Forget clowns in a car, I think my closet is the Tardis! So our plumbing decided to go all Poltergeist on us with a leak in the wall. I got to play “How fast can you turn off the water to the house and clear the way to the attic manhole in your closet?”. Ten minutes later, this was the result, spewed into my not-huge bedroom. Hopefully there’s another dimension of intergalactic space attached to the closet, or else I have no human hope of getting it all back in there, God hasn’t created that big of a shoe horn! Of course, I could use my previous method of “open door, toss something in, shut door before feeling accountable”, but that usually takes months to complete and I can’t reach my yoga pants drawer right now.
Your tongue should not be touching your brother’s face.
Why are there dry erase markers in the bathroom, you ask? You don’t want to know.
Hubby, you’ve mixed up my underwear and our daughter’s.
We are not using Satan as a character in stories, ok?
I am not interested in discussing your butt.
Oh cool! Fireball whiskey is only 100 calories!
So about my bangs….I have fine, flyaway hair. It looks a mess twenty minutes after styling. I used to spend half an hour fighting to conquer it every morning, only to look in the mirror later and decide I should have just stayed in bed longer. My waves turn into frizz if it rains or if I even pick up a brush, despite putting two “smoothing products” in my hair each morning. I can almost hear those expensive little bottles mocking me from across the city.
Added to the fine frizz is my high, uneven forehead. During one of the few times when I opted to grow my bangs out, a ten-year-old asked me if I was going bald! Her grandmother defended my honor, stating that a high forehead is a sign of beauty. Yeah, in ancient China maybe.
My plight shifts from annoying to ridiculous as I attempt to hide my unruly hairline under this unruly frizz. Not only do my bangs not stay how I style them, they do not stay where I style them. A pair of cowlicks launch themselves over my temples, with the right-side arching into a cockeyed swirl that lands pointing inward and forward over my eyebrow. These cowlicks respond only temporarily to being redirected. And Heaven forbid I go out into the slightest breeze! I try not to hate on those lucky mortals whose hair drops right back into place. If someone even whistles in my direction, my bangs flip to a place where even a bad toupee would not go.
I have learned that timing is key for my styling solutions. If I pick up the hairdryer when my bangs are too-wet or too-dry, I risk straightening them to limpness, inviting the temptation to re-curl and land back where I started. I typically get puzzled looks when I tell stylists that my hair looks different every day; that is, until they find they cannot get my bangs to do anything civilized either.
And so I obsess about my bangs. I fixate. I keep a mirror at work, and may have a reputation as the vainest lady in the place. No, I’m just paranoid that I may be replaying some version of a bad school picture day. I keep hoping my forehead will shrink or my cowlicks will soften, but to no avail. I know my fate. I understand this is a First World problem. Still, on especially bad hair days I feel justified in wanting to call out sick from work on the grounds of emotional distress. I will try not to bring up my bangs too often during the course of our acquaintance, but if you catch me looking in the mirror one too many times, please be understanding. I’m trying not be medicated over something as silly as hair.
First 5 minutes with my kids this afternoon: “Diva, would you want someone to grab your head repeatedly? No? Then stop. Little Prince, you’re not allowed to hit you sister.”
I did not expect the happiness I would feel over a sun visor! For whatever reason, my 2006 vehicle needed a SECOND driver’s side sun visor replaced. It was once again developing a single position choice, which was straight down and hitting you in the face. Not so great for visibility. During Round One of this problem, the body shop charged me $400 (yikes), claiming “cost of labor”.
So this time, hubby said he would fix it himself. He tapped around on his phone and told me the part would arrive soon. A little while ago he sauntered into the house and announced that he had successfully replaced the visor for $40! Awesome sauce! Then he proceeded to give me a cheesy grin and discuss how I could repay my debt to him….(Insert eye roll here.) And I thought the body shop had been the weasel!
You know how people have therapy dogs? Well, I need a therapy man!– from a senior lady going down the hall in a wheelchair
From tonight’s You Can’t Make This Stuff Up parenting corner:
(yelling erupts from across the house)
Adolescent Diva: “The Little Prince peed on the floor!”
Prince: “No I didn’t! I spitted!”
I walk to the kids’ bathroom, where the little prince is sitting on the toilet (he really should get more privacy) and the diva is standing in the doorway like a beat cop ready to give report. She points emphatically at a single square of toilet paper lying on the floor beside the toilet, with a clear wet spot spreading in the middle.
“Walk in that direction!” I order my adolescent, as I point my finger behind me towards her bedroom. As she stomps off, I take a step further into the bathroom and stare at the wet tissue square.
“Did you pee on the floor?” I ask my son.
“No,” he replies, still on the toilet.
“Did you spit on the floor?”
“Don’t do that!”
I walk away.
Later, I walk back into the bathroom with my son to give him a bath. The square of toilet paper still sits on the floor, the wet spot has now expanded. My son’s reaction?:
“Ew! That toilet paper is still on the floor!”