Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your...DREADS?

After two full years, it is finally time. I am getting my hair cut. Before my Nooz was born, my hair wouldn't curl even if electrocution was involved. Heavy Mega Perms by Your Hair Just Died lasted exactly five days.

Due to hormonal shifts and the effects of Being Thirtyish, my hair now resembles that of an Irish Rastafarian or a really sloppy Quaker. I-40 serves as my blow dryer, as no comb or brush can make it through this disaster of a 'do without breaking - or pulling mounds from the roots. I generally wear it in a bun, even at night. However, the bun is now so big that I wake up with headaches. It is time for this 'do to be DONE.

At 10:00 on Saturday, it will be complete. I estimate that somewhere between ten to sixteen inches will be lopped off. That will bring it up to my shoulders. I have yet to decide what style, as previous attempts at style and fashion have fallen flat.

Take, for example, the dismal 'do of '82. I was in love with Joe Elliot from Def Leppard, and had my hair styled just like his. Bad boy mullet on a chubby pre-teen? REAALLY bad idea.

Then there was the infamous Pre Prom Perm (junior high). Reeking of ammonia while dancing to Tiffany, opening the sinuses of all around. Another bad idea.

This brings me to my Last Really Bad Idea. It was 1990. In college and itching for freedom, I SHAVED MY HEAD. Not completely, but close. My inspirations were the lead singer of Roxette and Susan Powter, of Stop the Insanity! fame. I looked like I had been shoved into a cave (did I mention that I also went bleach blonde?) and fed a steady diet of demerol and prednisone. Pale, stoned and bloated. Had I thrown in some wrinkles (and gone brunette), I could have passed as a rather short (and sturdy) Keith Richards.

Ok, now I am nervous. Maybe I should just leave it alone. After all, brushes are pretty cheap...and I-40 air is free.

I've Got my Eye[s] on You...

[This should partially explain my lack of blogging these days...Ed.]

Two weeks ago, my doctor said something I never expected to hear. "I don't like your eye color". I was flabbergasted. In the eighties, a Color Me Beautiful rep declared them 'French Blue' and told me that they were perfect. What did Dr. Doogie have against blue eyes?

"It's the whites that concern me, Renn", he explained. "Because they aren't. White". This explaination triggered great fear. My heart raced; I began to sweat. What was it? Mesothelioma? Tourrettes? Protein deficiency? Hoof in Mouth disease? A truck stop tuna sandwich? Concern switched to panic; panic to shaking.

"We just need to run a few simple blood tests to rule some things out. We will check you out head to toe. We're going to figure out why your eyes aren't white; why you're always so exhausted".

I raced home to my computer, expecting comfort from my warm friend - Web MD. Why-why-why did I look there? Two hours later, Chachi returned from a meeting to find me in tears.

'What if I have Tuberculosis? What if it's Hep A, B or C? How will we explain HIV to a five year old?'

Chachi, the ever level headed love of my life, spoke calmly. "Renn. Turn off the computer. Go to bed. The main illnesses causing yellowed eyes are jaundice and lowered liver function. BOTH can be reversed. Leave WebMD alone, or I am blocking it."

I should take comfort in the fact that Dr. Doogie hasn't called with the results. I meet with him again next Monday. I really hope that it isn't mesothelioma...

Northern Fare

In the interest of fair play, I have scoured my mind for popular foods used in the north. While I am aware that many of these items are also available locally, they are generally used for entirely different reasons. My primary example of this would be Fluff. In the south, it is merely an ingredient in some sort of high end, delectible fudge. Many nervous breakdowns have occurred due to its difficulty. In the north, however, we slather it on bread with peanut butter. Problem solved.

My next choice is probably less obvious. While available in higher end markets in the south as a 'delicacy', Moxie is the RC Cola of the north. It was created in a lab. By accident. If I remember correctly, the scientists were trying to make cough syrup of some kind. I miss the stuff terribly, but it is a hit or miss type of drink. You love it or hate it; there is no middle ground. I happen to love it.

I also miss Country Kitchen Donuts. While no Krispy Creme or Dunkin' Donuts, these are boxed in groups of 6, with each donut sealed in its own pouch. I spent many mornings in high school chowing these down with a large glass of milk. The chocolate powdered donuts are espeically good.

It is obvious that the above three choices are personal favorites; they are all hits in my book. The next items are foods that still invoke gags and nausea when I think about them. I haven't lived in the northeast for about 17 years.

Fiddleheads. These are baby ferns. THAT GROW BY THE POLLUTED RIVER. I can't think about them without inevitably turning my thoughts to this.

Olive Loaf, Pimento Loaf and Macaroni and Cheese Loaf. Ick, ick and ick! A trifecta of horror. Throw immediately into File 13, under 'bastard children of bologna'.

So there you have it. North vs. South according to Rennratt. Do you have regional hits and misses that you would like to share with the rest of us?

I (heart) Nerds, vol. II

The phone call started just like all of the others. Small talk about the weather, family back in Maine, old friends. Predictably, it turned to why I remained in West Virginia, and followed by 'So, when are you going to move down here?'

The weather was, at best, grim. Gray and sandy air hung outside my apartment, slush and ice scattered around me. It was 17 degrees outside, and I had just completed round one out of two at work. I was working double shifts at the redneck bar, with a 4 hour break in between. My days began at 11 am and ended after 3 the next morning. The money was decent, but I was exhausted.

It was one week before Christmas. In a matter of days, I was to board a plane bound for Maine to visit family for the holiday. Chachi would remain in North Carolina for Christmas, while his family, also in Maine, celebrated without him.

We had the same conversation, verbatim, every time we spoke. We had broken up five years earlier, while still freshmen in college. The distance had finally gotten to us; it was too far and we were simply too young.

Once a year, it seemed, fate would draw us back together for small talk - compliments of AT&T. But something was different this time. When he asked why I remained in West Virginia, I didn't chafe. I wasn't angry. I wasn't defensive. For the first time, I honestly didn't know why I stayed.

I told him about my trip back to Maine, and our call ended on a good note. He asked me to call him when I returned to West Virginia. Two weeks later, I called him back. When he asked this time, I didn't hesitate. I told him that I remained in West Virginia 'because it was better than Maine'. He understood. Predictably, he asked when I intended to move south. I opened my mouth to say 'I don't know'; 'When are you coming to get me?' popped out instead.

He came to get me the next Friday, on his 24th birthday. Despite the fact that he never actually proposed, we were married 8 months later.

Looking back all these years later, I must be honest. I fell in and out of love with a lot of different types and stereotypes over the years. When push came to shove, though, the hardworking, kindhearted honest nerd won me over. I wouldn't have it any other way.