Warts

I first got plantar warts in 2002, and they were extraordinarily painful. For something as innocuous as warts, I mean. Not painful like childbirth or something. I didn’t even know what they were at first, so I was walking around in pain, wondering what the crap had gone wrong with my feet, and then I visited my sister (the one without a blog for me to link to), and she said, “You might have plantar warts,” and sure enough, that was what I had. I went to the doctor and he applied the liquid nitrogen, which really hurt a great deal, but it made the warts either go away or become so un-bothersome that I didn’t notice them anymore. But eventually they came back, and here they are to this day.

The last time I went to the doctor–a different doctor than the one I had in 2002–she basically told me that there’s nothing I can do about my plantar warts because they’re just going to keep coming back and coming back. She applied some liquid nitrogen, but not in the direct, hardcore way my 2002 doctor did. 2002 doctor walked in with a styrofoam cup full of liquid nitrogen and a cotton swab and just liquid-nitrogened the crap out of those warts. Like I told you, painful–but effective. Current doctor has this spray can liquid nitrogen that is only maybe half a step more medical than the OTC freeze-off stuff you get at the Target, and it doesn’t hurt nearly enough to be effective. It doesn’t do a thing, really. No wonder she’s so pessimistic about my prospects. I need some real liquid nitrogen, lady. Or a doctor who believes in curing plantar warts. You have not inspired confidence!

Sorry to start talking to my doctor in the middle of the post. She doesn’t even read my blog, so I don’t know what I’m thinking.

Anyway, gentle readers. I have this wart problem, this intractable wart problem I’ve been living with for years, and it’s really getting on my nerves. My husband got a plantar wart a few years ago. He didn’t go to the doctor. He cut it out of his foot with a pair of manicuring scissors or something. I’ll give him this much: it’s gone. It hasn’t come back! But…ew. No. I’m not that hardcore. But I really want to get rid of these warts.

A while back I consulted a friend of mine who is a naturopathic doctor. She suggested banana peel or duct tape. I admit that I have never tried the banana peel thing. Don’t often have my hands on a banana peel at the appropriate time. I suppose I should reconsider this method, since I am technically desperate.

Speaking of unpleasantries, Mister Bubby told me last night that he’s decided to do his book report on Frank J. Fleming’s Obama: The Greatest President in the History of Everything. Yes, one of my cheap Kindle specials. Every time MB gets his hands on my Kindle, he reads the Obama book. He finds it hilarious, which is why he wants to do his book report on it. It’s an oral book report that he has to give in front of the class. I told him I didn’t think doing an oral report on this particular book was such a good idea. “Why not?” he asked. “There’s nothing inappropriate in it.” You can see that he has a somewhat naive perspective on appropriateness. I tried to explain that political satire is not really suitable for polite company–and I suppose applying the term “polite company” to a bunch of fifth graders is not really suitable either, but anyway–he didn’t get it. He seems to think I am trying to stifle his free speech. Which I am, of course.

“But I already got it approved!” he said.

“Really?” I said, in the most incredulous tone you can imagine.

“Okay, I didn’t get it approved, exactly”–Liar!–”but [the teacher] said you could choose any book that wasn’t a graphic novel.”

Okay, I guess that counts as “approved.” But not as “a good idea.” I mean, don’t get me wrong–I think the book is funny, way more than $1.99 worth of laughs if you enjoy that sort of thing. It’s an incredibly short book, sort of flimsy for a book report–but not a graphic novel. True. No pictures whatsoever, and if that’s the criteria for a suitable book, okay. But I don’t know. Injecting politics into a fifth grade classroom just sitting around minding its own business seems gratuitously provocative, in a rude way. There’s just something sort of rude about it. I’m trying to raise my children not to be rude.

Speaking of rude, I need to figure out how much to tip my hairdresser today. I’m going to a fancy-pants salon to get my hair done. I tend to tip 30-40% at a cheap salon because 30-40% of cheap is still cheap. 30-40% of an expensive haircut is a really expensive haircut. And what if I hate it? Yes, I’m already having second thoughts about the fancy-pants salon. My husband gave me a gift card. I think he’s trying to tell me something. I’m not taking offense or anything! I’m just trying to be appreciative.

Speaking of appreciative, I need to figure out what to make for dinner tonight, which no one will appreciate. No one! Not even me, most likely.

Aging gracefully

You know who I find attractive?

This guy.

I was just thinking of him the other day. Never mind why. I didn’t know his name. I’ve always just thought of him as “the guy who plays the cheerleader’s dad on Heroes.” I was never super-into Heroes. I don’t think I finished watching the second season. I dunno. I might have. It wasn’t very good. But anyway, I was thinking of him and didn’t know his name, so I Googled him–because I’ve been known to do that with the handsome men. I probably don’t have to tell you that. So I found out his name is Jack Coleman, and then I Googled the Google images of Jack Coleman, and what appears before my eyes?

This guy.

Yikes. That is to say, wow, that was not what I was expecting. Yes, that is Jack Coleman as he appeared on Dynasty twenty-something years ago. I never watched Dynasty. And yes, I understand that I missed out. What was I watching instead of Dynasty? Probably some great show that went off the air because it got killed in the ratings by Dynasty. That’s neither here nor there. I never watched Dynasty, so I never knew Jack Coleman as this hunky, eighty-licious doofus. I do not find this version of Jack Coleman attractive. It might be the haircut. The haircut is really bad. I mean, it’s almost emasculating. But I actually think it’s his youth that’s the real problem. The intervening years have made his face much more interesting. Without the crinkles around his eyes and the other tell-signs of aging, he’s just another thin-lipped punk in a polo shirt. A turquoise polo shirt. Yegh.

I think that men, generally, tend to get handsomer as they get older. Their faces have more character. Of course, there is a point at which the law of diminishing returns kicks in. Paul Newman was always handsome–he stayed handsome for a disgustingly long time–but was he more handsome at 80 or at 60? I’d say 60, no contest. (No offense, Paul Newman. I hope that in the afterlife, you are perpetually 45-50.) And there are exceptions. Robert Redford is always the first one that springs to my mind, but now that I look at pictures of him, I think I may be holding him to an impossibly high standard. (The Paul Newman standard.)

I think women also get better-looking as they get older, but the age at which they stop looking great and start looking great-for-their-age is much lower than for men. This is probably some kind of sexist crap that I’ve internalized and have no control over. It does pretty much suck. I have to say, though, that I feel more attractive at 40 than I felt at 20 (or 30), but I don’t know if that translates to actually being more attractive. I have to think it does, to some extent. I’m more comfortable in my skin metaphorically, even if the skin itself has seen better days. That has to have some positive effect, or at least a compensating effect.

On the other hand, I’m finally getting my teeth fixed and my jaw properly aligned, so maybe I really will be more attractive in my middle age than I was in my youth. Maybe skin tone is overrated.

Who do you think has gotten better looking with age? Who is aging poorly? Do you think you’re aging well or not?

I’m asking because I have nothing left to say. Also, I’m feeling kind of shallow today.

I feel much better today

The housekeepers have come and gone. I guess I hid the crap well enough. Now I’m going to have to un-hide it again so I can re-commence the de-crapification. Re-crapifying for the sake of de-crapifying. I’m like Jesse Jackson gone domestic.

But the house looks so nice, I’m not ready to re-crapify just yet.

Mister Bubby has a Court of Honor tonight for Boy Scouts. He’s getting his Tenderfoot or some such. I don’t know much about scouting. Elvis finally got his Bobcat last week, so we played pin the pin on the mom again. I don’t really understand why they pin the pin on the mom. I mean, I do, I guess, because Boy Scouts are all American and crap and Mom is American like her apple pie and boys love their moms and whatnot–I dunno, I reckon it’s something like that. But folks are always saying that they have to honor the moms because the moms work hard to help their boys do their scouting crap, and that makes me feel like a fraud because I have done exactly jack crap to help my sons with their scouting crap. Aside from volunteering for a total of two (2) days at day camp last summer, I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to play a part in either son’s scouting career. So maybe I’m not who that pin is for. Maybe I’m not even American. I like apple pie, but I’ve never made one. That’s probably neither here nor there. But no one asked me if I wanted my sons to be Boy Scouts! Maybe I deserve a pin just for not saying no.

My husband, on the other hand, is very involved with the scouting thing. He probably deserves the pin more than me. If Mom isn’t there, they will have the boy pin the pin on Dad. But to pin the pin on Dad when Mom is standing right there might be gauche or something. Maybe it’s emasculating. Who knows?

Anyway, MB will be getting his Tenderfoot, whatever that is. Reckon I won’t be getting a pin or any other undeserved accolade this time.

Man, one of these days I’d like to get a deserved accolade. That would be a thing.

Anyway, in other news, I went to the dentist this morning. Teeth are feeling clean. The hygienist told me I had hardly any tartar buildup. (So that would be a deserved accolade, I guess, but where’s my freaking pin? I would wear that one with pride. HARDLY ANY TARTAR BUILDUP.) The hygienist is someone I go to church with. I might have told this story before. In fact, I’m positive I’ve told it before, but I’ve got nothing better to do and I’m getting old, so I’ll just tell it again. I used to have reservations about having my teeth scraped clean by someone I know socially. I mean, technically I also know my dentist socially and I used to have reservations about that, but at least the dentist only looks in your mouth after it’s been cleaned. The hygienist sees everything as it really is. So yes, I had reservations about that, and I had always hoped to avoid this particular hygienist, but one day I had an appointment on the day she was working, and what do you know, after the first minute and a half it’s not awkward at all. I’ve discovered that I prefer it, actually. This is probably because she’s always giving me accolades about my lack of tartar build-up. Maybe she only says that because she likes me. Maybe I don’t really deserve that accolade. But I like to think she has more integrity than that. Also, I like to believe that I have propelled myself to HARDLY ANY TARTAR BUILD-UP status. Even if I don’t get a pin.

And here’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for: I went to the oral surgeon yesterday, and I’ve decided that I’m going to have the surgery. The oral surgeon told me that my case was what they classify as “severe.” Not severe as in I’m going to lose all my teeth and die of teeth cancer or something, but he went through all the problems that people with my kind of malocclusion can have, and I thought, “Check, check, check…hadn’t thought of that one before but now I’m going to be hyper-aware of it, thanks a lot–check…” He wasn’t scare-mongery about it at all. He was very professional and matter-of-fact like professional people tend to be. He has beautiful eyes too, but that’s neither here nor there. (I just notice these things!) So anyway, he explained the surgery and the recovery process, and it was a lot less horrifying than I was anticipating. I mean, I’m not going to like it, but I’m firmly in the “Do” column now, whereas before I had one-and-a-half feet in the “Do Not” column.

Unless my insurance doesn’t cover it, in which case my firmness is somewhat malleable.

I mean, here’s the thing: I didn’t get braces for cosmetic reasons. Many people comment that they’d never noticed my teeth needed fixing. And yes, I do wonder if they say that to everyone. They’re hardly going to say, “Oh, good for you, it’s about time you did something about that.” But my teeth didn’t look especially crooked or hideous, and anyway, even if they were hideous, I’ve been hideous for years and I’m used to it. If I were going to do something cosmetic, I’d get a boob job, not fix my teeth. I have my priorities. But I got the braces to fix my bite and jaw problems, and any cosmetic benefit is just the icing on the cake. (In the event, God forbid, that I ever get breast cancer, I will make “new boobs” my survival mantra.) Right. Anyway. So after yesterday I am persuaded that it’s kind of lame to suffer through $5,000 and two years’ (at least) worth of braces in order to only half-fix the problem that I set out to fix. Before, I was thinking, “Well, I’ve been living like this for 40 years, what’s another 40?” whereas now I’m thinking, “It’s only going to get worse because that’s what getting old means.”

Now I’m going to get a whole new jaw and live out my golden years in luxury.

(Technically it is not a whole new jaw, just the same jaw moved about a centimeter forward. But you know what I mean.)

Two and a half hours is just not a lot of time

Not when there are things like exercise, showers, lunch and naps to perform. Forget about errands and pursuing my dreams!

Not to mention blogging. It’s a problem.

It makes me wonder how I used to blog so much when my kids were younger and only one of them was in school. For only two and a half hours, I might add. Maybe I can only blog when I have someone to ignore.

And now that someone I’m ignoring is me!

The humanity!

I’m just kidding. I really think I’ve just run out of things to say. I’m not even updating my status on Facebook regularly. It’s pretty serious, actually. Not a “kidding” matter at all.

So it’s been about…eight months since my last haircut, give or take. I try to get my hair cut every eight months whether I need to or not. Historically the pattern has been 1) get my hair cut, 2) wait until it gets long enough that I can’t do a thing with it, 3) go back and get another haircut, shorter than I am really comfortable with because I know it’s going to be eight months before I get around to it again. Rinse, repeat. It’s only two steps, really, not three. It’s been a very basic hair care routine.

Since I’ve decided to embrace my natural curly hair, my hair has not been appearing to grow as fast as it used to. Because it’s curling, you see. But I think I am reaching a point where I need to do something else with it. I think I need to get layers. I have eschewed layers for the last…jeez, 24 years? Layers and bangs. I just don’t do them. Too high maintenance. I just bob my hair and let it grow out. 1) Bob. 2) Grow. Two steps. No fussing with layers, which have to be maintained with more regular professional attention than every eight months. Also, they inevitably end up causing trouble when you just want to pull your hair back but some of those layers are just too short. It’s a problem. (Similar to when you get your hair cut shorter than you really want just so you don’t have to go back to the hairdresser for another eight months.)

However, I just don’t have as much hair as I did in my youth, and since it has stopped being frizzy, I have lost some of the body that frizziness provides. I think layers may be my only option. It may come to that. I just have to make an appointment to see a stylist. That is another thing I haven’t done for quite some time. Usually I just go to the cheap haircut store because usually if I’m getting a haircut, it’s on a whim–an aggravated, I-just-can’t-stand-this-anymore whim, not the type that is conducive to waiting for an appointment. And because my haircut was (intentionally) so low-maintenance, I didn’t notice much difference between when the appointment-only stylist did it and when the cheap-haircut lady did it. The only difference may have been that the appointment-only stylist used more product–usually to straighten my hair to a degree that could never be replicated in real life. (If you define “real life” as “not at the salon with professional assistance.” Which I do.) So I decided, why pay $40-50 for a haircut when you can get just as good a haircut for $20 and afford to leave a better tip? So that’s what I’ve been doing. For at least five years, maybe seven.

But now I’m feeling…I dunno, maybe more high-maintenance. There may be layers involved here. So I guess I’m going to make an appointment at a salon. But good grief, you know how long it takes me to make appointments with my psychiatrist. Am I going to feel a greater sense of urgency for my hair? Especially when I have all these psychological blocks to overcome. 1) I have to use the phone. 2) I have to talk to a stranger. 3) I have to interact with people I’m pretty sure are better than me. I know what you’re thinking: Maybe I should make the appointment with my psychiatrist first. You may have a point.

Well, there are only 35 more minutes until I have to leave to pick up the kids from school. Fortunately, I have already showered today. And exercised and eaten lunch. I’m really on top of my game. I even had a nap this morning because Girlfriend slept in. What more can I do to be all I can be? Tune in next time to find out (if I did anything). Same bat time, same bat channel.

Seven Stylish Things

Back in October, I thanked ordinarybutloud for tagging me in her Seven Stylish Things post because it would give me something to blog about. And then I turned around and continued not blogging. Ha ha! Actually, I think I turned around and blogged about something else, and then lost my will to blog altogether. Again–even with a ready-made topic! This not-blogging is a sickness of mine. It starts with not knowing what to write about. Then it turns into thinking of something to write about but not really feeling like it. Then it turns into thinking, “If I’m going to spend time writing, I should write something real, rather than something bloggy.” And that turns into thinking, “I really don’t know what to write about, and everything there is to write about is something I don’t feel like writing about. And I should have majored in math in college.”

Seriously, I think I should have majored in math in college. I remember our senior…golly, what did they call that? Some special evening they had for graduating seniors at my college. What did they call it? It was a thing. All I remember is that my calculus professor introduced me to his wife (who happened to be the Dean of Students and may have met me before but wouldn’t have had any reason to remember me), and he said, “Pat, this is Mad Maidenname. She’s an English major, but she could have been a math major.” And I said, “Dr. E, I wish you had told me that three years ago.” Seriously, I did (wish and say so). (Totally irrelevant aside: I then found out that Dr. E had majored in both math and English as an undergraduate, and that made me like him even more. I have so many regrets about not majoring in math in college.)

I also remember I was wearing white shoes that night, even though it was after Labor Day (and before Easter). Which makes a perfect segue to the business end of my “Seven Stylish Things about Me” post.

Thing 1

Sometime during my sophomore year of college, I was in my friend’s dorm room, where she was getting ready for a thing. She turned to me and said, “Is it too early to wear white?” And I said, “I dunno. What time is it?” I had never heard that you shouldn’t wear white after Labor Day. Never! I think it was because I was born and raised on the West coast–not just the “West,” but the West Coast, where people are much less formal about their dress (and just about everything).  Especially in Oregon, where I was born and raised during my formative years.  So yes, I had never heard this rule, and I actually thought it was kind of dumb.  I mean, says who?  Why not?  What’s so offensive about white after Labor Day?  And I still think it’s a dumb rule.  I think it’s a dumb rule, and yet ever since I learned it, I can’t help but be aware of it.  I was aware of it that Senior-Something-Evening, when I was wearing the white shoes.  I didn’t really want to wear the white shoes, because it was after Labor Day and this was Virginia and I didn’t want to look foolish, but they were the only shoes that went with my dress.  I pretty much had two pairs of dress shoes–a black pair and a white pair, and the black pair would not have done, in my opinion.  But perhaps I was wrong.  I’m still second-guessing my decision after all these years.

Thing 2

I no longer own any white shoes.  It’s not worth the angst.  Also, they might be passe.  Or so passe that they’re stylish again.  I don’t know, but either way, I can’t deal.

Thing 3

As long as we’re on the topic of shoes, this is as good a time as any to tell you that although I don’t own many shoes, I really, really like shoes.  I will pass by a shoe display just to see what’s there, even though I don’t need shoes and can’t really bring myself to purchase shoes that I don’t particularly need (because I’m a little cheap that way).  But I appreciate stylish shoes.  My daughter doesn’t like shopping with me because I am guaranteed at some point–or perhaps several points–to say, “Aren’t these shoes adorable???”  And she’s like, “Whatever, Mom.”

What keeps me from being a shoe-a-holic is a) I’m kind of cheap and b) I always think, “What can I wear these shoes with, and where?” and c) I’m a size 9.  If you’re a woman of large feet, you have also probably noticed that most of the cute shoes stop at size 7.  Or, alternatively, that once you move past size 7, the shoes don’t look cute anymore.  But I appreciate shoe style.  I’m not an outgoing person at all–I’m the opposite of an outgoing person–but I have been known to exclaim to total strangers, “I love your shoes!”  Because I love their shoes more than I love my dignity.

I took this picture because I knew I wouldn't buy them, but seriously, aren't they so crazy they're awesome? Now every time I see this picture on my phone, I have regrets. Especially since they were only $5. But where would I have worn them? Or where wouldn't I have worn them???

Thing 4

I am beginning to think this entire post could be about shoes, if I wanted it to be.  I haven’t decided yet.  But here’s another thing about me and shoes:  My brain loves shoes.  My feet insists that shoes be comfortable.  Most of the time I wear sneakers, or “athletic shoes,” or whatever they’re called.  I’ve decided that the best athletic shoes for my feet are Nikes.  I don’t think I will buy any other kind from now on.  I will endure discomfort for the sake of style on occasion.  I wear heels even though they are no longer comfortable (either because I’ve gotten old or I spent too many years wearing flats because I didn’t want to tower over my 5’7″ husband) because they look so much better (especially on my large-ish feet).  But one thing I will not wear is flip-flops.  Not because I find them tacky, but because I find them uncomfortable.  I can’t stand having things between my toes.  (It’s the same reason I will never wear divided-toe socks.)  And those flip-flop toe-thingies can be murder, depending on what they’re made out of.  I honestly think you chronic flip-flop wearers must have callouses between your toes.  I don’t know how you manage otherwise.

Thing 5

Last shoe-related thing, I promise (maybe):  Just out of curiosity, how did you learn how to tie your shoes?  Bunny-ear method, or squirrel-and-tree method?  My dad taught me squirrel-and-tree in a single session, and I was shoelace-independent for life.  My children couldn’t learn to tie their shoes for the life of them until someone (not me) taught them bunny-ear method, and then, voila.  It was like when three separate members of my family tried to teach me to drive using a stick shift, but I could never do it–and then I got put behind the wheel of an automatic and I was like, “Really?  Driving can be this easy?  Why would anyone do it the other way???”  I’m sure that’s what my kids were thinking about me and my esoteric shoe-tying ways.  It wasn’t that I was prejudiced against the bunny-ear method; it just never occurred to me to use it because that’s not how I tie shoes (and once a child learned to do it for him or herself, I washed my brains of the whole affair).  But after having three children fail to grasp the concept of squirrel and tree, I was determined to teach Girlfriend to tie her shoes the bunny-ear way.  And guess what.  SHE DOESN’T GET IT.  Which leads me to believe it isn’t the method, it’s just me.

Thing 6

It would have been better–from an artistic point of view–if I’d just stuck with the shoe theme.  But I realized that I actually don’t have anything else to say about shoes.  Sure, later on this evening I’ll probably think of a couple more things and go, “Doh!  Why couldn’t I have thought of that earlier?  Seven Stylish Shoe Things would have been so much awesomer.  But noooooo…”  The only problem is that if I wait to think of another shoe thing, I’ll never think of it.  So I have to just move on, even if it’s wrong.  Which makes me think Thing 6 should be about my writing style.

I had a white-shoes-after-Labor-Day moment in that last paragraph.  I said “go” when I meant “say.”  I do that, and I know I’m doing it because I’m hyper-aware of all the rules I break.  Sometimes I agonize over breaking them.  Because I definitely know better.  But I do it anyway, because to some extent, I do write the way I talk, and sometimes when I’m talking and I mean “I said…,” I’ll say, “I went…” or “I was all…”-  Because sometimes I didn’t say–I went or I was all.  You know?  Sometimes I was even “like.”  I’m not proud, but that’s how I do.

Something that is more analogous to the white-shoes-Labor-Day thing, though, is when I split my infinitives.  Until my British Lit 201 professor brought it to my attention, I had no idea you weren’t supposed to split infinitives.  Really.  And like the white shoes rule, I thought it was really stupid.  I still think it’s stupid.  But from that point onward, I have not been able to split an infinitive without being hyper-aware of it.  I end sentences with prepositions with impunity, but the split infinitive–it’s a much lesser offense and yet I’m very self-conscious about it.  I do it all the time, sure, but self-consciously.  And not ironically.  I think it’s because it was such a rude awakening to discover that I didn’t actually know all the arcane rules of English grammar.  It was humiliating, just like when I was in my friend’s dorm room and suddenly my whole life of wearing shoes between the months of September and April flashed before my eyes.

Thing 7

People who know me before they read me tell me I write just like I talk.  But people who read me before they meet me are usually disappointed.  What’s that about?  I dunno.  But it’s a thing.

Random bloggy drive-by for Wednesday

I want you all to know that I am only writing this blog to maintain a sense of normalcy despite the fact that I am headed in the direction of a psychological tailspin.  Technically, I may already be in the tailspin, but let’s not get bogged down in semantics.  Not yet, anyway.  It’s only the first paragraph.

To clarify a couple things from my last (short) post, it is not my autistic children who are crapping their pants, so I don’t need any advice on that front.  The autistic children appear to have their bowels under control, more or less.  Give credit where credit is due.  No, it’s my neurotypical children who have the poop issues.  To be fair, Mister Bubby has not crapped his pants since he was eight years old.  A freaking medal is probably overdue.  Unfortunately, Girlfriend appears to be following in his (former) footsteps, despite the fact that she was using the toilet in very appropriate ways up until a few months ago.  It is very frustrating.  (Thought this paragraph needed a gratuitous sentence, but I’m a little tired this morning, so I just threw that one together at the last minute.)

It may be some Freudian no-brainer that my NT kids are acting out fecally in order to get attention, which has been focused a little too laser-beamy on their autistic siblings.  I may have bought that argument with Mister Bubby, a relatively low-maintenance kid who was (and is) sandwiched between two high-maintenance kids.  But I don’t really buy it with Girlfriend, who is the baby and gets all kinds of attention.  Except when her mother’s too busy writing blog posts because she needs to distract herself from how empty her overfull life has become.  Shall we change the subject?  I’ll buy that.

As some of you may recall, I decided over the summer to stop fighting my naturally curly hair and embrace its naturally curly ways.  I have been wearing it “natural” in all its schizophrenic glory since June 20.  Yes, it is a day I shall always remember, ladies and gentlemen.  It has changed my life.  I no longer have a fixed set of expectations for my hair.  I am letting it discover itself.  It is like the hair version of unschooling, only I don’t have to worry about what happens when it tries to go to college (because as it happens, my hair has already been to college—but that’s another story).

Lately I have been using the DevaCurl products on my hair.  I like them, but recently I ordered a 32-oz. bottle of their One Condition Daily Cleansing Conditioner—not to be confused with their “No-Poo” Conditioning Cleanser, which I use once or twice a week—and I have had a bit of trouble with it.  The conditioner itself is fine.  I had a 15-oz. (or whatever) bottle of it, and I was just replacing it with the larger size.  I ordered it off Amazon, and I happened to note that it got a poor review from someone who liked the conditioner fine but was very upset about the fact that the 32-oz. came without a cap but a pump, and the pump didn’t work.

At the time I thought, “Well, that’s too bad.  She got a defective pump.”  Pumps are notorious for sometimes being defective.  I know this—knew it—but did I let it bother me?  No.  I didn’t give it a second’s thought beyond, “What are the chances of me also getting a defective pump?  I’m going to live dangerously!”  Because that’s what we Curly Girls do, amigos—we are notoriously wild and crazy!*  So I ordered the 32-oz. bottle, and it did indeed come with a pump, and when I went to open up the pump so I could engage it (and by extension, the conditioner), I was faced with a great deal of opposition.  First, there was the shrink-wrap surrounding the pump so that it wouldn’t make a mess should there be some leakage during shipping.  There was no leakage, of course.  There was also no apparent way of removing this shrink-wrap without power tools.  Seriously, Manufacturing, what is up with the shrink-wrap these days?  I know I’m getting old and feeble, but remember the days when a sharp fingernail could puncture just about anything packaging could put up against us?  No more!  It’s box-cutters or a lifetime of never knowing what’s inside.

Anyway.  I finally managed to get the shrink-wrap off.  Most of it, anyway—the most obstructive parts.  And THEN—I will give you three guesses as to what happened next, gentle readers, and the first two don’t count.  OF COURSE the pump didn’t work.  I mean, it might have worked, if I could have gotten it to open up.  It was closed, of course, because that’s how you ship bottles with pumps—with the pumps closed.  You know what I’m talking about, right?  It’s closed, and you have to twist it open to enable the pumping action.  If you have a liquid hand soap dispenser, you have done this before.  If you still use bar soap, I can’t explain myself further.  Also:  let’s talk in a future blog post about soap.  But I digress.  No, the pump wouldn’t twist at all, and not just because my hands and the bottle were all conditiony and greasy.  I rectified that situation, and it still wouldn’t open.

To be fair, I did not try pliers.  And that’s only because I do not keep any pliers in my bathroom, and at the time the water was already hot and I was already naked, and I didn’t feel like getting un-naked so I could walk downstairs, past my double-front-doors-that-are-half-windows-and-not-frosted-windows-either-but-genuine-fishbowl-window-action, so that I could go to the garage and fetch the pliers.  And I have not thought to go looking for the pliers since then, because—if you haven’t been able to read between the lines here—I have had a few other things on my mind lately.  So in the meantime I have managed to unscrew the entire pump-lid so that I can access the conditioner, and I sort of use the pump as a dipstick-applicator.  Which sounds sexy, almost, except that it isn’t, it’s just sort of a pain in the neck, but that’s all I’ve got until I start keeping pliers in the bathroom or it’s time to get another 32-oz. bottle of No-Poo, which also has a pump, but which pump works just fine and can theoretically take the place of my non-functional One Condition pump…unless, of course, the future No-Poo bottle also has a non-functional pump, in which case I should really get on acquiring a full set of tools for the shower.  But not today, I’m tired.

Tired despite the fact that I have taken my shower this morning, and lately I have been doing a cold rinse on my hair because it’s supposed to help with the conditioning properties of the cleansing conditioners, or something.  It was perfectly fine during the summer, but I have been wondering how it will work for me when the weather starts getting colder.  I really don’t like running any part of my body, even the technically-not-alive parts, under cold water when the weather is already cold.  And in fact, as of yesterday, the weather is starting to cool down considerably, and this cold-water rinse, as good as it is for my hair, may not be sustainable.  May not be.  Unlike Social Security, which is definitely unsustainable.

Ha!  I just sneaked that political tidbit in there to see if you were paying attention.  Did I scare you?  I’m sorry.  It’s just that I’ve been trying really hard—but it’s been difficult—to keep up with all the GOP debates, in an effort to keep myself relevant, even though I have not managed to muster up any enthusiasm for the 2012 election.  All the people I wanted to run decided not to run, and now all that’s left is, you know, these guys.  I hope Michele Bachmann doesn’t mind being referred to as a “guy.”  I’m just trying to treat her equally.  Actually, I just think “guys and gal” sounds stupid.  And “gal” seems more demeaning than “guy,” to me, anyway.

Speaking of Michele Bachmann, she seems to be imploding, doesn’t she?  I knew she was screwed the minute Gov. Perry entered the race.  He calls her evangelical Christianity + Tea Party and raises her a Y-chromosome (not to mention that folksy Texas charm!)—sorry, honey.  I never leaned her direction in the first place, but I’m a bit disappointed that she hasn’t conducted herself with more dignity in her demise (presidential-candidate-ly speaking—I’m sure her job in Congress is still safe).  The whole Gardasil thing just smacks of desperation.  I myself don’t have issues with Gardasil, but I understand people having issues with the government mandate—because legitimate issues often accompany government mandates, not because I buy the argument that immunizing against HPV sends a message to girls that it’s okay to be promiscuous.  That’s just silly.  Number one—how many kids have any clue what they’re getting shots for, ever?  And number two—“Well, I was afraid of genital warts, but now that there’s only pregnancy, AIDS, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, and the fact my boyfriend may only be using me—LET’S PARTY!”  Does that seem reasonable to you?  I need to ask your opinion on evolution, too?  Do you wear shoes inside your house?  Let’s sit down and do some math—maybe that will clear things up.

Well, now I’ve exhausted my discretionary time for the morning, and it’s time to get serious about getting Girlfriend ready for school.  Gentle readers, adieu.

.

* In the Curly Girl handbook, there is an anecdote about this lady who gets asked by a gentleman if she is a Democrat, and she says yes, and the gentleman says, “I knew it.  Republican women don’t wear their hair this way.”  He meant it as a compliment, but shows what he knows.  He hasn’t seen Republican Women Gone Wild!

And now, with pictures!

I know what you’re thinking.  “Mad, is that all natural?!”

Why, yes.  Yes, it is.

Oh!  Unless you were referring to the color, in which case, no, it’s not natural.  That is, it does not occur anywhere in nature.  Except among a tribe of very stupid, cheap people who decide to color their own hair at home with products labeled FOR PROFESSIONAL USE ONLY.

The good news is that it looks a little punk.  The bad news is, I’m about 20 years too old to pull off “punk.”  Okay, maybe only 15 years too old.  But still, if anyone asks…I TOTALLY MEANT TO DO THIS.

Tap tap–is this thing on?

No, I’m not doing another installment of my Obligatory Travelogue.  Well, I might, eventually.  Maybe.  We’ll see.  Every time I think about it, I just get so bored.  I know, not as bored as you probably get when you have to look at pictures of someone else’s vacation, but nobody’s forcing you to read, are they?  That sentence didn’t sound right–probably because it isn’t, technically, right.  But I’m deeply committed to the campaign to make singular “they” an acceptable English usage.  I haven’t completely lost my feminist sensibilities.  But I digress.  Where was I?  Not traveloguing, that’s where.

I am having some difficulties getting back into the swing of my regular, non-”vacation” life.  For one thing, I have to cook my own food again.  That was a problem before I went on vacation, and taking a month off from my culinary obligations did nothing to rejuvenate my enthusiasm for feeding my family.  Personally, I could get by with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a really long time.  I don’t understand why other people can’t do the same, particularly when they’re related to me.  Why has no one in my family inherited this awesome ability?  Well, whatever.  Part of the problem is that eating so much restaurant food sort of killed my taste buds generally.  So what do I feel like eating?  I don’t even know.  How can you prepare food that is unknowable?  I am cooking blind.  Not that blind people can’t cook perfectly well.  I meant it like I’m flying blind, only I’m not flying, I’m cooking.  Get it?  Yeah, I might need to eat lunch before I write any more non-metaphorical metaphors.

I only had one nervous breakdown while I was on “vacation”–which was way better than I thought I’d do.  Technically, I might have had one and a half nervous breakdowns, but I can’t remember if that half-breakdown was in front of other people or not.  I tend not to count private nervous breakdowns, because who has time to count that high?  Well, in any case, one and a half nervous breakdowns in four weeks is not too shabby, when you’re living out of suitcases and sleeping six people to a room–especially when you’re not used to those conditions.  I’m sure third-world nomads have a more favorable nervous breakdown rate than I have, but they’ve probably been practicing their whole lives.  Apples to apples, people!  So, yes, only one nervous breakdown while I was on vacation, but I hadn’t been home two weeks before I had another one–brought on, of course, by the impending housekeeping visit.  Twice a month I am compelled to confront my complete failure as a parent and home manager and human being in general (NORMAL PEOPLE DON’T LIVE LIKE THIS!), and the result is not pretty.  But we’ve been over that, haven’t we, gentle readers?  I don’t know, darlings, I don’t know.  Tuesday night I was 99.9% convinced that it was no longer worth it–that I was born a slob, I married a slob, and I gave birth to slobs, and why not just embrace it?  Why not just be who we are?  Well, because who we are is disgusting, of course.  But besides that, why not?

I don’t know.  I eventually pulled it together and the house is reasonably clean right now.  We’ll revisit this question in another fortnight.  With uncontrollable sobbing, most likely

Here’s another thing:  You may recall–if you have no life and nothing has interfered with your desire to memorize every aspect of mine–that I got my hair cut right before I went on vacation.  I don’t get my hair cut very often because…I just don’t.  I’m lazy.  So I let it grow until I get sick of how it looks, and I go somewhere to cut it all off and start over again.  When I say “cut it all off,” I mean cut it above my shoulders, somewhere near-but-not-quite chin level.  I do this every eight months or so.  Every time I do it, people who have known me for years suddenly are like OMG, YOU CUT YOUR HAIR! IT’S SO CUTE!  DO YOU LOVE IT?  WERE YOU JUST READY FOR A CHANGE? like I’m Rapunzel and Oprah just gave me a free makeover.  I do this every eight months.  It is the same haircut I always get, that I’ve been getting for the last…fifteen years, at least.  But it never fails to take the world by storm.  Anyway.  This time I was not too terribly pleased with the short hair because something I forgot about the short hair is that when you’re having a bad hair day, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.  There’s no pulling it back or putting it up.  There’s only wearing a hat or going around in public with your crappy hair.  I am dissatisfied with those options.  (Although I do look good in hats.)

Well, anyway, I went on “vacation,” and in addition to my naturally-dry-and-frizzy problems, I now had the southeastern United States humidity to contend with.  My short hair, which looked cute enough on a good day in Oregon, was looking more and more like I had my finger perpetually stuck in a light socket.  Not attractive.  And I didn’t have a hat.

So anyway, we went to visit my BFF (this was going to go in Obligatory Travelogue Part 2, but it’s going here instead), and while we were there, she converted me to the Curly Girl school of curly hair care, the first rule of which is No More Shampoo.  Now, I’d heard about shampoo being bad for your hair and how you don’t need to shampoo your hair every day, so I’d been shampooing my hair less frequently over the last few months and it hadn’t been making much of a difference–but Lorraine Massey and my BFF convinced me to stop shampooing my hair altogether.  My dears, I have not shampooed since June 20th, and my hair has never been in better shape, except maybe when I was three years old and I still had my baby hair.  I will never shampoo my hair again.  I condition my hair every day and let it air dry, and my hair is curly, not frizzy.  And it feels awesome.  It doesn’t always look awesome.  How it looks is fairly unpredictable because I’ve told you before, my hair is not a ribbon clerk to be ordered about.  But it feels great.

And sometimes it looks great.  Other times…eh.  I keep experimenting with the styling cream because I do not like having crunchy hair.  Some days it starts out crunchy, but once it fully dries, it’s fine.  Some days it just stays crunchy all day.  Yesterday was one of those days.  My hair actually looked pretty good, but it felt gross.  So this morning I skipped the styling cream altogether, but that was a mistake.  My hair felt pretty good, but it looked considerably less good than it felt.  So I wet it down again and started over, and now it still feels crunchy, and it looks…okay, I guess.  I can live with it.  But I am looking forward to when it grows out enough that I can pull it back again because, man, those were the days.

So the other thing about my hair is now that I’ve resolved to stop bad hair-drying habits, I’m going to have to figure out what to do about my color.  My fake hair color, I mean.  I did my roots right before I left on “vacation,” and then I exposed my poor hair to chlorinated water over and over again, and now it’s almost six weeks later and I am in dire need–DIRE NEED–of another color treatment.  But I can’t use the $12.99 color kit from the Target anymore because that is BAD FOR MY HAIR.  Lorraine Massey–whom I don’t actually revere as a prophet or anything, but whom I dare not ignore–agrees with what my professional hairstylist sister (the one without a blog I can link to, sorry) has been telling me for the last couple years, which is that I should use a demi-permanent hair color because it is less harsh.  Also less effective at covering gray, unfortunately, which is the whole reason I started coloring my hair in the first place, but my dears, there is gray coverage and there is non-dry, non-frizzy hair, and I have made my choice.  We’ll see how long the choice lasts once I see how I look with ineffectively-covered gray roots, but for now, I have made my choice.

The trouble is that you can’t buy demi-permanent hair color in a kit made especially for ill-coordinated dummies like myself who have no business coloring their own hair at home but do it anyway because Miss Clairol makes it soooooo easy.  I have been dithering over whether or not to just go to a professional.  Obviously, I should go to a professional because a professional will do it correctly (assuming, of course, that she or he is a qualified professional).  But that’s a wad of cash I had not budgeted for the rest of my life.  Every four weeks for…ever.  I’m not saying it’s not worth it.  I’m saying I’m not sure I’m worth it.  Yes, the old L’Oreal commercials used to tell me I was worth it, but that was when they were trying to talk me into dying my own hair at home, which is sort of funny, don’t you think?  But I digress.

So my husband went to the professional beauty supply store and bought a bottle of demi-permanent hair color in my color, along with the…crap, I’ve forgotten what it is…the developer? the sealant?  Help me out here.  Never mind.  He would really like me to give it a go myself.  But it’s not as easy as just squeezing color from a tube and combing it into your hair.  I’m pretty sure I’m going to mess it up, but I guess that will be okay.  I mean, I can always just go to a professional and get it fixed afterwards, can’t I?  But first I have to find the time to do it and mess it up because that’s the other thing about demi-permanent–it takes three times as long as the other.  Another thing that leaves me skeptical about my ability to continue coloring my own hair, since I found 20 minutes hassle enough.

FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS.  At least I’m not having a nervous breakdown over it.

I do believe I just wrote 900+ words about my hair.  This is worse than a travelogue.  And there weren’t even any pictures!

Remember when I said I’d try to blog “tomorrow”?

I was just kidding.

But now I will be serious.  [Insert serious-looking emoticon here]  I will be honest with myself, and with you.  I am blogging today, right now.  I will not try to blog tomorrow or the day after that or the day after that, because on Friday at 3:45 a.m. we are dragging the kids out of bed and going to the airport and starting our month-long “vacation.”  While I am on “vacation,” I will not try to blog.  When I come back from “vacation,” I expect that I will purposely avoid blogging for a while because I will feel obligated to tell you all about my “vacation,” and by then I will be so thoroughly sick of my “vacation” that I will want to forget I ever went on it, and I will certainly not want to talk about it.  Also, I will be volunteering at cub scout day camp that week, so I won’t really have time anyway.  Or rather, I will not be inclined to make time.  Really, the earliest you can expect to hear from me again is September, after everyone goes back to school.  And by then you will either have forgotten all about me or you will be in the “anger” stage of grief and not want to hear from me anyway.  It’s hard to say, but in any case, there won’t be much point in blogging by then, but I’m sure I won’t let that stop me.

Now that we know that, what do we do?

Here’s how much I want to talk to you about my upcoming “vacation”:

[That blank space was supposed to represent "not at all."]

This morning I have been making a packing list and a list of things to do today.  One of the things I’m supposed to do is cancel the newspaper.  Not put the newspaper on hold, but cancel the newspaper.  Technically, I was supposed to do this a couple weeks ago.  It’s been a long time coming.  No offense to the newspaper, but our relationship just isn’t working anymore.  We don’t read the newspaper.  We went to Sunday-only a few months ago, or maybe it was a year ago–I don’t really remember because the newspaper is in denial and keeps delivering weekday papers to us even though we’re supposed to be Sunday-only.  Actually, now that I glance at my bill, it would appear that they no longer offer a Sunday-only option, but only a weekend-only option.  So that’s fine.  That might account for some of the extra, non-Sunday papers that I see, but I also know that the newspaper occasionally calls and leaves us messages about how they’re giving us a free trial of the weekday delivery even though we don’t want it and have, in fact, explicitly requested that they not do that.  I’ve been trying to call subscriber services this morning, but all I get is a busy signal.  Of course there is no option to cancel one’s newspaper online; that would be suicide.  I understand.  They want me to tell them to their face.  Or at least confront that poor sap who answers the phone, who will probably be out of a job soon because people like me keep cancelling their subscriptions.  People like me, a former newspaper woman herself, are killing the newspaper industry.  Do you think I don’t feel guilty about this?  DON’T START WITH ME.  This is not something I do casually, believe me.  I mean, I can’t even get them to take my phone call; it’s like they know what’s going to happen, poor bastards.  I suppose I could write them a letter.  Send it certified mail.  They will probably respond by giving me another free trial.  Would it be better to place a vacation hold, then cancel the paper for real when I get back?  Am I going to have to get a restraining order on my newspaper?

There are a lot of things to be done for this “vacation.”  It’s no wonder I’ve put them off for so long.

The other thing I’m going to do is get my hair cut.  I’m just going to walk into one of those cheap salons that only little kids and heterosexual men get their hair cut at.  I always feel a little cheap and silly doing that, being too old and female to pass for a little kid or heterosexual man, but the sad fact of the matter is that I can’t bring myself to spend $40 on getting my hair cut.  It’s not because I feel guilty about it, or I don’t think I’m worth it.  I tried it a couple times, and it just wasn’t for me.  For one thing, they always style my hair in a way that a) doesn’t suit me, and b) I couldn’t possibly maintain myself, even if it did suit me.  And when all is said and done, my hair looks just as good as when I spend $20 on getting it cut.  I’m not saying that the cheap-salon ladies are as talented or conscientious as the decent-salon ladies.  I have no idea whether they are or not.  I know they are quicker and more readily available than the decent-salon ladies, and that counts for a lot with me when the only other thing I have to go by is how good my hair looks afterwards, and I’ve just told you that I can’t tell the difference.  It might be that I have no taste.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  But I really think it’s just my hair.  Putting a $40 haircut on my hair is like putting lipstick on a pig, or something similarly proverbial.  It just isn’t worth the trouble.

I would like to do something different, i.e. good, with my hair, but I have to be realistic.  This is my hair we’re talking about, not theoretical hair or someone else’s hair.  It is the hair I’ve lived with for forty years now, and I know this hair.  This is what I want to tell the ladies who cut my hair:  I know my own hair.  You don’t know my hair.  You see how bad my hair looks and feel sorry for me–you want to do something about it, and I understand, I do–but I know my hair, and you cannot change it.  My hair is curly.  Not curly in the good way, but curly nonetheless.  Half of it is like wire, and the other half is what you would probably call “flyaways.”  “Flyaways” are those random stray hairs that you try to tame with the hair product for taming flyaways.  Those hairs in my case make up half of the hair on my head.  They will not be tamed.  They have minds of their own.  The wire-hairs have minds of their own also, although they are a bit more pliable and tend to hang out together more.  You think you can straighten out the wires or make them curl in a particular way, but I’m here to tell you, No, you can’t make them.  You can’t make any of the hairs on my head do anything they don’t want to do.  And they don’t want to curl in any one way.  They want to go in all kinds of ways and reserve the right to change their minds about which ways they might want to go at any time.  They shun commitment; they are like the Hugh Hefner of hair, and yes, it does look just as pathetic and sad on me as it does on Hef, but I have learned to accept it.  The best I can do with my hair is to go along with what it does naturally and make like it was my idea.  It may not be pretty, but it works for me.

And that’s why I won’t pay $40 (plus a tip) to get my hair cut.

One thing I can’t avoid at any hair salon, however, is the lecture about what kind of shampoo I use and the crappy dye job I perform on myself.  I will have to steel myself for that again.  But it grows late.  Gentle readers, adieu.

All I want

A few weeks ago, if you had asked me if I wanted a Kindle, I would have said, “Eh.”  The idea didn’t really appeal to me.  Over the past few weeks, I have gone from “Eh” to thinking about getting one to seriously thinking about getting one to actually wanting one, and in the last 18 hours I have become convinced that getting a Kindle is the only way I’m going to be happy.  Somewhere in my brain I know that this is an illusion, and yet all the rest of me wants very much to embrace this illusion.  And embrace a Kindle, because Kindles are cool.

I know, people love their Nooks, and I considered getting a Nook–I seriously considered it, during that “seriously considering” phase–but in the process of doing all that research (Kindle vs. Nook…Kindle vs. Nook…Kindle vs. Nook), I came to realize that as hard as I tried to convince myself to buy a Nook, my heart would not be moved.  That was when I knew I needed a Kindle.  And I still need a Kindle because I do not have one yet.  Don’t try to sway me in another direction at this point!  I have already made up my mind.  A Kindle is what I want for my birthday, and if I don’t get one for my birthday–which is the likely scenario, given that my husband is thusfar unaware of my real need for a Kindle because I have kept it secret until now, and my birthday is on Tuesday–then I will buy myself one for my birthday.  Because I deserve to be happy.  That’s what I’ve decided.

I got a card from my dad and his wife today, and inside the card was a check for enough money to buy myself a Kindle.  COINCIDENCE?  Sure, the money is supposed to be for my birthday and our anniversary (which is five days later), but doesn’t my husband want me to be happy?  Doesn’t he?  Where is the flaw in my logic?  Please, someone tell me.

All of this is because I am currently unhappy, and my husband asked me the other day–or maybe yesterday–what I wanted the kids to get me for my birthday–and at that point I didn’t know about needing the Kindle, but even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered because it’s not like my kids can get me a Kindle–so I said, “Eh.”  Because aside from a Kindle, I really can’t think of any material possession that I want.  It’s like Christmas all over again.  I told him they could buy me some Cheetos.  Cheetos and Reese’s peanut butter cups.  And socks.  I like socks.  My husband said they aren’t selling any good socks these days, and I guess it’s just as well because we are moving into non-sock weather.  Or rather, we are moving into the summer months, when we go on vacation to places with non-sock weather.  So I guess it’s just Cheetos and Reese’s peanut butter cups for me.  The only problem is that the kids will probably expect me to share.

Five minutes ago there were no ants crawling on my wall.  Now there are dozens of ants crawling on my wall.  That is another thing I’d like for my birthday:  to have the ants exterminated once and for all.  I hate ants.  I hate them.  If only there were a way to distract me from said ants–say, if I had a Kindle.

I vividly recall asking my mother what she wanted for her birthday or for Mother’s Day, and she always answered, “A clean house.”  And I always answered (in my mind, not out loud, because that would have been cruel), “Yeah, right.  Like that’s going to happen.”  Because I wasn’t any better at cleaning house then than I am now.  I might even try to argue that I was worse at it.  Fortunately, my mother knew that I loved her, even though I couldn’t give her what she wanted most in life.  Or did she?  Did I?  Did I really love her, if I wasn’t willing to figure out how to clean her house for her?  Do you see why I need a Kindle now?  It’s to distract me from my shame over never having loved my mother enough.

Do you know what next Tuesday is, besides my birthday?  It’s the day before the housekeepers come.  It is the day of my next scheduled existential crisis.  My husband has already decided we should celebrate my birthday on Monday instead of Tuesday because Tuesday night is Cub Scouts and Princess Zurg has a youth temple trip, and so Tuesday is just a really inconvenient day.  I can’t argue with him.  It’s fine if we celebrate my birthday on Monday, but I’m just saying, not only will my real birthday be mostly-devoid of celebration, but I will also be spending it tidying the house and having an existential crisis.  Instead of processed food and a Kindle, I am tempted to ask for them to tidy the house for me–except that a) that’s never going to happen, and b) even if it were going to happen, Tuesday is a really inconvenient day.

I should probably Raid those ants.

Yesterday I went to the orthodontist, and now I am wearing the rubber bands.  They connect from my first molars on top to my lateral incisors (or thereabouts) on the bottom.  It’s not comfortable.  Nor is it convenient, particularly.  I was changing them this morning and discovered that it is only slightly more practical to apply these rubber bands to the correct locations than it is to floss my back teeth.  Flossing my back teeth while I am wearing wires is impossible.  (Yesterday when they changed my wires, they let me floss my teeth before putting the new wires on.  What a treat that was.)  Applying these rubber bands is only nearly impossible.  I have these handy hooks to loop them around, but I’m not sure what the use of them is when the rubber bands get caught on everything but the hooks.  The first one got so tangled up in the wrong place that I had to get a pair of scissors and cut it out of my mouth.  At this rate I will certainly be running out of rubber bands sooner than expected.  Anyway.  I eventually did it correctly, but heavens–just when I thought eating couldn’t get any less pleasurable (short of having my jaw wired shut and having to eat everything through a straw), here come the rubber bands.  (Can I eat Cheetos this way?  It remains to be seen, but I’d really like to try.  Hopefully my teeth won’t be as sore come Tuesday.)

On the plus side, when I turn 42, my teeth are going to look AWESOME.  AWESOME, I tell you.  And I should have a Kindle by then, too, so…there you go.