Absolutely Guaranteed to Grow

If there’s one thing I know how to do it’s take a vacation. I love to shirk responsibilities, in a responsible holiday sort of way, any chance I can get! I did practically nothing besides try to enjoy myself for two whole weeks.

Somehow I even got Mother Loops to do my laundry for me, without really asking her. Oh, and all the Wii dancing action deserves a mention. I was sore for days. Days! Though I did take breaks every once and awhile to feed the kids. They deserve it, even though the holidays and all the gift receiving had rather undesirable side effects that can only be described as “Ugh”. I can hardly blame them though. It is rather abnormal to suddenly get everything you wanted, one day of the year, and then be expected to SHARE! And then be expected to not start sentences with the words: but, no, why, me, candy. 

Anyway, I do hope everyone had the merriest of Christmas and New Year’s celebrations.

Finally it’s 2012 which is great because I’ve been writing 2012 on my checks for the past twelve or so months. Yes, all three of those checks I wrote.

Starting a new year is always a little perplexing and maddening for me because January usually coincides with the time I have no desire to do anything and yet the strong desire to do everything. I don’t really work things out in my brain and hit any sort of stride until late March.

So, eventually I'll have lots of riveting* things to share and discuss if I can remember what those things are. But other matters require my attention at the moment so give me 4-6 days. Maybe even 7, depending on water temperature!

Tally ho!

*Silly

P.S. If you're into Instagram, let's be buddies. You can find me under ramblingsarah or @00red (that's double zero red just to be sure :)

Did you know getting red lipstick off your forehead takes some effort?

Oh January. Such a cold, blustery, somber month you are, at least in some parts of the world. And really the only part of the world that matters to my easily chilled fingers and toes is the one I'm living in . . . so, cold and blustery it is.

However, despite the chill that accompanies dear janvier, and the slightly depressing after effects of the holidays being done and over, January has always been my favorite month. Birthday months have a way of garnering that honor. So in years past, I became ever so talented at ignoring the drab winter weather, at least until February 1st.

What ice? I see no ice. Emptiness? I see no barren space where the Christmas tree used to be. Sulking? I see no need to wish for summer.

I see only birthday candles, presents, people showering me with attention and smiles. I see only a day with my name written ALL over it.

But this year is different. This year I am well aware of the three inches of snow that have turned into crusted over ice. It glares at me when I look outside, and threatens me when I open the front door.

The blast of wintery wind hits my face and I curse this forsaken month. I pack up the last Christmas ornament and I'm moody the rest of the day. January has lost it's magic.

And it's not because I'm hormonal. How dare you! No, I'm near positive it's because I'm old. This month I officially become an old fart, and I join all you other old farts who have left your twenties behind.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm having such a hard time with it. This sort of thing (aging) happens to people everyday. Some people are even leaving their thirties, forties, fifties, gasp, sixties . . . seventies! behind. And in some cases eighties, nineties, and one hundreds are being reached. 'Tis true. I read about it on the internets and heard it through the grapevine.

Nevertheless, my measly thirty has got me down in the rotten dumps. Maybe because when I was a kid I remembered when my mom turned thirty, and I thought she was the oldest thing in the world next to my grandma, and the invention of trains, and dirt. Sorry Mother Loops. That was an exaggeration, for comical purposes.

But now please tell me why even email spammers know it's my birthday, and they act all happy for me, and they want to give me free unnecessary things and exclamation points!!! If this was my 23rd year I might be a little flattered. I generally love offers for discounted cable and Viagra. But this year I'm just not as receptive, or gracious.

And why are people staring like they know the number that is now attached to me for the next year? Do I have a dopey deer-in-headlights look on my face and a big 3-0 written on my forehead with bright red lipstick, that looks slightly misshapen due to the wrinkles?

I don't really want to be one of those people who feels the need to lie about her age. It's just a dang number. Right? Usually accompanied with bodily evidence.

So I've got two weeks to get an attitude adjustment, or this will be a dreary birthday indeed. Plus Oprah might just hunt me down and tell me thirty is the new ten. And let's be honest, Oprah is a little scary. So are ten-year olds.

Awkward is the title

When it comes to the topic of me and the wonderment that is my hair, I always feel a little pit of anxiety start to build deep in the core of my being and slowly rise to my larynx, until I scream absurdities in the mirror.

This is probably because I’ve been gifted with hair from some outer galaxy not in our cosmos. That's a fact Charlie. It’s curly, but it doesn’t stay curly without help from some goopy product. It was curly when I was a child, then it suddenly straightened out, then it got curly again in adolescence. It’s thick and frizzy some days, but then unbelievably flat the next. Sometimes it’s fantastically red, and then other times it’s a dark auburn. Occasionally it takes on the scent of whatever I cook for dinner, but sometimes it takes on the scent of what I cooked for dinner a week ago. It’s greasy one minute, and then desert dry the next.

Talk about rough waters to navigate! Because of its ever-changing nature, it’s always been hard for me to “fix” my hair. I’m never quite sure what will work, or if it will suddenly turn into a rabid beast and eat me alive. I’m not putting anything past this mane of mine.

Growing up, it was the same story, just with way more self-consciousness and DRAMA worked into it. Oh I forgot to mention I have a widow’s peak the size of Dracula’s or Eddie Munster’s. Maybe this is why I frighten some people. If you saw a 5’2” pale redhead with a widow’s peak coming towards you, would you shudder a little, whip out your garlic, and say a prayer? Yeah I thought so.

So later childhood into adolescence was a rough time for me and my hair because I actually cared what other people saw when they looked at me. Did I mention my mother always cut my hair? Bless her heart she did. I actually usually insisted she did because every experience I had with a “professional” stylist totally made my hair even nuttier. “Professionals” were responsible for the boy hair-cut I discussed here, and the way too tight perm that never should have been okayed by an adult. In their defense though, just like hobbits, my hair bows to no one. They had little hope of success.

I can’t believe I’m willingly posting these pictures. But I’m going for vulnerability here. It’s cathartic for me, and endearing to readers (so I hear). Behold the never-ending years of awkward:

The start of something very sinister. The bow is actually covering up bite marks I had given myself. Mother called it a birthmark, but deep down she knew better.

Not so awkward, but just to prove to you that my hair was indeed curly. I really wish the photographer had told me to tilt my head more though.

What the ridiculous? Mother?

The blunt-edged look. Not complete until topped with a feathery floof of bangs. The 80's were so unkind/awesome.

The perm that just kept going on and on . . . until all I could do was pretend that my hair didn’t exist and flaunt my Christmas shirt instead.

Rebelling against the short hair (but not knowing what to do with it), and determined to ruin the hair of another. Overalls? Check.

Oh how I wished for volume in my bangs. Then I would be super popular. And way taller.

Trying to manage it, any which way I could. Like my paint-by-number? Me too. I did it myself.

And I think I've given you enough funny fodder for one day. I feel like I just let you glimspe into my soul. Hold me. But I've come a long way, yes? But then haven't we all? Ain't it the truth. Ain't it the truth.

P.S. I just washed my hair for the first time since having it cut three days ago (Don’t judge). And can I just say holy breezy! I only had to use a drop of shampoo and conditioner the size of my pinky toenail. Trust me. I measured it.

P.P.S I’ve started marking my own personal pictures because it makes me feel professional, and clever. Not sure if I like it or not. May discontinue in the future if I get lazy or indifferent.

Reasons why I'm starting to feel old

You guys. I’m getting old. Here are some reasons why this is becoming painfully evident.

My joints crack. I swear it’s one big crack party every time I’m rocking Bubba to sleep, going up or down the stairs, and pretty much any other time I’m walking. I inherited this from my mother most likely. As kids, we always knew when mom was coming, and to stop the bad stuff we were doing, because her and her cracking ankles were on the way (Sorry Mother Loops, but it’s true). I promised myself that I would NEVER let my joints do that.

Redhead’s 18 year-old mind: 0   Redhead’s nearly 30 year-old body: 1

Generally when I look at my face in the mirror I don’t think I look like I’m in my last year as a twenty-something. I’ve convinced myself that I don’t look any different than I did ten years ago (minus of course the lingering evidence of having gestated and birthed two children). Then I look at my face in the mirror alongside Bosco and Bubba, and my mouth pulls back in horror. Here’s a tip. If you want to help your skin look soft, supple, and smooth, never look in the mirror when you’re holding the essence of youth on your hip.

Redhead’s 18 year-old mind: 0   Redhead’s nearly 30 year-old body: 2

I try to keep myself feeling youthful by doing things like pilates and yoga (realistically I just dabble in the practice once a month or so). Vibrant famous people are always getting their picture taken fresh from a yoga work-out. If it works for them, it can work for me. However, when I realize that Bubba can do a better downward facing dog than me, I’m tempted to just scrap the whole thing.

Redhead’s 18 year-old mind and body: obviously defeated


Side note: Against my better judgment I am now a twitterpated fool, tweeting over on twitter. If you want to follow me I go by the name @ramblingsarah, that’s Mrs. if you’re nasty. Leave me a comment with your twitter name and I will most assuredly follow you, to the moon and back.

Friday Confessions: Hate is a strong word so I won't use it

I know I’m probably going to lose some readers when I say this, but so be it. Who knows. Maybe I might even gain some. Either way, I have a contract with myself to be totally smack-you-in-the-face honest on this here blog of mine. And if I’m going to do that I’ve got to be able to tell you dear reader that I deeply, gut wrenchingly dislike Neil Diamond. Some may say that makes me anti-American, anti-happiness, and maybe even anti-rhinestones. I say it makes me anti-skeezy. Anti-creepy. Anti-chest hair flowing out the top of your shirt. Anti-trying to undress me with your eyes. Anti-vomit. Anti-unbuttoning your shirt five buttons down.

image

I’m not quite sure when I developed a disdain for this so called stud muffin. It’s just in me, written into my mitochondrial DNA. I know that while I was in college I tried very hard to give this guy a chance so I could prove I bled red, white, and blue. I closed my eyes, listened to his version of Sweet Caroline, swayed back and forth like an entranced groupie would do, and nearly passed out because all this activity did for me was make me dizzy. That and I almost choked to death on my own laughter. 

I was learning who I truly was during those years, and there was no denying that Neil Diamond had no place in my life. I even went so far as to openly reveal my opinion in the workplace. I worked at a Tutoring Center and we had been given the task to film an informational tutoring video that would help the tutors better connect, befriend, and teach their students. I posed as a student whose roommate blasted Neil Diamond day and night, and the student was on the brink of despair because it was interfering with her study habits. It was a fine performance I guarantee you. It didn’t require much acting on my part though because I could just imagine the anguish this fictional student was feeling. If you can understand it, you can be it. Just a little tip into the craft of acting.

Anyway, my mother, Mother Loops, is going to have a few choice words for me I’m sure. But I just don’t understand this sequined Jewish Elvis. That’s the moniker he’s been given. Like he’s akin to Elvis! Inconceivable. Whatever, she can have her forever in blue jeans baby. To each their own. I will continue to avoid all things Neil Diamond. Yes, this even means American Idol if need be.

I do, however, enjoy a good Will Ferrell impersonation now and then. This I can handle.

On that note, have a lovely weekend my little poopsies. Do not let the hairy chesty picture of Neil Diamond lure you in. Do not look into his eyes longer than two seconds. Stay strong.

Mother's Day Recap

So how was everyone’s Mother’s Day? Full of fun, frolic, and food I hope. As for me and my house, it was quite a pleasant weekend. The list I conjured up for Mother’s Day seems to have had the desired effect. The Husband actually does read my blog. Who knew? I counted roughly seven things from the list that were in my possession by the end of the day. In my world, that is major success. I plan on doing a list for these sorts of things from now on. Here’s a sampling:

And there were even bonuses that I never thought to put on the list like a humongo Elmo card. What mother doesn’t want that?! So dear. I shall keep it forever.

Also, a totally fattening dinner out. I glugged down my fancy drink while the Husband ate Bubba’s toes, and Bosco tried really hard to avoid being in a picture with his mommy. If it looks like I just kept trying anyway, that's because I did.

I called my mom who I will endearingly refer to as Mother Loops. Apparently I’m one of the funniest daughters she has because she laughed at everything I said, even the stuff that was genuinely not intended to incite laughter, like when I told her Bosco burnt his hand on the grill. In her defense, she said she didn’t hear that part so I’ll have to believe her. I must admit though, Mother Loops laughs at pretty much anything. She’s a must-have at a party. If you’re not funny, just try your jokes out on my mom and she’ll make you feel better about yourself. Mother told me she thought my blog was funny, and that I needed to not make it too funny or she’d wet her pants. I told her I was putting that quote on my blog. She said no way. She didn’t want people thinking she wets her pants. Fine. Okay. My mother does not wet her pants. But she might if I make this blog too funny. So I’m gonna try real hard to do just that.

Now if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to have a Klondike Bar. Tune in tomorrow when I recount the April Fool’s joke I played on the Husband.