A New Me

Ladies and Gentlemen. I am bored with my hair. I'm bored with my shlumpy body. Yawnyawnyawn. So the first thing I'm going to do when I get my ass up out of this chair is take a shower and go pick raspberries. And ride my bike. And workout with a superhunky personal trainer. In my mind.

But first, I need your opinion. It matters to me. I'm getting a hair cut tomorrow. I always go in and give her sort of a vague description of what I want, and she always does a great job. Honestly, she makes me look better than I should. Or actually do. Then when I get home, it all goes to hell. And I'm yearning, as I always do this time of year, for something short and easy to care for. Something I could just run my fingers through and be done with. The cut I have now is a really good cut, and when I leave the salon, it looks fantastic because she actually styles it. With a flat iron and everything. But here's the thing: I have a great natural wave in my hair and I NEVER use the flat iron. Well, maybe I'll use it twice in between haircuts.

And the thing I've noticed is that my hair texture has changed. It's straighter and heavier on top (meaning flat) and wavy on the bottom. Kind of like my body shape. Also, I've got jowls now. I'm really hoping that someday soon, jowls will be in fashion. Like super-puffy collagen lips. I fear, though, that it won't happen.

I"M TRYING TO AGE GRACEFULLY, I REALLY AM. IT'S NOT WORKING. So help a girl out. Help me pick a hair style. I don't know how to put a poll on my blog, so just leave your comment and I'll do the math myself. MWAH. You are all such lovely, beautiful, young people.

Here's me now: notice the gigantic forehead. The angle really detracts from the jowls, but look at the lovely EYEBAGS! And yes, I know, a haircut cannot do anything to take away those eyebags. but still....



We'll call this one A.

So here are some other options:
Option B. This pert and adorable Meg Ryan do.


Option C. Lithe & Lovely Mandy Moore hair



Option D. Spunky Martina McBride



Option E No One I Know



Option F No One I Know 2



Our last hope, uh, option G



OH!, and if you have a minute you should run over to my friend Robin's blog, because not only is she an amazing writer, she has super cute hair, but I'd be afraid to go that short, so just go and read her blog because she's a lovely person and an amazing writer!

If you have more important things to do with your time, I understand, but you SHOULD REALLY TRY TO CONSIDER THIS BECAUSE I'M GETTING MY HAIR CUT TOMORROW MORNING AT 9:00.

Big hairy love to all of you.

In the Out Back.

This isn't a dramatic tale of my youth in the Australian Outback, or even a tale of drunken adventure in a cheesy steakhouse. It's a sad tale about my old lady back. But I need you to keep reading so that you can post a comment about your favorite muscle relaxer.

So Sunday, I was using my Spot-bot, scrubbing the dried cat poop embedded in our carpeted stairs, when I felt a slight "pop" in my lower back. Dang it. I slowed briefly, but undeterred, favoring my lower back a bit. Yesterday it felt a little tight at work, and my co-workers laughed at me when I told them about the dried cat poop, until they realized that I wasn't joking. Someone kindly suggested coming up with a better story. So, pole dancing it is.

Anyhoo, I rode my bike home from work, feeling so much better, the rain stopping long enough for my little jaunt home, making several trips up and down our newly cleaned stairs with baskets of laundry, when the boy asked me to come outside and help he and his friend build his super sports station. As I was bending over to put it together, Charley pulled up on his bike, and as I started to stand to say hello, my lower back went into full spasm. I was suddenly a parody of a person with back pain, the kids alternating between genuine concern and stifling laughter, as I slooooowly made my way to a standing position and into the house in search of relief. Charley heated up our heating pad, while I downed a couple Tylenol quick release caplets. Can I just say, "Quick release, my ass?" A glass of red wine helped to completely knock me out. Nothing like drinking a big ol' glass of cheap red in your kid's bed while he reads you a story. "Daddy - why is mommy drooling?"
If anyone needs the measurements for my mother of the year tiara, well, my measuring tape is in my sewing basket downstairs on the floor. Just get me an extra large. I have a gigantic head.

You know what this means, don't you? It means I'll have to start doing actual core strengthening exercises. I was hoping that I could just rely on the bunched up bellyfat resting on the top of my jeans to sort of, um, prop up my core? But apparently that isn't working so well. Now I'm praying my upper back doesn't go out because my shoulders are up around my ears to make things easier for my lower back.

It's still stiff this morning, and my head hurts too. Hmmmmmm. I wonder why?

I miss my old chiropractor. He'd have me feeling better in no time. But alas, we live too far away for those weekly adjustments, and I don't know if I can trust anyone else like I did him.

If you have any suggestions for pain relief, they will be greatly appreciated.
Especially if they involve chocolate.
And massage.
And George Clooney.

On the inside

I recently read an interview with Eartha Kitt in The Oregonian. At 81, she is a force to be reckoned with. Sexy and vital and amazing.

I've been having a bit of mid-life crisis lately. Or awakening. Or something. On the outside, I have all this gray hair and these age spots. What the hell? On the inside, I'm still 30. Only hotter than I was at 30. On the outside... not so much.

When I found this song, I had to laugh. That's it exactly! I spent my young years being "cute" or "sweet" or "nice" and it just didn't mesh at all with who I felt I was on the inside.

I'm coming to terms with all of that. Who I am on the inside. But it's true what they say: Youth is wasted on the young.

I was trying to let my hair grow out to it's natural color, let my "wisdom" show, but I couldn't do it. It's not that I didn't like it, I just didn't recognize myself. When we lived in LA, we used to see these women (and men), and from the back, they looked twenty, but when you got to the front, you wondered where they were hiding the teamsters that were holding up all that plastic surgery. They didn't look younger, they looked desperate. I don't want to look like that. But I think I'm starting to understand why they do it.

I don't think I'll be getting plastic surgery or botox any time soon, but I don't think I'm going to let myself go gray. I don't really want to be "evil".

It's just too early for old.