Monday, February 27, 2006

Bad Hairdar

It's like the universe wants me to learn how to tell a wig, a rug, any fake hair from real hair. Or else.

Yes, I'm crazy. I've embraced it, you might as well too.

For as long as I can remember, I've been unable to be the first or even fifth person to realize that someone's hair is fake in any way. In fact, most of the time I am utterly amazed to learn that "she wears a wig" or "he's totally got a tupe/hair plugs."

I guess it actually says a lot about me and my gullibility. I take almost everyone/everything at face value. Well, aside from those things/people I've learned NOT to, like televangelists. And people in advertizing. But I mean everyday people. People I work with. People I see in the grocery store. Friends of friends, or even MY FRIENDS.

For instance, there was a co-worker at my office who literally had a different hair style every week. And every week I'd see her go by and think "Wow, she's so experimental with her hair!" There would be color changes and length changes. But here's the thing. It happened in a way that it went from long to my brain just figured she was really just trying to find a style she liked.

NO, NOT QUITE. Turns out she had the biggest collection of wigs ever owned. And I FINALLY figured out it wasn't "her real hair". And I felt like a total idiot. Years later I'd hear people discuss her wigs, as if it was controversial. I never really understood that, but at the same time, I felt like a moron because I couldn't recognize fake hair right away.

That person eventually left our firm. And here's where the universe tried to test me: The woman who took her place? Yeah, she came by my side of the office on Friday and TOOK OFF HER HAIR! She was showing some of the other girls how she could just "throw this thing on her head in the morning" and how she'd never have to "do" her own hair ever again.

I thought yelled at the forces that do this kind of thing to me: "You've got to be kidding me, right? So I can't recognize fake hair. That doesn't mean I need an unwelcome demonstration of it's fakeness while I'm struggling with my excel spreadsheet!"

And here's what I don't get. Aside from the obvious wiggery of drastic color/length changes and the person who just takes it off to show you how it do you people figure out what hair is fake and what hair is real? Do you dare say anything to the person? Or do you just figure it out on your own?

There was one time when I actually might have recognized fake hair before anyone told me about it. I had worked in an office for about 3 years with someone. I finally realized that her hair had been the same length, the same color, and pretty much the exact same style - for that entire 3 year period.

About that time our office changed locations and she didn't work with us anymore. BUT, I still can't think of her without my mind going "OH YEAH, she wears a wig...................I think......." And then I think in circles about why I even care if her hair was fake or not, and why I'm so frustrated that I never found out for sure.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

The Post Most Likely To Get Me Hate Mail

February is already Black History Month. I don't know who makes the official designation of what month will be what - but I've decided that February should actually be Me and My Coolie (Vagina, Cookie, Buscuit, Coochie, whatever term you prefer) month.

I'm not saying Black History Month isn't important. I believe it is. But, we need to give it to one of the 11 other months.

February has 28 days! C'mon! What further evidence could you possibly need in order to make this change? For those years with 29 days, we could have like, I don't know, Coolie Olympics instead.

I'd totally take Me and My Coolie Month ("M&MCM") a step further. You know how you are sitting around watching t.v. and some obnoxious commerical comes on about tampons, or maxi pads, PMS and menopause, that kind of thing? Well, I would make it so that those products could ONLY be advertized during the month of February. That's right. ILLEGAL to poke out the eyes and ears of the general public with femine concern commericals the rest of the year.

Oh my gosh, how great would that be?

I used to look forward to the day that my uterus would shrivel up and turn to dust. My biological clock definitely runs backwards. Unfortunately, every time I turn around lately some drug company is telling me that my human form will become nothing more than a vessel for draconian hormones of life change. That I will grow claws and fangs, and say "I'm hot, I'm cold, I'm I'm cold" while I perfunctorily slaughter anyone who innocently got too close to me when my expiration date came around.

I know I'd definitely be a lot happier if I didn't have to think about that all year.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Disturbing Trends in Medicine

What I'm about to go on about here is not eactly creative bloggery. I already understand that the Dear ________ format is tired. But I don't care. This is where I dump my observations in hissy fit format. It makes me feel better and hopefully I don't poke anyone's eye out in the process. But if I do, whoops by me. I hope you find an eye patch.

Dear Medical World,

Quit it with the baby turkey baster method of decongestant administration. Can't you people make an effective capsule or tablet? Nobody I know wants to stick something like this up their nose, spray something up there, pull the dispenser out and put a cap on it for later use! NOBODY. I don't care how effective it might be.

When I am congested, the last thing I want to do is put MORE runny stuff up in my sinuses so that I can play slow leak with my nose.

I've spent a good many years keeping things OUT of my nose. Everyone knows that kid on the block who put a peanut or green bean up their nose and had to be taken to the hospital. Not only that, but simply being alive in the 80s meant watching film after film about drugs going up one's nose and eating away part of one's face.

This product is about as appealing as tampons designed by Clive Barker.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

A Mystery Solved

When I first started dating Mr. Zoom, there was this cloud. This cloud was an ex girlfriend of his - from dang, I don't know how many years before I showed up. For those of you who know Mr. Zoom well, this is the one with the blonde hair. This girl was his learning relationship.

I say cloud, because whenever her name came up - people in the room would shiver. Or say "uuuh, no, no no no, let's not ever speak that name again." Even in e-mail, the mention of her name would bring a "reply to all" that read "STOP WITH THAT, WE DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT."

I had one of those myself. It was my first serious, long term relationship and I retardedly thought I'd marry the guy. I was a 19 year-old idealist in every possible way. When the guy started to distance himself and finally broke up with me, I was absolutely devastated.

But at the same time, it was the turning point in my life where I decided to go out and see what the world was all about. And I also learned I could do it alone, with friends or possibly bump into a future boyfriend or two. When I look back on it, it actually isn't a negative memory for me. I feel it's one of those moments that I can point to, one that led me to the great life I have now.

And the thing is, none of the people associated with Mr. Zoom knew me back then. The people he has around him have pretty much been there since elementary school. Because I am from a military family, I moved every 3 years. I atttended multiple elementary, jr. high and high schools.

I always wondered why she was such a pariah.

As Mr. Zoom and I got to know each other, we discussed our past relationships. I learned about the cloud. I'm not going to detail anything about their relationship because, it's not my place. But the more he talked about her, the more I stated to suspect there was a really big chance that I had actually gone to high school with her.

Which brings us to this Sunday afternoon. Mr. Zoom was working out in the garage. I took this opportunity to drag out my high school yearbooks. I brought them inside.

I only have three of them. My freshman year was spent at a high school in the middle of nowhere. That yearbook is lost. My sophmore, junior and senior years were at the same school.

I started with 1985, and looked for Ms. Cloud's name in the index. Nothing.
1986 - nothing.
1987 - DING!

She was a junior when I was a senior! Even seeing her picture in the yearbook, she didn't look familiar in any way. The high school was pretty big. And I wasn't exactly someone who mingled well.

Back then, we actually had a section on campus that was chain linked off. It was the smoking section. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? We actually had a school sanctioned place to smoke. That's where I spent every lunch and break. The skinheads, deathrockers/punkers and metal heads were all there too. There was even a sub-section of popular kids who dared smoke cigarettes. I hung out with the metal heads, skin heads, and deathrock/punkers.

I had a bleached white spikey haircut that I made into a mohawk - to the distress of my parents. I wore black and my Doc Martens every day. I had black finger nails. I wasn't allowed piercings or "anyting permanent" - so that was about as far as I went. Despite my looks, I was actually afraid of my parents and getting in trouble. I was also able to carry a decent gpa - except for math classes.

I took the yearbook out to Mr. Zoom and confirmed that yes, his ex and I did go to high school together. But that I don't remember her at all. And I doubt if she remembers me, either.

Mr. Zoom said "Aieeee, this actually gives me a very weird Lost vibe."

Freaking show has invaded every possible pore of my life.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Ah. Could've Been a Better Week.

With the enourmous production I make almost daily about going to work [to Mr. Zoom], you'd think I've still got a fever when I tell you...

I can NOT wait to get back to work.

It wasn't until Wednesday of this week that I believe I turned the corner from feeling crappier every day to feeling like at some point I'd be "normal" again. Advil had been my best friend in the world until Thursday. I can't tell you how happy I am not to have to drag the bottle around the house with me anymore.

I've seen too many talk shows. Maury and Montel. I've seen far too many Jerry Springer episodes. I've rented a bunch of films from the on demand - and they were all awful. But they were better than my choices on cable.

Very stinky daytime t.v. indeed.

I called my formerly amish mom a bunch this week too. Turns out, she's officially retired now. I can only imagine that the combination of both mom and dad retired is going to provide many a story for me to share with you.

For instance: Mom had noticed last October that the guest bathroom sink leaked. She asked Dad to fix it. She came home from work and it was fixed.

About December, Mom noticed that only hot water would come out of the sink in the guest bathroom. Concerned that her Christmas guests would, perhaps, flee her home while selling the story to the Enquirer, she asked Dad to fix it.

He didn't. And I used that bathroom at Christmas time and never even noticed there was no cold water.

So recently Mom called a plumber while Dad was at cooking class. The plumber took one look at the sink and said "Mam, someone has turned OFF the cold water under this sink. It's not broken. But it does leak when the water is turned ON.

She had him fix it.

Poor Dad. His fix was discovered. Although he put up quite a fight with the "I have no idea how that got turned off".

It's like watching my brothers and I 30 years ago, how we would try and pull one or more over on the parents or each other. And how we'd bold face lie about any knowledge of the crime. This will probably be fun.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Lie Down Before You Hurt Yourself

I've been sick. It started last Friday and just today I sorta feel better. Although not a lot better.

On Sunday morning, at 1:00 a.m., I awoke to the worst throat pain I've ever had. Oh, and I couldn't breathe at all. Mr. Zoom had let me sleep in our room and he was asleep in the spare room. I went in and woke him up.

We decided I should probably go to the er. Which we did. I got some breathing treatment that opened up my airway and a few x-rays. They told me I have tracheal bronchitis. They gave me liquid vicodin for the pain and a Z pack of antibiotics for the infection.

Now, I've had vicodin before. And I've been fine with it. However, it was not to be this time around.

I think we got home around 3 a.m. I had my drugs and was off to sleep in no time.

Abut 7:30 a.m., I awoke and couldn't breathe again. And I was burning up. Not just "oh, I'm uncomfortable" hot, but tearing off my clothes and swimming in sweat hot. I got up, actually stumbled up out of bed and headed for Mr. Zoom.

I kept shaking him awake. Understandably, he was a bit out of it. I could feel myself starting to faint. I could see stars, I was completely numb and dripping sweat the whole way over to him. I could only say "I'm sick, help me. I'm sick, help me." And then "I'm going to faint, I'm just going to lie down on the floor here."

And I did. It kept me conscious. Who knew that Lie Down Before You Hurt Yourself was not just a snappy reply, but actual advice?

About this time Mr. Zoom came completely awake. He's looking at his wife half nekkid, sweating, and mumbling - lying on the concrete floor. He jumped up and said "wait here."

But I didn't. I got up, and went back to our bed. Without even saying "What the hell is wrong with you?" he took my temperature. Asked if I wanted to go back to the hospital. (At this point, the temperature was back down to like 100, I think - which is where I'd been at before the first er trip.)

I said "no." And then almost immediately went right back to sleep.

Even for a Zoom, that's just plain weird.

I won't be taking Vicodin again anytime soon. I already have enough trouble with erratic behavior without freaking out the husband at 4 hour intervals in the middle of the night. And I did try the stuff again a night or two later (a half dose this time) and I woke up feeling like someone had hammered on my arms and legs all night.

So that's where I've been lately. I hope the rest of you are well.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Whoop Ass Cake

Mornings are not my favorite part of the day. Ever. Not even if I were waking up to chocolate french toast that could guarantee that not only would I not grow out of my latest round of pants, but that I'd be able to get back into the pants I wore 5 years ago.

Mr. Zoom isn't a morning person either, but he certainly hides it a lot better than I do. He even makes sure we are both up and out the door for work. Or I'd never ever go. Ever. Well, ok - I'd go, but my hours would be Noon to 8.

Now, Mr. Zoom has a thing with symmetry. In the bathroom, he has to hang the towels perfectly. Or it makes him crazy. CRAZY. I, for one, love this. I am usually so busy protesting being awake that I generally just leave bath towels where they fall until I get home at night. This way, Mr. Zoom hangs them up and I suppose, we all win.

This morning we were participating in our usual sass match when I decided it was time to pull out the secret weapon. While looking him in the eye, I shimmied over to the perfectly hung towles and tugged on the corner of one of them. THAT'S RIGHT, it was now CROOKED!! I was so proud of myself I could hardly keep still.

Mr. Zoom looked at me with sudden clarity and said "DID YOU JUST DO WHAT I THINKYOU DID?" I spent the next 10 minutes or so taunting him. "Does your universe feel funny now?" "How long do you think you can keep from rehanging that ?"

His response was swift: "The whoop ass cake is already in the oven. What is wrong with you?"

I'm just hoping a squeak and some eye batting will get me out of the revenge he finally dishes out - although he's pretty good at calling me out on my bullshit.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

The Cinnamon Rolls, They Smell So Good

Remind me to have some dinner before I shop the next time I get the brilliant idea to go running off to Ikea to meet Mr. Zoom after work on a Friday.

There's this thing about me. When I'm hungry, I "put on the cranky pants", as Mr. Zoom would say. That's actually a rather kind way of describing what we've come to recognize as "danger hungry".

If I'm forced to interract with anyone while in this particular mood, I'll shoot a hole in their soul with my conniption fit bazooka before anyone has a chance to throw a cracker at me. One might get away with a only flesh wound if the cracker actually makes it into my yapper.

Friday night I was in an ok hungry place when I got to Ikea. We spent a while there getting all of the things we've needed for the house that have been sold out for the last couple of months. I was standing with our cart, when a lady walked up to me and said: "Excuse me, but where can I find those carts?"

I verbally stumbled to tell her that they were located "over there" - pointing off to my left - "near the pet section, on the right...there's a dispenser over there that pops out the carts."

She looks at me and says "Aren't they over there?" as she points to my RIGHT, towards the cash registers. I think this was the exact, unfortunate moment that my blood sugar left my body and ran for the clearance section of Ikea without me.

I wanted to scream at her "IF YOU KNOW WHERE THEY ARE, WHY DID YOU ASK ME WHERE THEY ARE? Are you a mystery shopper? Because if you are, you suck. Because I DON'T WORK HERE. I'm simply a shy girl who finds it difficult to talk to strangers as it is, and I happen to have just lapsed into Danger Hungry. You asked me a question, and I did my best to answer it."

But I didn't. I just kindof squeaked in Mr. Zoom's direction and he took over for me. He politely told her that there might be carts by the registers, but we got ours from over by the pet section. She walked away, towards the pet section.

And then I started with the petulance. I said to Mr. Zoom, loud enough for many people to hear: "HOW can it be that she asked me a question, I answered it, and she ARGUED with me? Who does that? Who?"

Mr. Zoom, being on the receiving end of my hissyfit friendly fire got me out of the Ikea as fast as he could and drove us straight to some food. I'm still convinced my Mom paid him to marry me. I better tell her to start doubling those payments.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

She Called the Van Helsing Van HESSLING!

I think I've mentioned before that my parents adore going to the movies. They see pretty much every film that gets played in wide release. It doesn't seem to matter what it is. And the most reliable thing about them is that they love every movie they see. Or, at least like it. The only film my Mom openly hated was "Reservoir Dogs."

Drivel films with latest teen stars in them? They love em. Especially the remakes. "Herbie Makes Someone's Mortgage Payment" even got a glowing review.

My Mom said to me after seeing "Pirates of the Caribbean": "That Jack Sparrow is such a loveable scoundrel!" This made/makes Mr. Zoom nearly wet himself with glee. My mom said "scoundrel", and she meant it.

It's not that I don't recognize that if those movies make them happy, then why the heck shouldn't they see them? That's not it. The thing that kills me is that when they love all the movies - they spend our visits trying to convince me and Mr. Zoom that we must must must see all the movies too. And we can't very well take their opinions to heart since it doesn't seem to matter WHAT the movie is, they love it. My parents offer the movie world unconditional love - and attempting to logically discuss film with them is like trying to stop an avalanche with a spoon.

Oh, and once you are covered in snow with your spoon? You'll want to poke yourself in the eyes with it. Why? Because even if you wanted to hear Mom's opinion on the movie, you will spend at least 10 minutes sorting out the title of it. "The Lion King" becomes "The Boy King", and other such mangalations that I can't remember at the moment.

Can you all hear the frustration oozing out of my pores? Ok, just checking.

All of this, so you will understand why I nearly fainted when my Mom called today and said: "We saw 'The Matador', and it is simply awful."

I had to ask her to repeat that. Twice. it was as if she had suddenly learned fluent Spanish and I could freakishly understand her without learning it myself.

I immediately shot Mr. Zoom an e-mail, informing him that not only had my parents finally seen a movie in wide release that they hated, but Mom actually got the title right the first time she spoke it. His response was "I'm totally buying us a lottery ticket tonight."

Knowing our luck, we'll win the DVD anniversary edition of "Pirates of the Caribbean", in the first ever non-monetary lottery prize.