Sex And The Hairdresser In The City

I had the most interesting pseudo-sexual experience while getting my hair cut and highlighted last week, and I just had to share it with all of you because, although I may not know all of you personally, I know you all need to know my deepest, darkest secrets. You're welcome.

But, before I get into that, let me just tell you that my hairdresser, although she's cute and funny and listens to me blather on and on about nothing, really does not know how to cut bangs. I am in complete misery at the moment because, once again, she did not give me the nice sidebangs that I now adore (and once abhorred) and that make me look like Penelope Cruz (without the strong accent). At the moment, my bangs are cut straight across, and I look like Alfred E. Neuman. Not good, seeing as I'M GOING TO FLORIDA IN A WEEK and the last thing I need is to look like this:



Not that anyone is going to notice, but still. It would be nice if someone would notice me for a change, actually, and when they did, that I didn't look like a complete tool. My only hope is that my hair grows enough in the next week so that I can trim my bangs a wee bit to give them that sidebang look. Please pray for me.

So, while I was sitting there, getting my bangs trimmed badly, my hairdresser starts talking to the guy next to her about lube. Lube? Yes, lube. The guy was going on and on about machinery or something exciting like that, and my hairdresser pipes in with the suggestion of using lube to loosen things up. "Like KY or something," she says, all chipperlike, simultaneously going snipsnipsnip to my precious hairs.

KY? I say to myself, my eyes widening in disbelief. Did she just say what I thought she just said? As in 'sex jelly'? Not that I know ANYTHING at all about that stuff.

Yes, she did. To a strange man who was sitting right beside me.

Thank god he wasn't handsome or even the least bit adorable, because THAT would be uber-embarrassing, and I would have probably ended up with an even more ridiculous-looking haircut because I would have ducked under my robe and never come up for air.

We get through that embarrassing moment and Mrs. Foot-In-The-Mouth is just fluffing up my bangs when she pulls out this bottle of spray and I ask her what that is as she starts spraying my head, and she tells me it's this awesome, amazing stuff that makes your hair look like it just came out of the movies. And she sprays it again, and I am in heaven because the smell is out of this world, so I decide right then and there that, regardless of whether or not this stuff actually does anything at all, I have to buy it because of that smell. And that, my friends, is ridiculous in itself, and don't think I don't know it. I do, but I don't care.

And, so I ask her what it's called, and she tells me. "Blonde Me," she says, showing me the bottle.

And then she giggles.

"What is so funny?" I ask her, totally oblivious to what is right in front of me and still in a little bit of heaven over the amazing smell of this stuff.

She points to the bottle, and by this point, she cannot speak, she's laughing so hard.

And the bottle says: BLOND ME, except the "ND" is on a line all on its own.

And I'm like, "What?"

And she's like, "OH.MY.GOD. Do you see that?!"

And I'm all, "No. If I saw it, I'd be peeing my pants like you are right now."

And she points more specifically to the words and looks at me, waiting.

And then the actual placement of the words hit my retinas, and I cannot believe my luck. The stars in the Galaxy of Sex surely must have been aligned that day, because seriously, what are the chances that the topics of lube AND blowing would BOTH come up at the hairdresser's, of all places, and within the span of one hour? And then I scream, cover my eyes, and run lest the words burn fiery holes into my virginal eyes.

So, of course I bought the bottle of spray, because I'd spend more than that for a bottle that says "Blo Me" on it. This was cheap, in my opinion.

I haven't yet shown the bottle to Mr. Handsome, lest he get entirely the wrong idea (which he will). But, he reads this blog, so now I just wait. But, while I wait, I spray and sniff, and smile, because that, my friends, is how I roll.

No Poops Or Toilets In This Post. Well, Just A Few.

So, my daughter informed me that my last few posts were boring, and that I had to stop talking about my feces all the time. She's so picky. And judgmental.

Okay, so I'll stop. But, as I explained to Em, my blog is about me and my life, and if all that's really going on it at the time is centered around the toilet, what's a person to do?

But still, I'll try and refrain from mentioning my poops or the toilet at all in this post ... although I've now mentioned them four times already. Sorry.

I spent the better part of the weekend getting my brain and body ready for Christmas, because, as I'd said in a previous post, I have to take on ALL the Christmas prep responsibility this year because Mr. Handsome is working so hard. Whatever. He's just lucky I enjoy spending lots of money working so hard.

As part of my preparation, I spent the better part of an afternoon shopping for gifts. I couldn't believe my good fortune since in one stop, I'd found probably one-third of everything I have to get for family and friends. As most of you probably know, that just never happens. Yes, the rainbows and unicorns were shining out my butt that fine day.

I now have to tally up the expenses so that I can hand in a full and detailed financial report to Mr. Handsome.

Then, I spent Sunday running to the mall -- where it seems everyone and their mother also decided to visit -- in the feeble attempt to pick up some craft-type stuff with the kids because, well, they needed it. Is there ever any other reason? No, there is not.

And then, guys, I wrote all my Christmas cards! That's right! Every single one. This is probably a record for me. I'm calling Guinness today to let them know.

This week is going to be spent getting ready for our Disney trip, which is happening in nine days, guys! NINE.Days. That's one day more than eight, which is one more than seven, which is a week.

I'm going to spend a lot of time, methinks, looking for all my summerish clothing, and figuring out what NOT to bring to Florida. I'll also be spending loads of time this week trying to find all of Dee's clothing, because he tends to think that "putting things away" means stuffing them under his bed and behind his shelves.

I've also decided that if I don't find a sensible and cost-efficient swimsuit here, I'm just going to buy one in Florida. The prices will probably be better there, for one thing. And I won't have to end up taking one of the last suits on the rack (which is the case here at this time of the year), which also means that it will look anything but presentable on me. I'm not vain, but even I cannot handle wearing a swimsuit that makes me look like a cross between Dustin Hoffman and Tony Curtis.

And, while I fret and panic over all these miniscule details, Mr. Handsome is what? You'll never guess.

He's back to listening to Susan Boyle. Yes, that's right. I've lost him yet again to this:




Not only that, but he's spent the better part of the entire weekend watching chick flicks.

Please send help.

When The Poop Hits The Fan, I Go Shopping

My butt has a brain. And thoughts. And opinions, apparently.

Because ever since the doctor gave me the orders to get my poop tested, my butt has refused to give up the goods. It's been six days now, folks! SIX POOPLESS days, after eight tiring WEEKS of nothing BUT poop after poop after -- you guessed it -- poop.

There can be NO OTHER EXCUSE but that my badonkadonk has a mind all its own, and a sense of dignity to boot! When it gazed upon the three containers I am supposed to "fill" and return, it did an about-face and ran the other way. And although I can't say I haven't enjoyed the freedom and respite from constantly having to run to the toilet, I'm just trying to wrap my head around this whole thing.

How in heaven's name can I go from 20 and more dingleberries per day to none? Just like that?

And everyday, I think, 'OK, today's the day. Today, I will be disgusting and poop in little wee containers and bring them to the lab and be all embarrassed.'

But the day comes and goes, and nothing. Nada. Not even a wee plippet of poison. It figures that I would go from complaining bitterly about my extensive life in the bathroom to my lack thereof, all in the span of a week!

And so, instead, I go Christmas shopping!

I don't know about you, but I love Christmas. And I love getting ready for Christmas. Yes, it's a lot of work, but it's happy work. I change into Happy The Dwarf from Snow White. Humming Christmas tunes while I walk the aisles, a little smile on my face. Yes, people get irritated with me, glancing at me and scowling as I hum by them, but I don't care, because it's Christmas time!

Not sure how I'm managing this mood this year, what with the state of my intestinal tract, and the fact that we have yet to see any snow. Because snow is the ultimate mood inducer for the season, in case you're wondering. Without the snow, it's just not Christmas. Two years ago, it didn't snow until Christmas Eve, and I ended up biting all my nails down to the quick with worry. The winters have definitely warmed up here in the Ottawa area. Not anywhere near as cold as they used to be, or as long.

Which kind of works for me, because I'm not getting any younger, and I've always thought I'd like to retire to a warmer climate in my old age, somewhere like Arizona maybe, but at the rate the weather's going, we may be able to just stay here, which would work just as well for me. But, although I'm liking the warmer winters, I definitely still need some snow for things to feel right.

And now Gryphon, our ponderous poodle, is having stomach issues, so I must go tend to his clinginess. You can hear his stomach screeching all the way upstairs. And I've just had the best idea this side of the Ottawa River! With a little maneuvering, I'm thinking I can just get Gryphon to poop into my lab containers, and then the job will be done. It's going to be hard getting him to co-operate, because he's difficult that way, but I'll somehow manage.

Although, now that I think of it, doing that may cause my butt to go into overtime action once again since it will no longer feel the need to stop the production line, seeing as the containers will be filled, and all hell will once again break loose, just in time for our trip.

I can't win.