I Gave the UPS Man the Hot Oil Treatment

I decided to give my hair a leisurely hot oil treatment.  My stylist said to load up my hair with seamen (I mean serum…although, a bunch of seamen massaging oil in my hair sounds pretty good). After getting all oiled up she said to put a plastic grocery sack over my hair, cover it with my wool ski hat and relax.

After thinking about those seamen I can’t relax so I decided to work.  I was sitting at my computer trying to think with the swish, swish, swish of the plastic bag driving my OCD insane.  OK, let’s just say insaner than I am every day.  And yes, I know insaner is not a word according to Webster and his dictionary. But, think of how much fun it would be to put out your own dictionary every year.  I would definitootly include the word insaner.

After sharpening all my mechanical pencils it was apparent working was obviously not an option either, so I decided to do Wii Fit. Still in my robe, buck-naked, boobs flopping while jogging to animation, there was a knock at the front door.

“UPS,” he said, “we need a signature for your package.”

Ah crap.   “I’m not exactly presentable.  You know it’s me, can’t you just sign for me.”

“Wish I could, but you know the rules.”

I see the bottle of Windex sitting on the entry table where I left it last week hoping I’d clean the front windows.  My insaner brain has an idea…I pick it up.  “Here’s the deal.  You raise your hands where I can see them.  When I open the door you better not have a cell phone poised to take my picture or I’ll have to shoot.”

I hear him chuckle. “Deal.”  Damn, my UPS guy delivers enough packages here that he’s seriously not even afraid I might shoot him.

Slowly, I open the door, Windex bottle poised to fire.  “I swear if you laugh I will shoot you.”

“No worries, Mrs. MacKay,” he says with hands raised above his head, “Just sign and I’ll be on my way.”

I kept one hand on the Windex, signed with the other, and watched him for any sudden moves to go for a camera phone.  “I don’t suppose I could pay you not to talk about this back at the garage.”

“Not a chance,” he said laughing, running back to the truck.

I bent down to pick up the package and discovered my robe had come untied.   Definitootly, the last time I hot oil anything….ever!

I Want Bread That Never Gets Stale

According to one of those expert-types on a TV talk show, to know what you really want from life you should make a list every day of your wants.  He said after a few weeks a pattern will emerge and you can easily identify your true dreams.  I decided to try it since this guy billed himself as a “doc with years of training.”

            I want to know why a canvas with circles painted in red and orange is hanging in an art gallery with a $2000 price tag.  I painted better blobs when I was in kindergarten and no one paid me $2000. I want bread that never gets stale.  I want to know why I still can’t spell conspicuous (if it’s spelled correct here, the spell check fixed it).  I want a margarita. I want my baby toes to stop curling under.  I want another margarita. I want to know why green olives get stuffed with all kinds of things, but black olives don’t.  I want the word “dude” banned from the English language.  I want Flintstones vitamins in the color chartreuse.  I want world peace.  (I threw that in just in case I decide to enter the Mrs. America pageant someday.)

            Two weeks after I started this exercise the only pattern that emerged was that I needed psychological counseling.  I suspect the eminent author of this advice was looking for more profound wants.   However, I gave up wanting by “societies” definition when I moved to the mountains.  Living at high altitude gave me a new outlook on life.  Maybe it was just a lack of oxygen, but why bother wanting a Sex in the City wardrobe when I was happy in jeans and a Tee shirt.  I don’t care if Carrie Bradshaw once wore a pink tutu skirt, and a skimpy shirt with more bra showing than shirt…it’s not a fashion forward statement I wanted to copy.

When Bertie showed up at our local bar with yellow crime tape as shoelaces, no one thought she wanted to make a fashion statement.  She simply did not have any extra shoelaces so she improvised.  Seriously, what was Carrie Bradshaw’s excuse for that outfit?

            I want to know why a house with two people needs seven bathrooms.  There are plenty of other ways to conspicuously consume: seven Ferraris in the driveway, seven hot twenty-something’s vying for your affections, seven yearly vacations to Fiji.  Yet, some people really believe the number of crappers is related to their level of success.   My mother is one of them; she called to inform me that my cousin was so successful he was building a house with 10 bathrooms.  I told her their family must be awfully full of shit.  

            The number one want on my mother’s list is for a more obedient, less sarcastic daughter.  Which proves it doesn’t matter how many times you write down what you want, sometimes you’re not going to get it?

I want rocks.  They have wonderful personalities that live for procrastination.  It can take a rock tens of thousands of years to form into a sparkling piece of quartz or jasper.  During that time, the rock is happy to sit where it is through rain, drought, and ice ages. This kind of patience inspires me to drink coffee until noon, take a two-hour nap, and then work for 30 minutes. 

            I finally gave up the daily want list.  All I learned about myself was I didn’t want my life controlled by some anal, list-making, got-an-answer-to-everything-but-reality expert.  Hey maybe that guy was right after all!

            

Try Rolling on Your Make-Up

“You should try rolling on your make-up,” my daughter, Billie said determined to improve on the “look” God gave me.

“Do I need a trowel too?” I’m no Gisele Bundchen, but I didn’t know I needed as much renovation as a 200-year-old farmhouse.

“No, it’s the new applicator trend.”  Billie laughed. (Why does she always laugh at me, I’m getting a complex.) “It’s a pinkie wide mini foundation roller.  It helps you smooth on your make-up evenly and with better coverage.”

“Seriously? By the time it rolled over my pointy chin and got caught up in my wrinkles I’d look like a zebra.”

“But a very young zebra.”

“ I don’t care how well it works. The only roll-on I’m using is my deodorant.  Otherwise, one sleepy morning I’ll roll make-up on my armpits and deodorant on my face.”

“I understand when you get old it’s hard to tell your pits from your face.” 

“Watch the old cracks,” I fired back. “Just because my face is growing more hair than my pits is no reason to be insulting. Next thing you’ll want is for me to try a see-through bra and thong.”

“You should see the new Paris line at Screw-You-Wear.  Lime green lace bra with matching thong.”

“Explain to me Billie, how paper-thin lace and a fishing line strap can support anything.”

“They’re sexy, not supportive.”

“How much does sexy cost, because I can be supportive for twenty bucks?”

“$375”

“You expect me to spend $375 on a sag bag, and a pantie that is held together by squeezing my butt cheeks?”

“Well, yeah.” Billie was starting to loose her patience with me. “You could at least spring for a pretty lined underwire version.”

“No way am I putting a wire anywhere near my underpants.”

“In the BRA mom!”

“Oh, it might work if they’re using heavy duty baling wire.  How do I keep the panties on?”

“Instead of a thong, you can get lace panties with spandex.”

“There are two words that do not go together: lace and spandex.”

“I take it this means you are not trying the underwear or the make-up roller?”

“Actually, I think I’ll buy the make-up roller and use it to roll the cellulite into my granny pants.”  The phone line went silent.  “Billie, are you there?”  I cannot believe she hung up on me AGAIN.