My Ovaries Have Fallen and They Can't Get Up!

Don't Hose Me

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Tue, 22 Nov 2016 13:30:00 +0000

Daily showering is such a vicious cycle. Everyday back in the shower - shampoo head - hold on to sliver of soap (like greased pig) - pick up shampoo bottle (again) - wait, I did this part. If it weren't for the growing need for my shower to need a shower (aka mold accumulation) nothing would change.

I know some of you don't choose or say you don't "need" to shower daily (I believe I've stood behind you in line at the grocery store) well I am not one of you. With me the problem isn't about smell, it's that I have fine hair, oily skin, and I live in Florida. If I don't hose down daily I look like I've slipped into a vat of oil.

When I was a teenager wearing a permanent bag on my head due to pimples, my mother would say, "When you get older you'll love your oily skin, because you will have a built in moisturizer and no wrinkles". Well, I'm fifty two, I still get pimples, I have wrinkles, and the oil vat.

For some reason, writing about hosing myself down, reminds me of a spa treatment I had once. I decided to get a body loofah at this old world spa an hour from my house. The spa facility was just as beautiful as I imagined - the treatment room was another story, it looked like an auto mechanic's garage. After doing a quick once around I began to get the creeping suspicion that nothing good could happen in this space. The only furniture in the room was a gray hard plastic surgical-looking table in the center of the room. My instinct told me to run, but before I could act, in walked Helga. Actually I don't remember her real name but Helga should give you the proper visual. She was about six feet four with hands like oven mitts, and either she was wearing shoulder pads under her uniform or she was a VERY BIG BONED girl.

She walked over to me and uttered one monosyllabic phrase, "Get on table". Then she asked, "Do you need to keep towel?" almost like she was challenging me - like I was the new girl on the prison block. Well, I didn't know if I needed my towel. I didn't think I needed my pepper spray when I left the house that morning but things change. The towel may be my only remaining line of defense. I actually began to think back to my brother snapping me with a towel as a kid. Did he twirl it clockwise or counterclockwise?

I decided my best move was to act tough and toss the towel aside, I had bluffed my way through many sales presentations in my career, I could bluff my way through Helga. The next thing I knew Helga grabbed a scrub brush and preceded to scrub me within an inch of my life.

As the torture ensued I began to notice little things like...Helga's outfit looked a lot like the uniforms I saw the cleaning crew wearing on my way in to the spa....Is that an SOS pad in her hand?....I think that's a jar of turtle wax sitting on the shelf?....Why is there a big drain in the middle of the cement floor?....and why the heck does this Frankenstein table have wheels on it? Among Helga's other stellar qualities, she had the grace of a hippo, every time she walked around the side of the table to gain better access to my remaining tissue she would bump the side of the table, sending the table and me skidding across the wet floor until she grabbed us with her Grizzly Bear claws and abruptly stopped us. My spa treatment had become like some awful ride at a $2.00 carnival. I was waiting for the loud rock music to kick in.

Well, eventually every skin cell had been removed from my body, Helga put down her Brillo pad and asked me to stand up. It appeared the worst was over until I saw her grab a hose (wait where did that come from?). She proceeded to hose me down like a circus animal. Then she dried her hands with - MY TOWEL - and left.

So maybe this is the reason why I'm not so excited about my daily showering ritual. Maybe I'm having Helga flashbacks? Come to think of it I don't like to scrub pots either.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Happy Camper

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Sat, 15 Oct 2016 12:13:00 +0000

The other day I went to my local health food store and asked the clerk for a pill that would make me not want to" lash out irrationally".

She just looked at me blankly then proceeded to walk across the store weaving in and out of the aisles until she stopped in front a shelf containing various holistic mood elevators/suppressors.

She picked up a bottle from the shelf and held it up to me. "It's Happy Camper." she said matter of factly, "We make the Store Manager take this during her "monthly" inventory audits! Then she put the bottle back down and walked away - I guess she felt her job was done.

I stood there staring at the bottle when it hit me, man she punched the word MONTHLY kind of hard, and I think she winked when she said it. What was she trying to say? It's not like I had a heating pad ducked tapped to my waist or something. Is this the point we've come to as women? Even our own kind assumes a bad day must be attributed to hormones?

Then suddenly I remembered the other thing she said the name of the product was - Happy Camper?? The fix to all of my problems was to become a "Happy Camper"...I allowed the thought to sink in for a minute to determine whether I thought this was a good thing or semi insulting thing, but I couldn't deny the reality that ever since I was a little kid, at summer camp, I have always wanted to be a "Happy Camper". It seemed to be such an illusive beast. Memories of my childhood were peppered with pointed comments from the adults in my life, "Looks like someone isn't a happy camper!". Well, it looked like someone, problem dealing with my same childhood demons, had finally stopped harping on the problem and came up with a solution. Why hadn't I heard of this before? Shouldn't it be a headline on MSN's home page? Breaking News....Happy Camper pills now available for the masses...limit one container per family to prevent shortages. I mean this is what's been missing in our society, Happy Campers! They should be putting this stuff in our drinking water.

After the initial excitement wore off I picked up the bottle of Happy Camper to get a closer look. The jar was bright yellow (my favorite color another good sign) with a little cartoon camper guy on the front. He had a big smile on his face and was wearing shorts with big brown marching boots. I want to march. I don't think I've marched since I was in first grade and I think it was for a fire drill. It was obvious this was the product for me right color, marching boots, shorts. Who doesn't like to wear shorts.

The camper guy also had a little derby hat on his head, kind of like a robin hood hat. To think a pill that would make me so happy that I would want to put on a hat. This just keeps getting better and better. It took everything in me not to wrench the jar open right there in the aisle and start popping pills, then open more jars and throw pills around the store at the rest of the customers, "Happy Camper pills for everyone!", but I'm an adult so I restrained myself and waited til I got in the car.

Once in the car I cracked the lid on the little jar of freedom and popped two pills in my mouth washing them down with my bottled water. Then I sat perfectly still and waited. I'm not sure what I was waiting for. Did I think I was going to jump out of my car and start marching around the parking lot? Eventually I decided to drive home. I figured it was safe afterall they weren't called crazy camper.

The rest of my day was spent patiently waiting for the pills to take affect but nothing happened. I continued to take the pills everyday for a week in the hope that any minute the urge to put on shorts might strike. I even kept a hat in my car, just in case. But nothing happened. I guess my mutant hormones were just too powerful for the Happy Camper ingredients to overcome.

Eventually I stopped taking the pills all together. What was the point. Marching was overrated anyway. It makes your legs hurt after a while. I tried it just to see. I also put the yellow bottle away in the place where all good ideas go to die the back of my cabinet next to the bottle of fish oil capsules (nothing like burbing fish all day). There was only one thing left to do. The next day I drove by my grandpa's house and gave him back his hat. He'd been asking for it anyway.

Lisa Alex Gray

It's Just a Game

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Thu, 04 Aug 2016 11:46:00 +0000

Remember the children's board game Chutes and Ladders? Ironically it is also a fairly accurate depiction of what my life looks like in 2-D. For those of you that find the visual imagery incomplete, I will tell you how the game is played (i.e. my life).

The object of Chutes and Ladders is to get to the end of the game without being sent back down a chute/ladder to the beginning of the game so many times that you run screaming from the room crying to your mom that your brother is cheating (okay, I don't actually do that part anymore).

Sometimes you're lucky, you land on a square that says you've done something good, and you get to climb the ladder a bit closer to your goal (my life in the 90's). More often you land on a square that undoes much of your hard work sending you tumbling back to the beginning of the game again (my life in the last year).

I personally am not finding the fun in this game. I can't help but question why someone would want to make such a frustrating life scenario into a game in the first place? I can just imagine how this decision came about.

It obviously took place after a horrible meeting at Hasbro. A few people got fired, a few demoted, and the rest were given one last chance to come up with an exciting new game that children would love and parents would buy.

Mr. Hasbro Executive, who's job now hung in the balance, headed back to his office and worked late into the night - possibly assisted by friends Jack (Daniels) or Jim (Beam) - to come up with a game. Which he did, based on the only thing on his mind, his years of hard work and dedication followed by a swiftly faltering career.

He probably presented the game partially as a joke to upper management assuming he'd be given his walking papers as soon as the presentation was over. I'm sure he never expected the company to actually like the idea. The rest is history.

Well, I have found a way to bring this frustrating 1970's game into the future. Below is my prototype of what the new game would look like....

They may want to include a pair of rubber gloves with this version.

Lisa Alex Gray

10 FOR 10!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Mon, 04 Jul 2016 12:18:00 +0000

There was a display at the entrance of my local grocery store yesterday. It was of a tower built from Little Debbie Swiss Roll boxes.

The sight literally stopped me in my tracks.

My husband Kurt was half way down the first aisle before he realized I wasn't with him. I was back at the Swissonian staring at my version of the statue of David, and if the image itself wasn't enough to inspire poetry, the sign was. It read.

"10 FOR 10"

I had to read it twice to be sure I wasn't seeing things. Ten for ten. That meant all I had to do was give a store employee ten dollars and I could begin to create my own swiss roll masterpiece? My imagination ran wild with ideas. If I gave them fifty dollars I could build a Little Debbie fort. I could hide away from the whole world while surrounded by swiss roll wallpaper.

I was already grabbing reinforcement shopping carts when Kurt caught up with me and snapped me back to reality. "What are you doing?" "You're not buying those are you?" "They're not healthy". SH*T! My words have officially come back to bite me in the butt.

All those years I ran my kitchen like a donutless dictatorship. Only healthy snacks could cross our borders. I was drunk with power and I didn't care who got hurt. Did Kurt really need to eat Kashi crackers while watching the football game? Who knew!?! But that's how I played it.

Well now it was my football game and Kashi had yet to create a good cake roll. Which meant I was screwed.

Why did I want this stuff anyway? I thought I had outgrown childish indulgences. How could one properly placed display undue all my hard work? Those grocers really knew their stuff. Unfortunately for them, I was smarter. I was not going to let them win this time. I put down the Little Debbie boxes and courageously walked away from the display with my head held high. Then I grabbed two boxes of Caption Crunch on sale "2 FOR $5.00" and continued on with my shopping.

Lisa Alex Gray

Trick or Treat

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Sat, 11 Jun 2016 01:13:00 +0000

I'm really not in the mood to do anything today, that is other than vaporize or become spontaneously invisible.

Actually I could probably get excited about a rousting game of hide and seek. I'll pick a really good spot to hide, like Nebraska, and everyone else can do whatever.

On second thought I think that was the game the "Runaway Bride" played a couple of years ago. That didn't have a good outcome.

So what can I do to disappear that doesn't involve a massive police manhunt and large amounts of taxpayer dollars?

What if I hire a Stand In? Someone to take over my life for a few days. This service must exist. What do those seat fillers from the Oscars do the rest of the year? I bet they would be available.

I can just imagine how this would work. My family would get up in the morning and find a sign in the kitchen that read - The part of Lisa will now be played by Betty Macdonald.

I think my family would be ok with this. What it really comes down to in my house is food. My family members are kind of like dogs. As long as a bowl of food is placed in front of them at the appropriate time throughout the day they're fine.

So while Betty is handling things at home I can take a vacation from myself. The only question is where will I go? I don't want to go to someone else's house. Then I will have to deal with their problems. I want no problems. I want to be faceless. Maybe I need a mask.

I have a great business idea. Somebody should make faceless masks. They could be made out of that same stiff plastic that Halloween masks were made from in the seventies, with the little elastic string in the back, and punched out eye holes. The kit could also come with one of those one size fits all costumes inside the box. The ones with a cowboy or Wonder Woman printed on them.

I want my costume to be plain though; maybe flesh colored. A flesh colored faceless mask with a flesh colored costume. I'll look like a life size paper doll. You can't get anymore generic than that.

It's trick or treating for adults. The treat is I can wander through my life anonymously for a few days. Unfortunately, the trick is I'll return to a bigger mess; with piles of work, a pissed off husband, and a cranky child. Not sure this is the solution either.

I just did a quick Google search and I have the best idea yet. Those 1970's Halloween masks are still out there. We don't need to reinvent the wheel. We just need to buy a bunch of masks and have them on hand to represent our many moods.

Now if you'll scroll back to the top of this blog you'll see I've already picked out this weeks starting line up.

Lisa Alex Gray

Cracking The Code

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Tue, 31 May 2016 12:25:00 +0000

Why do public bathrooms have toilet paper hangers with rolls that look like caveman wheels? They're so large and cumbersome I feel like a contestant on the wheel of fortune trying to spin for money.

I just want to be able to get in and out of the bathroom as quickly and painlessly as possible. Yet every time I enter I feel like James Bond on a mission. I must decode the toilet paper roll and deploy it before my bladder detonates.

I've actually gotten quite good at cracking the toilet paper holder codes. The last cypher I cracked went something like this, two quarter turns to the left, one half turn to the right, one pound with my fist, two curse words under my breath and "ta da" the vault door opened and I was rewarded with a 12 inch piece of paper. I was so proud of myself I consider leaving the code on the bathroom wall next to the heart with Jamie loves Kevin inside.

The only problem is toilet paper holder's seem to work on some kind of revolving cypher. When I tried to use the same series of moves again it didn't work.

Usually in this case I decide to make the best of the situation and balance myself over the toilet seat using my quadriceps to not only, keep me clear of deadly bacteria, but help prepare me my thighs for swimsuit season.

Yet, even if I survive this Gladiator moment, I still have one remaining challenge. Can I hold this position long enough to air dry, and if not, what do I have in my purse that could be used as toilet paper? Which is why I never have any deposit slips left in my checkbook when I need to go to the bank.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Dryer Ate It

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Sat, 07 May 2016 00:06:00 +0000

How I went to work today - one leg with a black sock, one leg with no sock.

The first thing I did when I realized my error was conduct a quick body check to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything else - bra (check), underwear (check), no weird stuff on my face (check).

Then I began to weigh my options. I even called my husband for ideas. He suggested I paint my left ankle black. I did have a black sharpie in my pocket, but I hate the way they smell and the mark really does last forever. I would end up having to marker in my other ankle the next time I went to the beach.

I thought about taking off my other sock. I am in Florida after all, I could do the Miami Vice thing, but where would I find a white blazer on such short notice?

I decided my best move was to just leave things as they were and act surprised if anyone noticed, "That's strange, I had two socks on when I left the house this morning?"

The funny thing about this incident is that I've done it before.

I make a living as a computer geek, fairly detailed work, yet I continually miss the simple details in my life. I've actually worn two different shoes out the door more than once.

My only comfort is that I have noticed that I am not alone in my faux pas. I had a customer the other day that had the most lovely eye make up and eyeliner on her left eye only. The other eye was completely bare. I struggled against whether to tell her or not.

I mean would I have wanted someone to tell me the day I had toilet paper streaming out of the back of my pants? - wow, the memory of that day still makes me cringe - which is why these are always dicey calls.

It's like when someones zipper is down or they fart in public. Do you acknowledge it or just indiscreetly cover your nose with your hand and keep talking?

This is wear my decorum really shines. In situations such as these I figured out the perfect solution - I just turn the other cheek.

Lisa Alex Gray

I Have a Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Wed, 30 Mar 2016 17:06:00 +0000

And it looks something like this...

No, it's not the palm trees and azzure water. Don't you love the word azzzzzzure. I like how my teeth vibrate when I say azzzzzzure. Anyway my dream does not include the trees and water. My dream is all about the thing hanging in between the trees - z hammock.

Actually it's more of a vision than a dream. A vision of me sprawled out on a hammock, watching the clouds float by, while I sway in the breeze.

I've had this dream/vision since I was a teenager. Which is kind of odd since most teenagers have dreams of college, careers or possibly marriage. I suppose I had those dreams too. I don't remember. Obviously, they weren't as important as the hammock.

So why do I still have this dream after 30 years? It's not like it's incredibly challenging. I didn't imagine, first, weaving the hammock from thread I dyed by hand, on a large loom. This goal should have been accomplished many hammocks ago.

Well I don't know why. Why, at forty four years of age, do I have a stuffed animal named Scruffy? These are just a few of the many unanswered question that plague me, as I'm certain plague many of my family members.

Travel forward 30 years to present day Florida (setting) my local grocery store. I was doing my weekly shopping when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. No not another Ho Ho display. It was a display set up by the produce department, of a hammock anchored by two potted palm trees, a few crates of bananas, and a crate of pineapples. Winn Dixie had created a tropical oasis for their loyal shoppers, right there next to the Doritos.

I sighed when I saw the hammock, as I always did, and would have kept walking if my eyes had not grazed the sign perched on top of the banana pile - Hammock $59.99. What was that? Hammocks are usually at least $200.00, I know, I've been pricing them for thirty years. The $59.99 sign must be a trick. It probably was one of those, buy one hammock get one for $59.99 deals, and what was I going to do with two hammocks? My dream only included one.

I read the sign again making sure I understood what it was saying. Maybe they were selling the crate of bananas for $59.99 in which case that would not be a good deal. I can never make them last past three days and the only thing I know to do with rotten bananas is make banana bread. Let's just say I haven't perfected that recipe yet. Even the dog won't eat it and he'll eat cat poo.

Once I verified the sign was correct I decided the time had come to turn this dream into a reality. I wrangled myself one of the highly motivated stock boys to help me carry the rectangular box, containing the hammock, to the check out, and then to my car. Yes, of course, I gave him a tip. I told him to go to college or get used wearing that shade of turquoise.

As soon as I got home from the store, I opened the box and pulled out my hammock, after which I debated putting the hammock back in the box and going to take a nap.

I have to be honest with you the hammock looked different than it did in the store. Maybe it was the lack of pineapples and bananas, but...

...I emptied a box full of metal poles of varying sizes, a baggie of bolts and nuts, and a pile of fabric - not very sway inducing.

I refused to give up though. Because as I said - the time had come.

So I worked diligently through the rest of the afternoon with the help of my trusty dog Finn, who continued to lay on, stand between, under or over, whatever crucial component I needed at a given moment during the hammock assembly process.

...but, I did it, I ended up with a hammock (...and, a few unneeded, bolts/nuts - extras, I guess)!

Now that I have put that dream to rest, all I have left to do is lay back in my hammock and sway to the breeze, as I plot out how to accomplish the next item on my list of long term dreams....

Getting David Cassidy's autograph.

Lisa Alex Gray

Eyes Wide Open

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 02:30:00 +0000

Have you ever found yourself driving down the road, when you open your eyes and notice, you've driven five miles further, than when you last looked?

Now, I have to warn you this is a trick question, it's not about the distance you traveled in five minutes, although kudos to you if you made good time.

It's about your need to - open your eyes - while driving.

I'm sure you are aware, this is not an accepted driving method, in fact, it is highly probable you will be given a ticket, once your car comes to a complete rest in someones’ front yard.

So why do it? Why take out someone’s Hibiscus bushes unnecessarily?

Because - I am a mother/wife/full-time career girl, who is - desperately in need of sleep! (FYI, I have not yet harmed any Hibiscus bushes, so please don't send "The People For The Ethical Treatment of Bushes" after me.)

Yes, I am behind on my sleep. I've just been a bit tired since... Freshman Year, High School; but that's only a 27 year deficit. I can make that up, right?

It all started in Sister Mary's Shorthand class. It's really all her fault. If she had been a more stimulating teacher maybe I could have averted this whole issue.

I remember being in her class, sleeping to the rhythm of her chalkboard drawings of the shorthand symbols for "The quick brown dog jumps over the grey fox."

I mean, really, when were we ever going to need to put that into shorthand? The odds of seeing a brown dog jump over a grey fox had to be one in a million.

In a feeble effort to stay awake in her class, I would watch the clock on the wall for any semblance of movement, until my eyes would start to play tricks on me, and time would begin to move backward.

Then I would move on to phase two of my "Lightening Bolt Strike Me Now Plan", and forcibly hold my eye lids open with my fingers. It would become a battle of fine motor dexterity - the eyelid muscles versus the pointer finger and thumb. It's, actually, really impressive how strong an eyelid muscle can be. How I've ever managed to poke my eyeball with a mascara wand is really beyond me.

Remembering those days, gives me an idea. If our military ever needs to find an affective form of torture, we may want to consider Sister Mary's shorthand class. She may still be available; I think she was around109 years old when she taught my class, which would make her about.....

Well, you do the math.

I guess, until I have figured out my way beyond my sleep deficit, I will continue my daily fantasy of returning home from work and diving head first - shoes, purse, groceries, whatever's on me - into bed.

Then, again, maybe it's time to resurrect my "Lightening Bolt Strike Me now Plan"? At my age, time going backward could work to my advantage.

Lisa Alex Gray

The Hokey Pokey

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Tue, 01 Dec 2015 14:25:00 +0000

I long for the days of my childhood, where I could spend hours making a house out of leaves, on the front lawn - I had a leaf couch , a leaf table, a leaf bed.

My only worry back then was, am I going to be able to choke down the tuna and peas, in cream sauce, on toast, that sits before me at the dinner table, or will my dad feel compelled to enter us into another, who blinks first contest?

The rules of the contest were, I would be forced to sit at the kitchen table and stare at my food, til it either lept into my gullet, or magically disappeared, or my dad finally gave in- after being bullied by my mother - and let me leave the table.

Sometimes my dad would up the anty and sit a sundae in front of me, to slant the odds in his favor (which should have disqualified him, in my book). It actually was pleasantly distracting, to watch the sundae morph into various stages of deconstruction over time, until it finally resembled something like, well like the cream sauce from my dinner - not so enticing- hah!

As you may have already figured out - I usually won those contests - never under estimate the fortitude of a child faced with peas in cream sauce.

Don't you just love the 70's. Such good clean family fun- peas sauce and hoola hoops - that's what it's all about.

That line reminds me of another 70's favorite -The Hokey Pokey Dance.

"You put your left foot in, you take your left foot out, you put your left foot in and you shake it all about, do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that's what it's all about."

That song really was low on the challenge scale wasn't it? Especially, if you compare it to the current wedding favorite - The Macarena Dance.

Songs have definitely changed over time. I remember singing and dancing in my room for hours, to the 45 "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." I'm almost embarrassed to admit it - notice I say, almost, what can I tell you, I'm strange and proud of it.

I would march around my room in circles with my hand on my forehead in a salute. "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Yankee Doodle Do or Die. A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam, born on the Fourth of July." - What the heck was I singing?!?

I forgot that's what the words to that song were. I think you could get a child to sing about anything as long as it had a catchy tune. "I love eating broccoli and spinach, and keeping my room real clean." Someone should put that to a melody.

Maybe that's what's missing in my life? I need more song and dance; maybe if I sang all day, the tough stuff wouldn't seem so tough.

"Get home from work at 11:00pm, get up at 6:00am to take my son to the doctor", "pay bills and grocery shop", "head out the door to work, get beat up by my customer's", "drive home exhausted, collapse into bed, get woken up at 3:00am to let the dog out".

Wow, that really WAS so much better.

Now if I can just get a hoola hoop going, while I sing, I may just be on to something.

Lisa Alex Gray

Hair Wars

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Tue, 03 Nov 2015 16:07:00 +0000

I just got my hair cut yesterday, I had to make an emergency appointment 3 weeks before my scheduled time, because I honestly couldn't take my hair the way it was one more day. This was especially true once I realized it was MY HAIR that was responsible for everything going wrong in my life. A big part of which, was an offense so vial, forgiveness may not be an option.

Somehow, my hair had unwittingly morphed me into some kind of serious, no-nonsense, corporate, Fat-Cat overnight! Okay, I actually have no idea what a no-nonsense, cooperate, Fat-Cat really is, but I know I don't want to be one, and I know I was looking at one in the mirror the other day, no one was standing behind me ( I looked).

You may be thinking - Isn't this too much pressure for one head of hair alone? I must feel some responsibility for my current condition of no-nonsense, corporate head. Well, I will agree to the fact that my hair didn't drive itself to the job interview, but that's it, because I'm not a serious grown up. I'm a card carrying member of the Peter Pan club, so by simple deduction this had to be the work of some other body part, and my hips, butt and thighs were on a mission to bust me out of every piece of clothing I owned, so they've been way too busy.

What is this thing with hair anyway? When did it get all of this power? Back in the fifty's you basically had 2 ways to go with your hair - back combed and down or back combed and up. Oh yeah, and you could add a little bow if you wanted.

I think we've given our hair way too much freedom now and it's getting cocky.

This morning my husband and I were getting ready for work in the bathroom, and he was in the midst of a full on battle with his Hair Devil, which I was finding equal parts hilarious and distressing, primarily due to my temporary bout of hair amnesia (inability to recall my own bad hair days). Then I looked in the mirror at what was supposed to be a head of glorious silky "Victoria Secret Bed Hair" - at least that was what I asked for at the salon the day before. I told my hairdresser my new hairstyle plan was to wash my hair before bed, then during the night, wistful tossing and turn as I slept would build a beautiful head full of bouncing waves and endless body into the strategically sliced layers in my golden strands. It was the perfect plan. My whole life had flashed before me in that moment I realized the answer to my hair woes. It would be so easy now, I would save so much time in the morning. I'd have time for other things, more important things, like morning exercise, or dog walks. I felt young again just thinking about it. My hairdresser assured me this was a great idea and would work like a charm. He was so supportive, so nurturing, he believed in my dreams for my utopian hair life, at least that was the $150 B.S. he dealt me that day (the hair crack peddler).

Unfortunately, this morning, what I saw looking back at me in the mirror was no utopian hair dream, it was more like a "mama wake me up" nightmare. I never saw this look between the pages of a Victoria Secret catalog. I never even saw this look in the Big Lots Mailer. My head looked like a hair sandwich wrap, slicked tight to my head with saran wrap - WTF! All I could think was, "Oh, it's on now you ungrateful strands of dead protein!". I heard my husband Kurt laughing from the living room, having already waved the white flag of surrender in his own war 15 minutes earlier - like that was really a war anyway, how can you have a war with something 1/2 inch long - please. Men are so lucky, not only do they have short hair (a.k.a. small enemy) they are able to pull a fatal TKO hair blow that ends their battle indefinitely when they've had enough - the cue ball look. That's why men who shave their heads always look so confident and tough. They stand victorious knowing they've beaten the hair bastard once and for all. That's what all those tattoos on their body are really about. That devil on their arm is symbolic for the hair devil, trust me.

If only there was a way for women to see this victory, head shaving is pretty radical, and my headbands would keep falling off. I needed another way and I was determined to find it and as we all know, when you put your mind to it, you can solve any problem, which I have done. Now I'll have perfect hair every day (See picture at top of article). It is a sketch of the wig I'm having made. Welcome back 1950's!

Me and My Shadow

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa A. Gray) — Mon, 06 Jul 2015 23:30:00 +0000

Life is an ongoing balance between too much human interaction and not enough.

I've noticed whenever I'm in need of a bit of alone time it seems impossible to come by.

On the same token when I am psyched for some social interaction I somehow find myself alone - and there's nothing like the feeling of total aloneness.

This is exactly where I found myself the other day.

I had the day off and had been looking forward to spending time with my husband Kurt and son Evan. Well Kurt ended up having to go into work. Then I found out Evan had plans to go to a friends house (he somehow forgot to tell me). So I was all alone.

My house echoed like an empty auditorium.

An electrician stopped by to fix our big screen TV and I contemplated inviting him to stay for lunch. I kept trying to think of another question to ask to keep him there a bit longer, "So there's a power button on the TV and on the remote?" "Can you show me where these are located?"

I saw the fed ex truck go by and I almost chased it like a dog.

Speaking of dogs, I even tried to hang out with my dog and cat, but they wanted nothing to do with me. I think they sensed my desperation, and decided to play the old "get even" card, payback for all the times I didn't want to scratch their ear 10 more hours.

The only companion I had was a box of Ho Ho's I met at the grocery store earlier that day. Ho Ho's offer such a shallow relationship though. They only give you 10 seconds of intimate communication and then it's over. That is until I introduce myself to another Ho Ho. Which leads me to how my day ended.

I found out there was one thing worse than total aloneness - an empty Ho Ho box.

Lisa Alex Gray