Why All The Dinosaurs Are Dead

I love dinosaurs. There, I’ve said it. So, sue me. If there’s a

NatGeo thing on about them, I’m gonna watch it. Especially if said thing is theoretically pitting them against one another or showing them in uber real CGI. Yes, please. More. Of that. And Jurassic Park, the movie? Are you kidding me? I LOVE IT! I know every scene and the music playing in it. (Dotson, we’ve got Dotson here!) I’ve seen the others as well. Not as a big a fan of those but that hasn’t stopped me from seeing them each multiple times. 

I’m so excited about Jurassic World coming out that I’m giddy. I’m even taking my 9 year old twins who are as big a fans of dinosaurs as I. My daughter can identify them by shadow alone. Yes, I know the movie is PG13 and violent. But, as my son said, “mom, they’re dinosaurs. That’s how they are.” I agree. Also, my parents took me to see Jaws in the theater. Yes. Jaws. I was in elementary school and, just to sweeten the psychological damage, we lived near the Gulf of

Wrong. Not photoshopped.

Mexico. But, see? I turned out relatively ok, despite the trauma. For those of you who are too young to know, there was no PG13 back then. Yes, Jaws (one of the best movies ever made - we need a bigger boat) was PG. So, that’s how I’m seeing this. It’s only PG13 because it’s coming out in 2015 and not the 70s. 

Ok, so I have established how excited I am. And, of course, somebody is going to try to ruin it. On this occasion, it is the PC police. The PC poe poe are trying to say the movie is sexist because of how Bryce Dallas Howard’s character changes from an icy business woman into a more “feminine” motherly character. Then there’s some gobbildy gook about how “femininity is a social construct blah blah blah.” Look, I have g/b twins. They were raised in the same room with all the same toys. They each gravitated toward a certain type of toy which just happened to coincide with their gender. I didn’t make them do it. (BTW, PC poe poe, women’s aggressive instinct is driven by estrogen and tends to create a befriend and defend response. A woman with a child near her - even when it is not her own - is deadlier than a woman alone. So, of course BDH’s character is different when put in a perilous situation with children nearby. She’s deadlier. It’s called science. Look it up.)

But, I digress. This entire post is about my finally understanding why the dinosaurs died out. Here is how things would go now if the thunder lizards were still among us: (ehem - the scene opens on two TRexes spying a group of people in the jungle)

TRex1: Let's eat the fat one! 

TRex2: You have no right to single him out because of his size. 

TRex1: But, he's slower. 

TRex2: He can't help that. 

TRex1: But, he's white... 

TRex2: He's of European descent and that's racist! 

TRex1: But, his color makes him easier to see here in the jungle. Never mind. Ok, How about the one with the long hair beside him. She has a juicy round belly. 

TRex2: She's pregnant, you sexist jerk. And, yes, she's a doctor too if you would look past her belly to the symbol on her shirt. She can be a doctor and pregnant. A woman can have a career and be a mother too. 

TRex1: What’s a symbol? Oh, that red thing on those big lumps? 

TRex2: Quit looking at her breasts! 

TRex1: What are breasts? Oh, look, there’s a brown one!

TRex2: He’s Native American. Don’t even think about it.

 TRex1: But, I’m hungry.

TRex2: Eat some vegetation.

TRex1: Our teeth aren’t really made for that.

TRex2: Quit thinking about yourself. Think about what’s best for the planet.

TRex1: What’s a planet? Never mind, I don’t care. I’m hungry and I’ve got babies to feed.

TRex2: Oh, so you are more important because you have babies? You’re more important because you procreate? What about the gay dinosaur couples? I guess they don’t get to eat because they can’t have little ones!

TRex1: What is gay? 

TRex2: You’re a pig.

TRex1: No, I’m a TRex.

TRex2: And so what does that mean? That you just get to kill indiscriminately? Go around terrorizing and eating anything smaller than you?

TRex1: Yeah, I think so.

TRex2: Fine. Go ahead. Eat one of them, if you think you can live with yourself.

TRex1: I have to eat one of them to live at all.

TRex2: You’re know, you’re part of the problem. You see race and gender and size and things that make anyone or anything different in any way and just exploit it for your own gain.

TRex1: I just see food. 

TRex2: You would.

TRex1: How about I just go lay in a tar pit and die. (walks away)

TRex2: Oh sure, just walk away. Go lay down in a tar pit and ruin the eco system.

(And scene. This is why there are no more dinosaurs. The Lord knew they wouldn't survive our political correctness. Yes, I said the Lord, as in the Father of Jesus Christ, my savior. Now...let the tirades begin!)

Skating Lessons

My kids are at the age where party invites have slowly gravitated toward a skating rink theme. I couldn’t be more pleased. If I have to go to another pizza and video game deal with a creepy mechanical

His shirt reads, "zip"! Am I the
only one that finds that
hilarious. Normally I find simians
on wheels kinda terrifying. (see below)

animal band again, I will set my face on fire. (I had a business name here but my husband made me take it out for fear of a defamation lawsuit. I told him its only defamation if it’s not true and I really might set my face on fire and two, everybody who reads my blog knows most of what I say is tongue-in-cheek. Except in this case. I really hate that restaurant. But…I digress.)

Recently I went skating with both kiddos for the first time and here are some things I learned:

1. A supposition I have long held was solidly reinforced: my kids think I am physically retarded. Whenever I show any

   

   I had a pair JUST LIKE this.
   They never fit well and I never
   took them to the rink. I needs my
   ankle support.

   manner of coordination, they act like they are witnessing nothing short of a miracle. So, to see me moving upright on eight wheels held the same sway as me levitating or raising the dead. My son said, “how can a 42 year old skate so well?” After I mentally digested then spit him up like a hair ball, I told him that’s what my generation did when we were his age.
2. The rink still has the staples: a disco ball, flashing lights, crummy food and bathroom tile that is more difficult to traverse than The Grand Canyon. 
3. There are still girls skating in shorts just long enough to fit the definition. There are exactly two and they are friends.
4. The rink refs still flirt with said girls in short shorts.

   

   You know what that is in blue? It's a baboon on roller
   skates and the protagonist of my next nightmare!

5. The DJ still thinks he wields the power of Thor. I can only assume they are all on, and always have been on, just enough pharmaceuticals to keep them from obsessively throwing their hands up and laughing maniacally. I say just enough because you can still hear the threat of such actions in their tone. In the 70’s, they didn’t take said medication and yes, every rink DJ did at some point throw his hands up and laughed like a crazy person. Usually during an AC/DC song. Or Funky Town. The later I think out of frustration.
6. The glass ceiling of female skating rink DJs has yet to be broken. I pray the Susan B Anthony of Skating Rink DJ-ery soon rolls forward.
7. The cool, low rise, speed skates have been overtaken by

   

   Note all the in-line skaters. It's a real problem,
   I tell ya!

   inline skates and my feelings toward the in-liners are the same as skiers toward snow boarders: they are all bastards. They are ruining the purity of the sport and turning it into some filthy, hootchie-cootchie display. (And, I wish I were one.)
8. They’ve come up with this PVC pipe deal that looks like a cruel joke for elderly little people. It’s basically a walker on wheels that fledgling skaters can use to help them skate. I see these contraptions as just another way we as a society are coddling our children. Kids should ride on the handlebars of their friend’s bikes (standing when possible), slide down a metal slide that holds the heat of a thousand suns and bust their rumps while skating. Yeah, sometimes you end up breaking a few bones, busting a few heads, irreparably damaging a growth plate or three. That’s life! These rolling walkers make the kids lean

   

   Imagine trying to pass a half dozen of these
   at once. It's an exercise in terror.

   forward and does not teach them balance at all. To learn to skate you have to hold somebody’s hand, preferably two - one on either side - toddle around like you're coming off a hallucinogenic, then bust it and take everyone down with you. Sure, the walkers let the younger kids and random awkward adults have fun while learning. But it creates a gauntlet of horror for everyone who can skate and prolongs the learning process which keeps the darn things on the floor. (These things cost a pretty penny to rent. So, basically, modern skating rinks are in the business of keeping you not skating so you will continue renting the contraptions. Wake up people! It's the US health care system with neon shoe laces!) 
9. Kids still wear 80s clothes.  
10. There are still a couple creepy adults with mustaches on the floor that can’t seem to let go of their childhood. (Last week, that was me.)

 

Writer's Blah

I've got a major case of writer's blah. Not block, mind you. Blah.

The words are there. I'm just blah about it. I've been working on a book a couple years now. Yes, years. Don't judge me. I'm on the third rewrite. Once I finish this one, it will be editing run throughs. I could be done by the end of the summer. Unfortunately, I don't care. I've taken so long in writing it that I kinda want to sneak up behind all my characters and push them off a cliff starting with my protagonist.

   Her body buckled, pushed by some unseen force. She fell. The rocks echoed her final shriek. 
   She clawed at the surrounding rush of wind. The red locks on her head waved like fire in its slipstream as her body tumbled headlong. Her limbs twisted and whipped like a knotted rag until her flesh met the ground with a slap. The life left within her exploded upward in a shock of crimson.
   The writer smiled. It was done. She was free, free at last. Free to walk unfettered, unburdened, and guiltless, taking as long as she wanted in Target.


I'm well aware there are writers out there far busier than me writing more than a thousand words a day. They get up early. They stay up late. They sign contract after contract and wear the name writer well. They are legit. Too legit to quit.

Then there's me. I kinda write. I've finished the one book - that I seriously need to pull from circulation and revisit. I write for a local magazine all along. I blog. These aren't terribly impressive credentials. Oh yeah, I'm in an anthology of short stories too. Forgot that one. And, I interview writers monthly on a blog radio show but I'm pretty sure that doesn't make me a writer any more than sitting on my couch makes me a furniture model. 

I have ideas. Funny ones. Good ones. So funny and good in fact that I will not mention them here for fear they will be stolen. And, they would be, I feel certain. Probably by ISIS. That would be their most ingenious and devious plot: distract the West with literary entertainment and sneak up on us unawares.

"Mr. President, how did you not see this invasion coming?" "Well, I had this book, see, and (insert POTUS chuckle) it's really, really good..."

But, as it is, I am still slogging through this one book, the first of a series of three mind you, and I'm so sick of it. Oh man, I can't even begin to tell you. I don't have a contract on it which is actually good because I'm not under a deadline. And,  yet, I have people waiting on it, agents and publishers who like me, who have let me rush through the publication process. There's normally this whole long dance of sending a query, then sending a synopsis, then sending the manuscript...  I got to skip some of that and I'm thankful. 

I have the time to finish the thing, I'm just not. I'm cleaning, taking care of my family, doing Brazilian Jiujitsu (hereafter referred to as BJJ, an abbreviation which, at first glance, gives pause) and Muay Thai style kickboxing. (Although, our instructor is Mexican so maybe it's Muy Thai - that's not racist 'cause it's not negative and I used to teach Spanish. So, yeah.) Those last two, I wish I could do more of without feeling guilty, (the first two I wish I could do less of without feeling guilty) without knowing I need to get home and write. It's like an albatross around my neck. But worse. If you have a huge, 25lb, dead bird around your neck, nobody will wonder why you haven't finished writing your book. Obviously, you can't, what with the dead bird and all. 

If I wanted it done, darn it, I'd finish it. I guess, I just don't care. Why don't I care any more? Why have I lost my mojo? These aren't rhetorical questions, I really want  you to tell me. And, after you do, please tell me what to do to get it back. Tell me how to want to finish this thing. I've been told to take a break from it. But, all I'm doing is breaking from it. Seriously, I write maybe 3000 words a week. That is pittance, people. Pittance! Tosca Lee? You know her? The NYT best selling author? I know this woman. She's an actual, carbon based life-form (for the record, I've yet to see the medical documentation on that) who eats and sleeps and she can write 10k words in a day and not just because she's Asian and has an inborn, radioactive drive to succeed! (That's not racist 'cause it's positive. Is it racist to say a group of people is awesome? No, it's not.) But, she's only half Asian! The rest of her is as white bread as me so, obviously, I could be writing more. At least 5k a day! (I'll give her the extra 5k because she is, after all, half Korean. Again, not racist, 'cause, it's positive and Korean food is my favorite.)

I can't take a break from writing as a whole. I have to keep at it for the sake of skill. Use it or lose it sort of thing. So, do I work on other stuff, blog, text with abandon? What? Tell me! Tell me, I say! And, "quit worrying over it," ain't an option. That's like telling a cat to quit being self absorbed. 

I'm waiting...

Ok, well, until you, reader - who may not be a writer, chances are you aren't - until you solve my writing issues, I'm just

Added this because it's just my favorite
picture ever.

going to fly in a holding pattern. I'll write here and there.  Again, this isn't an issue of being discouraged. I'm pretty good with pumping myself up on things. It's a matter of pure old apathy which, I think, is far more corrosive than discouragement. And, I'm not reading much either if that's a symptom of note. 

Maybe I'm just burnt out. I'm not even wild to do BJJ (made you pause, didn't it) or kb. Ugh. And, it's the end of the school year. My kids are about to be home everyday. All day. Swarming and eating everything in sight like locusts. I love them. But, I also want to pack a sandwich and a pair of clean underwear in a Ziploc bag (same bag 'cause the underwear are clean) and run away. 

So, I leave it in your hands, folks. Fix me.

Apathetically yours...I guess...

Pantsless Robot Dr

Firstly, (that is a word, right?) I know I need to do a wrap up on the Lent posts. I will. Give me time. You’re not the boss of me.

I’m sick. Started last night, felt like strep. Strange considering I don't have tonsils. I don't have tonsils because I used to get strep so much. (By the way, I asked for them to be put in a jar so I could keep them. Didn't happen.)

I schlep to the Minute Clinic outside my neighborhood, looking like the Outbreak monkey. Get in there just after it opens and there’s already a line. 

Great.

I wait patiently, trying not to look at the sickies around me: patients zero, one and two. After about 30 minutes, I’m called in…to the medical closet. That’s about how big it is. The gal looks too young to be a doctor, but that seems to be how it is these days. Also, she has on scrubs, so I figure I can trust her. She points me to the exam table. I look at it.
There’s a wrinkle in this paper. How can there be a wrinkle on clean paper? Did she not change it after the last patient? Oh, I’m changing this, that guy looks way worse than me. He made the Outbreak monkey sick.

She walks in while I’m changing it, gives me a look, then closes the door. 
        I don't know why you are looking at me. There was a wrinkle in the paper!

I'm asked all the usual questions, my responses are put into the computer. Then, she smiles too big a smile, stops typing, and asks me if perchance I would like to see the virtual doctor? 
Virtual doctor? Wait, what? What are you? You have on scrubs!

She waves her hand out to the side -  like it’s the 50s and she’s showing me the newest Edsel - toward a TV on a cart. It has a camera on it and other techy stuff.
A robot? Is she asking me if I want to see a robot doctor? Is that what's happening? What is this? Who am I? Jane Jetson? Where is the doctor!

“There is a doctor there that you will see on the screen.” 
This is actually happening! She’s asking if I want to see a robot doctor! 

“A lot of folks do it.” 
A lot of folks do it? This is her hook? I don’t think she is old enough to remember Jonestown. 

“There’s a camera that you will put in your ears, nose and throat to be examined.”
Woah, woah, woah, right there, missy. 1. I didn’t go to medical school, ok? I don’t have scrubs. And, I’m pretty sure I’m not qualified to put a camera in my head holes for medical purposes. 2. I’m not at all comfortable being virtually examined by somebody who may or may not have on actual pants. 

“But,” I say, giving the robot doctor a skeptical look.  “I’m pretty sure I have strep.”  

“Oh, I will give you a strep test.”
YOU are going to give me strep test? What are you?

“I’d like to see a human doctor.”

She smiles at me like I’m visiting from the past, then gets the thingy to swab my throat. 
          Are you qualified to do this? Is that even a real scrub suit? You can get them at halloween. Did you get it at halloween? I've seen them for sale at Walmart but I figured that was just for people who wanted to look like doctors. Oh my word, is that what's happened here...?

       The swab hurts, adding insult to injury. 

I go to the little medical closet next door presumably to see a doctor. She's dressed like one.
Oh, a lab coat! Now we’re talking! She too looks too young to be a doctor, but she’s wearing a lab coat so…

“How are you?” she asks with a smile.

“Um, crummy?” Why do doctors ask that?

“Ok, Mrs. Carla, you do have strep. So, we will give you some antibiotics. You know, I’ve never had strep. My kids get it. Me? Never had it. My whole life. I just don’t. Funniest thing.” She giggles.

“Hmm, how about that. Is it too late for me to see the pantsless robot doctor?"

"The what?"

"Nevermind..."

Gynos and Shock and Awe

This is going to be inappropriate. Consider yourself warned. Seriously.

Recently, I went to a "lady doctor," meaning, specializing in ladies. Although, she also happened to be a lady as well. The office has a no kids policy which I understand, inconvenient thought it is. The last thing you want in the exam room with you while "that" sort of thing is going on is a chatty four year old who is want to repeat such an event over Thanksgiving dinner. "Mommy, that turkey, it's legs and that stuffing and all, it looks like..." (insert your own comment)

So, anyway, I'm sitting in the exam room, completely clothed mind you for the far too curious ilk reading this, and I'm looking around at the decor. I've seen some ridiculous stuff through the years. The worst, and my favorite, by far was the poster of a cat one doctor had posted on the ceiling. The fluffy kitten was hanging from a branch. (It's an old poster. Probably wasn't considered animal abuse when it was made.) The caption read, "hang in there." Hang in there indeed. I assume the poster was for the patient but it might have been for the doctor. Although, if the doctor is looking up at it, I doubt they are terribly efficient. I'd think their job would be a bit like a professional archer in that keeping an eye on the target is key.

This exam room was professionally appointed. It had all the usual educational trappings. For the men out there, here's what seems to be required wall decor: a warning of sexually transmittable diseases (in English and Spanish), advertisement for HPV injection (that's a recent addition) and the old stand-by drawing of a Caucasian (always) female form cut straight down the middle with an intact baby (also Caucasian) in the process of being born. The baby's face is down and smooshed which, although I realize that's how it is, I don't want to see. If God wanted me to see the look of complete and utter humiliation and desconsolation on my baby's face as it emerged from my body, face down, toward my egress flue, I'd be able to see it without the aid of the "deviled egg lady" rendering. (She's cut in half and all the color is in the middle - like a deviled egg!)

This office, however, had another little gem and, I have to be honest, I didn't really know what it was at first. I looked at it, my eyes focusing on one or two of the eight - yes, eight, remember that, ok? - pictures and I tried to put words to it. And, I did. I won't tell you what they are although none are inappropriate in any way. But, once you find out what I was looking at, all the words I assigned become far too descriptive. It would be like me saying something looked like a bowl of mashed raspberries, which is innocuous enough, then me telling you I was looking at a head wound. Yeah, gross.

After a moment, I let my eye meander over the whole of the display and ladies and gentleman, I was looking at before and after pics of rejuvenation surgery for parts of a woman's body that are and always should be shrouded in mystery. It was like a cold slap to the face. My face twisted and my neck went back much like it does when I smell soured milk. I'm not saying I don't have sympathy for the ladies pictured, I have so, so, so very much sympathy for them. (Seriously - insert a moment of silence for those gals.) But, so help me, I need rejuvenation surgery on my face from the damage my expression made while looking at those pics. I didn't want to see that! And, I shouldn't have had to see that. Seriously, that poster should be under a curtain that you are given the option to move aside of your own volition. And, I totally would have...but still! I would be to blame for the images that are now burned into my mind like a horrific daguerreotype. 

Going to the lady doctor isn't the best experience. It's not something you wake up and look forward too while sipping a cup of coffee and trying to remember the last time you shaved your legs. It's something you do because it is healthy and necessary. And, over the years, I have learned a few things about myself, my...uh...construction. The "deviled egg" lady on the wall has taught me much. If I ever see her out and about, hopping down the street on her one leg, I will shake her hand (her one hand) and thank her for her contribution to society. But, I do not appreciate what I learned at my most recent visit. I am forever damaged and my brain looks a bit like those before pics for having seen them. 

Doctors out there, the shock and awe technique is not effective in advertising a service. It is off-putting and damaging to the psyche. How about instead a sign that reads, "Sitting on a wreck? There's help on deck!" Or, "Helping your business, is our business!" But, best perhaps is the simple announcement of said service. "We offer ___." Then beside that statement, "There are pictures under the table in a padlocked box. Here is the combination. It's ok. You can look. We can help. There's nothing to be ashamed of. It's normal. Childbirth is as injurious as it is rewarding. We can't help with your child at this point, but we can help what they did to you with their freakishly huge head." And, in the box, along with the pictures, should be chocolate and antidepressants. And, whatever the Men in Black use to erase people's memory.

When Hair Attacks

I couldn't find a pic
of a red haired pig in mud.
But here's a red head with a
pig near mud. And, it's awesome.

I’m gonna take a break from my Lent posts. There’s nothing going on with me there really anyway. Still not eating processed sugar stuff outside of the unavoidables like ketchup. Yes, ketchup is unavoidable. I’m still irritated about not having it and still want it however not quite so much. Wait. That’s not true. I do want it. But, dealing with not being able not to have what I want is getting easier. Ok, now I’m laughing to myself because that’s not true either. I want it. I’m not eating it. Except on Sunday wherein I lay into it like a pig in mud

But, as I said, this won’t be about Lent. (Do you capitalize that word? I haven’t looked that up and just to keep this real, I won’t. Feel free to correct me if you would like. Totally don’t care.) This post is about (drum roll) my hair. Yeah, super important stuff.

About seven years ago I went to get a hair cut. The stylist asked how I wear it on a daily basis. I said, ponytail. The classic ponytail has always been my go-to as I’ve had hair past my shoulders since my high school freshman year. I was always involved in a sport and lived in NW Florida which is just slightly more humid that a pressure cooker. I wore my hair in a pony tail so much, I had a ring of sun bleached highlights that went around the perimeter of my head and the middle was darker.

So, back to the stylist. He asked why I wore it in a ponytail. I told him I had twin babies and it was easier. And he said, “girl, why don’t you just cut it short?” Then he pulled it back and said, “you’ve got the face. You could totally pull it off. Let’s make you a super hot, rockin’ mom.” How could I turn down that offer? Um, yes please, and throw in whatever highlights that will make my thighs not look as though I pull sleds for a living! 

Pull it off.

That has been the key phrase for a long time now. A short hair cut isn’t just something you get. It’s something you have to “pull off.” I can’t tell you how many women have admired my hair with a sort of awe and said they just couldn’t pull it off. It’s not a face tattoo, people! It’s a hair cut. What do you think is going to happen if you cut your hair short? Your face will completely morph into another, heretofore unseen, horrific pig-nosed bat/human amalgamation? (Fact: pig-

nosed bats are about the worst looking things ever. Also, bats are about the worst looking things ever. See my post My Red Roots.) It’s hair. It will grow. And grow, and grow…

There’s a ton of bonuses to short hair. Not the least of which, it takes basically no time to fix. In fact, less is more. Messy sometimes looks pretty cool which is a good thing because when you have short hair and sleep like I do (I flail like a salmon in a bear’s mouth) it looks crazy when you wake up. Like maybe you sneezed out of your scalp. 

Here’s another plus: not sure why, but there’s just something about a short hair cut that draws the attention of men. You’d think guys would be into long hair but I’m telling you, that ain’t the case. (I’m married so it’s kinda pointless but it still feels nice.) Grant it, the demographic that has noticed me more since my short cut wears sensible shoes with their high waisted jeans. It’s become such the norm that whenever I tell my husband I got hit on at the grocery story, he automatically says, “was he riding a really nice scooter?” (Then he holds the cat up in front of himself because he knows I won’t stab her.)

This is our cat, Dottie. She hates us. If I stabbed her
I'm pretty sure she'd spew acid.

But, you know what, I take those Kennedy era compliments with pride Those guys are wearing bifocals after all, so they clearly see the lines around my eyes and still think I’m “the bees knees!” Rock on silver foxes.

Oh! And, speaking of silver, coloring your hair is a breeze. You can change it up and often because you don’t have to worry about it getting damaged. You cut it so often, it stays fresh. And, you can do most color jobs yourself. So, you can appreciate the graces of those silver foxes without necessarily being one. No need to schlep to the stylist for a dye.

There is one caveat however. You will still be schlepping to the stylist and often. (Just not for color.) Short hair requires being cut in order to stay short. You can’t just stick it back in the little holes. You can count on a cut every four weeks. And, if you miss that appointment, you end up in my current situation… 

My name is Carla, and it has been eight weeks since my last hair cut. And, I look like a truffula tree.

It’s driving me cuhrazy! I don’t have a lot of hair but what I have is absolutely teaming with life.
And it falling in my eyes makes he throw my head around like a dog with ear mites. I’m going to have to wear one of those cones of shame to keep myself from pulling it out.

So, why haven’t I gotten it cut? ‘Cause the gal who cuts it, Lindsey, is 20 minutes away - with good traffic. (That’s 40 min round trip for you non-math types + cut time + my going into Trader Joe’s ‘cause it’s like, right there!) She’s the ONLY one that has cut my hair (almost) since I’ve gone the way of the pixie. (That’s what my cut is called.) I don’t trust anyone else. Yes, it looks like the same hair cut my son has but it isn’t and I found that out the hard way. When my stylist was on maternity leave, I went to another gal ONE TIME who left me looking gender confused. In her defense, that’s easy to do as I am curvy as a rolling pin.

To add to my misery, everybody seems excited that I look to be growing my hair out. I mean, really excited. These are the same people that complimented me when it was short, mind you, and I’m starting to wonder if they were lying to me about how good it looked. I’m wondering if all this time they’ve been walking next to me with an apologetic look on their face. I tell them all not to get excited. I will cut it. At some point. Although, if I were to let it grow out, this would be a good time. I’m well on my way. (My husband doesn’t care either way as long as I don’t complain about it. He is NO help.)

I have no idea when I will be able to get to the stylist never mind when she will have an open appointment. We’re pals at this point, though, so I’m sure she’d figure it out. I’ve followed her to three locations and she was kind enough to even come to my house and help me out when an at-home hair coloring kit left me looking radioactive.

I don’t think I can do it this week. But, I will try. I’ve already trimmed my bangs myself with only functional results. Also, it’s starting to get a mullet shape to it which actually makes me want to embrace it as mullets are miraculous wonders, like unicorns. Something has to happen though and soon. I will keep you all updated as I am sure you are all salivating with anticipation. Until then, here’s to silver foxes, cones of shame and this glorious display of mullet. Look upon it and be healed...

Lent - Day (a bunch!) Jacqueline Checks In

It's been some time since Jacqueline and I have posted on our progress. We've been steadily striving. Here's her latest update...

How long have I stopped smoking for now?  

I don't honestly know, I could look back to my quit day and count but I'm not going to because I don't want to be saying, " oh, that's been 3 weeks or 25 days without cigarettes". Why? Because it's a constant reminder that I've given something up.  As I said before, I don't want to think of it as giving up I want to think of it as gaining more.  Gaining more health, time, happiness...

It has been relatively easy most of the time but then I will have a day or weekend where it's all I can think about!  It feels like torture and one day last week I searched through every handbag I own hoping to find an old pack I had forgotten about!  Seriously! That was the worst day so far.  I didn't find any and I was half disappointed and half glad.  Since stopping I have realized I have a major split personality!  I argue with myself a lot!! 

I'm still reading and researching everything I can find on addictions and habits and it definitely helps refocus my attention.  I have also started praying again. For a long time I didn't and I would just talk to my dad who passed when I was 12 years old.  Partly because I thought he would be more likely to listen to me and put up with my whining and partly because I thought God had more to worry about than whether I choked myself, what with famine and war etc... Wee Jacqueline from Scotland might not get the same level of attention. But, you know what? I was wrong.  He does listen because when I pray I feel better and stronger.  I'm not saying I'll be a regular at Sunday mass anytime soon but who knows, I thought I'd be a forever smoker too.

As for the benefits of being a non smoker they are coming thick and fast.  I've had two compliments this week on my complexion! Only two you say well up until now I had none EVER so I'm happy with that.  I can definitely taste better for sure and smell - that has its downsides right enough as I'm now noticing a decidedly funky odor in my car!  I think it's the dogs (hopefully it's the dogs). My lungs have not purged since the first few days of quitting but I'm patient, it will happen, I have been assured, so yeah for when that happens!! I have more energy, I don't feel so sloth-like anymore. Eat that, Mr. Grady! (Art teacher who called me a monument of sloth for 4 years at school. That still smarts to this day.)
My advice to any smoker reading this - quit now!!!! Lay down the excuses because that is what they are: excuses.  There are no good reasons to continue with this awful habit.  There will never be the right day or the best day as you will always find another "reason" to delay.  I don't want to regret anything I have done in my life. If anything I'll regret an opportunity missed.

In the words of Starskey or was it Hutch?  Do it, do it now! I did and it's awesome.  I'm awesome and so are you!