My Toe is Still Attached...

So we didn't travel during the holiday weekend. We did, however, spend Saturday evening at a cookout...located precisely two doors down from our own. To call the experience interesting would be an understatement so obscene that head slaps would be necessary. In spite of this fact, I can not locate a word accurate enough to describe just how...uh...different...it really was. As a result, I will list an overview of what was learned:

1. Our neighbor (two doors down) escaped his country of origin on HORSEBACK to avoid being killed by rebels that opposed the army. (He was IN the army...) It took him over a month to get to the US. Yes, he is legal. No, he is not Mexican.

2. He married an African American woman...who is madly in love with KENNY ROGERS.

3. Our Across the Street Neighbor informed us that, as of Saturday, his (now) ex-wife is out of prison. She will likely come for a visit.

4. We were served Menudo, Chili, Ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, sausage, and an entire pig. Well, except the head. THAT was inside the fridge waiting to be made into head cheese.

5. There was much beer and tequila. [We brought five cases of soda...]

6. Bocce is actually MORE FUN than croquet. And definitely less dangerous when you're expecting someone fresh out of prison to come knockin'.

7. One of the visitors was introduced as the Crocodile Murderer. It seems that, every time she visits Florida, she runs over one. One such ordeal involved her driving a Dodge Neon. Her husband (introduced as Big Ole Bubba) sat quietly and shook his head the entire time. I know the mental picture that y'all have of this couple. Erase it and replace with the truth: She is maybe 5' tall and a buck ten tops; he is 6'4" and around two twenty. Also? They're both African American.

8. Our Right Next Door Neighbor blasted sixties music from his Sirius Radio. From his TRUCK, which he parked in the back yard, not 15 feet from where we were eating.

9. I caught our Across the Street Neighbor staring blatantly at my chest. More than once. If he hadn't cocked his head to the side and looked puzzled, I may have said something. Must. Remember. Not. To. Wear. Shirts. With. Words. On. Them.

10. I was warned that Two Doors Down (male) Neighbor was 'Such a chatterbox, he'll talk 'til your head falls plumb off.'

I really, really, REALLY need to start carrying a video recorder everywhere I go.

No Longer Kashrut*

I didn't spend the long weekend at the beach, as I am a pasty white blond with no need for melanoma.

I also can't swim. Not well, anyway.

The family and I, being inhabitants of a town-let just the other side of Nowhere (and ten miles outside Tarnation) spent our holiday weekend around the house. With petrol rapidly reaching $4 per gallon, it was probably in our best interest to stay near the domicile.

Unless we wanted to sell our organs on E-Bay, anyway.

We were, however, invited to a neighborhood cookout. Chachi, being the good neighbor, accepted the invitation and then told me what we were going to bring. Things usually work out that way around here. This time, however, we were not bringing eleventy-two dozen cookies or a smattering of the Crack Brownies. We were bringing soda. THAT is a difficulty I'm okay with.

Saturday finally arrived, and it was almost time to go down the road. Then the weirdest thing EVER happened.

I realized that it was too hot to wear jeans. Honestly, people? It is never too hot for me to wear jeans! I am The Cold One in the family. It could be 18 degrees; it could be 118 degrees. It really doesn't matter. I'm usually wearing a sweater and long pants. I think I've been this way pretty much forever, save the Summer of the Microwave Woman when I was pregnant with the Nooze. So obviously, this sudden realization of HOT OUTSIDE! took me by surprise.

I decided I'd wear Capri's.

Then I realized I needed to shave first, as I had been invited to dinner, not Sasquatch. So I ran to the bathroom and prepared to shave. To the knees only, though - since I was wearing Capri's, not short-shorts. [Those, quite frankly, would require a miracle, a day spa and possibly a narcotic...]

The first leg (left, of course!) went without a hitch. I was Sona smooth (okay, Bic stubbly) in no time at all. Then my right leg. Other than a few unexpected glitches (psoriasis, you butt head!), all seemed to be fine. Until I took my right leg down to place it on the floor...and grazed it on the edge of the tub.

Now I know y'all are sitting there rolling your eyes at the drama of it all, but really. Y'all? I saw stars.

Thankfully, Chachi was standing close by. [Pacing. And shaking his head. And muttering why do you wait until THE last second to stop and decide to shave your legs or check the back door or make sure the stove is off? We're supposed to be next door, not dotting your legs with my styptic pencil!]

Then he stopped, mid rant. And just looked at my foot. Then he exhaled sloooowly and said "Oh. WOW. HON." "Do you need to sit down? Does it hurt? WOW. Just. WOW."

Thing is? It didn't hurt. Nor did it throb. Or ache. Or...anything, really. I just felt REALLY light headed and slightly nauseous, without really understanding why. Until I looked at my pinkie toe. Then I nearly passed out.

Apparently, when I had 'grazed' the edge of the tub, my pinkie toe had taken the brunt of the hit. Right on the corner of the tub. Thanks to psoriasis, my fingernails and toenails are extremely sensitive. They tend to do things like peel and crack and get ridges.

They also, apparently, like to split right down the middle. As they are leaders, they like the appendage to follow suit. As a result, my pinkie toe is now less like a pinkie toe and more like...uh...a cloven hoof.

I suppose that any normal person would have packed it in and headed to the ER. I think we've assessed that, quite frankly, I am not that kind of person. As a result, we numbed it with antibiotic with pain relief and threw a band aid on it. Then sneakers.

I also took pain meds.

We still went to the cookout. I am so, so, so glad that I did.

Even if part of my toe is now falling off.

*I don't chew my cud.

Dear H*t T*pic Guy

Dear H*t T*pic Guy:

I realize that the point of your store and over all attire is to attract attention. I also realize that, in the name of [mass] creativity, your clothing and hairstyle choices may not be what 'average' moms like me may like. In fact, as you have accepted the role of Creative, Defiant, Puberty Stricken Rebel, this may well be the point.

However...

There are a few things you really need to know. Please heed the following:

1. Unless you plan to work at H*t T*pic for years to come, or are just waiting for that Record Deal with Emo/Crunk/Wannabeez, your look will need to change.

2. You will reach an age where working at H*t T*pic will be a detriment to your reputation, as you will become The Creepy Guy. That title isn't as far off as you think.

3. Girls' jeans belong on girls, not on s*xually confused teenage boys.

4. When adults encounter you in public, they should not feel like dirty p*rverts. You will [hopefully] understand this soon. Preferably before you become The Creepy Guy at work.

5. If, upon seeing you, a seven year old is forced to blurt out, "Oh, come ON! Nobody needs to see that!", it's a sure sign that your attire needs to be reconsidered. Those girl jeans you were wearing were an atrocity.

6. In the name of all that is good and right, please comb your hair out of your eyes. Then call your mom and tell her.

I have no doubt that would make her very, very happy indeed.

Done! **Updated**

Photo has been removed

My hair has been cut and colored. We skipped the henna for now, as the stylist was unsure how it would take. Apparently, this shop doesn't see many blondes - calico (aka dishwater) or otherwise. I explained my ultimate goal ("Please cover the gray for now, as my wrinkled brow does enough damage in the Old Sector.") She gave me two options: go lighter or darker.

Instead, I opted to let the stylist choose. She opted for slightly darker, and highlighted it with red. She also cut GREAT layers into it, and then curled it with a big ole curling iron. It falls just above my shoulders, and parts on the side.

I also had my eyebrows threaded for the first time ever. Can anyone join me in yelling 'buh-bye!' to wax?! (I had 'em waxed once. My entire forehead swelled up; I looked like a Klingon!)

I believe, after years of "once a year" visits, that I may have found The Place. I cringed at telling Chachi the price tag for all of it, as I have generally spent less than $30 per year on my hair/haircuts. He grinned when I told him, and noted that he averages more than that every few months! *Whew*. I love that guy!

I have taken pictures, but am having a tough time uploading them.

My tech team* is currently working on this, and I should have a photo uploaded soon.

*Chachi

Ch-ch-ch-chaaaaaaanges!

As of Saturday afternoon, I shall be sporting a brand new 'do.

I have finally made an appointment with a Spa/Salon North of Here. As said spa is an Indian Place, I shall have the brows threaded as well.

Also? I'm leaning towards a shorter version of Now (hair parted on side, all one length) - but with henna streaks.

Oh, yes. Renn is finally getting over Herself.

Unfair

You never realize what you're holding back until you lose your mind completely.

I thought I was doing fine. I was moseying along through life, one day at a time, making things work.

Until today, when things just didn't work at all any more.

I woke up feeling 'off'. Not quite stressed, not quite worried. Just not quite right, either. So I hopped out of bed, fed the dogs, hooked them outside, began the laundry. By 11 am, half of the house was clean.

Things still weren't right. In fact, they were somehow less right than when I had woken up at 7 am.

I was snapping at my kid, snarling at the world as a whole.

Chachi came home from work, and things got even worse. I was yelling, stomping, behaving like a temperamental two year old, really.

As only my husband could, he softly said, "Renn. What is wrong, honey? Hard boiled eggs and laundry just don't throw this sort of mood on you."

And try as I could to stomp off and scream, I couldn't. Suddenly, I was a crumpled mess on the bed, sobbing.

All I could say was "I. Miss. My. Mom!"

He picked me up, hugged me, and simply said, "Oh."

I was overtaken, out of the blue, with such melancholic rage that I was shaking. I yelled; I screamed; I stomped my foot at how unfair it all was. I sobbed the entire time noting how ungrateful I had been as a kid, how stubborn and mouthy I was. How I had caused her so much pain over the years.

And then I up and moved twenty two hours away.

And then she died.

Chachi said nothing the entire time. He simply sat next to me, handing me tissues and kissing the top of my head. I continued for a good ten minutes or so, stopping short of outright cursing and flipping off God and Jesus and Love as a whole.

My daughter paced in the kitchen the entire time, at a loss. Nooze is a fixer, and she was unsure if a Broken Momma could be repaired. So she walked back and forth quitely, waiting.

When I finally stopped for a breath, Chachi simply asked that, next time, I avoid holding it in for so long. It isn't healthy. I should know was all he added.

Then it hit me.

He really does know. Chachi lost his mother to cancer when Nooze was less than two months old.

Grief is a selfish bastard. It convinces you that you are all alone, that no one else understands.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

I wish that I could say I'm 100% now, that I've been fixed and I'm healed and hallelujah let's dance.

But that would be a lie. So screw it.

I'm not okay and I'm not perfect and life is no damn fair.

I miss my mother.

Happy Frigging Mother's Day.

Laughter - Medication for Idiots

We've all heard that "laughter is the best medicine". If this is true, I should be off all prescriptions by the end of the week.

The following gems have brought tear-induced laughter into my life over the past few months:

[These will either prove that I am certifiable or, as I have previously noted, my inner child is a fourteen year old boy.]

1. A co-worker openly farting onto the leg of another in the middle of the office. Both co-workers are a) MY EMPLOYEES and b) FEMALE.

2. Being greeted at the Mammogram with "Oh! I remember you! YOU need the BIG PLATES!"

3. Being told that my co-worker plans to name his unborn son Carmine.

4. My (farting) co-worker stating that, if #3 happens, the SON will be either a serial killer or a backup dancer for Siegfried & Roy.

5. My co-worker announcing that she works at a "strip club for fat chicks".

6. Sitting across from the Big Boss during a conference call (which lasted FOUR HOURS) and trading rude gestures, playing tic tac toe and doodling..while answering technical questions on OSHA compliance and standardization. [Thank God we're too cheap to install video streams...]

7. A rather interesting Nextel conversation with my co-worker The Dumplin' - which began with "Uh? Renn? I'm in a house?" - and ended, fifteen minutes later, with no clear indication of WHERE HE WAS or why he called me.

8. Attempting to edit field instructions that were translated into Spanish by BabelFish...and realizing that one of the instructions reads "Do NOT CRAP on the floor". It was supposed to instruct them to clean up debris after installation. I left the translation intact.

I was hoping for a solid "top ten" list, but have been sidelined with...cough induced laughter. I will confess that #7 is my favorite. It happened MONTHS AGO, and I'm still not sure where he was...

My Day in a Nutshell

Today just screamed "Monday!" from start to end.

And it's not even over. I still have to go grocery shopping.

Random Fact # 783

It is virtually impossible to discipline a beagle that has dimples.

Meetings, Meetings, Everywhere

Over the past two weeks, I have spent more time in Meetings than I have being Productive in my Real Job. Three hours here, four hours there...

As I told my friend R, "They either think that I am Someone Important or they are prepping me to be their cheerleader." Frankly, I'm not a fan of either option. I'd rather just be able to do my job.

Instead, I find myself sitting at random conference tables in a stuffy room, listening to the faint mumblings of someone in another city. All of these calls, I might add, are run by He Who Loves the Sound of His Own Voice.

If I am not allowed back at my desk soon, things will take a sharp turn for the worst.

Eventually, I will be found at the back of the room, scraping my wrists with a butter knife and doodling on the desk in my own blood. Just to escape the monotony.

Thank God tomorrow is Friday.