Tuesday, September 11, 2012

The Mane Event....

I have legendary bed-head. I give the Statue of Liberty's crown a run for it's money. Or a bad-tempered porcupine. Either way?

Not a good hair day.

Briskly whipping the dog, un-showered (me, not the dog), sans hat, around our good mile plus loop certainly didn't help matters. The breeze was lovely; add in working up a nice sweat, decent cardio, tackling the Big Hill?

I went from nearish a version of Something About Mary with all over head involvement, to Cruella De'Ville hit my lightening.


My big guy, nipping in as fullback these days on his football team, needed a ball to carry around, flip, toss, nearly break things in the house or nail the baby all in the name of getting ready for the next big game. We headed out to Dick's.

Where, naturally, I ran into her.

You know the one. She's that one woman in town, the one who always appears to have it all together.....whereas I dried my hair through my open window, completely eschewed make-up as 1, I've already met the man of my dreams so impressing a guy I need not, 2, I forgot face lotion so my face was itchy, and finally, mention Dick's and my son may drag me naked out the door.

She was totally put together. Sigh.

Truly, there's no confidence on the planet strong enough to withstand the pitying looks I got since I looked as though I'd styled my hair while standing on a land-mine.

From there, I nipped into Michael's, picking up safety pins for this consignment event going on, in the middle aisle of the store, the one right in the busily opening doorway, and ............

O. M. G.

The only good part about tinkling in the middle of Michael's?

Trust me when I tell you:

No one was looking at my hair.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Doomsday vs. Groomsday

We know a guy who's a doomsday prepper.

Not that we haven't thought about it, but, honestly, we also hadn't really truly thought about it either. Today, after chatting with this pal,  the Lovely J and I began a list. All the important things we'd need, for our family of six, one of whom is still an infant, the others that grow out of clothing and shoes faster than I can blink.

Naturally, food, water, shelter, blah blah blah rates top. Shortly after the Essentials List took shape, My Essential List began.

This would be where J's and my path diverged, so to speak. He wants to take the one less traveled.

I want to take the one that's prettier.

Deodorant, razors, face cream. Honestly, if I'm going to be all Roughing It and stuff, I'm going to need something beyond safety, food growing in a garden and perhaps a goat. Shampoo, never listed (seriously, I've looked it up, several times, all sorts of places) don't make the cut. Really? After the big stink (pardon the pun) about body odor drawing on vermin, the necessity of personal as well as home cleanliness, what, does someone really assume I'll be washing my hair with bleach toilet tabs?

Oh. Wait. Yeah, I might.

I'm totally fine to leave behind my array of hair dryers, irons, curlers, toasters, shoot, take the microwave. I'll be fine. Meat arriving as it appeared alive; I'll work on adapting. I may still gag. Actually, I know I'll still gag. I'm gagging now, thinking about it. Thoughts of growing food from seeds absolutely terrifies me; I can't keep even a fake houseplant alive. Growing my own grain? Corn? Beets? Root veggies? I suppose this separates the wheat from the chaff so to speak.

We chatted about our daily routines; he's passing on taking up large quantities of hair gel. Good thing, since I'll need the room (I said this aloud, mind) for my lotions. (Yes, there is indeed, an "s" on the end of lotion. I own several kinds. Or. Well. Most that are produced). The priceless look of disbelief - his, that I might suggest such nonsense, and mine, for him thinking I wouldn't - a cold clamminess popped on my skin. My well-moisturized skin. The soft skin he adores. Just sayin'.

The look on his face changed to pity.

He expects me to give up lotion. Cold turkey. My dependency upon a good creamy smear borders an obsession requiring it's own 12 step program.

Good thing he's okay with cleaning products; my reliance, admiration and adoration of anything labeled as "cleaner" surpasses my need for lotion.

No, really! It does.

Thank God I lasered my underarms when I did. Nothing says My Life Sucks like hairy pits, dry skin, cracked nails and brittle hair.  I very well might starve feeding my own children, but dammit, I'll at least look passable when I do. He and our pal may doomsday prep until ....well....doomsday.

I'll be the one everyone wants to barter with: I'll have been Groomsday Prepping for years.