Chatty-Chatty Left Me With Frizzy-Frizzy

So.

This little beauty?

I mean…the little beauty OTHER THAN me.  The blonde one, whose face was attacked by the camera’s flash, so that she looks like a bottle of Elmer’s paste. (Although I wouldn’t mind throwing her under the bus and shouting out, “That’s what she ALWAYS looks like, people!  School glue,” it’s simply not true.  This snapshot was popped off several years ago by an untrained member of the paparazzi, who had no idea what she was doing with her camera, and it was dark outside, and the flash exploded right in that blonde girl’s face, and, as a result, she’s a little pasty in this shot.  But, in real life, she looks a lot more like Cindy Crawford.  Except blonde.)

Anyway, it’s Theresa.

Theresa, as in my bestie from high school and college, who lived with me during college and graciously let me share the contents of her closet, which included pastel-colored jeans and acid-washed denim jackets and chunky belts made from white wicker.

(Rest assured.  The white wicker belt has long since been abandoned by us, because, like the polyester leisure suit, it was a fashion choice that was in the spotlight for mere minutes, and we’re pretty certain that there’s no glamorous celebrity in America who will be able to resurrect it with any real success.  But…when strapped around your waist while you were also wearing a long, peach-colored Shaker sweater and a black-denim mini skirt, the four-inch-wide, white wicker belt with the enormous brass clasp had some spotlight time on the Red Carpet that screamed, “SO COOL,” and Theresa and I enjoyed it thoroughly.  Of course, that belt was smokin’ hot when paired with my white leather boots with all the Bon-Jovi-like fringe down the back.)

And even though the circumstances were sad (because her granny just left her to go dance with Jesus and a funeral is being held here), Theresa came to Small Town, USA (which is a short road trip from her current hometown of — let me gag here! — Rival Town), and she bunked with me, and listen, people.

SLUMBER PARTY!!

Theresa made it to our house somewhere after 8:00 last night, and I nearly peed my pants with delight when I squeezed her at my front door.  We hauled her suitcase in, and we immediately plopped ourselves down on the sofa in my living room, where we proceeded to talk and talk and talk and talk.

And also to talk and talk and talk and talk.

And also to laugh our heads plum off with uproarious laughter, the likes of which can sometimes wake sleeping children.

And I know y’all will find this very difficult (JUST! PLUM! NUTTY! DIFFICULT!) to believe, but get this:  It was stinking MORNING when I went to sleep last night, because of the Talk Fest and all the laughing, and I think the last time I stayed up that late was Prom Night.

Sometime around 11:00 last night, Hubs gave up trying to stay awake, and he told us goodnight. He also made the comment that our ability to string words together and recall old stories as fast as shotgun fire simply exhausted him, and that he gives thanks every day that he was born estrogen-less.

Well then.

At some point last night, Theresa and I wished we had wine, but we were both too stinking cold to venture out to secure a bottle, because I was unprepared for the thirsts of my company, so we sipped ice water and pretended that it was a good vintage bottle of chardonnay straight from the vineyards of Italy.

We discussed everything there was to discuss, from raising children, to praising the good Lord above that we married the boys we did and not the crazy yay-hoos we dated in the past, to dentistry, to outrageous dreams we’ve had while we were sleeping, to our kids’ youth groups, to insomnia, to organized sports for kids, to math contests, to the fact that Def Leppard is still very, very dear to our hearts, to bulging discs, to jobs, to wrinkles.

Yes, wrinkles.

Because I have mentioned before that I am now the un-proud owner of a LIP DIMPLE, which I once THOUGHT was a lip wrinkle, but GOODNESS SAKES ALIVE!  I am so glad I was wrong on that battlefront!  We laughed as Theresa confessed that she fears she’s developing the Bermuda Triangle of wrinkles on her forehead, but I think they’re more of DIMPLES IN CUTE LINE-FORMATION than actual wrinkles.

Dimples, you see, can take on all shapes and sizes, which is exactly how Satan planned them to behave, and sometimes dimples can be shaped like lines, and sometimes three of them can get together for a bit of a rowdy tea party.

I’m just glad that MY dimples aren’t shaped like lines in a tight friendship of three!

This morning, after having finally fallen asleep, I managed to wake up at 4:00, because WHO KNOWS WHY?  It’s the insomnia factor, and the fact that I’d been dreaming that the boy’s buddy, Kellen, had an enormous length of white plastic pipe that you usually use for all your home plumbing needs, and that he was smacking me across the face with it to get my attention, and then there was the fact that the boy was sleeping on an air mattress on the floor beside my bed, and he was tossing and turning and making a racket in his sleep.

(Yes.  Yes, I  kicked the boy out of his bed last night, and I put the freshly washed Star Wars sheets — which smelled like Downy fabric softener and lilacs! — on his bed, because we use only the VERY BEST sheets for Theresa.)

And, after having snapped my eyes wide open at 4:00 this morning, that was all she wrote for me, as far as sleep stories go.

So really?  To say that I’m a bit tired tonight is like saying that the blue whale is a bit big.  Or like saying that the great white shark’s teeth are a bit sharp.

Hubs took the boy to school this morning, while Theresa and I stayed home and drank copious amounts of coffee to battle the fact that we had averaged a couple-and-a-half hours’ worth of sleep, and I am going to share with y’all this one thing:

I am now addicted to Coffee Mate; may the good Lord help me.  I’ve never cared much for coffee, as the chai tea has always been my dream date in a cup, but I’ve now decided (thanks to Jodi and her white mocha caramel Coffee Mate on Sunday) that DOCTORED-UP coffee can taste pretty good.

And also?  There is such a thing as too much Coffee Mate, which is a state that I achieved on Monday morning, when I poured almost half of a cup of it into my coffee, and realized that UM, YEAH!  THIS IS KIND OF OVERKILL AND ALSO A BIT GROSS, AND I’M JUST GOING TO DUMP IT DOWN THE SINK HERE AND START OVER FROM SCRATCH.

And that’s when I read the back of the Coffee Mate jug and realized that a serving size is one tablespoon and not half of a cup.

But yes.  Theresa and I livened up the coffee with the ‘Mate, and we sat on my sofa all morning long, talking away like we hadn’t seen one another in years.

And like we hadn’t just spent hours the night before doing the same thing.

And then I sadly squeezed her goodbye and tried to talk her into moving back to Small Town, and then it was off to teach PE, even though I was having the very worst hair day I’ve had since I fried it with a Rave home permanent my sophomore year in high school and looked like a wicker lampshade.

(And even though white wicker belts with big, brass buckles WERE trendy, brown wicker lampshades were NOT.  Especially when you were wearing one on your head. Even a glorious Farrah Fawcett cut couldn’t make a wicker lampshade look like runway material.)

Apparently my hair needed some beauty sleep last night, which it didn’t get, and it needed NOT to have had a big glob of Curls Galore rubbed into it.  Apparently when a friend of mine said, “Since you’ve reached an age THAT SHALL NOT BE SPOKEN ALOUD and have CURLS now, would you like this bottle of Curls Galore?  It’s supposed to give you, well, curls galore.  And I don’t like it, because it isn’t working out very well for me, so you can have it,” I should have said, “Um, yeah.  If you think it’s yuck, then I don’t want to try it.  It’s like asking me to smell a jug of milk to see if it’s gone bad.”  And the Curls Galore plum ruined my hair, and I just ended up with Frizz Aplenty.  I was relieved when I realized that I only had to show off my bad ‘do to elementary kids in the gym, who simply wouldn’t care if my hair looked great or awful, or even if it was painted blue, and then I could come home and put on my flannel pajamas and head to bed, since Theresa returned home to Rival Town this afternoon.

But no.

Hubs just called and said, “We’re going to dinner with Tyler and Heather.”  And, people, I adore Tyler and Heather so much, I could squeeze them both breathless and smooch their cheeks, so I told Hubs, “Fine.  Just know that my hair and I are not getting along very well today, and I look like one of those string mops, after it has scrubbed an acre of hardwood floors.”

So, you know, BEAUTIFUL, AS ALWAYS.

Clearly, I am Hubs’ dream date tonight.

And that, my friends, is what I have for you. It’s long-winded, and it’s poorly-written, and it jumps around like a grasshopper connected to a nine-volt battery in a puddle of water, but you’ll have to blame the total lack of sleep.

However, I wouldn’t have traded all the chatting last night for anything, and if Tyler and Heather and Hubs will have me, looking as I do, I’m heading out.

Happy Wednesday night, y’all.

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