blaugra

The Final Straw

You know how Samantha on Sex & The City said, when she was losing her hair to chemo, "My hair's my thing!"? That's the way I've felt about my hair. Not because of chemo, thank goodness, just about the hair. Sometimes it looks like shit, sometimes it's a huge 1984 mane, but, still, it's my thing. It's been permed, colored, short, long, multi-processed, ombre, blond, magenta, black, red, kind of pink, highlighted, wavy, straight, frizzed - always thick and fat, though. Naturally brown.

I've noticed over the past year, my hair getting frizzier and frizzier, and more hair falling out or breaking. Frizz-Ease wasn't helping, extra conditioning at home wasn't helping, oil on the ends wasn't helping. My hair had become really dry. I only wash it a couple of times a week, and I don't really straighten or curl it often, so I couldn't figure out why. I thought maybe it was just the dreaded aging process.

One day, I was mindlessly watching TV and flipped it to QVC where Chaz Dean (see, look at Chaz, how handsome...) was pushing Wen.  I watched the whole program of him demonstrating the conditioning creme that can be used as a shampoo replacement as well as extra conditioner. It came in many flavors. It cost $36. I loved how the models' hair was so silky and bouncy after just being dried with a round brush. I could do that. I want my hair like that. I ordered the Bamboo Green Tea.

I was really excited about the Wen, totally suckered in. I followed all the directions: bought a new round brush without any metal or heating elements, dried my hair with a t-shirt instead of a towel. Wen did nothing good. My hair was the same as with drugstore shampoo and conditioner. Total straw at this point. Sticking up everywhere like a Roseanne Roseanna-dana wig.

It was that time that I looked at the side effects sheet again for the Lithium I take. Lithium is a salt, and one of its side effects is dry skin and hair. Like, really dry hair. I've been on the drug for a while but some of the side effects come creeping up on you over time, I guess. I've noticed my skin drying out and just kept adding serum and moisturizer.

Relieved that there was a cause, I went to my hair stylist, crying. "I hate my hair! Help me! It's from medication!" My hair's my thing. She said, "OMG, it's SO dry. Like, everywhere, not just the ends. Cutting the ends will do nothing."  Good, because if this hair gets shorter the frizz is going to make me look like a Q-tip. She proceeded to gloss it and deep condition it and dry it in the way only salon professionals can. It looked great. No frizz. For the first time in a while I felt attractive.

This is what has been recommended to me, advice from the stylist and others:

• Coconut oil in the hair overnight, wash it out the next morning.
• Condition with something like Aussie 3-minute Miracle
• Spray on leave-in conditioner and/or pre-drying heat protect spray, I've recently used L'Oreal
• Dry hair with a round brush, no metal or ceramic around the barrel
• Use a finishing cream (I have a few of these in my bathroom, I never finished the containers. Even silicone-Frizz-Ease didn't help much. Meh.)
• If you use an oil product, do not use a flat iron or curling iron or you'll fry the hair.
• Do not use hair spray as it contains alcohol that dries. This is a hard habit to break (1984, remember?)

Today, before showering, I lubed up my hair with several tablespoons of Moroccan oil, which I don't really like, but I'm using up the bottle. Then I Wen'ed.

Today I test drove this Neutrogena product, Triple Repair cream, after towel drying.(I have no patience for using that t-shirt.)

Then, after drying my hair, I liberally applied this Garnier Fructis Marvelous oil, which I really like.  It's not super-heavy. I'm also carrying it in my purse to reapply throughout the day because the hair gets really dry by noon.

Aaaaaaaaand today is the first time, other than a salon visit, that my hair is not a complete disaster. I know it's just hair and anything could be worse, but when you feel really unpretty it just makes your self-esteem so much lower. I've seriously been embarrassed to go to meetings and tried to hide all the straw in a stick-like ponytail.

Now I just hope that my hair doesn't become an oily mess. It's feeling pretty heavy now.

Next I will do the coconut oil thing, and if that doesn't work, as a last resort, get a weekly deep conditioning and blow-out at the salon. My stylist has also recommended mini-keratin treatments.  Of course I don't want to spend extra money on salon treatments. But, it's hair. I'll give up something else.

Don't steal my sunshine!

It's only Tuesday, but so far, the week's been pretty great. I started out thinking about sunshine and rainbows and how good things are right now.

That's a big improvement.

This morning I checked one of my Twitter accounts, one I hadn't logged onto in a month. The last thing I tweeted from it was something about what I would do if I had to pay more money in taxes.  It was in response to the White House asking...so I had honestly, naively, tweeted that when I pay more taxes, then I give up vacation, restaurants and home repairs. 

Maybe I didn't play right.

The replies to that tweet were flaming and I just read them, a month later. Uh-oh.

They said stuff like "Oh, poor baby!"  "Vacation? I haven't had a vacation in 10 years!" "Try buying fewer candles for your house!" "Looks like she should just drink less!" "At least you have a home!"  "Idiot!" "sounds like #whitegirlproblems." Shit like that.  It all upset me. Especially the candles comment. Why...

I really let them get to me.  I'm not thick-skinned at all. It ruined my day. I deleted the tweet. I felt ashamed.

I initially wanted to say I'm sorry I have a job and I take vacations and I have a house.

Wait - no, I'm not sorry.  I worked very hard for all these things. I pay whatever taxes I have to pay to support whatever programs need to be supported.  I'm an important part of this whole economic system at work. I keep contractors in business. And I'm well aware of the role luck plays in this equation.  I'm not ashamed of my life. I bought candles for the first time in years, so what?

I shouldn't have let them get me down, but I did, for a little while.

I'm never playing that game again. 

Winter Vacation, day 10

Day 10 already?  Booooo.

I was too tired to write yesterday. My dad drove me to visit my bestie from far away who was in the next state over visiting her family. The nervous energy from riding on the interstate, given my highway phobia, just does me in.  It's getting better, slowly, but still, it's annoying.

And tonight we'll hit the highway again to go to our traditional  New Year's Eve party where a bunch of us converge upon a friends' house, eat and drink and get merry, say goodbye to the old year and then sleep overnight.

I'm a little conflicted about partying given my bipolar disorder and its treatment. I can't really party so I'll be the tired girl drinking all the water and seeking out a quiet corner at some point during the later part of the evening. I may drink a beer, though, and definitely a sip of champagne at midnight.

First, however, we have discovered the source of a water leak in our basement. I'm partly glad because it doesn't seem that it's something really major like I had thought, but suddenly it's not a small event and we're waiting on the plumber to come over and rip up the place to solve the problem.

We always have plumbing problems during inconvenient times. Isn't that the way it usually goes?

Happy new year!

I'm obsessed with myself.

I'm obsessed with getting better, thereby putting way too much pressure on myself. Then I crack under the pressure.

I worry about everything. Here are examples of things I have worried about in the past 24 hours:

• What will happen to our country when there's nobody left to farm?
• Will we be paying $11 for a quart of half-n-half soon?
• Why is my left foot more calloused than my right?
• Should I give myself a pedicure before going to get a pedicure?
• How fucked up was that scene in Sons of Anarchy where Tig's daughter was burned to death in front of him and does that actually happen in real life?
• Is being dead going to be just like before we were alive?
• Why can't the republican party have a decent candidate who doesn't fuck up?
• What if I get diabetes?
• Who will take care of me when I'm old?
• Is my car running on empty? I forgot to check.
• What if that tree falls on my car?
• What if my front door falls off?
• What if we lose our jobs?
• Why can't I find pants that fit well?
• Are phones really going to be that tiny and transparent in the future, like in Weeds?
• Did the boots I just ordered get lost in the mail? No, I just ordered them, silly.
• Do I have to go to Scranton?
• Did I take my pills?
• Where are my pills?
• Why do my pills make me nauseous?
• Will my pills make my cholesterol go higher?
• Will I ever be fun again?
• When will I stop crying?
• Should I like this indie music today, because I really don't.

That's just a slice. I'm not making room in the brain for enough happy thoughts. Like, oh, this is a nice day. What a great episode. I love that book. I like eggs. I love you.

No. Instead those statements come out like "Today sucks." "That episode disturbed me."  "I can't focus enough to read a book." "Eggs nauseate me now." "How can you possibly love me back?"

I'm trying to train myself to say positive things every day. 

There are some happy things. Zumba. Iced Coffee. Fight Night. Indian food for lunch. Mango salsa with lots of cilantro. A therapist who can see me more often than every 7 weeks.

Meanwhile...yet again...

What does it mean when you walk into your therapist's office and she says, "Boy, I'm glad to see you!"

I said, "What? Really?"

"Yes, a friendly face, finally!"

Wow. Does she have some mean nasty people who pay to talk with her or what?  Are people actually mean to a therapist? Just because you're paying someone doesn't mean you can be mean. I swear sometimes I hate people with the exception of a few individuals.

What it means is I went into entertaining clown mode, telling stories to make us both laugh through my anxious tears. Despite that, it was still therapeutic. I think I'll be on the mend soon.

I'm trying to kick a phobia that I'm embarassed about because it's silly and I don't want you to laugh at me. Laughing with me is okay, being known as the girl with the goofy phobia is not.  The phobia came on suddenly and is basically a representation of aaaallll my anxiety rolled into one hairball thing that is being pulled apart now.

I also talked to the shrink, who has all kinds of old dust collecting tchotchka lining shelves in his office and I noticed for the first time (or perhaps it's a new acquisition) an antique bacon press. A pig shaped cast-iron press that says "bacon." I stared at this for a long time while I was waiting for the doctor, thinking about why people feel the need to press bacon flat. I think some of the beauty of bacon is it gets all curly. Maybe it's a message, this bacon press. Are we supposed to talk about the bacon press, since it's clearly a conversation piece? I thought it was really fucked up. I'm fucked up? Dude, you have a bacon press next to your desk.

I'm writing because a couple of people have said to me, "Why aren't you blogging?" so I did and here you go. Now I have to pee. Leave your comments below about cooking bacon or having phobias.

Blaugra vs. Mothra

Those sneaky little monsters! I sought revenge and got the non-subtly labeled traps to capture the dreaded moths. Still, they appear, and when I go to bed, the last thought I have before skipping off to dreamland is the moths. Pantry moths.

Admitting to having pantry moths is as embarassing as buying yeast infection medicine.

My pantry is clean. Nuts and rice that were sealed in impenetrable Tupperware for godssakes fell victim to those determined little creatures of hell.

I tossed flour and cereal into the garbage. I scrubbed twice.  I did my holiday cookie baking at my mom's house. And still...when I come home from a day at the salt mines I see one, sitting on the counter. Lying in wait.

I can't believe I'm so uninteresting that I'm blogging about pantry moths. But seriously, where are they coming from?

And why, after the flurry of activity during Thanksgiving weekend, can I only manage to write about the flurry of the moths?

I hope to change that with a weekend in New York City. 

My mom told me to get into a New York state of mind, and she sang the song to me. So, off I go, Christmastime cocktails in the big city with this girl, and this one, and her.

I'm sure the moths will still be here when I get back.

Sex toy wizardry

I've never been the kind of person who talks about sex toys, except to giggle like a 14 year old. That's not gonna change here. 

I was handed a swag bag from Eden Fantasys. I get it home, thinking that TSA must have had a party at the airport, screening all these checked packing the same sex toys on the same day.

This one in particular caught my eye. Naturally, because it's purple and has some sparkle to it. 

Salty D. said, "Does it light up?  Does it twist? Does it make bell-ringing sounds?"  No, it's not a Fisher-Price toy!

Actually, I had all the same questions.

So I bought some batteries, loaded them up, and....nothing. Click. Nothing. Salty D. said, "You're just not loading it right!"  He tried. Click. Nothing. Cheap machines.

Now we'll never know.

And I will name it "Madonna"

You know when you realize that all this weird shit that's been happening to your body really meant something?  Like months of whack fatigue that I just attributed to winter so I drank more coffee.  Or absolutely starving for big plates of carbs which I attributed to depression so I ate more bread. Or feeling hungry but not wanting to eat which... I thought was pretty amazing, actually. 

I thought nothing of any of this because what am I going to do, call a doctor and say "I'm tired and hungry."  Who isn't?

It's likely I have a peptic ulcer, I discovered yesterday, and I've been feeding and nurturing it for months.  Of course I panicked. All I could think of was I HAVE STOMACH CANCER AND I'M GOING TO DIE WITHOUT ACCOMPLISHING ENOUGH. And then the doctor wanted to treat me for high blood pressure too.

I calmed down and became more practical. I decided, if that ulcer shows up on the little screen at my test, I will name it Madonna. And why is that, Blaugra? Well I will tell you now.

I wanted to give it a name that represents something that annoys me so much now and that needs to go away. Really, because, did you see her on The Marriage Ref?  Shut it. But also, Madonna has been a transforming force.

An ulcer is a wakeup call.

I've had several of these calls and each time I say "OMG This is my wakeup call!" and sometimes I don't even answer the call and when I do I usually go back to my bad habits like that time I took up T'ai Chi to reduce stress and lasted through two classes and blew off the third to go out drinking and then never did cared about T'ai Chi again.

I haven't been able to even look at food without feeling nauseous lately. I made Salty D. turn off the Food Network because I thought I was going to boot at the very sight of chicken wings.

Until Madonna goes away, I will have to pass on some of my favorite things. Like:

• Thai red curry
• Nachos
• Red spaghetti sauce
• Oranges
• Chocolate
• Gin
• Lime
• Coffee
• Margaritas
• Hot peppers
• Wasabi
• Pizza
• Fresh tomatoes
• Enchiladas
• Diet Coke
• Chorizo
• Onions
• Lemons
• Cake
• Beer

Basically everything on my grocery list.  WHAT THE FUCK. 

You mean I have to eat a totally healthy whole-food diet?  Are you kidding me?!  I guess I can handle that, but I need me some spice and tomatoes and for the love of God, gin and tonics with lime in the springtime!  Oh, Madge.

Have you ever had an ulcer in the belly?

Because of him I never want to visit Minnesota again.

I have never sat through such a long, self-indulgent performance as that of Garrison Keillor's solo visit to a nearby stage.

My theatre friends would describe it as masturbatory.

So if you want to see this red-shoed man verbally masturbate over the topics of urination, Lutherans, chickens, Minnesota and death you can just buy a ticket and sit there for a few hours and listen to his verbal diarrhea about church hymns and Uncle Ned and coffins and such depressing dreck that after an hour I really wanted to scream but he kept going in one really long run-on sentence for another hour or so and he is miserable man who fancies himself quite the entertainer and I don't like him at all and I don't understand the appeal of listening to an old man babble on about dying and coffins and eternity and hell and death and it's real uplifting stuff but didn't make me want to kill myself, it made me want to stab him and if he were in an outhouse, or port-o-john, and I knew he was in there I would knock it over.

Even my mom, a Prairie fan, was only mildly amused.

It just added to my disinterest in listening to or reading his stuff.

At times he even talked like Herbert the Pervert. If you don't know who this whistling creep is just look at this 13-second vid, mate.

Kvetch du Jour

My dad met up with an old friend of his. Old friend, we'll call him Jerkface, gave him a huge bear hug. Jerkface was happy to see Dad. And why not?  Dad's the life of the party.  Dad yelped in pain, because Jerkface hugged him so hard, he thought his ribs had cracked.

That's not a good feeling for someone like Dad, who's a heart and lung patient.  Dad just has some bad contusions but no broken bones, so that's good. Have I mentioned lately that I'm a daddy's girl? Nobody hurts my daddy. You hear that, Jerkface?  

Dad has been doped up but still feeling pain and saying things like, [Jerkface] "doesn't realize he's such a big Polish guy." 

No. I think that by age 70 you do realize that you're a big Polish guy, if that's what you are.

But the real bummer of the story is this.

 Months ago I got my parents tickets to see Garrison Douchebag Keillor. And the show is this week. 

If my dad doesn't heal enough to sit and laugh I will accompany my mother to the show.

A Prairie Home Companion?  More like a Torture Chamber Dullard. Regardless of his political stance, I find him to be a bucket of misery.

No, there's nobody else she wants to ask to accompany her. 

So, please please please Daddy, get better. 

Update, Tuesday evening: Dad called and said he's all better and would go to the show, I was off the hook. Yaaay!  I planned a nice dinner at home.

Update, Wednesday morning:  Nope, Dad is not all better and I need to attend in his place. Crap.