I rag on Husband a lot. But I have reason to. Husband can be a pain in the ass. Aside from all the regular husband things like not putting dishes in the dishwasher or not filling up the empty dog food bin, he’s got all sorts of quirks and issues and weirdness that can make life with him difficult. Very, very difficult. For example, he is not able to eat in other people’s homes. Unless he’s brought the food – and food here is really a bag of potato chips - with him and it’s in a sealed bag and no one else touches the bag. See, difficult. But Husband’s quirks, for the most part, are outweighed by the awesomeness. For example, he’s been working non-stop on my office/studio in the basement when he’d rather be working on his own studio. I realize that logically he really has to finish my space first because it will eventually serve as an entrance to his studio but he could just slap some paint on the walls and be done with it. But, because one of his usually annoying quirks is perfectionism, he’s not skimping on finishes or details at all. And it’s shaping up to be a beautiful space. Squee! When he first showed me the room two years ago this week (!!!), I was not at all optimistic that it would be pretty, let alone functional. I was sure it was the kind of place people were found murdered, glassy eyed in a pool of their congealing blood. The motley stained carpet hiding the awful teal and purplish brown tile pattered didn’t help. Nor did dark wood paneled walls, the mounds of rat poop, questionable dead beasties in the corners and the smell of despair. But Husband promised it would be awesome. Husband promised he’d make it pretty for me. And it is. It’s bright and warm and clean. There’s not a beastie or a pooping rat in sight. At some point soon, there will be space to put all my things - all my “I can make something out of this so I should save It.” things he calls trash. And the laundry room is so clean and shiny; I almost feel bad putting dirty clothes in it. AND, Husband is doing his level best to get the space finished by my birthday – in seven days. See, serious Husband awesomeness! Anyway, here are some pics of the place in progress. I can't seem to find a single picture of the hideous wood panels and motley carpet. They must have been so bad, I couldn't stand to take a picture. And here is what it looks like today - He's got a lot to do in seven days but, since he won't eat in people's homes, we've got nowhere to go!
That, and a depressed, sobbing, one year older woman sitting in the middle of the unfinished floor on her birthday, slowly falling apart is something everyone should avoid.
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Thanks to the lovely combination of hair DNA from my mother and father, I have a modified Afro. A funky, not quite full fro, nowhere close to straight, mess that I tame by twisting pieces into little curls. I’ve I usually do it fresh once every three or four days, wetting it on the days in between and re-twisting the ones gone rogue. Most of the time it looks okay, like this is a choice I’ve made that isn’t that bad. Sometimes, it looks really great; a funky “I’m freaking cool. You should like me.” hair statement. But sometimes, I look like a Cris Cross boy band gone wrong and my hair lies there, floppy and stupid and full of hate. Such is my life.
My hair has been a journey of trends – not all of them good. I’ve braided it all up in extensions several dozen times, thinking that would be my hair-answer. But then I spent too much time worried about pieces falling out in the middle of elementary school performances because, TRUE STORY, I was performing in some small school in Florida, turned around to say my line and one of my braids had slipped off my almost Afro and was lying in the aisle. Out of my mouth came my lines. In my head it sounded like this, “AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? IS THAT FROM MY HEAD? WHAT THE??? PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP!” until I managed to slyly pick up the limp renegade braid and shove it into my pocket. I’ve been bald before. In fact, my normal response to a situation I can’t control is to pull out the shaver and shave off every last hair and just worry about sunscreen. Sometimes it’s looked great but most times I look like I’m in the middle of treatment. I’ve had flat tops and fades and very bad dye jobs and short hair and big hair and Mrs. Huxtable hair and all of it, every single style has been a sort of trauma. Because, no matter what I do, my hair will never be red and luscious and wavy and easy and hair commercial pretty. Ever. That is why my current look is a combination of styles I liked; twists on the top and shaved, sometimes-tapered sides. And sometimes it looks good and I should take myself out and show it off. And then sometimes, I sit on the couch recovering from a bump in my road to awesome and watch TV and read trash and run my hands through my hair, untwisting the twists, pulling out the cute curls. And then I go to bed and toss and turn because the road to awesome is exhausting and frustrating and not at all easy and I wake up groggy and grumpy and, when I go to let the dog out, and stand on the front step watching her do her business the cold morning air punches a bit of hope into me. And I stand there, while the morning folk head past the house to work and the school busses zoom past to school and I think, "life is good" - until I realized they can all see what I see when I turn to go back in the house and catch a look at my reflection in the glass. And it is not good. At all. Because the hair on the top of my head is higher than anything the Muppet Beaker could sport, with more fright than the hair on the guy from Flock of Seagulls. And there are weird bits sticking out at the back and the left side looking like someone caved my skull in with a bat. And not even pushing it down with my hand with more force than I should will move a hair out of the atmosphere and down toward my ears. It is not a good look. It is tempting on days like this, to pull the shaver and shave off all my hair. If only I knew where Husband hid the sucker. Sometimes it’s a good thing to be married to a guy who knows you very well. Sometimes, when you’re in the middle of a hair emergency and a shaver is the only answer to your pain, not so much. Look who's back!!! Yep, it's one of our Barred Owl family. I'm over the moon excited about seeing this guy.
You see, the Owl's have been in the neighborhood - according to the Internet, they don't migrate and will only move to another part of their territory. We know our Owl family has been around but we’ve not seen them hanging out on branches or hunting. Not since the Red Tail Hawks moved in and started hunting chipmunks in our yard. Funny, I’m bummed about seeing a Red Tail on a regular basis when seeing one used to make my day. I mean I used to pull the car over to watch them. Now, I'm pissed that they're keeping my Owls in hiding and hope they move away. Anyway, the Owls are getting frisky and we're hearing lots of conversations - weird barking followed by "Whoo cooks for youuuu?" echoed back and forth between the trees here. But we've not seen any Owls hanging about since late spring. This guy was perched about four feet off the ground at dusk right near the kitchen deck. He hung out for about an hour, just watching me get stupid with the camera. He didn't even move when Tigger the Dog went out for a pee. Don't think she was on the menu for dinner so he ignored her. And he ignored me, mostly. It's obvious he thinks I'm an idiot from that look. It's the little things - So with my little hiatus there, I forgot tell you all that I won the weight loss bet! That bet that Husband, our friend Naomi and I made just before Halloween: whoever lost the highest percentage of weight would be declared the winner.
And it was I! (Whahahah!) By a hair. (Like literally. I mean, I cut my head right before weigh in.) Now, I didn’t think I would win. In fact, Naomi and I figured that Husband would win, being male and stubborn but no, it was I. I won. I AM A WINNER. So there! Now, if I’m honest with myself, I’m going to have to admit it wasn’t hard. We didn't have any visitors so every meal wasn’t in a restaurant with fancy sauces and booze which helped immensely. But mostly I think I won because I sort of sabotaged husband with cookies two days before the final weigh in. Not on purpose! I would never… You see, we had a guy installing windows in our basement and it was cold and icky grey outside and not much warmer inside and I felt bad that he had to spend the day in our ugly inhospitable basement so I made a batch of those pre-made just bake them chocolate chip cookies to cheer him up. Don’t judge. I don’t cook to relieve stress but I do eat to relieve stress and carrots, no matter how healthy do not have enough sugar or shame to relieve stress. Anyway, I made up a small batch of instant cookies – about six - and the Window Guy ate two and Husband ate the rest. No big deal. Wouldn’t have affected the final score. But a few days later, I made up the rest of the batch – about twenty-five cookies - and I left them on a plate in the kitchen. I didn’t want them to spoil so I had to bake them, see? It wasn’t sabotage at all. And then, Husband came in for his “cupa tea and a biscuit” picked up the plate and sat it next to him on the arm of the couch. I warned him it was not a smart move. I told him he was just asking for trouble and that just taking one or two to eat would be a better plan. But he didn’t listen. In fact, he said something snarky to be about having more self control than me – and then he proceeded to eat the whole freakin’ batch. In like minutes, the whole batch of twenty-five cookies was gone. And that was it. That was the moment I won the bet. You see? Not really sabotage. It’s not like I made him sit in front of the TV with a plate of twenty some cookies and eat them all. I said it was a bad idea. I suggested he only take a few to eat and leave the rest in the kitchen. But, who listens to the lady nagging on the opposite end of the couch when you have a plate of cookies sitting right next to you with a hot cuppa tea to duck them in? Not Husband. And so I won! Yay me!!! I would take a victory lap around the kitchen but since the bet, I’ve gone right back to stuffing food in my face. I’ve gone right back to hiding chips in cupboards to devour when Husband leaves the room. I’ve gone right back to trying to figure out when my next meal is and how soon I can shove it in my face. I’ve gone right back to not caring about my health or clothes fitting or my ass size. I’ve gone right back to living for now and not for the “what if…” that holds me hostage most days. I've actually gained back some of what I lost. So what does that say about the success of the bet? Did it really make me a winner? Did it really make me aware of what I was doing or why I was doing it or did it just postpone the same ol’ plan that I’ve been following for years? I’m gonna have to go with - eh, I don’t care. I won and my badge of righteousness is going to go right here on my chest where everyone can see it. Right above my budging food belly, where it belongs. WINNER! (burp My buffing and polishing Monday reminded me I’d had it done once before, June 26, 2012 when we were in the Philippines for Husband’s work. This is a post I wrote while there:
When husband was told he needed to come to the Philippines for work, he was not happy. With all his food issues and flying issues it was sure to not be an exciting trip for him. His new boss in Texas called him and reassured him they would do everything to make sure it was a good experience for him. In the Philippines, he said, he had a guy who could get him "anything he wanted" nudge nudge wink wink. Husband called me from work right after and said "I think my boss just offered me a prostitute..." The next day husband called the boss and told him he'd go if I could go with him. No problem said the boss; "I've got a guy who can get you someone for single guys and someone for couples." In the weeks before the trip we joked about how I'd be getting my own prostitute... Fast forward to today: I signed myself up for a seaweed wrap. I've never had one and at 2,000.00 pisos or $25.00 it was too silly to pass up. I let the woman know I'd never had a wrap before. She had me lay face down on the bed and she draped all the sheets across me as she should, exposed one leg and then began by rubbing salt onto my legs. Unlike massages I've had before there was no background music but all was good. Right? Then my giggles started. And when she put her hand on my upper thigh to hold my butt cheek still while she did the salt thing to it I just about lost it. The giggles got worse when I rolled over and she gave me what amounts to a breast exam. With the salt. And even worse when my tummy decided to digest breakfast. Loudly. So no music, strange touching, tummy growls and the giggles. What do you think - does that amount to a happy ending...? Which brings us to my buffing and polishing Monday. My friend and I were taken to the ladies changing room and given our robes and bumpy sandals, which I assume are supposed to hit pressure points but always make me feel like I’m walking on Legos. We hurriedly changed into our robes and shuffled into the waiting room. Quick over-share here, when I get a massage, I wear underwear because I feel too naked without it. Not a bra, just underwear. I’d advised my friend who was getting a massage from a guy for the first time, to wear a pair for her massage as it might make her feel more comfortable. Funny, right? Because nothing can make you feel totally comfortable while you’re sitting in the waiting room, trying to keep your robe from gaping in the wrong place and showing the room the boobs that are unrestrained and sagging. And then our male masseuses came to get us, and it got worse – for me. My guy was young, like a twenty something fledgling of a masseuse, and he was very nervous. He led me into the wet room and proceeded to stutter through his introduction but I didn’t catch his name. Because I took one look at the wet table in the wet room, remembered then that we’d signed up for a body scrub and started laughing. I didn’t listen to an single earnest word he was saying, all I could think is that I’d told my friend to wear underwear to make herself more comfortable and now we were about to endure a body scrub that included large amount of showering and scrubbing and pretty underwear were not going to be a viable option. The Fledgling stopped talking and left the room so I could “take off, um, remove my robe and slip under the towel face up.” Still giggling, I disrobed as quickly as possible, slipping my underwear off and into the robe pocket with my glasses and sliding very un-glamorously under the towel. The towel that covered just the top of my body leaving the sides of me exposed, including my boobs, which no longer stay on top of my body when I’m lying down. My giggling continued. The Fledgling came in and chattered nervously his way through the set up of the scrub, where he would start and pressure and stuff like that. He was very nice. And very new and very anxious about the whole thing. I was still giggling. I couldn’t stop. He commenced scrubbing and I settled in a bit. It was nice and soothing to have someone else slough the dead skin off my arms and legs, carefully avoiding any girl part that might “make me feel uncomfortable” though I really think he meant made him feel uncomfortable. The paste he was something lime smelling with almond bits, very yummy smelling. It was really quite lovely and I even stopped giggling… until we came to the point I was to flip over onto my stomach. Then it got downright awkward again. Nervously, The Fledgling told me that he’d “advert my head like this” and he turned his head so far to the right it had to have hurt, “as you roll over onto your front.” his face flaming bright red. Easier said than done. I was lying upright on a towel that lay on top of a plastic sheet and I all my extremities were covered with a sticky paste. There was no way this could go smoothly. I awkwardly flipped, a three staged process; shuffle roll to hip, shift arm under me, roll to stomach, adjust boobs and relax. And my giggling was back in full force and The Fledgling was anxious again and did his best to reassure me he hadn’t seen anything. That babbling statement didn’t help my mirth just produced another wave of chuckling. I felt so sorry for him but I couldn’t stop but The Fledgling again assumed the rubbing position, rolling the towel down professionally the to arch of my butt so he could scrub my back. As awkward as this whole getting rubbed by a stranger thing is, it was wonderful. And I relaxed and I drifted off and just enjoyed it. And then, the wet part of the wet room started. The part where The Fledgling had to wash off all the scrub without dislodging a towel or getting himself wet. I went full into hysterics then. The room had a sort of boom arm with four showerheads on it, which he had to aim at my arms and legs to rinse off the paste. All went perfectly fine with me on my stomach with my back and legs exposed but then I had to do the flip, with a wet towel on a wet piece of plastic under me the towel I was lying on came with me as I attempted the roll, sliding off the plastic and taking me towards the edge of the table. The Fledgling panicked as I started rolling the wrong way. “No. No. The other way.” I adjusted, shifting onto the other hip. The towel and I were attached, the plastic and the towel were attached, The Fledgling was unable to help me move as he was standing with a clean towel “shielding your body from my view” and was being oh so careful to not touch me inappropriately or look at me, his neck at again in the painful right angle, his eyes squeezed closed, his cheeks on fire. It took me ages and many attempts but I managed to shuffle myself onto my back, the wet towel uncomfortably lying in a bunch under my back. With a exhale of breathe, The Fledgling lay the towel down on my front; head still averted so it took some adjusting, and then finished washing me off. Finally he informed me he had removed as much as he could and that he would step out of the room as I finished off the job and then he hurried out of the room to wait for me outside as I chuckled and snorted, cleaning off the rest of the paste, drying off and dressing in the robe. When I saw him outside, his face had settled into a slightly less red hue and he was able to make eye contact with my forehead, apparently still too traumatized to meet my eyes directly but the nervous shake was gone from his voice. Until I realized I needed my glasses to see, pulled them out of my pocket and my underwear came with them, dangling suggestively from the frames. The Fledgling startled, his eyes bulged, his face blushed red again as he squeaked out, “follow me” and hurried off down the hall to the massage room, me shuffling after him shoving undies back into my pocket and laughing too hard to see even with my glasses. We were forty-five minutes into a two-hour experience. It could only get better. Right? |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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