Bad Hair Days

Some might picture a bad hair day (BHD) by showing individual strands of hair pointing toward the sky as though the owner just stuck a finger in a light socket. That’s not the picture of a BHD for me. When I have one of those days, despite much blowing, brushing, and spraying, my hair stays plastered to my scalp like a kindergarten child clinging to Mom’s legs on the first day of school.

Many days during summer, I have terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hair days* (THNGVBHD), something probably much better understood by gals than by guys. But the cause of those bad hair days may be over for a while. We just skipped fall here in Colorado, and winter has begun. So I will be trading the bad hair days for snow days, the first of which arrived on Saturday. 

I was not aware that winter had turned up until I looked out my kitchen window mid-morning and saw something white floating in a downward direction toward the ground. At first I thought, What? This is only October 8.  So I kept squinting at the white stuff and thinking it might be seeds blowing out of season from the cottonwoods. It wasn’t. Indeed the cold stuff was here. (They say eyesight is the first thing to go. But in my own defense, cottonwood seeds and snowflakes are very similar in size, shape, and behavior as they travel toward earth.)

I probably should write an Ode to lost autumn. But as a child, when my third grade teacher, Ms. Hodgkinson, said we would be writing a poem for Mother’s Day, that was cause for me to panic. So I know that writing lyrical verse is way out of my league.

I think I’ll just go get my flannel jammies out of storage. But before I do, I should at least try to write a little thankful verse.

            Thankful for hibernating bear,

     Thankful for changes in the air,

            Thankful for soft and fluffy hair,

     Thankful bad hair days will now be rare.

How’d I do, Ms. Hodgkinson?

*Great read – even for adults:  Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, by Judith Viorst

Gummi Bears and Writing

Sometimes I feel inspired to write; sometimes not. Writing a dissertation is a good example of a time when I felt compelled, but not inspired to write. That dissertation is what I now refer to as my “Gummi Bear Project.”

It would seem that a looming deadline should mean scheduling writing into one’s day, thus making it a priority.  Not so for me!  Deadlines cause a little voice inside of my head to whisper, “You can do that later.” Because of my response to the quiet suggestion of the little voice, writing that I do against deadlines almost always takes place in the wee hours of the morning.  This is where the gummi bears come in.  When I’m writing during hours when I should be sleeping, I consume lots and lots of chewy food. After trying many things that messed with the computer keyboard and my waistline, I finally discovered gummi bears.

During the seemingly endless hours of reviewing research and writing “stuff” for my committee, I had probably tried every brand of gummi candy on the market. I also knew which stores to visit in case of a mid-night emergency. So, in light of the many pounds of gummi bears I have consumed, I am a self-proclaimed expert on gummi bears. From my experience, I declare the best of the best to be Haribo^® Gold-Bears^®. I still crave them while I’m typing.

I know, I know! They are little animal-shaped lumps made with sugar, glucose, corn syrup, starch, citric acid, gelatin, flavoring, coloring, and a few other things thrown in just for good measure. Empty calories!  I also know there are some who contend that gummi candies may harbor prions, cause tooth decay, and contribute to obesity. But, if you ever see an open package of Haribo Gold-Bears® beside my computer, be warned: I’m meeting a deadline. And, just so you know, my mood may be a little bearish. I just might attack in order to protect my food supply!

ShpnCurmudgeon

Every once in a while I visit the Twitter Account of ChrchCurmudgeon. His entries make me laugh. I suspect Mr. Curmudgeon is not in the age group his posts indicate, but sometimes I can relate to the grumbling.

Last week I dropped in to read some of his posts and found a few gems he had entered since I last stopped by:

• “Had my Metamucil. Guess that makes me a Regular Baptist.”
• “Thou shalt not repeat that chorus one more time, for we get it already. #10 Curmudgements.”
• “Turns out Amos wasn't planking after all. Services will be Friday.”
• “In an effort to attract aging baby boomers, we are now the Seniorz Ministry.”
• “We can drop innovation in its tracks at fifty yards. We are…the senior saints phone list."

After returning home from a recent shopping trip empty handed, I spent quite some time stewing over the fruitless afternoon. That was when Mr. Curmudgeon came to mind and I decided maybe I should start a Twitter Account and become known in Twitterdom as, “ShpnCurmudgeon.”  I’m sure my common sense approach to fashion would seem curmudgeonly to Boomers, Gen-Xers, and The Millennials.

The outcome I desired when I went to the department store was to return home with a nice dress to wear to a wedding. Not mother-of the-bride or mother-of the-groom standouts, just a little number that would cover a portion of my body but not scream, “Bag Lady,” thus causing all of my relatives to sit on the other side of the room and pretend they have no idea who might have invited me to the wedding.

Saying, “A dress to wear to a wedding,” to the cute little sales assistant was followed by being directed to a section of clothing where all of the garments had been created using fine fabrics. The dresses differed in design but were alike in that the top portion of each dress was covered with blinding ornamentation - well, the fraction of the tops that were included by the designers. I have decided that tops of dresses designed as wedding attire are conceived on Friday afternoons when all of the designers are anxious to begin their weekends. No time for sleeves or necklines!

The fall wedding to which I’m invited will be held outdoors. The place is Connecticut. I suspect I won’t need to expose cleavage in order to stay cool. But then maybe I have a totally distorted image of October weather in the Northeastern section of our country.

In addition to questioning how low-cut my dress can be before every other guest is able to estimate my age to within one day and three seconds, I have a few other questions.

1)      Will I be able to do enough arm flab exercises between now and October 15 to trim the old arms sufficiently so I can wear a top with spaghetti straps and not freak everyone out?  (Who would ever have guessed that the shape and size of spaghetti – a food – would one day be copied in fabric and used as the part of the dress that insures everything stays in its appropriate place?)

2)      How many of those Body Shaper undergarments will I need to wear in order to negate the gross effects caused by the stretch-factor in fabric that can turn a dress into the shape of a broom handle when it’s suspended on a hanger?

3)      How short is too short for a skirt when the wearer has been a senior citizen for more years than she cares to (or maybe can) remember?

Just wondering!

Link to ChrchCurmudgeon: http://twitter.com/#!/ChrchCurmudgeon  If you are of a “certain age” you might enjoy!