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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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9:10 p.m. - 2014-03-12
Current Books: In the Queue: Sporadic Project Book: Current hair color: Previous Hair Color: Usually I like Splat products. Their ultra-bleach is the 40% peroxide my stubborn hair demands and their bright colors stick better than Manic Panic's. But it turns out their tipping caps SUCK. Mick did his best, but the leakage was extreme and I ended up with a cockscomb of brilliant white down the middle with a few straggles of white over my ears. Awful. I looked like that poor accidentally painted cat that Pepe Le Pew stalks and date rapes in the cartoons. So I did the hair color equivalent of paving the whole mess over and dyed my hair brown this morning. For sure it recolored the skunk stripe, but it also colored my silver. Not happy about this. I love my silver. And feel entitled to every single strand. After 25 years with the ex and raising two Aspie kids it's a miracle all of my hair didn't fricken fall out from the stress. My dearest hair wish is that ALL my hair goes silver. Immediately. Or white, even. Judi Dench rocks the short pointy white hair and I could do worse than to have a coif like hers. See, my face and neck have done a Mickey Rourke. I need my silver to balance off the trainwreck that used to be my pretty, pretty face. I knew this day was coming. When you have a baby face- all big eyes and pudgy cheeks and soft round chin, you don't age well. One day you're adorable and the next you're a mess. I wept for poor Kim Novak this year. Goldie too. Our kind of looks suffer most and I don't blame either of them for trying like hell to stave off the ravages of time. But I'm not a movie star and my raddled face is just a bad joke played on poor Mick, I don't have to go out and stand tall against a horribly critical sneering public who remembers me when. Even if I could afford it I wouldn't go the extreme plastic surgery route. I had my time in the limelight and now I'm as over as a Blockbuster membership. No, I'm not kidding. Last week the clerk at the bread store asked if I was 62. To qualify for the senior discount, you see. And just yesterday I was offered the senior discount at Shoprite. If I am going to get the assumption that I'm a decade older than I am I'd like my silver to bolster that erroneous assumption. Hey, I'm cheap and can no longer be vain so I might as well get a 15% discount at the grocery store. Women deemed too old to be desirable should get some kind of perk out of it. Right? Topic change! Clean cup, move down. I'm making the traditional boiled dinner on Sunday. After the parade. Wolf is marching with his culinary class. His first parade. I'm half shrieky giggles and half proud mom about this. YAY Wolf for being in the town parade! But I'm already picturing the kids marching by in their chef's whites, checked trousers and floppy toques and snorting over how outr� the whole deal is. What on Earth do chefs have to do with Saint Patrick's Day? Ever hear of Irish cuisine? Yeah, me neither. So a bunch of nascent chefs galumphing along ahead of the fire trucks and the soccer team just seems strange. However, my kid will only get thumbs up from me and I'll take a ton of pictures. His brother was in plenty of parades. Mostly civic parades for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. Alex marched as a Cub Scout and as a Little Leaguer and he was in the school marching band. Many's the time I stood in the horrible heat curbside waiting for my elder son to go by. If Wolf is to be a marching chef I won't dim his glory with snark. I was in a parade once. Hometown's bicentennial parade. (That's July 4, 1976 for the math impaired. I was 13.) My sister Anastasia and I carried a weighty plywood banner ahead of our other sister and her friends from their horse farm. Drusilla rode and showed quarter horses. She and the rest of the horsey chicks thought it'd be cool to ride together and talked me and Anastasia into fronting them with a sign. I didn't mind. It was kind of fun, except my sister and I had chosen our attire for cuteness rather than comfort. White felt cowboy hats, navy blue tank tops, denim Daisy Dukes with red bandana belts and red DR Scholl's. Uh huh. You ever think about walking five miles in wooden sandals? Listen to your Auntie LA here and just say no. Adding to the absurdity was the height difference- Anastasia was barely 5' tall and I was already 5'11". And between us we had to carry a huge sheet of plywood nailed to a 2'x8' and keep it level. Not good. Just thinking about that parade makes my arms shake and my feet hurt. At least all Wolf has to do is wave a rolling pin and stump along dressed like Chef Boyardee. Wow. I'm kind of all over the place tonight. My apologies. Got crunched today at the chiro because my back is being nasty to me again. My FIL has spent the last couple weeks being shuttled in and out of the hospital, then a nursing home, and back to the hospital only this time into the ICU. He's had double pneumonia, a feeding tube implanted in his stomach, which leaks, and soon as he's strong enough they're putting in an intestinal feeding tube to replace the gastric one. I've been averaging 4.5 hours of broken sleep a night for the past week. There's some heavy shit coming down about the house next Wednesday. My last three pulls have been The Devil, the Three of Cups, and the Ten of Wands. All of them inverted. All of them telling me I'm throwing good energy after bad. As if I didn't know. So I'm focusing on parades and corned beef and books and binge-watching a show I'll discuss when I'm through. (I loathe spoilers.) If anyone wants to come by for corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, and carrots on Sunday, dinner is at 5:30.
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