The Odd Broad

Hair.

Oh Lacey, my feisty Brazilian bombshell, you who cut my hair so intuitively for nearly a decade; how I miss thee!  It's been nearly two years and I have yet to find anyone to replace you.

Tonight I stopped into a new salon, a promising looking neighborhood spa.  Five minutes prior, I'd decided to do something radical, ie: blunt bangs, but the hairdresser must have sensed this choice was purely hormonal because she voted against it, despite the fact that she herself had bangs.

No matter, because I was still getting my hair cut to my collarbone.  That would be a change, at least.

The stylist was a soft spoken, sweet faced young woman who made pleasant enough banter.  Until she got me by the sink, that is.  Once there, she unleashed upon me a surprise attack so aggressive, so militant, so wrathful, that I sort of wanted to weep.  She gave me a head massage. 

Don't they usually ask before they administer that sort of thing?  A little warning would have been nice! 

It must have lasted ten minutes.  Ten minutes of hellish torture.  I only know when I realized it wasn't conditioner she was feverishly working into my scalp, but a second lathering of shampoo, I nearly fainted in the chair.  Just rinse me, bitch, for the love of God!   

Was this supposed to feel good?  Or somehow be therapeutic?  Was there a hidden camera somewhere or something?  Was this person having an especially bad day?  Had she just been dumped by her live-in lover?

She was violating my scalp.  Now, as a rule, I don't enjoy professional massages.  Too painful!  But this was ridiculous.  I know I am thirty-one years of age, and I probably should have spoken up and put an end to the forceful temple pressing, but I never really found an opening.  There was never a, is the water too hot?  Or, does this feel nice...or excruciating?  No conversation at all, in fact, once the water was running.  It was the damnedest thing.  Also, the Miss Manners in me didn't want to insult the poor thing.  After all, she obviously thought she was doing me a nicety. 

Before she was through, she delivered a vigorous neck torture treatment.  Needless to say, that didn't feel nice, either.  For the love of all that is holy, please make it end!

"Thanks?"  I tried not to phrase it as a question, but I couldn't help it.  "You're welcome," she answered, with obvious pride in her tone.  Perhaps her other customers actually enjoy it.  Where on earth did she learn to do this, Beauty School, or in a back alley somewhere?

The thing is, I actually like the way she cut my hair, but I'm not sure I can get over her going all spontaneously apeshit on my head.  It may be too big of a hurdle for us to surpass.  At this point, what could I possibly say?  "Hey, remember that head massage you gave me the last time?  LOVED it, by the way, really nice technique, but could you please NEVER DO IT AGAIN? 

Ah, well.  Anyone have any Advil?

Holey Moley (Part II)

The mole removal (on the very delicate area, ie: my right breast, barf) went swimmingly.  In the end, the procedure was pretty painless and only took about a half hour.

Since it was such a nice day, I decided to walk from Copley Square down to Mass General.  By the time I arrived I'd gotten a little shvitzy: my feet were totally sweaty from the stroll and smelled the opposite of nice.  Dear Lord.  I made a little joke about it to the doctor, and again to the nurse (after she explained she was "cracking the door a bit" because it was "kind of stuffy" in the room.)

"Don't worry, we can't smell your feet," the doctor smiled.  Well, I certainly could.  I'd pushed the offending pair of shoes way under the little chair containing my clothing, but still.  The doctor and nurse were wearing masks anyways, so after a minute I decided to let it go.  I had bigger fish to fry than strangers questioning my personal hygiene.

Now, I have a fantastic tolerance for pain (I was once in a head-on collision and was told by the ambulance driver that I was the most cheerful patient she'd ever seen), but I can't say I was excited for the mammary slicing to commence.  "I'm going to inject the needle now, how about you take a deep breath and think about being on the beach in Aruba?" 

After that, the only painful thing I had to endure was the neverending barrage of smalltalk the two of them subjected me to.  (Personally, I find inane banter with strangers highly unpleasant.  I despise it at the hairdressers, the dentist, and this was certainly no exception.  In all fairness, the woman was slicing into my breast, did I really need to tell her how my husband and I met?  Had I not earned a little silence?)

When it was all over, she told me: "I used the smallest sutures I could, even though I know you keep saying you don't care what the scar looks like."

Yikes.  This is not what I wanted to hear from the woman who'd just stitched me up.  Had I really given off that strong of an I don't care vibe?  Because I kind of do care, don't I?  I mean, I assumed the scar would be a battle wound of sorts, something to be proud of, to show the neighbors, but all the same...that doesn't mean I don't give a good crap!

Instructions were given.  No alcohol for five days.  (Thumbs down).  No heavy lifting or strenuous activity for 2-3 weeks!  (Thumbs up!)  Also, I will have to wear a bra 24 hours a day. 

"To bed, you mean?" I clarified, since I already don a bra during my waking hours. 

Reader, I never fully appreciated just how liberating it is to take off one's brassiere before hopping into bed at night.  Trying to fall asleep that evening, wearing that godforsaken under-wire contraption, was not the stuff my dreams are made of.  Around 4am, I got up, launching many f bombs into the quiet of the early morn.  I whipped off the sonofabitching bra and hurled that f*cker against the wall.  After that I fished around in my dresser until I found a bathing suit top.  (Not ideal, but at least it didn't have underwire.)

After all of this is over, I may very well burn my bras (old timey style), such is my current distaste for those constricting undergarments.  (Referring to one's underwear as "mutha effer" is surely a strange new low.)

On Saturday, after the prerequisite 48 hours, I could finally take off the bandage and shower.  (I'd taken baths up until then.)  It was time to face the music.  Only, I felt nervous.  I called out to Hubby and asked him to come into the bathroom.  "Does it look bad?" I asked.  "No?" he answered, but why did he phrase it as a question and why was he making that face and sucking air through his teeth?

The stitches were larger than I expected.  You know when you're a little kid, and you make stitches when you're drawing Frankenstein's face?  That's how the bottom part of my right boob looks.  It's all very science project-y.  (Sissy, ever kind, has taken to referring to me as Frankenstein.) 

And so, my chest is a little tender, but the mole is gone and good riddance.  All in all, it was a breeze!  A walk through wine country with two large goblets.  Stitches come out on June 1st.  Granted, I've been spontaneously clutching my right breast from time to time, but that's not unusual.  And I'm quite certain you would be too.

In closing, I would say to you, Dearest Reader: Be kind to your skin.  It's the body's largest organ.  Slather on your sunscreen; and consider making a date with a dermatologist for a skin cancer screening.  xoxo

Holey Moley!

Today's the day, Dear Reader.  I'm heading over to mass General to get that bastard mole removed.  I can't say that I'm looking forward to it, but as Hubby pointed out last night, it has to be done. 

More musings later.  xoxo

Odd's Reflective Perspective

Sometimes people say the most ridiculous things.  Honestly, there are times when I feel as if my only options are to either constantly contradict or perpetually bite my tongue.  And, let's be honest, both choices feel unpleasant.  But how should one react to an asinine statement?  (What would Miss Manners say?)

Someone made a moronic comment the other day about our new grill.  I'd just mentioned that I hadn't been too interested in learning how to use it, and how maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing (wink, wink) when the person I was speaking with went into a curious spiel about how men are naturally good at grilling, but how none of them are able to cook in a kitchen, only on a grill.

Huh? 

I contradicted her.  I had to.  Hubby has been cooking for me (on a stove) for as long as I've known him!  He was preparing dinners for me before I even learned how to cook!

I fielded similar remarks after I went vegetarian; as in, "What's your husband going to do?  Is he going to have to give up meat now, too?"

Um, NO?  He possesses the ability to purchase and prepare meat himself, thank you very much!

The other day Hubby received a rather strange comment concerning the grill, namely: "Oh good, now you're a real grown-up.  You can cook on this, and not have to rely on anyone else to eat!"

Huh?  What you talkin' about, Willis.  Am *I* meant to be the poor wretch whom Hubby relies upon for his nourishment, PRE-grill days?  Because I think perhaps I am, Dear Reader.  I think perhaps I am.

What's all this nonsense about?

Hubby brushed off this prehistoric comment, clarifying that he cooks, and often, inside our tiny kitchen; but the grill is nice, too, because he can cook a steak and not stink up the entire apartment. 

Anyone who'd think Hubby would be averse to taking a turn in the kitchen surely doesn't know him!  Or me, for that matter.  But the question is, should I care?

Later, when I get wind of this bizarre exchange, I sit, at the very desk I'm typing at now, seething my arse off.  (Oh, I'm a wonderful seether when it comes to chauvinist remarks, and I could really dig my teeth into a comment such as this.)  But I'm tired.  Very tired.  And my soap box is all the way in the living room closet.  And then Hubby looks at me with those piercing blue eyes of his and in that moment I love him more than I feel annoyed about some careless, inaccurate suggestion.

I'm thirty-one years old.  I know it's silly to waste time feeling irritated over stuff like this.  Outrageous statements are simply that: outrageous.  And as Eleanor Roosevelt once famously declared: "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."  I remind myself of this when I turn over similar remarks in my mind, collected over time from all sorts of people, echoing between my ears like so many unpleasant, menacing accusations.  It makes me wonder why, in general, does it bother me so much when someone doesn't see me for who I am?  Why does that still manage to creep under my skin?  Why does it always feel like someone is forcing me to put on a jacket that just doesn't fit, one that itches and cuts off my circulation? 

People just aren't always going to "get" one another.  But if someone concocts a dreadfully wrong idea about me, or Hubby, or anyone I love, for that matter, should I even give a good crap?  (If a tree falls in an empty forest, yadda, yadda, yadda...)

Mastering the art of indifference in the face of blazing ignorance is a talent I've yet to fully grow into.  But even so, I'm stretching.  In the meantime, I'm trying not to let it chap my ass so much.

xoxo

Hubby graduates! (Almost)

Two Saturdays ago, on a rainy morning in May, Hubby graduated from Berklee College of Music.  (Well, he'd like me to clarify: he participated in the commencement ceremony, but still has just over a semester left until his studies are officially complete.) 

It's been a long time coming; nearly ten years, in fact, since he'd had to leave school.  I couldn't be prouder.  I screamed out his name as he walked across the stage, my heart just about ready to leap out of my chest. 

During the commencement (after the provost suggested it was time for the world to collectively "strike a righteous groove"), the other speakers often gave shout outs to the parents and grandparents of the graduates, because it was their day, too.  What about...spouses?  I silently pondered.  (After all, hadn't I been working my ratty cuticles to the bone over the past two years, supporting us in the style of Jennifer Cavalleri Barrett in Love Story?  Do I not work the proverbial diner all day, as Gina did for her Tommy, after he was forced to put his six string in hock?) 

I do realize, however, the number of married graduates are most likely a minute percentage; and Hubby, at thirty-one, albeit with his baby face, is still older than the vast majority of the other students.

When Hubby reached for his diploma, though, I felt as though I were up there on that stage with him.  My heart was so full.  "This is your day, too, you know" my dad said as he winked and gave me a squeeze after the ceremony. 

It's difficult to go back to school when you've been away for more than a decade.  The curriculum feels distant and unfamiliar, the other students impossibly young and often times annoying.  But returning to school after a long hiatus can be done, and done well.  The Hubs has raised his cumulative GPA up significantly from his time there before, enough so that one department head told him it was a damn near impossible feat to achieve.  "You should be really proud of yourself," he'd told him.  The second time is a charm.  (Even if the first time around was a bit...hazy.)

Hubby's family came to town for the occasion, and it was wonderful to have them all there.  I could tell it made him feel really special.  My husband is a modest individual, but this was cause for celebration; he was going to be the center of attention, whether he liked it or not!  His parents said they wouldn't have missed it for the world. 

It was a happy day.  At one point, I stole a glance over at Hubby.  His face is just so cute that maybe every other day I feel compelled to tell him how handsome he is.  (He rolls his eyes, naturally.)  I don't need some groovy commencement speaker to tell me my husband appreciates me for working nine hour days while he earns his degree; because he tells me so himself.  If I could have created the perfect man for a weirdo like myself, it would be him, over and over again.  The guy makes me feel loved.  So loved.  If anyone ever tells you after twelve years a girl doesn't deserve a bear hug when she walks through the door, then they're wrong.  She does.  And there are certain men out there who will be more than willing to offer them.  I promise you.

I'm terrifically proud of that handsome Scorpio.  And the truth is, I love him more than I can ever say, although I'm sure I'll keep on trying to find ways to say it.  xoxo

Lunch Time Musings

It's fleet week in Boston.  Yesterday on my lunch break, a marine tried to get me to climb into his tank.  I declined.  Said no, thank you, but I wasn't appropriately dressed for tank climbing.

Later, back at work, I text Hubby:  The old lady's still got it!

The next day, I'm sitting on a sunny bench (away from the Marines) when all of a sudden I feel a hard smack! on my upper right arm.  What the?  Well that's going to leave a mark.

I look down and see a small white pebble lying next to me.  For half a second, I think, oh my God, did someone just hurl a ROCK at me?  But then I notice the dude with the weed wacker who's trimming the grass outside of Trinity Church.  He's standing suspiciously close to the white rocks strewn along the church's edge.

That bastard could've taken someone's eye out!  We share a momentary glance.  He offers nary an apology, but I pretend that his expression is repentant; ashamed, even.  (It is not, of course, but that's neither here nor there.)

Some time later, I'm getting lost in my Dennis Lehane novel when I notice the older man sitting two benches in front of me.  He's burping a baby, an impossibly tiny baby girl.  Her features are way too big for her little face, and as the man roughly pats on her back, I notice her eyes go bulging and goofy.  She looks like...a little old man.  The man (her grandfather?  her father?) lowers her down in front of him and her miniature face instantly lights up into a big silly grin. 

This teeny creature is so homely that she's suddenly adorable.  She breaks my heart, with her little old man expression.  I feel a burning lump in my throat, and my eyes begin to water.  I'm overcome by the strangest emotion.

Huh?  What the hell is going on here? 

I walk past the civilian yuppies attempting to do chin-ups, past the eager marine and his tank, past the chesty broad in the flesh colored tank top who's chatting up a soldier, and head into work.  Back at my desk, I text Hubby and tell him about the baby girl.  I wait for his response.  He writes back: "Homely is cute?"

Yes, in this case; I think it is.  xoxo

The incident

It's Saturday morning, and the sun is shining brightly on our cozy front balcony, beckoning me to come outside and bask in its gleaming rays.  And I would, truly I would, if there wasn't a dead bird out there.

A dead bird??  What??  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

To make maters worse, it happens to be of those cute, tiny little things, the kind that hop around on two legs.  And now those legs are sticking straight up into the air (from what I can see, since my hands are covering both of my eyes.)  By this point I've also instinctively removed my glasses to blur the grisly death scene. 

Is this some kind of a bad omen?  Have I been boozing too much and is the Baby Jesus trying to send me a warning?  I momentarily ponder the potential existential symbolism of finding a deceased animal on one's front balcony.  It can't be a good thing.

The bird's partner is standing there motionless beside it, just staring.  This I find incredibly sad.  I don't know how long it's been there, but it appears to be sitting shiva.   

Hey, Hubby?  HUBBY??  HUBBY!!!!

I inform my other half that there is a dead bird lying outside on our lanai.  (For this is what I've taken to calling our front balcony, in true Golden Girls vernacular.)  I watch nervously as Hubby assesses the situation.  I can see he has one of those looks upon his face, the kind he gets when he realizes he will soon be required to do something unpleasant. 

He goes back to bed for a minute and I sit on the couch, slouching down low so the bird is out of my direct line of vision.  Now, I consider myself a lifelong feminist, at times even bordering on the inappropriately bitter.  And yet, during wretched moments such as this, I rest safe in the knowledge that while there may indeed be a dead creature lying several feet away, I will not be forced to dispose of its birdly remains.  (Because that is my husband's job!)

I know, I know, I'm a chauvinist bastard.  But there you have it.  I am fairly unapologetic in my stance on this.  I realize it's a paradox, that a feminist would expect her husband to perform certain macabre household tasks based upon his lack of ovaries.  But let's face it- there is no way in hell I'm picking up the carcass of a dead animal.  

My thoughts turn to the night prior, when we sat outside sipping cocktails, being entertained by the unsuspecting inebriated townies below.  (Our new favorite pastime.)  I was curled up in my purple blanket, barefoot, relishing the crisp night air and the distant sound of young yuppies trying to hail cabs. 

Oh, God.  Was the bird already dead then?  Did my blanket skim the bird? 

I look at said blanket now, carelessly strewn across our couch, possibly oozing with E. coli.  I think I may be sick.

Hubby and I decide that we would've known had there been a dead bird lying at our feet.  The mere notion of this atrocity gives us both the willies, however.  But the porch had been illuminated by LED candlelight, and there was no way we could've missed a dead bird.  But when (and how) the heck did it die, then?

Just because Hubby is male, it doesn't mean he finds this morbid undertaking anything other than a total Nightmare on Elm Street (Parts I, II, and III).  I suggest he use two Improper Bostonians to scoop up Birdie, then place him in the empty Arugula container I fished out of the recycling bin.  (I'm helpful!  See?  Aren't I so helpful?)

Hubby looks skeptical.  I watch as he tentatively approaches the corpse, brow furrowed, his nose slightly crinkled.  He seems to be postponing the inevitable.  I spy the pail and shovel sitting on the tiny chair we bought for The Wonder Nephew.  "Just use Lukey's shovel to do it," I call from behind the safety of the screen door.  "We can always buy him a new shovel."

Hubby naysays this, suggesting the shovel isn't big enough. "But that's a tiny bird!" I counter.  He is too preoccupied, however, to become annoyed by my backseat dead bird comments. 

I run to the kitchen and return with a pair of rubber gloves I bought to wash dishes with but never use.  I offer them to Hubby.

"Can't I use the dustpan and we'll just get a new one?" Hubby wonders.  It seems like the easiest solution, and it works nicely.  I offer up a silent prayer for the bird's soul as I watch it drop unceremoniously into a brown paper Trader Joe's bag.  Poor little thing.  It's not a dignified way to go, but all the same...where does one bury a bird in South Boston?

Sometime during this ordeal, I recall the loud THUD I heard while lying in bed that morning.  (What was that?  I remember thinking.)  So the unlucky bastard must have flown into the French doors and died upon impact.  (Damn you, Windex, and damn your streak-free shine!)

This solves the mystery of the bird's unfortunate demise, and also rules out my two other more sinister theories: the disgusting squirrel theory, or the slightly more disturbing bird randomly dropping dead on front balcony theory.  We decide to douse the outdoor rug with Clorox cleaner.   

Afterwards, Hubby and I sit and share a moment of quiet reflection.  And then the handsome man poses a question, a dreadful question, and one that just so happens to be sitting right on the tip of my tongue:

"Do you think this is gonna happen often?"

Mamma mia.