I am not counting the last thirty-two days. Yesterday I briefly scanned over my recent posts and I nearly fell asleep. I actually felt sorry for you. I’ve subjected you to reading about my kids, my dog, and my gooey plastic mouse. I am sorry from the bottom of my elf-clad toes.
I snapped this picture of my feet (yes, they’re mine), because I wanted to show you my cute slipper socks that FringeMom gifted me for Christmas. I’m hoping next year she’ll give me green tights, so I can moonlight as one of Santa’s elves. One thing in this photo drives me absolutely batty. If I weren’t so lazy, I would have snapped another picture, but that would mean reconnecting the wire between my camera and laptop and it’s not really worth the half-calorie I would burn.
There’s A HAIR poking out from under my right foot.
I shed more than my dog and my new coat is coming in gray. My hair is everywhere. I’m actually slightly embarrassed to tell you all the places my hair shows up, but that’s the point of blogging, isn’t it? I tell the worst of the worst and make you feel good about yourself.
For starters, I should be wearing a hair net in my own kitchen. I’ve told my family that hair is a good source of fiber, so eat up, besides I wash daily. Before you get too grossed out and refuse every invitation to dinner, I always pull all my hair up when I am cooking for others. Trust me, I’m paranoid about bringing meatloaf to a potluck and somebody thinking I’ve added spaghetti stringers to the mix.
My hair blows around my house like tumbleweed, it clogs my drains, and FringeMan (poor FringeMan) needs a lint brush because of me. I should be bald by now, but I am not. I knew things were getting bad when FringeBoy yelled out of the bathroom that he had my hair stuck in his poop.
I’ve lost all tact.
I am sorry mom.
There’s just no gentle way to say that my son poops my hair.
Saturday afternoon, I decided that my bush was too thick, too heavy, and too wild. The time to tame the squiggly mass had come, so I took out the kitchen shears and went to work. This is what happens when you are too poor to make an appointment at the salon down the road. You resort to using scissors that also cut the skin from last night’s chicken. Life is like that sometimes.
After I’d collected a fairly large pile of slightly frizzy hair in my sink, I proclaimed my hairdo momentarily acceptable. I’m now walking around with a long afro, circa 1998. Anytime you need your hair trimmed, I’m here for you.
Back to my foot photo…
If you look beyond the pom-pom socks, just past the hair, you’ll see my sheets. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but hey, it’s national spill your guts day on the fringe. Officially. Recently I’ve been somewhat in awe over how thin my sheets have become. I’m a one set type of gal. It’s all wash and wear in my house and apparently, my sheets have been worn too many times. I could see right through my fitted sheet and wondered at the original thread count. Currently, I can count about twelve threads.
Sure enough I awoke this morning to find a gaping hole just under my left shoulder. It was quite the pre-coffee shock. I don’t know if excessive thrashing took place, but I did dream that I was trapped in my college dorm and jumped from a third story window to escape. In the dream, I kept asking FringeMan if he still had his maintenance ID…like that was going to save us from the impending doom of my subconscious.
At any rate, my sheet is torn and is being flipped to find a resting place at FringeMan’s feet. Anymore crazy dreams and I’ll be begging bottom sheets on the street corner.
Feel free to join me in spilling your guts. It’s good for your psyche and mine. Tell me I am not alone in my sorrows.
If you want to read another hair cut story, click HERE.