No, Your Reader Isn't Deceiving You.

I’m a woman of leisure.

No, wait. I take that back.

I’m a woman of leisure pants. Ratty old leisure pants. You know, the soft, full of holes pair with that unfortunate stain? Yeah, I’m that woman.

But I didn’t post today to talk about my pants. I posted today to simply post something today. The story about my pants? That was nothing but an awkward introduction to the rest of my post.

But as long as we’re on the subject of my pants……

There are very few things in this life that will force me to jump out of my leisure pants. I love them that much. They are stretchy and forgiving and they are black so they hide just about everything except for mustard stains that pop up and say HELLO! when you are cosmic bowling with your family.

Okay, so let’s address the elephant in the room, shall we? Where have I been for six+ months? Frankly, I don’t know. I’ve been here. Sort of. I wish I had interesting and witty barbs about all my adventures through the second half of 2009, but I don’t. (Did I mention the mustard stain on my favorite pants already? Sadly, that was the highlight of my entire month of November.)
I have a confession: Around June, I just sort of lost it. Lost my zest and interest in my life. I became depressed. I no longer felt it was good to be me and I questioned my place and my purpose. It was as though I woke up one day and everything that I had once found interesting, exciting and fun, I suddenly found “Meh.” That includes my blog. And especially my hair.

Can I take a break from all this serious, touchy, feely talk to take you on a tangent and discuss the situation with my hair on my self-imposed break? A big part of my depression was my lethargy and lack of energy. This manifested itself in me not wanting to wash my hair with the frequency I had before. Gross, I know. But before you judge me and my unkempt hair, keep reading.

Now, you probably already know that I have very curly hair. It actually looks and feels better day two and three after a shampooing. My hair doesn’t grease up if I don’t wash it, in fact, it does quite the opposite and actually becomes somewhat more manageable, however, it also becomes big. I mean BIG BIG, like Delta Burke on Designing Women BIG.

I can’t tell you how many times a co-worker or my mother-in-law asked me if I was doing something “new” with my hair and they gave me a long, quizzical look. Well, if you consider going four or five days between shampooing then the answer is Why of course, yes! I am absolutely doing something new with my hair. It’s called the Delta and I’m totally rockin’ it.

But folks, I am here today to proclaim to the internets that I have been washing my hair regularly. I have been happy to get out of bed. And today….well, today, I bought myself a brand new pair of stretchy pants.

I was hoping that 2010 would end up being a whole lot better than my 2009. I’m happy to report that three weeks in, as far as the absence of mustard stains and lack of 80’s hair go, for me, this year has been a tiny bit badass.

This Post is About Midguided Choices in Semi-Formal Wear and Prom, But Mostly About Misguided Choices in Semi-Formal Wear

I am so late with my prom post! I finally tracked down some pictures of me before I learned that less is more when it comes to the volume of fabric and eyebrows. Enjoy…..

I wish I were one of those reasonably cool and interesting 20-something girls who could aloofly reflect on my prom days as a total waste of time. I wish I were the girl that could tell you that instead of attending the highly overrated prom, I spent the evening chain smoking and discussing Faulkner in my basement with two foreign exchange students from Spain.

But, I’m totally not that girl. Letmetellyouwhy…

I’m not a 20-something. I’m in my 30’s. Very well into my 30’s. I’ve never smoked. And as for the foreign exchange students at my high school? Well, they steered clear of me. It may have been because I was a little overzealous in my repeated attempts to get them to help me with my Spanish homework.

No, I was the girl who totally lived for prom. Two times, in fact.

Junior Prom (1989): I was a Junior, Chad was a Senior. We had been dating for a few months and we were destined to go to prom together. I was destined to wear the biggest, whitest most mermaidiest dress ever.

Sadly, I don’t remember too much detail about our actual date, but I know that I had fun and that my night ended with Chad, in a sweet gesture, offering me a single white rose. And now that I look back on this photo, I’m not at all convinced that my dress was hideous. My eyebrows? Well, that’s another story.

In the weeks prior to my Junior Prom I was a permanent fixture at the tanning salon. See what a delightful shade of orange I was? I practiced and fussed with my hair several days before the big night. Here I am trying out my prom hair and my best misunderstood, teenage girl full of angst look.

The most misguided thing about me back then seems to be my high bangs.

My mother, a talented seamstress, designed and sewed my dress with love, several yards of billowy organza fabric and plenty of swear words. The weeks leading up to Prom, my relationship with my mom hung by a thin white thread. You know how sometimes prominent public figures will sometimes undergo a hunger strike to passively protest an injustice they see in the world? Well, I did something in the same vain just prior to Prom that, to this day, my dad refers to as The Cold Shoulder Incident of ’89*. For about three days, I gave my mother the silent treatment over the placement of beading on my dress bodice. I’ll show her! I thought. We eventually made up when I finally came to my senses and trusted my mother’s judgment and because I needed her credit card to buy Chad a corsage. Yep, I was a brat.

*Note: History would eventually reveal that The Cold Shoulder Incident of ’89 would pale in comparison to our infamous Wedding Dress Feud of ’99. Let’s just say it’s highly unlikely that my mom and I will ever be able to work toward a common goal when a white dress is involved.

Junior Prom 2: Electric Bugaloo, The Senior Edition (1990): My Senior year in school, I was escorted by Tyler, another Senior. I wanted to wear something a little shorter, a little edgier but ended wearing something, well, a little bigger. Sadly, I was unable to find that prom picture, but I was able to snag my Homecoming picture with the same guy. Behold the power of puffy satin sleeves. Behold the power of high bangs.

All I remember about that Homecoming dance was Tyler exclaiming out loud when he picked me up, Wow. You’re really wearing black? To a dance?, then me falling asleep on his friend’s couch in the basement during a Batman movie. (And not one of the good Batman movies either, but the first cheesy Michael Keaton/Jack Nicholsen debacle.) When I woke up, it was just me, Tyler and a pair rumpled sleeves.

This promtrastophe post is in conjunction with two of my favorite ladies Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated. Be sure to visit them and openly mock their big hair too.

I Wou'd Rather Be Dumped Than Fly on an Airplane (This one's a long one...)

It was 1992. I thought I was in love. I wasn’t. His name was Chad, he played football and he was spending the summer back home in Missouri. After a few months Chad thought I should fly out, spend some time with him and finally meet his family.

The following is the true account of the events that went down on my four-leg trip from hell to Missouri where I spent a week with someone who would eventually break up with me in a Taco Bell parking lot my Junior year in college.

First Leg: Salt Lake City, UT to Cedar City, UT
Air Time: 55 minutes
In Salt Lake City, I boarded a small plane that had the capacity to hold up to 30 passengers. When I landed in Cedar City, 55 minutes later, the plane picked up 2 people. This made for a grand total of 3 paid passengers on board the plane.

That’s right. For almost an hour, I was the only person on the plane besides the pilot, who sported denim shorts and a “Fear This” t-shirt and his two leathery companion women who claimed to be "the help". I believed they were truck-stop waitresses. As you can imagine, it was awesome.

The flight crew, or “threesome” spent the majority of the flight in the front of the plane cackling and carrying on. About 20 minutes in, Truck Stop Waitress 1 hollered back to me and informed me that there would be no beverage service and she would hook me up with a soda once we landed.

As the time went on, the “party plane” more rowdy. Around the 40-minute mark, I was almost positive I was the fourth-wheel in some sort of mile-high caligula.

Second Leg: Cedar City, UT to St. George, UT
Air Time: 10 minutes
A 10-minute flight. Truck Stop Waitress 1 forgot my soda. I’m pretty sure the turbulence we experienced on the flight had something to do with the pilot and Truck Stop Waitress 2 disappearing into the cockpit for the entire flight.

Third Leg: St. George, UT to Las Vegas, NV
Air Time: Felt like forever
Before the plane left St. George, me and the other two passengers were escorted off the plane and made to wait in an airport the size of a Chili’s Restaurant. We then switched planes, to a larger bird that held 75 people. When boarded the plane, I noticed a rather large, sweaty man sitting in my seat. I remembered seeing him in the Chili’s/Airport because he was the guy leaning against a wall, shouting, “Does anyone have any aspirin!” Also? He was violently emptying his lunch into a wastebasket.

As luck would have it, the new flight crew ushered me to the seat next to Sweaty Guy. After take-off, Sweaty introduced himself by pointing to my courtesy “barf bag” and grunting. I took this as the universal sign that he was about to blow chunks AGAIN and immediately thrust it at him.

That hour-long flight will probably go down as the most uncomfortable and nasty hour I’ve spent in the air. Let me break it down for you.

I spent the first ten minutes of the flight watching a grapefruit-sized stain grow on my linen pants. I tried so hard to believe the wetness was some bizarre airplane condensation, or prayed to God that I had started my period and through some unexplained medical marvel, it was appearing on the top of my thigh. But I knew better. It was arm sweat from sweaty. ON MY LEG.

I was seated in an aisle seat, thank heavens for small miracles, and every time the flight attendant passed me, she gave me gun fingers, winked and exclaimed, “Love that hair!” Pretty soon she recruited a second flight attendant and three passengers into taking turns touching my hair. One of them, a nice, but slightly crazy woman, ran her fingers through it like a comb for more than ten minutes. I would have demanded she stop, but she kept telling me I that looked exactly like her dead niece.

Now, for those of you that don’t already know this, I have curly hair. One of the fundamental rules of having a sound head of curls is DO NOT TOUCH the ringlets unless you absolutely have to because they will lose all structure and before you know it, you’ve got yourself a hair-tastrophy of Diana Ross proportions.

Normally, having a total stranger pet my hair and call me “Claire” (name of deceased niece) would be out of my realm of comfort. But faced with my other options, Sweaty Guy – still throwing up and moaning loudly, or Flight Attendant – standing in our row asking Sweaty Guy to keep it down because the pilot has become distracted by the noise...well, I’ll hang with crazy any day.

Fourth & Final Leg: Las Vegas, NV to Kansas City, MO
Air Time: At this point, who’s counting?
As I board, yet another plane, I can see by the looks on the flight crew’s faces that I am a sight. I’m covered in vomit splatter, my linen pants are soaked where Sweaty’s arm rested on my leg and one side of my hair is now entirely frizzed out like a prize poodle.

This leg of my trip was fairly uneventful unless you take into account that my luggage was shipped to Hawaii instead of Missouri, I DID, in fact, start my period during take-off and Chad, my boyfriend, forgot to pick me up at the airport. When my taxi arrived at his house, all he said to me was, “What happened to you?”

We broke up three weeks later. At Taco Bell.

Check out Jen over at Sprite's Keeper. She posted about her fear of flying today too!!

What Happens When You Meet Me

Before we left for our Moab trip last week, one of my favorite bloggers, Green Jello (GJ) at May You Lead An Interesting Life and a local gal to boot, emailed me to say that she would also be vacationing in Moab at the same time. Holla! We traded phone numbers, departure times and lodging information. If the sun, moon and Jeep Safari trails all aligned, GJ and I would surely meet face to face.

Thursday afternoon GJ texts me to let me know she’s only 30 minutes outside of town. Me? Why, I’m at a small dive arcade with two small children, the eldest of which screaming “Fiery Fist of Pain!” because he spies a run down roller coaster outside. Rather than expose GJ to that, I offer to meet her in a drug store parking lot because I’m classy like that.

GJ kindly insists to meet up at the arcade since her children might find it mildly entertaining. I warn her with buzz words like “lame” and “salmonella poisoning” but do not go so far as to mention the dead cockroach in the women’s bathroom or the “Play at your own risk! NO REFUNDS!” signs hanging about. I also decide against telling her about the hi-hop dance tutorial DVD that the teens tending the arcade are pretending not to watch every time I re-enter the lobby. That spectacle will be a nice little surprise for her.

I’ve always pictured what it would be like to meet my very first blogger face to face. I imagined that I would spend hours obsessing on what I should wear. I would apply extra shine elixir to my hair and maybe even splurge on a festive mani-pedi for the occasion. I would breeze through the doors at the Starbucks where we have arranged to meet and the whoosh of the double doors would create a small breeze that would blow my hair back dramatically. Of course the sun would graze my face in such a way so that my Bare Minerals foundation would do its job and make my skin appear flawless. All of this, of course, happening simultaneously as music from a cool new band that no one’s even heard of yet is piped through the speakers.

How. It. Really. Went. Down.

I’m in the women’s bathroom arcade, the one with a lock on the outside of the door, not the inside with my two children. I’m bent over desperately trying to pry my four-year old and 18-month old off the floor and shouting things like, “Don’t touch!” and “Mama’s gonna lose it!” because both children are trying to touch a dead cockroach that has gone belly up, literally. This is the fourth trip to bathroom because both kids were fixated on the dead insect. (I always thought cockroaches were indestructible.) I know people outside the bathroom can hear me because I can hear them “working” and practicing their righteous dance grooves.

I say “working” because all those damn kids did while we were there was stare at their iPod Touches, practice hip-hop moves and suggest that I drag myself, and my two kids to the McDonald’s next door to retrieve coins because the arcade, that houses machines that run on quarters, had only 75 cents in their till.

I kick open the bathroom door and my purple flip flop goes sailing into the air. There is no breeze, no sunlight, just the sound of my four-year old yelling “I DON’T WASH MY HANDS! EVAAAAH!” echoing throughout the arcade.

I see a semi-familiar face standing in front of me and I loudly squeal, “Green Jello!” and limp on my one flip flop to bear hug her in the hopes that my raised voice and intrusion of her personal space will distract her from noticing my nappy hair with unkempt roots and stained track pants. Again, classy.

I’ll never know if my distraction worked because within the first two minutes of meeting GJ, her delightful husband and awesomely adorable daughter, I made sure to point out the dead insect, my overgrown roots and my face sans Bare Minerals OR any trace of lip gloss. Gah!

I’m sure the rest of our meeting was just a slice of heaven for GJ. I mean who wouldn’t just love standing around and watching my children go up and down a playground slide, bang their fists on an aluminum door and shout, “Look what I can do!” as they begin kicking their feet on the same aluminum door.

Although our meeting was brief, I’m sure I’ve made a life-long friend in GJ. Of this I am confident, even given the fact that just a few hours later I barraged her with a string of text messages where I did all of the following:

• Accidentally called her an ass
• Invited her to “my place”
• Uninvited her to “my place” because that sounded sort of skeezy
• Re-invited her to my place solely for the purpose of showing her my freshly washed AND conditioned hair going so far as to hint at the possibility that she could smell my fresh hair if she were so inclined
• Bragged to her about my hair now being shiny and full of bounce
• Apologized for being braggy about my shiny, bouncy hair

Our two-hour texting frenzy ended when I asked GJ and her family to come over and watch 27 Dresses on HBO in the dark because my husband and children had fallen asleep and would kill me dead, or at the very least, harshly mock me if I woke them. Wisely, she responded to my request with “No habla.”

A Biker Dude Totally Harshed My Mellow That Wasn't Even Very Mellow To Begin With

An open letter to the Biker Dude who couldn't get past that I had a hair cut he's never seen before:

Dear Biker Guy;
Um, I sure hope your large banana split you had Monday night at The Dunes Restaurant in Ocean Park, Washington was delicious. It looked just heavenly dangling from your overgrown and unmaintained goatee. Thank you for taking the time out from scarfing down your dairy treat to glance at your wife and whisper in the LOUDEST whisper I’ve ever heard, “Hairdo!” and nod in my direction.

Your wife seemed confused and asked you time and time again what you were talking about. When you pointed directly at me, it should have been clear for her. You wanted her to look over at me nonchalantly and look at my hideous hair. From what I saw, this went on at least four times, before you rolled your eyes and finally gave up.

Biker Dude, let me gently walk you through something here. My ‘hairdo’ that you insisted on pointing out is called an A-line cut. Yes, the back is slightly shorter than the front. I intended it that way. My hair is naturally curly. I have no control over its unruly nature. You can take that one up with my mother.

And yes, it was awkward for you that I caught you talking about me and my curly mop while you were seated only seven feet away. Remember when you and your wife covertly discussed my hair then thought it was safe to glance at me? You were wrong. That’s why I didn’t look away. As my husband helped get my infant daughter settled and kept my three-year-old son from spilling his apple juice, you and I locked eyes for an uncomfortable seven seconds. I wanted you to know that I saw you talking about me. Your face turning red as you looked away told me you knew you were busted.

When my son caught me looking at you and then stared in your direction too, I did nothing to stop him. I sure hope that didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. When my daughter did the same, looking at you and your cool “My Bitch Fell Off The Bike” shirt I hope you didn’t feel self-conscious one bit. By the way, I loved that shirt. Twelve years ago.

Here’s my advice for you, Biker Guy, you never have any idea what someone is going through on any given day. Maybe someone is having a fine day and your comments would be brushed off without another thought. But sometimes that someone just finished up a rough seven hour drive on the road with two children and husband. Maybe one of those children was suffering in pain from an atrocious ear infection. Maybe that someone hadn’t slept well the night before because they were worried about their child and their health and not being able to get to a doctor or pharmacy because in this small town they are in, the nearest after hours is hours away. But don’t worry, their regular doctor has phoned in a prescription but since the pharmacy next door wasn’t open all weekend, it can’t be filled for another two or three hours. Maybe that someone, after being weary from travel, little sleep, consoling little ones just wanted to sit down, relax and enjoy a quick meal.

So next time you want to pop off, about someone’s appearance, you shouldn’t. It's something many of us already know. That’s why I never told you that you had ice cream dribbled on your precious biker shirt as you left the diner.

Loves, Jen

I don’t know why, but I kind of let this bother me for a few days. I even took a bunch of pictures of my hair to make sure I wasn’t crazy. My hair isn’t weird is it?

Bad Hair Day

Sometimes when you go camping your hair just won't go right. The second day in the wilderness, my hair became unruly. Now, if you've met me, you know that unruly hair is sort of my signature, but seriously, you've not seen anything like my hideous camping hair.

I couldn't find an attractive way to wear my bandana. This is nice enough, but it doesn't really do it for me.



Uh, no. Sideshow Bob anyone?


Aw, come on. Now I look like Carrot Top before he got on the juice.


What's a girl to do? There's got to SOME way to wear this bandana thing in a cute way.

Behold. I finally found it.