I cancelled three hair appointments in November and gave a fourth to one of the children. The cancellations were due to the husband having meetings, social dates and hot yoga classes that he didn’t tell me about in advance. The appointment given to a child turned out to be so expensive that I didn’t even try to get my hair cut again until December. When December arrived, I cancelled yet another appointment because a child was sick. Eventually, I walked in a low-budget salon in the mall that I’ve frequented for decades. “It will be 20 minutes.” I bought a coffee and returned to the bench just outside the salon. After 40 minutes, I walked in the salon. “The stylist had to re-do someone’s color and now we’re all going on break. It’ll be an hour.” I know that was my cue to leave. They had no intention of cutting my hair. Someone recently told me that I look like a “Let me talk to your manager” woman. I’m not. I am and have always been a doormat. Southern women without money are raised that way. It’s a tolerable existence until you are no longer young and attractive. Then, your options are polite invisibility or b*tch.
Given a choice between going home and being a stubborn moron, I chose the later. “I’ll wait.” I leaned against the salon opening with my arms crossed and waited. Ten minutes later, they told me to sit in a stylist’s chair. The stylist took a pair of shears, snipped a chunk of hair from the back, then held out her hand and said, “Seven dollars please.” I handed her a ten and left.
As soon as I got home, I realized the back of my hair was more crooked than if I had tried cutting it myself. After all the grief it took to get this much done, I’m embracing the cruddy haircut until spring.
Young couples wear matching t-shirts. From there, they move to matching sweaters. Before long, it’s matching sweatsuits and sneakers. Doug and I are strange. We wear matching undies. Which is all fine and good because it amuses us without bothering anyone else.
At an event with a group consisting mainly of women my age and older, I pulled out my phone to answer someone’s question. Instead of opening to a screen of boxes full of icons, it opened to the last thing I was doing on the phone, my text messages. The husband had left the house without letting me know his wardrobe selection that morning, so he sent me a picture. My phone lit up with a colorful picture of my husband’s drawers as two of the sweetest 60somethings you’d ever meet looked over my shoulder.
This wasn’t a texting politician kinda picture. It was completely benign and frankly, women of our age wash, dry, fold and put away men’s laundry without feeling anything titillating about it. There comes a point in your life where you realize that what people say and do is far sexier than what they wear or how they look. The picture on my phone wasn’t offensive, but it made me feel inconsiderate of others. Now, when the husband and I don’t coordinate our wardrobe plans in the morning, we have a mismatched day. Oddly enough, that amuses us, too.
The husband and children are going to be in a parade this weekend. They’ve been in local parades and parades in much bigger cities. They’ve been in so many parades that they are parade professionals. They know the hurry up and wait rhythm and they know the funny wrist wave. I have been in exactly one parade.
When I was in elementary school, my parents enrolled me in a tap and baton class. Performing arts classes were what everyone in our neighborhood expected little girls to do while the boys played a different sport every season. When it came time for the Fourth of July community parade, the tap and baton teacher told my mother I wasn’t allowed to embarrass her with my uncoordinated attempts at either activity. I could hand out candy in the parade and then I should not take up space in her classroom afterward. My parents didn’t waste money attempting to force a talent on me ever again.
Parades need audiences, too. That’s my talent. Sitting. Which brings me back to this weekend’s parade.
“Are you going to be spinning sabers or rifles in the parade?”
“The band director says we have to pass out candy.”
Due to the unexpected absence of fender benders and traffic jams between home and the private school on the west edge of town, we arrived to basketball practice half an hour early. The school gym is extremely popular and arriving early means standing in the hallway waiting while boys endlessly try to jump high enough to touch the ceiling. It’s like trying to meditate in a crowded bounce house.
“We’ll go in after this song ends. It’s one of my favorites.”
Withing ten seconds, the tween became the Moaning Myrtle of loud sighs instead of moans. Sigh. Sigh. Siiigh. Sigh-sigh-sigh. Failing to get a response, he switched to making air baskets accompanied by swoosh noises. I’d like to think he figured out that sound effects weren’t going to detract me from my music, but I suspect he whacked his elbow while thrashing about.
I heard his brain click into escape mode. Technically, I heard the door click as he disengaged the latch while staring innocently into near space. This was followed by one foot dangling out of the car. After one foot escaped, both feet boldly began swinging and kicking the open door frame. When both feet were standing on the frame and his arms were holding the roof of the car, I accepted defeat.
“Fine. Go inside.”
“That was the longest song in the world.”
He still got to spend fifteen minutes trying to touch the ceiling.
Before the nice woman with a bottomless home repair budget bought the house next door, it was rental income for a harmless curmudgeon. One of the many, many renters over the years broke her lease because the house was haunted.
New owner’s smudging seems to have relocated the ghost(s) to our house. This morning, our dishwasher turned itself on and stays on even when I open the dishwasher door. I tripped the breaker and it still won’t shut off. I’m thinking on replace it all together with smart devices, so all the appliances in our home are controlled by us wirelessly, since I been reading some z wave controller reviews and it seems that will work great.
Since Doug disassembled the kitchen faucet so that there is no hot water, I’ll be hand washing dishes in the bathtub for the rest of the day.
Guard Teen planned to spend the Thanksgiving holidays complaining to her older sister about not bringing a rescue puppy home from her Texas flood cleanup. Instead of a puppy, Unemployed Artist brought home a boyfriend. He was so charming and good natured that Guard Teen forgot to torture her sibling.
After we stuff our faces with Thanksgiving linner or whatever it is that you call the meal you eat at 2 in the afternoon, we go to the movies. Last year, we watched Fantastic Beasts. This year, we nattered about DC vs Marvel before choosing to go see Ragnarok. I knew to expect silliness. I’ve seen What We Do in the Shadows. I wasn’t expecting the 80s neon. I knew it had Jeff Goldblum. I’d seen the pictures of his character. I wasn’t expecting him to be hilariously perfect. The entire movie was one long giggle, but the very best joke was Korg talking about killing vampires.
I like my dark and brooding comic book movies as much as the next person, but a comedy version is just as satisfying and frankly, much appreciated in this era of gloom. Since I expect Infinity War to be terminal for a Super or two, Ragnarok is a much needed breath of fresh air.
There were THREE trailers before the movie that made me happy. Technically, two made me grin ear to ear like a loon and the third had me waving my arms in the air to go with the smile. Please don’t suck, Last Jedi. I need the General’s last movie to be worthy of her. I am seriously jazzed about Black Panther. My mother asking me why I was waving my arms about a movie with vertical trailer parks did not dampen my enthusiasm for Ready Player One.
I love movies. I love them even more in the theater.
At some point, we need to accept that tech companies and Internet providers marketed technology to schools like television show drug dealers. Schools were gifted one year of devices that become obsolete in four years and/or two years of Internet access. Using online textbooks and resources, multimedia assignments, online testing and online grading weren’t just encouraged, they were part of the “free” devices and limited data accounts for schools. Once teachers had begrudging moved all of their lessons to tech, that tech and the data to be online became budget items that schools and parent groups must find ways to fund.
Of course, you can move from the school with obsolete tech and spotty Internet to the data company owned charter school with shiny new everything if you just lobby your legislators to take more money from the already unfunded public school.
Try it. You’ll like it. They’ll get rich and you’ll be an even better cog in their machines.