Friday, September 29, 2017

Halfway There - Or - What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up?

Soooo...I turned 42 over the weekend.




BOOM!




Just like that, half of my life is gone.








So, now that I am looking ahead, I am trying to figure out what the heck I am going to DO with myself. 






I don't really have a 'bucket list', but there are definitely some things I NEED to do....Santorini, Rome, Amalfi, Ryan Gosling.....




Okay, maybe not that last one, I am actually trying to be realistic here.








I need to go visit my wife in Australia.
I need to go skydiving.
I need to on a road trip that takes me to the 4 museums that have the dinosaur exhibits I most want to see.
I need......Oh, jeez, just way too much stuff.




I suppose I could have said "want" for the above items, but they feel a little more important than that.  In fact everything I feel like I need to do in the next 42 years is an actual need, simply because they are things that my life would be boring and unfulfilled without.


(And, yes, I realize the fact that I haven't done any of those things thus far means that my first 42 years can, technically, be deemed 'boring and unfulfilled' -- sigh -- let's not go there just now, ok?)




If you were to compare my life to the seasons, I would say I am at the end of my summer, looking forward to a fantastic autumn...and hoping winter doesn't suck!!


Since fall is my favorite season ever, I am excited about what this next stretch of my life will bring - like 42-63 is going to be epic and full of me doing everything I ever wanted to do but couldn't because ALL THE GIRLS!!!  Seriously, I have  been raising females--5, and not all together, but one after the other after the other -- for a CENTURY and they are expensive as hell, as well as time-consuming, soul-destroying, grey-hair-inducing, etc., etc., etc.






To be perfectly honest, I have never been a 'planner'...I am sure some of you are just so shocked by that, right???  ::::crickets chirp::::




Seriously, though, I have always been a sort of 'lets-do-this-and-then-that-and-see-what-happens' kind of a person, and, while I have had a lot of fun, I am starting to think that MAYBE that may not be the bet way to handle the next 42 years.




The question is, though?  How do you get there from here?




UGH!!  This kind of serious stuff is the kind of 'deep thinking' that I avoid whenever possible, which is probably why I always feel like an awkward teenager around my friends that are married and settled down and responsible and acting....well, grown up.




I can very easily sit here and say that I want to chuck it all in and go raise goats and chickens on a farm far away from humans, because that is the truth and I think about it every day.  Like, Every. Day.






However.....






I love my job, even on days when I hate it, and there is a red carpet totally rolled out for me right now.  Literally all I have to do is keep my tiara on straight and wave and smile as I walk down it without tripping and falling on my fat face, and I will be in corporate nirvana for the next 20 years.  And I can very easily say that I totally want to do that as well.




That is, of course, the story of my life.




I want this AND that...or maybe just this, or possibly that.


I know people that say, "Oh, you are just being a Libra, and they are notoriously wishy-washy.'  I would loooooooove to accept that, as it would abdicate me from alllllllll reponsibility for being flaky, ambivalent, and kind of immature.
However, Librans do not believe in astrology, so I suppose it is just one of my (numerous) character flaws.


I am like that about eeeeverrrryyyything, though.






I like being thin and having abs and arms that don't continue moving after I have stopped the hand-waving, but OH MY GOD CHEESE AND BREAD AND PASTA AND STEAK AND CHOCOLATE AND BEEEEEEER!!!!








I would also very much like to have a boyfriend, as I have been single for FIVE YEARS AS OF THIS VERY DAY.  It would be super nice to be hugging a DUDE instead of the keg in all the party/holiday/BBQpictures.  It would be super nice to have sex on a regular basis instead of scrolling through a list of FWBs and trying to figure out which one will be the least offended if you tell them they can't come in your house so you're gonna have to do it in the driveway in your car--KIDDING!!!  Sort of.  And, by 'sort of' I mean 'not kidding at all'.  Except I am.  Maybe.






ANYway, while being in a relationship sounds like a good idea right now, I also have to consider the fact that in the next 18 months, my child will be transitioning from elementary school to middle school, from tween to pubescent pre-teen, AND my job is going to get exponentially more demanding and time consuming....so should I even bother?  (Also, there is someone I am GOING to get naked with at my earliest opportunity, so is it fair to start dating someone that is NOT that dude and then dumping him once the opportunity....er....rears its head?  SORRY I HAD TO!!!!)






*SIGH*




Sometimes the sheer annoyance of being inside my own head makes me question the advisability of staying alive until I am 84.....






Also, in case you were wondering, I don't actually have a wife in Australia.  In fact, I think she is marrying some giant, sexy, muscle-bound stud sometime very soon....but that doesn't negate the necessity of the trip.




So, yeah, this is where I am mentally at this point.  Which is the same point I was at yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.......also last year and the year before that.




Kind of at a loss as to what the next step is for me, simply because I have a few too many options at this point, and I am a total spaz about being grown up, responsible, and consistent.








Soooooo, I am starting this groovy life experiment tomorrow--no, it's not Whole30...or is it Whole 30 with a space?--it's something entirely different, although it does happen to be a 30-day thing, and I will probably check in here from time to time to discuss it and if it is working or if I flaked on day 4 (most likely outcome) or if I ended up living on a farm with a sex maniac that does dishes, and has a pack of goats and chickens and a pet fox.






Although I will really just be logging on here to give me an excuse to Google 'shirtless Ryan Gosling'...


But you knew that already, right?













Like you wouldn't eat lasagna off those abs....DON'T LIE!!



Friday, July 7, 2017

I Literally DO NOT Belieb(er) This Sh!t.






I need to open by saying that I absolutely loathe that Despacito song that is on, everywhere all the time.



Loathe. It.



LOATHE.



So, it was super fun to drive down to CA, not listening to the radio, but jamming out (and singing along dreadfully) to a bunch of music that I really love.





I was assaulted by the Despacito song only 2 times over the weekend -- on Saturday while in Suckhole, CA (Chico), trying desperately to GTFO of that weird town, and the second time was as I was somewhere near Eugene on Monday night, and decided to turn the radio on.



Twice. Not bad; I could soooooo get used to that.





Anyway, back to my trip to CA. I got there around 1:00 on Saturday afternoon, and I was WIPED!!! I hadn't slept since I woke up Friday morning at 5:00 am, and I had just driven eleventy-billion miles, had a harrowing detour through Suckhole, CA (Chico), and it was hoooooootttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt!



I decided to swing by my former place of employment, because I had thoughtfully and generously bought some Voodoo Donuts to share with my compadres. If you don't know what Voodoo Donuts are, you can do a Google.

They are magic.
 YES, they are donuts, which means fat and sugar and gluten and alllllllll the bad things.


But they are bomb AF, and you should eat the ODB (Old Dirty Bastard -crushed Oreo's and peanut butter drizzle), the Oh Captain, My Captain (white frosting and CRUNCH BERRY CEREAL on top), and the maple bacon (nuff said) bar TODAY.

EAT THEM, I TELL YOU!!!



This is the ODB!!  My only joy in life.



Anyway, the last time I had dropped Voodoo off to the homies was in TWO THOUSAND AND FOURTEEN.



Three friggin' years ago.



So, it's not like I made it a daily, weekly, monthly, or even an annual habit. I actually thought I was being the fun former work person who comes from out of state to bestow magical Pacific Northwest treats, like some benevolent, benign sugar fairy.
LOLZ.



NOPE.



I was, in fact, dropping off a box of death and destruction and am clearly just not a good person as a result of my attempt to poison the innocent do-gooders I left the Death Circles for.



One of the people that was duped into eating the garbage that I brought down, posted a pic of them and made a funny little post thanking me for ruining his diet.



All funny, all good, right?



Not so much. Within hours, this saber-toothed tiger broad (it's when you are too old to be a cougar...so, basically me in about 5 effing minutes) was all up on the Facebook going on and on about how this dude shouldn't eat the donuts and how bad they were, blah, blah, blah.  "Oh, people mean well, but...you know, she is clearly trying to kill you."



I was like, jeez, bitch, calm your tits! IT WAS A FUCKING DONUT, NOT THE BAG OF METH I HAD IN THE CAR!!! (kidding! I swear!)



I didn't say anything, though, although I ALMOST did when I saw that she was, like, “I didn't want to say anything since they were a gift, but ohmygodyouwillfuckingdieofeatingtheglutendeathcircleandhowcouldthathorriblepersonwhoclaimstobeyourfrienddothattoyouyoupoorsexythingnowwhydontyoucomeoverandletmerubyourbackandyourjunkuntilyouareoverit”



Or something like that.



Anyway, I was super pissed. Like, lady, if you want to bone the kid, just tell him so, and don't try to bond with him by slagging off another one of his friends about some frickin' donuts.





Whatevs.



You know me, food not feelings, so I decided, rather than respond and be an angry FB bitch, I would eat an entire pizza because CARBS ARE EVERYTHING.



I went to Mama's Pizza in North San Juan and ordered what was probably the second best margherita pizza I have ever had in my entire life, and I ate HALF of it in about 5 minutes. And this place doesn't do "sizes".  Allll the pizzas are large.  Every one.  Seriously, though, it was that good. Crust was amazing, crispy, doughy, and chewy, they have the BEST sauce in the world, and fresh-fresh, fragrant basil with fantastic farm tomatoes and gooey mozzarella. That pizza was AMAZING!!





Seriously, if you are ever in Nevada City and you feel like pizza and you have some free time, GO TO MAMA's. But call first, as they have some really weird hours that aren't necessarily the same ones posted on their FB page.



Anyway, I decided to write what ended up being yesterday's blog, as my fever of rage over the Suckhole, CA (Chico) incident was still fresh in my mind, not to mention Mrs. Robinson's attack on what I thought was kind of a fun gesture.



I took a scalding hot shower, climbed onto one of the fluffiest, coziest beds ever, and popped open my laptop, with the pizza box from Mama's next to it on a towel. I inhaled 2 more pieces of pizza while my computer was turning on, I opened my blogger page and started typing.....ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ




At 5;00 Sunday morning, I woke up from one of the most blissful sleeps I have ever had in my life, face imprinted from the laptop's keyboard, denuded pizza crust in my left hand, and open pizza box with only 2 basil-ly fragrant pieces left.



I felt almost as fabulous as I had the last time I had sex, and even the fact that I had failed to brush my teeth before passing out, thus leaving my mouth feeling like an empty can of tomato sauce, did not affect my general sense of well-being.

MAN, I love carbs.



Anyway, I got up, took another fabulous shower, brushed my teeth for, like, infinity, and then went downstairs to an AMAZING breakfast of blueberry pancakes, fresh fruit, hot coffee, amazing sausage links, and icy OJ on tap.



Let me pause here and tell you that Milano's Inn is, LITERALLY, the only place you should consider sleeping if you are in the Nevada City-Grass Valley area. Gorgeous themed rooms with fresh, crisp linens, boiling hot water on demand, fluffy pillows, and delectably firm mattresses. Breakfast, with the AMAZING proprietors, is always locally sourced eggs, meats, and fruits and veggies, plus delicious coffee with fresh cream. For $80 a night, there is nothing better in the area. NOTHING.

Gorgeous, inside and out.  Basically, the opposite of me.




Anyway, after I handled my business in Nevada County, I headed home – a scant 48 hours after my arrival.



Carefully avoiding Suckhole, CA (Chico), I made my way home, rocking out to my preselected jams.

When I got near Eugene, I turned on the radio, only to be attacked by that flippin' “Despacito” song, and quickly hit 'SCAN'.



Suddenly, there it was.



MY JAM.



“I'm The One”



Delicious jam, and I was KILLING IT with my Carpool Disco moves.



My new favorite song, ever.



I was JAMMIN' (Bob Marley Jammin) to this song. I hit 'scan', and there it was again. And again.

And. Again.



Damn, this song is the shit!!!



Soooooo, I got home, passed out for 4 unsatisfactory hours, woke up, went to work – yes, on the 4th of July!! – and did a bit of a Google, only to find out that my new favorite song EVAH is, in fact, a MOTHER EFFING JUSTIN BIEBER SONG!!!



WTF?





So, this is who I am now.



Evil, dangerous purveyor of deadly gluten/fat/sugar death circles, and a JUSTIN BIEBER fan.



No wonder I can't get a boyfriend.....



Oh, well, as long as there are Ryan Gosling photos on tap on the interwebs, I guess I am OK.


*Sigh*









Thursday, July 6, 2017

Broadening My...Er, MIND. One Trip At A Time

Supposedly travel broadens one's mind.


Unless you are me.


Travel has narrowed my mind, made me want to never leave the confines of my home, and also I gain weight when I travel....so the only thing "broadening" are my thighs.


Bo-gus!!


So, I have decided to do a "travel series" of blogs over the next few days/weeks/months/whatever, and detail some of my travels, sort of as a public service warning (ahem, Chico!!), and also so you know where to eat!




I have had to drive down to my hometown 2X in the past month. 
10 hour drive says Google, not taking into account the times I have to drive around for 30 minutes in some Podunk, spitwad, BFE town, frantically hunting for a gas station, a Starbucks, or a way OUT of said "town".


The first trip was because my parents, who have been together for 34 years, decided to quit setting a bad example for their children and change their living-in-sin state to the legitimacy of (un)holy matrimony.  The trip was (surprisingly) very sweet and drama free--except for the time I almost ran out of gas in a town of 164,000, because THE WHOLE TOWN CLOSES AT 11....seriously, Eugene, OR, go suck it.  Also, I hate your teams, go Beavs!




Christmas is 5 short months away, people!










The second time was because both of  my aged P's have failing health, and did not have legit medical directives and post-mortem body dispositions written out in any fashion.  I decided to correct that, YAY ME!  That trip was emotional, exhausting, and also just. not. fun.


I tried to get some sleep on Friday night, and was unable to, so I figured I would start driving.  1:00 in the morning, and I decided to stop off at get some Voodoo Donuts to drop off at the Fire Department in my hometown -- a decision I was later put on blast on the Mother-Effing Facebook for, as I was not dropping off fun, interesting, PNW treats, but IN FACT DELIVERING A PINK BOX FULL OF DEATH AND ORGAN FAILURE....but more on that later.  Super fun, as the front area of Voodoo was full of the detritus of Portland's bar scene, standing around in drunken or drugged or both stupors.  I loaded up the boxes of death and malaise and hit the road.




                                      Nice gesture, or death in a box?  Next time I will just eat them myself!






On the "wedding" trip down earlier in the month, I almost fell asleep around 7am, somewhere in Northern CA.  I had passengers, so I was unable to drive in the manner which keeps me awake and cheerful, regardless of lack of sleep -- heater on full blast, pointed at my feet, windows down with icy mountain air pouring in, and tunes on full blast so I can yodel along to my jams in my tone-deaf, tin-ear fashion.  As this trip was solo, there was no danger of me falling asleep, but I did decide I wanted a no-whip mocha at around 6:30am, so I got off the freeway in Grant's Pass, and proceeded to spend 20 minutes driving around the city in a rage. 


I passed a Dutch Bros (varmint...I hate DB!) - nyet!
I passed a billion little drive through coffee places, none of which were open yet, all of which had cutesy little names that annoyed me to no end.  WHY does every little coffee place have to have some kitschy, twee name?  It makes me want to open a bazillion little drive through coffee places and call them all "Coffee".
ANYway, I finally busted out my phone, thinking I would use GPS.  Except it wasn't working in Grant's Pass.  It didn't connect.  Of COURSE!!!
I finally found the Starbucks all on my own-- although I had contemplated calling 911 - surely law enforcement would know where it was, right? 


Properly caffeinated, I continued along my way to sunny Califor-nye-aye, happily ignoring all of the random road ragers, tailgaters, don't-know-what-the-blinky-light-is-for-so-I-will-just-surprise-you-by-making-a-lane-changers.




                                                     One of the best parts of the drive...Shasta!!


Around Chico, I decided to get gas.  I had about 1/4 of a tank, and figured it would be better to get it in the last large town before I left the multi-lane highway portion of my trip and embarked on the 2-lane country roads that would take me home.


As Julia Roberts told the mean sales lady that didn't want to sell her clothes when her belly button and vagina were showing in last night's dress.... BIG MISTAKE. HUGE.


Chico is not a nice place.


Now, before any of you jump my shit and defend the quaint, leafy, flower-bedecked-shrubby, peaceful little college town, I need to tell you to SHUT UP. 
(Not you, Nicole, my sweet Chiconian...you just need to be quiet, ok?)


Chico totally sucks, though.


I pulled off on one of the exits, turned right onto a one way street, and drove until I saw a gas station.  Not a REAL gas station, mind,  but one of those weird ones that they have in CA that start with a 'V', and remind me of the giant bags of crappy imitation cereal.  (Marshmallow Mateys DO NOT taste the same as Luck Charms, dammit!!)  No offense, Villanova Gas Company (that's not what it's called, but it's close), but Shell, Chevron, and Safeway are the only gas stations I trust.


I got the gas, and then spent the next 40 minutes driving around Chico, CA, wanting to punch things, call 911 (for legit help this time, not for coffee), and shout at all of the happy, placid, calm, dog-walking, car-washing, shrub-pruning proles that waved or smiled at me as I slowed down, reading signs, sobbing as I realized I was back where I had started, and making blinker-indicated turns the wrong way on one way streets.


One road I got on went on for about 2 miles, and then there was a little yellow sign that said "Not A Through Street", after which the street fucking ended.  Ended.  Yanno, had the happy yellow sign been at the BEGINNING of the street, I would not have spent 9 minutes rolling along at a leisurely pace, looking desperately for signs directing me OUT OF THE TOWN -- I would have flipped a bitch right there and found a different street.


                                           Much like your ex, the sweet facade conceals PURE EVIL!


I decided to just get on a northbound street, figuring I would eventually hit one of the east-west streets that would get me on the freeway.


LOL.
Nope.


All of the north-south streets turned or dead ended.  Seriously.
As I drove around Chico, sweat dripping down my forehead in spite of the AC on full blast, blood pressure at near stroke levels, I was frantically punching the 'scan' button, hoping to avoid that soul-crushing 'Despacito" song that is on EVERY STATION EVERY 5 MINUTES, and find some very hateful music  (Korn, Eminem, or similar) that I could rage and shout along to.


Noooooope.
L.O.L.


Religious station. Bad 90s Country. Religious. Country. Mariachi station. Religious. Country. Mariachi--no, wait, fuggin' DESPACITO!! Religious. Religious. Country. Justin Bieber- not Despacito, but something equally sucky. Religious.Country.


Just as I jammed my thumb into the power button, silencing the ear assaults, I saw a Wells Fargo. 
YAY!!


Civilization.
Money.
Surly customer 'service' people.
Possibly even a Nicole!!


I cut across 3 lanes of traffic and bounced into the parking lot like my last name was Duke (Bo or Luke, not David!).


The super friendly and not in the slightest bit surly customer service cheerleader was happy to help!
Here is your money!
No, no one by that name works here!  There are 2 other Wells Fargo's in Chico!  Would you like me to give you directions to them! (Hell no, Prozac Barbie, give me my $$ and get me OUT OF THIS FUCKING TOWN!)
No Problem!
At that light, take the first left!
Then the next left!
Then the next Left!
Then the next left!
You will see the sign for the freeway!
As I left the bank, waving goodbye to all of the other Wells Fargo employees who couldn't smile big enough or wish me a good day enthusiastically enough, 2 things occurred to me:


1. Four lefts would put me right back where I started, wouldn't it?  Was it a trick?  A trap? WAS I EVER GOING TO GET OUT OF CHICO??? (no worries.  there is no logic, no rationale, and no sense to anything about Chico, and the laws of physics do not apply there)
2.Clearly, the town fathers put Prozac in the municipal water supply, as there is no way ANYONE could live in that town with it's deceptive street signs, sub-par gas stations, and insane street configurations and remain that cheerful, bubbly, and lets-wave-at-the-sweating-crying-lady-in-the-black-car-cause-she-is-from-out-of-state.  NO WAY. (note to self, DO NOT EAT IN CHICO, not even at the In N Out, because you WILL NEVER LEAVE.  There is some serious Persephone-and-the-pomegranate shit going on there, for REAL.)


Just writing that story down has got me back to stroke level blood pressure, so I gotta stop now, but will return tomorrow to tell you all about how a misguided attempt to bring a bit of PNW frivolity to some former work colleagues resulted in a.....what's after a cougar?  a jaguar, right?  then what?? saber-toothed tiger?...whatevs, this one broad totally throwing shade at me all over Facebook, and acting like I was trying to kill people.  Also, I fell asleep on one of the best pizzas I have ever had in my life.  Kind of.








                                                        This was me last Friday.  It was AMAZING!

Monday, June 19, 2017

EX-actly What I Don't Want





The Great Ginger Hunt of 2017 has been put on hold.



NOT because I don't want a BF, mind you, but because I am having a bit of an issue with his name.




Does that sound lame? I promise it is not an excuse, though!




I actually have a straight-up legit reason for it, though, and it involves some people I referenced in this blog here.




Basically, it is a story about The One That Got Away, and how I have made bad dating decisions ever since I sabotaged that relationship.




Once upon a time, before I was as horrifically old as I am now, I met someone at work. Up until that point, I had prided myself on not dating people that I met at work, especially since I got hit on all the time. (NOTE: That may sound conceited, but I can assure you that it had nothing to do with my face, and everything to do with the fact that I: a) was a bartender, so every dude that hit on me was impaired/drunk/a dumbass, and b) was so whorishly dressed and overly made up that my neighbors thought I was a stripper for about 3 months, until they got to know me.)




ANYway, I never gave my # out or went on dates with dudes that hit on me at work, and that was kind of a point of pride with me, as many of my coworkers over the years earned the nickname “cocktail mattress” (as opposed to cocktail waitress) for their scandalous behavior.









Anyway, this one big, oafish, dolt hit on me and I actually fell for it and got super attached to him and his....uh, fabulous......TC.

I am using initials, but I have referenced what it stands for in a previous blog.

If you are confused, I will give you a hint. Everyone at my bar used to refer to him as WP because I mentioned that his...uhhhhhh...appendage should have a cape and tights because it was so rad. Someone-- wasn't me -- nicknamed him Wonder Penis, and the name stuck around until my super fabulous Jessica Rabbit-looking Kell Belle referred to him as “That ThunderCock guy you used to date”. When I picked myself up off the floor and wiped the tears of laughter out of my eyes, the name stuck.



TC he is, and TC he has been ever since that HILARIOUS phone convo.




Back to my tale of woe.....



Had a super fun fabulous 8 months with TC and then started getting all commitment-phobic and weird about him. It didn't help that Lexi's dad seemed to have an issue with the relationship for no other reason than his usual nosy, interfering, dog-in-the-manger ways. Also, he was between ho's at that point and he seemed annoyed that I was coupled up and he wasn't.



Anyway, relationship over, heart broken, and lots of introspection followed. I decided to stay single for a while, mainly because my little girl was almost 2, and I have never been the kind of mom that wanted her daughter to have a bunch of 'Uncles' growing up.




TC and I continued to 'see' each other periodically, until he got a girlfriend.




So then I decided to get a boyfriend, which was a bad decision, as it led me to TP.




Yes, another Acronym instead of a name. The reason I called him TP was two-fold:

1. Same name as TC. Seriously. 2. On our third date, when I was showing resistance to things being more serious than very casual dating (and sex, duh!), he informed me with a completely straight face, that he was the Total Package.




He literally said to me, “I am the Total Package. Looks, athleticism, physique, intelligence, humor, charm. What woman doesn't want that? I am the Total Package.”



I tried not to laugh in his face, but was unsuccessful. 
 



He actually was pretty hot. 6'5”, totally ripped, nice face, fairly intelligent (not more so than me, of course, but most people are not!)......he was totally bald, though, which is not my favorite look. Also, he squinted his eyes shut when he laughed. Not really a deal-breaker, but it annoyed me. AND he was obsessed with MMA stuff and was always talking about his kettle bell workout and muy thai practice, and the time he met Randy Couture.



So....yeah...that didn't work. 
 



Then I met TW. And, no, I did not start that, my boss did. It was short for Teeny Wienie. Seriously. Not because he had one, but because he was only 5'7” and kind of runty compared to the last 2 guys I had dated, both of whom were over 6 feet tall. 
 



I have chronicled the disaster of that relationship elsewhere here, and wouldn't revisit it for ANYTHING, but it was such a disaster that, 4.75 years later, I still don't trust my judgment.




So here I am, old, boring, and not sure if I should continue this interesting flirtation with The Ginger Next Door, or just suck it up and start trolling Craigslist. 


 



Isn't that what you do when you are a butterface (i.e., too ugly for Tinder)?





Seriously, I think I need some guidance here.





I just realized I have totally digressed from my original point (shocking, I know!) and that is that my Ginger Fox has the same name as TC.....



That probably shouldn't be an issue after all this time, but it kind of is.




Every time I say, “Hello XXXX”, TC pops into my head for a quick sec.




And, yes, I am fully aware that I sound like a stalker.....totally can't help it, though, it just kind of is.




So, this is where I am with my dating sitch – OK Cupid is full of perverts that want to send you pics of their junk or chat about sex right off the bat.


Match.com is just lame.




I am not sure if I should continue the great Ginger Pursuit of 2017, as the fact that he has the same name as TC may create issues for me....actually, there is no 'may', it is already creating an issue, and I am not sure it is going to go away.






BARF, PEOPLE!!!






I am so annoyed.






I just realized that I have a very limited amount of time in which to trick people into thinking I am reasonably attractive (seriously, being hilarious totally does the trick!), so basically it's either get busy or give it up.




Hmmmmmm.....






farmersonly.com and datemiserablepeople.com are clearly my last bastions of hope, before I chuck it in and embrace my spinster status for real!!!  I will be signing up tonight.








Also, if any of you have any of that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind eraser thingie, hit me up!






Stay tuned.....

 

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

There Is Only ONE Shade of Grey, and It Is Not Pretty





A couple of years ago, I wrote about how I was going grey, and how I was not ready to cope with or embrace this horrifyingly visible proof that I am racing into middle age, despite the fact that I still feel like I am somewhere in my 30s.




A lot has changed since then.




Oh, clueless Two Years Ago Mary, you were so silly!




MEEEEEE!!!






The first grey hair I ever had popped up at the corner of my hairline when I was 19 (yes, I said 'corner' because, in spite of the fact that it photographs sort of round and chipmunk-y, I actually have a square-ish face.  Like a horse or a Rubik's Cube), something I attribute entirely to a quarrelsome couple of neighbors named Bob and Josh.  Said hair was ruthlessly ripped out and tossed in the trash -- and, NO, ten more greys did not grow back in the spot.




When I was 25, the greys started showing up again, and I would pluck them out one by one.  As I was constantly dyeing my hair a variety of reds, blondes, browns, and blacks on a regular basis, they weren't really that obvious.




In the years since then, I developed a tiny little Bride of Frankenstein streak at that same left corner, that has been vigilantly kept incognito through the miracles of hair dye and root touch ups.




 




Last August, Jimbo dipped out on me, leaving me stuck alone with a pubescent Roo (moody, cranky, imperious, demanding, hormonal....fun!!), and since then the whole top front of my head has gone completely grey.




That fact probably would have gone unnoticed, but I decided to stop dying my hair in December, and the results are horrifying.




There are many things I cuss at Jim about on a daily basis, but the hair thing is a doozy!


I am so pissed.


I realize that blaming him is not very scientific, but I just don't care, because it is totally his fault and that is all there is to it.






Anyway, I decided to stop dyeing my hair, because I just felt like seeing what would happen. 


Here is what happened:


1. Shocked and appalled at vast chrome tide sweeping over my head.
2. Lexi has been increasingly vocal in her exhortations to cover it up.  I get dubious looks, raised eyebrows, and frequent remarks that are usually prefaced with, "No offense, Mom, but....".
3. My sister expressed shock at the very noticeable change, then suggested I embrace the silver trend that is STILL going on (what? WHY???), then flat out said, "You NEED to dye that."
4. My boss can't stop her eyes from flicking up there several times a day.  Yesterday, I helped her carry some stuff out to her car, and when we ventured out into the sunlight, she said, "Damn, girl!  You need to color that. Now."
5. I have become oddly irritated with the lack of acceptance for what is a normal, natural part of being alive.  Lexi's reservations I can completely understand.  She just lost her Daddy, and she associated grey with aging and the idea of me getting old is not comfortable for her.  She is only 10, so I can humor her.  But everyone else?  Seriously?  I can't tell if I truly look like a haggard crone, or if it's just a lifetime of superficiality and judgy-ness coming back to haunt me.
6. I came up with a plan....






"Have you gone completely insane?  Are you out of your mind?  Seriously, that is just not normal.  What is wrong with you?"




"Mom, no offense but....EW!!"




Those were the reactions to my Groovy Master Plan for my silver strands.  The former was from my boss, the latter my child -- the 2 people I spend more hours with than anyone else.




Hmmmmmmm.....




So here's the plan.  I am dyeing my hair red one last time for the summer, well, twice, actually, as a root touch-up will be mandatory sometime late July/early August. 


On my birthday, I am going to gift myself a super fantastic wig (possibly 2, but they are SPENDY!!!), and I am going to shave my head.


I could totally rock this look.  Right?






I will wear said wig(s) until my hair is grown out enough that I don't look like a Moonie or a Hare Krishna, or whoever it is that has to shave their heads and wave tambourines while getting married in ceremonies where there are 20K other couples, and I will just live with whatever grows out.




I think it's a solid plan. 


During my many battles with my unruly mop over the decades, I have frequently expressed a desire to do exactly that, but never followed through.  However, I honestly feel like now is the time to do just that, and see what happens.




Lexi is, of course, totally against it.  After her "EW" reaction, she asked me what I would do if it blew off on a windy day.  I told her I was pretty sure they make some kind of wig adhesive, like Polident, but for scalps, not gums.  I also told her that I didn't care much if it did, as long as it didn't fall on the ground and get dirty.  She just rolled her eyes.




She has since launched a campaign that may as well be titled "Remind Mom of All the Places Harlow Could Yank Her Wig Off"
The grocery store.  Gas station.  Thanksgiving dinner.  Christmas morning.  In front of my boyfriend (WHAT boyfriend???  And, yes, there will be a blog about that coming soon!).  4th of July Parade.  Etc, etc, ad nauseum.


How Lexi envisions my future with a wig.



My boss hit the roof and has threatened to take pics and post on social media any and every time my wig goes askew.  I repeated my Polident-for-the-scalp plan -- surely they make something like that, right?  She just rolled her eyes.




I don't get it.


Is it that bad of an idea?  It isn't permanent.  I cant imagine those same reactions if I decided to get a tattoo, and those things are FOREVER. 
Is it the baldness?
The wig?
The fact that I am not going to mess with whatever grows out?


I am not sure, but I am hopeful I can stand my ground in the face of resistance, because I think it's a GREAT idea!!


Anyway, that's the plan for now.  I type that with the knowledge that, should I actually end up 'coupled', the plan may need a revision, unless my Ginger Fox is DTF a baldie.


Stay tuned.


Pics will follow.

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