses to get it done, I just care that we reach the end result. My husband is so cunning and smart. That's why I married him. That and for dual income. Because we all know neither candy bars or wings or arcade games still only cost a quarter.

Monday, March 22, 2010

stilettos, lent, restricting sizes

I was making copies at work the other day. I work in a very large facility full of all types of people. On this particular day, a woman came up to me and asked if I could hitch up my pants so she could further admire my shoes. So I obliged (and after that, I drove straight home and shaved my legs). She cooed over my shoes, telling me how much she loves them. These are nearly five inch stilettos, and this woman is about twice my age with wildly untamed red hair. If there's one thing I know, it's that these shoes and this woman do not go together. So I didn't tell her where she could get a pair, which woman code says to do if someone asks about something you're wearing. Instead, I told her they were out of season and the only way to find them now was on eBay. And based on her look, I thought only suggesting the internet was a good way to keep her away from shoes that might kill her.

When the men were putting together our pool table, Steve asked if they'd like anything to drink (I think he saw that on a sitcom. Many of his mannerisms and common phrases are learned from TV). The man said, "I'll take a bourbon and coke." Steve was caught off guard, but said, "OK, yeah man, I can do that." The man said, "I'm just kidding, I can tell you like alcohol." And although there is booze memorabilia on the walls in the basement, I still found it amusing that even complete strangers know exactly of Steve's weakness. Lent never had a chance.

Swimsuits are out in stores again. It's a rule: the second the snow melts, bring out the teeny bikinis. Maybe it's to rub it into the faces of us not going on vacations how desperately we need one. I don't know. But regardless, bikinis make me think not all clothes should come in every size. I'm not sizist by any means, you can be any shape or size you'd like and that's fine with me, but I don't think bikinis should come in a 3XL. I don't think strapless dresses should come in a size a girl w/my bust could ever wear (think of all the wedding photos I would save if I had my way). I don't think cartoon character T-shirts should come in any size after 4T.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

pool table

Yesterday, two men arrived to piece together our pool table. Apparently a pool table is nothing like buying a couch: it doesn't arrive already put together and able to be put anywhere you'd like it. Silly me for thinking it would. My presence was requested to see exactly the location the professionals had deemed the table would go. The man was smart, knowing the woman of the house's approval was what really mattered.

I did not like what I saw. It was supposed to go lengthwise in the other direction, now it was taking up our entire basement. "Well, we need five feet on every side for when the pool cues are actually in use," the man explained. I couldn't argue with him. After all, I've seen that Seinfeld episode where George's dad has a pool table in a tight space.

But, what I could do was bitch at to Steve about how pissed off I was. So I did. But then, shortly into my tirade, when I saw Steve's smile vanish and his eyes sadden, I realized that I wasn't going to solve anything this way. There was an 800-pound unmovable billiards table in my basement that was, up to this moment, making my husband very happy. I believe he actually said, "this is my dream" earlier.

So I stopped. After all, when we bought this house, I did tell Steve the basement was his to do with as he pleased (although I said that to make sure none of his posters ended up in our bathroom again). Instead of grumbling, I helped him rearrange furniture and move pictures until the basement was just as he wanted it. If a woman wants to keep her man, she better keep him happy. And my man is one worth keeping.

Steve had a couple friends over last night and we all played pool, had drinks and listened to music. And Steve was happy. I have to realize that not everything is about me. And hey, if I can make dreams come true by simply moving around some furniture and keeping my mouth shut, I feel like I've made the world a better place. At least until the bill arrives.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Here comes life

First day of Spring in Omaha

First day of Spring: here comes life.

P.S. Does anyone know what kind of flowers these buds will turn out to be?

Friday, March 19, 2010

blogger turned famous

I smiled today when I read about Ree's blog being turned into a movie. Not that I read Pioneer Woman anyway (I probably would if the title wasn't "Pioneer Woman"), but because a blog is being turned into a movie. It shows you that blogs aren't always just boring shit about meaningless lives. I mean, most of the time they are, but sometimes other people actually want to read about it.

I've always wondered why so many shitty books (read: anything written by a celebrity) are published, and then why there are great writers who can't crack into the market. I did read Stephanie Klein's book. Stephanie is a blogger turned author. She and Ree bring me hope. Because seriously, after all is said and done, I don't want to be a Recruiter or a Generalist or an HR Manager, I just want to be a writer.

I want to lay in my hammock (coming soon - once this snow passes) and type up sentences and paragraphs that will one day form a book beloved by each of you. I want to give a choice finger to the Man and to kissing ass and to overtime and office drama and become my own boss. I want the life I've dreamed of, not the one that's expected of me. But until then, I'll keep writing here in my cobwebbed corner of the internet. I will actually begin this book I speak of as if it exists. I will actually work at it. Because that's what it takes. That or your celebrity.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

sixty degrees and sunny

Today is sixty degrees and sunny. Sixty degrees. Sunny. I was beginning to think I would never see days like this again. Everyone I interviewed today was fantastic. Not a one of them made me grit my teeth or yawn with my mouth closed whilst they spoke. They provided lunch for us at our meeting. Two people gave me their giant chocolate chip cookies afterward. They talked about possibly sending me on a work trip. I've never been on a work trip before.

Today was fantastic. And it came just at the right time. My morale has been sinking lately at work. Both money and my pants are tight. I've seen nothing but gray skies for two weeks. I was allowing myself to sink into a funk. A non-clinical depression. Today was exactly what I needed. Sunny all around. Today, problems weren't my focus, but instead, perks were. It feels good.

I'm not sure that optimism suits my personality, but it sure feels good to try it on. Sure there is snow in the forecast and things will return to normal and I will soon be all too aware of what could be better. But today, I wouldn't change a thing.

P.S. Still no comments from Aziz, but I'm being patient.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Aziz Ansari, Google, Canada

I have absolutely terrible taste in humor. My parents would be ashamed. I once accidentally let it slip that I thought "Joe Dirt" was hilarious. My parents proceeded to rent it for family movie night being that their very esteemed daughter recommended it. Since, I have spent the past eight years being told what a horribly filthy movie that is. Although in my defense, I grew up watching reels on a projector about ice bergs, so pretty much any humans in a movie is a treat for me.

That's why I highly discourage you from watching anything I recommend. But I was watching a particularly filthy stand-up comedian last week and he mentioned how he Googles himself. That made me think of printing his name in a post title of my blog to see if he finds my humble little web site. The thought of him perusing my blog looking for juicy compliments on his egotistical yet hilarious self was just too much to pass up. So consider this an experiment. If I get a comment from Aziz, I might consider my blogging career a huge success. And if not, well, feck it, I'll keep writing it anyway. What else do I have to do?

I do have a site meter, which provides hours of entertainment. It's cyber people watching. I can see how people found my website. The other day, someone found it by Googling "I hate the word 'bitch.'" Well, obviously I don't, since it's my title, so back off my site, bitch!

Most of my readers are U.S. residents (or at least their IP addresses are), but I'll occasionally get a reader from another country which makes my heart leap in hopes of one day being loved by the world. And yes, Canada is technically another country. I know this because I drove there once and couldn't figure out how much money everything cost in U.S. dollars. I should have known since all my childhood paperbacks read "U.S.: $3.95, Canada: $4.95." It's not exactly rocket science, but math has never been my strong suit.

Aziz Googles himself, and I hope to one day be Google-able. And Google has turned a brand into a verb. We're all shooting for something out here on the internet, no matter how minuscule or pointless. It's good to have goals. Reminds us we're alive. Now leave me a comment under the pseudonym Aziz Ansari and make me the happiest girl in cyberspace.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Run, Pudgy, run!

These six mile runs exhaust me

So for lent, Steve limited his booze intake and amped up his work outs. The booze part didn't last, but he's been going strong on his workouts and has subsequently dropped a few LBs. Steve is pretty lean to begin w/, so the fact that he's losing weight made me think maybe I should start putting in the actual effort it takes to drop pounds.

I asked him to make me a training schedule. On top of weights, crunches, push ups, and lunges, it involves running 25 miles a week. And three days of the week, those miles come in the form of a six mile run. Now it's still cold here, so I'm confined to my treadmill. I used to run six miles every day, but that was outside on a 1.5 mile running track in Fairview Heights, IL. It was so much easier then.

Now, I huff and I puff. And my face turns the shade of the KoolAid man. But I'm finishing. I finished my first week on his training schedule. One week down, eternity to go. But I'm feeling better. My pants are loose today (sure - I've already worn them twice this week and haven't washed or dried them in awhile, but you don't really need the details). I'm drinking double the water. I have a goal again. Feels good. Now if only they hadn't booted the mullet kid off Idol, I'd really have a week to feel good about.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

bathwater, apricot jam, zippy

I come from a very frugal family. A result of being poor cheap was some pretty disgusting habits. Then, I was blissfully ignorant. It was all I knew. But now, I look back at the times we would scrape mold off the top of leftovers before reheating and think of how filthy that really was.

Or even worse: there were four of us kids. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night we would take baths. But we didn't use our own bathwater. We all used the same water. A couple times, since the water was getting cold by the time my bath came around, I would try to sneak some hot water in there, but the noise of rushing water was so loud in our house that mom would know and say, "what are you doing in there?"

We couldn't open a new jar of jam until we used up the old one. We were on the same jar of apricot jelly for years because no one dared to touch it until Chad finally took one for the team by either actually eating it or dumping it out without mom noticing - one or the other. Same with cereal: once we got stuck on imitation sugar puffs, and those stuck around until the pellets had lost their crunch.

I wore hand-me-downs exclusively. My friends or mom's friends' kids would send a brown paper grocery bag over now and again for me to "shop" through. Mom would even try to force me to wear Chad's dumpy old Al Borland shirts even though I'm clearly a different gender.

I try live a bit differently now than my frugal upbringing. Once in awhile I'll buy something that's not from the clearance rack. We eat out somewhere other than Wendy's. Steve and I have gone on vacations. But sometimes, despite my best attempts, the inherent thriftiness in me seeps out.

When I was in Phoenix, Marie, Angela and I went to Olive Garden. They had this new dessert that was something like donut holes w/chocolate dip. I wanted to try them, but didn't want to pay for them. So after the table next to us left, I grabbed their leftover donut holes before the busser could, and scarfed one down. Marie and Angela thought this was disgusting. I believe Angela actually started to dry heave. I thought, if only you knew.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

AIM messaging, saturn, mom's bouquet

I have never told you of mine and Steve's first date. Well, let me. It's very awkward - as were we. The first time I saw Steve was at Buffalo Wild Wings: my friends and I saw some guys from our college and went and said "hello." Steve was there, too, which was odd, because he didn't go to our school. I remember when us girls left, we were talking about which boy was the cutest of that group and they all said Matt Buller. Except me: I said the guy with the curly hair, dirty hat, and crooked smile that didn't go to our school.

Apparently, he did go to my school. He just never came to chapel, the cafeteria, or anything that would be considered normal social behavior. Apparently, Steve asked around and got my AIM screen name from my friend, Patrick. One night, SPC1980mxpx started chatting with me (I have slightly altered his screen name so you don't try to chat with him - he's taken now). And then my dorm phone rang. Steve said he didn't want to be lame and ask me out over the internet.

He picked me up in his hunter green saturn. I was looking pretty hot in my junior jeans and my rose-colored long-sleeved Old Navy polo w/o buttons. There was a bouquet of flowers on the passenger seat, and when I tried to sit down, he quickly pushed them away and muttered, "those are for my mom."

He took me to a movie that sucked (I think it was called "Showtime"). I brought a long my trusty water bottle and downed about 64 ounces of liquid. After the movie, Steve took me for a drive around Offutt Air force base. I had never been on a military base before. He pointed a few things out that he probably thought I'd be interested in, but I was just waiting for him to point out "bathroom." That moment didn't come.

He dropped me back off at my dorms, and I don't think I had even finished the word "goodbye" before I dashed for the nearest restroom. A couple days later, Steve IM'd me that I left my flowers in his car. "I thought they were for your mom," I responded. But we weren't over, we had many more awkward moments to come. Stay tuned for the day I tell you about our contrived first kiss.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


I'm thinking about getting a tattoo. I've been thinking about this for awhile, and I haven't laughed off the stupidity of the idea yet, so I think this idea is going to translate into actual ink on my body. One day - when I forget that tattoos mean enduring needles and sleazy motorcycle dudes w/intentionally bald heads. And perhaps when I'm under the influence of an illegal substance, or at least, a lot of liquor.

I've have thought up a design in my head. It's two puzzle pieces that fit together. And one piece has an "H" and the other an "S." Because just last night Steve reminded me that somehow, him and I just work. Even though we're so different and no one would ever think to match us up on a blind date w/each other, something about us just fits. We get each other. And the other reason is because, as you all know, I'm a freak about puzzles and most things nerdy (not video games + sci-fi super-geek nerdy, just homeschooled-word-girl nerdy. I mean, hey, I actually wanted glasses as a kid [still kinda do, actually]).

So I Google imaged "puzzle tattoo" and almost fell out of my chair when I saw that it auto-populated around "puzzle tatt." Seriously? Someone else has looked this up before? So much for me having an original thought. Any way, I found something kinda like what I'd like one day:

I would like the puzzle pieces to have actual interlocking designs though and be multi-colored, but the same basic concept. But I'm a chicken. And I'm sober. So it certainly isn't happening right now. But sometime, I'd like it. I've always admired tattoos on the people that do them right. Not the pointless black sleeves or Chinese symbols or collages of stars and butterflies, but the tattoos that actually represent something. What about you? Do you have tattoos? Did they hurt? What advice can you give to a tattoo virgin to make the first time's pain more bearable?

Monday, March 8, 2010

night out

Last night, Steve took me out for a date night. I don't mean for pizza and then buying some used DVDs at Blockbuster, I mean we really went out on the town. He took me downtown to the Orpheum Theatre to see Norah Jones' concert.

If a date entails paying for parking, to me, that's a real date. That's something that married people don't usually do, seeing as we're no longer trying to impress each other. But being that today is my birthday and I am completely infatuated w/Norah's newest CD, and that I've always wanted to go to the Orpheum, Steve obliged.

Steve bought a beer in the hallway so he could sip on it during the show. But as soon as we tried to enter the theatre, an usher woman who takes her job much too seriously told him no food or drinks were allowed inside. He was forced to chug it in the foyer. Regardless of the food or drink rule, a few songs in, he began rustling in my purse for his emergency granola bar. You would think this man has diabetes or something the way he was acting like if he didn't eat he would keel over. But I knew how he felt, I was famished, too.

The concert was fantastic. Norah's voice is flawless - like butter. I was thinking of how no one on American Idol compares. Of course that's what I was thinking. Norah could sing "This Old Man" or even the AWANA Cubbies' song and make it sound like poetry.

I kept thinking during the concert of how I was on a real date like a grown-up adult. I wasn't at the dollar theater, nor at TGI Friday's: I was really out the way "out" is meant to be understood (somehow lately it's all got contorted to meaning going to Target or picking up the prescription at Walgreen's). I imagined that all those times I babysat in the past, the parents were out doing very grown-up, sophisticated activities exactly like this.

I felt mature. Like perhaps we should consider becoming parents now since we're that age and everyone else is doing it. But I'm still not ready. I know if we did have kids, Steve never would have sprung for the tickets or a babysitter, and going out would've meant the dollar theater last night. We're not quite parents-material yet. After all, on the way home from our sophisticated night out, we did stop at Taco Bell for our much belated dinner. We're still kids ourselves in a few ways.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

booth, pants, movie noises

Today, I took a half day off work, Steve took a full. So he took me out for a lunch/dinner of sorts. It was nearing 3pm, so when we walked up to the hostess stand, there was no one there and we could see that all of the tables were empty. Finally, the bartender came around and said, "would you like a table or a booth?" and my response didn't make any sense. I said, "a booth if you have it."

Monday is my birthday, so this is the one time a year when I can get Steve inside the mall with me. I wanted to buy a couple pairs of pants. One thing I never have enough of is pants. So I was trying on some work slacks at Express, when the sales man came and threw two pairs of jeans over the door, suggesting I try on some denim since they were on sale. Here I was, trying my hardest to squeeze into a size six, then falling back into trying on the size eights I brought along "just in case." I didn't need jeans, but out of curiosity, I glanced at the size he thought I was. He brought two pairs - a size two and a size four. Thank you sir, that was polite of you. But no sale.

I didn't buy any pants, but did finally convince Steve to buy a pair of sunglasses. This has been a project of mine for a few years now. So has getting him to the dentist, and I have succeeded at that, so this was next on the list. He has been squinting for years now, and quite frankly, it scares me to be a passenger with him when it's sunny out. So in the car, I peeled off those annoying "UV protection" stickers and handed the shades to him, insisting he put them on immediately. He looked near the sun with his shades on and said, "I can't believe I've been staring right at this all this time." Then, he pulled out and nearly ran into someone. He claimed it was so dark now, he couldn't see anything.

We got home and put on a movie. Well, two, actually. We're pretty lazy around here on Friday nights. The first one had a character named "Tucker," so our little mutt Tucker spent the first twenty minutes cocking his head at the TV as if someone was going to jump out of it and hand him a treat or take him outside. He is so self-absorbed.

Next, we put on "Everybody's Fine." (As a quick side note here, is this title grammatically correct? Does the apostrophe insinuate "everybodys" is possessive rather than a conjunction? I've been out of school too long to know the answer). Don't watch that movie without an entire box of Kleenex. I cried the entire time. It's beautiful. It's the kind of thing I wish I would have written. Anyway, all this to say, Robert De Niro knocks on a door in the movie and Tucker went crazy. He started barking as if to wake the neighbors. He thinks he's our little protector. Protecting us from door-to-door salesmen, I guess, since robbers wouldn't knock. I love spending time with my two boys - my tiny little family that keeps me safe and protected.

Thursday, March 4, 2010


There are days when I have nothing but words. I have a million things to say and I feel all of them are important. Then there are days like today, when I have nothing to say. The silence deafens me, and I no longer feel words hold any power.

"Words are our weakest hold on the world." - Alberto Rios

I also feel powerless. I'm exhausted physically and emotionally and I hate that there is nothing I can do. I am a mere bystander watching life, not able to contribute. And now all those millions of words I had before seem so superficial, so juvenile. Nothing has ever mattered to this magnitude and I'm afraid. I'm helpless. I'm scared. The only sentences I can string together are two words. I'm powerless.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

chores, communism, unfairness

I am always shocked when parents tell me their kids don't have chores. I just want to shout, "that's not fair!" like a five-year-old, even though I'm grown and should have grown out of "fairness." I haven't. I have yet to learn that life's not fair. I know it isn't, but I still haven't agreed with it.

I've been doing chores since birth. I think I greeted the world with a wet rag in hand. Every Monday, Wednesday, (love the Oxford comma) and Friday I vacuumed. Every Friday I cleaned toilets, sinks and mirrors. Every afternoon I weeded something - mostly the gravel driveway, but once in awhile, I got to deal with actual soil. After every meal I did dishes and wiped down the table. I used to take out the garbage until I bribed my brother to do it for a quarter every Thursday because I was deathly afraid of our cat, Black Jack, who laid atop the garbage lid.

All this to say, I worked my little ass off. And since I was home schooled, that gave me even more time to slave away. But I can't say all my siblings had the same work ethic. My mom had a communist attitude of no one can play until all the work is done. OK, so I'm not sure if that's communist, I'm really not too familiar with communist thinking, but whatever the mentality, it meant more work for me, less for everyone else. So I did it. Grudgingly. Once, I voiced to mom my thoughts of unfairness; she didn't care in the least.

Years have passed. Over a decade, really. And although I've gotten over the fact that I weeded 15/16ths of our yard single-handedly, I haven't gotten over the fact that life's not fair. Every day, I'm reminded of it, and every day I want to scream the injustices of it as if someone out there cares. No one does. And weeds always grow back. I need to learn to just keep my trowel in hand and not expect any differently, but I still hold out a little hope of change. Foolishly, I still hold onto that childlike naivety that the world is inherently good.

Monday, March 1, 2010

highlights, chins, oreos

After work, I went to get my highlights redone. It's been a little longer than usual (like a week over my usual three months between appointments), but the colorist kept saying I hadn't been in since September like it was a huge crime and I should be behind bars for letting my disgusting, natural, grayish/brownish/pukish hair peek through the artificial color. I know for a fact I was last there the day before Thanksgiving because the colorist asked me what I was cooking and I laughed out loud. Then she proceeded to tell me how to baste a turkey like I even know what that means.

Anyway, all this to say, while I was at the salon, I saw something frightening in my reflection. A second chin. Now, I've noticed my other chin before in pictures from two Christmases ago when I insists I was heavier, even though I weigh more now. But I've never seen it in first person. The mirrors here at home don't have florescent lights, and I try not to look in them too often. I don't want to become one of those girls, after all. In fact, most of the time I look in the mirror, it's after lunch at work with my little pocket mirror, when I'm making sure I didn't leave anything in my teeth.

The other chin caught me off guard. I have no idea how long it's been there. I have traditionally justified a little fat in the face, as I feel it makes my dimple more pronounced. But cheek fat and neck fat are completely different. People pay to have the first done, and the second undone. I was mortified. When no one was looking, I kept smoothing the skin underneath my chin away with the palm of my hand as if it would miraculously make it disappear.

I got home so depressed about my fat neck that I popped two Double Stuf (I hate how it only has one "F," but I also honor brands) Oreos. I can't hop on the treadmill, because then I would have to shower, and I don't feel that's right when I just got my hair done. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe after my birthday I'll feel more motivated. Or maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and won't be able to see that second chin without florescent lights, and I'll live happily in denial once again.