Kacey is a Goddess

Yesterday, I decided that I needed a fresh look so that I could end this week-long pity party that I have been engulfed in. I really don't know what started it, but once I got in that funk, I just couldn't find my way back out. The last time I had a cut and color was December, which doesn't seem that long ago, but my 1" of (gulp) brunette that is showing at the top of my head tells another story.

I hate having someone do my hair the way some people hate scrubbing toilets. I hate sitting there and trying to make conversation with someone that I don't really know. I stress over how to describe what I want, because the words always fail me and I basically end up agreeing to whatever the stylist suggests. Then I go home and cannot possibly begin to duplicate whatever creation has been bestowed upon me because there is more goop in my hair than I would ever voluntarily put into it. The process takes hours. And the entire time I am sitting there, I feel guilty for coming in and looking like such a train wreck that I am sucking up the stylist's entire morning or afternoon. For these reasons, I procrastinate such a task for so long that I end up having a week-long pity party.

Today was a little different. I still dreaded going into the salon, and I still stressed over how to describe what I wanted. But this time, I met the most amazing stylist who is fresh out of cosmetology school. Her name is Kacey, and Kacey rocks. I walked in, sat down, and begged her to make me pretty. Literally. I told her that I needed color, a trim, and some major eyebrow reconstruction. And bless her heart, she jumped right in. It was almost a two hour process. The thing that made me happier than anything is that she did exactly what I asked. When I get my hair cut, I always ask for one thing, and the stylist usually tells me that I should do something else. And when I get home, I hate it. Only once in my life did I return to a salon because I hated the cut so much, and I had such guilt over it that now I just suffer through. Today, I told Kacey that I wanted my hair cut with a razor, and that's what she did. And I love it.

Today, I feel beautiful. And Kacey is a goddess.

Deliriously Effing Happy

I hate happy people. You know, the ones who are so friggin joyous that they beam sunshine. I am a pessimist by nature. Deep down inside, I hate people. I walk through my life smelling skunks.

I can file and sign divorce papers at any given moment in time. It has been over a year since my separation, 15 long months that I have suffered through. No one tells you that a failed marriage leaves you feeling tarnished. Tainted. You are expected to feel elated that this dismal, dark part of your life is over. I am not overjoyed. I am still secretly a little sad. My ex is moving on, deliriously happy with his new girlfriend. He has just identified her as his girlfriend to me, as in, called me at work today to announce it. Up until then, they "weren't serious." He is suddenly in a big ass hurry to get divorced, probably so he can rush off and tie the knot for the third time and have more babies with his new wife-to-be. I know, big whoop. Not my problem. I don't know why I care. Really. I guess it's because I look at her and see myself seven years ago. Full of hope that there was going to be a happily ever after in my future. What a crock of crap. I'll bet she doesn't know that he begs me to sleep with him at least once a week.

I see people I know getting engaged, getting married, having babies. They are deliriously happy. I think, "That was me. I did that. I was happy, too." And I hate them. All of them. I guess that I'm better off alone. I can't stand to have my hopes dashed one more time. I don't think there's much left of me to rip apart.

I've spent my twenties looking for my place in the world. If there was a way to screw it up, I did it. Now that I'm almost thirty, I'm convinced that I have no niche. I feel like a big fat outcast, like the joke is always on me. Of my soon to be ex-husband and me, I am the normal one. So why the hell am I the one that's alone? Why am I dating losers? I have been on exactly one date in the past nine months. One friggin date. I must be tainted. Prior to that, I dated someone for six months. I was deliriously happy. I played all of my cards right. Finally, the big payoff. Payoff, my ass. Three guesses on where that relationship went. Yup, right in the crapper.

Anymore, my days run into one another. I can't tell a Monday from a Wednesday except by what's showing on ABC. I get up, I make an attempt to look pretty (for what?), and I go to work to act like it all matters until I come home and get ready to start it all over again.

This can't seriously be all there is.

BARF!

Warning. This is a blog about barf. It is not for the meek.

An achievement of mine is that I have been a mommy for almost six years without being barfed on. Until last night. I actually did it to myself; not the barfing part, but actually thinking about it and allowing myself to be proud of it, therefore causing it to happen.

Kylie started feeling icky last night after a big day of playing outside, riding her bicycle, and all of the other things a five-year-old can cram into her day. She reported to me that her tummy hurt, and she promptly curled up under a blanket and fell asleep on the couch. Ahhhh, with my one and only asleep before 9pm, it was time for me to relax. Not. At 10pm, I started to carry her upstairs, and thought about how grateful I was that she had kept the contents of her tummy, well, in her tummy. Two seconds later, she sat up in my arms, opened her eyes, and upchucked all over me. The unexpected thing is that it really didn't bother me that much.

Over the course of the night, Kylie proceeded to wake up at least three times long enough to hurl all over the sheets, me, the sheets again (the replacement sheets, that is). So much for eight hours of sleep. By the time 6AM rolled around, I gave up and got in the shower (I needed it). Although it was President's Day, Kylie's school was using today as a snow makeup day (yes, it really does snow in North Carolina every now and again). There was no way on earth she was going to make it to school. And there was equally little chance of me playing hooky from work, at least until the afternoon. So I called the soon-to-be-ex-husband and asked him to meet me at the gas station that is halfway between his place and mine. (His parents live with him, or vice versa, depending on how you want to word it. This means that he has a live-in babysitter, which comes in handy on days like this.)

At 7:30am, we pulled into the gas station where soon-to-be-ex-husband was already waiting. The three of us trekked inside of the store so that Kylie could pick out some Gatorade to alleviate her quickly dehydrating 40lb self. We were in the store less than two minutes when she promptly threw up all over the floor. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone was oblivious. I rushed Kylie to the bathrooms and yelled at STBEH to grab some paper towels. Ladies room locked. Dammit. Into the men's room we went. The look on the face of the man who was coming into the men's room as Kylie and I were coming out was awesome.

A little more than twelve hours later, all is well. Kylie has stopped hurling on anything and everything.

Writing about all of this barf has made my stomach feel a little queasy.

Fried Ice Cream

Breyer's is trying to kill me. That's all.

Oh Happy Day!

Here are the reasons that my day rocked, even though I woke up with a cold...

(1) I finally saw Sunglasses Guy's girlfriend, and she is not nearly as cute as I am. Doesn't she know that wearing a frumpy sweatshirt and not combing your hair makes you a target for having some other girl steal your boyfriend? Not that I'm that kind of girl. I'm just saying...

(2) My UPS man waved at me three times today. In fact, he waves at me every time he sees me. I think that makes me special. Or I'm imagining it. But it still makes me happy.

(3) It was a fantastic hair day.

(4) I will be watching a new episode of Grey's Anatomy in exactly 52 minutes.

(5) I will be watching that new episode of Grey's with some homemade hummus and "scoops" tortilla chips (even though scoops are the ones that rip up the roof of your mouth).

(6) Creepy cheeseburger guy has not texted me in several days, not since I threatened him with a restraining order. And when that didn't work, my ex-husband threatened to bash his face in. Not that I totally agree with that by any means, but there's only enough creepy stalker behavior one girl can handle.

That's it. I mean, really, I could have written an entire blog about the hot UPS man. If I could figure out a way to take his picture without freaking him out, I would share it with you.

Safety First!

I was driving home from work one day last week, and I was checking out guys that drove by me in the passing lane. I spend two hours every day on the interstate commuting, so I have to entertain myself somehow. I see a little bit of everything on the drive. Motorcycles, station wagons, tractor trailers, you name it. And I am incredibly shallow; I always judge a guy by his car.

So during this (long) drive home, this incredibly hot piece of man passes by me in a Jeep Wrangler. You know, the one with no doors. And of course I checked him out, but only for a brief moment, because I thought to myself, "Well, that would never work out." And that's when it hit me...I am getting too old for boys. Here I am, the picture of responsibility, driving along in my Ford Focus sedan with the AAA sticker on the back windshield, a child's booster seat in the back. I am simply too old for guys who own a vehicle that they can (and probably do) take four-wheeling.

A couple of weeks ago, I got hit on in GNC when I was stocking up on my favorite protein bars. The guy that worked there was 19, and somehow during our conversation, he mentioned to me that he has a lead foot. He was boasting about speeding off from stoplights with his tires squealing, his fellow drivers left behind in his dust, clearly attempting to impress me with his skill at being a crazy driver. I thought to myself, puh-lease. That was cool when I was 15 or so, but not now. Now, my mind instantly flashes to how safe a man will drive if he has my five-year-old in the backseat.

Nope, there is no Jeep Wrangler driving hunk in my future. I want a guy driving something with a four-star crash rating and airbags. Give me a man who wears his seatbelt and uses his turn signal. The way a man acts behind the wheel directly relates to how he will handle me. Reckless driver equals reckless romance. Responsibility is what gets my engine revving.

The AAA sticker is optional.

(snort) Laugh with Me

This video made me laugh so loud that I snorted (as usual).