Valentime’s Day, Or As I Affectionately Call It, Singles Awareness Day

25 Feb 2013 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus, Outings, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags:

Don’t you hate it when people call it that?  There is no M in Valentine.  Do you also hate it when people call it Singles Awareness Day? Tough, it’s my blog.

So I had a party for all my single friends on Singles Awareness Day.  We went to the bowling alley.  You should know that I am a terrible bowler.  Really awful.   I don’t know why I do this to myself.  You remember Thor?  He claims to be the worst bowler ever.  I say this with love – he’s pretty bad.  I have another friend who doesn’t see too well.  Her vision started to go when she was young yet she has adjusted beautifully.  She’s an okay bowler.  We had some new friends come to the party who tried their hardest to lay claim to the title “Crappiest Bowler Ever”, throwing gutter balls and missing pin after pin.  Y’all want to guess who got the lowest score in every game?  Want to know who was so spectacularly bad at the bowling that breaking a 40 was considered a fantastic accomplishment?  That is correct – yours truly.

One of the new friends whom I shall call Flash pulled me aside on the last two frames of the game to give me some coaching lessons.  “Jimmie,” Flash said, “how do you feel about me giving you some pointers so that maybe you can tie for last place instead of being dead last all by yourself . . . . again?” 

“Sure, why not.”  And so Flash coached me, enabling me to get a strike AND a spare and thus I tied for last place with a guy who fervently tried to convince us that he had never bowled before.  I am amazing.

Lest you think I am a total loser, I do have things at which I excel. 

For example, I am excellent at lecturing men on what constitutes a good Valentime’s Day gift.  Simply look at this post, which can be used for almost any gift-giving occasion in which women are to receive tokens of affection.  I used it with great success on a guy at work, whom I shall call Yao Ming (he is tall and I like standing next to him). 

“Yao Ming,” I said as I cornered him in the supply room, “what are you doing for your wife for Valentime’s Day?  You have planned ahead, correct?”

“Uh . . . .” said Yao Ming.  “I usually do pretty well on ValentiNe’s Day.  I’ll get balloons or flowers or something.”   

“Well, you better giddy on it, Yao Ming.  I do not want any of my friends in the dog house because of a lame Valentime’s Day gift.  I once knew a girl, my sister-in-law actually, whose boyfriend gave her a set of free weights and the advice that she could use lose a few pounds.  She was a rail already but either way, that boyfriend spent a lot of time recovering from that snafu and I do not want the same fate for you.  I like you too much for that, Yao Ming.” And then Yao Ming made some excuse about all the work he had to do and fled to the other side of the hall. 

I used this same argument successfully with the postman, the UPS man, and the Fed Ex guy.  I am very popular. 

Another example of things I do well:  I am excellent at playing with other people’s children in bowling alleys.   I know this because after coming back from a routine visit to the restroom I found a small child hanging out in our lane.  He was a tiny little black boy with the cutest curly Mohawk you’ve ever seen.  He was less than two and had the sweetest eyelashes.  His elbow was propped on one of our chairs and he watched our game intently, probably fascinated by the wildly spinning colorful balls that flew all over the lanes.  Ooh, I snatched him up immediately, cooing “Hi, muffin. What’s your name?”

He looked at me with giant eyes and then turned his attention back to the out-of-control game we were playing.  He leaned against me, completely content.  Oh, I could have held him all night.  After a few minutes, though, I could see the realization dawn on his family that they were missing a kid.  I held him up to show I had him, that he was safe and while they rushed over to rescue him from the wild woman who bowled as if she had a muscle deficiency, they were very kind in letting me get a hug from him before taking him safely to his own lane.  We bonded, though, because he waved good-bye to me as he left.  He was my Valentime. 

I also have other assorted skills like layering on glitter eyeliner in thick, even lines; backcombing my hair into a giant poof; matching my socks to every occasion and outfit (up to and including Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, Equestrian holidays, Dog holidays, and Valentime’s Day); asking Boss for gifts that he never sends; and making friends easily.  You know why I make friends easily?  It’s because I never throw people under the bus by telling stories on them when they are crappy bowlers (Thor) or when they get super excited about the nerdy Tupperware gift they received for Valentime’s Day (Yao Ming). 

This is a pretty impressive list, don’t you agree?  Y’all want to hang out with me this weekend?  We should go bowling.

I Am On A Budget. And I Have Some Addictions. These Are First World Problems. (Part Two)

18 Feb 2013 1 Comment

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Home Improvement, I'm Such A Girl, Lost Stuff Tags: ,

So money is tight. I’ve told you that before. It’s okay, I’m not complaining. I’m learning actually. I’m pretty good at budgeting and stretching a dollar and I’ve always been the queen of planning. I view this era of my life as a challenge and as a growing process, so it isn’t bad.

Now that I have written the “rah, rah” section I will now begin the “huh, this is . . . fun” section.

Due to lack of funds (see above: Budget) and lack of dates (see entire blog: Single) I now occasionally find myself in the enviable position of having a Saturday night with absolutely nothing to do. Nothing. Not a thing. No thing. At all. Enviable, right? When that happens I’m not sure what to do with myself. Usually. However, lately I seem to have overbooked myself professionally and socially and so when I understood that I was going to have a weekend that did not include people in any format at all, I began to rejoice. Honestly, I was getting rather emotional and snippy as I had had no alone time in weeks.

Also, remember when I hired Ernesto, my house cleaner, and I was jazzed that he came every two weeks and folded my toilet paper ends into points? Remember how I loved him and swooned over his work? Well, I miss him (see above: Budget). My house does too.

These were my plans when I went to bed Friday night: to sleep as late as possible (7:00 a.m., baby! I am a sloth!), and to clean my miserable (miserable) wreck of a house. Do you think it is sad? Do you feel a little sorry for me? Don’t! It was marvelous!

Following is a list of what I accomplished:

– Two carloads full of stuff were taken to Goodwill, some mine and some Kasi Starr’s. (There is another story here – tune in later for that episode.) By full, I mean there was room for me and that’s it. I could see out the front driver’s side windows and that’s it. It, I tell you.

– The areas where one of the kitties vomited unspeakable things onto the carpet were shaved off with a razorblade. Gross. I’m currently not speaking to Murphy or Miss Kitty.

– My garage is completely organized according to girl code. Boys, you have no dog in this fight. My garage is perfect. I do not need your advice about how to arrange my storage space according to your strict and non-negotiable standards of tool/garden object/car/cleaner areas.

– The interior of my car was vacuumed and scrubbed.

– The trunk of my car was emptied and vacuumed. I hope you guys caught that. The trunk. Of my car. That I have not really touched since April when I was laid off. Was cleaned out. It was sad a little. I had a whole life at that company and that whole life was stuffed into my trunk where I did not have to face it. But after I threw a whole bunch of that life away, I felt lighter somehow. Also, look at it!

Before

Before

After. Ain't it beauty-ful?

After. Ain’t it beauty-ful?

– I cut my thumb open with a vegetable peeler. Not only was I not cooking anything, but I had been whipping about a razorblade all morning with no ill results, yet the moment I washed the dishes, I nearly bled to death in the kitchen. It was a scary time.

– I lost my car keys. How I did that in this spotless, completely organized house is beyond me. I don’t know how you guys stand me. Really. I can barely stand myself.

– I organized my closet. And here, my friends, is Addiction, Part Two.

Wall One

Wall One

Wall Two

Wall Two

You see all that? Those are hoodies. I love them. I can never have too many. I am on the never-ending quest for the perfect one and despite what you see here, I have not yet found it. One of those hoodies was stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was literally the only thing I kept from that relationship of one whole year and my whole heart. Two of them I stole from a guy I went on two dates with. Four of them I stole from Coach (you see how I’m his fake wife?). Martie recently purchased one that I covet and the minute she gives even a whiff of letting me borrow it, it will be mine. That gray one there in the middle, it’s my favorite. That Titan’s one has a matching scarf Madre knitted for me. That pink one is for sleeping. Madre tried to borrow the purple one for just a week or two and initially I said yes, but as she was trying to put it on, I kept pulling it off and not letting go and eventually she just gave up and stuck it back in my closet. Some of them are specifically for use in the gym. Some of them are for house cleaning. Some of them are for dates (as if). Some of them are to be paired with jeans on casual Friday. Some of them have matching socks and t-shirts although all of them look good with a lacy camisole. That one up there with the bleach stains? You should know that the zipper is broken meaning I have to wrangle it closed with pliers, and it is two sizes too big, yet I cannot seem to part with it. You want me to go on? No? Really?

What were we talking about? I think I got ever so slightly sidetracked with the hoodies and now have forgotten the entire point I was trying to make. But, uh, I’m on a budget (perhaps it was how you can have a no-money fun weekend? By cleaning?) and I have addictions and these are first world problems.

The end.

P.S. I also have a wrapping paper addiction and am on my second year of a three year wrapping paper purchase ban. I also seem to have great affection for the long sleeved t-shirt. If any of you forgot to buy me a birthday present and feel pretty bad about it, I could give you a few suggestions.

P.P.S. Also, pajamas.

I Am On A Budget. And I Have Some Addictions. These Are First World Problems. (Part One)

13 Feb 2013 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Uncategorized Tags:

I realized a few weeks ago that I have a Chap Stick addiction. I’m not even kidding. I never thought of it as an addiction, of course, because come on, flavored wax? An addiction? Anyway, I was in the airport heading back from Tampa and the TSA agents made us empty our purses of not only traditional liquids but also any lip goo or balm of any sort. I ignored them – always smart. When it was my turn to go through the feel-up-pat-down, they asked me to empty my handbag of all lip products (they were not joking) and go through again.

IMG_2283

The contents of ONE bag in my purse. This does not include my emergency hidden stash, what is at my desk, and the lip stuff stored in the cabinets around the house.

This is a sad state of affairs.

I was laughing about this at work with one of my co-workers who I will call Daisy, and as I was rolling on a layer of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Lip Treatment, she said, “You know that is addictive, right?”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, as I slathered on another layer.

“It is, look it up,” she says.

And so I did. Did you know there are websites devoted to this problem? I mean, pages and pages of testimony and quotes from Dr. Oz (who we all know is never to be questioned), and therapy centers. These websites give tips on how to quit the habit and explain why lip goo is bad for you. I was astounded. I felt so . . . . wrong. I had no idea it was such a problem! Right there I vowed to quit. No way would that be hard. Addictive, my foot.

Day One – I took my shower, brushed my teeth and instead of putting on Chap Stick after my face lotion, I left my lips alone. By the time I was done drying my hair, my lips felt tight and crinkly but I persevered. I drank some water to hydrate my skin and drove to work.

At work, my two favorite lip balms sat by my phone. I looked at them with longing, feeling like my mouth looked like the Sahara Desert, but I tucked them away into a drawer. I reasoned that if they were out of sight, I’d be alright.

“I’m giving up Chap Stick,” I announced to anyone who came to my desk. “That’s why I look like this.”

“Like what?” they’d ask.

“Like I’ve been sucking on a salt lick for days,” I’d say.

“You look fine. I can’t see any difference,” they’d say, and in my head I’d call them a liar.

Daisy checked on me throughout the morning. “You doing okay?” she’d ask. “This dry feeling will pass, I promise.”

Through dry, cracked, dead skin lips I’d croak, “Okay . . .” and she’d go off to get a Diet Coke.

After lunch, where I liberally used a dry, sandpaper napkin, I felt like I had taken a nail file and scrubbed the outline of my lips. I just knew I looked like my lip liner had done something very, very wrong, and I don’t even wear lip liner.

“I’m giving up Chap Stick,” I continued to announce throughout the afternoon, mournful and full of regret.

“Why?” my co-workers asked.

“It’s addictive. I’m an addict.” I’d show them the contents of my purse and they would nod knowingly.

I made it through the afternoon. I’m not sure how. I spent the better part of the hours between one and five in the bathroom, passing through all the water I drank trying to hydrate my cement-like lips. Daisy continued to check on me, offering support and cautioning me to have patience. “I promise, Jimmie. This will pass. You have to give your skin some time to adjust.” I said okay, all the while shooting daggers from my eyes at her. It was the longest afternoon of my life.

At bedtime, I flossed my teeth and drank another glass or two of water. I tucked away all my lip products in drawers so I wouldn’t accidentally use any of them in the middle of the night (I’ve been known to do that.) I went to sleep, dreaming of waxy-like substances in every flavor (except cherry because everyone knows that cherry-flavored Chap Stick is gross). Let me tell you, those were some fulfilling dreams.

Day Two – I awoke to lips that felt . . . .soft. Not crinkly. Not tight and not like cement. I showered and brushed my teeth and smeared on face lotion, drank some water and went to work . . . .

. . . . where I sneezed and split my lip because it was so dry and pulled so tight across my face that there was nowhere for the skin to go except to split during the sneeze. I opened my drawer and withdrew my two favorite lip balms. As I was smearing it across the general vicinity of the lower half of my face, Daisy walked in. “Jimmie . . . .” she breathed. “No . . . .”

I didn’t even feel guilty. Not even a little bit. I put the cap back on my Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Lip Treatment, put it by the phone in its place of honor, and then opened the blue tube of Chap Stick and rubbed it all around my lips, too, defiant and uncaring. There they sit to this day, proud, ever-dwindling, my best friends.

Call me what you will. I love lip goo.

P.S. I know I didn’t really cover the Budget portion of my title. Hold, please. This is merely part one.

The Top Five (no) Three (no) Four Reasons I like My Neighbor, Luke

11 Feb 2013 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, Health, Weight Loss Tags:

The Top Five Reasons I Like My Neighbor, Luke

The Top Five Three Four Reasons I like My Neighbor, Luke

Why I Like Luke, a list by Jimmie (Gah!)

One – His name is Luke.  It’s my second favorite name of all time, right after Daniel.

Two – I never suspected him of stealing my garbage can.  (The neighbor on the other side of me, however . . . .)

Three – He answers every text I send him, even though most of them begin with the words “Hey, I broke something . . . . are you at home?”

Four – Every time I offer him food, he takes it.  You know how I love a man who eats.  Just last week we had the following text exchange:

Jimmie:  Hey, are you at home?

Luke, being a good neighbor, probably rolling his eyes and wondering what I broke this time:  I’m close.  What’s up?

Jimmie:  I have leftovers.  You want them?

Luke, being a man who loves to eat:  Of course I want them!  I never turn down food. 

And then before I could even send a reply text he was knocking on my door, dressed in a polar bear-sized coat, gloves and a hat.  I felt like I needed to explain that I’d begun a “lifestyle change” (not a diet) and that at midnight my cheat day would officially end and that I could not have the fantastic leftovers in my house or I would eat them and would he please take them off my hands.  He probably heard “blah, blah, blah, free man-food” and snatched it out of my hand, hollered “thanks!” and scampered back to his football game (or whatever) he was watching on his giant man TV. 

He is most helpful to me.  For this I am grateful. 

By the way, my “lifestyle change” is going really well.  I’ve lost four pounds, all of them in my butt.  Yay.

(This was supposed to be a list of five but then I struggled so it became a list of three but then I remembered one more so, a list of four. Writing at its finest, y’all.)

Days (Day) Of Our (My) Lives (Life) – Best And Worst

31 Jan 2013 1 Comment

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Outings, Pets Tags: ,

Oh, y’all I think Tuesday was the worst day of my life.  (That might be a slight exaggeration.  The day I melted deodorant into my makeup bag was pretty bad, as was the day I had to have my car towed due to a dead starter and my neighbor, whose driveway was blocked by the tow truck for LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES, had a hissy fit about potentially being blocked in her garage for LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES on the off chance she might suddenly need to go somewhere which we all knew was ridiculous as she had, literally, just arrived home.)  (I read a lot of Faulkner in college.  You are welcome for the run on sentence.)

Tuesday morning I had the sinking realization that Seamus was missing.  I had a suspicion on Monday evening when he didn’t come galloping out from under the bed when I shook the treat bag, but occasionally he is moody and stuffs himself up inside the box springs to hide.  It isn’t unusual for him to forgo his happy part of the day (i.e. treats/peas) so that he can sulk alone.  I texted Martie about it Monday night and even she, who doesn’t like cats nary even a little bit, was worried and offered to call so that she could commiserate with me.  Tuesday morning I had to text her that it was official.  Seamus was gone.

When it hit me, I started to shake.  Seamus is older and slightly pudgy.  He’s weird and emotionally stunted.  He likes Murphy, treats and the white fuzzy blanket on my bed.  Once he sat on my legs and purred but when he realized that Murphy was nowhere to be found, he leapt off me and went under the bed.  Despite all of this, and I’ll say this at a whisper, Seamus is my favorite cat.  DO NOT TELL MURPHY. 

With tears in my eyes, I started looking under the beds and in the closets to see if maybe he had passed in the night, alone and wadded up in box spring.  I couldn’t find him anywhere and suddenly had the weird notion that maybe he had gotten outside.  I immediately rejected that.  Seamus, even when the door is open for hours on end, will stick one paw and one ear out the door, and like a kid dared to run into the cemetery, will immediately bound back into the house, all giddy and spastic as if he’d just done the scariest, bravest thing of his life.  In short, he never goes outside. With that thought, I left for work, teary-eyed and sad, still wondering where I would find his lifeless body.

Halfway out of my neighborhood, I realized I left my purse at home.  I drove back and ran in quickly to get it.  Guess who was standing outside the back door. Just guess.  That little turd had been outside gallivanting for two whole nights and when I opened the door to let him in, breath whooshing out of my lungs, he pranced around, clearly proud of himself.  I could have beat him.  I tried to hug him but he made a beeline for the food bowl so I settled for just rubbing his ears for a minute.  Since I was already late for work, I left him alone with his food and his friend.

When I arrived at work, I still had a bit of bile in my throat from the worry and then the sudden joy.  My legs were still a little shaky.  So when I happened to look down at the ground and saw that my jump drive, the jump drive that holds everything I’ve ever written over the last two years, the only jump drive that I own and the only place where my writings are stored, was mangled under the tire of a car, wet and covered in dirt, I started to cry.  I know I should have backed all that up.  I know that.  You won’t yell at me any louder or more harshly than I already did myself.  How it got from the bottom of my purse to the bottom of a tire on someone’s gigantic four door jeep is beyond me.  I just know what when I picked it up the mangled metal fell apart in my hands and I was devastated.  No way could I recreate all that work.  No way.

I dusted it off and took a look at it through my watery eyes.  The end that plugs into the computer looked okay and once I blew the dirt out of it, I stuck it into my laptop with my hopes lunging up and down.  I waited.  Then waited. Then waited some more.  It was nauseating.  After an eternity, the window for the drive opened giving me access to all my files.  They were all there and every single one of them opened. I immediately wobbled my way back to Katniss and said in a hoarse whisper “Give me a jump drive.  Now.”  She saw the look of panic in my eyes and handed over her brand new one.  I wobbled back to my desk and did the drag and drop into to the new device.  Then I ordered two more drives from Office Depot, one for me and one for her.  I’ll repeat the process again when it comes in, and then hide one away in a safe place and the other will be stuck in my bra at all times. 

Talk about a roller coaster.  Tuesday sucked.  And then Tuesday was glorious.  Best and Worst, all in 24 hours.  That was a lot for one day.  I need a drink.

Oh, BTW, this was Seamus when I got home last night.  I love that stupid cat. 

IMG_2275

 

A Trip To Tampa, Part One

24 Jan 2013 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, I Will Cut You, I'm Going Somewhere Tags: ,

So I went to Tampa.  I didn’t get a tan.  This should not surprise you.

This also should not surprise you.  I met some strangers.  Woney flew out to meet me there, but other than her, I knew nary a one of these people I was to hang out with for three days.  I am an excellent judge of character when I get to know you over email and/or Facebook.  I totally know the difference between someone who says “I promise not to steal your big sexy hair products and to leave your virtue intact” and someone who says “I am in Nicaragua with my mum who is sick.  I am sad.  I love you, please wire money.”  What I’m saying is you do not have to worry about me meeting strangers and picking roommates from Craigslist.

There’s a lot to discuss about this trip so I’m going to have to do this in parts.  It’s a lot to process. Plus I had a tasty beverage or two  while there and so some things are fuzzy.  I’m such a lightweight.

The flight out was lovely.  Fairly uneventful.  Crowded.  The flight attendant in my section of the plane was a nice man, although a bit of an Eeyore.  I usually fly Southwest and if I’m lucky I’ll get a flight crew full of fun.  I like the ones who sing, tell stories, and generally put some pizazz in the safety messages.  This flight attendant was nothing like that.  Following is the conversation he had with me and my seatmates.

Flight attendant, clutching his drink order pad, to those of us in my aisle:  What would you like to drink?

Seatmate1: Ginger ale.

Flight attendant:  You said Diet Coke?

Seatmate 1:  No, ginger ale.

Seatmate 2:  I’ll have a Diet Coke, please.

Me:  Do you have diet ginger ale?

Flight attendant:  No, we have Diet Coke.

Me:  I’ll have water.

Time passed.  We ate peanuts.  We waited.

Flight attendant, clutching his drink tray, to Seatmate 1:  Here’s your Diet Coke. 

Seatmate 1:  I ordered ginger ale.

Flight attendant:  I wrote down Diet Coke.

Seatmate 1:  I’d prefer a ginger ale.

Flight attendant: <heavy sigh>

Flight attendant to seatmate 2:  Here’s your Diet Coke.

Flight attendant to me:  Here’s your Diet Coke.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, I ordered water” but I saw his face, his Eeyore countenance, and the sigh that was coming, so I took the Diet Coke and clutched it in my hand until the garbage bag came around.

Then I arrived in Tampa and met some strangers and had the time of my life.

And then I had a flight home.  Boy, it was a doozy.  The flight itself was fine, no worries there, I’m alive.  But Woney and I ran into something interesting as we arrived at the airport.  We saw loads of people wearing black and bright green clothing and on all that black and bright green clothing was a green sparkly logo.  Now I’m a big fan of all thing sparkly, of course, so I was instantly captivated until I realized that the logo didn’t really say anything.  Then I caught on.   Ohhhhhh.  Stare at the logo, ask a question about it and immediately get sucked into a sales pitch.  I hate that!  Even though my eyes were drawn to the shiny, I walked quickly and firmly away from all those people.   It was a chore, let me tell you.  They were EVERYWHERE. 

I handled the walking away marvelously until I walked the gangplank to get to my plane.  There, in the bouncy walking tube, I was accosted by a husband and wife team as I began the slow crawl to get to the plane.  She was decked out literally from head to toe in her bright green and he even had his sparkly logo on a baseball jersey.  Die hards.  They were all up in my personal space, yapping at me about their product*, handing me crap that I clutched in my sweaty paw until the flight attendant came by with the garbage bag.  They wanted my contact info, etc., etc. and I politely declined as I boarded the plane, grabbing the first seat I could find in relief to be away from the vultures. 

I sat down with a whoosh in aisle two and do you know I sat right next to another one of those varmints?  She tricked me.  She had on a regular old black jacket over her sparkly green logo and only unzipped it after I sat down.  I just sighed and took the information, clutching  it in my hand until the flight attendant came by for garbage pickup.  I hate that mess.  If you are going to sell something and turn into your product, losing all your former personality and charm, go away from me.  I do not want what you are selling.

Oh, and speaking of flight attendants and charm, on this flight I had a Ricky Martin-type guy who was adorable.  He rattled off his safety spiel and suddenly, right in the middle of it, said “If you have any questions, please find a flight attendant.  Unless they are naked.  Never trust the naked ones.”  And then he went right on about his business.

So I’ve given you the bookend information on my trip.  There’s more to come.  I just have to get over my lazy haze that I got when I was down there so that I can write it all up for you. 

*I’m not going to tell you what the product was because they annoyed me.  It isn’t a product you want anyway unless you like people eyeing you critically and giving you low self-esteem with their suggestions about how they can fix you.  I like you guys too much to subject you to that.

 

Once Again, A Story About My Hair

14 Jan 2013 7 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, I'm Such A Girl, Uncategorized Tags:

Martie and I have an arrangement.  We have for years, ever since she decided to attend cosmetology school the day she graduated from college.  She would learn how to make hair look fabulous and I would let her practice on me.  In essence, I am her guinea pig.  And now that she is advanced in her career it is no longer called “practice” but “experimentation”.

Over the course of her career, I have been a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, a redhead with blonde chunks, a blonde with orange stripes, a blonde with brown chunks, and finally a blonde with red streaks.  I’ve also worn a glitter tattoo, fake eyelashes so long that I couldn’t even wear my glasses, and a feather in my hair.  Every new trend that comes along will be tried on my hair unless it interferes with my professional career which sadly eliminates the ombre in violet tones (I would rock that in a heartbeat), the beehive (this disappoints me like you would not believe), and the dip-dye (I’m not entirely sure what this is but I’m pretty sure I desperately want it). 

More than once over the years Boss asked “What have you done to your hair?” Once I determined that my new hair wouldn’t get me fired, I dismissed him.  Lynnette, on the other hand, has asked more than once over the years “Ooh, what have you done to your hair?”  Once I determine that she likes it, we discuss it at length. 

So back to our agreement, Martie and me.  Every month I give her a date night with her bohunk, Coach, and every time I need new hair, she does it for free.  Win/win.  This weekend was a win/win for both of us as she and Coach needed their alone time and I needed my roots done before my pending trip to Tampa.  I also needed to see my nieces so maybe win/win/win?  Oh, did I tell you about Tampa?  I’m going to Tampa. I won’t get a tan, as per usual, but I do plan on having fun.

So I was in the beauty shop “helping” her mix my color this weekend.  She had already wound my hair up into chunks and cut the foil and draped the cape over me.  We trotted off to the back where she got out the chemicals and started mixing.  Right in the middle of the mixing she said, “Oh shit.”  Being the curious type and also the type that defines herself by her hair, I hollered, “What! Oh crap, what!  What did you do?” And she said something in Swahili about mixing one developer with another something or other and basically she was pretty sure it was going to work but it had never been tried because these things had never been mixed before and then she slapped it on the roots of my hair and wadded it up in foil and stuck me under the dryer.  I heard her say to one of the other girls in the shop, “At least it’s just Jimmie” and they all nodded in agreement.

I wasn’t really worried.  Not really.  I trust Martie completely and truthfully, I am her best advertising.  I knew she wouldn’t let anything happen to my hair.  But I still had a moment of trepidation when she took the foil off.  I always have a secret fear, a very small one mind you, that she will take the foil off and my hair will come with it.  This day was no different.  The cursing beforehand probably didn’t help.  BUT!  She took the foil off and whacked my hair off into a fashionable cut and put some fancy-smelling hair goo in it and dried into the perfect coif.  And then said, “Viola!  I knew that would work.”  It was then that my stomach stopped quivering. 

Man, she’s so smart.  See why I trust her? 

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Also, as a bonus for you because I’ve been gone so long, here is the picture I promised of me and Pooh.  I took it over Christmas after I hugged her tight for a while.  I love that girl. 

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I Remain Unchanged

04 Jan 2013 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Health, I'm Such A Girl Tags: ,

Yesterday was my yearly Doctor Appointment. You know, The Doctor. The Cookie One. The One I Hate. If you are new to me, think about it for a minute. You will figure it out.

I think everyone is always a little hopeful that time will grow me up, that I will no longer act like a two-year-old throwing a hissy fit in the toy aisle at Target when I go to The Doctor. No one is more hopeful than me, though. Every year I gird my loins, so to speak, giving myself pep talks and practicing some deep breathing and also praying. This year I was so hopeful that I did my makeup before stepping foot into that office. Used to I’d cry it all off and have to redo it so I learned that perhaps it was best if I just waited until after my appointment before glamming up my eyelashes. Not this year! This year I caked all that mess on and then drove on over for my appointment.

Want to have a recap of that visit with me? Let’s do this.

Did I unsuccessfully attempt to pee into a cup? Check.

Did I get huffy at the scale when forced to weigh in? Check.

Did I snap “Why in the world does that matter?” when the nurse asked if I was single, married or divorced? Check.

Did they give me a paper towel to wear? Check.

Did I lick the edges of the paper towel and stick it to myself in order to get maximum coverage? Check.

Did they measure my blood pressure? Check.

Did they have to re-measure my blood pressure after the exam to see if it came down to a non-near-death level? Check.

Did I use half a box of Kleenex for my snotty nose and watery eyes? Check.

Did I curse at The Doctor? Check.

Did I call someone a liar? Check.

Did I call another someone a liar? Check.

Did I mouth off to the scheduler and also call her a liar because upon making my appointment she told me that all doctors come in no earlier than nine, that it was the earliest appointment available, yet I could clearly see on the sign in sheet that my physician had been taking appointments since eight that morning? Check.

Did I go to work looking like bees stung my eyeballs? Check.

Katniss, my work friend, sent me a message today after witnessing my swole up eyeballs and beet red complexion and also my crappy attitude that read: I am so glad I am your friend and not your doctor. She has a point. I never cuss my friends like that.

So what did we learn here? That I am rock steady, never changing? You can count on me to be consistent? Check.

I Don’t Know Why Everyone Gets So Worried

29 Dec 2012 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family, I Will Cut You, I'm Such A Girl Tags:

I think I forgot to tell you that Daddy-O and JiJi got me a new pink pocketknife for my birthday.  It was a happy moment.  Ain’t it purty?

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I’ve toted it around in my purse proudly for a few months but have only had a couple of chances to use it so when Christmas rolled around, I was pretty stoked.  See, we are a family that likes ourselves the ribbon.  We enjoy twisting that curling ribbon all around the package and tying it as tight as we can. It makes the packages look more festive.  We are also a family that enjoys ourselves some tape.  We like taping the gift boxes shut and also all the seams of the wrapping paper so that finding a finger hold to rip the paper off is nearly impossible.  But the packages look pretty and that is what is important.

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When Coach was opening his first package and having some difficulty, I ran to my purse to get my pocketknife.  “Here,” I offered, “you can use my pocketknife.”

Coach looked at me with horror.   “No,” he hollered.  “You put that away!  You’ll hurt yourself!”

And then Martie said when I offered it to her, “No, I’m good!  I’ve got this, see?”  And she sawed away at the tape with her nail.

Daddy-O said, “Lord, go get some Kleenex before you bleed all over the couch!”

Poppa whipped out his own pocketknife and sneered at my tiny little pink one as he expertly flicked his open and sliced through the ribbon.

Madre let me open my knife and use it on one of her gifts but when I had a brain cramp for a minute and couldn’t remember how to close it, Coach took it away from me and stuffed it down between the couch cushions. 

I got my knife back and will have you know that all my fingers remain intact.  I don’t even know why you worry. I am excellent with sharp things.  Except for this one time.  Geez, bunch of worry warts. 

 

Guest Post: Lucy Loo, Madre’s New Dog

27 Dec 2012 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Guest Post, Pets Tags:

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Hello!  We just had Christmas!  Here’s what I ate:

Book (Poppa was really mad)

Ping Pong Paddle (I barfed after that)

Jimmie’s Ear (She hit me on the nose)

Martie’s Chin (She hit me on the nose)

Jimmie’s Ribbon (She was mad)

The couch (Everybody was mad)

I also ate – look, another dog!  I want that dog!  Can I have that dog? . . . .  No one ever lets me have another dog! 

I ate:

The other dog’s ear (He was mad)

My leash (Madre was mad)

Puppy food!  (Why come no one was mad?)

Also, I ran! I ran! And sniffed! And ran and played! And! – zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

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Editor’s Note:  Poppa is a patient man.  Lucy Loo was tearing through the house and made a mad leap from the floor of the living room onto the sofa, clipping Poppa in the face and knocking his glasses and hat off.  Poppa merely reached over and retrieved those items and put them back on.  Later, though, he whispered to me, “I’m tired of that damn dog.”  She’s awfully cute, but it’ll be great when she learns another speed besides “Tasmanian Devil” and “Coma”. 

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