According to a woman who once spent four hours highlighting my hair, I have more hair per square inch than most people. This means not only do I have very, very dense breast tissue, I apparently also have very, very dense hair follicles.
This must be why, despite the fact that I currently sporting the same haircut as Halle Berry, and Pink, my hair does not look awesome and funky like theirs. My dense follicles and the lack of stylist, diet and focus - but I digress. Halle's and Pink's hair looks like this.
Really. I’m not exaggerating. It’s so high when it's combed out that I wouldn’t even let husband take a picture despite his coxing and attempts to laugh me into it. He kept asking what scared me. Ass.
If it were shorter on top, my cut right now would be about the same cut I had most of high school – minus the three cool braids with beads hanging from my ‘bangs.’ The same haircut that came to be because I went to a salon and told the person to make it look good, just like they do in the movies. But, unlike the movies where the girl comes out with a gorgeous makeover and wins the movie, this lady used scissors and a shaver all over my head and then picked it out so I couldn’t see the spots that she'd cut shorter than the others. That haircut became a short on the sides and back and longer on the top haircut because when you try to fix your haircut in the bathroom with a shaver, the sides are never equal and you keep going shorter trying to “even them out.” It’s how I’ve been bald so many times. Bald is the answer to the hair question. Bald is easy; just shave every two weeks and wear lots of hats. But bald means no style. And bald means having to have the confidence to carry it off, the hutzpah, and the attitude. Sometimes, when my self is dark and hurting, bald is too much attention.
It is just amazing to me how much time I spend thinking about my hair. I am a low maintenance person – on the physical end that is. I don’t wear make up. I seldom deviate from my jeans and top and shaggy sweater look. Lately I don’t even wear much jewelry. My bizarre one earring collection is gathering dust. But my hair, like my emotion maintenance, is a holy mess of needs and wants and, despite the fact that I'm sporting same look I've always had, my hair is an obsession I cannot seem to let go of.
My attempt to differentiate between emotional maintenance and physical maintenance notwithstanding, my sense of emotional self will always dictate my sense of physical self. Obvious I know but most people don’t even it out how they’re feeling by taking a shaver to their head in the bathroom. My physical self is often sporting looks my emotional self has dictated, usually never flattering.
Husband likes to say that I should stay away from mirrors when I'm feeling angsty. That he should hide the shaver from me and any sign of a deep sigh. I would take him seriously if it weren’t for the fact he spent the weekend looking at my Kid and Play hair and asking me what scared me so badly while laughing so hard, he almost pissed himself. Or that I came home from the grocery store on Saturday and he had shaved his head.
Like minds, people. Like crazy minds.
I had my hair cut the other day and the woman cutting it laughed out loud when I told her I wanted it to look like Halle Berry’s. And then she twisted it and laughed even harder when I told her I now looked like Kriss Kross.
I’m going to just have to settle for being me.
Last night at 6:30pm, I got a text from Brother. Their flight from Costa Rica was delayed and they were going to try to get rerouted to Nashville instead of staying in a hotel overnight in Atlanta.
I thought he was kidding.
He does things like that. So I just texted back a very mellow message asking if he’d want to be picked up. But then my sister-in-law called and they were actually coming!
I got VERY, VERY excited, running thorugh the house to where Husband was installing baseboard.
ME: BROTHER AND SISTER-IN-LAW ARE COMING!!!
Whoever is watching us thorugh the windows on the north side of the house got quite a show.
I proceded to clean up the guest room that has been the ‘put everything we don’t want to deal with right now’ room and vacuumed the house. Little known fact: the BEST time to vacuum is at night. You may not get things actually clean but you can’t tell if you’ve missed spots until 7am when you go out into the Good Room and see the swath of dog hair mocking you.
We left to pick them up way later than I would have liked – but Husband and I don’t have the same understanding of time. AND then they were here!
So I’m off to enjoy them and the beautiful 30deg weather and all that Nashville has to show them. May your day be filled with wonderful surprises like my little baby brother and sister-in-law!
Yesterday started with me losing my keys somewhere IN the house. I couldn’t find them anywhere but did find a bazillion tissues and napkins, almost a dollar in coins and enough dust bunnies to make a dustman. I had to call the boss to pick me up and bring me to work. Awesome. Then Husband came home on his lunch break, found my key, drove my car to work and now I owe him massive favor. Even more awesome.
AND THEN this happened: The Drop off class for three to five year olds started as my co-worker and I finished up our paperwork. About fifteen minutes in, the classroom door opened and the teacher sent out three boys who need to use the bathroom. “They may need watching.” She shouts as she turns back to her class.
The kids are fast. We turn just as one of the kids’ ducks into our teacher lounge.
ME: Oh! Wait…that’s for the teachers only.
THREE-AND-A-HALF-YEAR-OLD BOY: But there’s a toilet in here.
By the time I make it to door, his pants are down and he’s started. Sighing, I ask if he is okay.
THREE-AND-A-HALF-YEAR-OLD BOY: Yes.
I close the door slightly behind him and then I hear the two boys in the other bathroom.
FOUR-YEAR-OLD BOY: Hey, we can pee at the same time!
I rush over to the door and there they are, Four-Year-Old Boy and Three-Year-Old Boy peeing into the toilet at the same time.
Well, at least Four-Year-Old Boy was peeing INTO the toilet. Three-Year-Old Boy was peeing AT the toilet. His tiny penis pointing directly AT the rim of the toilet, NONE of the pee going IN the toilet. From the door I say, as encouraging as I can -
ME: Um… sweetie, why don’t you lift your penis up so your pee goes into the toilet?
He turns to me. His body - and his penis - turns too! Now he’s peeing AT the side of the rim.
ME: No! Don’t… Just pick it up and point… Just lift it…
HE turns back and lift he does, arching his back so he’s now peeing slightly over the lip.
ME: Um.. Can you hold it so it points into the toilet…?
But he is working hard to hold his shirt up out of the stream. And looking down to check that his shirt is still dry. And when he looks down, his penis dips down too. I’m trying not to laugh. I don’t have one of those. Perhaps my instructions, my suggestions are incorrect and this is how one pees with a penis...
And then they’re finished. Shaking my head and trying not to laugh, I watch as the Four-Year-Old Boy turns to leave.
ME: Okay... What needs to happen next?
FOUR-YEAR-OLD BOY: Wash our hands!
He leaps up onto the step at the sink. Three-Year-Old Boy is trying to pull up his big boy pants.
FOUR-YEAR-OLD BOY: He’s learning to pee in the potty. And he’s learning to go poop in the potty and not go poop in his pull-ups at night. He’s in big boy pants.
ME: I can see that.
Three-Year-Old Boy is still trying to pull up his big boy pants. As the pee runs down the side of the toilet and onto the floor.
ME: Well…don’t forget to flush boys.
And I turn and walk away to get the cleaning supplies, trying to keep my giggles quiet. As I hear the Four-Year-Old Boy tell the Three-Year-Old Boy not to step in the water that was his pee.
At some point in early January, commercials started popping up for Private Lives of Nashville Wives. I was worried when I first heard the title. I’ve had an unusually creepy weird fear that someone is always watching me. I’ve had it all my life. Was this show someone filming us in our home or about Nashville doing what ever we do? Nope! Private Lives of Nashville Wives is about a group of women I’ve never heard about, doing things that I’ve never imagined doing, dressed outfits I would never get caught dead in. I was relieved to hear that, as usual, it wasn’t all about me.
I’ve never been the kind of person to watch reality shows like this – I don’t have the patience for the stupidity. But I though, if I’m going to watch one, why not watch a show set in my new city? Why not watch one full of ladies I don’t look a lick like or sound a lick like or have a clue about their lives. Why not settle in and enjoy the ride that is to be Nashville wives. What a wonderful way to feel superior about myself, about my life. I planned to sit on the couch and judge. I planned to take notes and recap the whole thing here.
I started yesterday afternoon with a bit of research into the ladies. Here’s a quick recap of the wives as taken from the information on the website. I only used the “pertinent” information listed on the page before the jump. The stuff the network thought would make you want to click and learn more:
Erika Page White - “…At the age of 12, she started taking acting and modeling classes and by the age of 16 stated acting professionally in commercials, industrial films and music videos.”
Sarah Davidson – “…she’s been singing her whole life and writing since the age of 11.” She fell in love with the idea of songwriting after she heard “I Will Always love You” by Dolly Parton.
Ana Margarita Fernandez - “…I am one of four girls, a minute older than my identical twin, Betty. We are considered the babies of the family.”
Cassie Chapman … married to Christian music icon Gary Chapman and they are exploring starting their own family…when others question their 23-year age difference. The Chapman’s are attempting to prove that for all the towns’ songs of heartbreak and woe, their love is enduring.
Betty Malo - … is married to Raul Malo, the lead singer and founding member of the legendary country music band, The Mavericks. She claims, “ You have to be a tough bitch to be married to a musician.”
Jenny Terrell … with her tough-as-nails, straight- shooting, liberal personality and beliefs, this Midwest girl from Pickerington, Ohio, is establishing herself as a force to be reckoned with in Nashville society.
I had GRAND plans to recap the episode and get all snarky and witchy about the women and their lives. I had my judging and sanctimonious smug comments at the ready as I snuggled in to my chair, tea by my side, and laptop at the ready. The show started and…
I had nothing to say.
Erika, the former soap star, looked sad and lost. I understand how it is to be one thing for most of your life, to have your identity tied up in what you do and trying to redefine yourself after losing that or letting it go. I, however, have never looked that good while going through a life revaluation. She did not have a hair out of place or puffy red eyes and there was not one soggy tissue in sight.
Cassie used to be a Hooters girl and has no issues or shame about that. Good for her. She seemed to genuinely like herself, her husband and be totally amused by where she had ended up.
The twin sisters, Ana and Betty, sound like Jennifer Coolidge when they speak. Then there’s the fact that they are a Cuban rhinestone version of Lucy and Ethel, loud and shiny. It makes me love them more than I might have.
Sarah honestly seems like a nice person trying to live her dream. And she doesn’t appear to be unaware that the odds are against her, despite her husband being the big cheese of country music writers.
And Jenny has it all by working hard for it ‘all’ so it’s hard to hate on her for that. I’m sure the show will make us try to but unlike a Kardashian; she’s actually working so, for now, I’ll put my snark away.
These are the women I see out and about each and every day. They aren’t outrageous and delusional about their lives. Well, most of them aren’t. The jury is still out on that one chick. I didn’t hate a single person. I didn’t feel better than anyone in the choices they’ve made in their lives. I question some of their wardrobe choices but that’s a personal choice and not worth my being bitchy about. Yes, they have more money and toys than I do. Yes, they spend WAY more time on their clothes and bling and make-up than I do – but that wouldn’t be hard as I don’t wear make-up or bling or care a whit about my clothing other than making sure the jiggly bits are covered and no one is pointing and staring.
I realize this was the first show and things are sure to get worse “Next week on Private Lives of Nashville Wives...” They have to or people will stop watching. So, I reserve the right to change my mind and get snarky and bitchy about everyone in a future post but for now - I enjoyed it. I enjoyed them. And Nashville looked amazing. Watch it just for that. Watch if for the inside look into the pretty houses and leafy streets and the restaurants and bars. They are all worth a visit –even if it’s only for a few moments on your TV screen.
Saturday: Woke up at 6pm ready to face the world.
Kidding. Woke up at 7:15am groggy and sore. Told myself to get up and get going to the flea market. Let dog out, chugged glass of water and Vitamin D. Checked Internet for world tragedies. Checked Facebook for friends tragedies – I mean, triumphs. Told myself to get showered and get going to the flea market. Showered and dressed. Slowly. Told myself to hurry up and get going to the flea market. Got purse, cash etc. and got into the car to go to the flea market. Google Maps wasn’t working. Kept saying that I wanted to go the Home expo. I didn’t. Took a good look at the map and figured it was simple stupid and I could find my way there and off I went.
Missed the exit.
Pulled off at a shopping center hoping for a Starbucks, a bathroom and a quite place to kill my phone. There was nothing. But Google Maps decided it would work now. Phew. Off I went – in the wrong direction. But Google Maps instructed me to make a U-turn. So I did. And off I went. The rode looked familiar. My mood picked up. I toddled along past gas stations and broken down shops. The neighborhood got worse. The pot holes in the road got bigger. Smart was not enjoying the ride. Neither was my butt. One more mile, Google Maps said – as I passed what looked like the entrance to the flea market.
Crap. Wrong lane to bust out a U-turn. Google Maps said to continue down the road and then make a left. She must be taking me to the back entrance, I thought. The one I’ve been to before. I relaxed. I turned when she told me; left at that stop sign, right at that one. And then I was there. I’d reached my destination. But THE FLEA MARKET WAS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND! I was in a dead end street and the flea market was somewhere on my left ACROSS THE FREEWAY!
A short screaming and cursing fit later, I pulled myself together – looked around for witnesses that might need to be suppressed – and pulled a U-turn out of the dead end and actually started to pay attention to where I was. Streets were familiar and with a left here and a right there, I made it to the flea market.
Proud of myself, I spent the next few hours wandering about the flea market, getting more and more depressed by the amount of stuff there is in the world. Stuff we make/buy/inherit that is so very important to us will all, at some point, end up spread on a table and sold for silly made up amounts of money. Deep thoughts for a Saturday morning, I know. But it was a beautiful day and some of the stuff had potential to become my stuff at some point. I even got a few “I like your hair!” comments from folks. But despite the love, my liked hair didn’t have a hat on, and the sun was hot and I got a wicked sun headache so home I went.
Much easier to find home, by the way. Didn't get lost or cuss out my GPS once.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way. Husband had hooked up the oven Friday night so cooking in the house was now something I could do. I decided to make a roasted chicken for lunch. Chicken and all the fixings picked up, home I went to cook in my new kitchen with my new oven.
Except the oven didn’t work.
It turned on. The fan blew around but the only thing that got hot were the lights on the pretty blue oven walls. I tried all the settings. Nothing. Husband tried. Nothing. Finally he figured out the fuse was defective. Chicken went back into the fridge and off to Home Depot we went. Again. Where we bought lights for the under the kitchen cabinets. And we bought lights for the kitchen celling. And we wandered about and looked at trim. And looked at some more trim. And, about two hours later, we finally made it out of there, pockets much lighter, carrying lots of lights, light boxes and one hopefully working fuse.
The day was feeling unproductive and blah. And then husband spotted this guy on the dead neighbors car...
I think this is one of the babies from last year. Just sitting on the roof of a $50,000 car on a sunny Saturday afternoon!
He actually stayed there long enough for us to get into our house, for me to get the camera, run back up the hill to their parking spot and take a dozen blurry shots of him before he gave me the look of disgust and flew off
A good day! Honestly, every day that ends with Owl is a good day - regardless of all the crap that goes down before. An Owl day is a good day!
As Husband likes to say, Angelina Jolie would play the part of me in the fascinating retelling of this story. Brad Pitt, of course, would play husband....
My 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