Sunday, December 24, 2006

"Auburn." The box clearly said, "Auburn."

On Friday, having decided that the skunk-in-negative look (blonde with a dark brown stripe) wasn't working for me, I decided to color my hair a lovely shade of auburn.

The look I was going for: Warm, sassy, Vail snowbunny.

The look I got: Angry, doped-out, trailer park punk rocker.

Yeah. I had pink hair. And to make matters worse, I didn't get all the hair colored, so I had pink, blonde, brown, and grey hair. I looked like a mutant peacock/flamingo hybrid.

So yesterday I dashed back into StuffMart to purchase a couple of boxes of dark brown haircolor, praying desperately that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. I entered the appropriate aisle, where an unfamiliar lady stood perusing the shelves with her teenage daughter. You know things are bad when a strange woman with a mullet the color of Ronald McDonald's hair glances at you and says, sympathetically, "Oh, honey."

Last night, I re-dyed my hair.

The look I was going for: A normal middle-aged woman.

The look I got: A middle aged woman who obviously should leave hair coloring to the professionals.

The ends are dark brown. The roots are auburn. SIGH.

May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be anything but pink.


Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Why You Should Buy Stock in Fruit of the Loom

After my last entry, with the mention of my bi-weekly run to StuffMart for milk and underwear, JenIg commented that she can't understand how my boys go through underwear faster than her dog produces yet another litter of ugly puppies.

Well, Jen, here's how it happens.

I start off with buying my boys enough underwear for each day of the week. By the end of the week,

  • 2 pairs have been lost to what might be described as "wedgie wear & tear." Please, if anyone from Quality Assurance at Hanes is reading this, I'm begging you to start reinforcing your boys' underwear in certain, ah, stress areas. I know many moms would line up around the block to be able to buy underwear that was labeled as "Wedgie Tested!"

  • 1 pair has been modified to fit the dog. When one is making basketball shorts, a fireman suit, or a Taco Bell uniform for the dog, one simply must cut a hole in the seat for the tail.

  • 2 pair are added to the compost heap in the boys' room. I don't know what kind of nuclear material is percolating in there now; all I know is that boxer shorts are the key ingredient, with socks added frequently for enzymatic action.

  • The remaining pairs are "lost." That's it, just "lost." This is one of the biggest mysteries of life, in my opinion. How do you "lose" your underwear? I mean, it's not like losing other clothing items. Take, for instance, a hat. With a hat, a guy might say, "Oh, gee, I think I left my hat hanging on the back of my chair at the restaurant." Now, if we replace the word "hat" with the word "underwear," it reads, "Oh, gee, I think I left my underwear hanging on the back of my chair at the restaurant." SAY WHAT? Or sunglasses. "Rats. I took off my sunglasses [underwear] when we went in Home Depot and I bet I left them in the plumbing department." How do you LOSE your underwear?!

And here's the final conundrum in the Great Underwear Disappearance Mystery: How can my boys lose their underwear, yet own eight year old t-shirts that should have disintegrated seven years ago from sweat, dog drool, and general boy-stink?

Thursday, December 7, 2006

Things you never thought you'd say to your children at Christmas

  1. No, I don't think a mustache trimmer would be a good gift for Grandma.

  2. I'm glad you paid attention during our studies on human reproduction, but please stop taking Baby Jesus out of the manger and telling guests that he's the size of a three month old fetus.

  3. Now you know why that poem says, "The stockings were hung by the chimney with care." And our spelling word tomorrow will be "flammable."

  4. Stop poking your brother in the cajunas with the giant candy cane.

  5. Yes, sticking a Polly Pocket under the gingerbread house so it looks like the Wicked Witch under Dorothy Gale's house would definitely be unique.

All that store needs is a trapeze artist.

I've come to the conclusion that the night shift at StuffMart is home to all those folks who were too weird for employment with the circus side show. Here are some of the guys whom I see on my regular midnight forays into StuffMart for the bi-weekly purchase of milk & underwear:

  • The little old man who greets me at the door with a nod and a smile. Actually, he seems pretty normal. But the other night I realized that there are usually only 3 other shoppers in the store around midnight, mostly because everyone in town goes home once Junior's Beer Barn and Video-rama closes at 11:00 pm. I did the math and Mr. Greeter is making about $20 per nod and/or smile. You know, I used to tell my sixteen year old son that if he didn't get better grades, he was going to end up as a greeter at StuffMart. Now that's looking like a decent career option.

  • George and Hoss, the fat, 40-ish, ponytailed guys who stock the dairy aisle to the accompaniment of their blaring boom box. George and Hoss remind me of those two guys on "Myth Busters," and I think George and Hoss might be testing out a few myths of their own, like whether or not milk will curdle when exposed to loud doses of classic rock. George and Hoss are always very friendly and helpful to me, though, shouting over the music, "DO YA NEED ANY HEP?" It dawned on me tonight that George and Hoss work in the farthest corner of the store from the pharmaceuticals. I wonder if the management at StuffMart planned it that way?

  • Jaysen. Creative spelling got its start in this community, I'm convinced. No one here can spell a name normally. If Jaysen had been named Jason, he'd probably be working at a law firm in Houston by now, instead of spending his nights among the pudding mixes. Anyway. Jaysen is visually the most interesting StuffMart employee. He has enlarged his ear lobes, with the use of large rings, to the size of a dinner plate. This intrigues me, because I wonder 1) if he's going to move up to hula hoop sized rings next, and 2) if he once knew a girl who said, "Gee, I'd like to date a guy with ear lobes you could toss a Frisbee through." Call me old-fashioned, but it would creep me out if I cuddled up next to my guy and then felt his ear lobe slip down over my head and around my neck.

Yep, StuffMart at midnight is better than the Big Top, and without all the elephant poop. But if George and Hoss offer you a bottle of drinkable yogurt, DON'T TAKE IT.