Hair

I have read that a Leo's claim to fame is her luxurious, fantastic, smooth, shiny hair. I am a Leo. I don't have claim any of those adjectives. I have fine, flat, brown, boring hair. Don't get me wrong, I get great haircuts, it is strictly my hair that is the issue. I have a video of where I was on TV back in the 90's, I have the same hairstyle that I have right now! It is sad. I am going to revisit some of my past haircuts and the stylists that recreated me. Lucky for you, I don't have pictures so you will just have to use your imagination to get the full impact.

When I was very young, I had long, beautiful hair. One day, dear, old dad took me to the salon where it was cut in one of those ultra-hip bowl cuts. It was pretty evil and jinxed me for the rest of my life.

I had a mullet. It was in the 8th grade and we called them bi-levels. I am not a lesbian, just someone that had misguided hair. I hid the pictures.

The 80's left me with several perms and some bad blonde, thanks to Sun In. Thanks to whomever for inventing that stuff. My 9th grade picture is me wearing a light yellow sweater to match my light yellow hair. I am making no mention of the skunk like look of my roots.

I don't remember the hair of the 90's. Probably because it looks too much like it does today.

When beloved husband and I got married in 2003, I made an appointment to have my hair professionally done. I spent roughly 2 hours sitting in the stylist's chair while she tempted fate with my hair. I didn't tell her that I could never do anything with it, I let her think she was doing a great job. After about 100 different curlers and a million bobby pins and a gallon of aerosol hairspray, I was ready to go get dressed for the ceremony. I had to cut my shirt off because I mindlessly forgot to wear a button up. I took out my curlers and shook out my beautiful, ringlety, wavy hair. I fluffed it and sprayed again. One little problem, my hair wasn't ringlety or wavy and it sure as hell wasn't beautiful! It looked pretty much like it always did, semi-wavy, dirty brown and really sticky with hairspray. Humpf. I have since learned my lesson, hair and Seattle don't really mix. Too much humidity makes my already fine hair limper and greasier than usual. No wonder they have a high suicide rate.

After having Mia, I got brave, or stupid, and had my shoulder length hair cut to a short, short bob ala Keira Knightley. It was cute. For about a minute. My own husband walked right past me when I went to show him. He had no idea it was me. It took about 100 years to grow out. Learned me.

Thinking back over the years that I have lived in Wichita, I have probably had haircuts with about 20 people! I usually find someone who's hair I like and ask them who they use. That landed me at Eric Fisher with a great guy named, well I can't remember, but he moved and I cried for days. He always told me that I was beautiful and spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to coax my hair into a manageble style. I still believe there is nothing like a gay man to cut your hair. I had another, a gay stylist, I mean, at Planet Hair. I think his name was Ben. He moved too. Dang it. Ben and the Eric Fisher guy were the greatest. Among the worst, a guy at a close salon to my house in Riverside. He had dyed blonde hair. I could overlook that but what got me was the dripping blood from his fingertips as he razored my hair! You don't razor fine hair, come to find out. After the cut, he colored it some magenta, reddish, scary color. I was in shock, to say the least. He was later murdered. It was a very sad story that didn't surround poor haircuts.

There have been female stylists in my haircutting life. One of the firsts, was June, at Charisma. This was prior to the $7 quatrillion building they built on 21st. June was nice but there were always a few strands that came from nowhere that had to be recut. I did like her though. Then, there was Nellie, also at Charisma. She moved. I only saw her like twice, so I don't think that I scared her off. Maybe I am wrong about that. Recently, I used the guy that cuts the rest of my families hair. He is very reasonable and I appreciate that. He speaks little understandable English. I always get a good cut but the language barrier is a bit of a turnoff. I don't always know if we are on the same wavelength or not. For awhile, I went to my neighbor. She would give me a free haircut if I would watch her kitty while they were on vacation. Hell, yes! I can watch a cat for 2 weeks to get a $40 haircut.

My latest hair venture has been with a fellow mommy board member. I won't name her because I didn't ask her first and I think she probably thinks that I have boring hair, which I do, it is safer. I got a good cut and I still look like myself, meaning I really didn't do much to alter my appearance. I really like my new stylist. Of course, she has great hair, is pretty and as much as you want to hold that against her, you just can't because she is down to earth and really nice. She will probably move.

Incredible!

Everyday that I look at Mia, I am reminded of how impressive and awe inspiring that pregnancy and childbirth are. I still marvel that I was able to keep Mia alive when she was a baby. Not that I am a horrible person, I was just totally unaware of the kinds of feelings and responsibilities that you just "do." It all becomes second nature and it is totally worth every sleepless night, every yucky diaper, every little bit of baby barf.

With that in mind, a mom I know, just gave birth to twins. You might not think this is a big deal but she had them at home, surrounded by her birth crew and family. By birth crew, I mean doula etc. She put together an amazing and powerful slide show, chronicling her labor and the subsequent birth of these 2 amazing little people. It is a very powerful testament to the love that a mother has for her children. You can see the pain of her labor and the fruit of her delivery. It is a wonderful thing to see. Pass the Kleenex.

http://www.dfwbirthphotographer.com/Chantel.html

Asshat-Or, Loosen Up Your Velcro Shoes Because Your Brain Needs Oxygen

Before I plunge into this exciting post, I must, at the very least, offer one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, credit for the word, "asshat." No, I know she didn't make it up and there is no trademark etc, but she uses it pretty freely in her last book, so I am giving credit where credit is due. I know she won't be reading this, damn it, but one can always dream. Just an FYI, her last books is great.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. I received a particularly startling and rather disturbing email last night. It was sent via Ancestry.com. I have semi-legitmately used this site to search for family members and family history. A little background, my maiden name was, Scuka, pronounced Sue Ka. Obviously, not too easy. In school, whenever I entered a new grade or class, I would cringe waiting for the butchering of my last name. Eventually, I would just bark it out, probably rudely, but since I have heard all kinds of weird pronounciations, I figured I would clear it up right away. I have found some Scuka's on this website, but I am not so immersed that it clouds my mind.

This is the email I received. "My father was Clayton Leon Scuka. We may be related. Do you need further information? Give me a call if I can help." Sounds pretty secretive, doesn't it? Almost like he has discovered some family treasure or something. I was startled and then began to convulse with laughter! Yes, I know Clayton Scuka, pretty well, actually. He was my grandfather. He used to take me out on his bass boat, let me drink his beer, which I have previously mentioned, as well as letting me have cream soda, a little less lethal than all the beer I drank.

So, who did this email come from? My uncle. Mind you, he lives in Augusta, just a stone's throw from Wichita, yet obviously many moons from here. One wonders how the gene pool has not arranged for a quicker elimination?!?!

At 60 something years of age, he still wears velcro closure tennis shoes, or maybe I should call them tennies for his sake. He is just plain odd. I don't know how he was growing up, and am afraid to even ask. I know how he is now and that is pretty scary. I used to work with him at the prison in El Dorado. When I was interviewed, I had to tell them that I had a relative that worked there. I didn't want to tell them, but they asked. Once the cat was out of the bag, the interviewers just stared at me like I was an idiot. Then, they laughed it off and stated that they were sure I would be fine. Uh-oh.

So, how did I respond to this peculiar email? Well, it was a toss up as to whether I would be a smart ass, which I thought could be really interesting, or be nice, and just say, yes, we are related. What I ultimately settled on was, "Yes, you are correct, we are related. You are my uncle." I'm still not sure as to if he knows it is me. He probably isn't sure either. What an asshat.

Here and Everywhere

I blog mainly for my own enjoyment. If I can't be bitchy, sarcastic and rude to myself, then who can I be bitchy, sarcastic and rude to? Seriously, the offers from magazines have fallen by the wayside, so I am just a run of the mill mom, woman, grouch, yada yada. I don't think that I will ever fit into the blog hall of fame, but I doubt there really is one in existence. I read a lot of blogs, and I mean A LOT of blogs. Some famous, some not. I kind of fit in the "not" category, but that is cool because I have people from all kinds of places, including some that I have to Google to figure out where they are, read my blog, or at least an entry or two. I am wondering how these readers find me and why they are reading. Sometimes I can be pithy etc. etc. but what in the world are these people Googling to end up on my blog? Whatever it is, thanks and welcome! And a big shout out to Ennice, NC!

A Pickin' and a Pluckin'

Every night, before my nightly shower, I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I am merely observing the mess of eyebrows and dirty pores that magically appear every day. Really, how fast do eyebrows grow, for God's sake? I have been plucking since forever ago. If I didn't, instead of Christie, well mannered, young woman, with 2 kids, you would be looking at Bert, well mannered Sesame Street character, with an affinity for pigeons. I really have no skill in plucking, it is an art form that I have never mastered. Once, a long time ago, I had my brows waxed. I went to my salon and the sadist appeared, ready to slap the hottest wax she could find in my eye area, before yanking off the offending brows with one swoop. I found the hardest part to be the anticipation of the impending pain. I actually hated the wax more than the yanking. It is HOT! She might as well have dunked my face in a chicken fryer. Ok, so they looked nice, but I was never sure it was worth $21. Anyway, shortly thereafter, I went back to the plucking route. See, if you want a good eyebrow wax, you have to let them grow for awhile so there is something to remove. In reality, that probably wouldn't take me too long. But, and this is important, do you really want people to see your mangy eyebrows while you are waiting for them to grow out? I know, I don't. I am not resorting to the Bert look, unibrows are not my cup of tea. Neither is the white brow I plucked this evening.

As I move on, I stare at my chin and nose. For some reason, I was blessed with big pores that fill with muck faster than a I can keep up with. It really is disgusting and I have yet to find anything that keeps them clear. So, I empty them of their vile gunk. I know you aren't supposed to pick but I just squeeze them a little bit. I don't have scarring so I think I am doing ok. Sometimes, I use a battery operated brush/scrubber deal. You wash your face, smear this gritty cream all over your face, then flip the switch and magically a layer of your skin is removed. You are left with a nice, pink face. Very smooth, too. It cleans the pores but in a couple of days, the scum returns. Short of going to a dermatologist, I am left with a T-zone that looks like Love Canal. Oh, well... What is that saying, you can pick your pores, you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your friends pores?

TV Time

I am not a big fan of TV. I hate getting sucked in to shows, like Lost, where I am waiting 4 odd years to find out who the heck the "others" are, or why fate dealt those unlucky passengers a most unpleasant hand. As far as being sucked in, for the past 3 years, we have watched American Idol. I was sucked in and, while I enjoy watching, I am sad that I have basically given up an hour of my life on Tuesday night to watch a bunch of amateurs try to become stars.

I remember watching alot of TV when I was younger. Tuesday was such a great night! Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley were treats that rivaled ice cream. Then, there was Saturday night. Who can forget the Love Boat and Fantasy Island? I used to pretend that I was on a cruise ship and my bedroom was a luxurious stateroom. Years later, I saw Titanic and realized I would never set foot on a boat, sharply dressed shipboard doc or not. After seeing reruns, I realized how many people came back on board as different characters. Did Aaron Spelling truly believe we wouldn't notice?On another note, I just finished reading Tori Spelling's book and it was a hoot. Good National Enquirer type reading.

Fantasy Island was a nightmare waiting to happen. There was also that same cast of characters that seemed to magically appear as new people, with new drama attached. Carol Linley and Dennis Cole seemed to make many, many, many appearances. Cole actually has his own website, though it doesn't mention FI at all. Wonder why? Maybe he felt Tattoo violated him in some way and refuses to acknowledge his episodes. Speaking of Tattoo, you know I have this interest in little people. Well, Tattoo, or Herve, was a kinky little guy. I read once that he covered himself with chocolate pudding and wanted his full size girlfriend to lick it off. I'm not sure exactly which part of that makes me gag but it does, for sure. Mr. Roark was really scary. I guess it was the voice but after you hear him do the Volare, Cordoba, or whatever, car commercial, it kind of loses the effect they were hoping for. The supernatural weirdness would get to me and I would often have nightmares. I'm sure my mom wouldn't have let me watch, knowing the after effects. Of course, she let me watch Love Boat and that was full of strangers having sex after dinner at the Captain's Table. Maybe that is where I got my upstanding set of morals.

I also liked, and still like, Scooby Doo, the old ones, not the ones with that idiot, Scrappy. The show hit an all time low when they added him. Of course, now I watch cartoons with Mia. She really enjoys Max&Ruby, which I can tolerate, and Caillou, which I can't. Max&Ruby has a brother and sister bunny and they are cute but don't really have a message. Maybe they do, but I have missed it. Caillou just pushes my buttons. He is a whiny, little pain in the ass. He is scared of the dark, of monsters, of dogs, you name it and the little guy is scared out of his wits. I hear that the voice of Caillou is actually a girl and that she was recently killed in a car crash. Very sad. I hope they don't get a replacement.

Bobby and Max watch TV like there is nothing else in the wide world to do. Bobby will watch FOX til we have heard the same report about Reverend Jeremiah Wright seventeen times. I like Sean Hannity but I think for Bobby it goes deeper. More like Lori Dhue, Megyn Kelly and the other women, that like to broadcast their assets, rather than the news. Is a miniskirt that barely covers your butt good for ratings or is it just a distraction for Geraldo? I will say that he will watch Bill O'Reilly and there is absolutely nothing sexy about him. Please excuse me for being a ninny hammer and popinjay. You look it up, I had to.

Don't know who else will recall, Dance Fever, Facts of Life, Dance Party USA, Peppermint Place, Knot's Landing and a million other shows that I remember from my childhood. I enjoyed watching them all but now don't feel the need to be chained to the televsion, flat screen, HD or not. So many books, so little time.

Camel Toe and Big Ass or People Who Should Be Bitch Slapped

Waiting for Max in the school parking lot is always fodder for a good blog entry and/or stand up comedy routine. Since getting up on stage at the Loony Bin is not an option, I figured I would just share a little bit of what I saw today. Everyone shall remain nameless, lest their hideous judgement be revealed and you see what idiots some people really are, myself not included.

Some people just don't get how pants should fit, specifically, jeans. Ideally, they should be comfortable, fit nicely and not be over $100. While jeans can be any color, I am a traditionalist and prefer blue. This is not to say that other colors can't be worn without me calling you an ass. That being said, fit really becomes important. Today, I was blinded by a pair of tight, white bow-chica-bow-bow jeans that nearly made me lose my cookies. They literally gave camel toe a new meaning. It was sick, yet I couldn't stop looking. A Levi's train wreck. This nice lady, a phrase I use very loosely, likes to wear her pants like this. ALL of her pants. These pants combined with her neon white hair, make for a shocking view. I actually know this person, believe it or not, and have never made a comment regarding her outward persona. That is not to say that I don't have a bunch to say when she is not around. I am a nice person like that. So, here is a Blondie wannabe, parking where she isn't supposed to, carrying a little dog, ala Jessica Simpson, and giving the term, "Read my lips," a whole new meaning. Cue the porn music.

Yet, another woman with a pants problem, surfaced today. This really is a nice lady but the butt is a big one that stretch pants can't conceal. She also has some hair issues, mainly that headbands and crazy, curly hair don't exactly work well together. It appeared that a small, black poodle was perched on her head, hanging on for dear life. I can cut her some slack on the hair, because I am in my 45th day of ponytail and don't see signs of a style change. The pants bothered me for a couple of reasons. Like I mentioned, stretch pants aren't always the best choice for a big ass. At the very least, one should wear a longer shirt to cover the butt. Maybe that is just my opinion, I don't know. So, not only was the shirt too short, but the panty choice left lots to be desired. If you can see the panty, especially under the white stretch pants, maybe a change in color is necessary, at the very least.

I saw another lady, one I didn't know, yesterday. She had odd colored orange/gold hair and really BIG 70's type glasses. I don't know what her clothes looked like because she was wearing a huge, coral colored pashmina. When I think of pashmina's, I think of Paris Hilton or someone that consideres themselves a jet setter. Maybe I'm wrong. I didn't get into the pashmina craze, I would rather wear a jacket, then wrap something around me like a straight jacket. Anyway, she was rocking her pashmina look, I guess. I looked at her feet and guess what kind of shoes she had on? Crocs! Wow, now that was a look. I love my Mammouth's, but really?

There is an interesting blend of students at school also. Can you imagine a 13-year old boy carrying a metal lunchbox? This particular model is red plaid, like I had in the 6th grade. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, this is the same kid that was beating up on a little kid the other day. Literally, swinging the kid's backpack around and hitting him til he fell. Finally, someone intervened. Had it been me, I would have whacked him with that cool, metal lunchbox. This is the same kid, mind you, that gets up during the Sunday service with his cellphone in hand, like he is some kind of big shot. I guess I shouldn't be shocked, his dad struts around like he is 10 feet tall. In reality, he is more like 3 feet tall.

I don't get why men have to pretend to be something they aren't. There is a dad that I have met on occasion, and he has serious body issues. First off, he is another shorty. Muscular, but in one of those ways you see guys at the Y, trying to puff up like a turkey. It makes me laugh. While he has an admirable profession, he is not God and should quit pretending like he is. Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint, no supermodel, not even a supermom, but get over yourself because you look like a fool. Napolean complex be damned.

Line 'em up for a bitch slap.