Of course I have more pictures to share with y’all from last week, when I decided that a bloggity vacation was a LIFE NECESSITY in order for all the other things to happen on our calendar in that seven-day stretch o’ the time, because I was a little overzealous with the camera’s picture-taking button for a while. Namely, during a water fight that the cousins all got themselves involved in until Brother decided that it was perfectly acceptable for a grown man to jump into the thick of things and start pitching small children — in an overhand style — right into the pond. Naturally, I’d like nothing better than to share those snapshots with you right now, right tonight, but I’ve. Had. A. Day. And when a girl has had A DAY, it’s best to just take a step back from her, give her a little room and a thick brownie with a bit of a gooey center, and not ask her to resize fourteen million photographs so that they’ll fit within the boundaries of her blog screen.
(Sometimes I miss the olden days, when digital cameras didn’t exist, so digital images the size of Australia didn’t exist either. There was never any resizing with a roll of Fuji film.)
(Of course there were no blogs back then, either.)
(But there was George Foreman’s Lean Mean Grilling Machine and Jumanji, so things evened out.)
So this morning I woke up at 5:45, and I just had this feeling that it was a day ripe for staying home in a pair of yoga pants and an over-sized T-shirt, to sit on the sofa with a bag of SALTY with a CHOCOLATE CHASER, and watch TV.
Like a marathon of old sitcoms. The Facts of Life came to mind.
Unfortunately, today wasn’t a day when I could actually participate in that exact level of fun, because of THINGS TO DO. However, I seemed helpless to actually jump out of bed and get things started, so I simply laid there and announced to Hubs, “My head hurts. I have no motivation. I still feel eighteen kinds of tired. Why didn’t I listen to people when they said I would be fantastic at home-schooling the boy? Because if I had, I would announce that today was a blessed Snow Day, and I’d get my yoga pants out of the closet.”
And that’s when I decided that I’d just lay right there for as long as I could, and trade the extra time in bed for not washing my hair.
And then I remembered that I actually didn’t wash my hair yesterday, which meant that MAMA AIN’T GONNA GET AWAY WITH THAT BRAND OF LAZY TWICE IN A ROW.
And the whole concept of not washing my hair? Well. In years past, I was never a fan of that. I was of the old school belief system that you washed your hair every day, come rain or sleet or snow or sunshine or cloudy with a chance of meatballs. It’s that ’80s girl inside of me, which caused us to get up at unholy hours to curl our Rave home permanents right up in a well-planned curling system that took exactly ninety-four minutes, from start to finish. And then a few months ago, Amy introduced me to the idea of putting baby powder in your hair on days that you need to save time by not shampooing. She insisted that it was a stroke of beauty genius, and that the baby powder soaked up all manner of grease and bad hair moments, so that you could start with a fresh mane once again. A fresh, DRY mane. Amy swore by this system. Biolage on even days; baby powder on odd days. She gave a solid argument for it, and so I indulged myself.
And I ended up looking like Benjamin Franklin.
The problem arose because Amy is blonde, and I am not. And apparently the baby powder in the dark brown hair is what George Washington used in the 1700s to get that powder wig look for all of his campaign posters.
But then! The beauty industry came out with DRY SHAMPOO, and, people, I am here to tell you that I’ve found a brand that works wonders, and I am a fan. In fact, I am such a fan, I’ve got my life scheduled out for Biolage on even days and the dry shampoo and the dry conditioner on odd days.
The odd days are my favorite days, because WHOOP! WHOOP! I feel like Speedy Gonzalez in the mornings.
Today is an even day.
I was going to be forced to get out of bed and honor the code of lather, rinse, repeat.
And you know what else, as long as we’re talking about odd things used as beauty supplies? Well. We go to church with a woman who is in her late 70s. And by late 70s, I mean she’s probably actually 81, and just lying to us. But honestly, she has the most gorgeous skin of EVER. Nearly wrinkle-less. Still smooth and shiny and worthy of any glossy ad for Clinique products. Of course when you go ahead and admit to the younger girls that you’re in your late 70s and you have THAT SKIN ON YOUR FACE, you’re going to be bombarded with all the questions.
The main one being, “What products to you use?” Because if I could reach the age of even 50 and have skin like hers, I would consider it the gold medal of beauty victory.
And do you know what this gal told us?
She has used Vaseline on her face, twice a day, EVERY DAY, since she was twelve years old. She swears by it. She said you just use it in place of moisturizer, and blam! The fountain of youth is right there, on your face for all the world to witness. I think all of us younger girls (and by younger, I mean not in our late 70s) left church and drove straight to Walgreen’s to buy the biggest tubs of Vaseline that we could find. I was like a kid hopped up on too many sugary Peeps at Easter. This was the King Tut Tomb in terms of beautiful skin achievement.
I smeared Vaseline all over myself that night, and repeated the following morning.
And my face shone with a radiance that made it look as though I had gone up Mt. Sinai with Moses. People wanted me to put a veil over my face, because they were afraid.
Too shiny is actually a phrase that can be used to describe the Vaseline look on me. I shone brighter than the strobe light at the local roller rink.
I just stick to the Estee Lauder moisturizer now, because Ms. Lauder has perfected the art of mixing various chemicals together and not testing them on rabbits to learn that YOUR FACE WILL NOT GLOW AS IF YOU HAVE BEEN VISITED BY THE LORD WITH THIS STUFF. Amen.
So. My day.
After showering this morning, I went into the closet to get dressed, and when I bent over, my forehead brushed something on the wall.
That something turned out to be a spider that was roughly the size of my big-boned, fourteen-pound cat, and it had more hair than she does.
I can’t do justice to the scream that escaped my throat with mere words. It was like the girl in Psycho meets the girl in the shower in every other horror movie ever filmed. The boy came running like the wind, because when a girl screams like that, there’s usually a big need for an exorcism or a priest.
Or a shoe and a wad of paper towels, which is what I begged him to bring to my closet.
Hubs heard the scream, too, and he went on with the business of brushing his teeth. He has matured enough to know that when a girl screams like that, it’s either a SNAKE!SNAKE!SNAKE! or a spider the size of a dinner-plate and sporting more hair than Sasquatch himself.
Hubs was not overly concerned.
But the boy, in an effort to fight the offender off and save his mother, squashed the spider on the wall, and guess what?
That spider was wearing his suit of armor, and he did not die — THAT’S WHAT.
Instead, he fell off the wall, and he landed in my laundry basket.
Which is why I will not be doing any laundry this week, so help me, Lord, and AMEN again.
I told Hubs, “He fell into my laundry, and he’s going to lay eggs!” I may have used my outdoor voice to announce this. Hubs simply raised one eyebrow and suggested that my pronoun choice could use a bit of tweaking. In the midst of the Great Scare of ’12, which took eighteen entire years off of my lifespan, I mixed the words HE with LAY EGGS.
So sue me.
And that, people, is the long-winded version of how I came to just grab a bobby pin and pull the top section of my wet hair back. I had just enough time to curl my eyelashes with the Maybeline Eyelash Curling Torture Device, which has worked wonders for me since 1998. Today, something went terribly wrong, and it FLATTENED my eyelashes, so that they stuck straight out.
My eyelashes were planking.
I left the house this morning a little worse for the wear. I’ll be brave enough to admit that I was not at my Beauty Pageant Best. In fact, I resembled the mother who has thrown something on over the top of her housecoat, in sheer irritation, because she’s been summoned away from curing her hangover with tomato juice to the junior high school to meet with the principal in regards of a little issue.
The little issue being that her son lit a fire in the hallway garbage can in order to get out of taking a little math test. And that is where she announces to the principal in colorful language that if HER LITTLE JOHNNY lit a fire in a garbage can, then the school needed it, because his math teacher is about as useful as a wet cigarette.
I looked like that woman today.
And now that the day of HOLY BURRITOS, WONDER WOMAN, BUT THAT WAS SOME KIND OF BACK-TO-BACK BUSY TODAY, has fizzled itself out, I’m putting my yoga pants on, which is really what I wanted to do at 6:00 this morning. Because when the yoga pants are donned, the announcement is THERE WILL BE NO MORE PRODUCTIVITY IN TODAY. PERIOD.
But I did take the time to resize just one snapshot, even though it goes against the code of having the yoga pants on.
This is what four cousins look like when an energetic adult decides to win the water fight by scooping them all up, one by one by one by one, and throwing them into the pond.
It’s just that Brother isn’t above cheating, and we’re pretty sure that he won, although the Professional Water Fight Rules Committee is still looking at film footage before making a final judgement and stripping Brother of his right to endorse goggles. There will be snapshots next week.
I’m sure that everyone is simply giddy now with the excitement.
Y’all have a great weekend.