Shaggy

Okay, no explanation for that picture other than...isn't she just the cutest?

So, here I am once again plunging in again after a too-long hiatus.

First of all, I guess I should report that Satan is back from the SRACRRR. He managed to hitch a ride with a cross country trucker a while back.

Secondly (and most importantly)…I CUT MY HAIR. Or rather, my stylist did. Normally, this wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I think alert readers will recall I have something of an issue with my hair and, sadly, I’ve had the same style for about fifteen years. At this point a change, any change, is a GOOD THING, Martha Stewart.

It’s not so much shorter as it is shaggier. Because, people. I have a shag. It is a LONG shag, but a shag just the same.

You might be wondering how this new hairstyle played with Satan, since his idea of the look of the Ideal Woman dates back to the Summer of Love. To review, this means my hair should be parted in the middle, NO BANGS, and hanging limply au natural. Furthermore, if he had his druthers, I’d be wearing a denim mini-skirt, a halter top, clogs, a freshly woven dandelion necklace, and strumming a six-string while quietly humming “Blowin’ in the Wind”.

Actually, Satan is at this point somewhat grateful for The Shag, as I spent the better part of the two weeks prior to my scheduled hair appointment threatening to CUT ALL MY HAIR OFF COMPLETELY. I’d like to say I was kidding, but I really wasn’t, as I was suffering from I’ve had the same Hair-do for Too Long Psychosis.
The whole episode culminated with me stomping into my hair appointment and thrusting a picture of a woman with (I’m not kidding) her hair cut to look exactly like a short blonde beanie perched atop her head into the hands of Alvin my stylist and proclaiming,

“I want my hair cut like that.”

To which Alvin, being sane and stuff, replied,

“Um. How should I say this? No.”

Which is how I came to have The Shag, and how Satan came to be grateful I came home with any hair on my head at all.

You might think at this point that I’d be finished talking about my hair, but you’d be wrong. And it certainly occurs to me that I SHOULD BE finished talking about my hair, in fact, seven paragraphs and at least two prior posts devoted entirely to the subject of my hair and/or my bangs or lack thereof might be a bit much (just ask my mother). The problem is, this is my blog, and unfortunately, I can blog on about my hair if I want to.

So, my first weekend with the new hair (remember now, the first real new hair in fifteen years) I’m in front of the mirror with the blow dryer and the round brush when it suddenly occured to me, being a child of the eighties and all, that a little product coupled with those new layers just might add up to something. Something Big. And, sure enough, fifteen minutes and a half cup of hairspray and a handful of volumizing gel later I had achieved some seriously gravity defying Big Hair.

Frighteningly Big. Tina Turner/Private Dancer video Big.

I sprung this look on an unsuspecting Satan who was at this point drinking his Saturday morning coffee and minding his own business, by charging out of the bedroom and launching into a rousing big-haired Tina Turner style rendition of “Rollin’ on the River”. Which, I’m satisfied to report, left the man totally speechless, something that’s only ever happened once or twice before.

In fact, it scared Satan so badly that I had no choice but to leave my hair that way for our weekly pilgrimage to Sam’s Club.

As we prowled the aisles searching for large sized products that we don’t need, I’d periodically ask, “So, what do you REALLY think of my hair?” To which Satan wouldn’t reply, but would just become frightened and try to run away from me. Which was kind of hard as he was driving the over-loaded cart with a giant bright blue box of Rice Crispy Treats precariously balanced on top of a case of Charmin double-rolls.


And THAT, my friends, is all I have to say about THAT (until next time).

A very special HAPPY BIRTHDAY to a very special girl who doesn't, for a millisecond, look like she could possibly be ?0!

My friend Julie’s SUPERMOIST PINEAPPLE BUNDT CAKE will soon be taking the cooking world by storm as the grand prize winner of the Southern Living cooking contest. You heard it here first. And, while I’m at it, you SAW it here first:






I can verify that it is indeed SUPERMOIST, delicious, and deserving of the grand prize of $100,000 and a guest appearance on the Oprah show. I am one of the lucky few to actually have, in my very own possession, the coveted RECIPE. I’d share it with you, but then I’d have to kill you.

Lastly, to humor Julie, I give you the Amaryllis in all its blooming glory (finally!):

Home for the Holidays

Well, I’m back. Sorry about the unscheduled unannounced hiatus. But, it really couldn’t be helped. It’s been a little hard for me to get back into the habit of posting. A wise person recently suggested it might be a case of needing to just plunge right back on in and get started.

So here I am. Hi, how ya been?

The truth is, we’ve had a bit of an Incident. Normally, I wouldn’t share such personal details of my life here on the inner (or outer) net, but I know the only people who read this are close, concerned family and friends, so I’ve decided to go ahead and write about the recent goings on in my life.

As most of you are aware, my husband, Satan, is a little high strung. A little tense. A little mean. And, really, it isn’t all just peaches and pitchforks being Satan. It’s work. WORK, I tell you. The world sometimes conspires against you. There are many, MANY things that annoy Satan. Irritate him. That, on a daily basis, drive him absolutely batsh*t. Here’s just a partial list:

Nostrils
Barbara Barrie
Beige
Vulture Neck
Reality TV
Not Enough Socks (less than 10 available pairs)
Me
Disco
Raw Tortillas
Dolls
Fat Back
Waiting
Bangs
Gummy White Bread
Golden Girls
Weak Coffee
Losing
Napping
Stupid
Bad Sheets
Wheel of Fortune
Small Towels
Peter Frampton
Horizontal Stripes
Kentucky Driving
Cooked Carrots
Cheap Shoes
Walmart
Unacceptable Architecture
Flannel
John Travolta

Did I mention this is just a partial list? Yah. So, you can only imagine how difficult life can become when you’re annoyed by things like nostrils and John Travolta. I mean, they’re everywhere, right? So, when Barbara Barrie suddenly and without warning cropped up as a recurring guest star on his favorite TV show, Satan—let’s just say—had ENOUGH.

And, people, can I just take a moment? Thank GOD for insurance at times like these! At a point when we really didn’t know where to turn, we found our insurance would actually cover a much needed stay at the Shady Restful Acres Center for Rejuvanitive Regressed Rebirth. Most of you are probably familiar with the SRACRRR and the important strides they’ve made in the field of rebirthing therapy. For those of you who aren’t, the process was developed back in the seventies and is relatively simple: regress the patient back to the point of their actual birth, have them relive it, and then emerge with a clean slate unfettered by their past problems and prejudices (i.e., Peter Frampton, beige, etc.). Essentially, “reborn”.

After consulting with Satan’s two sons and his ex-wife (who’s initial suggestion was tossing him off the bluffs at Columbus Park, an idea I rejected outright until AT LEAST April), it was decided that Satan should head for the SRACRRR immediately.

I must admit, I did have a twinge of misgiving has I watched him toddle toward the boarding gate to the plane with nothing in his backpack save Jello treats (for the plane ride), a Big Chief Tablet, a number 2 pencil, and clean underpants (all the SRACRRR will allow). I mean, what if the towels at the SRACRRR are too small, for God’s sake! WHAT THEN?! What if they try to feed him COOKED CARROTS?

But it was too late for second thoughts. Satan was winging his way toward the SRACRRR. And, much like rehab, I would not be allowed to have contact with him for at least two weeks while he underwent the process, except for any letter he might choose to write me on his Big Chief Tablet with his Number 2 pencil. When I arrived back home from the airport, the coming two weeks stretched before me like a yawning, lonely, desolate black hole. And then I remembered I had a gift certificate to my local day spa. When I emerged hours later, freshly massaged and facialed, I felt like I myself had actually been reborn. Only cuter and with a French manicure this time.

A few days later while eating bon-bons, watching Wheel of Fortune, and guessing the puzzle HOURS before the actual contestants, I noticed FurGirl chewing on an envelope that she hadn’t had earlier. It turned out to be Satan’s first communication from the SRACRRR that had been dropped in the mail slot. After the big money puzzle, I opened the envelope to find a limp, crumpled, sweat stained sheet of Big Chief Tablet paper with the word “help” printed shakily in Number 2 Pencil in the bottom left-hand corner.

Could this mean there’s a problem I asked myself?

Nah, probably not, I decided, tossing FurGirl a bon-bon which she caught in mid-air with a snap and wolfed down in one enthusiastic swallow. “Probably tried to feed him a raw tortilla”, I said to FurGirl who rolled her eyes and nodded as we settled in to watch another re-run of “Clean Sweep”.

It was another few days later that I received a call from Satan’s doctor at the SRACRRR. It seems Satan’s regression process had hit a bit of a snag. It had started off rocky to begin with when his first breakfast was served to him with a cup of coffee that was unacceptably weak. A terrible outburst ensued which ended with traumatized orderlies cowering in corners and an entire kitchen crew sobbing uncontrollably. It took three shock treatments (the most of any SRACRRR patient) until he would drink his coffee quietly. “Get to the point”, I told the doctor (I was late for a highlight and blow-out).

And that’s when I got the bad news. Satan, it seems, had, after the shock treatments, gone dutifully about his therapy process and ultimately been placed in the rebirthing chamber. Trouble is? He won’t come out. Just flat refuses to be “reborn”. Has decided he likes it in there. He is, by all accounts, perfectly happy where he is and he has decided he’ll just go on and stay, thankyouverymuch. The problem is, the SRACRRR has a long waiting list and a limited number of available rebirthing chambers. As Satan happily whiles away the hours in what he now considers to be his own personal chamber, some poor soul in SERIOUS PAIN is not getting the treatment they so desperately need. Would I, the doctor wanted to know, fly out to the SRACRRR and try and talk him into completing the rebirthing process by actually emerging from his birthing chamber?

And, you know I would, I really, really, REALLY would, if I weren’t just so completely busy right now! I mean, seriously. There are several important matters I simply MUST be tending to.

This morning, I received an e-mail from the SRACRRR with a picture of Satan in his current state attached. I think the SRACRRR is trying to make me feel guilty, but seriously, Satan looks happier than I’ve seen him in YEARS.

Heck, YOU be the judge:

One thing's for certain, if he isn't outta there by December, I'M GOING DOWN THERE BY GOD! I simply one-hundred percent insist that he be home for the holidays.