Cures

Nothing like the feeling of being cured.

The mani. The pedi. The purchase of clothing that makes you feel like a million-or possibly a zillion bucks.

I especially am besotted to that feeling my tootsies get when coming alive with the shedding of its old dryness, welcoming the new soft-as-a-baby's-butt condition that's only found after my fave gal gives me ped. Swear to God, I came out whistling "Hooked on a Feeling" complete with chanting OOGA CHAKA too. Yeah, this ped is that good.

But the mood has dulled a bit this eve, because I now so desperately need a clothing panacea. What the hell is up with spring and summer wardrobing? Why is this so hard for me to figure out? The biggie, grandpappy-of-them-all convention is just a few short days away from kick off - and I'm standing in a worn-out thong jammed in my ass with a droopy bra in a severely clashing color while putting on...taking off...putting on...ripping off.. these options of what to wear to convention and its many-a-splendored parties and dinners to accompany each night.

Oh sure, I've been out shopping. But goddamn if I don't feel as though I've somehow drawn my 7 letters for a good game of Scrabble only to find that I've got 6 consonants with 1 measly vowel to be the glue - the bonding - for any potential good words. Son of a...scrabble bitch.

I don't know what the elixir is for this.

Well, sure I do. It's called a shit pile of money. But since I won't be winning the lottery until at least Saturday night (thus not having unlimited available funds in the next 2 days), it's a frantic call to the creative gods. And to the sale gods. Let's throw in Lady Luck, for good measure.

In the words of a wise soul who taught me various slang from lands near and far: I've got "sweet fuck all" to wear to this symposium. And I've yet to find a cure.

The grass is greener.

For me, this week's experience is a rite of passage.

Learning to ride a bike, first kiss, first love, throwing one's cap in the air after shuffling along to the Pomp & Circumstance tune, acceptance into the college you dreamed of being admitted, getting married to the "one", buying a house and renovating it with aforementioned "one" - just a sampling of those rites. Or passages.

But yesterday when our front yard magically (okay, over 3 days of a landscaping crew working their asses off) transformed into a desperate tangle of vines into the most springy blanket of green grass that begs to have bare feet running upon it? This was when I started to get that feeling of wanting to do cartwheels - perhaps one-handed if I dare say it - and maybe even a brave attempt at an aerial. This grass needed to be celebrated.

A fairly adult-type of feeling to see the earth being moved. The crew performing its mission. The great wall of 1010 was built. No longer a slope of dirt but instead a leveled out phased area that would soon take shape. The grass show up in its rolls. Many rolls. Okay, I know it's called sod. But in the shape of big Ho-Ho's (sans chocolate, damn!).

We zoom off for a few hours only to return to all the Ho-Ho's being unrolled and looking as though sewn together to form a yard. A yard shrouded in the Holy Ho-Ho Quilt. A yard that we may sit upon. Roll upon. Gaze upon. Pick up weekend newspaper whence it laid upon. Ho-Ho Diggity.

This is a damn fine way to get a yard. Seeds be gone!

Growing up on a farm, only the city folk were ordering rolls of grass. Not that I cared or even knew the difference back then. My childhood yard was a forest, an orchard, a garden, a field, a parking area, a roller rink (well, the sidewalk was anyway). And I daresay, I took it for granted. It was an acreage that I used to be responsible for the mowing of, much to my dismay.

But now, I celebrate the yard. For its beauty. Its showcasing abilities. Its place on my list for a rite of passage. And for the fact that my husband can spend more time mowing than the maneuvering it once took to get mower out for use.

There will be no parking on this grass.

Not unless it's our giggling asses uncorking a bottle of wine to raise a glass to the Sod Gods.


~ab

Going bananas.

Bananas have never been a huge part of my life. They wander in. They wander out. Sometimes a big bunch of them catches my eye at the grocery, and I can't help myself. I take great care in choosing the right bunch with the right ripeness. Then, may go for weeks without one. I think I struggle with the ripe factor. Too green - and they taste like grass. Too ripe - and I just decide I'll save them for baking. It's like goddamn porridge that you have a small window of opportunity to get them juuuuuust right.

Then a week and a half later, there I am trying to figure out if I should:
a) preserve by freezing (but looking prettttty gross once turned completely black and never quite the same no matter what Sara Moulton says)

b) bake some banana nut bread one night during week and end up whirring my Kitchen Aid until 1am, eating half the loaf because it's best warm, then taking remains of bread to office whilst everyone wonders why only 6 pieces and not whole loaf available for consumption

c) watching cat try sniping small fruit flies that appear out of nowhere

Yes, bananas have always been the fruit I'll slowly let disintegrate on counter and never feel that that bad about it.

My mother used to eat 2 or 3 a day for weeks on end. And she wasn't pregnant with me, by the way. I think she wound up with some crazy potassium imbalance and the doctor had to pry it out of her about the banana addiction. My family has a habit of locking in on a particular food and needing to have it in abundance until one may get sick OF it or sick FROM it. Then we're onto the next craving, thank you very much.

Okay, well, the banana topic is raised for a very sound reason. I've been turned onto a frozen delight called Diana's Bananas. Thank you to my dear friend CK, for without her, I would not know about these. Covered in dark chocolate was her recommendation, and I didn't question. I didn't hesitate. And others must agree, because upon my arrival at the freezer in my market there were only 2 little boxes left. That's right. So I bought both boxes.

It's safe to say that I may be following in my mother's footsteps. But I'm afraid the damages could be worse since these delicious nanners are dipped in what may be some of the best dark chocolate I've ever had. Award-winning. You realize that I'm about to hop in bed. There I'll be counting bananas and hearing The Count from Sesame Street talking about his snacks saying it like he does...

1 little nanner..ha ha ha
2 little nanners..ha ha ha

This is so beyond being cuckoo for cocoa puffs.

~ab

Color My World.

Hair! (hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair)
Flow it...Show it...HAIR!

No cussing, just celebration with words from the musical as promised. Maybe a touch off-key. But singing nonetheless.

No, not exactly the same experience as sitting in the chair at previously mentioned zen-like salon. But boy oh boy, did I save a pretty penny with this experiment. The haircoloring world is my oyster.

I'd like to thank Natural Match (good old L'Oreal)!

As well as Frost & Design (also L'Oreal)!

Gonna flow it. Gonna show it. My straight from a box, home-done Hair!

~ab

Hair ye, hair ye.

An experiment like this could spell disaster. I've seen the evidence of others. I've been told about the not-so-good, the really bad, and the green ugly. Luckily I've only had few hair mishaps. Mostly date it back to the perm era, circa 1983. You know what I speak of, if you were a girl who desperately sought out those cool locks where meet in the middle curling was a way of life. This was serious shit. As was the Sheena Easton do, but that's a whole other topic. Will save cuts of past for another time.

Anyway, I got off track.

I can't help but think there's a way around spending a load each time I go in to my salon (quite possibly the best one in town which happens to be just 7 minutes away from my house). I do love this hip salon. Been going there since the day I moved to KC. Love my stylist, love my colorist. The place is very zen in its decor. Lures you right in. So why am I sitting here with a this heinous cap and zip-loc-esque (sans the zip or the loc) bag atop my bean - my noddle - my soon-to-be-lightened crown? Curiosity I guess.

It began in such a harmless way. A little dabbling with root touch up. Seemed to go pretty well the 3 or 4 times I did it. Mix up a cute little dab of color. Brush it on with a miniature utensil that would have been really cool for my Tiny Tears dolly when I was a wee one. Voila. Roots-be-gone. I liked it. It held me for at least another 3 weeks until needing visit to the foiler.

So leave it to me for a leap of faith to star in my own version of extreme hair makeover. But I can't help it. If I can cut my husband's hair (while drinking wine, even), surely I can figure out my way through 5N + a little bleach for some cap-pulled highights.

Will I have regret after the post-color wash and tone? Stay tuned. I'll either have next entry as only a series of vulgarities or I'll be singing showtunes from the musical, Hair.


~ab

Reaching For The Switch.

Where's the damn light switch? I am feeling around. With anxiety. Something might reach out and GRAB MY LEG before I can get switch of light flicked to "on" so as to illuminate this new territory I've discovered called Blogger. Feeling nervous. But exhilirated.

Cool. 35 ain't so bad after all.

~ab