My last post was from work. Work #2, that is. (I can't blog from Work #1 because that's a no-no due to the fact I work for The Man, aka The Gub'ment.) Anyway, when I last blogged I was on my way to my Macro class with a gut full of a turkey/cheese/Miracle Whip sandwich that was questionable. Thank the Lord my class was cancelled because hooooooeeeee, that Miracle Whip was a baaaaaaad idea. I'm just sayin'.
We were all so thankful that class was cancelled. At first. Until the instructor said we'd just have to work extra hard to make up for a lost week of
I have discovered hair nirvana. I mean, absolute utter hair freakin' nirvana. Folks, it's all because of Miss Zoot and this post. I'm telling you, this woman is a guru. She has saved me from a bald head.
I have gone a week and a half now without shampoo. My hair is AWESOME. You have never heard that phrase on this blog ever before. Until now. In case you need me to repeat it - MY HAIR IS AWESOME. If you haven't read the post that led to this phrase please go read it now before you start thinking I'm a total skank and that I stink and that now you will avoid me in person if you see me. Go read it. I'll wait.
Okay, good. Now you will speak to me in public. And you will notice my hair and how awesome it is.
The night I made my conversion I was telling Paul about this revelation. He was SO not convinced. He listened, but I could tell he was very not much comfortable with the idea. He finally asked, "Well, could you just wash it with shampoo once week? For me?" I told him I would consider it and heck, after a few days I might even decide that shampoo is really the way. But a week and a half in now, I can safely say that no....I will not even shampoo my hair once a week for him.
And I really love him. But shampoo is not part of my life now. Bye-bye shampoo and frizz....hello AWESOME hair.
I was sitting at a peewee football Saturday night and it was humid, folks. I mean, so humid you just kind of wore the air. Everyone around me was either flat or frizzy. I sat there with my awesome hair and Tater's friend said she hated me.
That felt good. Someone hates me for my hair. Because it's that awesome.
Sunday after church we went to Mom's and saw, for the first time in nearly 30 years, some friends. Old friends. Not old like Grandma Moses old, but like old friends are the best old. We laughed till we hurt, laughed till we cried. It was wonderful.
At the peewee game Saturday night I ran into a woman that I did a Pampered Chef show for back in my direct sales days. She was a wonderful host, she's an amazing woman and I stayed in touch with her for awhile. Then, of course, we lost touch.
Turns out, the little girl in Kady's class that Kady is the "bestest fwiends wif" is her granddaughter. We said we're going to get together to visit. I hope we do. She will be impressed with my awesome hair.
I took Abby to the dentist in Tulsa today. Headgear rocking along as always. We go back in November for all three kids's 6 month checkups and cleanings and they'll also do impressions for Abby's new bite expander. It's pretty much like a retainer in that it's plastic and covers the roof of her mouth, except not removeable. That should be fun. She's not happy, but I'm all about avoiding the braces and still coming out with a kid with gorgeous teeth. This should do it.
The ride to Tulsa was filled with the songs and dialogue of Annie because Abby took along my laptop to watch movies. I normally am against DVD players in the vehicles, but occasionally will relent and let them take the laptop. The ride home was better because we talked. We talked about boys, school and stuff.
I will file that ride home from Tulsa away and remember it on the days she thinks I'm stupid and lame and boring and mean.
When I left for work this morning there was a strange dog in the yard. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes a stray will show up at the house. We always run them off because we're usually overrun with cats and we're usually broke and don't want to buy more animal food than we already are. But I didn't run this one off - for one thing I was wearing white pants and big chunk heels and figured kicking it would result in me either having to change clothes or me falling on my ass in the yard and then having to change clothes.
When Abby and I got home from Tulsa the dog was still there and the kids were dying to go out and play with it. Mom caught the other kids off the bus and said she wasn't going to let them play outside because she wasn't sure if it was friendly. I looked over to find the dog drooling on the storm door, looking oh so cute and after a quick test-pat, deemed the dog friendly and let them go outside.
He's brown and quite homely and being the unoriginal children they are, they immediately started calling him "Brownie" and "Spot" and "Brownie Spots" and several other names that involved brown and spots. After they'd shout out a name I'd yell "LAME!" and they'd shout out another. Someone hollered something that sounded like "Crock Pot!" to me and well...
We now have a dog named Crock Pot.
We have a black Lab/Chow named Jake and we now have a weimeramer mutt named Crock Pot.
And they live on Brokeback Mountain. Because Jake humps his new appliance-named friend every stinkin' chance he gets.
When Paul got home from work the kids ran out into the yard to beg their daddy to not run off their new dog. They excitedly told him his name and then Kady said, "Cwock Pot wikes to give Jakey hugs! Wike dis!" and then started to show how that special hug goes. And I quickly said it wasn't necessary, that Daddy probably already knew how dogs hug. After the kids went in the house Paul and I stayed outside to pet the dogs awhile and discuss just how expensive the dogfood bill is going to be from now on. Paul said, "Does Jake really hump him?" I nodded. He said, "You named him Crock Pot, Kristin. Of course, the other dogs are going to try to rape him."
It's no secret that my mother does not approve of the blogging by me, her eldest child. She fears for my safety because she's quite certain I will end up hacked up in a 55-gallon drum, buried in someone's backyard and she'll end up raising my kids because Paul doesn't know how to fix hair in a ponytail or cook anything more than a frozen pizza. I learned a long time ago that the less I say about my blog around Mom, the better.
Saturday night at the ballgame we were talking and I was telling her that I knew for certain that quite a few teachers at the kids's school read the blog. Her eyes got huge and she put her hand on my leg and said, "Then you should not be writing about the kids having chocolate donuts and meth for breakfast! What will those teachers think??" And as soon as the words came out of her mouth she knew she was so busted.
She read my blog. My mother read my blog.
This week cannot get much better.
I laughed because she was busted and then said, "Mom, I am a humorist. I write humor. I strive to make people laugh because I feel it's my civic duty to do so. Those teachers know that I don't give those kids meth. They know we are strictly a cocaine kind of family." That's when she declared the conversation over and started talking to Tater, the child she expects to not hear about on the evening news.
And to clarify - my kids really did not have meth for breakfast that day. They've never had meth for breakfast.
Because we only serve meth at dinner. You know, because dinner time is family time and the family that does meth together ends up in the state prison system together. And I'm all about makin' those memories.