Monthly Archives: November 2013

My Grandma’s Room


When I was a little girl my grandma’s room was full of wonders.

On her bedside table, then as now, sat a small white lamp and a thick black bible, well-worn even then. How many uncountable times did my grandma sit on the side of that bed, slowly turning brittle pages, seeking comfort, or peace, or giving praise?

My grandma’s dresser was no dainty bit of vanity. Made of heavy wood with drawers down both sides and carved doors in the center, it was strong and beautiful and I swear, those doors called to me. To be allowed to sit before that chest and hold a lap full of silk, the faded ink of love letters, the glitter of glass beads, and all those memories, her memories, in my hands…

My grandpa’s wardrobe was taller, more imposing, less accessible. But when he swung wide the big double doors, even a child could see it was full of dreams. Medals of honor and badges of war – curious jewelry to a child – shared space with carefully rolled papers and a violin. His maps to castles in the air.

On my grandpa’s nightstand, then as now, sat a small white lamp and, nearby, a guitar. How many uncountable times did my grandpa sit on the side of that bed, strumming with nimble fingers, seeking comfort, or peace, or singing praise?

My grandma’s room is much the same, then as now. It’s in a new house and some things have changed. My grandma still sits on the side of that bed. She still has that old black bible. My grandpa sang his last song this year, and now I sit on the side of that bed, finding comfort, seeking peace, and, as I look to those carved double doors full of memories and dreams, I give praise.

Remember what I said about strengths?



Yeah. Well, it turns out, my strength (if I even have one, which at this point is questionable) is not hair. So just go ahead and ignore any advice I may have given in that regard.

I attempted a routine procedure tonight which I have done probably 500 times since I first turned my hair purple when I was a silly 14-year-old. It appears that now, 20 years later, I’m still pretty fucking silly.

It started out fine. I put on the gloves, mixed the solution, put it on my head. Then I read the instructions (I’ll admit, maybe that should’ve been the first step) and checked the time.

Then…I made coffee, watched the weather, re-watched that hilarious James Franco and Seth Rogan video, switched around two chairs in the living room, decided what to make for dinner, listened to an extensive recap of an X-box game courtesy of Thing 2, answered about a million questions from Thing 3…

And realized I had no freaking idea what time this shit was supposed to come off my head. Was it 5 that I started? But that would make rinse at 5:30 and it’s already 6:00, so maybe I started at 5:30 and rinse at 6:00? But maybe…was I supposed to rinse at 6:15?

I waited until 6:10 just in case. In hindsight, this was probably not the best decision I could’ve made.

I was hoping it wasn’t too bad, but the amount (not to mention color) of the hair that was FALLING OUT OF MY HEAD was a little worrisome.

Then I knew it was terrible when my husband saw me and said just two words. “Oh. God.”

I immediately went on the defensive. “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not black.”

He said, “Are you being serious?”

I said, “I am trying to be optimistic!”

Between him and this Halloween hair, it’s making it hard to look on the bright side. But not impossible! Tomorrow I am getting a new hat.

Messy Bun: You’re Doing It Wrong

I’ve noticed a lot of these so-called “messy bun tutorials” all over the internet and, frankly, you’re doing it wrong.

I don’t really get why a messy bun requires a tutorial, but I do understand that everyone has different strengths, so I’m going to help you out here.

Step 1: Don’t brush your hair. This is kind of an important step, as one of the main reasons for sporting a messy bun in the first place is to disguise your gnarly-ness.

bad hair day
Image courtesy of Bing images.

Step 2: Grab that tangled mess and pile it on your head. Wrap a ponytail holder or rubber band or a shoestring around it. Whatever’s handy. Kind of like this:

Image courtesy of Bing images.

Messy? Check. Bun? Check. You are done.

You’re welcome.

This isn’t a post. It’s just a long, shouty whine.

I am so ANGRY.

I don’t even know how to convey the depth of my irritation here.

*deep breath*

So, you may know that I recently had to stop eating meat, so I wouldn’t die.

I did that.  I did good.  No bacon, no burgers, no ham, no steak, NO DELICIOUS FUCKING MEAT!!

Well.  Then I started getting sick when I drank milk.  So I switched to soy milk. (Soy milk is actually pretty good, but let’s not get distracted here, I’m still mad.)

Last week I got the flu vaccine.  And had a reaction.  Today I ate a cereal bar ( or possibly two) and had another fucking reaction.  Turns out?  Everyfuckingthing is made with GELATIN which is made from PIG SKIN (and/or COW BONES) which I AM FUCKING ALLERGIC TO.

Sorry about the shouting.  Like I said, I’m pissed.  All the things.  All the good, bad for you, tasty things are making me sick.

I just have one question, and I’m scared to hear the answer.  Does pie have gelatin in it?

Don’t answer that.

In apology for this angry pointless post, I give you a bunny driving a Barbie car.  Please forgive me, I’m just hungry.

Beep!  Beep!

Kids? Tyrants? Gremlins? You decide.

My children have got the crazy-making thing down.  I mean, they are professionals.  Little ornery agents of chaos, stalking me everywhere I go.  (Seriously.  Everywhere.)

I have compiled a list of some of the random shit my children have come up with in their never-ending quest to watch me unravel.

1.  Refusing to wear coats.  This may not sound serious, but when it is 16 degrees outside and you can barely get your kid to wear shoes, you’ve got a problem.  And you might think this is no big deal, but it is a big deal when you know it is not actually a dislike of outerwear, but probably a plot designed to get Child Services called.  They are sneaky, I’m telling you.

2.  Calling me “Mommom.”  They never just say “Mom.”  It’s always “Mom. mom. mom. mom. momomomomommomom.”  I believe this is to keep me off balance, always looking over my shoulder for additional mothers.

3.  Throwing my own words back at me.  For instance:  After taking a healthy dump off the front porch, my then 5-year-old looked at me with a straight face and said, “What?  You told me to go outside if it was an emergency.”

4.  Drawing pictures of me at school.  I don’t mind the flattering ones, but seriously?  This?

The journal entry for this said, “I ate too much candy and my mom got mad at me.  She got so mad at me, her head almost exploded.”

5.  They do not show an appropriate amount any appreciation of my dancing, singing, or joke telling skills.  In fact, they claim unbelievable things like I am “lame” or “not funny.”  Pssh.

6.  They are always pointing out my mistakes, like when I put the milk in the cabinet or the toothpaste in a lunch box.  And then they tell other people.  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; the same should apply here, only with less drugs and strippers.

7.  They are always wanting food.  ALL the time.  Like, every day.  I think they all have tapeworms.

8.  They FaceTime or Skype with people without telling me, so random teenagers see me in my pajamas talking to the cat.

9.  Goading me into playing video games and then mocking my mad skills when my guy is always the one stuck in a corner or aiming at the sky.

10.  Telling their friends that I’m not helpful with studying because I always laugh at answers like “Titicaca.”  (That shit is funny.  Don’t tell me it’s not.)

I could go on and on, but I’m exhausted from trying to stay a step ahead of the little gremlins, so I’m out.  Don’t worry, I learned long ago to sleep with one eye open.

Snakes. I don’t like them.

If you don’t live in the middle of nowhere, you may not be aware that deer and other wildlife have trails; certain paths that they follow, to water or possibly gatherings where they plot my demise.

I am beginning to think snakes also have trails, and that my house must sit right in their path.  Or the other animals elected snakes as their assassins.  I really don’t know much about snakes.  I do know that I don’t like them, and I REALLY don’t like them in my house.

About 10 years ago I (briefly) rented the house that we bought last year.  At that time I was the single parent of two boys.  The baby woke me up and I stumbled into the kitchen for a bottle.  In my defense, it was dark, and I was mostly still asleep.  So I saw what my brain registered as a really stretched out ponytail holder on the floor, and I (stupidly) reached down to get it.  The fucker moved and I woke all the way up pretty quick.  It was about a 4 foot long black snake.  In my kitchen.  Luckily for me, its head was caught in a mousetrap, so it didn’t really have a lot of options.  I called my mom and she appeared magically, as she is wont to do in my times of need, wearing boots and bearing a shovel.

Then I moved.  Like, fucking immediately.

Fast forward 10 years, and we (stupidly) bought this house.  Last fall we had approximately three unwelcome guests.  Baby copperheads.  In my fucking house.

After I finished having a nervous breakdown, I liberally applied glue traps all over the house.  I made my husband pull up all the trim, even though we had remodeled before we moved in, and fill up every hole we could find.  I work from home, and for a time I sat at my desk inside a circle of glue boards so that nothing could get me.

Now it is fall again, and apparently this is snake baby-time.  Two weeks ago I was laying on the couch when my four-year-old walked up and asked, “What is that?” pointing at a spot in the floor between us.  “That” was a snake stuck to a glue trap.  She may have learned a new word that day.  This snake was dead already and my husband wasn’t home, so I called on my Super Mother Powers and somehow got the damn thing out to the porch.  Where I completely lost my shit and began beating the glue trap, sticky side and snake side down, on my porch.  I did this until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore.  It’s still there.  Glue traps are very sticky.

Last night it was raining and sometimes when it rains we have a leaky spot behind the T.V.  So right before bed I went to have a look, just in case.  This is what I saw:

Are you fucking kidding me?

So, I did what anyone would do.  I called my mom again.  This time the snake was still alive and, though well and thoroughly stuck, was trying to strike.  We managed to get it outside, which was really hard because I refused to let my feet touch the floor and had to climb on furniture all the way through the house.

After we took care of that bastard, I convinced myself that there were no more because my glue trap defense is working perfectly.  Then I put out every glue board I had (about 12).  There are probably close to 50 glue boards hidden all over my house at this point.  Even I don’t know where they all are.

I’m concerned.  Fall is just beginning, and we’ve already had two invaders.  I need more glue traps, and maybe some fire.

I think there is an animal conspiracy.  I believe the squirrels started it, and they’ve coordinated the whole mess.  They want me gone.  This could get really ugly.

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