Tipped Off

Glen Arbor is a long way away from SoHo, y’all.
It’s 45 minutes away from the nearest Wal-Mart even.
Needless to say, it’s a long, long way away from Navy French Tips.

I drove home from my manicure Tip tapping on the steering wheel and wailing Lady
Gaga to the on coming traffic. If I’m not the hippest thang in a Buick Enclave, I’ll kiss your cold, white patootie.

And, certainly, the hippest mom to sell a Glen Lake Lakers hoodie at the football game! Am I right? Huh? Am I?   …..you can see where this is headed.....

My spirit wear selling colleague, whom I barely know and is already suspicious of my Big City Southern Fudgie ways, didn’t notice anything at first. I knew when she did because of the little “Oh!” she emitted while I was making change. I turned around expecting to see stark naked envy on her face. She was choking on her tongue trying not to laugh.

“Jeez o’Pete!”, she gasped. “Let me see your nails!”

She looked from my hand to my face like she was expecting to see Amy Winehouse or a Vegas stripper.

“Pretty sassy, huh?”, I beamed. “I just felt like doing something a little different!”

“I guess I’ve never seen something like that before.”, she murmered, smiling indulgently at me.

“It’s new! It’s very “in” right...um...now” I was starting to pick up on the vibe here.

There was no fist bump. No “Dang, sista! You are rockin’ those tips!”.
No “I’ve got to get me some of that business so I can be as cool as you, girlfriend!”.

Oh my god. What have I done? Who do I think I am? This is ridiculous. Ree. Dick. U. Luss.
I’m a middle aged Mom selling t-shirts at a freakin’ football game in a town the size of my Dallas Pilates class. Who in the hell am I kidding? Good Lord... I need a cotton ball and a bottle of acetone.

We were saved from our awkward, gaping mouth moment by a beautiful Freshman asking if we had any Smalls left. She looks at my nails. Then up at my face. Then over at the stands - no doubt, seeking salvation from one of her equally adorable covey.

(Okay. A few years ago, I was at Disney World. A teenaged FiFi walked by and I said brightly, “Hey! I have that same shirt!”
The look of horror that passed across that child’s face.... wow.
She was looking at someone’s Mother who was telling her she had the same shirt???
She gasped, grabbed her friend’s hand for support and was trying to get that shirt off her body as fast as possible. Humbling....)

My totally topped off tips were getting that same reaction right now.
The face. The choking horror.
My dawning realization that the flush I was feeling was not the flush of greatness but a hot flash working it’s way up my neck.

“Wow! Those are awesome, Mrs. Merlot.” Mrs. Merlot???

I told her I didn’t have any damn Smalls left and she should buy the Large now and put it in her closet because one day, before she knows it, she will puff up like a blowfish and the only things that will fit her are shoes and purses and then she will be forced to desperately try to recapture her youth by slapping on some ridiculously trendy shit on her nails.

It just looked so cute on the [key word] girl sitting next to me........



Aside: It took me over two weeks to get back to CJ and my boring old Mom Mani. During that time, everyone got a big laugh, I made a new friend at the Spirit Booth and the kids admitted that they did think it was kinda cool. I mean, they weren’t posing for pictures with me or anything, but I think they might be starting to get used to me.

Bad Bang

In a fit of pique, I hacked my bangs like a 15 yr old in a love triangle. In fact, I haven’t butchered my hair like this since I was a 15 yr old in a love triangle.

 

While I am prone to both the hair brush throwing hissy fit and the occasional boogered up bang job, rarely do I break anything or cause (semi) irreparable damage. But this is bad, y’all. It’s a real bad sign.

The other day, after picking the shells off the umpteenth hardboiled egg, I went postal on a particularly stubborn one and just crushed the whole damn thing in my fist and threw it in the sink. The crunch of the shell combined with the warm squoosh of the innards was so satisfying that I did it again on a perfectly innocent one. There is no comin back from a smooshed-ass egg, y’all. Major irreparable.

Out of two dozen eggs, four of them felt the wrath of my pre-menopausal impatience.

Cheaper than therapy; easier on the liver than Merlot.

When my brand new Stick Vac quit after sweeps, I held it over my head and aimed it out the window. The image of having to clean up all that shattered glass without said Stick Vac stopped me before I let her fly. So I walked outside and tossed it, with great indignation, into the yard.

Then, of course, I picked all the grass out of the handle, found the receipt and took it back to Meijer.

See? I’m not a hysterical 47 year old, hormonal lunatic.

My sweet Stud Muffin totally agreed with me when I asked them that very question just this morning while I was using his super-sharp filet knife to carve up a chicken. He gently took the knife from my hand, agreed wholeheartedly that I was not psycho and graciously offered to finish all that nasty cutting. He’s a pip, that one.

So the whole hair whack job has me in a dither.

I’m going to have to go to my hair chick and admit to cutting my own bangs. Then I’ll have to admit to the Hissy Fit. Then she’ll sweetly ask what on earth was wrong? And then I’ll have to admit that it was nothing more than me being tired of tucking that little patch we were trying to grow out behind my ear every five freakin’ seconds.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about tucking it behind your ear now, do we, honey?”

Witch.

Then she’ll talk me into layers so my bangs will blend. Which will look great after she puts three brands of goop in it, blows it, curls it, fluffs it and lacquers it down but will look like living hell after two seconds on the boat or in the Jeep or in the morning FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Oh my. Oh my my…

This is when Brittany got the scissors out. This is when Carrie Underwood carved her name in the leather seats. This is when Charlie popped open the Tiger Juice.

But not me, y’all. Southern women are bred for civility and gracious forbearance.

This is when I uncork the bottle.

My name ain’t Anita Merlot for nothin’….