My Easter Hair Scare...

I loved Easter as a kid.  Not so much the "Jesus died and has risen part".  The candy...easter eggs...and getting a new dress part.

Every year around Easter my sisters and I were treated to a shopping spree at Kmart for a new dress and shoes.  I was maybe 10 years old when I opted for a ruffled purple gingham dress.  And sandals with a hole hollowed out in the heel.  Remember those?  Like termite shoes but everyone thought they were cool.

Anyway, I looked like a square dancer but, hey it was Easter...gotta be festive, right?  The other tradition I kept was donning a special hairstyle for Sunday services.  I liked to think my congregation was as excited to see this year's Easter's hairstyle as I was to plan and reveal it.

One special ecoutrement to this year's hairstyle included barrettes intertwined in lavendar and white ribbons.  Extra lengths of ribbons cascaded from the barrette...Like a bad May Day pole.

The night before Easter I washed my hair and wrapped it in rollers...tightly.  I'm talking twisting the hair tightly before winding it as tight as I could onto the roller.  Small rollers too...I wanted tiny ringlets for celebrating Christ's resurrection.

The next morning as I got ready for church, I stood and stared at myself in the mirror as I removed the rollers.  I unclipped the pink roller and released the hair.  Upon release...the hair was so tightly curled, it wouldn't unfurl from  my scalp.  Each roller had the same result...I'd release the hair...and it would sit atop my scalp in a twisted ball.

I had a head of escargot.

Panicked, I attempted to comb through the hair hoping the curls would relax...No such luck.  It was at this point of discovering how awful my hair situation was that my brother came up to the doorway and died laughing.  After punching him in the chest, I slammed and locked the bathroom door muting his shocked cries of pain.  I didn't need his bullshit...No Siree...Especially on Easter...in this time of crisis.

I knew I was desperate when I sought hair advice from my mother.  The self professed perm/frosted highlight queen.  "Oh, just put it in a ponytail!  The curls will look like a bun!" she said.  I think it was the only time I felt my mother was genius.  "But the barrettes!  What to do with those?" I asked... "Clip them next to the pony tail."

Fucking Genius.  And it worked.  I pulled all the hair back into a high ponytail...and mom was right.  All those tight curls just formed themselves into a neat little bun.  Ribbons flowing freely from the sides....

I went to church and basked in my hair glory.  Glory to God.  Glory to my hair.  Tis a happy day indeed...

See ya....

Don't mind if I do...

I have a funny story I'd like to share about my little sister.  You guys would like her.  Another relative of mine who likes to dish the sarcasm. Anyway, she started a new job fairly recently as a preschool teacher.  She was really excited.

The first day initially went as she anticipated...introductions to her coworkers, learning where art supplies were, lesson plans, toy storage.  At one point early in her day, she realized she needed to use the restroom, but couldn't find a staff member because kids had started to arrive.  She roamed around the building until she finally located the women's restroom.  You know those restrooms at Starbucks? A room with a single toilet and sink?  It was like that....

She sat down on and spent a few minutes taking care of morning business.  You know, "coffee"..."morning"...I don't need to elaborate do I?  I'd hate to embarrass her.  But that's what she was doing.

As she stood up to flush and wash her hands, she happened to glance at the door to the bathroom.  She was mortified to learn that it had a window.  You see, she later learned that restroom was actually used for students...the window in the door so teachers could ensure the preschooler, likely learning how to use the potty, didn't need assistance.  We both guessed she was too overwhelmed being at her first day on the job to notice as she entered....

Regardless, she's fairly certain several of her fellow coworkers saw her sitting on her nest, but didn't say anything.  It was after all, her first day.  Probably wanted to cut her some slack.  Or something...

I'm sure she'll appreciate me sharing this story with the general public, but I couldn't resist.  And I know she'll being reading this...so let me also add how funny and glamorous she is...I love her...

Outta here...

My thoughts on hook rugs...

Ever make those dumb hook rugs as a kid?  I did.  A dog one.  Actually it was the very one pictured above.  Nice, right?  Look at the detail.  I know, it kind of looks like a skull with boobs and black George Washington hair, but you're supposed to be creative...Imagine it's a dog frolicking in a field of flowers.  I think in this particular shot designed for the rug, the dog paused for a moment to wonder where his fourth leg went.

And check out the brand..."Betty's Rug Squares"...for beginners.  Is there an equivalent of a black belt in hook rug artistry?  The label sure implies that.  And just who are the people who go on to advanced hook rug-dom?  I've never seen them.  Shame on Betty for creating false hope for a hook rug career.  I digress...

It took a good 6 months between boredom breaks to finish it.  Did I think my mother would ever use it as an entry rug?  Yes.  I mean, it was a 24" inch square after all...enough to rest a pair of shoes on.  And even if she didn't want to use it as a rug, I knew it could instantly be transformed to a picture or pillow.

Want to know my real thoughts on this craft?  I think hook rugs are just fucked up.  Created for kids so they stay out of their mother's hair. Time consumers.  Tedious.  No functional place in society really after they're done.  Too small to be a functioning area rug.  Too homely and sad to hang on the wall.  And who really would use one as a pillow?  If I wanted to lay my face on a carpet, I'd just plant myself on a floor.

Think I'll buy one for my kid when she's old enough...Get some quiet for a change...

Outta here...

"Kinda smokey in here, ain't it?"...

My first job the summer after graduating high school was a phone operator for Lowe’s Hardware.  So you know how you’re shopping around and hear that voice paging for misc. departments over the loud speaker?  My personal favorite was “Home Décor!  Line 4!”…Yeah, I was that.

Regardless it was a pretty decent job and paid pretty well too. I worked there for two summers.  Even got a promotion to bookkeeper.  Anyway, fast forward a year and my family moved from Virginia to Lexington, KY.  My manager at my job in Virginia was nice enough to put me in touch with the manager at Lowe’s of Lexington.  I was excited at the prospect of continuing to work with a familiar company.

I landed the job of bookkeeper in the new locale and arrived for my first day of work.  Greeting me on my first day on the job was a woman who was to be my boss.  I never interviewed with her, but if I had, I likely would have had doubts about my longevity.

She was a squatty 4’2”…maybe in her 60’s.  Her polyester pants straining under the girth of her stomach…her cheap belt looking as though it was a lasso reining in as much fat as it could muster. Her grey wirey hair was yanked into a ponytail. Did I mention she was a Marlboro red chain smoker?  Yeah that added to her charisma too.  As I entered the office she snuffed out her cigarette by grinding it to a pulp in her University of Kentucky Wildcat ashtray, then proceeded to waddle over to me. 

“You the new gal?” she asked with a thick Kentucky accent, ignoring my extended right hand I prepped for a handshake.  “I’m Angie.  I’ll be yer boss.  Have yearself a seat over thay-er” she indicated my desk by waving her crooked nicotine stained finger in the direction of a table set up in the corner.  Dazed, I found myself following her direction and sat down. 

In a vain attempt to break the glacier of ice between me and my new Appalachian friend, I turned to her as she lit a new cigarette.  In my most upbeat voice I could muster, I smiled and asked, “So Angie, are you from Lexington?” as though her accent wouldn’t have tipped me off.  “Yeah, bean heere all mi life.” she said as she waved the smoke away, “Ain’t no famlee of mine that ain’t fruum heere.”, then turned back to her work.  All I could say was, “That’s nice.”  As though I was really happy to get to know her in such an intimately special way. 

By 10 a.m., the entire office was a cloud of second hand smoke.  I’m not a smoker so the experience was awful.  I felt as though I’d have emphysema by lunch.  Gagging, thick smoke.  Still I thought, “Maybe things will get better.  It’s only my first day.”  I was wrong.

Later in the day, as I sat gasping for oxygen at my desk, I heard her say through the wall of smoke that separated us, “You need to feeks the way you dray-ess.”  Surprised, I waved away enough smoke to make out the outline of her body so I knew where to turn to reply.  Confused, I said, “I don’t understand what you mean.  What about my outfit is violating Lowe’s dress code?”…She swiveled in her chair, rolled over to my desk and proceeded to show me her bloated foot jammed into an orthopedic open toe sandal….her toes with nails not unlike ruffled potato chips stretching and writhing beneath a net of reinforced nude hose.  She grabbed a pencil and used it as a pointer.  “Thayse here”, she said as she tapped her foot with her pencil.  As though I didn’t understand what footwear was,  “Hose, nee-ude, wit thees tap of shooo.  Yerra wearin’ them black sock and flats.  It ain’t professional.”  I half-heartedly agreed, as though I’d immediately go to Wal-Mart’s orthopedic sandal section so I could further my career with Angie. 

I think that day was the longest workday of my life.  5 o’clock couldn’t arrive fast enough, and when it finally did, I grabbed my purse and proceeded to clock out.  She looked up from her desk smiling.  I thought she was going to tell me to have a good night, that I did well for my first day.  “Year clocked out?” she asked.  “Yep!  It was so nice meeting you today!” I said, lying through my teeth. She held up her finger and said, “Now now, hold yerself fer jist meenit.  I got suppin’ fer yas.” 

A wave of relief came over me as I thought, “She was extra tough on me today and I passed the muster with flying colors.”  Other thoughts that ran through my head?  “Fruit basket”, “Cookie bouquet” “Job well done plaque”….Probably not realistic, but still optimistic.

No.  She returned with a dirty grey mop, a rolling bucket of filthy brownish grey water and a yellow “Piso Mojado” sign…you know, with the stick guy falling?  “Wet floor” I think it translates to. Confused, I stood there as she handed me the mop.  “What is this for?” I asked.  “Yer gotta clean dem bathrooms before you leave ya know.”  “But I just clocked out.” “I know, yer gunna do it off the clock”. 

She proceeded to take me to the store’s public bathrooms.  “See this?” she asked pointing to the disgustingly dirty floor.  “Jist take that there mawp and geeve eet a good washin’”  I looked at her blankly and replied, “Sorry Ang, ain’t happenin’” as though my putting on a Kentucky dialect would bring some type of commonality between us.  “Whatcha meen?” “I mean I quit!”  I announced as I handed her the mop….And walked out. 

Never did hear from her or the store.  Probably made up some story about why I didn’t work out.  Took me a month to get the smoke smell out of my car after driving home that night.

I’m sure a few of you have similar stories...

See ya…

I was a Master Baker...

Did you know I was the master cinnamon roll maker in my house?  It’s true.  I’m sure you’ll be amazed to know I made them every single Sunday before church. 

My foray into cinnamon roll making started in Home Economics.  Do they even teach that course anymore?  I don’t know.  They did when I was in 8^th grade.  Learned to sew crappy potholders and maybe even an apron, but cooking was my favorite.

One day we walked into class to find a can of Pillsbury biscuit dough at each of our cooking stations.  The recipe was pretty straightforward:

Preheat oven, melt stick of butter in pan.  Dip biscuit in cinnamon/sugar mixture, dip in butter, re-dip in sugar mixture.  Place in pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes.  Enjoy!

The cool part to me that was not included in the recipe above was the presentation. Very carefully with a paring knife, a ½ inch slit was cut in the middle of the biscuit disk.  You’d then fold two sides of the circle underneath pull them through the center.  You did this before baking the dough.  The end result looked not unlike what many of us know as a clitoris. 

Sure, my dad smirked when I initially made them at home.  “Why are you laughing Dad?” I’d ask innocently pulling out a tray of bubbling baked cinnamon sugar clitori. “Nothing, they just look like belly buttons.”  he’d reply.  It was only later I realized the source of his laughter.  We were all eating vajajay rolls.  Coated in sugar.  Baked with love to a delightfully sweet and light goodness. 

They did taste good.  Probably would still make them if I could keep a straight face.  If any of you host me I’ll bring them over and we’ll share a good laugh.

Jesus Christ I need help.

See ya.

If it looks like an Irishman...

Happy Saint Patrick's Day everyone!  Are you Irish?  Not that it matters because we all celebrate the day, right?  I didn't know I was Irish until I was in sixth grade.  I mean sure, St. Patty's Day always meant a trip to Hallmark to pick out a cool shamrock pin, but I just wanted to be like my friends...I didn't know I was indeed Irish.

You'd think my parents would clue me in.  I mean my grandmother was a red head who enjoyed corned beef and soda bread.  Two of my sisters with their red hair and fair freckled complexion look so Irish they could pose at Ellis Island.

My dad loved Irish setters.  Bought me one for my birthday when I turned five.  Mom made him take it back, but still...Maybe he was trying to clue me in to my heritage without mom knowing about it.  I didn't get the hint.  Bye puppy.  Nice knowing you Irish Setter.  I just call him "Irish Setter" because I only spent about an hour with him.  Didn't get the chance to name him.  Regardless because I didn't know I was Irish, I would probably would have come up with some dumb name like "Fluffy" or "Red" instead of  "O'Mahoney" or "Shamrock".  Cool Irish names.

I liked Irish novelties like green leprechaun and shamrock stickers.  I drew lots of rainbows.  I also found Lucky Charms to be my favorite cereal.  I liked to hoard the marshmallows.  Irish breakfast if you will...

I couldn't dance too well.  Don't the Irish do a little jig with their feet going cloppity clop in a cool rhythmic fashion?  Yeah, couldn't do that.  Maybe that threw me off my Irish ancestral scent trail....

I don't know why, but on a sunny Saint Patricks Day in sixth grade I approached my mom as though I was going to have the big 'talk'.  I just asked her.  Flat out.  "Am I Irish?"  I needed answers.  There had to be a reason for my attraction to all things Irish.  The answer? "Trina, of course you're Irish.  You didn't know that?  Your grandmother, her mother, her mother's mother were all of Irish descent."  As though it was common knowledge.

I shared the news with my siblings.  We were pretty jazzed to learn we were indeed Irish.  Real Irish people.  Not the ones who make the claim on March 17th.  I was a little miffed that I had celebrated my Saint Patrick's Days of yesteryear under what I thought was the guise of being Irish....

My anger melted away once I put on that green construction paper hat...with the buckle.  Truly Irish indeed...

Outta here...

Wait, this looks familiar...

I used to love french braids.  I toiled and practiced hundreds of times to learn how to do them and eventually mastered the craft.  My favorite look was a single braid down the back of my head.  With pouffy bangs.  Not unlike what I now know as a polygamist.  Please see Exhibit A below:

Exhibit A:  Polygamist Hair

I also loved Gunne Sax dresses.  A very special day was when I wore my red one with a french braid.  Not unlike the styles worn by what I now know as a polygamist.  Well, ok, maybe a sexy polygamist.  But still...See Exhibit B below:

Exhibit B:  Polygamist Dress, sexy style

Somewhere there's a picture of me in a red Gunne Sax dress with a french braid, holding my flute while sitting in a winged back wicker chair.  Good grief.

I mean, really..Anything else to add here?  Aside from telling you I was an idiot?


Outta here....