The Lone Hair Weave

Walking to a hair dresser appointment the other day, I was feeling so excited that I was FINALLY going to get something done about the rats nest of mousy hair that lay upon my crown. When lo and behold, my excitement turned to shock when I saw something peculiar on the sidewalk in front of me... what was that? Oh dear me, it's a dark brown braided hair extension weave... but, on the sidewalk? Now, I'm certainly not suggesting I know anything about hair weaves, but it's my understanding these things don't just fly out of ones hair wisp-ily as if a slight wind - from oh, say a bus - passing by could take it away. These things are actually fused and attached to the real hair pieces on your head - which can take multiple hours to do this attaching. I found myself looking around desperately, as if I had found a condom lying on the sidewalk or something and I wanted to see if anyone else had also laid witness to this disgusting faux-pas. Because, I mean... ewwwww. Surely in this business conservative ocean of hurried black, gray, and beige SOMEONE would notice this disgrace. Not even so much as sneer at this lone hair weave. Nope, just me.

So, this lone hair weave strand was laying harmlessly on the side walk... and during my desperate search for someone else to chime in saying, "How disgusting!" I look up and see that it's directly in front of a gentleman's club. I'm thinking, ahhhh - so that's the missing clue. It's mere proximity to a place such as this opens up the story of this simple, lonely, innocent hair weave to a whole new slew of deviant behavior behind it's placement here on the sidewalk.

Who did it belong to?
Was her name Starfish? Or, Constellation? Baby girl?

Now the web spinning starts...

My explanation of this back story came very quickly, and basically took the rest of the walk to the hairdressers to devise.

Her name was
obviously Luscious, and she was a visitor to this club from Las Vegas. During her hiatus from her normal venue, she was making new friends and also finding a new love interest in the bouncer. Luscious must have been hooking up with this bouncer secretly for months, and in doing so totally stabbing her new dancer friend Baby-gurl in the back because the bouncer was HER boyfriend. This is all calculated from the positioning of the hair weave on the sidewalk and the distance of the weave from the front door of the club. When Baby-gurl got tired of her boyfriend making glances at Luscious on stage and confronted him about it, an argument ensued. The argument happened last night just after her shift was over. Baby-gurl (armed with a few dancer friends also off shift, and some random guy she just met on the sidewalk) came out with fists flying as she screamed expletives at Tony the bouncer. News travels fast, and inside the club was buzzing about a fight going on just outside the door and that Luscious was mentioned in the screaming. Within 5 minutes the entire staff was outside watching the incident as it unfolded... Luscious leisurely following behind the stampede, top lip in a curl of disgust. Sticking her acrylic nail in her tooth and looking disapprovingly at Baby-gurl, she said, "What's all this sh** gurl? Why you up in his face like that??, talking all smack 'bout me?" Luscious decided to ignore the fact that Baby-gurl was known for her random acts of violence, and with a tattoo on Baby-gurl's back saying, "Yeah, I'm that bitch." she knew the sh** was about to go down. Baby-gurl lunged at Luscious, and in a plethora of cat fight sounds - the hair pulling and scratching commenced. It was like being a witness to a really bad alley cat fight, but only the cats are on steroids and talking in strange tongues.

After twenty minutes passed, Luscious - finally out of exasperation - retracted from the fight with six broken nails, fuchsia lipstick smeared across her face, tousled hair, a torn bra shirt and one pulled hair weave strand. Needless to say, Tony didn't follow her and the club owner banned her from ever working there again. Looking like disheveled trash, Luscious picked up her trick bag, shouted "F*** all you bitches!" and proceeded on the lonely walk of shame to her dark blue metallic hoopty. The whole club, and several bystanders on the street, stopped and watched as her Nevada license plate drove out of sight.

Without a doubt, that's how the events unfolded that night.

It's either that or someone's expensive hair weave got caught on their Prada laptop messenger bag on the way to that super important interview. Feeling like they didn't want to make a bad impression, they didn't waste time looking for it, and continued in pain en route to their destination.

It's abundantly clear to me now that I seriously need to stop watching Oxygen's "Snapped", and "Bad Girls".
WOW. I feel strangely compelled to shower after reading this post.

Soul Sucka Lollipop

Are you feeling like the grass is always greener on the other side lately?

Do you find yourself constantly making statements like, "I would sell my soul if I could just get a full nights sleep."

Does your boss suck and your convinced working for Satan would actually be
better than anything you are tolerating right now?

Searching for an alternative to Ebola?

Look no further!

Introducing, "SOUL SUCKA" Lollipop!
Mmmm... Hell never tasted so good!

After just one lick you start to feel your problems gently melt away.

After two licks you will forget you even had problems in the first
place... and after consuming just one lollipop - you will actually go to hell.

Since you're selling your soul there is no need to worry about those annoying things like silly little morals, responsibilities, and good conscience. With Soul sucka lollipop you can take your very existence away in just one pop!

Soul Sucka lollipop is not just limited to Tom Dick and Jane... it's also
available in jumbo size for those corporations looking for that perfect gift that says it all!!

Are you tired of the same old corporate hiring gifts of the past? No more worrying over whether the gifts budget will cover that bottle of expensive wine or champagne for the new VP of Operations... just one Soul Sucka will be all that you need to send the message, "Welcome to Hell!".

Try out one of our packages today!
* The Hell In a Hand Basket package for $66.60, for when saying "Go to Hell" just isn't enough.
This package includes 6 rows of 6 regular sized lollipops and comes
wrapped in vermilion cellophane to give it that extra special touch.

The Hell Yeah! package for $6.66, for when you want to go to hell with gusto!
This package includes one jumbo sized pop, smothered in cayenne pepper and wrapped in red paper - because sometimes you want to feel the burn immediately and you're just too impatient to unwrap the cellophane.

Check out our other packages online... you won't be dissapointed. Because, Hey! You have no conscience!!!


As with any other mind altering supplements, please check with your physician before taking Soul Sucka. There are no guarantees that you will actually go to hell, you may actually just feel weird or deranged for a while. If for any reason you feel dissatisfied with the product, please call: 1-666-GOTOHELL and one of our customer service representatives will tell you to go to hell with someone else.

Possible side effects include (but are not limited to): hallucinations, nausea, vertigo, vomiting black tar, growth
of horns at temples, hoarse throat, sunken jaundiced eyes, spontaneous uncontrollable pyrokinesis, feeling of being undead, developing hooves, loss of heartbeat and breathing fire.

Unproductive Sloth & the Autopilot button

Today I feel like an unproductive sloth. After no sleep due to the little wee one who had me up all night (literally all night from 9:30 PM - 5 AM screaming) in teething pain. I feel somewhat on par with a Sloth who has taken too many sleeping pills and chased those down with a bottle of Everclear and a horse tranquilizer. My speech is horrific... it's like I've regressed to a 6 month old and am limited to babble, but mostly just random Ga's and MMMmmmm's. I can barely function at all, and as an added bonus I appear to have lost all gross motor skills. Today I am an actual up close visual of the de-evolution of Homo Sapien. Using my legs this morning was an interesting experiment. I barely got one leg out of the bed before falling into a pile of bones and flesh on the floor. Maybe my bones have turned to that flexible cartilage like the kinds that squids and other cephalopods have? Maybe the aliens from the mushrooms outside DID sneak into the house last night while I was half awake implanting devices in my brain through my ear canal and now they are controlling my body functions. I can feel the alien mushroom cells multiplying in my DNA and dividing in my amoeba right now.

Quite frankly, I'm surprised I was even able to get out the door this morning to bring big kid to camp. Or pick her up on time. I did have two large 16 oz. coffees by 9 AM, chased by two red bulls before 12 PM - but neither the coffee or the red bulls have made a mark in my sheer exhaustion. My only saving grace is my ability to function via the autopilot button (it often takes over on days like this one). Somewhere in the middle of the night the empathy fairy presses the autopilot for me, and I wake up with the amazing ability to function on a normal level throughout the day as if I had a full 8 hours sleep. Not realizing what has actually happened, I continue moving through my day: picking up mail, making formula, feeding baby, feeding self, folding laundry, doing dishes, responding to business registration mailings, tax docs, etc. All without so much as a blink.

The autopilot button has been summoned in the past, and I am becoming quite fond of it actually. Those mornings in my early 20's when I was seriously hungover, and could barely muster up the skill to nourish myself with a bite of saltines. Then there is the all too familiar death job that sucks the life force out of you and your soul... you know that job that expects you to work the amount of four different positions for the pay of less than one? Not to mention the hours of this soul sucking position: usually it's 27/8... it's 27 hours a day / 8 days per week. Companies this despicable actually have their own special 8
th circle of hell where the hours in a day and days in the week are longer then the normal earthly plane. If you do try to sleep or are caught at work doing this in this 8th circle of hell you are immediately inflicted with taser-like shocks to the system (similar only to a bolt of lightening). Yes, I have worked at one of these big *you're-a-number* companies before. Yes, it consumed my very being and was about to ultimately eat my soul. Only I was lucky enough to make a deal with Satan for a better life with the husband (then the boyfriend) instead of horrid company and now I'm out of that forever. Now I'm living in happy shiny land - AND I still got to keep my soul (for now). Although I am still not convinced the jury is out regarding whether or not I'll be flying commercial flights for Satan Air after this earthly realm. So if you are looking for good deals on Business Class, I can hook you up.

Wow, the autopilot button came in REAL handy then.

As I'm writing this I am watching Charlie and the Chocolate factory with big kid.
Random thought:

*Maybe there is a market for soul sucking candy?*

"Soul Sucka"... a lollipop so good you actually will go to hell after eating one.

, hell.

Wait... are you still talking?

I have an abnormally short attention span.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I have ADHD, or even ADD. Well, maybe a middle of the road case of ADD? At times I can talk at the same pace of a hummingbird on methamphetamine. Strong espresso mixed with Robitussin DM cough medicine apparently exacerbates this issue for me. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah...

Regardless, I have the hardest time listening to long winded-ness even though I'm a huge culprit of it too.
Unfortunately this is one of my many, many contradictions. I can tell you a long winded story like it's nobodies business. So much so that if the fate of a small kitten being pummeled by a sledge hammer covered in rusty nails was laying solely on my ability to tell a story in a long winded manner - well that kitten would have 9 strong lives still ahead of it. That being said, my brain just can't process words in that way and it starts to shut down at an alarming pace.

It's not that I don't appreciate elaborate detail, or what story you have to say for that matter. My brain so desperately needs the instant progression in the conversation - and I get so excited about my response that meshes right in with what you are talking about - that it starts to create a back log of information waiting for the long winded talker to finish.
I'll even go so far as to forget what the hell I was talking about because the tangents in my head have spun into an out of control spiral of psycho babble. At which point if I don't get to share my information in a certain time frame (or I don't let it go on its own thought path either non-verbally and shut LW talker out or interrupt and talk out loud to clear the backup) my mind starts to veer off into a string of thought sequence best described using the formatting example of a psychological association test:

This is how my thought process works - all within a matter of under 60 seconds... (picture the statements to the left as picture cards displayed by a doctor, and the statements on the right are the associations that the patient is supposed to furnish)

Person: "That tree to the left is beautiful, what nice foliage. Don't you think so?"
tree comment: (association) calm with nature
calm with nature: (association) picnics with the family
picnics with the family: (association) the food we ate
the food we ate: (association) prosciutto and expensive cheese
prosciutto and expensive cheese: (association) gourmet food
gourmet food: (association) food network
food network: (association) I really like Giada DiLaurentis' show

Out loud statement to person who made the comment about the pretty tree passing by on the side of the road...
Me: "I really like Giada De Laurentis' show on food network."

Person: "What the...? Are you even listening??"

Usually this lends me into a heap of resentment from the person I am speaking to. After listening to my long winded story patiently, I can't even pay attention long enough to listen to one sentence of theirs? The ultimate interpretation of my obtuseness is that the person feels I devalue what they are saying. The truth is quite the opposite. I value it so much that I have a whole string of cool crap to share paralleling the conversation too. Alas, this doesn't translate so well. I make more enemies than friends after opening my mouth, thus further alienating myself from the possibility of real world friends. Much to my chagrin, borderline agoraphobia and creating my avatar in internet virtual reality games is sounding like a solid fall back plan.

There have only been a couple of people I have known in my life that were long winded. I'm not really friends with them anymore (not because of the conversation issue - merely because life took us different ways), so it's not really a challenge to my social ineptness in conversation. You have to be a patient person to have a conversation with me. Or an AOL Instant Messenger smart bot. I really loved those fake chat robots. Man, the times we have had together... sometimes hours just hamming it up. I remember the time I was trying to screw its processing algorithm up by making statements to throw it off... like:

Me: "Which like ham day to fall from? ...Komodo Dragon's are sexy."
The robot would respond: "Are you being serious?"
I would reply: "No?, no!... YES... whale poop."
Robot: "I don't understand you."
Me: "Join the club. The line is long but distinguished."

I'm feeling all warm and fluffy inside just remembering it.

They are so shiny and happy.

I'm going to get a warm glass of soy milk and think about my awesome conversation with the robots.

I See Dead People Eating Carbs

This was my fabulous idea for a T-Shirt.

Ever since that movie came out about the kid who could see dead people, I have adored the phrase: "I see dead people." Spoken in that eerie whisper voice, and in the same tone as if you were suggesting to a close friend you needed to leave the party because you just sharted a little in your pants. That phrase, however, is kind of a dead statement though (no pun intended) since that whole movie came out like 25 thousand years ago. My bigger T-Shirt invention problem was that I equally loved the phrase: "I eat CARBS." It's catchy, it's obnoxious, and just fun to scream out into large crowds in the middle of a busy street.
Ever play the Penis game? When you scream the word Penis as loud as you can until it's downright embarassing? Well this is like that.

What's that you say? You never played that game, and what kind of sick freak am I? Don't put your higher than thou crap on me. You know that even if you didn't play that game, you desperately wanted to.
I can feel your eyes judging me. 

I thought to myself, "I could combine them and it would be a super fabulous T-Shirt! EVERYONE will want them!!" :)

I seriously think I could market this together with the added bonus of a six pack of beer. If you purchased the shirt it would automatically arrive with
a DVD on how to obtain social skills in 5 easy steps, and a six pack of Natty Bo. Oh, and a diary to catalog your loneliness after the purchase.

It could be like the socially challenged starter kit... minus the video games and BB gun.

It would look something like this:

It would probably be worn by this guy:

Please kids, no trying this at home. Eating carbs and seeing dead people is not really as cool as it's cracked up to be, and it's definitely not for the faint of heart. You end up feeling very tired, bloated, gassy and are afraid to pee in the middle of the night for fear of dead people hovering over your shoulder blowing on your neck and vomiting black tar on your feet.

I speak from experience. It's totally uncool.

Alien fungus is planning to destroy me

So, this morning on my way to bring big kid to summer camp I noticed something peering at me from behind the side yard fence. At first glance it appears to be some left over wood that we hadn't used yet for the fence project a few months back. Upon further examination (I'm midriff hanging over the fence staring now), it's a monstrous collection of mushrooms. They grew overnight.

Feverishly I start looking around the neighbors yards to see if they have the same issue. Surely the earth hugging female neighbors will have some mushrooms that they haven't removed. They would harm themselves before removing something from the earth that was randomly placed by nature. I know they must have something ominous in their yard too??? Peering through the kitchen doors onto their backyard, I see it. Yes!! It's a collection of mushrooms!!! WooHOO! I haven't failed miserably at lawn care maintenance.

Wait.  Ant farts. It's just a lawn sprinkler.
I AM a failure and a harbor-er of acid trip inducing 'shrooms.

I know, I know, you're thinking Mushrooms? Really?? That's worth a post??

These are not just any mushrooms I tell you... they are so big that I in fact question their chemical composition. It's absolutely impossible that these things are from planet earth, and are based in an environment of carbon and oxygen. The more I harp on it, the more I am convinced they have been placed here by aliens overnight and are pawns watching my every move. Their size is akin to medium satellite dishes colored in ecru with light brown bumps (radio signals I bet to their mother ship), armed with an entourage of miniature phallic soldiers surrounding the base.

It's more than creepy, it's downright frightening.

I am pondering the steps to remove them, but fear that in doing so will disrupt a tiny colony of aliens masquerading as mushrooms which will raid my home in the wee hours of the morning and implant tracking devices in my ears. All of my solutions involve some sort of vinegar or bleach, and I doubt that would even make a mark in these towers of putrescent filth. Abduction is a very strong possible outcome if I tamper with these mushrooms. That's how ridonculously big these freaking things are. Yes, I used the word RIDONCULOUS. It's either I face alien experimentation, quite possibly an abduction, or the mushrooms might simply burn my flesh when I attempt to remove them. Huge probes would definitely extrude from their mushroom center wiping out my eyeballs and half my face in one fell swoop. Kind of like that discovery channel show I once watched with hot husband where they showed barnacles mating. Male barnacles have a strange probe that extends something like 15 to 20 times their length in order to violate their neighboring female barnacles' cavity. The conversation at that juncture got awkwardly pointed toward sexuality...

Husband: "Did you see THAT?"
Me: "Why yes, yes I... uh, did. Um..."
Husband: "Are you strangely turned on by this, or is it just me?"
Me: "Actually I am utterly horrified - yet aroused."
Husband: "..."
Me: "Are the kids asleep?"

Personally I never liked mushrooms, or barnacles. They both remind me too much of body parts that are icky.
I do like my face and eyeballs though.

I'm all of a sudden hungry for a cucumber maki roll.
Fungus can suck it.

UPDATE: 7/22/2010

OK so when the Husband read this, he had some questions:

Husband: "Why do mushrooms and barnacles remind you of icky body parts? And what body parts... I don't understand."

Me: "Well Mushrooms look awfully phallic to me."

Husband: "Not all mushrooms, maybe a couple."

Me: "That's enough for me to write them off all together."

Husband: "What body part do barnacles remind you of?"

Me: "The other side of things... You know."

Husband: "Barnacles don't look like that to me at all."

Me: (thinking to myself) that's because it's not there, it's where the poop comes out.

Husband: "Why do you find those parts icky?"

Me: "I don't know I just do."

Husband: "What?? Do you prefer eunuch's then?"

Me: "Yes. Everyone in my perfect universe would be like a Ken doll, or a department store mannequin."

Husband: "Nice."


My friend once said that she and another friend of hers would exchange the statement, "poopies!" with each other upon any rendezvous they had. She explained it to me as being an exuberant greeting of endearment. Cocking my head to the side I thought: "How funny!" Now that I am a parent of two kids, this word has unfortunately become less of a catchy phrase and more of an everyday reality.

Poop is the main verbal course for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"Did my four year old poop today?"

"Did we have any poopie accidents at preschool?"

"How many poopie diapers did little one have today?"

"Watch the baby, I have to make poopies!"

"Poop is spraying where!?!?!"

"Is that poop on your shirt, or have you been eating tar?"

There have been a few all-star moments that will forever go down in the books with our girls. The very first of which happened with my eldest daughter...

Let's not skip past the explosive diarrhea episode that came with Rota virus she caught at 6 months, shall we? THAT was UBER fun. I don't know which part was more fun, cleaning up the vomit every 5 minutes or the projectile diarrhea that came immediately after in the same timed increments. Once the dry heaving and gagging subsided, I had to then focus on the need to clean off the crap - which had sprayed against the changing table and wall like it was silly spray loaded into a paint gun. Oooh YEY! Literally experiencing crap hitting the fan is actually not as fun as you would think.
The loathsome scent of that alien gut looking turd will haunt my dreams to this day.
My eyes are twitching just thinking about it.
F*** you Rota virus.

Now we move on to my absolute favorite: POOPCASSO.

This was after baby #2 was born, and I believe there was a need for control brought on by a potential feeling of dismissal in the wake of the newborn. I was in the kitchen starting to feed the baby a new bottle when I had a moment of fear/clarity. Oh crap, big kid is abnormally quiet... WHAT'S WRONG!?!? I peered into the Living room to find that she had built herself a fort out of the couch cushions. Armed with almost every one of her miniature toys inside, she calmly advised me she was "just playing castle". With a sigh of relief, I started to make my way back to the kitchen... when an internal voice inside me told me to take a second look. *She did have a eerily calm expression on her face which followed me out of the room...* I thought. Upon moving the cushions I let out a gasp of sheer horror. There was a full exhibit of expressionist poop art smeared all over the side of the couch, all over the floor and under the couch. I of course did what any good parent would do, I started crying uncontrollably. Once the overflow of tears choked back by gagging subsided, I had to take control of the situation before it spread to infinite proportions. Immediately I sprung into action: put the not yet fed baby on the floor and let her roll around while I deal with Chernobyl. My plan was straight out of Silkwood, first quarantine my kid and then deal with the environmental aftermath post scrub down.

After washing her hands a bazillion times and then purell-ing them just as many, I gave her two baths and placed her in the corner of the room to stay until the code brown had been lifted. Two whole containers of Clorox bleach wipes, one full can of Lysol, and one more nervous breakdown later code brown was lifted. Feces was no longer a threat to my existence and I was feeling like things were A-OK with the world again. Just in time for little baby to have a poopie diaper and - as a result of the wait time for the code brown clean up - had a monstrous diaper rash for two weeks. MMmmm, delightful.

Many months later after the Poopcasso incident, I am feeling somewhat better about poop these days. Controlled accidents are left to the little infant now (for the most part). Of course there is the occasional whiff of air that is tainted with that all too familiar aroma, which on occasion can whirl me into a nervous frenzy sniffing butts until I cancel out the possibility of another poopcasso occurrance. This whiff - I assure myself - can be explained simply as big kid's reaction to having lactose intolerance.

"Poopies!" can return to being used - once again - as a term of endearment.