nice hair.

Just when I think I was having a bad hair day, my husband posts this picture of himself on his Facebook.  All I can say is that his hair is really getting long...but this is the wrong color.  It's a little darker.

I hate fitting rooms.

It’s scarier than Insidious, more terrifying than Paranormal Activity, and far, far worse than the Exorcist.

It’s…bathing suit season. 

It’s February, I know.  Why should anyone be thinking of bathing suit season?  And with Girl Scout Cookie season in full swing, no less.  What are we, masochists?

Knowing hot weather is on the horizon is bad enough, but knowing that you don’t have three months left to diet, you only have one...that will slap the taste of Thin Mints right out of your mouth.

Here’s another thing that will turn that cookie taste to sawdust—actually taking two or three suits in your size into a tiny, yet horrifyingly bright fitting room with an excessive (I feel) number of mirrors.  

Oh wait, you just THINK they’re your size.  After squeezing, pouring, and contorting your body into one of them, you stare into the mirror, out of breath, and think to yourself, did the cottage cheese miss my mouth and stick to my thighs?  Did I misread the size on the tag?

Perhaps if I had eaten more cottage cheese, I wouldn’t be so scared of being alone in the fitting room with spandex.

Today my oldest daughter and I went to Plato’s Closet knowing they had scads of beautiful sundresses…just perfect for the warm weather and sunny beaches of the Riviera Maya…at prices just perfect for the budget.

This is actually Puerta Vallarta, but you get the idea.

I carefully chose 9 different swirly sundresses, certain that they would be perfect.  I tried on each one of them and, as a kindness to you, my friends; I will spare you the sordid details…suffice to say that out of the 9, I bought one.  And even that one is iffy…I kept the receipt. 

Let’s not even talk about the bathing suits.  I need one more week of dieting and perhaps some sort of sedative before I will even think of trying on bathing suits.

Before I do, though, I will grab a fresh cup of coffee study the floor plans of different department stores and figure out who’s got the fitting rooms with the fewest mirrors and the dimmest lights.

And nothing goes better with a fresh cup of coffee than a shortbread cookie. 

Sundays and why we love them

Sundays are good days for getting things done. 

My husband, the poor dear, is not feeling well. 


sooooo sleeeeepy...

He has a cross between a cold (I think) and the black plague (he thinks).  Oddly enough, he started not feeling well while we were watching the movie Contagion last night.  Luckily, the incubation period for ME getting sick seems to be a lot longer than in the movie, although having Gwyneth's figure might be worth the tradeoff.

To continue, he got up several times during the night coughing and feeling as if he were choking.  He found that by sitting on the chaise part of our sectional he could both sit up and sleep with a minimum of coughing, leaving me a queen sized bed with just-put-on clean sheets to loll around in, as well as being able to hog both pillows. 

I was dimly aware of him coming back to bed around 8 this morning, at which point he tossed and turned and finally just got back up to make coffee, loudly apologizing the entire time for his coughing.  Which I had not noticed until he loudly apologized for it. 

I returned to lala land, dreaming about puppies and kitties, sunshine and rainbows and napping, when a short 15 minutes later the bedroom door squeaks open and here comes a real puppy, albiet one weighing 90 pounds, who bounds up onto the bed and before I could protect any soft body parts that should be protected when a 90 pound dog is near, he's up on the bed greeting me.  Enthusiastically.



MY bed.


(sigh)

As I said, it was a day for getting things done, and my husband was merely being considerate by gently (snort) waking me up early so that I could get a great start on my day.

Once up, however, we both happily devour the paper and several cups of coffee and some toast with peanut butter on it, then turn on the Real Estate Connection which is a big hit around our house.  The program shows one home after another for sale in our area, including pictures of the insides of the homes and all the amenities.

I get dressed for the day.  After all, I have to do a ton of laundry, pick up some last minute items for the lasagna, get my hair cut, get my tire checked, and get some clothes to the cleaners...then come back, color my hair, finish the laundry, make the lasagna, revel in my awesomeness at haircoloring, and do the kids' taxes.  The tire place was closed, as was the cleaners, but I still got quite a bit accomplished. 


much shorter...me likey.



 So here it is, 3pm.  My husband is about to take another dose of cold meds and probably take another snooze on the couch.  I'm going to get to those darn taxes.  I am going to make some brownies to bake while I'm working on that, check the mirror every hour to make sure that I still lurrve my "herr" (she did a REALLY nice job cutting it) and start the lasagna pretty soon.  Everyone is looking forward to it, including me.

I love Sundays.

Now if only there were a football game on, life would be perfect...

$1000 and a big ol' weirdo

Being the parents of three children, all well over 16 and experienced (wha?) drivers, we are well versed, unfortunately, with the hideousness that is buying a used car.  Oh, wait, I’m sorry, previously owned vehicle.  It’s not just the younger generation that buys used cars, is it, friends?  No, we have all done it.  I did it alone once.

About 15 years ago, I had no car but had been saving up like a madwoman to buy one.  Knowing this, my dad and stepdad were on the lookout for the Bigfoot of previously owned vehicles…the Good Used Car. 

One lucky day my stepdad called, letting me know that on his way home he had seen an Oldsmobile for sale.  He barely had gotten the words out of his mouth when the owner was taking my $1000 and signing the title over to me.  Experienced used car buyer that I was, I didn’t test drive it.  I was way too cool for that, and besides, the seller looked really trustworthy.  I don’t think I even opened the doors to look inside.  Cool as a cucumber, I was. 

I couldn’t hand him the money fast enough.  He couldn’t take it fast enough, either.  I tried the radio as I drove away.  Nothing but white noise, and under that, the sound of laughter. 

On the way to proudly title and register my new POS, I noticed a little bit of smoke coming from under the hood.  I’m sure it’s nothing, I thought to myself.  Probably the guy ahead/behind/next to me.  I told myself that over and over for the next couple of weeks whenever I was driving.  Meaning whenever I could get it started. 

If I was lucky enough to get it started and I had to stop at a red light, the car would smoke.   Badly.  Invariably someone around me (usually more than one person, usually more than one car) would point at the smoke and mouth, “Your car is smoking.”  Like I couldn’t see it.  I finally was forced to make up a big sign that said “I know” that I would sullenly hold up at every red light.

Yep, time to sell.

I figured I should probably open the hood and figure out why the car was smoking so that I could tell the lucky buyer.  Imagine my surprise (and the surprise of my dad and stepdad) when instead of having a regulation Olds engine inside, there was an engine that appeared to be from a lawnmower.  Only a little smaller and a lot less powerful.

Hm.  This was going to be difficult.

Crossing my fingers, I placed an ad in the Herald News to sell it.  One day later, I got a call from a girl who asked the right questions, and I cagily supplied only the answers she requested, not offering one more nugget of information.  Like the fact that the motor couldn’t power up a garage door, much less a tank of an 86 Olds.  She told me she was going to talk to some people and get back to me.  

Later that day, I told my dad excitedly that I had a buyer on the line.  He told me flatly, in no uncertain terms, “I’m telling you, you will not be able to sell that car.”  Ah, I thought.  He doesn’t know what I know.

I was right.  He didn’t know what I knew.  He knew way MORE.  After listening to not only my dad but also my stepdad plaintively asking why, oh why didn’t I wait for them to come with me and look at the car BEFORE BUYING IT, and also hearing the many, many reasons why I just took a bath on that vehicle, I realized they were right.  I was stuck with it.  I would have to sell it for junk, for parts, although I might get back some money for the “I know” sign.  Goodbye, $1000.

But wait!  The prospective buyer actually called back, begging me to not sell the car to anyone else, that she would be there the next day with $800 cash.  Too good to be true, I thought.  For sure.

But wait again!  The next day, at the appointed time, what to my wondering eyes should appear but this…girl, (and I use the term loosely) wearing a stocking cap and matching mittens, eerily resembling an SNL skit where the comedian had a baby arm growing out of her forehead.  She sat at my kitchen table, with these weird bug eyes and an envelope with $800 in cash, calmly telling me that the reason she had to buy this car was because the ghost of her dead cousin told her to.  Really.  No kidding.  I felt the first stirrings of fear.

Now, while I am nodding and chatting with Ms. Whack Job, trying to keep from panicking because some animals can smell fear, I’m surreptitiously writing down her name and number for my family to find just in case she decides to knock me down the basement stairs and eat my brains.  But no, a few strokes of the pen and I had not only unloaded this beast of an Olds but also had become the proud owner of 8 crisp $100 bills.  And a bill of sale.  For the car-that-wasn’t-a-car.  I happily gave her the keys.

After she left in a cloud of smoke and the ghost of her dead cousin riding shotgun, I call my dad and let him know that the car is gone; I had sold it.  The silence on the other end is deafening.  He says, finally, I cannot believe you sold that thing.

I couldn’t believe it either, not really.  Although I should add that I had said my prayers fervently for someone to buy that car so that I could have that money back for Christmas presents for the kids. 

Who needs a car, anyway?  I thought.  I’ve got friends in high places. 

And $800.